---

Evette was back in her room in Korstone, kneeling in prayer. This was no usual prayer, however. It was a question that had always hung in the back of her mind.

"Why?" she asked aloud.

In response she received only silence.

"They said my father was your champion. That my abilities were a mark of your favour. I dedicated the last two years of my life to helping others and destroying humanity's foes. And yet, I have never heard your voice. I have met the avatar of Oraelia, and the Sun Goddess has personally spoken to me. But never you. Always silence." She took a deep breath. "Why?"

It was not time.

She perked up. Her eyes widened. "L-lord Cadien."

Indeed. You have questions. I will not begrudge you them.

She was still taken aback. And yet, it was not the first time she had spoken to a god, and so she quickly recovered. "Why didn't you protect my village?"

It is a difficult thing, to intervene in Galbarian affairs, Cadien answered. We gods are not as powerful as we once were. But rest assured, I have been watching you and your siblings ever since you made your escape.

"My... my siblings? They're alive?"

They are. Carn, Alys, Brundt. All of them.

Her heart leapt. "Where are they?"

You will meet them all, in time. You must have patience. You still have a task to perform.

"A task?"

The eradication of all abominations, Cadien answered. Vampires, Iskrill... that was what you set out to do, was it not?

"I set out to eradicate threats to the innocent..." she whispered.

Which happen to include vampires and iskrill. The ended result is the same.

"But how?" she asked. "I have been given power, but I'm just one person. I can't be in two places at once, and I can't fight entire species on my own."

That's the problem, Cadien replied. You are just one person. Find others to help you. Form an organization. Spread them out. Have them hunt the abominations on your behalf.

"There aren't many who can stand up to a vampire..." Evette whispered.

As things currently stand? No. But I can change that. I am, after all, the God of Perfection.

"Change it how?"

I shall bestow blessings and power upon whoever joins your organization. So long as they remain dedicated, they shall have the power they need to hold their own against mankind's foes. And I've already thought of a fitting way to bestow such a blessing...

"What do you mean?"

The blessing shall be transferred through blood, Cadien decided. Rather fitting, I think. Yes... mix an evening bell and a violet with some of your blood - or anyone else who has partaken in such a mixture. In doing so, they will pledge themselves to you, and will be granted enhanced skills so long as they remain loyal. They only need to consume it once. Once you have trained them, you may send them across the land, to go where you will not, and hunt abominations in your stead. Is that agreeable?

Evette considered that for a moment. In truth, the idea of getting other people to drink her blood seemed a vile prospect. Was it really any different from the vampires? And yet... it would be her own blood, which she was voluntarily giving up. And anyone who joined her order would do so willingly. And this was all to continue hunting vampires and other similarly dangerous creatures. On second thought, the process didn't seem so bad at all, even if it was still somewhat odd. But she nodded her head. "Very well."

She felt a brief surge of power flow through her, but then quickly went back to normal. Very well, Evette. You are now the first of the Night Templars. Go forth, rally more to your banner, and set them loose.

---

---

A dark red dragon rested along the floor of Aquibeophates among the mists. Nearby was one of the great towers of the realm. She, as one who was familiar with dragons might be able to tell, was looking up the tower and occasionally around peering through the mists to see if any others may be nearby.

Aen’drannan was her name, she had spent quite a bit of time in the company of her fellow dragons and she quite found them to be somewhat boring most of the time. The majority seemed content to wait for a divine plan to unfold, and to rest and enjoy themselves, rather than actually doing much of anything at all.

She was not so complacent. It was in part what had drawn her to the towers, one could always see them in the distance, it was quite difficult to reach them as many had found out. Simply flying or walking towards them never seemed to truly shorten the distance as it should. Aen’drannan had figured out a secret of sorts, one needed not to journey towards the towers, but intend to arrive at the towers. It had something to do with the mind she could, something about this place had rules to it, rules one could learn to use.

And so she had arrived. It didn’t seem like there were any others about, dragons or otherwise. She had talked quite a lot with a number of dragons, most had spoken of mysterious beings in the mists with odd manners and even stranger purposes, some had even claimed to have spoken to one of the four rightly guided deities. She didn’t quite know about how truthful all the stories were, but one thing was clear. This was the great realm Aquibeophates, ruled by Thaa of the Great Eye, he was supposed to be a giant of sorts, although none were ever extremely clear on what he looked like, at least none that Aen’drannan had spoken with. The other three rightly guided deities were a little less clear although there were some stories of them too, she didn’t really know what to believe about all that.

She was here, she knew that, and it seemed like she was here alone. She had already circled the base of the tower, no entrance or anything of particular interest there. She tensed her muscles, prepared her wings and from rest threw herself into the air. Her legs acted to spring herself off the ground as her wings flapped to start giving lift.

Aen’drannan flew around the great tower in the mists of Aquibeophates, there didn’t seem to be much of great interest around the outside of the tower at all really, although she hadn’t seen what if anything there was far up above. She looked up.

“Aren’t you the curious one?”

A great eye looked back at her, the Great Eye it dawned on her. Suddenly thousands of things, too fast and too small for her to see properly, shot out from above and grabbed her. Instinctually she tried to swerve away or to escape his grasp, to no avail against the god’s strength.

“You should do well enough.”

“Well enough for what!? I’m sorry if I went somewhere I was n-not welcome- please don’t...”

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go at all, and she was rather terrified. The things shifted and grabbed her body but she was unable to look away as the eye before her seemed to bore into her. Suddenly she felt an intense pressure on her head before subsiding, and then a slightly sickening glow inside of her before that too subsided.

“You will know when you are done there.”

With that rather unsatisfactory answer the monumental god rather unceremoniously threw her at the tower. Rather surprisingly, or unsurprisingly if one really had time to think about the situation, she didn’t just have her body smash against stone. Instead she found time to gather herself back together and achieve flight once more with her wings, and then almost immediately land.

Aen’drannan had no idea what sun-damned place she was in. There were no mists, no towers, and of course Thaa of the Great Eye was gone as well, real helpful there. She could tell that she was in some manner of room. It was circular and there was a ramp that circled up the walls far into the distance. She couldn’t see if it ended somewhere and well that's another thing.

The lighting was off, in Aquibeophates normally one could see generally pretty decently, the light shifted never truly coming to darkness but never truly being all that bright either. Here where there were no mists, no hidden angles, there was light almost everywhere. Not a blinding light, it was a calmer level than that, but it didn’t seem to have a source, there were no shadows, no shades, it was a little unsettling. To her it seemed as though almost everything was just off enough to not be normal, in most of Aquibeophates things were sometimes odd, but there seemed to be rules that at least pretended to accord with what things should be, what it felt like in her mind was natural. Here was different.

---

Carn frowned.

Less than a hundred men. Some of them armed only with scythes, pitchforks, and pickaxes.

This was his army.

He and Lothar had gone from village to village, delivering rousing speeches and telling them of the victory at Thyma. Not all had welcomed the news. Some had chased him out. One chieftain had attempted to capture him with the intention of selling him out to the Ketrefans. After seeing him cut down the chieftain and his guards with unnatural prowess, that had been enough to convince the locals there was something divine about him, and so they pledged themselves to his cause.

But not all of them were fighters. And in the end, his ‘army’ amounted to maybe eighty men at most. Eighty men against… who knows how many? Hundreds? Thousands? The last attempt to take down Ketrefa had occurred centuries ago, and accounts differed as to the numbers deployed by both sides.

Some stories portrayed Ketrefa as an unstoppable force with numbers beyond counting swarming over an outnumbered and under-equipped band of farmers. Other tales portrayed them as a small elite warband that took on a foe several times their number, and prevailed.

What he did know was that Ketrefa’s warriors were trained, and even their most junior soldier was better-equipped than the best-armed man in his own paltry force. “We need more weapons. And armour…” he whispered during a meeting in the chieftain’s longhouse.

“And men,” added Yarwick, the Chieftain of Thyma.

“You will need to go further,” Lothar insisted. “Find more faithful.”

“And leave our homes undefended?” Yarwick demanded. “They’ll come here first. If we’re on the other side of the Highlands making speeches and training men, we can’t protect our people. They’ll kill everyone, just to set an example, and then they’ll come after us.”

Carn sighed. “We’ll need to look elsewhere,” he decided. “But not too far. Any village that pledges fealty to us will expect our protection. If too many swear themselves to us at this stage, we’ll spread ourselves thin trying to defend them all. In the meantime, stockpile anything that might serve as armour or a decent weapon.”

---

“Donnie, I dunno what I was thinkin’. Oudda all the places fate takes me, she dumps me on my ass in tha middle a’ some down-on-its-luck, backwater village. Ain’t nobody buyin’ my stuff ‘ere!” “Cut-my-own-throat” Jimmy the Peddler, so named for his business practices, rested his chin on his propped-up hand in defeat as he gazed out across the empty marketplace. Next to his improvised stall was the local cabbage peddler, Donnie Crumb, guarding his cart with equal disappointment smeared across his face.

“Tell me about it, Ain’t sold a single cabbage, I ain’t,” Donnie sulked back. “Is like they don’t even want ‘em. Sure, there’s talk’a war ‘n all, but since when did that stop cabbage bid’niss, huh? Since when?”

“You tell ‘em, kehd, you tell ‘em.” Some women came running past carrying supplies, catching both their eyes. “Heh-hey! You two lovelies needin’ some fancy trinkets for the husband back home?! We got a special deal in these terrible times! Just for you aaaaand they’re gone, ain’t they?”

“They’re gone.”

Jimmy slammed his fist into his stall table. “We get no respect around ‘ere, kehd. Ain’t nobody lookin’ out for the lil’ man no more. Breaks my damn heart, it do.”

“It do, it do.”

An entourage of men in armour approached from the opposite end of the marketplace, once more snatching up their attention. Donnie gave a whistle. “What’chu bettin’ they’re here to take our stuff?”

“I bet you a copper drakma they’re here t’ -buy- our stuff!” Jimmy challenged and straightened himself up, gesturing widely to his shiny trinkets and thingy-magiggs. “Gentlemen - welcome to my humble lil’ store! Take your time lookin’ around - we’s got a very special deal today, only for our boys on the front.” Donnie rolled his eyes with a smirk.

---

The leader of the group was clad in bronze, with a hood pulled up over his head. Those accompanying him wore mismatched assortments of boiled leather and more bronze. There was also a robed figure, who seemed to be some sort of priest.

Carn pulled his hood down, to reveal his silver hair and violet eyes, as his gaze shifted over to the merchant who had called out to him. One of the men whispered something into his ear. Carn listened with a serious expression on his face, then looked back to the merchant, and began to approach. A light smile appeared on his face.

“Is that so?” he asked. “I don’t suppose you’d have anything that might help me win a war?”

Jimmy smacked his hands together and rubbed them schemingly. “Ho-ho-ho, do I?” He ducked down behind his stall and came back up with a bejeweled ceremonial axe fashioned from copper - its edge was speckled with quartz and its shaft was a long cylinder of smooth ashwood. The thin blade, however, looked awfully inconvenient in battle, being thin and attached to the shaft with only a thin copper rod. Jimmy softly smoothed his fingers across the metal and spoke, “This here’s my most prized possession - worthy only of a good customer, such as yaself. Neckbane ‘ere’s killed hundreds - if not thousands - ‘n legends say is blessed by the lady ‘erself! The mighty girl’a fire, Evandra. For you, though, I’ll cut my own throat - a hundred drakmas and she’s yours, kehd!”

Lothar frowned. “You’re speaking to Carnelian, the Chosen of Cadien, not some mere ‘kid.’ Show some respect.”

Carn, meanwhile, drew his sword, and casually held it so that the silvery steel shimmered in the sunlight. “I have a blessed blade of my own,” he said rather drily. “I don’t suppose you have anything else?”

Jimmy gasped. “Chosen a’ Cadien?!” He tossed the axe over his shoulder into a pile of junk behind him, making a ruckus. “Well, why didn’ ya say so? Don’ wanna sell crap t’ such an important customer! Here, check this out…” He ducked under the counter again and, with effort, hauled up a large, round shield of bronze-reinforced wood, beautifully painted with a red dragon of a white background. “This ‘ere, this is my most prized p’ssession, ‘n I want you to know, I ain’t ever shown this to anyone else - but you, you’re special, my friend, so this ‘ere, is fa’ you. Only one fifty - cutting my own throat here for ya, come on.”

Carn shook his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he said, sliding his sword back into its sheathe.

Jimmy let out a “prrt” and put the shield down. “A’right, a’right, a’right - you, mista’, ‘re obviously lookin’ for the special goods.” With that, he turned around, circling behind the pile of junk at the far back of his stall and bringing over a crate which content looked much heavier than they could be, given how easily he carried it compared to the shield. He sucked in a deep breath before tilting the crate over and pouring what amounted to a full set of silvery, gold-rimmed armour onto the counter desk, careful not to let any small parts fall down onto the ground. An empty helmet stared coldly up at Carn and sounded metallic rings as Jimmy drummed his greasy fingers around its scalp. “This ‘ere, this is my most prized possession - an enchanted set’a armour, harder than anythin’ you’s ever saw. Blessed by the gods above, by Tekret, I swears it - it even knows how ta talk.” He knocked on the helmet. “Hellooooo! Titania, you awake, sugar?!”

There came no response. Jimmy scrunched his nose. “She’s, uh, she’s a bit shy every now and then. Still, nice piece a’ work, right? Tell you what - it’s yours for three hundred drakmas - and my throat’s practically already bleedin’ out with that offer.”

Carn offered a skeptical frown. “A talking suit of armour,” he mused, as he reached forward to take the helmet from the merchant, and turned it over in his hands. “I’ve never known anyone to make armour out of silver,” he said after a moment’s thought. “All the smiths I spoke to said it was shiny but of little use.”

Jimmy wagged his finger. “Nah, not silver, mista’.” He dug out the axe from earlier, wound up a downwards cut and struck the breastplate. The axeblade visibly dulled, but the breastplate hadn’t even received a scratch - in fact, it was as thought the strike only had served to knock some dust off the metal. The peddler let out a triumphant “hah!” and lobbed the useless axe over his shoulder again. “It may look like it, but this ‘ere baby’s somethin’ else. She keeps sayin’ she’s got ties to the moon goddess.”

“Definitely god-blessed,” added Donnie next to them, who was trying to push cabbages onto Lothar in exchange for basically anything.

“Definitely. I’mma lower the price to three fifty, though, just because I’m such a good guy and you’re such a good customer.”

Carn scowled. “The original offer was three hundred.”

“Three hundred? Nah, nah, nah, I clearly said four hundred - sorry, my accent’s odd to locals. I said four hundred, right, Donnie?”

“Sure did, Jimmy. C’mon, sir, I’ll give ya six heads for that fancy dagger on ya belt,” the cabbage peddler begged.

Carn glanced down at his dagger, and he had to remind himself that it was the sort of blade only a cabbage farmer would think of as ‘fancy.’ He looked back up at Jimmy. “So here’s the thing, Jimmy,” he said after a moment. “Your first offer was an axe, which you claim to be blessed by Evandra herself, and supposedly it killed thousands. Yet it dulled after one swing, and you discarded it as if it was worthless. How do I know the axe wasn’t just terrible?”

Jimmy shrugged. “Details, details - what’s important right now is what’s in front’a ya, mista’, not that junk in the back’a my store. I’m tellin’ ya, this armour ‘ere? The genuine article. Tell ya what - if ya got a weapon ya don’t value, give it a swing. If you make even a single dent, you can have it for free - cut my own throat.”

Carn frowned at that, and placed the helmet back on the table. “A worthwhile suit of armour should be able to hold up to a weapon that someone does value.” And with those words, he drew his holy sword back from its scabbard, and swung it down at the top of the helmet. Against all expectation, however, while the weapon itself didn’t shatter or dull, it failed to make a single dent, or even evidence that it had ever struck it. It did manage to cause a mighty metallic ring within the cavity of the helmet, and Jimmy gave an almost mocking snicker.

“Ouchie, looks like the shady peddler was right afta’ all, huh?” he said and rubbed his nails on his chest. However, before he could open his mouth again, there came an uncomfortable groan from within the helmet itself, as though there was a head inside that had had to endure that terrible noise.

”Ugh, oh, by the… What was that noise…? Where am I…?”

“Eeeey! She awakens, finally! As I said, mista’ - the genuine article. Four hundred drakmas and she’s yours.”

The guards accompanying Carn gasped, but Carn himself was no stranger to unusual sights, and his eyebrows only rose in response. “So it does talk,” he said aloud. “Your name is Titania?”

“Yeah, she keeps callin’ herself that whenever I ask, anyway,” Jimmy interjected. “So, uh, how’s about that payment, since ya two’re obviously too attached ta be separated again? C’mon, four fifty, cuttin’ my own throat.”

There came a soft, metallic whimper. ”What year is this? Do any of you know where we are?”

“You’re in a village called Thyma,” Carn answered. “Is what the merchant said true? You have a connection to the moon goddess?” He immediately held up a hand to forestall any further babbling from the merchant.

”Wait, Thyma? No, no, no - that’s nowhere near where I was before I… Merchant Santel, where are you?!”

“Oh, yeah, right - forgot to mention, she sometimes passes out for months and only whimpers in fever dreams and whatnot. Santel’s the guy I bought her off of… For a second time.”

”Bought me?! I was safeguarding the villagers of Ironstone in the Anchor Mountains and--”

“Well, those villagers lost, stuff happened, and now you’s with me - unless this fine gentleman coughs up the coin ta buy ya off’a me, that is.” He turned his focus back to Carn. “About that…”

“Be silent,” Carn snapped at him, before looking back down at the helmet with curiosity. “Is this man holding you against your will, then?”

There came a metallic scoff. ”I cannot be held by anyone! My plate is the armour of creation--”

“Oh boy, ya got her started…”

”... My mail is the barrier against evil! I am the agent of Gibbou the All-Protector - Titania, the Shield Against the Darkness!” During the whole presentation, she remained perfectly still, and it was difficult to tell whether it was due to fantastic control or a lack thereof. She huffed at Carn. ”If I was being held against my will, I would’ve fixed this a long time ago, thank you very much.”

Lothat dropped to one knee upon hearing her speech. Carn, meanwhile, kept his calm. “An agent of Gibbou, you say? That’s rather interesting, considering I’m an Agent of Cadien. This can’t be a coincidence, can it?”

The armour clicked its metaphorical tongue. ”An agent of Cadien, huh? You’ll do fine as a user. Quickly - put me on. We have not a moment more to waste!” That instant, her helmet as picked up by Jimmy, who stared her into her eye-slits.

“Hey, hey, hey - don’t get ahead of yaself, sugar. The gentleman ‘ere still ain’t bought ya, got it?” He extended a hand out to Carn, flexing and unflexing the index finger. “Five hundred, mista’ - can’t go no lower.”

Lothar leapt to his feet. “You insolent worm!” the priest suddenly exploded. “To put a price on divine artifacts? To raise that price, while claiming to be lowering it in the same breath? To speak to Cadien’s Chosen as if he were a child, and to lie to his face!? You will pay for-”

“Lothar, that’s enough!” Carn snapped, before setting his gaze on Jimmy. “You can’t expect me to pay that much. I don’t even think there are five hundred coins in this entire village, yet alone in my possession.”

“If I may,” another man suddenly interjected, stepping forward. It was Yarwick; Chieftain of Thyma, who had been among Carn’s guard. “I’m the chieftain of this village, and it’s my job to settle disputes like this.” The burly man stroked his chin and peered down at the armour, before looking back up at the merchant. “Let’s see. You came into this village and set up a stall without first asking my permission. I reckon that’s worth a fine - let’s say, fifty of your drakmas. Then, you tried to sell false goods, so that’s another fine. A hundred drakmas seems a fair punishment. You also committed a few blasphemies against the gods, so I reckon you owe our priest here a donation to serve as recompense. A hundred more drakmas; that seems fair. And you’ve probably heard that we’re at war, so I think I’ll need to put a tithe on a sale such as this. Thirty drakmas.”

“Now, I do believe your original asking price was three hundred drakmas,” the chieftain went on, as he continued to stroke his beard. “As chieftain, I’m going to say you’re obligated to stay true to that. So, final price: twenty drakmas.”

Jimmy offered each of them a disappointed frown. “Huh… So this is what the people a’ Thyma do ta humble workin’ people? The lil’ guys? Ya make these arbitrary punishments ta get whachu want? Tell ya what - bet this village ain’t even -had- fines before. Bet this what the first time ya even heard a’ usin’ drakmas. Just my luck ta choose the literal backwater a’ the country. Should’a gone ta Ketrefa, Donnie - ‘least there they know how ta treat people right.” He lobbed the helmet back onto the pile, where Titania offered a grunt. “Fine, take her. Take her for free if ya want. Ya already ruined me. Gonna head back ta my family now - empty-handed, all my six kids. My wife’ll probably go back ta screwin’ my brother after this - ya know what that’s like, mista’ chieftain? Nah, you don’t - you just go around feedin’ off the hard work’a us folks, really just bitin’ deep into our necks like some sorta’ vampire. Can you life with yaself afta’ this? Can ya?”

Carn had ignored the monologue, instead rifling through his pockets and pouches.

“What even is a drakma anyway?” one of the guards asked.

“A currency used in one of the cities,” Carn had said, talking over Jimmy’s monologue while emptying the contents of a money-pouch in one hand. “Hm. I have thirteen coins here. Only four of them are drakmas, but the rest are either bigger or made of more valuable metal.”

Chieftain Yarwick fished into his own pocket and pulled out a few more coins, which he handed over to Carn. “Nineteen in total,” Carn declared. “One short, but some of these are worth more than drakmas, so it more than evens out.” He shrugged, before slipping the coins into the pouch and tossing it to the merchant, not paying any heed to the story. He then reached down and collected the pieces of armour. “By the way,” he said after a moment. “I wouldn’t go to Ketrefa, if I were you.”

The merchant sourly inspected the coins. “Ya do realise these’re not worth more than drakmas, because they’re -not- drakmas, meanin’ I would have ta go to the city -they- are from ta use ‘em, right? Ya know what kinda trip that is, kehd? That ain’t no small trip. I’m talkin’ -innocent- lives ‘ere that you ‘n ye goons’re tossin’ to the, to the leons’a the city, kehd. My kids’re gonna be slavin’ for soup at this rate - I can practically hear my cousins’ goin’ at my wife as we speak!”

The Chieftain’s expression quickly faded from amusement to anger. “You speak to us of slavery?” he snapped. “Have you ever lost someone to one of Ketrefa’s raids? Do you know what happens to people who are taken to that city? Count yourself lucky if you never find out, and if you already know, then hold your damned tongue before I rip it out. You have until sundown to leave.”

Carn meanwhile, had already begun walking away with the armour. “Sorry about that,” he said apologetically. “At least you’re free of him, eh?”

”What are you doing?! Unhand me this instant!” shouted the armour, though it didn’t seem to be doing much.

Carn frowned, and came to a sudden stop. “You told me to put you on.”

”Take me back to the merchant. There is something I must do.”

His frowned deepened. “Very well.” Slowly, he turned around and made his way back to the stall, gently placing it on the table.

There came a slight sigh. ”Please… Please turn my head so I’m facing him. Yeah, like that, like--... No, now I’m tilted a bit too much and-- oh yeah! There, there. Ahem. Jimmy the Peddler!”

The merchant, who had been kicking his junk angrily back into their crates, offered her a sulky frown. “Yeah, what d’you want, sugar? Bit busy right now.”

The armour sat steadfast on the counter. ”You said innocent lives would be lost, correct? That your children would be enslaved and that your wife would… Do things with… Other people than you? Is this information true?”

The sulk deepened and Jimmy brought his fingers to squeeze away some tears. “Yup, sure is, sugar. All ten a’ them - gonna be scrubbin’ streets with soapy water - not even gettin’ a bowl’a stew a day, if ya’d call -that- stew. As for Marilyn, well, my uncle always fancied her - can’t blame ‘im, honestly…”

”Right! Details! Too many… Ugh, anyway - if innocent lives are at stake, I will aid you.” Suddenly, the trash and scrap in the pile of junk Jimmy was kicking became solid gold; the drapes of his humble stall became the smoothest silk; the ashwood of his poles and counter became mahogany. The merchant choked a squeal as he fell to his knees in bafflement, grabbing some gold with quivering hands. Titania hummed. ”You sounded as though three hundred of these, uh, drak-mothers was a considerable amount. You have been compensated for your troubles. I pray this’ll be enough to provide for your family.”

Jimmy wiped away a single tear with a handful of silk drape. “... It’ll do just about, sugar.” His every being looked to be suppressing the energy of a volcanic eruption, but he managed to nod solemn farewells to Titania as he scrambled to bag and pocket as much of the gold as he could before too much attention was drawn to them.

After Carn, Yarwick, and Lothar managed to get over their collective astonishment they walked away. Yarwick was muttering about “that was far better than that lying oaf deserved”, while Lothar appeared deeply conflicted, for the man had clearly been lying but what sort of priest would question divine judgement?

Carn parted ways from the three and went into a hut which he had been using as his own quarters. In the dim hut, he removed the cloak and the bronze plate, then finally began equipping the newly-acquired suit of divine mail.

There came a grunt. ”The mail shirt goes underneath the plate. I recommend wearing a long linen undershirt for additional protection and proper drainage of sweat. I might be light, but you might not be accustomed to having your whole body covered. It will get quite hot.”

It was advice Carn already knew, but he decided not to question it. “So here is the situation,” he said, after he had donned the helmet. “My name is Carn… Carnelian, I mean. There is a city called Ketrefa. They regularly send men into the surrounding countryside to raid settlements. They take food and people. The people they make into slaves, to work their fields, serve in their minds, or act as the personal servants to their nobility. Not too long ago, they sent a warband here, to do the same thing. But I stopped them.”

”Ah, I see you are a man of protection as well,” proclaimed the armour. ”I was right to choose you as my vehicle. Together, we will make certain the innocents of this land can be free of evil’s molestation and enslavement! With me on, nothing can hurt you - not a single thing. You’ll be an invincible champion of the people, a shield against the darkness!”

“You sound like Lothar,” Carn remarked. “Anyway, this has created a bit of a problem. The Ketrefans don’t like being challenged, so now we’re at war with them. They’re going to be sending an army here soon, and if I can’t defeat them, they’ll kill everyone in this village,” he revealed with a grim expression. “I have less than a hundred fighters, and not all of them are properly equipped.”

The armour chuckled proudly. ”If they are enemies of justice, then they will be smitten like the demons they are! Take me to the edges of the village - we’ll need proper fortifications first!”

Carn shrugged, and left the building. Villagers gawked at the sight of him in his new, unusual armour. He approached the edge of the village, where a short wooden pallisade had been built. “It’s not just this village I need to defend,” he pointed out. “A few others have given their support as well, and they’re in just as much danger once Ketrefa finds out.”

”Then this will serve as the point of battle, I take it? Leave this to me!” In a blinding flash of light, the palisade quaked and twisted, growing ten metres tall in the blink of an eye and turning to solid stone. Stairways grew out of the wall, leading up to the battlements, which themselves were richly reinforced with stone shielding to protect archers on the inside. Titania chuckled another proud laugh. ”Hah! Let’s see them break through -this-!”

“By the gods…” Carn whispered in astonishment, as the village behind him was flung into chaos at the sudden change. Men, women, and children alike whispered, pointed, and yelled. He shifted his gaze back to the settlement’s interior. “I suppose I’ll need to somehow restore order, then. Maybe give some sort of speech.”

”Turn aface and let me address them. They need to know that hope has arrived!”

“Good,” Carn offered a small smile. “I’ve always hated giving speeches.” Though some part of him was concerned; what if his followers thought it was the armour giving the orders, and not the other way around? He’d have to take care not to rely on it too heavily. He re-entered the market, where Chieftain Yarwick was already shouting for order, and Lothar could be seen kneeling in prayer. Titania drew a symbolic breath and shouted:

”Be calm, townsmen of Thyma! This was the work of me - Titania, the Shield Against the Darkness and agent of Gibbou the All-Protector! There are enemies on the horizon, no doubt - had fate been any crueler, the battle would already have been lost. Fear not, however, for I have come to protect you all! There walls are my gift to you - my promise to you - that no matter what happens, no enemy will make its way inside and take even a single slave, or worse, life! This, I swear on my holy blood!” She would have raised a hand in the air if she could.

Her words caused a sudden confusion. Why was their leader suddenly speaking in a woman’s voice, by a different name? Lothar’s prayers halted, and the priest rose to his feet with concern in his eyes. Carn removed the helmet, to show that he had in fact not been possessed by the suit. “The gods have been kind to us,” he declared. “The armour I wear was blessed by the Goddess Gibbou herself, and her words are true. But do not forget! The gods may give us gifts, but it still we who must wield them. It is we who must stand on this wall and defend it when the time comes. It is we who must march beyond the wall when we are ready, for we will never truly be safe until Ketrefa is defeated. So stay vigilant! Keep training! Two gods watch over us, so let us prove our worth!”

His words were met with cheers, even if they still didn’t fully understand how the strange suit of armour functioned. “The Champion of Cadien, and the Voice of Gibbou, have spoken!” Lothar proclaimed. “Heed their words, and they shall lead you to freedom!”

The sun was bright and warm. The green vale stretched out before Auriëlle. It’s slope down was gentle. In the distance she saw all sorts of tiny life run around. Behind her the camp was being raised. They had just entered the land of the southern village alliance. It would take at least a day before any scout would find them and report back. Then it would take another three days for them to properly gather their armies and finally one more day to march here. The moment she realized that, the peaceful image before her became eerie and wrong. Auriëlle could swear that there was a smell of storm on the winds. Even though she knew well enough that it was her imagination. Still, in five days the green, tranquil vale would be drenched in blood and ash.

She turned away from the sight and made her way towards the central tent. Where her advisors had gathered for the first time. As she walked, she wondered what sorts of men they would be. Because they would be men. Always. That would be the first challenge: to be taken seriously as a woman. Then they would try to tell her how to wage her war. What positions to take. What preparations to make. Some of it would make sense. Some of it would be condescending. None of it would fully account for who, or what, she actually was. Still, she would listen.

So with a gentle, endearing smile she walked into the tent and approached the table. “Talk to me.”

The men who had been chatting amongst themselves and laughing lightly all gazed upon Auriëlle. Some with disdain, others with hardened looks, as if to intimidate her. No one said anything for a few moments and then a man with grey in his beard and sharp blue eyes spoke up in a gruff voice. "Our Queen spoke highly of you… Auriëlle, was it? But some words never really proved much behind the cleverness of the tongue, if you catch my meaning. We have bled with the Queen, but not you. You, we know only stories of. So tell me girl, when you look a man in the eyes upon the field of battle, what do you see?"

