---

Year 15AA...

A single bead of sweat rolled down over Eòghan’s forehead, the blazing midday sun bearing down on him with relentless fury as he worked. He gripped the last of his roughly hewn stakes and slotted it neatly into the grooved support posts. With a solid bit of applied pressure, the wood gave way just enough to allow the intrusion, and clapped back neatly around the stake to complete the fence, with his custom carved joints and rails enough to keep it solidly in place. A confident smile built on his features as he scraped up from the dirt to observe his work properly. His father would be proud to see his innovation and craftsmanship no doubt.

“Brie, I think I’m done, wanna take a look?” he said loudly, eyes fixed on his work, the neatly arranged stakes shielding the entire house. Simple, effective, and good-looking. He heard the idle rustle from inside the house as she made her move outside, and felt his pride swell when he heard her gasp. The blonde housewife wandered out into her little yard, a hand stretched out to gingerly touch at the new fence, and then grip it to test the durability. Eòghan smirked to himself, confident it would hold, and instead watched the Dûnan woman as she leaned and moved about. Her simple dress did little to mask her curvaceous form as she waddled around. Through his time in Ha-Dûna, Eòghan had come to find a natural appreciation for the natural beauty of women with a belly full of life. She caught him looking as she stood half-bent to inspect his fencework, and a self-conscious, shy smile built on her features. She toyed with a lock of her hair as she stood up, halted in hesitation before she approached. Every motion made Eòghan tense with a smug anticipation, watching her torment herself in thought.

“Oh, Eòghan, it’s wonderful! Ever since Gwyn told me what you’d done for her, I’ve been hoping we could finally put an end to our escaping goats and keep the children safe. Thank you!” Brie recounted with a warm smile. He watched her with a brimming smile, steadfast and roving over her features. He could see her battle with her thoughts. After another bout of hesitation, she grazed his arm with a flighty set of fingers, exhaling unsteadily to break her shy smile. The sensation sent a torrent of butterflies rippling through him, and only served to build his smile up further. This was paradise. “I’m-.. perhaps you’d allow me the courtesy of-... well, if you want to come in.. I could… make something. I feel like I should.. thank you.”

Eòghan gripped her hand into both of his own, and raised it to his lips. Keeping his gaze firmly on her eyes and face, he kissed it gently, and watched her face burst into new hues of red and pink. “The summer season has barely begun, Brie. I would hate for you to have forgotten me by autumn’s first breath,” he offered with a husky, confident tone. He’d practiced his voice for perfection, and it was a delight to see her so captivated. “And I’m afraid I’m promised elsewhere. But I’d love to come back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” She offered, and her face grew redder as reason began to intermingle with shame. “I-.. well, it’s-..”

“Wouldn’t want to leave you without a fence gate to match, after all.” he offered with a smile, and gently laid her hand against her own chest, patting it briefly as he smiled.

The wash of relief, confusion, and anticipation that followed on Brie’s face was worth it. She exhaled deeply, unsteadily, and looked over towards the gate before snickering sheepishly. “Oh. Oh, right. Yes. Hah.” She locked eyes with him of her own volition, clearing her throat. “Tomorrow, then.”

“I’m already looking forward to it.” Eòghan mused calmly.

“Me too-.. I mean. Yes. Thank you again, Eòghan. I’ll.. I should start on dinner, I think.” Brie offered with flushed cheeks that were once more flaring up with shame. She bowed her head to him twice and then turned to waddle back towards the house, touching her cheeks. Eòghan followed her with his gaze, and she twisted around to thank him a last time before dipping back inside her little cottage.

Eòghan chuckled to himself, flexing his fingers thoughtfully as he watched the little drape cover the entrance to Brie’s home. He wasn’t sure how much Gwyn had told her, but it certainly wasn’t bad. Shaking his head, he wandered out of the yard, closing the soon-to-be-replaced gate behind him. The dirt paths of Ha-Dûna stretched out before him, and it was like stepping back out into another world. Without Brie to steal his attention, he heard the bleating of animals, the everpresent cries and yelling of children that really had become its signature melody, and the sights of folk going about their day.

He caught sight of Zelda watching him from two houses away, and smirked to himself. He still remembered the feel of her lips, and her soft skin against his. He lifted a hand to offer her a casual wave in recognition, and even from afar he could see her struck with embarrassment, shrinking together behind her gardening tool - but not enough not to return the wave shyly. He’d have to pay her a visit sometime soon, reassure her he hadn’t forgotten her. But first - he’d promised Gwyn to give her what her husband couldn’t. Ha-Dûna was a well-oiled machine, and Eòghan had found his place in it. He smirked to himself, considering his coming evening as he strolled down along the paths, learned feet carrying him towards Gwyn’s homestead by rote.

In the span of a second, however, two white-cloaked shadows appeared before him as though they had skipped out from behind a nearby bush. Their arms were crossed over their chests sternly, and one had a face with a fuzzy shrub while the other looked to have a bit of a back problem. They each offered Eòghan a scowl as the shorter of them, the one with the back, muttered, “Big plans today, Eòghan?” in a nasal, female voice.

Eòghan froze in his tracks, eyeing them both with confusion. ”Ah. Kaer… Rana, isn’t it?” he offered back at her with a quick smile, before looking at the fuzzy man. ”...And I want to say-... Hm, Garm? Jarn? Just enjoying the summer, myself. How about you two? He tried to look happy, but their stern posture made it difficult. Druids in general were difficult to deal with, that had never changed. Even Aoife had become demanding and aloof, always droning on about responsibilities.

“Gorm, and that’s -Kaer- Gorm to you, man,” the fuzzy druid responded and gave his temple a scratch. Kaer Rana followed Eòghan’s eyes back over to Zelda, who by now was hurrying back indoors. The old druid scoffed quietly to herself and looked back at the young man with her toad-like frown.

“Who’s turn was it -this- afternoon, then? Hers?” She nodded in the direction of Zelda’s house. “Anni’s? Perhaps it was Lubas? We’ve noticed you’re quite fond of her after all.”

“Well, I--”

“No, you know what? Following -this- route, it’s more like you were heading for the Shepherds’ home. Tell me, Eòghan, are you aware that Gwyn’s been married to Skallar, respected son of the Shepherds and proud member of the herjegalling tribe, for almost three years by now?”

”Oh. Uh. Three years, already?” he remarked with as much of a polite smile as he could muster, but felt a pit begin to form deep in his gut. An unpleasant, nagging worry. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and shrugged his shoulders. ”Time sure does… uh, fly, around here. Now, whatever this is I’m sure there’s some misunderstanding.”

Both of them shook their heads. “Nuh-uh, not getting away that easily,” said Kaer Rana and looked over his shoulder back towards Brie’s home. “Eòghan, when was the last time you were home? With your wife where you belong? Aoife keeps telling us she’s worried sick about your behaviour, you know. The gods see all, my son.”

“The gods see all,” echoed Kaer Gorm.

“Sins like these are hard to wash away.”

His face washed free of his expression, a momentary lapse as worry gripped him tight. ”Aoife? Why-.. I mean, what did she say?” he shook his head, trying to ward away the spite they were so clearly trying to sow into his mind, and frowned at them both. ”No, you know what. Keep my wife out of this. I don’t like what you’re implying, and you’d better not be poisoning her mind with any of these… implications. I know what the gods see, I’ve spoken to Naya.” Eòghan continued with a little more fervor, grasping at what he could to muster a defence. He’d seen Aoife cry. He’d assured her nothing was wrong. Why was he like this? He shook his head, and pushed his thoughts down. The shame. He stared at them both with some conviction left in his body.

“Naya’s not the goddess you should be worried about, my son,” Kaer Rana mumbled with a sigh and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. “Taeg Eit, on the other hand, is devastated that you’d disregard the sacred oath of marriage like this - and lead so many other fine, young women astray to do the same. But there’s still time to do right, Eòghan - Reiya teaches love of all things, and Taeg Eit listens to the great Reiya if wrongdoers right their mistakes. Go home to her, my son, she misses you so dearly.”

“So dearly,” echoed Kaer Gorm.

Eòghan clenched his fist slowly, watching them both with a knot of frustration wrapped like a defensive shell around the storm of shame their words wrought. He’d been so careful. She didn’t know. Did she know? What would he say? How could he ever say something like this to her? It would ruin her to know. He loved her, after all, he wouldn’t hurt her like that. ”I-... I was headed there anyway.” he lied, feeling the stone lodged in his throat. ”Your rumour-.. rumour mongering isn’t helping anyone.” Eòghan decreed with the last of his confidence, shaking his shoulder as he frowned at them both. With that, he put a foot forward to continue - and then swivelled on his heel as he realized his home was in the other direction.

“Remember - Reiya forgives all!” Kaer Rana shouted encouragingly after him before they faded away behind a house.

His feet carried him at a sedate pace back towards his own home, and he let his frustrations out on every poor rock unfortunate enough to be in his path. Someone called a greeting, but he wasn’t paying attention anymore. Despite the clear weather, it felt as though a rainstorm was building, just over him, to sour everything. The stone in his chest and throat only grew as the path began to lead properly towards his own home. She’d asked what he’d been doing, and he’d always talked about his carpentry. Made sure to do work around the village. Did she know? Why didn’t she say? They didn’t talk a lot these days, though that had been squarely on her - somewhere along the way she seemed not to appreciate life as she had before. That was part of the problem, that much Eòghan was certain of.

Before he knew it, his hand fixed on the small wooden latch on the first fence he’d built in Ha-Dûna, and he lifted the small gate aside. The groan of the latch brought a pair of heads out from around the corner of the house, and two copper-haired girls came running over, shouting, “Mommy! Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home!”

Following them around the corner came none other than Aoife, her form fuller and tested by labour since the day they married. She offered him a tired frown and wiped her hands free of dirt on a linen apron over her white robes. She didn’t wear her tartan cloak due to the weather, which was uncommon even for her. She didn’t say anything, but crossed her arms over her bosom and watched their children grab at him eagerly. The door to the house also swung open, revealing another girl, this one copying her mother’s frown, but still going over to hug her father. From inside the house sounded a duet of baby screams.

”You bet he is! He-Heey!” Eòghan offered happily, accepting the initial tackle of hugs with jovial empathy. His children had a way of wiping away the worries. Such fearless, lovable scamps. He embraced them back, tussled their hair as he always had, and smiled warmly, eventually extending a hand to embrace the late arrival as he knelt down to hug his three girls. From his crouch, he smiled to himself, letting his thoughts stay in the moment. He glanced up to Aoife, a lingering smile sent her way. Just looking at her was enough to drain some of his confidence. ”What mischief are you all up to, hm?” he offered to his children, but kept his gaze on his wife.

“Tabby ate a fistful of dirt earlier!” shouted the second eldest of them, Juniper.

“We were making mudcakes,” gurgled the four year old and brandished her dirty hands. Juniper, a year her senior, started picking at grass stuck in Tabby’s hair, but then Tabby started touching her all over her face, causing Juniper to squeal.

“Nooo! Stop it!” The two of them fell to the ground as Juniper tried to pull Tabby off of her like a wild animal. The eldest daughter groaned and put her hands on her hips.

“Don’t do that in front of daddy! Behave yourselves!” she shouted. Vina had hair a shade darker than copper, like Aoife, and her voice shared the same notes, too, albeit lighter. Aoife crouched down next to the wrestlers and pulled them apart.

“Vina, take them inside and, please, try to calm your brothers down.”

“Yes, mother,” said the seven year old and grabbed both Juniper and Tabby by the hands, dragging them before they could properly stand up. “Come on!” she snarled and the two younger sisters both began to whimper.

“But daddy!”

“Later, sweety,” said Aoife. Finally, after much struggle, the three of them went inside and closed the door behind them. Now only Aoife and Eòghan were standing in the courtyard, Eòghan hardly being within its perimetre at all. Aoife almost stood like a barrier for further entry, arms ever crossed defensively over her bosom. She gave him a knowing look as if waiting for him to speak first.

Eòghan watched her in silence, feeling the feelings of shame return to his body like nervous jitters rippling through his muscles, and his fingers. After a few moments of awkward silence, he turned around to close the gate properly, and busied himself a little too long with the wooden latch. Anything to think. Finally, he swung back around, and mustered a soft, dampened smile. ”They’re as cute as ever.” he proffered calmly. On the inside, he wanted to hold her tight, kiss her, and go inside. He knew that wouldn’t work. Or at least, he wouldn’t want to see if it didn’t.

“Where have you been?”

He breathed a shaky sigh, taking a step forward to try and bridge the gap between him and his forlorn wife. He still remembered when he won her over with but a song and a smile. The days they spent together. She just needed to remember, too. ”You know, helping out. Building things. Fixing things. Working on my music.” he said with what he felt was an adequate amount of conviction. It was the truth, after all. Some of the truth.

Aoife’s frown deepened and anger sparked in her eyes. “Mhm? At the same five girls’ homes? Every day? From dawn ‘til dusk?”

The stone was back in full force, and it seemed to wrench his gut something fierce. He breathed out slowly, and took another step towards her. Arm reaching out to touch hers. ”No, my rose. It isn’t anything like that. I’ve-... I’ve been around a few houses, sure. Building fences, mending tools,” he began, eyes shifting to the side as he considered his words. ”Is someone spreading rumours about us? Is it Gillie you’ve been talking to again? I’ve said-.. I’ve said she’s never liked me.”

“No one’s spreading rumours, Eòghan!” she snarled a little louder than she looked to have intended. Her following words were almost so quiet that they couldn’t be heard: “I’ve seen you… I didn’t want to believe it, but I saw you a week ago, when you were just getting started on that fence for the Shepherd’s family. The way you held her, caressed her, looked at her… Is it me? Am I not pretty enough anymore?”

He thought back to his time with Gwyn a week ago, the frown clear on his face. After this long. They’d been too careless. He’d been careless. All these years together, undone by a fence Gwyn had insisted on. He knew it’d been a bad idea, and he’d done it anyway. Internally swearing, and some measure of defeat clear on his face, he looked at her properly and squeezed her arm. ”Is it-.. No! Aoife, you are my everything. I-... I know I have… that I have not given you the attention you deserve. But I'm here now." he offered with a shaky determination. Another step closer, and he tried to embrace his wife. "I'm here to stay."

Aoife stepped back reluctantly, but her steps grew smaller every time. Eventually, she stopped and let her husband embrace her warmly. Eòghan could hear her whimper into his chest as her small, yet work-tested hands tugged at his overshirt. “Do you promise?”

"I promise," he voiced with more warmth, the wrenching feeling in his gut slowly dissolving in the embrace. In the moment, none of the other women mattered. A distant memory, replaced with all the nights of passion he'd shared with his wife. "I love you more than anything, Aoife."

---

The following morning, the family had gathered for breakfast as usual. The resthouse system was kind to them all, and their household received bread and grain at the warehouse, along with milk, cheese, butter, potatoes, carrots, kohlrabi and onions. Aoife also kept a small herbal patch in their yard next to the wash tub and clothing line. They all had oatmeal cooked on goat’s milk.

“OW! AAAAAAAAAAAAH!” screamed Juniper after receiving a spoonful of hot porridge in her face at the hands of the gruesome Tabby-made spoon catapult. The four-year-old cackled maniacally, and the shouting taunted the two boys in their shared crib to join in with her on squeals. Aoife groaned from the bottom of her throat and pulled out a cloth from her apron’s pocket.

“Tabby, don’t throw porridge at your sister! Eòghan, honey, would you try to calm the boys down, please? No, Tabby, put down the spoon!” Aoife seized her hand and squeezed it until Tabby’s grip weakened about the spoon and her giggle turned to a whimper. Meanwhile, she wiped the porridge off of Juniper’s chest and stopped her from taking her revenge with claws and teeth. Vina, meanwhile, stared hopelessly into her bowl, covering her ears with her hands.

Eòghan rubbed at his eyes with a weary breath. He hadn’t slept this poorly in a while, and the chaos did nothing to soothe his yearning for peace and quiet. Still, he pushed up from his place, and steadily moved to the squealing duo of boys. He still felt awkward around them when they were this small. Aoife couldn’t stop telling him all the ways he was doing wrong holding, feeding, or playing with them back when they’d only had Vina. ”There, there,” he began with as much calm and charisma as he could summon in the morning, though it was quickly drowned out by the table. Instead, he resolved to scoop them both up, and gently nurse them to a quiet peace. He tried to shut out the chaos behind him, and focused on his boys. Beautiful - no, handsome, like their father. He was looking forward to teaching them all sorts of tricks. Things his father had never taught him. It quickly became clear to him however that his strategy was doing him no favours in calming them. Resolving to do what he knew best, Eòghan instead took to a calm song he’d written for Vina, as he laid them back gingerly and crouched down beside them.

”The spider climbs,
in a quiet and calm nook.
The worm crawls,
on the fisherman’s hook.
The snake prowls,
in grass and under rock.
The goat bleats,
frolicking in his flock.
Over forest and field,
the animals’ rule extends.
But to a Dûnan,
all of them are friends.”

The boys stopped crying little by little, looking at Eòghan with big, curious eyes. The oldest of them, Brégo, reached out with his small hands to grab at Eòghan’s thumb, cooing quietly as he tried to shake it. His brother, Hama, had not yet mastered rolling over, so he laid on his back grunting enviously at what he couldn’t participate in.

Eòghan considered himself a generous father, and extended his unassailed hand as he stood up, to offer Hama a chance at contact as well. Humming the melody through a jovial smile, he watched his sons for a long moment, taking in the majesty of young life. Brégo had his mother's eyes, a trait he was sure would stun many women as Aoife's had stunned him. For a fleeting moment of peace in the household, at least in Eòghans mind, he glanced at his wife without worry or shame.

Aoife was still busily wrestling Tabby and Juniper apart while Vina had left the table and headed outside, leaving the curtain door halfway pulled aside. Finally, Aoife just sent Tabby and Juniper out of the house, too, and started cleaning the table, which by now had become a mess of spilled porridge and milk. “Uuuugh, those two, little--...” She took a deep breath. “Remember, Aoife, Reiya teaches you to love your children… Loooove your children…” She then breathed out again with a little more relief and walked over to rest her head against Eòghan’s chest. “... They never tell you about this part of motherhood. I wonder why.”

Eòghan exhaled a quiet chuckle, lifting a hand from his sons’ sanctuary to lay on her back instead. ”I suppose we should not fault them for having the spirit of life in them. Part of it is my fault; they take after their father. I always got in trouble when I was little.” he offered up with newfound tranquility, gazing down at his sons with a smile. He stroked Aoife’s back gently, musing to himself. ”Perhaps if we even out the number of boys and girls, the gods will be so pleased they instill them with some calm.”

Aoife sighed. “I know Reiya teaches otherwise, but… Honestly, five is fine by me. I also feel like it should be my decision to make, considering…” She trailed off, pushing herself away gently and returning to the dishes.

Eòghan frowned ever so slightly, a twinge of that unpleasant feeling deep down bubbling up to make certain it was never forgotten. What did she mean by that? Why couldn’t she let it go? Perhaps she was simply talking about her being a woman. How could he know what to say? He knew if he said nothing, she’d sigh for the rest of the day. ”If you want to wait, that’s fine.” he eventually managed, watching her back as he moved to lean against the table.

“It’s not that, Eòghan. Most women have someone who helps around the house… It makes raising the children easier.” She sighed and refused to face him. “I’ve slept on what you said yesterday… About your promise. Would you commit to me - to us - if we had a sixth child?”

”Of course! he promised with a swiftness that surprised even himself. Could he make such a promise? Of course he could. Aoife was his to love, and the thought of her leaving him brought on a sour taste on his tongue. It had to work. He would be better. Eòghan nodded, mostly to himself, and stepped away from the table to walk across the room. Back towards his wife. ”I love you, Aoife. With all my heart.”

“You keep saying that,” she replied with a sad frown. “Over and over, you keep telling me that you love me, but then you go away, sometimes for several days, and you leave me behind with five children and a whole house and nothing to do but be the housewife like some, some peasant.” She dragged her finger along the corners of her eyes. “I am a druid, Eòghan, and I can’t even do my duties because I’m too busy with our family.”

He took another few steps forward, daring to extend his arms in an attempted embrace of her, unassuming and low, though thoroughly a move to trap her in place. ”I know, I know. I’ll-.. I’ll do better, Aoife. Be the man you need me to be.”

“You always say that, too!” she shouted louder than expected, faced him and pulled away from him. “You always just ‘say’ you’ll do this and that, and then you never do it! You instead leave to go work on, on fences and houses, or to gather inspiration for your music. Tell me, Eòghan, have you even made any new music in these past seven years? Have you?”

A bitter sting flowed through his body, a flash of anger he tried to keep down. ”Oh, you know I have. Don’t-... Or-.. have you forgotten the uh, the celebration of Reiya I played at Cewyn’s ceremony? I’ve made plenty of music. It’s just-.. just hard to, well, work with all-... all this!” he bit back with a little too much fervor, and watched her with a sullen mixture of regret and frustration.

“What’s ‘all this’, Eòghan?! You’re never here! It’s just me - it’s always been just me! Your daughter Vina, your oldest daughter, looks at you like a stranger, and Tabby and Juniper are only happy to see you because I keep telling them that you will be back eventually!” Her cheeks were awash with tears and she had to look away. “Cewyn’s ceremony was five years ago, Eòghan… Are you telling me you… Are you telling me you’ve spent five years…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, but instead dragged herself over to the table, collapsed onto a stood and let her sorrow drip all over the table top with loud sobs.

A cold chill ran along his body, first up his spine and then out over his arms, and into his fingertips. ”No,” he protested weakly, a tame rebuttal to the sobs of his red-haired wife. He had to do something. Anything. He dove deep into his mind, trying to conjure up any memory, any song that he had made. Only the one he’d written for Gwyn came to mind. There was nothing. Nothing except lying. ”I’ve-.. I’ve been working on an epic-.. My masterpiece. I-.. I was… I was gonna play it at the festival. An ode-.. to, uhm, love, and us.”

“Stop…” whimpered Aoife in response. “Please… Just…” The sobs choked out the rest of her sentence.

Eòghan stared at her for a long time, unable to speak. Somewhere deep inside, he felt the dam burst, his last hope crashing and falling away. There was only shame. Shame and resentment. He didn’t choose any of this. He had been perfectly happy in his village. Where there wasn’t anyone to ground his accomplishments to dust. Then she gets pregnant, and everything has to change? It wasn’t fair. The world was never fair. Eòghan burst into a sharp exhale, shaking out of his daze with a frown. He moved over towards the wall to unhook his lyre, and briefly inspected it with unsteady eyes. ”I-.. I can’t talk to you when you’re like this. We’ll, uh, talk more after dinner. I need to-... I...” he offered, trailing off himself as he found no suitable words. Still, he moved for the door. Aoife glanced his way and her arms buckled under the weight of her sorrows, laying themselves down on the table to cushion her head as her weeping loudened.

---

The searing sun had risen to its highest point, yet even from such a perch it could not find Eòghan, stowed away in the shade under the lone oak tree, plinking away languidly on his lyre. He’d gone to his usual spot, but there were too many people to greet, too many questions. He felt like something had changed in the very wind. The smiles people gave him were not as genuine, their eyes were judgemental. Just like his old village, he had to claw and bite to get any sort of respect. What did they know? Dùnans. Self-righteous zealots. He’d spoken to a goddess. Curried her favor. Where was his respect? They should come to him for wisdom. Not tattle on him to his wife, or stick their nose in matters that had nothing to do with them. Aoife too. If only she’d listen, there wouldn’t be any problem at all.

Eòghan sighed sharply to himself, and shifted his seat in the grass. It wasn’t fair. He was just as valuable a member of Ha-Dûna as any other man - more so, in fact! Who if not he would entertain those abandoned, do what needed doing? If he’d done anything wrong, it was on the husbands’ that didn’t satisfy their wives. Not him. No, no one - not even Aoife - understood his worth. Only the Love Goddess had ever given him trust and affection without demands. Truly understood who he was and what he wanted, without question. She was a goddess, though, and perhaps it was her knowledge to have.

He toyed with that idea, strumming on his lyre distantly. What did a goddess look like? He had been told of his village’s view, and that of Ha-Dûna, a mourning woman with small horns. He scoffed quietly, and dreamed an image of what a true love goddess would look like. Borrowed the best features of each of the women he knew, and found in his mind the perfect woman. A picture fit for a goddess. Eòghan smiled to himself, stuck in a simple fantasy of lascivious beauty and comely smiles. He strummed a few more notes on his lyre, and paused as he strummed something he enjoyed. Slowly, an idea came to him, and he began his writing process in earnest, repeating and murmuring words to himself, half-singing to a few more notes of his lyre. He reconstituted an old section he’d dreamt up but never used. It would bridge his words with a little adjustment.

The sun slid over the heavens slowly, cautiously treading closer towards the horizon, watching Eòghan spend the day consumed in his songwriting. Finally, when bells and shouts could be heard from Ha-Dûna as parents began to call their children home for dinner, Eòghan put his fingers on his lyre properly, breathed a gentle breath, and sang his first new composition in years.

”My goddess Naya, hear my song,
it is for your heart I do so long,

You are the one, the one I need,
the only woman I would ever heed.

I like the way you love,
as gentle as a dove.
I like the way you speak,
make my knees weak.

You are the one, the one I need,
the only woman I would ever heed.

I love the way you embrace,
gentle, caring and with grace.
I love the way you wear your hair,
framing a face with no compare.

You are the one, the one I need,
the only woman I would ever heed.

You are the perfect goddess for my heart,
every bit of you a work of art.
No one brings me joy like you can,
let me be your one true man.

Fragrant, beautiful, and slender,
Fair and gorgeous too,
Are the qualities of you.”

With a final breathed sigh to cap his song, Eòghan let his fingers slide along the strings of his lyre softly, allowing the melody to play out into the ether and vanish into thin air and silence. A rustle of leaves from the tree followed in the silence, a singular caw from a particularly bothered bird. Eòghan was about to rise when a strange but familiar feeling came over him. A rush of wind pushed through the oaken leaves, sending the bird flying away swiftly. A gentle gust tousled his hair and whined past his ear like a sultry breath cut short. He felt the air grow warm, a soft pressure on his mind, and his body. He was no longer alone.

"Oh, how sweetly you sing, Eòghan, son of Baltair and Muire,” a voice that he had not heard in a very long time crooned. His astonished expression shifted to a small smile, which grew when he felt a gentle pressure against his chest, as though someone pushed against him with their hands. "In all the love songs of the world, few take the time to remember me. Your voice carried through stars and void to soothe my spirit and fill me with fire. And-.. Oh, my.”

Eòghan made an effort to speak, but a firm, invisible force gripped his chin, tugging upwards slowly and compelling him to crawl to a stand, pushed back against the tree. Other sensations rushed across his body, like a dozen hands feeling and squeezing his form. "You imagine my form in such a base way, my dearest. Flattering. Riveting, even. Do they know you hold another in your heart? That they are but yours to use to build a form for me? A sinful, debased form, for your pleasure?” the voice continued with a conspiring tone.

He made another attempt to argue her words, but before sound left his lips, his mind flashed with the body he had dreamed up for his version of Naya, posed against him, breathing heavily, flitting across his eyes in vulnerable poses. It was exhilarating, shameful, and captivating, all at once. Almost real. "Is this what you’d like to see, my love? What you’d do? the voice questioned with a breathy whisper. She gave him no time to answer, still. "Perhaps you’d like to see my real form? To think of me when you linger with other men’s women?”

