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Location: The Walls or Relouse

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Collaberation: Eliis'Qarmena'Luunetar @Suicharte

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Within the walls of Relouse, roars of a monster could be heard bellowing through the walls. Stone begins to melt, the walls seem to crack as an image begins to appear from the direction of the roar appears to be coming from. A dark visage appears as if a towering monster was appearing.

As once the raiders neared the area, what could be seen is a man in the center of the waves of heat and force energy. As a roar happened again as his once contorted legs were righted back in place but no blood magic was used force seemed to have been solely used.

Many called out to the man, "My King!!", "King Kol!!!", all of them called to him as they seemed to have fallen on deft ears as many even attempted to try and step closer, but the heat he is producing seemed to force them back.

As once his legs were set to a usable position he began to lower himself as if he was to ram into the wall.

What a sorry sight she had come upon. And how regretful she'd arrived when the fight was over, for maybe she could have stopped what she saw in front of her from happening. A man easily her height and twice her weight covered in hulking black armour that had clearly suffered damage in the fight was continuing to crawl, using every bit of his Gift to keep his body together and moving, roaring cries of rage and pain all the while. A beautiful but saddening sight, she decided she would remedy the issue before he threw his life away. Such a powerful spirit had more to fight for, and he would surely kill more of the Greenlanders. She increased her pace, hoping to arrive in front of him before the behemoth could complete his charge. But as she got closer and closer, the heat was obscene. Even the screaming crowds could not bear to get closer as the walking blast furnace began to prepare their advance. She would have to act fast and so, she began to draw the heat from the armor, preparing to use the vast amounts of energy to stitch together the bones and mend the broken flesh. Yet, she was being careful. The man would certainly die if she wasn't cautious, with her tendency to overdraw and the severity of his current condition. With a decent reserve of energy, she tapped her nails against his still scalding hot armour, avoiding contact of the flesh as she spoke in a an eerie yet soft spoken tone:

"Hold still. Let me fix your wounds. You won't finish the job with broken bones and bleeding flesh."

As Kol was preparing his charge, his senses ran wild as he felt energy interacting with him as his head flicked to the side where he saw a person touching him. His head twitched violently as he saw her, visions of the Sapling that killed Horik, the Sapling he spared running away seemingly unharmed after Vali followed her, and then the Spider pushing him to this, all Kol saw was red.

As the heat seemingly subsided as it built up inside of him as for a flash of a moment, a light appeared from the mouth area of the blackened visor, 3 dots of light could be seen where the eyes and mouth would be. As immense energy concentrated at the point over the mouth and was ready to explode out, aiming right at the Tree Dweller in front of him.

And just as soon as she'd begun to ready to heal him, the berserker had lashed out. How troublesome did he have to be! She didn't have much time to think about it. Not yet. Using the energy she'd leeched off the armour, she began to twist and turn the absorbed heat into solid matter. Being roasted alive was not desirable after all. A wall of stone was materialized in front of her in a rush, soaking the vast majority of the heat, though she could still feel the roasting temperature through her barrier. It was thin, and wouldn't hold for long, but it'd spare her immediate damage. She'd definitely gotten singed by the initial blast, but avoided serious injury due to having the energy ready.

Eliis knew that this 'king' wasn't in his right mind, but to be unable to distinguish friend from foe was something she didn't seem to quite understand And here, she'd gone through the effort of actually trying to help a human for once. Even if said human was on her side, it was still astonishingly generous and far more than they likely deserved. She'd scold him after the job was done, for now, she had to neutralize the threat. Quickly and efficiently, so that an enemy couldn't take advantage of the confusion. She spun around the wall with a flourish, and placed a leg firmly behind his, before attempting to throw him onto the ground. He was still far too heated to handle for long and heavy to boot, but she could use that weight against him. Especially in his current unbalanced condition. She converted what little she had left from the drawing into force to amplify the hopeful fall

"Cool down, fleshbag. I'm not a patient woman, so if you don't let me work, your men here will be down a monarch." she spoke, the same gentle whispering tone, but it was far more sinister than prior. Maybe violence would make him worse, but she needed this idiot to see reason.

As the flames burst out from Kol's mouth, the funnel of flames quickly dissipated so Kol could press the attack, yet in that moment he began being flung and then falling onto his back. Yet with the incredible reflexes offered to the Mooncaster, even mid-fall he was able to twist and distribute the fall to allow him to roll perfectly out of the throw, almost, as when he was rolling from the throw, the roll was to lead to him standing up, as his instincts seemed to not remember his condition as once he made it to his feet one of his legs snapped under his weight as his body kept moving and slammed his head into the ground.

As his head hit the ground, a large instability could be felt within his mind. As the energy within it seemed to waver and shake for a moment, it was finally then it could be seen, there is so much out-of-control Essence energy! As Kol pushed himself up with his arms, he used Force energy to instantly snap his leg back into place, not worrying about the bones and flesh he might have ripped or pulverized with it. As with such liberal use of energy, it could be felt that his heat is starting to lower.

As once he fully rose from his hands and knees, it seemed his force energy finally stabilized around his legs as he was finally able to stand as he roared, "SsSpPIDAAAAAAA!!!"

What a bother. She'd managed to throw him, but he was a certainly capable fighter even in this state of insanity and chaos, and were it not for his existing injury, he would have came out unscathed. His cry confirmed her suspicion about his delusions, and Eliis knew that if she didn't shut this brute up quick, the Parrench might be inclined to jump back over the walls and do it themselves permanently. Alas, when she spotted the Essence energy practically brimming out of his head, she figured that'd be the next step. The heat was dissipating, so once she removed this, she'd be able to operate.. She just had to draw and defend herself against the behemoth, at least for a little while. And so she began to, getting her wiry frame in a wider stance to counter the charge that was eventually coming, while simultaneously stealing the abundance of Essence energy. Eliis grimaced and braced for the coming counterattack, gesturing for him to charge.

As Kol looked to the 'Spider' his eyes were a complete haze, everything looked like blending colors as he felt energy get tugged away from him. As the haze in one of his eyes disappears, Kol felt himself awaken slowly yet his body still moved. As Kol took a single step forward as he used every ounce of kinetic energy he had to launch himself forward at his opponent, leaving almost a trail of heat, yet the moment he was to about to meet his target, he instantly stopped inches in front of her. Standing there he met eye to eye with Eliis as he almost inspected her for a moment.

The bulbs of light that were his eyes are now gone as heat started to dissipate from around him. Within Kol's mind he was defeating the beasts and monsters let loose, as after a few moments his energies started to deplete. As all he did was look at the Tree Dweller in front of him.

Eliis was ready, and she prepared, for a charge, yet the man stopped maybe a foot away from her. How surprising! She thought this would take longer, but he was clearly of excellent potential to regain control of himself so fast. She let out a small chuckle in response, glad that she wouldn't have to waste more time throwing the supposed king around. Alas, it was good timing. She'd drew a large amount of the essence, and began once again converting it, preparing to use it to heal his now quite severe wounds. It would take her a little while, but thankfully he'd managed to regain control before he'd caused damage that would have taken much more energy to fix. She looked back at him, assessing the results of the battle one final time before kneeling down, and putting a hand on his mangled legs.

"Hold still. Bite a rag if you have to, remember the pain, and pay them back tenfold." she spoke calmly and clearly, the gentleness lost from her voice as she began to focus with great intensity. It was not easy to heal wounds, let alone ones as severe as these, but as long as she wasn't disturbed, it would be done. And however painful his bones being restructured in his leg was, she'd need this "Kol" to bear with it for a moment.

Once Kol had managed himself enough, he was finally able to hear that around him. He heard the yelling, the people, and the calmness of the voice of the woman standing in front of him.

As finally Kol had let himself fall, his large body slamming to the floor as he landed on his ass with his legs out in front of him for the woman to do what she will.

As she went to kneel to look to his legs and she spoke out to him, all Kol gave was a nod. Pain was a temporary things, nothing that would keep him down.

As the healer began, his legs began to slowly twist and twine back into proper place, even with his magic putting his legs back into place, it operated more like a hammer than a knife. Yet the healing done reconstructed the pulverized bones, mended the ripped flesh, and reunification his once dead nerves back into use. As that was when the pain ran through him, Kol flexed his arms in qn instant response yet nothing further. Slight twitching from the beginning yet nothing further.

As the Tree Dweller continued her healing Kol said to her with focus to make sure his voice was steady, "Thank you kindly". Kol knew it would take time to heal his wounds, so he was in the hands of this woman until it was done.

As other Eskandr began to surround them and near the walls. As they let out roars of triumph against them, all Kol could think of was his people, and his Brother and Sister.

For a lesser binder, this process would have taken a vast amount of time. Eliis was not a lesser binder, and so it was that the process was quick. It took maybe 2 and a half minutes, of which Parrenchmen frantically manned the walls, and Kol's troupe surrounded them. And once again, she was amazed at the ability of this hulking Eskandr, for lesser men wept and begged for death at times when being healed in this way, but he simply bared with it. Admirable. She would forgive him for his insanity, but not for the weakness apparent in his eyes as he looked around. He may have been strong of body, but it was clear that he was soft. Softer than the other commanders that she'd seen on the battlefield. While he had been mindless in his rage, Eliis didn't sense that Kol had the ability to commit pure evil like Hrothgar did. She had a lot to learn socially but this much was clear.

"I didn't fix you for thanks, 'King' Kol. I incurred a debt upon you, and I expect you to repay it when the time is right." she quipped with sincerity in her voice as she stood up, wiping the mud from her legs and admiring the handiwork she'd done. It wasn't her fastest, but she'd done a pretty good job in such a short amount of time. Unfortunately, it wasn't quick enough to alter the state of the battlefield. The Parrench had fell back behind the walls of Relouse, and the Eskandr were in no position to immediately pursue. It was clear that both side needed to lick their wounds, however the outcome may have appeared immediately. In the distance, she even saw the remnants of a fight coming to a close between two talented arcane casters, keeping the fires alight even in the pouring rain.

"There is not much left of a battle to be fought anymore, unless you fancy throwing yourself at the walls again. What'll it be?" she spoke, waiting for an answer. She was no strategist, but maybe he was. And she didn't mind listening to him if it meant that they'd get inside the city.

Once Kol was healed, he began to stand again. The Tree Dweller spoke she did not heal him for nothing, Kol said in a calm voice as he looked to her, "Yes, as all deeds carry weight. So too does the Healer's Hands. I shall remember this".

Kol began scanning the battlefield as he inspected the state of affairs. As he saw the fighting had started to die down, as the Perranch had hid behind their walls to fight, Kol could only think what could be done. A complete victory might stop the Eskandr force here as their forces would be ground against each other. Even with a full victory here, the army would crumple to the other forces lying in wait.

Kol thought for a moment as he said, "To instill fear in the enemy and purchase us more time, smaller breakthroughs will need to occur. Let us start with a few simple wall breaks, the notion that a hole existing that could let Eskandr in would divert resources and mages to trying to close the holes and break throughs. Then we leave, total victory in this battle would lead to our total defeat in the large scale war". Kol began towards the wall, as he pulled from the eminent heat that he produce not much earlier. As he focused, he put all of the energy then to Force energy within his fist blows as he planned to blow a hole through the stone wall before him, it was his mission now to make entrances for the horde to enter, and buy them time to start their exit.

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A sudden blow of air hit the woman, granting her hyper focused attention towards the axe that laid in the soil. Was she being warned by an equal or another ploy by a sly bastard? Standing still, being unable to do anything after that forceful blast against her.

Noticing that the man that had warned her picked his axe back up as his focus turned towards the older man helping the Nashorn while she was too doubtful to act. She was letting worthy prey go just because she’s scared that she would be played around by someone that doesn’t fight with any ounce of respect. All of those thoughts would completely evaporate as Hildr noticed one of the people she really hoped to see now shared a battlefield with her. That filth of a cheap knight was here as well. It got her blood boiling, it made her feel something she hasn’t felt since her brother shamed her all those years ago. True, unchecked hatred for the person who made a fool of her in a court of imbeciles. Shaming should be followed by death or the person that was shamed shall return it twofold.

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The Drudgunzean would rush towards him, dragging the zweihander behind her before swinging it onto the soil with a full blow of uncontrolled force energy, trying to get his footing off before engaging.

The Bitch Knight raged at him, slamming her sword into the ground in what looked to be some sort of tantrum. So much power, Rodric thought, so little skill. He was nowhere near the massive furrow that she gouged in the ground. In fact, he was behind her. Was she truly so blind to anything but rage that she hadn't reached out and sensed his energy? The Laughing knight appeared behind her and stuck a Force-empowered dagger into her kidney. "Surprise!" he shouted, with a wicked laugh, Boosting himself immediately away and already drawing from the rain and the wind to create all sorts of illusions. This was to be a bullfight, and he had struck the bull first with what the Tourrare called the 'Vara'. Next, would come the 'Banderilla', and then, finally, the 'Estoque'. How he would bow and flourish before the crowd. First, however, he had to see just how this bull would charge. Before that, he decided to create five false Rodrics. They all bowed low. "Welcome to the show, milady!" they taunted, "you're the main attraction!"

Being stabbed combined with that horrid laugh almost set the woman off completely, although the cold steel that was momentarily into her back was a slight wake-up call. The woman stood still as she rhythmically tapped the zweihander on the soil. "Does your head still remember my sword? I would love to let you two meet again, however I had to leave them behind." A sly grin covered her expression.

"Hey lady!" shouted five Rodrics, "What's with the little tappy-tap-tapping?" They all stuck out their tongues. "You scared to come out and fight big bad nasty wasty Sir Wodwic?" They threw back their heads and laughed. Now! Hildr thought to herself as she increased the force behind the taps massively to get the laughing knight off his footing.
The ground shook and all five of them seemed to waver, as if he was having trouble maintaining the illusion, but one of them was the real him. "By the Gods," the Rodrics exclaimed with hysterical laughter, "I am so much better than you it almost hurts." Five arcane lances converge on Hildr, fast as a cobra striking, but they have little power behind them. Her armour melts a bit from the one real one and she lets out a yelp of pain. "Fight back!" Rodric demands, appearing in front of her. "Hit me, for Eschiran's sake!"



Hildr's rage boils up into a eardrum rupturing yell, the force energy of it was enough for the knights fighting around them to either stagger or be knocked out from the blunt trauma. Though her target, the mocking knight, was nowhere to be spotted. Did she take too long or was he just too quick. "BASTARD! COME BACK HERE!" Was all that she spoke as her yells had substantial power behind them as of now.

Rodric wasn't hiding. There were no illusions, no tricks. He just absorbed the force from her little tantrum and used it to leap far back. He yanked a half-dozen arrows from the battlefield and sent them for her head with what energy he had left.
The woman easily shrugged off the grazes the arrows left and continued using all she had. "STOP HIDING BEHIND THESE TRICK ATTACKS!" It barely mattered if it was friend or foe, these blasts did not discriminate as there was no control over the output any longer.

"Ah right," Rodric replied, "you'd prefer I stand there like a target dummy so might actually hit me. That's just called being a shitty warrior. No thanks!"
"IT'S CALLED BEING A MAN OF HONOUR!" Hildr swings her zweihander into the ground of the general direction of the laughing knight.
"There are lots of honourable corpses around here," Rodric said, almost conversationally. She slammed her sword into the ground for another of those shockwave attacks, but he'd seen that before and was ready. He absorbed what came directly at him and let the rest dissipate harmlessly. "Not very creative, are we?" He sent the energy back at her in a Force shove that smacked her in the helmet and forced her to stumble back, but she recovered momentarily and he didn't press his advantage. Instead, Rodric pulled upon the threads of light to create another illusion.