She turned towards whoever spoke. Good, the strongest of the group revealed himself. A small smile formed on her lips. “Nothing important.” She let the answer hang in the air for a moment. “Now I’m betting you, with your clever tongue, wanted some poetic answer like ‘fire’ or ‘hatred’ or ‘desperation’.” Because that was the man she knew he was. A man of glory and long marches. A man of loyalty who suffered for his queen and had to frame that. That’s the only reason someone his age still wielded a sword. “The fact is I see nothing that matters in their eyes. That probably offends you and whatever old warrior tradition you believe in. I don’t care. We’re not in Nallan and we don’t need to dance.”

Her attention shifted towards those behind the veteran now. Time to swallow her pride. “Now someone tell me about our army. How many spears. How many shields. How many arrows.” She began to walk around the tent. Locking eyes with every veteran around. “I also need to know who I’m going up against. How many men they have. Who are these chieftains who banded together.” She ended up in front of the table, where she had first arrived as she had entered the tent. “Help me understand this war so we may win it.” Her voice had softened now.

The grey bearded man said nothing but gave a grim nod. A short cropped man then spoke up next, "We've several dozen fighting men, carrying a spear and shield each, a handful of arrow men and a capable force of full time guardsmen. Warriors as we say."

A younger man with wavy brown hair and hazel eyes spoke next, "We know not how many men they have, only that we should assume they have more than us. They've banded together you see, to fight against our Queen's authority. She tried a peaceful negotiation to bring them into the fold first, but now she will rule them through right of conquest. Olwar is the one behind all of this, he blames Queen Nalla for the death of his father. Foolish accusations and he will be killed for his defiance."

“He will.” Auriëlle said resolutely. “First I need to know more about Olwar. What sort of a man, or boy, is he?”

The grey haired man who first spoke, looked at Auriëlle and said, "Forgive my son. He speaks without knowing." He said at first. "Olwar the Hammer Spring. They say he killed a winged demon in his youth, that he raised a Leon cub to be his mount, that he never gets wounded and that he eats the hearts of those he fells… All rumors of course, but the man is a local legend and should not be underestimated." He said, looking to his son. The boy as it were, glanced away angrily.

Slain a demon? Raised a Leon cub? Eats the hearts of those he kills? Some were exaggerations, no doubt. Still, he sounded very formidable. The sort of person she shouldn’t allow to get close. “We won’t.” She said towards the grizzled veteran. He will think he has the upper hand. A greater army. The home advantage. With a stroke of luck he wouldn’t know about Auriëlle until he was on the battlefield.

“So what’s the plan?”

"Olwar won't stand for an army on his doorstep. He sounds more warrior then chief. I've a feeling they'll come to us." The gray bearded man said. "The Queen does not want a prolonged battle, but a quick and decisive victory. I suggest we fortify this location before they arrive." Many around the table mumbled in agreement.

Auriëlle joined in that agreement with a single nod. Looking around the tent she wondered whether or not Carn did these things as well. Probably. And he had been a smart man to keep her out of it. Back then, she would’ve hated everyone who even opened their mouth. Now, to her own surprise, she found herself enjoying the wise council. When she’d return, maybe she could ask him if she could join any future councils. Her eyes fell down to the table for a moment. She took a deep breath. Just a year and then she could go back to him. Gods she was starting to miss him.

“Alright.” She said, gathering her thoughts again. “We reinforce our position. I don’t want to be caught unaware so keep the scouts patrolling. Get to your tasks, men.” The old man would’ve said the same things as she had. The problem was that, even though they were allies, she couldn’t let him. She was the commander now.

Most of the council exited the tent in brisk jogs, calling for others and barking orders. In the quiet of the tent however the old man and his son remained. "Auriëlle." He said looking at her, "My name is Hyl and this is my son, Daert." Who gave her a nod if nothing more. "You'll do well, least I hope." He grunted, before exiting the tent. Daert stayed for a moment longer, before he hastily left as well. There was much to do after all.

---

The sun stood high again. It hadn’t rained. For the entire day, Auriëlle had been sitting away from the camp. Watching the horizon while sunken in thoughts. She bathed in the sun’s warmth. How ironic it was, that Oraelia’s sun shone so bright right now. For a minute she wanted to taunt the sun goddess again with a mock prayer. She would laugh at her and ask her why she won’t make a choice for once, on this day. Though that want quickly vanished. There was ill luck in taunting any god on the eve of battle.

Then, somewhere around mid-afternoon, one of the scouts approached her. “Olwar has been spotted on the other side of the valley. He’ll be here in an hour.” He said. She nodded in response and marched back to the camp. Where she donned her clothes and armor. She kept her lonethrone vambrace hidden under a sleeve. Her bronze plate felt heavy and clunky. The first time she wore the chest plate she quickly realized it would hamper her movement. She preferred to be fast and agile. If the enemy got close enough that a bronze plate would come in useful, she had already failed. Still, she put it on now. Keeping the straps loose so she could toss it off in a moment's notice. So far, it would seem Olwar marched thinking he would encounter a mere army. Not sorcery.

Soon she joined her troops on the line of battle. Stakes had been dug into the ground and barricades of simple wooden logs and stones were raised as well for the archers to seek shelter in. The last of the arrows were planted in the dirt before their feet. An uneasy silence reigned upon the soon to be battlefield. Hyl was beside her, scanning the horizon with his grim eyes, spear in hand and a sword at his hip. He wore a bronze plate as well, a trophy from battle she thought.

All was quiet before the sounds of singing became louder and louder. War chants and battle songs, meant to drive morale down and strike fear into hearts. From the sound of such voices, the enemy was many. They came from the other side of the vale, men brandishing all sorts of weapons and farming tools. Axes, spears, hoes and all sorts of other things. Most wore normal clothing but a few had leathers and shields as well. All together, it was a very rag tag army of common folk and farmers.

They did not march in a line but rather came to a stopping point down the slope. There was no sign of Olwar but then again she had no idea what he actually looked like. That was until the army before them parted, letting through a tight formation of spearmon wearing fine leather armor and tall shields. Behind them, riding upon Stag came a dozen or so more men who came to a stop at the center of the formation. Yet no one came forth and the singing had stopped.

"Look!" Someone cried out, pointing up into the clouds. A hushed whisper came up through the ranks, turning to fear and excitement. There coming down from the heavens was an actual Leon, carrying a man wearing black furs and a helmet of antlers. He landed before his army, Leon roaring in their direction. The man then shouted in a loud voice, "Nallan! You piss poor lads! Why have you come to die so far from home!"

Auriëlle was impressed. Though unafraid. She walked through her lines. Carefully putting her hand on every shoulder of the men she passed. “Steady men.” She said as she reached the front line. Where she stood amongst some spearmen of her own. There would be no big speech coming from her though.

Olwar looked fierce but he was a fool. He was showing her his entire army in an effort to intimidate them. Now she needed to lure him close. “I’ve come for your mother!” She shouted back. “At least she’ll have the guts to face me while you sit on your overgrown cat!”

There came some snickering from her own lines and quiet from the others. Olwar then boomed, "Look men! It seems the Queen has sent a bitch in her place! Come on then, pup, if you want to die then so be it! Archers!" A row of men rushed forward holding bows, they knocked arrows and then loosed.

“Shields!” Auriëlle responded. At her order, those with shields raised them. Some brave sap even held his shield in front of her. Lucky for her, perhaps. As one arrow did land with a hollow thud. She kept her steely demeanor. Though inside she once again came to the realization that she had almost died. Around her, one or two had some ill fortune. They fell back with blood pouring from their wounds. Others grabbed them and dragged them away. When the arrows had fallen, the shields moved out of the way again. She wondered if she could strike him with a lightning bolt. Not yet. He had to get closer. “I’m not here to dance.” She said. He wouldn’t hear it.

“At least have the fucking honor to come do the job yourself!” She spat back at him as she took a step forward. Breaking from her own front line. She now stood in front of her own men. “C’mon! I’m right here you big oaf!” She slammed her fist on her bronze chest plate. Letting the hollow metal sound echo across her line. There was pure fire in her voice. A familiar hatred boiled up in her. A hatred that brought power.

There seemed to be a heated discussion going on between Olwar and a stag rider before Olwar struck the man and then took a horn from his belt and blew. It was loud and deep and before her eyes, the enemy began to advance in rank. Shields were brought forth and a line was made, with several of the more regal looking spearmen, leading. Another volley of arrows fired as Olwar himself took to the sky upon his Leon, while the stag riders seemingly pulled back to retreat.

A faint smile appeared on Auriëlle’s lips. “Tell Hyl to keep an eye out for those stags.” She said. One of the lighter troops was dispatched to the back line. The shields were put up again. One arrow came just short of its target and fell before her feet in the ground. This time, no arrow hit the shield that was protecting her. Meanwhile she slowly loosened the leather straps of her bronze plate. When the shields were lifted again, the chest plate was off and Olwar’s army had gotten closer.

She pointed two right hand fingers at Olwar. Arcs of lightning traveled across her arm. Burning and cutting her sleeve to wisps of smoldering cloth. Then, at the last minute, she turned away from the flying menace, pointed at the frontline of spearmen and released the bolt of lightning.

Lighting arced towards them with a tremendous clap of thunder- No, the sound of an explosion, following. Men screamed in agony, others dropped dead and most immediately halted. The blow took everyone by surprise it seemed. The smell of charred skin and smoke blew back into them. Some of her men gagged as the grim reality of death set in. The enemy in the meantime, wanted no part of it and most of the farmers began to retreat, shouting as they went, "Run! Magician! The gods are against us!"

Up above, Olwar had vanished but his more stalwart men still pressed on with angrier war cries.

“You should’ve knelt when you had the chance!” Auriëlle screamed. “Now I’ll bring you back as ash.” She pointed again, not at the front line this time. Instead she unleashed her power at the fleeing farmers. They were spread out, so one bolt wouldn’t kill as many. That wasn’t the point. Then she turned to the front line again. She lobbed a small orb of fire, which began to fall apart in a wave of flames mid-air that fell upon the enemy. “Come and march to your death!” She shouted at the army. Almost forgetting Olwar and his stag riders in her rage.

It was someone in the back who sounded the alarm. The stag riders were on a collision course on their right flank and Olwar himself led the charge. More arrows began to rain down on her position as the riders approached, brandishing hammers and clubs. Olwar wielded a bronze hammer in one hand and a staff in the other.

Auriëlle knew those damned stags would cause trouble. She stepped back into the frontline. They’d have to hold for now. Arrows kept falling like a drizzle. It didn’t matter. She grabbed one of the lighter troops by the shoulder. “Tell Hyl to take out those stags!” She shouted her order. Right then one of the arrows struck the man in the chest. She threw his corpse forward. “Do I have to win this whole goddamn battle myself?”

She pushed her way towards the right flank. Meanwhile the lines clashed. Shields were pushed against shields as both sides tried to make an opening. The right flank was already unraveling. “The first who runs I’ll kill myself!” She shouted to her own troops. Then, one stag rider noticed her and started to charge her. Auriëlle had spotted it. The rider had gotten close. Just not close enough when suddenly the earth opened up underneath him. His stag tripped. Sending the rider tumbling from his steed. “Kill him.” Auriëlle gave the order and three warriors jumped the dazed rider in an instant. Smashing his face and body with their clubs, axes and even stones found around. There would be nothing left but a bloody pulp. His steed wasn’t spared either.

Then she turned to Olwar whose Leon was wreaking havoc amongst her troops. Without hesitation she raised her arm. Arcs of lightning traveled over her arm. With a clap of thunder she unleashed the bolt at the Leon.

The Leon was hit in the center of it’s chest, it howled in pain as the lightning arced and blew Olwar off its back. He went flying in the air and landed out of sight. The Leon then took a few steps before collapsing on it’s side. It was hard to be sure if it was dead or not.

As the strag riders ran amok, the enemies on the frontline crossed the threshold of no return. They were on their doorstep now, riddled with arrows in their shields and hatred in their eyes. They came upon the defenses and broke free, running with mad fervor at the enemies before them- Her own troops.

The right flank would collapse under the pressure. Auriëlle knew it. “Hold your ground!” She shouted as she trapped another stag rider in the ground. The Leon was at least down. Either the enemy’s moral would take a hit or it would whip them into a frenzy. Several archers were turning their attention at the stag riders. Another fell, though it took three arrows to get his stag low as well. Inside, Auriëlle knew Olwar wasn’t dead yet. “C’mon you pompous bastard. Get here so I can mount your head on a spear.” She mumbled under her breath as she prepared a bolt of fire to take out another rider.

The two forces upon the hill collided together, fighting neck in neck and blood for blood. The enemy was relentless in their charge. Fighting for home and country brought them together, made them fight strong.

Strong.

Olwar returned, looking as if he had barely been hurt by her blast. He waded through her troops like an unstoppable force. Each man who came to him, was battered down with his hammer until he arrived at the Leon. He howled in rage, and did something strange. He touched his Leon with the staff, and before her eyes, the creature rebounded. It lashed out at her forces and before she could get a clear shot at Olwar, he began to traverse the field, touching the staff to his broken comrades. Some rose, others did not and the fight continued on.

Nobody had told her about the staff. Nobody told her he could heal things. If she ever found Hyl, she would tear his eyes out. That was for sure. Punishment was for after a battle though. Right now, she had an incredible nuisance to kill. He had gotten close to her now as he healed his own troops. One man received the healing touch and was getting up before Olwar. He smiled, happy to be alive and fight for his tribe again. Then he turned pale. His veins became visible under his skin. He grasped at his throat as blood began to drip from his lips. He dropped down to the ground and curled up, spitting out blood as it filled his lungs up. A few meters behind him stood Auriëlle with her fist clenched and pointed at her victim. Her eyes were trained on Olwar. Fire burned in her left hand. Ready to be thrown at the hero.

Olwar grabbed the man, lifting him up as a shield. He then ran towards Auriëlle with a war cry.

He was getting closer. She threw the fire. It hit the first man. Not Olwar behind him. Auriëlle felt the panic creeping up. With every step, control slipped. She threw more fire. The back of the corpse was ablaze. Olwar didn’t stop. When he was close enough, he pushed the corpse of the man at her. Then the power came. Like an unholy savior. Uncontrolled. A wave of pure annihilation ripped from her hands. The translucent surge reduced the corpse to ash.

Olwar rolled to the right in the nick of time, but his furs caught fire and another unfortunate soul died. This did not stop him however, from hefting his hammer and throwing it at her as he used his momentum to jump back up. It hit her on the left arm. There was a nasty crack. She fell back. Her arm went limp entirely. For a second, the pain was overwhelming. It forced her to scream. Then she pushed back at it. Pain, fear, she would use it. With her right hand she reached out at Olwar, forming a half-closed fist. She poured all her vitriol, malice and pain into the hex. Slowly she clenched down. Attacking the very innards of her enemy.

His mouth twisted and his eyes went wide as he clutched his neck. Blood began to pour from his mouth and his breathing ceased. There was a panic in his eyes but acute awareness. He dropped to his knees, clutching the staff with one hand and slowly touching the tip to his chest. The change was immediate and he gasped for breath as his face curled into fury. He rose again and shambled closer to her with villainous intent.

“Dirty… Fucking… Mage…” he breathed.

It all vanished from her hex. The malice, the hatred. It went up in smoke. How!? She released her grip. The magic vanished. As he got up, she crawled backwards over the ground. He loomed over her, and fell to his knees on top of her, throwing the staff away. “Now… You’ll die.” he said, placing his hands on her throat and squeezing. She let it happen. There was no fighting. No kicking. She just waited, with a defiant gaze, as he got close and put his fingers around her neck. But with her right hand, she tapped the ground three times.

From Olwar’s right, a beast with black fur and burning red eyes lunged at Olwar’s throat. Blood sprayed across Auriëlle’s face. Olwar screamed as the demon dog dragged him down. Auriëlle managed to get from under him. Gasping for air as the pain of her arm was growing stronger. She bit down on her teeth as she crawled at the stick. When she finally grabbed it she put the tip of it on her chest, just like Olwar had done.

In an instant the pain in her neck and arm was gone. She could even flex her fingers again! Exhausted, but happy, she managed to get up with some help of the stick. In front of her, her demon was still biting down on Olwar throat. Bone cracked. “Release him.” She said. The demon did as commanded. The hero let out a ragged gasp for air. He wasn’t dead yet. Auriëlle turned towards one of the nearby soldiers. “Axe, now!”

It took a few hits, but after the fourth Olwar’s head was removed from his shoulders. She tossed it at one of the spearmen. Who gladly put the trophy on his spear to parade with. Meanwhile she tossed the staff at another soldier. “Heal everyone you can find.” She said, out of breath but still walking towards where she heard the Leon roaring.

It took another bolt of lightning to fell the great beast. Though any of the troops around weren’t taking chances this time. The sight of their leader’s head on a spear sent most of the troops routing. Half the stag riders managed to flee as well. Auriëlle gave the order to kill as many as they could but hold position. Meanwhile behind the front line more and more of her own men she had deemed dead were up and about again. The battle was won.

The great fire roared in the night. Her soldiers were drinking and feasting. Hyl would face her rage in the morning. Tonight she allowed everyone to party. Everyone but those who pulled guard duty that night. Her bronze armor was recovered and cleaned. Though it had suffered a few dents. Scraps and pieces of the Leon’s fur hung from various posts around the camp. Ready to be tanned and used. Auriëlle remained in her tent. Inside she kept cutting her own arm and then healing it with the branch. She never felt magic. Only something more powerful. No matter how many wounds she inflicted upon herself, they always closed the moment the tip touched her. “You’re a useful tool to have in war.” She remarked with a small smirk. Though she was contemplating on keeping it herself or giving it to Nallan.

Her pondering was interrupted by a guard entering her tent. “The village chieftains are here, my lady.” The guard said. She allowed them to enter with a motion of her hand. From the dried blood and wounds, she figured some had fought in the battle. Others hadn’t. Four of the six chieftains sat down on chairs spread out on the first half of the tent.

“My lady. We – “ One chieftain said as he motioned to the others. “ – have come to offer our surrender. You must understand. Olwar was so distraught about his father’s untimely death. Such a great tragedy. He shouldn’t have taken it out on Nallan. We should have stopped him when he called in the ancient oaths but Tekret would have taken great offense. Surely someone as ascended and powerful as you understand, don’t you?” The whimpering desperation was palpable. This was their version of begging.

Auriëlle felt strange. She felt as if she was on the battlefield again. Lobbing fire and releasing lighting while she remained untouchable. Was this how Nalla felt? Her thoughts returned to the chieftains standing in her tents. For some time she went over his words in her own head. Making sure she fully understood all of them. She thought back to what she had said in the throne room in Nallan. ‘Kneeling men or ash.’ For all intent and purposes, she was now an extension of Nalla’s will. Was the queen merciful or just?

“I accept your gracious surrender.” Auriëlle said with a small smile. “Rejoice! Queen Nalla is just. You can gather your dead to be buried and we will not come and raze your villages.” Even though she so thoroughly wanted to burn at least one of them. As a message. Still, Nalla needs people to reign over. Not ash.

The chieftains looked delighted as they released the tension they had felt. Some of them threw small praises to the gods. Auriëlle let them enjoy themselves for a minute. Until she raised her hand to silence them. “One of you will be burned at the stake here tonight until there is nothing left but ash.” The murmur dropped. “Then the rest will be brought to kneel before Nalla.”

The four sitting chieftains shot up. Ready to shout in protest. Auriëlle was a split second ahead of them as she rose from her seat. “Sit. Down!” She yelled at them. The candles in the tent flared up. Slowly, but surely, the chieftains took their seats again. Then she continued, with a softer voice but with the same intensity in her eyes: “You think you can defy us, insult us, bleed us and then come in here expecting nothing but mercy? I’ll let you choose amongst yourselves who dies tonight.”

Twenty-five years after Antiquity…

---

It had been ten years since Alys and Mathias had met.

Those ten years had been… not particularly purposeful. They had burned a couple more villages after that first one they encountered, but eventually that had lost its appeal, especially when people began to actively hunt them down. Such encounters typically ended with either Alys burning them or Mathias flinging them off into the far distance.

Anyhow, burning villages was no longer fun. Once the awe of watching entire buildings go up in flame wore off, all that was left was the smoke, which stung her eyes and choked her lungs. Burning people who came after her remained entertaining, but once they had stopped razing settlements, then put enough distance between themselves and the areas they had razed, those attempts came to a stop.

As the years went on, Alys learned to better control her powers, though they could still flare up with emotional outbursts. One thing she couldn’t control was that, at even the smallest use of her magic, animals in the immediate vicinity would fly into a rage or panic, bleating loudly and trying to escape their confinement. This saddened or frustrated her at times, but eventually she stopped caring, and focused on the development of her powers.

Instead of simply burning things, she focused on more subtle arts of magic. It took time, but eventually with some guidance from Mathias she figured out how to create things that weren’t truly there - illusions.

As the years passed and Alys grew, her supernatural beauty soon became apparent. She turned heads of men and women alike whenever she was seen, with some quite literally stopping in their tracks or forgetting to breathe upon seeing her. One time the lord of a town had been determined to marry her, and she had pretended to be interested, accepting many gifts before leaving the next day. Aside from her appearance, she also had her illusion magic, which she used to put on many entertaining shows in return for payment.

Their journeys had taken them all across the Highlands, with no clear goal in mind, though Alys retained her insistence that she was in charge and always knew what she was doing.

Then a strange thing happened. Alys had heard stories of a band of warriors. Led by a white-haired warrior and a red-haired mage. The mage was unfamiliar, but the warrior? After questioning further she had discovered he went by the name of Carn.

Her brother.

She had tried to search him out, following his trail by asking around and paying attention to gossip. Eventually, however, the trail went cold. No new stories were being told.

And that brought her to today. Seated in a tavern, eyes downcast, a depressed look in her eye.

Mathius sat across from her, his form still strange and people would often stare, but fewer and fewer cared to confront them about it. "What's wrong Alys?"

“We’re not going to find him,” she whispered.

"And what makes you say that? Sure he's a bit hard to pinpoint but a white haired buff man should be easy to find."

Her frown deepened. “We haven’t heard anything new in months. It’s like he disappeared…”

Mathius pondered, admitingly he wasn't that good at finding people, he stumbled upon Alys on a fluke "Well, he does have divine blood, much like you, it's possible he had to go into hiding...maybe we try asking Cadien? he's bound to know where his children are."

“He never answers my prayers.”

"Guess he's a more hands off father," He sighed, looking around the tavern "Maybe we could try to track down one of your other siblings?"

“And where would we even begin to look? They’re probably dead.” The words were spoken coldly and with resentment, as if that was somehow their fault.

"I would like to remind you that you and your siblings have cadien's blood and gods know what other help, I highly doubt they're dead, besides, my father would've heard of any of their deaths, hopefully." He tried to ignore the resentment, he wasn't much to touch on emotions, considering he had little.

She sighed. “Then what do we do? I’ve heard nothing of Brundt or Evette, and we’ll never find Carn at this point. What are we doing, Mathias?”

"Currently? sitting in a tavern, but," He leaned in closer to Alys "Maybe we try to bring them to us?

“And how do you suggest we do that?”

"We're the creations of two gods, I'm sure we can do something that'll reach their ears, y'know, like our old burning days."

She rolled her eyes. “But that is so dull. And all sorts of annoying people pop up to try to kill us.”

"Fine, maybe then we, try something else, there's gotta be something we can think of that could attract the attention of three god children" Mathius gestured around the tavern, pondering any ideas.

Alys opened her mouth to reply, when they were interrupted by the approach of a rather confident-looking young man. He came to a stop before the table, and his gaze fell on Alys, staring at her while making no move to speak. Then she turned to glare at him. He blinked in surprise, and his cheeks reddened slightly, as he remembered why he had approached them. He cleared his throat, puffed out his chest slightly, and straightened his posture.

“Excuse me, is this man bothering you?”

Her glare lingered, then she shook her head.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “Looks like he is. I can get rid of him, if you want. Won’t be any trouble.”

Mathius only looked at Alys, despite the wrappings and that he had no face, it was clear he was giving a look of 'what is happening'. Alys did not reply, and instead leaned back in her chair. Mathias could have sworn that traces of a smirk suddenly appeared on her face.

Not receiving an answer, the man turned to regard Mathias. “Listen. I can tell you’re making her uncomfortable. And the rest of us aren’t too happy to have you here either, with your robes and your… wrappings. They say that only a guilty man hides his face. So I think it’s best you be on your way.” He cracked his knuckles while speaking.

Mathius sighed "Come now, there's no need to get feisty," Mathius rose from the table placing one of his boney hands on his shoulder "I'm sure we can talk this out."

The man knocked his arm aside, and gave him a shove. “Read the room. We don’t want you here.” He shifted his gaze over to Alys, clearly hoping this display of bravado would impress her. She wore a look of complete disinterest, which suddenly gave the man pause.

Mathius chuckled "Come now, if you're gonna impress her try a little harder."

The man frowned, then his frown became a scowl. “Didn’t want to hurt you too badly, old man, but if you’re asking for it…” he twisted his body, and then launched a roundhouse kick directly at Mathias’s midsection.

The attack was, in truth, harmless to Mathius, but he decided to make a show of it, reeling backwards a bit, but grabbing the man's leg, pulling him forward, hoping Alys was having her fun.

The man’s eyes widened, and he attempted to pull his foot free, hopping on one foot to retain his balance. “A truly valiant display of heroics…” Alys said drily, earning a few chuckles while the man’s face flushed in embarrassment.

Mathius was beginning to get a bit annoyed by this whole endeavor and figured he would show this man a lesson. He let go of the leg, and in the same instant he rapidly raised his free hand, his rags glowed ever so slightly and the man was thrown, not a long distance this time, only a few feet, not enough to hurt but enough to get his point across.

The man fell onto his back. It had all happened so quickly that nobody had blinked at Mathias’s display of power - it looked more as if he had pushed the boy rather than telepathically throw him.

“Alright, that’s enough,” the bartender snapped. “Break it up.” He hauled the boy to his feet. “Go home,” he barked, before turning on Mathias. “And you, no more of that.” The latter warning was half-hearted though, and the bartender quickly went back to his business. As the man walked out of the tavern in embarrassment, Alys hung her head, bored once again.

“There has to be something fun to do,” she sighed.

Mathius turned to look at her, the expression of ‘really?’ forming with his rags, before, an idea sprang into his mind, not so lightly aided by his creator. ”Wait Alys, he quickly sat down once more across from her, ”People seem to always be drawn towards you right?”

She nodded. “So what?”

He leaned in closer ”I think I just figured out what we can do, what's the best thing to draw the attention of divine heroes?” He paused for a brief moment for the flair and quieted his voice somewhat ”A cult!” he added some jazz hands for more flair.

“A cult?” she asked, thinking about it for a few moments. “Hm. Maybe one dedicated to the most beautiful woman in the world?” she asked, her lips curling into a smile.

Mathius paused for a few seconds, should’ve, should’ve expected that response. ”Indeed, that and, with the aid of a god known for some, dramatic flair?” he gestured towards himself to get the point across.

“Dramatic flair?” she asked. “Sounds more like a group of magicians and bards than a cult.”

”Well, ya, thats kind of the point, on the outside it looks nice, like a carnival of sorts so we don’t get thrown out, but behind the mask we have ulterior motives, grow our support, travel around, cause some trouble, rumors begin, your siblings arrive, besides, if word got around of a white haired woman leading a group of bizarre entertainers, that’d be sure to get their attention.”

Alys thought about for another moment. “Well,” she decided. “The people of this ‘cult’ should at least be good looking.”

"I expect nothing less, think of it, beautiful men and woman craving for your attention, leading your own cult across the highlands, performing for the world while, partaking in the more, sinful, ways of life, it’d be pretty fun wouldn’t it?”

“Perhaps it would,” she agreed. “How do we get started?”

”Well, how about we use that power of yours to start gathering a few, willing, participants? Entice them in with words of love and of the Director, get them to take oaths, that sort of deal.”

She nodded. “Yes. I think I like that idea. We can’t let in just anyone, though…”

---

They had found their first recruit in the capital of Merok. A rather handsome-looking singer who had been unable to keep his eyes off of Alys. By the next morning, she had convinced him to join Mathias and her as a travelling companion. As the weeks past, they travelled from village to village, making a name for themselves as entertainers - she with her magic; him with his voice and instrument.

As the months went on, she eventually convinced more to join her, starting their own little troup. The members of that troup soon began vying for her favour, each determined to impress her, which she was able to exploit to retain their loyalty. Inevitably they wound up witnessing the true extent of hers and Mathias’s abilities, but in doing so they proved themselves to truly have the favour of the gods, which if anything only strengthened their hold over the members further.

Mathius too held his own sway over the troup, his avatar powers cemented his position as a kind of second in command. He would aid in the performances with a Yamatian flair and would defend them in case any trouble arose. Of course he would also speak the mantra of the God of Tragedy to those who joined, it was subtle, but the beauty of tragedy began to worm its way into the members, making its corrupting way into their mind and soon granting them the benefits of tragedy to aid them.

Thus, the Carnival was born.

---

A large amount of Reshut had entered the grand palace for the dinner, the daimyo had explained to Tiamat as the dinner was prepared that the attendees were various retainers of the clan or members of its vassal clans. These kinds of dinners the daimyo had every two weeks or so, to ensure the loyalty of his realm. The grand hall had been filled with tables and cushions to harbor the vast number of attendees, Tiamat got the honor of sitting alongside the Kinoshitas themselves, sitting to the right of prince Tanehira, with his other siblings, and their mother sitting alongside them. A variety of food was laid out for them, despite Tiamat’s lack of a need to eat, fish, rice, roasted insects, and other delicacies of the isles could be seen.

“So,” Tanehira spoke, eating a rice ball just underneath his mask “How are you enjoying the Isles?”

“Though I cannot say I am made for the swamp, you have been most kind and enjoyable,” Tiamat responded, looking around the table. She did not even have a plate in front of her.

“I am glad you think so, though I am curious as to where you will travel to next” the Prince said in return.

Tiamat turned to look back at the prince, saying, “Perhaps I will stay here a while. Get to know your clan and your city more.”

He chuckled “Well im sure my father would be more than happy to let you stay with us,” He turned to look towards the Daimyo, who was engaged in a convo with another of his sons, who Tiamat had been informed earlier was the heir to the clan. “Though I hope he does not hark on you constantly about tales from the mainland.”

Tiamat giggled, saying back, “Don’t want him to hog me, do you? Perhaps I’ll have to sneak out to avoid being roped into telling tales instead of following you.”

“Come now,” He turned back towards Tiamat, giving her a playful shove, “It's nothing like that, I just wish for you to not get roped into an eons worth of telling tales to him, my father rarely knows when to quit when nothing else is bothering him.”

Tiamat continued to tease, “Yeah, solely for my benefit, surely. Don’t worry, prince, I’ll make sure I make time for you.”

She was sure that if the prince was not wearing a mask, he would be blushing deeply, though, she wasn’t sure Reshut blushed.

