Five hundred years have passed since last the doorways between worlds were first opened. The Rifts. They have lied silent and dead so long, so many might have forgotten them. But they aren't to be silent and dead forever: somewhere, somehow, it begins again. The Rifts return. In myriad planes of desert or swamp or ashen canyon, there is a sudden sound and a sudden flash, a wavering, a tearing open of time and space, an act of magic that rips through the extraplanar realms and defies the powers of gods- and then only a steady green light. The Rifts return. No magi nor saint could tell you how, but there they stand, a portal to countless other Planes. Who will enter them?

What will they find?

---

------~-( )-~------

---

Lost somewhere within the myriad extraplanar realms is a small, dark world called the Hallow, and within that is a large, dark city called Daithe, and outside that is a poor, young woman about to start crying with joy.

Her name is Aila. She was the only one near the Rift when it happened- nobody else likes to venture that far outside the city. But she likes to get away from it all. She likes, when she can, to escape the city. Get out of the cramped stone alleyways, the constant fighting and threat of war, the politicking and arguing and clan feuds. It's dangerous to walk in the Hallow alone, they say, and they might be right. But Aila realized a long time ago that there are some days she'd rather risk death than stay in Daithe a second longer.

That led her out of the main gate, going an afternoon's walk or so along the main body of the Screaming Canyon, to a place marked by a large stone arch. She ran her fingers along it. Touched the stones, the engravings. She came here often: the place where the Rift used to be. All her life she's heard about it, but it's so much myth and history, nobody bothers to come here in person anymore. Why risk the Abomination striking you down? She was there alone. As she often had before, she took the private time to say a small prayer to The Teinn: King of Worlds, God of Many Bodies, could today be the day you forgive us? Like the other times before, nothing answered her. She turned to face the long walk back home, just when a sound grabbed her attention. Turned back around, she saw a flash of light deep in the stone arch.

And then it flickered. Likes sparks in a torch.

And then it shook. And the air wavered, a feeling like the vibration of a string ran through her body and before her in a storm of green light, suddenly, was the Rift. Alive again. A prayer answered.

She feels her face to make sure she's not dreaming. Then she decides that it would be better not to wake up from this, and runs back to the city to tell the others. It isn't long before a massive crowd of soldiers, officials and onlookers has gathered around the Rift like there hasn't been in centuries- even amidst all their natural fear and suspicious, the mounting joy is more than could be described. It's back, it's back. We're not alone, we're not alone, we're not trapped any more. The news is put through all the cities, by drakin and fast-footed messenger, all the way back to the King himself.

------~-( )-~------

But above all those poisonous Things, something else was reacting to the news. It did not hear it, did not see it, but knew it, as a divine knows. It had been so close. Five centuries of time as a mortal Thing renders it is not five centuries of time to the Abomination, but more and less. It worms through the place that it should have been free to fly- Eternity, where everything is always happening- but it is chained, by little green chains that flicker against the towers that Things shaped out of its bones. It had been so close. So much planning, so much work. And then it feels the Wound tear itself back open, brighter than the torch chains the Things use, a sun in its belly. It screeches like a beast in agony. It is dragged down forever. It howls with yellow flicks of lightening arcing through it like nerves misfiring. Somewhere below, a little girl and an old man and a horse and a drakin who were travelling from one city to another drop dead. But they weren't its targets, they're collateral. Without eyes it spots its real quarry, the pin to it all. It will lash out blindly.

------~-( )-~------

"Stand firm!" calls the captain.

The men, captain included, stand strong in a fifteen-foot radius around a fragile leader. They walk in a slow circle, one left step at a time, rotating around the center. They are dressed light and leathery, better not to sink into the mud. In their left hands are thick, steel kite shields; a bright feytorch occupies their right.

"Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving..." narrates the captain. They felt the sense of impending doom, a dread like a stone dropping in your stomach, that always warns the Abomination is about to pull something. Nobody could guess what it will be. Hence the readied shields, the magic torches, the frantic eyes darting all around for an attack that they know is coming but they don't know the shape of. Will it be panic this time, or despair, monsters, earthquake, lighting? They have to be ready. "Keep moving, keep moving, keep moving..." The Captain narrates unnecessarily. These are the best of both the armies, they know what to do, but he's got his job too. They're all here to make sure that poor thing in between them doesn't die tonight. Or ever, if the Kirk's thaumaturges have their way. All their hopes rest on a sick man's immortality.

What a joke, the Royal Guard Captain thinks, bitterly and privately.

Behind him, in the the center of his protective circle, in a colorful tent all the colors of royalty (purple, scarlet, blue), with two advisors fretting over him, sits the man they protect. King Broccán: blind in one eye, half-blind in the other, unable to walk without help from two men, unable to fly despite the little butterfly wings that flit comically out of his back. "Why is the ground shaking?" the king of two kingdoms asks. It wasn't, until a second after he spoke.

Well, that is one gift he has.

"Shhh," calms his handler, a Royal Advisor thrice-blessed by the Kirk, whose name is Alasdair. "The soldiers are here to protect you."

"Mudquake manuevers!" they hear the Captain call outside. The soldiers throw their heavy shields to the ground and- they must look a little ridiculous now- hop from one foot to the other to stop from sinking. They keep the torches firmly grasped: the one thing that's important in this world. Inside the kingly tent, both the advisors breathe a sigh of relief.

"It could have been much worse," says Alasdair.

"Don't dare declare it!" answers the other attendant, a fairy named Tule who handles humans better than most of his kind. "It could always be worse here! The air will hear you and whisper it back up to the Murderer."

Alasdair rolls his eyes, then smiles triumphantly.

"Oh, I don't care what it hears me say," he says. "I'll be home in Gaia soon, and the Abomination can stay here and have its ugly mud and its darkness. When we're gone? It can wallow in it."

"Because the door is opened does not mean we're prepared to enter into it," says the fae.

"So you have heard the news?"

"How else would I know of it?"

Alasdair scratches his graying beard. Outside, the soldiers are still hopping around the shifting ground. "Do you think we're going home soon, then? Back to the motherland?"

"A house that others hold is not ours."

"...meaning?"

"Meaning, a house that others hold is not ours." The fae looks, sees the human's uncomprehending expression, and sighs with a kind of sigh that sounds like centuries. "Put plainly: other Planes perhaps have opened. Nations not native to the Hallow, not knowing our suffering, not needing our help, get there first. We are trapped in this nightmare if we don't rush to the quick. I say, with all the most foolish of men and the desperate of fae: send an army."

"An army," repeats Alasdair slowly.

The fairy nods. "I live in a madhouse."

"We can't. Be serious. You have to know that. If there are other refugees still alive, if anyone else survived the Cataclysm and their Planes have reopened too- do we really want to start a war with them? No, five or six scouts, maybe, then they come back and tell us what they find."

"A finger in the door, bruised when it gets slammed shut."

"Stop speaking in riddles, for five seconds, please."

"Do my ears hear a Deal?"

"Alright, alright," says Alasdair. "Sure, deal."

Tule counted aloud for five seconds, smiles benignly, and says: "Now, what will you give me in return? I like your name. And your eyes."

Alasdair's thick eyebrows are suddenly furious. "Give you? I'll not give you a fucking-"

"-Here it comes!" the king cries out, interrupting, bolting up in his soft silken bed like he's about to make a run for it. Ha, as if he could do that, the human Advisor thinks, getting up to guide him back down into his sheet with the firm hand of authority. "But it's coming, it's coming, he- it's coming!" Little King Broccán yelps in protest, even without fighting him.

And come it does. A surge of lighting brighter than the lost sun of Gaia pours down on them from above, cackling first in the far-off sulfurous clouds over their heads, shooting like tree-branches from one dark cloud to another, gathering power, convalescing in the center and- it seems to hang there for a second- shooting down in a direct line for the tent.

"Raise!" Another unneeded order from the Captain. All the Royal Guard have already lifted their feytorches, angled them slightly inwards towards the middle of the circle, so that when the lightning touches against the light-

It all happens in less than a second. The lightning is redirected from the tent and the men, curving in an sweeping motion away from the green fires and into the ground around them. Arcs of electricity frame their little bubble of light. For a moment, they are trapped in a perfect yellow birdcage.

A gilded cage- a poet might appreciate the irony, but these firm men of steel do not. They hold their torches high until the storm passes. Still circling. The King of Daithe and the Torlands gets to keep breathing, clutching Alasdair's hand, in small frightened sobs into his pillow.

The discussion about the Rift will have to wait until later.

------~-( )-~------

Later happens, eventually. And then later than that happens, and now Aaron stands in front of a glistening Rift. It's massive, green in hue like the feytorches, but so much stronger- you can feel the power coming off of it. A gaping tear in reality. Large enough to march an army through.

He was told to check for that feature specifically.

He makes a mental note: if it came to it, war could be conducted from here. Assuming the soldiers would survive the transportation. That, he supposes, is his job to discover. They picked him for this job based entirely on his connections: a High Clansmen and distant relative of the King, important enough for diplomatic matters but not important enough to be missed if the Rift shreds him to pieces. Who knows how stable it is? Him and the other four scouts coming with- all riding drakin, prepared for flight or walking- are about to find out. With a shaking of his steed's reins, he drives it forward, despite its natural hesitation to walk into the portal, despite his hesitation, forward and forward into the unnatural light...

For a second, he thinks he's floating.

It is difficult to describe what he experiences. When a person makes contact with the Rift, there is a flashing of images and sensations, like little snippets of each place the Rift could lead them to. And with it, there is a feeling of choice, that one can will himself to be in any of these Planes, like magic. It must be magic, of course, but Aaron has never done any before. And yet, he just knows. As soon as he makes contact, the Rift itself empowers him to use it.

He tries to concentrate on what he's seeing. A world of massive flowers and grass the size of castle towers, and then a different world of floating islands, and then grim-faced imperial soldiers and then serpents and then- are those bird people?- and then a clay head sits under a waterfall- he's shocked to see that sight- and then the Abomination is again waiting for him but then there's a dragon's maw and it's roaring and, no, he doesn't know what he's seeing anymore, he feels like he's losing concentration, he doesn't know which world is supposed to be Gaia and in panic he picks at random and-

His drakin's claws break into soft earth. Behind him, the others emerge the same, walking slowly out of the Rift. Their dragon-like steeds sniff the air curiously. (Later, he will talk with the others and discover that they never had the same experience he did; the Rift seems to offer the choice to the first person in a group.) They have all arrived... somewhere. He lifts his head to see a bright light he doesn't recognize. He has to shield his eyes from it, it hurts so bad to look at. It illuminates everything: the green grass, the trees in the distance, the occasional rock. It would be unremarkable to someone from somewhere other than the Hallow- but to Aaron and his companions, it is bizarre, too bright. They don't know yet that the light overhead is the lost sun of Gaia, and that they have found home.

And so it starts. A slight tremor, a bit of wind, some rain…The younglings open their eyes slightly but close them back as soon as they do. Their broodmothers perked their ears up, trying to make sense of the magical energies that, for the first time in their memory, were slowly getting out of control.

Everywhere around Therm, the Sae’senthe’ssisans were waking up.



The earthquake suddenly grew in strength, shaking Therm to its core. Somewhere on Therm, in one of the massive cave systems the brown Sae’senthe’ssisans made their nest, a passage caves in. Hundreds of drakes come out running and one brown dragon shouts his words of power, breaking himself free of the debris.

Others soon follow him through the hole he made. All running or flying away before the cave breaks in fully. A whole nest was about to be destroyed…more Kin lost.



What started out as some small gusts of wind soon grew in strength by tenfold. Tornadoes were being formed above the jungles of Therm. The Greens and Yellows were getting restless.

Storms were common in Therm’s jungles but freak storms, appearing out of nowhere and with this strength? Impossible. Thousand greens and yellows and mixes between them flew high up in the air. Trying to combat the storms with their magic. As one, they gathered their magic and uttered the words of power. A forgotten language to all but the Sae’senthe’ssis.

“FIR FIE FUUUM!” “MUUUF EIF RIF” “IRF IEF UMFF” the voices of thousands all combined shouted. The immense magical energies hit the tornadoes head on, just before they would combine and become too strong to handle.

As their shouts hit the tornadoes, they slowly disperse and lose power. The massive trees they pulled from the ground, the grass and all other debris were now falling from the sky at incredible speeds. Making large holes in the ground, killing anything in their path.



The only dragons that were remotely prepared for what was thrown at them were the Reds. As their volcanoes all but exploded with hot lava, spewing it everywhere in the area, the Reds prepared a massive fire shield spell over their main nest where they gathered all of their kin.

The lava came in, burning anything that stood in its path, as a flood and it hit the shield with a loud BOOM only for it to be instantly absorbed in the shield. At a later date, a Red will consume the shield and fly deep in the ocean to release the heat inside it. Hoping that he’ll be fast enough to reach breathable air on the way back.

The Red leader, Mythrandil stood tall just below the upper edge of the shield, surveying the lands. He was a bright Red dragon with scales that covered all his body parts with 4 legs and 2 massive wings. The most common type of Red but also the strongest which is what got him his current position between the Kin.

He was looking all around, scanning the surrounding lands and looking at each volcano in part. They were stopping. The earthquake was gone as well. Lava still flew everywhere in small rivers.

The shield would hold and keep everyone safe but what could’ve caused these anomalies?

“ KIN! Listen to me! Hold fast! Hold strong! It looks like whatever caused this is ending. I shall fly to the Queen. ” his voice roared over the landscape. A bit of magic was infused in his voice to make it reach all Kin in the area.



Lightning crackled swiftly, followed straight away by loud BOOM sounds. The storms gathered above the oceans of the Blues. The rain and the winds threatened to make the oceans overflow and drown the land.

The Blues, maybe the only ones that were lucky, all swam deep underwater. They watched with interest the freak weather phenomena that seemed to plague their oceans.

“ Master Gul’vid, Master Vid’Gul. Do you know what is happening? We haven’t seen weather like this before. The ocean is restless. ” said a youngling, barely 50 cycles old.

Masters Gul’Vid and Vid’Gul, bent their heads down at the youngling and, one with a smile on his face while the other one with a scowl shook their heads.

“ We have not seen anything like this before. Our Queen will surely know. NO! She won’t know either! Yes, she will! She IS the Queen afterall. That is because she beat your weakass. We share the same ass Vid and I don’t remember you helping out too much. I was pissed at you for accepting her challenge in the first place. Yeah, sure. Anyways, we can both agree that her magic is without equal. She will know. ” said and argued the dragons between each other.

The youngling was, like all other present, used to exchanges like this between the two masters; for Gul’Vid and Vid’Gul were in fact two different dragons sharing the body of one. Two heads going into a single body with scales covering the body, very sharp nails and a very long tail.



The Dragon Queen, Ashevelen by her name, was paying attention closely to what was happening around her palace. A massive building that was dug right into a floating mountain that was somewhere in the middle of Therm. From there, one would be able to see everything from every land and could reach them easily if needed. A strategy position if not one of comfort.

Soon the vassals would come seeking an audience with the Queen. They will ask for an explanation of the events and they will receive interesting news. Kingdom changing news. Dangerous news.

Moments later the 7 vassals flew in through the doors of the palace, ignoring the cries of alarm from the White guards.

Mythrandil of the Reds, Masters Gul’Vid and Vid’Gul of the Blues, B’rak of the Black, Wilhem of the Greens, G’Rak of the Browns, Flash of the Yellows and Erenkyla of the Orange, Violet and Indigoes.

Ashevelen stood up from her place on the top of a perch and flew down. Hitting the ground with a loud bang. She roared loudly and the vassals bowed their heads in fear. No matter who these dragons were between their Kin, Ashevelen was above them all. Either they respected her willingly or they wouldn’t have any choice. All chose her and they have given her parts of their heart. The vassals were part of Ashevelen irreversibly and for them to show unannounced? Expected but unannounced?

“ Have you forgotten your places? Do you not remember who your QUEEN is? What is the meaning of this? ” shouted Ashevelen. Her voice made all the other dragons cowl in fear.

B’Rak stepped forward in front of the others as it was customary.

“ With regret we have disturbed you, our Queen. We truly seek your forgiveness but if you haven’t noticed…we have lost Kin tonight. None of us are thinking straight at the moment.

Each of our Kin have suffered from the freak weather events. Earthquakes, volcano eruptions, tornadoes, hurricanes. All at once and they all stopped almost as soon as they came but not before causing damage.

We seek your knowledge. If your great magic has given you an insight on this, please let us know. We need to calm our Kin. ” his voice was placid for a Black but he knew better than to try anything on the Queen. She would anyway feel whenever one of them would lie via the connection of their hearts.

Ashevelen looked at them, taking a second on each to look them in the eye. Considering how much they understood already on their own of what was happening and at the same time, showing them that she feels the loss of the Kin as much as they do.

