[IC] Tverios: The Conquest

[Vahir]

April 4th, in the year 3650 of the Tolosi Calendar

Like every other day of the year on the Hamrock Isles, the weather in Taranidorn was soggy and miserable on that early day of spring. There was a chill in the air that cut right down to the bone, worse even than the cold of winter, because it seeped everywhere. Around the isles, men stood by fires, cursing the late coming of the warm season. The streets of the capital were filled with hooded and cloaked figures, wrapped up in furs.

The keep was no better off; in fact, due to its large size, it had proven itself quite incapable of heating efficiently, and if anything the chill was even worse within. Servants scuttled around gathering firewood to heat it the best they could. In the main hall, a small gathering of men and women huddled around a large table, doing their best to ignore the cold as they studied a giant map spread across its surface.

The map was an artful representation of the north of Tevrios, of everything south of the Samnidall and north of the Orkantor, and the people were nobles, generals, and dignitaries, the closest advisers of His Majesty, the self-proclaimed Emperor of the world. They waited for his coming patiently, taking the time to study the tactical situation, and to discuss with one another in low voices.

There was Chuko Wolong, an easily missed man who nevertheless stood out by his exotic appearance, the Qaylu right-hand man of the Emperor; there was Selena Jalek, captain of the Night Hunters, analyzing the map, occasionally sharing an amusing anecdote with those around her; there was Claes Astra, the infamous leader of the Grey Wind mercenary company, tapping her fingers on the table impatiently, a look of irritation plain on her face; and others still.

After a few minutes of this, the great oak doors creaked open, and Oromis, god and emperor, strolled into the room. His head was bare of a crown- he had made it a point not to have a coronation on the isles, and to instead crown himself in Tolos itself, the city of kings. "I thank you all for coming," he said amiably.

A look of mischief briefly appeared on his face as he took his place at the end of the long table, from where he could see all the others. "I apologize for my lack of punctuality, but I was, ah, detained by another matter. Now, I'm sure you've all had time to make social conversation, so I'll get right to the point: Planning this war of mine."

He glanced at the map laid down on the table. "We must take Tolos," he began, pointing it out on the map, just across the sea from the isles, "We MUST. Without it, we do not have the legitimacy we need to win this war. It's a tempting target, as well; so close, and so valuable. Too tempting, I think. It smells of a trap."

"Announcing my coronation was a double-edged sword. Yes, we gained supporters, but it also gave our foes time to rally and make their own plans. No doubt an army is gathering in Tolos as we speak."
"We do have two great advantages. One is our naval dominance. Between the recent war with Jadis and the looming Rusadiric invasion, the Etruscans have their entire fleet in the Timerian Sea. This gives us a window of opportunity, one I intend to take advantage of. The other are the Grey Winds; with any luck, news that they've joined us haven't reached the Prophet, so he'll underestimate the size of our army."

"I've come up with a plan to lead us to victory, using these advantages. I will take three-quarters of our army, and land south-west of Tolos, in the Kingdom of Grandell. Those lords declared for me in the last war, and they were punished severely; there is a lingering resentment there that we can take advantage of. The local nobility will flock to our cause, and the Prophet and his army will be forced to march on us, or else see an entire kingdom defect. We will not give him the battle he will seek, however. Instead, I'll lead him down the coast in a merry chase, accumulating what recruits I can. Wolong, you'll come with me; I'll need your help in managing the army."

"During this time, the other quarter of our army, composed of the Grey Winds and the Night Hunters, will sail towards the now empty Tolos, under the command of Claes Astra. They will have to send scout ships ahead of the main force, razing the watchtowers before they can spot the invasion force. If all goes well, this host will our flag over the ruins of Tolos. Losing that city will melt away the Prophet's armies, and swell our own with defectors."

He finally glanced up from the map, flashed a childlike grin. "We're going to nab their capital from right under their noses. Any questions?"

[Athinar]

"... and that's when I said, the boot up yer arse should be enough proof!" Selena's hood was down, revealing her flowing chestnut hair, pulled back in a ponytail. Her twin long daggers were in their sheaths, on the table in front of her, and her long, slightly curved sword rested against the table, point down into a crack in the stone floor. After she told the story, she went back to scanning the map. A serpent was beautifully drawn in the sea between Hamrock, her delightfully rainy home, and Etruscia. She didn't know why. Selena, at least, had never seen a sea monster out in the water. Of course, all of the rain could be a factor. Maybe they only came out when nobody can see them.

Unfolding a letter, she reviewed it once again, finding the contents disturbing, as usual. Maybe if she read it enough, the contents would change, but that didn't seem to be the case. Folding it up as the door opened, she brightened as their God Emperor entered the room. They could finally start planning. Saluting him without standing, she looked to her right and left, glancing at Chuko and Claes. There were other advisers, of course, but the ones closest to her seemed to be the most interesting.

Waiting until Emperor Oromis had finished speaking, she nodded along with his statements. He was right on most counts. Although Tolos wasn't that tactically important, the political impression was huge. If the God Emperor himself reclaimed Tolos, the Prophet himself wouldn't be able to put up much of a resistance. However, she did have a few questions. Raising her hand, she spoke up.

"Yer Godship, you said that we'd have to send out scout ships. Would the particulars of the operation be Claes' and myself's responsibility? Or do ya have another plan, sir?" She wasn't outright smiling, but she did have a cheerful look on her face, not afraid to ask the man directly. Divinity or no, she found him to be... personable, likable. She draped her arm around Claes' shoulders, and said, "Though I'm sure Miss Claes and I could whip somethin' up."

Waiting for him to reply, she grinned at Claes conspiratorially, and gave her a thumbs up. She knew that the ginger would be thinking the same thing, trying to get a better feel of the situation. Studying the red-headed mercenary leader, she found that life as a soldier hadn't been too hard on her, much like Selena. However... Selena shivered. Those eyes. Green, like her own, but... they were different, detached somehow. Separated from the rest of them.

She couldn't dwell on it, though, and quickly returned her attention to the meeting, glancing at Wolong. She should probably get to know the general better, if they were to work together. Claes, she'd be spending much of her time with, and the God Emperor was too high above her station to talk more than this once. She supposed that all of her other orders from the man would come through generals and officers and the like. Didn't matter if he was a nice enough fellow, the bloke was a GOD.

Waiting to see what the others had to say, Selena was leaning back in her chair to keep her arm draped around Claes' shoulders.

[Eschatologist]

The Pitch

Claes’s face brightened immediately, chagrin blooming in her for a moment before being swept away by anticipation. She hadn’t meant to look impatient, and was sure her new Emperor was not pleased with her impertinent disposition, but after a long and arduous ride [and subsequent boat journey, by far the worst leg], full of pressing decisions and matters requiring her attention, not doing anything was proving difficult. The tall tales from her fellow advisor were helping alleviate her impetuous mood, but only slightly.

She stood at attention when he entered, her chair screeching back on the floor as she saluted ramrod stiff. She listened to the briefing with rapt attention, not betraying any of the trepidation that was building inside of her. She suppressed a grimace at the mention of the boat ride; it was inevitable, and at least now the horses would be slightly less skittish, but it did not meant that she dreaded it any less. What finally broke the calm and respectful edifice was the announcement of her task. She had to take a city. More than that, she had to take the capital of a world power, likely heavily defended even after a sally, with no time or resources for a proper siege. She knew that her soldiers would not like it, at the very least. Cavalrymen rarely were employed in sieges, and while she understood the reason for the assignment she doubted the men [and few women] who would do the actual fighting and dying were not looking forwards to giving up their mounts and lances in favor of daggers and ladders.

The enthusiasm of the God-Emperor was surprising. It was not unwelcome, certainly: a more sanguine commander had always sat well with Claes, but she was surprised such an ancient and storied figure would have such excitement for anything. She did at least appreciate his mind for his own strategy: she figured the feinting force would not be able to carry its own supplies, and was excited and amazed at the prospect of a retreating action supplied by water.

She had readied herself to speak, and was about to politely voice her opinions, when she was cut off by her new subordinate. She was not particularly bothered, more than willing to have her questions wait. The woman raised valid concerns, and she was happy to have a charge who was not afraid to ask for clarification from a commanding officer. She’d seen the type in Tolos who would drown their army crossing a river without rafts, all to follow orders.

What did bother her was the arm suddenly draped around her, as though she were in a tavern rather than a strategy meeting. She felt a familiar burning in her chest, and managed to stop the muscles in her face from their instinctive tightening. She beat back the anger, saved the rebuke for later. She managed to smile slightly, though she did not return either the clasp or the thumbs-up gesture. Feeling her moment to interject, she jumped on the opportunity, eager to ask a thousand questions and suggest a thousand alternatives.

"The Winds can handle vanguard operations easily enough, my Lord. However, I have questions about the operation.” Catching herself before she gave offense, remembering just in time that this was her liege-lord, not just an employer “In detail, not in general, of course. To put it bluntly, the Winds are not siege troops, my Lord, and I fear that your army’s supply method will hinder your ability to avoid conflict. If I may propose an alternative deployment...”

She cleared her throat, extricating herself from the unwarranted grip of her fellow advisor, bending over the ornate map and gesturing about it to illustrate her point as clearly as possible. “I suggest dividing the Winds into several parts. The outriders will stop news of our arrival, as you said, but I would recommend two more divisions, made up of mounted archers that would be poorly used in a siege. A third of the company would stay with the assault detachment, sacrificing remounts and matching pace with the lancers. One third would follow the pursuing army south, again sacrificing remounts that would not be needed to keep up with the slower moving Prophetic force. They would be tasked with cutting supplies and harrying outriders, ideally slowing the enemy force significantly and reducing morale perhaps disastrously. The final third, gaining remounts from both groups, would dash towards Tolos cutting off reinforcement and loot surrounding villages, denying supplies, extra militia recruits, and perhaps drawing additional forces from our objective. These forces would still ideally be able to support the assault, but would be able to bring their entire capability to bear against any forces they encounter in the field. I see minimal risk in the plan, and it should not only make the capture easier, but put the pursuing army in a position to be destroyed once news of the capture reaches them, as opposed to letting them scatter and regroup. Two such victories in close succession would also have a significant effect on opposing morale, hopefully drawing more supporters to our side.”

She let the feigned smile return, now with genuine satisfaction, as she stood straight once again. She had realized long ago that this was where she belonged, and she relished the anticipatory excitement that could be enjoyed before the travails of campaign truly set in. Her smile dimmed slightly after her brief pause, as she began listing possible drawbacks to the plan.

“Unfortunately, such a plan would mean that horses would die on the interdiction sprint, leaving the Winds slowed until replacements can be provided. This should not be a problem, since after the siege I presume we will hold the city and await reinforcement, but it is something to be considered. There will be public opinion issues when the interdictors loot farms and villages, but the Winds are disciplined enough to keep their looting in a strictly military capacity. Rape and pillage will not be allowed, and the food can be reimbursed later, which may in the end net positively for our public image. Also, and this is highly unlikely, if a beachhead defense is prepared ahead of time, the Winds will be much less able to break through with a third of their mounted archers deploying further south, and those archers will be effectively defenseless against concerted beach defense. These possible beach defeats are, however, dependent on enemies learning of the plans and the specific deployments ahead of time, which can be prevented by dramatically increasing guard against departing ships which may be carrying spies bearing knowledge of such matters.”

She waited for rebuke or criticism, hoping that her new God-Emperor was not the type to invest one’s ego in making all executive decisions. She thought her arguments were sound and her plan an improvement on the general strategy. She had to admit, however, that having a major role in two triumphant engagements in the first week of the war was appealing, though she tried not to let such desires cloud her judgement.

[Dblade26]

Chuko Wolong stood and gave his Emperor, master and patron a deferential bow as he entered the hall, noting for perhaps the hundredth time the ease with which the man who might very well be a god instantly gained command of the room. It was the Oromis's intensity, his charisma and sense of purpose that compelled Wolong to serve him, far more effectively than any of his admittedly unusual magic could have done. That and a chance to right the many wrongs that had been done to him, of which this current campaign against the city of Tolos was but the smallest beginning. That was why even before the God-Emperor had entered the room he had been making careful study of his fellow advisers and members of the war council, all while maintaining polite yet warm conversation with those he already knew well.

Selena of the Night Hunters seemed cheerful despite the cold and wet conditions of the hall, passing the time with anecdotes and amusing stories that were perhaps a touch too unrefined for some of the more allegedly cultured members of the war council. The Qaylu hadn't had much in the way of interaction with her though she seemed pleasant enough. He wondered if perhaps there was more to her in cunning and wit than she had initially shown and decided that there must be for her to have risen to command of what passed as the Isles premiere irregular warfare group. Certainly the look on her face as she examined that letter suggested something beyond her rough but cheerful exterior, or else serious personal troubles that he hoped wouldn't compromise her effectiveness. It wasn't his role to spy unless Oromis requested it however, so he merely made a mental note to get to know her better, both to get to know her personally and get a firmer grasp on the capabilities of her unit.

Claes Astra, Commander and General of the Gray Winds, was a very different story. As her company was a recent acquisition, Wolong had gathered what information he could about her and found both her capabilities as a military leader and her level of personal control to be admirable, if also dangerous in the wrong context. Still, he watched with approval as she first grimaced under difficult orders without dissent and then went on to suggest a more than viable alternative in a way that was just respectful enough to avoid seeming contrarian in the eyes of their shared lord.

"General Astra does admittedly know the capabilities of her Winds better than we, Majesty. What's more I find few faults in her deployment that she herself hasn't pointed out and the essence of your tactic to empty the city of Tolos and overtake it should still work as well divided in her manner as it did in your original plan if not better. If I might make a flexible suggestion, would it be at all possible for you to disguise the nature of these raids you plan on the villages? A famed Tolosi mercenary unit like yours would have little trouble faking employment under the Empire with little more than a few false orders or messages carefully lost or intercepted in the wake of a raid, some Tolosi coin spilled in the right place, minor alterations to your uniforms or the like. Especially considering someone among the Estruscan League must certainly have tracked your eastward exodus even though by all accounts they are unaware of your presence here. If it works well those left behind may even waste their forces looking for the beginnings of a larger western invasion where none exists rather than specifically targeting your raiders and at the least in the wake of the capital's fall reports of Tolosi involvement may cause confusion among the remaining forces and tension between them and Tolos. Again however, you know the capabilities of your men better than I, and I understand if you find the suggestion of further subterfuge distasteful or unfeasible."