Suddenly, the Daimyo rose, ringing a bell to attract the attention of the crowd, “Gathered Lords and Ladies,” he spoke “I have a special announcement I wish to make,” he gestured over to Tiamat “Our most gracious guest, Tiamat, has told me grand tales of the mainland, and, it is my decision to officially announce that I, Kinoshita Narikazu, will be sponsoring a grand expedition to the mainland!” A brief silence followed, before a loud round of applause erupted from the assembled guests.

Tanehira turned to Tiamat “Huh, you sure convinced him, he’s been debating on that for months now.”

She whispered back to Tenehira, “From what I gathered, he wanted to do it anyway. He just needed a good reason to justify it.”

He shrugged “Sounds like my father.”

The Daimyo continued, “To lead this grand endeavor, will be a navigator from the eastern clan of the Ohta, who has offered her services to us, Ina Hikohira!” A female reshut stood, dressed in a fine blue silk robe, her mask had an interesting design of an anchor surrounded by water. She bowed to the cheering crowd, and was brought up alongside the Kinoshita. The daimyo continued “In short time the Reshut will finally lay their feet upon the mainland! A new age dawns for us!” More cheers, and the dinner continued, with a far greater spirit washing over the guests.

Hikohira spoke to the daimyo for a brief period, before arriving in front of Tiamat and the prince, bowing she spoke “Greetings, you must be Tiamat, I am Ina Hikohira, a pleasure to meet you.”

Tiamat stood up in turn, giving a curtsy as she said back, “Indeed I am. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, miss Hikohira. I am surprised that a visitor spinning tales merits the attention of an esteemed navigator and soon-to-be expedition admiral.”

She chuckled “From what the esteemed daimyo told me, he has been gathering many tales, but apparently you were the one to finally decide his mind about it.” She turned for a brief moment to look at the guests “But nonetheless I am honored to be chosen to lead an expedition, I must confess the idea of finally seeing the mainland is exciting and so, when Lord Kinoshita offered to fund my venture I jumped on the chance.”

Tiamat responded, “Oh, I merely told him what I had seen. I would not take claim to such an illustrious position as having been the deciding factor for the works of a Daimyo. Nevertheless, the mainland is a large place, and I do not foresee you ever running out of places to explore. A dream come true, I imagine?”

“Oh absolutely!” The navigator’s eyes shined behind her mask “The chance to meet foreign cultures and races, to discover new lands, brave mighty storms, find hidden treasures! I can only hope the mainland meets all that I've dreamed it to be.” She paused for a moment, turning back to the guests, where a few had called her name, “Oh, I must get going, it was a pleasure to meet you Tiamat.” She bowed once more, before heading towards others.

“An interesting figure.” Tanehira added.

Tiamat turned back to look at Tanehira, explaining, “I gather she is leading the expedition for her own sake rather than the Daimyos’. Their goals align, however, so I suppose it is a victory for your clan and for her.”

The prince nodded “the prestige such an adventure would provide will definitely put us above the other clans, a much needed victory I must admit, as for lady Ina? I’ve heard good things about her, but I have no doubt she would’ve gone to the other great clans had we not gotten her first.”

She acceded, “Indeed. She has a wanderlust she is desperate to fulfill. Clan divisions are not an obstacle in that regard. That may prove favorable, though. She will be much more driven to reach the mainland.”

He nodded “quite, I must admit I am ever curious to see what she finds, but, enough of that, let us enjoy the rest of this dinner!”

---

A day after the dinner, the young prince was once more leading Tiamat through the city, this time around the prince had been given a sack of bronze coins for his own purchases, their adventure found the two in the docks of the capital, a vast array of ships, some bearing symbols beyond that of the Kinoshita, two of which Tiamat had been informed were the symbols of the Hashimoto and the Ohta. A few contingents of the Kinoshita forces could also be seen, armed with long spears and bows, to keep an eye on the other great clans she had been told.

“We tend to dislike one another, but that doesn’t stop us buying Hashimoto blades, or the Ohta selling us anything they can get their hands on.” The prince spoke, staring off towards the ships.

Tiamat pondered, “What is important in Hashimoto blades? Do you have forges? Surely the Kinoshita are capable of supplying blades as well.”

He chuckled “Well of course, but, as i'm sure my father informed you, the Hashimoto are masters of the blade, both of its construction and of its use, but, they are rare that's for sure,” He patted the blade at his own side “One of only 50 made, by one of the finest Hashimoto craftsmen, getting the supplies needed to construct such nice blades is difficult, we have little copper or tin, so making bronze is a rarity we reserve for only the finest of weapons or craftsmen.”

Tiamat turned to the Prince, and had she a way to show it, she would have visibly been confused. She followed up, asking, “What about iron? It’s difficult to find a place without iron.”

“Yes, it is common, but even the master craftsmen of the Hashimoto have little use for it, they can’t construct as nice blades as they can with bronze, from what I understand it’s too soft, not as durable for combat, so in effect, useless to the Hashimoto and even to the Ohta or us Kinoshita.”

Tiamat asked incredulously, “The isles do not know how to harden iron? You must take me to a forge.”

The prince looked confused, but accepted Tiamat’s demand. He led her through the docks to the artisan quarters, eventually arriving at a forge, where a reshutian blacksmith forged away at what appeared to be builder’s tools, the smith looked up as they two approached. “Hail young prince Kinoshita! What can I do for you today?”

“My companion wished to see your forge, if you are willing to show her.”

“Why, of course.” He looked at Tiamat and gestured towards his forge, “Tis right here, not the best but it gets my work done.”

She nodded at the forge, quickly launching into business, “I wish to show both of you a technique. Do you have a stock of iron rock?”

The smith and the prince paused for a few moments, before the smith finally spoke “Why..yes, it's right over there.” He jabbed at a pile of scrap where some iron rock could be seen “Don’t know what you want that for though.”

She did not respond to the jab, simply giving the order, “Bring a barrel of water and one of your molds for a blade. I want the furnace stoked to a heat suitable for the liquifying of metal.” She grabbed a furnace pot, stuffing iron ore into it rapidly.

The smith went about the order, a barrel was brought and a mold, stoking the fire to an intense heat, meanwhile the prince just watched, his curiosity growing.

Tiamat placed the pot into the furnace, watching the iron ore melt down. In the meantime, she took the barrel, moving it next to the anvil and placing a set of tools nearby, including a hammer and a pair of forge tongs. She then went to the forge’s equipment rack, taking a heat apron and a pair of thick gloves, putting them on. Once the metal in the pot had fully liquified, she reached in with the gloves, pulling the pot out and carefully lifting it over to the mold.

She carefully poured the molten iron into the mold, slowly. Once the mold was filled, she placed the pot aside and placed the mold next to a wind bellow, repeatedly stamping down on the bellow to cool the iron. Once it had solidified, but still glowed a fierce and angry red hot, she dumped it out of the mold onto the anvil. She immediately grabbed the hammer, bringing it down violently upon the edges of the blade, chipping away at the iron steadily.

The blade took form, as she flipped it over and chipped away at the iron on the other side, bringing the edges to a point. Once she saw fit, she placed the hammer aside and grabbed the tongs, taking hold of the blade and plunging it into the water with a plume of steam. Then, she lifted it back out of the water, and still carrying it in the tongs, placed it back into the furnace. She presented the order again, “Refill the barrel of water and return it to its place next to the anvil.”

The smith did so, seemingly taking notes mentally throughout the entire process, the prince meanwhile had summoned for a scribe, who arrived sometime during Tiamat’s demonstration, the prince was now recounting every last detail to them, still watching with pure fascination.

Once the blade was red hot once again, she took the tongs and pulled it from the furnace. She dropped it back down upon the anvil, and taking up the hammer once again, continued to beat at the edges. The blade further took shape, the edge becoming more and more prominent. She beat down the middle, carefully preparing a groove in the blade to cut its weight. Then, with the tongs she plunged it once more into the water, filling the forge with yet more steam as the blade hissed furiously.

Back into the furnace it went. She turned to the forgemaster and said, “Refill the water, and bring the handle and pommel.”

He did so, the prince leaned ever closer, the scribe writing down everything with a furious speed.

Once the blade was red hot again, she took the tongs and pulled it out, plunging it back onto the anvil. Another round of beatings with the hammer solidified the shape of the blade, and it took on a recognizable swordly shape. Once she was pleased, she took the tongs, and for one final time, plunged the blade into the water again with an angry hiss. She lifted the blade out, grabbing it in her hands as she walked over to the grindstone. Repeatedly depressing the pedal, Tiamat ran the edge of the blade against the grindstone, carefully bringing the iron to a sharp edge.

Then, once she was satisfied, she took the handle, fitting it over the tang of the blade. The pommel screwed to the end of the tang, securing the handle against the blade. Then, she looked to the prince, pointing the blade at his own, “Take your sword, and strike at me with a heavy blow.”

The prince unsheathed his sword “are you sure? I do not wish to end up harming you”

Tiamat raised her blade, saying, “You will not harm me. Strike at me.”

“Very well” The prince swung with his blade, striking towards Tiamat, but clearly not wanting to harm her truly.

She suddenly brought up her iron sword, bringing the flat of her blade against his sword. The bronze clashed into the iron with a flurry of sparks, but the iron did not yield. She had successfully blocked him, and the iron blade did not falter. She then sidestepped, slashing the blade across a nearby banner, cutting it cleanly in half. Tiamat flipped the blade around, presenting the handle to the prince, saying, “It is both sharp and capable of maintaining its shape.”

The prince, scribe, and smith were stunned, the prince carefully sheathed his own blade and took the iron one, testing it with a few swings before bringing it up to gaze at. “My my Tiamat, you do not fail to impress me,” he turned towards her, “Anything more you know you wish to grace us with?”

Tiamat immediately imparted, “That sword is not an exact analogue. It requires more care than your bronze blade, and it is brittler. It must be sharpened more often and it must be kept clean. Never sheathe it when it is dirty, or it will rust and crumble to dust.”

The prince nodded while the scribe continued to write the words down “I see, it is quite the effort, but as you said, iron is far more common, my father will most certainly want to hear of this, and I'm sure the other clans will pay a fortune to learn this.”

She bowed, “I would be pleased to accompany you to present the blade. I’m sure it will meet the Daimyo’s expectations.”

“Of course! Come follow me.” The prince quickly led Tiamat back to the palace, with the smith and scribe following quickly behind them, both curious to see what would occur. They wound through the muddy pathways of the city, on the way, Tiamat spotted someone else wielding a bag of the bronze coins the Reshut so commonly used, they were counting some when suddenly, one dropped, falling into the mud and sinking away rapidly, with the Reshut seemingly disappointed, but making no great move to search for the coin.

Soon enough, they had found their way into the palace, passing by the guards and entering the great hall, the prince practically bounded in “father! We have something great to show you!”

The daimyo looked up from his work “What is it my son? Another wanderer you’ve found on your travels?”

The prince looked at Tiamat, handing her the sword “You understand more than I do, you should be the one to present it.”

She took the blade, saying, “Very well,” before kneeling and presenting it to the Daimyo, saying, “I have shown the Prince a new method of forging to make use of the waste iron your mines produce. Through heating and cooling the iron rapidly, it is possible to harden it into a usable form.”

The daimyo pondered, picking up the blade, and testing it himself, “My my Tiamat, did the mainland show you this? This technique is most intriguing, if it truly does what you say it does, it'll most certainly change things around here.”

She remained kneeling, answering, “It remains largely unknown upon the mainland as well -- at least, when I was still upon the mainland. The electric barons understood well how it worked -- being so closely tied to the constant as they are -- but had little enough use for forged goods that they never ran short of their bronze. It is a technique used only rarely.”

“I see, well, I most certainly thank you for this Tiamat, your stay here has been most useful to us.” He spoke, bowing towards her in thanks.

She looked up towards the Daimyo, saying next, “If it may please you, I have another consideration for the clan.”

The Daimyo rose “And what would that be?”

Tiamat explained, looking back down, “On my way to the palace to present the blade, I witnessed a man lose a bronze coin in the mud. Though those losses are relatively small, collectively, should a number of people lose a coin here and there it should add up to thousands in lost coinage.”

She paused to let it sink in, then continued, “When I was presented with your temple, I discovered you had a secret method to produce the fiery red dye used. Were you to dye strips of silk with that method, it would be most difficult for others to recreate. You could be assured that any such strips produced would be produced only by your clan.”

Another pause, then she finished, “If you were to peg these strip silks to the value of your coinage -- say, certain lengths of silk are worth certain amounts of coinage -- and permit any in possession of the silk to turn them in for coinage, or any with coinage to turn them in for the silk strips, you could have the rarity and value of coinage with the lightweight qualities of silk. You could not only carry more silk, but if dropped it would not sink into the mud and be lost to your people.”

The Daimyo thought further, letting the entirety of Tiamat’s proposal sink in “I see, that would be, certainly useful, and would ensure we no longer had to deal with counterfeit coinage, I shall most certainly consider your idea Tiamat,” He gestured towards another scribe, who wrote it all down. “If you have any other grand ideas, I will certainly listen, you continue to impress me.”

She snuck a glance at the prince, before saying, “I humbly request I be permitted to continue my walk of the city with the prince. Perhaps I shall think of more things during such a walk.”

The Daimyo nodded “be on your way.”

The prince lead her once more back to the docks, as he still had business to be done, once more by the ships and the soldiers marching through the streets, they eventually found their way to silk merchants, the prince spent quite some time figuring out some more silk to be produced into some robes for the royal clan. While the merchant went to check his stock the prince turned towards Tiamat “Any further ideas of that great mind of yours?”

Tiamat pointed at the ships in harbor, asking, “Do all your vessels look like that?”

“Yes they do, until recently we’ve had no need for anything beyond the isle’s waters, which are, as I assume you’d guess, shallow compared to the waters probably around the mainland, we haven’t tried the waters beyond the isles but, we haven’t had a need to, until recently.”

She shook her head, “Those shallow vessels would not survive in the harsh ministrations of the open ocean. What is their superstructure like?”

The Prince thought for a brief second, gazing at the ships, “If i recall correctly, there is little of such superstructure in many of these ships, the Ohta are the only ones with a noteworthy amount to them.”

“I need a scroll and some ink. Where may we get some?” Tiamat asked, suddenly.

The prince tossed some coins to the returned silk merchant and told him to have the silk delivered to the palace, he led Tiamat to another merchant, one who sold scrolls and some ink. He quickly bought some and handed it over to Tiamat “I assume another of your great ideas?” he asked.

Tiamat responded, “One that will save the lives of your expedition. Your vessels are shallow, and will be drowned by the waves. And presumably your superstructures aren’t sturdy, and will be hammered and smashed into pieces by the water. If you take logs, and keep them whole..”

She drew a blueprint, of a vessel’s superstructure, deep-bottomed and hewn entirely out of thick logs. The logs lashed together and criss-crossed, sturdily linking together, and she explained, “If you place the planks atop this superstructure, it should be sturdy enough to withstand water hammers, and sit high enough in the water that the waves should not drown it.”

“I see, it would, most certainly be useful for our expedition to not drown in the waves as soon as we go beyond the Isles, once more, you impress me Tiamat, shall we deliver these to my father then?”

Tiamat nodded and said in return, “Very well, let us present them to your father.”

The duo once more headed their way through the winding streets to the palace, this time, Tiamat overheard something, two soldiers of the clan, both with bows strapped across their backs, speaking to one another.

“My arms really started to ache after a while, now I can’t even perform basic actions without my arms shooting out in pain every now and then, not to mention pulling this damn thing back.” One of them spoke, clearly speaking of the bow attached to him.

The other one responded “You’re telling me, but you have to admit, being able to kill a bandit from yards away is incredibly useful.”

“Ya I'll give you that.” the first one spoke once more.

Tiamat couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation before she was dragged away by the prince. Once more they returned to the palace, the guards at this point now bothering to hail them and just waving them in. They found the Daimyo once more, sitting in his more personal chambers this time around.

“And what do you bring to me now?” He asked, not even looking up from his work.

Tiamat kneeled once more, presenting the rolled-up scroll, saying, “I have designed a vessel for your expedition, that will survive in waters your current coastal boats will not.”

The daimyo took the scroll, unraveling it to investigate the contents, he whistled upon seeing it “This will, most certainly be a work to design, but,” He set the scroll down, looking up at Tiamat “Another of your ideas that will aid us, im sure Lady Ina would appreciate having a ship that could actually survive the endeavor.”

Tiamat simply responded, “I am happy to provide assistance, sir.”

The daimyo bowed to this “In that case, if you have any of your other ideas, feel free to stop by, already the ones you have given to us will be more than useful, the other clans will be eager to learn them.”

“If I may be granted another scroll, perhaps I may present to you another design that may help your troops,” Tiamat requested.

The daimyo merely pushed over a scroll, “Now this one im sure to be interested in.” He spoke, Tiamat could tell he was only half joking while saying it.

She took the scroll, laying it down as she spoke, “The bow has its advantages, and indeed still will over the design I am about to present, but it presents itself as a viable alternative.” She drew an odd design, a block of wood with a groove cut into it and two wooden fringes expanding out on either side, bowstring tied through them. They attached to a piece of bronze that could slide up and down the groove, and Tiamat placed a bronze assembly in the back. There was a trigger, that when placed into position would lift another piece of bronze up to force the sliding assembly into place in a taut position. When depressed, the trigger would drop the blocker and the slider would release its pressure, propelling an arrow forward.

She presented the design, saying, “The force by which the arrow is launched is greater than the bow, and will prove better against armored targets. It also spreads out the exertion of drawing the strings into manageable chunks. You press the device against the ground and use both hands to pull the slider back. Once it is at full tension, you impress the blocker upwards and force it to remain tensioned. Place an arrow into the groove, against the sliding block. Once the blocker is depressed, it launches forward with a mighty heave.”

“I see, an interesting and strange design I will admit, though I'm sure we will begin to test it out, there are still bandit camps to clear out.” The daimyo looked up at Tiamat “And what do I owe you in exchange for all of these beautiful designs?”

Tiamat said back, “If the prince be willing, I wish for us to join the voyage to the mainland. It has been long since I was there, and I wish to make contact with those I knew once again.”

The prince’s eyes lit up, the daimyo sighed, “Very well, but please, do keep an eye on him, he is my flesh and blood after all.”

Tiamat elected to compliment, saying, “He is extremely capable. I suspect he will be the one keeping an eye on me, rather than the other way around.”

Tanehira was bubbling with excitement “I shall not disappoint you father!” He turned towards Tiamat rapidly “Oh this shall be so fun!”

---

To rule … His responsibility - dropped into his lap like an anvil. It was much too early.

“King Turmerick?”

It had been no sooner than a fortnight ago that the mere twenty-seven men har returned from the skirmish to Monsax, bloodied and beaten into a mere fraction of the fifty strong that had been sent out. Turmerick had been playing xuakla with his sister Clove, enjoying her sweet, soothing song that made him forget all about xweh-bach and all about the stress of his future responsibilities. She sang to him songs of old legends, such as the tale of the warrioress Cilantra and the first great Nelven expansion across Sso-Hwah; she sang to him myths of the gods and the Nelven creation - how the moon so wounded by all the horror in the night, wept tears of silver and shadow, which pitter-pattered down across the land and became the Night Elves.

“King Turmerick?!”

Her song had been interrupted at the climax. Into their fathers hut where they had sat had come rach Rose, followed by six men carrying a stretcher. Their father’s corpse had laid upon it like some butchered animal - he had barely been covered by anything, and the stench of rot had already begun to set in. Turmerick hadn’t heard his sister’s cries, not his mother’s when she had found out. Even as the two of them had closed around him in search of comfort and to give comfort, he hadn’t been present. It was as though his world had collapsed in on itself, and now, two weeks later, he stood outside the entrance to his father’s hut, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“King Turmerick?!”

The boy snapped back to reality and turned to face the druid Laurel, who offered him a rose. He had barely registered that the whole town had gathered behind him, all staring at him and the king’s hut behind him. Next to him stood his mother and sister, both dressed in their finest dresses, and the aristocracy lined the first rows of the crowd. The king swallowed nervously and accepted the rose. He hadn’t practiced his lines - he hadn’t had the focus. He didn’t know what to do, so even as whispers grew like weeds in the crowd behind him, he couldn’t do anything. Eventually, he felt a warm hand capture his own and he looked up to see the kind, silvery eyes of his mother.

“Turmey…” she whispered and gently guided the hand holding the rose. “... You are the heir, so yours is the first rose to be laid at the tomb’s door.” Together, they knelt down and laid the rose at the doorstep of the king’s hut. Turmerick suppressed a sob.

“So… He’s truly gone, then?” he whimpered and Queen Clove pulled him gently over to his sister, and the three of them hunkered down and laid their heads against each others’. Meanwhile, the druid continued to distribute roses to anyone who wished to lay them down at the doorstep, and a long line formed to do so. Princess Clove looked up and gave her brother a soft kiss on the scalp.

“He… He is,” she sobbed quietly, “... but don’t worry, little Turm. We’ll take care of you for as long as you need us.”

“For as long as you need us,” his mother echoed. King Turmerick found that he couldn’t process their words properly. His shoulders grew heavy with the thought of duty. As the line of people circulated around the plaza before the king’s hut and placed down their roses, the night passed quicker than one would imagine.

---

The shadows had grown stark by the end of the ceremony, and the sun was peeking sneakily over the horizon. The royal family, now that their hut had become the king’s tomb, stayed with the Rose family. Rach Rose had humbly offered for them to stay for as long as they’d need, as he had been there in the king’s last moments and heard his last will to his family.

“Your father, he…” rach Rose began as he and Turmerick sat alone in the living room of the Rose mansion. The nobleman suppressed a sob, and Turmerick felt his head grow heavy. He tightened his fists and looked away from the rach’s eyes. “... He came with some final wishes. He sadly didn’t have time to write them down, forgive me - I assure you, my account is true. I swear it, my king - I swear it.”

“O-okay-- I mean…” Turmerick felt his face freeze over with cold sweat. “... Y-you may speak, rach Rose.”

The nobleman bowed his head. “Great son of the moon, your father, he… I understood that you would be under quite a bit of pressure right now. Too much for any lad who only has seen twenty-five droughts. So… He proposed we would aid you until you come of an age where you feel more in control - more certain of yourself.”

Turmerick gingerly sucked on a tooth whilst looking down, flexing his long ears stressfully. “Did, did he say anything about how you would… Aid me?”

The rach clicked in affirmation. “Naturally - your father stated very clearly that you were to apprentice in every office and learn everything there is to learn about leadership and governance.”

The king swallowed. “That… Is something he would say, I suppose… What’ll, what’ll become of my kingdom?”

Rach Rose sucked in a slow breath. “You needn’t worry about all that. Your father stated further that the affairs of the state were to be handled by myself and my rachfi, rach and rachfi Nilla, rachfi Jasmine and the seers Laurel, Cacao and Chive. Your kingdom is in very, very good hands.”

The king drew some concerned breaths and sniffed. “B-but…” Rach Rose’s hand on his shoulder silenced him and he looked up to meet the nobleman’s smiling eyes.

“Understand, son - we’re doing this to help you; to help Fragrance prosper. Forgive my frankness, but if we left the role of leader in the hands of a young boy such as yourself, well… Are you familiar with the baqualo herders out on the Xorsha?”

Turmerick clicked a no and hung his head.

“Do you know when to sow the wheat and when to sow the rice? Do you know when the jasmine flowers bloom? Do you know when the almonds are at the ripest?”

The king suppressed a whimper. “... N-no…”

The rach sighed and placed his forehead against his. Turmerick whimpered. The rach’s breath smelled of death hastily scrubbed away by chewed mint leaves, and his rose perfume did its best to drown it out by drowning everyone around him. “Your kingdom is safe, son - trust us. Once you come of age and feel ready, we will give you back your kingdom. Doesn’t that sound like a deal we can both be proud of?”

A moment passed before Turmerick said, “I guess…” Rach Rose clapped his hands together softly and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He snapped his fingers and the rachfi Rose entered through a carpet door, dressed in beautiful, white clothing that contrasted her dark skin and black hair - exquisitely bejeweled and wealthy even for a nobless.

“Belladonna, my love, would you bring the king to his mother and sister, along with whatever they may wish for of food, drink, games or comforts. They are to be treated as one of our own flesh and blood - no wish is too much for them to ask. After you’ve done that, send word for the seer Cacao. I have some notes I wish to have set in writing.”

The rachfi Belladonna Rose bowed, approached the king and kindly escorted him out of the room. Turmerick cast one last glance over his shoulder to catch rach Rose rubbing his hands victoriously. A burning sensation within him couldn’t help but wonder if he had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

The two of them had exited into the courtyard of the mansion grounds. The homestead of rach and rachfi Rose in Fragrance was humbler than those of their aristocratic peers, but it was nothing compared to their villa back in Scenta. It consisted of four clay huts within a perimetre fenced with wicker walls. The main hut served as the family’s house and main building; north of it was a guest hut currently occupied by the royal family; south of it was the Rose family’s bath house, which was almost as large as the guest hut; finally, a small house reserved used as a food store. Of course, queen Clove, princess Clove and crown prince-crowned-king Turmerick had no reason to complain; sure, their temporary home was smaller than their previous one, but it had been lent to them through the compassion and honour of the Roses. Besides, they all fit - mostly.

The pair entered the small hut and were met with the sudden gazes of the queen and the princess, both of whom smiled as soon as they realised who had come. “Turm, you’re back!” whispered the princess gleefully and took her brother’s hand affectionately. His mother reached out to touch his belly.

“The rach wishes to inform you that whatever you may request while you are guests here, may be granted to the best of his ability. No expense shall be spared if the royal family demands it,” the rachfi whispered respectfully, knelt down and offered forth her hands, palms facing up. The queen looked at her children.

“Would any of you like anything?” Turmerick shook his head. Clove smacked her lips with interest.

“Could you bring us some chamomile tea and some maokl, please?” she asked.

“Some chokham, too, if you could,” added the queen and touched the rachfi’s hands. The rachfi slowly brought her hands back to her sides, rose up and left the hut. Silence fell upon the hut once more before the queen asked, “So, what did you and the rach discuss?”

Turmerick shrunk. “I… I’m not sure I wanna talk about it.”

Both the queen and the princess blinked suspiciously at one another and shuffled a little closer to the king. They both placed a hand on one shoulder each and offered his worry stares with quartz eyes. Turmerick looked down in shame, twiddling his thumbs gingerly. They gave off a dry rubbing noise than only seemed to intensify the awkwardness of the situation. The princess leaned in and rested her cheek atop his head. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, Turm… We support you no matter what you said.”

“You… You will?” whimpered the boy.

The queen sighed. “Of course, we will. We, we have no one but each other now. We cannot afford to anyone. We have already lost one too many.”

Turmerick wiped some tears away. “I, I…”

“Hussshh… Shh, shh… Don’t feel like you have to tell us anything. We’ll be here when you are ready,” reaffirmed princess Clove. The prince nodded, and as he kept crying, his family only hugged tighter. The night quickly passed like this - after they had eaten, Turmerick went to take a bath at the mansion bath house, allowing himself to take in every facet of the beautifully shaped clay tub and the silver-decorated room. His fascination wouldn’t be allowed to last, however, because as he stood admiring the metallic stars filling the domed ceiling, the fire under the tub was lit by the rachfi, who had entered with oils, herbs and ash in various containers. The rachfi bathed him herself, despite his insistence that she didn’t have to. She scrubbed him from top to toe and cleaned his extremities thoroughly, wetting his hands and feet with water before rubbing them in with ash and then quickly rinsing them in water again. As she then let him soak in the herb-infused bathwater, the king asked:

“Rachfi Rose…?”

The lady, who was busily washing herself over, too, offered a click to let the king know she was listening. Turmerick drew a slow breath through the nose and looked up at the ceiling of the bath hut, which was barely visible in all the steam from the hot water.

“Is, is it a rachfi’s duty to wash the guests?”

He received at first a surprised giggle in response. The rachfi ran her fingers through her black hair, infusing it with herbal and flowery oils as she laughed - her voice was like his mother’s, Turmerick thought, though somehow even smoother. She turned to him with a smile that was hard to make out in the shadow and steam, and spoke, “No, but as with any wife, it is a rachfi’s duty to obey her husband’s commands - and he has commanded me to see to the great son of the moon and his family’s every need.” She then turned back to her oils. The king frowned and blew bubbles at the top of the water.

“Do you do everything he says?”

“More or less,” came a soft reply.

“But… Why?”

The rachfi cocked her head to the side. “Did your mother never tell you? Not your sister, either?”

“Tell me what?”

She scoffed as though someone had asked her to explain why water is wet. “Well, the way it’s always been, moonson, is that the woman cares for the home, the children and her man, so that the man can be certain those and that which he values are in good hands when he goes out to hunt.”

The king furrowed his brow and flexed his ears. “But… The rach doesn’t hunt.”

The rachfi sighed. “That’s true, but… Well… He’s very busy with his military career and with his office as the new governor of Monsax.”

Turmerick blinked. “What’s a governor?”

The rachfi smacked her lips looking for words. “A king of sorts, except beneath the king.”

The prince held a small breath before eventually clicking in gradual understanding. “I see… So the rach leads his own village now? Will he leave Fragrance?”

“Oh, no! No, no, no,” the rachfi assured him. “Rach Rose is eternally loyal to Fragrance and the great son of the moon of the Enzan. He’s simply making sure more land is claimed for the city and your future rule, my king.”

Turmerick tasted her words and found them sweet - a little too sweet, perhaps, but he reasoned that they were flavoured by her kind spirit. He nodded with a weak smile and made himself a little more comfortable in the tub. “I’m glad to have so many loyal subjects. I can’t wait to be king now!”

The rachfi gently ran her hand through his hair, though her expression was obscured by the steam except for her face. “Yeah…” she whispered soothingly, “... we await that day eagerly.”

After his bath, the king returned to his chambers. Outside, he heard his mother and sister sit with the rest of the Roses, playing music and enjoying themselves with them. He didn’t feel like joining them - he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the mood still hanging over the village, all for the simple illusion of politeness. He sat down before the mount of his family sword, the Enzanchenn. He stared long and hard at its golden sheath, its sunlike hilt and overall majestic appearance. Despite those qualities, it had been useless in his father’s fight against the vampire. It hadn’t protected him, it hadn’t brought him back home alive, it…

It had just gotten him killed.

He felt his nose itch again and his eyes well up. He tried to swallow the whimpers, but a few broke through still. He collapsed forward onto his hands and drew a sharp breath. “Why… You were supposed to teach me everything I needed to know… So why did you have to go and die? For what?”

There came no response, as expected. Turmerick looked over his shoulder and listened carefully - the music was still playing in the yard, followed by soft applause. He sighed his relief and looked back at the blade. Sharing his sorrows with it seemed to… Calm him somehow. He reached out and grabbed it by the hilt, dismounting it and pulling it to himself. He immediately needed his second hand to support the weight. It was heavy - much to heavy for him to use still. He would need to grow much stronger.