“ Apologies accepted in the light of these circumstances. It shall be the last time, next time I’ll have someone’s tail.

Now, you ask what happened? I’ll tell you. A few hours ago the Whites, me included, felt strong magical energies erupting in the most northern point of this place of existence. Some of you might remember that is where we have arrived in this world in the first place.

I can announce now, 100%, that the Rift that first brought my Grandfather here…has opened. ” she said, allowing a few moments for the vassals to understand exactly what that meant.

Mythrandil stepped forward almost instantly.

“ My Queen. Allow my Kin to send scouts inside this Rift. Our Kin has grown tired of hunting the same prey all the time. The insects of this plane are easy to catch and don’t oppose us at all. We require a real challenge. ” as soon as he’d stop talking, Flash interjected.

“ Is that so? Send your Kin in so that they can eat everything on the other side of the Rift and bring nothing back for us? We need more space to grow and hopefully find out if our ancestors still live. ”

As Flash finished talking, the others soon joined in. Each shouting their proposals on how to handle the Rift and who to go first in. Who gets the first spoils, where to go first and different other questions.

Ashevelen initially waited for them to stop talking but seeing as they kept going on and on, she roared once. Instantly stopping any conversation.

“ Shut it all of you. We need someone with strong magic on the other side of the Rift and we need someone who can fight if needed.

Mythrandil, send 2 of your Kin to the Rift. They will be accompanied by one of my Kin.

As for the others, prepare your own Kin. We might not be the only ones out there and we don’t know who can appear from the other side of the Rift. I am not saying to be afraid but safe.

Flash and G’Rak, I’m putting you both in charge of the restoration efforts. Whatever you need, ask my Whites and they’ll find a way.

Now. GO! It’s late already. ”

Without further ado, all of the dragons left to their duties as given by the Queen.



Gal’Gur and Finandir of the Reds approached the Rift with high speed. The feathers of Gal’Gur moving with the wind and making a whoosh sound as he beat his 8 wings. Beside him, Finandir was a furry dragon with dark red fur and only 2 wings.

As soon as they reached the Rift, they noticed a small White dragon, by the name of Snow, sitting on the ground in front of the Rift. Listening to the sounds of the Rift. Not that there were any. The Rift was exactly like the Bubbles of this plane for all purposes and intents. The only difference was that the Rift would send you in different planes of existence, if the stories were true, instead of random places in the world.

With a nod to each other, they threw themselves into the Rift. Snow started seeing different planes of existence, swamps, buildings and different other forms of fauna/relief.

Eventually Snow chose one that seemed closer to home.



The three dragons came out of the Rift in a dry climate. Occasional trees around and mountains. Everything was normal sized which made the dragons look massive in comparison to their environment.

They flew high up in the air to survey the area around them. The two Reds taking point in front of the smaller White dragon.

Deep in the library of the fortification known as Enduron Castle, a tired man in plain clothes continued his thorough efforts to peruse one of many books. As he analyzed the various literature, a pile of detailed notes accumulated on the desk, their penmanship not matching the effort that went into the thoughts they represented.

Most people knew not to bother this man without good reason. This wasn't just because he was busy, or because of the seemingly dry subject matter of the books, but because of who he was. He was none other than the current Emperor of Vivesper, Aricius. As Emperor, he had one duty - ensuring the survival and advancement of the Empire of Vivesper as a whole. In the day of his ancestors, before the land was unified, such a thing would, more often than not, be a matter for the battlefield. However, with wars across the continent becoming a matter for history books, and with the Empire having found stability, the attitude needed to shift. That was, at least, as far as he was concerned.

The people of Vivesper had fought and struggled so long nearly to survive. The current population, while much larger than its lowest point, was still a far cry from what it was many centuries ago, when the people first came to this land. Famine, dehydration, frostbite, and hypothermia had claimed so many as they tried to eek out a living in a land that wanted them to die.

Humanity was not simply a stain to be wiped out at the caprice of nature, however. As it came under a unifying vision, it pried life from the maw of death. The people had to make many sacrifices to survive; over time, they had gotten better and better at it. When every man did his job, and could count on his fellow men to do theirs, then what was nature or divinity to stand in their way?

Yet there were those who would never be content with survival. There were those who were willing to cheat their fellow man even when they had more than enough. Aricius had just overseen the execution of a count by burning earlier in the day; the noble's provisions for his people did not reflect what he took from them, and investigations revealed embezzlement. The local leadership was a reflection of the Empire as a whole to its subjects. If they cheated their people, then the Empire was cheating its people; if they were willing to cheat their people, then they were willing to cheat the Empire.

In the end, it didn't matter who they were, commoner or noble. They all needed to know their place in the Empire. Though there were those who tried to ingratiate themselves with the emperor, Aricius was rather fickle, and would just as quickly put someone on the chopping block as he would show a seemingly favorable attitude towards them.

"Emperor!" a voice called out, piercing the silence of the expansive library. The call was 'Emperor' as opposed to 'Your Majesty', as Aricius' ancestors had decided that it was more important they be identified by their role in Vivesperian society than their informed superiority. As much as it made Aricius irate to be interrupted, he identified the voice as a member of his Royal Guard. This matter was evidently important.

Aricius picked his head up from the tome he was poring over - a theoretical analysis of the motives of humanity - and looked squarely at the interrupting guard. The guard was taking hard breaths, obviously having been in a rush, and in the guard's hand was a scroll case. "You're going to want to read this, Emperor," he urged.

Aricius took the scroll case from the guard, pulling the scroll from it and analyzing its content.

----



----

Aricius was already considering many possibilities before he had even gotten to the end of the letter. Should he be ecstatic, or worried? He needed a more clear picture. "Have every one of my advisors summoned to the throne room for an emergency meeting," he ordered the guard, as he stood up from his chair before taking a long stretch. "And have someone bring those back to my room," he ordered again, pointing at his notes.

The guard nodded. "Right away, Emperor," he confirmed, as he rapidly set off. The meeting meant that Aricius had to get dressed in clothing that actually reflected his status as the Emperor of Vivesper, as comfortable as more plain clothes were. He didn't have a problem with doing it, however - it was his duty.

----

The throne room, and the throne itself, weren't particularly decorated, though some sculptures and pictures had been put in the room in order to better reflect its significance. Aricius' many advisors answered his summons, dropping whatever they were doing at the time. Compared to his ancestors, there were considerably few military commanders, with the lack of constant war having lowered the need for them.

"Hello, everyone. Thank you for answering my summons on such short notice. Now, let's get right to business," he started, cutting through the pleasantries. "First, what are considerations as far as threats go?"

General Tiller, the writer of the previous scroll, took the question. "That largely varies based on what's on the other side, and how logical they are," he supposed. "Overall, I predict little threat to Vivesper overall, though there would be ever-present danger to whatever research party we send to investigate. Given how far the Rift is from any viable target, and how desolate the area is, a ground invasion would not be possible for most unless they have a lot of supplies prepared. In the worst case scenario, we would evacuate the civilized areas, taking our supplies and destroying anything they can use as we move. The survivors of any invasion force here through winter would likely be too frostbitten to remain a threat."

"I don't think we'll have to immediately draft our army, then," Aricius deduced. "We may, however, want to potentially start training more troops, once we have a good idea of what we might be facing. Now, how about potential resources?"

Marcus, Aricius' head steward, took this question. "That would, of course, be dependent on what we encounter," he suggested. "Should the area - or areas - on the other side be more hospitable, then that may bode well for us. We might be able to establish trade opportunities, at the very least. We're currently limited by how much desolate land we can transform into arable - with a consistent trade partner willing to provide more food, then we can shift more of our focus to other areas."

Aricius considered the possibility. Trading... that, of course, required providing something of equal value. Many societies valued gold; historically, its value was less than that of iron in Vivesper, due to its lack of use in a land where people struggled to survive, but gold was slowly gaining value as the Empire stabilized, and it was something they could shift more focus into if others valued it. there were, of course, potentially other things; it would largely vary based on what they encountered.

Though Aricius listened to his various advisors as they discussed the new circumstance, there was one constant - the fact remained that too much was up in the air at the moment. They needed more information. "Arrange for a transport route to be established to the Rift," he ordered. "We'll support a base there while our researchers discover more. I'll also need our bravest, most experienced scouts. If we can go through the Rift, then we need to identify whether the trip can be made both ways, and we'll need a good idea of what's on the other side. We'll keep some soldiers at the base as well, for smaller threats, but we're not keeping a fortress there. That should do for today. You're all dismissed."

As his advisors set off, Aricius lingered a moment. Vivesper had been content to survive against the odds for so long. Perhaps, however, this would be the ultimate triumph of man over gods and this accursed land. Perhaps the greedy criminals within the Empire had a point.

Perhaps it wasn't enough anymore just to survive - it was time to thrive.

The Shardspur was ancient. People tended to forget. Clinging to an unforgiving fragment of planar rock, surely the remnant of some much larger island shattered in a long-ago catastrophe, it sailed serenely through a plane of venomous, unmerciful light. Its foundations – the obdurate white granite so ubiquitous to Vershellen as a whole – had floated undisturbed for millennia before humans had ever set foot in the plane, and it bore its far newer burden of towers and bastions lightly.

The old fortress’ archaic battlements and ramparts scowled out at the bright, mad distance of the Aeviternal Expanse, and its rune-worked walls – many feet thick, hewn by desperate hands rather than the smooth precision of golemry or the surpassing skill of magic – bore the wild assault of the planar winds without complaint, as they had for nearly half a millennium.

Once, the Shardspur had been the last refuge of a people driven from their world by a calamity so great it threatened to end them all, but now…well.

The proud pennons of Vershellen – and House Hellebore – still snapped and raced from the squat towers that rose from the scree-littered slopes, the odd lufwood and seeking heartvine clinging grimly to the cliffsides, its garrison of Brass Legionnaires manned the walls with perfect precision and its bronze-dipped siege batteries kept a close and wary eye on the struggling trading settlement of Port Sunlight, but there was no denying that the Shardspur was a backwater.

And that suited Alexander Hellebore, by grace of the Crown Viscount Shardspur and – almost by default - Governor-General of the Expanse Aeviternal, down to the ground. He was a lesser scion of House Hellebore in many ways, a mediocre magister of the second rank – which still left him far above the common masses in skill and power – and without much in the way of besetting pride and ambition that characterised many born to his station. He had his fair share of luxuries, a secure position far removed from the cutthroat politics of his distant and glorious cousin the empress’ Court of Days, and his duties were, while useful, in truth not onerous or critical to the continued prosperity of the empire.

Yes, life was good.

His study was in the highest tower of the Shardspur – which wasn’t saying much, by Vershellese standards; it had been built long before modern reinforcing techniques and metamaterials had even been dreamt of, and so where newer mage spires soared up to the bright heavens, raised by tireless golems and powerful magic, the Shardspur squatted, bristling suspiciously against the world. Whilst the citadel-isle hadn’t seen a major renovation project in two centuries – and why would it? – successive generations had at least seen to the gentle modernization of the interior.

Thus, Alexander’s study was a comfortable place of plush crimson carpets and orphidax wood panelling, the poison radiance transmuted into harmless and rich blocks of vermillion light by the elaborate stained-glass windows, waves of sumptuous colour washing up the panes in an ornate display of the glassmage’s art. Magelights glowed warmly in baroque sconces, highlighting the archaic pale fan-vaulting that supported the roof and bathing his desk in abundant radiance.

A desk that was piled high with paperwork, brigaded by overstuffed bookshelves groaning under the weight of tomes, everything from the ancient and carefully-preserved handwritten vellum and leather to the more modern printed paper and cloth, to a few precious examples of memory-glass and manasteel, for the truly critical records. Even a sleepy, bucolic backwater like the Expanse generated tremendous volumes of paperwork – bills of lading, taxation records, reports from the small squadron of sky-cutters based in the Shardspur’s rudimentary docks, Courts of Appeal cases, maintenance requests…the list went on and on and on, all important work, all necessary work, but – and Alexander always felt a slight, glad glow – nothing that was critical. No princely magister’s pet projects needing immediate and total attention under the threat of annihilation, no political intrigue requiring the prioritization of this over that, none of the inevitable reprisals and recriminations…just the regular business of citizens sept to the House of Hellebore, the concerns of the few minor Houses that made their homes under that same imperial aegis and the yearly visit of the empress’ circuit rider from the capital.

Finishing the latest – a dispute over jurisdiction, of all things, of one of the essence-mills that powered the mana grid of Port Sunlight – and setting his seal with a sizzle of arcane sparks, Alexander rose from his chair with a sigh and padded over to one of the windows. A lingering touch, a mote or two of mana, and the dense scarlet cleared and paled obediently, letting him – if he was careful, and didn’t spend too long at it – take an unfettered look at his province.

At this time of year, the light, the endless, all-pervading light of a million stars, was tinged green and gold and the winds were heavy with the promise of life. Everything grew when the skies were saturated with virescence, farmers delighting as their crops exploded out of the ground like fireworks and gardeners despairing as their fiercely parterred and pleached arrangements were swallowed beneath the relentless tide of new growth. The air was heady with the sweet scent of exile’s roses running wild, carried through the long-defunct Gate – which resided not a stone’s throw from the Shardspur, a vast and empty arc – from Gaia as a memory of the lost homeland and distributed everywhere the empire found purchase.

The Aeviternal Expanse wasn’t the heart of the empire, it wasn’t the Crownsward with colossal, glittering Cynosure at its heart and a sky dreadnought hovering protectively over every trade-lane, but it had been settled for a long time. The worst of the local fauna had long since been exterminated, brought low by sword and bow and desperate spellfire in the earliest days of Vershellen, the wildwoods which had run rampant over the larger islands tamed and brought to heel with axe and saw and the untapped demesnes roaring with magical flux capped and channeled, their riotous, surging energies directed to civilisation rather than the birthing of fresh arcane horrors.

Placid homesteads stood, plumply self-satisfied, on the choiciest of isles. Fields – bright and living green, orderly and tame – spread like blankets across once-wild landscapes, and, on the closest, Alexander’s keen eyes could even spot the tireless forms of golems tending to the crops, blessedly unaffected by the venomous light. Pot-bellied skyships puttered between the islands in the sky, their holds filled with the agrarian bounty of the Expanse and their spun-light sails straining against the load.

Yes, they weren’t the most valuable of cargoes – that honour undoubtedly went to the Days mined and refined in the Far Reaches – and perhaps Port Sunlight didn’t, as a consequence, make the kind of princely profits that greater trading ports in other regions of the empire took for granted, but it was safe and it was calm and it was his. Nothing exciting happened in the Expanse, not really, and Alexander was just fine with that.

It left him plenty of time to cultivate his roses.



Alas, such idyllic times were not to last. Alexander Hellebore’s warm, sloe-brown eyes were turned away from the Gate - its soaring magnificence rendered a mundane part of the background by time and familiarity - when the wound in the world first tore itself into existence once again, but his senses were sharp and he felt the colossal bloom of power – vast even for Vershellen - as it swelled to a gargantuan crescendo.

He hit the floor rolling, even as the shock of the discharge blew the windows in. A hail of crimson razor-shards buried themselves deep into the panelling and more showered down around him even as, from somewhere within the depths of the castle, an alarm not heard in anyone’s lifetime howled to life, screaming up and down the scale and raking across already-frayed nerves.

A second-rank magister he might have been, and far removed from the courtly intrigue that meant death or razor-honed reflexes, but his power was as responsive as ever, surging forth in a spreading wave of pale glacier-gray fire, fighting back the siren song of the unfettered light now pouring in through his study windows. He gritted his teeth and poured out more; the Shardspur wasn’t large enough, or populated enough, to warrant a full city-scale shield; they relied on the runeworked walls and stained glass to keep them safe. Now, half that protection was gone in a single instant, and if he didn’t act fast, his people would start to suffer for it. Light-madness and vitrification, neither pleasant and both ultimately fatal if allowed to fester.

“Not on my damned watch,” he growled, still prone on the carpet, face a mask of strain as he struggled to maintain a shield larger than anything he’d attempted before. His people below were utterly defenceless against the light, just as they had been in the earliest days of Vershellen; it fell to him, the ranking noble and representative of the empire, to do his duty and defend them as best he could. As only he could.

As he pulled himself to his feet, cursing his own overindulgence, the doors burst open and two gleaming Brass Legionnaires stormed in, their longswords of curdled light out and glowing, ready to skewer any attacker. “Excellency!” one of them boomed, in the resonant steel-on-steel tones that all the imperial golems tended towards. Woozily, Alexander noted the rank markings and ornamentation to the sculpted breastplate; the captain of the guard herself. “Are you unharmed?”

He brushed a few slivers of glass impatiently out of his clothes and skin. “I’m fine.” A drop of blood swelled, slowly, from his nose and burst, unnoticed, on the floor, and a headache began to pound meanly at his temples. “We need to get everyone out of the light; I can’t hold this forever.” An admission of weakness that would be unthinkable in normal times, but the golems were loyal, far more so than beings of flesh, and the Brass Legionnaires had unflinchingly served the House of Hellebore since before the empire existed.

