Macaroth took off his helm and let long silver hair fall out down his back, a saint reborn? The thought entertained him very much, he did take the form of the saint as the monks described him in textures, murals and in their minds. He would be the new patron saint for a oppressed people. He watched as his minions created fortifications 300 yards around the monastery, clearing trees to make room for anything their master desired.

He drew and inspected the old saint's sword, it was a fine weapon a bit worn by age. He chanted under his breath and infused the blade with his essence giving it an otherworldly shine and a slight humming as it was wielded, a dark voice that spoke to mortals and drew them, sucking out their souls slowly without them realizing.

The first of his new recruits arrived the day after he sent out his black monks, a rabble of a dozen bandits all hungry and scrawny, fell to their knees at his feet swearing their allegiance to him, their saint. He had them fed and then had them work on constructing a training area, blacksmith, tannery and a fletcher's hut to outfit them with better weapons and armor.

He spent the time he had overseeing all the work being done with a sinister glint in his eyes. All was going according to plan...

Dungeon: Dungeon heart, pantry and tool shed. Fortifications and necessities being built.
Resources: Abundant food supplies and decent tool and materials supply
Forces:6 Reapers, 10 imps, 12 bandits

Clotho paced her Dungeon Heart, filled to the brim with excitement and energy but unsure how to utilize it best. The tropical afternoon sun shone brightly down on the jungle, smothering it in humidity, but a stirring breeze from the south forewarned some sort of tempest on the way. Right now, Clotho wanted nothing more than to take off and careen through the skies, reveling in her power and freedom and a semblance of the child that she used to be. Deep within, however, she knew that the mantle of a Keeper embodied both diligence and seriousness, and so she stalked her lofty chamber with ideas flitting through her head like bees seeking the richest flower to sponge for honey. Her instincts told her that there were others out there, Keepers like her, who wouldn't be struggling with the issue of maturity. The knowledge imparted to her by the sting would only serve her so far, and the memories of the being whose insect avatar had stung her indicated that bloodthirsty expansionism wasn't wise. Searching for a solution, Clotho's ringed yellow eyes probed the corners of her Heart chamber, taking in the empty shelves, the empty chairs, the empty cocoon, and the gradually darkening sky. Before becoming the Swarm Keeper, Clotho had been nothing, empty like this room—it was up to her to fill it. A moment later, an idea struck her, the gossamer wings unfurled, and Clotho shot from the room up into the heavens. The scent of rain was in the air, but before the drops fell a little operation was in order.

Hundreds of feet below, in the hollow at the base of the tree, the Myrmidon brood was thriving. The first generation, sixteen strong, was hatched and had already bored deep gashes into the roots of the King Tree, where they feasted upon the wood. The heartwood of this colossal tree was in a viscous sap that, aside from being very nutritious, was also infused with magical essence, concentrated in the plant over many centuries. This sticky, arcane resin might have served as the prized commodity of the Virens Biomancers' Guild, which revered it for its ability to hasten the growth of living things, but instead it fed the swelling horde of Myrmidons, augmenting their growth rather than that of the Virens economy. By tomorrow, several generations of the ant warriors would be battle-ready.

The storm rolled in sooner than anticipated. Shrugging off the first few spatters of water on her shell, Clotho was nevertheless forced to land in Virens as the clouds burst into a tropical deluge. She alighted in the forest just outside the city, preserved to keep the place scenic, and carefully folded her wings around her to keep the rain off. There was no chance of disguising herself as a human; her unnaturally long arms and legs, coupled with her height of seven feet and very inhuman exoskeleton, meant she would be spotted in an instant. The pouring rain was both a blessing and a curse, for while the greater part of the townspeople would have fled indoors, the power of flight was denied to Clotho if her wings were doused.

She remembered well the location of the Biomancers' Guild, having been drawn to often as a human. As she dashed through the town on articulated talons, she quickly recognized its flamboyantly decorated exterior, even in the half-light of the storm. After ascending its marble steps she pushed her way in through a thick kapok door that had once been painfully hard to budge.

Only twice had she ever seen the interior in her years of living in poverty in Virens. The snooty Guild magicians were no philanthropists, but they were definitely raking it in if their décor was to be any indicator. In a town with the primary export of wood, the ability to manipulate life with magic commanded a handsome income. A carpet woven to resemble grass extended across the entire floor, covered with fine wooden chairs, desks, books, etcetera. A cheery fire, the only light in the room, crackled in a pit on the east wall, where two magicians rested in high-backed seats. As the door blew shut behind Clotho, one of the men -whose striped green robe identified him as an administrator, called out without turning to look, “Vit, is that you? We've been waitin' for ages. Bring the wine over 'ere and take a seat, get warm.”

Clotho briefly smiled, showing a few fangs, before taking a few steps in their direction. As she approached, she raised her left hand and activated her magic. “You coming or what? Vitreus?” The magician shifted his weight and turned around just in time to see a glob of paper fluid sail past him and splatter onto the fire. In the instant before the blaze was extinguished, he beheld Clotho's inhuman body and sinister, grinning face. A low, guttural yelp issued from his stunned lips, “uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuh!” and the room plunged into darkness except for a faintly glowing amulet around the leader's neck. He scrambled out of his chair and into the hardening liquid hive-material, where a wet sploch signified that he was stuck. His elderly companion, terrified and confused, slipped on a puddle of goo and hit the ground hard, where he half-consciously covered his head with his arms. Clotho strode forward through the shadow, her luminous yellow gaze able to pierce the darkness. The man's lips quivered, no words forming from the breath he gasped out. Clotho knelt before him, rapier drawn, and plucked his amulet. A second later a flash of lightening lit up the room, and the two men were alone. Outside the thunder boomed.

Status:
Location: King Tree, jungle north of Saploya River, N16°W12°
Dungeon: An incomplete and unfurnished yet vast hive spanning the length, width, and height of a massive, ancient tree in the jungle. The hive itself is constructed of a magically-created liquid that expands and hardens into a stiff, paperlike substance upon exposure to air. The main body of the hive is suspended by countless support struts that reach for hundreds of feet in every direction. The Dungeon Heart is situated at the very top of the tree. Currently has: Dungeon Heart, Myrmidon Spawner.
Forces: 15 Drone Imps, 17 Myrmidons

Elysium's sea was unpredictable. The weather oscillated much in these parts; however, more oft than not it was calm. There were on occasion gales of wind that not even the briny clefts could withstand, and tempests that could toss about ships like dice in some sort of game of the gods. Today, however, it was tranquil. The calm waves scintillated with white diamonds of light as they basked in the sun's warmth. Seagulls and herons flew in lazy circles, fat from an overabundance of fish. One could hardly imagine a paradise more serene.

But deep below the waves... that was another world. A thousand fathoms below the waves, all was black. The darkness itself could swallow minnow and whale alike. A thousand fathoms below that, there was a gaping trench. One could descend into that black abyss for hours until he forgot which way was up and which was down, becoming yet another pale skeleton to rest at the bottom. Yes, this trench had a bottom, though few living souls ever saw it. There were vents that spewed out searing oil and vile gases from the bowels of the earth; poisons to most, but food for some. A whole ecosystem had thrived here since the world's first days, tiny microbes that metabolized the gases fed larger, carnivorous creatures, which fed even bigger creatures, and so on. One of these creatures, an albino, eyeless fish, darted into a cave with a mouthful of smaller fish. It had to bring tribute to its master; lest his ire consume all the creatures of the trench.

At the very end of the cave there had once been a door that led to a staircase, one that descended down into the very core of Elysium. There, some great artifact had been stowed away long ago. There had also been a noble guardian that dwelled in this cave, guarding the door. None had ever tried to enter, but if they had, they would no doubt have been driven off by the great, three-eyed giant that the world's creator had left behind.

Now, the door was sealed and hidden, and there was a twisted, depraved creature shackled to the wall by great chains and ancient magic. Balon was his name. He had been commanded to spend an eternity alone in the deeps of the sea, guarding some holy artifact that he had never even seen. For a time, Balon had done as he was told, but the solitude was maddening. The fish down here were dark, spiteful things that hated the light above and those that lived in it. In time, their malice rubbed off on the guardian. When his creator and master left, Balon realized his freedom. Abandoning his post, he climbed up the rocky walls of the trench and clambered up onto the ocean's shores, then went about reaving and murdering.

Entire villages fell before the giant, who could pound a man into the ground just as easily as he could strike him down with a bolt of magical lightning. Those men that he did not kill or devour, he enslaved. For a time, Balon was king of the land, the shore, and the ocean's blackest reaches. He had a great palace built by the sea. He taxed his subjects to the brink of starvation so that he could have a mountain of gold and jewels to call his own. Some tales would have it that he fathered half a hundred monstrous children; the first of the trolls, cyclopes, and other filth that plagued Elysium to this day.

And then the creator returned, enraged to see what had happened in his absence. Balon's great palace fell like a mere sandcastle before nature's onslaught; hurricanes and earthquakes scattered its stones across the whole continent and buried the vaults of gold beneath a thousand tons of rubble and a mile of seawater. Balon was ordered back to his post, and cursed to die if he ever set foot on dry land again. Out of spite and contempt, the giant sought to ruin what he could not have. Within the depths of his sea cave there was a great cauldron. He coerced the marine creatures to bring him all sorts of strange things from all corners of the planet, and then for nearly a decade, he stirred and mixed poisons in his great cauldron. At last, when he deemed his brew ready, he grabbed an eel and tossed it into the cauldron. The black fluid inside rotted the poor creature's flesh and blistered its skin. The writhing, still living creature splashed some of the fluid in one of the giant's three eyes, before dying. The plague nearly killed Balon, but alas, the land was not so lucky. The sickness eventually left the corrupted guardian, although the magic and the toxins lingered. That eye never saw again; and neither did any creature unfortunate enough to be caught by that blind eye's stare, as they were doomed to meet the same fate as the eel.