“Turmerick?”

He cast a glance over his shoulder. There was no one there. He stepped over to the curtain door and peeked outside. Nobody there - the other were behind the large hut.

“Turmerick.”

“Hello?” whispered the king quietly, looking around anxiously. He couldn’t locate the source of the voice for the life of him, and it carried an eerie resemblance to… To…

“The sword, Turmerick. Look at the sword.”

The king did as told and, as he held the sword pointing upwards with both hands, he could have sworn that he caught a glimpse of his father’s face in the sheen of the hilt. The shock nearly made him drop it, but the voice spoke soothingly: “Turmerick. It is I, your father.”

The king collapsed onto the floor and once more eyed the doorway. “F-father?!” he tried not to whisper too loudly. “Wh-what’s going on?!”

“The sword given to our family by Kiim’Jaav’Guul has the ability to store souls. In my dying moments, I chose to preserve mine so that I could council you even after death.” He paused. “... I see now that I was right to do so.”

Turmerick began to bawl and the sword gave a sympathetic sigh. “D-daddy, I-... I miss you so much! Why did you have to go and--”

“I did what I thought was right. I see now that I couldn’t have been further from the true path. I knew the day of my death was close, but… I hadn’t expected it to be this soon.” The sword exhaled sharply. “But we can dispell the emotions later - for now, you need to listen to me.”

Turmerick barely had time to recover from the emotional shock before Safron continued, “I do not know what the rach told you, but if you’re staying at his home, then my fears have become reality - the aristocracy holds power over Fragrance and our line are their puppets to parade for the people.”

The prince shook his head in disbelief and confusion. “Father, I don’t--”

“You cannot let him know that I am still here. Rach Rose has only power in mind. If he realises he does not have complete control over you, your mother and your sister, then he will find ways to dispose of you.”

Turmerick felt his breathing accelerate; his heart thundered in his chest and threatened to escape through his ribcage. “Oh gods… Father, I’m scared, so scared!”

“Sssh! Don’t be, my son. Here’s what you will do: You will live as though nothing has happened - you will apprentice and learn under the rach and all the other aristocrats. When the time comes, and you will know when, you will retake power in Fragrance and restore our line.”

“Father, I-... How do I--”

“Don’t lose hope, my son! You will never break unless you allow yourself to be broken. For now, do your best to excel in every class - become a paragon of our people; gain the trust of your peers. You will need their support when you lay forth your claim to the throne. The rach will no doubt try to marry your mother and sister to one of his cousins in Scenta. Do whatever you can to keep them with you here in Fragrance - they are your only family left.”

“I-... I will try,” came a whimper. The sword stared back.

“You’ll do me proud, son. I have no doubt. Now, go out into the courtyard and join the others. You will need to build your network early, lest it’ll be weak and disorganised when you need it.”

Turmerick clicked a weak affirmitive and wiped his eyes again. “I’ve missed you, father.”

There was a pause. “And I, you.”

---

_{Twenty-six years after Antiquity...}

The smoke of burning wood and smouldering thatch stung at the eyes of the Dûnan warband pillaging the small village whose name now would be lost to history. The simple skin and hide boots left prints in the bloody soot, and the whimpers of captured prisoners followed the warriors in a long chain of hemp rope. It seemed that the Dûnans almost had gotten a taste for blood over the last year - with every conquest, the hunger for more land to call their own only grew more and more. It seemed almost difficult not to continue, too, for resistance was often meek and short-lived, none able to stand against the mountainborne tide. With spear, axe and torch, they seized the grain and livestock of their neighbours to fuel the machine of Dûnan growth back home.

At least, that was the case until their campaign reached the town of Grimholt, less of a village and more of a holdout. The Dûnans had heard stories of the unbreachable palisades of Grimholt - so built to ward off the bandit hordes of the north. However, the Dûnans were confident that their warband was better organised, better armed, had better numbers and, most importantly, had the support of the druids. Their pride had fueled them so far with nothing more than success to reap - Grimholt would fall all the same.

However, the first assault was devastating - the battle had been fought uphill, and while the Dûnans were no strangers to mountain climbing, they had never before done so under barrages after barrages of arrows. The hillside was barren when it came to cover - the defenders had cleared it completely of trees so that their archers could see every inch of the way. The druids didn’t even manage to break the gate - the poles were solidly planted in the stone of the hill, and landslides before they reached the top, too, proved only ineffective or, at worst, thundered down over their own warriors. Before evening, half of the Dûnan forces, the campaign which had sacked and captured over six other villages by now, laid bleeding out or dead on the hills leading up to Grimholt. The army commander, the druid Gene, had no choice but to sound a retreat.

They fell back to a forest at the foot of the hill, hiding deep among the trees and shrubs, separated into squadrons to hide their presence. The commanders shared a talk over a warming sphere of sunwarm, conjured forth by druidic spells to bypass the need to light a fire and attract the enemy with smoke. Besides Gene, there were two other commanders still alive: Vegard, a bushy-bearded gaardskarl whose muscle to fat ratio seemed about half-in-half, and Clement, a brasfortsian stone-faced hunter with an almost god-blessed aim with the bow. Right now, though, he was not alone in wearing his cold expression.

“... We have to pull further back - send word to Ha-Dûna and tell them that our charge was broken and that we need reinforcements. We can fortify ourselves back in Shallawick or whatever that village was called. We--”

“Oh, give it a rest, Kaer Gene. You know that place is not fit for a siege - not now. We just came from there and now, well, only the spirits of the dead roam that place with any luck of surviving longer than a week.” Clement’s harsh reply forced Gene to lower her head.

“So… That’s it? Have we, have we lost?”

Clement held up a hand. “No, we haven’t lost - not yet. If we can lure them out, we might still have a chance, and--”

“A chance? Clement, we do not know how many lurk behind that wall of theirs!” Vegard pointed out and gnawed into a loaf of stale bread. He chewed, swallowed and continued, “Even if they in their victorious stupor were arrogant enough to attack us in the open field - an arena which we have adjusted to so well over the course of the last year - they wouldn’t dare to do so unless they outnumbered us. By how much, though - that is the question.”

Gene brought a quivering hand to her face. “You mean I… I will never see my daughters again? My sweet, little Jaclyn? My Keely? My--” She was silenced with a squeeze of her shoulder from each of the other commanders.

“Don’t worry, Kaer Gene - as Clement said, this isn’t over yet. We just… Need to recover a bit and reorganise ourselves.” He looked at her tree branch staff and then up at the heavens through the treetops. “... And pray for a miracle.”



Truly the events around Grimholt were less than ideal. The druidic army had been quite the measure of interest, they had been doing such good work in improving the region, the evident defeat, and so costly one, was a grave measure of concern.

Thaa had cast his gaze upon the various clumps of hiding warriors at that forest so near to their intended prize, he always kept a look out for particular changes among the incoming souls, the Dûnans were a surprising and unwelcome addition. Although now reviewing the location it did become quite clear how such an unfortunate result occurred, and it now seemed even less likely that the situation would improve by itself.

By whatever amounts the minds of men were so enthralled by valor and courage, the arrows and axes and spears of Grimholt would care little for such things. Even if courage still remained in the hearts of the warriors now cowering from view of their foes, it was no shield against their weapons with piercing tips and slicing heads.

Luckily for this little expedition’s chances it did not have to stand alone against such things that those of Grimholt’s walls would wield against them, for Thaa had made up his mind to this matter.



To whatever conversation or looks of understanding that were shared in the shade of the trees or the soft shadows of the bushes, something came echoing out to each of those in that forest. A million voices spoke out in unison to their minds, each seemed only to whisper, some that seemed human and many others that were not. They came forth as a cascade, forming a voice in quality completely new and different from their parts.

“Warriors of Ha-Dûna, you had my attention, and now you have my blessing. Until Grimholt, the holdout against this holy force is taken and consecrated by the blood of those who stand against this mission, no arrow nor spear nor axe nor any other weapon of man made shall slay you noble warriors of Ha-Dûna. So is my divine will.”

With these words came a shock to all those that had heard them, the wounds they had nursed or tiredness they suffered seemed to drop away in pain or limitation. Their flesh did not mend but still they felt as though they were without harm. More than that a power seemed to remain in each of them, an energy that refused to go away. They were not stronger than they had ever been, nor faster or of quicker draw. Each and everyone could tell the indomitable effect that had come over them was present.

The warriors looked at one another with wordless bewilderment. The commanders rose up and looked to the sky, then at Vegard, who looked equally shocked. “... A miracle,” Kaer Gene whispered.

“A bloody miracle,” Clement echoed. Their warriors closed in around them, and in the distance, they heard the snapping twigs and rumble of boots that signalled the approach of the other squadrons.

“Who’s, who’s blessing was that, though?” mumbled Kaer Gene uncertainly. “Was it Caden?”

“Maybe, or maybe we’ve attracted the attention of a new patron god!”

Kaer Gene frowned bepuzzled. All throughout her training, she had heard the whispers of many of the gods - but these million voices were unknown to her. Completely unfamiliar. She stabbed the butt of her stick into the ground and looked up.

“Whoever it is, they have given us the miracle we pleaded for! They shall be revered alongside the Eight and the Three as the god who saved the Dûnans in their darkest hours! Now, let us see if their divine blessing holds true! CHARGE!” The druid stormed towards the edge of the woods, followed by the Dûnan horde brandishing their weapons and screaming their fury.

---

Up on the battlements of Grimholt, the defenders were sharing victoriously in a feast of meat, porridge, bread and fermented milk. They sat counting their arrows as they ate, exchanging jokes and records of how many Dûnans they had shot down, laughter booming with every outrageous claim.

“I shot down twenty one a’ them, I did!” came a claim.

“Carl, you couldn’t hit the broadside of a longhouse even if you stood right in front of it!” came a counter-claim. “You might’ve hit one of their fat warrior broads if you got lucky!” A nova of laughter exploded throughout the gathered warriors. By the edge of the battlements, a sentry watched valiantly over the hillside, his bow the only strung one. Colours of white, pale pink, dark greens, dark reds and browns caught his eye coming out of the forest and he frowned in disbelief.

“Uuuuhm, chieftain?” he called and the chieftain of the village, a mighty warrior by the name of Barth, approached the battlements with a curious brow. The brow lowered even further once they identified the assailants and saw them charge up the hill with unreal vigour, as though they had licked their wounds completely clean in the span of an afternoon.

“What in the… Pwah, they must’ve eaten the wrong kind of mushrooms, I reckon. Men! Line up, string bows and knock arrows! Let’s just get this over with.” The archers almost groaned and did as they were told. The Dûnans were almost within range of their arrows. Chief Barth followed the charge with a mixture of anticipation and outright disbelief. “Wow, when the messengers said they were fanatics, I took their words for it, but this is beyond anything I could’ve imagined. Well, lads, you can all rest easy tonight knowing that you’ve made the highlands a safer place. The Dûnans will no longer consume the country with wanton murder and pillaging. Ready? Loose!”

A cloud of arrows soared forth and blanketed the attackers. A good deal of them hit their marks. The chieftain sighed, shook his head and turned around. “What a waste…”

“Chieftain!” came a sudden yell. Barth spun back around and stormed over to the battlements. The charge hadn’t been broken - in fact, it only seemed to have been spurred on by the arrows. The chieftain squinted at the Dûnans, but couldn’t make out any details about them yet.

“Give them another volley!” The arrows soared again, once more hitting their marks. However, the charge was undeterred. Barth and the archers exchanged looks of wild confusion. “L-loose at will!” The archers lost all sense of unity as they sent out arrow after arrow, hammering down at the hill like the heaviest rain in history.

However, it became clear to them that their efforts were for naught once they could make out the first of the attackers in full detail. It was a woman, blonde hair blowing in the wind of her charge, her only armour being her plaid, a thin linen overshirt, a combat kilt and leather boots. Her chest, belly, face, arms, legs and back - all had at least one arrow stabbed deep into it. By all accounts, she should be dead. But there she was - tireless feet drumming against the grass until she reached the main gate, ramming her axe into the wood with beastly fury. Her peers weren’t far behind her, and almost all of them were equally mutilated, yet seemingly completely fine.

The archers froze in fear. A few of them caught sight of a young girl, barely even an adult, who grinned up at them with arrows in both her eyes, one in her forehead and three in her chest. They felt their hands weaken, dropping their bows in panic and scurrying for safety with squeals and screams. Chieftain Barth tried to keep everyone in place, but he nearly vomited when he tossed a stone down at one of the warriors, saw his skull crack open in half and was only met with a half-faced glare.

“Ch-chieftain! What do we DO?!” came a terrorised squeak. Chief Barth darted around for a solution. They all heard the whine and groan of the molested wooden gate breaking apart under the fury and rage of Dûnan axes and clubs.

“W-we--” he began, but then the gate broke apart, falling forward off the copper hinges moreso than actually opening up. The horde of warriors flooded into the village like a wave of death, and the village squealed with terror. Barth didn’t understand. He looked down into the village and very clearly saw spears and axes lodge themselves into the Dûnans’ flesh, but they did nothing - absolutely nothing. The Dûnans fought on all the same. He looked up to the heavens and fell to his knees. Was this the favour of the gods? It had to be - why, why did the gods support these, these bloodthirsty barbarians, why?! They were demons, demons sent to lay their lands low for, for some obscure reason. The gods were unfair like that. The chieftain’s vision was blocked. He blinked and his eyes readjusted to look into the bleeding face of Vegard, his torso impaled by at least ten arrows and his right thigh nearly chopped to pieces with what looked like axe marks. The chieftain looked to his left and right, where there stood one warrior on each side with spears at the ready. Barth drew a quivering breath and spoke, “h-how?”

He whimpered as Vegard grabbed him by the hair and wrested his face towards his own, grinning through broken teeth. “The gods favour the mighty, the strong, the pious.”

Barth didn’t understand, but nodded all the same. “You will be stopped. Grimholt has powerful allies to the north. They will not take kindly to this treachery.”

Vegard looked at the two other warriors and then all three burst into a cackle. The gaardskarl knelt down so his head was level with Barth’s. He unsheathed a copper dagger and placed it against the chieftain’s throat, slicing at it slowly. “Let them come,” he threatened as the blade carved gradually through skin, sinew and flesh. The chieftain twisted and screamed, but the two guards held him down. “Ha-Dûna is the capital of the gods - the holiest of cities in all of khatrfral.” The chieftain’s blood spilled all over his knife, hand and clothes, as well as their boots and the flooring of the battlements. “We will persist through any attack - any attempt at so-called ‘revenge’ against our righteous campaign. Your allies will fall as you have fallen today - this is the will of the gods!” With that, he sawed the dagger one last time and severed the chieftain’s head from his shoulders, rocketing to his feet and holding it up for all to see. “THE CHIEFTAIN IS DEAD! GRIMHOLT IS OURS!” The wave of cheers from below came almost as a physical shockwave. Vegard lifted the head to the sky with both hands. “We prevailed under the blessing of our newest god - our ally in our darkest hours! They brought us victory today, and they shall be remembered for this for all eternity!”

He passed the head to Kaer Gene, who had come up to join him. She held to high to the heavens, too, and shouted: “The new god shall become our patron of conquest and victory! Kneel!” The Dûnan warriors all fell to their knees and hands - those with arrows in their legs and arms pulled these out as though they were simple splinters. Kaer Gene spoke, “We offer your our allegiance and our loyalty for the gift you have given us today, great god, and pray that you will be with us forever more as we claim more land for our prospering city! Everyone, submit yourselves to our god of victory, SIGERAN!”

“We offer ourselves to Sigeran!” the warriors roared as one. Cheers and celebrations followed, during which the chieftain’s head, along with the heads of other senior staff in the village, were mounted on spears and displayed as a tributary altar to Sigeran. The druids in the warband quickly got to helping the wounded, but as the blessing of Sigeran wore off, they began to notice that the empowerment given to them had indeed only been temporary. They managed to save some, but the entire warband should effectively have died during the assault. Those who could not be aided in time ended up bleeding out, dying from organ failure or simply being crushed under the shocking pain they had to endure. In the end, the Dûnans suffered a loss so great that they realised Grimholt would be the last bastion they’d take during this campaign. Vegard was among those who didn’t make it, and the bodies of the dead were burned on a great pyre before the altar to Sigeran. Kaer Gene, who had acquired a limp, stepped up before the pyre and turned to the remaining warriors. They were fewer than fifty now - barely a ragtag band of brigands. Many of them were gravely wounded, and had just barely been saved. Kaer Gene and the other druids had completely spent their favour with Reiya to do so and would need weeks, maybe even months, to recharge to the same level. Still, they had their unbreakable spirit and their expertise from battle. They would live another day.

“Weep not for the dead, my brothers and sisters,” she began. “When I lost my dear husband and his brothers, I wept for a long, long time. I was without hope, without purpose, until Kaer Teagan gave me both. This is but a pause to rest on our journey to make Ha-Dûna the mightiest power in mondan. We will send word of our victory back to Kaer Teagan and the archdruids, and our people will spread here, too, and bring Dûnan prosperity and faith even to these distant hills. The Circle of the Long Stride will spread its faith long and far - this, I swear!” She took a breath. “We have done it, my brothers and sisters - we have brought glory to our home and to the gods!”

The warriors cheered and sang:

“So…I think they just don’t understand what love really is, you know.” Soleira ended her long, and rather winded explanation to a squirrel eating a nut she had cracked open for him. Squirrels, however, had no concept of lying. So he told the truth: he didn’t understand a word of what she had been saying. With a small smile, she dropped her head and pulled her knees up to her chin. “I know, I barely understand what I’m talking about myself.” She had gone over what the Neiyari, especially the saint, had said. How the land was sick, decaying, and chaotic. The four-winged angel couldn’t see it though. Before her stretched the Luminant in its wonderful, vibrant light. She looked at the squirrel beside her. “Do you think you’re blind to Neiyara?” She asked.

The squirrel looked up as if she just said an insulting word. It turned its head a bit sideways. He was confused. “What is a Neiyara?” It simply asked.

“Well... She’s like Oraeliara. But not. She’s…mean. I think.” Was she? She never met her. Yet somehow she knew she was mean. Dangerous. “She’s a goddess, you know. Like you have a goddess of light and then you have Gibboura, who is the goddess of the moon. They help us.”

The squirrel took another moment to process it all. Then asked: “What’s a goddess?”

“Right.” Soleira realized there was just no point in discussing divinity with an animal like a squirrel. She gently petted her friend as she crushed another walnut with her hands and offered it to him. The tiny animal quickly continued eating. “It’s not important. Not to you at least.” She gently said. And it wasn’t. An animal had other worries: to eat and survive. “You’re not blind. Nobody made you to see in the first place.” She mused. Knowing full well the squirrel wouldn’t understand.

The only problem with all of that was that it meant that everything about what the Neiyari said was wrong. Which she found impossible. There had to be a side to them. A side that was right. A point that was just reality. Something that was undeniable to them. She laid down on her back and closed her eyes. Her mind wandered to the black, corrupting mass she has felt within the Saint. Her body shuddered in response but she closed her eyes, willing herself to delve deeper into it. It wasn’t wrath or anger. It was an obsessive thing. Claws that would take and never let go. Something so tight and so binding that it left room for nothing else. There was only the possessive grip.

She shot up. Gasping for air like she had been underwater too long. Her fingers were still shivering. A coldness ran through her spine as she gripped her own arms. She wasn’t fond of the memory. No, no she hated it. Her own natural urge to survive wanted her to forget it all. To just forget the entire day. That would never happen though. She would never let it happen. It was the only thing close to an answer she had. The closest she had ever been to Neiyara and her reasons. None the less it all made her feel pale.

It took a moment in the sun to recuperate her strength. No matter what, Oraeliara’s sun managed to make her smile again. But she had wasted enough time in the morning. She should be tending to the land! So once more she began to gather some berries from the nearby bushes. She helped squirrels break open nuts to eat and offered some roots to a handful of deer passing through. Both were grateful, in their own ways.

As she was digging some holes to plant some roots in again, she suddenly heard something move in the bushes. She turned around and a tiny wingless one came running at her, giggling and laughing and looking behind her until she bumped into Soleira and fell back. For a moment she looked up with a face Soleira knew meant either awe or fear. Depending on what would happen next, she’d know which one it was.

Instead of crying though, the child giggled continued on giggling. Soleira, with her own smile, squatted down in an attempt to be face to face with the child that was getting up now. However, she was still a bit larger than her. “Hello, little one.” She said as she held out her finger. The child took it with her entire hand. It said something that sounded like gibberish. Then Soleira realized she was speaking another language.

She pointed at herself and said. “Soleira.” Then she pointed at the child.

It didn’t understand what Soleira expected. So the four-winged angel repeated the exercise. The child said only: “Mahaka.”

“Mahaka.” Soleira repeated with a bright smile. Which only made the child jump a little and laugh as full as only a child could. Though then she heard “Mahaka.” Being yelled from somewhere else. Soleira looked up. From the bushes the child had come, a wingless woman had come now as well. Yelling: “Mahaka!” The moment she saw her child with Soleira she pulled her knife and yelled something.

Soleira held her hands up. “No! No! I’m good. I’m good. Soleira.” She said, pointing at herself. Trying to explain it. The women kept yelling something in a language she didn’t understand. She held out her hand at Mahaka, the girl. Who quickly realized things were wrong and ran to her mother. Soleira, meanwhile, slowly backed away. The woman kept getting closer until Mahaka held her hand. She then looked at her girl. She didn’t seem hurt.

Soleira, afraid but still trying to talk, just kept repeating her name. The woman pointed her knife at herself and said: “Tenerifé.” Soleira, realizing she was introducing herself, pointed at her and said: “Tenerifé!” and then she pointed at the child and said: “Mahaka!”

The woman seemed to relax a bit. Soleira took a few steps forward. Though she kept her distance from the woman named “Tenerifé.” She held her hand out, willing to transfer her own intentions of peace and aid. Tenerifé, for her part, seemed brave enough to get closer and touch Soleira’s hand. The four-winged angel didn’t overwhelm the human. Instead, she slowly radiated her intentions. The more Tenerifé felt, the more she dropped her guard.

For half a day Soleira was busy learning words from Mahaka, who herself was still learning many new words, and Tenerifé. She learned her own kind were called ‘Lasa Whei.’ Which apparently meant wingless ones with wings. The little Mahaka was a playful child though. She constantly ran around and sniffed the flowers. Soleira managed to stop her from eating a berry that would make her tummy ache. She herself had been laying in her cave for half a day before she had to heal herself. Instead she offered the little one several roots and berries she could eat without getting sick.

“You mustn’t help us so much, Soleira. You are Lahoha’s daughter. We are blessed even with your presence.” The old lady of the tribe said to Soleira, who was sitting in front of a heap of clay she had desperately tried to shape like a pot. Sadly the result was an uneven blow with a hole in the middle. Yet she was still trying her hardest to push the clay into the right shape. Stains of clay covered her upper body. Even her cheeks and forehead. Eventually, she let go.

“I’m sorry Opaka.” She said to the man sitting beside her, who was comfortably coiling one layer of clay over the next one.

“Not a problem.” He said, as he got up and took her clay and threw it back on the pile. It probably wasn’t worth salvaging but Soleira had hoped that at least some part of it could be kept. Alas, if the master decided it should return to the pile, she wasn’t about to question it.

“I’ll gather berries then.” Soleira said to the elder of the tribe. Before the old lady could tell her it wasn’t necessary, Soleira had already grabbed her basket and ran into the forest. There was simply no stopping her these days. She had grown happy around the wingless ones. Though she still chose to return to her cave from time to time. Spending a week or so to help the animals. She made sure nobody felt abandoned. It was daunting at first but she managed it. Now she even managed to convince the predators in the forest not to attack the wingless ones. While she convinced the wingless ones not to hurt any of the predators or their younglings. It was a tentative peace but it held. And it made Soleira happy.

In the forest she was in her element again. Clay wouldn’t bend or be formed by her fingers but she knew which berries were the most tasteful. During her stroll through the forest she said hi to just about every animal she met. Some stopped for a chat. Others were too busy. It wasn’t a problem to her. Not until a bird, slightly in distress, came at her and told her to follow him. The bird led her to a small clearing the forest. Where a man and a woman were yelling at each other.

“I love you!” The man yelled. He was enraged. How was he in love when he was so angry?

“But I don’t love you!” The woman looked like she was pleading with him. “I’m sorry Leihoha but I don’t! I like you but I don’t love you.”

“I can’t just let you go!” Soleira recognized the sudden forcefulness in his voice. She had heard it before. He took a step forward. Soleira reached out with her hand. The crystalline barrier formed in front of the woman, who took a step back and looked at the man with wide eyes. The man slammed his fist into the barrier. Soleira winced for a moment.

“What’s going on?” She asked carefully. Was the wingless one secretly one of her siblings? Maybe he was one of their followers? What if he was? What would she do? She didn’t want to fight him but she also didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

“It’s nothing.” The woman sheepishly said. Soleira didn’t believe her but she looked a lot more clear of mind and heart right now than the man.

“I will show you my love!” The man called Leihoha said.

Which prompted Soleira to turn towards him. “Move away from the girl.” Memories of her darker siblings flooded in. She sounded more forceful than she wanted to. Still, the man did so. “Thank you. Walk away now. There’s nothing more left to say.” Her voice was calmer now. He huffed but then walked away. The moment he was out of sight, Soleira dropped the barrier. The girl began to sob in her own hands.

“Hey no, everything is okay.” Soleira moved in and hugged the girl. Who return the hug.

“I’m sorry. He’s a good person but sometimes he’s just…” The girl said.

Soleira patted her on the back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. He doesn’t love you. That wasn’t love.” That wasn’t love. Not to Soleira. It was anger and possessiveness. The same things she had seen in the eyes of her brother a year ago. They were vile and evil and mean. Love was none of those things. Love didn’t hurt.

“No I- He does love me. He just…wants me to return that love and I can’t.” The girl released her and rubbed a tear off her cheek. “I’m sorry. Really, he means well. He just wants me so badly and… I love someone else.”

It was wrong. It felt wrong. Did this wingless one also not understand love? If Leihoha loved her, he should be letting her go. Let her be with the one she herself loves. Instead of hoping and forcing her to be with him. Yet she couldn’t shake the thought. Like it was somehow lodged inside of the back of her brain. She tried to shake it away but it wouldn’t go. For now though, she stepped next to the girl and took her by the shoulders. The two wings on her side wrapped around the girl for extra protection. “Let’s get you back to the village, shall we?”

---

“Ah ha! You’re here!” A quick hand pulled back the blue curtain to find… Nothing… Again. Oraelia furrowed her brow and breathed out through her nose. ”Genesis! This isn’t funny anymore! Come out this instant young lady!” she stomped her foot, wincing at the sound. Had it always been so quiet? Where had all the laughter gone? The joy? When she’d tickle Genesis, the entire house had drunk in her laugh. No more. Just the empty wind that ruffled her unkempt hair and worn down dress.

How long had it been?

A day? A week? Months? Years? She pursed her lips and looked around the parlor, then up to the second level. They were just playing hide and seek, right? Who knew how long it had been since she first began her search. She had first combed through the tall grass, then through the tulip fields, the forests, the streams, the meadows and on and on- Every inch of her realm, then the house. The house was always the last, for she never knew if Genesis doubled back or not.

Oraelia walked up the stairs for the third time since her search started, sliding her hand across the wooden railing like before. Was she in her room, finally sleeping? Her lips pulled into a smile at the thought. Peacefully sleeping, just like before. Hopefully for not as long.

Her shaky hand rested on the doorknob to Genesis’ room, before she opened it with a creak. Her shoulders drooped as her smile became a frown. No one was there. Head low, she shut the door and walked away.

A familiar thought crossed her mind. ”She wouldn’t have left… Not without telling me, right?” She doubted herself.

Her walk became a brisk jog. Her hands became clammy as a chill went up her spine. ”Genesis! Where are you! Come out! This isn’t funny anymore!” she shouted to the silence, her jog becoming a sprint as she flew down the stairs. She slammed open the front door, eyes looking every which way. ”GENESIS!” her voice boomed across her realm.

There was no reply. No childish laughter, or teenage angst. Just the wind. Even the birds had quieted.

Oraelia grabbed her head with both of her hands and shut her eyes. Where had she gone! Where had she gone! Where had she gone!

Her eyes snapped open to the portal. Of course! How could she be so foolish, she was probably in her own realm. The Goddess warped into her wisp form and shot off for the portal. Within seconds she was out into the bleakness that was Antiquity and made a beeline for Genesis’ portal. As she approached however, the once green portal that so closely resembled her own… Was gone.

She shifted back into her human form, a large lump caught in her throat as she clutched her fists tightly. It was gone. It was gone! There was nothing there! Just a wall. ”No…” Her voice returned. ”No no no! Genesis!” she fell to her knees as the tears began to flow. She wiped them away and slammed her fist into the ground, cracking stone. ”No! Come back! You come back! You promised! You promised you wouldn’t leave me again! You said- You said…” Her voice broke as she fell forward, her hair almost touched the ground. ”Why-why didn’t you say g-goodbye?” She cried, body shaking as the floodgates were opened. ”What did I do, daughter? What did I do?”

---

A haze fell on her again. Worse then what Neiya caused. So much worse. It was like a part of her had been ripped out, torn from her very heart. Genesis was gone. Her daughter, her little plant. She reached out to her, but there came no reply- no connection. The worst had come to pass, she didn’t want to believe it. She couldn’t believe it. Her Genesis, she was dead, or so far lost within the lifeblood, she couldn’t be reached.

The lifeblood... She cursed it. First it locked them out, kept them prisoners, and now it had taken her baby. What had she done to deserve such a fate?

Slumped up next to her tree, Oraelia’s entire glow had faded. How could there be light? She turned her head to look down at her hands, the scars of her past standing out like never before. She shut her eyes, not able to bear the sight.

She should have been a better mother, more caring and attentive. Why did they even call her ‘mother?’, she was terrible at it. One of her daughters ended up being alone for two thousand years and the other one… Was gone. How pathetic was she?

She needed Gibbou. She would talk to her, make her feel something again. Anything would be better than the crushing weight upon her chest. It made her groggy, singular in focus, and very much tired. She couldn’t sleep, because she was so afraid of how long it would take to make the pain subside.

She just needed a little warmth. A bit of pas-

Her eyes flashed open and she lifted her hand up. She breathed and blew onto her hand. A red berry grew from seed to fruit in an instant and before she even had time to look upon it, she plopped it into her mouth. The sweet taste of the berry washed over her tongue and down her throat, but it wasn’t enough. She conjured forth a handful and mashed them into her mouth, with some of the juices running over her lips as she chewed. She didn’t care.

Warmth blossomed outwards from her chest like an explosion, flowing into her limbs and returning her glow. A giggle escaped her lips and she sat up straighter, conjuring more berries and plopping them into her mouth one by one.

