A great many years ago, in a land known as Nikan, there was a shogun who grew old and fat. He had never fought a war. How the daimyo, how the samurai, how the shinobi gathered round like crows circling over a dying man. I would say that you should have seen them, but you would not have, for this was the secret war...
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STATUS: Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/… 3 yrs ago
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Shilling a good medieval fantasy: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
Don't mind me. Just shilling a thread: roleplayerguild.com/topics/…
3 yrs ago
So worried right now. My brother just got admitted to the hospital after swallowing six toy horses. Doctors say he's in stable condtion.
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Nice to meet you, Bored. I'm interested!
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Ugh. Someone literally stole the wheels off of my car. Gonna have to work tirelessly for justice.
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Bio
Oh gee! An age and a gender and interests and things. Yeah, I have those. Ain't no way I'm about to trigger an existential crisis by typing them all out, though. You can find out what a nerd I am on discord, okay?
Stay awesome, people.
Stay awesome, people.
Most Recent Posts
Applications Open
Sorry for the borderline necropost, but I figured that I'd just put it out here: we're starting a new arc and a longtime player has had to bow out so, for the first time in a while, we have an open spot and I'd be thrilled to welcome any new players who are interested. You can check out our OOC and discord if you'd like to know more. They have a lot more up to date lore than this old thread.
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _
Chapter Four: Mortal Men______ __ _ _
The lives of mortal men are fickle things: they give the illusion of control, but that control is tenuous and situational at best. One finds himself adrift upon an ocean, subject to its vagaries and fickle currents and he must often leap or else drown, neither option appealing but a choice nonetheless necessary.
It was such a moment when the dragon appeared. The cleverly laid-out diversions and pitfalls of the Eskandr counted for nothing against such a force of nature. The enemy that the Parrench had prepared to face now appeared the lesser of two evils. Indeed, one of their greatest villains sacrificed near to the point of death in order to ward the beast off long enough that cooler heads might prevail. The stage had been set for an unlikely alliance against an existential threat, shared personhood bonding bitter enemies together in a struggle for survival.
The capacity for emotion is one of our greatest strengths as people: human and yasoi alike. It inspires and motivates us, brings us happiness, love, and even melancholy, for the last has its uses as well. Yet, for us to understand happiness, there must be anguish; for love, hatred; melancholy can so easily slip into despair, despondence, and terror. It was this second cohort of feeling that the people who stood upon the fields of fire chose.
Nearly two thousand Eskandr and Parrench spat in the face of assumed wisdom and, instead of turning their steel and magics upon the dragon that threatened them all, they warred with each other once more.
The heroes of one side and villains of another brushed aside gestures of goodwill and clashed in duel and open combat alike. Honour and decency fell by the wayside and the anger of one man burned white hot across the battlefield, laying low his enemies and willing his side ever closer to a victory that they had no business winning. The Parrench, however, were not so easily broken, and it appeared that the two sides might yet bleed each other to the last armoured man.
Marquis Down
Perceval was wretched. He had been stuck with arrows like a pincushion and only his armour had saved him. Still, the wounds smarted. His shoulder had given as he hit the ground too, and he would need a binder. “Binder!” he called out, staggering forward. “Marquis down! Fetch me a binder immediately!” He bit back a curse. It would not do to be unchivalrous. “How I have sacrificed for my queen and country,” he lamented, “how I have bled!” He had, and it hurt - by Echeran, it hurt, but there was advantage to be gained here and he could begin laying the groundwork. “And I would bleed yet more!” he roared, “I would give my very life for my country, but I have precious little to give like this. Binder!” he hollered, “I need a binder so that I might return to the fray and lay low these heathens! So that Echeran’s -”
He came upon Sir Maerec and the downed Eskandr woman. There were two more recovered prisoners. This, then, was a victory. “Good sir,” he remarked, grimacing as he came to a stop. He’d left the arrows in, partially to keep the wounds from gushing in earnest and partially because it made him look more heroic. They were not all that deep anyhow, or so he thought. He had never actually been shot with an arrow, after all. “You have done us a great service this day.” He glanced down at the woman who had shot him. “I am bloodied but still more than enough to watch an unconscious woman. Ride to the queen, I command you. Tell her of this victory, and call a binder here so that myself and these prisoners we have emancipated might be restored.” He glanced about the battlefield. He was unhorsed and it was far too exposed a position. There was far too high a likelihood of dying and Percy had no intentions of doing so. He still had yet to become king, after all. “Well, go on, man!” he prodded. Then, however, even as powerful magic rained down and his prisoner stirred, healing inexplicably fast, his eyes turned instinctively to the sky and deep, frigid chill raced through his bowels.
Terror Descends
Both factions were brought to a pause. Somehow, they knew it even before they could sense it: the feeling of the air itself seemed to change. The distant echoes from the pounding of massive wings rumbled in the distance. Soon came an unearthly howl that everyone present could feel in their bones and, suddenly, it didn't matter whether they were Parrench, or Drudgunzean, or Eskandr. It did not matter if they were human or yasoi. Not much of anything mattered, for the small foolish people busy burning, stabbing, and pounding each other to death in a cool, muddy field had squandered their chance to rise above their hatreds and become something more. Thus, in the end, they were all the same to the Tryrannus Gehenna: tiny, weak, and food.
The dragon was a great black leviathan: some two hundred feet from nose to tail, with wings at least the equal of its length. Its mouth yawned open and it belched fire into the periphery of the small, scrambling creatures below. Three hundred Parrench died near-instantly. The actions of Queen Eleanor and some of her most formidable knights saved at least a hundred more, but now the two sides were not so unequally matched and, in the chaos and panic, whatever prisoners they had captured found it easy to break free.
From the opposite side of the battle lines, Sweyn Thunderspear offered no aid to his enemies this time. Instead, he turned to some of his closest companions. “I see no reason to throw ourselves away saving enemy land and lives,” he spat. “I will not make that mistake and reap their ‘gratitude’ again. Honour be damned at this point. We ride for Chamonix,” he shouted. “We ride to join the king and we ride posthaste. If any of you has an objection, speak now or be silent.”
Greedy King's School of Enchantment, Ucyaz, Khagan
“Remember, guys, nobody expects a thing out of us. They think we’re just a bunch of weird kids from a faraway place, but…” Ahrora paused. She had somehow been elected leader of this group and was in the midst of plowing through this speech. “Um… remember, the blood of the great khans flows through our veins. Let them underestimate us, and it’ll be that much easier for us to come up from behind and kick ‘em in the nuts!”
“Inspiring, Babayeva. I am inspired,” replied a tall, lanky boy with an odd hat. His sarcastic claps carried in the small classroom that Good Guy Team the Band of Heroes had taken over as their waiting point.
“Shut up, Dildor. I’d like to see you come up and deliver a speech without any preparation in front of a crowd.”
“It’s four people…”
“And Zeno Niyazov!” Bohrom chimed in. “I, for one, was inspired. We’re blood of the khans, guys.”
“He’s not here, though,” observed To’fon, gaze darting to something behind his fearless leader’s shoulder.
“Is anyone going to tell her?” murmured Yo’ldoshoy in a quiet voice, big dark eyes searching the others and wandering anxiously to that same spot over Ahrora’s left shoulder: her blind side.
“Um, Ahrora - ” began Bohrom.
“Patch, the Arch-Zeno’s behind you," Dildor cut in with subtle glee.
She turned on the spot and her eye widened. Arch-Zeno Nakamura smiled and waved. “I am not many good at your language,” he admitted, in broken Kaganese, “Kick them in nuts… this be a charming local…” he trailed off, unable to find the word. “jukugo of you’s?” he substituted.
“Uh, hehe. Yes!” Ahrora replied, bowing furiously. “Yes, it is!”
To’fon raised his palm to his face. Yoldy pursed her lips and tried not to laugh. Dildor adjusted his hat vigorously, and Bohrom just looked stricken. “Well, I am happy to learn this,” the Arch-Zeno decided, “and shall be sure of use it. Now, you need come with me. We go meet other teams.”
“Hai, Arch-zeno Nakamura!” Hastily, they gathered their packs and jogged after him into the common room. The Nikanese’s robes obscured how fast it was that he walked, and his long black hair was tied into a sort of topknot. He carried multiple swords, but they all knew him for a friendly face and surprisingly informal authority figure. He almost always seemed to be either eating or at least carrying an apple. Then, he waved them goodbye and promised to return in twenty minutes. There was a sudden immense intake of power and then a portal of swirling energy opened up before him. In a flash, the Arch-zeno was gone.
They gathered in the Hall of Stallions, where the last khan’s armour was mounted and where the head Zeno often gave her addresses from. Zeno Niyazov was waiting for them and he quietly motioned them over. The other four teams were already there, and Alibek’s group - who he’d called the ‘Great Dragons of Dread’ in Avincian - stood a little straighter. ‘Band of Heroes’, her own team’s name, sounded better anyways. The ‘Heroes’ formed up behind their zeno and proceeded to listen to another one of Head Zeno Umarova’s endlessly droning speeches. She was so old that they often whispered that she spoke so often of the khans because she had personally known them.
In truth, as the old woman spoke, Ahrora’s mind and eye alike wandered. Gods, her Avincian was terrible. She’d been working hard to learn it over the past few months, but it just wasn’t enough time to sound competent. Ersand’Enise was supposed to be a massive place: big as a Vossoriyan city, but with a myriad of different peoples, languages, and religions and dedicated solely to the arts of magic. She thought of her cousins and of the Stray Cats who she’d run with for years in the capital: the petty theft, the scrabbling for food, when the guards had held her down and put her eye out for being a thieves’ lookout. She was a small person and this was so much bigger than her: a bigger place, purpose, and challenge. I'll just be some provincial nobody, she thought. I'll - Bohrom’s fingers reached out for hers and she let him take her hand. She smiled at him through the corner of her eye. “Thank you,” she mouthed. She had always risen to life’s challenges, and would once more. From her other side, Yo’ldoshoy reached out and Ahrora took the smaller girl’s hand. To’fon took Bohrom’s and, with uncharacteristic earnestness, Dildor took Yoldy’s.
Zeno Umarova’s crackly old voice had risen slightly and she was finishing up. Everybody issued the obligatory applause. Ahrora glanced at her teammates, mind racing as a portal opened and the Arch-Zeno stepped through onto the stage. Umarova bowed to him and he bowed in return. “Now!” he announced, “we go!”
The Great Dragons of Dread were first, and she watched them disappear through the radiant portal. Then, it was her. “Okay,” she whispered, trying to instill some confidence and levity. “Let’s go kick ‘em in the nuts!” For the first time in her life, but hopefully not the last, Ahrora Babayeva stepped into a swirling vortex of time and space and out the other side.
Ersand'Enise Academy of Thaumaturgy, Constantia
It was morning, and the bells of Ersand’Enise were ringing. All over the city, from spires and steeples, windows and minarets, they raised a cacophony of welcome. Multicoloured flags flapped and strained in the stiff breeze and warming rays of sun peeked through the deep grey clouds. They hung low in the heavens, their bellies crackling with thunder. Brilliant shafts of light pierced the veil, dappling the plains where they struck and turning patches of grass outside the city into ponds of shifting whispering gold or green.