The captain saluted, sheathing her sword in one fluid movement. “Evacuations to the inner citadel rooms are in progress, milord.” She paused, as though the next was physically painful to her. “The…event…has shattered our crystal balls and transmission wafers; our coordination and communications are not…what they should be. We are fortunate the mirror-streams remain unaffected, or else we would be reduced to runners and written messages. It is making matters more chaotic than is optimal.”

Alexander shook his head. “At least people are moving,” he answered, quietly thankful for the efficiency of the legionnaires. “And get someone to silence that wretched shrieking; I can’t hear myself think for the racket!”

He allowed himself to be quickly hustled away from his ruined towertop retreat, down into the bowels of the citadel and away from the poison light which had, in the space of seconds, gone from a mostly-abstract concern, a mundane fact of life rendered irrelevant by the march of progress, to a sudden and pressing danger once more.

Blessedly, someone managed to shut off the screeching klaxon, but the quiet was short-lived; the centrepiece of the inner citadel was a vaulting, windowless chamber usually used for storage and now full of fearful cries and the shrill chatter of the Shardspur’s fleshy population. Around the edges the Brass Legionnaires formed a bristling, spiky cordon, protecting their frailer counterparts and ready to cut any invading arcane monstrosity – or light-maddened soul - to ribbons.

Questions assailed Alexander on all sides as he strode confidently into the hall, the very picture of a noble magister defending his charges, the image only slightly marred by the stubborn ooze of blood from his nose and his bloodshot eyes.

“What’s happening?”

“Are we under attack?”

“The glass-”

“The Legionnaires bundled me here-”

“I demand-”

“Silence!” His voice, made sonorous and resonant with a cantrip every mage knew, shook cataracts of dust from the high vaults and instantly silenced the jabbering crowd. “For the time being, all windowed rooms and passageways are off-limits to anyone unable to manage a full-body lightshield. No, I don’t know exactly what’s happened, but it’s big and it involves the Gate.” Internally, Alexander shook his head at that; for five hundred years and change, the Gate had been a big floating relic, no longer understood and certainly no longer functional. “I will be calling Cynosure and the Admiralty for immediate reinforcements, and to the closest arsenals for whatever Brass Legionnaires can be spared. In the meantime-”

He continued, spouting off a litany of orders and instructions with the instinctual, habitual ease of one born to rule, and under his spreading mantle of opalescent shields the garrison of the Shardspur hurried to obey.



The sky-cutter was a swift thing, one of the smallest skyships in common usage throughout the empire. Without exception they were sleek, the better to cut through the air, with a veritable cloud of golden spun-light sails to drive them through the endless heavens. A single rank of shard carronades lined its lightly armoured brass-dipped hull; cutters were customs vessels, designed for the chase and for close-range boarding actions with their contingent of winged Brass Legionnaires. The portholes, deep-sunk and with armoured coverings, glowed like rubies, and half a hundred painstakingly-carved sapphire eyes sat in rune-carved sockets all across the hull, a way for the crew inside to see and track their environment without being exposed to its insidious touch.

On the bridge of the Skylark, the continual matter of navigating the vessel through the high empyrean continued unabated, running like clockwork as the ship neared the colossal portal. The crew of winged bronze golems, their patterns specially lightened and stripped down to save on weight wherever possible, moved with lithe tread and utter certainty of purpose, trimming a great bank of light-sails here, adjusting a pulley-weight there, staring intently at readouts projected onto quicksilver mirror-pools, whilst in the centre of it all a tight knot of Brass Legionnaires bristled.

This was all so exciting! Amelia Salomé-Hellebore was at the centre of the tumult, her eyes almost as bright as the reflected glare from the legionnaires’ decorated plate. She was a young sorceress, as these things went, skin the colour of chocolate and hair the Hellebore white, marking her as a member of a cadet branch of the imperial House, and she’d demanded a place on the expedition, when the initial panic had died down.

There had been such tiresome arguments! But, eventually, stodgy old Viscount Shardspur, bleeding from the nose at the effort of shielding the whole citadel with his magic, personally – she’d not thought the man had the power in him to do it, let alone hold the spell - had been swayed and, at the centre of a prickling square of Brass Legionnaires, she’d been escorted into the only sky-cutter (and, indeed, the only skyship) currently in the Shardspur’s little dock, heading straight for the swirling viridescence that snapped and crackled and roared the music of the spheres from between weather-beaten spires of granite and marble.

A buzzing hum seemed to shake the universe as the brave Skylark approached, everything vibrating to some unknown note. The captain said something, she was sure of it, bronze fingers dancing across flaring, erratic controls, but it was lost in the rising drone.

Magic lay thick on the air, almost as dense as it was around Cynosure or one of the princely ports, and Amelia laughed at its chocolate and cinder-toffee taste on her tongue, the sensation of plunging into an endless ocean of it.

A cascade of images tumbled through her head as she swam through the currents; all she would have to do is reach out her hand and they – for she could instinctively feel the forged-metal glow of her golems’ souls – would be there, and not here. There was an abandoned city, being reclaimed by the stop-motion advance of the jungle; another rainforest in the middle of what looked like a serious cloudburst, then a sickly and graspingly hungry, green-lit darkness she shied away from, a swampy marshland that seemed to go on for ever, more and more came and swirled about her in a complex and shifting mandala, each eager, each keen, resonant with power and pregnant with possibility.



The good ship Skylark, trailing viridian streamers of energy from every spar and an excess mana-charge crackling across its gleaming hull, burst out of the great Rift and into an unfamiliar sky. Blue, blue, blue, a great wash of azure blankness with only a few cotton-wisp clouds to break up its alien monotony, no constellations burning bright in eye-catching patterns, no siren-song music of the spheres.

Just…blue sky and yellow sunlight, filtering in through the watching eyes embedded in the skyship’s hull, rolling madly in their sockets as they rushed to drink in the new place. Blue sky and yellow sun above, green grassland and forest below – and, in the clearing far beneath, tiny figures, rendered comically small by altitude but still visible and growing larger as the ship descended, its gold-gossamer sails of spun light brushing the tops of the trees.

Anticipation, fear and wonder all warred inside her head and raked their phantom fingers up her spine. The great rip in reality was, blessedly, stable behind her, the way home remained open, and – glory of glories – the unknown unfurled itself majestically before her.

There was opportunity here, if she had the spine and stomach to grasp it. Viscount Shardspur’s orders might have been to reconnoitre and report back as quickly as possible, but this?

“Take us down,” she commanded. “We shall see what denizens inhabit this place, and what they might tell us of it, before we return to Vershellen in triumph! We make history today, legionnaires; they’ll carve your patterns on the Roll of Honour for your parts in this!”

The Karrok Jungle - Arragon City, Capital of the Gruall Clanship

The sound of birds echoed through the Jungle; thick foliage blotted out the sky as beams of light breaking through the treeline gently illuminated the undergrowth. Carved into a gigantic tree stood a massive structure, constructed out of hides, wood, and natural material. Just below it was a vast assortment of platforms built into the tree trunk, with various structures built on top of them, and catwalks and bridges interconnecting them together. Even a few neighboring megafloral trees had more platforms and structures built into them. Gruall of all ages and subraces bustled between the packed walkways and corridors, climbing up and down ladders and entering and leaving various buildings, often hauling goods and materials. A massive marketplace stood in-between two large trees a little far off the city, packed with Gruall browsing market stalls, parked caravans, and various shops and stores.

Standing on the northern balcony of the Deepwood Palace was a massive Jungle Gruall, with dark green scales and small gray patterns down his back… His body was well built and bulky, with a large but relatively short tail… Rotuk Jagrrok, the current Primarch of the Clanship, looked down at the city below, leaning on the side of the balcony railing… The formation of the Gruall Clanship was a monumental feat that took place not very long ago; the clans were disobedient, scattered, and disorganized in the beginning. Although things are much more organized now, it was still a pain, having to get them to step back in line and keep them from wandering off too far… It was clear that the clans weren’t as interested in the idea of keeping together… “We need to keep the clans together…” Rotuk said with a heavy sigh. “You know the Gruall are isolationists though; it’s in their nature to diverge and remain independent…” Lurrik said behind Rotuk. Lurrik’s old, wrinkled, dark brown scales shining faintly off the dim light from the canopy. “I know that much, but look at what we have accomplished together! The first grand monuments to the mother tree, massive cities, a great army... Our unity has made us far stronger than before…” Rotuk said. “Then find a way to maintain that unity; there always is a way.” Lurrik said, shambling over to Rotuk’s side... Rotuk remained quiet, thinking in silence as he watched the city bellow.

The Abberon Desert - Dustbone Den, Desert Merchant Hub

The Dustbone Den, a sprawling merchants hub infested by bandits, thieves, and criminals of all walks around the Desert of Primera… Built inside of a canyon, the Dustbone Den is a very popular site for many Dune Gruall from all across the Abberon Desert. Torches illuminated the majority of the city as many sheets and fabric overhangs covered the majority of the tight corridors, narrow passageways, and external structures. Many houses, shops, and buildings were dug into the canyon with their front sides jutting out of every corner and rock face. Staircases and walkways were built into the sandstone cliffs, packed with Gruall traveling up and down the narrow pathways. The scorching sun was hardly able to scratch the city, as the canyon casted a protective shadow over the Dustbone Den. The jingle of coins, clatter of ceramics, and the voices of hundreds of Gruall echoed across the canyon, signifying the bustling commonplace of such a city…

“I love this scenery… Dusty, rugged roads; market stalls and commerce… Packed streets, warm atmosphere… It all takes me back to my hometown of Dryden.” Zirax said as he walked alongside Grogon, who was several times taller and larger than him. “We aren’t here for sightseeing, remember? We are here to order the metal we need.” Grogon said. “Ugh; you really don’t like having fun, do you? Always ‘war, war, war, death, death, death! Do this! Do that!’ from you…” Zirax nagged as he rolled his eyes. “Well at least I don’t sit at a table and count numbers all day!” Grogon shot back. “If I didn’t do all that important stuff, you wouldn’t have any weapons to fight with.” Zirax said. “Calm down, the both of you. We are just here for materials, no need to argue about your professions.” Callia interjected. The two growled lightly at each other, remaining silent. After a while of silence, Grogon spoke up, “So, what do we need the metal for?” He asked. “Ah… Rotuk is preparing for a potential conflict.” Callia replied. “What is this ‘potential conflict’ he speaks of?” Zirax asked. “I thought you would know at least… I am not even on the council!” Callia said as she let out a sigh. “Rotuk is planning something; something big… I don’t know exactly what, but it has something to do with the clans and the other independent Gruall…” She explained.

“Excellent wares here! Silks, leathers, and cloth!” A shopkeep called as the trio entered the market square. “Fine sir, you look like the kind of fellow in need of a fine blade!” Another called over to Grogon. The market was definitely busy, packed with Gruall, mostly Dune Gruall… Finally arriving at a massive building near the end of the market, the three cut through the line of people towards the building. Built into the rock face was an open window with a Jungle Gruall standing behind the engraved counter. “Hey, you are the famous forgesmith Varaak, right?” Zirax asked him. “Yes, that is me… Here to make a transaction?” Varaak asked. “That is correct, we need fifteen thousand blades ready before the end of the year.” Grogon said. “WHAT?! Fifteen… I- I mean… How would you pay-...” Varaak stopped short as Callia put down a massive sack full of gold onto the table. “This is the upfront payment. The rest will be delivered after your goods are dropped off.” She said. Yes, yes, right away.” Varrak said. “Sorry folks! The forge is no longer accepting new orders for the time being!” He called to the crowd.

Returning back to the city square, Callia, Zirax, and Grogon entered a tavern and sat at a table. “Well, with that out of the way, we should start heading back to the Clanship…” Zirax said. “Yeah, but do we have to walk all the way back? Can’t we just hire a wagon or something?” Grogon asked. “Because, Grogon, Raxxian’s are not cheap to rent or buy…” Callia replied. Grogon sighed. “Well, the earlier we leave, the better… I don’t wanna walk through the desert during the day.” he said.

The Sartovian Steppe - Seltoruioviak, Temple of the fallen world

The Sartovian Steppe, a vast open plain of tall grassland and arid shrubland. Expansive valleys of grass rolled in the wind, tucking and turning with every gust; the trees rocked gently under the warm sun. A small river streamed down to the north, and far off to the east, the treeline of the jungle stood just over the horizon. Standing in the center of the grassland lay the ruins of an ancient temple… The stone lay cracked and overgrown, the damage was very present. Blocks and chunks rested on the ground, collapsed and shattered from the main construction. Some of the blocks had engravings and markings long worn down and faded. It was very clear that this place had been abandoned for some time.

“I think this is the place…” Said one of the Gruall scouts. “Wow… It really is old… How old do you think it is?” Another asked. “Not sure…” the first said. The ancient ruins remained silent and still as the visitors explored the ancient temple. Passing through the massive archway into the ruin, the three found themselves staring at another massive stone archway… Excessively massive… But this one was different… The material, engravings and markings were different from the temple, and it stood in the center of the room, almost pointless to stand there. “I think I know what this is…” One of the scouts said. “It's an old tale; our great grandparents came from this place, they fled another world and came to this one… So the legend says at least, hardly anyone remembers such a time, so we can only guess what’s true.” He explained. “I don’t think this is the place… I would think it would have to be……. Older…” Another said. Yet with a sudden flash of light, the Rift gate began to spark and sing, tearing through reality as time and space warped within the inner circle of the structure. The scout gasped and dove for cover, afraid and startled as the gateway tore open, roaring with magical power. The green light emanated gently from the Rift as it swirled and sparked in its place, reopened once more…

The Karrok Jungle - Arragon City, Capital of the Gruall Clanship

The Gruall council roared with arguments and voices, demanding action… Some wanted to step through the gateway, while others demanded it be destroyed; it was clear an agreement was not going to be found easily. Rotuk sighed, looking down at the arguing groups of Gruall… “We have the gear, we have the manpower and the preparations, and now we have this… Gateway to worry about…” He said to his advisor, Krallox. “I believe it is best that we see this resolved before we make any course of action…” Krallox replied. “You are very much correct…” Rotuk nodded.

“SILENCE!” He suddenly called down to the council. The shouting and arguments slowly calmed down to light chatter and sharp looks as they all began to pay attention. “In these times of tension, unrest, and disorganization; I believe now, more than ever, is it time to remain unified… The unknown lurks behind that gate; we might find friends, we might find enemies… Whatever the case, we will not know unless we search; and search we will, but if we are separated and spread apart, we will never be prepared for what might appear from the abyss. We are stronger together, unified and gathered as one!” Rotuk’s speech held strong with power and passion, certainly bringing the majority of the council to agreement. Though the other portion were still left unhappy, they too reluctantly nodded in silence.

Explorers and adventurers were preparing to pass through the Rift; call it a leap of faith, or dumb ambition… The Gruall had never before been more unified, bolstered and held together under the threat, but also opportunity of the unknown… The Graull armies were being bolstered and expanded, while economic power began to accumulate and grow. A new era of unity and exploration had begun, bringing with it waves of both terror and awe, fear and bravery as the Gruall began their march to the gate…

---

---

It started with a startled patrol. A flood of monsters and unfamiliar animals and unknown dangers. But it was after this that the dwarves responded with focused aggression until they could control the situation. It was then that it dawned on them that the magical gateways once again sparked to life and opened a way for the dwarves of Dunmar to return. The generations here were old enough to remember their exodus. Dunmar moved forward, but never forgot. The Emperor himself marched to the top of Scibriz, the mountain capital. He then ordered half the army within Scibriz to assemble. With all this commotion the rumors began to spread, thousands of dwarves who weren't in the army gathered behind the columns of armored men and women.

On top of Scibriz stood Ulrik Longbeard, son of Dorik Longbeard, son of Ulfrik Longbeard. He is from a clan of dwarves who have fought against the goblin menace, dwarves who have led their people to prosperity. Now he stands where his father had led his people. He stands alongside a mighty host of dwarves eager to retake their homeland. He was here at the head of the dwarven formation. An army of twelve thousand dwarves to retake their homeland and rise to the glory their fathers and their forefathers once had. Behind them was a long caravan of dwarven settlers that would once again fill the halls of old Dunmar.

Ulrik looked down hill at the rows of chanting dwarves. He raised one hand balled in a fist and the chanting stopped. The silence filled the air and across the jagged mountain tops the echoes began to fade. He then started his speech shouting at the top of his lungs as the mountains carried his echoing message down towards the foot of the mountain.

