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Force and Fury Member
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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
Oraff and Eshiran 𝅗𝅥 𝅘𝅥 𝅘𝅥𝅮 𝅘𝅥𝅯 𝅘𝅥𝅰
For five hours, as Oraff took her part of the day, Eshiran - in truth - reigned supreme over Ersand'Enise. It was the annual Melon Derby, first event of the academy's famous Trials, and it played host to clashes of far greater impact and intensity than virtually anyone expected. The minds of people are queerly self-centered things: overestimating the self, scarce bothering to consider the impact of others independent of the challenge that they might pose. This was no ordinary cohort; that much was clear and, more than once, the Zenos and even the Arch-Zenos were forced to intervene. So, too, had the rules been changed, rendering moot hours of strategic planning done beforehand.
Youths from all five continents raced about the city, chasing down leads and, where something particularly valuable came into play, clashing over it. Before long, six had separated themselves from the pack. Where Zeno Born-on-Solstice's team - Lucky Seven - and their Skull & Crossbones allies fought cleverly and tenaciously for the terramelon and others, they ultimately came up short and had to make do with a sixth place finish. Zeno Luria Colloy's Team VOID, however, enjoyed more luck - and that is exactly what it was - along with their Huggy Bear allies from distant West Callanast, coming home with the firemelon and fifth place. A series of ferocious clashes in which faculty involvement was required and some backroom deals netted Zeno Fades-in-Moonlight's team Snaked and Afraid and their hegelan allies, Shortlisted, fourth place and the watermelon. Third, and the much-coveted terramelon went to the relentless exploration, melon growing, and various schemes of Zeno Sienna Afraval's squad and their Vossoriyan allies, Pravda Aeresvaktr, while second place fell to Zeno Hamir Zemana's group, who'd managed to secure both the thundermelon and the cloudmelon due to early and decisive action.
In the end, however, as with all other iterations of the storied event, somebody had to win. If it was not one team, then one alliance stood alone atop the podium. Team Gunboat Diplomats, of Zeno Zander Mozaru, and their allies, Blaze of Glory from Weggos, won not by virtue of sheer strength - which they also possessed a good deal of - but cleverness, creating false leads, building alliances, and defending their decoys as if they were real. A bitter last-second fright aside, nobody came close to figuring out their clever gambit of leaving the melon supreme hidden after touching it, creating false beams, and having Carmillia Carbonneau, whose capacity was just low enough not to trigger its effects, be the melon's carrier.
While counting and inspection was underway, students lingered, chatting. if there was some leftover bad blood, it was to be expected with so many people present who had known only victory so far in their young lives, often to the detriment of others. Then, as students gathered in the grand plaza in front of Balthazar Hall and the final standings were announced, the entire city - which appeared like nothing so much as a battleground by this juncture, began to clean and repair itself under the influence of thousands of mages' Gifts. For some, their performance was a cause for celebration. For others, lament.
Tragic and Comic
With the opening round of the competition complete, the race was on for dinner or at least snacks. Apprentice houses filled with feasting students as did inns and taverns. The city's bakeries, butchers, and food stands boasted long lines and animated conversations among those waiting. However, not all of these places were an oasis of calm. The popular student-run Zeno Bucks stand played witness to a fistfight between one of its proprietors, Zarina Al-Nader, and one of the academy's few yasoi students, Casii'fyret'alan, tensions between whom had been bubbling since their time as part of the mission to the San Agustin Refuge.
What took place afterwards was at once ugly, tragicomic, and ironic. As the two pounded each other, betting money was pilfered, tensions rose among the spectators, and a four-way species-based brawl erupted between humans, yasoi, hegelans, and eeaiko. By then, the two original combatants were sitting on the grass at the corner of the nearby arboretum, sharing a drink and a smoke, their feud laid to rest through the catharsis of simply being able to punch each other in the face.
Their rest was fleeting, however, as the Victendes auction started up shortly after, delayed until the evening due to the festivities. There, both local and visiting students bid sometimes-obscene sums on items both mundane and exotic until the final item, a strange music box with an unknown inscription, came up for grabs.
What started as an unusually competitive auction between rival students of great wealth in a game of one-upmanship morphed into something different and much darker as the bidding topped five thousand Magi. Never before had the reality of the looming war been brought home so clearly to students as it was in that moment as Evander Synesti, backed by the Doge of Revidia, and Ingrid Penderson, backed by agents of the Sovereign Pact, threw increasing sums of money at an item they knew little to nothing about. That it ended behind closed doors and with an attack by agents of an unknown entity served only to reinforce the palpable feeling of disquiet that prevailed.
Ingrid, Desmond, and Sven came away with the box and, once it became clear that it was not truly to be theirs and instead used by their governments as a means of pacifying and taming Monsigneus dragons for use in war, a rebellion of sorts was hatched. At Sven's urging, the students began gathering the kingly sum of Ỽ27,000 to pay the auctionhouse with so that they miht own the box outright. Before long, their hegelan allies were involved, as were Ismette and (with surprising enthusiasm) Benedetto. The aims of this 'Hourglass Order' yet remained nebulous, but all of its members agreed that the wrong set of people had the power and were all too eager to leave others holding the cheque for their decisions and fighting their wars.
During the darkest hours of the night, shadows fluttered across the open spaces of Ersand'Enise and lurked in the city's alleys and alcoves. Outside of the pubs and taverns, those late night oases of light, warmth, and revelry, secret correspondence and sums of clandestine money were exchanged, cloaked figures met in confidence, and the agents of the Traveler were once again active. The roundly ignored commons of the Workman's Quarter, who'd been forced to keep their heads down as the children of the rich and powerful had fought with deadly force over fruits the day before, rose early to light the fires in their hearths, clean their spaces and prepare their meagre wares for market, and dress up in the best of their humble clothing. They warmed up yesterday's food until it was safe to eat and set out, same as they did every day; same as they had for generations. As a slick coating of dewdrops clung to the city's myriad surfaces and the faint glow in the sky morphed into a hazy greyish predawn, this silent army flowed like blood through cholesterol-choked arteries to the townhomes, warehouses, and shops where they would spend their days at work. The night before had played witness to ample instances of drunken debauchery, but bricks had again reduced a half-dozen wealthy windows to crystalline splinters and two more powdered little lordlets had passed out in gutters and been relieved of their possessions. Seventy of the Century's hundred members were in evidence as the sun heaved itself over the horizon, a stern and solemn reminder of the force needed to hold peace and order apart from the clutching arms of chaos.