Inside the walls waited hundreds of students, staff, and townspeople with growing anticipation. Businesses did a brisk trade in all manner of snacks, refreshments, souvenirs, and items useful for the coming competitions. The calls of vendors, laughter and chatter of friends and families, and a hundred different pungent scents filled the air. As with each iteration of the famous Trials of Ersand’Enise, every inn was booked full, every tavern had cleared space in its attic and cellar for beds and hammocks, all rooms had been rented out, sofas slept on, guest houses occupied, and yards filled with tents. Some of the yasoi were sleeping in trees and had eagerly made room for more of their people.
Then, they were there: into the middle of a grand plaza appeared a portal of swirling light, sound, and magic, and a second moments later. These yawned open, lonely even amid the collective gasp of thousands and rising crescendo of murmurs. The first began to disgorge a hundred or more tall, slim youths from Tarlon: yasoi of the Tantas Island Academy of the Gift. They bounded, leapt, and grinned, waving, pointing, and fanning out. The second opened to an orderly procession, one-hundred-twenty-five students and one fifth as many Zenos marching through, two abreast. Glancing around excitedly and whispering amongst themselves, the biros of Twin Emperors took their assigned places and shot curious glances out at their new surroundings.
A third portal opened, then a fourth and a fifth. Brown-skinned students from Sawand hurried through, dressed in the loose, ostentatious clothing of their homelands and chattering excitedly. A good number of them appeared to be a variety of yasoi. They were followed immediately by swarthy Xolexoctans with their angular yet swirling ornamental paints, piercings, and draconic leathers. They charged through in formation, let out a collective roar, and took their places as the first portal winked from existence and the fifth opened. Unusual and eclectic groups filtered through as further rifts appeared:
Parynesian islanders with their bold tattoos, surfing boards, and grass skirts;
fur-cloaked Retanese from the far north, along with an incongruously showy group of bards;
Yspawashi wildmen with various animal motifs, howling and hissing;
pale, rugged Vossoriyans with their fur hats, finely patterned hems, and booming voices;
peoples of southwest Callanast with rich furs, headdresses, and tassels galore, dancing about;
towering Eskandish announced by their great katterhorns and savagely noble bearing;
Proud and solemn Darhannics in the flowing silks and satins of their homeland;
Dark, boisterous East Severans, with their bold hairstyles, waving, smiling, and chatting excitedly;
and, finally, the simple solid people of Kagan and the inner Callanast steppes, trying to look dignified but clearly overwhelmed.
Then, it was done. All of the schools had come. For a moment, everything became as if still and silent, despite the noise and motion. Conversation buzzed and students, Zenos, and citizens of the free city alike eagerly awaited what they all knew was coming. Every year, each of the two Holy Sees sent a team of initiate monks and nuns and they were almost always among the very strongest. At the very same instant, twin portals opened up at either side of the stage in front of Balthazar Hall and two teams in the various coloured robes of the monastic orders of Quentism marched out. Coming to a stop directly in front of each other, they lined up face to face and locked eyes. Then, the leaders of both teams reached out, clasped hands, and shook, followed by the other eight.
The next portal disgorged five young yasoi pirates who traipsed boldly across stage, bowing and grinning, and quickly made their way into the crowd among others of their people. Then, came the first of the truly anticipated groups: ten young eeaiko emerged, their long mossy hair, webbed fingers, and large dark eyes thoroughly unhuman or unyasoi. They split into two groups, exchanging quick smiles and a few words, before waving at the curious crowd and stepping aside. While one group maintained a semblance of cohesion, the other’s members could be seen bouncing up and down excitedly, gesticulating and conversing amongst themselves.
Finally, the moment had come and it could not be said that the authorities of the academy were not without some flair for the dramatic. A single yawning black portal opened and out walked five youths no different in age and, perhaps, disposition than any of the others, be they human, yasoi, or eeaiko. These, however, were no more than two thirds to three quarters the height of the first, stocky, burly, and already possessed of robust facial hair at their young age. Their clothing was heavy: made of leathers, furs, and metal plate with glowing runes etched into it. Perhaps more than a handful would’ve commented on how hot they must've been were not everyone so enraptured by the sheer novelty of these people. After all, In the entire city, no more than could be counted on one’s fingers had seen a hegelan before in the flesh.
Quietly, however, from a portal off to the side of the plaza, a team of five tall fair youths took their places. Many did not even notice them at first, but then a chill began to spread outwards and a strange sick feeling took root in people’s heads and stomachs. It was as if they’d been exposed to a blinding, strobing light, as if they’d eaten something spoiled, as if a weight was pressing down on them. Tiles and cobblestones began to glaze over with ice, even in the subtropical late spring, and people nearby bent over to wretch. Some staggered away. Others collapsed, clutching their heads. One of the five, bundled up in a thick parka and with a lick of shaggy blond hair half-covering one of his cool blue eyes, blushed and glanced around. After a moment, as the frost and discomfort had spread, his unusually large mouth cracked open in a massive grin that rendered his eyes upside-down crescents. “Oops,” he chirped cheerily, and both the unnatural freeze and some - but not all - of the mystery illness receded. “Sorry ‘bout that.” The gasps and murmurs settled into a heady buzz of talk. This, then, must have been the fabled Ice King and, whatever people had imagined him to be, he was now revealed, at least in part.
“Welcome one, welcome all!” boomed Zenith Upta’s voice, amplified by the Gift, and people’s attention was drawn back to the stage. “Welcome to the Ersand’Eniise Academy of Thaumaturgy in this, our five-hundred-fiftieth year!” There was applause and it was a good deal louder than one might’ve suspected from the number that could be seen clapping. The sound of the crowd, also, appeared to be at a suspiciously respectful low for a gathering of over a thousand boisterous teens. “For today and over the coming week,” the Zenith announced, against a backdrop of rumbling thunder and a gust of wind, “you will live, learn, and compete against each other in a series of five competitions.” She waited a moment for the sound of conversation to die down and an aggressive sweep of hissed, “shhhs” advanced across the crowd, silencing it. “Our first event, as you know, shall be the Great Melon Derby, as it has been every year for longer than any of us have been alive.” She paused and glanced at an exceptionally old man who sat on a high-backed chair nearby. “Even the Paradigm… I believe.”
She lapped up the obligatory laughter. “Now,” the Zenith continued, “for our second event, we can look forward to…” A black sack floated her way and she made a show of reaching into it, shuffling through a bit, and extracting a rolled-up piece of paper. “The Dragon!” she announced, holding it up above her head.
At that moment, in betting houses all over the city, hundreds of magi changed hands. The result was much the same when the third event was announced as Roses & Neskals: a notorious game of magical dodgeball that was often a spectator and gambler favourite. With the fifth event a staple, as was the opener, this left only the fourth and, when it was announced as Thin Air - a game of extreme altitude and brinkmanship - the crowd erupted into a flurry of speculation, half-baked strategizing, and not a little consternation as well. While it had been many years since a fatality had marred the Trials, the last one had been in that very event, and in a most grisly fashion. Finally, matters would conclude as they always did, with the physically and psychologically gruelling slog of Tug-of-Peace.
All competitors were assured that rules would be explained before each game and that they would receive printed instructions in a language that they could understand. Indeed, translators were hard at work at the ears of some. Food and drink would be made available before the first scored event right here in the plaza and in Balthazar Hall, and an enormous leaderboard, updated after each, would be kept right above the fountain in the King’s Plaza. The first drops of rain had begun to fall, the Zenith was speaking on procedural matters now, and one could see and hear people’s attention waning.
All at once, in a purposely droning voice, she made an observation. “Half of you are drifting.” Upta shook her head. “I could say that I had expected better, but I’ve done this too many times, so let’s make things a little bit interesting, shall we?” Out of nowhere appeared an hourglass and a small bell on her lectern. “The moment that I ring this,” she declared, picking the bell up, “your team will have three minutes to find a second team - not from your school - to pair with. So long as you are in physical contact with them at the exact moment that your three minutes is up, you will be allied to them for the first event. Your points will be their points and vice versa. However, those teams who are unable to find partners will participate on their own, at a severe disadvantage.” Voices rose in alarm, confusion, and excitement. Thunder rumbled, the clouds flashed, and the rain began to come in earnest. Zenith Upta smiled deviously. “Good luck.” The bell rang.
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _
Chapter Three: A Scent on the Wind_________ __ __ _ _
If the news of Asier’s escape had not spread quickly, it had not been slow to make its way to relevant ears either. By night, they began searching, but the fundamental flaw in their plan was that there were not so many of them - for they did not want to alarm the populace - and that they made the assumption he would head immediately for the hills.
The Tourrare’s goal, however, was not to leave Meldheim, but to strike at it. To that end, he had spent the night where they were least likely to look for him: right under their noses, by the holding cells in the dockyards.
It was a place of foul smells and filthy water. Oversized insects, crabs, and small, oily fish skittered and slipped between pillars. Three moons hung in the sky in various phases and the tides ebbed and flowed with them in that very complex pattern that they did in Meldheim, but Asier, a horseman from the arid steppes, did not know much of tides. He could only hope that they would rise high enough soon, that his subtle sabotage of the locks would bear fruit. The hours of Dami gave way to those of Ipte and occasional noises that punctuated the nighttime silence seemed disproportionately loud when they came. Perhaps he found a fitful sleep by then and perhaps he did not. Tourrare are hardy people anyhow, or so it is said.
Morning dawned cool and windy, a fresh, slick dew laying across rooftops, piers, and netting. There was something missing, and it might've taken him a moment to place it, for it was The Gift and he had never relied on it so much as others did.
The same could be said for one of the two figures who had made their way over in the early hours from Rigevand. The streets had filled, the prisoners prodded from their cells for another day of backbreaking labour, and the fish market - not so far away - a hustle and bustle, even as the first ship of the day hove into port. It was not like many other places Nettle had seen, though she had at least seen a port before. Not everything may have been as new to her as it had a month or more ago, when she had first been set upon by the Kang’s soldiers. Yet, that was not a thought that occupied much of her mind. For a moment, she thought she had sensed something, beneath a great pier that stretched well into the bay that Meldheim was built around. Then, the sensation had vanished, along with, well… everything. Try as she might, she could not call upon the Gift and neither could her chaperone, the old pirate-turned-king’s man, Jacques. He scowled. “Child,” he whispered in Drudgunzean, which he knew she at least somewhat understood, “have you lost the Gift too? Your magic?”
Whatever her reply was, he did his best to listen and understand it. Oraphe only knew where she’d been raised, and she was perhaps half-yasoi as well. Overwhelmed. He’d been there before as a boy, and though the years had hardened him and made him rich, he was not without sympathy. “Could you feel something?” he asked, his voice remaining low. “Just before our magic left?” He tried to keep his words simple. “A big animal?”