Wolong produced his folded iron fan from a sleeve and tapped the Kingdom of Grandell.

"Regardless, it falls to his Magnificence and I to make our diversionary forces a big enough paper tiger to distract the main force while the Hunters and Winds make their more subtle assault. General Astra's suggestion of hampering the Prophet's main force seems sensible to me, but we shall need to make preparations for our dance away from the Prophet regardless should they continue to pursue us with unexpected speed. In addition, I recommend selecting a few positions spaced along our path of retreat" Here he traced his fan down along the coastline to illustrate the point "Where we might be able to win a defensive battle. Being caught would be far from ideal and is fairly unlikely, but that gives no reason to go unprepared for the possibility." The actual task of managing his Emperor's deception was one Wolong had few real questions on. In fact he intended to give the Prophet's armies such a show that they might never realize how badly they had been tricked.

[Vahir]

"A battle would likely end in our destruction," Oromis said, frowning as he examined the map, having listened patiently to each of his captains. "Our army, without the Night Hunters or Grey Winds, will have perhaps five thousand men, if that. The Prophet could come bearing down on us with ten times as many men- a god I may be, yet even I can be killed with enough arrows. But I see your point, you can never have too many backup plans."

He turned to Captain Claes. "As for your own suggestion, I see no issue with it; you know your men better than I, and I'll trust operational matters to your own discretion. As for your concern of the ravage your men will cause, as Wolong was kind to point out, chaos can only further our cause. In any case, as long as you deliver the city to me, any method is acceptable."

"In any case," the God-King concluded, leaning on the table, "We must act quickly, before the League can bring its own navy to bear. I've already taken the liberty of ordering the preparation of our ships and supplies. If all goes well, I aim to set sail in three days, whether the waters are still or stormed."

"Claes, how many ships do you believe necessary to carry your force? According to the dockmaster we can spare..."

The meeting continued into the afternoon, and then into the evening. When it was over, those present left weary, disheveled, and frozen to the bone.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

That night was cool and pleasant in Lucar, like every other night of the year. Being located on the coast of the Timerian Sea gave it that as an advantage. It was a bustling town at day, the most important harbor in the Kingdom of Merida due to its position above all trade coming in and out of the sea. It had endured for centuries, if not millennia, undisturbed by the passing of time. Rulers came and went, as their old lords were displaced by the Etruscan Meridians, and Lucar continued to thrive and bustle regardless. In many ways, it was the kind of city that made others envious: prosperous and wealthy, yet not large enough to warrant the notice of those playing high politics.

The sharp observer would notice several marks that time had made on it, however. In its harbor rested a little over two dozen warships of all sizes, flying the proud twin snakes of Merida, the entirety of the kingdom's royal flotilla. Other snake banners hung from the Lucar's squat brick walls, old and decrepit structures on which walked the occasional men-at-arms with the same snakes on their vests.

On one watchtower along the wall, which inclined curiously towards the sea as if it were drunk, three such men rested, enjoying the cool air that the height afforded them.

"I tell you, this is where I'd want to be," the first one said, leaning on the crenelations to admire the beauty of the town below.

"What? On night-watch?" the second one, a young boy of fifteen asked, curious.

The first man gave his comrade a look of condescension. "Night shift? Don't be stupid. I'm talking about living here, in Lucar. This is where I want to be when I'm done in the King's service."

The third man, a grizzled veteran with a shaggy beard, snorted. "You? Live in Lucar? Don't be an idiot, Vivaric. You need actual coin to live in a southerner town like this, coin I know for a fact you don't have."

"I'll have coin, enough to be a lordling," the first insisted, affronted. "We're going to smash those greenskins across the Sea, like everyone says, and I'll cover myself in gold and glory."

The third man only sighed and shook his head sadly, but the second looked at the first with admiration. "How will you do it? Get gold and glory, I mean."

"Easiest thing in the world," the first answered with complete confidence. "I'm going to capture that orc king in battle, and drag him to-"

"'Capture the orc king'?" the third interrupted, aghast. "I don't think you have a thing in that big empty head of yours, you oaf. The only way you're even seeing that king is when the greenskins slit your throat, and mount your head on a-"

He would have finished his rant, but found himself incapable of speaking. Reaching for his throat, his eyes wide, he felt beneath his beard where a large red gash had appeared, his blood pooling out. He made an indistinct sound before crumbling, to the shock and horror of the other two soldiers, who could only stare at the large black-clad orc behind him, wielding a strange blood-stained knife.

Any attempt on their part to call for help was cut short when they were grabbed from behind and dispatched in the same fashion. Having accomplished their mission, the orcs continued on to the next watchtower, creeping in the shadows.

With the watchmen dead, there were none to sound the alarm as a trio of small ships sailed into the harbor, arranging themselves beside the Meridan waships. Suddenly, they exploded in a hell of wind and fire, ripping the Meridan ships to shreds in an instant in an explosion that could be heard from kilometers away. Other, larger, warships then wasted no time in sailing into the harbor, their decks covered in hundreds of orc warriors, screaming for blood.

From his vantage point on his flagship, King Rusadir, a surprisingly small orc who nevertheless emanated fierceness and authority, admired the handiwork of his sappers. The crazy shamans of the Orkantor tribes had done something well, for once; the explosive powder had worked like a charm. Still, he did not allow himself satisfaction- not yet.

"Orcs of Rusadir!" he shouted to the warriors assembled on his deck. "Everything from the Orkantor to the frozen north is ours! So cut these meatbags apart and take it!"

"Rusadir! Rusadir King!" the orcs chanted, and continued to chant as they poored onto the flaming dockside, cutting through the panicked and confused defenders. The time of waiting had passed. The orcish invasion of the Etruscan League had begun.

[Athinar]

Selena listened to Claes absentmindedly. The woman really didn't have any idea what the Hunters could and couldn't do, did she? Oh well, she could tell her later. It wasn't important to the situation, at least not right now. She talked mainly about the horse combat, and open combat. All business, she supposed. It WAS a war meeting, after all.

Wolong, however, looked her in the eyes, studying her. This didn't bother the cheerful woman, thought. She grinned, and gave him a little wave. While she didn't know him, it was always good to get to know some of your comrades. He looked like he had gone through a hard, hard life, with those eyes, that looked like they had seen it all. He was darker than most Qaylu, leaving Selena to assume that he had endured the elements in some way, for months on end. She wondered what had happened, in his past. Didn't want to pry, though. She was curious, but she wasn't nosy. Looking around as Oromis spoke to the two beside her, and other advisers piping up, she stayed silent for most of the meeting.

---

As the meeting concluded, Selena stretched, arms back above her head, yawning softly. It was fairly late, and the meeting was quite tiring. In spite of the exhaustion, and dampness, she was still cheerful. After all, much had been planned out today, and this meant better chances of success in the campaign, overall. Still, it would feel good to not be cooped up inside a meeting. She might head down to the tavern, invite Claes and Wolong along.

Pulling her belt with her daggers back around her waist, and tightening the smooth leather strap, with a steel clasp as the buckle, she grabbed her sword by the hilt, and stepping away from the table, as not to accidentally hit anyone, she spun her sword around, so that it was facing downwards. Pushing it into the scabbard on her back, she checked all the clasps of sheaths on her hip, and the hardened leather sword covering on her back. Wouldn't do to have 'em fall out while she was walking, now would it? Turning around, Selena brightened as she saw Claes and Wolong readying to leave. Walking intentionally to them both, she smiled, and said, "Miss Claes! Chuko! I was wondering if you'd like to meet my Hunters!" Selena threw her arms around them both, drawing them in. "I understand if you've got some business to conclude here, but if I were you two, I'd want to get out of this wet, chilly old relic ASAP." The woman smiled brightly, and throwing up her hood, headed out, waving. "I'll be waiting by the front gate, if you want to find me!

If one of the others followed her out, she would make cheerful conversation, commenting on the omnipresent weather and telling stories about her adventures. She actually had been outside of the Hamrock Isles, surprisingly, and had a surprising amount of experience in areas one might not expect the Night Hunter to, such as having gone reindeer hunting with a tribe of Samnidalls, to having traveled with some Kolyat herders for a few months, and even having been to the valleys of the Qaylu Confederacy.

If one of then didn't, or later on, after one of them had, she would be joined by a fellow night hunter, head covered by a forest-green hood, and face hidden by a fox mask, which was all black, odd for a Night Hunter, but not this one in particular. His name was Gramorn Kellantara, and he was the anonymous messenger for the Hunters, able to deliver anything, or so they told the trainees. In truth, he was just amazing at his job. He handed Selena a letter, which was sealed by red wax that had the marking of a single fang upon it. Unfolding it, Selena skimmed it, and her face was distraught, but then became dark and filled with a sadness uncommon for the captain of the Night Hunters. Folding it again, she said, "Gram. Assemble everyone. Including the trainees. They should hear this as well. Tell them to go to the tavern. I'll tell them there." Stuffing the letter in the same pocket as the other one, her step became silent, and her posture fluid, like a panther stalking a kill.

If the others had followed, and stuck around until Gram had delivered the letter, Selena would turn to them, smiling weakly. Her eyes belied it all, though. "You should come, too. It's important that you hear this, for... operational reasons."

If they hadn't, however, they would find her standing by the gate, rain falling upon her cloak, which was pulled tightly about the woman. She would wave to them, albeit slightly subdued by the previous news, and say, "Hi. I wanna show ya something, something that most people don't get to see." She walked off, quieter than usual, not caring if they followed.

[Eschatologist]

Like Bees

"I shall send someone presently, Ms. Jalek"
Claes left the meeting fatigued, but heartened by the chances of success. The operation seemed sound, and if she were a betting woman she would put good money on their resounding victory. It was a good feeling to be on the better-prepared side for once, she thought. Too many times the deck had been stacked against her, or she had had no-one to rely on but her own troops. Now she had the competent backing of a god-emperor and his forces, with funds and fortifications to fall back on. As Claes strode out of the meeting, she saw Jorge waiting for her, his burly frame silhouetted against an open window, seeming calm and patient. She'd kept him waiting longer than she would have liked, but he was used to delays after all this time, or at least she hoped. There was no point in being impolite, however, especially to her subordinate officers.

"My apologies, Colonel Gordon. Our new king wanted every detail established clearly.". Not that she would be impolite to Jorge, of course. He was one of her confidants, someone she would trust longer than almost any other on earth. Jorge spoke in his deep bass, his voice emanating more than a foot above Claes' head, much to her perpetual chagrin.

"A welcome change, I expect. I remember more than one tantrum at 'ignorant, lackadaisical councilors' not having their affairs in order"

"Commanders never throw tantrums, Colonel. When one can give orders to thousands, their tantrums become 'rages' or 'furies'. I will admit, however, there is little difference besides nomenclature."

The two soldiers, mismatched in height, gender and a thousand other ways, walked down a cold corridor to their assigned officer's quarters, both instinctively checking for hostile espionage. Jorge lowered his voice slightly, speaking cautiously.

"What are your opinions on our new king, then? Apart from his fastidiousness? Did we make the right decision?"

Claes thought for the briefest of moments before responding, ascending spiral stairs two at a time. "He is not what I would expect. Less regal, certainly, and brimming with an almost childish enthusiasm. Regardless, he is no fool. I expect we will be well serving him for the time being."

"Excellent. Was he receptive to your proposition?"

Claes smiled as she entered her office, immediately claiming her comfortable chair and kicking her feet up on her large desk. It was rare she was able to escape the meager offerings of tent-living, and was eager to make the most of the permanent quarters while she could. Jorge sat himself on a markedly less comfortable chair across the desk, his posture more formal than his commander. "You will get your command after all, do not worry. I made the case to the king, and he accepted without complaint. Though, I will need you to talk to Agallon: we shall need to procure a competent forger to make us documents of employment. Our king wishes to sow distrust between the Etruscans and our former employers."

Jorge nodded and made a note on a folded piece of paper, covered in other reminders, most of which carefully crossed out. "Also, dispatch Captain Elias. We have been saddled with a score of soldiers, and they need to be inspected. With any luck they will have fast horses, but if not we shall simply have to lend our own or purchase for them. They will be useful in the assault, certainly..."

Jorge cut in as his commanding officer drifted her though off half-finished "but you won't let them compromise our strategic maneuverability?"

"Exactly. I must be more tired than I thought. You are dismissed, Colonel. I have one final matter to attend to, who should be arriving shortly. I will speak with you again in the morning."

Jorge rose, saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and strode purposefully out of the room, eager to execute the orders he had received.

------------------------------------------------------------

Captain Marko Elias, his uniform in disarray after an afternoon [and morning, if he is being honest], of celebrating his escape from his floating prison. His curly black hair was disheveled, and his lithe athletic frame was slouched and tired. He had, however, learned to perform his orders to the best of his ability, regardless of physical condition. Especially when they came from the general. He met up with his charge, the surprisingly attractive Captain Jalek. He had figured he would be meeting a man, not having heard of this captain for more than half an hour, but was not disappointed with the revelation. Female soldiers had always held particular interest to him, and beautiful ones especially. Not the General, obviously; he had learned long ago that she was not 'on the market', as it were, and was still thanking the stars that he hadn't been executed that night outside Lenwick. Shivering slightly to dislodge unhappy memories, he strode up to the waving woman and saluted, his clear tenor ringing out in the quiet courtyard.

"Captain Marko Elias, on behalf of General Astra, ma'am. I've been ordered to report to command about what you have to show.". Hearing his new favorite Captain beckon him, he followed, shaking his head to dislodge the sordid thoughts about 'things that most people don't get to see'.