Bells tolled across the city to ring in 5:00 Shune and, by then, it was a keen, bright morning. The few competitors not already awake rolled out of their beds, shrugged off whatever hangovers or exhaustion they still felt, sometimes with the assistance of the Gift, and dressed themselves or had their servants do it. For last night's allies, farewells of varying fondness were given. They would meet again later as adversaries.
By the time that Shune gave way to Oraff, a vast crowd had gathered in the Grand Plaza and the air was abuzz with eager strategizing and prognostication. Hands wove their way through the air and voices rose in excitement. Once again, rules were announced, commendations handed out, and brunch served. Teams took care, this time, to linger close to potential allies and, when the three minutes for pairing were announced, they scarcely missed a beat. The tactical discussions reached a fever pitch. Warmup exercises were undertaken as others ate. Last moment trips to the privy were almost comically frequent. Some traced ideas on paper and others with the Gift. The second event was almost always the start of the separation between the elite teams and those who would fall by the wayside. It was crucial.
Next came the rule changes, announced with aplomb by the Zenith, in glowing form beneath the blustery blue sky. Huge, ethereal numbers appeared above the massive leaderboard by the fountain, counting down from five minutes, and a surge of energy was felt up on stage as time and space twisted and tore. Five swirling portals to distant locales yawned open and formerly coherent groups of ten fractured into pairs, some hesitating and debating to the bitter end. Nonetheless, eager, giddy lines formed before the great quintet and began to be ushered through. The two-hundred-fifty-six youths who emerged through each played witness to phenomenally different worlds.
Through the Portals
Those who stepped through the first found themselves on a large wooden raft, gently rocking upon a tranquil blue sea. Gulls bleated and wheeled under the late afternoon sun and, in the distance, rose the hazy shapes of islands and towering forests of balloon kelp. An otherworldly sight with their great rounded gas bladders, they swayed gently in a light breeze where they broke the surface, flocks of birds nesting upon them, spindly rope bridges tethering them to one another. Closer by were buoys made of gaily painted logs and ropes denoting the racecourse. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of canoes and small ships dotted the water's surface, packed full of the swarthy, high-cheekboned people of West Callanast. A few, opportunistically, weaved among them in maneuverable boats heavily laden with snacks and supplies, shouting repetitive slogans in singsong voices and doing a brisk trade. Eeaiko were everywhere, in and among the humans and off on their own. Some clung to the sides of the boats, chatting. Others floated on watercraft of their own, mostly awash. Still others swam or perched on rocky islets, their eyes on the competitors and some kind of shiny pearlescent currency eagerly changing hands.
The scene through the second portal was much in contrast to the first. A blazing late morning sun beat down upon a desolate dun sand desert. In the distance, beyond a veil of whipping sand that forced many of the new arrivals to shield their eyes, lay monolithic buttes and hoodoos. Vultures and small froabases circled on the rising thermals, casting rippling shadows upon the sun-beaten ground. Salty white lines were drawn into the distance, where the horizon disappeared into mirage, but the true focus lay closer to home, behind a thick chalky reddish line. Over two hundred halassa waited with varying degrees of patience and restraint, tethered to thick wooden posts that the lazy, wilful beasts could almost certainly uproot were they to bother trying. Some bucked and strained, a few snapping at others. Some ambled about on their short leashes, others rested, and a handful even slept. Handlers in desert garb hustled about the giant tortoises in a very unhurried way, jabbering rapidly in Torragonese or another strange tongue that sounded somewhat like Virangish yet was not. Their voices rose on the brisk wind and were shredded by it as they glanced back over their shoulders at the new arrivals. "You!" shouted one, "You come! You follow me and you ride halassa. Understand?"
The third portal brought with it a cold that was more than bracing. Students found themselves stepping through onto muddy grey gravel under a blustery grey sky. Up ahead lay deepening banks of snow and the blinding glimmer of the sun off of it, but that was not what drew their attention. Stout posts with threadbare banners marked out a starting line, and two lines of them stretched into the distance, onward and up-up-upward until they disappeared into the dark grey clouds around the summit of an unnaturally steep mountain. The sudden screech of a Snow Wyvern startled more than a few of the new arrivals as it circled overhead, as did the distant rumble of the Ildsjø caldera and its constant flow of lava. "Hah! No need to be scared, Greenlanders!" laughed a great big Eskandr, a grin peeking out from beneath his bushy blond beard. "Welcome to Eskand! The good one, that is! Come this way." He motioned for them to follow as thunder rumbled from the mountaintop and a ferocious gust of wind caused the colourful banners to strain at their posts and the students to shield themselves from the sharp, cold snow. A ragged but not-unenthusiastic cheer went up from the small bleachers set up nearby and the group was ushered toward their starting positions, where tall, leathery-skinned men and women on skis or snowshoes waited.
The fourth and penultimate portal proved as different from the others as night is from day - literally. Students found themselves standing on a beach under the light of five partial moons. Waves washed in and out in a steady, peaceful rhythm and torches burned into the night. Voices in conversation, barter, and laughter could be heard, and dozens of rural villagers were gathered around brightly-lit food, drink, and souvenir stands. A cheer went up as the competitors began to arrive, and the voices became excited, people in semi-silhouette leaning in, pointing, whispering, and gesticulating. Someone was going around and taking bets. A handful had brought drums and were making increasingly inebriated music with them, while a couple of children had to be pulled back by their elders. In the distance rose a subtropical rainforest, deep and tangled, with networks of tenuously torchlit paths snaking into its depths. Closer to the couple hundred youths was their guide. "Hallo, Sousern frienduhs! Walcome to Longwan! Come wiss me!" she enthused, motioning them onward. The drumming intensified. Some were ringing strange bells. Others danced with fire and burnt incense. "Come come! No worry, this is the biguh Autumn Festival. Good food! Yummy drinks!" A couple dozen children were already darting about between the new arrivals, handing them burlap sacks.