Hildr's mind was at its breaking point as she saw herself in that bastard's skin. There was no chance to win any longer. Her body tires from the yelling as it couldn't keep up with her own body's output any longer. Her own attitude would calm down from her body failing to keep up. "Bastard. . . You win, I give up. . . I surrender. . ." She kept her own senses on point as her eyes were failing here due to this illusion.

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"Ah!" said all of the Rodrics, "So the old dog can learn new tricks!" A Rodric appeared right in front of her. "Well, colour me impressed." The entire world wavered: its colours inverting momentarily.

"Lemme let you in on a little secret, Hildr-the-Red: I actually adore your king: he has style, presence, panache! Alas, he worships false Gods and, well, I'm locked into mine along with my king, you know how it is. Oh, and you can drop the act, by the way. I won't be falling for it. I don't actually really want to kill you. You have such... power and so little control." The Rodric in front of her lowered its guard. "We're a bit away from the thick of it, don't you think? Why don't we sit and have a little chat, you and I?"

"Then.... let's chat for a bit, although I do need more than just words to fully trust you..." Hildr was still on guard but decided to not attack her foe. If he had something to say of substance... then she's willing to hear him out, his praise of wulfric was a point of interest that immediately resonated inside her mind, this sudden change in attitude made her almost physically flinch "Speak your mind then."
Rodric sits down beside her. There are still many Rodrics. She is still Rodric. "Why is it that you fight against us, Lady Hildr?" She tried her hardest to ignore the illusions as she sat down as well. "Because Wulfric told me to. Otherwise I would have most likely not bothered with it." A tired sigh was let out from the knight. "And to protect my blood brother, although I have yet to find him."

"So you're here out of obligation." He tilted his head to one side and spat. "I'm here because I like to fight. I could give a toss about Gods or kings. I wanna master my craft, you know?" He shook his head. "But not you maybe? Is your heart really in this?"

"I couldn't care less about what this is about. I love to fight, I am thrilled to test my skills although all these knights were not even worth killing... That one girl using illusions pissed me off..." the knight remembered the face of Osanna well, that grin as she mocked her.

"You are powerful, but artless," said Rodric bluntly, "not in control of your own abilities. You've relied on raw force for too long instead of learning how to actually apply it." He shook his head. "Truth is, I could've killed you, back at the court, and perhaps now. I mean that not as an insult, but as a truth. You should be on our side, Hildr. You could learn much. Do not remain beholden to people who are a part of your past." The lines were breaking. Someone high up on the Parrench side had panicked and sounded an urgent defense of the walls.

"It looks as if my fool allies are falling for your king's trick. Hrothgar is a wise man, even if cruel, but there is only so long that he can keep this up. The Parrench are not warriors by nature, but they are proud and they are very many. They will not let you take and hold this land." He started to rise, to leave.
"I can't just abandon everything I know, right?... Even if what you say is the truth, your king still made me an enemy for no reason." Hildr stood up, making sure there was no trick behind this. "If you truly wish for me to be an ally, then we shall talk it out." She looked him in the eyes, unwavering as she looked at the battlefield for a split second.

"Alas, milady, time grows short. The horns are blowing and fools are leaving. Think on what I've said, and you may want to look up a healer known as Branimir of Aldpest should your travels take you back to Kressia anytime soon. He may have much to tell you." With that, the many Rodrics disappeared, except for the one standing in front of her. He took a brief bow and left for the Parrench retreat.

Branimir of Aldpest?.... What would she have to seek with a healer? Does he know her? All of this left the warrior with many thoughts and doubts. Were the Eskandr in the right to waste so many lives for land they can’t keep? What was Hrothgar’s great plan after this?

Hildr walked away from any sort of danger towards the Eskandr’s landed fleet. She needs time to rest and think about what happened.

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The main battle concluded, all that remained was either dead or dying. Parrench and Eskandr share the same mud to die on. After roaming for a while longer on this field of death, Hildr found something that made her blood boil. A skirmish between Drudgunzean knights. She could barely notice the subtle differences in armor. To think brothers and sisters have slain each other for others. Did they even know what they were fighting for or did Wulfric fill their heads with grandeur. The elite Kressian knights, felled by their own brothers.

Among the bodies was a younger man, wearing more regal armor with an insignia all too familiar to her. It was the captain of Kressia’s Rote Blattes, Claus. The woman could feel own magic boiling up once more, trying her hardest to stay calm. “You damned fool… How dare you die before me…” Hildr, at the brink of tears, took the body of her deceased comrade and walked back to the ship.

All the while thinking about her brother, praying he wasn’t slain in this carnage. He might be a Quentic but he’s still her brother after all. What little affection she can give she will grant.

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The knight’s expression grew dark upon seeing her liege celebrating with some of the Eskandr. He was quick to notice Hildr and the corpse she was carrying. “Ah, if it isn’t my favourite knight! It seems they weren’t strong enough to kill you.” The man laughed as he drank before examining her further. “But what’s this here? Did you actually get hurt? That’s a first.” Hildr laid down the body. “Claus didn’t make it..”

Wulfric looked at the body. “A shame, now I have to look for someone who’d take the mantle of knight captain again. Perhaps this is your chance to become the captain. I am nothing if not generous after all.”

“Wulfric, I won’t take his place, I wouldn’t be able to do it any justice.” Wulfric shrugged before patting her on the shoulder. “You survived, take pride in that… And tend to your wounds.”

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“I am powerful, but artless.” Hildr repeated to herself, remembering the dialogue she had with the laughing knight. He seemed weirdly sincere with his words. Those words burned into her mind. "not in control of your own abilities. You've relied on raw force for too long instead of learning how to actually apply it." Has that been the case? Was she too confident in her own power that she grew complacent? Then the line he told her after hit her "Truth is, I could've killed you, back at the court, and perhaps now. I mean that not as an insult, but as a truth.” It caused her body to shake from fear. Was she really that dumb that she couldn’t even notice how unmatched she was against him.

Why would he want her to be on the side of the Parrench? What could she learn if she did? “Do not remain beholden to the people of your past” What were his end goals with these words. Were they just to confuse her or was there truth behind it? And that name, Branimir… How would he know someone that’s important to her that she wouldn’t know?

It just didn’t make any sense. Maybe talking with Hrothgar would get some sense into her mind

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After the encounter with the daring Eskandr wall-jumpers, Otios had not seen that much of the battle until it had come to its conclusion. The city's walls, combined with the strict order to retreat to them, had prevented him from getting outside again -- not that he had been eager to see more of the carnage from close by anyway. A few thunderbolts hurled from the top of the wall, some assistance with igniting large oil barrels or other projectiles drenched in flammable substances, nothing more it had been from his side that cruel night. He himself had been in dire need of mending, a term more commonly used when it came to machines instead of a living being, but probably more appropriate than 'healing' if one took a look at the cramped places where the wounded were treated.

It wasn't that those attending to the injured were doing a bad job, on the contrary. However they could neither bring true restoration for they couldn't erase those memories that would nourish people's nightmares for years or even lifetimes, nor prevent any able-minded individual from stumbling upon the absurdity that was going on: People were put into the grinder standing just outside the city walls only to be patched together and reassembled hours later again inside. And for what ? So that the Parrench army could keep going, so that the process could continue until the loop was completely drained of resources -- humans and yasoi.

Could one blame the Parrench for this ? Certainly not for this conflict had been forced upon them, but history told that the people living here were able to take the initiative in terms of war, too. Could one blame the Eskandr ? In terms of direct causality absolutely, but Otios knew that he had never been far enough to the South yet to truly know whether their situation there perhaps was just too dire to stay. Could one blame humanity as a whole for being unable to find different solutions for such situations and for mixing faith, pride and greed into the mix in tremendous quantities as well ? Yes and this time with neither ifs nor buts!

It was with mixed feelings then when Otios left the gates of Relouse behind him in the morning. At least he'd be able to leave the stench behind before it came to the worst. The flies would thrive and so would the rats and other carnivores whose preferred diet were the already dead. Mass sickness was just bound to come for nothing could keep Relouse's ground water safe from the decay reaching it. Some fancy clerics had quiet profoundly dismissed his idea of improving the dead body situation by letting those having the gift of thunder joining forces to create an improvised, but large scale incineration pit. What he had done with the poker a few hours prior, just bigger! Something that wouldn't need loads of wood or oil to just halfway burn the dead, but would just do things so much more profoundly at a much, much higher temperature. 'Blasphemy!', the holy man had uttered. So first they all had helped to mass produce death and now they were afraid of mass disposal of the outcome albeit knowing that no other approach would be able to prevent even more mass misery in the aftermath ? There certainly were things Otios could not understand...

And so he rode on, trying to reach Loriindton rather sooner than later. If the interpretation of things was right, then there was a real chance of the entirity of Yasoi to be dragged into this mess in an uncontrolled manner. Just staying out of the whole affair would have been the most preferrable option, but he himself had already dismissed that one the moment he had followed Lady Talit's call here. The Eskandr simply couldn't be trusted for staying neutral in case they'd have dealt with Parrench one day. They were humans too after all and right on their way of proving their aggressive potential. If he only had the choice between staying neighbours with a potentially nasty human nation A and a potentially nasty human nation B, then it was obvious to pick the one less unfamiliar.

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Time: Morning, Location: Unconquered Son Barracks outside of Nazaire
Mood: ”Rise Up” by Daniel Farrant & Nick Kingsley
Current Event: Defense of Relouse

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Crack

Caelum’s body lurched back as a sharp pain cut through his rib cage. On his knees, coughing, Caelum could not catch his breath. His armor was bent and cracked where his rib was protected, did a rib break? Caelum questioned as he labored for air. A sense of fear crept in, what could he do against such skill and power?

“Get up!” Aldrith commanded, sending another Force punch across Caelum’s helmet. The power at which the second Force punch came was significantly less potent than the first; it was just enough to rock Caelum’s bells out of order as he fell to the ground like a lump sack of bricks. No longer was he trying to catch his breath; he was now focused more on holding his head above the darkening peripheral creep.

“I said get up!” Aldrith roared intensely once more as he picked Caelum up by the head using his Force. Caelum could feel Adlrith’s grip tighten across his skull like a vice to a block of wood. If the hold had been any less, Caelum was convinced that blood would have run out of his nose, ears, and eyes, but the grip was so tight that nothing could escape.

“If this is all you have to offer, then you are worth less alive than dead to the Brotherhood, a strain on fucking resources!” Aldrith with his other hand, used another Force punch to hit Caelum in the gut; again, he lessened the power since his last strike at Caelum’s head. Caelum’s cough returned as spit and bile came up only to drip down from the corners of his mouth.

“You disgust me; I will do us all a favor and kill you before Oraphe condemns us all for giving you a chance at life.” Aldrith reared back once more, and as he sent it forward, it ceased in mid-stride. Caelum prayed underneath his breath, and as he did so, he found all of the painful stimulation he was experiencing to subside. A momentary peace, a piercing truth that the flesh never overcame his faith. There was something in Aldrith’s last statement, the words of not living up to his Creator’s love…it was untrue, he knew it, and Caelum sought those words in spirit to remind him that they were untrue. This faith countered the effects of his commander’s grip; devotion to Oraphe emboldened Caelum to retaliate and to share the power of what was amplifying in his gut. A profound sensation of energy surged from Caelum as his left hand instinctively twisted open with his palm facing up while still suspended by his throat in mid-air; his left hand was what had been applying Caelum’s Force to Aldrith’s reared hand, which was to perform another Force punch.

“YOU ARE USELESS TO THE FAITH AT LEAST DIE WITH DIGNITY!” Aldrith’s roar resonated in Caelum in a way that only gave him more motivation to train everything left on his commander. Caelum looked at the earth below Aldrith and sent a Force strike to Adlrith’s knee with his right hand, which caused Aldrith to drop him from mid-air. On Caelum’s way down, he used his left hand, gripping Adlrith’s rear hand, to Force punch the earth directly underneath Aldrith. The earth shattered below Aldrith’s feet as Caelum landed with one knee up and one knee down. Aldrith had nothing to grab that would save him from falling into a deep pit of defeat.

---

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Location: Camp of Relouse
Mood: Whatever Doesn’t Kill Me (Better Run) by Benji Heard
Current Event: Defense of Relouse

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If it was not the smoke and flames that woke Caelum, it was the cries and screams of Parrench en route to their graves. Caelum’s eyes loosened from a locked slumber. Then as if a jolt of lightning splintered down his spine, he sprung up from a soldier wailing outside the tent. His throat tickled slightly as smoke crept into the tent he was in. Quickly, Caelum began to check himself to see if he had adequately healed from his previous wounds sustained in combat with Thorunn, I’m good, he thought.

Caelum rotated his body to hang his legs off the bed and press his feet to the ground. He saw his equipment and others laid out on the table across the tent. Surprisingly, Caelum felt renewed, strong…enough. He got up and used his Force magic to begin equipping his armor, strapping it, and giving it a little less weight to his body. Once everything was in order, Caelum emerged from the tent when a Parrence priest was running from Eskandr filth.

Caelum twisted his body to meet the unwitting Eskandr, who did not anticipate a forearm to come shooting out of the tent entrance. Caelum successfully clotheslined the Eskandr with his forearm. The Eskandr felt as if he were hit by a crashing wave to the chest, the top half of his body whipped back, and the back of his skull struck the mud.

Caelum looked down at the Eskandr whose spirit was knocked clean from his body, “I can’t kill you while you are down, fool, get up!” Caelum’s teacher, Aldrith of Nazaire’s voice almost echoed in Caelum’s words. He used his Force to raise him toward Caelum’s chest, a part of a Caelum thought to deliver his cold steel into the heart of this savage, but his devotion to his Creator spoke not too. Instead, the faithful paladin gripped the Eskandr while untying one of the taut ropes that kept the tent secure. He used the rope to tie the backhands of the Eskandr while the savage remained suspended 6 inches off the ground.

Caelum dropped the Eskandr as retreating Parrench approached, “Stop!” Caelum shouted. The retreating Parrench fell even if their legs wanted to hop, “Why are you retreating?” The soldiers were terrified; words were scarce in their minds and hearts to explain their horrors. Yet, by the grace of Oraphe, one found her truth to share, “Sir, the lines are broken, and just this way is a warrior wielding the very breath of dragons at the edges of her scythe!” Another soldier shouted, “She is DEATH ITSELF!” Caelum felt the hairs on the back of his neck and forearms begin to stand, her.

Caelum pointed to the tied-up Eskandr, “Take this one with you; he may be of use to Arcel and the Queen.” The soldiers nodded, grabbed the Eskandr, and bolted. Caelum pressed in the direction from where the soldiers retreated to greet the Pyro Pixie, Thorunn Silverhair.

---

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Interactions: @Pirouette, @pantothenic, @Force and Fury
Location: Camp of Relouse
Mood: Facing Fears by Ivan Torrent
Current Event: Defense of Relouse

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Caelum heard Throunn’s wrath as he gained ground from the infirmary to her position. The sound of her scythe thrashing was concretely embedded in Caelum’s memory. He had now encountered this witch twice and to his dismay, she did not take long to recover from their last battle. Upon arriving to the scene of Thorunn Silverhair, Caelum saw a small knight lunge at her clashing steel to steel. The fast thinking system of Caelum’s mind wanted to move in and reinforce the knight’s effort, but the slower thinking system of Caelum’s mind knew to scan the field before attacking blindly. Emerging from the flames adjacent from Caelum was a red-robed Priest. Caelum recognized the wardrobe, a Rezaindian, an ally. Caelum looked over to the Priest, who too met his gaze with a look that silently affirmed they were here to fight this witch together.

