Her mother was gone. Her father was gone. Her village burned, and she had helped burn it. She did not know where she had obtained such power, and she had been unable to control it. She could still remember the screams of all those who burned. Not just the marauders, but some had been other villagers.
In the moment, she had been gripped by fear and grief, and had not given much thought to those who burned. But now that the danger was over, she felt a sudden sense of regret. She had hurt and killed so many… some of whom were her own people. She remembered hearing Carn scream. Her own family…
She came to a stop at the edge of a creek, and fell to her knees. She would cry, but she was all out of tears. Her throat was parched after the day’s exertions. She leaned down to take a drink from the small stream…
...and just then, a small ball of water seemed to rise to meet her. She fell back with a start, and the tendril immediately collapse. She stared at the water for a few moments, then focused. Once again, another ball of water rose, then dropped. She stared at her hands. This, and the fire from before.
What was she? She thought back to the stories she and her siblings had been told.
A monster?
A druid?
A mage?
She did not know, and it frightened her. But she was still thirsty. She looked to the river, and focused once more. Yet another small orb of water rose, and with a wave of her hand, she was able to bring it up from her lips to drink from it. It was cool and refreshing. She desperately needed it, after everything she had been through. She drank the entire orb, until nothing remained.
Whatever she was, she was powerful.
She thought back to the destruction of her village, and began to perceive things in a different light. Although she was young, and knew little of the world, she was still fully aware of some key aspects of life. Such as the fact that the strong and the beautiful held authority over the weak and the frail. She was already beautiful, and with this power, she was strong.
She had avenged her father, seeing nearly all of his killers die in excruciating agony, and they deserved it. Her heart swelled with pride when she thought of how she made them all pay. Some of her own people had died, but she had barely known any of them, so why had their deaths made her so sad in the first place? Her village had been destroyed, but ultimately a village was just a bunch of smelly old huts surrounded by a wall. It was such a boring place, really, and its destruction meant she was no longer cooped up.
Then there was her family… and once more a wave of grief and regret washed over her. She had failed to save her mother or her father. She had hurt Carn. She did not know where Evette or Brundt were. She had ran, and now she might never see them again. She was alone.
Alone, and without a family or home.
That meant she had to be strong. She was nearly ten years old, anyway. Too old to cry. She had never cried before. She had seen Brundt and Evette run to mother, or father, or even Carn while in distress, and they needed to be consoled in order to calm down. But Alys had never done that, for she had never needed it. In hindsight she suddenly realized that was something she should have been proud of. So why should she start crying now, just because her family was gone? It was time for her to grow up.
She used her powers to draw more water from the stream, and drank once again, as she thought of what the future had in store. She did not know. But… since she no longer had to answer to her parents or older siblings, didn’t that mean she was free to decide for herself? Yes… she knew what she wanted to do. She would wander. She would master her power. She would see the world. She would make it her own. And anyone who tried to hurt her would burn.
Alys smiled widely, as the thoughts made her feel giddy. She was finally making her own decisions! She laid down on the riverbank, and looked up at the stars. She would sleep here. In the morning, she would find food. Then she would begin travelling again, to somewhere new. To somewhere better.
And with those thoughts in mind, the young witch eventually drifted off to sleep.
Alys has been on the run. Night falls, and she stops at a river for drinks. She reflects on what happened to her village. She grieves for her family, regrets her role in its discussion, and wonders just what the hell is going on with her and her weird powers.
Then she tries to look at it in another light, and begins to think that she was overreacting to this whole “my parents are dead, my village is destroyed, and I’m lost in the woods with nowhere to go” thing. She begins to look at the bright side of things and realizes she’s free to basically do whatever she wants.
She screamed in agony. She did not know where she was. It was dark. There was cold stone beneath her, and her wrists were bound tightly together by a rope. There was a slight sting in one of her arms, but it paled in comparison to the agony that engulfed her shin and foot. Tears flowed freely. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t speak.
The dark figure - no doubt the one responsible for this - retreated toward the cave’s opening and stepped outside.
The helpless girl lay where she was, continuing to sob. Last she had remembered, she had been wandering the woods for days, helplessly lost. She had fallen asleep, and then suddenly she was here.