Balon released the vile fluid into the ocean, and exerted his command over the sea. The currents carried the plague to ports, and men began dying like flies, helpless against the magical disease. Needless to say, the creator was infuriated at this second betrayal, and cursed the treacherous guardian with every ailment he could think of before having him imprisoned at the depths of the world for the rest of time. Balon was wrought with the symptoms of his own disease; he lost sight in yet another of his three eyes, his skin turned black as coal, and his bones and muscles deteriorated to the point that it was a struggle to move; a fight to stay alive.

The fish that darted into the cave at last reached its master. The giant was still a king of the sea, even in chains. He still wore ancient bronze armor, covered in intricate runes and enchantments. At his side was a great spear and a shield; to look at them at remember what he once had hurt Balon almost as much as the curse. The giant was careful not to look at this fish, but not so much out of kindness. The creatures of the trench had been growing more and more rebellious and unruly, seeing that the tyrant wasn't as powerful as in the older days. If this fish died, Balon might very well starve to death with none of the others willing to bring food.

With an unusual amount of ease, Balon reached out with his hand to take the food from the fish's mouth. The ancient chains rattled, and as they did so, something caught Balon's eye: a little speck of rust had formed on his otherwise immaculate shackles. It took a moment to realize what this meant. And then, for the first time in centuries, the giant guffawed. His laughter was a scary thing to hear, even distorted by the water. At last! These chains were immune to rust and impossible to break; being tied to the creator, they would last until the end of time. Or the end of the creator's life, it would seem. With his body strengthening as the chains and magical force field around him weakened, it would seem that the accursed giant had outlived the righteous, arrogant fool that he hated.

Balon looked at his spear and shield. He remembered the thrill of battle, the power he had once wielded, the lands he had conquered. That gave him the strength to break free. With a thunderous sound, the giant pulled so hard that his chains were ripped out of the rock wall. Although they were still attached to his wrists, that was of little matter. Nothing could impede him, nothing would stand between the giant and the freedom that he had reminisced over for so long. The six yard tall giant snatched up his spear and shield, then stood tall. If he were not underwater, Balon would have likely fallen down. His muscles were still weak from the curse, and sitting for a few centuries meant that he almost had no balance; however, that didn't stop him. A few hours later, the bronze-clad sea giant was clambering back onto the shore. The sea was no longer harmonious, by any standards; a horrendous storm had rolled in to herald the old king's return. It felt good to walk on solid land once more.

Fire flashed through the small room that served as Viktors dungeon heart. As the burning light died down to a simmer, the cobalt light flickered, giving the room a cold look. A loud laugh filled the small room, surprisingly not coming from the steel Keeper. The unearthly voice had an echo that set it off from the others, as if it was multiple voices speaking at once, in union, a deep fog billowing out from the new creations... mouth.

The suit of armor stood about as tall as a normal man, a deep cyan flame sparking from deep within the iron chest of the beast. It was still human shaped, very few changes made to the armor itself, simply a dew intricate engravings sprawling across the metal surface of the armor, inlaid with small strips of gold. The suit was impressive, commanding attention and respect of all those below him. The fog gave him less of a menacing look, more of a regal majesty, that of a man striding victorious from a battle.

The new creation turned to its master, more confused than anything else. At the heart of the construct were souls, ripped out from his human slaves. Though the slaves remained alive, they were now little more than husks of their old selves, shambling beasts, able to do little more than carry out the simplest of commands. In return for their most noble sacrifice, the new construct was graced with their combined knowledge of the region, as well as their tactics and battle prowess.

Viktor smiled, proud of this creation. "I bestow upon you a name, something to take pride in, something to whisper in the ears of your victims as you trample them into the ground. You shall be known as Stamrad, a name to strike fear in the masses of lesser beings. You will command our army, lead our glorious revolution! Now go, train your men, we must be ready for battle before the enemy strikes." Viktor said, raising his fist, a signal within his army, equating to Hitler's salute.

The Construct, Stamrad, raised his fist in response to the signal. He raised his head, bobbing it slightly as he spoke. "M-m-master. Who is the enemy?" Stamrad asked, his strong, deep voice pierced by a small hint of fear. Viktor tended to illicit this kind of response in those of weak mindset. The grayish fog slipped back into the armor, Stamrad not wanting to disgrace his master with so much as a wisp of fog touching him.

"Don't be silly, my dear child. The enemy is everywhere. they are ALL the enemy. Now go, make us proud! For blood! For glory! For victory!" Viktor said, a firm, yet friendly tone in his voice.

---

Shadows and flame darted through the hills spreading a fire as the storm advanced. The smoke had a semi-solid form, and as it ran, a skeleton began to form beneath the darkness, notably animal in shape. It wasn't too strange, seemingly the skeleton of a horse. However, protruding from the back was the massive twisting tail of a serpent trailing behind him, tipped with a barb. The skull was seemingly reptilian in shape, with two large horns twisting out from the obsidian skull.

As the beast neared its destination, it skidded to a halt, many trees falling beneath the might of the monster. It looked down on the town of Paterdomus, seeing nothing of interest, nothing but food. It leveled it's fiery gaze upon the town, a deep hunger rumbling within it's bones. Trotting slowly closer, the beast let out a massive roar, crying out for it's hunger, it's lost memory, and more importantly, it's rage.

The beast remembered very little, but he remembered enough. He remembered hunger, and the deep rage that fueled him to satiate it. He remembered that rage, and the endless destruction that it caused. He remembered the humans, and how their simple steel fell beneath his might. He remembered the magic, that vile weapon, forcing the seemingly unstoppable beast to his knees. He remembered flesh, what it was like to have a shape, a solid form, and how this had been granted by his master.

Yes, his master. Perhaps one of the most powerful sorcerers of all time, he ruled over his kingdom with an iron fist, using his... pet... to enforce the law, and bring the people to their knees. But no. His master was long gone, slain by the uprising, his town buried beneath the stone of the mountains. However, there was still hope for him to regain his full body. He sensed that there was great magic in this land, many beings powerful enough to restore him to his full power.

But for now, there was only his hunger and his fury. Now, there was only the rampage. He was smoke. He was rage. He was death. He was Ifrit, the scion of The Infernal King. Fire plumed into the sky, accompanied by a bloodcurdling scream, tearing through the peaceful sky.

Macaroth decided to retreat to the monastery's library to learn more about this world and its people, even given that the collective knowledge stolen from the monks was indeed vast he knew that there was undoubtedly more to be had. He sat down by the window taking several tomes off the shelves about the saint he had now disguised himself as, trying to become more like his new persona, more convincing that is. He had also changed into more comfortable clothing rather than armor helping himself from the monks stores, still he kept his Devourer blade close to him. Were it to fall into the wrong hands it could spell doom for him.

He read the first volume of the saints biography and got an idea for a new minion, a very powerful one. He retreated to his sanctum to begin its blueprint. A man apparently but with wings sprouting from their backs ashen in color, like the ones in the book that pictured the saints connection to divinity, well he would make them come alive. They would be his Warrior minions, Angels. So he set to work on them leaving the minions and serfs to their own devices.

The two imps finished the special tomb for the Walker quite quickly. The tomb allowed the Walker to stand inside, behind a solid stone slab engraved with a stylised form of the Walker standing within. It was embedded into the wall to Calvartem's right. Once it was done, and the Walker was safely sealed inside, Calvartem banished the imps with a wave of his hand. This tomb was necessary because, as is the way with Keepers, to freely create more of a minion there must be an existing reference. For most Keepers this would only be a problem if their forces were wiped out completely, but as the Necromancer did not keep a standing army extra measures had to be taken.

He went outside, turning his face away from the sunlight, and checked the progress of the tower. The imps had made good progress, and the tower was roughly half complete. So far the tower stood 6 meters, and would grow another 4. No wood was present in the structure, at Calvartem's command, so it was made entirely from stone. The imps had saved time by cannibalising some of the buildings of the town to supply stone bricks, but now progress was slowing as it became necessary to carry stone from the nearest quarry to the tower. Calvartem summoned another 10 imps to hurry their progress, and was returning to the crypt when one of the scouting imps returned and stood before the Necromancer.

"What is it?" Calvartem demanded. The imp was silent, with no face to convey any expression. Noticing the issue, Calvartem created a tiny orb of darkness in his palm and let it drift into the ghostly form of the imp. "Speak."

The imp indeed spoke, although its voice was faint, like a gentle breeze through the gaps in a roof. "Master, I have found a small town at the base of the mountains to the west. They appear to be miners. It is not noticeably fortified."

Calvartem nodded and waved his hand at the imp, causing it to vanish with a faint squeak of protest. So there were more towns, which was to be expected. And they equally did not expect him. But there was bound to soon be a town which was ready for battle, and he would need something more than a shambling band of zombies to conquer them. He entered the crypt, ordering his imps to take in 20 of the slain humans and leave them on the floor. Once the imps had left, Calvartem sat on the throne which was his Heart and let his spirit leave his body and drift over the heap of bodies.

0/3

Decart awoke as usual long before the sun. He’d been getting up early for so many years that he didn’t know how to sleep when the sun was risen. As he passed by the door to his daughter’s room, he thought of looking in to see her asleep, when she was at her most peaceful, but decided not. He’d let her sleep until the sun woke her. She liked that. Decart left the small farmhouse with a spring in his step that defied his age and joints. He waved merrily at the familiar shape of Cussop, the scarecrow that stood in the small wheat field beside the small farmhouse, named by his daughter.