"LISTEN TO ME SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF DUNMAR AND LISTEN GOOD! HERE I STAND WHERE MY FATHER STOOD WHEN HE LED OUR PEOPLE FROM THE CATACLYSM! THAT RAT BASTARD SAVED OUR SORRY ARSES SO THAT WE COULD SURVIVE! NOW I STAND HERE TO LEAD YOU BACK TO OUR ANCESTRAL HOMELANDS - FROM DUNLAN TO MENIR! LET'S TAKE IT ALL BACK BEFORE THOSE GREEN INBRED FUCKS GET THERE BEFORE WE DO! LET GAIA KNOW THAT WE DWARVES HAVE RETURNED AND LET ANY ARMY THAT STANDS AGAINST US KNOW THAT WE WILL FIGHT AND DIE! WE'LL TAKE THEM WITH US IF THOSE BLOODY FUCKS WANT A PIECE! LET THEM HEAR THE GRUMAKS ROAR AND WATCH THEM SHIT THEIR KNICKERS! STOMP AND SHOUT PROUD DUNMARII! URATH ARAN KATARR!"

He grabbed a banner next to him and raised it high while also raising his axe. The people of Dunmar began once again to chant.

"URATH ARAN KATARR! URATH ARAN KATARR! URATH ARAN KATARR!"

This chant was the rallying cry of Dunmar. Urath aran katarr in common tongue means to death or glory. Ulrik would leave Ruhk in the hands of his retainers and lead a crusade to Gaia to reclaim their lost world. He held it in his mind as he walked through the portal. On the other side he found himself shielding his eyes from the harsh sunlight. To his disdain, there were already others here. His army was marching behind him. If these people here on Gaia now were to take the wrong idea then Dunmar would be pulled into an unnecessary conflict that he would have to retreat from.

“Ah shite..." he grumbled, he barely had time to take in the scenery before his entire mood was ruined.

The next to emerge was his retainer, Halmdir Swordsworn. "Ah bloody hell... I haven't seen the tallfolk since I was a wee lad. What should we do about it my lord?"

"Go back and tell the rest of the army to hold... I'll need to barter passage or we might end up fighting the tallfolk and the goblin hordes. I need neither on our crusade."

Halmdir nodded and went back through to stop the army's march on the other side. Ulrik on the other hand continued to curse under his breath, "I'd rather kiss a Grumak's arse than grovel to some tallfolk. I hope the cataclysm curbed their egos or by the gods I'LL CAVE THEIR BLOODY HEADS IN..."

---

Meanwhile...

The drums begin to sound within abandoned dwarven strongholds. The warbled screams of inbred beasts echo within caves and across mountains.

The Goblin horde awakens. It knows that the rifts had opened once more. They too will move soon. They too will sweep across the different worlds and infect them with a savage malice.

Their civilization will march to conquer new lands and spread their accursed race. The question is when...

At the moment, Emperor Aricius was looking over just some of the myriad writings his subjects could bring him regarding the history of the Rift. At the back of his mind, however, was the knowledge that his time was short, the clock ticking until his next meeting. As much as he wanted to know, there was an even more pressing subject matter - that of the Rift.
With a reluctant sigh, Aricius pulled himself from his current efforts poring over the various documents in the castle's vast library. He would have time for his studies later, he reminded himself. His attention was needed on the very subject his studies pertained to.
As Aricius entered the throne room, he was pleased to see his top advisors already awaiting him. They understood how precious his time was, and wouldn't waste it by making him wait unnecessarily. "Emperor!" one of them greeted. "It's an honor to-"
"God damn, skip the pleasantries, please," he demanded as he moved to his seat. Perhaps hunger made him testy; perhaps it was just impatience. Regardless, the silent nods and tightened posture of the others as they took their seats made it evident that he had set the tone for the meeting.
"How go the efforts by the research team?" he pressed, before he had even finished sitting down. "What have we discovered about the Rift, and are any of these discoveries useful to us?"

General Tiller cleared his throat to indicate that he would be the one answering. It was appropriate, he figured, as the research team was under military command. "We've made many discoveries, but they essentially sum up to a few key points. The first is that people can enter through the Rift, and return here through the portal at the other end."
Aricius nodded. "Has this been consistent?" he asked.
"It has," Tiller confidently assured the emperor. "They've been able to return even when the Rift on our end wasn't directed to their current location. That brings us to the next two points. Our mages have developed a means to direct the Rift to any one of multiple different locations. For now, they will control it on site, based on your orders. Our researchers are hoping to develop a means to streamline this process, to make it easier for you to control. Though there are those who say that the actual direction of the Rift wouldn't need a particularly specialized skillset, we've endeavored to make the process as reliable and consistent as possible."

Tiller leaned forward, his hands clasped as he prepared to continue. "That brings us to the most concerning point. We haven't yet found a way to seal the Rift," he revealed. Aricius gave a slightly dissatisfied shrug, but there was no indication that the development surprised him.
"So anyone who has access to a Rift on their end could come here, then?" he asked.
"As far as we know, that is correct," Tiller confirmed. "At least, anyone whom we can reach. We can, of course, continue to work on ways to tighten control, but it will... take time, at the very least."
Aricius closed his eyes in contemplation, his chin resting lightly on his fist. He remained still for a few seconds before returning his attention to the room. "Very well," he acknowledged. "Depending on what the other lands look like, our main advantage may be that there's nothing of value to be gained by attacking this place, relative to the cost. On that note, what do we see of other lands?"
Marcus cleared his throat this time. "Based on the data we have so far, I would say that there are positive prospects," he said. "We've been careful to avoid going too far, however, so as to leave the decision on our next move to you. The others can fill you in on what we've been seeing, along with our recommendations. From there, the choice is yours."
The other advisors became more alert at the prompt. Aricius looked around at the table.
"Very well. Let's hear it then," he ordered.

----

A piece of meat arced through the air before disappearing into the maw of a lunging wyvern. The meal would satisfy the creature, while its rider received his briefing.
With the base commander at his office stood the rider with the scout that would be accompanying him. The commander looked over the most important details of the briefing before continuing. "You two have been selected for this mission because of your training in telepathy, and because of the high degree of confidence the Empire can place in you," he stated.
The riders nodded. "It's an honor to be chosen for this, sir," one of them commented.
"As it should be," the commander responded. "Now, some information about your destination. What we have been able to pick up from scrying suggests that that there is significant civilization in the target realm. They appear to command floating ships of some kind, with fortified positions. You should hopefully get the chance to establish contact with them before they try to shoot you down. You are to carry no weapons on this trip. Should you find yourselves in danger, retreat immediately and report it."
"Yes, sir," the soldiers affirmed.
"Here are the two most important things you can remember for this mission," the commander continued. "The first: you represent Vivesper and its people. Do not do anything that would reflect unfavorably on us. The Emperor is looking for an opportunity to establish a diplomatic replationships, and potentially trade. You will be the first impression these people have of Vivesper. Do not give them a reason to immediately dismiss such an idea."
"Yes sir," the soldiers affirmed again.
"Good. The second: you must return to us," the commander asserted. "At least one of you, but ideally, both. We must have your report of what you encounter. Though I hope it doesn't happen, you also must not allow yourselves to be taken prisoner. Should you be interrogated, you may endanger Vivesper should these people prove hostile."
The soldiers maintained their bearing as they were presented with the grim scenario. "Yes sir," they affirmed again.
"Good. Now, the mages will direct the Rift. You are to get on your wyverns and fly through once they clear you," the commander instructed. "From there, you're on your own. Try to use telepathy to contact any other party from a safe distance, before approaching. Best of luck."
"Understood. We look forward to bringing you a successful report," one of the scouts said, as they took their leave. The mission was dangerous, but they wouldn't back down. Vivesper needed this of them, and they would do it.

The riders, now mounted atop their wyverns, waited anxiously as the mages stabilized the Rift. As they did, images of flying ships and thriving islands appeared - as well as a place that seemed even deader than many in Vivesper. Unlike the desolate areas in Vivesper, however, which were invariably uncivilized, that place seemed to be a ruin of what was once a thriving civilization.
Hopefully, it would only come up as a history lesson.
The mages gave the all clear for the scouts. With a command, the wyverns took off, into the portal... and into whatever awaited them on the other side.

The visitor came early in the morning. Just as the sun was barely over the horizon. The sky lit in the soft vermilion and citrus hues of early morning. He came bearing the call to parlement, an arrow wrapped in purple cloth. It was taken to the chambers of the lord of the house, Baron Clairon Monte d'Bagouyne who was awoken by his servants and presented with the sign. He stirred in his morning chambers, and knew.

The messenger, having done his duty left accordingly walking out back to the house of the parlement. The Baron was in no such hurry, knowing it would take some time for all the houses of the realm to be summoned for this emergency meeting and shunted the arrow into a quiver, folded up the cloth, and being awake stepped out for breakfast.

“It is early for summons, is it not?” the baron's wife, lady Marissa Guirrard d'Bagouyne asked. The early light of morning barely enough to light through the windows. Servants walked ahead carrying tin lanterns to light the way through the dim hallway. Their light casting faint and soft against her weathered pear-shaped face. Her graying eyes shining like silver in the amber glow of the light. She walked with an unsteady gait, one hand held out to deflty hold onto the sleeve of her husband as she passively felt at the ground with a cane. She was aging and going blind, cataracts taking away her vision until the world was clear only through a dim fog. She observed the world in hazy shapes, no detail and at such a early hour in the morning she would not be able to make her way through the house.

“I suppose it is.” the baron replied, clutching a cloak to himself. It was cold in the morning and the dew of night had yet to lift from the window panes. In the rising light of morning and the glow of the lantern the droplets on the plants outside the window shone like jewels, and the frost around the edge of the rippling glass panes glowed in the passing light. “But, I suppose the rumors from the ministry is true.”

“The gate has re-opened?” his wife asked.

“It may have. The investigation must be complete.”

The baron, Clairon Bagouyne was a man of large stature, but aging fast. Though still impressive, his former handsomeness was endowed with the lines of advancing age and his skin was fading to the spotted gray of late life. His red hair and beard was quickly graying, turning to a sort of dull unpolished bronze and then slate. His brown eyes though, still bright, shone with a wary intelligence honed by decades of intrigue across the five baronies of the city Claimoinx. His hands were still hard and large, trained by a life time of dueling; but he rose one to gently hold the elbow of his wife. An injury to a leg made his gait unsteady, and he not so much as walked unencumbered down the hall but rumbled troll like down the hall.

“So, we might perhaps... Go home?” Marissa said, but he words were hesitant, uncertain. What was home, if not the chateau?

Clairon had no answer to this, and they walked silently on. Leaving behind the windowed hall way into interior chambers illuminated by torch and fire places, warming slowly for the day ahead. A large number of servants stood about, some cleaning and preparing the room for whatever lay ahead that day.

The chateau was an old building. The family Bagouyne had built it originally during the dark early days when the Macharoix raided out off the island to the mainland, coming to settle and contend the river lowlands with over half a dozen other rival adventurers. Tracing their line back to marriage with the heirs of the legendary Dagdoux they were one of the oldest and most prestigious families. High commanders of the sea, but now stately farmers and city masters, major landlord and minor trader of wines. The old wooden fort that had staked the early claim long burned and torn down, replaced successively in the waves of war and peace until the current era. The impressive granite bricks that built the towering walls and columns paneled over now in oak panels, painted and decorated. But high up along the ceilings the old stone work lay bare and tarnished over in an enameling of smoke and ash from the fire places, the torches, and the lanterns, the tobacco smoke of the minor gentry that lived here at this court and the parties and centuries of court intrigue. When the golden chandeliers were lit though, the delicate craftsmanship of the high columns and vaulted ceilings could shine through the ages in delicate ways, the roping carved stone made of three colors, the floral decorations, and the miniatures of man and horse and griffon and so on. It bore no gold ornamentation as dressed the estates of newer houses, built on the trade of distant seas and their raiding. It won its prestige and wonder at its own age and the blood soaked into the walls.

In the dining hall a single large table was prepared and dressed. The chairs removed from the table top and set on the floor. The baron and his wife occupied all of one side. They were offered last night's bread with olive oil to tide them over as they waited for the cook and his staff to bring the kitchen to life for breakfast. The tall windows here let in plentiful light, and looked down from the hill the chateau occupied over the fields and vineyards of its grounds, and the wide city beyond. So early in the morning, and there was nothing that had been done, the staff worked nonstop to lower the benches back onto the ground from the banquet table tops. To bring in linens and lay them over the tables. Bring out the candles and light them. To light the four fire places and produce more fire wood from storage. From beyond the portal to the kitchen the sounds of the pots and pans being laid out, the knives taken down, and the ovens being fired out echoed as the couple sat in cool silence, deep in their own independent thoughts of the new era rising over the realm. The mysteries were too deep for them. The unknown beyond too much to comprehend. This was the domain of religion and ceremony. The living quality of the ancient portal grounds had become mystery, as ephemeral as the Three Fold Goddess, the chariot of Macha and Eponeux.

The sounds of the kitchen seemed to settle, things were in order. From the portal a white unicorn dressed in a white coat and hat came trotting out and lowered his head to the two waiting nobles. “Good morning your honors, would you like eggs this morning? I can have them poached in ten minutes and with tea.” he looked tired, as if himself just woken up moments ago after a short respite.

“Could we have bacon?” the baron asked.

“I'll have it carved off.” the chef remarked, “Would either of the honors require any further produce?”

“If you have fresh lemons still, I would like a sliced lemon.” Marissa said in a quiet tone of voice. The chef bowed, and left, sweeping his tail as he went.

The elaborate skull-painted face of Cold And Silent Longing stared up at the huge golem that had just greeted her. She glanced at the expectant congregation of devotees behind her, all dressed in black robes and godbone ornaments, and shrugged. Nothing for it, then.

“Hello. You have a rare opportunity to partake of the truth of the Dead And Undying God and the First Necromancer. Would you like to?”

The towering steel thing stared back at her silently for several seconds, tightly gripping a large halberd in its right hand. "I apologize," it said, the noise echoing from seemingly nowhere in particular on the golem's body, its facial features hard and unmoving.

"-but I do not understand. I am incapable of complex reasoning beyond my set imperatives. A delegation will arrive to speak with you shortly." It continued, incandescents filling the sky high above a canopy of twisted, writhing trees, each seemingly a new shade of unnaturally bright colour.rees.

“...I see, a servitor. Very well. I await your controller most eagerly.” She turns to her congregation. “Let us pray.”

The black-glad gathering of necromancers- a couple dozen, in all- begins to incant a low, grim prayer together, led by Cold and Silent Longing. “We pray that the bones of God are generous. We pray that the sanctity of the deeper layers be ever kept. We pray for the health of the saints, and all those who have passed into the secrets of the Barathron, and we pray that we are found worthy in their sight. We pray that our descendants keep well our bones, as we keep well the bones of our ancestors…”

They continue like this for some time, until, finally, their prayers are intercut by the sharp *snap* of holes being torn in reality, twisting, dull blue swirls of arcane energy conjured into being a mere handful of feet away from them, on the very same granite platform.

From each, out stepped a towering form, tan, pointy-eared beings formed of toned, rippling muscle, their bodies sculpted to impossible perfection, clothed by little more than thin strips of cloth that offered the most basic notions of modesty. (INSERT BIG SEXY ENBY ELF DESCRIPTIONS HERE)

"Greetings," the elf-blooded beings echoed, bowing in perfect, synchronized unison. "On behalf of the people of this realm, we, the guardians of this Rift, welcome you.”

Cold And Silent Longing finishes the current line of her prayer, and closes with “In the name of the God who is dead, but will not die, and the First Necromancer, amen” before turning to the arriving elves. She inclines her head. “I greet you. I am pleased to see that the knowledge of the Rifts has endured as well here as it has in the Tomb of God. I am Cold And Silent Longing, tenth Saint to serve the God Undying, adherent of the method of devotion, student of She Who Kneels Among Ash And Bone, and keeper of the mysteries of the Barathron. I have come in the hopes of sharing the truth that can be found only in the Holy Corpse. To whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”

The graven, dignified tones of Cold And Silent Longing were undercut slightly by her chosen form, which was frail and all of four and a half feet tall (though admittedly, the many bones that adorn her simple black robes almost gave her back a touch of gravitas.)

The controllers, at least, show no disrespect for Cold and Silent Longing's height, even though they did tower over her.

The leftmost of the identical elves proudly smacks a hand against their chest, just above where their heart presumably was. "I am Rhistalyar," they say.

"And I am Ankhael,"

"And we are the stewards of this rift, on behalf of the floating city of Astralus." They proudly exclaim, speaking in perfect, practiced unison. "If you are friends, then we are here to welcome you."

"If you're foes..." Rhistalyar begins, interrupted by an awkward shrug from Ankhael.

"...Well, that should be obvious, I think."

The necrosaint raised both eyebrows. The action stretched the pitch-black circles painted over her eyes. “Do you often have foes who patiently wait for a delegation to arrive to speak with them? If so- you shall have to introduce me to your enemies, for they are suicidally polite and I wish dearly to meet them.”