Out in the bay, people were back to hacking away at the berg from yesterday for scarce few had truly made an escape. Their little boats were moored to pegs driven into its flanks, a small shelter with a cauldron coughed out billows of steam into the cool morning air, and ropes and rickety ladders rambled about its surface. Dressed as he was, Asier should’ve been there, but he had yet more work to do and the sudden cutting of his connection to the Gift - a boon that had never been explicitly acknowledged but always present - was beginning to unnerve him. Before he could make any definitive moves, however, whether they involved fire, water, or something subtler, a pair of figures caught his eye: a tall man, thick around the middle with a short greying beard, and a small slight girl with hair tinged green in the colour of moss. The first could have been any old sea captain, for he gave off that air, but the second was distinctive and he had seen her somewhere, in passing.
Jacques and Nettle separated before long,forcing a choice upon the curious Asier who, despite his Eskandr garb, still stood apart as stockier and more tanned upon closer inspection. The first inquired innocently about oil and, separately, about manure while the second had gotten to snooping dangerously close to the prison area, a small nonthreatening girl as she was. She could not understand the main language used most often by these people she had come with, but she had grown familiar with its general sound, at least, and more than one of the prisoners was speaking it. Yet, the bigger mystery, to her mind, was the absence of the Gift, and the thing that she had sensed just before its disappearance. Scarce little grew here though, with at least some existing water plants and seeds, she might yet make much.
The small girl was out on one of the breakwaters, trying to understand the area better so that she might find the wrongness and repair it and her song might take effect, when there came a thump from below and a long wailing moan, perhaps meant to be loud but only faintly heard. There was someone or - more likely - some creature… inside the breakwater!?
Meanwhile, the Kongesalan was another world entirely. Queen Astrid was finished holding court for some hours, and had much else to do, but these were matters that Dietrich was assured he need not be concerned with, and so he was given free rein to wander, question, and learn at his leisure. In the morning, he had witnessed an honorary ‘duel’ between the Sturmish underking, Kol, and one of the new Æresvaktr: the yasoi Arne’altan’jaros, to induct the latter. The fourth–ranked Æresvaktr was now headed, or so he understood, to similarly induct a sorceress known only as the Skygge, who was near-universally held to be a vile and wretched creature.
‘Ositha’, too, found herself given a few hours of downtime, in which she was to further familiarize herself with her surroundings, her peers, and her duties before - surprisingly - commencing the children’s instruction this very afternoon. Already, her practiced Black Rezaindian senses had noted the presence of one supposedly ‘secret’ passage in the pantry beneath a stairwell, and the servants and slaves had proven a source of endless gossip.
Both she and Dietrich had encountered the precocious pipsqueak that was Snorri and the whirlwind that was Inga, and both were about the rounds of the Kongesalan, so perhaps it was only a matter of time before they met each other.
Svend, meanwhile, in his guise as Jarl Alsfard, found himself in the midst of negotiating percentages on his raiding party’s take with the Queen’s chamberlain. He felt the pinch, from Maud, that was meant to raise an alarm and started. “What is it, Jarl Bjorn?” the tall, lean man commented, taking notice of his momentary discomfort. “Is my offer not to your liking?”
Covering quickly, Svend shook his head. “No, no,” assured his opposite. “It is merely that I had promised the harbourmaster at Rigevand his pay today and forgotten to settle up. I should hope he hasn’t tried to unmoor my ships.”
The chamberlain paused. “Rigevand,” he repeated, furrowing his brow. “Your men: are many large, rough, and foreign?”
A warning prickled through the Quentist’s insides and he answered cautiously. “Oh, a good many are from Kressia and Enthal. There is a Parrench lordling cast out of his lands as well, seeking vengeance.” He scowled. “Have the ungrateful miscreants caused trouble? I will have them whipped!”
“I fear their appearance has caused some worry,” the chamberlain replied. “Though I can see it is a misunderstanding, Prince Ulf set off some twenty minutes prior with Vali the Twice–Born and some thirty soldiers in case they were pirates.”
“Gods-dammit!” Svend cursed through his teeth. “We shall conclude this tomorrow, then?” he added hastily. “I must make haste before somebody does something stupid.”
“By all means, Jarl. That would be regrettable.” Svend was already headed for the door. “You may borrow a horse if you need,” the chamberlain allowed. There was a quick thanks and then the ersatz Jarl was beyond the door.
It was a job that Kol was given much thanks for but, as a king, he had never wanted for fawning and paeans. Instead, the near–sole highlight of his stay in Meldheim had been his morning combat with the yasoi who was to join the Æresvaktr. Without much in the way of lunar help, though the five moons would thankfully be arriving imminently, he’d found himself on the back foot virtually the entire time. The sheer reach and agility of the ‘mage-hunter’ was astounding and he used magics that Kol knew were of the yasoi and had only seen, in brief, from Talit’yrash when they had fought. To skip through space and time… it was an impressive skillset and its wielder a decent and honorable man, inasmuch as any yasoi could be. In truth, the king had won only through tactics and psychology, reading his opponent’s moves once they’d established a pattern. Had young Arne been trying to assassinate him in earnest, he might very well be headed to Gestur’s table right now.
Now, however, Kol found himself at a large property, some ways removed from the city proper, in the shadow of the Eldfjall and its black soil and faint scent of sulfur. The sun passed into and out of a quickly moving bank of clouds as he approached the lone building: a modest farmhouse of fieldstone and thatched roofing. A sea of sparse, yellow-green grass poked up through the gravelly soil to rippled in a blustery wind and a woman tended to a pair of large, scraggly brandæble bushes.
He passed a gate pieced together of driftwood and a set of chimes - bone and rusted metal - clattered in the grip of a gust. He stood and waited. The woman turned. This, then, was The Skygge. He’d heard of but never seen her. Supposedly, she was some sort of udødelig who feasted upon the flesh of others, but he saw only a tall, pale woman in a hooded cloak, whitish-blonde hair spilling over her shoulders and chest to either side of her face. She looked youthful and seemed somehow ancient at the same time, and she brought her hands together in front of herself, clasping one of the rare apples between them. “A gift for you, King Kol, should you so desire it.” She held the fruit out, smiling. “Worry not. It isn’t poisoned.” She raised it to her mouth and took a bite.
Prince Ulf, for all of his youthful pride and bravado, trusted the word of one such as Vali, and stationed four soldiers along the Mountain Road to Rigevand, sending another quartet down towards the Sea Road. “I should not like to leave any doubt about my intentions once I arrive, as two dozen of us surely send message enough. I shall show mercy to those who surrender immediately to the king’s justice and I shall announce this,” he concluded, voice squeaking a bit towards the end in a most un–kingly manner.
As they walked, a faint breeze carried through the foothills to stir the long grass, and crows and a couple of wolves glanced up from the nearby carcass of an Elk, watching the humans warily.”It is said that there are some Quentics in that village,” Ulf announced, his voice nearly carried away in the blustery breeze. “If it turns out there are no pirates, then we should make an example of the apostates. You have been away for a long time, Onkel, but you should see how bold they got. Father had to carve the Blood Eagle on some. Now they merely hide.” He sniffed and gazed out at the path ahead. “We shall find them, though. They will not force us to change our ways like they did the Drudgunzeans.”
They continued on for a few more minutes, their only accompaniment the whispering of the grass and the crunch and soft clatter of two dozen men on the march, but it did not last. “If they should fight back,” Ulf decided for himself and Vali, “It will be down to you and I, who can use the Gift, and we shall send the wretches to Rødhalle. Be ready for this.” He paused. “Though I know you are. You are always ready, Onkel Vali.” For a moment, some younger version of the boy who was trying so badly to be a man twisted and flashed him a smile. Then, ahead, they could see Rigevand: pathetic collection of huts, hovels, and a single great decaying longhouse that it was. Three knarrs occupied one of its two docks, looking as if they had arrived from another planet entirely. Down by the shore, a great many people seemed to be moving about and quite quickly. “There they are!” shouted Ulf, hand going for his sword and then thinking better of it. He, Vali, and their party were still some four hundred yards or more distant.
Trygve had been closest to Maud when she gave the signal and it was two minutes before he had found her. “What is it?” he demanded. “What is wrong!?”
“A force - some thirty-two men - is headed for Rigevand from the Kongesalan. I am certain that is where they are headed. Don’t ask. We need the others and we need a plan!”
Indeed, they were not long in coming. Svend arrived on horseback, dressed in a Jarl’s finery, and Gerard and Jacques only minutes after. Many followed the latter, both expected and unexpected, for some appeared to be prisoners that he or Nettle had set free. These were relegated to the edges and alleys so as not to draw attention to the group. “We do need a plan,” announced Trygve, “but we need a location. May we yet catch them?”
The girl glanced about the adults surrounding her, feeling small and uncertain and stammered when she spoke. “I… I’m not certain.” She closed her eyes and reached out with her senses, not wasting time. “If you go at a run, those who use the Gift may.” She opened her eyes. “You should leave me behind. I will send warning to our people in Rigevand, but you needs tell me if they should try to hide or fight.” She glanced up at all of the bigger people, leaning on her crutches. “What should I do? What should we do.”
Ulf, prince of all Eskand, had descended upon the village of Rigevand with his men. It had emptied out quickly and only a small party was left to greet him. “Goddag, undersåtter,” he greeted them, wind flicking his hair to one side of his face and an odd sort of smile creasing his lips as he approached. “I have some business in your village, it appears.” He stopped in front of them and extricated a Pentact, fresh from the raids near Relouse, from the pouch at his hip. “But first,” he announced, dropping it upon the sandy mud, “I will require proof that I am speaking to men and not worms.” Hooking his thumbs into his belt, he horked up some spit, leaned forward, and let it fall upon the holy symbol. Looking up, he placed his foot atop it and regarded them challengingly, but they looked at him only for a moment before their eyes turned elsewhere. Alarm pricked Ulf's stomach and he could hear the thunder of hooves approaching from behind. Vali’s bow was already drawn and arrow nocked.
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _
Chapter Three: Pillar of Death______ __ _ _
An old man sat by a fire. He could feel the bodies approaching them, for that was all they were: living bodies while his business these days seemed the making of dead ones. The essences inside of them burned with caution, and he paid them no notice. Perhaps they would try to kill him. He neither knew nor cared.
"Old man, why are you here?" Sweyn did not move. Perhaps, had he mind enough, he would've noted that the questioner's Eskandr, while good, was not perfect.
"Bringing glory to my king and my people," he responded after a long moment. "Can't you see?" He was working a twig over in his hands, breaking it up and plucking bits off. "So-" he twisted and glanced up. The man was young, fair, and looked like a fighter. "-have you come to bring glory to yours?"
Arsene was the newcomer's name, unbeknownst to Sweyn, and he listened to the older man as he spoke in a somber tone. It seemed to hold a deep sadness, as he spoke to his hands before raising his head to look towards Arsene and questioning his purpose here.