Later when the sun was high in the sky, Decart sat next to his milk cows for company as he ate some burned bread and cheese. He started a half dozen conversations of so many topics, but the cows never took any interest in the aging farmer’s ramblings. “Ah, go to hell you stupid an’mals. You’re too dumb to know it, but when I’m gone there ain’t gonna be no one to feed you. Enly ain’t gonna do it, no way she is. Enly’s movin’ up from here she is. Gonna go to the city and find a nice boy, and she’s gonna become royalty I tell ya.” The cows just gave an uncaring moo in return. Decart threw the remainder of his bread at the dumb beasts, and they chewed on that for a while, still staring blankly at the farmer.

At the sound of footsteps, the farmer turned. Upon seeing his daughter emerging from the home, like a delicate white moth emerging from its cocoon for the first time, uncertain of how it was meant to fly with such heavy wings, Decart beamed. She was the love of his life, his only love since her mother died a decade prior. Enly was nineteen, and within the next month she would be leaving for Ensis’Lucas. Decart dreaded that day that meant he would be alone, but he wanted the best for her, and she would not find that here on this tiny farm. The old farmer raised an arm to wave to her, but his arm stopped as he noticed something amiss. Why was she running? If there were two truths to the world, they were as follows: The life-giving sun would rise each day anew no matter how dark the night, and Enly would never run for anything unless something was very wrong.

“What’s it love?” he asked as she ran up to him out of breath. Giving herself time to recover from her short sprint now that she was in the protection of her father, Enly said, “There’s someone beside the house, standing in the field.”

Decart kept himself from laughing as he said with a grin, “Oh come now, that’s just Cussop keepin’ de crows away. He ain’t nothin’ to be scared of.” Had she really been scared of something so benign? What a frail child she was.

He hadn’t done anything to calm her nerves. “No father, not Cussop. Something else is out in the field, watching the house. I saw it move I tell you! There was something wrong about it!”

Decart grabbed the closest blade he could and walked off to inspect whatever it was that had dared upset his daughter so. The small wheat field being on the other side of the small farmhouse, he was nearly there before he saw it. It stood where the scarecrow usually did; Cussop was now in shattered bits strewn around the field, as if he had simply exploded. The thing that was in its place looked to be like a person, or more a shadow standing up, more solid though. Decart stepped forward, brandishing the sickle before him like a knife. “What business do you have here wraith?”

The simple farmer knew of wraiths. They were supposedly like people but made of shadows and dark and magic gone wrong, and if anything was that it was the creature he saw before him. Upon receiving no response immediately, Decart went to ask again.

“What are you?” the black-skinned being asked aloud, though no mouth was visible to have asked the question.

“Decart Brigarn is me, and my daughter is Enly Brigarn. Now I ask again wraith, what business do you have here?”

Xir’ain again ignored the question that it did not understand. “Are there more like you?” the dark figure asked.

“Many,” the farmer answered without delay. “And if you don’t leave right now I’ll send for the deconstructioner in Ensis’Lucas to come out here and dispel you.” The threat was hollow, but the bluff usually scared of the smarter of the minor magical beings. The deconstructioner in Ensis’Lucas was the best in the south, and many a spirit and happening feared him coming to dispel them.

Xir’ain pondered this. So his enemy here was human, just like then. Then? When was that? Xir’ain found he could not recall what he had meant just a moment ago. Oh well, he could dwell on that later. Deconstructioner? Ensis’Lucas? Xir’ain was unfamiliar with such terms, but they seemed to refer to a weapon of some import. This human would know many useful things of the world Xir’ain found himself in. “Come to me,” he ordered the elderly human male.

Decart began to tell at the creature that he would not, but then he met the creature’s eyes and all his will to oppose fled him. Those eyes burned into his, blinding and evil, dark and brilliant, and he knew that he couldn’t refuse this creature’s order if he wished to survive. The ground beneath seemed to tilt, making him fall into those terrible eyes. Decart’s legs began to move underneath him, pulled in by the golden light that streamed in heavy curtains over the man’s mind.

“Father, no!” Enly grabbed her father, pushing his chest with all her strength in a futile attempt to push him away from the creature.

Decart felt something stopping him from obeying the golden light. What was it? He felt that his mind was sluggish, like he was forgetting something. Is this what a cow felt like when it had a thought? That was funny. The light was calling. He needed to obey it.

Decart looked down at the thing that impeded him, and it was then that Enly saw his eyes. Her father’s normally light blue-violet eyes were streaked with tiny scars of gold. In those blinded eyes she didn’t see herself reflected, the star in her father’s eye. The man didn’t see his daughter holding him back but the wraith, its black skin pressed against his own, trying to keep him from the light. And it was the wraith his killed, stabbing the sickle in his hand through its inky black skin. He had not expected it to bleed red. He had not expected it to scream out either.

Xir’ain watched in confusion as the elderly human male murdered his own daughter and then took his own life with the crude metal tool. Why had he done that? Xir’ain had ordered the man to walk closer, not to kill himself. What a waste. Even Xir’ain knew when a death served no purpose. The black runner that had swam with Xir’ain all the way to the structure now ventured out to stand beside its master.

“Eat it now?” the runner asked.

“Yes, I have nothing to gain from the dead,” Xir’ain said, frustrated with himself for not stopping the man.

The runner stalked over to the corpses. The runner knew what had happened, though he said nothing. The man's mind had succumbed to the fear that flowed from the master's golden eyes. As the only fear the runners and eels knew was death, there was nothing for them to see in the master's eyes that they did not already live with. The runner wondered what sort of fear the human man must have had to be affected so. Whatever the case, food was food, and fresh food did not stay. As it went to begin its feast, the runner noticed something unpleasant. After a moment’s inspection, it said, “Master, the small human is undead.”

Xir’ain rushed to the body. Alive!? Sure enough, the small female was not dead; her heart still pushed blood out over both sides of her dress every few moments. It was pumping, but slowly, weakly. Xir’ain grabbed the near-death body and fled back through the hole in the ground that marked the end of his dungeon’s arm, racing against time back towards his dungeon’s heart and the life-giving powers he wielded therein.

Bubbles escaped the human female’s mouth as fast as crimson blood escaped her chest, reminding Xir’ain that though he did not breathe, and his creations could breathe water, the creatures of the sun did. Hands full, he slammed his back against the stone ceiling, smashing it away. He brought his head above the surface of the black water and commanded himself to open his mouth. All the grass for a thousand feet fell flat towards the head of the black thing poking out from the ground as the air fell into his gaping maw. Closing the void and submerging again, Xir’ain forced the air into a bubble, kept in shape by the black waters of his dungeon. He stuck the girl’s head inside the bubble, pulling the black water from her lungs. After a moment’s pause to stare at the thing he was trying to save, Xir’ain took off down the tunnel again, pulling the girl and her air in his wake.

The runner would have liked to have stayed by its master’s side, but a fresh meal was far more important. It stayed behind to consume the farmer’s body. There would be no corpse or blood when the meal was done; nothing to have spoken of any ill happenings at all. As he ate, the runner eyed the large moo beasts as they shifted nervously in their insufficient shelter. They would go next.

Shaige traveled through the hinterlands of Paterdomus with a swiftness few corporeal things could match. Silently and without being noticed, he flitted from shadow to shadow, ever observant of his surroundings. This land was laden with magic; the very forests themselves up in these mountains seemed to be enchanted, presumably by the creator of this world. This magic that could hide terrible traps just as easily as it could lull one to sleep held no power over the ghostly keeper. From his empty visage there was a cold, level gaze that missed nothing.

There were animals everywhere in this forest, which seemed peaceful enough. Deers, squirrels, bears, and the occasional wolf were spotted by Shaige, but they did not run. Their fur always stood up straight and they knew something was wrong, but they could neither see nor smell the ghost, and so they carried on with their lives without ever knowing the specter had been within mere feet. There were signs of human activity as well. There was the occasional path left behind by a small group of men traversing the forest for some reason, but there were many more paths left by cautious feet. It seemed that some group was hiding in this forest, and going through great lengths to cover their tracks. Shaige sought out to find these people.

After some time, the spirit found himself in the shadow of a stony crag that jutted out from the land like a scar. Clinging to a small ledge near the top, Shaige could sense something. He peered at the spot more closely, and saw through the illusion magic that had been hiding the entrance to a cave. Within that cave, Shaige saw moving creatures. It took a moment, but he recognized them as humans. For some reason, Shaige felt a bizarre and utter hatred for those creatures. They had existed in the world of Shaige's prior life, and so he had been born with a plethora of knowledge regarding their language, cultures, behavior, and prowess in battle, amongst other things. Yet, coming into existence without any memories, Shaige's negative opinion was meaningless, built upon a foundation of air.

Entering the cave, Shaige decided to observe these humans for some time. He would reevaluate his opinion, and even if he was right in seeing them as a nuisance and a threat that needed to be crushed, it could never hurt to better know the enemy. The sun began to go down, exaggerating the shadows in the cave and the bright light from the hearths and magical lights within. Realizing that nearly a day had already passed, and that this would take some time, Shaige decided to contact Soran. Reaching out, over the hills and forests to where he sensed his loyal servant, the keeper managed to establish a connection with the construct.