[H3x]

Silaes waited nervously in the shadows of the corridor he knew Oromis would walk alone, en route to his meeting with the generals. While he was aware of the emperor's itinerary, he had not yet learned enough about the man to feel in any way confident about how he would react to Silaes’ favorite form of job application. Many a time had Silaes approached a prospective client in a situation when the client’s life was clearly in his hands. It showed Silaes was capable of completing his duties, and it always offered some degree of intrigue and excitement for the employer, which usually was enough to keep them from meddling with the details of the job. Yet despite this being Silaes’ preferred approach, he regularly caught himself itching at his neck at the place it would be severed should Oromis react poorly.

When he heard footsteps approaching, Silaes sunk deeper into the shadows of the corridor and forced himself to regain his composure. He had to appear in control of the situation, for the sake of the show, regardless of the fact that his only escape was a too-long drop from the nearest window. He waited silently as the tall, powerful looking man approached. If Oromis’ rumored powers allowed him to detect Silaes, he showed no sign of it. The thought of the god-emperor being aware of him and showing no fear did not help to ease Silaes’ nerves.

Just after Oromis stepped past him did Silaes finally speak, emerging from the shadows as he did so: ”My name is Silaes Attor. In Jadis I am sometimes called the deadly shadow, and I have been sent here to kill you.” Silaes then raised his hands to show he was unarmed and continued to speak, ”I will not be completing this contract, however, as it appears my employer no longer wishes to pay me but instead wishes me death. I come here, instead, to offer my services to one I hope to be a more reliable employer...”
---------------
As Oromis left their brief hallway meeting, Silaes silently exhaled for what felt like the first time in five minutes. He still had his head, and it would appear he would be keeping it for the foreseeable future. What’s more, he now also had a new high-profile job. ”My how the tables have changed” he muttered to himself as he left the keep to inform his men, and give them orders to prepare to set sail in the morning. They would be sailing for Etruscia…
---------------
Silaes sipped calmly from his steaming goblet to stay warm as he waited for his man Arshan to report back what he could about the generals. While he and his men were leaving in the morning, Silaes still knew the only way to improve his situation in this empire is to have a better understanding of it. To him, that meant it was time for a little “domestic espionage”

Just as Silaes finished his tea, Arshan approached him at a casual pace and continued walking past him. Silaes smiled faintly as he picked up the note Arshan had subtly dropped and read it.

“Jalek wishes to meet other generals by the front gate tonight. Astra is sending a representative, status of Wolong unknown.”

Silaes placed the paper in his goblet and heated it until it caught flame. He then left to prepare himself a costume, dumping the ashes from his goblet as he went. He would show up to this meeting, and if he only saw one emissary there he would pretend to be a representative of Wolong. Otherwise he’d likely just stay hidden in the shadows and follow from a distance.

[Lexicon]

A rainy evening.
An unexpected summons.
No place for heroes.

By the time the meeting at Taranidorn Keep ended, the weather had taken a turn for the worse. The night sky was the color of a fresh bruise, an angry purplish black, and a light rain began to fall on the capital's inhabitants. What started as simply a dreary evening rapidly devolved into a dreary and wet one. Not even the Loyal Hearts Tavern, a well-known pub huddled amidst a cluster of buildings less than an hour from the keep, was immune to the ravages of the weather. A three-legged dog, who'd staggered into the taproom nearly an hour ago, was still struggling to warm himself by the meager hearth. Several gaps in the thatched roof let the rain in while also allowing a damp, unpleasant wind to scourge the building's occupants. Even the table Myranda Tavellan was sitting at was damp to the touch. The elf hated the Hamrock Isles for many reasons, but the inescapable wetness was one of the big ones. That and the poor quality of their beer. As she took a dissatisfied gulp from her flagon, Myra admitted she wasn't feeling too pleased with the balding Jadisi man sitting across from her either.

"Gods above an' below, Sweet Thond," Myranda snarled as she set her mug down on the tabletop with a loud thud, "jest play yer damned tiles so I can take me turn. Yer hand ain't gonna get any better the longer ye stare at it, I promise."

But the southerner, a bright-eyed man wearing the same red criminal's sash as the elf over his tunic, chuckled and said, "Ahhh, patience, patience, my dear Myranda. I would hate to lose this game simply because I allowed you to rush me. Especially when I'm on the cusp of another victory. I swear, my long-eared friend, it's almost as if you've forgotten how this game works since we played last night. Allow me to remind you while I consider my next move, yes? We each have five tiles in our hand at all times. The goal is to line up three tiles of the same kind in a row. Three orcs, three dragons, and so on. Each time we do this we are awarded a single point, though if one of us lines up three God-King tiles then we-"

Myranda took another slurp from her tankard, wincing at the taste, and said, "Then ye win the whole fuckin' game, I know, I know. I'm not a complete idiot, ye dark-skinned bastard. I jest don't recall there bein' nothin' in the rules 'bout takin' a year ter lay down a single bloody tile!" Despite her harsh tone, a wry grin flickered across the elf's face as she waited for her fellow conscript to make his move. Myra rarely felt comfortable around Jadisi, especially men, after her former lover nearly killed her during the Battle of Mervyn's Crossing. That wasn't something one forgot or forgave. And yet Thond "Sweet Thond" Kassis somehow put Myra at ease, though she didn't know how the scrawny southerner managed it. Maybe it was because they both agreed the swill served at most bars across the Hamrock Isles was little better than piss. Maybe it was because they were both "red sashes," meaning they were criminals who'd agreed to serve in the God-King's armies in order to avoid the hangman's noose. Or maybe it was because they both enjoyed a good game of tiles. Unfortunately, Myra, who'd once considered herself a skilled tiles player, had yet to win a single game against Sweet Thond. And she was running out of gold.

"Oi, keep it down over there, long-ear!" the overweight tavern-owner snapped from behind the slab of driftwood masquerading as the bar's counter. "As soon as the meetin' up at the keep ends, I want you two red sashes out o' me place. Officers an' soldiers an'... well, goodly folk are goin' to be comin' in here wantin' to spend coin. I don't need any thieves or murderers makin' trouble." The portly man's glare vanished, however, when Myra looked over Sweet Thond's head and stared at him, her brown eyes like two dark, gleaming holes punched into her scarred face. There was a heaviness to that gaze, a weight of years beyond human reckoning, and the barkeep decided it might be in his best interests to shut up and leave the two criminals alone. At least until he had more customers to help him kick them out. Shaking his head at this lamentable state of affairs, the barkeep reached for a filthy rag so he could resume wiping his filthy counter when the door burst open.

Four men wearing polished lamellar armor beneath gray wool cloaks marched into the room, and the last one, a slender fellow with a shabby tricorn hat on his head, closed the door silently. The three-legged dog looked up from his spot by the fire, decided the newcomers didn't warrant his attention, and lowered his head once more.

Clearing his throat and forcing a welcoming smile onto his round face, the barkeep said, "An' a good evenin' to you, masters! Welcome to the Loyal Hearts, finest tavern in all the isles or me name isn't Padric Roche. Might I suggest our best-?"

"Peace, man, peace," the soldier with the tricorn hat said, his voice carrying the clipped, almost brusque, accent of northern Tolos. His sharp blue eyes roved over the few patrons, most of whom hadn't looked up from their drinks when the soldiers entered. "We're here to find a convict for General Claes Astra of the Gray Winds. Apparently, she's a one-eared elf woman covered in scars. She also has brown hair and brown eyes. Answers to the name of Myranda Tavellan or possibly...erhem, Red Myra. Can you help us or should we be on our way?"

Myra's ears, or rather her one good ear, twitched at the way the human said the name 'Red Myra.' Unless she was mistaken, which did happen every now and again, this man sounded like he knew she was more than just some Hamrock Isles bandit who'd gotten caught. If he knew about her exploits back on the mainland than this rainy evening was about to get much more interesting. The barkeep, his greasy black hair shining in the guttering light of the tavern's torches, frowned and pointed at Myra as he said, "The only elf in this place is sittin' right there, sir. She's a criminal all right, her an' that brownskin she's with. Might be she's the one yer General is after?"

Myra glanced at Sweet Thond, who shrugged and began gathering up his collection of tiles as if four armed men weren't marching towards their table. Truth be told, the elven berserker didn't feel particularly anxious either as the strangers reached the table, their muddy boots squelching to a stop behind her chair. When you'd seen enough bloodshed and carnage to last several lifetimes it took more than a few humans to make you nervous. Myranda drained the last mouthful from her tankard and started picking up her own tiles as the soldiers loomed over her ominously like the Warspear Mountains of northern Tolos. She was pleasantly aware of her sword's weight against her right leg, though the elf didn't plan on making any trouble. Of course, the best laid plans often went awry as Kurdan had told her at least a dozen times. Smiling her gap-toothed smile, Myra looked up at the four men and said, "An' what can ol' Myra do fer ye fine men, hm?" The leader of the group, his blue eyes narrowing slightly, didn't smile back as he took off his hat in a begrudging show of politeness.

"General Claes has commanded me to bring you to Taranidorn Keep, convict. She has something important to discuss with you. Will you come with us quietly?" the man asked and Myra didn't miss how his three companions casually laid their hands on their weapons. One had a nasty-looking mace while the other two carried pikes made of Tolosi thornwood. Their stern, hat-wearing leader had two shortswords belted to his hips as well. This was getting more and more interesting by the moment.

Still grinning widely, the elf nodded and collected the rest of her tiles before strapping her sheathed sword to her belt. Myranda stood and cracked her knuckles as she said, "See ye 'round, I guess, Sweet Thond. Looks like me gold is safe from yer greedy paws for one more night at least." If the Jadisi made any reply, however, Myranda didn't hear it because she was already being escorted outside by the tricorn-wearing man and his companions. It'd been a good long while since she'd had an honor guard. It didn't feel quite as nice as she remembered.

"I am Major Aliden Bayaz of the Gray Winds," the sword-wielding soldier said, his voice controlled and staccato yet a hint of something more lingered over his words like a foul stench. "I don't know why the General wants to see you, but then I don't get paid to ask questions. Thank you for coming with us."

"Oh aye, it's me pleasure," Myranda said as the group slowly made their way along the muddy road leading from the tavern to the keep, dodging the occasional peasant trying to escape the steadily worsening rain. After a period of uncomfortably wet silence, the elf looked over at the major to find he'd been staring at her for several minutes, his tanned, leathery face contorted in a grimace. Hatred. That's what he'd been trying to hide when he spoke to her yet it was as plain as the nose on her face now.

Tilting her head to the side and hunching her shoulders, Myra said, "Ye got vengeance in yer eyes, Major Bayaz. Can I help ye with somethin'?" One of the other men in the group coughed awkwardly and the elven warrior wondered if the major was going to draw his fancy-looking blades. If he did then things would certainly get...messier. Eventually, the quintet reached the drawbridge that would grant them access to Taranidorn Keep proper and started to cross, a rumble of thunder accompanying the tramp of their feet across the planks.

"Do you remember the Siege of Fort Angharad, elf?" the major asked about halfway across the bridge. His icy blue eyes were focused on the path in front of them, and he didn't turn to meet Myranda's inquiring gaze.

"Oh aye, major. That was the last fight I got inter before...before Mervyn's fuckin' Crossing. What about it, hm? If I recall correctly, there was some kind o' peasant uprisin' or sommat. Called themselves the Voice of the Border. Anyways, they took the fort from the League, though I think it used ter belong ter the Empire, and said they wouldn't leave until the fightin' stopped. That arsehole, Clan Lord Miridon, wanted me an' me White Hands ter retake the fort since it was close ter his clan's territory. Shortest siege I ever did see, I'll tell ye that. Only lasted a week," Myranda said, pursing her lips as she struggled to recall the details of the battle.

By that point, the group was moving through the keep's massive great hall and making their way towards a flight of stairs with images of sea serpents and merfolk carved into them. Myra grinned when she spotted a merman locked in a suggestive pose with a sea serpent. Who would think to use a trident like that? She'd have to try it sometime. Several dignitaries and visitors from across the Hamrock Isles stared at the strange party walking through their midst, though they quickly returned to their various tasks. War was coming and nobody wanted to be caught with their breeches down. Especially if the person catching them was an immortal God-King who wanted to rule all of Tverios.

"My grandfather, who cared for my mother and me when my father got himself killed by bandits, was in that fort, elf," Major Bayaz said as he led his ragtag band down a long, chilly hallway on the keep's second floor. "He helped organize the defenses against your White Hands. Always had a bit of a soft spot for the downtrodden, my grandfather did. He was killed during the siege and his head ended up on a pike outside the main gate. The work of those monsters under your command, I'm sure." Another unpleasant silence descended upon the group as they continued down the corridor, passing countless servants and more than a few soldiers running to and fro on various errands. Outside, a flash of lightning lit up the night sky and thunder quickly followed, rumbling like the growl of some great beast.

"Ahhh, I see," Myranda said, licking her lips slowly and wondering why the major was telling her this. "Well, I'd say sorry, major, but shit happens in war, aye? Somebody's gotta die an' unfortunately good men tend ter go sooner than most. Always gotta be heroes, don't they?"

"Well said," Major Bayaz snapped in a voice colder than the wind howling through the keep, and he marched into a small, well-furnished room on the right side of the hall. Gesturing for his men to take up positions by the door, the blue-eyed swordsman saluted to the red-haired woman sitting behind the large desk that dominated the chamber. "General Astra, forgive the intrusion at this late hour. I have brought you the convict, Myranda Tavellan, as you commanded."

Lumbering forwards and tugging at her red criminal's sash, Myranda held out one callused hand to the general, a warm smile splayed across her face and said, "Greetin's, General Astra. And what might Red Myra do fer a woman like yerself?"