Time passed. The initial pain had faded, but it was still excruciating - especially whenever she tried to move.
“I’ll tear that bastard apart…” the hoarse voice of a woman spoke from the shadows, filled with loathing and hatred.
“He might hear you…” whispered an older-sounding man.
“I don’t care…” the woman muttered darkly, before she began to yell at the cave’s opening. “Do you hear me, you animal!? I’ll rip you apARGH!” Her threat turned into a yowl of pain.
The old man sighed. “I told you not to move too much. Your legs haven’t healed.”
“And... they never… will…” the woman said between gasps. “But if its… the last thing… I do… I’ll see that… thing… dead…”
Slowly, Evette inched herself closer to the cave wall, a stab of pain flowing through her each time. The tears continued to flow, and all she wanted was for someone to make them better. ‘When times are hard, look to the gods,’ her father had once told her. ‘If they do not answer, then the problem is one you can solve on your own.’
So, she closed her eyes, and thought of the gods. Cadien, Evandra, Oraelia, Neiya, Tekret. “Someone help me…” she whispered desperately.
The old man spoke up. “Girl, I know you’re scared, but… just stay strong, alright? We’ll figure a way out of this. Don’t worry.”
Evette’s eyes had adjusted now, and she could just make them out on the other side of the cave. They had been tied to each other, back to back. The old man had grey hair and worn, dusty robes. The woman couldn’t be much younger than twenty, with dark hair and a hateful expression. Evette looked to their legs, and saw that both pairs had been broken. “How… how long have you been here?” she whispered, fear seeping in.
“A few… days…” the woman whispered. “Four?”
“Five,” the old man corrected grimly. “He sometimes remembers to bring us food and water. Don’t worry. Our people will know we’re gone by now. They’ll be looking for us.”
That gave Evette some semblance of hope. Her own people might be gone, but there were others… they could never replace her family, but perhaps… she might find a new home. Between her grief, the pain, and their predicament, it wasn’t much comfort… but it was desperately needed. “Oh-okay,” she whispered shakily, as she tried to get her breathing back under control. “Who are you?”
“I’m Erik,” the old man said. “And this is Cora.”
Time passed, and eventually the shadowy figure returned. Evette could see him more clearly, now. He had pale skin and golden hair, with a long hooded cloak. Cora hurled obscenities at him, until he walked over, knelt next to her, and knocked her out with a single punch.Then, he bent his head down, sank his teeth into the woman’s shoulder, and drank.
Evette turned her head, feeling a sudden need to wretch. Is that what he had done to her? The thought of being kept here and slowly drained of blood forever terrified her. She shrunk back even harder against the wall, attempting to melt into the stone, as she hoped the monster wouldn’t notice her… only to wind up letting out a pain gasp as she once more moved her leg by accident.
Then the young man finished drinking. He moved closer to the entrance, but instead of going outside, he put his hood up and sat against a nearby wall. The sun began to creep up soon after, but the monster remained as still as a statue, for both the cave and his hood sheltered him from it.
Please help me… she resumed her desperate prayer, imagining every god she could remember.
For the briefest moment, a gentle warmth washed over her. One of warmth and life, before it left her, leaving her in the dark. The sun rose further, never straying far into the cave as it welcomed the world. From outside, something flashed in the distance and in the blink of an eye a lance of golden light struck the vampire, and shattered the cave wall from the sheer impact with a resounding boom. There was a scream from the vampire, before it burst into a flame so bright it turned to ash. The lance blinked out soon after.
Evette flinched, turning her gaze away from the sudden flash of light. Once it faded, she looked back to see that nothing but dust remained of her captor.
“By the Five…” Erik whispered. He cleared his throat. “Who is out there!?” he not-quite-shouted, for his throat was dry and he had not raised his voice beyond a whisper in nearly a week. “We need help!”
There was no reply. No sound but the wind and the birds somewhere under the blue. For a time. Coming into view in the near distance of the cave, was a strange figure. As if the sunlight could walk on the earth, it came towards them, growing taller as it neared before at last it stood before the cave, only it’s feet and lower torso in view. Slowly and surely it fell bent down to view them with two burning orbs of light.