That made him frown, and he did his best to shake his mind free of the unbidden - but not unwanted - images. ”Will you mock me as well, Goddess?” he grunted with bubbling irritation, thinking back to his confrontation with his wife, and the druids. ”They think I’m just a liar and a layabout. No one here appreciates good music, good spirit, and helping your neighbour. So what if I’ve seen a few women when my wife turns me away? You don’t see Aoife bending over for another man. If the men in this town were good for anything beyond brutish labour, the women wouldn’t come to me.” Eòghan almost yelled towards nothing in particular, feeling his pent-up frustration bubble to the surface.

"You have it all figured out, my love, except for how to proceed. A house of twigs and leaves blown away by the slightest wind,” the voice retorted, almost sounding amused. "What have you done to fight these accusations, my dear? Argued? Lied? Mortals spend their lives proving their worth to each other. Life, love, desire. Nothing is free in life, my one and only. You took my gift, went to war, and put your weapon down after one battle. How can you expect a war to be won with no fighting, Eòghan?”

He scoffed at first, but frowned as the imagery set in, and mingled with his experiences. What had he done besides empty promises? Lying? Was this truly how it would be? ”I-... I can’t lose my family. Aoife. But I-.. I don’t think there’s a way back after today. I’m not strong like the others, I’m not a dumb farmer or even that skilled a carpenter. These backwards folk don’t appreciate my music like… like you do, Goddess. I have no way to prove myself. To win the war, like you said.”

"Dear, sweet Eòghan. They do not appreciate it because you do not share it with them as you do with me. Your songs, your music, it steals the heart just as a spear steals a life. If they will not listen, then you must make them.” the voice crooned back at him calmly, and he felt another brisk touch rustle through his hair. "Worry not, my sweet love. You’ve captured my affection, and I will treasure your words forever. For that, I will give you what you need, so that you will treasure me the same. Simply say what it is you wish, and it shall be my delight to equip you for your war of hearts, and minds.”

Eòghan's mind reeled with the possibilities of her offer. He had to be sure not to squander it. To gain back what he risked losing, in a way that suited him. Slowly, a thought began to take root in his mind, and he felt a smile return to his lips alongside his confidence. "Well,” he asserted with a firm tone. ”What Ha-Dûna lacks is a place for me. There should be a space for me to work and create, just like the farmer and the druids, and be appreciated for it. Something that makes people proud to share a roof with me. And, uh, a war, it needs warriors, right? I want others to take up the arts, who will love to learn from me, and laugh with me, and respect me! And, and, together we’ll be loved and respected like never before!” Eòghan declared with a heavy set of breaths. He blinked a few times, and hesitated. Perhaps he demanded too much. He was about to speak again when the voice cut him off once more.

"So be it, my sweet. You shall be a general in the war of hearts and minds. A conqueror. A king. And a king needs a fort. Behold your fortress, Eòghan, as others shall. Teach your army in the ways of your war, and you will build a legacy of song and dance that will carry far beyond your own lifetime.” the voice whispered into his ear, and the cloying feeling intensified. Leaves snapped from the tree and whirled around him in a furious vortex, and he felt himself lift from the ground.

In the distance, the ground rumbled and quaked with growing intensity, sending the poor village into an uneasy stir. Entire blocks of a nearby cliff toppled and cracked into fine dust, revealing smooth sanded brown stone walls rising from the ground beneath. With it came buildings unlike anything Eòghan had ever seen before, red roofs and windows decorating the smooth, angular stone structures. It jutted out of the ground like the crowning glory of Ha-Dûna, and simply looking at it instilled a calming sense of purpose in him. It was unique, reached for the sky, and commanded an instant respect. It was glorious.

When the quakes subsided and the massive building stilled, having completed its ascent, so too did the vortex around Eòghan. He touched down on the ground gently, lyre still clutched tightly in one hand. "If your war of hearts and minds falters, my dearest, sing for me, and I shall give you my heart once more.” the voice whispered quietly, and drifted into silence. At once, the air grew lighter, and his mind cleared of the subtle pressure he had felt.

Eòghan grinned with all his might, staring up at the grand structure in the distance. When he was done, Ha-Dûna would be a place of song, mirth, and pleasures. Surely now, no one would ever doubt him again. The man who seduced a goddess with song.

---

Years later, after Eòghan’s untimely death at the young age of twenty-nine, Vina stalked through the halls of the College of the Bards, flute resting snugly in the pocket of her baggy pantaloons. She caught herself all-to-often stopping in the courtyard, where outsiders came to be wooed by handsome bards and sexy bardesses, or to get a good laugh by seeing plays or hearing mealhouse songs. There stood a statue of her father, the founder of the college institution and revered servant of Naya, to whom the building was dedicated - how could they not have, after all? From top to bottom, inside and out, the Horned Goddess’ busts, statues and carvings filled every room, hall and wall. The monks, nuns and druids had been arguing over the clerical implications of this for ages, and what parts of ancient mythology would have to be rewritten to fit this new, unexpected face of the Mourning Goddess. Vina’s years in education were approaching their finale - the last thirteen years had been a mess of making curriculums and adjusting to this new appearance of musicians, playwrights and storytellers that seemingly just popped out of nowhere.

There was something else, too. Ever since the college had appeared, Vina and many others had felt a heightened tension in the air, as though it was charged with an invisible thunderstorm. Foreign merchants and pilgrims were gradually being segregated first to the fringes of the city centre, then outside the city centre. Nowadays, foreign merchants were often segregated to the outskirts of the city, where they set up faires in desperate hopes to draw in customers; foreign pilgrims were shown to leftover resthouses after the Dûnan druids had received their reservations. The sensations had culminated in the Conquests two years ago, and ever since those days, it seemed to Vina as though the Dûnans had lost much of the romanticised simplicity preached by the Clennon Fen factions. Their taste for war and rulership had driven them to professionalise those who had survived the campaigns, forming them into units of soldiers supported by the resthouse system. One regiment among these had shown immense promise, Vina had heard the visiting generals discuss earlier: These were the Stone Boars, the elite of the elite. Numbering a humble fifteen currently, they nonetheless put down outskirts bandits almost before blades were crossed on the battlefield, their charge alone terrorising the enemy into surrendering half the time; the other half, they luckily had support from the untrained levies that Dûna had started employing in a more and more organised manner.

Vina shook her head. You heard so much just stalking around between the guests to the college, casually spitting notes into your flute as to not rouse suspicion. The mood in the city had been oppressive, but it could hopefully be allowed to die down for a little bit soon.

Helgensblot was right around the corner, after all.

---

---

Queen Avelina of Acadia sat at her council chair with a disdainful expression, and brushed her blonde hair behind her merelli horns. These council meetings were tedious. They were necessary, and she always tried to give them her full attention, but they were still tedious. Her gaze briefly flickered toward the open balcony doors, where a cool breeze flowed in.

She looked at her human counterpart, King Hugon. The heads of state of Acadia were the King and the Queen. The King was always human and male, while the Queen was always a merelli female. The King and Queen were not actually married to one another, and kept their own consorts, but it was not uncommon for affairs to occur between the two. She had considered it, upon first rising to her title, and she knew he considered it too. Hugon had once been a handsome man. But now, he had aged. He was nearly forty, and his hair was beginning to grey. She no longer had an interest in him, and he recognized that.

She looked to the rest of the table, where the Pontiffs were debating about whether or not they should elevate the lesser Goddess Gibbou to the status of a major Goddess - and thus create an additional pontiff. Unsurprisingly, most were against it, for they did not want to create another political rival.

Yet a handful were insistent, and raised this issue at every meeting. There had been a recent incident where a garrison had been granted strange new equipment by that same goddess, and it was far more durable than any metal they had seen before. “If we show her more devotion,” the Pontiff of Oraelia, a human woman in her fifties, had argued, “she may grant us additional boons.”

“Such a thing would distract from other more worthy gods,” countered the Pontiff of Neiya, a Merelli with black hair. Avelina could not recall her age - it was always hard to tell, with a Merelli. The only way to be certain was to ask them directly, and the older ones were always reluctant to provide a truthful answer. “If we dedicate time and resources to praising Gibbou, that is time and resources which could instead go to the others, and they may take offense.” She took a sip from a goblet of wine.

The debate carried on, with each councillor voicing their opinion. Except Avelina. It didn’t matter. It was three against five. Even if she added her own vote in support of elevating Gibbou’s status, they would still be one vote short.

Eventually the matter was dismissed, and they moved on to other matters. Such as where they would deploy the soldiers Gibbou had supposedly equipped. Or to which units the strangely-waterproof weapons from the blessed forge should be given to. There was also the matter of a village which had been late on tribute payments. And finally, an update on the search for the daughter of the Pontiff of Aurius - she had still yet to be found.

These matters were traditionally considered to be under the purview of the King and Queen, and Avelina nodded along with Hugon’s suggestions. She was no puppet - far from it - but in this particular case the King’s advice had been sound, and the Queen saw no reason to dispute it beyond the occasional question for clarification.

It was better not to speak unless necessary, Avelina had long ago decided. They would think she was not paying attention. Or that she was accepting of what was going on around her. And thus, they would underestimate her. But, just like in war, the best way to lure your enemy into an ambush was to feign weakness. A few inexperienced pontiffs had already fallen for that trap, being caught off-guard by a sudden and unexpected barrage of rebuttals and criticisms from someone they did not even realize had been paying attention.

Eventually, the meeting came to a close, but before they could rise from their seats, there was the sound of a pair of feet striking the floor. They all turned.

Standing at the balcony was a silver-haired man with purple eyes, a bright purple traveller’s cloak, a white tunic, and an oaken staff. The Councillors leapt from their seats and took a step back.

“Who in Tekret’s name are you?” challenged a Pontiff, who represented the very god he invoked.

Overcoming her initial shock, Avelina quickly noticed another detail about the man. He was attractive. It was a struggle to tear her eyes away from his figure, and when she did, she found herself looking at the Pontiff of Neiya, who was also eying the stranger with a look of deep interest. That was rather surprising, since the Pontiff of Neiya had once told her in private that she never once found a single human to be attractive. The Pontiff noticed Avelina’s stare and flushed. Meanwhile, the Pontiff of Evandra - a man - had also been taken in by the stranger’s appearance, which seemed to fall in line with a rumour that had been going around for some time.

Avelina shook the thoughts off. He was an intruder! He shouldn’t be here! Her hand fell to the sword at her hip, and in the same moment both she and Hugon drew their weapons. “What is the meaning of this?” Hugon demanded. Two guards burst into the room shortly afterward, their own weapons raised.

The stranger smiled reassuringly. “I am Mekellos. The Avatar of Cadien.”

Whatever answer the council had expected, it was not that. “The only one in this room who speaks for Cadien is I,” the Pontiff of Cadien, a round-bellied man with greying hair, countered defiantly.

Mekellos frowned. “Is that so?” he asked. “Tell me, when was the last time you ever heard from my master? If you heard from him at all…” The Pontiff was about to issue a retort, but Mekellos continued speaking. “Pontiff Julien,” he went on. “You claim to speak for Cadien, yet he has never spoken to you a day in your life. You claim to embody his ideals, yet since taking his office you have grown fat and complacent.” Then Mekellos’s eyes narrowed, as he stepped closer and closer. “You poisoned your predecessor.”

Pontiff Julien’s face paled. Then Mekellos’s hand launched forward, closed around his throat, and lifted him a foot off the ground. King Hugon rushed forward and swung his sword at Mekellos, only for Mekellos to grab the weapon by the blade - it didn’t even break skin - wrench it from the King’s grip, and jam the pommel into the King’s stomach. The guards rushed forward, but Mekellos raised a dismissive hand. Suddenly they were out of breath, and too weak to even lift their spears. They collapsed to their knees.

The Pontiff’s eyes bulged, and his face turned red. “You’ve committed other crimes too,” Mekellos went on, in a cold tone. “You thought they were secrets. But I know…” Then the avatar tightened his grip, crushing throat, bone, and veins in a single squeeze.

He dropped the Pontiff to the floor with an expression of contempt. Then he waved his hand, and suddenly the guards were no longer wheezing for breath. He turned to regard the rest of the council. “Some of you are good,” he said after a moment. “Some of you… are not. Know this: your gods are watching. They always have been. If you are guilty, then I leave your punishment up to them.”

The Avatar approached Julien’s old seat, pulled out the chair, and sat down. “Now then,” he said lightly, as if the grisly sight of the Pontiff’s murder had not just occurred. “What’s the condition of the city?”

---

---

_{28 years after Antiquity...}

Autumn was at its peak, with hot-red leaves dancing in the wind on every branch. The fields were all only plains of sliced grain stalks similar to unshaven stubble, and the vegetable acres were all messes of potholes and ditches as eager hands scooped carrots, beets, onions and kohlrabi out of the ground. Skin sleds of goods stacked taller than the people pulling them flooded in and out of Ha-Dûna like the tides on the beaches below. Even the occasional cart, imported from far off lands and dragged by highland cattle, brought in the autumn mutton for the great feast of Reiya. From the beach below, nets upon nets of fjord salmon and herring were dragged aboard Dûnan rafts in preparation for the feast of Claroon. From the woods came the children giddily with baskets of pears, apples and currants red and black to honour Jennesis. Odes to the gods rang out from every building corner, and people sat on stools in the streets between shifts of lifting and loading, smoking pipeweed and sharing in the excitement of the upcoming festivities. The Celite Iontráil was polished and cleaned thoroughly in preparation for the sermon of Fìrinn; adequately sized boulders were prepared for the Boris Games; the Constellars had, despite religious schisms, been cordially invited to prepare the rites in honour of Seeros, as with every year during these times; an enclave of druids knelt before Gibbou’s altar and fervently prayed for permission for the whole of Ha-Dûna to stay up past curfew; Caden’s test of strength was set up next to the Boris Games’ course; a monument to all those who had fallen during the Conquests was erected in honour of the dead and the sorrow they felt for them through Naya’s grace - confusingly, bards all around also sang of Naya’s beauty in ways that did not match her solemn portrayal; marriage proposals and ceremonies were conducted by the dozens as Taeg Eit would have wanted it. It was beautiful, harmonic chaos.

After all, it was the first day of Helgensblot.

Helgensblot was a week-long celebration in honour of the gods - nor just the druidic gods, but all the gods precious to the Dûnans. It was a holiday of harvesting, games, feasting, music and offerings to the gods, all as thanks for the gifts given to them. The first day marked the day when all would prepare for the following days - the grain fields would be shaven clean of their produce, which would be rolled into the mills and processed into flour for bread and porridge. The old rams and ewes and dams were slaughtered for their mutton, which would be grilled over fires with wild herbs and sea salt. Ceramic pots of butter, yogurt and kefir which had sat under the ground to keep cold through the warm late summer were unearthed and unlidded. After the way the Helgensblot had gone the year before, the archdruids had picked and seized as many joybells as they could find, preserving them as fruit kompots in a cellar under the House of the Weary. There, they were kept under guard, though some of the festival attendees showed clear signs that the archdruids had missed a few. Apart from that, though, all the festivities were as old as tradition itself.

This year, however, a new game would be introduced alongside others - one in honour of their newest addition to the pantheon: Sigeran’s tournament. It would fall on the second-to-final day, and all were curious as to what the archdruids had thought up this time.

The first day passed quickly as everyone was too busy with work to realise that time flew by. Before long, all the preparations for the week had been completed, and the feasting had begun. Various bards took to the improvised stages and performed songs about the gods: the Ballad of Macsal and Lucia was particularly popular - as was the Epic of Gaard Goldhair. The first feast always served mutton stew. The goat and the sheep were the animals of survival, and to celebrate having survived another year thanks to the gods, the Dûnans knew of no better meat to eat. It was eaten with yogurt and sour cream, and for desert they had wild fruit kompot. The feasting continued deep into the night, for the druids were confident that they had gotten Gibbou’s permission. Those who lasted until past midnight got to see the Constellars put on a ceremony in honour of Seeros, their familiars dancing about with their masters.

The second day was dedicated entirely to the Boris Games. Here, men and women competed for the favour of the stone god by running a mountain race for thirty kilometres, all while carrying a sizeable rock in their hands. Many participated - most made it back. The route could be treacherous, and to lose the rock meant instant disqualification. Those most unfortunate never made it back at all, and served ever as reminders to respect the mountains and the king of stone, Boris. All knew the risks, however, and many who participated had sharp arguments with their families about the dangers of the race. Deaths were always a tragedy, but they were simultaneously honoured as martyrs who gave their lives so the others would not have to - a sacrifice to the mountain god, almost. The race went on for most of the day, and many ran out to the fringes of the route to cheer on the participants. Druids were posted all around with pots of water and fermented milk to help the racers recuperate after long strides. After the games, the winner, who this year was a herjegalling named Frode the Enduring, was raised atop a pedestal and given a calf, a ram and a ewe for his efforts - an incredible gift to a family without ties to the resthouse system. The night once again followed with more feasting, music and games.

The third day was reserved for prayer, and the festival came almost to a halt. All participants went on a minor pilgrimage down to the lowlands to see the sun rise in the east over Tordentind, the mountain at which foot laid Grimholt, all in honour of Reiya. They then followed the sun’s rise to the sea and the surface reefs, where they tossed leftovers to the gulls, barnacle fliers and the fish to thank Claroon; by midday, they reached the forest, where they buried acorns, seeds and pinecones to thank Jennesis; by the afternoon, they had reached the foot of the mountains under Ha-Dûna, and they gave thanks to Boris by rubbing the stones with their hands and building small cairns; at sunset, they were back in Ha-Dûna in time to see twilight reflect against the Celite Iontráil, and all offered their thanks to Fìrinn by bowing to it. As the stars came out, they thanked Seeros by swearing to remain hopeful and to inspire their peers to do the same; as the moon rose, they thanked Gibbou by going to sleep; and as they did, all the mothers sang the songs of Macsal to lull their children into the world of dreams.

The fourth day was once again a day of games, this time Caden’s test of strength, with activities to remember the fallen planned for the afternoon in honour of Naya. The test of strength challenged its participants first to squat with the added weight of tree trunks, stones and, mostly for the laughs, other people - particularly their spouses. Those without proper technique and arrogance in choosing their load could be damaged for life, and this year, like every year, there were two or three who pulled a muscle, snapped sinews or broke their backs due from sheer pride. Thereafter came a test of pull-ups. Finally, there was a test of pushups. At the end of the day, the winner was the magnificent gaardskarl Boudicca, a mountain of muscle and one of the survivors of the Battle of Grimholt. The competition had been fierce between her and Frode the Enduring, but having spent all his vigour in the race two days prior, Frode simply couldn’t compete with his rival Boudicca. Her price was two goats and a wooden permit that allowed her family access to the resthouses for the whole winter. However, as she already was married to a druid, she declined and offered the permit instead to her sister, who took it happily. She was subsequently further hailed as a true daughter of Ha-Dûna. After the games, the participants all gathered to mourn their lost ones at the altar to Naya. The sorrow once more stopped the celebrations dead, but towards the end, the archdruids put a spin of martyrdom on the narrative, reigniting the party fervour once again. An afterparty continued at the Bard’s College into the depth of night.

The fifth day was dedicated entirely to Taeg Eit’s marriages, and the druids would go to bed exhausted and sick and tired of saying and hearing the vows over and over for a whole day. This day, the feasts all became quite a bit more family-oriented, and wedding gifts were exchanged between the families of the couples. Those offering druids for marriage always had to pay much more than the peasants, but those funds were, after all, drawn from the resthouses, so in reality, marriages didn’t cost them as much as it cost the commoners. The Statue of Prolificacy was also eagerly visited in the evening.

Then came the sixth day, the day of Sigeran’s Tournament. The archdruids had gotten up early and approached the altar-in-progress to the Victory God. They knelt down and offered the tribute of fruits and meat. Kaer Teagan spoke, “O mighty Sigeran, victorious lord over all and champion of war - we ask you humbly for your blessing to play games of battle in your honour today to conclude our festival!”

At first there was silence for a long moment after the request was made. Then came once again the voice that was a million, each a whisper but together much more.

“You may have my sanction but not my blessing, such is reserved for those who more faithfully follow the righteous path.”

The five archdruids recoiled and looked at one another. Kaer Togen, the oldest among them by now and most senior archdruid, raised a quivering hand. “What could he mean by that?”

“I told you, Kaer Teagan - he’s sees the animalistic ways of our warriors and declared that our victories are without honour!” Kaer Pier accused. Kaer Teagan snarled back at him and tossed herself to the ground once more.

“Forgive us, great god - we are bit ignorant specks compared to your infinite wisdom in the righteous paths of war. What is the path we ought to take instead to please you the best?”

“You have misunderstood the purpose one must take in war. Your warriors seem to have a curious idea that their duty is to fight your enemies, you archdruids have a worse idea that in war you take only that which your people need. The greatest curse you have brought upon yourself is that of the idea of honor. Does it shield your warriors from arrows? If driven off your land can you eat honor? Would honor save your children from the lash of your foes when you did not do enough to destroy them because it would not be honorable?

“Your objective in war is to ensure the survival of your people over your enemy, your warriors need to destroy the enemy, not fight them. Only give them a chance to defend themselves if there is no other option to defeat them. You take not only what you need, but what you must to ensure that none will challenge and threaten your own people in times yet seen. You squander your victories with a too quick peace, you give your enemies time to work against you. You squander your warriors’ lives in fighting anything that resembles an honorable fight, honor has nothing to do with a righteous war. To be on the righteous path you must ensure your people triumph over your foes.

“Prepare to walk this path and you shall have my blessing.”

The druids were speechless. Kaer Pier’s libs quivered while the mouth was agape with disbelief. The two elders Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner eyed the ground in great discomfort, looking almost ready to vomit. Kaer Oleg and Kaer Teagan, however, both shuffled even closer to the altar and lifted their arms to the sky in praise. “Oh, your wisdom is too great for our humble minds to comprehend, magnificent Sigeran - forgive us that we could not see!” Kaer Oleg bowed his head and whispered praise to the victory god.

“What are you doing?!” Kaer Pier snapped quietly behind them.

“Are you deaf? It is clear that we have been too kind to those who oppose the supremacy of the Dûnans. None other than the mighty Sigeran - the cornerstone in our prosperity as it is now - has decreed so!”

“One of the cornerstones, Teagan! I--...” He looked nervously at the altar. It stood in stark contrast with the other altars in that it was not ordained with figurines, crystalline stones, bowls of fruit, nuts and vegetables, or flowers; the altar of Sigeran was decorated with skulls and bone. A flash of realisation washed over Kaer Pier’s face. “... I… I do not know if Sigeran is who we think he is.”

The other archdruids recoiled. Kaer Teagen first showed surprise, then a knowing frown that made Kaer Pier realise he had made a terrible mistake. “... Blasphemy… On the day of Sigeran himself.” She turned to the altar again. “Great god - what say you in response to this abhorrent behaviour?”

“The duty of protection falls upon you present to prove yourselves still faithful.” As the voices spoken in unison they grew ever harsher in tone. “One of your most holy number blaspheme, blaspheme at the altar and on this most holy day! It begets reckless apostasy or malevolent conspiracy, to have an Archdruid so harshly seek to imperil your entire community, their thoughts and guiding hand turning the faithful down dark and unholy paths as shown through their quick and easy slip to blaspheme. Show your faith- root out the corruption and evils wrought in Ha-Dûna, save the faithful from the corrupting ideas and ideals of such a dark teacher. There is still time yet to prove yourselves before all gods, before we are forced to action.”

Chalk looked black in comparison to the colour of Kaer Pier’s skin as they heard this. Both Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner began slowly walking backwards. Kaer Teagen and Kaer Oleg both cast themselves to the ground. “We are still worthy, your greatness! Your will be done!” With that, Kaer Oleg cast his arm out, roots shooting out of the ground to envelop his colleague. Pier reacted in time, swiping outwards with his arm to blast the roots away with a momentary wall of sunfire. Teagan turned around and hammered her fist at the ground, a pillar of stone shooting up from the ground and casting Pier backwards. The man crashed to the ground with the sound of a snap and a pained squeal. His right arm, which he had landed on, pointed in an unnatural angle. Oleg charged up another spell, but in a last minute effort, Pier shot his palm out towards him, a purple cloud forming around Oleg’s face and immediately knocking him into a deep sleep, falling onto Teagan on the way down.

“Bah!” she snarled, rolled him off of her and uncorked her waterskin, pulling out a lance of water which flew to pierce Pier. It would have, too, but he had once again, in the span of a reaction, altered the truth of his position slightly to her perceptions, making her miss by mere inches. As she tried to manipulate the water lance again, Pier pleaded the invisible stars above for aid.

In an instant, all light and color drained from the morning sky, except for bright lights forming a constellation resembling a shepherd looking down at them. In the confusion, a kirin appeared beside Pier and then the sky returned to normal. Both Teagan and Pier screamed in fright, and Kaer Togen and Saner who both were watching from behind the cover of a nearby altar, cowered before the creature. None of them reacted before Pier, though, and before the others could understand what had befallen them, the kirin set off into a sprint out of the city. Around the city, too, there were screams, confusion and terror over what had happened to the sky.

“S-stop them!” shouted Teagan, but from what she could see, the kirin instead parted every crowd and had every gate opened for it. The archdruid got to smacking Kaer Oleg awake again, though it took some well-placed slaps. Stalking back up to them like a pair of walking corpses, the old Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner eyed Teagan with reluctance and shame. As Oleg came back to his senses, Teagan eyed the senior archdruids with contempt.

“Why didn’t you stop him?!”

“W-we--” Togen began, but Teagan waved him quiet.

“Ugh, you’re useless! Of course, this is what we get for allowing you old clowns to remain in our circle for this long…”

“Old clowns?!” Kaer Sanner opened, but was cut off again.

“It is clear that we have been foolish to trust in peace… Sigeran is right! Blasphemers surround us everywhere - even in our innermost circle! I’ve tried again and again to tell that buffoon Pier, but he couldn’t see - he couldn’t see that Ha-Dûna allowing our neighbours to coexist - to thrive even - will kill us. We are the chosen people - the Dûnans are the people of the gods! Sigeran has realised this - Sigeran supports us in this!”

Kaer Togen raised a concerned finger. “But Kaer Teagan, see reason - Sigeran is not one of the Eight! He is but a lesser god that--”

“LESSER god?!” Kaer Teagan stormed at the elderly man, who fell back with such haste that he lost his footing and fell to the ground with a weak whimper. It was just barely that he could raise an arm to defend himself. Teagan glared down at him. “I’m beginning to think we have been lied to all this time - Hir granted us power in exchange for a lifestyle as sheep; we were grazers who bit at the lowest form of life - grass - and never dared journey beyond the edges of the meadow. Then we tasted blood and became the wolves, Togen - we are survivors and have always been; like the hounds in the night, we bare our fangs to carve out our place in this world. Such was the way of our ancestors who battled the Ketrefans, and such is our way still.”

Kaer Saner had knelt down by Kaer Togen and begun to heal him, holding his hand gently to pump the life of Reiya into him. Teagan knelt down and took the other hand, bringing it to her cheek. Togen and Saner both eyed her warily. Teagan cracked a smile. “Don’t you agree, you two?”

They remained voiceless, their eyes pleading the other for help they both knew neither could give. Finally, Kaer Togen, hints of tears in his eyes, nodded slowly. “Wholeheartedly, Kaer Teagan…”

Teagan’s smile broadened. “How wonderful that we see eye to eye. And you, Kaer Saner?”