Finally, those who walked through the fifth portal walked not into some wilderness or near-wilderness but the heart of an immense city and, surely, save for the sole hegelan among them, it was like none they had ever seen. Taking their places in a sizable plaza, they found themselves within a vast underground cavern, its innards lit by blazing white fires and an intricate system of giant mirrors and crystals, as well as brilliant shafts of light that streamed through tunnels carved deep into the stone that separated this place from the world outside. On top of these, tiny gas and bioluminescent lanterns twinkled in the dimmer reaches. The ornate facade of a palace loomed before the students and, from beyond it, emanated a sweltering heat and the hint of a breeze. The place was alive with light and sound and scent, the noise constant: clanging hammers, bustling voices, clattering wagons and snapping fires. Their smoke hung about in a haze toward the roof of the cavern and some dissipated through the shafts above. It was the people who were most overwhelming, though. Thousands of them - hegelans all - surrounded the plaza from balconies, bridges, and rooftops, shouting, waving, and cheering. As the last of the competitors exited the portal, a cacophony of bells began to chime and a band began to play the moment that it ceased. "If yeh'll foollo me, ih'll be raigh thess way," shouted at least a dozen guides in relatively broken Avincian. "Welcom teh Hogh Munkhelad!"
When the last of the students had settled in, signals were exchanged over vast distances and the wizened heads of a half-dozen Arch-Zenos nodded. The swirling holes in reality that had brought the students there winked out of existence. It was scarcely a minute later when new ones were formed, linking the disparate legs of the race. Over in the Rainbow Sea, under a sun that glared golden in the competitors' eyes, A stout man wearing a regal crown of feathers, silver, and precious stones raised his arms and let his body fill with magic. "Nswi... niizh... bezhik...Gagwejikazh!" He dropped them.
Resources
Whatever you do, please read the first hider thoroughly. If you have read them and still have questions, feel free to ask a moderator for assistance. As this is a competitive event, failure to adhere to the specific posting rules for this cycle will result in immediate disqualification, without exception.
Let the Race Begin!
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _
Chapter Five: Calamity to Crisis_________ __ __ _ _
It was shortly before midday when the katterhorns started up. Already, there had been a trickle of smoke from the direction of the Grøntempel and it had been a subject of idle conversation lately. Perhaps they were making some sort of offering. Maybe it was merely garbage being burnt in the yards beyond. Perhaps it was truly a fire in their sacred place. Many were still on edge over the havetskriger that had gotten loose the day before. Now, however, the great rasping cries of these horns rose into the cool spring air, harsh and crisp, and echoed off of the fjord walls. People paused in their daily errands and work, searching about with eyes and voices, and there were now other ribbons of smoke rising from the city: more than the usual assortment of cooking fires and forges. So it was that the city of Meldheim, heart of the Eskandr lands, lurched from calamity to crisis.
The people of this place did not yet know it - for it had been centuries since anyone had dared attack their capital - but all of the misfortune that they were now to endure was the work of Parrench infiltrators. These had been based in Rigevand for the past handful of days and their true nature unknown even to many of the Quentic converts who called the village home. For, as much as they now kept the gods of the greenlanders, they were still Eskandr and would have almost certainly rebelled at the prospect of their guests putting the city to the torch.
The katterhorns continued to sound, people scrambled, and fires spread. Within ten minutes, soldiers, firefighters, and sorcerers were running about the streets. The Grøntempel was fully ablaze now and a growing crowd gathered on the mountainside outside of the city walls. From this multitude rose cries and lamentations as they watched Meldheim burn. A punishment that they had so eagerly and thoughtlessly inflicted upon others had now turned its ire upon them.
As thousands streamed out of the capital's gates, chaos took their places within. For every fire put out, there seemed to be another three. Thieves and opportunists ransacked dwellings and plundered shops. Enemies of the Eskandr continued their work with a grim sort of glee. Then came the flooding, in earnest now. Streets became streams, cellars filled, and anything left unfastened was swept away.
Into this stepped Queen Astrid and the Æresvaktr. Whatever exhaustion lingered inside of them from the day before was nothing in comparison to the urgency they felt in action. Countermeasures were enacted, and stormclouds began to form over the city. Over a dozen Parrench either surrendered or were struck down in the midst of their crimes. Kol, Vali, and Arne were dispatched to the hotspots: the Kongesalan and Grontempel, the docks and the market, to both blunt the catastrophe and hunt down the ringleaders: people they'd likely met before on the battlefields of Relouse. Silently, the hooded figure of the Skygge joined them, but a dilemma remained: fight the fires, save the people, and salvage the treasures soon to be lost, or bring the arsonists and raiders to justice?
Yet there were more raiders now. The Sea People rose from the river and its ruined locks, dozens of them invading the palace and plundering wantonly. If they had not come as an army, they had come just the same and it was yet another figurative fire that the Eskandr had to put out. Too many! There were altogether too many and it was a mystery, a punishment, a farce that this had been allowed to happen! The water barbarians ran eagerly about, filling sacks of sea-cloth with whatever they could find, jabbering in their strange language, and chanting mocking songs. It was a tragedy: something to run from.
Yet, around the far hook of the harbour, a trio of knarrs rounded the headland, unremarkable but for their sparse crews and unerring path right into the mouth of it while many were trying so hard to escape. Aboard were Trygve, Maud, and Lazy-Eye Jacques. Of the strange swamp girl, Nettle, there was naught to be found and nothing had been seen of her since she had gone to tame the havetskriger. Already, they could see a few familiar faces along the docks: some who'd come with them and some who'd been rescued from Meldheim's prison. There were just a few more: a few more who needed to make it there. They could afford to wait around for fifteen more minutes. Then, whoever remained behind at that point would remain behind for good.
The hourglass was trickling, the pieces were moving and, as Maud watched from the boat, a heavy wind swept flames in the direction of the Kongesalan. A dozen small fires were now licking at the mighty building's periphery. Though the Tree of Life had not yet caught, one would have to think it would be only a matter of minutes. Trygve could not bear to look at it. "Træet er helligt. Vi burde ikke gøre dette," (The tree is sacred. We shouldn't be doing this,) he mumbled under his breath. Busy racing through the burning streets of the city where he had grown up, Svend glanced back and felt a pang of... something. Coming back here, playing the role of this Jarl Bjorn or Alsfard. It had awakened in him not a love for the old gods, for they were false, but at least for his own tongue, his own people and culture, and he felt himself a traitor, an eternal outsider among these Parrench. The die, however, was cast. He had chosen his path and, whatever regrets now welled up inside of him, it was his to walk.