Like a flower blossoming, euphoria began to replace the pain and sorrow, washing them away in a tide of blissful warmth. She stood up with a spring in her step, her skin having returned even greater in its luminescence. Another giggle escaped her lips as she looked around with large eyes, flickering to and fro from every little thing she saw. Was her realm always so beautiful?

Oraelia began to skip down the hill and into the grass, laughing as she went with not a care in the world. Everything was just too beautiful and she was just so… hot. She picked up her speed, the cool breeze sending goosebumps over her skin. It felt divine! Wait, she was divine!

She looked down and smirked, before flicking her hand. A large hole channeled itself into the dirt, swallowing the grass and flowers into its depths. A flood of water quickly filled the hole to reveal a sizable pond, which she then flung off her dress and dived into. The water was freezing cold, but the heat from her body quickly began to bubble about her. That tickled her and she swam into the colder depths.

It was there the cold won, chilling her to her core with each passing second. Oraelia did not fight it, instead she let herself drift in the deep until she felt herself hit bottom in the murky black. Her giggles released air bubbles into the water, which she tried to poke but it was no use.

Having cooled off now, she stood up right and knelt down, before kicking off. It was a powerful burst of speed that shot her out of the water and up into the air, where she free falled, laughing all the way. She landed in the grass, leaving a small crater, but she didn’t care, how could she? The clouds were beautiful! Genesis would love the-

She shot upright and held her head, grimacing as her breathing became heavy.

What was she doing? This wasn’t- What had Evandra said? Indulge too much and become addicted?

A sharp pain erupted from her heart and she clutched at her chest. ”No… Just-just let me be happy for once…” Her voice was small. She pulled up her shaky hand again, steadying it with her other and summoned more berries. She took one by the stem and was about to plop it in her mouth when she stopped, lowering it.

She was a god right? Couldn’t she make her own? Downcast eyes looked upon the Evening Bell as it changed. Growing slightly larger, and pulsing with color and intensity now. She had infused it with the feeling of pure, unadulterated joy and without hesitating, plopped it into her mouth. She chewed, releasing the sweet juices and melted into the feeling of bliss that quickly swallowed her so.

She laid back in her crater, lips curling into a wide smile as tears flowed from the corners of her eyes.

---

Ha-Dûna, 27 years AA.

Ha-Dûna was blossoming. The population had simply exploded due to skyrocketing fertility and newly acquired farmland and resources, and the small town of Ha-Dûna could after 30 years of growth officially call themselves a regional power. With the acquisition of Grimholt to serve as their eastern bastion, they could rest easy knowing that the lands between were theirs and theirs alone to plough and reap. The Dûnans were saved from starvation for now.

At least, that was the story the archdruids fed the populace, all of whom gladly emigrated to settle in the conquered lands and farm the lands stolen from the locals. The terrible temporarity of the overflow of food bothered the archdruids, too - at some point, they would run out.

“We need more land,” Kaer Teagan commanded and tapped her staff on the crudely drawn “map” laid out on the table inside the main room of the Hall of the Weary. Archdruid Kaer Pier, son of Kaer Pinya, squeezed the bridge of his nose tiredly. Teagan had gone on and on about conquest for two years - it was damn near driving him insane at this point.

“Kaer Teagan, please - there’s still time. We needed land before and now we have it, but we barely have control over the lands we’ve already conquered and if the harvests we pillaged from the villages were any indicator, I say we should focus on bringing order and stability to the lands we have and try to rebuild and--”

Kaer Teagan’s fist against the table silenced the man. “We are -this- close to becoming the dominant power in the region and you want to stop now?!”

Kaer Pier rose up slowly. “We already are the dominant power, can you not see?” He walked over to the curtain door and pulled it aside. The palisade walls of Ha-Dûna’s centre had had to expand to account for the ever-growing centralisation of offices and shrines of worship. Vast resources had been poured into building granaries and storehouses, and druid apprentices had been employed in logging the resources hoarded inside them. What 20 years ago had been small shrines had become altars to every druidic god, as well as the four other gods - Sigeran’s altar was still a work in progress. The marketplace in the centre of the palisaded section had exploded into a booming centre of commerce, through which were traded distant luxury wares and foreign specialities. The pilgrimage had suffered, however - and that was bothering Kaer Pier.

“It wouldn’t surprise me if we’ve already upset the gods with our wanton murder…”

Kaer Teagan smirked. “We haven’t upset the gods, pull yourself together! You see the streak of victories we’ve had - you heard what happened at Grimholt! We haven’t upset the gods - we have honoured the gods! They see us as the chosen people, and they know Dûnan rule over the ard-tirean is in their divine plan.”

Kaer Pier shook his head. “Save that speech for someone who believes you. We must stop now while the game is good. If we keep this up, we will--”

“Will what? Lose everything we gained? Please, you sound like your sister.”

“Well, Pinya was a mother who stressed the need to stop before the situation grew too great to handle. Please, Kaer Teagan, I implore you! At least pray for the counsel of the gods before we further the campaign! They will know what to do.”

Kaer Teagan rolled her eyes. “Very well. I will ask for holy advice. Thank you for this little chat, Kaer Pier.”

The other archdruid offered her a frown. “I hope they are kind today.”

Kaer Teagan exited the Hall of the Weary, bumping into a flock of white-robed druids heading inside. They all offered her a bow before gently sidestepping and allowing her to pass. The archdruid sighed angrily and walked over to the circle of the gods, which by now was nearly a temple in its own right. The megalith statues had been further painted and improved with foreign pigments and precious stones and metals. Before them, there had been erected altars which were full of offerings and tributary gifts. Kaer Teagan approached the statue of Reiya, before which was a flock of druids offering their afternoon prayer. The archdruid’s presence made them all instinctively shuffle out of the way so she could stand the closest to the altar. There, she looked up at the statue, a megalith with a beautiful mural of the sun goddess, carved to resemble a yellow woman with hair sprinkled with gold nuggets, holding her pregnant belly. Kaer Teagan drew a deep breath and bowed down. “Great Reiya, goddess of the sun and the fertile land, I come to you with a request for aid…” She took a moment to choose her words - perhaps she should play it safe this time and not mention warfare?

“I wish to know how we can best feed our people - no matter how we try, it seems we, under your most gracious blessing of fertility, always outgrow our ability to feed everyone. Ha-Dûna has always been home to civility - to the worship of the sun, the moon, the trees, the stones, the sea, the truth, the arts and the stars! We are your most loyal, great Reiya - all we ask is the ability to feed ourselves. Please, please, do this for us, and you shall receive our loyalty tenfold.” She looked over her shoulder and gestured for the other druids to repeat. They quickly dispelled their confusion and repeated, “You shall receive our loyalty tenfold.”

A gentle warmth grew from the statue, slowly rolling into a storm of infectious joy, further rocketing the room as the statue erupted with golden light.

"Heeeeeeeey druids! Druids! I love you guys sooooooo much! Always so faithful and loving and caring and joyous and fertile and-" Reiya's melodic voice abruptly cut off. "Do you guys like butterflies? They're so preeeeetty aren't they?" She said whimsically. "Focus Orae-! Reiya!" she laughed. "I love that name! I love you and you and you and you. Why am I here again?" She asked aloud, like a child asking a question.

The druids present all gathered around the altar with no less than an overflow of confusion in their minds. Sure, they had heard Reiya speak to them before, but this was… Different. Kaer Teagan scratched her head and shook it. All reassumed their kneeling stances and the archdruid spoke, “Uhm… G-great Reiya, thank you a thousand times for gracing us with your sacred presence. A-are you alright?”

"Am I alright?" Came a low whisper. "Am I alright!" She then shouted. "I've never been better or felt more alive! Yep yep yep!" They could then hear soft sobbing. "You're soooooo kind for asking! It means so much to me! Now," she gave a little cough, "What can I do ya for?" she said in a deep voice before laughing.

The druids around Kaer Teagan looked heartbroken as their illusions of Reiya were shattered. They fell to their knees and prayed loudly away whatever demon was muddling the connection to the goddess and making her ill. Kaer Teagan sighed and looked up at the altar. “Great Reiya, we’re, uhm, happy to know that all is well. We actually prayed with the humble request for you to see to our fields. Your blessing of fertility upon our people has granted us joy and prosperity beyond what can be achieved without it, but our mouths still hunger for food. We simply do not have rich enough lands to feed everyone. We understand that it may be a lot to ask, but we are truly desperate for your holy guidance and blessings.”

"Heeeey! Come on now guys, don't be sad. I'm still Reiya and I love you soooo much. Here here!" Bright berries that pulsed appeared on the steps before her feet. "Eat these and you'll feel so much better my loves. I call them, uh… Evening joys. No- joys of evening. No um, joy… bells? Joybells, yeah! Eat, eat! It breaks my heart to see you so sad. Please, please, for me." she pleaded. "And uh I'll- I'll make your fields super fertile! And... I'll make the statuette work even better! So you can make more babies in my name! Yeah yeah! How does that sound guys? Please don't be sad! Be happy for meeeeee. Oh! That bird is so pretty!" She said, yet there was no bird around them.

Some of the surrounding druids eagerly helped themselves to handfuls of berries. As they consumed them, they were immediately sloshed with joy and spirit, skipping to their feet and running after geese and chickens in the market square. The remaining druids gave chase to stop them. Kaer Teagan had to collect her jaw off the ground and looked back at the altar in disbelief. In truth, while this wasn’t the first time her prayers had been answered, it -was- the first time that answer had been, well, tangible. She collapsed to her hands and knees. “Th-thank you, great goddess! Thank you! Whatever you wish for in return, Ha-Dûna will offer it to you with the utmost joy!”

”Plant your seeds, spread your jooooooy to the world!” She giggled. ”You’ll grow sooooo strong and live and no one- and no one will dieeeeee!” she gushed again. ”Okay I gotta go! Reiyalovesyoubyeeeee!” the feeling of warmth and joy dissipated from the room, but not from their hearts.

More druids and commoners around began sampling the berries and soon, the whole town was in gleeful chaos. So, now they had incredibly fertile fields, berries that made everyone extremely happy, and even greater prolificacy? Kaer Teagan cursed under her breath - now she needed to find an excuse to keep the war machine rolling.

---

Afternoon had set over the small village of Evandstead and the shepherds were guiding their goats back home. Children were braving the coming twilight by snatching pipeweed from their parents and smoking it at the shadowy borders of the forest; the wives were weaving carpets and clothes together; the men were doing the last of the day’s farmwork. Highland cows roamed in the meadows beyond, and woodsmen returned to their homes with the evening’s logs. In many ways, it was a most peaceful evening.

Perfect for some good old ruinin’.

Espen, a small and stunted askeladd, even for his kind, with a body like an ale barrel, cracked up his knuckles and smirked. “Hooo boy, bruv - got me belly all up in flames at the f’hought’a doin’ some mischiefs again. Been so, so long since I ‘ad a bloomin’ giggle.”

A snicker floated over from his left. “Oi! No stupid shit! Giggles a’damn art form. Don’t cock up fancy like last time, Espen.” breathed a tall and wiry askeladd. Slick they called him, for both his demeanor and hair shared the same property.

Espen scoffed, sticking his thumbs neatly underneath the suspenders running down over his chest. “Cock up? Me, ol’ Espen? By Thunder, y’bet I won’!” He ducked in between the bushes they hid behind, his potato-like nose poking over the top to contrast his small, beady eyes. The messy bush of hair atop his head was so overgrown with moss and mushrooms that it blended right in with the surrounding forest. “So, whot ye got in mind this time? Hexxin’? Turnin’ the cows proppa’ mad again? Turn the ol’ nan into sour milk?”

Slick joined him. “Them ol’tricks? Thunder strike mah nose, nah gonna catch me wastin talent. We goin big propa ain’t we!” He said cracking a toothy grin. Like a fire his beady eyes showed with excitement. “We’s hexin the wata! So when they get to drinkin, it turn straight to hair!”

Espen clapped his hands in anticipation. “Wooo-ho-ho-ho, you’s a sly’un, Slick! A’roight, le’s find that well…” Espen laid himself flat against the grass and started crawling along the forest line.

Slipping to the side, they circled the village in short order. It did not take them long to find their target. A simple contraction consisting of laid stones and a pulley system holding a crude pot. The apes had led them straight to it.

“Thirsty bastards.” Slick whispered. “There tha watering hole.”

The twilight dimmed; activity in the town followed suit. The townsfolk turned in for the day and either went home or gathered in small posses to smoke and tell stories.The path between them and the well was clear. Espen nodded. “Aight, bruv - all yours.”

There were plenty of bushes around, so Slick was able to shadow his way through the clearing with ease. His instincts guided him as he slipped from shrub to shrub. His eyes were constantly darting from house Espen in surrounding forest, but he was relaxed and at ease as he moved and closed in on the well. This sort of multi-tasking came naturally to an askeladd. It was what they did. What came next even more so.

Nimble as ever, Slick kept upon the cusp of the lard stonework and peered into the darkness. Even his eyes struggled to pierce the void that was the deep well. Nevertheless his ears picked up the sound of moving water. His plans would prove true yet.

Gathering up power from his core, Slick drew it throughout his body and put his fingers. His mind worked like mad. Reality functions based on set laws. The blessing of the askeladd was their ability to weave these laws together to create new ones, albeit on a much smaller scale.

So as Slick exuded magic from his body, so did his mind weave together laws that would leave the humans with a nasty surprise.

It took along five minutes to weave the spell proper. Slick had broken into a sweat.

With a heave he leapt from the well’s edge and scampered back over to Espen’s hiding place.

“Oi, shit final. Come mornin, they outta be choking on Thunder’s ball hairs.” Espen sat wheezing in the bush, slapping his knees something fierce.

“Bruv, you bloomin’ slapped ‘em, mate! Roight, I found us a proppa’ patch’a moss t’ sleep on ovar ‘ere. T’morrow’s gonna be banger, bruv!” He rolled around on the ground with a giggle still on his lips.

A grin never left Slick’s face as he bunched up a mass of greasy hair and crawled into the moss. His lot was right around the corner. The two of them laid down and waited for the magic to happen.

Already in the middle of the night, they heard it. Someone had thought it appropriate to stroll out in the night and grab themselves a cup of cold, delicious water to soothe a dry throat, and the surprise she (as evidenced by the pitch squeals and whimpers. Could also have been a young boy) was currently enduring was anything but soothing. Gags and vomiting sounded from the middle of the village, and Espen and Slick both peeked over the bush to witness it. There, fairly visible in the moonlight, a woman was keeling over on the ground, coughing and throwing up lumps of curly, stiff hair by the mouthful.

Her cries reached the duo and Slick held back a fit of giggles. His plans for the greatest of pranks were far from completed. More time. “Oi, keep watching from here.” he whispered. . Espen clapped his hands excitedly and kept staring at the display. More of the villagers came out to witness the spectacle.

Confident as ever Slick strolled out from his hiding place, perfect nose held high, hair greasy and full of mushrooms and as handsome as ever. Right outside the congregation the askeladd clapped once to get the attention of the villagers. Before panic could ensue, Slick spoke:

“Oi! Dickheads! Boyz calls me Slick, but inna second here y’all humies outta be calling me Baron. Let’s talk business all calm like can’t we?”.”

“You did this, didn’t you, you prankster midget!” shouted one of the men tending to the woman.

“Sssh! Randall, don’t insult it!”

Espen slumped over wearing a sneer. “Oi, Slick… He called you a midget.” The askeladd shuffled over, hands tucked into his moth-eaten pants and neck craned forward, chin presented. “Oi, humie. That’s the wrong attitude t’ take wiff the Baron, y’know.” The crowd slowly backed away as Espen squatted next to the vomiting woman and the man named Randall. “What we gonna do wiff ‘im, Slick?” The man remained kneeling beside the woman, glaring daggers back at Espen.

“I’ll have ye know I’m quite tall. Proud of it innit I?” Slick drawled as he stuck a long pinky finger up his nose. “Ain’t dis ya bugging drinking wata? Oi Espen, they keep fuckin wit me ey, say we start turning tha grain into tasting like Thunder’s steaming shit?!”

The people cowered and squealed. “No! Not the grain! We eat that!”

Espen clapped and guffawed. “Huh-huh-huh, yeah, do it, bruv!”

“Oi, I’s is a good guy! The business askeladd!” Slick expressed with a pat of his chest. “Prolly tha best ye’ll eva meet. So favor me this, submit to me fucking demands, n ya live not just to drink hairless pisswater n Troll shit, capeesh?”

Randall was about to protest, but his mouth was covered over by a myriad of hands belonging to his peers, all of whom were bowing their heads in submission. “We-we don’t want no trouble, your-your Baron-ess. If-if you promise to leave us be, we’ll do whatever you ask,” said an old man, likely the village elder.

Espen snickered. “Ye hear that, bruv? Woss we want ‘em t’do?”

A toothy grin cut across Slick’s face. “We partnas’ now! How bout y’all tell me how things are round here! Baron outta know.”

---

Twenty-six years after Antiquity...

“Come on, you brats, hurry up! Night’s already upon us and the trek’s long still!” thundered the spearman through a beard so thick that it could’ve been a mask. Before him, he shepherded a train of everything from young children to young adults, all bound together at the hands by a long length of rope. They had been walking from a rebelling village in the centre of the Lowlands, the first region seized by the Dûnans after they took Gleann over Risenberg - it was the second day of their march now. Up ahead, the front guard had already lit fires and set up camp.

One of the captives was already ragged, having long unkempt hair and appeared malnourished. He was clearly impoverished by chance before the war had started. He appeared young, though it was also hard to tell his exact age due to him being small from hunger. He was constantly muttering something just under his breath. The spearman frowned, his torch casting long, crass shadows across his mean face. He stomped over and grabbed the youngster by the shoulder.

“Hey, be quiet! You’ll say nothing before the archdruids allow you to speak, is that clear?”

His eyes were glazed over, he barely seemed to comprehend that he was grabbed or that someone was speaking to him, but his eyes suddenly widened and he whimpered, “Where is the moon.” his eyes pointed directly at it in full view.

The guard followed his gaze in bafflement. “What do you mean, it’s right there? Oh, by… Torrsten, I think we’ve caught someone blind.”

“Well, what did you expect?! We didn’t kill him on the battlefield! Must’a been left behind!” came a distant yell from over by the camp, followed by mocking laughter. The spearman shrunk a bit and blushed before shoving the young man onwards. “Keep moving!”

The captive still didn’t seem to comprehend what was happening around him, and sputtered out, “He is watching. No, they are watching.”

The spearman growled and grabbed the boy by the neck of his rags. “Hey, I told you to--” He was silenced by a large hand clasping his shoulder. It was one of the other guards, his expression a condescending smirk.

“Ian, give it a rest - what harm is he doing by talking?” said the guard. The spearman spat and shrugged off the hand. However, as he did, the ground felt uneven to him, or so it seemed, anyway, for the man stumbled and fell to the ground. The others looked bepuzzled for a moment before breaking out into a guffaw. The guard smacked his hand to his forehead. “By the gods, man, can’t you even stand?! What’s going on with you toni--woah!” The spearman pushed the guard away in a rage and, with effort, rose back to his feet.

“I will -not- be made a fool out of!” His eyes fixed back on the young lad and he unsheathed a copper dagger. “If you won’t shut up, I’ll make an example of you.”

The other guards closed in around him. “Alright, Ian, that’s enough-- hey!” As they neared him, he spun around, jabbing at the air between them.

“Stay away! This bastard had it coming! No one ignores Ian’s orders - no one!”

The vagrant stated, “Death is a wonderful host, but terrible guest. You have invited it in.”

Ian snapped and grabbed the boy’s chin. He turned to face the others, pointing his dagger at them with a knowing look. “This is what happens when you defy Ian - what you get for laughing at me!” With that, he forced his fingers into the boy’s mouth, grabbed at his tongue and brought the blade to slice it off.

However, the second the metal touched flesh, it dissolved in Ian’s hands, becoming ash on the wind. No, not ash - dust. Ian recoiled, as did all the other guards. The spearman looked at his hands in disbelief. “W-what?”

“... It’s a bloody sorcerer…” whispered one of the other guards, picked up his spear and stabbed it at the boy. However, the jab, somehow, completely missed its mark despite the proximity. In trying to correct this mistake, the guard instead swung horizontally, aiming to slice at the boy’s shoulder. Once more, the second the metal came into contact with his flesh, it became dust. They cowered and exchanged looks of fear.

“D-demon!”

The vagrant glazed and confused eyes finally met Ian’s, he softly stated, “Do you not remember Scahach’ scolding about your ego?”

Ian, whose hyperventilation only seemed to egg his panic on, then let out a war cry, lifted both his hands into the air and brought them down on the boy’s head. However, as the fists connected with his skin, they broke, as though the bones inside had been made of glass. The man screamed as bones protruded through skin twisted in all manner of unnatural directions. The onlookers once more cowered or vomited at the sight. The other prisoners stared on with a mixture of terror and morbid curiousity.

A voice called out to Ian from the boy's form, but his lips did not move nor was his voice, "It is shame. Scahach' prayers for you to return unharmed could not be answered."

Ian looked up with tears in his eyes. “Wh-wha? What in--... Oh, gods, it hurts! How,” he sucked in a desperate, pained breath, “how do you know of, of my Scah?!” Efforts to move his hands only exasperated the pain.

The boy was quiet. His eyes were no longer glazed over, but still appeared unhealthy dim. He was facing right at Ian and didn’t seem to react to gruesome sight, but still seemed unnerved by the sound of his pain, flinching whenever his arms made sudden unnatural noises. The guard who had laughed at Ian before drew his own dagger.

“By the gods, Lars, didn’t you see what just happened?!” came a concerned squeal behind him. The guard Lars bit his teeth together and, with a hard grip, snatched the rope holding the prisoners together. He sliced over the knots, and soon, the whole chain came loose.

“I ain’t bringing that cursed child into my city - I ain’t bringing any of these.” He reluctantly looked down at the boy. “You’re free, kid. Go! Go back and be with your demonic ilk!” He tried to push him, but looked down at Ian’s hands again and decided against it, pulling his fist back towards his chest. Many of the other children and young adults started running back the way they had come.

The vagrant kid paused briefly, before starting to run away in the wrong direction.

Lars shouted, “HEY! Go home, I said!” But none dared give chase, for fear of ending up like Ian. They knelt down around him and started to inspect whether there was anything they could do.

---

”Oh, sister, what have I missed over here… Hey, thanks for catching that kid, Sirius. I wouldn’t have known anything was up if he hadn’t asked for the moon.” Gibbou rolled her shoulders so her chainmail rustled quietly. The two of them stood side by side in Antiquity, gazing at the world below.

“I have been concerned about Ha-Dûna for some time now, but he was the one who drew my attention. It seems rare for someone as talented as him to awaken, it is a shame what that cost him.” Sirius replied.

The moon goddess sighed. ”The Dûnans are… Okay, there’s no way around this. They’ve gone completely off the rails. I’m just glad I managed to get that spell going before that guy could hurt your… What is it you called them again? Ogres?”

“Augurs. And if it was not for your intervention, I would have stopped him. However I would not have been so kind.”

”He was far from innocent, that man, but…” She crossed her arms over her breastplate. ”I’d rather not the Dûnans grow even more accustomed to death than they already have. I’ll let that spell linger for a while, hope that at least stops their wanton killing of the civilians. Ugh, like, why do they do this anyway? I mean, I get that, sure, they want more land to feed that crazy fast growing population, and more land to settle on, and more land to rule and stuff… But, like, c’mon! Do they have to be so gung-ho about it? I dunno, what do you think?”

“... Perhaps it is because wolves are leading the flock.”

Gibbou frowned. ”You’re talking about the archdruids, aren’t you?”

“Not all of them.”

Gibbou squinted and punched her fist into her palm with a metallic clang. ”Got a name for me, brother? If someone’s ordering the butchering of innocents, I’d have to send them a strong worded letter. Yeah, a strongly worded letter that is a gruesome sleep schedule… Or something.”

“It is rarely one person is it? … It is a shame that people of Ha-Duna could be so easily fooled. Unlike us, they can be lied to by other mortals and sometimes it is foolish to disbelieve the powerful even when they are untruthful.”

”I just don’t understand - why are they so insistent on killing and imprisoning everyone? What did their neighbours do to them? The wars in this area are pretty recent, right?” She gave a hum and counter the number of years that had passed to herself. ”Yeah, pretty recently. You been paying attention much? Know their reasons?”

“Necessity is a cruel mistress. They were compelled to indulge, and now their greed has overtaken them. … I guess apart of it is that they are deceived by their own perceptions, being so far from the battlefield.”

Gibbou pulled her helmet off and rubbed her temples. ”Oi… Alright, I’ll need some time to thing about what to do here. You got any plans? Sirius?” Gibbou looked around, but it seemed as though the star god had vanished into thin air. She pouted and rolled her eyes. ”Okay, fine… Be like that…” Then she stomped her way back to her portal to observe some more from the comfort of her home.

Arngeir stared up at the golden statue, it was tall and mighty, depicting a beautiful woman, she pointed off to the distance, towards the rising sun. He sat kneeling in front of the statue, he had found himself infatuated with the woman depicted and he was determined to figure out who she was. He had searched far and wide throughout the city, finding that shiny metal, which he had learnt was “gold”, everywhere, his most coveted findings where those small golden disks, with the image of the sun displayed upon them, they were numerous but he found an interesting fascination to them.

Today, he was going to try something. He had continued to find nothing about this being, none of the older Iskrill or even the Brood Mothers had any knowledge of the woman, only that she was important for the prey that had been consumed in the Grand Feast, and so, Arngeir was going to take things into his own hands.

He had gathered as much gold he could find, arraying them in front of the statue in as nice a pattern as he could create. He knelt just behind the gold, gazing up at the woman, who he had decided to call, "The All-Mother", for she was surely a god, why would they have all these items for her if she wasn't?

He raised his hands, "Oh great All-Mother!" he shouted, casting his voice to the heavens "Hear my call! I wish to hear your voice and learn your words!"

A gentle breeze touched his flesh, warming him ever so slightly as a vague presence blossomed around him. "-you can’t nest thereeeee, stoooop!” the woman’s voice began. ”Oh, shhhhh, someone’s listening!” she gave a slight cough, clearing her throat. ”Hello ther- Woah! What are youuuuu! You’re not human, or aiviri, or uh… Anything else I’ve ever seen!” she exclaimed. ”Ohhhh you look so saaaaaad too.”

Arngeir almost jumped with excitement, she actually spoke! He was right! He quickly composed himself, reminding himself that he was speaking to the all-mother “Hello All-Mother! I am Arngeir! I am an Iskrill, have you not seen my kind before?” He looked all around him, unsure of where to focus his attention.

”NOPE!” she shouted. ”Wellllll, maybe I’ve heard of youuuuu before. I dunno. Iskrill is a funny name isn’t it. Rah, I’m an iskrill!” she giggled. ”So like, what do you do for fun? Do you… Fish maybe? You look like a fisher. I’ve never fished before but it looks fun! Then again, do you think fish feeeeeel? Like, can fish love? Oh, I love! I love everybody! I’m not a fish though, for your information.”

This, wasn’t exactly what he was expecting, the All-Mother seemed, strange. “We fish sometimes, not me personally though, I've focused on gathering this gold I've found around the city, all of this is for you, correct?”

”This is… Gold? Oh hey, there’s a statue of me! I’ve never seen this one before. Hey, where are we?” she asked.

Arngeir thought for a moment, might be important to avoid the reason his people were here. “The city of Solkra! Well, at least what’s left of it, my people came upon this city during our travels, we had found it abandoned and ruined, and we’ve tried our best to live here ever since. I came upon your statue here and found myself enraptured, I wished to know more, hence why I offered my prayers to you.”

”Oh how sad!” she cried out. ”I wonder what befell the people here? Maybe I’ll… Maybe I’ll…” Her voice seemed to lull and Arngeir could hear someone chewing. ”Ahh that’s better! Oooookay! What did you want again? Something about… More? More what?”

Ya, this was definitely weird. “I just wished to know more about you All-Mother, to hear your voice so I may be confirmed in my mission to teach your word to my kin.”

”I see! Uh well… I am The goddess of Life and Love and I love life… Do you love life?”

“I would consider myself a lover of life, I have most certainly found it fascinating, you see, my people, we are, meat eaters of sorts, but we do our best to respect the beasts we eat and try to give back, like how we are trying to rebuild this city.”

”Well most things eat meat you know. Humans eat meat. Aiviri, they eat meat. Even Sylphi eat meat and they’re plants! I would know that because-” her voice died again. ”It’s so noble, trying to rebuild the city! Arn- Argne- Arngeir! Arngeir, I need you to rebuild that city, let it become a beacon of life! Do this, and I will be sooooo happy!” she exclaimed.

He paused, Iskrill? A beacon of life? This could be, interesting “I, will almost certainly do my best All-Mother! But, if I may ask, I would almost certainly appreciate assistance, there are those beyond the city who seek to destroy my kin, in fact they are the reason we are here in the first place, they could threaten our efforts here and prevent the city’s rebuilding.”

”Oh I seeeeeee!” she paused, ”You need a deterrent! Something that will stop others from messing with you guys! I know just the thing!” A ray of light erupted down from the heavens in front of Arngeir and the sound of something slamming into the rock before the statue could be heard. The light faded to reveal a large spear, with a tip of swirling solar energy. The shaft was made of some sort of white metal. ”There! A deterrent! Just wave it up into the sky and that should do the trick! I hope that helps and it makes you happy!”

Arngeir was honestly shocked, he was expecting a blessing or like some protection spells but this, oh this was great, he slowly got up, gripping the spear with his arms, slowly retching it free, gazing upon its form. “I...I thank you All-Mother! I shall not disappoint you! I, I should get to work then, I shall speak to you soon! And hopefully more of my kin shall be with me this time!”

”Okay! Beeeeee safe little Iskrill! Byebye!” and the All Mother’s presence was gone.

Arngeir rose, he gazed once more upon the spear, it was incredibly beautiful he had to admit, he just had to test it out. He raised it to the sky, In an instant a bright beam of light shot out into the sky, the weapon recoiled and threw him off his balance, but luckily the beam stopped as he fell to the ground. He lay there for a brief moment, he could see other Iskrill slowly gathering to see what all the commotion was about. He quickly rose, spear held firmly at his side, he looked upon the growing crowd, raising his free hand he shouted to them all.

“Siblings! I have heard the word of the All-Mother! Come forth! And hear what she has to say!”

The sun rose upon Solkra, as a madman spoke the words of a goddess, who had not realized what she had done.

---

Ykkat sat in front of one of the Brood mothers, the giant fleshy creature had the upper body of a female Iskrill like her, but that is about where the similarities ended, the lower half was fleshy and worm-like. Brood Mothers “led” the various broods within the city, but in all honestly their authority was minimal, the brood would often go about doing their own thing, but would respect the mother’s call and orders, though they were rare.