[Eschatologist]

Secondary Industry

Claes made herself busy after her subordinate left. She kicked her shoes off, for a start, stretching her sore feet out as she yawned to full extension, an unfeminine groan escaping her lips into the privacy of the chamber. She searched her mess of a desk for something to do; even in the few days she had been resident in the rooms she had managed to spray likely more than one tree around the well-upholstered office, thankful for the luxury of paper off the campaign trail. She found a note from Major Agallon, a long, precisely ordered list on creamy white stock, with his characteristically neat and florid script. His careful, precise nature was what made him such an excellent logistics officer, and she felt truly sorry for him. Logistics, as Claes well knew from her brief tenure as the logistician, was the job of telling superiors and subordinates precisely why they cannot have what they want. A thankless job, certainly, but perhaps the most necessary in the army: Claes could not remember who stated an army marches on its stomach, but a truer statement had never been made. She felt doubly sorry for him attached to a cavalry army, the nightmares multiplying upon themselves when the thousands of horses needed to be accounted for. The man had nearly collapsed from the strain the night before their boat journey, from overwork and the angry demands of his peers. She could only hope the storehouses and clarks of the God-King’s employ could live up to his exacting standards, and he could enjoy his brief reprieve from campaign travails. The note pulled her from her brief ponderings, her listless mind reminding her of her fatigue, and she examined it carefully, immediately bored to tears by the dry analysis of mount condition and the availability of palatable food. She committed the important notes to memory before throwing the painfully dull piece of paper aside, it fluttering into the poorly-defined ‘read’ pile.

She found herself humming slightly, an old marching song she recalled with a smile, the lyrics coarse enough to appeal to the enlistee and entertaining, though obviously aimed at males. Almost all were, unfortunately, which had, for a time, led to her and her fellow female officers starring in the more bawdy numbers. A measure of discipline stopped those from being sung around officers, at the very least, though Claes would bet good silver that there was one being sung right now in some infected ale-house.

The general was picking through a disciplinary report from Major Hellon, entirely irrelevant to the grander scheme of things, simply highlighting a pair of floggings for conduct unbefitting the army, to be carried out at dawn. It was inevitable that no matter how high or low morale, some soldier would get carried away with some night-hawk or waitress and get whipped for his trouble. Mercenaries were not the best sort, she knew, and accepted their occasional misbehavior as an inevitability. She instead was proud that there were only two reports of misconduct (meaning likely a dozen more unnoticed or forgiven) in an army of nearly two thousand fresh off a boat ride of perdition. Just as she threw the paper to join the others in her growing pile a knock on the door, three times in particular rhythm. She called out to the door in an impatient voice.

“You know you don’t have to knock, Laurence.”

The door opened, and a man of average height and build walked in, a small box tucked under his arm and a fashionable if somewhat spartan outfit clothing him. His long blonde hair fell to his shoulders, and his handsome face bore a smile. Colonel Laurence Ostilla, 1st Battle Commander, as expected.

“Of course, General. Just being polite is all.”. His rich tenor filled the room.

“Take a seat. I presume you’ve spoken to Colonel Gordon? He’s getting the southern command, I need you for something more subtle.”
The blonde man sat, placing the ornate checkered box atop a sheaf of unimportant missives with a resounding clunk.

“I am sure you know what you’re doing, General.”

“I don’t need sarcasm, Laurence, it has been a long day.”

“Is meeting with deities taxing? I’ve only done it the once, and I spent most of my time kneeling.”

“He’s not as pompous as I would have thought. He does not strike me as an immortal deity, more a precocious lordling eager to make a name for himself.”

“Though, intelligent enough I hear? I should hope so, given his history.”

“I’m sure he will not disappoint, though I fear any further speculation may be counting unhatched chickens”

Laurence unclasped the box and unfolded it into two even halves, removing small leather pouches of assorted pieces, passing the darker pouch to his superior officer.

“Must we, Laurence? As I said, it has been a long day. I am not certain I have the mental fortitude for an hour of thinking.”

“Then you’ll just have to beat me quickly: I remember a certain bored General on a boat stating that” he assumed a mocking, high-pitched voice while he quoted her “’refusal to play will, from now onwards, be counted as surrender.’. Something about it being the true spirit of the cavalry officer or some seasick nonsense.”

“Nothing I said on that damned boat should be held as my honest opinion. That damned doctor’s medicine played havoc with my mind”

“You still won, though.”

“Of course I still won.”.

Laurence finished setting up the board, their mirrored pieces glaring at each other over the checkers. They had picked up Lorent from an Adulisian trader, and taken to it like ducks to water. Their previous intellectual battlefield was a game of stone-placing territory control, which suited cavalry officers rather poorly. This Lorent was a game of swift, decisive action, and they played like masters.
Laurence moved a piece, a brazen opening auguring a brazen strategy he had been perfecting on the boat ride. Claes could not help but respond in kind, and the game began. It was not a silent game, and they chatted the entire time on matters big and small, Claes briefing her opponent on his mission between conversations on the merits of fording actions and their shared, intense desire for a damascated sword. Their conversation was amicable, each enjoying the other’s company. While Gordon or Niman were confidants, trustworthy men in the army, Laurence was her friend. They’d been rivals and allies, and for as long as Claes could remember the two had worked together to achieve their goals, slowly becoming reliant on enjoyable companionship free of machinations.

Their game was less friendly. Claes cut viciously towards the center with what she thought was a brilliant move with her Boar, and four moves later found herself fighting tooth and nail on a rearguard action after a well-placed sacrifice by her subordinate destroyed her interdependent defense. Their moves were fast, few taking longer than a minute, and their actions swift and decisive, the clack of marble on wood punctuating their conversation as a brisk staccato. Half an hour later, Claes toppled her opponent’s Lion with a flourish, sinking back into her chair after sitting on its edge for the final moves. It had been a close-run thing, but Claes had caught Laurence in a noose of his own design, and did not delay in hanging him by it.

Their analysis of the game was cut short by footsteps coming up the hall, and the tone shifted immediately, from one of jovial friendship to one of business. Laurence packed the game away with blinding speed, and the two officers straightened their attire and replaced their shoes. Laurence stepped to one side of the room and stood ramrod-straight, as Claes rose to return the salute of her personnel officer with one of dismissal, and accepted the handshake of the criminal. The Major turned out of the room, joining his men on guard.
Sitting back in her chair with some dignity, she regarded the still-standing woman with eyes harder than the emeralds they shared their color. All business. Claes let her left hand hover over a short sword leaning against her desk, and she noticed that the Colonel’s right was gravitating towards a solid-looking steel candlestick.

“I’ve heard a great deal about you, Ms. Tavellan, and I would love to get acquainted but I will not mince words so late at night: The Grey Winds need good soldiers for a capturing a city, and you come most highly recommended. We are willing to offer you immediate enlistment at the rank of Lieutenant, in command of your very own platoon of specialized infiltration and close-combat anti-fortification infantry. You will be paid double and a half, as is normal for forlorn hope units. You will be free of penal battalions, and though your assignments will be of similar danger, at least for your first operation, you will have the full support of the army and will be treated as any other soldier under my command. With time and the desire, promotion opportunities will arise. They Winds do not discriminate based on race, and though I cannot tell my men what to think they will have to grin and bear an elven woman commander or face court-marshal.” Claes paused for a second, her eyes never leaving her prospective recruit for the briefest moment.

“I am not in the business of wasting resources, Ms. Tavellan, and you appear to be a resource most valuable. What do you say? Will you enlist under my command and earn money, freedom and glory?”

[Dblade26]

Chuko Wolong was, perhaps sadly, not a man who had been hugged very often, certainly not since he had been banished from his homelands at any rate . Thus he was more than a little surprised when Captain Jalek of the Night Hunters put an arm around him and General Astra and asked them both if they'd like to meet her troops. Once he'd processed that her impromptu embrace was not in fact an unexpected assassination attempt-the worst kind in his opinion- he broke into a rather genuine smile.

"In fact I'd been hoping for exactly that sort of opportunity, Captain Jalek! referring to both acquainting himself with the Hunters and getting out of the chill "Just let me send off a few notes to begin preparations for the upcoming campaign and I'll be right with you!"

It took Wolong only a few minutes or so to find runners to deliver the messages he'd prepared during the meeting to the officers in charge of logistics and supplies for their pending invasion as well as briefing statements on the general strategy of their organized baiting and retreat effort to his alleged subordinates. Adjustments had been made of course and both sets of orders had been written in something of a cipher that the top lieutenants would have access to before passing them along piecemeal to form a whole. Wolong had no doubt that there might be spies waiting to crack open the mystery of just what Oromis was up to but with only relevant bits and pieces of plans, supply orders and movements to work with unless they turned a source near the highest levels would-be betrayers would have one more obstacle to thwarting his master even before they left the Isles. True enough, such a system could leave their forces vulnerable to confusion or frustration especially if there was a break in the chain-of-command, but when done right each man knew just enough to improvise success in such an emergency or else new officers could be briefed, and combined with strict discipline and faith in their God-King the whole thing tended to run smoothly.

Once the troops he was aiding Oromis in overseeing had their orders and he'd seen to the beginnings of what was likely to be a tricky and long coordination effort, he more than happily rejoined Captain Jalek and fell into the easy rhythms of small-talk and banter. Initially he split his attention between friendly discussion, ideas for a new type of crossbow mechanism he had been tinkering with for a few days and a mental review of the geography of the Estruscan coastline. But the earnest Night Hunter's stories and unusual experiences began to draw him in almost completely, especially the fact that she'd apparently had the rare and dubious honor of visiting the Qaylu Confederacy! Wolong soon found himself chatting amicably with his full attention, though he had to fight back an unusual amount of emotion when discussing his past in order to maintain the proper amount of clear-headedness. Instead he focused on the lighter aspects of life among the Qaylu, the bustle of the Citadel populations, stories of intrigue and daring between the forces of this and that Citadel Lord, the peaceful pastoral lives of the sheepherder folks they were allegedly sworn to protect and the like. Her tales of other foreign lands and their current home of the Isles alike were likewise lively and he found the conversation to be more than enjoyable.

The mood changed rather abruptly with the arrival of a masked messenger and it was rather instantly apparent that something dark and unusual was afoot. Captain Jalek's distressed request that he come along for 'operational reasons' could hardly be refused given the obvious and sudden seriousness of the situation so he gladly assented.

When they arrived at the front gate, Wolong was slightly surprised to see that General Astra had sent a subordinate in her place. To be sure the mercenary general was a busy woman, but Captain Jalek would be working quite closely with her in the field and it seemed to him that not taking a chance to personally learn about her assets was something of a mistake. Still, he followed along without more than a polite bow to the disheveled looking Captain Elias.

[Athinar]

Selena walked along with Marko and Wolong, light rain falling, as always. The water slicked the winding cobble street beneath her leather boots, but the Captain of the Night Hunters maintained a steady step, familiar with these streets. The temperature was depressingly chilly, but the woman's clothing, was made to provide immunity from the damp chill and rain. She walked down to the waterfront, passing several taverns, all dilapidated and miserable on the outside, but warm and inviting inside. It was a typical feature of the Hamrock Isles, from the ancient crumbling castles and towers that dotted the landscape, to the lowest farmer's house. It was worn down, like the people here, but inside everyone, they were bonded by a deep sense of community. On the way to the tavern mentioned earlier

The path they took was surprising, to one who had expected to go to a normal tavern, one closer to the castle. They reached the outskirts of the city, where the cobble path turned to muddy dirt in some places, and a track led to a long, squat, wooden building on the cliff overlooking the city, one with two old oak trees on either side. A chimney made of stone stood precariously above a slanted wooden roof, which sloughed off the rainwater easily, as it was in good repair. A thick door stood between two windows, each with a crossbar that divided the glass pane into quarters, and the gutter caught the water before it fell in the doorway, directing it into a rain barrel to the left of the oak door. A sign hung to the right of the door, which had the words 'The Cliffside' proudly emblazoned in green letters across the wood.

As they walked up, the sounds of raucous carousing and the smell of ale wafted through the crack below the door. When Selena grabbed the door's handle, she paused for a moment, taking a deep breath, and closed her eyes. This... would be hard. Opening the tavern door with a loud click, she stepped into the room, eyes adjusting to the warm lantern light and smoky haze of the Night Hunter's tavern. As she walked into the tavern, everyone around the door turned and looked at her, and smiling, they all raised their mugs and cheered. "Hey, everyone! Selena's here!" "What'd you bring us here for, Boss Lady?" "Yeah, why'd you tell us to come here?" Selena smiled, despite the heavy news that she brought, the cheer of her Hunters infectious.

"Now, now, if I told you know, it wouldn't be a surprise, now would it?" The men who asked her the questions laughed, and raising their flagons once more, in a salute, they turned back to their drinks. As Selena, Marko, and Wolong began to make their way to a table in the center of the room, that had most of the higher-ranking officers sitting at it, they were interrupted by a bearded old man, whose eyes glimmered beneath all of the wrinkled folds of his ancient face. It was Maximus 'Smudge' Selfidge, the crotchety old Hunter that was in charge of training all of the new recruits. He stood up, and pulled Selena into a bear hug, strength of the grip belying his old frame. "Selena, m'girl! You get prettier every day!" Selena smiled and released Max, saying, "And you get more and more wrinkled every day, Maxi!" Maximus let out a barking laugh, and said, "I suppose that's true, isn't it? By the way, are you here about... you know what?" Selena's face became grave, and she simply nodded. Max ran his hand through his ragged grey hair, and sighed. "Dear Oromis, if it's got you looking like that, then... well, it can't be good." Max sat down at the officer's table, waiting for Selena to speak.

Selena directed Wolong and Marko to sit at the table, next to Maximus, and stepped up into the middle of it, nudging aside the flagons that remained. Calling above the good-natured din, she said, "Ay, might I have your attention, everyone! I... have some news, that you need to hear." The long room fell quiet immediately, and two hundred heads turned to look at their captain. "The... force that lives in Tolos, the recruiters and propagandists... They were all slaughtered like animals." Her mouth formed a hard line. This was terrible, and she was the one who had to say it. "Some of you might have known Romas, Attie, and David, but for those of you that don't, they are all dead. The thirty men that they were working with, over there, were also killed. Only one survived, and he is incapacitated. He lost both arms and legs. We will avenge our fallen brothers and sisters." Selena stepped off of the table, and sat down at the officer's table, to the shocked stares of her Hunters. Almost immediately afterward, there was a commotion as everyone clambered to get to Selena, asking questions. Selena simply sat there, hood covering her face in shadow, fists clenched. It was painful for her to hear, the sounds of a confused group of men and women, wanting to know how, and more importantly, why their friends were killed.