The Drudgunzean scoffed and glanced towards the fires before looking back down at the wizard who seemed to almost wait for something, "Myself? I'm here to protect. To do some good..." Arsene threw a light gesture across the village and turned as he lightly kicked a rock as he seemed to think a moment before turning back to the older man and continuing, "...obviously doing a crack up job on that".
As Arsene sighed, he looked down towards Sweyn and said, "So with that glory you are bringing, have you found it yet?". He made a gesture towards the village that still lay softly burning.
Sweyn Thunderspear knew the plan, of course, but he could not simply spill it out to one whom the gods had ordained his enemy. Its execution would bring him yet another line in the sagas. He was not elderly, but old enough that he had a good deal more life behind him than ahead. Would the retellings fashion him as clever or wise? Would he be simply a magician who was loyal to his king? A mentor to heroes? A hero himself? A footnote? If the Parrench were to win and their culture consume the continent, he would be painted a murderer, and he found himself fighting, these days, simply to avoid that infamy in death. Yet, here I am, a murderer anyhow, and I know it truly. He did not raise his eyes toward the village. Instead, he shrugged weakly. “Perhaps I might, someday.” He glanced the young man’s way. “But why do you fight for a foreign country that looks down on you? That occupies good land your people could use? That, as recently as the year of your birth, would’ve named you barbarian?”
Arsene looked towards the plains of Parrence as he spoke about why he chose to fight, "Myself? I fight not for the country that looks down on me. I fight for those who cry out to find peace-". Arsene shifted on his feet as he looked towards the men who’d followed him here. Many seemed almost ready to charge at any moment, wishing to either find glory or to kill the great Sweyn Thunderspear before he decided to wipe them all out. Arsene sighed as he continued, "I am here wishing to give those who I can a life better than I. For I lost my home to raiding, my mentor to injustice, and my mother to my negligence". Arsene sighed as he shifted once more on his feet, now to face the old man before him. He considered why he was even talking to this man: a murderer who killed innocent people in the name of glory, yet even that was an excuse to maybe give himself some absolution. Arsene thought of what more to say as he sighed and spoke out, "What of you, why do you do such things for your king? Is it to give a better life to your people? Or is it to please the greed of a King?"
Sweyn rose, then, and was now a bit more like the legends said he was. At the very least he was tall. “For the greed of a king?” he remarked. “Perhaps the Black King is greedy.” He shrugged, calling his mighty spear to hand, and continued. “It is not my place to judge anyhow. What I know is that his greed pales in comparison to that of Parrence. How much of the richest, greenest land do they keep for themselves? How much more do they covet?” He rolled his neck back and forth, as if limbering up, and took notice of the thirty or so other men at the edge of the forest. He could kill them all within seconds, should he have so desired. Yet, he currently did not. “When the Avincians, who had uplifted those people, would not cede control of the empire to them, did Avince not burn for daring to refuse?” He hardened his mouth, switching to Parrench so that all could understand. “When they came to found a new town on the coast not so far from here, they named it Relouse and built it right beside the nest of a mother Silverscale. Did not a monk named Defrois kill that creature as it defended its young and receive a sainthood for it?” Sweyn rapped the ground with his staff, voice rising. “When the yasoi of Loriindton established for themselves an independent spirit some twenty years ago and wished to uplift their own people instead of paying tribute to us humans, pray tell did not Loriindton - that thousand-year city - burn for daring to defy good Parrence?”
Sweyn began to gather energy to himself and the power of thunder fizzed and snapped in the air about him. “You do not know it, boy, for though your people were once mine, you were raised in a garden that the Parrench have cultivated and that they will continue to grow. Oh,” he relented, “they will usually try some method other than the sword first.” He smiled bitterly. “Their herbs and spices are legendary, their trinkets and wares quite pretty, their cloth the envy of every foreign woman, and these, they pair with their false gods, their language, and their way of life as if what they replace is lesser or does not matter.” He had found himself again: his resolve. “Make no mistake, though-” Sweyn Thunderspear’s eyes narrowed. “-in the end, it all comes down to force of arms. Those who resist the Parrench have always died for it, and everything they stood for with them. In truth,” he concluded, stepping forward, “Parrence is a blight upon this land and we are your last, best hope for rooting it out.”
Arsene witnessed the old man rise to his feet to stand and face him, looking more like someone befitting the legend that preceded him. However, the Drudgunzean was not one to fold to anything, be it man or beast. As Sweyn spoke, Arsene checked himself, lightly rolling his wrists and ankles as if in preparation for what was to come. He knew when a fight was coming, and he knew why he had come here.
Sweyn spoke very clearly of things that Arsene would have never known in his life. The Parrench were greedy, they were the ones who trampled those they cared not for, it was them versus everyone. They would destroy and dominate everything they saw fit so that they might rule over it. This was something he’d had to deal with as had his mentor before him, yet as much as Sweyn spoke some sense, Arsene cared not for it.
He looked the Eskandr in the face as he spoke his last bit, "They are a blight, you are correct; the people who rule are quite often terrible". Arsene lightly tossed his hand to the side as he continued, "They trample on those under them to make themselves richer or more powerful. They will play nice, using tricks so that they may later do what they wish, yet they hide things to allow them to fulfill agendas."
As Arsene continued to look Sweyn dead in the eyes, his message evolved, "Yet I am not here for them. I am here for the men and women who are trampled upon by your people. I am here to stop this from happening." Arsene gestured at the girl who lay upon the ground next to the burgeoning confrontation, before continuing, "So you may be the ones to destroy Parrence. Yet, with that, you will destroy many more lives, all in the hope of maybe ‘rooting out’ this blight. And so what if you succeed? Wouldn't it come back? After all, to destroy a nation and its pride and sense of self, you need to destroy its people. Will you do that?"
The die was cast and Sweyn knew it. His heart still heavy with regret, but also buoyed by a grim and worthy purpose, he glanced at the small corpse before looking back at the Drudgunzean. “Every last one,” he replied unflinchingly, and his body now surged and sparked with energy. His eyes began to glow with Father’s chosen power and thunder crackled in the bellies of storm clouds that had drawn in overhead. “Now, boy, it is time for you to either live up to those lofty ideals you lay claim to or go to your gods having tried.”
In the very moment before he unleashed his wrath, however, before Arsene of Avalona could either go bravely to Eschiran or commence a legend of his own, there echoed in the distance a phenomenal sound. Great and low, it seemed to shake the very ground that they stood upon. It rose into a bone-shuddering shriek that lingered and reverberated through the near-night sky.
Vast black wings beat over the forests and fields of green Parrence and the petty fires of human war seemed a small thing in comparison to the brilliant pillar of death that spilled from the dragon’s throat. With its baleful breath, it tore furrows in the land and left roaring walls of flame where had been whispering seas of wheat and gently chirping crickets. That the inferno was yet distant only made it more terrifying. One could perhaps countenance flight and escape. One could understand the great and desolate scale of it. Like black blood pouring from wounded earth, smoke billowed into the sky, first seizing the stars in a hazy grasp and then blotting them out entirely.
More than one soldier made the sign of the Pentad. Others cried out for Echeran’s mercy or strength, and their choices said much about them. After a moment, some made the unenviable choice of turning their attention back to the far lesser but far more immediate threat of Sweyn Thunderspear. Yet, when they searched for him, they found that he was gone.
Far closer to the epicentre were Ulfhild of Ulven, Hildr the Red, and the Nashorn. A Fiery Mountain Dragon - a Tyrannus Monsigneus - had arisen from Mont Errant in a towering rage and it now circled above the plains spewing doom in the twilight. They had tried to blunt the beast’s attack but even the efforts of dragonslayer and Æresvaktr alike had done precious little against its impossible power. Again and again, the maddened beast made passes over the region, breathing death upon what little remained alive.
Hundreds of brave Eskandr fled before it, for there was no honour in death as prey. Crying out to their heathen gods, they scattered as vermin at the appearance of a boot. Like the panicked creatures that they were, most failed to take heed of the approaching army of Queen Eleanor de Parrence. They ran up against it, in full flight, either waves to be broken upon the shore, people to be shown mercy, or allies of convenience in an unexpected struggle for survival against an enemy far more fearsome.
Whatever the state of given individuals, the arrival on the Fields of Fire of Sweyn Thunderspear rallied them to a man. Massive black clouds rolled in with terrifying speed and brought lightning that writhed, snaked, and shook the very earth. Beside them, even the dragon was not so great, and it disappeared into their depths, consumed for the time being. From within echoed roars and howls and thunder. Brilliant flashes illuminated a vast draconic shape and running figures slowed and craned their necks in awe and terror.
The sorcerer himself seemed more a personification, an avatar of human hope, pain, and rage. Tangles of long white hair and beard whipping behind him, he charged in on an ivory-white stallion, glowing incandescent. Unto the Fiery Mountain he called forth a colossal bolt of lightning, and then a second, then a third, then a fourth that split the sky in sheets. Common soldiers staggered and blinked. The sheer energy was so intense that some dropped to their knees. Eyes wild and bloodshot, veins pulsing and bulging, Sweyn Thunderspear drove a fifth thunderous lance into the creature’s back and, illuminated momentarily within its shroud of black, it shrieked and contorted in pain. Wings flapping erratically, it fell out the bottom of the clouds and they cheered. How great a noise went up, from Parrench and Eskandr alike, from human and yasoi, from enemies and allies of the man who had delivered them from this demon of myth made flesh!
Queen Eleanor, racing in to provide either aid or else capture the terror known as Sweyn in his weakened state, witnessed a man who had devastated entire armies collapse to the ground, utterly drained and defeated in victory. A decision now fell to her. Here was arguably her greatest enemy laid low before her and a fresh, powerful army at her command. She knew well Eskandr practice: the prisoners of war would be sealed safely in one of the mountainside caves, unharmed and potentially hers to ransom back. Yet, the Thunderspear had given his all to save her people as well as his. She could sense the staggering, inhuman levels of power that had coursed through him and how close to death he had pushed himself. He lay helpless before her and one who could singlehandedly slay a Tyrannus Monsigneus… she still struggled to fathom it. Could she really let this opportunity -
“What is that!?”
“My Queen!”
“There!”
“Oh my Gods!”
“How is it possible!?”
“Echeran have mercy!”
“My Queen!”
“Gods no!”
A cold dark roar raised tremors from the earth and hairs on the back of Eleanor’s neck. Gargantuan black wings beat with a vengeance and the beast hurtled towards them. It opened its mouth and fire glowed in the back of its throat. All at once, the Queen of Parrence both called upon her gods and made peace with them.
Day Zero
Everything should have returned to normal. The sun rose, the birds chirped, and the fogs still rolled in at night. The weather grew warmer as Assani prepared to give way to Velles and, with it, stresia to dorrad. Nights lost that cool humid tingle that they sometimes carried and the first of the dorrad rains began to fall in preparation. In the subtropical forests surrounding Ersand’Enise, subtle shifts abounded. The rhythms and schedules of animals adjusted.
So, too, did those of people. The students still attended classes, walking back and forth in their little groups each morning and evening. The teachers still taught. Merchants still did a bustling business in the busy port of the city, perhaps even moreso than before, and anticipation built, as it did every year, for the Student Societies Faire and The Trials of Thaumaturgy.