The pain elementals vigilantly patrolled the hilly area, ensuring that nothing could enter the master's cave unseen and unchallenged. The imps, meanwhile, were gobbling a stew they had cooked from some stolen vegetables, some morsels of meat from animals they had trapped, and a bit of ash and tar for flavor. They had taken the liberty of summoning more pain elementals for their master, but after that they had nothing to do. So they simply sat in the cave, watching over the tiny vial that was their master's most valuable possession. Suddenly, Soran jumped, spilling his stew. The others burst into laughter.

Shaige's voice echoed in the mind of his construct, "Is all well? I have traveled far from our small cave, and will be preoccupied for some time."

The imp construct replied aloud, "Master? Is it you?" The guffawing imps instantly fell silent in respect.

"I feel you speaking, but your words fall silent upon me. You must project your thoughts across space and into my mind. It should be effortless, for I have already linked our souls together."

"Oh wise and powerful master, do you hear me now?"

"I do," the ghost responded, unaffected by the flattery. "What have you done in my absence?"

"I am afraid we were not at all productive. We summoned several more pain elementals, and when there were no more souls in the vicinity, we rested. We had no orders."

"Good. Do not act on your own accord, unless absolutely necessary. I am to be consulted first," Shaige replied, his commanding tone evident enough, even through the telepathy. This land is not so desolate as you might think. I want you to immediately begin using illusion magic to conceal the cave, fortify the entrance, and then expand the interior. Have the pain elementals patrol a wide area, taking care not to be seen. Do as I say, for I will be kind to those who serve me well."

As Shaige's voice faded, Soran snapped out of the daze the telepathy had rendered him in. Within seconds, he was organizing the nine imps and giving out tasks. Under his guidance, they worked efficiently and without argument. The presence of a construct greatly expedited progress.

[b]Shaige's Stuff:[/b[
Minions: Soran the imp construct, 9 imps, 17 pain elementals
Resources: A few bags of tools for the imps. Food is starting to run low, so the imps have resorted to trapping some small animals to help stretch their supplies.
Infrastructure: A dungeon heart, the imps' makeshift altar, some small animal traps outside

Rain fell in sheets over the rooftops of Virens, sliding off their cleverly-designed tiles like droplets off a duck's back onto the cobblestones below. Wherever possible, Clotho dodged beneath the eaves in her flight from the Biomancer's guild. Though she did not fear the magicians, whether trying to fight or simply sounding the alarm, exhilaration filled her with the irrepressible urge to flee with her stolen loot. The amulet, clutched against her chest by her claws, throbbed with life energy. Clotho guessed that it functioned as a power source or at least astral focus for the Biomancers, and would aid the development of her domain immensely. A more immediate concern, however, was the rain; tropical deluges seldom lasted more than a few minutes at a time, but this storm seemed to be intent on sticking around. Already the broad, cluttered streets of Virens were utterly waterlogged, and every step Clotho took created a noisy splash to be drowned out by the cacophony of sound. Clotho relied almost totally upon her innate night vision at this point, so dark were the heavens. The same eyes that guided her to the edge of the town, however, proved to be a hindrance as well.

Roughly fifty feet from point at which main street became a road meandering out of town through the dense jungle copse, Clotho halted. Standing in her way were four biomancers, if their moss-infused robes were anything to go by, as well as five town guards armed with machetes and longbows. Though Clotho knew the luminescence of her eyes and the filched pendant partially gave her away, but she still might have been able to slip by undetected had not an obtrusive lightening flash illuminated her form. Upon seeing her, the soaked company recoiled One of the biomancers, a broad-shouldered man with vast, bristly sideburns, released a powdery mist from his hands that the rain carried into the ground, where tiny vines poked through cracks in the cobblestone and began to grow thorns. One guard identified himself as some sort of officer by announcing in a deep baritone, “Careful, fellas. This ain't no common thief. Form a...”

A sudden thunderclap crushed any chance of hearing the supposed captain's commands or replying to them. No matter--Clotho had no intention of exchanging words. Her rapier whipped into position and she darted forward, running fast and low. The humans stood no chance. Though valiant, the near-blackness denied them a clear target, and Clotho was among them like a wolf among hens. She twisted to and fro, lashing limbs and weapon around in a maelstrom of terror. Her weapon of choice had no slashing or cutting power, but a painful sting served as both a distraction and a lead to be followed up with a hard-shelled kick. Instead, Clotho impaled each target in turn with her barbed rapier; the cruel weapon slid into the warm bodies easily, barely even making them bleed. When the blade was yanked out, however, the barbs brought everything they pierced with them in an eruption of gore.

The last person alive, an elderly female biomancer, gasped faintly as the rapier's needle-sharp tip sprouted out of from between her breasts from behind. She was already on her knees, so Clotho knelt to whisper in her ear lest the rain drown her out. “Let's have a little chat, woman to woman.” The crone shivered violently, burping out little sobbing noises that might have been pleas were she not so terrified. “What is the purpose of your leader's amulet? You wouldn't have tried to face a skilled thief in the dark, pouring rain, with guards most likely asleep moments ago, were it not important.”

Clotho's victim made no sign of understanding. Clearly the Swarm Keeper had erred in her extermination of the more able humans first. With a disappointed groan, Clotho rose halfway to her full height, prepared to brutalize the crone's body with a quick pull of her weapon's hilt. As she twisted the blade, the old woman finally cried out, “Life! Manipulate...living things...lumber...produce...livestock. The amulet is the magic of the guild!”

Dozens of tiny, sawlike teeth were bared in a smile. The news was better than anything Clotho could have hoped for. She bent over the stabbed biomancer and carefully fed the rapier -which had no crossguard- through the woman's body. When the weapon was finally out, only tiny entry and exit wounds remained, barely bleeding. Their owner would live, but Clotho happily hypothesized that the events of this damp afternoon would render her a total lunatic for however many months she had left to live.

Clotho stalked away into the jungle, armed with the potential to manipulate life.

Status:
Location: Virens
Dungeon: Jungle north of Saploya River, N16°W12° An incomplete and unfurnished yet vast hive spanning the length, width, and height of a massive, ancient tree in the jungle. The hive itself is constructed of a magically-created liquid that expands and hardens into a stiff, paperlike substance upon exposure to air. The main body of the hive is suspended by countless support struts that reach for hundreds of feet in every direction. The Dungeon Heart is situated at the very top of the tree. Currently has: Dungeon Heart, Myrmidon Spawner.
Forces: 15 Drone Imps, 39 Myrmidons

With his design now in mind, Macaroth took control of the healthiest, strongest of the bandits and guided him into his sanctum where a pool of liquid metal stood in the middle of the ground, as it was it was like a mirror, still and silent. Quicksilver, Macaroth always did admire at the marvel of it. How it could become anything with the right mould and skill to shape it.

He stepped up to the man and released him from his spell, the man was dazed for a few moments but then looked at his supposed saint with a puzzled expression as Macaroth smiled to him "how would you like to become the first sanctified?"

The man did not fully understand such rhetoric being poorly educated barely able to speak or spell. He knelt down however and decided to accept anything the saint was offering, for it was better than the life he had led so far. More interesting anyways.

Macaroth smiled and put one hand on the mans shoulder, starting to stir the quicksilver with waves of his other hand, soon it was slithering out of its hole and consuming the man for the final ingredient of his new minions. His guardian Angels, he shivered as he imagined his sons swooping into battle.

"oh how magnificent it will be...simply glorious.." He stood over the pool of stirring Quicksilver and chanted on the words of transmutation.

2/3

In the centre of the crypt stood a colossal beast. Twisted flesh formed its thick limbs and broad chest, and its large head was set with disproportionately small eyes which burned with the totally black fire characteristic of Calvartem's undead creatures. This muscular beast of day-old flesh was Calvartem's first Construct. The intimidating monster would have stood at 4 meters if it weren't bent double to fit inside the small space, and it is just as wide. Calvartem intended to use this beast as a siege engine, battering down gates and walls to allow the rest of his forces through. Its sheer size would make it capable of ignoring all but the strongest of attacks, also allowing it to spearhead an attack, soaking up damage. The trade-off was that it wasn't smart or highly mobile, and its size could be unwieldy. For instance, at the moment the beast was stuck inside the crypt, almost unable to move. But Calvartem had a way around that.

"Breaker," the Necromancer said, getting a grunt in return, "Release your essence to me."

He struck the ground with the base of his staff, and black fire crawled around the monstrosity named Breaker. The fire in its eyes went out and its flesh fell apart, and a small ball of muscle engulfed in dark flame rose from the heap and flew towards Calvartem where it embedded itself into his staff. The soul and form of Breaker had been condensed into that portable orb, which Calvartem could release upon any sufficient number of bodies, the equivalent of roughly 20 humans, to summon him again.

Calvartem went outside to see that the tower had been completed. He sent 5 imps to collect the morphed cadavers from the crypt and sent the rest back to the void. The top of the tower was open to the sky, with five intimidating spires pointing up from around the edge. Calvartem climbed an external ladder of stone ledges up to the top, where a large crystal of quartz was affixed to a podium in the centre. He took his staff, touched the tip to the crystal and allowed his distinguishing black light-less fire to flow from him through his staff and into the crystal. After about 20 seconds of channelling energy, he stopped, and the crystal was left glowing intensely, not with light but with darkness. This tower, which would be known as a Death Spire, was a conduit for his power, spreading his domain. The crystal, its power source, could do two things aside from attaching the surrounding land to his Dungeon. One was that it would passively and very slowly suck the life from anything with-in its range to sustain itself. It was very slow, taking a few hours for any noticeable fatigue to set in, but over time it would have a marked effect on the land, killing plants and wildlife. The other thing it could do was, when it sensed a presence nearby that isn't associated with Calvartem, summon the undead around it. It would not be able to summon a whole army, and it was slower than Calvartem, but it would be plenty to deter any wanderers.