The Mother sitting in front of her, Septíma, was the last Brood Mother of the southern city, the area both her and Zerkam had started their quest to unite the city within. At first it had been slow workings, Iskrill were hard to gather together into a cohesive force, even harder to get them to create any semblance of “civilization” that Ykaat and Zerkam had been researching, the old language of the former inhabitants had become known to them after long study and it taught them many things, but that wasn’t enough.

Luckily, then came the attack from the sea, the strange creatures that emerged that day gave quite a shock to the Iskrill, who had considered themselves safe from harm and unstoppable within the walls of Solkra, as the Iskrill took to calling the city. The attack had given Ykkat the boost she needed, and now a majority of the southern city was aiding her efforts.

“So” Sepitma spoke, looking down upon Ykkat and Zerkam, who stood behind her a few feet back, “All I have to do is command my brood to join up with your project, and it shall gain the protection and combined resources of it all?”

“That is correct,” Ykkat replied “Your brood shall have access to the materials, and the flesh, we all gather, of course your own brood shall assist with this, and aid in providing protection when needed. Is that all agreeable?”

The Brood mother nodded, “Yes, I believe that is agreeable, I shall have my brood get to work very soon, they shall meet up with your other broods and aid in your construction.”

Ykkat bowed to Septima “Thank you, Brood Mother.” She rose, continuing to bow as she did. Turning back to Zerkam with a slight smile on her face. Though that smile quickly faded when she saw the serious expression upon the Servant’s face. She sighed “What is it Zerkam?”

“The preacher is back, we seriously need to speak to him.” He replied, for a while now word had reached them of a strange preacher Iskrill in the northern portions of the city, he taught the words of the All-Mother, the goddess who the city had been dedicated before the Iskrill’s arrival, admittingly he definitely had aid from the goddess, but Ykkat was sceptical of speaking to him, worried he may turn out detrimental.

“You know I would prefer not to speak to that one.”

“Why not? He could prove incredibly useful, if the other chosen are right, he’s gathered a considerable following, and he seeks the same thing as us.” In their efforts to reconstruct they had found other chosen like Zerkam, the rainbow eyed Iskrill who were magically inclined, they could speak through their minds, providing a good network of information across the city.

Ykkat sighed once more, “Fine, we shall go speak to him, but I'm not going to be happy about it. Where is he?”

“By the statue of the All-Mother, having another of his sermons.”

“Oh joy, we get to hear him preach.”

---

“Remember my fellow Iskrill! The All-Father teaches us our position in the world, as predators and rulers over our prey! And the All-Mother reminds us that this position is one for the dedication of life! We must aid in the cycle of existence! We must bring an end to those who consider themselves above the order of life! Bring the city from its ruined state to the shining beacon it once was!”

Ykkat and Zekram stood amongst the crowd, they both had to admit the preacher’s voice called above all, and they could see how the others had become enraptured with his voice and his sermons. Ykkat sighed, Zerkam was right, they needed his help, his ability to gather the Iskrill together and a shared goal of building up the city meant that she could no longer afford to ignore him.

The sermon eventually ended, the assembled crowd uttered a prayer to the All-Father and the All-Mother and began to disperse, off to perform their duties within the region, much like Ykkat’s southern broods the northern ones under the preacher, known as Arngeir, they were trying to build and reconstruct the houses and other builders, gather food and flesh, and various other deeds.

The duo walked up to the preacher, who stood next to the massive statue of the All-Mother wielding the shining spear he had been gifted by the goddess. Ykkat was the first to speak.

“Greetings prophet, I see you’ve gathered for yourself quite the following.”

Arngeir chuckled “Why yes I have! All in the service of the All-Mother and All-Father of course! But, who might you two be?”

“I am Ykkat, and this,” She gestured towards the Chosen, who bowed “Is Zerkam, a chosen by the All-Father, you see, we too have been trying to achieve you have, the reconstruction of this city under Iskrill management, and we came to offer a, unification of our groups.”

“I see,” The prophet slowly sat down in front of the statue, gesturing for the duo to join him “You must be those Southern ones i’ve heard about, how do you propose this, unification would occur?”

“Well, my companion has come up with an idea,” She gestured towards the chosen, who’s rainbow eyes sparkled up.

“Yes I have! I propose a shared power agreement between the three of us, Ykkat’s organizational skills and knowledge of civilization, my magical prowess and command of the chosen, and Arngeir’s authority as religious leader and prophet of the All-Parents could make a formidable force, in short, we form a Triumvirate between the three of us, using our combined powers and skills to rebuild this city and forge it a new dawn.”

Arngeir thought for a brief moment, bringing a piece of animal flesh to his mouth and chewing upon it thoughtfully. Finally after a few tense moments he nodded, swallowing the flesh. “Hierophant of the Sun, Jarl of the Chosen, Queen of the Broods.”

“What?” Ykkat asked, unsure of what the prophet had just said.

“Those shall be out titles,” He responded “I, the Hierophant of the Sun, Zarkam, Jarl of the Chosen, and you, Queen of the Broods, representing clearly our roles within this triumvirate.”

“I kinda like them.” Zerkam spoke, Ykkat had to admit she did enjoy the idea of being called a Queen, she was sure the rulers of that heinous city would detect a Iskrill referring to themselves with a royal title.

“But,” Arngeir spoke, “We need something more, just our combined authority will not be enough, and the All-Mother’s gift alone will not stop the savage wrath of the heinous city.”

“Perhaps we ask the All-Father?” Ykkat replied “The All-Mother has already given you one thing, perhaps we invoke her husband and, upon seeing that the Mother has already aided us, he too shall aid us directly?”

Arngeir nodded “That is, not too bad of an idea, come, take my hands.” He rested the spear against the statue, taking Zerkam and Ykkat’s hands into his own. He looked up towards the sky, uttering a prayer, and finally shouting. “Oh great All-Father! Hear our call! Aid your children in their time of need!”

A strange sensation washed over them, it was cold, unlike the warmth of the All-Mother that Arngeir had felt, but indeed it was not heavy, instead incredibly light and jaunty, soon, a strange voice spoke into their minds.

”Ah...my dear children, the Iskrill, what is it you require?”

“Oh mighty All-Father” Arngeir spoke “We seek to unite our siblings and bring them on par to our prey, but we can not do it alone, we wish for your aid, the All-Mother has already blessed us, and we wish for your protection as well.”

”All-Mother?...Ah! Yes, her, my apologies, I have been caught up in many dealings, but, you ask for aid? I see…” The voice fell silent for a brief moment, the three could still feel the presence, silent and watchful. ”Gather your strongest warriors around this grand statue to the All-Mother, I shall do the rest.”

---

And so it was done. The All-Father refused to explain further, merely reiterating the orders. The Trio gathered the strongest warriors of the Broods, those who had hunted the fiercest of prey, fought against the heinous city, or even had the chance to take down one of the beasts from the sea. They were gathered together, given the finest weapons the Triumvirate could muster, the bronze weapons scavenged from the ruins and corpses of the city.

They all knelt around the statue in a large circle, the Hierophant was given orders from the All-Father, performing a ritual that would grant these warriors grand power, blood of their recent sentient kills was drawn upon their chests and their heads, forming strange and arcane symbols. Then, a grand prayer was uttered by all in attendance.

It wasn’t a clear change, but all could feel it, the warriors felt a surge into their bodies and mind, the symbols glowed and etched themselves into their skin, shooting a searing pain through their bodies. They howled out as the pain increased, the triumvirate and their followers who had not been chosen stepped back, unsure of what was to come.

In a flash, the pain ended, the symbols sizzled still, but the howls no longer came, many of the warriors panted heavily and clutched where the symbols were. Then the voice of the All-Father rang out across the square from the statue.

”These warriors have been gifted the path of desolation, where they walk destruction shall follow, so long as they seek only the complete ruin of their enemies and their land.”

With that the presence of the All-Father vanished, and the Iskrill were left to their own devices. Arngeir immediately went about establishing the warriors, now a holy order, which with the approval of the rest of the Triumvirate, was dubbed the “Flames of the Dusk”, the elite force for the rule of the Solar Triumvirate.

---

With their rule now even further cemented, the Triumvirate went about their goals, in short time the ruins of the city had come under their control, while still divided the unifying forces of the entire Triumvirate managed to keep them united to begin their reconstruction, slowly rebuilding the city from the ruins of the old.

The Flames served their purpose well, used to keep the other Iskrill in line, but soon enough they began to lead efforts beyond the city, raiding the villages of the prey to remind them the terror of the Iskrill, this time though they were organized, and the prey fell under their destructive force.

They even began to figure out how to gain more supplies of flesh, merely breeding the animals that they ate when they had no flesh of their better, far more tastiest prey. A new dawn had arrived upon Solkra, the Iskrill were organizing, growing stronger, more organized. And they looked hungirly beyond their city walls, eager to grow farther.

“So they see me hunched over this grave. With spade in hand. Well, I suppose I cannot fault them.” Iben el-Qahhar, or simply, was hands deep in a corpse. Delicately feeling his way up the intestines. “None the less they attack me! I had to run for my life then. Pleading for wisdom wouldn’t have worked then. And that is the story of how I was banished from the fair city of Hayik. Ah, such a wonderful city it is! Almost as beautiful as Karay they say. I hope I can go back some day. When they see the light. My light. They will, of course. When they see what my magic can bring to them. Oh imagine the prosperity and freedom I could offer if only they let me study a little bit longer! Then again, I will admit that some parts of my study are a bit unorthodox.” He said with a smile as he pulled one of his bloodied hands free to show. Before he plunged it in again. “I’m happy to have found this ruined place though. I wonder who build it. It looks old. Very old. Do you think the gods made it? Maybe this was their throne room. Oh, in that case I should give a sacrifice. Wouldn’t want to offend the gods, oh no! Anyway, be a dear and hand me that knife.” He outstretched his hand out towards the skull he was talking to. Which remained unmoving for a moment.

“Oh right, silly me. You can’t speak yet.” He said, as he leaned over and grabbed the knife himself. “You know, you do spout a lot of silent wisdom despite being an unliving, unmoving skull.” He said to his boney assistant while he cut the intestine and pull it out. “I wonder who you were when you were alive. Maybe you were like me. Oh, what would that say about me? Do you think I’ll die here too? I hope not. I’ve got a lot of things to do. Oh this poor fellow?” He pulled out the stomach and observed it. The organ had some strange coloration on it. “Probably a toxin from the berries. There were no scratch marks on him so it wasn’t wild animals. Ah, a sad fate but it happens. I’m just happy he decided to donate his body to my research.” The second he lost interest in the stomach he tossed it in the big bin behind him.

“Flesh can be so annoying to work with sometimes. I mean look at this fellow.” He pulled up the arm. It was stiff as wood. “Unbendable! Arms are supposed to bend! The maggots will fix you right up though friend. Don’t you worry.” There was still a great deal of work to be done and Iben diligently continued to remove all the organs in the body. None of them were any use for him though. He even managed to scrape away almost all the skin and flesh. It wasn’t enough though. It wasn’t clean. That had been his first mistake. He hadn’t worked with a clean skeleton. So he just threw the bones in a large box with some other human flesh and a lot of maggots inside it. “See you in about a week sweeties!” He said, before he closed the lid and then walked over to the next stone table.

Upon it laid the skeleton in humanoid formation. Spread out so he could observe each bone. He pulled up a few clay tablets with runes of his own design. They were a relic from a previous life. The part of his study that transcended the metaphorical death he had experienced. None the less they were a testament to his own ingenuity and creativity. Or so he liked to brag. It was perhaps his only vice. Well no, it was just his greatest vice. “Right.” He said as he traced his fingers over the lines he had made in the clay so long ago. “Ah, here it is.” He said as he picked up one tablet of clay and set it in some sort of lectern facing towards the body. He crawled on top and lowered his hammer and chisel to the skull. But before he began, he saw his skull assistant sit there, watching him. “Ah, apologies good friend. I didn’t mean for you to see this. Here, let me help you.” He said as he got up and turned the skull around. So it would face away from the skull that was about to be carved.

It took an obsessive few hours before Iben had finalized the first rune. After that he chose to eat and sleep. What was, after all, a genius if he was exhausted? Dangerous. So after a good nights sleep and a wonderful dawn, for which he praised Mâh and Cyru respectively, he went about to carve the rest of the skeleton. All around the joints and the connection points. Only by midday did he finalize the carvings upon the skeleton.

The second he was done he grabbed his gold-tipped staff, another relic of his previous life. He raised his arms to cast the spell and spoke the words he had made up himself. For a second the runes glowed with soft, blue light. When the glow vanished, the bones began to move. Joints bend. The ribs remained attached. “Yes! Yes, rise! Rise my dear! Rise!” Iben yelled in his excitement. The skeleton managed to sit upright without crumbling. Which had been more of a success than He had managed before.

Then it tried to stand up. The second it got up, the weight of the bone shifted. It lacked the human ability to quickly move its feet or shift its weight. Instead the imbalance only got worse. In a second, the entire body came tumbling down. The crash broke the connections between the joints. Making the skeleton fall apart.

Iben just crouched down. “Hmmm.” He said as he was rubbing his chin. Others his age would’ve had a respectable black beard going but not him. he couldn’t grow a beard to save his life. “Balance still seems to be an issue. But we’ve made progress, dear old friend. Lots of progress. The laws and guidelines seem to hold though. It stood up on its own. Yes, yes I think we are making good progress.” He gathered the bones again. Luckily none of them were broken or fractured. Carefully he rearranged them on the slab of stone. How much longer could it take until he figured it out?

How much time had passed now? A year? More than a year? Perhaps. Maybe. Iben’s research had hit a ceiling with making a skeleton walk. It would appear that bipedal walking was a far more delicate and precise act than he had previously assumed. Sadly it only left him with a new appreciation for his own ability to move around.

“Okay. Okay, come on now. Just one… step… at a time.” He carefully said as he held the moving skeleton up like a lover trying to walk again. “Yes, yes, just- wait no! No no no no!” After three steps the skeleton once more fell apart. “Gods damn it!” He yelled out into the morning sky. “Damn you all! Damn you! I have worked for weeks! Tirelessly! I have prayed to all of you! All of you! Not one came here to help me! Not one! Here I am, trying to help the world and there you are doing nothing to help me!” In his rage he even threw a femur away with a frustrated shouted. Suddenly the warmth of the sun was muddled. He looked up and saw a myriad of colors.

“Wha-“

When Iben woke up, night had already fallen. Had he slept through the day? No, no not slept. Something had hit him. Not a rock. Something else. He scrambled up. The moon hung high in the sky. “Again…I suppose.” He let out a resigned sigh as he gathered the bones. The femur was broken so he had to loan one from another cleaned skeleton. Once more he arrayed the skeleton upon the slab of stone. The carved skull was useless now. He would have to tweak the runes again.

The next morning he continued his work. But as he began to carve the runes into the skull, he found something else in his mind as well. After so many years of carving the same sort of runes he could do them with his eyes closed. Yet now the runes came out tweaked. Thinking nothing of it, he continued the work, cast the spell and slowly guided the skeleton to stand up. “Yes. Careful now. First step. Yes, good. Good. Second step. Excellent! Third step… Good! Wonderful! Do you think we can go for a fourth step?” He carefully guided the skeleton forward. The fourth step worked out as well. In fact, as he watched the hips of the skeleton, its movement seemed less stiff and more fluid. Still it was nothing like a human but it was much, much closer. “Do you think I could… release you?” The skeleton didn’t answer. So Iben, slowly, released it and bid it to continue on. When the skeleton took its first step alone, he held his breath. Then the next step came. Something crept up Iben but cautiousness refused to make him believe. Not until the next step. He watched as it took its next step. Its foot came down and… nothing happened. It didn’t crumble or fall. “Oh heavens be praised! Heavens be praised! What a blessing!”

---

High up in the World Anchor mountains, an enormous cave opening led into the deepest, darkest dens of stone - the infamous home of Thunder the Cragking, self-proclaimed regent of the mountains and eternal enemy of humanity. In his crystalline cavern of rock and iron, he ruled alongside his two mighty sons, Prince Crush the Great Maw, and Prince Quake the Scourge of the Hills. Years had passed since the acquisition of the Shades of Eternal Night, but the dovregubbes took their time in testing them - they needed to make sure they were completely safe to travel outside the darkness, even under the glare of the sun. In their experimentation, they had also laid their plans for the expansion of the Trolldom - their dream as the most powerful descendants of the first trolls - including the first troll.

They had drawn up a map on the floor of their massive cave - it revealed to them the lands they had taken so far, as well as the lands they would take in the coming years. They feared no resistance - in fact, the villages they had taken so far hadn’t resisted at all. Usually, the mere sight of them was enough for them to surrender unconditionally. No, resistance was never an issue.

The issue was simply taking enough villages. As their primary source of food, they couldn’t shy away from claiming as much land as possible, as well as the people living on that land. The livestock they herded, too, was extremely valuable. Word travelled fast, however - if they were seen early, the villagers would escape before they could be caught. They would need smaller allies - scouts and skirmishers who could find them their targets and help them sneak up on them before the villagers got wise.

So it was then that the Cragking turned to his son Crush with such a slow twist of the neck that one could practically hear the stone, earth and moss growing on his joints turn to dust. “Crush, my lad,” he rumbled. “Your journey today wearing the legendary sunshields - what did you discover?”

“Well father,” Crush slowly walked himself towards the map, pointing to the center mountain of the anchor. “I have discovered the location of all those large shakings that do a number on our gardens, a massive sword is stuck up there causing all this nonsense, i’d go up and get it but the path up is too small for a troll, we’d have to get one of our servants to go get it.”

“Bloody hell, that’s a sword doin’ that?!” Quake thundered like his father would. “Been buggin’ me for nigh a thousand and five hundred years, those bloomin’ quakes.”

“You can say that again,” Thunder rumbled along in agreement and interlaced his fingers with an ear-shattering grind of stone. “You said, uh, wossname, servants, Crushy? What’d you have in mind?”

“Uh, well, We get one of them hummies and send ‘m up there to go pull it free, if it a good sword, we take it, if not, we let them handle it.”

“Issit really that easy?” Quake mumbled skeptically and gave his chin a sandpapery scrape. Thunder snorted and sucked on a granite tooth.

“Would save us a lotta trouble if we got rid’a them quakes, aye. Where did we last put them pinkies?”

“We et them, dad,” Quake pointed out with an erect index finger. The Cragking growled in disappointment.

“That tends to be how it goes, huh… Oi, Crushy!”

Crush looked up towards his father “Wut is it dad?”

Thunder pointed a tree trunk finger at the Shades of Eternal Night, enshrined as they were on a neatly shapen stone pedestal in the back of the room next to the kettle and the stone shelves with all the mugs and bowls, which were also, for a lack of creatively selected materials, made of stone. “You’re on scoutin’ duty today. Put on them shades and go out to find us some humies so we can remove that bloomin’ sword and find my turnip garden under all the rubble, finally.”

“Da, we’re growin’ potatoes, not turnips.”

“They’re too small - my eyes don’t see the difference no more!”

Crag rose, giving his dad a slight salute “Aye! You can, uh, count on me pa! i'll save ur garden from dem shakies.” He walked over to where the shades were positioned and lightly put them onto his face. Heading out from the cave to find himself some hummies.

He walked through the mountains they called their realm, he had to admit walking out when that fierce sun was shining was nice. What wasn't really nice was getting lost in the mountains, which Crag had to admit happened a bit too much.

As it had just happened now, while he had not been walking long it was clear he didn't quite know where he was going, oh well, he knew where the sword was, just needed to find some hummies. He descended down from the rocky mountains into the forested foothills.

As he walked through the dense forest, he eventually found himself in a small little clearing near a hill, where a large opening had been carved into it, inside he could see a small group of ranglefants, sitting around a pot with a fire growing underneath.

“Oi! ‘ello there!” He spoke, waving his hand to the gathered group. Four moss-grown heads with hair flowing down to the ground and noses like coconuts turned to face the giant, all of them covering their wide mouths with their enormous hands to gasp.

“Bloody ‘ell, izzat a bloomin’ dovregubbe?!”

“By Funder, I fhink et is, bruv - oi, Shane, you gotta come see this!”

Another head poked out of the cave entrance. “Bloody ‘ell, whagwarn?” muttered the newcomer with a rub of the eye. Then he caught sight of the giant and rubbed them again. “By Funder!”

“‘S wot I said, that.” Then all of them lined up shoulder to shoulder and offered sloppy salutes to Crush, as though some ancient instinct told them to obey him by nature. “Oi, welcome ta Down-Below, bruv! Wot you doin’ ‘ere?”

“I, uh, am Prince Crag the Great Maw, son of Thunder the Cragking!.” He loudly boasted, pointing a thumb at himself, boasting both him and his father’s titles. “I’m here to find some hummies for a mission, who are u all?”

The ranglefants looked at one another, each more slack-jawed than the next. “Son ‘a bloody Funder!” boomed them all and clapped their massive hands triumphantly. Another one continued:

“We’s the Down-Belows - been livin’ down below for, uh, for a while. I’m Chester; tha’s Shane, me bruv; wife ‘ere’s Sharline; that’un there’s me ol’ nan, Beff; ‘n finally, there’s lil’ Enry, my lil’ boy.” Despite his very clear distinction of both genders, age and relations, they all looked just about the same - the older ones were slightly larger than their youngers and had more pronounced moss and mushroom colonies in their hair and on their shoulders. Chester gave his coconut nose a full-forearm rub. “You’s lookin’ fo’ ‘umies, izzit?”

Crag did his best to try to associate the names with all of them, he just hoped they didn’t quiz him on it anytime soon. “Aye, im lookin for hummies, need em to go up a mountain for us, that being my pa, my bruv, and me of course, we wanna stop the big shakkies going on here, u all know any hummie nearby?”

“The big shakies?! Where?!” howled Beff and hid underneath a nearby rock. Shane went to collect her with a sigh while Sharline raised her hand. “Yeah, there’s humies nearby - ‘bout half a night’s stroll, uh, that way.” She pointed vaguely northwards, though it was hard to tell if she actually meant that the village was to the north, because she kept making alterations to the direction. “Say, uh…” She pointed to his head, which, to their surprise, stood taller than many of the surrounding trees and was as such showered thoroughly in the setting sun. “... How the bloomin’ ‘ell is you not turned to stone by now?!”

Her family squinted in on her observations and all dropped their jaws in equal bafflement. “By Funder, bruv, you’s standin’ in the middle’a the sun! Dive, mate, dive for cover!” urged Chester.

“Wut?...Oh, ya.” Crag had sort of forgotten that was a thing. “Don’t wurry about that, see i got these glasses.” He pointed up to his face, where the glasses sat. “They keep me from turning to stone in de light.”

“... Bloomin’ ‘ell…” mumbled Enry before being smacked upside the head by Sharline.

“Enry! We don’t curse in this ‘ere bloomin’ ‘ouse’old, izzat clear?!”

Enry rubbed his sore head in defeat. “Yes, mum.”

“There more’a them?” asked Chester the giant.

“Unfortunately not.” Crag responded, showing a slight disdain at stating that. “Wes only got the one, that's why me bruver and dad aint with me.”

“Agh, bloomin’ ‘ell…” growled Chester and gave his disproportionately small head a rake with a disproportionately large hand. “So, uh… You need’ny ‘elp catchin’ those ‘umies?”

“I’d be mur than happy to accept ur help, we just need one hummie, one agile enough to walk up the mountain and grab de sword.”

“Just one?” offered Shane with a bit of a limp neck. “But I could go fo’ a snack.”

“Yeah, da - uncle wanz a snack! Can I get one, too?” pleaded Enry.

“Who said snacks?!” blurted Nanny Beff.

“By Funder, Shane, you got ‘em goin’. Fine, guess we all goin’,” muttered Chester and looked up at Crush. “Follow me, bruv.” The five of them then headed northwards in a line from the tallest, Chester, to the shortest, Enry, their long hands all dragging along the forest floor like field plows.

Crush followed, standing just to the left of the line of the others, keeping an eye out. On their way he spotted a fairly hefty log on the forest floor, which he decided to pick up, just in case he needed to threaten anyone or beat them senseless. The ranglefants made sure to stick to the shadows - while it was setting fast, the sun was still out and threatened to blister their skin. Sharline approached the shrubbery at the edge of the village and jogged back to Crush to clap him on the calf. “Oi, humies’re over there - village over there! What you want us ta do, man?”

Over yonder, there was indeed a small village, a collection of five huts and a barn, with a population so conveniently blind to their approach that one could wonder whether the Shades of Eternal Night also hid Crush’s presence. It could’ve also been the tree cover, for all the trolls knew. What was important, though, was that they were there, the humans, and they hadn’t picked up on their scent nor presence yet.

Crush did not recognize the village, obviously they had managed to avoid the Cragking’s rule. “Allow me.” He spoke to the others, he rose to his fullest height, giant log in one hand resting upon his shoulder. “Hummies won’t expect Crush in daylight, make em big scare, grab ‘volunteers’ be easy.”

He slowly walked towards the village, making himself look as intimidating as he could. Almost immediately, he was seen, and those who had seen him actually took a moment to rub their eyes, pinch their arms or ask out loud: “Am I dreaming?”

When it was very, very clear that they weren’t, they threw their arms in the air and ran around like headless chickens, screaming their lungs out. Crush just walked around, grabbing up what appeared to be the strongest and most agile of the humans, slinging them across his free shoulder, he then used his log and smashed it against two fleeing humans, sending them flying with a nice snap. He dropped his log and picked the two others up, deciding he had gotten what he needed; he headed back to the ranglefants.

Placing the two humans he had smashed down, he looked at the family “dis fur u, a thanks fur, uh, leading me to dis place.”

“Woohoo! You’s the best, bruv!” shouted Enry. The other four salutes their gratitude while slowly beginning to encircle the two corpses. All did it but Chester, who put his fists on his hips and looked up.

“So, what’s you goin’ ta do now, huh? Just head back?”

“Now, I head to center mountain, get hummie to grab sword, den head back to me pa and bruder,” He looked down at Chester, who he had to admit had an endearing factor to him. “Iv u want, uh, i could convince me pa to let u and ur family into our kingdom, we could use smaller trolls like you.”

Chester thumbed his chest humbly. “Why, wouldn’t tha’ be somefhin’! SHARLOINE!”

“Whaaaaat?!” came a full-mouthed response.

“Crush’s invitin’ us ta move up top!”

“Well, why ‘aven’t you said yes yet?!”

“Gettin’ to et, woman!” Chester looked back up at Crush and raised a thumb. “We’re in.”

Crush raised his own thumb and let a big toothy grin form on his face “Perfect, i’ll, uh, let u and ur family get ready, imma go get sword from mountain, then i be back, lead you up to mountain, ya?”

Chester offered him another erect thumb as his family dragged the corpses further into the woods. “We’ll get our stuff. Be back soon!” With that, he waddled happily after his family.

Crush waved them away, as soon as they disappeared into the forest, he began to reorient himself, which took, some time. Eventually he had managed to return himself to the main portions of the mountains, off in the distance he could see the massive central mountain of the Anchor. It took him and the human still struggling on his shoulders quite some time to reach it, but they did. Crush could see the thin and haphazard stone steps leading up the mountain, and the sword shoved into the top. There was also a sign but Crush couldn’t read it so didn’t care. He set the human down, pointing up the mountain.

“Go get sword.” He ordered.

The human, a young woman with long black hair and terror dirtying her every inch. She eyed the sword, then the surroundings, and then looked back to Crush. Her frozen lips could barely speak. “C-can I go home i-if I do?”

Crush shrugged “Dun’t see why not, if Crush no like sword, Hummie also gets to keep.”

The girl sniffed weakly and shivered her way over to the pedestal. With frozen hands, she reached up and grabbed the sword, pulling and pulling until she bent forward in exhaustion. “It-it’s stuck! I-I’m not strong enough!” she wept. “Mommy, daddy, Cory, I wanna go hooo-ooome!”

With those words, and a final weak pull, the sword came loose, almost like it was never stuck in the ground in the first place. The sudden loosening of the blade sent the woman off of her feet and tumbling down, but luckily Crush was there to catch her with his large hands, slowly setting her down, he looked at the sword in her hand.

“hmmm, sword very blocky, not nice looking, Hummie can keep it, too small for Crush anyway.” He motioned for her to follow him, “Lead back to village, Crush have business there.” The girl, unable to respond due to emotional trauma, hitched a ride wordlessly.

Once more they got back to the village, by now Crush was beginning to get a bit tired, but figured he could have a nice rest soon enough, he dropped the woman off near her village, close enough that nothing bad would happen to her surely. Then, he retracted his steps into the forest once more, and with a bit of trouble found himself back at the home of the ranglefant family, who were waiting inside their home.

“Oh! glad to see u again!” Crush shouted out towards them “Sword job done, wez can head up the mountain to my home.”

The ranglefants clapped their hands eagerly. “Woo!” yelled Shane and threw his arms into the air with such momentum that he nearly lost his balance. “Is there snacks to be et up there, too?!”

Crush smiled once more “eyup! we got dems snacks, and wid ur help, we can get even more snacks!” He drew closer to the hole they called home, slightly squatting to bring himself closer to the ranglefants “need any ‘elp carrying anything?”

“Not much ta carry, but fhanks,” offered Sharline. Indeed, only Chester and Shane actually looked to be carrying something, Chester holding a skin bag of something over his shoulder and Shane carrying a bundle of old clothes. “When’re we headin’ out?”

Crush looked up at the sky, seeing the sun dipping below the horizon. “De sun is setting, safest time for us to ‘ead up to cave, shouldn’t be too much of a walk.”

“A’right, bruv, you lead the way! We’ll be right behind you.”

With that Crush turned back towards the mountains. As the sun descended upon the anchor, he led the ranglefant family back up towards mountains, ignoring the sudden signs of destruction nearby that human village, through the rocky crags and valleys, leading them up a path deep into the heart of the mountains. Soon coming upon a great opening leading deep into a stone den, home of the Cragking.

Crush entered into the home, ranglefants in tow, with a loud and victorious stance. “I’ve dun it da! sword is gone and i’ve even brought back friends!” he gestured towards the ranglefants behind him.

The moss-grown giant twisted his head ever so slightly to behold the newcovers, his neck crackling like a rush of cravel. There came a long, long hum and then he opened his mouth as though his jaws had rusted and grown slow. “Ranglefants!” he boomed and the family of five lined up at the shoulders and saluted him.

“We’s ‘ere ta join up! Crush ova’ there said ‘was aright.”

Thunder leaned down to inspect them further, causing an avalance of dirt, moss and stone to roll off his shoulders and down on the ground. “My, I haven’t seen your kind for almost a thousand and half years. Thought you was all been outwon by them pinkies.”

Chester and Shane both scoffed. “Outwon?! Now listen ‘ere, gov’. Ranglefants may not be as tall and strong as your lot, but by Funder, ‘re we survivors!”

“Survivors!” echoed Shane and nanny Beff, the latter looking to do so someone deliriously, adding a “where am I” at the end.