The other archdruid looked back at her, then down at Togen with a glare of betrayal starkly visible across his poorly-aged face. However, the more he looked back at Teagan, the weaker the glare grew, until finally, he too nodded weakly. “We are, indeed, the chosen people… Sigeran… Said so him… Self…”

Teagan grinned and squeezed Togen’s hand before standing up. “Loyalty to the gods and your leaders comes so rare these days. Thus was demonstrated by Pier, after all. Still…” She frowned at them. “... None of you made attempts at capturing what was clearly an enemy of the gods. You are stripped of your ranks as archdruid.”

Saner and Togen gasped. “You cannot do that outside a moot!” Saner snapped and straightened himself in challenge. A flare in her eyes kept him from continuing. She reached down to her belt and brandished a great copper scythe, unholstering it and bringing it down to Saner’s throat.

“I can, and I did.”

Saner swallowed, but his face remained stern. “The others won’t accept this - I won’t accept this.”

Teagan’s scowl deepened. Slowly, she withdrew her blade from his throat and Saner breathed out in relief. Teagan than stepped around him, hooked the blade around his neck and sawed, parting the skin and opening the veins in the throat to spill litres of blood all over Kaer Togen’s face. The old man spat, squirmed and squeaked. Kaer Oleg took the barely breathing man and dragged him to the altar of Sigeran while Teagan held Togen’s head by the hair.

“I do not care whether you accept or not. It is not our decision, but the gods’, and the gods have made theirs.”

Togen breathed quiveringly. “God, you mean.”

Teagan looked over to the altar, where Kaer Oleg was busily mounting the corpse on a saltire. “Yes…” she whispered. “Our god has made his decision.”

Crowds still panicked from before blackout earlier came running to the archdruids for help. They saw the massacre and gasped and squealed, the warriors immediately moving to the front line brandishing whatever they had on them that could be used for a weapon. At the front came Boudicca and Frode the Enduring, both horrified at the archdruid whose robe was drenched crimson, standing over a blood-covered man and in front of a mutilated display of the butchered Kaer Saner. Many keeled over to vomit or burst into tears at the display.

“What… Is this?” Boudicca barely breathed. Frode, too, had to vomit and supported himself on two others as he did.

“This is the will of Sigeran! We have been led astray by the Eight, my children - peace was never an option! Our people belong on the battlefield, and none among us should rest until the entire world rests underneath Dûnan heel! Great Sigeran - shout your holy decree!”

The whispering cries of a million voices called out to the crowded masses so assembled. “Holy Kaer Teagan speaks truth of divine will! You, the people of Ha-Dûna are the chosen people! Fated to rule and to conquer as divinely guided under the righteous path of Kaer Teagan!”

“Arise children of Ha-Dûna, the unrighteous are culled from your number, dead or fleeing from their true punishment, and your path becomes clear! Your enemies abound around you, the unrighteous guide and seek to destroy good Dûnans from outside what your virtues did not allow them to do from within! Go forth and conquer! Go forth as the chosen, the rightly guided people!”

Boudicca and Frode both watched in disbelief as great swathes of people fell to their knees in awe of the voices, shouting praises to Sigeran and lifting their arms to the sky in worship. Others slowly, but surely, started backing away towards the wall gates, but then, someone shouted, “HEY! Kneel before the great Sigeran!”

“No, this is wrong!” came a weak-voiced, but strong-willed response, and they all knew who it was. Kaer Pier’s sister, Kaer Logan, who had stood up to Teagan at the beginning of the conquests, was shepherding those who followed her sentiment towards the gate. Boudicca and Frode had begun making their ways over, but Boudicca suddenly stopped and struggled to continue. A number of hands had wrapped themselves around her leg, all of them belonging to the kowtowing remainers.

“If you leave, Sigeran will think us unfaithful and punish us all!” shouted one of them. Boudicca wrested herself free.

“This isn’t right! Reiya wouldn’t want this - Gibbou wouldn’t want this - and Seeros absolutely wouldn’t want this! What is wrong with you all?!”

“Silence! You’ll get us all killed,” came another sharp whisper. Boudicca kept walking over the kneeling masses.

“What’re you doing, you fools?!” came insults from the front, followed by Teagan’s own, “Why are you letting them leave?!”

“Ha-Dûna is more than your power fantasies, Teagan!” boomed Boudicca and drummed her powerful chest in challenge. “The people know this - they are loyal to the true gods: the gods of Hir!”

“Oh, are they, now?” Teagan snapped back. She pointed at one of those who had whispered earlier. It was a man, a skinny man, barely old enough to be called a man. He rose slowly and approached her. “What is your name?”

“G-Graham,” he whimpered back. Teagan put her hand reassuringly on his shoulder and gestured to the Eight altars, all twinkling in the morning sun still.

“Tell me, Graham, do you believe that the Eight are greater than Sigeran? Would you trust your life with them over the god that gave us all eternal life?”

Graham squeaked and wheezed, shifting between the altars to the Eight and the altar to Sigeran, particularly the dripping corpse of Saner. After a moment, he whispered something. Teagen smirked. “You’ll have to speak louder than that. Come on, so they all hear you.”

“THE EIGHT ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO SIGERAN!” he shouted from the top of his lungs and collapsed forward with a long cry. The yell blasted outwards like a shockwave, shaking every Dûnan to the core. One by one, they rose up, reached for what weapons they had and began to chant: “Sigeran, Sigeran, Sigeran…”

Boudicca and Frode stood at the gate, the population of those disgusted by this already hurrying away in a panic. Quickly, they began to close the gate and bar it up from the outside, reinforced further with Mother silk and roots summoned forth by rebelling druids. The barricade and midday-made silk would not be strong enough, however, and hardly four minutes after they had gotten started, the gate quaked with the fury of fanatics on the other side. Both Frode and Boudicca resolved to help the others escape rather than stay and hold the gate. A minute later, the improvised blockade broke, and the streets flooded with Dûnans hunting for blasphemers.

“Kill them - kill them all - the unfaithful must not be allowed another breath!” Teagan shouted after them and turned to the altar. “We pray we may yet be worthy of your blessing, great god.”

“You have it, drive them from Holy Ha-Dûna.” The voices seemed much calmer at this point.

“It will be done, great Sigeran.”

Men, women and children all screamed as the tide of bloodthirsty fanatics rolled towards them with great fury. The Mothers set up barriers of silk again, but like last time, they knew that the sunlit did no favours for the silk’s strength. Druids whispered their final prayers as they readied themselves for one last defense against the darkness. Warriors of the refugees went to the front with what weapons they had. The clash was imminent, now, and they knew only a fraction of them would escape Ha-Dûna alive.

Except that would not be the case. Like earlier when the sky had turned back, the sky flickered once more, and momentarily, the moon outshone the sun. The first row of fanatics fell over, then the second one did. In mere seconds, the avalanche of flesh and weapons that had been hurtling towards them with war cries and roars, piled over itself into mounds of snoring bodies. The escapees were dumbfounded, but those quick to action among them hastened to shepherd them out of the city before the enemy woke up.

Running after them, Teagan stomped on the ground in a wild rage. “Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT! Give chase after them! Come on, wake up!” she yelled and kicked at one of the sleepers. He only rolled over grumpily. Teagan kicked him until he bruised and then, a sudden sensation dazed her and she fell over with a snore of her own. Meanwhile, the escapees made it out of Ha-Dûna without suffering casualties beyond their lost belongings. They were heartbroken, however - their compatriots had come at them with the sole intention to slay them all. Not a tribe among them, either - these had been people of every tribe, of every clan. Boudicca stood atop a hill overlooking the great, empty city below. Behind her came Kaer Pier, his broken arm bandaged with Mother silk. Boudicca bowed her respect, but Kaer Pier bowed deeper.

“Please, don’t greet me as such. I deserve none of your respect,” Pier sighed.

“A servant of the true gods such as yourself deserves nothing but respect, Kaer Pier,” Boudicca replied and drummed her chest in salute. The archdruid groaned.

“I caused this… If only I had spoken up against Teagan before… Put an end to the ever-growing sympathies for Sigeran earlier, then maybe I--”

“Stop.” Boudicca squeezed his shoulder supportively. The archdruid met her eyes with a shattered frown. “You have done no wrong, archdruid. You stood up against a woman of great power - as well as her closest lackey - and escaped with your life. In your own words, it would seem that the gods still have plans for you.” She punched him amiably in the chest and smiled before facing the city again with a grim scowl. “We cannot delay for long. Gibbou and Seeros may have been our saviours today, but we know not when the enemy will rise again. We must travel south, gather reinforcements with the hamlets. We need to outpace the servants of Sigeran and make certain they cannot garner more support for their malicious cause.”

Kaer Pier wiped his tears and nodded. “I will seek out the constellars. They might be able to help us send a message to the other druids in the lowlands and in the east at Grimholt. I doubt any of us would have chosen to remain with Teagan, and if they did, surely the gods must see by now that they have gone astray.”

“My thoughts exactly. Go there and beseech them for aid. I will bring our people to safety.” The two pressed their foreheads together in fraternity and parted ways. Ha-Dûna had suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of its greatest enemy - itself - and now it would have to be taken back.

---

---

Oraelia buzzed with excitement as she stepped out of her portal and into Antiquity. Her base form could hardly be seen underneath the luminous glow her body gave off. It constantly shimmered, pulsed and just wouldn’t sit still for a single second. She skipped out on the alabaster stones, quickly forgetting why she had even come to Antiquity, other than to just enjoy that giant pillar before her! Or or or walking into that one hallway without any sort of recollection of how she got there.

Oraelia shrugged, then giggled loudly as she skipped down it. She plopped another berry when she was feeling a bit low and her energy rebounded, and she switched forms and zoomed off as a little green orb. She never lingered anywhere for too long, because there was always something new and exciting to see!

That was until she flew into a portal.

The sight before her, stole her breath and for one fleeting moment, the small orb that she was, paused in awe to stare at the beauty before her. Then she quickly flew off towards a floating island, bathed in the light of a blue sun, with stars so aplenty she felt small. She skirted over the island, gazing at what it contained with a blink before moving off to the next one with an excited laugh.

What a beautiful place! It reminded her of something, but she couldn’t place it.

She flew through a ruby stream, and danced within a garden of glowing plants and she stole a glance at the blue sun and she smiled for it was beautiful in her bliss. The life there was strange and whimsical, always running from her like in a game of chase. She couldn’t contain her laughter, as she switched forms again, and landed within a pool of topaz. She floated, plopping another berry in her mouth.

Who knew Antiquity had such beauty!

---

Qael sat on an island. Motionless. His six eyes were open but all shimmering with iridescent lights. Galbar continued to be far more intriguing than his own little realm. Kubrajzar was trudging quietly along, creating about as much magic as he had anticipated for them. Mydia’s collective arcane knowledge was furthest ahead in all of Galbar. Not just due to the presence of The Library or Orb on the continent. Peace and trade seemed to be taking precedence over conflict. For now, at least. Toraan was getting somewhat worrisome though. Especially in the north, where Gibbou’s druids had chosen to become troublesome indeed. At the same time Qael’Naath had seen a spell that should not have come from Toraan as well. A spell none should have access too, perhaps ever. If only he had more time, he could’ve investigated it. Right now though, he had to be the steward of all the newly created spells. It was thanks to the god of magic that most of them didn’t flutter out of existence anymore.

Yet his attention was ripped away the second a foreign entity entered his portal. All six eyes stopped shimmering and the god of magic rose from his meditative position to float around in his realm. He spotted the divergence of his designs soon enough: the goddess of the sun. Her presence surprised him. “Sister…I did not expect you. I-“ How did his siblings generally greet each other in their realms? He had only visited Cadien’s realm, and then only momentarily. “How may I help you?”

She seemed to sit up at the sound of his voice, eyes blazing with light as she smiled widely at him. ”Oh hellllooooo!” she said, giggling. ”Isn’t this place so beautiful! I didn’t think Antiquity could have color, it’s soooo dull.” there was a lull in her voice, before she blinked, ”Do you come here often?” she asked.

“I-I. This is- I live-“ Qael was entirely sure what to say first. “You must be mistaken, sister. This isn’t Antiquity. It’s my realm. I made when we were first ripped away from Galbar. I work here as well. Antiquity can indeed be somewhat dull at times. Or noisy.” She most certainly was akin to Gibbou, much to his own surprise. “Thank you, for the compliment.” He quickly added with a faint smile, which sadly remained hidden under his hood. “It means a lot coming from someone as beautiful and radiant as you.”

”Oh! Your own realm!” she looked around then back at Qael. ”That makes sense! It is very beautiful and radiant.” Her eyes seemed to widen a bit. ”Just... like... me?” Her golden light erupted into a deep red as she glanced away from Qael and down at the pool. Her hands bunched up in front of her face as she stuttered. ”O-Oh s-stop you, y-you’re too kind.”

Qael was confused. “Apologies sister. Did I say something wrong? You seem to have turned somewhat red.” Was this not how most mortals greeted each other? With small compliments? He reckoned most gods would react just as well to the compliments any mortals would. It would make them, hopefully, more friendly towards him. Alas, right now Qael’Naath was afraid he had somehow enraged the goddess somehow. Even though she did not sound angry.

Oraelia looked up at him from between her fingers, her color fading back into gold slowly. ”N-No need to apologize. I-I-I uh…” she quickly took from a small pouch a crimson colored berry and plopped it into her mouth. She seemed to relax, and her golden color returned even brighter. She laughed and dropped her hands, placing them on her hips. ”You feel sooooo familiar!” she quickly went on. ”Like, I feel as if we’ve met before, or I’ve… Felt your presence?” she seemed to pause, her eyes darting to a particularly bright moth. She gasped and went in for a closer look. ”It’s sooooo bright! And so small! Oh oh, I love small cute things. They make me so happy.”

The god of magic outstretched his hand towards the moth and ushered it closer to Oraelia. It was, after all, made purely out of mana. As was everything in his realm. At his mental command, several other moths appeared to dance around the sun goddess. “Perhaps you’ve seen me in the works of your daughter. Lucia is a bright pupil of magic. It’s an honor to have her master my magic. She’s a very clever and kind girl.” He said. These were not niceties to placate the goddess. The compliments were genuine. “Or maybe you’ve seen my influence on Galbar. Mana, my charge, is everywhere on the planet. Mortals are on a cusps of reaching their first milestone there.” As was by design. At least the modified design. Lifeblood’s sudden removal of him from the world of Galbar and his subsequent two millennia absence had some consequences upon his grander designs. None the less he spoke with great pride of his creation.

Oraelia seemed to be smitten with glee as she let the Moth’s land on her. She laughed as their little legs tickled her. ”Lucia!” she suddenly exclaimed, ”Yeah! My daughter, my love! You helped her? That’s wonderful! Thank you soooooo much!” She began to mimic the moth’s dance. ”You must have helped Auriëlle and Soleira too! Yes! That’s right! Your essence was upon them! Oh oh oh! I love Soleira, she’s such a caring and loving Oraeliari. Her heart is so pure and golden and,” she teared up, ”I love her so much.” She sighed, ”Then there’s Auriëlle, my heart goes out to her. She’s lost her way and believes killing is the only thing she can ever be good at. It breaks my heart, it does. I just wish there was-” she stopped and then laughed as a moth landed on her nose.

“Well, in all honesty Lucia helped me and I simply repaid the favor. Well no, that does not do what she did justice.” Qael’Naath said. “She made me understand all life should be cared for. Not simply observed from a distance. Though I might not yet be perfect at it still. Especially not compared with the life-giver herself.” He walked around a dancing Oraelia, observing her form as she moved around. Dancing, mortals would have called it. In fact some dances were used by mortals to invoke his magic. It was a wonderful sight to be sure.

“I have not heard of the name ‘Auriëlle’. She is probably a Servant. Though I am surprised you could feel my essence upon her. Considering their blessing is exceptionally thinly stretched.” Qael’Naath continued. With his hands behind his back. “Alas, many mortals live tragic lives and resign themselves to the simplicity of murder. I will admit my gifts can be… uniquely advantageous in such regards.” By now he was somewhat musing to himself. “We cannot save them all.”

“Yet this Soleira… an Oraeliari you say? My dear sister, I do believe you are mistaken.” He said with a small smile and his arms behind his back. “I’m afraid I could not yet bless the winged ones with the gift of mana. Their creation, it sits outside the great plan. I require time to ruminate upon their existence. For one to have my blessing, well it is utterly impossible.” He let out a small chuckle.

”Nope!” Oraelia said with a wide smile. ”Both of them definitely were blessed by you. In fact, Auriëlle had been told by your Servants that she had been blessed by you! She still doesn’t believe it to be true, but I see now! And Soleria, she has extra wings that allow her to do magic, I didn’t give it to her!” Oraelia giggled again.

“Very droll Oraelia.” Qael’Naath said with a slightly bigger smile. “You must have seen my creation in the Hreeclii Isles. I assure you, the animal is simply an experiment and a herald of a much larger test I have intended for the region.” He lowered himself as he was about to sit down on something invisible. Yet under him the soft round rocks moved to make the chair. “But for such a power to inhabit something with sapience, free will and a complex, creative mind? Heavens could you imagine the danger!? This – Auriëlle, was it? – would be cataclysmic for the mortals! But I assure you, my designs do not allow for such a concentration of power in a singular sapient creature for still some centuries. Perhaps with some well-argued exceptions. Mortals have proved to be surprising, at times.”

”What’s, uh, the Hercelii isles?” she asked, staring at him now. ”Plus, Auriëlle, sorta does… Vaporize people.” she said softly.

Qael’s purple skin turned a very unhealthy shade of blue. “I-I-I-“ he began to stammer. Two of his six eyes began to shimmer again. On Galbar the Winds of Magic was edging and almost shrieking in the air as it scoured the stream for that spell he had seen. The second he had it, he pulled it apart. Observed every bit of it while he began to shiver on his rock-chair. “Oh heavens.” He said, as he felt himself realize what he had done. “Oh siblings forgive me.” How could he have been so blind. He tried to get up, but instead nearly fell off his chair. “This is terrible.” He turned, for a moment, to Oraelia. “And there are two of them!? Oh heavens. The design.” The gently floating glades suddenly stopped in their orbit. Then moved again. Some faster, some slower. Some moved the opposite direction. He managed to get up by himself. “This is a disaster. A cataclysm. The world! It’s not yet ready! I should- I should eradicate them. Yes, yes. A quick end.” His body continued to shiver and shake. Four eyes lit up. None of them shimmered now. Instead they shifted between a dark violet and deep crimson.

He felt two arms wrap around him in an instant. ”It’s okay- It’s okay.” she said, patting him on the back. ”There’s nothing to be sorry about! And they most surely don’t need to die. There is always another solution. They are beautiful souls, after all. They do not deserve death when they have barely lived. Guidance, if anything, they should learn from you. Do not forget the words Lucia told you. You must care for them, for they are your daughters Qael.” she squeezed him tightly. ”Oh look a bird!” she said with a mouthful, as she let go of him.

“Lucia. Yes Lucia. Oh dear I nearly did it again.” Qael’Naath said as the four eyes shimmered with all the colors of a rainbow again. He took deep breaths, trying to simulate what mortals used to do when they panicked. It didn’t work. “Sister you.. Tell me of Auriëlle. I need to know it all.” He needed to know the full extent of his failings. Perhaps he could make it work. Perhaps they weren’t errors in the grand design. Perhaps they were just…outliers. Anticipated irregularities. Something he could work with.

Except Oraelia did not respond right away. Instead she giggled as she tried to jump up to touch the bird, who had landed in the tree over her. It looked down at her with large eyes. ”Come here, come here!” she asked. The god of magic let out a deep sigh. Perhaps Oraelia wasn’t the best person to ask. He outheld his hand once more and the bird flew down to sit upon Oraelia’s hand.

She stroked its head softly, her glow growing brighter as she did. "I really love animals. They're so innocent and precious. Have you seen what their babies look like? Like mini versions!" she gushed.

Qael’Naath managed to gather himself as much as he could. His skin still wasn’t the full purple it should be though. With a wordless command he banished any and all small animals away. The bird itself managed to fly up and then away, out of sight from Oraelia. “Sister, it is of vital importance that you tell me everything about-“ He could barely say it. The word stopped in his throat. Yet he forced it out. “-my daughters.”

Oraelia waved to all the animals as they left. She then turned to Qael. "Daughters! Yes! Uhhhh…" she seemed to rummage through her little pack but came up empty. She stilled at once then looked again with quicker hands. "I um… I have to go! Yeah! I forgot something!" she said, breathing heavily. She managed to trip into Qael again and their skin touched. Oraelia's memories of Soleira and Aurielle flashed before him and then just as quickly they turned to a green Sylphi, one he quickly knew as Genesis, her own daughter, and Oraelia's subsequent pain at her death and her relief in the berries. The connection then shattered.

Oraelia dusted herself off and shouted, "Oh oh! Sorry, clumsy me! I need to go! Bye!"

“No, no, no!” Qael shouted. “No please I…” He had no idea what to say. What to think. The pain she carried through. The berries. It all became clear, then it got muddled again. Muddled by things he didn’t understand. His mind turned to chaos. “Oraelia I saw what… happened.” Where was he going with this? He didn’t know himself. The only thing that became undeniably clear was his own recklessness. His own narrow minded stupidity. He was seconds away from killing one of his own children. Yet now he had seen the heartbreak that would’ve caused. The pain it would summon.

Oraelia stopped in mid run and turned her head, she then shook her head wildly. ”I’m sorry, Qael.” Her voice broke. ”I-It’s m-me… I h-have to go.” she clutched her heart. ”C-Care for them. Don’t be me.” she said, changing forms and zooming off into the distance.

Qael left standing. Around him his realm was trying to recover. He sat down again. This time no stones built up a chair underneath him. He remained that way. Shocked. Stunned. It would take decades of ruminations before he could even place his own daughters within the designs he himself had created. And at the same time he would have to actually find a way to care for them. There was still a pang of pain in his heart. A remnant from Oraelia’s memory of Genesis. The sun goddess, she needed help. Now more than ever. Help Qael’Naath couldn’t even give her. “I can’t do this alone.” He eventually whispered to himself, as two eyes began to shimmer again.

He had screamed for much longer than Auriëlle expected. The chieftain chosen in her tent had to be put down and restrained. Something frantic happens when a man is condemned to death. Civility is stripped away with every pleading word. Until he was nothing but a yelling, frothing animal that had to be carried by four guards. He was kept away from everywhere until the night fell. Auriëlle made sure the bonfire would be massive enough to burn him. When he was pulled towards the heap of wood, the man was screaming, pleading and kicking again. It all fell on deaf ears. Not even the chieftains who were forced to attend the ‘ceremony’ didn’t say anything as he was bound around the central pole. Then, with a snap of Auriëlle’s fingers, the first fires lit up.

The flames kept roaring until dawn. Even then they were still burning high. Auriëlle had her men pull open the bonfire with spears and sticks. The flames quickly faded into embers. Auriëlle crawled up the pile to the burned corpse with a bowl. She just had to grip the carbonized flesh tight for it to crumble into the bowl. It didn’t take long until her promise of ash was fulfilled. The chieftains, meanwhile, looked hollow eyed and shocked. None said a word as they were lifted off the ground. A day later the camp was broken down and the march back to Nallan began. With Auriëlle at its head. Behind her Hyl marched with the head of Olwar on a spike, acting like her bannerman.

In Nallan, she was received with cheers and glory. Olwar’s head was marched behind her and then came the three remaining chieftains with their hands bound. The street was lined with people to see the soldiers return. The warriors were embraced by parents, wives and children alike. One woman came rushing from the street and handed Auriëlle some flowers. Which she graciously accepted. But atop her highland stag she did not wave or smile. She was single handedly focused on the palace on the far off distance. “Tell the queen I’m coming.” She told one of the guards who had remained. He quickly ran off.

Nalla and her retinue awaited her outside the Palace’s walls. The Queen sat underneath a cloth palanquin, wearing a red dress that covered every part of her skin except her face and head. Her retinue mostly consisted of white clothed servants, but for once, the two Blood Sylphi children sat beside her. One rested it’s head upon her lap, eyes shut in peaceful sleep. The other child played with a toy quietly.

When Auriëlle approached, Nalla smiled as she gazed upon the pike. “Very well done.” she mused. “I knew you would be capable, and you have proven my suspicions correct, Auriëlle. We shall have a feast in your honor tonight.”

She smiled as she dismounted. It was a confident smile. “A feast.” She said dryly. Just more dancing in a court. One night she’d have to go through it. Then she could go out again. At least she hoped. For everyone’s sake. “But right now I have something else.” With a hand signal the three remaining chieftains were pulled up until they appeared before Nalla. “I bring ash-” She said, dropping a small, opened bag next to the other chieftains. A soft wind let some of the ash rise up. Then she walked up behind the three chieftains. Kicking each in the back of their knee. Dropping them. “-and kneeling men.” Then she turned her attention towards the men. “Swear it. Now.”

The three men spoke in perfect unison: “Queen Nalla. Our eternal gratitude for your mercy. We hereby swear loyalty to you. Forever.” Auriëlle had forced them to repeat the words over and over again. Until they could say it both at the same time with their eyes closed. It had to be done. In sight of everyone in Nallan.

“Let this be a lesson,” Nalla began, “That disobedience, rejection and rebellion will cause needless pain and suffering. My trust in your leadership of the villages of Telegar, Moirjun, Balinol, Valigar and that fledgling city of Salavar, has been destroyed. As such, I am gifting you a regional ruler, who answers to only my authority.” Her eyes fell upon Hyl and his son. “Hyl, you are familiar with the southern reaches are you not? I give you this position, ensure that your son and his sons after, keep the peace. Take these men back with you and pray that they do not rebel again, or the consequences shall be much worse.”

The two men bowed deeply, with Hyl saying, “Yes your grace.” and no more. Nalla then looked upon Auriëlle again and said, “You must be exhausted and in need of a bath no doubt, come, come.” she said, clapping her hands. Four burly guards grabbed the palanquin and began walking up the path, her retinue behind her.

As the dutiful commander Auriëlle pretended to be, she remained quiet as the queen spoke. Though she smirked when Nalla mentioned consequences. She silently begged the region to revolt again now. Despite her years with Carn, she never actually had the chance to raze a village. It would send a very clear message though. She’d have to tell Hyl that he could always count on her support should it ever be required.

She just gave the queen a small nod when she was invited to a bath. More dancing. She thought. Of course Nalla didn’t tire of it. There was no doubt, she loved the exchanges, the diplomacy and the stewardship of her lands. It almost felt as if she did it effortlessly. As effortlessly as Auriëlle waged war. In truth Auriëlle just wanted to go on the warpath again. Instead she quietly followed the queen’s palanquin inside.

---

In the twilight of day did they finally eat. The dining hall was lit dimly, as always. The table was littered with foods and drinks, from honeyed duck, to cooked stag, there was anything and everything. Far off in the corner, there was also a group of three people using instruments to create a strange tune, one that accompanied the atmosphere.

Nalla sat in her usual spot, this time however, Hyl sat next to her on the right, and his son sat to the left of her. All along down the table, most of the spots were filled with regal looking people, or at least, people trying to look regal. Even the Slyphi had joined them, sitting across from one another right next to where Auriëlle sat. Aurinia and Chio were their names, and they hardly took their eyes off from each other.