Then, flames touched the great tree that rose from the roof of the Kongesalan and everybody within Meldheim was compelled to gaze upon it.
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _
Chapter Five: The Stand______ __ _ _
In the Quentic Faith, there exist many tales of brave stands against seemingly impossible odds. These are much beloved of the commons, the nobles, and the church alike, but for different reasons. For the first, they represent the triumph of man - and, sometimes, even woman - against things much greater than himself. They are agency attained with the blessings of the Gods. For the second, they are an ideal to aspire to: the legendary story that will resound through the ages, the fulfillment of the ideals of a nascent form of chivalry. For the last, who approve and promote them most fervently, the stories are proof positive of the power and mercy of the Gods. They are what might be achieved by those who place their trust in forces greater than themselves and act upon faith. St. Defrois slew the Dawn Wyvern not because he was more powerful than it, but because he was blessed with Chune's sagacity and Echeran's might.
Yet, for every story told of a brave hero's triumph or noble, meaningful sacrifice, there are twice as many untold. That is because the heroes in question did not win and if thy died, they saved no one. It this fear that nipped so persistently at the edges of their minds as hundreds of knights, magicians, and men-at-arms huddled within the dark, dank, strangely warm caverns beneath Mont Errant. They had tried fighting the Eskandr and they had failed. They had tried fighting the dragon and they had failed. Even now, it circled above, howling and screaming into the predawn darkness. Blasts of fire cooked the mountainside shrubbery and boiled away streams and small pools. Beyond some measure of protective rock lay a hellscape of choking smoke and scalding steam that bled and billowed from sheets of flame. So it was that they prayed. In diverse degrees of faith, hope, and vigor, they beseeched, now, the five members of the Pentad - but Echeran above the others - to intercede on their behalf or to grant them the strength to overcome this trial and become heroes instead of victims.
Heroes to Some
If one side prayed to its gods, the other's appeared to have actively interceded. In the matter of an hour, the situation had transformed from nearly hopeless for the Eskandr to a victory of sorts. The Nashorn had laid low the cream of the other side's army. Sweyn Thunderspear had been restored to health, and the dragon's ire focused almost solely on their enemies. If it was difficult to leave behind such a magnificent hunt for some, the consolation was now that they would be hunting bigger prey.
At a run and a canter, they made haste for the east and the great city of learning and libraries known as Chamonix. Capture it in tandem with their attacks and those of the Enthal Drudgunzeans further south, and they would escape this scenario with some gains to show for it and a strong positioning at the bargaining table. If Eskand could not have all of Parrence, then it would at least have a good chunk and its enemies would be permanently weakened. The larger prize was Arcel himself. His army was in close pursuit of Hrothar's, looking to bring the Black King to battle. He was not, however, aware of the second army now coming up behind his. Should the charismatic young monarch fall in battle, surely it would break the Parrench spirit. Should he be captured, his ransom would bankrupt the enemy treasury.
It was on a warm and drizzly late Stresian morning when Sweyn Thunderspear's scouts, led by his fellow Æresvaktr, Ulfhild of Ulven, sighted the rearguard of King Arcel's Army, itself shadowing Hrothgar's and perhaps only a day's ride from the city gates. The decision that emerges is a key one: immediate attack or settling in for a longer campaign? The stage is set for a second great clash of armies: one that might determine the fate of nations.
Shune's Gambit
It was not only from Echeran that the potential answer to their prayers arrived. Both strength and wisdom had combined those two hundred years prior to slay one maddened beast, and so they would ally once more. A bold plan was hatched by Ser Maerec de Solenne, weighed by others including the Queen herself, her brother Count Perceval, freshly healed, and finally the famed Kressian dragonslayer Hildr the Red. Of the Eskandr forces, she alone had remained, her insight and experience potentially invaluable in the fight to come.
For the next hour, humans, small and trembling but with increasing boldness, risked approaching one of the cave system's entrances and peering out into the slowly-lightening void beyond. After a time, the furious creature cooled, its passes becoming less frequent, its blasts of fire sporadic. Then, the earth itself shook, small rocks tumbling loose from the cavern's ceilings, a couple of stalactites hitting the ground. People cried and prayed, but the danger passed after only a few seconds and they found themselves in Oraphe-Sept's debt. When the next party crept out from their refuge, the great maddened beast rested atop the mountain, thin trickles of smoke spiraling up from its nostrils into the deep blue sky.
So it was that their desperate campaign began not with a charge and a battlecry, but with Queen Eleanor, Ser Maerec, Dame Hildr, and two dozen handchosen knights in the drizzly predawn. Flames guttered in blackened tree stumps. Smoke drew the odd cough from the group. Every footstep kicked up pale, ghostly ash from where it lay upon the ground. It was within this otherworldly setting that they made their way up a darkened mountain under fading stars, hoping that - someday - stories might be told of what was to come.