"Actually, yes. A handful of fiendish things." Rhistalyar says.

"...Devils, the old records call them. A handful of their ilk are so driven by arbitrary rules that they will, in fact, patiently await delegations before trying-"

"to enact bloody murder. They stopped being terribly effective after long, though, as you'd probably guess, necromancer."

“Fascinating. I stand by my words, but that is not the purpose of my visit here. God is dead; but God is undying, and the wisdom of God remains in the Holy Corpse. By this wisdom are the bones of our ancestors stirred to aid us, by Its secret truth do we work godbone into form, and by Its highest art am I given life eternal, a testament to the divinity that is dead yet living. I am here to share this truth with those who are ready to receive it, and to extend to any who wish to make pilgrimage an invitation to the Corpse That Is The Tomb. What do your kind worship? I shall require an understanding of the cultural context for my work.” A long stylus of bone extends itself from Cold And Silent Longings finger, and the skin of her left forearm tears itself from the muscle and extends into a scroll of vellum.

"Us?" The twins both say, glancing at each other with curious expressions.

Rhistalyar brings their hand to their chest, once again resting it over their heart. "Nothing and no-one. If you'd desire to hear why, we could explain it, but this is hardly the appropriate place for such conversation, is it?"

"I find it quite comfortable." Ankhael beams.

“Tch! That you feel you have a reason bodes ill for your spiritual health.” The tiny necromancer scowls. “As for material circumstances, they matter little to me, and my congregation’s fortitude is only slightly less. Explain to me briefly, then, why you would prefer to bleed your spirit dry then acknowledge your dependence, and to what extent your society shares your benighted opinion. Then we may proceed to this… floating city.”

"It's quite simple, really." Rhistalyar nods, their expression unflinchingly friendly.

"We have thrived without masters, owing allegiance only to each other - our kith, kin, and community..."

"So why swear allegiance to something else? We are quite content living freely, as we are, with the power we have cultivated from the world and ourselves. Our existence is happy and fulfilling, just as I'm sure yours is..."

"Uniquely fulfilling." Ankhael sharply interrupts their sibling, holding up a hand. "As for how we arrived at this contentment? We were slaves once, you see, to mages that called themselves gods. Perhaps they were."

"And yet, they died all the same. Their bones make useful reagents, at least." Rhistalyar scoffs, lazily rolling their eyes.

"...And drinking implements."

“My condolences.” The small priestess nods, her face taking on an expression of genuine sympathy. “At the hands of false gods, your people have suffered a profound wound, and been deprived of your birthright of spiritual health. My relationship with the Dead And Undying God is symbiotic, not servile- familial, not slavish. I serve It as a faithful daughter, and It cares for me as a father. To come to know God is not a matter of swearing allegiance to some alien overlord; but an achievement of understanding your relationship with It. I shall have to correct this injustice posthaste. Will you permit us to establish a congregation among your people?”

"Perhaps," Rhistalyar replies, idly rolling their shoulders. "Once your intentions can be judged."

"We aren't all that familiar with the intentions of unexpected visitors in bone paint," Ankhael says, turning to weave their arms through the air, as if sketching out some sort of invisible design.

"but we can surmise a few things. A dead god? Our own necromancers would be deeply curious, surely,"

", though we must ask, for your own safety,"

"Your eyes aren't used to the light, are they?"

“I can add a translucent layer to my corneas. My congregation are not all so talented, but prepared themselves for hardship when they volunteered to carry the Undying God’s message afar. Unless you are concerned they will be wholly blinded?”

"No, they shouldn't be, but I would suggest they close their eyes as we pass through-"

"-this portal," Ankhael said, just as a wound opened in reality in front of them, a bluish mirror-pool which they stuck their hand through. "It will be much akin to being bathed in light, in this specific instance. So close to a point of instability - this rift - an impromptu portal must be heavily reinforced with power to prevent unwanted guests from following us through." They explained, pulling their arm back from the portal, revealing it to be entirely intact with a deft wiggle of the fingers.

"Shall we?"

The necrosaint nodded silently, and her congregation processed through the portal, pulling black veils over their eyes.

A bright flash of purple-blue light followed - then darkness, specks of orange light, and the noise of thousands of voices.

"You can remove the veils now, if you wish," Rhistalyar said, spreading their arms wide.

"It is nighttime here, as we have willed it."

The space they stepped into was enormous - a massive gold-domed structure held aloft by eight featureless statues of black stone, sconces containing glowing gemstones on either side of each. Further, between each statue, was an open archway leading into a street bustling with life, and the energy of hundreds of thousands of people drinking, eating, and enjoying the night.

“...hm.” Cold And Silent Longing stares at the agglomeration of people, and the vast, open-air space. Awed muttering passes amongst the congregation as they observe the crowds, each larger than an entire Church community. What’s more, the vast and open spaces are utterly unfamiliar to them- having grown up in the labyrinthine depths of the Body of God. Semi-consciously, they draw closer together, eyeing the new environment suspiciously.

“Your city is… very different from what I’m used to.” She pauses for a long minute before she remembers her goals here. “You mentioned something about discerning our intent before permitting us to establish a ministry.”

“Rarely do people concentrate in such numbers,”

“And even more rarely do they claim to serve a dead god.”

As one, the twins turn to face their guests, each holding an arm out to the side. The motion, in the darkness, carried with it a faint, purplish glow - raw power, released from their limbs by mere movements.

“While we welcome you to the city...” Rhis begins as Ankhael tilts their head to one side.

“..We must make certain that you mean our people no harm. We must understand you. Get to know you.”

“See your magic, perhaps, in a duel? Perhaps even enjoy the intimate company of a few of your number.” Ankhael giggled playfully, only to be silenced with a sharp, angry glare from their sibling, subsequently rolling their eyes.

“As I was saying, we must know what your words mean. What your faith is. Over refreshments, perhaps?”

“What manner of refreshments? I… dislike strong flavors.” The bone-clad woman furrowed her brow.

“Cold, purified water? Few fleshy things can manage to live without that.” Ankhael offers snapping their fingers. Into their hand appeared a ceramic jug, filled with chilly, crystal-clear water.

“That will be fine. And for my congregation? It would be profoundly unkind of me to partake without them.”

“Noble of you to say.” Ankhael nods. “Will the same suffice for them? We can provide all manner of things. Tea, hot cocoa.. That one is my favourite,” they said, licking their lips greedily.

Cold And Silent Longing’s nose wrinkles in disgust at the mention of tea. She grits her teeth and presses on. “Perhaps you could provide a small selection and allow them to make a decision?”

“We could... A selection, yes. There are many dozens of teas we can provide, or a number of sweet drinks, like fruit juices, alcoholic brews...” Ankhael sighs wistfully, remembering a particularly delicious concoction.

“...Or water. Dozens of varieties, even - the water of a living mountain’s springs, that which is simply conjured... Perhaps some allowed to intermingle with citrus?” Rhis continues, interrupting their sibling. “We have had many, many centuries to find ways to entertain and refresh ourselves, especially those of us who choose not to age.”

“Those of you who choose not to age. Ffffascinating. Can this state be sustained outside of this region? I’ve observed that the local thanergy blooms are drastically larger than expected.”

"It can be. This place - the Font - is infused with raw, arcane power. We have learned to... Channel it."

"To store it inside of us, and to become one with it. With effort, anyone can become like us, and achieve total control over their own bodies." Akhael says, conjuring a floating ceramic cup in the space in front of their guest.

"Ah! Speaking of - may we have permission to read the thoughts of your congregation, for the purpose of providing them proper refreshment?" Rhis asks, as Ankhael moves to pour water into the floating ceramic.

Cold And Silent Longing scowls. “You may not. I know only one other mind-reader, and I trust her as I trust a serpent. Either provide a menu, a buffet table, or mineral water for all present.”

"We are former slaves. We understand your caution, and apologize for any offense we have caused." Ankhael says, respectfully bowing their head. With a flourish, streaks of arcane power shoot out from their hand, and where they land on either side of the congregation, two long tables piled with veritable cornucopias of refreshments appear. Colourful fruits, carefully prepared meats, and, of course, several varieties of mineral water.

The congregants of the necrosaint eat and drink lightly, staying away from the stronger-smelling substances and meats (though several of them pick the familiar mushrooms from some kebabs that are on offer.) Cold And Silent Longing watches them for a short while, making sure they’re handling the new circumstances, before turning to her hosts. “How total is this control? Could you survive if your heart and brain were badly damaged, or become, say, much larger than you currently are?”

"We can, and more. The brain is... Useful, but it is not the only way for a spirit to command a body, and when a body is full of magic..."

"It is much easier for us to alter it," Ankhael says, floating the cup of water toward their guest with the flick of a hand - a hand that was suddenly covered in thick, shimmering scales.
The necromancer nods approvingly. “We have knowledge of similar arts. You had questions for me, though? Proceed with them. I wish to move forward with my holy mission.”

"Questions, yes." Rhis nods, smiling gently. "The first: your name, what is its significance, as it relates to your faith?"

"Ours were simply chosen because we liked the way they sounded."

She answers with the practiced cadence of an oft-recited prayer. “I am a Saint. My name is scripture. The significance is more manifold than one could fully grasp in a century of contemplation. It was given to me by God, and reflects It’s recognition of the particulars of my devotion, and It’s acknowledgement that I have become something other than what I was.”

The saint’s tone shifts back into her normal register.

“Practically speaking, it also means that none know the original identities of the Saints… though pilgrims often enjoy speculation.”

“None - including yourself?” Ankhael asks, their head slowly tilting to the other side like a rusty seesaw.

“...Excluding myself, and my fellow necrosaints. There are eleven of them, plus me.”

“Eleven... Saints.” Ankhael nods. “And your God-”

“; how did they give you your name? Through visions? Scripture? Both?”

“Neither?” Ankhael interjects, conjuring up a mug of piping hot cocoa to sip away at.

The necrosaint rubs the bridge of her nose between her finger and thumb, and sighs in the exact manner of a schoolteacher asked a particularly stupid question. “You are asking how I commune with the Dead And Undying God. You realize that if you understood this process in full, you would by definition be a necrosaint? These are sacred mysteries, and they can only be understood by pilgrimage- in which I invite you to partake, if you are truly interested in the answer to your question.”

She adjusts herself and launches into a brief sermon. “The scripture of the Undying God is written upon It’s body- that’s metaphorically written, not literally written. Though it can be spoken of, it cannot be spoken. Though it can be discussed, it cannot be known except through experience. Experience comes with pilgrimage- descent into the deeper layers of the Body Of God.” She clears her throat. “That’s the actual, literal corpse of god, to be clear. We live there. It is unfathomably large.”

“Well... Rhetorical question or not, no, we did not realize this. We are just as familiar with your Dead God as you are with our city, or the walking mountains...” Rhis shrugged.

“Or any number of the mysteries of the Font,” Ankhael muttered, biting their lip as if biting back words.

“Yes. Our questions are honest, not meant to cause offense. But the corpse of a God...”

“We are anatomists - we must admit, we are full of questions. Like this: this divine body that is unfathomably large. It is so large, we gather, that it has not been fully explored?”

“Your curiosity does you credit. It is natural to be driven to investigate the Body of God. As for your question, you are correct- it has not been fully explored. Though we know enough of the general layout of the divine corpse to sort it into nine layers- epidermic, dermic, subdermic, muscular, skeletal, organotropic, nervous, nootropic, and barathron- there are many oddities within it, and no reason to believe that many more are not undiscovered. My sister saint Ivory Star Of Cancerous Bone has a particular interest in that field. If you have interest in visiting the Body of God, you are welcome to- the contemplation of the Body of God is a holy task that we would joyously share.”

"Perhaps we will share it. The body of a God, we imagine, is an experience we know will change us."

"Perhaps not. Perhaps our curiosity would kill us, or worse."

"The electric currents alone..." Rhis clicks their tongue, shaking their head.

"Barathron - what does this word mean?" Ankhael asks. "We share many of these terms, in description of the body, but not this one."”

“It means, roughly translated, ‘abyss’ or ‘deepest pit’. The word is ancient. Those who reach the Barathron layer, and return alive, are the necrosaints. It is the deepest place in the Body of God. To say more would be to betray the secrets with which I have been entrusted.”

"We see."

"We understand," Rhis nods. "None have returned without becoming necrosaints, then. Not unsurprising, we suppose..."

"After all, the body of a dead god..."

"...Must be a life-changing experience."

"And thanergy - this is some sort of death-energy, yes? But few of our people are dying, for we would sense if they did..."

"...So it must also be the energy the things within them release when they die and undergo apoptosis?"

“Of course it’s a life-changing experience. That’s the point . As for thanergy- it’s released upon any tissue or cell death, with a much larger blossom occuring at the moment of apopneumatism- that’s when the soul departs the body.”

"Fascinating. Our necromancers primarily animate the bodies of beasts, though we must admit, they are a..."

"Small contingent. We prefer artificial constructs, you see - things of steel and stone, rather than bone and dead flesh. Living flesh, on the other hand..."

"...Is easier to work with. For us. More efficient." Rhis said, emphasizing their point by sproiting a seat of pristine, feathered wings from their back, stretching them with the casual ease of limb they'd lived with their whole life.

"Most prefer the power of lightning and steel, however."

“Living flesh is simple, if it’s the necromancer’s own. And steel and stone cannot regenerate or replicate with the simple elegance of necrotic tissue. Far easier to make a shard of tibia grow itself into a servitor than to shape a body for the purpose. But we are not here to discuss the particulars of my power, are we?”

"We are not. You seem reasonable - caring of your people, at the least - but this other mind-readers of yours. She worries us." Rhis says.

"Worries us for the safety of our friends, more importantly," Ankhael sighs, narrowing their eyes. "We must inquire of them, so that our fellows can be adequately informed of what they would face, should they choose to follow you."

“The Lady of White Glass And Fire, keeper of the Inquisitorial Method. Do you wish me to tell her she is not welcome here? We don’t get along.”

"If she is one who goes about reading - or worse, altering - the minds of others without their express consent..."

The twins say as one, turning to look at each other, then back at their guest. They nod in perfect unison. "Then yes."

Cold And Silent Longing nods pleasantly. “Very well. I’ll pass that on to her. If she does pass through, you will know her by her extraordinarily sour demeanor. Her preferred form is a tall, middle-aged woman with pale pink hair.”

"Good. We appreciate your understanding. Our detection systems, at least, should have no trouble spotting her... Unless she is adept at hiding herself? We assume that it is relatively easy for one of such power to take different forms." They both say, once more in unison, quirking the same.

“She could pose as a clump of nerve cells in someone else’s spine, if she felt the urge. Or a small animal, or a shard of godbone, or any other form composed of biological matter that you care to name. But I do not think she intends to come here.”

"We will prepare, regardless, and we appreciate your-"

"-honesty. What of the other Saints? Our society, you see, is lead not by leaders, but by the will of its people - but we would understand who leads you."

The bone-painted face of the Saint calms as she slips into the practiced cadence of prayer. “I pray for the Testament Of Flesh Made Steel, and the gossamer sharpness of his blade, and the cleaness of his cut. I pray for the Lady of White Glass And Fire, bane of the heretic, salve to the faithful, and her implacable mercy. I pray for the Gilded Skull With Jeweled Eyes, and all the delights offered by their faith. I pray for the Most Patient Keeper Of Skin-Bound Tomes, and his flawless and eternal confession of the creed that binds us all. I pray for Warden Of Revealed Truths, who has forever sought knowledge over solace in lies. I pray for the Bloodstained Rose Of Holy Martyrdom, the Rose Unblown, and the hand of the clock eternally poised at a moment to midnight. I pray for A Burning Soul Hurled As A Spear, though she knows only the prayer committed with the body and mind, not with the lips and tongue. I pray for She Who Kneels Among Ash And Bones, bride of the Undying God, and the stygian depths of her communion. I pray for The Princess Crowned With Many Crowns, who has exalted herself, and the unspeakable joy contained in her smile. I pray for Cold And Silent Longing, bride of the Undying God, and the stygian depths of her communion. I pray for Speaker of Controversies, and the sharpness of her tongue, and the violence that she subsumes with the sword of her mouth. I pray for Ivory Star Of Cancerous Bone, youngest of the Saints, who wanders far and alone in forbidden places, and for her succor far from congregation and community. I pray for the Necrosaints, and for the First Necromancer, and for the God who is dead but cannot die, who lives but does not wake, who stirs but does not dream. I pray for their communion with our home, for the sacred rest of our forebears, and for the gifts of the faithful necromancer. Amen.”

She clears her face of the rapturous expression that has crossed it. “Does that answer your question adequately? If not, I can provide you with reading material.”