Breaking their gaze of affirmation was the eruption of a firewall that Thorunn raged forward at the Parrench knight who disengaged and defended valiantly despite her size. Caelum immediately saw Thorunn’s attention on the Parrench knight as an opportunity to attack her from behind with the Priest. He raised his blade, slashing down; a slicing Force cut through the air, spitting up mud on its way to the witch’s ribs. The Priest followed by reaching into the depths of Thorunn’s flames; he manipulated the flames to twist into blazing serpent heads, and each head tried to strike Thorunn’s frame simultaneously. But…damn…was she good. Throunn’s effortless display of skill showcased a dance performance that evaded Caelum’s slicing Force by sidestepping and absorbing Gerard’s serpents in unison.

“That was pathetic,” she spat, reusing words familiar to her. “Your magic teachers should be ashamed of you.” Then, she picked a target and made a snake of her own, as she sent the flaming serpentine, Gerard having expertise in the art of fire, whipped the serpent-like tornado back at her. Thorunn would need to defend. Caelum tried seizing the moment by sending another slicing Force to push her back with a lightning bolt from above where he anticipated her to be pushed, but the first attack did not budge her. Therefore, the lightning bolt hit earth and not Silver hair.

"You sneaky little prick," she hissed, shaking her head at the clever combo attack. "My turn!" Drawing from the residual heat in the air, she reached for the priest's and knight's heads with twin fists of Force, to squish them like overripe fruits.

Deja vu. Aldirth liked to punch Caelum with Force too. Caelum prepared to defend as he did against his teacher years ago, but to his fortune Thorunn’s force was interrupted by a golden aura shielding Caelum’s body. Caelum turned to the smaller Parrench knight and saw her focused on him. She shined bright as Oraphe, and Caelum could only thank her in spirit. Her strength and gesture of protection would not go to waste.

Caelum lunged behind Camille’s gift and swung his sword while charging the atoms in the air his blade cut through. Electricity sparked in his cut’s wake . Caelum knew Thorunn would most likely not bite his blade with her own. She would dance as she always did, and when she did, Caelum would leave a gift when drawing back. As anticipated she side stepped. Caelum drew back but as he did there were several snap crackle and pops of lightning splintering in explosions around Thorunn. Her defensive arm was numbed by Caelum’s trick. “Bastard!” Before she could counter, Caelum peeled back to a defensive position and Gerard stepped in to take the witch down.

Gerard raised flaming swords to Thorunn immediately after Caelum’s attack. She had no breathing room, somehow she pounded the priest a Force shove that made him miss and leapt backwards to secure space. The yells of Parrench were beginning were soften as more found their feet back to the fortified city. He sensed they were not winning and the Parrench resolve was broken outside the city walls. If his senses were accurate, it meant that this battle was nearing an end. Camille, Gerard, and Caelum could not afford to be surrounded by Eskandr and still fighting Thorunn.

Everyone felt that it was now or never, even Thorunn, she summoned immense strength to raise medical tools, splintered wooden beams, flaming sheets, and discarded weapons, then in one motion, all of the items came flying at the three Parrench loyalists. Gerard burned everything away, Caelum dodged and parried while take some glances off his armor, but Camille took a wooden beam to the chest of her protective aura. Thorunn slightly staggered Camille and with grace Camille reacted swiftly by thrusting her greatsword into the ground to stop Thorunn’s Force from peeling her back. Camille spun nimbly turning lost momentum into gained momentum and used it to ram Thorunn down with her shoulder.

The girl charged her, like a wild animal, like The Nashorn! Thorunn stood her ground, raised her arms, and drew everything that she could from the charge, filling herself with Force. It wasn't quite enough. The more petite woman hit her nonetheless, though barely moving. Thorunn stumbled back, cursing and bruised in the midsection. Caelum watched Thorunn wince slightly from the smaller knight’s attack. He remembered that was precisely where Rodric had burned her in their last encounter on the beach. Gerard sent several fireballs from all sides to exploit the opening created by the petite knight, Camille. To all of their dismay, fighting fire with fire was not in their favor, Thorunn brushed away Gerard’s assault and returned with arcane lances that nearly sent Gerard to Echeran if it were not for this more miniature knight’s vigor and profound instinct to protect her allies.

Impressive, Caelum thought. Camille’s size truly did not reveal anything about her. She was persistent in showing that her small size packed an immense punch. It was clear to Caelum that without her, Gerard and himself would have lost this fight meeting their fate like Oleric and Magnus.

The three continued to press their attack on Silverhair. It was not enough; as soon as Thorunn caught a breather, she reminded them why she had a strut of confidence about her all the time. Thorunn raised everything but the roof and kitchen sink a second time, sending it all at the three. In the same breath, she hurtled forward in a blur, Gerard was first. She tackled and grabbed him with an inhuman howl, grabbed his ankles, and flung him to the ground thrice until he lay broken. Caelum tried to defend Gerard, and Thorunn was happy to take care of him too, but the girl made the mistake of getting between her and her prey. "Your gods are weak before the power of Father, Mother, Sister, and Brother!"She screamed."I shall send you to Visitor!" This time, the youth's golden aura was not enough. Thorunn ripped her from the ground and repeated her attack, slamming her victim into the ground again and again. She tossed the girl away when she was done. "Now," she growled, a wicked, evil look in her eyes, "it's your turn, handsome." She fixed her gaze upon the one remaining member of the group.

Thorunn's enemies lay defeated. They were around her but not surrounding her anymore. She was safe. They were on death's doorstep. Brother was supreme on the battlefield, not these weak Parrench gods with their names stolen from the yasoi. She began drawing again to finish off the final one. Her people were racing forward now. The soft Greenlanders were covering their gates as they retreated inside. There was just this knight to...kill.

Caelum stood one to one as each of his allies fell on the battlefield. Once again, she was too quick, too powerful, but Caelum knew not of giving up. Instead of feeling hopeless, he searched for an answer. He took a deep breath as she slowly advanced. Her confidence was ever present in each stride, and in Caelum’s peripheral, he saw that his side was no longer on the field. It was only Eskandr scum flooding.

Oraphe revealed in Caelum as he searched in his mind’s eye of Thorunn’s true identity. It clicked as he replayed her actions, her moves, and her attitude. He listened to all three battles he engaged her in and it finally sank at this moment as a peaceful feeling draped over his body. She was a terrified little girl. Her incessant need to keep everything at bay. She became easily frustrated whenever things did not go her way. She lacked patience and focus and treated everything as if it were a game when events fell her way but erupted in terror and tantrums when events did not. Thorunn was still that little girl, immature but armed with more power.

Caelum felt something different in himself as he now pierced the veil of her overcompensating persona. Caelum’s perception flipped; what wounds did she hide so profound that life became meaningless enough to slay without discretion? Caelum’s deep love for Oraphe bridged across to this hurt child who approached with a bloodlust in her eyes. It was clear, today he could not kill her, he needed only to show her mercy and save his allies before the Eskandr completely overran them all.

First, Caelum wanted to reach her soul, to give her more to think about than simply adding another number to her kill list; in clear Eskandr language, he spoke in her tongue, something familiar to listen to, something closer to home, “I understand you Silverhair! The resentment toward those who are different and who appear threatening. You are scared, and I do not blame you. Your anger must keep your fear at arm’s distance. It must be difficult to have the Eskandr world looking toward you for strength and deep down…you only feel fear. Who would you be if you were not terrorizing those you felt threatened your security? Who would you be if you were not fighting with anger to keep your fear at a distance as you have shown so clearly to do on the battlefield against all of us as your enemies? Who would you be if you felt loved...” Caelum paused to let the words seed.

“When we first met…when you killed my friend on the hills of Vitroux…I thought you took pleasure in destroying life, but now I see…it is not the destruction of life you seek…it is love…the love from your people, affirmation that you are enough, that you are stronger than you are, that you are…special…if not special enough to be loved…then feared, a mistaken belief Silverhair.” Thorunn was quiet, but her approach slowed down. Caelum did not know if he had reached any part of her. The pace at which she slowed however gave him time to set the trap, while he spoke to her, he focused his Force on the earth 30 strides in front of her.

“Know Thorunn, make no mistake…you are loved…and find it in your soul to forgive what I must do next.” Thorunn confusingly took her next step…she made no mistake; she would kill him today. Caelum threw his gauntlet down onto the earth-shattering ground where Thorunn stood.

All at once, the ground fell away beneath her. Thorunn's eyes went down, and she shrieked as her body followed them. All rational thought evaporated. It had been the knight. It had been an attack to buy him time so that he could collect his gravely wounded comrades. She did not know this or care. She saw only darkness closing around her: a tiny space where she was trapped. She was trapped and couldn't get out! Thorunn wailed and screeched, tears coursing from her eyes. She pounded at the earth with fists of flesh and bone and Force alike. There was light above. She needed to go to it. There was light! She'd be safe and free or... or maybe not! What was out there? Who would hurt her!? She cried out and battered he ground until there was a great crater around her. She collapsed to her knees in the middle of it. There was nobody here who could do her any harm. She was Thorunn Silverhair, First among the Æresvaktr and surely Queen of Hegelich after this. She breathed. She breathed some more, glaring at any who dared look at her. Tears evaporated from her cheeks and she stood, composing herself. The knight was gone, though, along with the other two. She scowled, spat, and joined the advance of her countrymen.

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Location: On the coast near Port Morilles

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Mentions/Interaction: None

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Roars of victory and anguish, smoke of campfires and funeral pyres, food filling bellies or rotting with the dead, duality is what war is. One side wins and the other loses, one side finds victory the other finds defeat, yet that is never true and today was a perfect example. The Eskandr horde had broken out onto the Parrench soil, yet they did not take Relouse, the Parrench keeps their city, yet they did not push the Horde back into the sea. Each side lost many men, each side lost fathers, mothers, daughters, sons, brothers, and sisters. This was the first battle, so the war was far from over, yet Kol already felt the toil. His mind was always going back to his people, those fathers who have aged far more than Kol has and now wishes to take a seat at the Visitor's Table. Those sons who wished to seek glory for themselves, those fathers who wished to make a greater life for their children, and those who listen to the calls of the gods against those who try to convert them and challenge their way of life.

As Kol walked the camps, he spoke to people much the same as he always does, as he joined them in very feeling they had. He mourned with them as they reminisced, he celebrated in the lives who made it to the Visitor's Table and the glory many came back with. He offered what he could, words to strengthen the resolve of those he could, or stabilize those who were to crumble at these losses. Kol did what he could for his people, yet everything began to weigh upon him when he looked into their eyes. Many who had survived are but those young enough to fight yet not old enough to have understood the weight of war. Many heard the stories that were told from word to mouth, the stories that followed Kol, and the stories that their very religion not only justified but glorified it. Many looked as if they had lost something, had seen combat as it is, and faced against what could be considered Gods to those who were not gifted by the Gods who gifted those Gods power.

Kol looked to the see, longing home once more, his people had put so much out to this war, they depleted their forests, they had their best craftsmen focused solely on ship craft than anything else. The provisions were hoarded for this moment and now the land will be depleted for some time, all abled bodies had come to do something greater than themselves. And all that work, all that time, was set ablaze, many Eskandr were stuck here, including Kol's very own people. They could not leave, there was nowhere to go except forward. Kol winced, he knew something like this could happen, yet it felt too harsh too quickly, Kol knew these boats, his people did too as they put everything they had and produce additional boats for other armies, they shouldn't have all been wiped out so easily, especially to a force who would have been in defense and then chased after some time, someone had to have been on the inside to do it.

Kol could not figure who would sell their own people out like this, yet Kol knew that it would not stand. He would not allow such a thing to stand, as this could be the thing to kill his people. All the able-bodied men and women Strumreef has to offer were now here, away from their home, and with no foreseeable way of returning. Kol's blood boiled, it could be years until they even finish this war, and then once that is done, making it back home could take longer. Kol thought of his home, how much could it change in a half decade if not more. He thought would he still be able to lead as he has always done, he had already reached some of his peak, and now he felt his body was getting older. He felt it as even after the healing the aches were still there, battle tears one apart, and the form of battle it seemed the gods have chosen him for would tear him more apart. He was unsure if he could continue, but he had to, he had no choice. He needed to, he had yet to have bared an heir, he had yet to have taken a wife, something Kol had slightly regretted, yet now was not the time to dwell, he was called once more to do more work.

Kol had boarded a boat and was ready to set sail, Kol took some of his men with him to travel, he wished for them to come and maybe think once more to go home. Maybe they could save a few of his people, even just a little. Kol gave all he could, and Strumreef would all too willing to do the same, but he could not bear it, he could not watch his people to crumble because of this war. Maybe this was the only way, maybe…

It had gotten so cold. As the accumulated water made-instrument of death washed over the entire field and dragged Arnaud’s near-lifeless body through the blood-soaked mud of Relouse, he could only feel the cold air brushing through his damp body. It was unpleasant, and he hated it even in his half-conscious state. The man had not only overdrawn but also went far beyond what his neglected and ageing body could physically allow. Now laid a fat, broken warrior with skin and tattoos that didn’t match the average Parrench. His chest still mightily heaved, making it impossible to mistake him for dead, but it was easy to confuse him for an interloper that had no place in the war now that his recognizable armour had been peeled off by the foe he had vanquished.

The Aheri’s eyes could barely open. It felt like flashes of time passing by. Sometimes he would see a blade swing just over his eyes from a battle between two men fighting until the end. Sometimes he simply saw the smoke-covered skies above.

Am I dying?

He couldn’t move. Perhaps this was the end? And then an unexpected sight: A maiden whose features were blurred. He couldn’t see properly, but his imagination handled the missing details.

I must have perished. It is as some say- The virtuous are granted many wonders after death. The five take mercy even upon a beast like me.

There was a smile, but not one Ulfhild could see. Arnaud was for all intents and purposes immobile and defenceless. As the knife drew closer, his wheezing got louder.

A warrior too. One to mercifully claim my life. In a battlefield where so many die shitting themselves with their entrails ripped out. I am unworthy.

His dark eyes were almost daring the Eskandr huntress to finish the deed, but it would not come to pass. Something stopped her.

“You’ll see me again,

A wondrous thing to hear, Siwa.

I’ll make sure of it, Parrench dog.”

Parrench. Even the Eskandr maiden-warriors of my afterlife recognize me for what I am. Do not leave, please.

The envoy of death left, and Arnaud soon lost full consciousness. His bleeding and massively bruised body left to be claimed by the elements. It would be a few minutes after the semi-delirium that he would be found by one of his last remaining men. He alone dragged the Aheri back to safety, as Maerec and many others that could be counted on were left to confront their own turbulent fates.

Two days passed. There was no Asier visiting the near-comatose Arnaud. The few good souls dedicated to easing the pain of the suffering feared to approach the man. Partially for his unusual appearance, but also for the fact that he did have bouts of delirium in his ‘sleep’. Mumbles of the words ‘Bouzima’ and ‘Ahsal-hama’ were very common, and were sometimes even screamed to the dismay of the staff and the ill alike. It was only thanks to Moustafa, the same man that salvaged his once master, that Arnaud was properly tended after. As his bruises receded and both mana and body recuperated, his mind adjusted too.