Shane continued, “We’s ‘eard you’re makin’ a fhing around ‘ere. We wants in. Ain’t leavin’ ‘til we get ta join.”

Thunder rubbed the sand out of his eyes and looked up at Crush. “Where’d you find this lot, ey, Crush?”

Crush turned towards his father, having placed the glasses back neatly on their pedestal. “Uh, i fund ‘em down in de highlands, de’ ‘elped me find some hummies to get the sword with, i figured they’d be helpful in scouting and stuff, what being smaller den us and having some knowledge beyond the mountains.” He move next to the ranglefants, his own stone form creaking as he walked.

Thunder hummed again for an awkwardly long time. “A’right. Our two kins was friends once - long, long ago. If they can help us found the Trolldom, they’re welcome aboard. After all, no troll’s got a brotha’ like anotha’ troll.” He reached down and extended an index finger, which Chester shoved Shane aside to shake. “Call me king Thunder.”

Chester’s eyes were glistening at this point, and his family all shed proud tears in their sloppy salutes. “‘Tis an honour, gov-- I mean, Ye Majestay. Name’s Chester ‘n this’s my family. We’ll do right by ya - any friend’a Crush’s a friend’a ours.”

“Well, I’m the king, so I’d hope so.” Thunder offered Crush a knowing look. “Now that we’ve got some scouts, what’s your first mission for ‘em, gen’ral?”

Crush immediately beamed at being called gen’ral, he slowly marched towards the great map drawn into the floor “Well, i wus think’n we send ‘em to ‘ere.” He pointed towards the northern portions of the map “I ‘member you saying de north wus home to our kin da, if we figure out more dere, wes could gather more trolls to us.”

“The NORF?!” sputtered the king with such force that one could wonder whether the sword had been removed at all. “No! Nuh-uh, you know we hate it up there ‘n whatever -is- up there is nothin’ but dead. No, we got no bis’niss in the norf.”

“Yeah, norf’s bad, gen’ral,” offered Shane quietly, kicking at a pebble on the ground.

“Very bad. Lotsa mean storms and junk. Snow. Snow for days. No food,” nanny Beff continued with a thousand yard stare.

“Hear, hear,” mumbled the king thereafter.

Crush shrank back a bit, “Ah, didn’t realize dat, in dat case,” he move his hand more southward to the more closer regions of the mountain, “Maybe wez head only slight norf? dem big realm of hummies could be a threat, knowing more would ‘elp uz in case we need to defend ourselves from ‘em.”

“You means that, uh, wossname…” The mountain king scratched some trees of his head. “Humie place up norf, right? That one?”

”Ketrefa”

The king made a face. “Huh, now that takes me back. Sure, why not. Good suggestion, my lad.”

“Uh...da, I didn’t say that, neither did Quake or the Rangles”

“Oh, ‘course Quake didn’t say it. He’s out huntin’!” He looked down at the ranglefants, all of whom shrugged defensively. “Well, if you’s didn’t say it, who did?!”

”I did” suddenly, a plume of dust and soot swirled at the entrance of the cave, taking the form of a strange lanky figure, long arms, a strange faceless, face, and a variety of other items. ”Greetings Cragking.” The figure bowed, showing a sign of respect to Thunder sitting on his throne.

“By Thunder!” thundered Thunder, and the ranglefants reached deep inside and found an instinct to hide in the darkness, scattering to the winds. The king leaned forward to inspect the creature, his usual snail-like movements hastened with surprise. “Whot in blazes are you?!”

”I, am a god, and a new friend,” The figure stepped forward slightly, their movement smooth and graceful ”Your son here has impressed me, managing to rid my earthshaker sword from its peak, and, avoid the horrid curse all the while, I think that deserves a reward to him and your kingship, does it not?”

“Wait, that thing was cursed?!” Thunder thundered again. “How did I not see this comin’... Did you know this, Crushy?”

Crush shrugged “I ‘ave to admit dad, i didn’t, de sword wus too small for us, so i let the hummie keep it.”

”And,” the figure spoke ”In doing so you have ensured that village will suffer that curse for eons to come, while this kingdom reaps its rewards.” It chuckled ”I couldn’t have thought of a better ending myself.”

Thunder smacked his lips. “Well… Better them than us, isn’t that right?”

“That’s right, gov!” came still-quivering voices from the shadows.

Thunder smirked. “So, you said a reward, wossit?”

The figured chuckled ”I suppose its time to give them, for your son” The figure raised its right hand, a swirl of energy came forth, wrapping itself around Crush, who was thoroughly spooked by the whole endeavor, before it settled softly into him ”He shall hold an aura of leadership over those deemed, misfits, of the human realms, your kin, my children, and others, befitting his title as, Gen’ral.”

The figure then turned towards the king, ”As for you oh great Cragking, I think its about time you got a crown.” He raised his left hand, a swirl of stone and dust gathered into it, forming a crown that, to the trolls was perfect, but to others would be described as janky and odd. The figure walked up to thunder, kneeling and presenting the crown. ”For you, no curses mind you, I am a fair director.”

Thunder clapped his hands eagerly and kicked his legs, which had barely moved for a thousand years. He flicked some trees off the top of his head, accepted the crown greedily and placed it upon his head with a broad smirk. “Ah, now all’s right in the world. Gifted a crown by a god and everyfhin’. Crush, you’s done me proud, my lad. This’ll be the day the history drawin’s will say my reign began.” He looked down at the god. “Say, uh, whot’ll we call you? Them drawin’s’ll probably feature you, too, y’know.”

The figure rose ”I have many names, there are some who call me the All-Father and Yamatu, which, those who do so could prove to be allies to your kingdom in time, but, you may merely call me, Yamat, the Grand Director.” The figure bowed once more, its janky right arm shooting out, even his bow seemed janky and off putting.

“Yummit?” Thunder mumbled and cupped his hand behind his ear. “Odd name for a god. Sounds like a snack.”

“Yeah, actually, speakin’ of those…” came a hungry note from the corner of the room where the ranglefants still hid.

The figure, Yamat, looked towards those hidden ”I shall leave you be now, to deal with your subjects, may your reign prosper Cragking, I shall be watching.” with another flourished bow, the strange dust form fell apart and vanished. Crag slowly walked next to his father and his throne.

“Well, that wuz odd.” He finally spoke “When do u think Quake will be back?”

Deep in the jungle surrounding Zuanwa, two Ta'zesh approached a cave. Arrows notched, they stalked down into it. Taking cover at a bend, and soundless peaking in, they saw a younger man peering deeply into a fire. His shoulders were exposed, exposing intricate burn marks that wrap around them. The necklace was also around it. It did not seem as though the Rul noticed them, until, without any provocation, he spoke, "Please turn back. Your presence distracts from my mediation."

Akata stepped out, "We are here for the Za'wal's necklace."

He responded harshly, "It is my mother's. I will be separate from it when I rejoin her."

Akata grunted, "So be it." Despite taking careful aim, her arrow completely veered off. The second and third arrows did not perform any better.

The Rul continued to gaze into his fire, "As you can see, I do not fear your arrows."

Sowing her bow, and grabbing her dagger, Akata took one step towards him before pulling back instinctively upon hearing the hissing of a snake. She did not see them until now, but they were numerous. Their skin blended into the caverns, and their bite was lethal.

The other hunter, Uwana spoke, her voice not as confident as her partner, "Just who are. You bare the marks of the Rul and what we are after, but you can not be. You must be a Lota'wal."

Waving his hand over the flame, it turned blue and seemingly jumped up before returning to normal, "I am the Ruanza'ka. The gods speak to me through the fire. They trust in me their secrets."

Akata holding back a shout, "Ruanza'ka? You must be a lying Lota'wal or. or a Loza'zesh wearing the flesh of a dead Rul."

The Ruanza'ka scoffed, "You may believe what you wish, Akata."

Uwana stopped her partner, "I have never heard of a Za'ka. If we believe you that it exists, why would be bestowed to you?"

Holding his hands still over the fire, the hunters could see his badly burnt hands, "An empty vessel has room to be filled. It was by fire and suffering I have become more."

Uwana lowered her voice, "If not gifted by the gods, what fearful thing could he be. We should leave now."

Akata muttered back, "We can not leave with nothing."

The Ruanza'ka responded, "Then return to your Za'watem with this, From water the city born, from water, it shall die. Once the greater light sets, the heavens will cry.

The city sleeps in rising tide, spurred by fools who speak more than they listen. Within the wave, a minnow has washed upon your shores, and the fools would have you think his fins were glided, but if he speaks with another's voice then he must be thrown back. They will yell and scream that it should be obvious at sight, but the gods can see what we can not, and place the greatest proof within the heart.

The Ta'ral and Rul will be the first to awake, and if still bound with bramble, it will only bleed the water for the sharks. Then those who survive might twice awaken from tribulation and become as I have.

Finally, a metal beast bound and tamed by those of distant shore comes. You can't defeat them, nor can you lose to them."

Mirak of the Benya Kurhah

Mirak adjusted the bronze-scaled hauberk panoply weighing on his shoulders and chest, hands naturally moving to the belt to secure it tighter. He knew well from long years of experience that a tight belt meant a good fit and a good fit was needed for riding. Though heavy on its own, when appropriately worn a hauberk of scale would feel no different upon a man than a partially loaded pack. He sighed with contentment as the belt slid into place, still fitting him well-enough.

He had aged. Mirak knew it, and he was sure his people did too. In his youth, even as Zhaan, he had always been wiry and fit. Though he did not doubt the strength of his limbs nor the power in his back, he certainly felt softer in places. Though he was no elder his hair had greyed early, the sign of wisdom most would say. To Mirak he simply felt like he was aging. But, he admitted, that was the nature of life; leave it to the Terrible Spirits and their agelessness to step into futures not meant for one such as he. His ancestors waited for him, even if for another many years, and he knew one day he would wish more than anything to see them.

For now though he was yet hearty, strong and hoary. There was fire in his breath yet.

A helmet slid down over his head, Mirak scantily realizing it was his own hands placing it there. The cheek guards felt cold on his skin where no leather or fur padding was secured. The sweeping forward arch of the helmet’s peak changed the weight distribution of his head ever so slightly, intended for deflecting blows and arrows as well as reminding the warrior to ride forward, ever forward. He had been told he struck an imposing sight when dawning his full warrior garb. Mirak did not know; he felt other warriors embodied the ancestors of war better than he. With that he wrapped his lower face with the warrior scarf sewn in his clans colors, his retainers following suit. Now his transformation from man into spirit of battle was complete.

His eyes swept this-way and that, across to the other warriors of his band. Some were his khayhar, loyal retainers all, but most were common warriors. They were men who intended action, each baring spears and bows and javelins in mixed assortments. His own retainers were more appropriately armored, looking much in the same way as him. Each, including himself, had a number of icons and fetishes hanging from their person, ranging from painted-tip feathers to runic stones to bits of trophy remains. These were wards of many different kinds, meant to protect the warriors and summon to them the spirits of battle that churned restlessly in the Mauda’a Tawil Jiilshaa. The rabble of nomad-warriors were less encumbered with the accoutrements of conflict so adorning the khayhar but seemed similarly fierce, daubed with warpaints and symbols of hand prints and sun-sigils.

“The band is ready, my Zhaan.”

Mirak looked from behind his dread-aspected helmet to the khayhar speaking to him, his comrade of many seasons and trusted second. Nazih stared back at him, his eyes the single splotches of white behind the shadowed mask. Black face paint completed the illusion and ferocious imagery of bestial eyes and snarling maw painted upon his helm furnished a new image in his stead. Nazih no doubt saw some equally frightening monster gazing back as the two let the moment pass between them. Silence was best before battle, it always was, and the longer that silence lasted the better. This was where weak men were found and could be sent home or to the hills; now was the time for men of iron spines and breath of fire.

“Make ready. Tonight it dies.”

---

Thwump the Belligerent sat outside his cave in the rising moonlight, mooning himself pleasantly. It was his early-night ritual, something he’d done since the day he’d been shaken from his sire’s folds. He’d forgotten the name of that elderly troll for it had never quite interested him. And now, at the ripe young age of five hundred, he considered himself more than adult enough to care even less!

Thwump had claimed the cavern he now sat out in front of for himself several hundred years ago, having marched himself down from the mountains and out into the plains. It was a solution cave slowly dissolved from the softer materials around it and held a lovely reservoir of mineral-rich waters to bathe in. He had to climb up and out of it but otherwise it made a lovely home to hide from the dreaded sun. Sometimes animals would even fall in, perfect for nabbing, a little dashing against the walls, and a quick consumption. It really worked out quite nicely.

But, like so many other dovregubbe, Thwump had a love for the finer things in life. Hunting, of course, was a pastime that could never been equalled by simply waiting in his grotto all day. And out upon the plains there were so many mortals ripe for a good crushing. Of course, there we also those bothersome animal-riders. It was always so difficult to sneak up on them and their mounts were so flitty, so difficult to outrun. Thwump was wasted on cross-country, after all, and those creatures had the speed and endurance to keep him running well into dawn.

“Blah!”

Thwump let out a displeased groan, sticking his gnarled tongue out in disgust. Filthy things, always making a perfectly good hunt go sour. No matter. Just a little farther north there were towns aplenty, ripe with humans who lived sedentary lives and packed themselves so generously inside boxes for him to open. It was good fun, after all, hearing the buildings crumple before him. Thwump closed his eyes, laid back in the moonlight, and let himself get lost in night-dreams of delicious meals and proper, good fun.

“Yeow!”

Thwump slapped his cheek with an open palm, hand quickly moving to the place where some critter must have bit him. His fingers, as awkward as they were, grubbed about to find the bite-mark. Instead he found a pricker. With little effort he tugged it out and looked at it, trying desperately to focus his poor eyes at the offending needle.

“Ow!”

A second one! This time directly into his forehead! That couldn’t be any sort of creature, nor could he have simply rolled onto it. Thwump sat up with the sound of a hillside collapsing, eyes wide and furious at this interruption. Though his vision was poor he could see well enough in close and lo, there was his tormentor. A vaguely man-shaped silhouette filled his vision, the probably-human entity sitting about atop a mighty buck. Well, it looked like the sort of buck silhouettes that Thwump had eaten before. Then a third pricker smacked directly into Thwump’s eye, sending him into a cursing fit. Massive, pounding fists slammed into the dirt and rock around him as he brought himself to his full height, nearly nine meters high in all his fury.

“Oi! You’z gonna’ pay fer that, little thing!” Thwump’s roar that followed echoed across the land for miles, signalling his displeasure without question to the world around them.

“You first.”

The retort was sharp and swift, followed by a fourth pricker jabbing into Thwump’s body. It did little but bother the huge troll but bother was more than enough. With that the rider and his steed hammered off into the opposite direction, surging into the plains with a bounding grace that belied the violence of the hour. Thwump let out another howl of displeasure and rage before trudging on after them, less running and more waddling with huge strides in pursuit. The chase was on, thundering across the plains.

---

Minutes dragged into an hour as the chase began to get ragged. Thwump, in his anger, had followed as best he could. He realized that the warrior’s scent came in strong, as if he had added fragrance to himself to be more easily found by the troll, but his steed was not. From what Thwump could guess, the human had rolled his elk in freshly cut grass for days on end if smell was anything to go by. At one point, when Thwump was finally beginning to gain on the main as the elk tired, he had come to a stop by another and switched steeds. He had continued in the same direction while his exhausted elk had simply rode off calmly in the other direction. Thwump knew he could easily kill that one, if he had so desired, but knew nothing but anger towards the man instead.

War’s on, after all.

His lungs were killing him, his muscles aching, but he refused to give up; the night was early and he reckoned he had at least six more hours of pure, unadulterated night before the sun would begin to rise. Besides, Thwump knew of several soft plots of earth where he could quickly dig a burrow for himself in that time. No, this had become personal and surrender this early in the flight was not an option. As he closed once more with the elk and the man he took a brief moment to stop, bending down to grab two great clods of earth in either hand before continuing in his chase. Powerful fists balled the rock and soil into dense missiles of the earth’s bones, prepared thoroughly for a proper clobbering. A thwumping, if one cared to appropriately categorize it.

In that moment where he began to step into his waddle again, a number of prickers pincushioned his hide. It was really beginning to sting!

A dozen or more humans had rode up on him, diving out of tall grasses on their mounts. Thwump cursed loudly to himself as he realized they had done to themselves what they first man had done to his steed! The bastards, they weren’t smelly at all! He thanked Gibbou for making him with working eyes and for not taking them yet in his twiddling years, just barely able to make out their shapes in the moonlight. He could work with that.

With a howl of anger he tossed a massive clod of earth at a bunch of human riders, most scattering but one in particular being caught dead in the open. The mass of rock and dirt collided with mount and man alike, smashing the life from them with one quick blow. Pleased with his success, Thwump let fly his second missile, this one colliding with one mount only to drive onwards into a second riding too close nearby. The two men died screaming, not nearly as quickly as the first, and Thwump was pleased for his success. Hands dug down into the earth for more ammunition as the riders sped off after the first and Thwump came thundering after them.

There was blood in the air, of man and elk, and Thwump couldn’t help but bask in the scent. These foolish men! They had come to his home, to bother him, when he so rarely bothered them! These were the elk-folk, after all, and they were hard to catch! Now he’d teach them a lesson for bothering him. One step after the other he was closing the distance and one step after the other once they were all dead he’d reach their corpses and crunch them down!

CRASH! CRUNCH! BANG!

“YEEEEOOOOOWWWW!”

Thwump let out a blood curdling scream of anguish as everything around him collapsed. The earth itself swallowed him up and in its gullet stabbing pain thrust forward. He looked down into the mess of dirt and troll-blood to see massive stakes thrusting up through his mangled feet, more still thrusting out of the walls to tear at his legs and keep him from moving. His heart pounded violently in his chest, awareness of how things had so quickly turned dawning on him. It seems he’d been the prey all along.

---

Mirak glared out from behind the dread-visage of his helmet at the trapped troll. The ride had been long and arduous, even for him as the rider, but it had all been worth it. He silently cursed the beast for already slaying three of the assembled warriors, tribesmen all who had families who needed them. Nevertheless, their lives as well as his were already sacrificed for this journey; the warrior-ancestors who now dwelled in their armor saw to that. Until his panoply was removed with victory, he was already dead.

His thoughts turned outward towards the troll. The beast and his ilk usually were beyond the interests of the Arrak but this one was special. A town he had raided recently contained a half-dozen sons and daughters of the Benya Kurhah and, so bounded by the walls of that so-called stronghold, they had been slain alongside a number of the population. Though Mirak cared little for the loss of life from the townsfolk beyond the general sadness he felt for all death, the loss of his people’s lives could not go unavenged. Worse still, the lot of them had been eaten. With no remains to return to their barrows beyond their belongings, their spirits would be deformed and broken in the afterlife or unable to return at all. As such, this trolls bones would hold their spirits and so his remains would furnish the ovoo of the ancestors in their stead.

Despite the bold talk, Mirak knew this would be no easy task. Arrows did little but annoy the creature and spears were only effective when thrust by hand. The chase had been easy by comparison; this is where the trouble would begin.

Drawing his thrusting spear from hooks upon the antler’s of his mount, Mirak made ready himself. It would be a long night.

The first howls of the charge sounded as warriors rode in, untrained clansmen following in behind retainers. For the next few hours they would harry the beast, attempting to kill it where it remained or otherwise keeping it from burying itself or escaping for the sun to do their work for them. Mirak raised his spear high and let out a roar of his own, the spirits of war in his chest giving fire to his voice. Off he rode towards the monster, death on his lips and dread thoughts on his mind.

Tonight it dies.

---

---

Although Brundt had lifted the hammer, he was too young to wield it. And so, it became a secret.

The boy began regular visits to the House of Perfection, who took over his education. He soon began spending more of his waking hours there than Milos Karras’s own manor. There had been talk of moving him to the temple permanently but Brundt himself had refused.

They put him through rigorous physical exercises as well, where Brundt quickly amazed him with his unnatural strength. They taught him to fight with hand, blade, and staff. He mastered several different exercises, and learned to play a number of different sports. Inevitably, word began to spread throughout the city about the scarred barbarian boy with the strength of ten men, and how the temple had taken him in. Brundt’s unnatural strength had once terrified him, but the temple taught him it was a gift, and so that as long as he used it respectfully and responsibly, there was nothing to fear.

Although two or three nobles withdrew their support from the temple in disgust, for the most part the men and women of the surrounding district were unwilling to distance themselves from Cadien’s holy order, especially over the fate of a mere boy. The tales of Brundt’s strength were eventually dismissed as exaggeration, and the sight of him at the temple became common enough that those who once loathed him learned to ignore him.

In the meantime, Brundt enjoyed his time at the Temple. Grandmaster Varsilis had always been kind to him, and the temple acolytes, though cold at first, had eventually warmed to him as well. They told him tales and histories. They told him of Cadien and Evandra’s Gift of the Berries. He learned of the creation of the Purple Moon, and the irregular lunar alignments. They spoke of the crusade against the Iskrill and the founding of Acadia. They told him of short men who lived in the mountains of the south, and of winged beasts in the plains to the west. Milos had also taken the time to personally educate him on strategy and tactics. He listened to it all with fascination.

Under escort, he would walk around the city, marvelling at the architecture of the Cadien’s Quarter, and at the distant royal palace. It was truly like nothing he had ever seen, and even after he had gotten used to it he still found the walks to be peaceful and relaxing. Gelos, the guard who had once held Brundt down and been ready to execute him, accompanied him on most of these trips, and couldn’t help but grow fond of the boy as well.

As the years went on, Brundt had also begun to notice a change. The nobles of Cadien’s Quarter no longer snubbed him or Milos. The House of Perfection’s endorsement, it seemed, was enough for them to give him the benefit of the doubt despite his status as an outsider. Even then, he still found it somewhat difficult to connect to those outside of the House of Perfection or the Karras Household.

The same could not be said for the rest of the city, however. They had tried to hide the conflict from him, but it was clear something was amiss. He would overhear talk of incidents in other districts, of ‘territory’ and ‘support’ being lost or gained. It worried him, but there was little he could do, for he was still too young and the order still too secretive. It frustrated him, knowing that there was a growing threat out there, but being unable to act.

It all weighed on him, and although he did his best to meet what expectations and challenges were put before him, it became harder as the years went on. He was strong and studious, yes, but he also became grim, stoic, and serious. He was not without a sense of humour, nor was he above harmless-yet-amusing distractions, but more pressing matters always lingered in the back of his mind. How was he supposed to be the hero they expected him to be?

Eventually Brundt had become a man in his own right, and although he could now walk the district freely, they still had not told him much. Other than that the city was divided between the Houses of Cadien and Tekret, and a Cult dedicated to the love goddess Neiya. But he knew very little of the cult, other than that they rejected all gods save Neiya and were hostile against those who did not do the same. If he was to stand against them, he needed to know more.

Some part of him felt it was a bad idea, but he decided he had to see for himself.

He was a tall man. Seven feet in height, and he still bore the scar from when he was nearly burned as a child. A few years ago, during a lunar alignment occurred, and he could have simply washed the disfigurement away… but he refused. Now he was paying for that, as it meant there was no way he could disguise himself to leave the district, and he was not one for sneaking. But perhaps he didn’t need to do either of those things?

Brundt donned a cloak and a simple tunic. They were of fine quality, but ultimately rather plain. And with this rather unassuming-looking garb, he belted a sword to his hip and made his way out of the district in the middle of the afternoon. Unsurprisingly, there were guards posted at the district’s entrance - guards in the employ of the local nobles, rather than the city - and they recognized him on sight.

“Lord Brundt Karras?” one of them asked. “What brings you here?”

“I’m leaving the district,” Brundt answered.

The two guards exchanged a glance. “Why?”

“That is my own business,” Brundt replied.

For a moment they only stared at him. Then, reluctantly, one of them nodded. “Very well, my lord.”

That had been far easier than expected.

The next district was also under the control of the House of Perfection. Its inhabitants were considerably less well off than the nobles of Cadien’s Quarter, but still respectable. Blacksmiths, jewellers, butchers, merchants, sculptors, painters, architects, and some exceptionally poor nobles. Men of some wealth and distinction, but no impressive birth. He passed through without incident, no one here willing to question or challenge the burly intimidating man who wore the finery of a lesser noble.

He had been here before only a few weeks ago, when his fath… Milos… took him to a blacksmith to be fitted for his own suit of bronze armour, and so the district’s layout was relatively fresh on his mind.

Eventually Brundt reached the next set of guards which marked the entrance to the next district. They had been far more reluctant to let him through, but also far more yielding to his authority. The area he entered next was for the lower classes - mostly labourers. The buildings were smaller and more worn down, while the people were dirtier and wore frayed tunics or rags. It was a rather shocking contrast to the finery of Cadien’s Quarter, where he had spent most of his life.

This district, he understood, was supposedly under the House of Perfection’s control, but to his knowledge the cult was making a recent push to convert the locals. From time to time he would see the symbol of the Horned Goddess or a message about Neiya etched into the wall of an alleyway. Later, as he entered the district’s square, he saw a man preaching about the love of Neiya. Then he noticed men and women in the robes of the House of Perfection approaching. Fortunately, their attention was set solely on the preacher, but Brundt decided it would be best if he moved on before he was recognized.

The borders between the poorer districts like these were supposed to be far less defined, with guards rarely being posted at the edges. And yet the House of Perfection had sent acolytes to watch the main road, with a makeshift barricade even being set up. Brundt frowned, as he considered how to get past this.

Fortunately, it was rather easy, for there were a number of lesser roads and alleyways which also led to the next district, and it was simply impossible for the House of Perfection to observe them all. Brundt simply found one of these side routes and followed it, slipping back onto the main road once he had passed the makeshift checkpoint.

He was in dangerous territory now, for this next district was entirely under the Cult’s control. It did not take many steps for it to become a wholly different experience than that of the previous poor man’s district. Debris had been stacked along the pathways in zig-zagging patterns, creating small labyrinthine walls of dirt, broken furniture, and discarded rags. Almost like walking into some barbaric display of tribalism, he came face to face with a simple wooden pole jabbed down into a refuse pile, and at it’s tip rested a guardsman’s helmet, battered into disrepair and smeared with paint like the rest of the area. Navigating this small walkway of refuse proved more tedious than difficult, but it could be assumed to serve a basic function of slowing down any larger patrols.

Passing out on the other side and into the district proper left behind much of what one could consider normal, and replaced it with what could only be said to be an otherworldly sight. Effigies of straw, wood and discarded metal had been raised, and decked with several horns jutting from it’s head. The walls of buildings were like murals, a scattered and chaotic pattern of graffiti where words mingled freely with archaic symbols, weird or unfinished drawings, and the symbol of the Love Goddess. Many of them were crude, even vile, in nature. For all the preaching of love, the images depicted could only be said to coax out the vilest thoughts in humanity. Ragged men and women littered the district, languidly sat around with nothing much to do, or caught in the midst of defacing yet another wall. On most of them, Brundt could see a medallion hang around their neck, worth more than the people by the looks of it; it was a simple design, a heart, surrounded by horns.

Brundt had regarded all this with disdain. He had been taught that one should rarely have cause to stand idle. And while art was something worth pursuing, this was nothing more than defacement; it was illegal and ugly to look upon. Yet he had also noticed a distinct lack of guards, and more than one suspicious look. He was a tall man with purple eyes and a burned face; no doubt at least a few of them had already guessed his identity.

But he pressed on, going deeper into the district, wondering what else he might find.

The main path wound around a few houses - none of which looked to have seen any maintenance in the last few years - and then began to properly open up into a square of dilapidated market stalls, old merchant’s quarters, and warehouses. A mostly untouched brass sign hung on a single of its hinges welcomed him to the Golden Row, a once reputed market area that was now but a former shadow of its former glory. Most stalls had been abandoned, their cloth stolen and requisitioned for other purposes. Others had been converted into what looked like squats for entire families.

Here too the trend continued, open areas defaced with symbols of the goddess and crude drawings. The disaffected littered the streets, talking amongst each other, going about business that could probably be considered criminal, or staked out Brundt as he passed through from perches in windowsills above. Here too, the medallions were prevalent, as were the stares. More so than before, he could see people shushing when he wandered into view, following him with their eyes and talking amongst themselves. They did not seem particularly keen on confronting him, even turning away when he looked their way, or quieting down at the very least. Still, it was no doubt word would spread quickly at this point.

Trawling through the old market district brought a shift in the established disrepair as a procession of people came into view on the far side of the square. Dark-dressed men and women, with Neiya’s insignia sewn into the fabric, stood before a larger building that looked at least a little more well-tended than the others. Though they did not seem to carry weapons, a few of them had done a poor job of masking the copper protecting their upper arms beneath the clothes. A line had formed in front of them, and each ragged commoner coming up to face them displayed the medallion Brundt had seen so many times. Those who did were ushered inside, those who could not were quickly dismissed.

Brundt stood and observed the proceedings from a distance. He did not have a medallion, and did not feel like stealing one, so it was clear they would not let him in. He watched a few people enter, and then turned away.

"A little out of your element, aren't you?" a scraping feminine voice cut from one of the nearby stalls that had stood the test of time and looting. It belonged to a worn woman with hair the color of flax. She too wore a medallion, and like the others she was doomed to be unremarkable and unkempt without it. She leaned on the old woodwork me, watching Brundt with tired, but curious eyes.

Brundt turned and eyed her warily. “I go where I please,” he replied, after a moment.

She smiled at that, but it was a smile that suggested he was not in on the joke. "We are all equal before the Goddess, friend. Welcome. Come to participate in the summoning, then?"

“The summoning?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

She nodded over towards the procession, still admitting people into the old merchant's building. "That's what they call the service. We join together and send our love to the Goddess, in hopes she will respond with her warmth. The clerics say that if all of us have only love in our hearts, Neiya will come to us and walk Ketrefa." She sniffed idly, eyeing Brundt up and down once more. "Guess some of us are not faithful enough."

“Indeed,” Brundt nodded coldly. “Some of us have chosen to only acknowledge one god, and disregard all others.”

The woman sighed softly, but retained her smile. "The Goddess' messengers teach us about the vices of the old ways. By ignoring the Goddess word, we have let ourselves become impure and unworthy. Perhaps a summoning would do you some good, friend."

“And who are these messengers?” Brundt asked her.

"Why, they're right there," she proffered, and lifted a hand to point at the dark-dressed men and women taking in people. "I heard a rumour they're all nobles from up by the Archway Garden, but you can't get anywhere near there these days without sponsorship from a cleric. The one who does summonings for us is called Naros. Nice man."

“And how do you know their messages comes from Neiya?”

The woman scoffed at that, and pulled a mocking grimace. "They came with food and blankets when the nobles let this place go to the pits. They support you, as long as you keep your faith in the Goddess. Where else would such love come from?"

Brundt looked around, at the shabby buildings, the impoverished citizens, and the desolate marketplace. “It looks to me like this place has seen better days,” he remarked.