The same warm presence Evette had felt, returned to her in that moment. The giant of rippling light illuminated all in the cave before a gentle breeze fell over them, healing the physical wounds that ailed them. The pain in Evette’s leg suddenly ceased, as the bones shifted back into place and mended. The old man let out an audible sigh of relief. Next it lifted a hand towards them, and smaller lances of light struck the binds that held them prisoner. The giant then began to stand up again.
Evette somehow managed to find her feet. “Wait!” she said, leaping to her feet, only to stumble and fall forward. She began crawling to the opening. “Wait!” Behind her, the old man rose to his feet, and leaned against the wall for balance. Cora, still unconscious, fell over, and then let out a groan as she began to awaken. The giant’s legs paused at the cave entrance.
Evette continued crawling, past the pile of ashes, and then pushed herself to her feet. She took a few shakey steps forward. “Get back!” the old man shouted to her, no doubt realizing that whatever stood outside wasn’t human, even if it was their saviour, but Evette did not listen. “Who are you?” she asked the strange glowing creature.
The giant figure looked down upon the girl with its unwavering eyes. The weight of its presence could be felt in the air as it pointed up at the sun without moving its gaze.
Evette took a nervous step back. “The… the sun?” she asked.
The giant tilted its head, before taking a knee before Evette. It lifted out it’s hand to her and between it’s thumb and index finger a large bright orange flower came to be. It then offered her the flower.
She stared at the flower, but did not move to take it. “Are you… a god?” she asked.
No response. Evette took a step forward, and slowly reached out to take the flower.
When her hand graced the petals a voice rumbled into her head, deep and resonating the raw power of the sun.
"Solus."
He then let her have the flower before standing again and briefly pointing to himself before letting his hand fall.
His voice was loud and grating, forcing Evette to wince and cover her ears. She took another step back.
Solus looked down at her, his face emotionless by his lack of features. His eyes seemed to waver, betraying his stoic stature however. The giant knelt back down and held out his hand, palm up. "Mortal ears... Unfit to listen." He began, his voice slightly less grating than it had been. "Vampire must be destroyed." Images flashed in her mind of the carnage and destruction that vampires left behind in their wake. From villages burned to families torn apart, used as cattle to be fed on until bled dry. She began to shake slightly, as she recalled the massacre of her own village, by the hands of men far less monstrous than this. He painted a grim picture in the young girl's head before his voice returned like a light in the dark.
"Take from hand… Sword."
Upon his palm, laying sideways, was a sheathed blade that had not been there before. He brought it closer to her, showing her he meant no harm.
Evette blinked. Once more she found herself crying. Suddenly the world seemed so much bigger, and all the suffering she had witnessed seemed like nothing compared to what happened elsewhere.
Vampires must be destroyed.
She thought of the beast who captured her, who broke her leg and left her in a cave to suffer while he fed on her. Her, the woman, and the old man. Were they the first? How many others had he done this to? How many more would he have done this to if Solus had not stopped him? And there were more out there like him, who still lived…
She wiped the tears from her eyes. The images she had witnessed still haunted her, but when she looked past the horror and the tragedy she saw people in need. People like her. Solus had helped her, but who would help them?
And in that moment, she reached out, and gripped the weapon by the hilt. Her world exploded into a color of light, like a vortex swirling all around her in a myriad of shapes and lines. She felt herself lifted up into the vortex, weightless as a bird wrapped in a healing warmth. She came face to face with Solus, or at least his eyes. His voice was ever prevalent amidst the light.
"Become Sunlight… Perfected."
The giant then reached out his hand and touched her on the forehead and then her world went white.
Evette awoke to see the two strangers from before standing over her. They immediately stepped back when they noticed her eyes had opened. She was lying on something soft, and feathery - more comfortable than any bed she had ever slept on. She turned her head ever so slightly, and realized the ground around her was covered in white feathers. No… not just feathers… wings. Wings that she could feel, as if they were an extra pair of limbs.
She had wings.
She jolted upward, and immediately began running her hands along the strange new appendages. “Wh-what happened?” she found herself asking.