He awoke the day Arcel called for a meeting- just an hour prior. Arnaud’s legs were killing him, his back even more. The perforated gut he carried for a couple of years now stung like he had never felt before. It was better for him to stay in bed, but none dared to tell Arnaud what to do even in his most vulnerable state. He was merely offered the only thing he needed to serve his Lord: The Face of the Executioner. Neither he nor his men showed a trace of their person as they acted as the King’s Justice. And today would not be an exception, no matter how many hindrances he would have to endure.

The consequences of war did little to the thuds and tremors that came with Arnaud being nearby. He was no Nashorn, but he was still massive with a heavy armour to boot. His steps were slow but his stride was strong. When he arrived at the Red Table, it was a known habit that the executioner would remain standing, usually close to the king, but he took a seat this time. Which one didn’t matter as it wasn’t like anyone would exactly miss a man like an armoured Aheri.

”I remain your Lame, Your Majesty. Point me in a direction and I shall deliver the Justice of Dami and Parrench onto those who oppose your order. I will be an immovable wall or an indiscriminate storm at your command, Mon Roi.” he recited with considerable zeal. Whether to attack or to defend, Arnaud was the king’s blade and bulwark. He trusted the judgement of the strong, and to this day hadn’t failed in his duties as a loyal ally to the crown.

A silence lingered after his claim, ”Has he perished?” he inquired behind the metallic filter of his featureless helm, ”The Lion Knight. Has he known his end at the hand of a few Southerners?” it was impossible to read his voice as it remained perfectly flat. Behind the veil of metal, Arnaud was grating his teeth. The Tourrare Knight was an asset they couldn’t ignore, and yet he wasn’t here. The Executioner could only deduce a select number of possibilities. Something stirred deep within Arnaud. An anger palpable enough that those with even a slight connection to Force or Essence magic could tell the beast of a man was not in a good state of mind.

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Locations: Relouse - > The Archbishop's Residence

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”Nobody here has seen him either.” Tristan closed the door to the pub behind him before rejoining Misha back on the street. The two Rezaindians pulled their hoods up to shield against the drizzle pouring from overhead and began traveling to the next most likely spot. They were in search of their master Gerard, who they were unable to rendezvous with after getting cut off by the Eskandr. The two apprentices had fled back behind the walls some time before he was defeated by Thorunn Silverhair. They were at this moment unaware of his fate.

”He had to have made it back. Maybe he’s helping to dispose of the bodies. We should check outside again.” Misha clasped her hands nervously in front of her. Her colleague shook his head. ”Come on, we were out there since the sun came up. We would be wasting our time.” ”Well we’ve searched every gathering place in Relouse! The only option we have left is to start searching individual households!” The stress of the search was starting to show on Misha’s face. Her breath quickened as anxiety threatened to overwhelm her.

”Master Castellooo! Where are you!” She cried into the air, startling several passerby. The young woman lost the will to stand and collapsed to her knees, trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears. Tristan watched helplessly as his partner quietly sobbed into her hands, unsure of how to comfort her.

”By the gods, if you keep screaming like that, you’ll finish the job that Eskandr bitch started!” A familiar voice shouted nearby. The two acolytes turned their heads to find their master leaned against the side of a house, hidden under the shade of its thatch rooftop. The older mage let out a silent yawn as he stretched his tired arms, having been woken up by his noisy apprentice.

”Master!” ”Master!” Gerard was too weak to stand up and thus couldn’t avoid the arms of his students. The two squeezed him into a group hug that threatened to crack his freshly healed ribs, causing him to grunt in pain. He didn’t mind that much. After staring death in the face twice, the pain was proof that he was alive. The three of them had made it through the first and possibly deadliest battle in the entire war. By Echeran’s mercy they survived, and that at least was something worth celebrating. Gerard’s mouth turned up into a smile - He grabbed his students’ robes and pulled them closer.

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After a full day of magical therapy from his loyal follower Tristan, Gerard was once again in fighting shape. He would have to be, for today he had been summoned by the king himself to the home of the Archbishop. Why he had been called for he did not know, for he had failed at everything he tried to do during the defense of Relouse. Were they that impressed by his ability to get thrown around by Force mages? The Rezaindian master did not let self depreciation stay his feet.

Gerard stopped in front of the door and addressed his apprentices. ”Wait here. I will be back shortly.” Upon entering the Archbishop’s residence, he got down on his knees and pressed his forehead against the floor. After paying his respects, Gerard quickly made his way to the meeting place as instructed.

Twenty five seats were arranged around a circular red table, with the king and queen of Parrence sitting on opposite ends of it. A couple other warriors had already taken their places as well. Gerard recognized the armored giant hovering near King Arcel but did not know his name. Using the king as a reference point, he took the 9 o’ clock position at the table and seated himself quietly. More soldiers shuffled in until the table was completely full, some words were exchanged, and then Arcel and Eleanor delivered their briefing.

Gerard smirked with delight at the idea of destroying the barbarian’s capital city. Setting a bunch of wooden shacks ablaze sounds like child’s play for a half decent Arcanist. Now I understand why his Majesty called me here.

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Osanna shoved through the city gate in a tide of bodies. Armored forms jostled her broken arm, elbowed her sides, and pushed her into other soldiers in their haste to answer the call. Many were wounded, and their screams tainted the night, the smell of blood and shit and vomit heavy in the air.

For a Black Rezaindian, death was usually a tidy thing. Osanna slipped open locked doors in the darkest hours, dealing in poison and quick-slit throats. She left bodies slumped over desks or in their cups or curled beneath a crimson blanket in their beds. The judgment of Echeran was swift but not cruel. By contrast, this war was filthy.

When she was finally through, Osanna stumbled through muddy streets until she found a wall to lean on, pressing her shoulders against cool stone, the squelch and slick of mud beneath her feet. Her hip throbbed with the trickle of blood she’d not been able to stem one-handed. Her collar and left arm ached unless they were jostled and then lit up with fiery pain. She needed care, needed to get to a mender.

The makeshift tents for the wounded smelled worse than the stampede of soldiers filtering through the gate. A miasma of pain and rot tainted the air like poison, and Osanna gagged as she was pushed into a cot. Time passed in strange leaps and jolts. The figure of a soft-faced boy in a giant’s armor swam beneath her eyelids, and the man in the cot nearest her died gasping, blood gurgling from his lips.

And then, the miasma began to lift. Two women moved through the tent, laying their hands on the ill. Osanna looked up into the eyes of a sharp-faced Yasoi lady, and her bones began to knit together.

---

“Osanna.”

Osanna opened her eyes to sun-lit canvas, the warmth of late morning heating Dame Sabine Dupont’s tent. The lady sat within arm’s reach, pulling a tunic down over pale skin and reaching up to tie back red hair. Osanna yawned and scrubbed at her face, trying to rub away the beginnings of a headache. Her mouth was parched.

“What are you doing that for?” Osanna couldn’t imagine that the Parrench army was leaving already. They needed time to recoup their losses and recover from their wounds, and there was the small matter of the Eskandr army outside the walls. She hooked a finger in the hem of Dame Sabine’s leggings, only to be swatted away.

“You need to dress too. The king has called for us both to meet him at the red table, though unfortunately not at the same time. It seems we’re needed for two different reprisals.”

“Whatever will I do without you around to sweep me off the battlefield?”

Sabine rolled her eyes. “I suggest you keep a better hold on your horse.”

Osanna groaned again and sank back into the bedroll. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance she made it back within the walls before they closed.”

“You might be surprised. Horses tend to return to the nearest source of food, and you lost her at the beginning of the battle. Now up, oh battler of Nashorns.”

“You still don’t believe me, then?”

“I’m starting to— begrudgingly. I overheard soldiers talking today about the little nun who took on the giant. Though you’re not that small. It’s still up in the air.”

“Hah hah.” Osanna pulled on her trousers and buttoned her sword belt over them. “I’ll show you little if you meet me on the sparring field.”

“I’d rather meet you back here if we don’t get shipped off today. Go, or you’ll be late."

---

Osanna met Arcel’s gaze as he looked briefly at her and glanced around the round table, her eyes lingering briefly on a pale girl with green hair and an older man in Rezaindian robes that she had not seen before. It wasn’t clear what his order was— Red, maybe? Unless he was here to care for the dead.

She listened to Arcel’s speech dutifully enough, but in the end, it did not matter much to her whether he sent her to steal into the Eskandr camps or to slip, wraith-like, through their halls. The archbishop had been clear—Osanna was to treat the king like a superior in the church, and it did not change much to have the order come from an abbot or a bishop or a monarch. It was the same job, and she’d always enjoyed doing it well.

Osanna sat back in her seat. “When do we start?”

The battle was won, but not the war. Eskand soldiers pressed on to the fertile lands despite being unable to siege the walls of the Parrench city. Many a man ran past here paying her no mind as she stood there, stalwart in position. It wasn’t that she couldn’t move, rather she did not want to. Embers whisked past her face whilst she drank it all in. She had lost her brothers, almost died to the hand of a warrior queen, and laid waste to mean a Parrench soldier, even one feral knight. Finally taking the vivid scene around her she pressed on in a slow stroll towards the villages they had now taken for their own.

Now within the camp and the great hall they managed to muster together she sought out those she came with on ship. Hrothgar, Kol, and Vali were whom came to mind first, perhaps even Hildr if she desired to. Flashbacks of the great feast and her search for Hrothgar from the night before the raid felt eerily similar to how she felt now. A knock was heard on the oak wood door before she let herself in. “Jarl Hrothgar, it’s good to see you still live.”

“Hah,” barked the king of kings. “I guess I take a demotion for Mother’s favour, huh?” He clasped her hand and clapped her on the shoulder. “It is good to see you well, Ulfhild, good indeed.” He released her and shook his head tightly, brushing over towards the tactical map in his great tent and motioning for her to follow. “Too many were eager for their seats at the Visitor’s table, and they earned them, like your brothers, I hear.” He bowed his head momentarily in congratulations and condolence. “I cannot deny them their reward, but I wish they’d stayed around a bit longer. We could have used them.”

Gathered there were others: eminent figures, most of them: heroes, legends, the mighty. He gave them a moment to address her should they have so wished.

Kol stood among the many figures who had covered themselves in glory. He had finally healed from his many wounds and knew talks were to come. Now he is out of his war gear and into his more lighty wears, pelts, hides, and his large cloak, as many either took to similar fashions or made themselves more regal. Yet when Hrothgar made notice of Ulfhild, a smile came upon Kol’s face to see one of his own had made it through the battle. He was able to see another of his closer friends back from the fight, as when given the moment, Kol made his way to her and said with a booming voice, ”Ulfhild!”. Kol took the much smaller woman into his embrace; he held it for a moment before he let go and placed his hand upon her shoulder as he continued, ”I’m joyed to see you’ve made it here well”. Kol knew of her family, of her brothers who have met their end, and Kol knew of her pain, yet he could not mend it through words, it was not something easy to mend. Yet he would wish not to dwell on it, as hopefully through his actions and his friendship he may lighten the burden.

Festivities were all around her, celebrating the recent victory with cups and horns of ale. The heartwarming sight was being viewed by someone who had refused to take off their armor yet, scoffing. “You’re still the same, aren’t you, old friend?” Hildr would take off her helmet, now clearly showing her golden blond hair. Her expression showed a conflicted smile. “And then this is little Ulfhild? It’s been a couple years so my face would probably not be that familiar.”

“Ah, yes!” announced Hrothgar, “this is she, though it has been some time since we could rightly call her ‘little’.” Many people here were eager to celebrate as if they’d won a victory. In truth, he knew, it was not. The king of kings cleared his throat and raised his hands. “My friends,” he began, his voice quiet but cutting right through what noise remained. “Soon, there will be much talk of strategy, and even tactics. We have made landfall in Parrence and these weak people of the Greenlands were unable to repel us, despite their great advantage in numbers and resources. First, though, let us remember the lives of our brothers and sisters well-lived, who have gone to Gestur’s table. Most especially, those among the Aeresvaktr who were our closest friends and allies: To Olaf, Hrolf, and Horik! Skoll!”

They toasted the dead, and Hrothgar played his part, spilling some mead out on the ground for them. “But now, we must speak of other joyous matters.” He nodded and took another sip from his ale horn. “Ulfhild, of whatever little village you’re from.” He paused and smiled cheekily. “I have discussed this matter with my friend Kol of Sturmreef and he has vouched for you skills.” Momentarily, he met the underking’s eyes. “Step forward with him and be received into the group of Ten. May you live our virtues, stand firm in and out of battle, and die, someday with honour.” He unsheathed his sword for the ceremony.

Kol saw a face he has missed for far too long, as Kol went and gave Hildr a hug as he laughed. Yet the festivities continued as they talked, toasted the dead, and talked of new things. One of the newest comes from the conversations Kol held with Hrothgar, Kol believed Ulfhild was something of a special talent who might do well with the position among the Aeresvaktr. As when Kol looked towards Ulfhild, he gave her a nod and smile. Kol stood up and went to stand next to Ulfhild as he looked to her and said, ”Ready?”

“If only you had sister’s blessing, then you truly would have been unstoppable” Ulfhild said in jest, although she did wonder if she should ask him on how to combat a Queen seeing as he was a King. There were perhaps better times for that conversation. His hand was rough, but surprisingly gentle. Years of war and training left his palms scarred once, twice, thrice over with callouses. “It’s good to see you as well in good health and spirits” she acquiesced to following him toward the map. She paused for a moment, a tinge of sadness coursing through her at the thought of her lost brethren. “Alas, they achieved what they sought and did it valiantly” his words were surprisingly tender, “I do too, but we shall see them in due time once again.”

Lifting her head she was greeted by the embrace of what could have been a bear not long for hibernation given the size and stature of the man. Her arms were pinned to her side and as warm as the embrace was, her bones could hardly muster his grip. “You as well, I thought I lost you once you made way for the forest.” Gathering new air in her lungs she was greeted by yet another, “The years matter not, this little wolf had been following you since the start of battle. Seemed the Parrench did not want me to intervene” accepting that both the King and Hildr would always see her as she once was.

Ulfhild grabbed the nearest horn she could find and toasted to the memory of not just her kin, but those of the Aeresvaktr, for even the most legendary heroes must ascend someday. She took a swig of her mead before choking on it thereafter. Her eyes shot at Kol as her cheeks became flush. “Me?” She pointed at herself, seeing the other nod. It seemed as though her dream of being in league with Thorunn was becoming more of a reality than not. She ditched her horn and stepped forward to receive her invitation to the group of ten. “Ready” she said triumphantly.

Hrothgar’s sword settled upon first her left shoulder and then her right and he spoke the sacred words. His expression beatific and his hand steady, he drew the tip of the sword across her bare skin where he found it and drew a trickle of blood. “Let this represent the blood you will shed in service of your king and your gods. Let it be the enemy’s in great measure, and yours only as needed.” He cleaned the sword and sheathed it. “Arise, Ulfhild of Ulven: Tenth among the Aeresvaktr, and drink of this cup.” He held a great horn towards her, which was richly embellished in silver and gold and inscribed with ancient runes. “Into it, a drop of blood: the iron of your loyalty, the fire of your soul.” His gaze was intense. “Drink now!” he commanded, and others echoed his call.