"Reading material-"

"would be appreciated." Rhis nods, calmly evaluating Cold and Silent Longing with... A suitably cold gaze, neither angry nor pleased with her explanation.

"We are a people of learning, after all, and as much as we deeply enjoy acquiring knowledge, we enjoy giving it, too.

“Excellent. Drusilla? Patience’s work, I think.”

One of the congregants carefully removes a heavy, leatherbound book from her satchel, and offers it to the two elves.

“A copy of the History of The Tomb Of God, as recorded by Most Patient Keeper Of Skin-Bound tomes. Traditional skin binding. It is the most directly informative and least metaphor-laden of our holy books; I think it will be most suitable for your introduction.”

"How did you-"

-acquire this skin?" Ankhael said, blinking in confusion.

“The inside front cover briefly details his life. The august Pelate Helverfere, faithful servant of the Most Patient Keeper Of Skin Bound Tomes in life, honored guardian of his words in death. Is that… unusual, for you?” She also blinks, confused.

"Unusual, yes..."

"We bind out tomes in the hides of animals, in materials made from wood pulp... Not skin, though, but-"

"As long as it was acquired with the person's consent, we see no moral qualms to be had. You bind all your tomes in skin?"

Bones clink against bones in her outfit’s adornments as the necrosaint shakes her head. “Only copies of holy books. Others are bound in necromantically produced hide. The pages, also, are not human vellum- that is reserved for first printings and original copies.”

"I... See." Rhis says, chewing their lip.

"This is all very interesting - we never encountered a society that survived solely using necromantic magic, nor did we comprehend how such a thing could be possible. We are..."

"Used to having access to many kinds of magic. One must, after all, in a place such as this."

"Are there other forms of sapient life in the corpse - that which thinks and feels?"

“The Dead God thinks, and the Dead God feels. It was still and quiet before we arrived, however- so far as I know, nothing else there is sentient.” Something hangs unsaid for a moment before the Saint proceeds. “The notion of ‘other kinds’ of magic is… unusual to me. Necromancy is the only kind of magic I’ve ever practiced. What kinds do you have?”

"Necromancy, of course." Rhis says.

"Transmutative magic is one we commonly employ. For example..." Ankhael said, tapping a finger against the jug they were holding. A pulse of golden light flowed through it - and suddenly, what was once a clay pot is suddenly transmuted into pure, shining gold.

"Evocation is another - in our terminology, this is to induce something to happen to another thing; specifically, it means to create raw elemental forces or to alter the elemental properties, rather than to bring something concrete into being, or to use magic to teleport it."

"Categories like these," Rhis explains, "...describe what spells do, but there are different ways to obtain the power necessary to cast spells."

"We draw it from our blood, our living flesh, our souls - from our selves."

"Others manipulate the fundamental nature of things using formulae..."

"...And yet more tap into the natural power in the world." Ankhael smiles, gesturing to one of the towering statues holding up the dome behind them.

"...And others use contraptions and devices where they lack natural ability to artificially create or alter the flows of magic. A handful, even, use sheer force of will to make reality obey their whims, and many combine several disciplines."

“...I see. The Warden will surely want to discuss this with you. So. On to my actual goal here. I wish to establish a ministry here, to invite and persuade your kind to make pilgrimage to the Body of Guide. I have answered all your questions.” A spark of ire enters her voice as she stares up at the elves. “May I do so now?”

"You may - but you, and the followers you have brought with you."

"Anyone else that wishes to must seek approval separately, and you will be kept under watch." Ankhael says, smiling warmly. "In time, that too may change."

“Tch. Acceptable enough.”

A collab between myself and Akrasia

Deep in the jungle of Mumlo, amid the sprawling green vines and towering trees sat an arc of dark stone. Like the flickering leaves of the heavy palmed ferns that littered the floor, the stone arc was wet and polished with an unending mist of rain. The heavenly spittle drenched everything and turned even the brightest reds of flowers and fruits into a damp kaleidoscope of colors. Despite the rain and the stormy clouds long hidden by the unbroken canopy and floating islands above, the forest was anything but quiet. Monkeys screeched and birds crowed at one another while even the insects screamed and chattered. It was an orchestra of nature, only to be broken as a light flickered and an electric hum crackled in the eye of the stone arc.

For a moment the forest fell silent as a blasting wave of light flashed and boomed, summoning a rift between the stone fingers of the structure, ripping a hole in reality itself. A nimbus of arcane power followed, spewing an incandescent shower of sparks and otherworldly light - and out stepped a pair of towering metal golems, their vaguely man-shaped steel bodies thundering out from the rift, each wielding a halberd crawling with veins of swirling light. The armored things had no eyes, though they did have faces, heads of metal etched into expressions of permanently, unmoving stoicism.

Behind followed a second pair, then a third, wielding massive unstrung crossbows, and between them all, a man-thing the height of a handful of jugheads, its long, pointed ears flicking in response to the sounds of the jungle. A flowing black-gold robe clad its body, and glowing blue eyes stared out from a pale-skilled face rimmed by long hair black as obsidian, flowing as if carried by a breeze.

“Pop!” A small cotton ball of cloud floated right in front of the elf’s face, letting loose curious crackles and pops.The statues froze - and the elf paused, silently reaching up towards the little ball.

"Hello there, little creature," they whispered, speaking in a breathy, sing-song tone.

[/i]”Crackle.”[/i]

“Dumpling?” A hollow, boy-like voice came ringing through the rain. “Dumpling, where did you go!?”

“Zzt…” The tiny cloud zipped away from the elf and spiraled towards the underbrush where it began to pop wildly. As if answering the call, the owner of the hollow voice came tumbling out of the brush, tripping on a root. With a wooden thud, the boy — or rather boy-sized construct consisting of a wooden frame and large claypot head — landed on what might have been a chin. On his back was a plump and overstuffed rucksack, jangling from the impact.

Dazed, the faceless jug-headed thingamajig tilted where a face might have been up at the procession. The tiny cloudling — likely known as Dumpling — swirled around the jughead, popping hysterically. Once again, the hollow voice echoed with a meek curiosity. “Oh, hello.”

"Hello." The elf replied, their face stretching into a warm smile. Its escort remained silent and unmoving, other than turning their heads to face the jug-headed creature.

"I - we - mean you no harm," they reassured him. It, perhaps? "I am a traveler. A scholar, if you would.And who might you be?"

“I’m Jasper… wait! Travelers!” The jughead leapt to his feet and clasped his wooden fingers together pleadingly. “Do you know the way to Clearwater?”

"I don't know what Clearwater is, even," they chuckled. "A settlement, I assume?"

Jasper stood tall in front of the group, or as tall as he could manage. Even with his wooden chest puffed out and fists on his hips, he stood maybe just a hair taller than half the height of his unknown guests. He nodded. “Clearwater has the closest eternal waterfall and bigjug, I was heading there but I got lost after last night’s storm…” He paused.

“Can you help me find it? You can see over the bushes better than I can.”

"I can help you find it," they nodded, stepping out from between the towering steel soldiers. Lowering themselves to one knee, they held out a single hand. "If you hold my hand, I will be able to find it faster. I can see the path you took to get here."

“Oh, okay.” Jasper agreed before taking the stranger by the hand.

Briefly surprised by Jasper's willingness, the stranger grasped his hand - and into his mind they looked, delving through his memories in an attempt to divine the location of Clearwater, only to discover that Jasper had never been to such a place, but only had tattered tales of the place told to him by his Grandfather. The Jughead was looking up at the stranger with what one could assume was an excited continence.

"...Hmm." The stranger muttered, releasing their grip as they rose to their feet. "You haven't been to Clearwater, have you, Jasper?" They said, still smiling. Strange as this little one was, he seemed friendly, at least - far friendlier than the stranger expected on the other end of a rift.

“No, I always stayed in Grandfather’s hut.” The answer came expectantly, as if answering this question might reveal Clearwater. A moment lingered too long and the Jughead shuffled.

“You’re still going to help me find it, right?” The boy’s question was punctuated by Dumpling.

“Pop!”

"Of course." They smiled again, pushing themselves to their feet after releasing their grip on the construct's hand. "The wildlife here - it isn't dangerous, is it, Jasper?"

“Well sometimes the small creatures take off with your spare parts,” Jasper admitted. “Not often though.”

”Crackle!”

“Shh!” Jasper hissed.

"...Interesting. Where we come from, there are many dangerous creatures - but it is a beautiful place, too." The mage said, glancing about as they pushed themselves back to their full height, searching for any sign of a path. "It seems... Rather pleasant here."

“And it’ll be better now that you’re here,” Jasper answered almost cryptically. “You’re not from here it sounds like, so I bet the people at Clearwater were waiting for you like Grandpa. We should get going!”

"Let's." The mage nodded, stretching out their hand as they began to walk. "Well tell me more about Clearwater, so that I can... Spot it when I see it."

“Oh… yeah I can do that!” Jasper nodded as he skipped after the mage.

In the Region of Cherbourg in the northern valleys was a fire. The morning sun was rising high up over the mountain peaks, painting the sky in purples and pinks. Orange citrus burned through the long cloud-ropes as they burned to life in trim of gold. In the fire light, the hunched visage of a beast - much resembling a dog - with thick gnarled hands and heavy cracked knuckles leaned over a frying pan, onions sauteing in a thick pool of melted butter. The dog beast wore a cap of leather, and a heavy vest of beaten linen and wool. With long curled claws he held a wooden spoon, stirring the onions so they do not burn. Their aromatic sweetness filled the still morning air, so quiet that the sound of their sizzling rumbled like a thunder storm rolling through the valley. A peaceful stream flowed nearby, and a knight stood at its banks with sword at his hip as he urinated into the flowing stream, his long slick black hair shining in the growing light as it fell about his shoulders and back. Across from the dog beast, a pale orange Equestrian sat on his haunches, polishing with the curious dexterity that his race often seemed to possess the knight's sword braced against a raised foreleg. His blonde mane soft and dim in the morning air.

Finishing, the knight washed his hands in the running water of the stream and returned to the fire, tightening his belt around his hips and squatting down as the dog-beast finished stirring the onions. With a grunt the creature signaled the onions were done and produced a loaf of bread. The knight, withdrawing a knife from a strap along his chest cut into the bread as the pan was laid to rest in the sand and gravel of the river bank. The slices of bread were handed out, and the party dipped each their slice into the onion and butter broth and took breakfast from it, unspeaking as they did so.

The knight, seated there had his face shone in the firelight, sharp and piercing. He had a strong jaw, a handsome and striking chin which grew a trim and well groomed goatee about his thin lips and clefted chin. Even without light his eyes seemed to grow under thin low eyebrows. His skin was tanned, a man from the southern coasts. He had wandered north as all young scions tend to do in search of adventure in departments and diocese far from their own home to chase some adventure and occasionally flee from local parlements if they attracted the wrong kind of attention. Or nearly declare war on other kingdoms in their own boldness and causing great consternation among the realms. They thought of themselves as poets and troubadours, artists with the sword and the lance and dancers with their fingers and their tongues. In their boredom they all left their gardens in their budding youths before their manhood blossomed and they returned to familiar soil to bloom and take roots among the vineyards and orchards of their family estates.

Thought it may be that this knight was at this point of his life too old for this now. He had never entirely grown comfortable with the halls of his family estate. At home, his father brooded over how his son had inherited the old family spirit from the dark days of the past. Had they not settled for generations as minders of the land? Why then would their son take off like a pirate, and worse taking it on almost as a profession?

The bread was finished, and the pan scrubbed down with sand. The sun not was over the horizon and the sky becoming blue and pleasant. The mountains shining with the quicksilver of day, bathed in mist and wind blown snow as the world was heated under the golden sun. And with its rising, the day's mission was on. The camp was rolled up, bags packed, and clay thrown on the fire to douse the embers and the party of three went on up the waters, following a thin track barely visible in the ferns and bushes that hugged the river bank. The branches of great oaks hung over the stream, thick and black, their leaves rustling softly in the breeze and casting down emerald light as their lips shone with shimmering dew. Birches and beeches stood in stands among twisting bushes of mistletoe and poison berry. In the shadows red, blue, and pale-orange mushrooms grew as somewhere off in the near distance something lay dead and rotting.

They walked for some short amount of time, the path swerving suddenly between some rocks to the east and up the bank away from the stream. They followed it. Leaving the flood plane of the small stream the forest began to open up. Clear of where winter floods would have swept to cleanse the banks was where the tallest trees grew, their canopies hiding from the floor their sunlight, which was now bare save for leaves and a few enduring shrubs. From here the path seemed to disappear among the leaf litter. But here and there up the gentle slope of the hill hints of it could be seen in upturned soil. The group followed it to its end, where it came to a soggy mossy hole in the side of the hill. Roots from over head trees raced down along the rocks, revealing the cave that lay there, its floor beaded with mud and sand and conspicuously clean of debris.

“I wonder if they will be home again today.” the knight said, striding forward, clutching the pummel of his sword. He stood confidently before the cave, wearing a thin smile.

“We are not going to stake it out again for another day, are we?” asked the Equinite, annoyed.

“Yes we are, Goldenblood.” said the knight, addressing his equine companion, “A thief lives here. I'm not just walking back with the goods. I have justice here to serve.”

Goldenblood rolled his eyes. The dog-beast made no comment, and in fact began to shuffle off along the hill side. This rose no alarm in the knight, who knew it was only to the previously agreed upon and posted site to watch and wait, provide backup if need be. He took the extra sword from the Equinite as he went, it looked as though it were a butter knife in his large clawed hands, and the knight went into the darkness of the cave.

In the damp of the cave the air hung with a moist mildew smell. It smelled of decay, of roots, and wet earth. The air hung still, which made hearing in the distance the repressed snap of dying embers all the clearer. The knight knew that here there was no stealth, and he walked openly with his hand on his sword as he went, letting rocks slide under his boots as he went. Any possible sound he might make would echo to the ends of the cave and back out like a horn, and it was not that deep a cavern. At the far end the chamber was lit by a dull red glow, the ashes of a small fire glowing softly against wet rocks as the earth around the cave salivated and sweated. Lit faintly against the wall, like a shadow play the shapes of looted trinkets and garbage sat pressed against the walls. Villages' worth of looted baubles set aside for some unknown use. Here the form of a wine press, there a butter churn, and perhaps a few small tin plates and bells; who knew.

There was in the corner the knight knew a small alcove between a bolder and the wall that he could sit in darkness. There he would go and wait. He took his sword off his hip as he did, and planting the tip in the dirt he sat on moist stone with hands wrapped over the cross-guard and waited. He waited for some time, not counting the time. He knew he had to be patient, and he knew how to be that patient. He strung in his mind a incoherent sort of song, a melody of fantasy and memory that went in all directions at once to distract him from the slow fade in darkness. This would be just like sneaking out of the wine cellar well after dark, with a peasant girl in tow. Except this time: it would not be him. He felt his chest ache with the memory of love's first adventure. Though it was hardly love, it was raw passion. He was growing into the first spark of youth, no longer a boy but not quiet a man and he had discovered an impressionable young peasant girl a few years older than he but with as little experience all the same. She had, he thought at the time, great breasts; but now in his matured years he knew they were nothing but poorly risen loaves of bread. There was in the world much warmer, tender cakes to be had.

While he day dreamed for some time he was bolted awake from his meditation by a sound, far sooner than he would have hoped, but in reality after a good long while. He opened his eyes to find that in the dim light they had adjusted to the darkness and the walls were hung with a silk screen of light blue light from outside, and coming into the cave an indiscernible shape was lumbering through. He watched its shadow on the wall as it drew closer. Taking shape as it came in close, familiar. He could not make out the details of the being as it approached the place of the fire and bent over it. It fumbled something in its paws, not quiet sure of how the work them as it tried to bring something to light. He could hear it curse, whatever it was, in a dry foreign voice. With punchy movements, the shade finally lit a spark, and something in the pit came to light. Eagerly the subject put more fuel on the fire, building it up over time until it breathed itself to life and threw up embers against the high rock ceiling. And the creature became clear.

Body naked, there was the dog-beast that was the knight's servant. Not at all bothered, the knight deftly wrapped his hand around the hilt of the sword and rising it in the air cracked it down on the stone floor of the cave like the foot of the staff. The muted crack of the metal tip of the sheath bounced off the rock and was enough to draw the attention of the dog-beast who turned and shrieked in surprised horror at the human rising in the corner of its cave. “Mr. Wolf.” the knight said, rising to his full height, “I thought you were on watch.”

The dog-beast, the Mr. Wolf only starred at him through wide eyes as the knight walked between him and the exit of the cave. Was it the light, or a magic in the creature's eyes that cast a faint blue from the back of the sharp pupils?

He, Mr. Wolf staggered for a minute, stuttering and trying to find a voice. The knight found this particularly funny, which made the creature only stutter some more before it flew itself on the ground in prostration and began crying before pleading in a high howling voice, much like a puppy, “I sorry, master. I very sorry!”