With the Death Spire charged, Calvartem could feel his strength grow slightly as it drained power from the land itself and fed it to him. Calvartem leaped down from the tower, his knees bending close to the ground as he landed. Rising again, he knew that more conquest would be on the agenda.

Finally, the dappled sunlight shone through the thick, rolling clouds. Sprinkles of rain still fell, but the torrents of Biblical proportions were gone. Steam began to rise from the foliage as the midday sunlight, kept at bay by the cloud cover, beat down upon it and evaporated the residual water. Clotho, having spent a good hour traversing the dense jungle on foot, was relieved when she stretched her transparent wings and found them dry enough for sustained flight. Her Dungeon loomed above her, but even had it not been such a mammoth landmark, the essence of her soul imbued in her Heart would have guided her back to it. After a few experimental beats of her wings, she took to the air, searching for an empty hive chamber. On the way, she called out to any imps she caught a glimpse of to follow her.

She found a suitable room about halfway up the trunk, plastered against the blighted wood. Beetles swarmed around it, and six of her fifteen available Drone Imps were on hand to carry out her orders. Clotho tore an entrance into the cocoon-like structure and landed within, followed by her minions. The chamber was large, vacant but for a few fat wood beetles whose shells glistened in the dim light, and it was well-supported thanks to numerous support strands outside. Its position, structure, and connections to other parts of the hives allowed it to serve as a central hub, and the role that Clotho had in mind for it suited the theme well. After determining the chamber to be satisfactory, she removed the head biomancer's pendant from about her neck and pried it apart with her claws. Inside the iron casing was a bead of viridian amber, practically dripping with sheer life force. The power contained within the bead almost caused Clotho to salivate, and she experienced a strong urge to consume it, but her sense kicked in. Instead, she placed it in a groove on the underside of her left forearm's carapace.

The effect was instantaneous. The glow of the crystal, signifying the life energy contained within, drained into Clotho's forearm and scrambled the localized genetic material. Before her eyes, the shell covering both the forearm and the entire upper arm melted, churning with magic and making rather horrific crackling and squishing noises. It was an unpleasant experience, but Clotho kept a cool head, carefully exerting her control over the magic. If she failed, the energy could spread like a cancer, warping her entire body and killing her, or worse.

Luckily, she succeeded. Her will proved stronger than the entropy of the released life magic, and the material that constituted her arm reformed itself into an improved shape. Now the carapace took the appearance of armor, an ornate layout of vambrace, rerebrace, spaulder, and pauldron. In addition to provided Clotho with new defensive capabilities in combat, a needle-like protrusion extended from the front of the vambrace portion—an evil-looking stinger, literally dripping with corrupted life energy. Clotho had great plans for this biological weapon, schemes that would give her an unfair advantage in any situation: a venom that could nullify magic. Though uncultured at the moment, Clotho knew that with enough tinkering her fell concoction would have the ability to render even the magic of fellow Keepers useless for a limited time, forcing them to fight her on her own turf: physical combat. Before any of that, however, the poison would have to be concocted. Once perfected in a laboratory of some sort, it could be incorporated into Clotho's biological repertoire and used freely as her own body manufactured more.

Though the specialized toxins were beyond her reach at the moment, the Stinger remained a potent tool through which Clotho could exert her will. Extending the needle, the Swarm Keeper rammed it into the floor of the chamber, releasing a wave of her magic that formed into more summoning portals for imps and flooded the room with life energy. Once another ten had been summoned, Clotho addressed them all. “I have imbued this room with my corruption. You will construct here, using my life essence as a base, a Living Foundry where we can grow weapons for our horde. Like the ant cultivates mushrooms to provide food, you will cultivate organisms that produce our arms. The Myrmidons require spears and shields; I expect that them to be the first products of this Foundry.”

She paused for a moment before continuing. In the silence, the squelches and stretching of the corrupted life magic could be heard. “Higher in the tree, among the leaves, you will build an apothecary where new toxins may be developed.” Walking among the group of drones, she single out the largest, most vicious-looking individual and laid a clawed hand on its shelled shoulder. She remembered that it had been the first, and the quickest, to obey her orders when the frameworks for the Dungeon were first being made. “You will accompany me to my Heart. While in the future I can divine transformative serums to create a construct, that cannot be done without the laboratory. As such, you get your due promotion the hard way. Lucky you.”

Status:
0/3 Drone Imp Construct
0/3 Living Foundry
0/6 Apothecary
Location: Dungeon
Dungeon: Jungle north of Saploya River, N16°W12° An incomplete and unfurnished yet vast hive spanning the length, width, and height of a massive, ancient tree in the jungle. The hive itself is constructed of a magically-created liquid that expands and hardens into a stiff, paperlike substance upon exposure to air. The main body of the hive is suspended by countless support struts that reach for hundreds of feet in every direction. The Dungeon Heart is situated at the very top of the tree. Currently has: Dungeon Heart, Myrmidon Spawner.
Forces: 25 Drone Imps, 48 Myrmidons

Wind slowly wafted through the tundra, bringing with it a deep chill, but relatively little precipitation. In the midst of the stone and snow, a herd of large quadrupeds trotted slowly on their migrant journey across the lands, escaping the surely oncoming storm. Currently they were moving rather slow, allowing some to munch on the sparse fauna, while the stragglers caught up to the general mass of the herd. One of the beasts, larger in stature than the rest, let out a deep groan, a message to the herd. The massive dented horns on the beast signified that he was the leader of the herd.

Far behind the herd, laid a large outcropping of stone, the sharp boulders jutting out of the ground. Deep in the shadows of these rocks laid a small beast, short limbed and stocky, it let out a malicious giggle, raising it's face, masked with a crudely shaped plank. Its eyed trained on a single animal out of the herd, farther out than the rest, and sporting a limp in its hind leg.

Without wasting any time, the small creature slithered towards the creature, keeping close to the ground as it sped forward in pursuit of its prey. The larger beast turned it's head, letting out a slight grunt, before attempting to speed up into a gallop, failing to do so, thanks to it's limp. Fear rose in the animals beady eyes, as it lowered it's horns, accepting defeat, but not before letting out a warning shout to it's herd, who all began to move away from the doomed beast, not expending any energy running. The horned animal gave one last forlorn glance to his herd, the young children he had sired.

The gray imp sprung up from the ground in an impressive leap, claws sinking deep into the hairy hide of the animal, grey knuckles turning white. The massive hairy beast reared back in one last futile attempt at survival, before the imp slashed his claws, taking a massive chunk of flesh and fur from the neck of the beast. Another snicker resounded through the grassy plains as the horse-like beast crashed to the ground, shaking the ground as the air rushed out from its lungs in one last cry, before the life left the beasts body, its eyes rolling back.

The imp smiled over its kill, laughing as blood spurted out of the ruptured jugular. After a moment, the joy left his eyes, realizing the next task at hand. Now that he had killed the beast, he had to drag the beast back to his master, a rather far distance to travel across the tundra. A sigh of exasperation hissed through the coarse mask that served as the imps mask as it looked up and down at the hairy corpse. It was easily four times the size and weight of the small gray creature, towering over the imp, even in death. Grumbling in its strange chatter, it took a grasp of the animals leg, glad his master had given him hands suited for such heavy lifting.

---

Viktor sighed, turning away from the sword he had been sharpening. It was idle, as he waited for his slaves to do their work, and he was rather glad to see one of his human husks standing at his door, standing strictly straight, showing stalwart satisfaction, waiting to be addressed before moving from his rigid state. Viktor had noticed a certain boost in loyalty ever since he removed the humans souls. It might've been one of his best decisions as of yet, and he mentally took a moment to commend himself for taking such action.

Viktor waved his hand in the direction of the half-metal human, giving him permission to speak, while still giving a stare that said 'Do not waste my time'. In a slightly echoed voice, the man spoke up. "We have finished work on the summoning room, we believe it to be fit for your wonderful standards, m'lord." Said the Husk, no longer holding the human fear that he once would've spoken with. As Viktor was about to speak, the husk opened its mouth again. "Also, the imps in your quarry have something interesting to report." Finished the man, before raising his fist in a salute, before being dismissed.

Viktor had been rather happy with the first bit of news, but was a bit concerned as he strode out of his Dungeons Heart, to check on his quarry and summoning room. He strode first to the summoning room, a mere few paces away, to gaze upon his newly finished place. Viktor let out a hearty chuckle as he stepped through the mahogany double doors, loving the sight. Though the room had functioned before, it was a sight to be seen now. The large room was lined with stone slabs, rising to about waist high, serving as workbenches. Each was armed with a small furnace, as well as one massive furnace on the far wall, currently unlit to save precious resources. Beautiful tapestries lined the walls, the silky fabric spinning wonderful tales of old, taken from other rooms around the castle.

"Yes. This shall do nicely." Viktor said, congratulating his slaves on their work, before he walked out of his castle, into the town. A few of the houses had been stripped down to provide material in his endeavors to expand, but a majority of the village stood, corpses still scattered around. Viktor made a mental note to use them later. As he reached the center of his town, he saw the quarry, a massive pit in the ground, rectangular in shape, slowly sloping downwards. At the entrance to the stony cavern stood two imps, next to a pair of torches, illuminating a ways into the pit. There was a scorch mark burned into the ground at the entrance, as well as a small trace of red pigmentation- could it be blood?