To her surprise, Erik and Cora knelt before her, and cast their eyes downward. “Champion of the Sun,” Erik said, his once weak voice given newfound resolve by reverence. “I do not know what happened, but anyone can see that you have been chosen by the Goddess Oraelia.” The sword that Solus had offered her rested in the grass nearby.
Evette lifted the sword. It felt warm, and heavy. Nothing like the weapon her father or his guards had wielded. It was almost as long as she was tall, and she wondered just how she was supposed to use it. Perhaps she shouldn’t have taken it. “I… I’m too young…” she whispered. “I don’t know what to do.”
She looked to the sky, and was surprised to see a strange ring of golden light floating above her head. What else had been done to her?
The old man looked up at her, and seemed surprised, as if only now just remembering that she was still just a mere child. But it was Cora who spoke next. “You will not be young forever,” she said simply. “You will grow, and you will learn. I don’t know why you were given these gifts, but the gods must have given them to you for a reason. One day, you will find that reason out.” She rose to her feet. “In the meantime, we will keep you safe.”
A few days after escaping the village, Evette went to sleep in the forest, only to be discovered by a vampire. The vampire captured her, and took her to a cave where he tied her up alongside two other strangers.
She wakes up to her ankle being broken, so she can’t run away. The vampire leaves, and Evette listens to the two strangers talk. The resigned old man is named Erik while the angry young woman is named Cora.
Anyway, eventually the vampire comes back. He then proceeds to feed off of Cora. A bit rude. Then the sun comes up so he winds up staying in the cave.
As he is waiting for day to come back, Solus shows up and murders the vampire. Evette tries to talk to him, but his voice isn’t meant for mortal ears, so instead he shows her images of even more vampires going on killing sprees. Which is exactly what a recently-traumatized child needs to see. Anyway, he then offers her the Sword of +5 Gibbou-Slaying. As soon as she touches it, everything goes white.
She then wakes up to find that Solus is gone, and in addition to the sword, she has also been granted wings and a halo. Erik and Cora bow to her, thinking she is Oraelia’s champion, only to realize that she has no idea what to do because she’s still just a kid. So they decide to take her in.
Oraelia: 2MP/5DP
Nightsbane. (-3DP (+2 Free titles) = Sunfury V. This sword is a dangerous weapon, capable of cutting through most objects, people, and other items (besides artifacts) with ease. It is most effective on creatures that are more susceptible to sunlight (Trolls, vampires), but can sadly be used just as well as any other sword that inflicts pain. The sheath that houses this sword cannot be damaged by it.
-1MP to bless Evette with angelic like wings. These wings will grow as she does to accommodate her size. They are white in color with streaks of gold and allow for flight.
-1MP (Reduced to 0 with Sunlight Port) to bless Evette with a halo of golden light and to turn her eyes golden with speckles of orange.
The walls of Ketrefa were like nothing Brundt had ever seen before.
The wooden palisade around Thyma had been maybe ten feet high at most. But the walls of Ketrefa were easily six times that, and made of solid stone. Brundt could not imagine any force on this world that might break them, and it made him wonder why his village thought some oak logs would protect them from people who lived in a place such as this.
It couldn’t even protect them from other tribes…
The boy cast his eyes downward, as he once more thought of all that happened. His home, destroyed. Some druids left him at another village, only for him to be taken from there as well. He would have tried to run, or perhaps make another attempt at fighting, yet before they took him… Cadien had spoken inside his mind. Cadien, his father’s god.
The God of Perfection had told him to be calm, that the warriors of Ketrefa would take him elsewhere, and that he must go with their leader. He was told that he had to be strong, and that he must learn all he could. For his trials were not over, but his siblings still lived.
It was a lot for an eight year-old boy to take in, and he had spent most of the trip walking in morose silence, glancing briefly at the leader - Milos - or the warrior, Gelo, who was always behind him to ensure he would not try to run. He had been told he would be safe if he did not resist, but it was hard to feel safe while constantly being watched by strangers.
Now they had arrived. As they approached the gates, the standard-bearer held Ketrefa’s banner high, and the great doors swung open…
Milos knelt before his king, hoping that none noticed the small bead of sweat which slowly oozed down his temple. Gelo and Brundt knelt behind him as well, the boy having been confused about the process, until Gelo simply placed a hand on the child’s shoulder and firmly pushed him down.