Had the initiation not already been an out of body experience it would be now with the imbibing of the Ornskyr contained inside the mead. Swallowing it down she could feel a euphoric feel wash over her. Her physical body only slightly tethering her to the physical world. She could see those of the ten that fell in this battle behind her King welcoming her in and those before them behind them. Only the throbbing of the site of her fresh wound pulled her back. Ulfhild lowered her head, becoming whole again, brushing any extra from the sides of her mouth with a smile. She let out a howl solidifying the moment that would bring her and everyone she knew great honor.

“Good!” called Hrothgar, with a backslapping hug. He took the horn from her. “I embrace you.” He enfolded her in his arms and planted a small kiss on each cheek. “You go now as my hand and with my protection.” There was time yet for feasting, drink, and laughter, but soon enough began the planning. Kol, Vali, and some others were dispatched to Meldheim with the King’s official words on the battle, a Kressian named Dietrich was sent as part of an embassy, and the other two new members of the Aeresvaktr were to be inducted, welcomed by Kol, as only kings were granted that privilege. Thorunn was to return, shortly, to Hegelich for her coronation, and the remaining Aeresvaktr split between the five armies that would divide to pillage the Parrench countryside. Amid it all, the essential question was put to Ulfhild: where would she be going?

As much as she’d like to go home, she had to finish what she started.

---

---

There was no honor on this field for Vali.

The start had been good—the rangers’ assault on the Witchwoods before Kol’s arrival had broken ground for Death’s Hand to sow. But from the point he left those trees and made for St. Defrois’ Rock, the battle had been terse.

He had some fuzzed memories of being pulled out of the mud and tended to. What the Eskandr remembered of the fight did not bode well for him—and he knew an enemy’s mercy is all that kept him from Gestur’s table in Gronhalle, if he were even worthy. Blood had stained his armor and cut pieces had to be replaced following the battle. It was his eye, though, that told the story best.

Vali Twice-Born was fortunate enough not to lose it, though he was told it was a close thing. Mud and blood were a poor combination, and infection can set in rapidly—but binders could set to right many injuries. Still, the fresh-healing wound was sensitive to light and kept covered in a cloth when the ranger didn’t need it.

Though still recovering, The Silent Hunt took every opportunity to do just that—providing food for his people was something Vali could do well, even with his sight somewhat hampered. He leaned more on The Gift, aiming with energies more than vision.

He prayed, too, and thanked his Gods for the protection of himself and the survivors, for the honor of those who went to Gronhalle, and for the victory Eskand saw in breaking the gates of Relouse. He spent much time alone, with either his gods or his bow, in part avoiding his companions for shame in his performance in this new kind of battle.

Eskandr moved on, though—the war was far from over and he could hear Bróðir’s beckons still in the voice of Hrothgar, King of Kings, bidding the hunter to follow his Bloodbrother back to Meldheim to speak Bróðir’s words there too. He was glad to be boarding a ship with Kol, who had been with him for the fight against the Yasoi. He was less happy to be on the sea again, knowing how sick it had made him the first time, but would do as his gods bid him.

Bróðir called, and Vali—as he always had—listened.

Lyen'Ivhere'Zulc

---

Interlude
_{Relouse Beach - Grand Armee Camp
Seen & Mentioned: Talit'yrash'osmax}

Lyen hadn't rested. Since the Eskandr had begun their retreat, there had been no end to the need of helping hands. Tasks she'd scoffed at days before became her sole focus; tending to the wounded, except now most were crying out in true desperation and fear of death instead of pain. She quickly fell in with a contingent of nuns and monks of the Dordian order as they worked together to reduce the ever rising casualties. She'd been on the walls when the retreat started and by sunset Lyen had healed her way to the beach-head.

The constant repetitive binding of injuries brought to mind of the monotonous yet unceasing trails Byln had her preform in the beginning of her apprenticeship. Corpses dissolved and tissue regrew under her touch. Eskandr, Perrench, Drugunzean, ally, foe, her exhaustion eventually didn't allow for careful enough inspection of each body she laid hands upon. Each time she closed her eyes Byln's voice rang through her head. Directing her with gentle authority until the healing process became almost autonomous. Bind, soothe, mend, don't waste material.. The last one wasn't of much concern; there was no shortage. For every time she stopped at a gasping, grasping survivor two dozen more corpses lay dead. It was a devastation unlike anything she'd ever seen, and more upsetting than she'd anticipated. But she was old enough to temper and focus her emotions: So she continued to work, movements methodical, mind in a trance, until a hand on her shoulder pulled her from it.

"Didn't think you'd still be here."
The voice was distant as Lyen's eyes immediately focused on the food in its barer hands. Stew and hot bread. She stood too quickly and all the soreness of the day she'd managed to suppress came to her at once: Her skin was taunt and burnt, bones aching, and mind bleary. The bowl was placed into her hands and she began to eat. It was only after her bread was finished that she noticed it was a Dordian monk that was standing before her, an expectant expression on his face.

"Thank you." She said, lowering the bowl.

He brushed her gratitude away "Have you met with Lady Talit?" His tone was that of patient repetition. Lyen shook her head. "There was a meeting among the Yasoi, she was looking for you."

---

It was in the remains of the grand amree camp that she found Talit and was and informed of their new assignment in Loriindton. There was still so much to be done where they already were, healing, repairs, even the forest was a flooded smoldering mess. Not to mention the political turmoil that would come from their scraping victory. The war was only beginning and she was being sent to some outlier Yasoi village. But Talit's face gave waste to any argument Lyen had before she voiced it. The younger Yasoi was tired too, her face far away in other worries. Lyen owed her co-opperation in this at least. Remembrance of the new debt made her grimace. What would it take to replay a life twice over? "I'll be ready by morning."

Her tent was relatively unharmed next to the rest of the destruction Thorunn's rampage had caused the camp. Lyen stepped over the spilled and broken items towards the smallish chest laying beside her bed-mat. Only a few of her jarred preservation pieces had survived; but those would be the easiest to replace in these circumstances anyways. Opening with what little magic her body was still willing to use, the blood-locked seal opened allowing her to lift its lid. Inside lay the most prized items of her small horde; a forced compromise for any traveling Yasoi. What started as a quick inspection to start the packing process quickly became an exercise of indulgence in happy memories. Even her exhaustion was forgotten, and the endless death that had hung so heavy all day seemed miles away. Each item was returned to the chest along with whatever surviving items in the tent fit. After re-applying the blood-seal she fell to the mat she'd always found painfully uncomfortable, and was asleep before her head touched the pillow.

---

By the end of it all she and the person who decided to carry her eventually found their way into the chapel proper where they were both given reprieve. As they sat they spoke, trading what little words they could all the while. Little was gained in understanding as duty interjected. He was still required to fight off other man-beasts and she would lend her aid to the injured, mending those wounded in the field of battle.

When evening rolled around the destruction was great but the fighting ceased. All was settled and all was quiet. The rain had doused the man-beast's attempts at burning both structure and tree leaving not but faint marks and echoes of whence the flame once remained. As for little Nettle she took refuge in this very structure, sneaking off into some lonesome corner and hiding herself against the terrain. In a bed of stone, shadow and cold she coiled up and rested.

_
Much later into the next day a drowsy Nettle rose from her slumber, undisturbed for none others could find her concealed form. She had slept long into the day for she had exhausted herself thoroughly the day prior. Looking up she saw the rays of the glorious Heron's Nest beaming down through the holes left in the roof of this artificial cave. The air smelt fresh, purified by the rain's touch. If it weren't for the very fact she woke up here of all places she'd of wondered if the day prior was naught but a nightmare brought upon by too much worry of man-beast's cruelty.

She was roused from her introspection when someone approached her. They spoke in words she was unfamiliar with and it simply left her confused. Eventually they clued in that she could not understand them and simply motioned for her to follow so she did.

_
Now she stood in a large structure, like the last one but with a big ornate wooden log the man-beasts all sat around. They were all speaking at length in words foreign to her so she stood by, waiting out of the way of foot traffic until somebody else motioned for her to follow. One thing was for sure however: She had no idea why she was still here.

Hadn't they already stopped the aggressive other man-beasts?

---

Interaction: None
4.1: Siege of Relouse / Not an End

---

CRACK!

She could hear it. The breaking of her body as she was effortlessly swung around by the Silver-haired witch. In a blink of an eye, Camille had been full of life to being dumped to the ground unceremoniously, left to wonder. Was this worth it?

There was no glory.
Her death did not valiantly stop the witch's tirade and rampage. Many more of her people would die because she wasn't strong enough to make a difference. Perrance was retreating.

There was no dignity.
Whatever was left of her body was mangled. No one to honor her. No last words. She coughed, a mouthful of blood splattered through her mouth, only to fall back on her face.

Only the weight of a life cut short. Her eyes closed and the end, regrettable, embraced.

---

Interaction: None
4.2: Siege of Relouse / But a Beginning

---

Camille gasped, sharply inhaling like she was drawing a much-needed breath after waking from a nightmare. She had sat up a little too suddenly, a sharp twist to her chest and neck causing her to clutch at her tunic. Where was she? The ruined stone of the cathedral she had been laid to rest in had been cleared of the debris from the roof. This wasn't where she was because the last she remembered was...

"Girl."

Her head snapped to her other side, finally recognizing a familiar face, although she could tell by just the voice. "Wh-what happened?" She muttered, finding her first words after waking up to come a bit hoarse and requiring the clearing of her throat. Her long time friend did not look very pleased. Perhaps out of exhaustion but he had his head dropped low for an agonizing amount of time. He sighed, lifting his head. "Battle is over. Both sides are licking their wounds. You've been in and out of sleep for two days. You're lucky to have made it."

Camille frowned. His usual demeanor never slipped this low. Why was... Armand. The memory came rushing back in and she dropped her head. "Armand..." Whatever Claude's reaction, she hadn't been paying attention as she spaced out only managing to pick up on his response. "Killed, yup."

She didn't like this. Claude was usually so full of optimism and words. This wasn't the first time they had lost a companion and it always seemed like Claude was the one capable of pulling the rest of them out by just talking. It made it frustrating to her to hear him so short in his responses. So downtrodden. She glanced back up and eyed him. He was still in his armor sitting in the neighboring pew. He looked completely exhausted, like he went the night without sleep judging by how limp he looked. She didn't know what to say but wanted to protest the way he was acting. She was hurt too but he was always good at cheering them up!

Camille had opened her mouth but Claude immediately interrupted her, his voice raising and tone taking a sharp turn of anger. "Just what were you thinking, girl? Running off in a frenzy to what? Die by an Eskandr witch? You're better than that. You have to remember that!" He finally looked at her and even raised his hand, pointing at her. "Because the people who care about you, can't always protect you like that!"

He huffed in a breath and it was apparently enough for him to slide back into the pew. "We'll talk later, girl. A lot has to be said, but you've been summoned by the King. Not a very good look to be late. Go on. I'll be here when you are done." Claude muttered, closing his eyes and finally dropping into sleep. Camille wasn't sure what to feel but she didn't feel good.

---

Interaction: The Red Table
1.1: Fields of Fire / The Red Table

---

Camille arrived just in time, maybe the last to arrive at the meeting. She took her spot and glanced around. With her just in basic linen clothes, she couldn't look more out of place.

Collected under the King's command were a colorful cast of warriors and then there was little Camille who could barely fit in her chair. She frowned at the quick realization. This was a room of the Pentach's finest and if Claude's words meant anything, and they did, she was just a stupid girl who threw herself into danger senselessly. She didn't belong here.

The King and Queen stood proudly at the heads of the table with the King taking the lead to explain his plan. Camille couldn't help but sink in her chair, her mind drifting to thinking that maybe she should have cleaned up, too. Lords preferred those in their attendance clean up and look presentable, so she had always been taught. Now here she was. In the same room as the King and Queen, without having taken a bath and wearing her dull brown clothes with a messy set of hair. She could of at least brushed her hair.

She slide down in her chair, trying to barely appear. Hopefully she didn't have to say anything as the King finished up. Still something bothered her. The King was going on about taking the fight to the Eskandr but she disagreed. They had a duty to the people. To keep them safe. She had little love for the Eskandr but surely they should easily unite against the enemy in the lands, right?

Right?

---

The cold air brushes upon the man’s face, his eyes open to darkness. As he stares towards the heavens, the moons shine brightly, the gods looking down upon him as the haze of the starry sky becomes clearer.

Is this… the afterlife…?, the sharpness of pain penetrates the numbness as he feels his awareness returning, his senses coming to life as the smell, sound, and feel of the wet earth below his fingers. He tries to move, very sluggish in his manner as he tries to right himself. His hands roaming upon his armour as he feels the puncture holes adorning it, however the flesh underneath is present, despite being scarred and raw. He looks around to see the battlefield almost absent of life, other than a few scavengers collecting the spoils of battle. The words he hears around are of Eskandr origin, as he tries to make out where the battle-lines are. He appears to be truly in enemy territory.

He looks at the bodies around him as he selects belongings to obscure his identity as he tries to blend in with the host of the Eskandr horde. Taking a helmet, a dark cloak, and some appropriate weapons. As he was about to take off, he noticed a familiar sight of what was once the beloved Arpegiar. Such a noble steed to have been butchered so brutally that it should have been a crime against Oraff. It seemed the animal took the vast majority of the arrows, dying almost suddenly as its eyes were still wide with alertness. He crouches down as he makes the sign of the pentad, the typical hourglass shape as he leans down to close those eyes, ”Rest well, good friend..

Fortune has favoured Asier. Reshta, known as Vyshta to the Yasoi, is the embodiment of chaos. Taking with one hand and giving with another. In exchange for his life, it seems the path of fate has taken cruel turns. The one who reached him, before they were driven away, only had healed him enough to enact vengeance upon the Eskandr for their hubris.

Asier skulks along the battlefield, moving low and moving quickly as he attempts to infiltrate the Eskandr supply lines. The cover of darkness provided opportunity as the lookouts were minimal, their fires almost unguarded as the Eskandr must be too busy revelling in their victories against the La Grande Armée of the Parrench.

After taking a moment to survey the surroundings, he starts to mentally plan out the camp before him and not appearing to find any obvious weaknesses, despite the minimal levels of patrolling along the south and the beached ships furthest away from the encampment. Only those moving and out of the camp were the scavengers seeking the spoils as they picked at the corpses like vultures. He came across an oaf of an Eskandr who seems determined on removing a nobleman's cuirass without the knowledge of knowing how to unfasten it, despite somehow gathering a sack of ill-gotten gains. This was a ripe target as he silently moves up to the distracted man, unsheathing a dagger as he used the gift to apply the force along the edge, allowing it to move effortlessly as he silences the individual in a swift motion as the head slides off his neck with a squelch as it lands within his hands. He takes the bag of booty as he starts to heave it towards the encampment.

The trek was longer and more arboreous than expected. It seems whoever did patch him up was in a hurry, as some of the wounds were starting to reopen as he felt the warmth of his blood upon his skin, growing more sluggish. He approaches the Eskandr camp with his goods as the watchman looks on. He could overhear shouting in their guttural language as he draws closer. The watchman begins to grow tense due to lack of reply, but as the man got close, he could see the ill-fitting helmet, and beard hanging underneath, with the scavenger tapping upon the sack and giving him a roaring cheer, he allows him to pass, wondering just what he may have picked up was worth cheering about and how to get first dibs upon it.