[H3x]

Silaes was in a rush to find an appropriate disguise and reach the front gate before his marks did. He had made the decision to pick up his outfit on the go as he made his way to the destination, but he was growing increasingly frustrated in his attempts to find what he needed. A military uniform, preferably something high ranking, would be required to convincingly play the part of a general’s representative. Silaes caught himself wishing he’d more thoroughly researched the armies of Oromis during his time spent planning his assassination, rather than simply focusing on the man himself and those immediately surrounding him.

Eventually luck did end up smiling on Silaes as he found a man passed out, drunk by the smell of his breath, in an alley behind one of the inns along his path. Silaes considered for a moment that it seemed awfully unbecoming of an officer to be so drunk at such an early hour, but he could not argue with the prominent red sash that set the man apart from the common soldiers he’d seen so far. Rather than hesitating further with more questions, Silaes chose instead to thank the dice that the man was so near to his own size and don the uniform that had been so conveniently placed before him.

Silaes hurriedly continued on his way, satisfied by the wide berth others gave him in his Officer’s uniform. He was too busy trying to brush splotches of mud from his uniform to notice the looks of contempt that accompanied the space he was given. He arrived at the front gate to see the Night Hunter leader Jalek waiting with a man bearing the appearance of one from the Qaylu Confederation. That must be the one named Chuko Wolong, who Arshan never mentioned would be attending. Silaes cursed Arshan’s shoddy spycraft under his breath, but then straightened his uniform and began approaching the pair in hopes of successfully impersonating the representative from General Astra. If he could pull it off they could probably get out of there before the other one even showed up…

"Captain Marko Elias, on behalf of General Astra, ma'am. I've been ordered to report to command about what you have to show." Silaes heard immediately to his left just before he opened his mouth to speak. Rather than give himself away by looking at the newcomer Silaes simply kept walking, straight out the gate, covering another string of curses with a cough. The way his luck was running tonight he doubted he would get any useful information about his recently-acquired compatriots, but he decided he would keep trying anyway.

With considerable, pain-staking, effort Silaes trailed the group down their path, treading lightly and hanging back to ensure he always remained unseen. His efforts to remain undetected were aided by the fact that the story-telling trio didn’t seem all that intent on detecting him in the first place. Eventually the group arrived at an aptly named pub called ‘The Cliffside’, and went in. That left Silaes outside in the cold and the wet, trying to hear what he could though the only window he could find that didn’t seem like it would have much traffic. He stayed off to the side of the window so as not to be seen, and only listened.

Silaes couldn’t hear much through the window, just the muffled ruckus one would expect to hear from a mass of drinking people. But that ruckus was soon quieted down and Selena delivered some distressing news to the group. Silaes couldn’t gather much, but he did manage to figure out that a person or some people that were somehow related to this group had died. With a frustrated sigh, Silaes resigned any further attempts to gather information and started to head back to the castle. He didn’t know what he’d expected to find out tonight, but it was clear at this point that he would not be finding it.

Just as he started down the path again the door to ‘The Cliffside’ swung open and a night hunter stepped out saying something about “I just need to be alone for a bit”. Silaes froze in his tracks but it was already too late. “Hey wait a minute, who’s that out there on the track?” For a brief moment Silaes considered running, but decided against it on the grounds that he’d rather not find out how good these Night Hunters were on the tracking end of a man-hunt. Instead he turned on his heel to attempt to talk his way out of this.

”Excuse me for intruding, it just seems I’m a bit lost. I was supposed to deliver a message, but I’m not sure I’m in the right place so I’ll just be on my way...”

“Hold on a minute, your message’s recipient might just be here.” said the woman who had noticed him. “What’s the name of the person you’re looking for?”

Knowing he couldn’t afford to hesitate on this question, Silaes said the first name to come to his mind ”Chuko Wolong”, and immediately regretted it.

“Yeah he’s in there” said his would be captor, “go on in. Just tread lightly, we’ve already received some bad news tonight.”

Not willing to make her ask twice, Silaes stepped awkwardly inside the pub. Immediately he was greeted by someone, he couldn’t see who, saying “What do you want, convict?” Silaes looked down at his red sash and suddenly he understood so much more about his predicament.

”I’m supposed to deliver this message to General Wolong.” He said with all the confidence he could muster. He held up a note he fortunately had written for one of his contacts in Tolos earlier today. The note was written in a cypher only the recipient would know, so Silaes was confident he wouldn’t blow his own cover this way, but his mind was racing for a way out of this situation once the General revealed the fact that he could not understand the contents of the note.

[Dblade26]

Wolong was pleased by the Inn despite the fact that it wasn't one he was familiar with, not that he was one to go drinking or carousing about the city in his off hours when there were more relaxing or scholarly pursuits to be had, but it was pleasing nonetheless. In fact the slightly isolated nature of it made it seem more removed from the hustle and bustle of the campaign. The happy sounds of drinking and revelry were familiar enough from his time as a field commander however and despite the dreariness of the weather he couldn't help but smile at the memories such things brought to mind. Happier times of victories gone by when he'd still been young and void of any ambitions other than a desire to bring honor to his family and city and make sure that as many of the soldiers under his command got home as possible.

The warm greeting Jalek got from her Night Hunters as they stepped inside was likewise an event to warm his heart if ever there was one. It was good that she was respected, perhaps even loved by the forces under her command. People fought harder for a superior like that, followed orders more readily and took greater risks. Wolong had seen it himself from his own men back in the Qaylu Confederacy, though at that thought the moment tinged itself with bitterness. Perhaps if his soldiers had loved him and his victories a little less...

But now was no longer the time for idle speculation and daydreaming. Especially since Selena Jalek seemed to have grim news to share with both himself and her Night Hunters. As Wolong listened in he began to feel sickened and pained and saw his own feelings mirrored and magnified on the faces of the men and women around him. Unlike them however, Wolong quickly sealed those feelings up in a box of cold hard logic and began calculating the effects this would have on their overall efforts. The slaughter of their recruitment and propaganda teams within Tolos was obviously an intentional message to any would be defectors to Oromis' side: to join with the Hamrock Isles is a death sentence and anyone thinking of doing so along with collaborators would be wiped out. Immediately speaking this would certainly achieve their desired effect. With their team out of commission and people frightened of death and crippling disfigurement recruitment of any kind in Tolos would drop significantly. However if they could turn the situation on its' head, perhaps emphasize how afraid the government of Tolos must be of a few defectors in order to carry out such sweeping butchery, how martyrs to the cause would be greatly rewarded as their deaths' directly served Oromis himself...

Before he could finish the thought someone interrupted him with a note they were supposed to deliver. Wolong took a moment to mentally sigh over the fact that people still insisted on referring to him a 'General' Wolong despite his refusal to adopt a formal military rank, however he immediately took notice of the fact that the messenger was not one of his own, but instead a completely unfamiliar face wearing the bright red sash of a press-ganged convict. Moreover as he snatched and read the note he quickly realized that it was written in a cipher that was not of his own devising, nor in fact any cipher that he knew. No one under his command or in his immediate council would have cause to use a a convict for a messenger when there were other official messengers about and even if a situation demanded one be used there was no reason he could think of that would require the use of a cipher with which he was completely unfamiliar, but the fact that the messenger had specifically said it was addressed to him eliminated any possibility of a mistaken delivery. That left only a very small number of possibilities in Wolong's mind regarding this message, all of which lead to only a few conclusions about the messenger himself.

Wolong smiled politely and tucked the message into his sleeve as he rose to face the alleged convict and messenger, his face warm and otherwise completely impassive though all the while he kept himself ready to counter any sudden movements by the unknown man.

"So, convict. For whom are you spying?"

[Lexicon]

Wet fur and pipe smoke.
Offers given and taken.
The drums are beating.

Sniffing with disdain at the sight of his commander shaking hands with Myra, Major Bayaz stomped out of the chamber, nearly hitting the elf as he passed. Myranda barely noticed. She was too busy wondering how a woman with Claes Astra's reputation for tactical brilliance and martial skill could look so pretty. The life of a sellsword was a harsh, brutal, and typically short affair. It also tended to leave its mark on those unfortunate souls forced to kill others in the name of making coin. Yet this woman's pale face looked like it was carved from the same white marble found in Scipillar's legendary Hundred Pillars, and her red locks glowed brighter than any torch. And the general's attire didn't diminish her lovely bust either. Not in the least.

Whistling, the elf released the human mercenary's hand and sat down heavily in a nearby chair, sighing as she peered at the unexpected treasure sitting before her. General Astra probably smelled nice too. Like honeysuckle or plum cake or something like that. Unfortunately for Myranda, her white lion skin cloak, which was draped across her shoulders, had gotten soaked during her journey from the Loyal Hearts Tavern to Taranidorn Keep. While Claes and the other human in the room took a moment to not-so-subtly reach for something they could use to defend themselves, Myra was wondering if they smelled the odor of damp fur filling the room. The words "awful" and "stinky as three day old orc shit" came to mind, and the last thing Myra wanted was for the blonde-haired man standing by her chair to faint due to the stench. He might drop the ominous-looking steel candlestick he was holding. That would be a shame.

Smirking at the man, the elf slowly opened one of the shabby leather pouches hanging from her belt and pulled out a wooden pipe adorned with carvings of leaping reindeer. Apparently taking this as a sign Myra wasn't planning to kill anyone, General Astra began to explain why she'd commanded Major Bayaz to bring the elf to her office in the first place. Even the woman's voice was pleasing to the ear. In the back of Myranda's head, however, the faint sound of beating drums began to make itself known, though she did her best to ignore it. While it would be interesting to see if the general's mastery of mounted combat translated well to close-quarters fighting, Myra knew pulling a blade on the leader of a mercenary company wasn't a smart idea. Especially if the sellsword in question had a sizable force of underlings at her beck and call.

True, the elven warrior enjoyed nothing more than finding fighters with impressive reputations and putting them to the test during battle. She lived for the moment when these proud, arrogant bastards realized having a reputation didn't make you special. It just meant you had a bigger target painted on your back. After all, there was always someone smarter, stronger, and meaner out there looking for a chance to make a name for themselves. Kurdan might have been a drunken blowhard at the best of times, but many of his teachings had proved invaluable time and again.

Not picking a fight with someone just because you thought they might be a challenge was one such lesson.

Licking her lips and taking a deep breath as Claes continued speaking, Myranda reached into the purple-dyed pouch at her waist and produced several black leaves with red stems. After rummaging around for a few more moments, she pulled a single sulfur match out of the same container. The general was probably going to keep talking for awhile, and the least Myra could do was try to get rid of the smell permeating the chamber.

After tamping down the wraith leaves in the bowl of her pipe, Myra struck the match on her sabaton and lit the pipe, discarding the match with a quick flick of her hand. Coincidentally, General Astra finished speaking just as the elf took a few test puffs and blew a single, yellow smoke ring into the air over the red-haired human's head. Now, instead of reeking of wet fur, the room smelled like roasted honey and cinnamon as the wraith leaf fumes roiled and danced around Myra's face in unnerving spirals. So, she was being offered a place among the Gray Winds? Inhaling a little and blowing another smoke ring, the elf couldn't keep a delighted grin from spreading across her face as she clapped her hands together sharply. It seemed as if tonight might actually end up going her way.

Chewing on the stem of her pipe, Myranda glanced over her left shoulder at Claes' companion and said, "Be at ease, Cap'n Candlestick. I ain't gonna hurt ye, I promise. Especially since I've a mind ter take this job yer boss is offerin' me." The man didn't look reassured in the least.

Turning her attention back to the general, and blowing a stream of sweet-smelling smoke out of the corner of her mouth, Myra said, "First things first, General Astra, I must say...yer awful pretty-lookin' fer a soldier. Especially a soldier fer hire. I mean, a few o' the other convicts won't stop jawin' about how pretty ye is, but I thought it was jest talk. Turns out them rumors didn't do ye a lick o' justice, an' that's a fact." Settling back into her chair, the elf vented smoke from her nostrils and said, "Ter be honest, general, ye had me at pay an' a half. Besides, I'm sure it'll be more fun marchin' around with yerself and yer lads than trudgin' alongside the footsoldiers and other convicts. Them penal battalions ain't gonna last long once we get ter fightin' if the men I've seen are the best we got. Half of 'em are too young ter know which end o' the sword to stick ye with and the other half are so old their wrinkles have wrinkles! I guess what I'm saying is I'm yer elf." Myra stood up and wiped her hands on her leather leggings, grinning all the while, and took her still smoking pipe out of her mouth. Reaching into a green-dyed pouch dangling from her belt, Myra pulled out a crumpled piece of parchment and set it on the general's desk.

"I got me a room at Colwen's Bunkhouse near the center o' the city, General Astra. It's a bit hard ter find so I drew a little map ter help me remember where it's at. Ye can use it now," Myra said as she gestured towards the parchment with her pipe. "If'n ye need ter get a message ter me jest send someone ter the bunkhouse. Oh, and, if it's possible, I'd like ter meet me platoon afore we cross the Gap. Just so I can introduce meself and help 'em get...what's the word? Acclimated or some such? Aye, acclimated to me style o' command. An' don't worry about them gettin' all pissy 'cause I'm an elf an' all." Myranda's smile took on a sinister edge as she said, "I'll bring 'em around ter seein' things my way, don't ye worry. I can be very persuasive. So, a good night ter ye, general. Captain Candlestick." Myra inclined her head in Claes' direction and strolled out of the room, puffs of yellow smoke trailing after her like lost ducklings looking for their mother. It had been a long, fulfilling night and the elf was eager to get some rest.

A hand suddenly grabbed Myra's arm tightly. "General Astra didn't dismiss you, con..." Major Bayaz's voice started to say, though the Tolosi sellsword never finished his sentence.