The imps spoke quickly as soon as their master neared. Their speedy chatter was still sounded a bit like gibberish, but managed to get the point across. However he did miss one part, and asked them to explain it more slowly. The imps quivered, before speaking again, straining to talk at a normal pace. "We... In mine. Strange black powder, methinks useful. Zagar takes bucket of powder to surface. We hear big boom, so we go looky. Zagar gone, black powder gone, big fire. We look more, got lotsa black powder. We keep down here. Black powder no like fire." One of them said, his speech choppy.

Viktors eyes lit up. This was quite the development. The imps had, not only gotten him quite enough stone to continue building, and iron to supply his troops, but now he was receiving some magical powders? This day was seeming almost too good to be true. As he left the mine, he took with him a bucket of the strange black powder, taking care to keep it away from any torches. He called out for all of his men, save the ogre guards, they wouldn't have the thought capacity to understand what was about to happen. Soon his slaves were gathered in the town square, with Viktor standing tall over them.

"Today, my friends, we have suffered a great loss, a loss of Zagar, an honorable imp and a hard worker." Viktor said, looking through the small crowd. "However, his loss has not been in vain. With his noble sacrifice, we now have a new weapon to use against those who would dare oppose us. Zagar was close to many, but we cannot afford to waste time in mourning. We must continue to grow, advance, lest we be struck down by another army, and insult the life of our precious imp friend. Now husks. Go, build up our walls with this stone, our walls shall stretch to the sky!" He said, gesturing to the stone dug up from the quarry. "Imps! Continue to dig, we must amass our resources, create a stockpile with no end!" Viktor said, raising both arms. "FOR BLOOD! FOR GLORY! FOR VICTORY!" He shouted to his men, raising their spirits.

As Viktor returned to his Dungeon Heart to study this new black powder, he was inturrupted by a furious knocking on his door. He stood up, glad he hadn't been creating a blueprint at that moment. He swung open the door, surprised to see an imp, with many arrows sticking out of the small creatures leathery hide. The imp let out a small squeak. "City... South-East. Long march. Large army. Scary." It spoke, despair in its childlike voice, before it crashed to the floor, dying in the puddle of blood that it had left. Viktor clenched his fist. He felt responsible for his children, and could not tolerate such slaughter of his innocents, disregarding the slaughter he had caused of this town not too long ago.

"Stamrad! Bring me corpses from the village!" Shouted Viktor, rage filling his voice. As the suit of armor approached with a lifeless body, Viktor let out only a grunt, none of the usual formal salutes. Unceremoniously slinging the sack of flesh and bone onto his table, Viktor let out a burst of magic, slamming his door shut, while alerting his men that he was not to be disturbed. Stamrad stood at attention in front of the stained wood, holding his blade steady, a bit curious as to what his master did behind closed doors.

"Orra - Sepurum - Sactasa - Lok" Was the last of the transmutation chant and Macaroth watched as the pool of quicksilver went still. A hand emerged from the pool that grabbed onto the ledge, a figure pulled himself up in front of him.

Macaroth marveled at his creation circling around him, almost ten feet tall now rippling with musculature carried on a pair of silvery wings that could extend six feet each but were now folded neatly on the angels back. His hair was also silvery and long and there was a glow about him, mere mortals would confuse it for divinity but Macaroth knew it was the glow of his own malevolence instilled in the creature.

By now the production buildings were complete and in use, all that was missing now was a mine of iron. Macaroth walked out with his new Son and the bandits that had gathered, now even more than before were dumbfounded by what they saw, some were even paralyzed by fear for they could not believe their eyes. He smiled to the crowd and extended his hand out toward the rabble "who else would be sanctified.." He turned his head to his Son and smiled "go and find me a mine would you?"

The Angel stepped forward and spread his mighty wings before taking flight to the sky with all the magnificence of old fables, his wings gleaming in the morning sun. The other bandits rushed to be blessed and indeed all of them would become his First Born, his elite vanguard for the war sure to ensue. He felt the presences of other evils, one in particularly annoyed him carrying with it the stench of undeath. How he despised necromancers and their work.

One by one he accepted the 20-ish bandits into the monastery and into his sanctum, within a day they would all be his Sons reborn.

Status:
Dungeon: Heart, Monastery - 300 yard circle of medium walls, Forge, Tanner, Fletcher, Blacksmith, Smelter.
Army:
21 Angels, 6 Monks, 15 Imps

Shaige soon found that the hidden cave he stumbled across wasn't some tiny camp for a few roving bandits. This was something more, an entire subterranean city. Below the forested hill there was a vast network of caverns and tunnels that stretched out for miles, the blood vessels of the earth. At least a thousand humans lived in this section of the cavern, with small cots in cold, damp corners. There were some magical braziers haphazardly thrown down in various chambers, though with such sparse lighting the darkness still seemed to almost swallow the settlement. Despite living in this place for some time, the humans were unable to adapt to the suffocating darkness. Living in such nightmarish conditions and eating mostly fungi for fear of going onto the surface had left many people sickly and broken.These people lived like frightened little rats, hiding in their own graves.

In this wretched abyss, devoid of warmth and light, the ghost was in his own element. He was free to listen and watch without fear of being seen by even the druids amongst these people. The druids seemed to be the only thing keeping the people alive. It was they who used magic to conceal the entrance, they who created and maintained the magical lights, and they who gathered food for the hungry masses from both the surface and the dark, unexplored reaches of the chasm. Still, the druids themselves were only human, and they too smelt of fear. With only basic earth, life, and illusion magics, Shaige doubted very much that these spellcasters would be of much use in a fight.

It did not take Shaige long to learn the story of this place. By overhearing many a hushed conversation, he was able to piece together that these were refugees from a village that had recently been conquered. A great city state to the east had been advancing further inland, waging a holy war and killing any barbarian tribes that refused to be subjugated. With all the varying tribes in these forests and mountains having pride and long memories, this group was unable to atone century old feuds and find refuge. So, caught between their foreign conquerors and some other tribes that would hardly be any kinder to them, they had no choice but to flee into the bowels of the earth. With crusaders and enemy tribesmen still skirmishing above, venturing to the surface was a frightening prospect. Fear of starvation was the only thing more powerful than fear of being enslaved or executed, so it was seldom that the druids ventured out beneath the sky, and only at night and for brief periods of time. Something had to be said for the hardy druids, since it was a miracle that they had managed to keep their people alive for this long.

Shaige eventually left the caverns the way he came, and scoured the nearby area in search of some of these crusaders. It was not long before he stumbled upon a trio of the conquerors. A fearsome sight they were, though likely not in the way they had envisioned. Two of them lay on the forest floor, hacked in a two or three places and shot with arrows in a dozen more. The two knights' armor was so mangled that it hadn't even been worth looting, and so it would remain there until it rusted away and the crusaders' bones crumbled to dust. However, their bodies looked pristine in stark contrast to the third man in their party, whose corpse had been dismembered and nailed to a tree. He looked to have been their leader. Perhaps he was a priest or a wizard of some sort, for he was garbed in a robe of red and gold. Or perhaps the robe had just been golden, and the red was the man's blood. It was difficult to tell.

Shaige left the scene to search for crusaders once more, preferably living ones. No doubt that ambush was the work of some of the neighboring tribesmen; it was hard to imagine the druids shivering back in the cave committing such brutality. Then again, something about those people struggling to survive in the darkness had resonating within the ghost. They were not unlike himself, victims of circumstance attempting to grow and make the best of things. They had potential. They were resilient and loyal, and they desperately needed a leader if they were to have any hope of survival. Shaige decided then that he would aid this tribe, and take them under his protection.

Shaige's Stuff:
Minions: Soran the imp construct, 9 imps, 37 pain elementals
Resources: A few bags of tools for the imps. Food is starting to run low, so the imps have resorted to trapping some small animals to help stretch their supplies.
Infrastructure: A dungeon heart, the imps' makeshift altar, some small animal traps outside. The inside of Shaige's dungeon is being expanded, and the outside is now fortified with wooden abatises and concealed with magic.

The golden light streaming from Xir’ain’s eyes dimmed and receded. He felt tired; he’d been unaware that he could feel tired. It had taken him much longer than he had anticipated to heal the female human. There had been… something, some force, resisting his changes. But there was too much earth and water and darkness separating the sky and where Xir’ain weaved his powers of creation for the sun’s magic to keep up its resistance long. He had saved her, but for what purpose? Information, he told himself. Surely he could have found another human to get to tell him everything. Curiosity, that was more honest. No, he was Xir’ain, keeper of the abyss, and he did not need to justify his actions. Not even to himself.

The girl awoke suddenly, and she became suddenly aware that she could see everything. She saw the wraith standing next to her, and she saw the strange beings gathered above, and she saw the paths leading in all directions, and she saw the black lake far above. And then the girl’s eyes opened, the iris a dark gray rimmed with gold. “Where am I?” she asked the wraith who stood beside her. She was perplexed how it stood perpendicular to her; she did not feel as if she was lying down. The black creature moved to stand her up, and then she realized what it was. “Water. I’m underwater.” She raised a hand to her mouth and then her throat. “How… how can I be breathing underwater?”

Xir’ain looked at his creation with affection and pride. If he had created it from scratch it would have been his greatest yet, but he had only altered the existing material into something new. “You are in the heart,” he spoke, no sign of motion on his mostly-featureless face. “I made you so you could breathe here.”

As the wraith looked her up and down, the girl became aware of her own nudity. She panicked for a moment as she looked around for something to cover herself with – there was nothing – and then she panicked again as she expected to choke on the black water that was surely rushing into her lungs. The sensation never came. “Why… why am I naked? Where are my clothes!?” the girl was not handling her rebirth well.

“Gone. Too much blood.”