The knight threw out a dismissive hand, “How many times have I told you, you are to address me by rank and title! Rodri, the Comte-Prince D'Aquiea!”

“Yes, yes: der Aquiea! Der Aquiea!” bellowed Mr Wolf, rising to his feet. “You still forgive me though, yes?” he said, nervously.

“Yes, this time.” Rodri D'Aquiea said, seeming to relax some in the light. He took a moment to scan the cave, half-heartedly looking at the various goods. All of which stolen from farms, and appearing as such. Here a hoe, there a scythe, a rocking chair, a sheep's carcass. To a man such as himself: garbage.

“Then- then we can leave?” Mr Wolf said.

Rodri did not quiet move. Even as Mr Wolf shambled forward. He even stepped in his way, blocking him.

“Do you perhaps remember the name of the judge diocese for our county? I seem to have trouble remembering it. He was such a good friend of my father's: and I'm looking around here for a gift for him. Do you perhaps know the name I can address it to?”

To this question, which should have been known to Mr Wolf: there was no answer. He stepped backward, variously and nervously rubbing his sides, his leg. Looking left and right, anything to avoid eye-contact as he thought. Rodri told himself he could hear his heart racing in his chest. And perhaps in the silence of that chamber he could. Intuition guided his hands as he clasped the sword and scabbard and prepared to draw. The two's eyes finally met and Rodri said, smiling, “I know you can't play my good and faithful friend. He is not as dumb as you. Stop acting, changeling and draw.”

The changeling's transformed face turned up in a snarl at him. So it could no longer escape, and he must prepare to fight. “Mein pleasure!” he declared and lunged. No more was he pretending to move as the sand dog outside, but as a bear or mountain lion would throw itself, using all the strength this animal form could allow to throw him at Rodri. The knight, swift on his feat stepped aside and took the changeling from beneath its arms and moved with his momentum to throw it back into the cave, where it crashed into a pile of garbage and loot. A clattering storm filled the cave as the weight of the body brought down a landslide of assorted light furniture, chests, pots, and pans. With his sword drawn known, the knight threw aside the scabbard and stood at the ready, blade pointed outward from his beside his hip.

“Come! Turn into something with hands and strike me with whatever you have!” he shouted, laughing. The excitement of the battle that had begun throwing up fast into hysterical joy.

He watched the pile move as things were pushed out of the way. Emerging from the pile was his own form, naked but hermaphroditic. It held in its hands the handle to some destroyed tool it had pulled out while freeing itself. The changeling threw itself forward, making short chaotic thrusts with the broken handle, looking for nothing more than a way out of the cave. Something Rodri was not willing to give. He parried every thrust from the old pole, before finally cutting it in two with an easy turn of the blade. His opponent's weapon broken he opened his arms, “You can not seriously be done!” he taunted, “Lay into me!”

“Stop your teasing.” hissed the changeling, his voice quickly taking on something more of Rodri's tone and accent. Raising one of the pieces over his head he threw it at the night who simply stepped out of its way. The second half followed and he caught it. “Fetch!” Rodri cheered, throwing it back at his naked double. It caught it between the eyes and he fell backward with a dull “oof” and landed on his back, blood stream down his face.

But, he rose. Staggering to his feet, he found an ax and made another charge. The counter parry Rodri delivered cut clean as though through cheese and what fell to the ground was not a pair of hands holding an ax, but a set of black chitinous hooves followed by the ax. The changeling stumbled forward, screaming in its own language. The trauma disrupting the magic it held itself together with until it was nothing but a struggling and shocked bug-like creature. Its piercing blue eyes wide in pain as it looked down at its own sheered front legs.

The battle ended, Rodri stepped towards it and rose his sword high over its head, and brought it down, decapitating it. It let out a final pleading scream as the blade came down. Perhaps it was the final fear, or an effort to deliver a last condemnation. Rodri did not quiet care. It was in the end another killing, and so often did it end in this way.

---

Rodri stepped out into the light of day again. A blood soaked bag in one hand and in the other slung under his shoulder a small box in another. His sword was back in its scabbard, and it was again around his hip. He whistled as he came out, satisfied and his mind at peace having finished the fight. His companions came over in a rush. “That took the two of you long enough!” Goldenblood protested.

“Well, I lived, and the stolen goods are ours.” Rodri said, cracking a smile. He looked over at Mr Wolf, the real one, who stood looking at the head in the bag.

“He pretended to be you.” Rodri said to him.

“Was it at the least a good actor?” Mr Wolf said, in a low rumbling voice.

“Not at all.” Rodri said proudly, handing over the bag, “I think we should take this with us at the least. We can at least say we've gotten the stolen property back as well as caught the thief. Going the extra mile will be a few extra coin for us.”

The sand dog took the bag, grimacing disgustedly at it as he did. “What else was there?”

“An entire village's worth of property. We'll let them know.” Rodri said, dusting the side of his pants now he was free of the bag. Waving a hand high in the air he called his companions on to follow them. The birds sung peaceably in the air, as though nothing had transpired. On their way down Rodri asked, “By the way, did you see him- it enter the cave?”

“No. We watched a rabbit go in. I suppose it was the rabbit.” Mr Wolf said, gravely.

“I had the rumors confirmed to me by a flier.” an old unicorn said, reclined on a long velvet couch under the shade of an orange tree. The smell of fermenting citrus high in the humid summer air. Canopies had been erected in the grove to expand the shaded area except for under the wide crowns of the old trees that made up the orchards of the Bagouyne family estate. Servants in finery stood with fans and casks of drink at the ready as the elder statesmen of the state of Machauex talked.

“He had come quickly from the island and spook hurriedly and excitedly about the opening of your ancient portal. He said that the air crackled with an unfamiliar energy.” the old horse continued to say. He was stately as he was old. His silver white mane fell long and lose from his neck and head and even appeared to fall about his face human like as he spoke. His red coat, now graying was taking on a mangy texture, neck and shoulders rimming with sweat under the weight of a heavy coat. Despite the heat, he appeared to only shiver. He was the Duc d'Purgoin, Yeiux Rouges, chief of state of Machauex, the Duke of State. “It's been a long time that it was said the day of return would come, and it seems it has. That gate is open.” he spoke in a low voice. A light breeze blew through the grove and the rustling branches let some dappled sunlight hit his face. His eyes, light blue blinked back against the sharp rolling of the light.

“And the whole of parlement has no doubt been called?” asked Baron Clarion.

“The first have no doubt already received their emergency summons. If they weren't already in the city already. My stallion has already told me that the Sieurs of the Island have already taken of themselves to come early. While they're on their way, we do have to set the agenda. They're not going to wait I presume.”

“I'd imagine security is going to be the first concern they'll have. If the ancestors stepped through that gate to here, there is no imagining what or who else might come through.” Clarion said dryly.

“More than that: I heard that already a peasant youth wandered through the portal the night it opened. No one has heard or seen of him sense. The common men of the island are already tense over the gate. If it's not quickly secured they could try to attack it or go through it themselves to find the moron youth.” Yeiux Rouges grumbled, “The State has already been charged for his absence to the value of five silver lievre. It's preposterous and embarrassing, Sieur d'Cain Allegmiene Brioux is going to whip it up at Parlement for sure. I want to make sure it doesn't get out of hand if you can make sure the first motion will be to establish a formal guard at the gate.”

“I'll do better if it effects our standing: I'll order some of my personal retinue and my son take personal charge of the situation. Is there anyone there now?”

“Barely. The local manors don't have much in arms to put towards the grounds. They'd levee a militia, but who knows if they'll just go in on their own to chase the boy down. I really want a mainland retinue.

“And, for your offer: it's gracious. I accept the offer.”

“I'll make the order now.” Clarion announced, and rose from his seat. His joints hurt and he winced at the pain but summoned over a young servant. “Bring us a piece of paper and a pen, we have a quick order to give.”

“Absolutely sire.” the page said, bowing and he dashed off.

“I ask myself if you're even going to pay the humiliation off.” Yeiux said with a dry laugh.

“No it's not our humiliation. Leave it for Allegmiene.”

“It's important we move fast on reeling in the incompetence of the sieurs. They are all drunk on wine and port. To think they once terrorized the mainland. But I see the best of them came to settle here. I should send some of my own.”

“No, don't. Let them think it's a coup of responsibility. They'll be divided before they even arrive.”

“Splendid. What do you think: should the rest of the barons of the city send out men?”

“I would think about the calculus.”

The page returned with a sheet of paper and the writing implements. Clarion took the board and immediately began dashing out a quick order for ten men at arms to be dispatched. “Send this to our son: we're appointing him the commander of this mission.”

“As you wish, you're honor.” the page ran off with the order.

“It's done. This'll manage the immediate fallout.” said Clairon, “So what say you to a drink?”

Yeiux bowed his head, “I would be honored. Your estate has long produced the best orange brandy.”

The baron summoned another servant, asking him to pour them both something to drink and the young man complied, moving to the kegs and pouring out a goblet of dark amber liquid. “I don't think managing simply a short shock though is why we're meeting.” Clarion started up again as the goblets were delivered. Yeiux took up his in a blue glow of magic and playfully swirled the gold cup around, “There are going to be a lot of nobles and freemen who will want to go through.”

“Precisely,” Yeiux said, “And I do want to prevent a mass exodus of our nobility. What is to say that the gate closes on them all as soon as they go through and the realm is cut off from our very best and fortunate. We'd return to civil war. I want to see a plan made when we're all together to manage the expeditions and emigration through. I really do not know what to expect on the other side, and I doubt anyone does. They will plead that they will. All chances the sieurs will insist they do, they've stayed there for that reason.”

“But they do not go through.” Clairon laughed.

“Ha! They're all bastards and cowards anyways.” Yeiux laughed, taking a long drink, “They're going to petition us. I know that. They'll want immediate land claims or something. But I want it more careful. We have to know what that world is like before we do anything with it. It would be insane to proclaim for anyone who goes through with a host even five acres where ever they can find it if whatever destroyed the realm beyond just turned it all into sand. No, the mature option will be to scout it in as full a capacity we can.”

“And what of you?” Clairon asked, referring to the Equestrian races, “Do you think your noble kin will have the same eagerness? Is that world for them?”

Yeiux thought for a moment, holding the cup in his magic just below his mouth. For a time he seemed to have frozen. A silence filled the grove where only the sound of the wind dared announce itself in the trees. Somewhere an orange dropped. The duke of state broke the spell, downing a deep gulp from the cup. “I have thought about that all my life but could never determine an answer.” he admitted sorrowfully. “If I knew I think it would make this easier. I've considered all other possibilities but the thought that the gate would ever open was neigh mythical. A mind game as if preparing to meet Death himself and make a deal to prolong your life. I would not think I would ever in earnest summon demons.”

“So this is the big battle before Parlement?”

“It'd seem so. In all fortune the state will preserve! After all, are the men who live now the same as those who came through the gate?”




Striding into village the young nobleman walked with a weighted bag at his side. It had been just over a day and by now the contents of the sack had congeeled and the linen bag was stiff and tacky, the fibers sealed through with dried blood. Its contents had to packed with an amalgam of clay and tar coxed from pine trees and boiled for it had begun to putrify and rot early and carried a heavy disgusting smell. It was far less so now, only tolerable, and so long as the bag did not get wet to loosen the congealed filth that sealed it the smell now mostly stayed within the pouch. But followed by his retinue Rodri D'Aquiea walked proud with his shoulders high, confident in having finished his job.

The peasant women who watched him from the porch of the first farm house he passed before the village eyed him with tormenting suspicion, the same as he had received when he first left the village. At their spinning wheels they spun new fibers to sew into their clothes. Their chapped and calloused hands nimbly feeding the strands of fiber into the spool as their legs kicked the spinning wheel into motion. He felt no particular guilt for being the center of their attention and he in fact adored the thought he carried the head of the mystery brigand that had tormented their community for the passed year. Their husbands, deep in the rye fields did not quiet see Rodri with the same suspicion. As they rose from their duty of culling the weeds among the crop to wipe their brow they only regarded the southern prince with disinterest amusement, he certainly wore finer traveling clothes than any of them had seen in the village proper.

Going down the long dirt road the density of the cottages and of their fields picked up. The fields of wheat or barley or rye becoming narrower as they became deeper to reach the stream they butted against. A towering wooden mill soon dominated the sky, surrounded by a grassy common where sheep and cows grazed on the meadow that grew there. A few passerbys stopped and looked at the bag that hung from Rodri's hip, blankly inquisitive before shortly realizing something and becoming shocked and whispered low to each other below Rodri's range of hearing.

The square at the center of the village was not much of a square as it was a dirty place, marked by where two roads met at different levels. At the middle the town center was split by a rock enforced retaining wall for where one road swept the next. At this upper level of town their tallest structure outside the mill stood, the combination of tavern and local magistrate's office. Scattered around it, like wise facing the public square were the various small shops for the local villagers and black smith. This high noon few were disposed to be in the center of town, this day out in the fields or forests to work. A handful of old men all the same sat in the shadow of the covered porch of the tavern, their muddy, wrapped feed spread out in front of them. A particularly thin looking pegasi sat in the window, foorhooves wrapped around a wooden tankard as he watched the southern prince and his entourage enter up the tavern's steps and into the warm shade of its beer bathed belly.

With his boots sounding heavy on the straw hewn tavern floor, Rodri announced himself loudly, “Hail! I, comte-prince Rodri have returned!” he seemed to laugh at his announcement, holding out his arms as if he should be embraced with cheers. But for all his bluster he merely shook the bar mare who was so shocked by his entrance her mane shot up on end and she half dived beneath the bar itself.

“Who the- why is the Gods' names!” she shouted, “The hell do you want you imbecile!”

Rodri, offended stepped forward and prepared to raise his voice, but stopping himself settled, “I'm here to speak to Demiens!” he said, his voice trailing from the explosive rage he had been about to respond with. He ignored it. But he told himself he should see to this creature to be herself run out of the job for showing disrespect.

“You break in here like you're a beggar that picked up a piece of silver and you want an audience with Demiens? Who even are you?” the bar mare scoffed.

“I am Rodri, I have business with the man.”

“The hell you aren't.” she scowled, “This isn't your country. You can't be coming in like that.”

That comment drove his heat up. Flustered he stepped forward reaching for the bag at his hip. He heard something move behind him and saw that the haggard looking pegasi had shuffled from his table and was ready to set on him, “I've found the villain Demiens had a bounty on. I would like to collect!” he demanded, “So you'll step aside and let me see him bar wench.”

The mare twisted up her face in surprise and indignation, “I work strongly nobly here, more so than you, hired sword?”

“What do you want, proof I have it finished?”

“Moron I want you to settle down!”

Grabbing the bag at his belt, he tossed the head of the changeling across the room to the bar. It hit the floor with a hard thud and rolling forward picking up hay and unwrapping itself as it went. A graying ear peeked out as it came to a stop. Horrified the bar mare shot to the back screaming, “You mad man!You want to curse this entire house, this village?” her face was pale and her pupils narrowed as she pawed her hooves against the rear door and slipped into the darkened back room. Peeking out around the corner to scowl at Rodri.

“I have performed the job and I am here to collect!”

“The only thing you'll collect is misfortune! And besides: Demiens is not here! Get out!” she screamed horrified.

Rodri could feel the weight of eyes on him and turned to see that now the windows of the tavern were full of faces looking in, pale in horror or darkened by the sun. Man and equine alike with long face and angry terrified expressions. Instinctively he put a hand on his sword and was ready to fight if he had to. The sickly pegasi had not given up its distance and even rooted itself.

“My lord, we're not going to be able to fight our way out. We should just leave. Forget the coin.” Goldenblood advised. Rodri saw, like the bright flash of the sun rising out over the sea, what had transpired and the heat ran out of his veins and turned to ice.

“I agree, we need to go.” he said flatly, his voice dry and dead. He turned once to look behind him, and headed out the door. No one stopped him, but all watched him. The pegasus followed them briefly from the village.




The youth, who stood perhaps no more than four-foot-five resigned himself to hiding a distance off from the rift in a small crevice formed in the remains of a burnt out tree. All around him tall prairie grass reached for the sky and many more live trees crowded in on the plaza of what had once been a grand temple structure, or a great courtyard for a palace long gone. The youth could only speculate, and at that only so much; his vocabulary for such things being so small. But he huddled there in the tree clutching the handle of his long bone knife between two hands so tense and tight the knuckles were bleached white. For days he hid in numerous little holes, scavenging the mushrooms and herbs he found in the area, and returning be evening to the site of the gate in hopes that someone might come through to rescue him. But none that looked familiar came to him, the magnitude of the portal was incomprehensible. It gave him vertigo when he looked up at it. Its sheer size seemingly to make it top heavy. No matter where he stood in his shadow it looked ready to tip over one way or the other. So he always camped off to its side. There he'd spend his evenings and on into night watching the first tentative explorations of foreign races and creatures come through the might portal. Some immense. Some small. He observed what seemed to be a race of winged gnomes come through, pulled in chariots by what he could best describe as salamanders. But as soon as they came they disappeared into the grass and for a full day he was terrified of going in the grass least he encounter one also out and on that evening he climbed into the branches of the trees and slept and found fruit and rainwater trapped in the knots of the wood.