Nall rose suddenly, holding her cup high as she looked to Auriëlle. “Here’s to you, Auriëlle. For putting down that rebellion and ushering in a new age of peace within my lands. You have my thanks.” She drank, the rest of the table followed and Nalla sat back down.

Auriêlle raised her cup as well. She offered the queen a small nod and a smile in response. Inside, just below her skin, she winced when she heard Nalla talk about peace. ‘Whatever god of war is real, I truly hope you won’t let it happen.’ She thought on her prayer, hoping it would be enough. Unlike most, Auriëlle didn’t make an attempt to dress regal. Or even as a woman. She was clothed in a comfortable tunic and trousers. It clashed terribly with the form fitting, silver and gold embroidered dresses many of the other women wore. The women leered at her with sharp eyes. It was the one small delight she got from the evening: watching the others squirm and feel uncomfortable simply by her presence. They preferred the impeccably dressed queen no doubt. Much to Auriëlle’s surprise, not that many men had any attention spare for her. All of them either had their eyes either on their plate, battling their inner demons, or had resigned themselves and were openly admiring the queen.

Auriëlle tried to keep her eyes off Nalla for now and focused on a piece of honeyed duck. Which she devoured in such a fashion that betrayed a decent upbringing. Once the piece of meat was eaten, she turned next to her, to one of the Slyphi. “Where did you two come from?” She asked, blunt but clearly interested in the strange beings.

Chio, the male turned his gaze towards her. “We came from a land down south. Ever heard of Arborea?”

“The world tree!” chimed Aurinia. “I haven’t seen a single tree to compare.” she leaned on her hand as she stared at Auriêlle with large eyes.

“Arborea? never heard of it.” Auriëlle said. “So it’s a big tree then?” There were big trees everywhere. Some druids revered big trees. As if trees were ever more useful for anything else but wood.

“The biggest tree!” Aurinia smiled.

“Well, yes and no. Aborea is the place that surrounds the tree. The Tree of Genesis. The first tree, or so they say. The Sylphi have a thriving community there, with humans that live alongside us.” Chio said.

The sorceress took it all in as she took another sip from her wine. “You must’ve travelled a long way to reach Nallan then. Or not?” She couldn’t know, the furthest she had ever gone south was Salavar.
Aurinia nodded her head quickly. “Yep! We travelled through the forests of Yandor, then the Gardens, then the gap, then we saw those elk riders and then Nalla took us in!”

A big smile formed on her lips. “So many places.” She droned as Aurinia summed them up. “Tell me everything. And I do mean everything. Where is this gap? What are the gardens? Who lives there? Where’s the forest of Yandor? How big is it?”

Aurinia giggled and took a bite of some stag meat. Chio took a drink before saying, “Well… The Gap is in the Mountains. Where the great boar lived. You have to be careful though, for there are creatures in the night. The dwarves are friendly enough though, they protect travelers.”

“Before that is the Gardens, lands so fertile that anything can grow. The people that live there are kind and happy.” Aurinia chattered excitedly.

“But before the gardens exists the forest of Yandor.” Chio lowered his voice, “Endless trees as old as Genesis. Things walk there that no one even knows about. It is eerie as it is beautiful.”

“It all sounds wonderful. Truly wonderful.” She said. Hoping one day she could travel to those places as well. Perhaps Nalla’s ambitions truly would be limitless. She cast a sideway glance towards the queen. Yes, someday she would march her armies through the gap for sure. Just not when Auriëlle was still alive. Her attention returned to the Sylphi. “So what brought you to the shithole that is the highlands?”

The two Sylphi shared a look with each other before they shrugged. “Can’t remember really. Something about… Umm…” Aurinia’s voice became lost in thought.

“It wasn’t important. Nalla takes care of us now. We both like it here, after all.” Chio smiled.

“Well yes… Nallan is perhaps the least terrible place.” Auriëlle mused. “But honestly, anything beyond these walls? I’d burn it in a heartbeat if I could. Really there’s nothing out there but dumb farmers, creeps on thrones and zealots most call druids. You did well sticking with Nalla.” She leaned back in her chair, taking a big gulp of her wine to swallow down the memories of most of the high lands. Only Nalla could make it tolerable. Nalla and Carn. Gods she was starting to miss him. “So you two. In love?” She asked, bluntly with a big smirk before taking another sip of her cup and realizing it was empty.

Aurinia blushed, if you could call it that. Her leaves seemed to twitch faintly as she looked at Chio. “We are mated for life.” Chio said, never moving his gaze from her. “We will have many children together, for it is what the Queen wants. Her simply wish for us to stay prim and proper. Besides… I do love my Auri.”

“Oh stop you.” She giggled.

“Hey! More wine here!” Auriëlle yelled at one of the servants as she raised her cup and shook it. Then she set it down again, not caring who would look with what kind of scowls. If they had a problem with her, they could come tell her that in her face. She wasn’t about to start reading faces. Then she turned back to the Sylphi with complete focus. “So… how does that feel? You know, being in love?”

Aurinia tilted her head at Auriëlle. “Have you never…? It’s like… It’s like… A really wonderful feeling. You would do anything for them, knowing they would love you no matter what. And you can be anyone, because they’ll always accept you. Your dreams, desires, motivations- shared with your best friend. Who could ask for more?” She said, turning her head back to Chio.

“So you’re always together then? No matter what?” She asked, a slight tone of regret in her voice. Maybe she should’ve taken time to say goodbye. At the time it had seemed obvious. They weren’t serious. Nothing was serious. Right? No, leaving so suddenly was clean. It was quick. No lengthy farewells or pleas to stay. It was the best thing she could’ve done. Yet, then why did her heart begin to ache now?

"Of course! We share our chambers with the kids but sometimes I go to the market while he stays, or he leaves to go out." Aurinia cooed.

"But," Chio began, "We always come back to each other."

“Always back…” She droned as a servant filled her cup again. She drank half of it in one gulp. “You think, if you left for like… five years. And then you came back” She said, pointing at Aurinia. Then she moved her finger to Chio. “Would you take her back?”

He squinted at her. "Oddly specific date but yeah, depending on the circumstances. I would."

Aurinia giggled. "Five years! He'd probably think I died or left him. That'd be terrible. I'd never do that to you Chioooo." She said with a soft smile.

Auriëlle fell back into her chair again as she uttered something obscene. Suddenly the sight before her disgusted and hurt her. Like it was a knife being jammed in her heart. Without saying anything she shoved her chair back and got up to march away. On her way to one of the side doors she took a pitcher of wine from one of the servants. Who was wise enough to immediately let go of it. Even still in the hall, in sight of all, she put the pitcher to her lips for all to see and drank. After which she finally left the hall.

---

Termurick sat blushing on his mattress, hands rubbing sweatily against each other in his lap. Across the room from him sat the druid Laurel with a bowl of liquid. The young king swallowed as the druid dipped her finger into the liquid and put it in her mouth, dragging her tongue around her mouth to taste it thoroughly. The druid hummed and put the bowl back down, fixing an earnest, professional gaze on the king.

“As suspected, your body has an imbalance of elements - too much sun and stone, from what I can gather. I will discuss changes in your diet with the rachfi to see if we can restore the equilibrium. From what I sampled, though, it seems that your scent and flesh are in balance, though, so we will take that into account, too. Expect a lot of chlach.”

Termurick grimaced. “... Is there no other way?”

Laurel scraped some characters into a length of thick bark. “If you are to regain your health, you need to replenish your moon and water elements. If you absolutely don’t want to eat chlach, I suppose we could--”

“No, it’s… It’s fine,” the prince muttered. Laurel clicked in acknowledgement and rose up, walking over to the doorway to empty the rest of the bowl into the dry grass outside before stepping back inside to sit back down.

“There is also… Another matter that we should discuss, my king.”

Termurick laid back down on his mattress and the druid placed a wet cloth on his forehead. “Do all druids drink pee to check the king’s health?”

Laurel sighed. “It is a completely necessary part of diagnosis, great son of the moon. Now, I was about to say…”

“Do you have to do other gross stuff?”

Another sigh. “Sampling bodily excretions to gauge the health of the aristocracy is an essential duty of the sages, my king. Now if you’d--”

“Do you eat poo, too?”

Laurel scoffed uncomfortably. “No, we-... If needed, we will sample the smell. It is not a joyous experience, but again, it’s necessary.” She reached out and squeezed his hand sternly. “Now… Anymore questions?”

Turmerick made a sad “prrt” and waved. “No… Sorry, it was just… I was curious. Now, what did you wish to talk about?”

“It’s fine, great son of the moon. It’s… Natural to be curious as to what your subjects do, exactly. Now, as for what I was going to say…” She shuffled a little closer and placed her hand on his forehead. “I was going to talk to you about this ten years from now, but with your father’s passing, I need to discuss this with you, as your court sage.”

Turmerick blinked and recoiled up against the cool wall. “Laurel, you are being awfully serious.”

“I am,” she confirmed and clicked. “Now, have you caught yourself wetting the bed lately?”

Turmerick shrunk. “... N-no…”

Laurel hummed and smacked together pursed lips. “Are you certain?”

While he was not comfortable thinking about it, Turmerick permitted himself a minute or so to look back through his stressed memories of the last few weeks. “... No, I-... I haven’t been wetting the bed.”

Laurel raised a black brow and scraped down some more characters on the bark in her hands. “Duly noted.”

Unable to contain his curiosity, the young king turned to face her again. “... Why do you ask?”

Laurel gave him a stone-faced look. “Only the king can further the royal line, great son of the moon - it is important that he be fertile early so we will have time to ensure another son is born.” As she packed her things together, Turmerick took a moment to process this.

“W-wait, but… I’m twenty five.”

Laurel shrugged. “Some nelflings show potency at an age as young as twenty. The sooner we can make certain the line is safe, the better.”

The king clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Even if I… I was, who would--”

“The rach and rachfi have graciously offered the hand of the khamfi to be your future wife. I assume you were informed earlier?”

Turmerick gasped. “Kh-khamfi, you mean--... I wasn’t--...” His breathing quickened and Laurel slowly waved a hand over his head, a purple dust flaking off her skin and drizzling down on the king’s face. He drew two more gasps before he magically calmed down and laid his head on the linen pillow. “... Buz she’z so old…” he slurred.

“Nonsense. She’s thirty-five. A decade is nothing to worry about,” soothed the druid and wiped the remainder of the dust off her hand with a cloth. “I think the two of you would look cute together.”

“Doez mozzer know?”

“The queen? Yes, I believe she is aware. As is the princess - they reacted cordially to the arrangement.”

Turmerick felt tears well up in his eyes. “Why wasn’ I told?”

Laurel kept her manner-of-factly speech. “Forgive me. I thought you had been.”

“What else has the rach and rachfi been arranshing?” The druid offered him a somewhat sympathetic click as she turned to the door.

“I could summon them if you’d like.”

“What other arranshements, Laurel?” Despite being delirious with moon dust and sickness, the prince pressed himself to his elbows and offered the druid a threatened growl. Laurel’s expression hardened.

“Get some rest, my king,” she said and left. Turmerick snarled and rolled back onto his back, his fevered body sloppily kicking at the air to get more comfortable on the mattress. It was happening - the rach and rachfi had engaged their plan to divide them up and seize them for themselves. If he already had promised his own daughter to him, then he had no doubt given his sister and mother’s hands to his cousins in Scenta. He recalled his father’s warning and cringed in shame - how could he have gotten sick at a time like this? When his family needed him?

He coughed weakly and eyed the ceiling. There had to be a way out of this… He couldn’t afford to lose his family, his only remaining allies. He gnawed desperately on the nail of his thumb, deep in thought. How, how, how could be escape this?!

Then a plan struck him - a foolish, outrageous and terrible one fermented in a soup of panic, but still the only plan he could devise. He eyed the sword on its mount. For a moment, he considered asking his father for advice. He stopped himself - his father would be abhorred by the idea and ask him to think of something else. Issue was, he couldn’t - his mind was utterly blank, and any day now, his mother and sister would be sitting atop each their baqualo, heading out of his life forever. He would enact his plan tomorrow - he hadn’t a second to lose.

---

The next morning, the nelfling king had his family and the rachsa come to his chambers, joined by the druid Laurel and the mage Crocus, an aristocrat with claws deep in the tea plantations of Fragrance. The king was nursed intimately by his mother and sister, both doting on him for a good twenty minutes while the others patiently waited around.

“Oh, my baby, you look so pale,” whispered his mother and kissed his forehead. “... You need to eat more meat!”

“... The sage has forbidden me from eating any - it contains too much sun and stone,” the king responded with a smile and clicked at Laurel, who clicked back.

“The king speaks true, my queen. Hot, hard foods would only worsen the imbalance in his body. Once he’s healed, we’ll be sure to return him to a balanced diet.”

“You better,” princess Clove whispered half-bitterly and caressed her little brother’s cheek. “If something were to happen to little Turmey, I would--” A stern click from her mother silenced her. “... That would be bad,” she corrected herself. The king laughed softly. He felt loved again, and it only tormented him more to think about what he was about to suggest. The rach chuckled politely and bowed to take the king’s hand in a well-mannered greeting.

“Great son of the moon - the night truly is darker and safer with you to protect us. It is nothing short of a joy for you to have gathered us here. Pray tell, what is the occasion? Should I have my rachfi bring tea?”

Turmerick sat himself up with some help from his family and cleared his throat quietly. “That, that won’t be necessary, rach Rose. I just have a quick announcement… It’s regarding the engagement with the khamfi.” He smelled the air - she was here, a nelven girl ten years his senior with coal-black cheeks and hair, with eyes like the starry sky. He saw her step forward from the rachsa gathering, wearing a small smile and the rosey perfume so common among her kinsmen. Turmerick swallowed - she was beautiful, but…

Rach Rose grinned from ear to ear and clicked his tongue applaudingly. The princess and queen offered the king forced grins. “Ah, yes - forgive me for not telling you myself. It was meant to be a surprise for later, but alas, such events do have a tendency to leak out into public perception, do they not? Truly, it is an honour that you would--”

“I don’t accept it!”

“-- consider marrying my…” The room went quiet in a second. The rachsa’s gazes all darted to one another; rach Rose stood dumbfounded and stuttering; his daughter the khamfi covered her gasp with her hand; the queen and princess both looked about to enter a panic. The rach eventually collected himself and asked, “I, uh… I’m sorry, my king, but… Is there something barring the union of our two houses?”

Turmerick swallowed. “There is! I… I am marrying someone else.”

The rach looked at Laurel, who shrugged in confusion. Struggling to keep his demeanour, the rach offered another bow. “Of course, of course. If such is the case, we cannot stand in the way of our king’s promised. This is understandable. Forgive me for asking, though - to whom does the king plan to be wed?”

Turmerick drew a deep breath. This would either end in victory or disaster. He looked at his mother and his sister, both of whom were at a loss as to what he was doing. The king tasted the words he was about to say and found them distasteful, but necessary. In an unbroken sentence, he spoke, “Queen Clove and princess Clove.”

The room was silent again, this time without as much as a twitch of movement. Turmerick closed his eyes and drew a quivering breath. He could feel his mother and sister slowly letting go of his hands, both letting out quiet scoffs. The rach offered a single quiet snicker before placing a hand on the king’s shoulder. Turmerick opened his eyes and gazed into the rach twisted face, looking as though he was suppressing a grin into a polite smile.

“Un… Unorthodox,” he offered as generously as he could, and Turmerick instantly knew he had lost. The rach straightened himself up and turned to his family. “But! Who are we to stand in the way of true love? The tradition of multiple wives harks back to your great-grandfather, in fact, my king - it is good that you wish to revere your forebears by following their examples.” He paused. “... While the records don’t offer much in terms of marriage to one’s closest kin, well… Someone would… Have to be the first, I suppose.” There came quiet snickers from the nelves around him. The queen turned to him and lowered her forehead to the floor.

“Great rach Rose - he’s, he’s delirious from the fever. Please, offer him a chance to rephrase himself.”

The rach clicked a ‘no’. “I’m certain the king is more than healthy enough to make his own decisions. The great son of the moon is, after all, the blessed champion of the gods - they would never abandon him when making a decision such as that.” The queen drew quivering breaths. The princess glared in disbelief at her brother. “No, I wish to congratulate you three,” the rach continued, “as a show of good faith, we will arrange for the wedding to take place at this venue. Sure, it may take some time to explain the situation to the guests, but I’m certain they will eagerly support the will of the king.” He turned to the door and the rest of his family followed. “Please, do recover as quickly as possible, my king - we have a wedding to plan!” Then they left. Laurel and Crocus both stood staring and one another uncomfortably.

“I… Had not expected -that-, my king… I pray you will permit me to take a few additional samples from both you and your… Brides… I wish you all the happiness of a good night.”

“Good night,” Crocus echoed. Then they, too, left.

The king, queen and princess sat in silence. Then, with furious strength, queen Clove slapped Turmerick across the face. The king slumped against the wall behind him and sank down, almost passing out. “W-wha--”

“Why, Turmerick…” she whispered as bright tears ran across the charcoal skin. “... Why, by the moon, did you do something so, so foolish?” The princess was already sobbing sharply into her hands. The king’s breathing accelerated.

“I-... I don’t understand, I… I thought this would help--”

“HOW does this help us?!” the queen snarled. “You just gave-...” She shot a glare like daggers at the doorway and lowered her voice. “... You just gave the rach everything he could want.”

Turmerick gasped. “... But… But how? He doesn’t, he doesn’t get to take you two from me and--”

“Is -that- what you were afraid of?!” his sister snarled at him and Turmerick cowered. “He wasn’t sending us away! He had said nothing of the sort! Who’s been telling you this?!”

Turmerick felt the world around him evaporate into fleeting gas. “... W-what do you--”

“We were keeping him in check on that front - we were reaching out to our friends in Xiang and Lukt, trying to see if we could have some of them move here to make arrangements. As long as you are king, you could deny the rach’s wishes to marry us off.”

“B-but the sword said--” How had he not caught this? Had his father forgotten to mention that to him? Had… Had he intentionally left it out? Had it even been his father talking to him through the sword? Had he gone mad?

“... But this… No one will help us now. The people won’t recognise a child born of incest as an heir, and any child born outside of marriage is considered a bastard.” The queen’s face dropped into her hands. The princess dragged herself over to the wall and embraced herself shiveringly. “Our line… Has ended.”

Turmerick shot back up. “B-but, I can go back on it! I can go back on my word!” He eyed the two of them. “Can’t I?”

“You called in every witness the rach needed. He will buy up anyone else.” The queen looked up at the ceiling. “... We have no choice now but to escape.”

“Escape?!”

“... Otherwise, we’ll be kept here as the rach’s pets.” The queen swallowed. “... The rulership of the town is lost now. There is nothing for us here.”

Turmerick’s head slowly fell forwards. “B-but… Fragrance is our home.”

“Not anymore,” the princess whispered as though her words were meant to stab. Turmerick collapsed completely onto his bed.

“I… I just wanted to keep us together…”

“Well… Congratulations, bro - now we won’t be separated even if we want to be.” She stood up and left. Turmerick couldn’t even force himself to cry. His whole body was in pain - it felt as though his heart was about to break asunder under this pressure. He reached out to his mother’s shoulder, but she shrugged his hand off.

“Who, Turmerick… Who planted these thoughts in your head?”

“The…” he could barely formulate worlds. “... Father told me he would take you away…”

The queen looked at him and shook her head. “The gods have cursed me with sons sick in the mind…” With that, she rose and left, too. Turmerick had no idea how long he laid in his blank trance after that. He stared emptily at the doorway, his mind incapable of formulating anything beyond a single sentence, repeating for hours on hours on end.

“I have killed my dynasty.”

Inhale, exhale, release.

Drawing another arrow from his quiver, he notched it into the bow. He stared downfield, his vision narrowing, and could see that his previous arrow hit the target he had set up. It had been some time since he had shot a bow, but perhaps he retained the skill well. Though, pulling the draw-weight back was harder with age.

Inhale, exhale, release.

His eyes carefully followed it as flew, he couldn't fully explain but didn't move as an arrow should. He remembered his father teaching him and taking him to his first hunt. As he prepared his shot, he remembered when a druid told his father that the will of the gods carried arrows, his retort that faith feels souls, not bellies.

Inhale, exhale, release.

He tried not to linger on such thoughts; he moved from one side of Arboria to another for a reason. As he reached for another arrow, he felt an arm grab at his, and he turned around to see a young human lady staring angrily at him.

He watched her face, "Do your ears not work?"

Sighing, and gesturing her to continue, her lips continued, "You did not tell anyone one, you were an explorer or guardian. My father has called for all able-bodied fighters to meet with him. You might not be young anymore, but your bow-arm is decent."

He paused, "Listen. I am a hunter's son, and I am not so able-bodied anymore."

He couldn't help to wipe his face, but he didn't need to know what she said next to reply, "Because my ears don't work."

It took a few seconds for the lady to compose herself, "But you managed to dodge out of the way of Rosa when she ran up behind you. How did you do that if you can't hear."

When he didn't answer it immediately, she jumped on it, "It is bad form faking an injury."

He softly replied, "I am not faking, but I don't know how I react to certain things. My muscles twitch in a certain way, and I move. That is when it isn't more involved, and I do somehow hear a whispering voice teaching me breathing techniques."

Her expression softened, "Have you seen the druids about such things?"

Scoffing, "They didn't help any."

She replied, "I heard my uncle also reacted to things that he shouldn't and heard voices. He found a secretive group of druids that helped him, but my father said not to trust them. I will tell my father to leave you be."

It had taken two days before Soleira had summoned the courage. Today, in the light of Oraeliara, she stood before an utterly unremarkable hut. For some reason she expected it to be darker. Instead the hut was made of the same colorful woods all other huts were made. She knocked and a moment later Leihoha opened the door. “Leihoha.” She greeted him with a genuine smile but with a small heart. Maybe he had forgotten the clash in the woods?

“Oh, Soleira.” He said with a disappointed tone. Soleira guessed he expected the girl, Keilai.

“Do you think we can talk?” She asked.

In response he opened the door for her and let her in. He then motioned towards a bench she could sit on while he walked over the kitchen side of his small hut. “I only have some mead and fresh water from the well. Oh and some radishes I gathered this morning.” He said.

“Water would be fine, thank you.” Soleira replied. The hut was a little too small for her. Especially with her wings. The back of the bench made it impossible for her to sit down as well. So she just settled for a nearby stool. The tips of her wings, even folded in as much as she could, just about touched the wall of the hut. On a small table stood a vase filled with beautiful, colorful flowers. They were hanging low though. “These are beautiful.” Soleira said.

Leihoha looked back at her. “Yeah.” He didn’t sound nearly as happy with them as Soleira thought he ought. Then it became clear why: “They were for Keilai.” He offered her a wooden cup filled with water as she sat down. He also put a bowl with wild radishes on a nearby table. “I just want to say, I’m sorry of how I appeared back then.” He began, his head hung low in cold shame. “Gods I behaved like an idiot. That’s not who I am. Or at least that’s what I thought. Still, I hope you can forgive me.” He slumped in his own chair.

For a second Soleira was stunned. His apology sounded stunningly sincere and filled with regret. Which made it all the stranger. Had he realized he did something wrong? “I forgive you.” She said. Because who would she be if she couldn’t forgive someone? “I just wanted to talk about you and Keilai, to make sure what happened in the woods never happens again.”

Leihoha formed a slight, broken smile on his lips. “I don’t want it to happen again either. Keilai deserves someone better than me.”

“Do you think you an talk about it?” Soleira asked. “About any or all of it? I’d like to understand. So maybe I can help?”

After a minute Leihoha looked up. “Alright.” He said, after which he took a deep breath. Choking back his own growing sadness. “Keilai and I… we were friends. For a very long time. She had always been at my side and I at hers. We told each other everything. Even when we fought we got close again. Eventually. Then… I don’t know. One day she wasn’t a little girl anymore. I saw her in the forest, with the light falling between the trees and I just… I think I lost it. I wanted her to be something more than my friend. Apparently I wasn’t the only one though.” He whipped away a tear that was growing in his eye. “When she said she loved another I just…broke. I confessed my love and then – well you know what happened in the forest. I acted like an idiot and now I probably killed our friendship as well.”

Soleira had leaned in during the story. “What do you mean you broke?”

Leihoha looked up at Soleira. Something clicked in his mind. “You’ve never been in love with someone yet, have you?” He asked.

“I- No. No not yet.” Soleira answered.

“Love itself feels wonderful. You feel light and happy and good about yourself. A strange, sharp energy goes through you. But when your heart breaks, that all changes. You feel heavy. Slothful. Your chest hurts. Like you broke your bones there. Everything feels terrible.” He let out a deep sigh. “I was weak though. Some can fight that feeling. Work through it on the spot. I couldn’t. I’m still working through it.”

Soleira never knew such an awful thing could come from love. How quickly it could turn from pure happiness into a pit of despair. It was terrible and it shouldn’t be. “Pain shouldn’t be a part of love.” He mumbled as she was sunken in her own thoughts.

“No. It should.” Leihoha said. Soleira perked up. “I’ll get over this heartbreak. Everyone keeps telling me that. ‘Just give it time’. And I believe them. Because there are still happy people walking around. The only way I can feel this bad is because I felt something so good before. It makes me feel alive. I’ll be alright. Someday. The only thing I now hope for is that Keilai still want me as a friend.”

Soleira offered him a small smile. “You can always pray to Lahoha. If you care about Kailai, if you really want her to be happy, I think you guys will make up.”

She left Leihoha’s hut with a smile and a wave. Yet she did so absent mindedly. For her mind was wandering away, pondering over the explanation. She flew up and sat in a tree overlooking the entire village. “Love isn’t all good, is it?” She asked herself. Slowly but surely she began to realize she had missed an entire depth to love. How intense it could. Leihoha had loved and it broke him.

---

Dakari, Jakri, and Adara returned to their village in a solemn mood. The sentries eyed them warily.

“Dakari,” one of them said, eying the black-haired angel warily. “Where’s the rest of your warband? Where is Ashara?”

“Dead,” Dakari answered grimly.

The sentry’s eyes narrowed. “And you ran?”

“Only after Ashara was killed,” Dakari glared. “But my report is for Madora. Not you. Stand aside.”

The sentry glared back but dutifully stood aside. The village was a collection of huts; wooden frames supporting mud walls with roofs of leaves and thatch. On the outskirts, makeshift shelters of branches, leaves, and animal hides had been erected, for those who had recently joined the village but had yet to have their own huts built. The largest building was in the center, and it naturally belonged to their leader; Adora.

As they neared Madora’s hut, they could hear screams elsewhere in the village. “They’re still torturing him?” Jakri asked, sounding surprised. “I thought he’d be dead by the time we got back.”

“I wonder if they got anything useful out of him,” Adara said aloud.

“They haven’t,” Dakari growled. “Torture’s a waste of time. Relying on the enemy for information?” He shook his head. “They’ll just tell you whatever they think will make the pain stop, whether it’s true or not. Better to trust in your own eyes and ears.” Another scream came, as if to punctuate his statement, and the three continued to the hut. Another guard was posted outside.

“Dakari,” the guard said, her expression blank.

“I’m here to see Madora,” Dakari told her. “Ashara is dead.”

“War Mother damn them,” the guard cursed. “Go on in, then.”

Dakari pushed aside the tent flap, stepping into the hut, as his two surviving companions followed behind him. In the center of the hut was a woman, seated at a chair, with a crude map of animal hide stretched out across the table in front of her. She looked up as Dakari entered. “What’s this I hear about Madora being dead?”