“Blood, what are you talking about!?” But as she spoke her question aloud, her eyes and hand both moved towards her chest, finding the blackened scar over her heart at the same time. “What… happened to me?”

Xir’ain had taken any memory she may have had of being stabbed from her when he had put her back together. She wouldn’t even remember him standing outside her home or that her own father had tried to kill her in a moment of delusion. She wouldn’t remember much of her life before now. “You were dying. I fixed you, but different.” Still, what Xir’ain told her was not a lie. With a twist of his hand, black water wrapped around the girl’s body, pushing her fingers from the black scar, and fell into dark folds of watery silk. “Is there anything else you require?”

“You… saved me?” She seemed confused about something. “Thank you,” as she spoke, the golden light that danced from her eyes seemed to become brighter. “I don’t even know what you are, but thank you. Do you have a name?” At the word name, the girl paused. “Do I have a name?”

Xir’ain didn’t know why he put up with the female’s questions, but he did. “I am Xir’ain. Xir’ain is what and who.” After a moment of thought he added, “And you are Enly’air. Enly’air is what and who you are.”

Enly’air. The girl let it bounce around in her head for a second. It felt right. Yes, that was her name. If not, it would be her name from now on. “Thank you Xir’ain, I don’t know how I can repay you for saving my life.” For some reason, she found it incredibly easy to make her body move the way she wanted it to despite being underwater. She bowed at her savior.

“All I ask is for your loyalty, nothing more or less,” Xir’ain had spoken the words before he knew what he was saying. No, that is not what he wanted from her. “I would also like for you to tell me what you know about the world. I am unfamiliar with it. I am… new.” Odd, he did not speak in such a way to the imps or the eels, not even to the runners though they had the intelligence to make conversation with.

“You have it,” Enly’air said. “And I’ll tell you what I know, though it may not be much. I never travelled far from home.” She began telling Xir’ain of the world.

Xir’ain interrupted her incredibly detailed explanation of every place she’d ever been to or hear about with the question that he had been waiting to ask: “What is Ensis’Lucas?”

“Ensis’Lucas? That’s a place, a big city. Like a hundred fifty miles east of home I think. Ships from all over stop there because it’s got the only sizeable port on the southern side of the continent. It’s home to the most skilled blacksmiths in the whole world. They say that a sword forged by a blacksmith from Ensis’Lucas will never dull or break. I bet they use magic to make that happen though.”

“Magic?” he asked, some part of his mind already lining the word to the force that had tried to stop him from resurrecting the girl. If there was something out there that had the power to oppose him, he had to know what it was, and more importantly, how to destroy it.

Enly’air was confused for a moment how someone could not know about magic. Hadn’t he just made clothes for her using magic? Perhaps it was because he wasn’t human. Not all magical beings could understand the concept of magic because it was simply their natural state. “Magic,” she began trying to explain such a fundamental concept. “I don’t know how to describe it, so I’ll just show you.” Enly the human girl had had very little magical talent, but there were a few small things she could do. Enly’air put her fingers together and concentrated as hard as she could. And then she snapped her fingers, and the entire pitch-black dungeon lit up like the inside of the sun.

Xir’ain screamed in terror, for the first time in his short existence feeling pain. In the chamber above and throughout all the winding tunnels of the dungeon, the imps and eels and runners all felt the same pain. The water, not black at all in that instant, was filled with a singular roar of pain. The light filled every crack and crevice of the sprawling maze-like dungeon, and then it forced itself out through every opening it could. Everywhere a small pool of water marked an entrance to the dungeon, a pillar of light reached into the air. The black lake above the heart disappeared completely in one massive burst of light that connected the ground to the sky.

When the light faded and the dungeon waters returned to blackness, there was perfect silence. Enly’air was finally the first one to break it. “I-I don’t-“ She was having trouble making words come out. Her voice broke the spell.

Xir’ain slammed the girl against the far wall of the heart. The dungeon waters vibrated with his fury. “What did you do!” he roared. The creatures gathered outside the entrance to the heart scattered; they had never felt the master’s anger before. He had never had cause for anger before. Xir’ain might have killed the girl then, despite having just saved her from death, but his body was suddenly incredibly weak. His vision went dark, golden light all but extinguished, and he collapsed, for the first time knowing what blackness looked like as he lost consciousness.

Magic. Was it truly this terrifying?

The terrain was getting steeper as the mining town got closer, but that hardly bothered Calvartem. Although he was not fast nor agile, he did not feel pain, hunger or weariness and could walk indefinitely, regardless of how taxing it would be on a mortal body. The walk did take longer than his imps had managed, though, as their ethereal bodies allowed them to float over the terrain and drift along at higher speeds, but Calvartem did not mind spending a day to get to his destination.

It was mid-morning when the Necromancer finally came with-in view of the town. It was built in front of a cliff and the houses had stone walls with thatch roofs. Two large horse-drawn carts were currently being filled with stone and ores. They did not seem to be heavily defended. Before he approached the town Calvartem detoured to the local river, where struck the ground with his staff and tendrils of black fire spread out around him. They found four human corpses with-in reach, three of them from inside the river. He had chosen the river to search because humans, to his inconvenience, typically did not leave their dead lying around. However, if the body can not be retrieved, such as when they drown in a river, it is left there. The three walkers from the river were mostly bone, their flesh eaten off by the fish of the river. The other walker was rather rotten, with water from the river having soaked through the soil and into him. Having his initial forces, Calvartem made his advance.

He guided his walkers so they would enter the town unseen, so they would have some element of surprise. They entered through the back of a house. A woman in the house heard the door open and someone walk in, so she cautiously went to investigate, and screamed when she saw the four rotten visages lunging towards her. The zombies made quick work of her, tearing flesh with their teeth. Two young children, who were in the house and heard their mother scream, also went to investigate, and they were terrified at the gory scene they beheld. They did not have to live with the trauma for long, as the zombies then turned on them too. Calvartem watched on approvingly, and once the three people were dead he raised them up as walkers too.

The seven walkers, as they exited the house, were met by a man who had rushed over to see what was wrong. As soon as he saw the undead walking towards him he turned and ran the other way, shouting that there were zombies in their town. Initially the other people were baffled and thought the man had gone crazy or something, but moments later they saw the walkers out on the street hunting down those who are nearby and reacted similarly, fleeing from the zombies. The walkers shambled around individually, but they were unable to catch up to any of the fleeing townsfolk before resistance arrived, in the form of miners variously armed with pickaxes, spades, bows and rock-bending magic. They were not skilled fighters, but neither were the walkers and they were desperately trying to defend their town, so the walkers were effectively held at bay, and half of them were incapacitated, their bodies rendered useless for fighting by loss of limbs or support.

Calvartem was not worried by this apparent defeat. While the walkers kept the town's defence distracted he had found the town cemetery. At a wave of his staff the hands of the dead clawed their way out of the earth and pulled their rotten bodies out with them. Now he had a decent hoard, numbering in the fifties, which he unleashed onto the line of miners which had successfully held back the first seven walkers. The hoard came at their flank, and the rag-tag team was easily outnumbered and overwhelmed by the zombies which swarmed at them. Those which were not slain scattered, and the zombies dispersed after them, spreading through the town to find further prey.

Four people had managed to climb on top of a cart filled with rocks and were quite successfully fending back the zombies. Two wielded mining tools, one a bow and another magically threw rocks. This would not do. Calvartem cast a bolt of black fire at the mage, striking the man dead. The archer saw this happen and shot an arrow at the Necromancer in vengeance. The arrow hit its mark in Calvartem's abdomen, piercing his robe. It passed with little apparent resistance out the other side and stuck into the ground. Calvartem did not so much as flinch, for the arrow had not so much as hit him than pass through him harmlessly, slipping between his ribs. Despite being unharmed, he would not let such a brazen move go unpunished. Calvartem cast another bolt of black fire, but this time he aimed for the stone heap. The magic buried itself into the stones before exploding, hurling rocks around the street and throwing the remaining three men to the ground, where the hoard of walkers finished them off.

Eventually the town had been cleared of living people. Blood, limbs, guts and corpses littered the streets. Calvartem ordered the walkers which were still standing to return to their graves, then he summoned ten imps. He set the shadowy beings the task of building another spire here, so he would be able to further increase his reach and power. As the imps got to work, making use of the stone which had already been harvested by the prior inhabitants, Calvartem withdrew to the darkness of the mine to ponder strategy. His greatest weakness was that he was slow, so if he is away then his Dungeon is not very well defended until he returns, and by then it would likely be too late. He needed some way to get around faster, so he decided that he would need to make some kind of steed. He also noted that the walkers also had the weakness of being easily outrun. A new creation would be needed that is faster, able to strike down those who flee. As the hours wore on, he continued pondering while the imps continued building.

Fire crackled through the forest, trees charring under the sheer heat. Cinders spread through the undergrowth like a festering plague. Thuds echoed around as trees crashed to the ground, allowing the fire to speed through the forest at an even more accelerated pace. Strange aromas filled the air, various herbs and plants burning, like the scent of a monastery filled with far too much incense.

Through the bushes and grass darted tight packs of various fauna, each seeking to escape the burning fire around them, trampling those who moved too slowly. In the scorched earth lay the blackened corpses of those who were trampled or caught by the flame, seeming to maliciously seek out life itself, feeding off of the flesh and blood of innocents.

Though the destruction wrought was seemingly widespread, the fire tapered out almost as instantly as it blazed up. The fire sprung up around the skeletal beast. Ifrit seemed to command the attention of the flames, as they danced around his feet, almost as if they were worshiping him, never straying too far from their god. Behind him laid smoking carnage, charred trees snapped like twigs beneath the colossal beast.