She did not appear to like that, and her tone changed to reflect that, just as her building frown did. “My belly is full each day, and the trials of the Goddess keep me working for the good of all. What good is jewelry and finery if it does not bring us closer to Her love?”

“I have eyes, you know,” Brundt answered drily. “I see people wearing rags and families living in shacks. I speak not of jewelry and finery, but of clothing and shelter. What of those?” He shook his head.

“Those who show dedication, and faith, are allowed to live in the Court of Flames, with all the majesty that entails. To appreciate comfort, you must learn to live without it. To truly know love, you must be free of your distractions,” the flaxen-haired woman replied with growing fervor, watching him with an intensity to her eyes. No doubt others had taken note by now, or indeed, never stopped watching in the first place.

“How many are chosen, then?” Brundt asked. “And how many are left behind?”

She shook her head, lifting a hand to wave it dismissively at him. “Simply by asking that, you show you cannot let go of your distractions. We are all equal before the Goddess. Were the poisons of Ketrefa not so rife in our bodies, we would all live in splendour.”

Brundt’s frown deepened. “The gods help those who help themselves,” he told her. “You’ve allowed yourself to become dependent on faceless nobles from another district. Hoping they deem you worthy, when they don’t even know you exist.” How could they? Nobody could memorize every name and faith in an entire district. “You’ve turned your back on four gods to please one. No surprise then, that those four have turned their backs on you.”

“Look at you, spitting lies as easily as a sermon,” she began with a restrained tut. A moment’s thought, and she leaned down into her stall to fish out a small knife, and stabbed it neatly into her wooden barrier. “As if what you describe is anything different to how it was before. The four are what allowed this to occur in the first place. We will restore the natural order, and bring Neiya’s love to all.” She kept her eyes on Brundt intently, seemingly unfazed by the absolutely massive difference in size. Indeed, her eyes carried their own flame, a spite that only seemed to grow for each moment.

“You’ll restore nothing,” Brundt countered. “All around us, there is only decay. Instead of the solution, you’ve become the source.” And with those words, he turned and began walking out the way he came. The woman muttered something behind him, and he heard the sound of spitting, but no further trouble seemed to come of it. The path back towards cleaner and saner worlds was long, and though no one had really eavesdropped on their conversation - as far as he knew - the atmosphere on the walk back was rapidly turning from tense and disdainful to outright hostility. Men and women alike stared at him from the gutter, from behind doorways, and from window sills. Perhaps they’d done so the entire time, and he could only see the madness now.

It was not long before he found a reassuring sight. Over a dozen household guards, and half a dozen temple acolyes marching toward him. At their head was Gelos, though the usually calm and professional retainer bore a furious look. “By Cadien’s Grace, what were you thinking!?” he demanded, before quickly looking around. His tone quieted, and he put a hand on Brundt’s shoulder. “Come. There’s no time to argue.”

Brundt did not argue, and instead followed his escort out.

---

“What were you thinking?” Milos demanded, echoing Gelos’s earlier words.

Brundt stood in a room in the House of Perfection, with Varsilis, Milos, and Gelos standing before him. None were pleased. “I had to see it for myself,” he said.

“What if they had killed you?” Milos demanded. “Or captured you? Or…”

“...or convinced me to take their side?” Brundt interrupted. “Have you so little trust in me?”

“Did they?” Varsilis suddenly asked, and Brundt’s head turned to face the older man, who was still as fit and vigorous as a young adult. “Convince you to take their side?”

Brundt shook his head.

“What did they tell you?”

So, Brundt relayed the story of his encounter in the ruined marketplace, as well as everything he had seen. Varsilis nodded; it all seemed to be more or less what he expected, and there was a look of approval whenever Brundt claimed not to believe or agree with one of the woman’s points.

“It’s true,” Varsilis nodded. “The cult has provided food for the areas under control. But little else. It’s all a ploy, you see. Give them the necessities to keep them dependent, then take away the luxuries and tell them they have no need for anything else. Have them do naught but wallow in their own filth or deface their own homes in the hope that they can rise higher. They don’t know it, but they’re little better than sheep.” He shook his head disdainfully.

“If they’re sheep, then wouldn’t that make the cult shepherds?” Brundt found himself asking.

Varsilis shrugged. “There are different types of people in this world, Brundt. Sheep, Shepherds, and Wolves. Sheep do as they are told, or what they see everyone else doing. Shepherds lead the sheep. And wolves? They live outside this system, and prey on those within. So yes, you’re right. The cult are shepherds. But there are different types of shepherds, Brundt. There are those who genuinely care about their flock and wish to protect them. And there are others, who only see them as a means to an end. That’s the cult. They say they care, but everything they do only serves the ends of the few who are in charge. I don’t even know if they serve the ends of their goddess, for they haven’t done anything truly special.”

“But what if they do?” Brundt asked next. “What if… what if Neiya truly does speak to him?”

Varsilis stared at him, and chose his words carefully. “Neiya is a goddess,” he said. “She deserves respect, worship, and devotion like the others. But if she asks us to disregard the others… we cannot. Cadien and Evandra created us. Tekret made our walls and gave us law. Oraelia made the sun which provides us light and warmth. To reject an order from Neiya would be a blasphemy, yes, but to reject all other gods on her behalf?” He shook his head gravely. “That is a far worse crime.”

Brundt nodded in understanding. “I see,” he said. “Perhaps it was foolish to think they could be reasoned with.”

“It was,” Milos agreed. “We cannot afford to lose you.”

Suddenly, Brundt frowned. ‘We cannot afford to lose you’ or ‘you are chosen.’ He had heard such things his entire life. “Why?” he demanded. “Why am I so important?”

“There’s a poison in this city,” Varsilis told him. “The woman was right about that. The way we have treated outsiders, or those of lower birth… our fellow humans… it’s intolerable. But you were right too. All the cult is doing is adding a poison of their own into the mix. If not stopped, these poisons will spread throughout the city, and choke us out from the inside. That is why you are important, Brundt. It’s your destiny to stop them.”

“How?” he asked.

“It is time we figure that out. If reason will not work, then more drastic measures must be taken.”

---

Gibbou sat on a bench in Antiquity, mopingly sipping on a cup of tea as she observed the brutalisation of the Western Highlands at the hands of Ha-Dûna. Her helmet sat low over her brow, giving her whole face a brooding shadow. Her lips slurped grumpily at the rim of her cup for every time she saw a Dûnan warrior strike at civilians, only for their weapon to vanish into dust and leave the warriors dumbfounded. Part of her was relieved that the curse was working as intended, but most of her was furious that she had had to implement the curse at all. When wouldn’t these baffoons just put two and two together and just realise that you shouldn’t butcher innocents?

She needed a break. These thoughts were not doing well for her positive energy and she couldn’t risk becoming jaded at a time like this. She finished her tea, snapped the cup out of existence and went for a stroll. Passing by temple ruins and places where portals popped in and out of existence, she came upon a large, rectangular notice board. She wondered for a minute why she hadn’t caught sight of it before, it being so woefully out of place. Her eyes took note of the announcement on how to make avatar and she couldn’t help but offer a quiet giggle.

”Huh… How about that…” Then her eyes looked up to see another note. She leaned in to read the print. ”... ‘What kind of god are you? A survey for the good of everyone’... Artifex? Is that someone I haven’t met yet?” She rubbed her chin with a metallic glove and noted that the bottom of the note had a row of untouched tabs one could rip off. The tabs were labelled with instructions on how to find this Artifex’ portal. Gibbou shrugged. ”Well, might as well give it a try!” She nipped off a tab and followed the directions, only getting lost three times in the process. Finally, she reached the god’s portal, a radioactive green circle radiating inviting levels of warmth and bug noises, all while showing an imagine of what seemed to be buildings upon buildings upon buildings. Gibbou breathed in deep and stepped inside.

”Mister and/or miss Artifex?” she asked the long underground street (built in the style of 1300AC Sancta Civitan architecture but lit by industrial era street lamps) she found herself in, drawing the attention of the insects, gigantic and small, presently using it for just a moment, before most continued on their way to destinations unknown. The one exception was a fuzzy pastel green moth with a ruby trim and small two trailing tails that fluttered towards her.

”It would be mister Artifex.” came a loud voice from the tiny insect as it hovered before her ”I see that I probably should have put gender on the cards, if that is indeed what brought you here. Ah well, what is done is done. To whom do I owe the pleasure?” it asked

Gibbou gasped and brought a hand to her cheek. ”Aaaaw! You’re a moth! I love moths!” She stopped herself from reaching out to poke at him and straightened herself up instead. ”I, uh, I’m Gibbou. I live on the moon and mostly just sit there, looking at Galbar below. I, uh, I saw your post about the survey.” She waved the tab in her hand.

”It is delightful to meet you Gibbou” the moth replied, before asking ”Ah the survey, glad to see it’s already caught an eye or two. Did you have questions about it? Suggestions? oh and would you like to move our conversation to somewhere more comfortable than the front door?”

Upon asking his final question the doors to a house just beside Gibbou swung open revealing a small brightly lit room, ”If so please, step inside this elevator and we can be there in a flash”

Gibbou swallowed. ”Elevator! Riiiiight, let me just… Step inside. _{Uh, cramped spaces…”} Her fully armoured form forced her to take up the majority of space, her shoulderpads and cloak nearly doubling her width from the torso and down. Her ceremonial blades sticking up from said shoulderpads scraped at the roof. ”Sorry…”

”It’s quite alright” Artifex replied as the moth fluttered in with her and then bumped into a button on a long long list of available floors. The doors shut, but revealed themselves to be one way windows, still allowing a view of the street for a moment before the elevator lurched into motion and began ascending. Layer after layer of subterranean infrastructure began to flash by the small viewing window until they suddenly breached the surface of the city planate. they kept rising, sailing up a grand tower that loomed over the endless fields of buildings, monuments and streets made in a thousand and one styles from all across Galbar illuminated by a flawless (literally) copy of the lantern moon hanging above on high bathing the realm in twilight hues. The moon goddess blushed and felt included.

Finally, the elevator stopped and opened, revealing a cozy drawing room one of whole’s walls was entirely glass, allowing an unobstructed view of the city. Inside it held comfortable trappings such as a fireplace, a shelve of scrolls and tablets, a central table with a pair of cups and a flagon sat upon it, as well as comfortable sofas and recliners. It also featured a one eared goblin, dressed in a smart ruby jacket, yellow waistcoat, an onyx brooch with a pair of thorned horns enblazened upon it in silver and a practical pair of leather trouser and boots. He was wearing a blacksmiths apron over the top of his fashionable attire and hammering away at the cooling form of finely crafted, if heavy duty, throne made from steel adorned with silver decorations. With a final strike the last leg of the throne was bent into place, after which the goblins tepid back and snapped his fingers, causing the throne to be finalised with a covering of thick light blue upholstery.

As the goblin put away his tools into a series of belt pouches and tossed aside the aporin the moth fluttered over to him and landed on the side of his head where it was missing an ear. In the blink of an eye the moth was gone and the ear was back, completing Artifex’s goblinoid form who reached out, and up, a hand to shake Gibbou’s.

”Welcome to my parlor. Please, take a seat.” he said, before gesturing to the freshly forged armor proof chair.

Gibbou blinked and shook the hand politely, needing to bend her knees and back slightly to reach down. ”This all really is somethin’. Did you build all of this yourself? Including this, uh, parlor?” She took a long route to the chair, staring out the windows down at the millions of architectural schools competing for her attention. ”I happen to be a sucker for marble and glass myself, by the way - that’s a plus in the book from me.” She gave him a wink as she sat down, her armour scraping as quietly as possible against the texture of the chair.

”An excellent pairing,” Artifex agreed with a smile ”I’m very much looking forwards to when the mortals really get the hang of glass making inorder to see what they end up coming up with.”

”As for all this? Me and an uncountable number of communal insects of every shape at size. Working following my designs in the case of this study, my lab or MUSE. However it is the designs of mortals that are responsible for most of what you see out the window. That step pyramid over there?” Artifex began pointing out a few of the structures ”Just got built in a place called Zuanwa, over there’s the House of Perfection from Ketrefa and over there’s a lovely little collection of temples from the Kylsar Isles.”

”Whenever mortals set out to build something, it starts and ends here. First as a proof of concept when they dream it up, and then once it is complete it stands as an immortalisation of what they achieved. Wind or war or time or tide may take that legacy on galbar, but up here their triumphs will stand for as long as we will.” Artifex proclaimed dramatically, before picking up the flagon from the center of the table and, back in the realm of the mundane, asking Gibbou ”Also would you care for something to drink? Wine perhaps? or mead, water or fruit juice?”

”Fruit juice, please,” the goddess snuck in before continuing, ”Woah, that’s amazing! So you’re telling me, like, buildings from before the Lonely Days are here?” She couldn’t help but hop up from her chair again and shuffling over to the windowpane to look for those skin tents and lay-tos of old. ”Remind me that I gotta take a tour before I leave - oh, uh, if that’s cool with you, of course.”

Artifex tapped the side of the flagon before pouring them both a glass of mixed fruit juices from it into the two cups before sliding one over to Gibbou and taking the other for himself ”The Lonely Days? That is a good name for that time. As for the structures, there was a slight delay while I was focused dealing with the Lantern Moon, ah, debacle. So excluding the first two hundred and seven years more or less everything that has ever been built is down there, or at least that is the intent. It is somewhat difficult to verify.”

The god took a sip from his drink before getting up and walking over to stand beside her comparatively towering form.

”As for a tour, I’d be delighted. We’d have to go down a bit to see what once was but which no longer stands of course. The city of Solkra, as it stoon its prime, is down under...” he paused for a moment before pointing to a pile of Iskrill build dwellings, ”There for example, in mint condition. On the fresher end of the spectrum you have the Aiviri’s Solar bastion and Heart Piercer Spire over there,” He pointed to two opposing titans of construction, before gliding his finger over to a city upon which tiny specs could be seen rushing around building it up, ”and the expanding city of Ha-Dûna over there.”

Gibbou offered a soft ”woah” as she perused the mortal architecture from afar - it seemed that she missed the remark about the Lantern Moon. She squinted at Solkra and itched her cheek. ”Huh. Now -that’s- a new one. You know what lives over there?”

the god furrowed his brow at her question, ”Hmm. My knowledge and sight of the area it is in are fuzzy... let me check if MUSE has any idea, Artifex said, before he pulled out a small slate of stone from a pocket and laid a hand upon it, causing green energy to pulse over its surface. Once he took his hand away it revealed writing, freshly carved, that regarded details of the location that MUSE had picked up from its Inventors ”Mortals known as Iskrill captured it from humans who worshiped the sun goddess some time ago apparently. The Acadian human who MUSE got the info from considers them to be monsters worthy of using his gifts to create weapons designed specifically to kill them. To be fair the man did not seem to think particularly highly of any of the other non-humans in the area except the ‘Merelli’ who I can't say I’ve heard much of either.”

Artifex looked up from the slate and back at the crude works of the Iskrill and shook his head disappointedly ”Can’t say I am too fond of what the Iskrill have done with the palace however. It was rather beautiful. Still, they do seem to have been rather more constructive as of late, judging from the fresh works being added, so perhaps they will improve with time?”

Gibbou frowned. ”Yeah, I’ve heard of Iskrill. I get the occasional prayer about them, usually something akin to ‘OH GODS, PLEASE HELP’, so yeah, not a personal favourite either. That they have their own settlement now, too, is, uh, unsettling.” She turned to Ha-Dûna instead. ”Hmm… Say, Arti - it’s cool if I call you Arti, right?”

”If you wish” Artifex replied, sounding lightly pleased by this development

”If you compare Ha-Dûna to, say, Acadia or Ketrefa, what’s immediately missing?”

”Walls, though the entire thing seems to be a work in progress so I don't entirely blame them for not putting those up quite yet. You find the odd for where the builders had no forethought and everything ends up sprawled outside the walls, which is neither aesthetically pleasing nor particularly practical.” Artifex noted as he looked upon the latest addition to the endless cityscape.

The goddess nodded. ”Indeed. Well, sure, there are palisades, but as their, uh… Recent skirmishes… Ugh…” She created in an instant a pillow, held it to her face and screamed her lungs out in a muffled cry of frustration. ”Sorry, needed to vent…” she mumbled and snapped the pillow back into nothingness. ”As I said, as their recent skirmishes have proven, palisades aren’t nearly as safe as walls when it comes to shutting out attackers.” She squinted at Artifex knowingly. ”Shall we take care of that?”

”I don’t have any particularly pressing plans for my current reserves of power,” the god replied before finishing his drink, setting aside the glass and cracking his knuckles ”So yes. Let's do this”

Gibbou nodded and, with a twist of her hand, reached out to the citizens of Ha-Dûna down below, using the city model for reference for where to build it.

---

Sitting on a wooden fence overlooking their budding crops were two middle-aged men, each cradling a wooden pipe in their hands and sharing stories with one another.

“And then I said, that’s not a knife, that’s a spoon!”

The other guy raised a brow. “And?”

“What’re you talkin’ about ‘and’, that’s the story.”

There came a scoff. “That’s dumb. You know what that story needs?”

“What?”

”Better walls. Preferably something like rammed earth. Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Wait, really?”

“I mean… It’d be better if it did.”

”So it would be! You should go tell your superiors about it and share these plans for them. I’m thinking they should be plaaaaced… Here, aaaand here.”

The men looked at one another, then up at the sky. “Did we just--”

“Less talkin’, more doin’ a goddess bidding!” shouted the other and the two went sprinting at full speed towards the town centre. Later that evening, many more in the town found that they were struck with the same idea, and the builders of Ha-Dûna thus understood how to switch out the palisade for a stronger rammed earth wall.

---

”I can’t help but feel a little sad about strengthening the capital of people who, just a few years ago, were butchering others all over… For safety, I’ll just do this.” With another snap of her fingers, rammed earth walls popped up around the villages closest to Ha-Dûna’s borders. She then looked to Artifex with a grin.

”What do you think?”

”Lovely work. Practical, easy to maintain,” Artifex replied, nodding approvingly.

”Of course, you need to be able to garrison them properly for them to be useful, instead of running around in a panic like headless cockroaches like the people you just gave those walls to so let's just add a little something here” Artifex replied, mentaly shifting the gears if a few suitable heads, instilling them with an interest in, and knowledge of, defensive and anti-siege military tactics including, conveniently, how to prevent or reduce panic in a population presently trapped behind their walls.

As the peoples of the outer villages calmed Artifex turned his attention back to Ha-Dûna ”As for the capital, you said they were butchering others all over? Why was that, and why did they stop?”

Gibbou sighed. ”Well, apparently, there was a food issue or something - y’know, threat of outgrowing their ability to feed themselves or whatever - so they wanted more land. Turns out, though, that ‘wanting more land’ included a footnote reminding them to also ‘butcher those living on that land’. It’s apparently related to their system of inheritance or something, from what I can see, where only the oldest child inherits, y’know. This, combined with the fact that Dûnans apparently must be related to rabbits, leaves a lot of people without anything to inherit. So they move out.” She sighed again, bordering on a groan. ”... Oraelia then blessed their fields so food wouldn’t be an issue - for a while at least - and I guess they have enough land to settle on for the time being?” She shrugged. ”It’s a bit of a mess. I’m not sure that they have entirely stopped, either. Their prayers don’t tell me a lot about -attacking-, to put it that way.”

”And despite all this… I find it just… Really, really hard to stay mad at them. They’ve done bad! Don’t get me wrong!” She crouched down and hugged her knees to her chest, comfortably rolling back onto her bum. ”... I guess that I’m just really, really bad at punishing things.”

”I see,” Artifex replied, putting his hand on his chin thoughtfully as he sat down cross legged next to the moping goddess ”Well if they’ve stopped, then in a sense continuing to be angry and punishing them would be counterproductive, be taken as a sign that you are displeased with where they are now rather than at what they did? What’s done is done, so maybe we can find ways to stop them entering that violently expansionist phase again instead?”

The goddess hummed, then nodded. ”Hey, hey yeah, that’s something! What’ve you got in mind?”

”I was thinking we find something for the non-inheriting offspring to do that doesn't involve looting and pillaging”

---

After much discussion and brainstorming, the two eventually laid their plans. First, they plopped down the Town Hall, a marble temple that took the place of an old cliff that had been both an eyesore and a logistical nightmare for downtown planning in Ha-Dûna. The temple was a mass of pillars, holding up a triangular prism for a roof. Within the pillars was one large room within which was a strategic table with real-life representations of the surrounding lands.

Immediately, it was employed by the Dûnans, praised as yet another great gift from the gods. The pair also taught the Dûnans to build temples in place of their altars - the megalith circle with the altars was very beautiful, naturally, but both Gibbou and Artifex agreed that a very convenient way of making certain the Dûnans wouldn’t go to war for a good while, was to teach them to build temples of wood, thatch, peat and stone. Hopefully, these would take so long and so many resources to construct that the Dûnans would virtually forget all about war by the time they were done. By the time the first temples were done, they so grand that they would eventually run out of druids to staff them if they kept building. Thus they were instead staffed with monks and nuns. Being ordained as a monk or nun within those temples gave those who would not inherit land another avenue to social status beyond seeking to acquire their own land. These received none of the privileges of the druids, necessarily, but the temples themselves could provide them with food, drink, community and work. Druids would lead these temples, but they would be staffed by the lesser clergy.

---

”Yaaay!” Gibbou clapped in celebration. ”Look at them go! They’re like ants - pink and brown ants dressed in wool, that is - building temples like their lives depend on it! Well, I guess if you set the alternative as ‘warfare’, their lives -would- depend on it, huh. Anyway, great work, Arti!”

”Thank you, you’re too kind and your work has been equally if not more marvelous.” Artifex replied grinning as he watched the city using a replica of the town hall’s three dimensional map table.

”I do have one more suggestion however, something to stamp our mark on the land and leave a lasting institution of peace,” he added before showing her a series of three paintings he’d prepared on the side, depicting women born through the skies on mothine wings. In one painting the woman stood between a child and a ravionosue Iskril, a warhammer held in her hands. In another between two armed humans, her arms and wings spread wide to keep them apart, causing the two warriors to pause in the violence they were about to commit. in the final one showed them spinning silk and using it to bandage an injured man while another used it to shore up a crumbling wall.

”Something to aspire to, a reward for those who are kind, noble and spread peace across the land,” Artifex explained as he showed them to her

The moon goddess gasped with eyes like the starry sky. ”All of my yes!” she shouted and shot a hand up into the air. Then she squinted at the paintings and brought a curled index to her chin. ”... Buuut I have some notes… How abooouut…” She drew at the paintings with her finger, twisting the images into new poses and shapes. The Iskrill instead faced a mothine woman dressed in silvery armour, surrounded by an aura of glowing, gray dust. In the image showing the lady separating two fighters, the image turned to her bringing them together to shake hands under an aura of the same glowing dust. In the final image, the silk appeared both as a bandage around the man’s leg, as building support, and finally, as armoured bracers on a third woman fighting off a shadowy threat.

Gibbou tapped her chin again thoughtfully. ”What do you think?”

Artifex, supremely pleased by Gibbou’s enthusiasm, took a moment to drink in the new additions to his proposal before nodding in vigorous approval ”Marvalouse additions one and all! Now all we need is to find mortals worthy of these gifts.”

”What sort of qualities are we looking for? I’m thinking protective, kind-hearted, generous, selfless and all that smooth jazz.”

”Noble virtues indeed. The skill and wisdom necessary to use their gifts, resilience in the face of hardship and the desire to nurture others so that they might be able to follow in their footsteps would be practical traits to seek as well.” Artifex replied after some thought.

”Sounds good! Let’s take a look!” She focused back down on the town.

---

Tonight was the night. Aimil could feel it in her bones even before she climbed onto the roof of her family home and gazed upon the two moons rising together in their fullness into a cloudless silver hued sky. It had been weeks since the gods had whispered in her mind, a thing not quite so absurd these days as it had once seemed, yet instead of orders or grand wisdoms they had praised her skill as a blacksmith and her caring heart that had led her to help several prisoners escape from slavery and to adopt a boy who’d lost his parents to the city’s agression. They had told her of the reward and responsibility they wished to give her, and instructed her to build a simple shrine in their honor.

There had been no specifics in how the shrine should be made, how complex or humble, but as she looked upon the construction she had made as she followed her heart she knew it was right. it was a deeply personal thing, cluttered with keepsakes and carved with images of those she held dear, of what good she had done, and what she had wished she had the strength to do. at its center sat a round shield with Gibbou’s crescent moon carved upon on half, mirrored by a crescent of thorned horns on the other.

She sat cross-legged upon the shield, surrounded by depictions of her achievement, failures, hopes and dreams and gazed up at the moons as they drew closer together in the dark sky. She took in a deep breath, cleared her mind of any doubts or fears, and meditated. Her head filled with thoughts of the calm night, of the peace and tranquility so evident in the world around her that it almost felt like a texture softly massaging at her skin like bands of silk. A purpose flickered at the back of her mind, and she concentrated to bring it to light. The sensations of silk grew stronger, and she felt her breathing slow to a beat. The purpose grew clearer and clearer, but it was still not clear enough to define. She felt the tranquility brush against her cheeks and her body felt embraced somehow. Her focus kept her from opening her eyes - she was too focused on finding this thought.

There - a purpose. She was a guardian - a shield that would defend those who could not defend themselves; a rescuer - she would save those in danger, even if it would cost her her life; a negotiator - she would be a diplomat between parties in disagreement.

She would be a Mother.

With that, the silk chrysalis that had formed around her as she had meditated cracked open, revealing her new form. High above her the twin moons hung atop the sky, their light reflecting in her eyes, one silver one purple, calling to her. with instinctual ease she rose, born upon gossamer wings. She rose, high above the city, chasing the light until she came to her senses and looked down upon the world so far below. at the sprawling city, at the villages beyond and at the vast tracts of land in between that made the works of humankind look like weak vulnerable specks. They were so small and yet at the same time there was so much that deserved her love and protection.

The weight of what she had accepted clawed at her mind till she looked up, and saw the others fluttering around her, banishing her trepidation. The task was mighty, the challenges would be great, but as she gazed at the other mothers and the looming moons, she knew she was not alone.

---

As the Mothers gathered together above the city of druids two alcohol free glasses clinked in Artifex’s high tower as the gods celebrated their handiwork.

”A toast. To peace in their time and all times that follow!”

”Cheeeeers!”

Artifex sipped from his drink though smiling lips, before plopping his cup down on the table ”Now that our work is complete, for now, I was wondering about that tour you mentioned wanting to go on earlier?” Artifex gestured to the open elevator ”I’d be happy to show you some of the highlights.”

Gibbou chugged her whole glass in uncannily few gulps. ”Would I?! Lead the way!”

and with that, the two gods stepped away from the diorama of the city they had been using, leaving the fate of the Dûnan in their own hands once more.

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“Lord-Captain? A soldier has returned from Thyma, with a report.”

Lord-Captain Abbas Narek looked up at the aide, and frowned. “I would have expected my son to give me the report himself.”

They were in the Lord-Captain’s office. The Lord-Captain himself was seated at his desk, while the aide was in the doorway. As the Lord-Captain set a fresh piece of papyrus on the desk, and readied a quill, the aide gulped nervously. “My lord…” he said slowly. “He said your son is dead.”

The quill fell from Abbas’s hand. For a few moments, there was an agonizing silence, as he slowly looked up from the paper and he met the gaze of the aide who had spoke. ”What?”

“I… I’ll send the man in. He can explain it himself.” The aide bowed quickly and swiftly exited the room. A few moments later the soldier stepped in, looking just as nervous.

The soldier bowed awkwardly. “My lord.”

The Lord-Captain only stared at him.

The soldier gulped, and then hesitantly went on. “We went to Thyma, as you ordered us, my lord. We searched it. Standard practice. Then this man appeared. With white hair, and a strange sword. He attacked us, and the way he fought… I swear he was one of them vampires, but it was day. There was a mage with him too. Didn’t get a good look, might have been a witch, but ‘e was a man. After they attacked us, the village turned on us. I’m… I’m the only one left.”

“You are certain my son is dead?” Abbas asked in an icey tone.

“I am, my lord.”

Abbas’s hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist. “Explain to me,” he began coldly. “How thirty armed and disciplined men were killed by a bunch of unwashed savages in a village less than a decade old.”

“They had a vampire. And a witch, my lord.”

“In the day? Nonsense!” Abbas exploded, slamming his fist into the desk. “Tell me. Why didn’t you stay and fight with your comrades? With your commander? TELL ME!”

“I… my lord… there was nothing I could have done…”

Abbas fumed. But once again, the rage on his face seemed to settle into a cold malice. “No. There was something you could have done. Something you should have done. But you were too cowardly to do it.” Then he shouted, summoning the aide back into the room. “This man is a coward and a deserter,” the Lord-Captain said, gesturing at the soldier with his quill. “Take him outside and hang him.”

The aide shouted a command, and two guards who had been standing outside stepped in to seize the soldier by soldiers. He began to shout and protest as they dragged him away, begging for mercy, or forgiveness, or redemption, but Abbas was deaf to the pleas. Instead, his focus remained on the aide.

“Someone seeks to defy us,” he said, returning to his tranquil fury. “My son… must be avenged. Raise an army. Five hundred men. We march at sunrise.”

“My lord,” the aide protested. “It’s a long journey. Those men require supplies. It will take a few days at least to secure enough…”

“We’ll take what we need on the way there!” Abbas snapped. “We can’t give this insurrection time to fester. Sunrise, I said!”

“But the King…”

“Damn the King!” Abbas’s fist struck the table again. “He’s a puppet. The army is mine!” It was not an entirely accurate statement, but Abbas didn’t give a damn. He had sent his son to raid the rebuilt Thyma as a political move, to succeed where the son of the last Lord-Captain had failed, and prove that his house was better-suited to the title.

Instead, his son and an entire warband had been slaughtered by savages. To let that go unanswered would be to shame not just his house, but Ketrefa as a whole. The King might be angry that he marched off to war without permission, but Abbas knew the fallout would be even greater if he did nothing to avenge this insult. Besides, he yearned for vengeance. The animals killed his son. And they would pay.

The Lord-Captain slept poorly that night, thoughts of vengeance keeping him awake. In the morning, he arrived at the gate to find five hundred men assembled. The only supplies they had were what they could wear or carry. They attempted to exit the gate, but the local gate commander refused. Neither the King nor the Captain of the Gates had provided notice that an army would be leaving the city, and word of the incident at Thyma had yet to spread.

In the end, the gate commander eventually yielded, after sufficient threats had been issued. And. The gates were opened, and the column of soldiers marched out.

For the first time in decades, a Ketrefan army was on the march. No mere warband, but a proper army; five hundred strong and with a Lord-Captain marching at its head. Thyma would burn. His son would be avenged. The killer would be flayed alive. Inch by bloody inch. “By Neiya, I swear it…” he vowed.

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