With Asier within the camp, things got easier as he started to head towards the Eskandr sea-chariots. A horse for a horse he thought as he started to inspect the area. It seems these men were very lacklustre in their security provision, probably far too relaxed after what appears to be their victory, all the better to take advantage of. He climbs on board the nearest ship as he quietly inspects the cargo, checking out the caskets secured to the sides of the ships, filled with tar and pitch. Using his dagger and a persuasive amount of force, he opens the nailed down lid, dipping his finger inside to smell it and rubbing it between his fingers. What did they intend to do with this?



He could see in the distance the Eskandr have been removing the pitch from the ships, there were caskets stacked up along the beach as they were being stored along it. It was then it began to dawn on him what they were plotting to do, they were going to raze Relouse to the ground. He glances along the ships as he tries to mentally calculate but fails due to the sheer scale. They are going to burn Parrence to the ground? The cruelty of these people shows no shame, as he doesn’t look this gift horse in the mouth. ”You reap what you sow.”

Asier breathes in as he begins to draw upon the energies around him with the gift. The tides provide him with valuable force, the storms generating plenty of residual energy for him to take for his own. The Tourrare starts to overdraw, the concentrate of energy would shine like a beacon for those with the gift around him, but it is too late. For what is dead may never die. Asier picks up the caskets of pitch as he throws them, empowered with the force, upon the neighbouring ships, and tipping the last one over as it pours out at his feet, moving himself to stand upon the edge prepared. He concentrates the force of thunder at his fingertips, the lightning sparkling as he fires the currents towards the ships. The fumes of the tar are highly volatile as they ignite, the fire spreading quickly upon the wood, soon finding the caskets stored onboard those ships. The first signs of trouble would be the sudden light and engulfing of flame, only to be accompanied by a ferocious wind as Asier uses the force to control the air flow, sending out gusts towards the directions of the other ships. Fire, pitch, and flaming caskets raining down like brimstone along the shoreline, the ships docked in single file made them prime targets for his attack as the flames flicker up into wild fire as they start to spread unchecked. Horns are blazed as the horde of Eskandr are in uproar and panic, their access to the river blockaded by a wall of fire, fueled by what used to be their longships.

Asier spits out blood upon the sands before him, bowled over, crouching, as he suffers the consequences of his actions. The wounds on his sides are oozing with blood, as he feels the hot flame licking against his back. The Eskandr are arriving enmasse, they would instantly notice his shape against the backdrop of an inferno. The look of despair upon their faces made it known he did the right thing in the situation. “Nothing beats a good bonfire on a cold night after battle”, his voice and chuckle drowned out by the sound of crackling timber as the ships collapse under the intensity of the flame. He used the last of his reserves to amplify his voice. ”Are you not entertained? Isn’t this why you are here in Parrench lands? Is my gift to you not good enough?”, his voice bellows across as the Eskandr are overwhelmed with their emotions, despair, anger, hatred, fear.

Asier grins widely as he sees his nemesis, the Nashorn yet again. The hulk of a beast starting to charge over in his direction. ”Bet you regret not finishing the job now. A cat has nine lives.”, he spat blood onto the floor before him again as it starts to fill his mouth, then he turned around stumbling, heading into the direction of the fires he created, finally deserving of the peace his final rest will deliver him.

Nashorn rampages through the Eskandr lines and debris as he quickly descends upon Asier. The Tourrare warrior seems to not to pay attention as the beast tears through the smouldering carnage that has been wrought upon his people. He grabs the man, smacking him hard against the head to cripple him in his tracks before he would kill himself. He starts to drag the man towards the main encampment to be judged by his overlord. There are crueller fates than dying.

Reshta has not yet finished with the Lion Knight.

---

---

---

---

---

---

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It was a cool, foggy morning when the five longships slid out to sea from their makeshift port. The sheer chalky cliffs of La Baie de l'Éperon offered few landing places outside of Relouse, Megeron, and Port Morilles and scant shelter from ocean waves. The vessels hove to momentarily as they rounded a makeshift breakwater and set their sails, laden with those handchosen by the king to deliver his message and prisoners who would bring the best ransoms. Then, they were on their way south: specks against an endless grey blue canvas.

The Navelin Sea rolled and undulated lazily: its waves like the hills of Parrence. After two days, the seagulls were behind them. Two more, and they were skimming over the Sargasso Beds just East of Sturmreef. Then, on the fifth, the sea bared its teeth. The hills became mountains, and the Eskandr were forced to seek shelter on a small island with naught but an empty fishing camp, some caves, and altogether too many birds. For a day and a night they hunkered down, prisoners lashed to the masts of their ships, beatings for their most hated one suspended as Father, in his wrath, did the job instead. Thunder rippled across the heavens - hoofbeats of his great horse, Sortorden - and streaks of lightning lit up the night. In those brief flashes, where a limitless expanse of thrashing, whipping water was illuminated, some swore that the island was haunted. Some claimed that it was the Sea People, beloved of Móður. Others claimed to have seen a trio of longships lashed to the rocks in another small cove: ghosts or else pirates who had refrained from attacking only because Kol's ship flew the royal banner of Sturmreef.

Regardless, there were those who found sleep anyways in their caves and, when they rolled over in the morning, the wind was gone and all that remained of the rain was a sticky grey drizzle that coated every surface in sight. This did not include the 'ghost ships' or the 'sea people' from the night before. Both were gone as the five ships set off again, or perhaps they had never been there at all. Three more days passed at sea, in the open waters that few but the Eskandr dared to navigate. They did so by the winds, the currents, and the stars at night. The sky turned blue and the breeze bracing. Any time that had been lost was quickly regained. Spurred onward by liberal use of The Gift, the five long, low drakkars raced toward Meldheim.

On the fourth day, as eyes turned to the skies in the hope of sighting seagulls or the waves in hope of finding fish, something else was sighted instead. A trio of longships - some claimed the same ones they'd seen sheltering from the storm - cut holes from the horizon's canvas. The five tries to signal the three but had little luck before the blue skies gave way to a fog bank and the quarry was lost. The sun set and rose again to the bleating of birds and the slapping of fat fish against the longships' oars. "Not long now, boys," rumbled the tillerman, but eyes still watched for the mystery ships. A couple claimed to have spotted them shortly before land itself was sighted, skewing east. Some supposed they were headed down the windward coast to Vigholm. It was hard to say, but made fodder for idle speculation in between discussions on the gold they would spend, the friends and loved ones they would see, or the portside whores they would fuck.

It was dark when they made landfall, coasting into Meldheim's forest of piers. Five moons glowed softly in various shapes and shades and hundreds of torches and fires twinkled under the stars, tracing crooked lines up the hills from which the Grøntempel and the Kongesalan watched over the city. In the distance loomed the hulking black shape of the Eldfjall, its molten fury placated today and for the past hundred-thirty years.

Standing on the docks was a woman surrounded by men. Some secured the lines and made fast. Others leapt aboard the longships to remove treasures and prisoners alike. There were as yet more, though, who waited to receive the king of Sturmreef and to hear his words and those of Vali the Twice Born. Beneath the formality of greeting burned an eagerness to hear news of the battle. Had they met with victory or defeat? What of this person or that? The strangely dressed one who spoke with an accent: were he and those with him the Kressian delegation? Had they proven themselves in war? Finally, and most pressingly, they asked: would there be land in Parrence to settle soon so that one might make something of him or herself?

Then, once most everyone was ashore, and prisoners were being hauled away to the havnefængsel, where they would be both jailed and put to work, it was the woman's turn. She had waited so patiently, and yet she was none other than Queen Astrid, with Snorri, Ulf, and Inga clustered round her. "What news?" she commanded. "What news from my husband, and what else has he not said?"

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It had been on their second day at sea that they had sensed the presence of five other ships. The Eskandr were strung out over about three miles, their great drakkars heavily laden with prisoners and plunder. The enemy did not sense the trio of Parrench interlopers, and it was just as well, for the latter were outnumbered and would have stood little chance in a pitched battle on the open ocean.

So it was that, for three days, they shadowed the Southmen, fourteen-year-old Maud - an Kressian-Eskandr convert both afflicted and blessed with the tethering - forced to call out rough distances every hour or so. On the third, as they left the sargasso fields of Sturmreef behind, the sky turned grey and the clouds crackled. "Echeran spare us," the girl mouthed. Huddled up beside Nettle - the only other member of the party close to her in both age and sex - she made the sign of the Pentad repeatedly. "They will be looking for an island, to shelter in the leeward side," remarked Lazy-Eye Jacques. A grizzled fisherman turned pirate turned captain of the crown, he was nominally in charge of the seabound portion of the expedition, though many aboard outranked him. In practice, he deferred about half of the time to Svend, the second of their three Eskandr converts, who knew these seas well as a former raider and tillerman.

Before long, the rolling seas had become mountainous and waves crashed over the bow. The three longships grouped up as closely as they could and Jacques was ever yelling at Maud and she yelling back over the wind and the lashing rains. Somehow or another, with copious use of The Gift, they took advantage of a small lull in the storm and coasted in on the leeward side of an island. There, in the burgeoning dark and the pouring rain, they lashed their ships to some rocks and avoided the shore where they could see figures moving and the faint, distant twinkle of fires in caves.

When night fell, it was a sleepless affair, and those versed in the Gift of Essence did tireless work filling their allies with energy. Yet, in this ungodly place, paranoia and hallucination sunk their claws into people nonetheless. Dark figures could be seen racing through the night, picking through the detritus of the sea, staring back at the ships from all directions with glowing eyes the colours of gold, red, and orange. They were no mere illusions, some of those strong in the Gift insisted. Whatever they were, they were there. "Demons," whispered some, though Svend muttered that they were the 'Sea People' and were known to him. "Harmless," he insisted, "So long as they know you're stronger than them or more useful alive than dead."

They didn't wait for morning. The storm was ebbing and it would not do to be too close to the Eskandr. The Parrench were well on their way by sunrise, maintaining a safe distance but for one brief incident where a couple of longships perched ominously on the horizon behind them for a few hours.

Upon sighting the Doggr Isle, Trygve, their third convert and a onetime local, took the lead. Others were encouraged to hide or part with any articles they carried that might not look the part of Eskandr. The three ships - looking no different from any number of other Southern vessels - skewed eastward, aiming for the fishing village of Rigevand. There was a place, their guide insisted, so sleepy and isolated, so buried in its work of existing, that few would dare ask questions. There, then, was the place where they landed, some five miles out from the capital, but still in the shadow of the great Eldfjall, its silhouette towering ominously above them as the sun died.

As they neared, the only person at the pier was an old man who ambled out from a hut upon their approach, but this changed once they docked. It had been agreed upon that Svend, Trygve, and Gerard would play the role of captains, Maud would be Gerard's daughter, and the three actual Eskandr, who didn't speak with an accent, would do most of the talking. A young boy came galloping down the dock. "Are you back from fighting the Parrench?" he demanded, wide-eyed and excited. A handful of other children tumbled after him. "Did we win!?"
"Did you slay many?"
"Are we all gonna get farms in Parrence!?
"Were they tough?"
"Do you know anyone named Olaf? He's my Grandfather. He's a great Shaman! He's in the Æresvaktr!
"I bet you got to see the Nashorn!" enthused one, his intonation a bit odd. "He's my hero!"
"Yeah, Knud never used to talk, but now he does!"

"Shoo!" shouted the dock's owner, a grumpy old sort. "Go play somewhere else and stop bugging my patrons! They come here to not be questioned." He turned a knowing smile their way as the kids scampered away. "I suppose you did well, huh?" He started helping those still on the ships tie them fast to the dock. "Something valuable you don't wanna split?" He raised his eyebrows. "Came back before you were supposed to?" He grinned conspiratorially. "Dodging someone in the city? His eyes scanned the ships, seeming to take in every detail. "Not trying to extort you or anything, by the way. I wouldn't have lasted in the business if I did, you know. Just get curious is all. Helps me lie better on your behalf too if I ever need to." He hooked his thumbs into his belt and his eyes did a sweep of the area. "Dami's cleared 'em all out," he said quietly, his demeanour changing slightly. There was a long pause and Svend scowled. "It appears so, brother. We can speak in confidence here?"

The dockman nodded. He reached into a hidden pocket in his sleeve and pulled out a Pentact before quickly tucking it back in. "Name's Birger," he said. His eyes roved over the sizable group filtering out onto his dock. "I take it you're all converts?" he asked.

Svend nodded. "Yes, all of us follow the Pentad," he replied cautiously, and Birger smiled. He clapped the taller man on the back. "Then welcome!" he crowed, "Welcome back home! We will spread the light yet."

"We shall," agreed Svend. "We just... need to be careful."

It was dark, they had slept poorly on their voyage, and Birger advised them that there were sometimes rats in the walls. They decided to spend the night in the village, but it was decided first that they would filter out to a cave their host had told them was in the mountainside. They would bring the 'valuable plunder' Arcel had provided them with so as to confirm, in the minds of anyone with a mind to notice them, that they were no worse than simple pirates or brigands trying to keep their personal loot out of the public pool. There, before sleep, they would make their plans for the morrow. They would have to carry the girl up, but they would have Maud sweep the city with her tethered range and see if they could learn anything.

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White cliffs divided a sea of water from a sea of grass, and it was across the latter that a single white horse made its way towards a single black one. They stopped and swirled about each other, their riders stabbing back and forth with suspicious eyes and imperious pulls of the reins. It was a windy day, and the hair of two kings joined the field in lashing waves. "You think you have won because your little town still flies your flag," mocked Hrothgar. "I will ravage your land and break your people so that mine may have this place."

"Then you are a fool and a murderer, for you will do neither and anyone is free to come live in Parrence so long as they keep the law and the Gods."

"So then they are not truly free. You speak from both sides of your mouth, young king."

"I tire of this," replied Arcel shortly. "We are here to discuss the exchange of prisoners."

Hrothgar wheeled his horse about, taking in the land surrounding them for a moment. "I will accept terms, you know: cede the Vitroux and I will take my soldiers off of this land. Else it will burn."

Arcel waited, statuelike. It was clear that he would not even consider the matter. "Alright, so be it. You want to discuss prisoners."

"I do not wish to speak with you for a moment more than I must, so I will dispense with the bargaining. One for one: a straight exchange, with any left over to be exchanged for gold."

Hrothgar shook his head adamantly. "Ah, but that favours you, boy king."

"I cannot take all of the credit for my people being better fighters. That belongs to our lord Echeran-Sept."

"Better at looking to their purses, perhaps," snarled Hrothgar. "We are here now." He spread his arms. "You failed to stop us. We won the fight and we will win many more."

Arcel tilted his head dubiously to one side and smiled knowingly. "Thus it is said: the more that they want for strength, the more that they shall boast of it." He looked down his nose at the elder king. "You lost near half of your force and no more are coming to save you. You have no supply lines and no escape. Your boats are black timbers outside Relouse. You are not fooling anyone. You shall die in Parrence, your majesty."

"Perhaps." the Eskandr pressed his lips together and nodded slowly, sagely. "But then I shall make certain that Parrence dies with me. Be careful what you wish for, boy."

"So, you shall not accept my offer of one for one?"

"I shall not."

"Then, as a gesture of mercy and good faith, I am willing to trade all those that I have for all those that you have. You will not receive better."

Hrothgar's face became cold and analytical. He studied Arcel and then scowled out across the plain. "You will pay me five Parencs per head." He pursed his lips and nodded. "Then we will have terms." He made himself tall in his saddle.