“She wanted us to ambush an Oraeliari patrol, deep in their territory,” Dakari answered. “Turns out they knew we were coming and had an ambush of their own. We were surrounded, but fought as hard as we could. After Ashara died, I rallied the survivors and we fought our way out. We’re all that’s left.”

Madora stared at him for a moment, and then her gaze shifted to the two figures standing behind him. “Is this true?”

“Yes,” Jakri and Adara both said, almost in unison. It was in their best interest to support the lie, for if word got out that they were healed by an Oraeliari, they would disgrace themselves as well as Dakari. They were his now, whether they liked it or not.

Madora shifted her gaze back to Dakari, and then frowned. “Why are you holding your head high like you expect some sort of reward?” she demanded.

“My lady?” Dakari asked, confused.

“I could hear the smugness in your voice,” she countered sourly. “You didn’t win any victories out there. You just survived. You think we can afford to award our people just for every day they go without dying?” She shook her head. “Nonsense.”

“My lady,” Dakari continued, with a furrowed brow. “For every Neiyari that was lost, three Oraeliari were killed. I managed to get these two back alive, and tell you what happened. Surely it’s better to lose nine fighters and know about it, than to lose a dozen fighters and not know? Ashara was in command. I merely salvaged her defeat. She is the one who must answer-”

“Ashara answered with her life,” Madora cut him off. “As you should have done. We live for Neiyara, we fight for Neiyara, and we die for Neiyara.”

We kill for Neiyara too, Dakari thought bitterly. Can’t do that if we’re dead, can we? But he kept that thought to himself, for to continue arguing with her would be seen as defiance, and would therefore be punished. Instead he allowed his expression to curl deeper into a frown.

“Go on,” Madora said after a moment, waving a dismissive hand. Dakari had first thought it was an invitation to speak his mind, but then she continued. “Leave,” she instructed. “When I send you into battle again, your courage will not be found wanting. Am I clear?”

He grit his teeth. She claimed he lacked courage? He who had stood against three foes at once, while she sat comfortably behind a desk? But he only nodded his head in response, as he was trained to do, and then left the building.

Dakari was sick of this. He was the best fighter here, and after the events of the previous day, perhaps the best leader. Yet his talents went underutilized, and underappreciated.

A sharp scream interrupted his resentful thoughts, and he clenched his fist in irritation.

---

Later that day…

The Oraeliari winced as the footsteps approached, knowing more pain was to come. His wounds had healed, but he could still recall the pain as the blades carved his skin. He could not even see his latest torturer, for it was too dark. There didn’t seem to be anyone else, either, which was rather strange: most of the time, his torture occurred in front of an audience. Still, he closed his eyes, and prepared himself for the pain that would inevitably follow.

Then a sharp blade ran across his throat. Blood surged forth from the wound, and he couldn’t breathe. He began to choke, and as he choked, he found himself growing increasingly light-headed, until finally, darkness took him, and he knew no more.

---

“Who did this!?” Madora demanded before the assembled village, as she stood before the Oraeliari’s corpse, still tied to the post with a slit throat. “I will find who did this. If they come forward now, their death will be swift. If not, they’ll take his place,” she gestured to the corpse.

None spoke. Dakari noticed Adara and Jakri were eying him somewhat nervously, correctly suspecting that he was responsible, but they said nothing.

It was Dakari who spoke next. “Why didn’t you have a guard watching him?” he asked.

Madora’s gaze rounded on Dakari with a stone-cold fury. “I do not need to justify myself to a worm like you,” she snarled. “Was it you?”

Dakari shook his head. “It was not. I’m just saying, though, if you had a guard watching over him… this wouldn’t have happened. To tell the truth, I don’t think you’re fit to lead us.”

Time seemed to stand still as Madora stared at him. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Everyone’s full attention was fixated on the two. Then, finally, Madora broke the silence by gesturing to two Neiyari next to Dakari. “Kill him.”

They hesitated, but then reached for their weapons. The hesitation killed them, for Dakari spun and swept his glaive across the throat of the one on his left, then thrust the butt of the weapon into the stomach of the Neiyari on the right. “Kill me yourself,” he spat toward Madora, as he began to advance. “I challenge you for leadership. Unless you’re too cowardly to accept?”

Her rage returned, and in a flash her sword was out. She rushed toward Dakari, and swung for his head. It was an impressive swing, all things considered; fast and powerful. Madora was no slouch in swordsmanship. However, it had been some time since she had last fought on the field of battle, and Dakari had seen the attack coming. He parried it, and then thrust his weapon into her gut.

But even with a blade in her stomach, she still put up a fight, swinging her sword at him again. Dakari’s left hand let go of the glaive and seized her wrist, stopping it before it could land. Madora glared at him with hatred, before suddenly losing her grip on the sword and slumping to her knees. He kicked her off his glaive, and turned to face the crowd.

“I have slain our chieftain, and claim leadership over the tribe!” he declared. “Does anyone dare contest me?”

Three did. One by one, they challenged him. One by one, he cut them down in single combat.

When it was over, he stood over the three bodies, and thrust his glaive into the ground. “It is settled, then. From this day forward, you answer to me! Unlike her, I’ll not throw your lives away on pointless skirmishes. When we battle, it will serve a purpose. I’ll have no more pointless torturings either, and when we make a deal, we will honour it. I’ll stand with you on the field of battle, and I’ll not sacrifice a single Neiyari without purpose. By the War Mother and the Consort, this I swear!”

A few actually voiced their approval at that. In truth, Dakari was not an unpopular man among the village. They respected him. It was part of why leaders such as Madora and Ashara had disdained him. He was popular, competent, and willing to question them when they misstepped. That made them think he was dangerous. And they were right, because Madora was dead and he now led in her place.

The rest accepted the decision as well. They might not have been particularly enthusiastic about Dakari, but they weren’t particularly loyal to Madora either. They cared little about who led them, so long as that leader was capable. A few, however, appeared resentful, and Dakari knew he would have to keep his eye on them.

Dakari was just about to order them back to their stations, when the sound of clapping could be heard within his mind.

Well done, well done! a deep voice boomed, and from the startled reactions of the other Neiyari, Dakari realized it was speaking to them as well. Though, I would thank you not to call me ‘The Consort.’ I am far, far more than that, the God of Perfection spoke with clear annoyance.

Anyhow, the God went on, You’ve made an oath in my name, and I expect you to honour it. In the meantime, I think I’ll name you my champion.

Dakari’s eyes widened. He had not expected this little coup to attract the attention of Cadiri. He was not the War Mother, but still… to have drawn the eye of a god? He fell to one knee, and the rest of the village quickly followed. “You, you honour me, my lord…” he said.

I do indeed, the God said, and Dakari felt the God’s blessing wash over him. The glow of his glaive turned from a golden light to a bright purple. It is rather uncommon to find such integrity among your kind. Many, in their shortsightedness, fail to see the purpose. Now go forth and lead your people to glory.

A small smile appeared on Dakari’s face. In just one day, he had gone from a common warrior to the leader of a tribe and the champion of a god. And in that moment, his mind swelled with ambition. He could become a Saint… or, failing that, an equal to them in all but name. The Neiyari would flock to him, and he would lead them to victory against their greatest enemy. Perhaps he might even rival Aveira…

He thought of the Oraeliari leader he had met earlier… Allura, was it? You should have tried to kill me, he thought. You had no idea…

He rose to his feet. “The God has spoken,” he declared. “I am Chosen. The rest of you, though, you still have work to do. Get back to it!”

---

In antiquity, the door of Artifex’s realm opened and out from it a large ant scuttled, heading for the noticeboard of the gods. Atop its back a small platform was stuck, holding a legless writing desk complete with parchment and a fountain pen and a large number of bees.

The ant dutifully trundled up to the board and stopped as if to read it. When it did, the bees grabbed the pen together, hoisting it into the air, and begin replicating the various notes written down about the nature of the zodiac and omens.

Deep within Artifex’s realm in his workshop at the core of the Acropolis, a stone chisel raised into the air and began copying the writing being done by the bees, making a more permanent record of their ink based writing.

A goblinoid Artifex watched this out of the corner of one eye till the process was complete. Once it did he set aside the reports Kallak had copied from the curators of the omen spire and parrused these new documents, sipping lightly from a watered down glass of wine as he read the detailed writings of another god.

”Ah, so that is why the Servants cant reach each other. Interesting.” He muttered while reading about the abilities of meteorites, before moving on to read about omens.

Once he was done he made a quick scan around Galbar and found The Augur's Legend and the books and records of magical hotspots located around it. Artifex briefly perused these, but primarily focused on the central power of the monument.

”How convenient” the god noted approvingly as he mentally walked around the monument ”Ways to communicate things to mortals without having to keep an eye on everything, or gauchely butt in whenever something needs to be conveyed.”

The wine glass was set aside and pen picked up in their palace ”Now let’s see what we can do with it”

---

drip drip drip

“What. huh?” grumbled the goblin who had been watching over the base of the omen spire as he awoke. He shook his head and then looked up at the drops of information imbued water falling from the top of the obelisk, caused by the structure’s detection of Omens by how they affected the ambient mana. The goblin dutifully wandered over to the bowl, and checked the patterns of the ripples against a chart of the known omens. Then he looked back at the ripples. Back at the chart with a frown before realization dawned on his face.

“Oh heck. Boss! Boss!” the goblin cried out as he ran to fetch the Itztli in-charge of the structure.

Several minutes later, the room was swarming with mages clamoring around the central vessel hurriedly writing things down while arguing about what the new patterns could mean. Little was agreed upon, but this much was clear: the number of types of omens had increased dramatically and the curators were going to have their work cut out for them figuring out what they all meant.

---

Artifex finished making the last of his adjustments, a special little machine based off the glass butterfly prayer autoresponders, which would create a butterfly or moth upon the ascension of a new ruler. Each one would have highly detailed patterns representing the reviewer (and thereby his own) opinion of the new ruler, as well as provide some subtle hints as to what they would need to do to improve or maintain his opinion of them or contain warnings about what threatened their position, either now or in the future.

He set down the little machine, which fluttered off to join the small swarm of autoresponders and picked up his wine glass again as he sat back to admire his work. Almost immediately, the reviewer started flashing, its triangular wings shifting thought patterns until it settled upon a design. Artifex squinted at it until he saw what it represented: a skull, being crushed between a pair of barbed horns like those he used to represent himself symbolically.

”What?!”

---

Down below, Teagan swatted a large and obnoxious butterfly that had flown into Ha-Dûna’s city hall before continuing to consolidate Sigeran’s (and by extension his) new command over the city. Outside, the work on the new temples to the druidic gods had been abandoned and the efforts of the workers turned back to the art of war. The people either clamored for blood, meekly complied with the new order or fled for their lives in the night, following the cities former leaders into exile. In the village to which they had fled, a rod of metal from the scattered debris of the Lanturn moon fell from the sky, striking the earth with a thunderous boom and heralding the doom would soon approach their temporary sanctuary.

Above in Artifex’s realm glass shattered against a wall as the god raged and cursed Sigeran's name.

“I have to get some sleep.” A smiling Authorius said. The name itself was strange in these lands. His parents said it came from a place far away called Acadia. They told him he was named after the god of magic due to his colorful eyes. Well, the god of magic certainly has blessed him. He got up from the wooden stump that was acting as his chair.

“Nonsense! Play another round! C’mon.” Chieftain Doug said as he put the small wooden pieces back on the board. The grey in his beard betrayed his age. Yet despite his adventurous youth, he had grown up to be a wise man for the village. Wise enough to realize he would need magic and druids alike. “I’ll let you win this time.” He said with a smile.

“That’s a lie.” Authorius said. “The day I win from you is the day your people will barge in here demanding your son to take the throne.” Despite that, Authorius sat back down again and rearranged his own board pieces. The king held the darkest pieces, so he was to start. According to the rules. “Gibbou will punish us.” The Servant said as he made his own move.

“Then she shouldn’t have made the night so beautiful.” The chief said as he moved his own piece again. “I will pray for forgiveness in the morning. Surely she’ll understand that talking with old friends requires time.”

Authorius was rubbing his black beard as he pondered his next move. “Gods can be fickle. The druids lost their supremacy over Ha-Dûna, a place we thought protected by no less than nine gods. Now they worship Sigeran.” Authorius noted casually as he moved his pawn again.

“Not just them.” The king remarked with a sullen voice as he moved his piece without much time to think. “My own men have been giving me sideway looks. The farmers are afraid to upset Lyd and Reiya while my own sons have begun whispering his name. I do pity the druids.”

“Any idea what they will do?” Authorius’ response was faster now, both in conversation and on the board.

“No. I think they’re too shaken by what happened. Many of them lost an important place: home.” The king said as he was now rubbing his bare chin. “You wouldn’t understand that as a wanderer. But home is an important place. Especially if you’re part of something. To have it taken from under you. I can’t imagine how it would feel.” The king finally made his move.

“Then why not offer the druids shelter?” Authorius asked after which he moved his pawn.

“And draw the ire of those who rule Ha-Dûna now? I’ll let them pass and let some stay as is customary. The people love it when a druid stays for a bit. It’s good for the fields as well. But how long is that going to last? I’ve been expecting someone from Ha-Dûna for some days now. To tell me to turn to the one true god.” The king made his move again.

“Will you?” Authorius asked as he put his pawn in a very vexing place for the chieftain.

“Publicly, I might. There’s no arguing with these fanatics. I want my village to stay in one piece. If that means I need to kneel to some new god, I will.” His pawn took that of Authorius.

“And then what about the druids that pass? They won’t like it.” Authorius moved another pawn in a vexing position.

“It’s a balancing act. I might shift at any point. For as long as I can keep the peace.” The king moved his own pawn out of danger. “Always got to shift.”

“What if war comes again?” Authorius asked as he moved a second pawn in a vexing position. Boxing the king in on the board. “Sometimes there’s no balance. You just have to throw your lot in with one side or another.”

The king rubbed his chin. Pondering more upon his current situation than the board. “The druids have been almost my life long ally but those Sigerans… they’re dangerous. Zealous. Nothing scares me more than a zealous man.” He took one hard look over the board again and then, finally tipped his king piece over. “I don’t have an answer for you.” He said with a faint smile.

Both men rose and took each other’s wrists. “Authorius. Rest some in the guest bed, then get out of here and don’t come back until all of this is cleared up. The druids might’ve disliked you but there’s not telling what Sigeran thinks.” The Servant merely nodded and moved to one of the side doors of the hall.

The mage slept restlessly. He was well aware the place was dangerous. He preferred to stay on the move. Be nobody in particular. Here and now, his entire body was on guard. For a second he thought he felt a rush. He got up immediately with a knife in his hand. There was nothing. Wooden boards had kept the windows shut. No wind could enter. Yet he swore he had heard something. With three hand signs, a skill he learned from his parent’s homeland of Acadia, he lit the candles in his room. Light banished the darkness. On a table beside Authorius sat a strange thing. An orb made of several fragmented pieces. He frowned when he picked it up. It wasn’t heavy nor light but fitted perfectly in his hand.

For weeks Authorius had been trying to solve the puzzle. He had gotten through four layers already. Every time he had to recite a certain spell. One he knew he had learned but was so far back in his mind, he barely remembered it. None the less, every time the fragments of a layer peeled away from what he assumed was the center. Now, on the road, he was looking at the orb as he was reciting a spell to make water. That was the only clue he could deduce from the strange shapes on the last fragmented layer. It had something to do with water. Sadly a small bit of mist formed around the orb but nothing else happened.

A bit exhausted from his travels, Authorius decided to rest a bit near a pond in which he was dangling his legs. Though he was still trying to read more clues off of the puzzle. Until he accidentally dropped it into the pond. He quickly grabbed it again, but felt the fragments shift and move under his grip. When he fished it out again, all layers were pulled back. Revealing a glowing pearl-like object within it. Slowly Authorius pulled it out. It gave off a soft light that somehow didn’t blind him. Nor felt hot to his fingers. Then the pearl’s light flashed. In that flash, it gained weight and shape. When Authorius’ eyes could open up again, he wasn’t holding a pearl in the palm of his hand. Instead, a wooden staff balanced in his hand, with a gnarled top embracing a crystal. “I always wanted a wanderer’s staff.” He said with a faint smile. Though he closed his eyes and reached out to his brothers and sisters. Many of them had received the same strange puzzle in the last few weeks. He had to share with them the joyous news of what happens when you manage to solve a puzzle. When he opened his eyes again, he looked around him to try and find the opened puzzle. Yet it was gone. As if it had never existed in the first place. The only thing that remained as proof was the staff in his hand.

In all his thousands of years of activity, none had been more fascinating than this single one.

Xes had observed when the gods swam the world and warped it at their touch. He had seen new continents raised, islands scattered across the seas, and species wrought from the primordial pseudo-nothingness of unreality. Though he had not realized at the time of many of those things, for his mind was simple and animalistic, Xes had been party to the true creation of the world. He was among the first original vrool created by tentacle through Klaarungraxus’ will and through his animal cunning he had survived long enough to become sapient. There were scant few vrool left who could lay claim to such a legacy and Xes swam amongst their hallowed ranks.

And yet even still, through all his time as a Warlock and a master of magics, nothing had ever excited him as thoroughly as this discovery.

The year had been terribly productive. At the very beginning of the year, as if on cue, the warlocks had received their first tangible reward from the god they’d been slaving for. Even after two thousand years of silence the Warlocks worked tirelessly to discover a path for their deity’s return. Now, at long last, there were signs that their efforts had been noticed and rewarded.

The arrival of Tewakagraxus, second avatar of Klaar, had been an exciting one. It was not often that the very core entities of the gods arrived upon Galbar and even less common for them to be amenable to the Warlocks. Xes had always wondered why they were not heaped with gifts and accolades by the other deities of the pantheon; surely the other deities were equally pleased with their work to return them to the world? The Warlocks had even gleaned their true-names from the depths of the world’s consciousness! Surely that showed they were diligent in their work? He admitted to himself from time to time that it was likely they were unaware of the Warlocks actions but ignorance was never an excuse. Alas, the work of the Warlock was never done.

That was exactly why their new patron, Tewakagraxus, was so meaningful to the advancement of Warlock ideals. As one torn limb of the almighty creator-deity, Klaarungraxus, Tewaka represented a facet of the one true deity of the world. Obviously, this meant he deserved considerable praise simply as. The other severed element of Klaar, the one called Mawar, was fascinating in its own right but seemed slightly disinterested in Xes’ work. It seemed far more enraptured with the other mortal creations of the planet and had gone on its merry way after only the slightest of observations. Xes had been content with that, for to work under the undisturbed eyes of his deity had been enough. He wouldn’t lie to himself, however; it was glorious to be actively encouraged by his deity, even if it was but a facet of that greater whole.

And so the Warlocks had been rewarded.

The first of these gifts was more blatant; the creation of a creature not of flesh and blood, wrought by the numerous limbs of the cursed-vrool. It had been carved of ivory and its flesh sutured from the inert stuff of demons. Though not in any way sapient after numerous tests to prove soundly such a claim, it was capable of following commands to the letter and seemed to delight in doing so. At least, as far as an emotionless hulk could possibly delight in any labors. From this original structure Xes and his warlocks had been able to observe and then further experiment on the creation of more of such creatures. Within the year, and with direction from Tewaka himself, the warlocks had been able to produce their own Simulacra designed after the different Akuan clades. It was taboo amongst them to create such poor replicas of vrool but what harm was there in making other undersea kin?

And so the lair of the Coven of Xes, dozens upon dozens of caverns both constructed and natural interconnected by innumerable passages and tunnels gave rise to hundreds upon hundreds of Simulacra. They were simple things, to be sure, and were best suited to direct and easy, repetitive tasks. Nevertheless, hundreds of them made the work of the Warlocks far easier; no longer would they have to spend their time bringing their things to themselves or rely on soft and witless slaves for the duty. A Simulacra, appropriately ordered, would not fail in its task; if it did, the Warlock was at fault.

Beyond that, work on the skills of Artifice created by the sub-deity had progressed in fascinating ways. Already the different items created by the Warlocks in their experiments had borne brilliant fruit. First among them were sources of heat, an ever present need among a Vrool population desiring above all else to be able to think. Their exothermal nature made rapid thoughts difficult and though the Warlocks had specifically been blessed with freedom from such curses, this did not change that their lackeys and masters alike would benefit greatly from such a gift. With the surgical implantation of such a stone adjacent to the heart of a vrool, a permanent heat source to make a vrool pseudo-endothermal could be achieved. Through this, even the most slow-witted tyrant could be made equal to a Warlock, at least in speed of comprehension. Beads of coral, each artificed to neglect or even actively oppose the hungry pull of the world towards its surface could allow vrool above the surface to swim as though they were in the open sea!

Most of all, and perhaps Xes’ most favored of all his works, was the babelstone. Placed with surgical precision in the throat of a vrool, it allowed for a vrool’s vonu to echo outwards in the language of their choosing. It had been difficult to create, requiring a great deal of knowledge of mana as well as tapping into the mirrors of Aicheil for the raw stuff of speech, but it had been his crowning achievement. No longer would intermediaries be required for vrool interacting with the surface world.

The work of the warlocks had become that much easier.

And all the while, as Xes preened and gloated over his accomplishments, Tewaka watched with growing glee. The cursed-vrool had watched and waited, had doled out the information of his new creations one by one, and had happily played into the desires of the Warlocks for a patron. Though the Overmind had done well in making them, Klaar had failed to recognize just how obsessed with recognition the vrool could become. Now they had such a deity, even if it was just another facet of Klaar, and Tewaka was more than pleased to direct those efforts.

The cursed-vrool could feel the Overmind’s presence, observation, and focus at all times and knew full well that Klaarungraxus was aware of his actions. Tewaka had determined at some point that it was highly likely that Klaar could actively impede or even fully halt his actions if the Overmind so intended. Though this was not an ideal situation for Tewaka, at least for now he’d been given full reign. Something to handle in the future, considered the demigod. Nevertheless, for now he had remained free from persecution. With the expansion of his powers Tewaka knew that he was benefiting the whole and for that Klaarungraxus would accept his works. However, Tewaka knew as well that as his efforts deepened, Klaar would sooner rather than later start to interfere.

But that was a problem for another day.

---

The Travels of Ina Hikohira-Section 1: The Beginning

Hikohira walked through the streets of Tategawa, the designs given to them by that strange newcomer Tiamat had been incredibly useful, but yet, ensuring the ship would be perfect was taking time, which admittingly annoyed Hikohira.

She had found herself in the docks again, she could see the construction of the ship a bit of distance away from her, this time though, it seemed they had made a good deal of progress, that was interesting. She decided to go investigate.

As she drew near she saw a new face, a lanky male reshut darting around the construction site, barking and giving orders, looking almost like an utter maniac. His utter devotion to the construction seemed to embolden his workers and they moved at twice the speed as they were before.

As Hikohira drew closer, the new face looked up, almost beaming when seeing her. “Ah!” He spoke “Lady Ina! A pleasure!” He quickly jogged over to her, extending his free arm, as his other was wrapped around various scrolls and parchments. “Okazaki Narikuni, at your service.”

She took the outstretched arm and shook it. “A pleasure to meet you sir Okazaki, I don’t think I've seen you on this team before.”

“Yes, I was a recent hire,” He replied “I had some ideas on how to construct the boat and the Daimyo hired me on, would you like to see?” He gestured to the scrolls still wrapped underneath his arm.

Hikohira merely gestured to a nearby table “Show away.”

Narikuni almost jumped at the opportunity, rushing towards the table and laying out all his scrolls and plans. They were intricate and honestly impressive, using the recent plans given to them by Tiamat and making them even better, there were several improvements to the design and structure, some which Hikohira could understand but others seemed completely alien to her.

“Tell me sir Okazaki, where did you learn all this?”

He paused for a few moments, seemingly pondering the question “Well, I served as a shipwright here for the Kinoshita, one day I was investigating the designs for the ship when I gained a sudden, burst of inspiration, I gained all these ideas and designs and I just had to jot them down and show them to the Daimyo, and, when he saw, he hired me as lead shipwright.”

She looked beyond the shipwright towards his crew, they seemed to bustle with a stride and pep she hadn’t seen before, working far faster then they had before. While she was still a bit unsure about the validity of these sudden inspirations, if it ensured the expeditions could occur sooner, then she would have no problems with it.

“I see, in that case, I shall leave you to your construction, I wish you the best.” She bowed to the Shipwright, who had quickly returned to staring at his various designs and giving orders to his workers. Though she had only a scant amount of time to turn around and head back the way she came before she spotted another intriguing sight. Before her, a good distance away, was what appeared to be a contingent of Hashimoto troops, adorned in the orange-yellow colouration of the clan and being escorted by the Red troops of the Kinoshita, at the front stood one of the Kinoshita Princes, walking alongside what appeared to be a Hashimoto lord.

As soon as the Kinoshita spotted Hikohira she gestured her over, introducing her to his companion as she drew closer. “Lady Ina! I am glad you are here, this, is Prince Hashimoto Hidetoki of the Hashimoto Clan, he has been sent by his father to help us with the expedition.”

The Hashimoto prince stepped forward, bowing to Hikohira “Greetings Lady Ina.”

She returned the bow “A pleasure to meet you Prince Hashimoto, and why has your father sent you so far for this expedition?”

“Well, I am one of the, younger, Hashimoto princes, I wished to gain some of my own glory free from the shadow of my brothers, and so,” The prince gestured towards the contingent of troops behind him “I gathered some troops and mercenaries we could spare, and got my father’s permission to come here, to offer Hashimoto protection to your expedition.”

Hikohira’s eyes widened underneath her mask, Hashimoto protection? To have the finest masters of the blade aiding her expedition would be most useful, she doubted few within the mainland could match up to the power of the Hashimoto skill. “Well,” she finally spoke, “I'm sure the Kinoshita and I would be most accepting of having your skills aboard the ship.”

“Of course” he replied, bowing once more, “Shall we head off once more?” He asked, directed towards the Kinoshita prince.

“Lets, oh, and Lady Ina, the Daimyo wishes to see you, apparently we’ve had another guest offering aid to the expedition.”

Hikohira sighed, this was shaping up to be a busy day.

---

When she arrived to the palace, she found a very interesting sight, sitting down within the Grand hall was the Daimyo and across from him, a fairly large Vrool, they were not the biggest Hikohira had seen, as an Ohta she had seen quite a few vrool before, and by the looks of this one, she believed they were the spawn of Taa, the local Vrool tyrant who kept trade across the Kylsars safe.

“Ah! Lady Ina! Come in!” The Daimyo shouted upon her arrival, gesturing for her to take a seat at the table with them, which she did. “This,” he gestured to the Vrool across from him “is Tagroxagrus, he has arrived with some Akua retainers and offered some sea-bound protection to our expedition.”

The vrool bowed towards her “A pleasure Lady Ina, once I heard of your expedition I jumped at the chance to assist, any good seabound adventure deserves some good Vroolic aid!” He loudly boasted, earning a good hearty laugh from the Daimyo and Hikohira.

“I would most certainly appreciate your skills Sir Tagrox, having the might of the ocean would surely aid us.”

Tagrox nodded, and once more went to downing large quantities of Sake. Hikohira decided to stay and partake in the dinner, talking with the Daimyo and Vrool, figuring out pathways towards the mainland and a base idea for the expedition. She could already tell, this would be an interesting adventure.