But in the day that followed the portal seemed to be silent for a time. And he bothered to work up his courage and step down from the tree, weak and smelling of shit to again investigate the ground. He reckoned by day that perhaps no one would come through, because perhaps at day everyone would be in the fields working and would not have the sense to come through. Whether they were his people or not. He figured – without much evidence to the matter – that he only had to be there in the morning or evening to watch anyone come through so he went about the strange world.

But curiously, the world was not much alien to him as the world was at home. He had no trouble relating the things about him in this strange place to things that existed back home. It was much like the old songs about the fields of barley and streams of milk and ponds of honey. But of course, it was much unlike those songs. For once: he never found a single stream of honey, or a pond of honey. But many of the grasses he knew to be of barley and wheat, or like barley and wheat. So much so he had no little fear to dig a hole and with some management set some water collected into makeshift bowl of leaves and rocks boil some to make as a crude mash to stave off the worst of the hunger. He could as well find berries much like those he knew at home and to eat them, and being close enough – he figured – live. There were rabbits and birds alike in the wilderness and he worked out ways that he might catch one for some meat, though he never did; but the idea was tantalizing, because here there were no lords and magistrates to tell him he could not and to flog him for poaching a sieur's game. This world was full of an abundant freedom and wealth and he was contented with that until he remembered the warmth of home and wanted to go back, and he observed the strange aliens that came through the great gate at a trickle.

It was in one of these adventures for food that while fishing at a stream a great shadow blotted out the sun and obscured the sky and he was harried into terror when he looked up to see sailing the air a sky bound ship trailing long streamers and banners. The sight was monstrous and froze his blood. He felt his skin go pale and death-like and he went fleeing into the brush least some unseen eye gaze on him and think he was as tasty a meal as the fish he had been spearing for in the brook. The sight of the sky-bound ship, that terrifying hawk of the clouds put the final fear of the Goddess into him and he learned that no, it did not matter what time it was: anything was coming through that gate and perhaps some men from the estate would be back to find him. And it was then that he exiled himself to the bosom of the burned tree among the buck thorns and stone-hard mushrooms clutching his knife at all times, because even going out he feared that from the sky some new great terrible eagle would snatch him in any one of its dozen talons and carry him off and he best be able to force them open by cutting a few fingers off.

And that is what he, Emiens the Lost Youth had been up to in the old world.

Ulrik scoffed as he witnessed the ship overhead pass them by. He was annoyed that he had even bothered to stop his army from marching through. These tallfolk wouldn't even give him the light of day.

"Feckless cowards didn't even come down to meet us."

Halmdir came back through, "M'lord, the army's is holding."

The dwarves on the other side of the gate looked to Halmdir and finally, Ulrik said, "Fuck waiting. Get the army to march through the damn gate and send a messenger to the capital. I want another damned army ready, we're holding down this side of the gate."

Halmdir nodded and went back through the gate. A minute would pass and the first column of dwarves would arrive. Hundreds of dwarves at a time. Pikes, swords, hammers, and shields filling the immediate area. Ulrik looked towards the Horizon, this place was not their homeland of Dunmar.

"Well, it would've been fucking convenient if this was Dunmar aye lads?" he shook his head, "Now we have to rely on maps and centuries old knowhow to try and find this damned place. We will not be denied our glory."

"What do you want us to do if any other folk come through the gate m'lord?" Halmdir asked.

Ulrik looked to the gate, his eyes fierce and cold, "They haven't changed a wee bit. Talk to them, gently at first. But if they look down on you, make it fucking clear that we dwarves are not to be trifled with. Find out what they want with this place, why they're here, where they're from. If they don't want to fucking talk, KICK THEIR SORRY ARSES BACK TO THE SHIT HOLE THEY CAME FROM!"

Halmdir nodded, "Aye m'lord. I'll set a camp here then."

Ulrik raised a brow and looked back at Halmdir, "Only a camp?"

"M'lord?" Halmdir looked at Ulrik with a confused expression.

Ulrik looked around, "Halmdir, let's show these tallfolk we mean business. Get the earthworks and make fort they can't possibly ignore. A camp first, then a fortress."

"Wouldn't that give the wrong impression m'lord, I thought we were avoiding war." Halmdir asked.

"Halmdir, these fucking arseholes would do the same damned thing. What makes you think they'd just let us march our people through? Mark my words, if we don't, they will." Ulrik then looked back to the Horizon, his eyes searching for the snowy peaks of Dunmar.

Halmdir looked to a messenger, "You heard the king, pass the word!"

"Aye sir."

And so the dwarves worked hard to set up temporary fortifications in place of permanent ones. Hours would pass as more of the Dwarves poured through the gate. Ulrik would send a force of five hundred dwarves led by Halmdir out west as their compasses dictate to reconnoiter the surrounding area and find out where the hell they are. He would do this sending small forces in all four cardinal directions to secure his position near the gate and ensure that if there was anything here, he'd know about it.

There was much to do and many trials that awaited the dwarves, much more than they would anticipate. There were many realms that would march through the gate, some friendly, some malicious, some they could not even fathom. At the same time, there was also much to explore in this world, things that Dwarves who've only stayed in their mountain have never seen before. They too had much to learn about their ancestral world of Gaia. The ruins around the gate would be a good place to start.

Emiens the youth, hiding in his trees and shrouded in gentle gray fog, woke to a new day with a yawn. His morning went about like the normal business. With his knife strapped to his side he carefully set out into the woods, searching over his shoulder as he sought breakfast among the brushes and the branches. The great sky beast, with the trailing streamers returned. Hidden, he figured it would not see him. It remained motionless among the gentle waves of the evaporating mist. And from the dark shade of the trees he watched it. He had by now realized what it was by now. It was definitely a ship, immense in size and carried about by a plump sack, like a wine skin. It sailed about the winds with great sails like fish fins. It recognized it for its beauty. But yet still feared for the evil intent it no doubt signaled. So he stayed away. It seemed to hang about, as if waiting for someone, perhaps any allies. He wondered what race could pilot such a thing. But he could only imagine the pegasi of his home, or the griffons who would often appear to start trouble.

Things changed later that evening when he returned to his bed in the tree. The magical gate crackled and groaned, the air around it charged with new magical energies. Its fabric disturbed by a great force that signaled something very large on the way. He held his breath, hoping to see another ship in the sky emerge and perhaps send the other away. But to his surprise an army with spears raised and armor gleaming stepped out, heavy beards dragging across burly chests as an entire armored force of squat men marched through. Within moments the ruined square was host to the drumming foot falls of units at march. They saw the looming airship over head.

The commander of such a vehicle, perhaps set the sails and disappeared at the sight of the amassing host. As they wandered about, filling the immense plain Emiens watched them come closer to the forest's edge. They clearly had no idea what to do now that they arrived. They knew not this world. They gawked at everything. The sight of their weapons made the youth's skin go cold. Against the long pikes and armor these strange men his little knife could do scant anything. He knew he had to run. But the dreaded curiosity for the unfolding events was magnetic. His retreat was pausing and uncertain. He milled in the general direction away, turning to watch the assembling host, whose banners now made them clearly visible in the field. He began to hear the voices among the trees and he became terrified, the fear pulsing from his heart burned at his toes and his fingers. But the general unknown of the world about his stayed him. Soon the sound of axes fell through the forest and the crashing of trees would soon begin and Emiens could not stay. The force of the momentum of the flood of squat men burned like a forest fire and he was finally pushed on by the smoke of their falling axes. They would surely cut his hiding place now, there was nothing back to go to, although there was little from and for him there; especially now. He moved on, hoping to avoid the hot embers of falling blade and the dangerous reach of any outstretched hand if they found him. He feared their enslavement. He feared being killed by them,

He did not know where the airship had gone. But he reached their same conclusion: it was time to leave. This army will soon sweep over the area to take all it could to feed its mouth and who knew what it would do next. There was only one thing for Emiens to do: to go deeper into Gaia.




The Fleu d'Royal divided the city of Clairmont. Rising above its sandy flow rose the tenements of the city and the warehouses of the docks that dotted the river's span. Under the dim pale-blue light of early morning, just before the warm light of the sun emerged from over the cloudy horizon the city-scape, still and listless appeared gray. At the wooden and stone piers boats of all forms and shapes rocked and rolled as the gentle current swept by them. Long stone alleyways and the cobbles of the main streets marched up the gentle sloping banks shrouded in the cool waking gown of morning. Narrows appeared still dark as if in night and the store of grocers and cobblers and blacksmiths were shuttered against the street. Here and there, a few cats roamed. But all was quiet.

And it all would be quiet, had the trade of the day not begun early. Behind iron gates at a private docks lit lanterns signaled busy activity as men moved about, transporting crates and barrels aboard a large red yacht. Even in the immature morning light, the golden auburn trim of its hulk shone brightly and the amber insets glittered in the soft light of the smoldering yellow-green lights. Despite the cold of the morning, and the barely dispersed mist burning off the water of the river the sailors and stevedores wore their workshirts, light coarse linens that flowed light off their shoulders, tucked into long corduroy jean trousers. With their breaths still smoke on the cold air they loaded down the yacht for its impending voyage, joined side by side with the escuiers and knights who were to set out on their voyage aboard.

The red yacht at port, measuring at 30 meters long was a rich sight that dominated the wide Fleu d'Royal with its citrus-yellow sails burning with the light of the sun. With soaring masts, it towered above the buildings nestled up against the shore of the river and could itself nearly triumph in size against the large barques and galleys that sailed up and down the river and out to sea. Its aft castle swept out behind it, shading the dock itself. There the detachment of knights would sleep, separate from the crew and escuiers below the deck. They would dine with the captain and crew as comrades in the service Bagouyne, whose heraldric dragon emblazoned the corners of the castle.

Standing at the gang plank, supervising the last of the on-boarding stood Prince-Baron of Bagouyne Armil Jean-Donatien Clairon Bagouyne. Tall, broad shouldered he was an athletic figure. A long navy blue tunic, cross threaded with red trailed down to the back of his knees where he showed off strong sportly calves with thick white breeches, black trousers cut short tied off below the knee in the culotte style. Dark hair curled out from under a cap of triangular cloth that crowned his head, falling down the side of his head where it was overtaken in the lion's mane that round his head like a halo. He clenched his jaw nervously as he checked off the last of the supplies to board. Now was coming a moment of finality he was long told was expected to arrive. The opening of the gate was long a legend pre-destined to happen eventually, and all were excited to see it happen. But now that it was, those temperaments were feeling deflated, anxious. He scratched the bottom of his round chin as the last case was loaded and it was time to set sail, closing the folio he made his strides to encounter destiny.

As he walked aboard the boat he thought about the inventory for the mission, wondering if he had enough. Much of it was to pay tolls and fees for whatever accommodations they would need on arrival. Silver and gold livre, casks of wine and preserves of fruit. Precious stones and handy trinkets, anything that may be passed off quickly to purchase a sheep or a cow, or secure lodging in a manor house or even peasant's hovel. These rents and other things needed to be paid and were he to run out the negotiations for credit, and his creditors would know how much the family owned. He found himself stressed more for the burden of finance and interest than he was for the portal. Perhaps the trans-dimensional magic was far too ephemeral than trade and finance.

Joining him on deck was the captain. A proper looking horse, standing chest high to the young prince and with a iron gray look in his eyes. His chin unshaven, brows heavy. He likewise wore a cloth cap that held much of his disheveled mane. He bowed his head to Armil, “We're reading to set loose.” he intoned plainly.

“I think you're right.” Armil replied, “When you're ready, captain.”

The old sea horse smiled and turned away to set the crew to work. As the gang plank was raised the ropes were loosened and the crew pushed the boat off. Crew with oars navigated the yacht to the center of the empty river, just now beginning to populate with the first signs of life as the fishermen emerged to send their boats out to the lake. But besides the fish men, their was little to no one else, and the yacht had full monopoly of the water and the crew used every bit of their presence to speed down the current and head down river. Down they went passed empty promenades and still temples and waking apartments as the first golden gleams of morning life woke up. The sun rising over the horizon casting long shadows over the sandy yellow river and illuminated the towers the guarded the Fleu d'Royal at the city's limit.

There at the edge of the city, before the walls met the river the Castle of Purgoin stood on its island. The boat sailed cleanly under the tall high flying bridges that connected the island with the city on either side of the river. From its battlements high above on the rock peak the watch was mid-change. The lights or the night watch being extinguished with the rotation of the guard.

They left the city. Orchards and farmer's fields butted right up to the walls of the city. On one side pasture for cattle rolled up the slopping shore and over the hills. The cows had been just let out to graze on the dewy green grass. Armil heard the heavy sounds of boots to his side. He turned to find Sieur Guy Longue, a taller older knight under his charge. Guy had trained him once, when the young man was a child. But now by virtue of birth the older man was pledged to serve the younger. He leaned against the gunnel and gazed out down the long sandy river with a steady calm eye. The breeze ruffled his silver beard as he searched the waters ahead. The two stood there at the bow for some time in silence. The landscape changed, the hills softening and stretching out more and more until their crowns were flush with the horizon.

“What are you thinking about?” Guy asked in a low voice, turning ever so slightly towards his former charge. While low, his voice was not damning or bare any accusation to Armil. He was worried for the young man, and sensed something was wrong with him.

For a time Armil was quiet, thinking about exactly what it was he was so worried for. He tried several responses on himself but could not bring them to his lips. At last he said rather sheepishly, “I'm wondering if this is the end.” he said.

“What make you say that?” Guy asked.

“As the legends say, the opening of the portal came at a time of worldly destruction that chased us through. But what if that's what's to happen here, now?”

Guy Longue looked about with a heavy searching expression on his face. Looking over the hills, the forests in the distance, and the marshy shore of the river. The ducks in the stream and the splashing of carp in the water just beneath the wash of the ship as it sailed along. “Well, I don't see that here and now.” he said finally, “I don't think so.”

“But, we have to still go back through, do we?” Armil asked, “It's still... home, so to speak. Isn't it?”

“Do you love where you were born?”

“Yes I do. What else would I do with it. I know no other land.”

“Then this land is home as far as I can say and I don't think even Parlement can tell you otherwise.” he said with a smile. “I'd hazard that even they won't be so eager to send us all through. How are they, as we, to know it's not just some other land beyond our own. Who's to say where ever it may go is our homeland. How are we to know?”

Armil thought for a moment. He didn't have an answer to his question. “I suppose so.” he said, “But this changes everything.”

“I was the same way when I was married.” Guy laughed, “Now I am the father to three sons, would've been more if I was not sent out more often.” he laughed again, and reached a hand under his long blue coat and opened a leather bag on his hip. He pulled from it a chunk of cheese and started cutting it with a small silver knife from a black pouch on the other side of his hip. Offering out a piece he asked, “Cheese?”

“Thank you.” Armil said, receiving the gift of cheese.

“Man suffers many important changes of life and I no doubt believe so do people as a whole.” Guy began in a low voice again, setting aside the humor of just a moment ago, “It's just the way things go. Do you think every knight the realm over, human, elf, equinite felt paralyzing fear when some great war broke out, or some immense tragedy? Do we stop what it is we are doing to hide ourselves from the monstrous face of fear?”

Hesitant, Armil chewed on his cheese. He knew the answer but didn't want to say it. Both out of anxiety, and because of the treat. Finally: “No.” he swallowed.

Guy Longue nodded sagely, “When you were my escuier did you ever hold yourself back when I dragged you from adventure to adventure?”

“No.”

“So why stop now?” Guy asked, “We are only at the threshold to another adventure, another battle like we have fought before. We don't even need to cross over the precipice. As I understand it: we are just observing and reinforcing.”

“That we are.”

“So that is not a thing to be afraid of.” Consoled the old knight, “You have at your pack a fair dozen or more or so, I have not really counted number of strong capable and loyal retainers to your father, your family, and you. All men ennobled in their lives in their service to your majesty. I think even if they were told they were to enter the portal, they would do so at your back. All of us are in this moment are your escuiers. We bare your shield, your sword, and the flag of your house. With so many lives sworn to you, your honor, the prince, there is no fear. There no number of men, elf, and equinite more noble and majestic in their nature than us.”

“So you are not afraid?” Armil asked.

“How could I be it's not my duty here to worry about what comes next.” he said with a laugh that could break the cold, “And I put my faith in many things. All I must worry about is the next step and that is simply us going to Isle d'Gourard and I have no problem with that. So sail on, sail faster even. Any day we step on ancestral ground is a good day!”