“Your majesty,” Milos began. In the absence of a Lord-Captain, commanders were to report directly to the King. “I have returned from an expedition in the east. I regret to inform you that we failed to acquire any plunder.”
Some seemed pleasantly surprised by this. No doubt while he was away and his father was dead, some had been conspiring for ways to claim the rank of Lord-Captain for themselves. The fact that he had failed to obtain a single crop or slave on a raiding expedition would only make whatever they planned far more easy.
But Milos held his tongue, and awaited the King’s judgement.
From atop the looming gilded throne, beside which tall magical fires cast their glow across the court, the corpulent mass of the king leaned forwards. Amurat III, King of Ketrefa and rightful Sovereign of all Humanity, loosed an open scowl as he spoke, jowls waggling, “You tell me you’ve failed, and yet I see a slave brought here. Before me. Tell me, Milos Karras, why you throw filth upon my floor and lie to me about its presence?”
“I speak the truth, your majesty,” Milos said, keeping his tone neutral, even as he felt a sense of outrage at the King’s accusation. “This boy is no slave.” He then took a deep-breath, steeling himself for whatever might happen next. “I am adopting him into House Karras.”
A violent silence gripped the room as the eyes of the entire royal court fell upon the disfigured boy. Nobles felt their attention shift between the foreign child, and the king, as they braced themselves for what could only be a legendary anger from their ruler. After all, Amurat was not a man known for his joy. Not for fifteen years, anyway.
It was to their surprise, then, that the grotesque mass of flesh that had once been a handsome young king began to laugh in that wheezing manner which could only be imitated by those upon whose lungs rest the weight of a number of men, “You’re doing what? Adopting that, that damaged barbarian? Hah!”
The court held their breath as the king laughed until tears began to run off the folds of his face. Eventually, long after the man had exhausted his breath and then some, he eyed Milos more seriously and inhaled, “It’s an amusing joke, but not one a Lord-Captain should make. Maybe you’d be better suited as my fool, and that boy as your idiot assistant. You’re lucky your father never failed me, Karras. If he’d not been as capable as he was I’d have you exiled for this offense.”
With great effort Amurat gripped the armrests of his throne and heaved himself upright. The room shook slightly as his bulk impacted the ground, and he pointed at the scarred boy, “I’ll let you keep that thing as a favour to your house. If they see it that way. Your title though? It is forfeit. You aren’t fit to lead this city's armies, you aren’t even fit to lead raids. Keep your lands, but surrender your sword. That is the price of failure.”
Milos bore the King’s mockery in cold silence, his teeth grinding in rage, but he had not been allowed to reveal the true reason he adopted the boy, and so he was forced to hold his tongue. But that final insult? That was too much. In a flash, Milos rose to his feet and drew his sword…
...then dropped it to the ground. The blade clattered across the stone floor.
“Very well,” the young noble spoke through grit teeth. “There is my sword.”
The King grunted and waved Milos off, showing as little regard for the man as he might for his slaves. There was a susurration, but none spoke. One man, near the back of the room, stepped out while attentions were diverted, but beyond that? The only movement was an enterprising guard gathering Milo’s sword and stowing it at his side like a souvenir.
Milos turned and walked out, ignoring the dozens of eyes on his back. Gelo had turned as pale as a ghost, but regained his wits and followed, ushering Brundt along. The trio approached the large double doors they had first entered through, and instead of waiting for the servants to do so, Milos pushed them open himself. Then the three disappeared from the court, which was now eager to turn to other matters.
As they turned into the hallway a man in polished, if aged, bronze mail stopped them. The Captain of the Gates, Trehe Manzprius, was as recognizable by his armour as his face. A face that was still young, even if its bearer was in the grips of middle age. The Captain’s blue eyes appraised Milos and Brundt carefully before speaking, “I’m sorry, Milos. It was a greater punishment than you deserved. I don’t understand why you’d risk all this for that boy, but I do grasp the sentiment. Your father was a good man, and I owed him before he died. If you need anything... Well. You understand.”