The docks of Tategawa was abuzz with interest and celebration, the great expedition ship, Bōken-sha, had been completed, mostly with the aid of the new shipwright, thousands had come to see it off on its maiden voyage towards the mainland. The crew had assembled just in front of the ship, a hundred various crew, about 20 of the Hashimoto contingent, 10 Akua, 1 vrool, a Hashimoto prince, a Kinoshita Inventor, a Kinoshita Prince and retinue, a strange traveler, and of course, the Ohta captain.

Tanehira stood right next to Tiamat, waving towards the assembled crowd as the Daimyo spoke to them, uttering a grand speech about the ship bringing a new dawn upon the Kylsars and the Reshut people. The prince leaned towards Tiamat “Quite the celebration isn’t it?”

Tiamat kept her hands down, taking effort to look an accompaniment rather than a central focus; as she whispered back to the prince, “Indeed. This is a momentous occasion, and it seems your father wished to ensure it would be celebrated as such.”

“Well of course, the three great clans coming together to conduct an expedition to the mainland? It's an incredible prestige gain for the clan.” He whispered back, somewhat side-eying the Hashimoto prince, who stood just next to Narikuni, the shipwright.

Tiamat did not deign to look over, whispering, “So long as the bottle he seems intent on drowning himself in remains filled.”

The prince chuckled to that “indeed”. Their conversation was interrupted when a large cheer erupted from the crowd at the conclusion of the Daimyos speech.

“Now!” the Daimyo spoke high above the crowd “The crew shall attend to the boat, and set off for new lands!” Another cheer erupted from the crowds, and Tanehira patted Tiamat on the back “Shall we head to the boat?” it was mostly a rhetorical question, as much of the mainstay crew had already surged up to the ship, ensuring everything was in order.

She chuckled, saying back, “As if they’d dare to leave without us,” as she began to walk towards the boat, letting the prince go first.

He chuckled to that as well, heading up the ramp leading up to the boat. It was beautifully well designed, the construction done by the Shipwright making it an incredibly well designed ship. Large sails and a well stocked storage ensured the ship would be a perfect ship to sail the open seas.

Suddenly though, as the two arrived upon the decks, a sudden burst of water occurred from just next to the ship, and in an instant, an oceant had found itself upon the deck of the ship, the crew and crowds immediately fell silent, stunned at the sight. The creature looked around at the crew, its large antenna jittering and moving about, a few minutes of silence, before it brought itself closer to the front of the ship, climbing upon the front mast, and with a sudden strange force of power, transformed itself into a rearing figurehead for the ship.

A few more moments of silence washed over everyone. Before sudden cheers erupted from the crowd and crew. “Well I’ll be.” Tanehira finally spoke.

Tiamat walked to the front mast, examining the figurehead, announcing, “Surely a sign that the ocean deep approves of our passage.”

“Not only that!” Spoke the sudden appearance of Narikuni, who had quickly jogged onto the ship “That my dear traveler, is an Oceant! And its arrival upon our ship means its design has been blessed by Aritafek!” The shipwright looked almost ecstatic at the revelation, taking a place next to Tiamat to gaze upon the figurehead. “And surely a beautiful figurehead at that as well!”

Tiamat respectfully dipped her head at the mast, responding to Narikuni, “I am honored to take a place upon the vessel blessed by Aritafek. May this prove to be a prosperous journey!”

A cheer erupted from the crew in favor of Tiamat’s statement, finally the Hashimoto guards and Captain Ina joined them upon the ship, the Vroolic scion and Akua readied themselves at the watery sides of the ship. Ina began giving out orders to the crew, preparing the final preparations of their journey. After a while she walked over to Tiamat, beckoning her over. “So tell me Tiamat,” She said, “As our resident passenger, where do you wish to make landfall? So we can drop you and the prince off to allow you to partake in your adventure.”

Tiamat considered the question, answering to Ina with a nod of her head, “My destination lies at the heart of the mainland, inaccessible from any seafaring vessel. The shores we land upon shall make no difference to me, and I will leave such decisions in your capable hands.”

“I see.” Ina nodded, “Our Akuan assistants tell us that beyond the far lying island of Senshu stands a region of swamplands, we shall try to land in the more southern portion to bring you closer to your destination, but I can only promise we shall do our best.”

Tiamat dipped her head, reassuring, “I will find my way no matter where you choose to land. The stars above will be my guide.”

“Very well.” She bowed towards Tiamat, once more returning to her duties. After a few more brief minutes, everything was ready, and with the blessing of the Daimyo, announced by the smashing of a bottle of Sake against the hull. The sails were unfurled and the anchor raised, allowing the ship to leave the docks as the crowds on the mainland cheered. The Bōken-sha had begun its voyage.

---

It had been a few days of travel for the Bōken-sha, reaching the isle of Senshu, the westernmost isle of the Kyslars. In the crew cabins below deck, Tiamat had reserved one for herself. Her accommodations were sparse; spartan at best. A few candles, arranged along the edges of her desk, a bronze carving set, and a conspicuous lack of bedding. She had kneeled in front of her desk, upon it a chunk of wood, taking shape as she whittled upon it with a bronze knife. Though it was only half-carved, it bore a distinctive shape, deep grooves cut inwards, thick teeth extending out in between.

A bin held the shavings whittled off, each slice of the knife launching wood chips with precision. The roll of the ship in the ocean waves deterred Tiamat not one whit; she worked with the slightest of movements only the calculations of those not human could reach. Her arm remained perfectly balanced against the world’s attempts to throw her off. A silken curtain covered the entrance to the cabin, offering privacy from onlooking eyes.

A soft knock came from the cabin door, and the soft voice of Prince Tanehira came through “Tiamat are you there?”

Tiamat did not stop whittling at the wood as she spoke, “Come in.”

The door slowly opened, and the prince stepped in, upon seeing Tiamat at her desk, wood in hand he stepped back a slight bit “Oh, my apologies, I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

The whittling continued as she responded, not looking away from her work, “I can carve and talk at the same time, if you desire. It is no issue to me.”

“I see” he slightly bowed and fully entered the room, closing the door behind him. “If I may ask, what are you carving?”

She carefully placed down the carving knife, taking the wood in both hands. With a turn to face the prince, she presented the half-complete carving with its distinctive toothed shape. She answered, “I am carving a gear, a symbol of my worship.”

“A gear?” The prince kneeled down a bit to get a full look at the carving “I must admit I am not familiar with the god who you worship, we Reshut only deal with our four central gods.”

Tiamat nodded, “As I am not fully familiar with the workings of your gods. The gear is the symbol of the Great Machine and the Constant. Consider it like this;” she paused, “the world around us is consistent. We are pulled earthwards, the wind upon the seas blows predictably. Our lungs are filled with air, and the sun rises and sets. These are all things that are constant. They are laws of Galbar and the skies above it that are immutable and were the same for our ancestors, and will be the same for our long-futured children.”

She took the carving knife up once again, carving as she explained, “That is the Constant. The physical world that surrounds and permeates us, that we take a part of and can rely upon the consistency of. The Great Machine is the embodiment of the Constant. The crossbows your men now use are a machine as well. Smaller parts that add together to a greater whole. The Great Machine is the small mechanisms and parts of our world, working to a greater sum, personified.”

“I see,” Tanehira spoke “so the Constant is that which is always the same, and the Great Machine is those small parts working all together?” His voice was slightly confused, this being the first god beyond the Reshutian four that he had ever heard of.

Tiamat shook her head as she carved, continuing, “The Constant is about shared experience and observable law. If the stars were never the same, you could not learn to navigate by them. If water was not always pulled earthwards, your children would not understand your references to the ocean. Without these immutable laws, progress would be impossible. The Great Machine is-- he -- is all these little parts, yes, but he is more than just a machine. He is a sum greater than the parts that define him. He willed himself into existence when the stars were young and gods had not yet begun to mould the lands.”

The prince paused for a brief moment, taking in all the words of Tiamat. He knelt there for a long pause. “I, I think I understand, your god seems quite, in depth and intricate, of course I mean no offence from that.”

Tiamat counseled the prince, saying in a comforting tone, “He is esoteric. The peoples of the land do not understand him. Worship of him is quiet, reserved, and not often shared. You will find none other who worship him until we reach our final destination. You need not understand fully now; he is complex and he is unknown. It will take time.”

“Well, I hope to come to understand him in time, learning of other cultures and beliefs is most intriguing to me.” He stared at the carving Tiamat was creating, before his head shook a slight bit, as if suddenly remembering something, “Oh yes, I originally came to ask, once you are finished of course, if you wished to come topside with me? Get some fresh air, the captain says we should be passing the edge of Senshu shortly.”

Tiamat had worked her way to the last tooth of the gear, decisively whittling off the final outcrop. Cradling the gear in her right, careful to hold her left palm flat against the back of her right hand, she stood up, leaving her carving kit arrayed neatly on the desk, saying, “A good idea. Let us go.”

The prince stood as well, opening up the cabin door and leading Tiamat into the lower parts of the ship. Even then they could see various crew members walking about, some partaking in card or dice games, others performing various pieces of work, some eating. They walked through the lower decks, some crew rose and bowed as the prince passed them, but he would often encourage them not to. Eventually they found their way to the steps leading topside, the bright sun filtering in as it stood high in the sky.

On the top deck things were far more bustling, crew went back and forth, manning their various stations, some attended to the sails while others attended to the back of the ship, aiding the steering with the rudder. The duo could see Captain Ina speaking to one of the Akua, who was pointing up on a map laid out between them. Narikuni was barking orders to the crew, ensuring they were performing their duties correctly, and the Hashimoto prince, Hidetoki and his troops stood by, just in case.

“Quite the busy ship.” Tanehira commented.

She didn’t immediately respond, walking to the bow of the ship, standing center with the mast as she held the cog against her chest, careful to maintain the placement of her hands. Then, she sang.



She started off quietly, only a tenuous soliloquy among the racket of work. The tradewinds, unfavorably eastwards, began to slacken -- though they did not die off.



Her voice slowly grew in volume, though it continued to be drowned out by the din of sailors and their duty. The east tradewinds halted, the ship deadening in the water as everything becalmed. Shouts of sailors as new demands were levied of them to maintain the momentum.



Her voice was growing in intensity as she gripped the wooden cog harshly, pressing it heavily into her chest, crumpling her silken robe against the force. The oceans sat placently as the tides refused to batter upon the vessel.



Her voice reached a crescendo of volume and intensity, as the tradewinds returned in a gale of strength, pulling the ship westwards with a jerk against all reason. The sails were blown taut as they drank in the deep currents of air that forced onwards.

The crew of the Bōken-sha were shocked with the sudden wind change, the crew scrambled to reign in everything and ensure this sudden shift of wind in their favor could be utilized. Captain Ina and Narikuni rushed to get everything together, and the Akuan jumped into the ocean, to gather their associates.

Tanehira walked up to Tiamat, “That was your doing wasn’t it?”

She loosened her grip on the cog, saying, “Not mine, but the Great Machine’s. My lord listens for his prayers and grants his miracles upon his believers.”

The Prince nodded “Well, I must thank the Great Machine for this, it will most certainly aid us in arriving at our destination quicker.”

She finally brought the cog down from her chest, still cradling it carefully, “He is generous and he is kind. It would be no other way.”

“Of course, I am definitely happy we have you to ensure his kindness comes to us,” He looked upward for a few moments, “Now then, shall we have a nice walk? I’d like to hear more of this Great Machine.”

Tiamat acceded, stepping down from the bow, saying, “Ask and I shall answer.”

---

It had been a few more days of smooth sailing, the winds granted to the Bōken-sha by the Great Machine had greatly accelerated their progress towards the mainland, until, as the sun rose above the horizon, the lookout shouted.

“Land ahead!”

The entire crew and those within the ship rushed to the upper deck, and sure enough, still a good distance’s way off, there were long stretches of land. Captain Ina had come to Tiamat, asking “So, do you know what the mainlanders call this stretch of land?”

Tiamat walked to the front of the ship, looking out to the golden strips of shore that lay ahead. She said, “The mainland does not always descend into bogs that muddy the transition from sea to land. That is a beach. Set anchor a ways out, and row in with dinghies. The sandbars will entrap the ship otherwise.”

“Very well.” The captain barked orders to the crew, wiping them back to their posts and jobs. They quickly scrambled to get everything ready for their arrival upon the mainland. The ship drew closer to the beach banks and eventually dropped its anchor, stopping its travel closer. Captain Ina readied a few dinghies, allowing the Hashimoto troops, Tiamat, Prince Tanehira, and herself upon them, to gauge the land itself.

Their Vroolic aid soon joined them, helping them along to the beach. With a grandeur Captain Ina stepped off the Dinghy as soon as it hit the shore, taking in the grand view, far beyond her she could see the beginnings of a great swampland.

“Looks a lot like home doesn’t it?” She spoke to those behind her, with many of the Reshut giving a chuckle.

Tiamat looked across the stretch of swampland, commenting, “It stretches farther than any of the isles.”

“Well” Hikohira spoke, looking far beyond the swamplands, before finally turning towards Tiamat, “Do you know what the people of the mainland call this land?”

“From what I know, it is the Weeping Plains,” Tiamat responded, as she looked out westwards into the swamp, “I will be going westwards, into the highlands.”

“I see,” She muttered the name underneath her breath, before turning once more to Tiamat “And the Prince Kinoshita will be joining you correct?”

Tiamat responded, still looking westwards, “And his retinue, indeed.”

“Of course” She motioned for one of the troops to come forward “Inform the retinue of the Prince that they shall gather up some supplies and come to us at the beach.” The troop bowed, and returned to the dinghy, to gather the retinue.

“So,” The captain spoke “Where do you plan on going?”

She tore her gaze from the westward sky, looking at the captain, saying, “I wish to return to the courts from whence I once lived. It has been long, and I yearn familiar faces.”

“I see, well, I hope the endeavor is successful for you, I know the young prince is eager to see the lands beyond, as am I, our plans are to head north, towards the top of the mainland, anything you know of there?”

Tiamat answered, “There are some woods to the north of the marsh -- quite a dark place, from what I understand.”

“Hmm, we shall try to avoid those then, beyond some taking notes and maps.” She looked once more towards the Weeping plains as a long pause washed over the two. Eventually, the dinghy returned, this time with the Hashimoto soldier and a small retinue of the prince, two guards, a few attendants loaded with supplies, and a scribe. Prince Tanehira quickly got them updated and gathered his things, coming to Tiamat’s side.

“So,” He asked “When do we head off? I’m eager to see these new lands.”

She straightened her posture, returning her gaze westward as she said, almost absentmindedly, “As soon as you are able.”

“Well,” The prince spoke “If the Captain is willing to let us go?”

Hikohira chuckled “Well, I guess this is our parting moment then,” She turned to Tiamat and the Prince’s group, “I wish you all the best of luck, and Tiamat,” there was a slight pause “Do try to return the Prince in one piece.” A small muttering of “I can handle this” came from the prince.

Tiamat bowed towards the prince, saying, “If anything, he shall ensure that I return in one piece.”

Hikohira chuckled, “Well, in that case, I still hope we may have our paths cross once more, but, I am keeping you too long, me and the others should return to the ship, and you all should get your own adventure underway.” She bowed towards them all “May the gods bless your journey.” She spoke, before ordering the others to ready the dinghy to return to the ship.

---

Truly Guul was most disturbed. Of course they had been shown the countless horrors inflicted upon mortal life since time immemorial, but none could compare to what seemed to be the height of wrongness. Kiim and Jaav were actually agreeing with one another. They were being almost pleasant and accommodating. If anything truly upset the natural order of things it had to be this.

Currently they were discussing something about the isles they had left behind, in truth the three of them had been lazing out in the ocean for a while and quite honestly Guul was quite happy to have a task again, it was something to do at least but to say everything was perfectly fine was another. It was the same deal as before really, not that they got much update on how the whole previous situation had gone, Thaa had the annoying habit of being generous with stuff you didn’t want to hear about.

Flying high above what the ‘day elves’ called ‘the highlands’ not a very creative name especially given the Anchor mountains were very much not that far south from them. Thaa had gone back to calling humans ‘day elves’ again which Guul was sure what kind of sign that was, it didn’t seem easy to be quite sure what track he would take as of late, something seemed to be distracting him from his usual lines.

The artifact that was supposed to be delivered was finished in any case. It was rather simple this time around, little ornamentation and an easy enough design. As always though the abilities of the object were quite a bit more difficult to work appropriately. It was a focus, a kind of magical object that mortals used in their sorceries, golden of course as anything designed in the mind of Thaa seemed to be, simply it was shaped in the design of Thaa himself, or rather that disk and eye that seemed so central to him.

This focus seemed more a protector than purely a magical object in any case, it would protect a mortal’s soul, their body to what extent it could as well. Durable beyond mortal means of course as well as the aforementioned magical effects, capable of storing that diffuse element of mana and attracting it in the first place.

It wasn’t really the artifact or Kiim and Jaav that bothered Guul right now though. She just needed to get away from all of everything. Guul always was the one who ended up making whichever thing and Kiim and Jaav seemed more content to bicker or some such. After this current time it would be good to go somewhere nice, maybe Kubrazjar maybe the Hreelcii Isles, find some nice place and relax somewhat. Just needed to find a certain mage in the highlands.

It was easier when they were monarchs, tended to be more obvious from the air when one was close to their particular patch, at least this mage was attached to a notable monarch.

---

In that dark place beneath the roil, where the gleam of moon barely found its way, one lone figure stood above the hallowed dead.

A baleful glare roared from his right limb, the arm of gods and the limb that smote the tyrant dead. The red palm, the glaring fist, the dread right hand of the creator god.

Ku’Pama.

From distant reefs came the hand of Klaar, the five philanged limb of the twelve-armed god. Manus of blood and icon of catastrophe, this was no gift. It was the sole reward beset upon the Akua for their kinship with the God of Oceans and the one punishment for their driving him from the world.

The sacrifice of Old Growth Below was theirs to bear.

The Tyrants of the All-Sire’s stock were not so thoroughly bound. Though his sacrifice was made for them, most thanked their lucky stars the dread-fish was gone. Now the blemish to their presence, their own greatness, could no longer be so easily seen. They could preen themselves with immodesty at their size and strength no longer eclipsed by their one, true sire.

Not so for the Akua.

And so it was to them to heave their curses upon their backs and swim the dredged abyss, testing the limits of their will against the suffering laid before them by the ill-tempered tentacle of fate.

Not so with Ku’Pama.

The first to bear it, to be cursed by that darkling thing, was no such stranger to agony. Though he endured as best a body was able, his flesh and scale was scarred and paled. If ever there one Akua knew suffering, it was he.

A slave to tyrants, a plaything to warlocks, and a prisoner to his fate. Such is the heritage of Tuah. Such is the inheritance of all Akua.

---

Deep in the Mydian island chain, in the sea that sat between the loving embrace of four islands, the first city of the Akua was born. The exact founding of the city of the sea is unknown to scholars even among its own, for history beneath the sea is ever a difficult thing to track. As the cities of Fragrance and Santa Civitas were joined by Anghebad and Zuanwa, so too did the city of the Akua slumber deep below.

Its location was hallowed and sacred, said to have been built upon the site of the mythical founder’s great ordeals. It is said that the vast beak of a mighty tyrant now thrown to the tides of time lays in the foundations of the city, for it was there in which he was slain. It was the deepest point within the surrounded sea, a pit dark and deep. There was safety there where the first tribes settled and those who would not be slaves could find refuge. In that sanctuary away from prying pairs of six bright eyes the power of the Akua could grow and thrive in solitude.

Though its name changed many times since its founding, the city would be known for all time by its beating heart; Kahu-ali’Haku, the Stygian Edifice.

At the center of the pit, where the great battle between legends had been fought and won, stood a monumental seamount of vast proportions. Strangely pillarous in its shape and peak, it was no doubt the work of the ancient gods and of the creator god himself, Klaarungraxus. When it was made and for what purpose little could be said, for shamans and soothsayers alike had never been able to glean from it its purpose. Despite this, its spiritual value was without question; it would be on this sacred site where the city would flourish. So it was said by the first and only monarch of Kahu-ali’Haku.

He who was Tuah Tama’Ranga o’te’Ku-Pama.

A millennia since that legend and the place had become so much more. It is said that in the times of Tuah, who used his fist to drag up the twelve hills, there was much conflict. The rising might of the All-Tyrant and his ilk had made their hiding place all the more valued. Fortune favored the rising city for all the Great Reefs lay elsewhere and the wealth of surface nations ripe for sacking remained well above the surface. So Tuah led his companions, those freed slaves and others of his kind who refused to bend or break, and a quiet war where no sounds of mortal mouths dwelt. The All-Tyrant’s gaze, despite his claims, could not see so far nor could the tyrants of his making best the determined warriors of Tuah. Though struggle was their life and strife their shepherd, they did not bow and spoke heartily of days when vrool dread to tread waters that were not theirs to slave.

Decades passed and dozens of Vrool were dead, though hundreds of Akua had joined them. As Tuah bled his last breath in the currents his companions begged him to name his successor, wishing for the stability of their old lord’s word. This would not be.

Though his words are long lost to the waters of the world, held only at heart by distant Ku, what he intoned in the Holy Vonu remained in the hearts of his followers even after death. He could not choose for them for that would be the path of Tyranny. As they had chosen to follow him, so too must they choose for themselves the path forward. No more they could ask for him, for he had already given everything he had. With one fell stroke of his cleaver, Tuah removed his red right arm at the elbow, severing the bloodied curse from himself and offering it to them. They who sought to hold the Akua in bondage would die by this hand and they who sought to free them would bare it. So it was.

The Companions took seventy two days and seventy two nights to come to a verdict. Much discussion and much debate was had and though voices raised and tempers flared not once did the collected warriors share blows. None dared to sully their lord’s last decree.

It was decided then and there that the city would not end. They would elect from among their number they who the Companions believed most able to continue the struggle, the Ho’aRa of their fallen master. From this decision pacts were born and each man swore a duty to uphold the decision of the rest, even if they were not among the majority. From there their work began and the Three Needs of Rulers were forged.

The First Need was struggle, for that was the breakwater in which all might was forged. Suffering and pain was a teacher and from that hardship came knowledge of what it meant. No true leader could live without it, for it was the lifeblood of empathy and the strength behind spears.

The Second Need was servitude, for that was the current on which all humility was carried. A true ruler’s ambition could never be more than the success of his people, for they were his masters and he their slave. If a Ruler had not served and followed, how could he know how to lead?

The Third Need was love, for that was the wave from which all action was cast and tempered. Love of one’s people, of one’s companions, and of one’s family taught a ruler the value of life, of others, and shown bright the lines that bind. No ruler could be without love, for that was the path of tyranny.

From among the followers of Tuah the first Hakaiki was selected, to carry on Tuah’s Ho’aRa, his struggle. The Hakaiki would struggle and suffer for ten years before passing on the mantle if they survived, leading the people, the Ku’Ano, in their eternal war against those who would see them enslaved. It was agreed by all, even the first Hakaiki, that this would not be enough to follow in Tuah’s footsteps; they could choose wrong, or the Hakaiki could lose sight of purpose. No individual could hold the power that Tuah had over the companions for such a path would lead to destruction. It was decided, in that dark place where thoughts were born, that the companions of Tuah must always choose for themselves the path they would walk. The Hakaiki would be the spear arm of the people but could not be their mind, for that was theirs and theirs alone to bear. With this the first Hakaiki severed his arm and let the Ku-Pama regrow in its place.

All warriors would vote on all matters pertaining to the people at large, to discuss as the first companions had, from then on. Warriors suffered and fought and bled for Kahu-ali’Haku and for that they could be trusted. Shamans, the Kahuna, who practiced the arts of sacrifice, who knew pain and gave of their own blood for their people would be next, among the people who could direct the path of the Ku’Ano. Lastly, mothers who had brought life into this world would speak, for none more so than they understood struggle, and servitude, and love. Every day would be a day for deciding, no matter would be beyond vote, and the laws of the people would be made by the people so that the Tyranny of the Vrool would have no place among the realms of the free.

So it would be in the city of Kahu-Ali’Haku.

---

In the years just before the return of the gods the islands of Mydia were struck by monumental quakes. Entire cliffsides fell from islands into the sea and whole shores were swallowed by waves the size of mountains. To the shorefolk who walked the ground it was no different from the quakes they had suffered in the past, said to be the work of the gods. To the Ku’Ano of the Great City, things were far different.

Under the presidency of Hakaiki Kekoa Tama'Kala o'te'Ku-Pama, the Kahuna of Kahu-Ali’Haku had worked tirelessly to bring the ancient plans of the Hina’Rangi to fruition. As more and more cities of surface dwellers sprang to prominence it had been voted that the Ku’Ano could no longer hide beneath the waves. Using the powers of Telluric Sorcery, the great pit and mount upon which the city had flourished were raised. Though only the very peak of the edifice thrust from the waves, much of the city had been brought close to the surface. This was the entrance into the world that the Ku’Ano sought, confident in their strength to oppose invaders of all sorts at the height of their power.

Now would be the time of the Ku’Ano.

---

---

The land below Eesis steadily changed as they neared the Prairie. Rocky terrain and forests gave way to long stretches of grasslands, golden and green, pocketed with forests and lakes. They even passed over a herd of Auroran Deer, their majestic halos a beacon in the grasses. With each flap of her wings, Eesis was fast approaching the golden sea beyond. The blue sky above began to beat down on them as it sank on the horizon, it was late day, and soon evening. But even from their height, the heat became uncomfortable and Lucia was forced to strip her long brown cloak in favor of her garments that she wore underneath. The wind felt divine upon her arms and she out stretched them in earnest letting the air cool her off.

She looked back at Sanya, who still held onto her like a pup. An adorable pup at that and said, "We're getting closer, won't be long before we enter the Prairie proper and then arrive at the Temple!"

The dark-haired warrior nodded at first, gazing out towards the east in the growing twilight. She'd had a good amount of time to grow used to flight, but still reacted to every shift from Lucia with silent distress. She also, Lucia had learned, preferred to lean forward rather than raise her voice too much. Brought out of her daze, Sanya looked at Lucia and slowly pushed her face forward in that same way, lips brought to her ear. "How long has it been for you?" she asked as peacefully as possible against the wind.

Sanya's voice sent a small shiver up her spine at first before she thought on what she asked. It made Lucia pause. How long had it been? Five years? Ten years? She knew druids traveled there to see her, she had even been happy to welcome them but surely they didn't think she'd always stay there? "Uh…" she began, "It's been a bit but not long enough where people I knew would all be dead. I hope. Well at least the ones I knew last time I was there."

That seemed to make Sanya smile, as guarded and faint as the crease in her lips might be. "You're a hard woman to forget, Lucia," she retorted with another close lean. "I think you're in for another heroes' welcome."

Lucia giggled at that. "Was it my tattoos that gave it away?" she mused before frowning slightly. "That might be true at first, but unlike the druids, the people of the Sunland have always treated me with respect and they don't snoop through my stuff either." she said, rolling her eyes. Still, there was part of her that was nervous. She really didn't want to deal with that again.

Sanya shifted her grip slowly to wrap her arms further around Lucia's stomach, shuffling up against Lucia's back firmly to half-rest her head against her shoulder and head. "I feel as if they acted anything like those druids, the Sunlands would've stopped existing long ago." she offered with some of her deadpan sass. "Could have built yourself an empire."