"That is an insult and you know it," spat Arcel. "I negotiated in good faith."

"I did not. Yet, here we are." Hrothgar paused for a moment. "The truth is that, unlike you, I am unhurried to have them returned. They are hardy people and willing to sacrifice, else they would not have come here. Besides, boy, I know that your soft, weak greenlander gods would not allow you to visit harm upon my brothers and sisters you have taken." His grin was toothy and superior. "So I shall allow you the privilege of feeding and sheltering them while my army burns your farmsteads, rapes your women, and puts your children to the sword. Or," he offered, "You can pay the price."

For a moment, Arcel closed his eyes. He breathed deeply and his shoulders seemed to tremble. A gust of wind caused both of their cloaks to flap for a moment. Then, he reared his head back and looked up at the sky. What emerged from his throat was a sound most unexpected: a laugh. "You are," he admitted, "truly irredeemable. Truly evil. I pity you for what you will never know." He shook his head and brought his horse around until he was perhaps a foot from Hrothgar. The two animals snuffed and snorted at each other. "Mercy is not weakness," he replied. "It is goodness. His eyes burned at his fellow king. "Goodness is not a failing. It is what allows us to thrive."

"I grow tired of-"

"I am not finished, you heathen." Arcel snarled. "Unlike yours, our gods do not require or revel in human suffering. We do not want it and we gain no favour from it, but make no mistake: The people of Parrence will never bow to you. We will not tolerate your injustices and depravities, as we would not those of Avince." He was glaring now, inches from his counterpart. "You'd do well to remember that, for all of their efforts, it was not your ancestors who brought down the empire: it was mine." He pulled back a bit and shook his head tightly. "But I do not wish for the innocent people of Eskand to suffer as mine have. In that spirit, I offer you one final warning: turn back from this path now or I promise you that any further violence visited upon us shall be returned tenfold. If we burn, you burn with us." With that, the King of the Parrench snapped his horse's reins, wheeled around, and galloped away.

"Ha!" laughed Hrothgar after a pause. "Hahaha! Now that you are finished your tantrum, little boy, I shall see you on the battlefield." He regarded the young man's back for a moment. "I will kill you, there, Arcel! I will sit your throne, bed your wife, and rest your crown upon my head. Your body shall go to the wolves, your lords shall pledge their loyalty to me, and your people call out the names of my gods! I will savage you, boy! You should've taken my offer!"

That same day, an Eskandr force struck inland from the coast. It ransacked five villages and put them to the torch. The die was cast.

Arcel had known the truth that his enemy had carefully hidden, however: while the Battle of Relouse had been a tactical victory of sorts for the Eskandr, it was a Pyrrhic one. They could not meet the Grande Armee again in pitched battle, not unless Hrothgar was able to convince the jarls and underkings back home to send yet more of their young men and women to fight. They were stranded in this place, forced to march southwest or southeast to friendlier lands through hostile ones.

Many had made land here before, but these had been coastal raids. They'd been left only with the sense that Parrence was soft and green, that its people kept different gods, and that it was a place of long, warm summers and great abundance. Now, as the army splintered and spread into raiding parties, for even such a rich place struggled to produce enough for a force of their size, they saw it for what it truly was: blue skies and puffy white clouds, endless fields, brooks, and dells, cicadas humming in the tall grass as crops sprouted with enviable ease from deep, loamy soil.

But most of those crops were not ready, and would not be for months to come, so the Eskandr brought only more death to this place. If they could not make use of its bounty, then neither would the Parrench. Like the fingers of a great, ungodly hand splaying out across the map, the five armies of Eskand carved their way across it, and fields of cabbage, wheat, and rye became fields of fire instead.

To the west, under the command of Gudrid Fangtooth, an army rounded the Baie des Baleines, sweeping south towards Kressia and its ostensibly friendly forces. A second forded the Asquelle within sight of Loriindton, using bridges that the yasoi had built, but was under strict orders to do nothing further to antagonize the nominally neutral party. One, under Bjorn Coldfist and Brunhilde of Hegelo, traveled south to reinforce the tenuous Eskandr holdings to the west of the Vitroux, and Hrothgar himself struck Eastward with the largest force for the near-undefended city of Chamonix, in a bid to cripple the Parrench East and annex it.

It was the final and second-greatest of these fingers that carved the widest swath, perhaps. Led by Sweyn Thunderspear, with the Nashorn, Hildr the Red, and newly-minted Æresvaktr Ulfhild of Ulven under his command, it hugged the coast to Port Morilles, before preparing to hook north, towards the vast arid plains known as Tourarre.

Against these forces, Arcel had set his best generals and fighters. While Gaston de Boullieres pursued Fangtooth's forces around the Baie, Guy de Montcalm and Isabeau la Sournoise shadowed those headed for Vitroux, hoping to force a popular rebellion against the recently-established Eskandr rule. Jean du Soleil Invaincu harried the Asquelle force relentlessly and, following a late start, Arcel himself led the effort against his royal adversary, eager to relieve the soon-to-be beleaguered defenders of Chamonix. To his beloved Queen, Eleanor, and her brother, Sir Perceval de Perpignan, he entrusted the task of tracking down and destroying Sweyn's elusive army. It was one that demanded success, for the crown's relations were always... complex with the Tourarre at the best of times, and even more so now following the capture and ransom of the Baron of Hierbamonte at Relouse.

First, however lay Port Morilles: hometown of Camille de la Saumarre, the young maid blessed of Dami who had distinguished herself on the battlefield at Relouse. The king's banner yet flew from Castle Espadon: its grim grey walls standing sentry over the once-bustling fishing town, its keep filled to brimming with those residents who were unable to flee elsewhere or take shelter in the seaside caves.

For three days, it held firm against the fury of the southmen, warding off attacks magical and mundane alike. In the face of Sweyn Thunderspear's shattering attacks and the inhuman might of The Nashorn, its valiant defenders repelled thrust after thrust, sealed breaches in the walls, and toppled siege towers. In Orpahe, Echeran, and Dami, they placed their faith. For deliverance by the Queen's army, they fervently prayed.

On the fourth day, the Eskandr broke through and the gods left the defenders to their fate. Like blood pooling from what had seemed a small wound, raiders spread out across the castle grounds with inhuman ferocity. The smoke could be seen spiraling into the sky from miles distant, and the mounted portions of the Armée de la Reine detached from the rest and rushed ahead in a desperate bid to meet the enemy and dislodge them from their savagery.

They were met instead by screams and the sight of hundreds of women, children, and elders fleeing the burning castle and ravaged town. "The cliffs!" shouted one dressed in what had been fine garments a few days previous. "They undermined the cliffs! If they fall, everyone sheltering in the caves is dead! The town shall vanish into the sea!"

Another shook her head adamantly. "The fire!" she insisted. "The fire first!"

"Foolish girls," huffed an old man, red-faced and clutching his chest as he ran. "You know nothing of battle." He shook his head and pointed north by northeast. "The town is lost and the people in the caves are not stupid." He posted his hands on his knees, struggling. "The Eskandr are headed that way." He pointed, weakly, again. 'Twas the threat of your advance that scared them off. They have perhaps an hour's lead on you. You might catch them yet and avenge Port Morilles."

Eleanor brought her horse to a stop and gazed down sternly at the elder who seemed so certain of the course of action she should take. "I would know your name," she commanded.

The old man sunk to one knee. "Sir Reginald de Bournaise," he rumbled. "Late of his majesty Rouis' service. My queen, it is an honour."

"We do not have our full force, Sir Reginald. We have ridden out ahead of the others and it appears to have saved lives. For this, we must thank Oraphe."

"Praise be," said one of the women standing close to him. "Praise be," murmured the other, bowing her head. The Queen was little interested in the theatrics of prerogative and status. She glanced about her. On hand, she had some two hundred cavalry, included in their number were Sirs Maerec and Caelum, the maid Camille, the Drudgunzean Arsene, and Arcel's executioner: Arnaud. Percy had been left in command of the main force and was doing his best to motivate them, or so she hoped. Eleanor nodded. "For three minutes," she announced. "I shall take counsel. Be concise. Then we shall have our course of action."

Then, an intrusive voice: "My Queen!" It shouted. It belonged to a young soldier. He knelt before her, hand clenched over his heart."My Queen, I am sorry to interrupt, but we have captured an Eskandr. He is lucid as those beasts ever are and my captain believes we may learn something from him."

"Ideas, people," Eleanor commanded. "Ideas now." Whatever their course or courses of action would be, the decision would need to be made promptly. Then, as if placed there by the Gods themselves as guidance, a wisp of smoke billowed into the sky from the north: the sure mark of an Eskandr raid.

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Sweyn knew what his duty was. His continued leadership of the Æresvaktr, after Thorunn's rise during the battle, was contingent upon his success but, more importantly, perhaps the success of this entire endeavour was. He was not here to bleed men and resources on a pitched battle with the Parrench. He was here to pull a great ruse and a trading of roles, and to hit them where it hurt most and was expected least. As his sixth bolt of lightning struck the distant collection of huts and pens that constituted a village, he wheeled his horse about and returned in the direction of his army.

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Because he did not speak, many believed The Nashorn a dumb brute. Yet, was it not he who had saved Hrothgar from death at the hands of Arcel? Who had captured the Tourrare that was burning their ships? Was he not now laying waste to this enemy village of 'Clairvogne' without the use of smoke or fire? He stood near the altar of its church, the bodies of village men and monks surrounding him. The gold. Churches always had gold: chalices and such. It was usually kept in a lockbox behind the altar but, when they had time to prepare, it was often in a secret compartment beneath.

The monster of a man bent over, then, and ripped up the rug, looking for the customary trapdoor, salivating over the gold that was to be his. How he loved gold: the shine of it, the rich colour, all of the pretty patterns carved into it, how he could run his fingers over its smooth surface and feel where the soft metal had been worn down by human hands and where it had not. He wondered what colour and what alloy it would be and if there would be any gemstones set in it. With great eagerness, he searched.

There was no secret door, however. He tore up more and tossed the scraps aside with a snarl, casting his gaze to the rafters. Perhaps it was there, he decided. Then, however, a voice: "Looking for something?" it mocked, and he turned to see a boy, perhaps twelve years of age, standing in the doorway. "You won't find it, and even if you do, you won't get it!" The anger overcame The Nashorn, like it often did in situations like this, and he picked the boy up in a fist of Force. Stalking forward into the open, he smacked him into the wall: hard enough to send a message, but not enough to break him, and pointed angrily into the church. The child's bravado was gone. He shook his head, crying. The Nashorn smacked him again into the wall and he let out a scream. All that this stupid kid had to do was give him an answer. Why did people just have to make his life harder? It was much easier to obey, and yet they never did, eager to die for silly abstract things. The Eskandr pointed again, more vigorously, at the church, but then he felt something in his head: a dizziness that caused his world to blur and sway: essence magic! Dropping the boy unceremoniously, he fought it off, countering the effects with magic of his own, for he was not a dumb brute as they said he was.

Casting about with his sixth sense, The Nashorn felt a collection of energies out in one of the fields and he stalked towards it. A colossal wave of Force flattened crops just beginning to lengthen under the late Stresia sun and he seized upon a human shape that was dragging itself free of a wagon reduced to splinters. There, he beheld a young woman, dressed in a long white robe that he only now noticed was similar to the boy's. She was slight but pretty, with curtains of hair the colour of gold. Splinters stuck out of her left leg and blood stained her clothes. The Nashorn shrugged off a couple of weak Force attacks and grabbed her by the hair. "You idiot!" she wailed, her hands pounding and clawing at his armour ineffectually. "Let me go!" Let me go or -" He tossed her into the muddy ground and she coughed and sputtered. Crouching in front of her, he grabbed her by the neckline and pointed emphatically at the church. "You wish to find the Gods?" she snarled, "You will soon enough. You've doomed us all." She shook her head bitterly.

Tearing his helmet off, he glowered at her and grabbed a handful of her hair, pointing again at the church, a noise of frustration escaping him. All of this for no gold. Ulfhild was somewhere in the village as well, destroying and plundering what she could. The Drudgunzean, Hildr, was supposed to be doing the same, but he didn't trust her. If they knew of old and did not tell him, or if they stole what was always his, he would crush them. "I know what you want, you animal," hissed the pretty woman. "You won't get it." She shook her head. "It's up on the mountain, under his protection."

The Nashorn twisted to regard Mont Errante, wary of a trick. Whose protection? he wondered. Others had screamed that 'he' was coming and pronounced doom upon the Eskandr the same as themselves. At first, the Æresvaktr had dismissed it as the mewling of the weak invoking the wrath of their gods, but there was now a place attached to these pronouncements of doom. Who was it that these villagers so feared? Some mountain warlock? A local deity, held over from before these lands had gone Quentic? A ruthless lord? He turned back to the woman and motioned with his arms for her to rise, but she met his gaze unflinchingly. "I am lame, you heathen, so you will either have to carry me or kill me." She threw her arms out to the side. "I do not care in the slightest. You have ruined that which sustains and pacifies him." She took in the village: houses collapsed, people killed, livestock butchered or set loose and fields flattened. It had been important that there be no smoke, The Nashorn knew, no fire. "I doubt even I could placate him now." She laughed bitterly. "We are all going to diiieeeaaaah!" Her words ended in a scream as he grabbed her by the hair once more.

Something was not right with this village. He sensed it was not just the usual threats and superstitious. This cripple would have to be his gold for now. She would have to be made to speak. She hammered and thrashed at him with hands and the Gift alike and, when he lifted her by the hair so that she dangled, eye-to-eye with him, she hollered insults at him and spat. The glob of saliva missed his eyes and landed just below the right one, causing him to blink. He drew back his free fist and smashed it into her. The woman's head snapped back and she went limp, but he did not strike her again. She was so small and golden and she looked peaceful, finally, with her eyes closed and her bloodied nose. She would sleep for now, he decided, and when she woke, hopefully the Thunderspear would be returned. If not, then perhaps Ulfhild or Hildr. Then, they could get the answers out of her.

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"You speak like Eskandr, you know," said Alian, spitting into the fire. "All rough and sharp." He was a rather stout and scruffy man of Kressia who held little love for humans, his fellow yasoi, or - really - much of anything except his beloved jam'bys. In truth, none of the others had ever seen him without one of the flavourful seeds in his mouth: sucking, chewing, spitting, his teeth stained with its tar. "People 'round here," he continued, "they've let some Parrench into their tongues: big, expressive vowels, those weird 'r' sounds." He tossed another log into the fire. The sun had sunk beneath the horizon and the forest was now starting to experience a second sort of life: a sort that humans, in their instinctive fear of the dark, never got to experience. "You'd best practice," he grunted. "Don't care how, but you'll give yourselves away."

Dinner had been served: rabbit and wild turkey caught on the trail, in a stew with some herbs and root vegetables. Then, there were the tiims'archa - starlight snails. As the final bit of daylight faded, the forest lit up with them: sparkling points of light in a dozen different colours. "Quite q-b-beautiful," remarked Jyluun, "Are-aren't they?" She was small and odd: with long whitish-blonde hair that formed threadbare curtains about her face, and a penchant for random trivia. "Th-they were actually um... brought to to Parrence by Loriindton'soi for... farm-farming and ssuch." She shrugged, taking a quick sip of her herbal tea. "Then they went feral." She sipped again, falling silent, eyes darting between the others. Around them, the light show was just beginning, with thousands of the invasive snails twinkling in the dark with their bioluminescence.