 🙠 Magic lives within 🙢 🙡 the margins. 🙣  ................................................................. | █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ █ | In days of yore, long before you or I entered this world, it is said that magic flowed freely and naturally through all things. These stories persist in dusty old tomes, folktales, and increasingly fanciful recountings. They speak of wise and terrible wizards, known as Zenos, who stretched their power across continents, grasping nobility who basked in the light and life of powers ancient and arcane, and great and fiendish demons who sought to bathe the lands of men in eternal darkness. That was, those voices from the past insist, before the Death of Magic. The year is Dami 64, and the scholarship of any civilized nation rightly regards these primitive claims with rigorous skepticism. Even if we are to accept that once it was an invisible and fantastical application of magic that bound the brotherhood of man together, bands of steam, steel, and signal have superseded it now, and with growing efficacy. The engines of industry thunder forward in their tireless churn, producing the conveniences and opportunities of modernity. Towering smokestacks and stunning new edifices of iron, glass, and marble rise into the skies of grand old-world cities and their burgeoning new brethren across the Asperic Ocean. Where once travel was difficult, dangerous, and time-consuming, one can now move between Michaugo and Relouse in under a week, and this figure decreases with each passing year. Key to this dynamic growth has been the Mephisto Company, headquartered in Blackthistle Manor, a sprawling industrial park on the outskirts of Harrowend, capital of the United Kingdom of Greater Enth and Hendland. It has been sixty years since the discovery of the symbiotic protists known as manas by founder and genius inventor Thaddeus Lowell. Where the ancients put their workings down to something as vague and arcane as 'magic', the vast majority struggling to harness this immense boon, modern science has isolated their ability to make use of energies both manmade and naturally occurring. Thermal, mechanical, electromagnetic, chemical, and atomic, the Mephisto Company's tools and machines have allowed people to harness each by interfacing with their bloodstream-dwelling symbiotes. To say that this has revolutionized life the world across would be an understatement, and the rising tide has lifted all, lord and labourer alike. Now, one may take his fate into his own hands and purchase the ability to wield this great Gift of the most Holy Pentad. Yet, there are always outliers, ingrates, and rascals. There are those who decry the great work of the Mephisto Company and advocate for a return to the savage and unenlightened old ways of 'natural magic', where a privileged few ran roughshod over the rest, who subsisted in fear, darkness, and ignorance. It was against this backdrop that, early this morning, Thaddeus, the greatest mind of his age, was found dead in his sleep at the age of eighty-seven. May he rest in Eshiran's peace and Shune's light. No word has yet reached the public, and his five heirs have gathered at his country estate in Briarthorn Weald to read his will. They have also invited you. To what purpose remains unspoken. Already there are whisperings that foul play and grasping ambition bubble just beneath a placid surface, threatening to boil over. |
A Legend of Sipenta
Almost miraculously, the inclement weather from earlier cleared: rain to sun, heavy clouds to blue skies and a stiff, refreshing breeze that stretched flags out at full flutter and turned the hair of anyone who bothered to keep it long into writhing tangles. Seagulls, visiting from the nearby coast, circled and bleated, diving in at the periphery every so often and squabbling over scraps. It was an hour of mingling and hors d'oeuvres. Senior faculty - the Arch-Zenos Intaba, Latvar, Giarrone, Harrachora, Riu, Tojarra, and Nakamura - sat chatting amongst themselves on stage, beneath a sonic dampening bubble with Zenith Upta and, somewhat belatedly, the Paradigm. Servants and enchanted platters weaved among them and they indulged in all manner of culinary delights, but everybody really knew that it was the calm before the storm. If preparations were not quite frantic, it was perhaps because so many irons had already been placed into the fire and, nonetheless, much of the city bordered on the frantic. Then, there were ten minutes remaining. The Zenith called for silence and the group of over a thousand youths more or less delivered it, the final few stragglers stumbling back to the square from a nearby pub.
"You all well know the rules of these Trials," Claresse Upta announced, voice booming over the vast space. "And it has been judged that, perhaps, you know them a little bit too well." A hum of uneasy conversation rose within the crowd. "Many of you also know this city and where your assigned quarters with your masters are. For those who don't..." She snapped her fingers. All at once, a murder of crows seemed to materialize out of thin air. They swooped down into the crowd to the sounds of yelps and panicked cried, alighting on the arms and shoulders of one student from each group. In their beaks, they held rolled-up parchments. These were dropped either gracefully or unceremoniously, depending on how well they were received, before the animals flew off in a great squawking clattering horde. Once the group had settled down somewhat, she continued. "You will find personalized maps to the spaces which will serve as your temporary home bases. However..." and now, a twinkle entered her eye. "There are some rules that you may be expecting - that you may be used to - and, well, you can throw those out the window. This year, we will be trying something new. To that end," she continued, "the following rule changes will be in effect:
- All melons of one hundred points or above are protected by the magic of your zenos and are virtually indestructible. Those of two thousand points or above are protected by your arch-zenos and myself.
- The destruction of any melons may only be undertaken by using other melons. Thrown, acidified, packed with something destructive, that is entirely up to you.
- To assist in this endeavour, there is a new type of melon this year: one hundred melon grenades are hidden about the school grounds. Upon contact with another melon, these tiny melons will cause its destruction and that of any other melon within a ten foot radius, excepting the five elemelons and the supreme.
- Each melon grenade detonated by your team will cost you one hundred points. Each intact one is worth fifty. This is a tactical choice that you will have to make.
- Finally, hidden about campus are ten 'Dark Melons'. These are distinct in appearance from all other fruits in today's event and they come from Nonin, Hanien, and Casong. You should be looking for small, purple, and very well-hidden melons, pointed at one end. Upon touching another melon, they will open a melon-destroying portal of twenty feet in radius, capable of eliminating any other fruit, including the five elemelons and the supreme.
- You will have a choice to make, however: each Dark Melon is worth five hundred points if kept intact and, like grenades, will cost you one hundred points if destroyed.
What followed was essentially an uproar, as plans and prep work were thrown into chaos. Less than the majority but more than a few looked - and even sounded - distinctly unhappy. Others cheered. Ruthlessly, the sound of the latter was increased by Arch-Zeno Riu and then all other noise appropriately muffled. "And on that note," the Zenith declared, "Let me not keep you a moment longer." The great clock behind her, on the tower of Balthazar Hall, struck two o'clock Oraff and its chimes echoed across the plaza. "Off with you, then! Off with you!" Zenith Upta shouted. "I shall see you all again in five hours!"
It took precisely ten seconds for Benedetto to make an ass of himself. "The destruction of any melons may only be undertaken by using other melons," he mimicked poorly. "Well how 'bout this!?" he crowed, spiking a one-pointer he'd grabbed into the ground. Instead of exploding into mush and fragments, however, and spraying his and his teammates' clothes, the fruit rebounded and smacked him in the face. Benny staggered backwards and both Marceline and a couple of the pirates they'd allied with burst out laughing. "Something fucking funny?" Benedetto snarled. "It was an experiment." His face was red and only the very real fear of what he might do if pushed allowed Penny to tamp down on her own laughter.