Lucia's heart beat a little faster at Sanya's touch. Even now she wasn't entirely used to it and it gave her stomach butterflies. To hide her flustered embarrassment she spoke quickly, "Me? A ruler?" she forced a laugh before coughing and saying, "I'd make a terrible ruler. As you know, I'm not very stern. And not really cut out for such a life, as you also saw." Besides the last time she held a position of authority… Well… The city fell. She pushed that thought from her mind and spun it back at Sanya. "Now you on the other hand, I could see it. Queen Sanya, Ruler of the Highlands. That could be fun."

There was a soft hum at first, Sanya musing over the words. "I'd be lying if I said I've never considered it, she eventually replied, a mellow levity to her tone. "I was a poor chieftess. Very poor. Sometimes I wonder if I'd be better with all I've learned. Usually when someone with authority bothers me. Me and the Highlands though - I don't know if we're good for each other."

"Hmm. I feel you are too harsh on yourself Sanya. Wisdom comes with age so they say. Soooooo we should probably be really wise now huh?" Lucia laughed again, leaning her head on Sanya's as she took a deep breath. "This is nice, all the same." she sighed happily. She felt the gentle vibration as Sanya hummed another agreement.

"I'm not sure I'll get used to flying, but the view is gorgeous," Sanya replied and chuckled calmly.

"It sure is." Lucia agreed. "I wouldn't want to share it with anyone else." she followed, murmuring softly.

---

They had flown for long enough for the sun to begin dipping, a peaceful warmth cast over the landscape as more and more of the horizon crested with golden prairie in the distance beyond cliff and crag. Sanya had long since accepted the helplessness of her position, and found herself gently leaning into Lucia for support as she languidly watched the landscape shift under them. It was the best way to feel safe - even with the brief unsteadiness Eesis was prone to, Lucia was like a rock, and her breathing was calming. At this height, few emotions seemed to reach from below, and beside the occasional twinge of uncertainty, it was still, even in her head. If they hadn’t been able to fall to their death at the whim of a winged beast, Sanya could have stayed like this for a long time.

Not everything was meant to last, however. A black shape on the landscape below caught Sanya’s attention, and she shook out of her idle daze to focus on it further. It was smoke, a plume of it rising high into the sky from the ground below, and what looked like houses and fields. A village? "Lucia? Do you see that?” she muttered after a few moments, and lifted a hand from it’s wrap around Lucia’s stomach to point down towards the distant ground, and the plume of smoke.

Lucia turned her head, following Sanya's hand to where she pointed. "Yeah, I see it. Should we check it out?"

Sanya frowned to herself, eyeing the plume with building distaste. She’d seen enough fires in her life to know this was beyond the norm. "I think so. Could be trouble,” she intoned in turn, sighing quietly.

She felt a slight squeeze on her hand that was still wrapped around Lucia's waist. Lucia then yelled, "Eesis! Change of plans girl, take us to that plume of smoke please!" the Leoness moved her head in that direction and with a slight turn they were headed closer. The situation rapidly became clearer as the plume grew larger and larger. Soon they could see figures milling about from buildings - panic and disarray visible even from the air as Eesis rapidly closed the distance.

Sanya felt a growing twinge, confirming the suspicion. Anger, fear, panic, a dangerous mingle began to grow in the back of her head, like a ball of despair attaching itself like a warning. That mixture of feelings was one she had felt many times. She gripped her arm tighter around Lucia to hold on, and her other hand reached back over her shoulder to feel for her spear. "I’m dragging you into more conflict. But if there are innocents down there-... There’s enough suffering around.” Sanya proffered with a crisp voice, cutting herself off as she stared down at the growing village.

"It's alright Sanya. Innocents come first, we both know that. I'm going to put Eesis down and tell her to get to safety. Get ready." Lucia said to her, voice strong. "Eesis, take us down girl!" and their rapid descent began with the howling of the wind in their ears. Sanya nodded firmly behind Lucia, and freed Sorrowsting from it’s prison between her back and packing with a firm grip unfazed by the wind.

The plume of black smoke quickly became the main feature of the landscape, growing in size until the reason for its existence became apparent; a large longhouse of wood, hay and straw was alight in the midst of a sizable village, and the fire was spreading along both the ground and catching on a nearby shed, threatening to consume all if left unstopped. All about the village, silhouettes ran about in a panic. Some rushed to wells, others in and out of buildings. It was like watching ants from their vantage point of zooming down from above. The roar of fire replaced much of the howl of wind as they drew closer, and intermingled with the discordant cries from the ground. Panic, anger, despair. Sanya felt it clutch at her heart like a dagger plunged clean through her chest, and the sounds followed suit to make it clear how widespread it was. Only as the ground became a tangible presence rather than a painted landscape did it become apparent that the silhouettes were fighting amongst each other. Ragged men and women with sharp weapons chased others; women, children, men. A few were fighting back, but it was a battle to prolong the inevitable, by the looks of it. People were dragged screaming from their houses, or had their hiding place torn open to be assaulted. Chaos.

Eesis roared as they landed with a tremendous thud. Those who had not seen her descent amidst the smoke, now fell over backwards at her sheer size and majesty. Yet her sizeable presence only lasted seconds, before a scream sounded and the village erupted into chaos again. Lucia cursed under her breath. "I was hoping that would have worked!" she shouted, quickly sliding off of her fur and onto the ground. She turned back to Eesis and said, "Alright girl! Get out of here. Fly fly!" she raised her hands, trying to get the Leoness to leave. She let out a low growl, her eyes blinking slow before in a few beats of her wings, she flew off.

"We should evacuate the village centre and see if we can stop the spread of fire. Let’s tidy up these aggressors as we go.” Sanya offered crisply, drawing on a knowledge that felt innate by now, and tore two tied straps by her side, letting their packing fall to the ground. With Sorrowsting in hand, she moved towards the immediate conflict, and the smoke.

"Sanya!" Lucia shouted after her.

Sanya hesitated for a moment, about to peer over her shoulder to find Lucia, but a scream caught her attention instead. A terrified older woman burst out from a smaller hut clutching at her clothes, and out behind her chased a ragged-looking man with a crude axehead affixed to an equally crude club. It matched a repeating pattern that had been going on for centuries. Sanya knew it by heart, at this point. Acting on instinct was enough. She ran forward, spear hefted into a proper position. Let the roil of anguish and fear take over, and settle like a toxic growth to fuel her. The man turned to see her coming, and foolishly lifted his axe to swing at her. Sorrowsting sang as metal careened through the air, and the sharp twin blades at it’s tip slashed deep into the ragged attacker. He fell to the ground, and Sanya swiftly looked for the next cluster of trouble.

She caught sight of a trio barrelling their way up a small path to a larger hut, one of them carrying a crude torch, no more than twenty paces away. She had practiced for this. The Acadian Thrust would be of use after all. She hefted Sorrowsting in one hand, took a solid centering breath, and threw her arm forward with considerable force. The black spear hurled through the air with merciless speed. A mere moment later, the back of the one with the torch arched in surprise and pain, as the spear sank deep into their body. The other two found Sanya staring at them in the chaos, and turned on their path to come rushing back down towards her. One man, one woman. No armor. The man hesitated to put weight on his left leg as he ran. That was enough. Sanya flexed her fingers swiftly and aptly, listening to the droning buzz of hatred, fear and pain that stormed through her mind. Felt her body itch for combat, push for survival. They’d regret the day they assaulted innocent villagers.

A brown-haired, angry woman in crude warpaint came first, rushing straight at her with an axe held high. Too high. Sanya launched forwards with as much speed as she could, driving her elbow forward to smash into the woman’s upper torso. Just as she expected, it knocked the wind out of her. Unexpected however, was how much Sanya had underestimated her own strength, and she watched with brief bemusement as the ragged woman toppled back several feet and rolled wheezing onto the ground. It didn’t seem to dissuade her friend, who came hobbling at a quick pace with a simple wooden spear. Sanya narrowed her eyes and waited for him to make his move. No technique. No grace. No thought in his movements. When the spear came in for a frontal jab, it was simple to step aside and lay a hand on his roughly hewn weapon. She pulled with force, and jerked the man forwards against his will, before quickly sending a foot crashing towards the side of his left knee. His leg bent like a twig under pressure, and his scream and the snap told Sanya all she needed to know. She released his spear and let him fall to the ground, taking quick steps across the paths to recover Sorrowsting from the downed torchbearer.

From her new position, she surveyed the village as it burned. Screaming, smoke, flashes of fire, it intermingled with deep-seated anger, whirling panic, mania, and sorrow. It was always the same. Pain. Suffering. Death. Endless torment and self-destruction; that was humanity’s great destiny. It made her sick. Made it hard to keep the memories out. Teeth. Claws. Knives. Blood. Fire flashed in front of her face, and she cringed away from it, but just as soon it was gone, replaced by the ambient heat of the nearby longhouse laid ablaze. She looked at the bodies strewn about, innocent men and women cut down. Cut down like they were nothing. The droning of emotions blocked her thoughts, made it hard to think. She took a few quick steps to rush down the hill, eyeing the destruction. If she had come sooner, they would be alive. Someone always had to die. A curtain was pulled aside, and a man came running out. A stocky warrior, black soot in his face, with teeth strung around his neck. A surge of panic rippled through her, and she swung Sorrowsting violently, beheading the man before he had a chance to come any closer. What were Vaaku warriors doing here? She looked down at her defeated foe, but his features seemed to have changed. The soot was replaced by a murky beard. When were the Vaaku last seen, again? When was this? Was this a dream? Sanya had no more time to think as another set of warriors came rushing around a corner, chasing three villagers.

So she intervened, as she always had. Let the whine of her spear and the crashing waves of emotions guide her. It was rote, now. So many faces over the years. So many lives taken. They melded together. Images on images of faces, all twisted with rage and panic. Sorrowsting whirled through the air as she moved on her new targets. It was difficult to focus. Impossible to think. Just react. Let the emotions roil. She felt her eyes well up as she cut through one man’s staff, and blinked several times to see him topple back frightened on the ground. His comrade came at her from the side with a jagged club, and she blocked it easily with the center of her spear’s handle. The grinning Ketrefan captain leered at her, dragging his copper-embellished weapon against the handle, cornering her. She swept her spear down at his legs to ground him, and then quickly stepped forwards to stomp on his throat. He gurgled and wheezed, and with another blink the dying man turned ragged and unimportant. Where did the captain go? There was movement at her side, and she swept Sorrowsting swiftly, cutting the man down before he could stand back up.

Another scream cut through the haze, and Sanya redirected her gaze towards another hut in the distance. Angles of the buildings aligned in a strange way, and she remembered the village of Ansrache, images of slaughter and chaos forcing themselves back in haphazard flashes. Screaming. Fire. Blood. Dozens of dead, stacked in piles. Stakes, decorated with those she could not save. The images flickered in and out of reality, forcing themselves onto her eyes again and again. She gasped, clutching her spear and groaned. That was before. It was over. This was different. Wasn’t it? A yawning abyss grew in the back of her head, an endless rush of anger, sorrow, and fear.

Sanya struggled forwards all the same, following the bloodied dirt path towards the roaring flame at the center of the village, the direction of the scream - she was sure. The heat swiftly became unpleasant, and she released a hand to wipe sweat from her face. It came away drenched in crimson. Was she hurt? When did that happen? A crash of wood and a rustle from a smaller hovel on her right caught her attention, and she moved towards it with renewed suspicion. In the spaces between the roughshod boards, she saw movement. The curtain to the doorway had been turned down, and even from afar she saw the bodies of at least two unfortunate villagers.

The silhouette inside seemed to have noticed the movement outside, brisk movement flickered past the boards and then came to a sharp halt by the archway inside, poorly illuminated by the flames. She wouldn’t be snuck up on. Never again. Sanya watched the shape remain still for a few moments, before picking up her pace into a quick lunge towards the shoddy wall, driven by instinct. She swung her arm hard against the planks, and they snapped like sticks and twigs. A gasp from inside as her fingers found purchase around a collar. Sanya pulled, and tore the shape out through the broken wall, listening to the pulse of fury and fear in her head. The shape tumbled to the ground outside with a loud thump, raised its arms in defense. It was too late. Sorrowsting came down to end the threat before it became one. Only now did she see - it was a man. Well, no longer.

“Over here!” a voice belted at the top of their lungs somewhere behind her, and Sanya turned to face the sound - the brown-haired woman in warpaint from before. Sanya watched her with brief bewilderment. Did the dead rise? Did she forget her? It didn’t matter now. She hefted her spear up with both hands to face the woman, who took her time standing on the same hill that Sanya had climbed before. Two men came rushing along the side of the small incline, raising clubs and knives. A third man appeared beside the painted woman, clutching a spear shakily. Together, the four of them descended towards Sanya, weapons held defensively in front of them.
Sanya lifted her own guard, staring at the center of mass of the woman. As long as she kept them in front of her, she would do fine. Taking a deep breath, Sanya took a few steps to the side to clear her space, lifting Sorrowsting in preparation. She thought of nothing. There was nothing to think about. Just a haze. Adrenaline. Survival. Death.

The four broke formation and rushed at her with a chorus of yells. Sanya raised her weapon, and danced two steps forwards to meet them head-on.

---

”Sanya! Sanya!” A concerned voice rang out. With it came a surge of reality.

Sanya drew a shaky breath, blinking several times as the world and the burning village filled back in around her. Her arm strained under light pressure - at the end hung a woman in warpaint; bruised, bloodied, and helplessly kicking the air as she struggled against Sanya's vice grip around her throat. She seemed to have lost hold of Sorrowsting, and with it, her sense of time and place. She felt dull, tired. Worn. Empty. Much of the haze seemed to have lifted, the whirl of hate and pain moving on, or quieted. She stared at the woman fighting against her grip and frowned deeply. Sanya tightened her grip and lifted the warrior higher to the melody of her choking.

A hand fell upon her shoulder, another plea. ”Sanya! She’s beaten, stop! Please! Stop!” The voice cried out.

Her body stiffened under the touch, a reflexive urge to spin around and strike bubbling beneath the surface. Familiarity began to settle in, and memories returned from their exile. "L-... Lucia?" she offered quietly, then stared at the struggling warrior again. What was she doing? She lessened her grip and let the woman fall to the ground with a crash; she collapsed from exhaustion, clutching at her throat and breathing in a panic. Only then did the scene set in. Three warriors strewn about, lifeless among the rest of the carnage. Her spear was still stuck in one of them. Sanya clutched at the side of her head, fighting a resurging headache.

She felt Lucia wrap her arms around her in a comforting embrace. ”I’m here. I’m here.” she cooed. ”It’s over, no more fighting. You won.”

The words alone were enough to drain her of energy, replaced by a hollow fatigue. She wanted to simply stand there, melt into the arms of another and forget. With the end of battle came the same bitterness she'd fought for centuries. She kicked out towards the grounded warrior to focus her energy. "You. Take your life and leave." she murmured with a frown. The woman did not seem to need further coaxing, battling to stand on unsteady feet before starting limp away. Sanya in turn gingerly wrestled out of Lucia's embrace, and like clockwork moved to retrieve Sorrowsting, like a loyal dog fetching her stick. She eyed the destruction around them, the dead, and memories of the battle came to her in flashes, emotions. Hate. "The villagers…" she began in an unfinished question.

Lucia came up beside her. Her hair was a mess, her tattoo’s pulsed quickly, and her clothes were scratched and torn, caked in dry blood. ”Most are safe now. It was an attack from raiders, who have been run off.” she paused, gazing upon her. ”Are you okay, Sanya?” she asked.

Sanya drew a long and shaky breath. She hesitated to answer, her mind beset with guilt and despair. "It's… always like this. Wherever I go. Death. War. Humans are like a poison to each other, Lucia. We kill, hurt and defile each other. An endless cycle of pain." she replied with a bitter, unsteady tone. "This is all we are. What she wanted me to see. Fickle, petty ants who can't wait to kill each other."

"That's… That's not true." Lucia began. "There is good still, there always has been. You and I know this more than any one person. Sure, they can be bad and hurt one another, but they also have the capacity to help, to grow, to learn. Together and for each other. Please Sanya, you must see there is more to the death and pain. You have to." Her voice fell quiet.

Sanya gripped the handle of her weapon tightly with one hand, slowly turning her head to glance back at Lucia out of the corner of her eye. "Why?" she murmured sullenly. "Look around you. This is-... this is what they did to my home. Endless days, months and years, and there are still trolls. Still raiders. The only thing that's changed is that the weapons are sharper." she continued, turning to face her properly. She watched Lucia, frowning as she saw her expression. She knew how she sounded. Felt how her bitterness rose back to the surface. "Why did I think I could make a difference this time?"

"Because you're a good person Sanya!" Lucia exclaimed, stepping forward. "You want to help those who can't help themselves. You want to save people from cruelty and death. You want a better world, where people can live in peace and happiness. That's why you fight, that's why you've always fought." She breathed.

She felt the sting of anxious thought rise in the emptiness. Was it her own? Lucia's? Sanya exhaled sharply, and drew her gaze away from the tattooed woman. "A good person." she repeated quietly, gaze flitting across the battlefield. Slowly she lowered to a crouch, gripping the hair of one of the fallen with her free hand and lifting him up in grim display. "Do you think this man would agree? I had the power of a god in my hands, and I used it for murder. I still do. What if that was why I was punished? Because I'm a killer."

Lucia flinched at the sight but stood straighter. Her tattoos expanded in size and began to pulse quicker. "That man did not know you." she said, her hands balling into fists. "He was a person that preyed upon innocent lives and you killed him, yes. You killed him but that does not make you a murderer. You killed him, them, everyone before, in the name of protection. In the name of peace." Her hands relaxed and she looked around before gazing upon Sanya again, her expression one of sadness. "A murderer does not regret killing, Sanya. Do you?" She asked.

Sanya loosened her grip, letting the body fall back into the dirt with a thud. She stared at the ground, asking herself the question over and over in her head. "I… I don't know. How am I supposed to know, Lucia?" she asked with building distress. She stood back up and gestured to the carnage. "Maybe once, but these people mean nothing to me. I… they're just memories. Movements. Predictable patterns and scenes of gore that stopped s-scaring me a long time ago. People that look like people I know are dead. People I will never know. Half… half the time I don't even know where I am. When I am. It's-..." Sanya trailed off, unsure of what to say. Her hand moved to drag over her face, still caked with smears of blood. She took a long, shaky breath, her eyes raw as though she were on the verge of tears. A look long forgotten, welling up from the past. "Wherever I go. It's death. It's always death."

There came no reply from Lucia but within seconds two warm arms embraced Sanya. "It's okay. It's okay, Sanya. I know where you are. Right here, in my arms. It'll be okay." Lucia cooed.

Sanya stared off to the side at first, a shaky and uneasy breath rippling from her lips. She leaned into the embrace after a few seconds, head laid against Lucia. Silence reigned for a time, Sanya stuck deep in her own thoughts. Eventually, she came back up to the surface. "I'm so tired, Lucia. Everyone fades away. Like butterflies, gone after a season or two. Constant new faces. New names. New languages. I don't… I don't belong anymore."

Lucia's embrace tightened. "Then let's … Then let's run away." she said, tattoos pulsing faster.

"...Run away?" Sanya questioned quietly, watching the village beyond from her vantage point, captured in Lucia's embrace. She scoffed softly. "I've tried. How would this time be any different?"

"Because you didn't have me by your side." Lucia retorted with a small giggle. "I'm not going to leave you again, not unless you want me too." she paused, her heartbeat racing in Sanya's ears. Tattoos matching the rhythm. "Sanya… I love you." she let the words linger in the air before she exploded, "I've been such a fool for so long! You were always there by my side when I needed you and I never saw what was before me. I was too caught up with the past and what might be, to see what could be. I don't even know if you feel the same way but it's eating me up inside everytime I look at you. I-I-I just needed to get it off my chest. I don't even know if this is the right moment or if it's what you want to hear but I- I love you Sanya. So let's run away, just the two of us. Somewhere far from prying eyes and just live in peace and quiet. Away from violence and war. Please." she took a deep breath, hardly able to contain herself.

Sanya allowed silence to reign after Lucia’s confession, continuing to stare out over the village and the desolation around them from her sanctuary between tattooed arms. She listened to Lucia’s heart, pounding away in her ear. Felt a conspiring fear rising out of anxiety sting at the back of her mind. Sanya closed her eyes and exhaled slowly, leaning in against the dark-skinned woman a little more.

"Alright.”

---

The scream echoed through the forest. But Auriëlle’s men, all sitting around the campfire, were well used to it by now. A man was bound to a tree. His body was limp, bruised and beaten. There wasn’t much life left in his body but there was a fire in his eyes. A fire Auriëlle hated. “Just tell me what I want to know and we finish this.” She said, seated on a fallen log in front of the beaten prisoner.

He just spat out blood towards her. There was not enough strength left in him to spit that far though. Instead, it looked more like red drool flowed down to his own feet. She let out an exasperated sigh as she gave a signal to the man beside her. With the tip of the oaken branch, he touched the man’s chest. He groaned as the bruises faded and the lacerations healed. When the wounds was gone, the prisoner was only severely out of breath. “The Light protects.” He said.

Earning him another deep sigh from Auriëlle, who got up and grabbed him by the cheeks with one hand and squeezed his mouth. “I’m getting tired of this play. You know what that means? It means that if you don’t start talking soon, I will forge a fate for you worse than death.”

The man just groaned, but she saw the answer in his eyes. ‘The Light protects.’ He had repeated it all night now. She pushed him back up against the tree and gave the signal to the two men beside her. With heavy clubs they began beating him up again. They were pretty good. Broken bones took much longer to heal with the staff. Instead they kept it to bruises and cuts. According to his frequent involuntary screams, that was painful enough.

“Ready to talk?” She asked in between fists hitting his once again deeply bruised face.

He just stared at her. With that same, zealous fire in his eyes.

“You know, I cannot imagine what makes you so fervent.” Auriëlle said, with a wave of her hand her brutalizers took a step back. Allowing the man to take a breath and recover his thoughts. “Have you ever talked to your god?” It wasn’t Oraelia, he made sure to make that clear when he was caught and first questioned. “Shown favor by your god? I’d ask if you were given any power but that’s out of the question. Your god didn’t particularly look down upon you and smile three days ago. When I beat you and your army.”

“The Light… speaks through the saints. It favors us with grain and luck.” He managed to get out between violent coughing fits. “The Light protects.”

“You’re sure about that? Even when I burn you here, you’re certain that your Light will protect you?” She raised her hand. Fire formed in her palm. It was a small flame. Only slightly bigger than a candleflame.

“It protects my soul. It will protect Teperia.” The man managed to get out.

Auriëlle just returned to her place and gave the signal. The two guards continued the beating but Auriëlle herself had long since lost interest. Instead her attention turned to the disk hanging off her neck. It was a strange object, with an eye at its center. Its weighted less than it should, or so Auriëlle thought. There was a weight to it she just couldn’t explain. She even checked it with scales. Aside from the weight it also felt like the air was constantly moving towards it, in a light breeze. Another thing that was utterly impossible in the windless night.

The man never gave in. His conviction, his faith, it was just too strong. Countless times she had him beaten up. Countless times she had him healed up again. In the Auriëlle was pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration as he was healed again and the sun was peeking up from beyond the horizon. “Alright. I’m done. Get him up. Let’s go.”

“You’re just going to give up like that?” One soldier asked.

Auriëlle stopped dead in her tracks. “What did you just ask?” She said, as she turned around. “You think I’m giving up?” She stared down the offending soldier, who took a step back and didn’t dare to speak. “He had a choice!” She continued as she pointed at the chief. “He breaks or else.”

“Or else what!?” The bound chieftain spat out with all the disrespecting strength he had. “You are nothing, Auriëlle. I heard your story. You think those bards you send made any difference? None of us were afraid! None! You think you’ve won but you’ve lost. I’ll never bend to Nalla. Nor will my people. You’ve lost, Auriëlle.”

She threw him a vile grin. “You’ll never bend the knee?” She asked.

“Not in a thousand years! If Nalla wants to rule us, she’ll have to come to us. She’ll have to pray like us.” The chieftain said.

“Not in a thousand years.” Auriëlle pretended like she pondered the words. “Very well then. If you won’t bend then you are useless to us.”

“What?” The man said in surprise.

“I said you will be useless. It means you will burn. You and your people and your city. I send the bards to warn you. I’ve beaten you in battle. I’ve been beating you throughout the night. My patience is not endless.”

“You would murder a city!? Even by your own faith that must be a great sin!”

“Maybe.” She said. “But I’ll live with that.” Her official command soon followed. They marched upon Teperia, after they had so brutally destroyed the opposing army before. Between the healing capabilities of the staff, Auriëlle’s ever increasing power and Teperia’s lack of any hero, the battle had been a very, almost boring victory. Now though, her army marched upon a city. The army was marked well. Behind her various Leon-pelt banners were held high. As proof of the stories. When she arrived at Teperia, she had a crude battering fashioned in a day.

The citizens of Teperia sat huddled together in their houses. Their windows were boarded up and the doors barred. The militia was compromised of some veteran warriors who managed to flee the first battle combined with those too young or too old to fight before. They were armed with kitchen knives and pitchforks. It wasn’t quiet. There was too much yelling, crying and shouting going around inside the walled city for that. Yet somehow all that noise was drowned out by the rhythmic thumping of the battering ram upon the gate. Every hit reverberated along the walls. Shaking off dust and dirt from it. The wooden beam holding the gate closed began to crack slowly. But the splinters became more and more pronounced the more hits went through the wall.

Then it happened. The beam broke. The gate swung open. The defenders held their weapons ready. Some had whipped themselves into a frenzy. Ready to charge. To take the fight to the enemy. They were stopped in their tracks. A strong gust of wind traveled with the opening gate. Billowing up smoke, dust, sand and dirt into a thick cloud around the entrance of the city. None could see through it. The defenders took a step back. Those with polearms held them in front of them. There was no shouting. No yelling. The world was quiet. Then she appeared.

Auriëlle marched from dust with her hands beside her. Between her fingers they could see the distortion of light. As if there was an invisible fire burning in her palms. At the sight of her, the most frenzied defenders charged. They shouted and screamed in primal tones with axe or knife held high. A crooked smile formed on the sorceress’ lips as she put her hands closed together, and then unleashed her power.

The translucent wave of power ripped through the first three attackers. It flung them up into the air as it turned their bodies into ashes. The distortion lost its absolute destructive abilities after it floored and disintegrated the third guy. After him, it turned into a wave of fire. The wave finally broke upon a house. Lighting its wall on fire. Some of the defenders turned pale, dropped their weapon and ran. Others managed to stave off fear as they readied for their assault. From behind her troops walked up from within the billowing dust. Each took a moment to observe the scene, then charged. Auriëlle stayed behind and watched. Watched as her soldiers cut down the supposed militia. The people of Teperia fought harder than she thought. Much harder. None the less, after half an hour of fighting, the defenders began to break. Several of Nallan’s veterans turned back to look at Auriëlle, who sat atop the plinth of a statue of Cadien. She knew the looks. It were the looks of hungry hounds begging for their leash to be taken off.

She simply raised her hands and let them go. The veterans almost howled as they broke their line. Suddenly half her army turned wild-eyed. There was no stopping them now. Soon the screams echoed through the streets. Doors were hacked down. Mothers and daughters were pulled out into the street, while the men were butchered. Torches were tossed upon houses. Everything that could be carried in someone’s arms was taken out and gathered at the square in front of the broken gate. That which was too heavy served as fuel for the fire that was growing within Teperia.