Yet, things had irrevocably changed. One would be unobservant at best were it to go unnoticed. More than ever, clusters of Revidians walked only among Revidians and others of like alliance. Perrench skewed prickly and irascible perhaps even more than usual. The Belzaggics drew into themselves in mourning and quiet anger when it was announced that their king had indeed heard the call of Ahn-Eshiran.
For the first time in fifteen years, the Century was called. One hundred of the mightiest and most renowned battle-magi, their loyalty lay with the good of the city, its magic, and the human and yasoi races world round instead of with any one nation. The summons had gone out the moment that parties unknown had raised their blades against four kings. In the month since, members of the legendary force had been trickling relentlessly into Ersand’Enise, augmenting an already-doubled city watch, drilling in Arc-en-Ciel Plaza and on the Champs d’Echeran outside the New Gate.
By day and night alike, the stoic armoured figures, each sporting the Cloak of Centuries, patrolled the streets, their very presence enough to dissuade pickpockets, confidence men, and tiffs between rival groups of students. Security at the gates was now comprehensive and aggressive. More than a few merchants of less–than–savoury repute found their usual… compensatory arrangements no longer bought them entrance and at least a handful of wagons and travelers were now turned away by each evening.
Despite this, agents of the Traveler became increasingly active, preaching against the evils of war on street corners, railing against the greed of the elite and oppression of the common people, decrying despots and monarchs and eagerly offering their vision of a world without classes, borders, or a hierarchy increasingly ossified by wealth and unequal magic use. By night, they raced through the streets, defacing statues and the part-time homes of the elite, smashing windows and plundering from shoppes that they deemed exploitative. While they usually fled and scattered like vermin before the might of the city’s new guardians, they grew increasingly bold and, for all of the arrests that were made and all that they swelled the gaols of Ersand’Enise with their numbers, there always seemed to be more of them, and at least a few seemed to slip through the patrols every night.
It was like this everywhere, so some of the avvisos said: in Relouse and Solenne, in Avince and Orlan, Torra Corda and Varrahasta, Meldheim, Yabusa, Gandakar, Zewaggah, and Hetzelburg. Others claimed that the activities, reach, and impact of this bold miscreant and his followers were being greatly exaggerated. In the background, matters were eerily quiet. Few ambassadors met between Perrence and Revidia. On the 25th of Assani, the Corriere di Orlano reported that lands abutting the Parrench border had been temporarily requisitioned by order of the Doge. Through networks of their contacts, mercenaries began to receive offers of substantial remuneration. South of the border, the Légion de la Flamme Sacrée was quietly called to Ardeaux, only sixty miles from Revidian land… and that of the academy.
It was against this backdrop that students awoke on Lepdes, Assani the 29th to prepare for the Student Societies Faire: a sorely-needed escape from the near-constant bombardment of worrying news and one of the highlights of the school year. It promised to be a weekend of wonder, spectacle, discovery, and excitement. First, however, upon waking, many found themselves met with an unexpected and - for some - unwelcome surprise.
Day One
It was a lazy Lepdes morning. There were no classes today because of the faire and Marceline was in no hurry to get up. Last night had been spent hunched over a table with Zaz, planning out every little aspect of Zeno Bucks, drafting correspondence by candlelight, and figuring out supply chains. As little as she yet knew of the world, she knew much of these things, herself and Isabella having been Warden Ortega's primary secretaries. At different points, Ingrid, Jocasta, Ayla, and Manfred had all drifted in and out. She had fallen asleep on the sofa in Zarina’s drawing room, the walk home proving too daunting, and it was there that she found herself when a loud and persistent pounding on the door caused her to jump awake. "Coming," she groaned, "coming!"
Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she swung herself into a sitting position and stretched.
"This is the Draconic Regulatory Association and Group for Organizational Nomenclature! Please open the door," said an insistent voice from the other side.
What the… Marci scrunched her face up. Draconic what? she wondered, looking down at her feet and realizing that she didn't have her braces on. It was easy to forget what a cripple she was these days. "I'll be there in just a minute!" she replied with patient sweetness, reaching down and fiddling with them. The fourteen-year-old glanced about for Zarina, but she was nowhere to be found. Where the hell are you, Zaz!? She berated her friend mentally.
“By law you are required to submit to an inspection of your dragon's living situation and to apply for a license. Please open this door.”
“Eshi,” she cursed under her breath. "I said that I'm coming!" The Kerreman added a bit louder, tightening the last of her bindings, calling for her cane, and rising both quickly and unsteadily.
Then, just as she was rushing for the door, a freshly washed Zarina appeared, effortlessly brushing past her with a quick but genuine apology. "What the hell do these guys want?" she griped, and Marci could only shrug. "I think we're about to find out."
Marceline and Zarina were not the only ones who received visits from D.R.A.G.O.N. agents that morning. Indeed, every single student who had been fortunate enough to come away with one of the coveted eggs from their recent adventures found themselves awoken by an insistent knock on the door. Rough initial impressions aside, they would find the agents rather helpful and reasonable once their registration fees were paid. These went straight to dragon conservation, rehoming, and public outreach, they explained, offering to sign the students up for courses on dragon hatchling care. Those who resisted were met merely with grim looks and promises of a 'rescheduled' visit at some point in the near future.
For those not so (un)fortunate, the excitement of the day was able to begin uninterrupted. It was, against all odds, warm and somewhat sunny after a persistent drizzle during the Hours of Ipte. Clouds cleared, birds chirped and chittered in the trees, and puddles began drying in the late stresian sun. All about campus and, indeed, much of the city, was a bustle of activity. Those who slept in for too long found themselves awakened by the busy whacking of hammers and clatter of wagons. Voices drifted in from the street and, soon enough, they were joined by music of a great many flavours and varieties. Over the past few days, the city’s inns, guesthouses, and guest rooms had filled up with graduates from the two previous cohorts, returned to help advertise the clubs and societies that had been such a grand part of their experience. Along with those who had remained to study in the Tan–Zeno program, these now emptied onto familiar and nostalgic byways and boulevards. A handful had brought husbands or wives. Others taunted the current students, shouting often-rude awakenings and making gratuitous noise to draw out the stragglers.
And so they rose, dressed and, chattering eagerly as they gathered, began to fill the streets. By the fourth hour of Shune, Ersand’Enise was alive with light, sound, and revelry. Dozens of student societies, great and small, ancient and newly-established, dazzled potential members and patrons with what they had on offer. From the carnival of nourishing delights set out by the Pumpernickel Clubbe, to the roving performers of the Bards’ Society, temporary zoo of the Fauna Society, and Katterhorn procession of the Eskandish Circle, it was truly a spectacle. Yet, not every student society found itself possessed of either the funds or the compunction to put on such a grand display. For every Brewers’ Brotherhood biergarten, Tasters’ Union smorgasbord, or Society of the Grapes party, there were the simple, earnest entreaties and rubbish gathering of the Egalite Fraternite, Rat Bastards who lurked down sideroads and flitted through crowds hawking test answer keys, and the first aid centre of the Carnation Accord. Some whispered that, in the shadow of enrapturing displays like that of the Red Table Society’s war reenactments or the sheer… theatre of the Fingersteeplers, lurked darker elements: Traveler’s agents stirring up class resentment, stealing and rabble-rousing, and perhaps even the infamous and long-rumoured group of clandestine agitators known only as The Faceless.
Yet, as the faire continued into the afternoon and five galleons of the Revidian Regia Marina offered a spectacular rolling broadside in salute to start the hours of Eshiran, it became clear that something was amiss. In the fauna society’s petting zoo, animals became skittish and uncooperative. Horses and other ungulates pawed nervously at the ground and paced. The Vossoriyan yaks and Eskandish kæmpe ko formed defensive circles, snorting and glancing uneasily up at the sky. The lesser and even mid-sized dragons of the Draconic Order stirred and flapped in agitation, some straining at their tethers.
Then, echoing across the open water, was heard a long screeching roar. Crowds swirled and necks craned, each trying to pinpoint the origin of the mighty noise. Many were the hands shielding eyes as they searched in the direction of the sun. People saw the shadow before they saw the beast: a great dark shape wavering across the rooftops and open plazas of Ersand’Enise, and voices rose in excitement. A second roar was unleashed and the shadow circled as people pointed and shouted, standing on their tiptoes or jumping up and down. Then, it disappeared.
Souverain shredded the clouds and for a moment it was just Jean-Claude de Toussaint and his dragon, alone above the world as they had so often been. Then, five more riders emerged, along with Oriflamme, Tempête, Volcan, Fantôme, and Lierre. “Ah, so you can almost keep up!” The Dragon Knight taunted, amplifying his voice with sonic magics. Acknowledgements and teasing challenges came back at him and he grinned, taking a moment to peer down through a gap in the clouds. The riders of the Legion had circled out over the sea and were now not so very far from the Revidian ships. “Super, Souverain,” he assured his draconic companion, taking a moment to pat it where neck met body. “Now…” He raised his voice, “Allons-y, mes frères! Let’s give these Revidien sea-pigs a bit of a show, non?” With that, he wheeled Souverain around and pierced the clouds in a steep dive.
“They’re going to hit!”
“Oh my gods!”
“He’s gonna crash!”
“Pull up!”
“Oh Eshirian, no!”
Screams and entreaties rose from the crowd in Ersand’Enise as an enormous black dragon, easily larger than any of the Revidian galleons, plummeted from the sky. In panic, the ships tried to maneuver out of its way, but they were not near fast enough. Instead, at the last possible juncture, the creature spread its vast wings, air bulged them, and it pulled up mere feet above the tips of the Revidian masts. Five other dragons, in the formation of a pentact, followed, pulling up feet from the waves. The galleons, in a tight formation of their own, rocked perilously and struggled not to collide while the Perrench darted and wheeled above. Fire leapt from the beasts’ throats and formed the holy symbol for a moment in the sky, the largest of them all - a Great Volcanic Wyvern or Tyrannus Monsigneus, some were quick to point out - bursting through the middle and arrowing straight for the city.
There was not a person outdoors who did not feel the mighty whoosh of wind from its massive wings. Members of the Lamplighters and city guard pushed crowds back from the area that had been set aside in Cathedral Square and animal handlers did their best to keep the other creatures calm, particularly the small herd of eight kæmpe ko that threatened to stampede at the sight of their only natural predator. Souverain, one of only two such wyverns tamed the world over, had grown considerably since his last trip to Ersand’Enise, and he proved a tight fit in the plaza. The five other dragons, a mixture of Harlequins, Froabasses, and a Tyrant, perched atop the city walls, the last of them causing visible cracks where it alighted.