Milos’s pride initially compelled him to object to such an offer, but he had enough sense to avoid doing so. The reality was, he had lost almost everything. He had his lands, but he had been forbidden from leading raids. He would never hold a military position and again, and all his friends or allies would soon desert him. “I will keep that in mind,” he said softly. “Good day, Captain.”
And with those words, the newly-disgraced nobleman carried on toward the exit.
Brundt arrives in Ketrefa and is like: “shit that’s a big wall.” Anyway it turns out that yes, Cadien did speak to him and tell him to go with Milos, which is why he didn’t fight back or try to escape during the trip.
Anyhow, Milos reports that his raid was a failure, which pisses the King off. Milos then declares his intention to adopt Brundt into his household, which the King actually has a giggle at. The King then proceeds to tell Milos that he has basically killed his chances at becoming Lord-Captain, and is also forbidden from leading any more raids.
Having just had all his hopes and dreams crushed, Milos leaves the room. Then the Captain-of-the-Gates pulls him aside and is basically like: “yeah what you just did was dumb but you’re a good guy so let me know if you need anything.”
Brundt Beginning: 14 +4 for 7500+ character post. Ending: 18
Name: Anton Jager. Primarch of the Griffin Guard and High King of Sorus.
Gender: Male
Sorus. A feudal world with a single continent. The bulk of the continent was wild and alien, with dense jungles, poisonous flora, monstrous fauna, and roving bands of orks… all of which were made even more severe due to the planet’s close proximity to the Eye of Terror. Had the entire planet been like this, Sorus surely would have been classified as a Death World.
The western portion of the continent, however, was far more secure and manageable. Before the Age of Strife, Sorus’s settlers had been able to tame this land and bring it under control, exterminating the most dangerous wildlife while introducing far more beneficial, less hazardous species. Separating these two contrasting areas was a vast mountain range, its mountain passes fortified and heavily garrisoned against the threats to the east. The inhabitants of this western portion were spared from the worst of the Warp’s corruption, as the deadly beasts on the rest of the planet were also siphoning and absorbing the bulk of the chaos energies.
Before Anton’s arrival, this western land was dominated by three kingdoms - Talendria, Daralt, and Gara - who had been at each other’s throats, frequently engaging in border skirmishes over territory. From time to time, orks would attempt to send raiding parties over the fortified mountain passes, but these rarely succeeded. Seafaring exploration was rendered all but impossible, due to the several large and hostile beasts which dwelled in the planet’s oceans.
The dominant religion on the planet was the Church of the Four. “The Four” were in fact the Chaos Gods, worshipped under different names and in more benevolent guises, though obviously Anton and the rest of the planet are unaware of this.
Technology was mostly at the gunpowder era, though each kingdom did have at least one old spacefaring vessel and a small arsenal of high tech weaponry at their disposal - most of it no longer functioning.
Between the arrival of Anton and later the Emperor, all this would change. The three kingdoms have long since been unified under one banner, and a fourth nation - the island Republic of Naris - had been rediscovered and brought into the fold. The inhabitants now see themselves as Sorusian before Talendrian, Garan, Daraltian, or Narisian. The Imperium’s advanced technology had been introduced to the world, greatly improving its economy, industry, and quality of life.
The worship of the Four was banned. Although many were outraged, some had been swayed by the Imperial Truth’s logic, while others were simply relieved to no longer have to pay church tithes or “mandatory donations.” Worship of the Four still persists to this day within underground cult movements, but the majority of the planet seems to have moved on.
Anton is eleven and a half feet tall, with short blond hair and bright green eyes. He has a light skin tone and a rugged face, with a scar above his right eye and another along his left cheek, and some short stubble in the way of facial hair. Like all primarchs, he possesses superhuman strength and agility, although he tends to favour the latter over the former.
The armour he wears is a dark green - almost black - with a silver trim. His legion’s personal emblem - a beheaded black serpent over a white background - is painted on each pauldron. He carries a vicious straight power sword with a black blade, a single bolt pistol, and an advanced high-tech sniper rifle that is similar in design to the Exitus Rifle (which doesn’t exist yet.)