Bum ba-BUM! Bum ba-BUM! Bum ba-BUM!

With the sound of drums thundering in her ears, Myranda yanked her arm out of the major's grip and grabbed his right arm in a vice-like grip of her own. Major Bayaz barely had time to cry out as the elf pulled him towards her. The other three mercenaries who'd been watching the general's door were so shocked it took them a few moments to get their weapons out. One of them, a stout fellow with a boil sprouting from the side of his face, dropped his pike in his haste to point it at Myra. The five of them stood there, a horrible, strained tableau just outside General Astra's office. The elven warrior's face was beet red and a series of muscle spasms ran up and down the side of her neck as though insects were flitting about beneath her skin. Taking a deep breath and fighting the urge to rip Major Bayaz's arm off, Myranda said, her voice as sharp as the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheathe, "Do...not...fuckin'...touch me. Got it?"

All the terrified major could do was nod, his face white and his eyes so wide they looked like they might fall out of his head.

The elf released the human and, as if nothing unusual had happened, pasted a nonchalant grin on her face. "Good. I'll see ye all tomorrow, aye? I got me a feelin' it's gonna be a great day. Lookin' forward ter it," Myra said as she sauntered away from the four stunned Gray Winds, her pipe still crammed into her mouth. As she started down the keep's main staircase, Myranda heard Major Bayaz viciously berating the man who'd dropped his pike and she chuckled, a harsh, croaking sound that seemed to be equal parts mirth and something like regret. It was just like Kurdan always said. Nothing in life is ever easy.

[Eschatologist]

Readjustment

Claes watched the spectacle outside her door with a deal of mirth. Bayaz was useful, no doubt, and had a way with the recruits, but appreciation of specific talents does not immediately engender fondness, and for his personality and adjacent reasons she found herself rather enjoying watching him soil himself.

Laurence was considerably less amused, as evidenced by his drawn sword, but that was to be expected. With the incident resolved, the smooth grey blade found itself back in its scabbard, and the furious, near-purple face of her Personnel Major stood across her desk, sputtering with incredulous fury only now being subdued by what appeared to be a rather significant force of will.

"General, what the fuck was that?"

Claes was as calm as ever, not batting an eye at the profanity and uncharacteristic disrespect.

"I am aware of your situation, Major, though I had hoped it would be less of a problem. I do not expect you to like our new Lieutenant, but you will treat her as any other officer, and show her no impolite behavior."

The Major did not look pleased with the response. "Treat her as any other officer? Then I'll have her hang for that, threatening and striking an officer!"

Laurence's serious countenance showed the faintest sign of incredulous amusement at the word 'striking', but the General paid him no mind, and he made no motion to interject.

"You know very well that will not happen. She will prove crucial in these next weeks, whether we like it or not. I will speak to her directly informing her of how things are done in the Winds, do not trouble yourself."

Bayaz's temperament seemed to cool ever so slightly, but as he made to speak, the General cut him off.

"Dismissed, Major. Do not reprimand your subordinates outside too harshly, I will need morale as high as possible before we set out."

Clearly frustrated, the Major turned and left, the door slamming with a volume just above acceptable. Laurence reclaimed his seat after their last guest departed, and Claes resumed her relaxed posture. A smirk returning to his face as he adjusted in the uncomfortable seat.

"That must have been difficult for you, General. I'm surprised you didn't chop her hand off, all considered."

"That particular facet of this conversation is not to leave the room, Captain Candlestick."

"Oh of course. She was, at least, less presumptuous than Councilor Decatus, though of all things I did not expect lesbianism from one of the most dangerous convicts on this island."

"On matters of presumption, I doubt we'll ever see Decatus' like again. Though, at least then we had the last laugh, so to speak."

Laurence's mouth ticked up at their shared memory of a particularly spectacular victory several years ago, of which Councilor Decatus was an 'unfortunate casualty'. Claes continued. "To be perfectly honest, however, neither did I. It is certainly fortuitous; I'll look into any possible utility."

A suggestive glance from the reclined Colonel was met with an unimpressed, stern glare, and wilted quickly, his expression quickly matching the seriousness of his commanding officer's. He spoke without the previous joviality, his voice lowering ever so slightly to deny the ever-present specter of listeners at the door.

"Bayaz is going to be a problem, General."

"Bayaz has been a problem since I promoted him, Laurence, and I am well aware of it. This may simply be the straw that breaks the horse's back. Do you have any suggestions for new personnel officers?"

"A few, General."

"Excellent: keep them to your self. I'll keep a watch on the situation. Don't act on this until I give the word."

"Absolutely, General. Though, I find myself in the unfortunate position of agreeing with the man. A lack of discipline in a junior officer is a dangerous thing; proper procedure must be followed, especially in this case."

"She seemed cordial enough with me, Laurence, and I don't think it is for that reason. I'll give her a unit under Sim: he has more than enough sub-commanders that our new friend would find acceptable. I somehow doubt we can begrudge a berserker for finding our friend the Major less than acceptable."

"In fairness, I'd have probably hit the man by now too."

"Exactly. A gentle reminder and a hospitable commander and all will be well, I'm sure.". Claes slapped the table as if to forcibly close the issue, and moved on with vigor. "Anyways, the moon is far too high to bother with such things. Go fetch one of the Vensavi First Seedings from the Cellar: whatever that smoke was, the stench it left needs a fruity accompaniment, and I suspect you need a rematch"

Laurence rose, nodding as he did so, and left with a smile. Claes shifted around until she was as comfortable as possible, and closed her eyes, once again enjoying that most rare state of being at ease.

[Vahir]

As the followers of Oromis whispered plans of war in the black of night, other men were doing the same in the mighty and mystical citadel of Bucephal, capital of the Tolosi Empire. Around a circular stone table sat the five most important men and women in that glorious dominion, with only a few meager torches to chase the darkness.

"Brothers," Adrea Karedac -High Priestess of the Isidon province- began, her voice marked by the authority she possessed as chief advisor of His Majesty. "I thank you for coming on such short notice. I would not have called for you if the need was not urgent."

Taking a moment's pause to let them consider that, she pushed on with the hard truth: "We are now certain that the man claiming to be Oromis returned is genuine."

A moment's silence ensued.

"Damn," Margrave Reinald said finally, echoing everyone's thoughts. They all knew what that meant; they were old, even by elven standards, and they remembered well the carnage and the horror that resulted from his war against the Empire.

Adrea nodded. "Indeed. I don't need to remind you that, the last time he came for us, he ripped away half the Empire in the process. In the next war, he will seek our utter destruction. Given the urgency of the situation, I took the liberty of eliminated the nest of rats who were spreading his insanity in our borders." She smiled, though it was in her usual way, utterly devoid of warmth. "I believe you've seen them already, in front of the gates; bandits, I've had it publicly known, though those in charge of them will know the warning for what it is."

"Perhaps the Etruscans will be obliging enough to kill him again," High Priest Serpend, youngest of the Emperor's advisers, suggested hopefully.

"Perhaps," Adrea said skeptically. "But it isn't wise to count on it. Remember, he was killed by treachery the last time. And while he has less men now, the League has also grown weak, overextended and divided. And whereas before he was the sole leader of his little rebellion, this time he has a cadre of promising generals at his command."

She paused for a moment, growing more serious, as if that were possible. "Furthermore, the Astra's Grey Winds have joined him."

"That treacherous bitch!" Margrave Reinald finally let out, his voice thick with fury. The others winced, understanding. As governor of the western Giriballi province, which extended up and down the length of the Nerwains, it was the duty of the Margrave to defend the Empire from Etruscan invasion. He had hired the prestigious Grey Wind company to bolster his forces for an attack on the Zantyric Order for a small fortune.

"Claes is a sellsword," Adrea pointed out coldly, with none of the sympathy of her peers. "They are loyal only to themselves. You knew that when you hired her. No doubt the Winds only agreed to the contract to mask their movements across the Empire."

"Are we certain of this? Where does the information come form?" Serpend interjected, cutting off Reinald's rebuke.

"I've seen it," said a voice which had been silent until then in a hoarse voice. Everyone turned to pay the speaker attention.

Feridas was perhaps the oldest mortal alive, being almost a thousand years old. Of course, all elves lived long, but at around four hundred years of age they lost their youthful appearance, and their bodies deteriorated astonishingly quickly, in what is referred to as the Knell. By the age of 450, elves are as frail as the oldest humans, their bones becoming brittle, their flesh saggy. Even those who survive their newfound feableness fall prey to the effects of age, with senility taking its toll.

That Feridas was not only alive, but lucid (somewhat, at least) was unique. Stranger still were his visions: He was known to see things in his dreams which foretold the future with eery accuracy, without any apparent need for magical items. Raising his head, his blind eyes staring into nothingness, his body that of a corpse, he explained:

"I've see the Great Enemy, Oromis, and those beside him. A Qaylu, his face scarred by hardship. A Jadisi cloaked in secrets. A westerner hidden in the shadow. An elf woman, dripping in blood from head to toe, her heart shriveled away. An armored woman with blazing crimson hair, her sword raised high, her face..."

His faint voice faltered. "Her gaze was terrible to behold. All those around the Foe were killers, one and all, yet somehow that woman was more terrifying than any of them." He went back to his silence.

"This is all rather frightening," the fat Margrave Qericus broke in, "but I've other news that I, ahem, felt this council should know of. As you know, as ordained by His Majesty, ahem, I govern the southern frontier province, keeping His-"

"Yes, yes," Margrave Reinold interrupted brusquely. "If you have something to say, say it, and spare us the damn formalities."

Qericus gave Reinold an annoyed look. The Margrave enjoyed nothing more than the formalities of his office. "What I'm saying is that the orcish barbarians have invaded the League as well, landing in the south last night."

"That can't be a coincidence," Serpend pointed out. Again, silence, as those present considered the implications of that.

"You think the Foe knew of the coming invasion when he crowned himself?" Reinald asked, horrified at the prospect. "But... how?"

"He defies the natural order of this world," Adrea cut in. "'How' is a pointless question. A better one is 'why'. A full orcish invasion is a curious time to launch his latest crusade."

"Or an opportune one," Serpend said thoughtfully, stroking his golden beard. Several others, understanding his meaning, bobbed their heads in assent. For the rest, he explained: "With the orcs of Rusadir in full war against the League, the Etruscan fleet is pinned in the Timerian Sea; They can't leave without defeating the orcs at sea first. And no doubt the Foe thinks he can smash the orcs in battle, preferably after they ravage half the continent. If he succeeds, he will be acclaimed as the rightful defender of humanity, and his cause given a great deal of legitimacy."

He grimaced. "And no doubt he'd immediately start a war of 'liberation' against our Empire."

"What's the tactical situation in the south?" Margrave Reinald asked, pragmatic as always. "Surely the orcs will be repelled in short order."

"The orcs of Rusadir are reputed to be mighty warriors, and their King Rusadir is famous for his cunning and skill at war," Adrea said, her brow furrowed in thought, "But the Timerian coast is guarded by the Cadean city-states and the powerful kingdom of Merida. As to who will win in that struggle..."

"The orcs will win," old Feridas rasped again. Everyone looked at him in surprise. He almost never spoke in these meetings; now he had done so twice. "I have seen the twin snakes of the Meridan King tattered and fallen on a mound of hewn corpses. The visions granted to me by the Gods are generally vague, yet this... This is clear. Merida will fall, and soon."

Serpend sighed and rubbed his eyes, fatigued by the long night. "All right, then, the orcs will rampage through the south of the League, and the Foe through the north. What do we do? Take advantage of all this chaos to invade the east?"

Adrea considered that for a moment. "No," she decided finally. "We simply can't afford that, in coin, supplies, or men. The Empire was feeble before our disastrous war against Coromis last year, and now..." She closed her eyes. The Empire was already dead, in truth. A war would only serve to show everyone that the grand illusion- that it still stood- for the great lie it was, and then it would collapse utterly.

She opened her eyes again. "We'll simply have to speed up the project."

Margrave Qericus blanched at the prospect. "We've already picked the Empire clean of the stones. I can't imagine how we'll get more without, ahem, attracting attention. And that isn't even talking about the, ahem, other cost. We're not as numerous as we used to be, and now-"

"I don't want excuses," Adrea cut him off. "The fate of our entire race hangs in the balance. Find a way." She looked at the others. "I must attend matters of state, and you your duties. For now, this meeting is over. We'll meet again soon. By the Emperor's grace."


Hours later, in the Keep of Tarannidorn

Joshen Perinhold, Duke of Pellia, trudged along in the gloomy, frozen stone hallways of the keep that until recently had been his quiet home. As he passed windows, he could see the faint light of dawn eking through them. Another night without sleep, then. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had rested; It certainly had to be before his god had knocked on his door and politely asked for his lands.

An old, proud man, he came from a long line of old, proud men. For centuries, the Perinholds had been, as the dukes of the wealthy and puissant duchy of Pellia, one of the most influential forces in the League. And then his great grandfather- also named Joshen, as it turned out- declared for Oromis when he appeared in 3534, marching off for war, leaving behind his two year old son and his beloved wife.

Needless to say, he wasted no time to find himself on the wrong end of a pike. When his army was crushed by the Rozarrians, he was butchered along with the rest of his men. With their family declared enemies of humanity and their lands given to the Rozarrian king, it fell to his widow to salvage what she could of the situation, gathering the routed remnants of the Mardochian army and fleeing to the Hamrock Isles.

The highest ranking Mardochian noble with his head intact, his grandfather became the leader of the movement as he grew. He was by all accounts a valiant warrior and a general blessed with genius. Though this did not save him from the grave, his death, leading the mardochian forces against the great Etruscan invasion of 3570, was certainly more heroic than his father. He died sword in hand, still hewing through foes and shouting commands as his flagship sunk beneath him. Then there was his father, who had the good luck to reign in a period of relative peace, save the occasional Etruscan raid. He died of old age, a feat Joshen hoped to emulate.