"We should split up," announced Anthal, the nominal leader of the group. "Four on defense - search n your way back to the house - the rest in pairs, roaming and targeting our best prospects." Penny was supposed to be with Marci on her way to the house because they were both slow, and the plaza was emptying out quickly - a near-stampede. That was when she got an idea. There was no rule against melons being within the square itself, and she was no more than a dozen feet from the fountain. Reaching out with the Kinetic Gift, she blew wind over the vines that snaked about it, rustling their leaves and pretty purple flowers. A small melon shape! She felt it or - rather - felt her wind encounter resistance and arc around it. Trying not to dash forward too obviously, she sat on the lip, set her crutches aside, and buried her hands in the leaves. "Already sitting down on the job," mocked Benny. "Typical fucking -"
"She has a melon, you fool," hissed Anjeluun, one of the yasoi. The others immediately grouped around Penny and her hand seized upon it. It was small - quite small - and, when she pulled it out, purple! And pointed at one end! "It's a dark!" she exclaimed, voice quiet, holding it tight against her chest. A couple of interlopers were already taking an interest. Then, Marci hobbled towards her, sinking low and enfolding Penny in a hug. "It's okay, you'll do fine, Penny. Don't let their stares get you down." She flashed angry eyes back at the members of the enemy teams and a couple of them drifted off awkwardly. "Put it up your dress," she whispered quickly. "Strap it to your leg. Hurry, while we're hugging."
The Perrenchwoman's eyes widened. It was something they had discussed: hiding melons in the empty side of her skirts. With all of the fancy magics on display, it was unlikely that people would suspect such a simple deception. Even if they did, would anybody really be so uncouth and indecent as to reach out and grope the apparent 'stump' of some poor amputee girl on the off-chance that they were right? It was awkward and not altogether convincing as a normal 'embrace', but Penny got the melon in place and strapped to her upper thigh. She pretended to wipe away some tears and she stood and grabbed her crutches. Five hundred points in the bag if I can just get you safely back to Zeno Solstice's. Let's go! The others were already running off to execute the rest of their strategy. Penny did not delay in following.
@Daxam One hundred percent, my dude. To be honest, I was going to close apps again, but I know what an awesome writer you are, so the door's still open. I know that the lore in the IC is a lot, so feel free to join our discord and ask any questions or float out any ideas you might have. Genuinely looking forward to it.
O F W O L V E S A N D L A M B S
“Brother Wolfe.”
“It is Brother Lamb now, Brother Ash.”
“I had forgotten about your change in attire,” replied the sanguinaire. “My apologies.”
“Accepted, as always, Brother Ash.”
“This food must’ve cost more than a year’s schooling here,” remarked a third robed man, his vestments simple and blue. “Just think what else they could’ve done with it.”
“Don’t be so dour now, Brother Flint,” cooed a small shapely woman, laying a gentle hand upon his arm. “What is life if we do not make space for flourishing?”
“Are you certain you would not flourish more in the Vermilion Order, Sister Cadence?” asked a woman in brilliant white and gold robes.
“I am a tool of Ipte, let them use me as they will, Sister Lumen.”
“Just so, Sister, and I do not disagree with you. Life is something to be felt.”
“I don’t either,” said Brother Flint gruffly. “Just reeks of hoity-toity types. Something about these spoiled lordlets makes me wish I could smack them in their smug little faces.”
“You have most certainly placed yourself in the right situation to do that,” Brother Lamb assured him. “There are plenty here who could stand to learn proper fear of the Gods.”
“Speaking of which,” said Brother Ash, “Do you see anyone we should be worried about?”
“The stronger Tarlonese,” replied Sister Lumen immediately, “and their unnatural magics.”
“They are fools,” sneered Lamb, “who worship a false goddess.”
“There is a sangunaire among the home teams,” suggested Sister Cadence. “Quite the titillating prospect.”
“She will bear watching,” said Brother Ash quietly, as the Turquoise Hundrian sucked some of the sugar off of her fingers and the Blue Rezaindian filled his little plate. “Leave her to me if she proves a problem.”
“We worried about Verrano’s people?” grunted Flint.
“Only Gloria, really,” Lamb decided. “I will deal with her if necessary.”
“Please play nice,” reminded Sister Cadence. “She is our sister in faith, after all.”
“In a manner of speaking,” sneered Lumen. “Personally, I am more concerned with this ‘Ice King’.”
“He is a fraud,” Brother Ash assured her. “Though I will admit to being intrigued by the Hegelans.”
“They are unremarkable but for their potions,” said Lamb.
“What of the faculty themselves?” inquired Brother Ash, narrowing his eyes and taking a quick bite of his croissant. “You know their intentions were not pure in inviting us over.”
The Dread Priest went still and quiet, gazing out over the crowd and the five members of their allied team: ‘Good Guy Team.’ They were from some exotic place and quite weak in general. Of course, that mattered little to Covenant. They only needed useful idiots who might be disposable. Still, he could tell that Brothers Ash and Flint both lusted for the girl with the eyepatch: Ahrora. She was a rare beauty, to be fair, in an exotic sort of way, but also a godless wretch. She was right now stuffing her face and glancing in their direction, smiling and waving, and Lamb smiled back. Ash would bear watching. Flint, disciplining - painfully, if need be. “You bear no blame, dear brother,” Brother Lamb assured him belatedly. “It is I who they seek and it is I who shall face them if need be.”
“If Hunghorasz comes after you -”
“He will not do so in earnest.” The Lindrian smiled patiently, beatifically.
“But if he does,” Flint insisted.
“Then he shall kill me.” The others flashed concerned looks, in their own unique ways, and Cadence laid a comforting hand upon him. He clasped it, squeezed it, and let it go. “That will be as Reshta wills it, but let us remember our purpose, brothers and sisters.”
“As always, you centre us, Brother Lamb,” said Sister Lumen.
“The Volti,” spat Brother Flint.
“The book,” concluded Brother Ash.
P R E G A M E S H E N A N I G A N S
V Y S H T A ' S F A V O U R E D
“Boop!”
The kick came out of nowhere. Miret let out a yelp and started. “What the fuck, Tyrel?” She twisted round, scowling, and batted at her butt. There was a shoeprint on it. “Look what you’ve done!”
“You should be honoured, tica. You just got kicked by a goddess.”
“You ain’t a goddess. You’re nothin’ but a cousin.”
“I am Vyshta incarnate, peon! I am Talit’yrash-fucking-osmax and I just imprinted your lucky bum with my lone precious foot. You should trade those pants at the next mette’stiroi. Pure profit.”
“Talit’yrash was dignified,” Velani cut in, deadpan.
“Wh-what the fuck?” It was Tyrel’s turn to jump back. “When did you get here?”
“This is your fifth time forgetting that I know temporal.”
“One for each of the bringers!” interjected Miret cheerfully.