However, among the corpses and wreckage, stood a single man, seemingly unfazed by the fire and flames. The man wore formal robes that whipped around his lean figure. A smirk laid across his unblemished face, masking the deep sense of horror that laid deep inside his stomach. In his hands was an elegantly crafted staff, intricate designs swirling up the base, tipped with a crystal.

The man closed his eyes in concentration, muttering various incantations under his breath. As he spoke, the wind picked up, swirling quickly in a tight circle around him. Soon his muttered chant rose in a crescendo, and he began screaming out words in a long forgotten language. The crystal tipped staff began to glow with the sheer energy that he was gathering, swirls of indigo light extending out, like the tentacles of an octopus, greedily reaching out for the kill.

As the tendrils began wrapping around the bones of Ifrit, the fires around him began to die down. Confused, the beast turned, surprised by something so insignificantly small actually harming him. The massive beast lowered his head, taking a deep whiff of the air. One thought ran through the beasts mind, something he hadn't thought of for awhile now- 'Magic!'

A deep growl emanated from the throat of Ifrit, anger boiling through his bones. "MAGIC. MAGIC. YOU CANNOT HARM ME WITH MAGIC. YOU SHALL FEAR MY WRATH. I AM DEATH. I AM FIRE. I AM IFRIT, THE LAST SCION OF THE INFERNAL KING. YOU SHALL BOW TO MY MIGHT!" He shouted, words mangled by years of not speaking.

As he finished his rant, so to speak, he used what strength he could muster under his magical shackles, and released a billowing wave of white hot flame, bathing the young wizard in what should've been pure death. As smoke engulfed the poor man, the tendrils of blue magic slunk away, shattering into seemingly nonexistent shards.

Ifrit stared down at his work, his skull somehow contorting into what seemed like a grin. However, the skull returned to it's previous brittle state as the smoke cleared, revealing that the wizard had survived, staggering beneath a shield of magic. This seemed to enrage the beast even further, which was not a good thing, considering that he was no longer shackled.

However, the young wizard was far from done fighting. He had been sent to extinguish a simple fire, and had been met with this beast? For the young man, it was seemingly a dream some true. It was finally his chance to make his parents proud, make everyone proud. So, without hesitation, he began to cast another spell, this one to finish off the monster.

Needless to say, his hopes and dreams were dashed for the split second that he had before Ifrits jaws crunched down on the man, splintering the skull of the wizard between his jagged teeth. A pleasant sensation ran through his bones, magic running through the fiery body of Ifrit. His fire raged even brighter, consuming the soul of the man.

Ifrit stood tall, contented by the transpired events, not noticing that the wizard has left a sigil burning on his skull, a warding spell, one that would make it child's play for any experienced wizard to take down the fiery beast. However, still none the wiser, Ifrit trotted onwards, sniffing out magic in the air, going to his impending doom, thinking one thing. "KILL. KILL. KILL."

The earth shuddered beneath the tremendous, heavy bronze boots of a giant. The walking colossus, armored in coruscating bronze that showed no sign of its ancient age, might have blended in with the aurous grass of the plains were he not the size of a tree. Balon moved ungracefully; his unwieldy gait a result of his muscles deteriorating from the curse and his time spent underwater leaving him with poor balance. Still, when he slowly trudged whilst clad in a suit of armor, his stride was large enough to let him move at a speed unburdened humans would struggle to maintain.

After a short while Balon found himself ravenous, his body completely unused to any type of motion or physical work. Walking so far inland had been foolish; he felt weak, hungry, and dry. Just as he was about to return to the sea and regain his strength, one of his feet broke through the ground and fell into some ravine below. Tripping, the giant fell down face first, his hands outstretched to break his fall. Instead, they too broke through the ground and his entire body fell into some dark cavity in the ground, along with a cascade of dirt.

Balon's enormous body crashed down into the flooded tunnel, instantly sinking to the bottom of the black water. The giant was instantly reinvigorated. This water felt cool, refreshing. It also felt dangerous, and eerily similar to the water at the bottom of the trench. Balon's prison had been equally murky and dark as these waters, but there was something more here. The giant could feel that some malevolent being was here, no doubt the source of the taint in this aquifer.

Balon's sole good eye was quick to adjust to the complete darkness, giving some limited eyesight in these waters. However, that wasn't necessary. Balon could have negotiated these treacherous tunnels with all three of his eyes blinded, for he could feel the water's flow and all the ripples within, even through his bronze armor. Deciding to swim up this tunnel to investigate the source of this taint, the giant began to crawl on his belly through the tunnel, which was rather narrow for his liking. In some places it was possible to swim, but in most he was forced to pull himself forward by gripping the floor and walls of the passage.

After a short time the tunnel was filled with a blinding light and a wave of cleansing magic. Other than forcing his eye to readjust to the dark once again, there was little effect. After all, Balon had once been a holy guardian. His black heart had always been immune to such spells. Suddenly, he felt disturbances in the water, everywhere. There were creatures in these tunnels, and that light seemed to have roused their anger. An eddy of water pushed back a tuft of hair tangled with seaweed, revealing Balon's bulbous, rotten eye- the one in the middle of his forehead, that killed anything it saw. The giant did not cover his eye back up; instead, he peered down the winding tunnel with it, and clasped his spear and shield even harder.

“Hold still, you're making it worse,” snarled Clotho as she wrestled the soon-to-be construct. Without its master's physical or mental capabilities, the chosen imp was having a far harder time coping with the undeveloped reconstitution venom than Clotho did. Its body twisted agonizingly, changing constantly. Its entire outer layer convulsed, seeming more liquid to the naked eye than solid, pulsating in waves of alteration. Clotho attempted to keep the gruesome abomination from tearing apart the inside of her Heart, concerned with her own safety far more than the imp's. By this point she had practically given up on it; its body appeared too horrendously misshapen to indicate the slightest hope of reeling the changes back in to something acceptable. As the changes worsened, evoking an even louder, garbled, continuous shriek of pain from the imp, Clotho realized she would have to assume a greater role in guiding the transformation.

Letting go of what might have been an arm, she stepped back before lashing out with a devastating kick. The blow stunned the imp, momentarily halting both its movement and the progression of its cancerous growth. Clotho reached forward, grabbed a hold of the living mess, and flung it into the bottom of the cocoon in the chamber's center. She then climbed into it herself. From within her sanctum, her natural abilities as a Keeper -such as that which allowed her to make creatures- were awakened, and she could more clearly direct the change of the imp. Grasping an idea, Clotho attempted to pry her way into the ongoing magical phenomenon that was consuming her imp. Altering a magical process proved far more difficult than instigating a new one, so all Clotho could really do was gently steer the wretched reformation in the right direction.

A few minutes later, she fought her way out of the soothing binds of the Heart. Her legs were weak, as she found when she first stepped down onto the room's papery floor. In fact, all of her was weak; magic to her was a stab in the dark, unfamiliar, arduous, and tiresome. When she looked down at the pitiable wreck that had once been an imp, however, it was all worth it. The new construct was still disfigured, but was also beautiful, in a way. The imp had taken on characteristics of a mantis; its body was larger, longer, and slimmer, with two pairs of legs as well as two pairs of arms. Two of the new limbs, the back two were sickles, spiny blades made for snatching, holding, and cutting. The other two formed more conventional arms, with sleek, green-tinted shell and lithe, delicate hands for manipulation of objects. Its head was vaguely trapezoidal in shape, with tiny mandibles, three milky pea-like eyes on one side of its face, and a single huge bugeye on the other. It even had short wings, which would allow it very limited flight. Random spines projected from the carapace all over its body, and its coloration was anything but coherent. The new construct sputtered, dazed somewhat by the sudden and invasive reconstitution of its body, but recovered quickly.

“Master,” it finally slurred in a barely-understandable whine. Clotho smiled; while other imps sported only the crudest semblance of a guiding consciousness, this one had its own intelligence. A particular talent that Clotho had fought hard to imbue in it was an affinity for poisons. Though fervently loyal, even dependent, to Clotho, it would be able to serve as a leader to the other imps. And unlike them, this one had some fighting ability, though natural cowardice would prevent it from becoming an adept.

“Welcome back, Scutra. I'll bet you're pretty confused about what just happened to you, but it'd better if you just forget. I have an assignment for you.” The construct perked up a bit, possessed by an innate sense to obey. “By now there should by an Apothecary in the middle-to-upper levels of this tree. Go there, and make yourself at home. Soon I'll have orders for you to fulfill. Gather ingredients from the living things in and around my dungeon, starting with this.” Clotho winced as she tore out a short strand of fiber from her cocoon and slapped it into the more delicate hand of Scutra. It examined the fibers quizzically; with some experimentation, the construct would find the fiber to be a premier source of life energy. “Now go.”

Meanwhile, three imps remained in the newly-completed Living Foundry, overseeing the large, sessile organisms designed to grow the requisite weapons for Clotho's forces. This chamber's position on the tree meant it was accessible to non-flying minions with limited climbing ability, like the Myrmidons. Already the first spears and shields were being harvested from the bizarre polyps.



Compendium
Scutra - first construct. An outstanding imp was remolded raw by Clotho's newly-acquired Stinger. By using her Heart as a means for controlling the otherwise cancerous transformation, Clotho created an imp with several traits of the mantis, including bladed sickles, sleek shell, bulging eye, and wings. Scutra's main tasks are to lead the relatively mindless drone imps in their projects and to concoct various toxins for use in Clotho's Stinger. Unerringly loyal, but also curious, smart, and a compulsive hoarder.