As for the current Duke of Pellia, he had none of the martial zeal of his forefathers. He was a fretful and anxious man by nature, and the arrival of Oromis had only stressed him more. He now had to single-handedly prepare the logistics of an entire invasion.
Where will we find the food? The ships? Or even the sailors? Perhaps mercenaries... But with what coin? Perhaps the traders... No, we can't risk scaring them away at this critical point. But how-?

He was mercifully interrupted in his thoughts by reaching his destination, the solar that used to be his, but was now occupied by his god. Though the guards straightened themselves, they did not bother asking questions; After all, only a week ago, he had been their sole lord. As they opened the door, he fidgeted and hesitated, worrying about what he should say and how he should say it, and how would Oromis react, and do you refer to your god as Your Grace, Your Majesty, My Lord, or maybe something else...

"Milord," one of the guardsmen coughed, embarrassed. "Are you gonna to enter?"

"Hm?" Joshen asked, startled. "Oh, yes, right. Of course." He hurried into the office, finding Oromis awake and staring distantly out of the high window that loomed behind the desk. At least I'm not the only one awake at this dismal hour, the Duke reflected. He coughed and mumbled an incoherent greeting.

"Ah, my lord, welcome," Oromis said, his expression unreadable. "What news from the preparations?"

"Well, respectfully, that's not why I'm here, Your Grace. It's, ah, it's news from afar. A courier arrived just now, having sailed as fast he could from the Timerian." The duke hesitated. "The orcish king Rusadir has crossed the sea and invaded the kingdom of Merida."

"I see," Oromis said simply, without any sign of surprise.

"You... You knew, Your Grace?"

Oromis again looked outside, watching the courtyard below with a weary expression. "I guessed. But so soon... This has set the hourglass back. We must set sail before nightfall today, if we have any hope of winning this war."

Joshen blanched, speechless for a moment. "Today?" he asked incredulous. "My lord, we can't. The supplies alone-"

"Most of the supplies can be left here, to be sent after we've already made landfall. The force that will make for Tolos will have ample opportunity to forage, while the main army will have to hope for charitable sympathizers."

"Your Grace, this is foolish, to rush into a war like this. We should take our time, prepare, consolidate-"

"Every moment we spend equipping a single soldier, our enemies spend equipping ten," Oromis interrupted. "You have your command, Perinhold. Follow it."

I am in hell, Joshen thought, despairing at the magnitude of what his god was asking. "I... Yes, of course. At once, your Grace."


As the Duke left, Oromis breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't maintain this facade for much longer. As the doors shut loudly, he burrowed his face in his hands, his head ready to explode. He saw corpses, mountains of corpses; a strange, beautiful pool of golden water; and above all, he heard the screams of children. Always the screaming.

It was not always this debilitating. Most of the time, it was merely in the background, a faint reminder of the horror of his existence, of the abomination that he was. But other times, like then, it felt like his head was going to explode.

As the sun in force, the shrieking faded away, and the pain eased. He went back to his work, arranging the conquest of the entire world. Rusadir's early move had changed the face of the game. With any luck, they'd win a quick victory in the north, and be able to push back the orcs before they caused too much damage. But what will the Empire do in the meantime?

Unbidden his thoughts turned to Havendall, the pinnacle of his great war against the Empire. He remembered meeting Bucephalus on that field. Though the Tolosi was a human serving elven masters, Oromis couldn't help but be in awe of Bucephalus; there was an otherworldly quality to the young general, as if everything he did affected the entire world. The Empire had only survived through his sheer force of will, after all. Oromis remembered impaling him on Reingunger, as well. That it had come to that saddened him. Why? Why all this death, all this destruction? Instantly, he remembered, that refrain which nagged him night and day:

I must annihilate Tolos.

I must annihilate Tolos.

I must annihilate Tolos.


Morning of April 5th

[Athinar]

Eventually, the crowd of Night Hunters drifted away, leaving Selena and the Night Hunter Command group sitting at the table with Marko, Wolong, and some messenger with a red convict's sash. They sat there in silence until Gram spoke up in a hushed whisper, asking, "So what do we do now, boss? Are we going after the bastards that did this to David, Attie, and Romas?"

Selena took a long swig of her ale, and slammed it on the table, shaking her head. "No. As much as I would like to sail over there and get my hands on the Tolosi scum, we need to be there to support Oromis' and General Astra's forces." Looking each of them in the eye, she gave them a grim nod. "But when we get to Tolos, there WILL be a reckoning." This seemed to satisfy the Hunters, and they all left, except Gram, Marko, Wolong and the messenger. Even the bartender left, entrusting Selena to lock up the Cliffside.

With them the only ones in the room, Selena turned to Marko, and said, wearily, "Listen, Marko, I'm sorry that this trip to the Cliffside didn't go as planned. But I'm sure you'd like to report back to Miss Astra, right?" Her tiredness showed, and Marko was somewhat surprised to see that Selena looked like she was about to cry.

Standing up awkwardly, Marko saluted, and said,"Uhm, yeah, I do. Pleasure meeting you, Miss Jalek."

Selena rubbed her eyes, and yawned, waving the young Captain away. "Likewise, Mr. Elias. I hope that we can work together sometime." As the young captain sauntered off, the leader of the Night Hunters turned to Wolong and sighed. "It never gets any easier, does it?"

Not waiting for him to answer, she opened the door of the tavern, and ushered him and the messenger out, and locked the door behind them as they walked back to town. However, she didn't quite trust the convict with the most important man here (aside from Oromis or maybe General Astra), so she walked alongside them, ready to intervene if anything happened.

When they eventually reached town, Selena went to her home without a word, slipping away into the rain, like a phantom.

---

The next day, Selena didn't wake up until a few hours before noon, and even then, only at the prodding of Gram, who was the only Night Hunter with access to every member's house. Getting up slowly, and yawning, Selena just about fell over when Gram told her the news. On the way to Tolos before sundown? Crazy. But still doable if the Night Hunters got moving quickly.

As she got dressed, she said, "Crap... Ok, Gram, this is how it's gonna go. Get the Messenger Corps to mobilize everyone, and I mean ALL personnel, at the docks. The ships have been ready for weeks, and all non-perishable supplies are already aboard. Once we get our ships ready, we need to help out in any way possible, help load the other ships. Also, even if they're helping load other ships, we need to leave hours earlier than everyone else. We are to take out the watchtowers on the Tolosi coast." And with that, she was ready, and left the house, and hurried to the castle, sprinting over the wet cobblestone, trying to find out what the hell was going on.

[Eschatologist]

Planned Improvisation

Claes stood hunched over a table strewn with papers, all around her a score or more soldiers and servants buzzed like angry bees. The sun had barely risen, and many of the officers had not had time to change from nightclothes to more presentable attire. Claes herself had debated saving the time and charging into the makeshift planning room in a nightgown and slippers, but thankfully thought better of it. As it stood she was the only one looking anything near presentable in the throng.

Last minute changes of plans are a soldier's nightmare, only becoming more monstrous as one increased in rank. Claes felt sorry for the man standing opposite the table from her, his face tight and fully concentrated as his right hand scrawled chits and notices, his left performing the requisite sums on a worn abacus. Major Agallon's olive skin was slick with perspiration, his long brown hair bedraggled and his attire unkempt. If last minute changes are terrible for commanders, they are perdition incarnate for logistics officers, and Claes could see the toll of the last few hours already showing on his face, every second filled with requests, reports and accusations. Claes would have to reward him for his excellent service after this affair was over, and lavishly indeed. She herself was not free from the grasping pleas for attention that so beset her Major, but hers were at least in a lesser volume. She was currently studying a map, flanked by Colonels Gordon and Ostilla.

She drew an imaginary line on the detailed and [hopefully] accurate map of their area of operations with her finger, from the coast to their objective city.

"Colonel Ostilla". Laurence's eyes widened suddenly, the General's address apparently pulling him out of a deep reverie. "You will take your Battle and that of Major Bayaz, with changes to uniform to hide your alignment to Oromis. Intercept communications, destroy reinforcing troops, and create a soft cordon of the city. When we arrive at the city proper, break cordon and rejoin the party. Seize food and supplies: you will not be able to give chits without revealing who you are, but do keep violence to a minimum. Nearby towns are to be assessed for risk or garrison. I expect you to punish looting as always, Colonel. Ah, and if you identify any people of importance, take them hostage." Claes finished scribbling down the orders, stamped them with her signet ring, and handed the rolled up parchment to her subordinate. Laurence saluted and strode off quickly; he knew now was not the time for politeness or unnecessary response.

"Colonel Gordon. Take your Battle and that of Major Willem and land somewhere around here." Claes thumbed a rough location on the map, well north of Oromis' landing point. "Leave the specifics to the Commodore. You are to identify the counteroffensive army and harry it. Cut supplies, kill scouts: slow them and starve them. Pay for any food you take from locals, and try to spread whatever propaganda your officers can cook up. When our God-King joins battle, you are to fully commit to the fight. "

Gordon replied with a chuckle. "Don't worry General, I'll bring back coin and glory as always.". Claes nodded, and after stamping the messily-scrawled yet detailed orders with her signet, handed the scroll to her Colonel. He too saluted, though only shifted a few feet to the right to study expected enemy force predictions. She signed papers and checked in with Agallon: horses were just now being loaded, arrow procurement was on schedule and supplies were being bought at cheaper-than-expected prices. Seeing all was well, Claes stood and made for a pair of officers in the corner, talking hurriedly about something to do with hempen rope.

Majors Koltos Sim and Domican Hellico could be mistaken for twins. The two lancer commanders were of medium height, very muscular and with faces more resembling bears than men. Sim had a longer nose, shorter, darker brown hair and was clean shaven, Hellico being slightly taller with a wider face and larger eyes, but Claes still marveled at how two unrelated people could resemble each other to such a degree. Their personalities did not share the odd resemblance their appearances did, but that was only to be expected.

"Major Sim, Major Hellico, good morning gentlemen." The two men instantly stopped their hurried discussion and turned on their heels, saluting almost simultaneously. "At ease, Majors. Sim, have you prepared unit for Tavellan?" Sim, the more jovial, less formal and more of a maverick, was the obvious choice to receive the newest member of the Winds. He responded loudly, but his voice was almost lost in the din of the room, Claes being a conservative few feet from the two unwashed lancers, both in various stages of half-dress.

"Aye General. 25 good swords, cream of the crop of the mercenaries 'round here, expensive to match. Glad you told me when you did, with the mobilization most the honest sellswords are getting pinched like pennies"

25 was more than Claes had expected, but that was only positive. "To whom did you assign them, Sim?"

"Captain Elias, General."

Elias was the natural choice: fair, ambitious and more than capable, Claes was glad Sim had made the decision. Tough choices have to be made, and should always be made well, but deniability is never something to be passed up.

"Excellent. Return to your duties, gentlemen." The three soldiers saluted, and Claes strode back to the table, her mind already jumping ahead to the next problem at hand.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Marko was up at dawn with the rest of the Winds, but had managed to find time to wake up fully and look presentable. His short, jet-black hair was combed, his bushy mustache in good order, and his dark, tan skin washed to at least the lowest standards of hygiene. He had found, when he entered the planning room, that most of his work would be done for him: there was not too much of it to begin with, individual Captains not having to deal with supplies or ships or what-not, but even inspecting his men was being taken care of by others.

Instead he found himself outside the door of a bunkhouse, navigating through the nearly empty establishment towards the common room. The infantry seemed to be quality: two young elves and a dwarf who looked ten years too old to be on a battlefield, the rest strong looking men, the sort who follow orders and don't rape peasants or steal from the Company. He didn't expect any different. Major Sim, let alone the General, would never pay coin for troops that didn't follow orders to the letter, but he just hoped they knew how to ride at something above a trot.

He asked the attendant to fetch one Myra Travellan, and after a patient wait the man returned, with him an elf woman that could only be described as 'imposing'. 'Terrifying' could work too, he supposed, but he would save that one for later. Standing, he offered a hand to the woman, still getting over the surprise of meeting two fighting women so different from one another in the span of a few hours, and spoke in a clear, inviting tone.

"Captain Marko Elias, ma'am. I'm your new superior officer, at least for this coming operation. It's good to meet you, and I look forward to working with you in the coming days."

[Lexicon]

The morning after.
Welcome to the Forlorn Hope.
The army sets sail.

Myranda didn't feel particularly imposing at the moment.

As she shuffled forward and shook Captain Elias' hand, all the elf could think about was how greasy, disheveled, and exhausted she must look. After her meeting with General Astra, Myranda decided to celebrate her promotion to the rank of lieutenant the only way she knew. By drinking until she couldn't see straight. She'd wandered back to Colwen's Bunkhouse and, since the other guests were either asleep or terrified of her, ended up having a few beers with Dagmar Colwen himself. The pimply Mardochian had been more than happy to just take Myra's coin at first, though he eventually joined in her revelry as the night wore on. Considering how watery and awful the beer was, neither Myra nor her drinking partner expected to actually get drunk until Dagmar found an unlabeled green bottle behind an old chamber pot. Both the elf and the Mardochian were sloshed at this point so they'd each decided to take one sip from the bottle. Myranda had been shocked to discover the bottle was full of wotka, a powerful Coromic spirit brewed in the dwarven stronghold of Tzar Ungol, and she'd poured as much as she could into her wineskin over the course of the evening. As the first rays of sunlight filtered through the grimy windows of Colwen's Bunkhouse, the bottle lay empty and forgotten on the floor, but Myra had chosen to make one last regrettable decision. She offered to give Dagmar Colwen a "fun romp between the sheets" as payment for the wotka. Initially, the bunkhouse owner had been unsure if he'd enjoy bedding someone like Myranda, though his concerns vanished when they finally clambered into his bed.

Unfortunately, due to a combination of inebriation and weariness, this "fun romp" was more of an embarrassment than anything else. As the first few patrons began shuffling around the common room demanding breakfast, Dagmar politely asked Myra to leave his chambers and she, feeling befuddled and nonplussed by the experience, didn't need to be asked twice.