“There should be six,” grumbled Tyrel.
Everything around them was frozen in time, including the two constantian yasoi they had allied with and the reasonably pleasant humans accompanying them. Velani was capable enough with temporal magic now to resist the rather basic spell’s hold. Miret had been pulled from it the moment that her cousin’s boot had touched her.
“So, do we rouse the boys?” Velani asked.
The cousins glanced at one another. “Naaah,” they said in unison. There was a pause. “Look how peaceful and derpy Chad looks right now,” Tyrel observed. “Like… how beautiful is that moment in time? How dignified? How could we rob him of that?” She and Miret exchanged glances. “We should cast riggus riggus on him,” giggled the latter.
Tyrel gasped and stifled a horrified laugh.
“On his fuckin’ balls,” added Velani.
C U B E D 3
“Ya know, if I didn’t know any better,” said Janaus, “I’d think they didn’t like us.”
“They’re scared,” amended Irina quietly.
“Yeah, well they got rights ta be,” blabbed Zymachias. He’d slipped a flask through the portal in his coat and he now turned it upside down for a swig. “Fuckin’ ‘Ice King’ here just made us a massive target.”
“Shit, sorry guys,” Nojus scratched at the back of his head. “Me no know mine own strength.” He grinned after a second.
“Hardly a laughing matter,” decided Egle. “Everyone wants a piece of us and -”
“The fuckers snaked us,” Zym growled. There had been two teams pretending to vie for their alliance but, at the last second, they’d instead allied with each other, leaving the Ice King and his allies out in the cold. “At this point, we’ve got zero chance, so I say we just take ‘em down with us.”
“Did we really come here to win some goofy magic trials anyway?” Janaus reminded the others.
“I’d have liked to,” Egle grumbled. Irina nodded.
“Should we be like… fuckin’ petty?” Zym prodded, “and just ruin those two teams’ days?”
“I’m good with that,” Janaus agreed.
“Since we’re not winning, I could do with some revenge,” Egle admitted.
“I want blood,” hissed Irina.
“Y’all want me to pull out my party trick?” Nojus inquired, “Put the fear of the ‘Ice King’ into ‘em?”
Janaus and two of the other three shook their heads. “No, save it. Make ‘em feel it in The Dragon.”
The Ice King grinned.
T H E S E A P E O P L E
“By the Gods, it is disgusting!”
“There is no actual food in this ‘food’!”
“This one is so burnt, I have no idea what it was in its past life.”
“At least they have snails.”
“You can thank the yasoi for that.”
The hors d’oeuvres were not to the Sea People’s liking. “Who’d have thought the yasoi would be the civilized ones here?” wondered Akeenah aloud. As she spoke, a whole flock of the damned elves came bouncing and skipping by excitedly, stuffing their faces, giggling, and throwing food at each other.
“You were saying?” Yikikauvo replied.
“I find it wondrous how they’re all-but pathologically unable to just walk,” observed Mahoomak.
“Heh, that one literally is,” Auvam pointed out, gesturing at one of the yasoi. “One-legged woman in an asskicking contest.” She looked right at him and smiled and his face went even more ashen than usual.
“Not saving you from that one,” Kyrikeehi remarked absently, picking up her fourth bruschetta.
“H–how do you eat this shit?” Akeenah blurted.
Kyri grinned sheepishly and blushed. “I got Kauvo to turn off my taste buds.”
“Fuck, I shoulda thought of that,” Auvam grumbled. Kauvo winked.
“Just let me do the thinking, buddy,” Mahoomak assured him.
“And I’ll play the tricks,” Kauvo chimed in.
“And I’ll punch things.” It was Akeenah.
“How ‘bout Kyri?” Auvam challenged. Hearing her name, the tall, spidery girl looked up from filling her little plate once more, eyes wide and some disgusting human food dangling from her mouth.
“Why it’s simple, my simple friend! It’s dear Kyri’s job to get punched.” He patted her grandly on the shoulder and she nearly gagged. “That’s why our best girl has to eat up, stay nice and big and strong!”
Kyri shot him a look and a rude gesture.
T H E H U G G Y B E A R S
“Smells like breakfast.”
“Uh-huh?”
“No,” Dances-with-Rainbows clarified, “I actually meant that it smells like breakfast.”
“Very original,” Breakfast replied.
Rainbows blinked. “I do not understand, but thank you!” she chirped.
Then, Breakfast’s eyes widened in alarm. “AAAAAAAAAHHHH!!! Oh my fucking ancestors, his hair is on fire!” She pointed behind the other girl, who whirled on the spot.
“Holy shit! Holy shit! My hair is on fire!” wailed Gives-free-Hugs. “Put it out! Put it out!”
“Oh my gods! Someone put it out!”
“With fire oil,” murmured Punches-Kittens quietly, with a nasty little smile.
“We pray to the water god, patient and clever, rains come now and don’t take forever.
We pray to the hair god, please don’t leave him bare, god.
We pray to the witch, please leave him hair-rich.
We wish for great strength to please fill his clothes. Hugs can live without hair but he truly needs those.
The water shall come in a minute or two, and he shall be saved. We believe it is true.
Water come!” chanted Takes-the-Piss solemnly. “Water come, Splash his head and splash his bum. Hey–ah–ah-ah! Hey-ah-ah-ah!” There was not a hint of mirth in his facade as he began dancing in a circle. This was clearly a sacred ritual. Dozens of the Easterners had gathered round to watch with growing concern and rapt wonderment at the absurd routine.
“I am on FUCKING fire!!” Gives-free-Hugs screamed, running around in circles, thrashing, and throwing himself onto the ground. Of course, he wasn’t. It was all illusory magic and part of a test to see what these Constantians were like, just as the Huggy Bears’ ridiculous aliases were.
“Oh for Eshiran’s sake!” shouted Isabella, one of their allies. “It’s too slow!” Inexperienced in magic, she managed to pull a nearby bucket full of cold water with her very basic Kinetic skills. This, she dumped all over the stout little Nashi, drenching him. The flames immediately disappeared.
“Praise be to the water god, patient and clever. He has answered our call and will do so forever.
Give thanks for the bucket that has saved our friend’s hair. He shall not live all his life being bare up on there. Hey–ah–ah-ah! Hey-ah-ah-ah!”