Auriëlle herself walked through the streets. All around her men were conducting the sweetest symphonies of primal growls. Mixed with screams and crying pleas or bitter curses. The flames were growing and roaring towards their crescendo. Filling the roads with a heat most would’ve found unbearable. She thrived in it though. With joyful moves of her hands she wove the flames together. Creating even greater infernos. Just like her famed ancestor had done. Unlike Simain though, she had long since lost any semblance of control over the fires. Instead she had released the reigns completely and just whipped the flames on. She let it all happen with a bright smile on her face. And so she walked through the city, weaving destruction as she ushered on her own men to soak the streets with blood. Eventually fate seemed to have guided her to a large plaza, at the center of which stood a sort of blocky temple and her men chopping down the door. “What’s happening?” She asked.

One of her men approached her. “People are holed up in this temple-thing.” He said, pointing with his spear at the big, solid building. “We want in.” The temple looked like it was built like a fortress. There were no windows and the walls were made of clay. The door was really the best possible way in.

“Stand back.” Auriëlle ordered. To her own surprise, most of the soldiers obeyed immediately. Some more fervent looters needed a second or five but even they got in line. Auriëlle approached the wooden gate and put the palm of her hand on it. Now she could feel the strange weight of the disk shifting. The weight moved from the eye to her hand, empowering her own magic. Smoldering veins carved through the wood. Slowly but surely. Weakening its already considerably weakened structure. It took some time and a lot of focus. But when the veins reached the outer edges of the doorway, Auriëlle took a step back and channeled a rush of wind into the door.

It broke in a hundred places. Pieces of smoldering wood were thrown inside the very dark temple. Women screamed for a moment, then huddled together in fear. Auriëlle walked through the archway where once a door was. She stopped inside, bathing in light coming through the entryway. At the far end was the reliquary. There was a chalice made of silver with a single emerald laid in it on the altar. Next to a disk the size of her hand, made of gold. “Ah.” She said, stepping out of the light and into the shadows of the temple. Inside only four torches affixed upon the temple’s central pillars and a few candles offered the only semblance of light. The people were huddled as far away from the entrance as they could. One man, dressed in brown robes approached her.

“Begone, fiend!” He snarled. “This place is holy. Protected by our God! Begone before I call upon the Light to smite you!”

“Do it.” Auriëlle calmly answered as she slowly walked closer to him. Behind her, the warriors were coming inside as well. They walked along the walls of the temple.

“You do not know what you call upon yourself. The Light will punish you all for what you did here today! Even your own gods must frown upon such display of cruelty and barbarism!” The shouted. He stopped in front of her, as if his body was enough to stop the slow but unrelenting approach of Auriëlle.

She pushed him away with ease. In fact, he didn’t particularly fight her. Instead she made her way towards the altar. It was a massive slab of some pristine stone Auriëlle didn’t bother to identify, drapped with fine-red painted cloth. She let her fingers trail upon the cold stone. “This altar is made for your god?” She asked.

“Yes.” The priest answered as he remained standing up amongst his people. Who were watching him with desperate eyes.

She walked up behind the altar and rested her hand on it. “It’s beautiful.” She remarked, as she took the silver chalice and tossed it away towards the priest. Then with the back of her hand she pushed away the disk of gold. “Faith as strong as stone.” The murmured. Then she closed her eyes and once more channeled her power into the stone. At first none could see the effect. Not really. Not until the first crack appeared on its surface. People began to gasp as more cracks appeared. Most of them looked on in shock. Even the priest’s brave facade began to crack now.

Then Auriëlle began her own prayer to the patron goddess of Nallan: “Oh Neiya. Hear these words I speak now to you. See as I desecrate this altar in the name of your love. Accept these sacrifices, whose blood will flow upon this broken edifice.” When she was finished, the altar broke. The stone just crumbled to gravel under her hand. She managed to stop ever the broken altar and pulled her copper knife. The priest began to walk backwards, but her own troops had gotten the signal. They smiled as they closed in on the terrified population as well, mumbling their own prayers to Neiya’s eternal love as they grabbed their victims. Auriëlle managed to grab the priest by his collar.

“You cannot do this! This is desecration! Sacrilege! Even your own gods must frown upon this! It is madness!” He exclaimed.

“I don’t care.” Auriëlle whispered at him, as she began to drag him towards the altar. He slumped down on the floor, but soon one of her soldiers was upon him and helped him be dragged to the altar. “The gods don’t care and nor do I.” She said, as she pulled him in front of her, pushed him down on his knees and held him by his hair. “Say your last prayer.” She said as she pushed him down, with his face into the gravel. Her sharp, cold copper knife touched his throat. She could hear him mumble something. But halfway through what she assumed was a plea of vengeance she slit his throat. He began to gurgle and grasp at his throat as the blood sprayed out. Then the crimson slowly flowered across the gravel. It didn’t take long before he was completely motionless. Behind her, the soldiers were already busying themselves in doing the same.

After everyone was sacrificed in the temple, its walls were clad with blood. The dust of the broken altar, mixed with the blood had turned into a vile mud. Bodies were piled high. Auriëlle had set fire to the place herself. When she and her group got out of the city, many of them suffered burns. What did it matter? They had a way of healing back in the camp. Auriëlle had entrusted healing staff to some guards who were enthralled by Nalla herself. They wouldn’t run away with such a valuable item. Luckily she herself wasn’t in such a bad shape. She had a small cut under her left eye. Blood smeared her cheek slightly. The other half of her face was black with soot, hiding some burns under her cheek. It tinged but that was about it. The staff would take care of it in time. As she marched out the broken gate she saw people impaled upon stakes. Some still moved. She could only smile at the sight as she moved towards the imprisoned chieftain.

“You like the view?” She asked. He was bound to the tree. Forced to watch his city burn. He had trashed, cried, trashed some more and cried some more. Now he looked like a hollow husk of a man.

“You’re a monster.” He managed to get out in between sobs. “A monster. All the Emissaries will cast you down. The Light beyond all! You are an adversaries’ pawn.”

She grabbed him by the hair and pulled his head back. “I am no-one’s pawn. Nor am I a monster.” She then looked on at the city itself. There was a strange beauty to the pillar. It was her own monument. Even though she had said a prayer and given Neiya a sacrifice, she claimed the pillar of smoke as her own. Because she had taken the city. She had released her hounds that gathered gold, blood and silver. She had woven the city’s fires. The burning city, the black pillar of smoke, they were a testament of her own power. “I did that.” She finally said a she sat down next to the chieftain with a big smile on her face.

“Not a god.” She continued. For a second she wondered if the gods in their high heavens could see it as well. Maybe not. Maybe something bigger needed to burn. ”Not some supernatural beast. Just me and my men. We laid waste to a city. Gutted it like it was an animal.” Then she let silence reign as she took in the view. If she had been an artist, this is what she would’ve painted. If she was a poet, this is what she would’ve written about. But she was neither of those things. She was a sorceress and she wove magic that sundered cities. “I’m going to make the bards sing about this for a hundred years.”

---

Carn slipped a stone into the sling, and took a deep breath.

Then, he let it fly.

The stone struck the target just a few inches off-center. Not too bad, given he had only recently started practicing.

He had picked up the sling out an idle curiosity. Then he couldn’t hope but admire the simplicity of use and the ease to reload. He had recalled the siege of Jalka, where he had stood powerless on the wall until the enemy began their ascent, and only then had he been allowed to start killing. With the sling, that would change. It provided some much-needed versatility in combat, so that he might be able to down one or two foes before being forced into a melee.

He wasn’t wearing Titania. Instead he had left her in his hut, under guard. Wearing armour all the time was frankly uncomfortable. Even more so when that armour was sentient and capable of speech. It felt as if his every action was being observed and judged. Furthermore, a rumour was spreading in the village that the armour was beginning to control him. So, with all those factors in mind, he tended to avoid wearing her unless it was necessary. That said, he still conferred with her for advice, or simply to see how she was doing. It would not do to end up on sour terms with a divine avatar.

“Lord Carnelian! Lord Carnelian!”

His head turned, just in time to see a man running toward him, face red and sweating. The sweaty man came to a stop before him, trying to speak but unable to form words. “Take a moment to breathe,” Carn advised, placing a hand on his shoulder.

A few moments passed, and at last, the man was able to regulate his breathing to a point where he could finally speak. “The scouts… are back!” he huffed. “The Ketrefans… they’re coming!”

Carn’s eyebrows rose. Already? He had sent scouts westward to watch the city and take note of troop movement, but still, he thought he would have had more time… “How many?” he asked.

“Five… Five hundred…” the man breathed.

Five hundred. Carn had expected a large number, but when he finally heard it, he was only now being hit by the reality of his situation. Between Thyma and the few villages that had allied with him, he had maybe less than a hundred warriors - assuming all the villages answered the call, which might not be the case. Of those hundred warriors, only forty were at Thyma right now. If all the scouts would back, that meant they had fifty. The rest would have to be summoned.

How was he to kill five hundred men with only one hundred? He had assumed he would rely on divine intervention, but would that be enough? Even with a sword and an unbreakable suit of armour, he was only one man.

He looked to the wall. That would give them an edge. Then a dark thought occurred to him. What if the commander didn’t assault the wall? What if instead, the commander burned and slaughtered the neighbouring villages? Villages which most of his army hailed from - they would not stand idly by while their families were slain.

Which meant Carn would have to take those families into the walls. But Thyma did not have space for them all, and even if they did… the attackers could simply surround the village and wait for them to run out of food. Then let starvation do the rest. The walls were not a shield, he realized in horror, they were a tomb. And in that moment he cursed Titania. The avatar of a goddess should have known better!

The man saw Carn’s expression and seemed alarmed by it, no doubt having expected Carn to already have a plan.

Carn let the worry fade from his face, and steeled his heart. It would not do to let his worries show. His followers had to believe he was confident in their victory. Otherwise, they would not hold. And if they didn’t hold, they would die.

But what to do? Fight them in the field, and they would use their numbers against him. Fight them on the walls, and there would be no fight at all - just a long gruelling wait while his forces slowly turned against him. Then he looked at the sling in his hands, and he had an idea. A desperate one, but it might work.

“Bring me Yarwick,” he ordered. “And also, every man who can use a bow or a sling.”

---

“They’ll think you’re abandoning them,” Yarwick had warned him.

“They won’t,” Carn shook his head. “I’m heading toward the enemy, not away. I’m taking men and women who are good in a skirmish, and I’m calling our allies to send their warriors here. If anyone still has doubts, I’ll expect you and Titania to settle them.”

Yarwick furrowed his brow. “You aren’t bringing her with you?”

Carn shook his head. “She’ll draw attention to me and slow me down. Better that I don’t stand out. I’ll thin out their numbers and slow them down. When I return, I’ll join the defense.”

“If you don’t return?”

“If I die,” Carn told him, “you will take up the cause.”

---

And on that grim note, Carn and his party of twenty skirmishers had set out. Eight carried bows, while the other twelve - himself included - carried slings.

There was a mixture of nervousness and excitement among them. Some had been the scouts Carn had originally sent. They had seen the army with their own eyes - its size larger than the populations of entire villages - and they could not possibly imagine how any force might defeat it.

Others, however, were excited. They were marching into battle, under the eyes of a god. They had never seen battle, but they had heard legends of glorious heroes and valourous warriors. This was their chance to become legends themselves. They had mixed equipment; whatever would serve as protection without impeding their mobility. Carn himself wore a mixture of hardened hides and leather, but his shining sword and sling were both at his belt.

Onward they marched. To freedom, and glory. Victory, or death.

---

Eight days after departing from Thyma, they finally came upon Ketrefa’s army.

“Neiya’s heaving bosom...” one of Carn’s men had uttered quietly, upon seeing the massive column march along the crude dirt road. Just behind the host, a large plume of smoke could be seen. The only thing that could produce such a flame would be a burning village. “Bastards...” a woman had muttered spitefully.

They watched from a high hill, some distance away. Carn had to admit, he himself was somewhat daunted by the sight. He had not seen so many fighters in one place since the war between Jalka and Merok, and this was but a portion of Ketrefa’s power.

“Alright,” Carn said, breaking the tense silence. “Load your slings. Nock your arrows.”

They stared at him wide-eyed. “Are you mad?” one of them asked.

Carn glared at him. “We loose a few shots, then we retreat before they can hurt us. Slow their march, and fray their nerves. I’m not expecting us to kill the entire army on our own. Now, make ready.” He brought his own sling out and slipped a stone into it. The others reluctantly obeyed. “Loose your weapons in your own time,” he said, then swung the sling back and launched it forward.

The stone flew, eventually becoming so small he could no longer see it. Then, a figure among the Ketrefans fell to the ground. His nineteen archers followed suit, loosing stones and arrows, and a few more Ketrefans fell. Shouts of alarms rang out.

Suddenly, Carn felt another sensation overtake him, similar to when Cadien had spoken to him in the temple. In that moment, he knew the god was watching, and based on the expressions of his skirmishers, he knew they felt it through. “Again!” he shouted, snapping them out of it.

Twenty stones and arrows were loosed. This time, twenty men fell. To Carn’s astonishment, every shot seemed to have hit. All his knowledge of warfare told him such a thing was impossible, and yet, it had happened.

This time, his people needed no prompting. They loosed their projectiles on their own initiative, and again, every single shot sent a Ketrefan to the dirt. Then Ketrefa’s archers, who had been stationed at the rear, turned toward them and drew back the strings of their bows. “Down!” Carn shouted.

His men threw themselves to the ground as one hundred arrows shot forth. The volley killed four and wounded two, but thankfully those two could still wield their slings. “Focus on the archers!” Carn yelled, and his skirmishers obeyed, loosing stones and arrows as fast as they could.

Again, they could not miss.

The archers began dropping at a rapid rate, their commander among them, and in the confusion they could not get another volley off. Instead, they broke, running for safety behind the spearmen who had formed a shield wall. Carn ordered his men to focus on that instead, and even despite the raised shields, Ketrefans continued to fall. Every single stone and arrow seemed to somehow find its way through a narrow gap in the shields, killing or wounding men, and opening up holes in the line which the others could continue to shoot into.

The Ketrefans shouted and panicked, as some men attempted to flee while others tried to close the gaps or carry wounded comrades to safety behind the shields. Bronze-clad officers shouted, and attempted to restore order. Then one voice cut above the rest; that of who Carn could only assume was the army’s commander. “Charge! Charge, you cowards! By Neiya, CHARGE!”

The Ketrefans then turned and began running up the hill. But it was a half-hearted attack. Only two thirds of them actually went forward, while the rest scattered for safety. Those who did go up the hill were more a mob than a disciplined force, and though they managed to kill over two dozen more, it was clear the rest would close the distance.

“Time to go!” Carn shouted. “Retreat!”

And with those words, he and his men turned and fled, leaving corpses and chaos behind them.

---

As Carn and his men made camp that night, the mood was jubilant. Although they had lost comrades, and had been forbidden from setting fires for fear of being detected by the enemy, they were in high spirits. At the cost of only five of their own, they had killed nearly two hundred Ketrefans. Those unschooled or inexperienced in tactics knew such a thing was virtually unheard of, even in all but the most fanciful legends and songs.

They helped themselves to a meal of blueberries, evening bells, and some leftover meat from the previous day. The evening bells only served to increase their spirits further, and even Carn had a few.

“They’ll sing about us forever!” one man proclaimed.

“To the death of every Ketrefan!” another shouted, apparently forgetting the fear of their camp being discovered. In truth though, it was unlikely the Ketrefans would make an attempt this night. Who would willingly seek them out after the slaughter of the previous day?

Carn smiled. He had not expected to inflict such a crushing defeat. All he had wanted was what he had said; to thin out their numbers, slow them down, and fray their nerves. Instead, he and his twenty archers had shattered half the army. Between the natural euphoria of victory and the artificial euphoria of the evening bells, he was happier than he had ever been. “Tomorrow we finish them!” he vowed, raising a fist into the air.

---

---

Abbas fumed.

Nearly two hundred men were dead. Over a hundred had deserted in despair. Of the mighty host he had first set out with, less than half remained, and those that did were in a state of panic. They had just been broken by a force that by all rights should have been able to do no more than scratch them. Was it magic or skill that allowed them to shoot with such accuracy? The work of the gods, one of the bowmen had kept insisting.

“Neiya is the only goddess we need,” the Lord-Captain had insisted, glaring at the man. When setting out from Ketrefa, three hundred of the men in his host had dedicated themselves to Neiya and Neiya alone. After the yesterday’s slaughter, however, he had no way of knowing how many faithful truly remained.

It was not supposed to go this way. When the barbarians got unruly, a host was sent forth to crush them. The barbarians, with their inferior numbers, equipment, and discipline, were unable to resist Ketrefan might. The army would be shattered, as would the defiance of generations to come. But this time, it had been different. It was a Ketrefan army that was shattered, by what couldn’t have been more than twenty men.

Now, Abbas was a dead man. The King would never accept the loss of three hundred men. No matter what story he told. The punishment inflicted upon young Milos would pale in comparison to the disgrace that would ensue when he turned home, regardless of whether he crushed the uprising or not.

There was no happy ending for him. But at least, if he kept marching, he could reduce the shame somewhat and also avenge his son. He would be mocked, cursed, perhaps even executed, but at least his soul would be able to rest peacefully knowing he had his vengeance.

Yet as he looked upon his men in the morning light, he knew they all wanted to return to Ketrefa. He could see the fear in their eyes. Some, he suspected, had only refused to flee because they feared the savages would pick them off one by one in the wilderness.

It was one of his surviving subordinates who made this concern audible, during a meeting they held that morning, in Abbas’s tent. “My lord,” the young nobleman said - he was barely twenty. “We must fall back.” Most of the other lords in the tent nodded their agreement.

“Do you want to tell the King how we were beaten by twenty men armed with sticks and stones?” Abbas snarled.

“Over half our men are gone,” the young nobleman protested. “The rest don’t have the heart to press any further. If we order them to keep going, then if the savages don’t kill us, our own men will.”

Another lord, only a few years older, clenched his fists in outrage. “Unthinkable! They swore an oath-”

“Most of them are commoners,” a man close to Abbas’s age interrupted. “They don’t possess the same noble blood that we do. They aren’t as beholden to honour, or glory, or prestige as we are. They’ll obey us so long as obedience is preferable to disobedience.” He shifted his gaze to Abbas. “My lord, if we don’t withdraw the campaign, they will turn on us.”

Abbas grit his teeth. He knew they were right. But if he listened to them, there would be no chance to avenge his son, and he would have to face the mockery and contempt of an entire city. Yet… should he place his personal quest for vengeance above the lives of his men?

Soldiers had always seemed an expendable resource to him. Just numbers. Send twenty men on a raid. If two died, then so long as the raid made enough profit to train and equip two more soldiers, it was a good trade. But now? He had seen his men fight in battle. He could see the fear in their eyes as dozens of men fell around them. He had heard the desperation mixed with raged as they carried out the doomed charge uphill. They were lesser creatures, who would never be his equals, but could he truly call them expendable now?

His subordinates awaited an answer, and he had none. He was interrupted then, when two soldiers came into the room, one of which was dirty and bruised.

“My lords!” the unwounded began. “My apologies, but… the barbarians captured one of our sentries.” He nudged the disheveled warrior. “Tell them what happened.”

“I heard a sound, and went to investigate…” the other soldier said. “It was a trap. They knocked me out, and carried me away. When I woke they told me they had a message. Then they took my weapon and sent me back.”

Abbas’s eyes narrowed. “What is the message?”

“Their leader wants to talk to you. To negotiate your surrender.”

“Surrender?” He had not expected that.

The soldier nodded. “He asked for a meeting, on the condition that both sides swear by Tekret that they will offer safe conduct.”

Abbas ruminated over that idea for a few moments. “If he wants a meeting so badly,” the Lord Captain decided, “he can come into our camp alone, and talk to me face to face. I’ll meet him nowhere else. Go tell him that.”

The soldier blinked. “Tell him, my lord?”

“Who else is going to?” Abbas snapped. “Go!” It would be rejected, of course, but at least it would give him more time to think.

---

The soldier returned an hour later. “My lord,” the soldier bowed. “He agreed to your terms, but insisted that he be allowed to bring a weapon.”

Abbas was, quite frankly, surprised that the barbarian leader was open to the condition at all. “A weapon?”

“His sword, my lord. Said he was already going in alone, so taking it away won’t make a difference.”

Abbas was almost tempted to refuse. But then, he thought about it. If he refused, then this barbarian commander might abandon the prospect of a meeting entirely. If he accepted, however, then the barbarian might be lulled into a false sense of security. There was, of course, the danger that the barbarian might try to kill him, but Abbas would have guards, and was confident enough in his own skills that one man with a sword couldn’t best him.

He had sworn by Tekret that he would offer safe conduct, but an oath made to a barbarian held no legitimacy, and Neiya was the only goddess in his heart anyway. The important thing was that fate had given him an opportunity to avenge his son with no further losses, and he meant to seize it.

---

Abbas stood in the center of camp, as the figure approached - alone, as promised. Though he could make out the silhouettes of the surviving skirmishes. His men could too, and they were frightened by the sight.

As the leader came closer, his features became apparent. He was tall, and handsome, with snow white hair. “Hello there!” the barbarian greeted him as he passed by the tents. He was flanked by a pair of guards - two of Abbas’s more loyal men, but even they seemed afraid of him. “I am Carnelian. Champion of Cadien.”

“You’re the one who killed my son?” Abbas asked, in a surprisingly calm tone, but he could feel the rage building up.

“That I did,” Carnelian nodded without remorse. “And all of his men. And most of the men who were with you yesterday. We have enough stones and arrows to finish the rest of you, but I think enough blood has been spilled for now.”

Abbas clenched his fists, and a vein bulged in his forehead. The gall…

“So, my conditions,” Carn said, not seeming to notice. “I want you and all your men to throw down your arms, and swear an oath to never march against me or my followers again. In return, I’ll let you all head back to your city, alive and unharmed. Though… I can’t make any promises on behalf of the people you robbed and looted on the way here.”

It was a generous offer, if one were to look at it impartially. But Abbas was not impartial. He felt the eyes of the entire camp on him. Most of his men seemed hopeful. Unfortunately, their hopes would soon be dashed. “Here’s my counter-offer,” he said, then drew his sword, while the two guards on either side of Carnelian did the same.

With lightning-speed, Carn’s own blade was out. He swung it across one guard’s throat, ducked under the swing of the second guard, then followed through with his initial swing and sliced off the warrior’s leg. As both men fell, Abbas had rushed forward - not even processing what had happened - then Carn’s shining blade came up and cleaved Abbas’s bronze weapon in two.

The shock stopped Abbas in his tracks. Then Carn lashed out with a fist, punching the Lord-Captain straight in the nose, before seizing him by his shoulders, turning him around, and putting the sword’s blade to his throat.

The entire camp was on their feet, and every man drew a blade, but none dared move. Their leader was held hostage, and the menacing silhouettes of Carn’s skirmishers were still visible on the horizon.

“He promised me safe conduct, and yet he tried to kill me!” Carn declared. “By my reckoning, that makes all of your lives forfeit. But I’m a generous man! The terms I offered to him can still apply to you. Just throw down your weapons, and go back the way you came. Leave everything else behind. Including him.”

Abbas shouted and struggled with rage, but Carn clamped a hand over his mouth and pressed the blade so close that it broke skin. “Well?” Carn asked. “What is it?”

There were several tense moments of silence where the guards exchanged nervous glances. None of them wanted a fight. They had seen what happened when they fought Carnelian and his men. They thought of home, and families.

One man threw down a spear. Then another. Then four more. Then ten. Then dozens. Soon, nearly the entire army had disarmed themselves. Only a few dozen stubborn holdouts remained, but they too yielded when they realized the supposed hopelessness of their situation. “Now go!” Carn ordered.

And go they did, filing out of the camp one by one, as they made their way back west. Some were ashamed. Others were relieved.

Once they were gone, eleven of Carn’s skirmishers came into camp, all of them grinning wildly. Carn passed the livid-looking Abbas into the hands of two of his men, and then, after taking one last look to ensure the remaining Ketrefans were out of sight, began to laugh.

Several others joined in. They laughed for a good long while, ignoring Abbas’s threats and curses, before eventually settling down. Carn turned to Abbas - who had now been gagged - with a smile. “You’re probably wondering what’s so funny,” he said. “You see… what we did yesterday, that wasn’t normal. None of us can shoot that well. It was a blessing, you see. A one-time blessing, which we learned the hard way when we engaged some stragglers. Lost some good men too,” he sighed.

“Thing is, though, at least we knew that. We also knew that you and your men didn’t know. Might as well take advantage of that. And you made things even easier, when you broke your word and tried to kill me.” He shook his head. “So, congratulations Lord-Captain. Your five hundred men were defeated by twenty.”

Abbas attempted to launch himself forward, and Carn’s men were barely able to hold him back. The Lord-Captain thrashed and raged in his grip. “I won’t kill you, though,” Carn decided. “Not yet. I don’t like oathbreakers. Too many stingy bastards refused to give me what they promised, back in my mercenary days, and far too often I was sent to go deal with someone who refused to pay what they owed.” He shook his head. “So, for now you get to live. You’ll live like a caged criminal, because that’s what you are. You’ll follow my army as it grows and expands. You’ll watch me attack your city, and you’ll watch it fall. Then, and only then, will I allow you to die.”

The thrashing and muffled screaming continued. Carn wasn’t entirely sure the Lord-Captain had even heard him. “Shut him up,” he ordered. “I won’t listen to that for- oh what’s this?” He turned his gaze westward to see a new group approaching. They did not wear the armour of Ketrefan soldiers, or of a countryside militia, but the rough clothes of simple peasants. They came from the nearby village, Carn had realized. The one that was sacked.

Most ignored Carn and his men, and began to move around the camp, searching for loot. Others stared at him and his men with awe and fascination. One of their number, a blonde-haired woman in her late twenties, who wore leather armour, stepped forward. “You… you’re Carnelian?” she asked him.

Carn nodded. “That I am.”

“We… we heard of your uprising, but… we didn’t think it would work. Where are the rest of your men?”

“These are all I brought,” Carn answered.

The look in her eye made it clear she didn’t believe him. “How did you win?”

“Through cunning, luck, and a bit of divine aid,” Carn answered. “You know who I am. So you know I’m the Champion of Cadien.”

“I did not believe it. But now… forgive me,” she cast her eyes downward.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I wouldn’t expect you to follow someone who has done nothing to prove themselves,” Carn assured her, before shifting his gaze west. “The Ketrefans sacked your village, didn’t they?”

She nodded. “They did. My father was the Chieftain. He tried to resist. Said it wasn’t time for tribute. They killed him. Then they set fire to his hut to make an example, but it spread to the others. They just took our food, and kept moving.” She gestured to the looting all around them. “We’re taking it back.”

Carn nodded. He had been hoping for some loot, but if this conversation was going where he thought it would be going, then goodwill was more important. “Of course. I won’t stop you. But where will you go now?”

She looked back in the direction of her village. “My father wasn’t the only one who died,” she said. “There were many losses. Some of my people will blame you - say it was your actions that brought the wrath of the Ketrefans upon us. But others… they’ll look at you and see a chance for justice. Some will stay and rebuild, but others… do you need more people?”

Again, Carn nodded. “Of course. I’ll not turn away aid,” he smiled. “I’ll accept all who wish to join. Though I have to ask, do you count yourself among them?”

“Yes,” she said. “I do.” She hesitated for a moment. “My name is Ingrid.”

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