Now, standing before the gallant Captain Marko Elias with her hair stinking of sweat and her breath stinking of booze, all Myranda could do was cough and say, "Good ter meet ye, Captain Elias. A right pleasure, I'm sure. I'm guessin' yer here on account o' that commotion I heard while I was havin' breakfast, eh? Some couriers came in a little bit ago an' started sayin' the army was leavin' Taranidorn afore nightfall or sommat. Guess it's time ter get movin'."

Politely ignoring the state of his companion, the Gray Winds captain inclined his head and gestured for Myranda to follow him as he strode away from the bunkhouse. Thanks to the early hour, the capital's main square was mostly deserted, though Myranda saw other groups of people running towards the docks as if their lives depended on it. The elf chuckled dryly, noticing the expressions of confusion, panic, and anger stamped on the faces of those men and women scurrying by, and she wondered what game Oromis was playing. Evidently, the God-King intended to have his army depart as soon as possible, though Myranda couldn't imagine a force of this size being ready to leave by nightfall. According to what Sweet Thond had told her a few days ago, Myra knew the army's original departure date was two weeks from now, and at least a dozen Mardochian lords claimed they wouldn't be ready by then. Now, the God-King wanted to set sail even sooner? It was impossible. Then again, the elf was still trying to come to terms with her new position as a lieutenant in a sellsword company serving the whims of a powerful immortal conqueror from a bygone age. Her life seemed full of impossible situations at the moment.

As Captain Elias and Myranda jogged towards the Taranidorn shipyard, the elf took a moment to take a long sip from her wineskin. The bitter taste and overpowering burn of wotka made her wince as she gazed down at the seething madness consuming the docks. People of every size, shape, and race were doing their best to meet the God-King's unexpected demands, which meant tempers were running high and fights were already breaking out. Trying not to jostle anyone too roughly, Captain Elias began to maneuver through a gaggle of elves carrying burlap sacks, wooden crates, and solid-looking casks on their backs. At the head of this weary band, a man wearing a yellow silk jerkin and a red cap was bellowing at a terrified city guard standing at the door of an old warehouse.

"No no no! What part of the word don't you understand, fool? I haven't come to empty the warehouse. These long-ears are here to finish filling it on the orders of Lord Anton Dezco! His lordship has worked his peasants to the bone to produce the amount of food Duke Perinhold requested. Getting all of it aboard the ships before the sun sets is preposterous! I demand to speak to the guard captain on duty!" the courtier roared, though Myranda couldn't hear the cowering guard's response as the noise of the crowd swelled and she was forced to pick up her pace in order to keep up with Captain Elias. Like two fish being carried along by a treacherous river current, Marko and Myranda struggled to navigate the mass of sellswords, peasants, convicts, merchants and countless others shoving their way across the docks. As a wagon full of grim-faced red sashes rumbled by, a pair of elves, each one wearing the colors of influential Mardochian lords, forced the twosome to move to one side of the road as they sprinted past. Myranda heard one of them say, "I hear the God-King's gone mad, Fylerian! If he thinks the army will be ready to move tonight then he's going to be sorely disappointed."

Myra frowned to herself as the elves vanished into the hectic throng. She understood improvisation was key during battle, but this sudden change of plans was starting to gnaw at her. As a former leader of men, Myranda could only think of a few good reasons to rush an army's departure, and she was certain none of those reasons were foremost in Oromis' mind. Apparently, a few of the God-King's supporters felt the same way. Scratching at the fleshy lump that had once been her right ear, Myra watched as a regiment of Gray Winds marched through the tumult like a ship plowing through a stormy sea, each soldier moving with the same crisp, precise efficiency. At least someone was handling these changes with a little grace and dignity. Dignity, as Kurdan often said while drinking or gorging himself in his captain's tent, was overrated, but Myra had to admit she was impressed. Despite their rumpled clothes and tired expressions, these men looked like professionals, and the measured stomping of their boots reminded Myra of the many forced marches she'd been involved with. While the White Hands always reached their destination in the end, it wasn't because they were all in step or looked like an army of conquering heroes setting out to save the world. It was because they were greedy as sin and didn't want to give their employers any reason not to pay them. Sucking on her teeth, the elf hurried after Captain Elias as he darted around an overturned cart and the two Jadisi men arguing beside it.

After what felt like an age, Marko and Myra reached a massive galleon with the name Blade of God painted on the side in golden letters. Wiping his sweaty brow, the mustachioed sword-for-hire said, "Well, Lieutenant Tavellan, this is the vessel that will carry you and your platoon across the Gap. I believe General Jalek of the Night Hunters will also be traveling aboard this ship. You should introduce yourself to her if you have time. At any rate, the Forlorn Hope platoon will be waiting for you at the rear of the ship. Look for Trooper Larius Pyral. He's your bugler and the oldest member of your platoon besides Trooper Mogdan. Good luck, lieutenant, and I hope to see you on the mainland." With that, the man hurried away, and Myra took a moment, despite the craziness swirling around her, to drink in the sight of Captain Elias' rump shifting beneath his cavalry trousers. She then quietly thanked the gods above and below for cavalry trousers.

Taking another gulp from her wineskin, the elf strode up the gangplank, trying not to interrupt the steady flow of perspiring sailors and bedraggled mercenaries boarding the Blade of God. The morning air was filled with the smell of salt water and body odor, mingling together with the unmistakable reek of fresh fish. Myranda hated fish almost as much as she hated being constantly wet. The army might not be ready to leave the Hamrock Isles but Myranda certainly was. Eventually, the elf reached the stern of the ship and was greeted by a sleepy-eyed man wearing polished lamellar armor and gray cavalry trousers. His mustache was also the largest and bushiest one Myranda had ever seen. It looked like a white, fuzzy caterpillar was sleeping on the human's upper lip.

"Ahhh, capital, you must be our new lieutenant then. Capital!" the man said, his voice barely audible over the din of the ship, and he stroked his formidable whiskers, a look of bemusement skittering across his face. "I am Trooper Larius Pyral, and Captain Elias commanded me to welcome you to the Forlorn Hope platoon. We call ourselves the Forlorn Hope platoon because we-" Larius interrupted himself with a jaw-cracking yawn, and Myranda arched one eyebrow as she saw the deep bags under the man's eyes. "Pardon me, lieutenant, but I haven't slept at all since we arrived on these islands. It seems I've become accustomed to sleeping in the saddle, you see, and I don't find beds comfortable any longer. Imagine that, eh? But come, come, let's meet our bold companions. Your platoon, Lieutenant Tavellan, has the vital task of sneaking into enemy territory, crushing any initial resistance, and preparing the way for the cavalry. The Forlorn Hope, you see? Because the chances of us doing all these things without being caught are slim to none. Capital!"

Myranda wasn't sure she liked the sound of that, but she contented herself with shrugging her broad shoulders and allowing Trooper Pyral to take the lead. Pulling at his mustache as though he was trying to yank it off, the elderly sellsword guided Myranda to the back of the ship. The Forlorn Hope platoon was waiting there in a large clump, laughing and chatting amiably amongst themselves while a number of them played dice.

The platoon looked exactly like Myranda had imagined it would. These men were as refined and disciplined as the White Hands were crude and vicious. The elven berserker paused for a moment. Why was she thinking so much about those traitorous bastards today? Obviously, she intended to punish both Pajaan and Clan Lord Miridon, not to mention those who'd supported their betrayal, but dwelling on the past wasn't something she normally did. Maybe it had something to do with the army's impending departure for the mainland? Or the wotka? Maybe having sex with Dagmar, and feeling so incredibly empty afterwards, shook a few things loose? Adjusting her red criminal's sash and narrowing her mud-colored eyes, Myranda looked at the twenty-five mercenaries assembled before her warily. Most of them were Tolosi, albeit with unusually dark skin due to their vocation, though there was also an old dwarf leaning against the railing of the ship, a heel of bread in his gloved hands. Two elves, their faces covered in tattoos that marked them as natives of Xochimilco, stood off to one side, their pitted lamellar armor and tattered wool cloaks the only indication they belonged to the Forlorn Hope platoon. One of them, a lean, dark-haired male with one blue eye and one green eye, stared at Myra and smiled like a cat that had spotted a tasty-looking bird. He gave the hulking elf warrior a little wave when he noticed she was looking back at him.

Myranda frowned and opened her mouth to speak when Larius roared, "Attention, men and women of the Forlorn Hope, attention! Lieutenant on deck!" The old man's cry actually made a few sailors stop what they were doing, though they quickly returned to work after realizing they weren't being addressed. Smiling warmly at his new lieutenant, Trooper Pyral ambled over to join his fellows while Myranda tried to think of something to say to the twenty-five strangers staring at her. "Hello" seemed like an excellent way to get things moving, but Myra's lips felt like they were made of stone. A twinge of icy fear rattled down her spine, though the elven warrior took a deep breath and told herself she was being stupid. She was Red Myra, after all. Why should she be afraid of addressing twenty-five mercenaries? If anything, they should be afraid of her. A faint sneer lit up Myranda's scarred face and she cracked her knuckles one-by one, the sound somehow making itself heard over the gulls cawing overhead and sailors bellowing at each other.

"Erhem, me name is Myranda Tavellan an' I'm gonna be yer new lieutenant. Now..." Myranda paused and scratched at the remnants of her right ear as she said, "We might as well get this done with. How many o' ye know the name Red Myra, hm? Raise yer hands an' raise 'em high. An' yes, if'n ye know the song "Beer, Blades, and Blood" then ye know who I am. The damned song is about wot me an' the White Hands did durin' the Siege of Fort Liburnum." Nearly a dozen mercenaries cautiously raised their hands, and the elf watched several faces turn the color of spoiled milk as they realized who she was. There was no help for it, of course. There never was. "Well, ye all know the stories about me an' I hate ter say it but most o' them have actually been cleaned up a bit so ye can tell 'em without scarin' people. What I'm sayin' is whatever ye might have heard about me is probably true. I ain't gonna lie to ye. So, if'n that bothers any o' ye or if me bein' an elf sticks in yer craw then ye can go. I won't fault ye, an' I'm sure the General won't either." To Myranda's surprise, nobody moved and she smiled, a warm feeling, almost like pride, blossoming in the pit of her stomach. These were good soldiers. Unfortunately, just because someone was a good soldier didn't make them a good person. The opposite was usually true.

"Now, I only got two rules ye need ter worry about. First, ye lot have ter listen ter me. I know yer reportin' ter Captain Elias just like I am, but if ye got a problem then jest let me know. Maybe I can help ye or maybe I can convince one o' the other officers ter help ye. However, if'n I find out yer goin' behind me back and tryin' ter do somethin' ye shouldn't then we're goin' ter have a problem. I'll find a way ter punish ye, don't yet doubt it. An' I'm partial ter floggin' meself. It's brutal an' ter the point. An' I like doin' it. Unnerstand?" Twenty-five heads nodded rapidly, and the dwarf, who'd just finished his bread, gave Myranda a delighted smile. "Second rule is also pretty damned simple. Even if the other platoons fuck up we're goin' ter do our job no matter what. Claes has her horses and her archers and the Night Hunters, but we're here ter smash shite ter bits an' make a mess so the cavalry can clean up. If we aren't makin' a bloody mess than we ain't doin' our jobs and that means the rest o' the army can't do their jobs. So, even if ye don't like it, we're gettin' paid ter do this shit right. Let's make sure we do, aye? Any questions?"

Complete silence was Myranda's only answer. The elven man's companion, a heavyset elf woman with a rearing serpent tattooed around her eyes, muttered something to her friend before shutting her mouth. Myra took that as a good sign.

Clearing her throat, the elven warrior said, "Excellent, now go get settled in below-decks. I'll have time ter get to know ye all during the trip across the Gap. Dismissed." The Forlorn Hope members began to disperse, talking animatedly amongst themselves, though Trooper Pyral and the elderly dwarf both walked towards Myranda. Now, what trouble could a tired old human and a wrinkled dwarf with a white beard make? Nevertheless, the drums began to beat softly in the back of Myra's head despite the friendly smiles stamped on the faces of the two sellswords. Trusting people was a luxury Red Myra couldn't afford.

"A fine speech, lieutenant. Capital, I say! I'll be speaking to Captain Dimbick if you need me for anything. I look forward to serving under you, truly. Capital!" Larius said, and he bowed his head respectfully before hurrying towards the fore-deck, leaving Myranda alone with the dwarf. The two southern elves strolled by and the dark-haired one whispered something to his blonde comrade, who giggled loudly, and they both glanced at Myra before vanishing below-decks. The elven berserker was wondering if they'd be trouble when the dwarf tugged at her dirty undershirt, which was hanging out from her leather chestpiece.

“Can I help ye, trooper?” Myra asked the dwarf, though the short mercenary didn’t answer right away. He seemed content to stare at the elven warrior, an earnest expression splayed across his wrinkled face. It was almost like he was searching Myra's face for something.

The dwarf suddenly grinned, showing off his yellow teeth once more, and said, his voice made guttural by a heavy Coromic accent, “I just wanted to say those were some fine words, lieutenant. The flames of Geishra burn hot within you, I can tell. I am Vladimir Mogdan, formerly of Coromis. I look forward to seeing you fight.”

“Thank ye, Trooper Mogdan. Oi, just out o' curiosity, have ye ever heard of a dwarf named Kurdan Sokolov? He was a mercenary an' fought for the Empire a long time ago. Does the name sound familiar at all?" Myra asked, though Vladimir was already shaking his gray-haired head.

“I am afraid I do not know that name, lieutenant. However, kurdan is an ancient Coromic word meaning "lucky." You are kurdan to have me at your side, lieutenant. Trust me. Me and my axe shall make beautiful, bloody art for you. And for General Astra, of course," Vlad said before tottering off after the rest of the platoon, his threadbare jerkin flapping around his knees like a little girl's dress.

In spite of herself, Myranda chortled as she watched the dwarf go. Maybe she was kurdan after all. Or maybe the other boot just hadn't dropped yet. Either way, the elf was looking forward to getting back to the mainland.