Punches-Kittens stepped in quickly and placed her hands on Hugs’ ‘burned’ scalp. “Be healed, my child,” she exclaimed, utterly without enthusiasm. When she lifted her hands free, he was as good as new. “Thank you, guys!” He shed happy tears. “I thought I was a goner. And you!” He turned to Isabella tearfully and the Enthishwoman, whose hands were already on her wheels, instinctually took a push back. “Oh thank you thank you thank you! My saviour!” He rushed in, tripped on the footrest of her wheelchair, and got a faceful of her chest. His arms reached out and hugged her anyways. “Thank you,” he murmured, lifting his face free after a long moment.
“Ugh! Hugs, you little perv!” shouted Kittens, rushing in and pulling him away by the ear. This time, he hollered genuinely. “Sorry about…” she trailed off momentarily. “Ugh. All of them.”
Act Two: Scattered to the Winds____ __ _ _
Chapter Four: Lurking Peril_________ __ __ _ _
“Hark!” cried a voice, “hark! My prince!” The finely dressed rider pulled up short and to the side of Prince Ulf. “I apologize for my rude interruption,” he spewed breathlessly, “but it is my men in this village. They are loud, rough, and many are Drudgunzean. I did not wish for misunderstanding.” Quickly, the rider dismounted, his black leather books sinking deep into the seaside sand.
“You are Jarl…” Ulf trailed off, a thinly veiled look of distaste settling upon his young features.
“Alsfard, your highness. Jarl Bjorn of Alsfard. Those are my ships just there.” He gestured. “I was speaking with your mother about -”
“I know what you were discussing,” the prince interrupted, holding a hand up for this interloper to cease his talk. He scowled, glancing almost imperceptibly quickly in Vali’s direction. “So you vouch for them, then?”
“I do, my prince.”
“And you will compensate their victims for any damages they cause?”
“They will cause none but, if they do, I shall. On my honour.”
“Very good, Jarl Alsfard,” the youth replied, his voice cracking slightly. “I am glad we have avoided this misunderstanding.”
“As am I, and I am heartily sorry for any inconvenience caused.” He began to depart, heading towards the great longhouse, but then Ulf stopped him. “Say, Jarl Alsfard, have you heard anything about the Quentists who are supposed to be living in this town?”
There was a pause that went on just a half-moment too long. The Jarl furrowed his brow and shook his head tightly. “I’m afraid I know little of this area. My domains are far from here.” He sniffed, patting his horse to keep the beast placated. “I know precios little of their vile faith and wish to know yet less.”
“And where, pray tell, are your domains, Jarl Alsfard?” came the logical next question, but he was spared from answering by the thunder of approaching hooves. It appeared that Rigevand was a popular place for messengers this day. “My prince,” panted the rider, “there is an emergency in the city. A havetskriger is rampaging through the port and the fishermen’s market!”
It was not more than three minutes before thirty footsoldiers and three riders could be seen racing toward the city, their reflections skipping and wavering across the blue-grey waters of the Gulf of Eskand.
Kol could sense the approaching rider long before he could see her, and he knew who she was. “There is a problem in the city,” called the Skygge, coming to a stop. “The creature your king tortures under the docks has broken loose. It has killed many and thirsts for yet more blood. It blocks our access to the Gift.” She held out a hand to help pull him onto the great white mare that she sat astride. “If Arne is to be Æresvaktr then we had best gather him too. I can think of no better time for him to prove his worthiness.”
The havetskriger was a great seal-like beast, over thirty feet in length, with a thick leathery hide, layers of blubber, and a series of tusks that it had used to smash up piers and boats as surely as it had employed them against ice in the past. Now, it was aground and hauling itself awkwardly about the port district and the market with surprising speed, people fleeing before it, structures smashed or crushed in its wake.
Already, a few braver individuals had sunk arrows into the maddened creature, and these stuck out like sparse bristles in places. Yet, they seemed to do precious little to slow it and it was clear that more would be needed. With everything near to the sea emptying out, the city devolved into chaos. Robbers and brigands looted, innocents sheltered and huddled in fear, and the great katterhorns sounded an alarm.
It was many hours and yet more lives before the animal was stopped and, in this time, many who did not act in the interests of the Eskandr people were hard at work. Agents of Parrence laid their plans, gathered their resources, and prepared to strike on the morrow.
The morning dawned cool and overcast, pale rays of sunlight occasionally peering through a mourning veil of clouds. All about the city, as it awakened, the sounds of axes, hammers, and men at work could be heard. The people of Meldheim had weathered far worse and they wasted no time in clearing the wreckage. Queen Astrid herself walked among them, contributing with her Gift and her words, allaying suspicions as to the beast’s origin and anger. The Eskandr would recover.
Yet, among them slept a peril. It, too, awakened with the sun. The battered old locks that guarded the Dampende River from overflowing its banks and occupying its former delta had been sabotaged. As a rising tide piled up against them, they creaked, shuddered, and gave way. Cellar floors began filling. Rivulets of water trickled down the streets. The river filled with shadowy silhouettes, not quite human, lurking in the shadows of the muddy banks and shoreline brush.
This singular sabotage, however, was not the only danger. While the strange mossy-haired girl who had loosed the havetskriger was nowhere to be seen, dozens of other Parrench infiltrators now stalked the capital’s streets and recently-freed hostages skulked about. Gradually, carefully, with a dark, nervous, giddy sort of anticipation, they took their appointed places and made themselves unremarkable.
It was an hour past noon when each of these people, whether they had been in place for minutes or days, felt a pinch behind both of their ears. Tutors soon to commence class in the Kongesalan, rugged brigands hanging about the port, or earnest pilgrims awaiting the wisdom of the gods in the Grontempel: it did not matter. Now was the moment. The temple, the palace, whatever they could of the city - this last one without the prior knowledge of their Quentic Eskandr allies: Echeran hungered for these things, and so they were to burn. The people and property they were to steal or steal back were to be snatched. Whatever suspicions they had engendered would not now matter.
Jacques, Maud, and Svend had already departed from Rigevand with a skeleton crew on each knarr. The ships lurked, presently, just around the headland outside the capital’s sheltered harbour. Soon, it was hoped, they would be filled to bursting. The rain, it was hoped, would hold off. Meldheim, it was hoped, would serve as a warning that if Parrence was to burn, Eskand would burn with it.
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