Sir Jean-Claude swung off of Souverain’s back and, with a bit of Kinetic Magic, landed softly in a crouch. He rose to the sound of thunderous applause and, after taking a moment to give the dragon some chin scritches, he bowed in all relevant directions, waved to the crowd, and descended into the Draconic Order’s display. How they flocked there. How they clamoured to enter. The lineup of young women hoping to gain a personal audience with him rivaled that of Leon Solaire, whose bombastic anthems, soulful crooning, and strobing light shows lit up Arc-en-Ciel Plaza into the hours of Dami. It all finished with a brilliant display of pyrotechnics and fireworks and many retired back to the townhomes of their Zenos for a rest before further revelry in the morning.
Marceline was not one of them. “Zaz, help me with this,” she sighed exhaustedly. She was capable enough with Kinetic magic, but she was tired, and two were better than one. They’d traded spots all day running the Zeno bucks stand after hastily deciding that a soft-opening during the Faire would hold significant benefits. Now, there was a giant pot to haul back to Zeno Afraval’s place, for she was a bit closer to the street corner they had snagged. Zarina had done much of the paperwork, Shune and Dami bless her both, and Marceline had been the cute smiling face to interact with the stuffy adult types and offer them free coffee.
Walking through the darkened streets with a giant copper pot floating along between them, just above head level, Marci got to thinking. “Hey sis,” she prodded. “Look: another one of our cups.” The little ceramic mugs had become an ubiquitous sight at the faire. While it was free advertising for their nascent business, the litter had also become a problem, not only because it was unsightly and broken fragments could be dangerous, but because it cost them money. A simple exhortation to return their cups for free had proven insufficient to make people reliably do so. Marci had yet to crunch the actual numbers, but she estimated that the rate of returns had hovered no higher than twenty percent. That would not do. “Looks like asking nicely wasn’t enough, huh?”
Zarina clicked her tongue at the sight. There was something disappointing about seeing one’s own logo - something they’d worked hard on - be left as mere detritus on the streets, “Their loss, they’ll have to buy new ones.” she groaned, “But yeah, constantly ordering these things is gonna be a shitshow. Think we should reward ‘em for going the extra step and not just toss away perfectly good cups?”
“That is exactly what I think,” agreed Marci. “The question is ‘how?’” Zarina chewed the idea for a moment and spit out a suggestion a few seconds later, “How about we give them, like, something that proves they’ve gotten a drink with a cup they’ve saved. They do it enough times and we give them a treat. Like they do to train doggies.” she snorted.
“Hehe,” Marci giggled. “How to keep track of that, though?” She scowled thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to use paper. It’s too expensive…” she trailed off as an urchin, picking through the garbage, collected another cup. “... Why not the cup itself?” Zarina’s eyes were taken by the scavenger’s effort and it so happened to have illuminated her, “We can dish out cups all we want in the end, but using the conserved cups as proof and a tool to get free shit will benefit everyone.”
“I knew there was a reason I kept you around!” squealed Marceline. She nodded with an exaggeratedly enthusiastic motion. “Maybe we mark them somehow at first? A certain number of marks nets you the good stuff?” Zarina nodded as she brushed some of the shattered pieces on their way to the side with her foot, “The underside, yeah? Like, something simple but can’t be easily imitated. Is there a way we can do that? I know mother did something like that a while back …”
They were nearing Sienna Afraval’s place, a handful of other clusters of students still milling about or tiredly stumbling back to nearby homes. One, a binder, was paused in place, using her magic to repair a small tear in her clothes. “Oh!” Marci chirped. “We could use binding!” She paused. “That, or just a standard brand to score the underside. While it’s just you and me, binding’s cheaper, as long as we have like… the same design we’ve settled on.”
Zarina clapped her hands together, “Binding! Yeah. That’s probably the way.” her eyes darted around, hoping to find her next piece of express-inspiration. The only bit of natural light they would have at this time provided both of them with an answer, “Easy. A white moon that fills every day they bring their cup. Five days of good behaviour, they get a little treat and a happy star. Seven stars for seven weeks in a month, big treat.” she opened her arms in an exaggerated shrug with a smirk on her face, “Eaaaaaaasy. Now you figure out how we prevent other asshole binders from just doing that.”
They’d reached the door and Marceline yawned. “In the morning, though, huh?” she replied. “For now, this thing’s going in the cellar, right?” the Virangish nodded, “That’s it. We really gotta get our own storage at some point, when we get that sweet dough.”
“Those sweet, sweet Zeno bucks,” Marci agreed. Zarina used the gift to assist her in these final steps and, after a door or two were unlocked, the pot nestled snugly in the little alcove where they’d been keeping it for the past week or so. “We’ll find something soon. Don’t worry, buddy. I’m looking!”
Marceline reached over and gave her friend a quick hug. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Virangish Pepper!” she teased, backing away. “Bright and early! Barely after Ipte!” In the event, she barely made it back to her own bed.
Day Two
She was awoken by the sound of thunder and the pelting of raindrops upon her window. “Eshi, nooo,” the girl moaned, rolling over in bed. She’d been offered the spare room on the bottom floor so that she wouldn’t have to climb too many stairs and, often to her chagrin, she’d let Penny have it instead. Being on the top floor of a rather tall townhome had its benefits, though. When she pushed open her curtains, Marci could see clear across the Cathedral District, and she wondered at the sight of Souverain. The colossal Monsigneus shuffled around lazilly, shaking his great head back and forth and letting out a little puff of flame from his nostrils that bathed the area around him in shimmering white steam.
For a long moment, the girl was enraptured. It was a titan of old: a creature so massive and ancient so as to far outstrip mere humans. Yet, she and her friends had killed something very much like one and Marci suddenly found herself thinking it quite a great shame. “N’ what are you starin’ at, Brandæble?” teased Marlynn, suddenly awake and leaning over her way. The younger girl started. “Scheiße!” she yelped, flinching back. “Do you always just sneak up on people like that!?” Marlynn shrugged, locks of wavy auburn hair cascading over her shoulders. “I guess so,” she admitted. “I’m honestly not even trying.”
“Humblebraggart,” grumbled Marci. “Anyways, you should see the show Souverain is putting on this morning: snorting fire into the rain.” Marly came and sat on the corner of her roommate’s bed. “I’ve been sneaking peeks all night,” she yawned, stretching and rolling her neck back and forth. “I don’t sleep well in storms.”
“You call yourself Eskandish.” The Kerreman shook her head.
“Yes,” retorted Marly, “because we’re all giant vikings from dark and stormy lands.” She pursed her lips. “Go get your special lil’ booties on, hun, and fetch my dragon leash and horned helm for me, would you?”
“Asking a cripple to run your errands for you,” Marceline scolded. “For shame. Truly, these barbarians have no decency.”
Marly hopped out of bed and fluttered over to her own, tossing her nightgown aside most indecently and beginning to pull on her day clothes. “Eh, you’re not that gimpy yet, Brandæble. Gonna make use of you while I can.”
Marci at least turned her back to change, but she tossed her nightgown right at her roommate’s head, hitting her target squarely. “Pff, pah, ugh!” Marly tossed it back. “Spicy throw there, Brandæble. Where’d you learn to throw like that?”
“Stop calling me that,” the younger girl whined as the Eskandishwoman grinned impishly. “Stop callin’ me that,” she mimicked. “But it’s true. You’re little, rare, and sweet, but much too spicy.” Now dressed, she reached over and ruffled Marci’s hair as the girl was doing up her ankle and calf bindings. “Bruja!” the little Brandæble retorted, batting her hand away, and Marly tossed her cane over when she was finished.
They were no more than halfway down their first staircase when a shout rose up the stairwell. “What the fuck!?” It was Owain’s voice, and he was clearly much alarmed. Marly, who had been hovering just ahead of Marci, turned and bounded down the steps two at a time. “Owain!” she shouted, “what’s wrong!”
Marceline's pulse raced and she called liberally upon the Gift to hurry after them. “It was a fuckin… abberration,” he exclaimed. “It was outside my door and I didn’t even see it. I just… walked into it.”
He was gripping his head between his hands when Marci arrived, eyes bulging and face red. “You’re not going skør on me, brother, are you?” Marlijn asked concernedly, laying a hand upon his shoulder. “No.” He shook his head, releasing it. “No, I’m okay.” He breathed deeply and groaned as Benedetto emerged from their shared room. “Aahhh, Eshidammit,” he grated, “Gonna have a splitting headache all day.”
Wordlessly, Marli padded over and enfolded him in a hug. Benny’s eyes darted around warily, as if they were suddenly under siege. “Penny,” he said flatly. “She has a history with these.”
“You can’t be accusing her!” Marceline was quick to jump to the defense of the Perrenchwoman. “You have no -”
“Don’t get your panties all in a knot there, Brandæble.” He grinned like the little shit he was. Benedetto was barely older than her and he had a mean streak a mile wide. She glared at him, still unsure what Ingrid saw in the boy. “I meant we’ll probably have to save her from herself.”
“She can save herself from herself, merci beaucoup, but the sentiment is very much appreciated.” Penny came to a stop just below the landing, still in her nightgown and leaning on a single crutch.
“Anytime, hopper.” He looked her up and down, rumpled hair, bags under her eyes, and all. “See you’re really putting your best foot forward.”
“Non merci, Benedetto.” She shook her head quite definitely. “Petit merdeux.” The half-stern mirth fell quickly from her face, though. “But that is not why I’m here,” she continued, quickly switching back to Avincian. Penny’s eyes took a moment to meet the others’. “I think you should all come see this.”
“If it’s an aberration,” began Marlijn, “Owain-”
“Non, ce n’est pas une faille du néant,” she blurted. “C’est différent!”
“Speak Avincian, baguette,” countered Benny, but Penny glared at him. “Shut up and come,” she insisted, turning on her heel and hop-running down the steps. “It’s not an aberration or… not a normal one.” She glanced back and Marceline was already following. The twins joined in and then, with a snort, Benedetto eagerly pushed his way past the others after a few seconds. “You will see. It’s… bizarre.”
A lingering unease: that was what Marci felt when she crowded into Penny’s room. She peered through the forest of taller people, trying to understand the feeling that had settled across her stomach. There, in the middle of the room, shaped like… a quarter-sized version of Penny, crutch and all, was… an aberration? It was some sort of nothingness, and Marci remembered the word her housemate had used: néant. It was a common enough size and had a distinct otherworldliness about it, but it was all wrong. Instead of a black gap in reality, it was… blindingly white. “Scheiße” Marceline mouthed. “What the hell is it?”
“That’s the problem.” Penny twisted on the spot nervously. “I have no fucking clue.”
“Well, it’s an aberration,” decided Benedetto. “Just a weird one. Who says they can’t be white?” He took a step towards and met with a stiff arm to the chest from Penny. It was his turn to glare. “What the fuck, Penpen?”
“There’s more to it than the colour,” she replied implacably. She glanced over her shoulder at the others. “I was… forced by circumstance to take two of these things in before, one after the other. I should be craving it, at least a bit. Instead…” she furrowed her brow and her voice lowered a bit. “Do you feel it too? That… weirdness in your stomach?”
“Yes!” exclaimed Marci, “ever since I started walking to your room.”