Steadfast. Stoic. Dutiful. Grim. These are but a few words that might be used to describe the Primarch of the 11th Legion. Those who know him more closely, however, are aware of a different side: to those he knows most closely, such as his direct subordinates and certain fellow primarchs, Anton can be friendly, cheerful, and affable. He cares deeply for the lives of his friends and the men under his command, becoming enraged at betrayals or needless sacrifices. His temper, in the rare instances it has been roused, can be a terrifying thing, as he will dedicate all of his considerable talents to seeing his enemy broken and ruined.
He also has a deep interest in the history and culture of the planets he comes across, and will sometimes order his men to salvage particularly fetching works of art, which are then sent back to either Terra or Sorus as gifts, or to his flagship to serve as decorations. Aside from the standard goal of restoring order to the galaxy, this is ultimately what keeps Anton going: the companionship he feels with his legion or fellow primarchs, the thrill of exploring new worlds, and the rush of battle.
Although he generally tries to avoid needless sacrifices of human life, he understands that death is an inevitable part of war, and sometimes thousands must die in order to save millions. If it comes down to it, he will harden his heart and do what needs to be done for the greater good.That said, he does genuinely enjoy fighting certain alien beasts, as well as particularly malicious intelligent species such as Orks.
Anton believes in the Imperial Truth, though he is not its most fanatical or devout believer. The reason for this is because he believes that zealous support of the Imperial Truth isn’t any better than blind faith in any other religion.
When it comes to the Edict of Tolerance, Anton is not inherently opposed to it, but he only invokes it on species that were incapable of space travel and have not previously encountered the Imperium. His reasoning for this is that the advanced species are less likely to become loyal citizens, as the Imperium has less to offer them and they may already be suspicious toward it due to the several genocides it has already been involved in. In his eyes, the vast majority of seemingly-compliant advanced xenos worlds will inevitably rebel at some point or another. For less advanced species, Anton is willing to offer more leeway, because the Imperium has more to offer them and can easily defeat them if they turn rebel.
Lastly, it should also be noted that Anton is wary toward psykers. He does not view them as inherently flawed or dangerous, and understands that they can be both safely and effectively used, but in his own experience, the psykers on his homeworld have been a consistent danger. His planet’s close proximity to the Eye of Terror made psykers especially vulnerable to corruption. Due to this, almost all the psykers in his legion hail from other worlds, but the ones who do hail from Sorus are especially potent.
Anton excels at ranged combat. Compared to most of his fellow primarchs, his accuracy and vision are unmatched, capable of landing shots with pinpoint accuracy from seemingly impossible ranges. This is his preferred method of combat, but he is just often seen fighting in the thick of it with his blade, which he is almost as skilled with.
His arsenal consists of the Eagle Sword; a sword coated in a strange sort of living metal, from the shell of a beast he slew on the planet Medusa. Its crossguard is in the shape of gilded eagle wings. Other than that he has a pair of bolter pistols, and a high-tech long-ranged sniper rifle of his own design (it more or less looks and functions almost exactly like the Exitus Rifle.)
From a command standpoint, Anton’s exceptional perception has granted him a masterful eye for tactics. He is extremely adept at sizing up enemy formations and working out where best to strike. Never one to charge recklessly, he knows that the way to win wars is to minimize the losses on his own side while maximizing the losses on the enemy’s side.
Off the battlefield, Anton possesses other skills. Although not a master diplomat, he is a reasonable and level-headed man, well-versed in the powers of persuasion, with a tendency to try diplomacy when hotter heads might recklessly attack. He is also a skilled gunsmith, designing custom-made weapons for himself and his legion. In fact, the rifle he uses is one of his own design.
Iota. Anton possesses some psychic abilities, but they are entirely passive. His first ability allows him to look at a creature and instinctively become aware of its weaknesses. His second ability allows him to detect when creatures of the Warp gather in sufficient concentrations. Lastly, Anton can also see the Eye of Terror no matter where he is, provided nothing is obstructing his vision.
Anton arrived in the feudal world of Sorus, landing in the countryside of Talendria. The nearby village, in awe at this mysterious child which fell from the sky, decided to take him in. He was put in the care of a local rancher, who named him Anton.
Eventually, word of this strange child from the stars spread. A group of priests arrived the next day, claiming to have foreseen the boy’s arrival, and wished to take him in. The locals, however, refused to give him up. A group of scientists, who had come to investigate the fall of his capsules, visited him a few days later. They took his ruined capsule to study, and they too wished to take the boy as well, but were once again refused.