There were other lights too, of course, and the small group of six people wasn't blind and deaf to the presence of other groups of travelers in the night. In this deepest part of the Parrench woods, there were few enough towns and inns, so the safe drinking water, plentiful game, and location about a half-day's ride from Loriindton combined with the ethereal beauty of the tiims'archa's nighttime displays to both give the Île Scintillante its name and make it a popular stopping place for traveling parties.

In the distance, from the trees close to where another fire had been not twenty minutes prior, Calitan, Eliis, Alian, Jyluun, Ashon and Hylani could hear someone whistling a familiar childhood tune: Niico Fayil Luun'ithan (Three Yellow Roses). It was a song and a game. One person would say the first line, placing the three yellow roses in some unusual spot, and the second player would begin the second line by repeating that spot and have to rhyme the ending. Then, they'd make up the first line of the next verse, and the original first player would rhyme.

Then, out of nowhere, Jyluun raised her voice. "N-niico fayil luun'ithan, y-yca duul hax!" she called into the forest. There was a long pause, and the others looked her way with varying expressions. Then, a faint response from up in one of the trees. "Yca duul hax, ela tajuup yax?" It was basic, but the other party was willing to play. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," it called out, taking the lead, "pen juu Escan!"

Ashon rolled his eyes at the irony, but decided to respond. "Pen juu Escan? Senii shoi a'lan!" A couple of his companions snickered. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," Eliis eagerly began, "pen juu Reluuz!"

"Pen juu Reluuz?" came the response, "shoi in'yr duuz!" It looked like they were going to kill off all of the poor little roses tonight and then both groups would seek sleep. "Niico fayil luun'ithan, Senii shoi al'yr!"

"Senii shoi al'yr? aly'goi thiir!" another of the six chimed in, finding the perfect rhyme. For all that they were in a war and on potentially hostile territory, this entire unexpected exchange had been a mirthful moment and a reminder of their shared yasoi kinship. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," added Eliis, not yet wanting it to end, "Hoam'a yrash'osmax."

There was a pause on the other end and, for a moment, they wondered if their mysterious counterparts had given up. "Hoam'a Talit'osmax? Omei! Et ap nax!" Faintly, they could hear the sounds of distant laughter, but the knowledge of who it was coming from robbed it of any pleasantness. The responder could've just been making a joke, but the actual Lady Talit had been present at Relouse and it was not unreasonable to think that she could also be headed to Loriindton - her hometown - at this very moment. Suddenly, the half dozen Eskandr-aligned yasoi found themselves at the crossroads of both great peril and great opportunity. There was, potentially, their greatest enemy, mere shouting distance away. She was, by all accounts, a fifth wheel monster who had cleaned house at Relouse, but their own abilities were not inconsiderable, and perhaps combat was not the only way to approach her. The question now became one of their next course of action: should they remain hidden, fight her, spy, or perhaps take the opportunity to ingratiate themselves with her? However, before they had more than a minute or two to discuss and prepare, the choice was taken from them.

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Talit had heard that there was an eerie beauty to the nighttime forest: an ethereal quality, if you would. The people who'd said so were humans, though, and she didn't much understand it. Yanii eyes were their strongest sense, but even those were poor: limited in detail, light-hungry, and able to see only false yellow. Their hearing and smell were muted and imprecise at best, and so the dark, which robbed them of their one half-decent sense, inspired only fear.

The yasoi lay there on a branch: right where it was wide and met the tree. One arm dangled over the edge and the bare skin of her foot pressed gently against the rough bark of the trunk. Most of the others were up here with her. She could see their cloaks draped over nearby branches. Some - those who had lived among yanii long enough to pick up their habits - used the Gift to make small lights as they read or looked around. Others slept on the ground, a profoundly vulnerable position, and it then became their task to keep watch over the horses. Animals of the open plains, they were ever skittish and uneasy in the trees. Rolling over, Tali gazed down at the little area where they were kept, picking out Pishcar. He was a dear big beast: sweet-tempered and well-trained, willing to tolerate her copious use of the Gift and the way that she sat slightly skewed in the saddle.

Shifting again, Tali dangled her leg into the empty space below, swinging it idly back and forth. She'd had a bit to drink, inadvisable though it was, but she needed the comfort. Her birthday was in two days and she would arrive home just on time for it. Twenty-four years, she'd been alive, and a tightness invaded her stomach. If she were Oirase, she'd ascend within the next year. Like all good yasoi, she kept the gods, but the thought of giving up herself, of being subsumed by the goddess, was not truly an appealing one. The idea that her memories, her personality, and everything that she was would make up only one tiny part of what she would become... in truth, she would be lost. Yet, Tali was almost certainly not the Bringer of Life. If she was a vessel, as her ability for magic suggested, then she would be Vyshta. If the idea of ascending taunted her with unease, then being the Uncrowned Bringer of Fortune was a fate far worse, for her vessels never lived to twenty-five. They were killed by Damy and Exiran. What have I done to deserve your ire? she asked them silently. Is a destiny beyond my mortal control enough to condemn me? She still had the bottle, and she lifted it to her lips, melancholy. She could not let the others see her like this, of course. They already thought her half a child. Three quarters of one, more like, she thought wryly. Fuck it. She took another sip of the melon wine.

Between the thick canopy and some cloud cover, there were no stars to be seen tonight, but the hundreds of tiny points of light that lived with Tali in the forest became a replacement: tiims'archa - starlight snails. The nearly twenty-four-year-old heaved herself into a seated position, stuffing the cork back into the bottle and scooting along until she could stuff the bottle into her pack. They'd been eating the slimy gastropods earlier, roasting them on the fire until they popped and sizzled. Some burst in showers of glowing colour. Others lit up the party's cheeks and traced brilliant lines down their necks and into their stomachs. Red, orange, gold, and purple stained their fingers and pulsed through their veins in turn. Each lasted only a couple of minutes, and it was best not to mix colours or you'd end up with a smudgy brown. Tali glanced at the others and a handful were still stirring. A few had been sour sports, but most had gamely eaten the horribly bitter novelty food. Maybe the relief of their nearness to Loriindton had helped, but they'd done eating dares: could anyone hold a Green Meanie on their tongue? Would anyone eat a Red Razz or a Thundersludge alive? Lyen had nearly hurled but, by Damy, she'd done it! In retrospect, the dares were probably why Tali had started drinking. She liked to win and always had: almost as much as she liked to be liked, but she wasn't a fan of consequences. She and Lyen had gone through most of a bottle. Otios was big and glowered at anyone who tried to take some of his. Esmiin had passed out and they'd nestled her right in the bole of a tree for safekeeping, where she curled up like a little kitten. Tali had joined Jaxan in drawing... things on her face, but a couple members of their group had actually traced their tetsoi with the tiims'archa juice.

In truth, it had all been a little bit calculated: the probable vessel of Vyshta was under little illusion that things were grim. The Eskandr were running rampant in Parrence and an army was headed even this way, most likely to issue subtle threats, but it was going to be here nonetheless. And then, five days ago, she'd stood beside literal piles of dead, as had Otios and Lyen, Esmiin, Adric, Jaxan, and Selest. It had been an unusually quiet ride in some ways.

Such foolery as tiims'archa and a few good drinks had been sorely needed. Tali wasn't so naive as to believe every aspect of the yarns that Old Nan Merit liked to spin. 'Golden ages' are often golden only through the rose-tinted lens of nostalgia and reminiscence and, even then, only for some people. The young woman grinned. She wet her lips and began to whistle. It had been her third great childhood obsession and so she was unusually talented in that regard. She started with 'Nyra Went to Market' before moving on to 'Three Yellow Roses'. It wasn't her own group that took up the song, however. Instead, there came a faint reply from one of the few bonfires still lit, some hundred or so meters away.

"Niico fayil luun'ithan, yca duul hax!"

Tali realized that she didn't actually have a response prepare, but she managed to bumble something acceptable out. "Yca duul hax, ela tajuup yax?" She snorted in mirthful embarrassment the moment she was done singsonging, but she had a better opener ready for the next verse, and maybe a bit of news with it. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," she called out, "pen juu Escan!"

There was a pause, and her eyes found the distant twinkle of that other group's fire. "Pen juu Escan? Senii shoi a'lan!" She could pick up distant laughter, and a few of her own people perked up. "Niico fayil luun'ithan," said a different voice - a male voice - this time. "pen juu Reluuz!" They had accents that she couldn't quite place.

"Pen juu Reluuz?" called Lyen, "shoi in'yr duuz!" Tali grimaced. Between Eskand and Relouse, it looked like the poor little roses were doomed this time. They wouldn't survive their adventure. It actually made Tali kind of sad, but she'd always been an overemotional drunk. Then, Lyen had more. "Niico fayil luun'ithan, Senii shoi al'yr!"

"Senii shoi al'yr? aly'goi thiir!" another new voice replied, finding the perfect rhyme. For all of the uncertainty that surrounded them because of this yanii war, even coming out in their rhymes, exchanges like this were profoundly reassuring things. Her people remained her people: stubbornly refusing to close themselves off. "Niico fayil luun'ithan." It was one of the earlier voices, and its conclusion made her smile. "Hoam'a yrash'osmax."

"Well, that's all you," remarked Otios from nearby. He'd lived long among the yanii and had clearly been at least somewhat uncomfortable among his fellow yasoi at first, but he had a wit about him that popped up on occasions like this. "Hoam'a Talit'osmax? Tali chirped in reply to their distant friends. "Omei! Et ap nax!"

That drew a few laughs and the 'Lady of Loriindton' bowed at the waist, still seated. She'd be home tomorrow, with much to do and Arcel relying upon her again, but her first day was going to inevitably be given to sleep and her second and third to the mette'stiroi for Old Nan Merit's 172nd birthday and her and Dyric's 24th. "Hey Esmiin!" she called. "You up?"

"How can I not be?" came the reply.

"Adric, Jaxan, Lyen?"

She received a chorus of affirmatives. Talit scooted forward a bit more. Slinging her bag over her shoulders, she swung down until she was dangling from a small nearby branch. She let herself hang, though, for a long moment, allowing hesitation to seize her, but she brushed it aside. This was the very essence of being yasoi: not to live in a little bubble of fear and need, like humans did, but to venture, and to want! "We should go meet with them," she recommended. "I'll see to good beds for everyone in town tomorrow, and we can sleep whatever happens off." Letting go, she dropped the ten or so meters to the forest floor, breaking her fall with some Force magic and landing in a deep crouch on all threes. Placing her hands on a fallen log nearby, Tali drew from it, crafting a new pair of crutches and slipping her forearms into the cuffs when they were done. Around her, she could hear others hitting the ground.

From the direction of the fire came raised whispers. The fifth-wheeler knew that her name preceded her. They were likely now going on about what she'd be like, or else scrambling to come up with a welcome. Feeling a bit impish, Tali took off at a brisk jog, or at least her best approximation of one. All these bipeds always outstripped her unless she leaned into the Gift, but they arrived more or less at once. Around the other fire were another group of mixed age and gender: fellow distance travelers by the look of their clothes and supplies, as opposed to locals out on some errand. "Hello, rhyming partners!" she chirped, pulling a bottle from her bag. "I'm guessing you know who I am." She grinned ruefully. "But my companions are Otios'yyia'thala, Lyen'ivhere'zulc, Adric'miito'calan, and Esmiin'altan'venduul. She paused, smirking and jerkin a thumb in Jaxan's direction. "And this guy who just sorta showed up." He shot her a glare. "Jaxan'orad'anthii," he corrected. "And you?"

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Normally, a journey from Relouse to Loriindton, or from an arbitrary place within Parrench to any other arbitrary place within Parrench for that matter, would hardly have been worth remembering for long since there was just the lack of anything special to it. These were not normal times however, and the way things stood gave Otios the steady feeling of an eerie stalker being after him even though it did not have even the mildest form of stealth to it. He knew the Eskand had not truly been stopped and by now were most likely fanning out from their bridgeheads. He also had no reason to expect their leaders to care about anything like 'coherence' very much, so the raiding, looting and random destruction certainly was going on. But just by how many miles behind their little traveling party ? How far had they already eaten into Parrench territory ? The idea of falling asleep only to wake up in the hands of these barbarians, or not to wake up at all anymore, caused Otios to stay awake for much longer periods than he'd usually do.

Maybe this was kind of a paranoia ? Yet at the same time Otios could justify himself by thinking that paranoia also was at the core of every intruder's business. Not to fear the unforeseen presence of others could, sooner or later, only end in ultimate disaster for his kind.

The further they moved away from Relouse, the more another thought came into Otios' mind as well: He had been among those Yanii for a long time, much longer than was usual for the typical Yasoi. When not thinking about the Eskand or looking at the increasingly nice landscape around them, Otios secretly prepared an entire barrage of arguments to be launched just in case anyone would dare to claim these cavemen had influenced him and ultimately dragged his intellect and social behavior down into their dirty den. Hopefully he'd never, ever, have to use them. A lack of authority and credibility among his own people was pretty much the last thing he deemed useful for the task they were relocating to.

Still it really didn't take long for Otios to deviate from his fellow Yasoi' behavior once the first tiims'archa shed some fancy light onto the otherwise dark forest ground and told a story about just how close they had already come to their destination. With more digust than awe, he watched how the others pretty mercilessly 'hunted' them down at a literal snail's pace, only to extinguish their little lights by cooking and eating them. It wasn't like Otios didn't like their taste for he had eaten them on earlier occasions as well, but just during those he had actually found them to be way too cute -- and useful -- to just consume them.

"Niico fayil luun'ithan, wiip nar tiims'archa!" Otios started a rhyme of his own, one that probably had a bit of a higher range than usual due to his size. It definitely reached someone else whose voice he couldn't identify: "Wiip nar tiims'archa ? Yax joi sem’proisha!"

Otios knew that there were other Yasoi in his own family who indeed had not liked the taste of the shiny snails in their early days, but later had become rather passionate eaters. He did not know it, but if that phenomenon was more widespread among the local population, then the statement made indeed sense.

"Niico fayil luun'ithan, nar tar, tarsii, tallo." the unknown voice added in return. "Nar tar, tarsii, tallo ? Chel nan najo!" and Otios laughed. He perfectly knew that, in terms of colors, he had gone far beyond beatable for his previous collection efforts had turned the bit of tree around him into a small, but all the more paradox solar system: He was sort of a giant, non-illuminated planet at the center and at least a dozen of differently colored tiims'archa emulated small stars circling around him. They only needed the occasional nudge to send them back into a proper orbit so no slime was in danger of touching his gear, but the many leaves Otios had gathered made sure they'd not run away, but stay within a short crawl's reach of their preferred food.

Unfortunately it seemed that there was way more than just one stranger present in the vicinity for more voices were to be heard soon, and upon learning that Lady Talit was present, things escalated pretty quickly. Had this entire thing been supposed to be a sort of a low profile affair ? Well if worst came to worst, that would be going out of the window first! At least the Lady could have decided to let others go in front of her instead of taking the lead herself. It was an unnecessary danger and, given her age and otherwise apparent wisdom, she clearly should have left the need to display what she still could do with disabled limbs behind. Or maybe it was just his own paranoia hitting him again: Those they were suddenly hurrying to, by all statistical means, were most likely a group of harmless fellows who simply enjoyed the night the same way he and those around him had done, too.

Otios did take a slightly different route though so they were not all bunched up and an easy target for whatever kind of shit could possibly happen. It could never hurt to have a back door of some sorts...