“I’ve been feeling it all morning!” agreed Marlijn, and Owain nodded. “I just ate one. I should be ravenous for another. Instead, there’s almost like this dread. I really don’t wanna be here, actually.”
Benny scowled and nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted, crossing his arms. “Alright.”
“We should find out what it is, non?” Penny prodded.
“Would help if our rainbow-hugging Zeno was here,” Benedetto grumbled.
“Benny, stop being such a curmudgeon,”; Marlijn scolded. “You know she’s busy with the Fauna Society, and the Astronomers.”
“Sounds like a ‘her’ problem. She has a -”
“Should we… report it?” Owain interrupted. Marci would’ve but, to be honest, she was too afraid of Benedetto.
Then, Marecline looked over and Penny was absorbing the aberration “Penny, what the fuck!” she shouted, but the Perrenchwoman looked as alarmed as anybody else. “Oh putain!” she shrieked, jumping back. "Non, sors de là! Dégages! Laisse-moi tranquille! Mes Dieux, à l'aide!" She stumbled away from it but could not break free, as if the strange aberration was reaching out and latching onto her, drawing itself into her body against her very will. “Oh my Eshi!” cried Marlijn, looking on in horror, but she did not move to intervene. Neither did her brother. Marceline took a step forward but recoiled in terror after a moment. This was something new, something terrifying! What if it killed her!? Paralyzed by indecision, she stood there for a moment, before Benedetto brushed right past her without hesitation and grabbed Penny. The aberration latched onto him as well and, shamed by her cowardice, Marci stepped forward to share its burden, just as she had in the desert two weeks ago.
This one sparked and stung as it touched her, like static electricity, but then it was… oddly pleasant. The ghostly white tendrils poured into her, the aberration wavered, it shrunk, and then - just after Owain joined in - it disappeared. Marceline stumbled back and Marlijn caught her. “I…” Penny started to say, but she tailed off.
“Holy shit,” breathed Owain. “My headache: it’s just like… gone.” He furrowed his brow. “The craving, too, is a lot less.”
“This may be too personal, but I was having my monthly visit from Auntie Eshi,” added Penny, “with all of the associated… unpleasantness. It is also gone.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I slept like a pig last night too, but I feel good,” she admitted, “really good. Light on my feet!”
“Foot,” Benedetto taunted absently, as if it came so easily to him that he could do it on autopilot. “Anyways, I’m happy that you’re happy and all that shit, but I didn’t gain an ounce of power from it. Fuckin’ ripoff. If anything, I feel like it…” he trailed off, scrunching up his face. “Stole power from me.” glances were exchanged. Some concurred with him. All remarked on the lack of a headache or cravings. If anything, Marlijn announced, she very much did not want anything to do with aberrations.
Marceline, however, was not paying very much attention to the others. Instead, she was listening to her body, feeling it. “Um,” she began, and a couple of heads turned her way. “I know this isn’t something any of you would be familiar with, but, as tethered manas die, you can feel them inside you: this constant nasty little prickling right around your sensation line.”
“And?” Benedetto prodded, with his usual impatience, but it didn’t even irk her this time.
Marci looked up and regarded them all. “I’m not sure if I’m imagining it.” A grateful, hopeful, desperate smile broke across her face. “It… stopped.”
If Born-on-Solstice’s early rising apprentice group was the first to experience aberrations that day, it was far from the last, and two aberrations were not the sum of its quota either. Just like last time, there appeared to be one for each student. Marceline made it over to Zarina to find that her group, as well, had encountered one of the seemingly rare white aberrations, but they were running behind schedule and did not have the time to unpack everything that had happened. Marci felt good, though, as they set up. The sharp, ceaseless tingling and stinging that had bedevilled her since shortly after her ninth birthday was, for the first time in five and a half years, absent. Hope flooded quick in its wake, that the tethering could be halted, that she may yet live a normal life. All day, she found herself distracted by it, as the drizzle faded and a second one started in the middle hours of Dami. She made the rounds with her friends when her shift at the stand was up, but she did not break the news yet to Jocasta, Luisa, Bella, and the other tethered. She would see if this lasted. She would make sure that it was real.
As they walked - or rolled, in some of the other girls’ cases - they stumbled upon at least two further aberrations. Formed in the accusatory shapes of people, they had appeared and, where they were not wantonly or accidentally absorbed, had been cordoned off. Lamplighters, guards, and even the Century were in strong supply, and Sir Jean-Claude lifted off on Souverain in the early afternoon, joining one last big aerial display put on by the famed ‘Fireflies’ of the Draconic Order. Watching them, Marceline thought of her own froabas egg, now nestled safely in a warming nest provided at cost by D.R.A.G.O.N. In truth, she had despaired of ever getting to ride the magnificent creature that would emerge but, if what had happened today held true, the despair would easily turn to excitement.
Proceedings ended earlier on Victendes than they did on Lepdes, for classes would resume on the morrow. Marceline took on the truncated late shift from Zarina, and they exchanged talk of the day. She had thought about joining some of the magic-focused societies, and they were large and well-funded, but they’d felt too much like more work, like professional bodies. She had school for that. Instead, she’d opted for a series of more interest-based clubs, and a few that she thought might benefit her business.
The day wound down, with crickets chirping and a foggy mist rolling in a bit early beneath heavy clouds. Thunder rumbled above their heads as students and some Zenos hustled back to their shared accommodations. Marceline, for her part, was busy counting money as she walked, safe under the mighty brim of her hat and leaning on her cane somewhat less than usual. “Marci, watch out!” came a voice and she looked up just on time to see both the small aberration in front of her and Jocasta rolling up quickly. “At least look where you’re going, iblah!” The Djamantese came around and pulled into an easy rhythm at her side. Marceliine’s cheeks burned. “Sorry, Jo.”
“Don’t say sorry for me,” the older tethered replied. “It was you who was about to eat shit.” She rolled her eyes. Marci did too. “Sorry, mom. Didn’t mean to make you worry,” she teased.
“Shut up,” Jocasta pouted.
“Oh, so when are you gonna tell everyone you’re really like… twenty?” the girl asked, and her friend’s eyes bugged out. There was a bit of a warning beneath the comical overreaction as well, though. “Your mother’s been telling you too much, Brandæble!”
“Nooo!” squealed Marci. “You too?”
“It is… inevitable,” Jocasta teased. “Maybe you can pay me with some of those fat stacks of Hugos and I’ll forget.”
“Bruja!”
“You’re the one with the hat…”
“Touché,” admitted Marceline.
“Anyways, we split up here, I think.” Jocasta brought herself to a near stop, hands resting on her wheels the way they did when she was about to push off. The younger girl gulped and gathered herself. “Actually,” she began, “can you hold on for a second?”
Brow furrowed, Jocasta stopped and nodded. The exact contents of their conversation were known to nobody but the two of them, but they spoke for nearly two hours and the night ended with Marci crying on Jocasta’s lap. Thus came to an end the five-hundred-fifty-fourth iteration of the Ersand’Enise Student Societies Faire. There had been highlights and lowlights. Friendships and rivalries had been made, wounds both opened and healed, and a common mystery to unite all students and much of the staff had now gripped the academy. Though the Arch-Zenos had approved and then posted an official bulletin in most of the city’s public areas and students were warned about the danger and exhorted to report all aberrations to faculty, it did little to blunt the gossip, the whispers and the burning curiosity, even as The Trials approached. Just what were these aberrations, and now a new variety? Who had created them? How had they placed them so exactly and, most importantly: why?
Act Three: Trials and Tribulations, begins!
REseRveD :)
Both of these recent NPCs are great and are approved!
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _
Chapter Two: Smoke and Fire______ __ _ _
The Nashorn was both in a foul temper and paradoxically placated. He set the gold–haired woman on a bed of straw in a stable that the Eskandr had claimed. Near to all of the village’s residents were dead, off to either join their strange gods in the afterlife or else beg of the Visitor’s mercy for being non-believers. The Nashorn did not know too much of the Gods and there was little point in trying to decipher the unknowable. What he knew was fighting and gold and, normally, that was enough.
He looked at the small woman for a time, remembering how she had felt slung across his shoulder, thinking of how her voice had sounded. He remembered her words too, however, and her dire warnings. He furrowed his brow, now ensconced firmly beneath his helm once more. Turning and leaving – she was lame and would not go anywhere - he set off to find Ulfhild, who might know what to do or, more appropriately, what to say to the captive.
Ulfhild was tired, truly. Of what? She had not grasped yet. Perhaps the constant purging of Parrench was starting to lose the flair it once had. Or maybe the tides of war were more of a match than a village full of civilians on the verge of senescence. Either way, she found herself sat on a bed of furs and hay thinking of the wounds Eleanor had left as a mercy. There was no treasure anywhere, just useless cutlery and ragged clothes.
The sand began to collect in her eyes, her eyelids slowly tugging shut. For a newly anointed Æresvaktr, this felt somewhat beneath her. Yet the king trusted her, the Nashorn…and Hildr. She wondered how she was faring until the crunch of dirt that could only be from the hulk known as the Nashorn echoed near the small hut. She stood up with a surge of adrenaline wet with fear and exited the hut.
“Ah there you are, find the gold yet?”
The Nashorn simply shook his head. He had not found gold. It angered him. Ulfhild did not know this. Nor could she see that he was scowling deeply beneath his helm. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, gripping it at the verge of ungentleness, and motioned with his free hand for her to follow.
A sigh left her lungs, she had expected as much. The Parrench were tedious with how well they hid their gold, something akin to squirrels or other rodents. The weight of his hand tore through her flesh like an axe. Her shoulder gave out immediately as she was not nearly prepared for his ironclad grip. She felt the urgency run across her body with a clear message. Straightening back up, she followed him closely, while massaging her arm. It was kind of strange how everyone kind of just spoke Nashorn’s language despite him being almost completely mute.
The Nashorn said nothing. He could feel Ulfhild flinch. He would try harder to be gentle. Women were small: breakable. He did not want to break them, though… unless they forced him to. Making his way through the remains of the village, it still bothered him how intact it all was, aside from a few ruined walls and roofs. It was supposed to be burnt. That was what you did to villages like this one. It was supposed to inspire fear and make the place unreclaimable. Sweyn had ordered it, though, and Sweyn was a better Æresvaktr than he was. They reached the place and the Nashorn pointed inside where the girl was. Reaching out with the Gift, he could sense that she was not sleeping anymore, though she was pretending to be. He strode over to the bucket of water that he had left her, grabbed it, and threw its contents across her. She bolted upright with a yelp and her eyes fluttered rudely open. He pointed to Ulfhild, he pointed to the girl, and he moved to plant himself in the doorway.
It was strange, but Ulfhild’s sense of smell teetered on the edge of the supernatural. She was confident she could smell the emotions evaporating off the skin. As much as Nashorn could disguise his discontent under helm and armor, she could smell it. That or she was just excellent at fabricating another gift. She would hold her tongue for the time being, keeping a watchful eye. Another instruction led the two into a stable devoid of any horses. What was left was a girl with hair that rivaled the sun in terms of gold, perhaps the treasure was on her scalp instead of a chest. Her eyes’ search was halted by the Nashorn’s deluge of water on the young girl. Still dry as a bone she was just as surprised as the girl.
“Uh..well” she moved over to the girl and knelt down, “What’s your name?”
Adelaide coughed and spat, sweeping sopping wet locks of hair from eyes. “It’s Fuck Off, Eskandr Cunt!” She grinned toothily, seeming to relish the chance to do any sort of harm - even this meagre - to her enemies. She tilted her head and the smile became poisonously sweet. “How about yours?” she chirped.
The smile eroded from her face, leaving nothing but slits for eyes and furrowed brows. A fake laugh left her lips at the cute insult. She unhooked a rabbit pelt she had skinned just earlier in the day that was drying on her belt. “How rude of me, you can dry off with this” tossing the pelt at the girls sopping wet hair. She turned to the Nashorn, silently communicating her wishes for him to do it again. “I’m Ulfhild Ulven. So how about you tell us where the gold is and we can make this as painless as possible.”
It took the Nashorn only a moment to grasp Ulfhild’s meaning. He grinned. It was fun and Fuck You Eskandr Cunt was being difficult, just like everyone else. Besides, it was only water. Using Force, he gathered the water back into the bucket and emptied it on her head once again. Only, this time, the bucket was wrenched free of his loosened grip and hurtled straight for Ulfhild’s head from only a foot or two away. It was easily dealt with.
The patience in her snapped like a skinny twig. Why had she even tried to be diplomatic with these people, they were awful. She reverted back to the pride of Eskand which was somewhat or mostly feral. A backhand flew across the face of the peasant girl. Before she could snap her neck back, Ulfhild was already to her feet picking her up by the neck of her dress. Her hand opened to reveal a flame growing in size. She held it up to her face, “this will warm you up. Now speak or I’ll invite our friend over there to help.”
The girl's eyes went to the fire and then back to Ulfhild and she did something strange: she laughed. It was tinged with the unmistakable notes of madness and, for it, the Nashorn stepped forward once again and punched her in the stomach. “Your true colours!” she coughed, spitting up blood. “How wonderful they are! How much more ‘you’, Eskandr vermin! What are you gonna do? Burn me? Gouge out my eyes? It’s nothing compared to what he will do, and to all of us: Every. Single. One.” she spat.
“Kindness is wasted on you and your people. You rather talk in circles than protect yourself or the others” the girl did however give up one interesting kernel of knowledge that the Nashorn was unable to express to her. “Who is he? Bring us to him and we’ll see who compares to who” almost certain that is where the gold lies.
“There is no protection, you idiot! There is no survival! We were the only thing stopping him. The only thing he might listen to. Oh the poetic justice! In your bloodthirst for elders and children,” she spat, “You’ve called doom down upon us all!” Again, she began with the maddened laughter.
Her patience was gone at this point, the laughter was a grate on her ears. She found a cloth in her satchel and shoved it in the girl’s mouth as a temporary gag. “Whoever *he* is, he's going to listen to you or us as your audience. Now tell us where he is!” She removed the gag waiting for her response.
The prisoner grinned mirthlessly. “You’re a shitty interrogator,” she sneered. “So I’ll have some sympathy. You’ll find him soon enough, or he’ll find you. All that precious gold is up on the mountain, though, in a nice little cave where we hid it!” She giggled, head lolling to one side and her eyes staring almost blankly up at the ceiling.
Finally, she spoke something of worth. The mountain seemed a strange place to safeguard gold against Eskand or other raiders, but perhaps it worked. “Now go be with your gods” Ulfhild commanded, retrieving her sword from her sheathe and quickly passing it across her exposed neck. It was a surprise her blood wasn’t black with the madness that possessed her. Her body fell limp, her blood pooling with the water that doused her earlier. Ulfhild turned to the Nashorn and nodded. “Looks like we’re going up that mountain. We best not daly and find Hildr, there’s gold to be won.”
The Nashorn merely nodded and uncrossed his arms. The gold woman lay there: red, white, and gold now, and the way she lay was beautiful too, in a strange sort of way. Outside, he had felt the energies of people listening in, but it was no matter. He would go and get his gold. If someone got there before him, he would kill them.
There was a faint difference between the smoke and sky at night. While both were dark, the former had an unpredictable quality to it. Sweyn had burnt five villages now and butchered their people and he felt not a shred of pride or glory. Yet, it was necessity and it was inescapable. His king had ordered it and all others followed the king. So, he too must. What would happen to him were he to turn away? Surely, it would be the end of him. They would send that animal Thorunn after him and she would destroy him and take not only his head but his place as first among the Aeresvaktr. With it would go any semblance of honour or dignity that the storied group had left.
Yet, the lifeless body of a little girl lay on the ground before him, staring blankly at a world that her soul had left. She spat on his notions of honour and made a mockery of them. Sweyn stumbled back and had to avert his eyes for a moment. An innocent child, his conscience cried out. It had been gaining ground as of late. She was no more than nine or ten: in the final throes of girlhood, but he just stared at her tiny body, unnerved in a way that he hadn’t thought possible. You bloody murderer! his inner voice screamed. You ended this child’s life without a thought. She will never grow up. This tiny person who had never hurt you, never even seen you before: the one time that she did, she ran and screamed and died. He thought, then, of his students over the years, how he had loved some of them almost as a father loves his child, how he had watched them grow from these luminous little things into men and women of poise and power and how wondrous it had been. This one, though: she will never laugh or smile again. She will not know the satisfaction of watching herself grow into a woman, of contributing to her village or excelling in a pursuit. She will never experience adventure, loss, or wonder. She will have no late nights under the stars, no tender moments with friends, family, or lovers. This girl will rot in the ground while others born on the same day as her will know all of these things, and it will happen this way because of you, Sweyn. It did not matter that these people were Parrench. It was such an arbitrary distinction of men. Did not they have the same feelings as Eskandr? Did not they sleep and wake under the same sun? Breathe the same air? Hold many of the same hopes and dreams?
Nobody was watching him. He was alone, as he’d insisted on being for reasons that had been, at the time, unclear to him. The Thunderspear called forth some fire and he let the mound of bodies burn and blacken. There were no living people here to see his face, but the girl stared back at him to the very end, until her bones came apart and were indistinguishable from the mass. I’m sorry, he promised. So sorry. Gods, I am!
Nobody was watching him, or so he thought, so they could not see Sweyn Thunderspear, first among the Aeresvaktr, take his face in his hands and weep bitter tears.
In truth, of course, Sweyn was far from alone. A small but well-armed scouting force, led by the Drudgunzean Arsene, had been approaching for some time, following the trail of burned villages that he’d left. Their goal had been to either discover the main Eskandr force and report its position back to Queen Eleanor’s substantial army or to pounce upon and rout a smaller party of raiders opportunistically. It was, of course, a surprise when they found that they could sense only a single figure by a fire. A cascade of further surprises followed. Firstly, that the figure did not sense them back, secondly, that it did not flee or take some sort of action, and thirdly that, when that figure came into view, it was none other than Sweyn Thunderspear, by his lonesome. Arsene, as leader of the group, found himself faced with a decision: how to approach what was perhaps a major opportunity, perhaps a trap, or perhaps something else entirely.
For the Parrench force, some ways away, there was a similar figurative darkness to contend with alongside its literal peer. Thankfully, it was joined by a degree of light as well. The efforts of Sirs Maerec and Caelum made the heroic knights heroes yet again. The maiden Camille saved a great many from the fire, though seeming undeniably distraught towards the end of her efforts. Arsene of Avalona, a Drudgunzean passionate in his faith and cause, had given chase to the Eskandr raiders with a scoutiing force of perhaps two dozen men, not giving the enemy any breathing room. Most importantly of all, however, a great majority of the people of Port Morilles had been saved. More than half of the town had proven salvageable as well and, should the Eskandr be defeated and banished from these lands once and for all time, the settlement would almost certainly recover. There were losses, however. Many of the brave knights and frontline defenders of Port Morilles had gone into Aun-Echeran’s cold embrace. Still others had been eagerly captured by the raiders for use as slaves, chattel, or ransom. Among these were many known to members of the Queen’s army, including Dame Camille herself. Still more were left maimed, crippled, or destitute. Truly, the Eskandr scourge knew no limits of normal human empathy or decency. They struck viciously and wantonly, and the scars might take generations to heal.
Yet, sometimes, an imperfect strike from a merciless enemy - one at least partially defended - can serve not to weaken but to strengthen the resolve of the struck. So Parrence remained unbroken, unbowed, and unbent. That same night, in the shadow of the ruined roof of the Cathédrale des Cinq Flammes, the bishop of Port Morilles delivered a sermon under the stars. There had been no golden Pentact or chalice after the raiders had come, so Eleanor de Perpignan, Queen of the Parrench, had led by example, giving up her jewellery so that it might be melted to make new ones. She was joined eagerly by much of the town’s nobility. Great and common alike, they knelt before the Bishop and their gods and received the blessed sacrament of communion with the Pentad. Fervent prayers rang out to Oraphe and Echeran. Roofs were repaired, orders for grain stores made to the capital and dispatched, and healing hands laid upon the wounded.
The moons hung high and low in their colours. By their light, the dead were given proper burials. Work continued on shoring up the cliffs until they were judged stable. Swords were sharpened as the sun rose. A final blessing was provided by the bishop and Queen Eleanor mounted her horse, hair rippling down her shoulders, back and chest, stirring in the brisk coastal wind. “People of Parrence!” she called, cantering before the now fully-gathered army in the morning’s light on her white stallion, Fidèle.
“Yesterday, we suffered a blow at the hands of the Eskandr scourge. Many of you lost homes, friends, and loved ones. I know that the wound is deep and that it may be hard to imagine ever healing from, but I promise that there is a future. I promise that the Gods are ever at our backs.”
“Yesterday, my subjects and my friends, we took back Port Morilles from their vile grasp. We prized the lives of innocent children and elders from them. See how they flew and scattered before us as vermin might before a noble wolf. Were not the flames they had set quelled by our endeavours? Were not the stones of this very cliff secured through our ingenuity and our might?”
“Yesterday should have been a resounding victory for the heathens, yet it was not! So this is why I say to you, today, my friends and allies, that the Gods yet smile upon the people of Green Parrence, and I know, by Chune’s light, that I speak with irrevocable truth!”
She reached across her shoulder and, pulling upon the Gift of Force, grasped the handle of her mighty warhammer. “So let us set forth beneath our banners and our shields and the strength of our faith. Let us sharpen our resolve as we do our swords and senses and, tomorrow, my people, we shall crush the vile invaders who would make a pyre of our houses and fields. We shall cut them down with fire and steel where they stand, and we shall make this land ever safe and green for ourselves and our kin.” With that, Queen Eleanor drew forth her weapon and thrust it into the air. “Vive la Parrence!”
“Vive la Parrence!”
they thundered as one, and then “Vive la Parrence!” three more times. The Grande Armée gathered its might and set off in pursuit of its enemy.
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