Then, finally, one month after his discovery, a company of soldiers arrived directly from the capital, with orders personally written and signed by Talendria’s King. The boy would go with them, and this time the villagers could not refuse. He was taken to Talendria’s court, where the royal family took this strange miraculous child as a ward. Despite this he did not take on the name of the royal family, and instead retained the family name of the rancher who first took him in.
Like the rest of the Primarchs, he grew at a rapid pace, reaching the size of a fully grown human within three years. He excelled at everything he was taught and always craved more. However, as he studied within the safety of the Palace’s walls, debates soon sparked in the outside world as to his significance.
The local clergy claimed he was a gift from the Four, and cited his miraculous growth and superhuman feats as proof. They claimed he was destined to unite the Sorusian people and lead them to greatness.
The local science communities, however, took a far more rational approach. They claimed his existence was not divine in nature, and that he instead hailed from a planet of humans that was more technologically and biologically advanced than their own. They pointed to his high-tech capsule as evidence, and expressed a concern that whoever sent or lost him might one day come to claim him.
The young Anton was sheltered from these debates at first, but it was not long before he was eventually made aware of both sides of the story, and it left him deeply conflicted. If he was sent by some divine force, then it was his duty to guide and direct these people as much as possible. And yet, his homeworld’s religion had left a bad taste in his mouth, because he couldn’t help but find a number of small logical inconsistencies, or make note of the self-serving undertones, which made him question the validity of the religion’s doctrine as a whole. He became agnostic, though he kept these thoughts to himself.
Meanwhile, if the other theory was true, then wouldn’t his duty instead be to find a way to return home? To reunite with his true family, or whoever had sent him here in the first place?
Yet there could also be a middle option. He was not sent here by any divine power, but he was sent to serve these people nonetheless. It was this internal compromise that Anton eventually made peace with. Stating these beliefs publicly did little to quiet the debates: the Church had taken this as a sign of humility, while the more rationally-inclined individuals saw this as confirmation of their own beliefs. Anton decided to carry on with his own beliefs despite this, but the question remained: in what manner was he to serve the people?
The answer to that was obvious. He had always been especially gifted in the art of war. Even as a boy, no man on the planet could match him with a sword or pistol, and his understanding of the academic side of warfare was on par with most generals. Only his size and age had prevented him from entering military service. But now he was taller, stronger, and smarter than any other man. None could deny that he was ready.
The King was more than happy to grant him an officer’s commission in the Royal Grenadiers, the royal family’s personal guard and Talendria’s most prestigious infantry regiment. He quickly worked his way up through the ranks, because with the King’s patronage and his natural talent, the only obstacle that stood his way was the availability of commissions. He reached the rank of Major and could rise no higher, for all the Lieutenant-colonel posts were currently occupied, and he was not going to offend the man who was both his royal patron and adoptive father by transferring to a less prestigious regiment.
Meanwhile, Anton had also come to realize just how broken Talendria’s military system was. In times of peace, commissions could only be acquired through purchase, and only in war could they be granted on merit. Even then, money and connections often prevailed over skill or experience. Additionally, there was no formal military training or education system. This meant promotion was determined not by qualifications, but by who had the most wealth or influence. It was a sobering revelation, because he quickly realized that without the support of the King, he might never have become an officer at all.
He raised these issues in person to the King, and although the King agreed with most of his points, he nonetheless refused to reform the army, citing political and economic concerns. Anton was not appeased by this. Meanwhile, it soon turned out that a Major in the Grenadiers on “active duty” had very little to do during peacetime, beyond shuffling papers behind a desk or standing as a glorified bodyguard.
Naturally, that was not enough for Anton, so in every moment he could spare he sought out other ways to occupy himself. He spoke with men from other branches of the military: cavalrymen, marines, naval officers, engineers, and artillerymen. He then sought out people from outside the military, but were just as vital to its maintenance: gunsmiths, blacksmiths, stablemasters. Such men were considered beneath the notice of a highborn aristocratic officer, but by seeking them out, Anton expanded his mind in ways that his formal education and training hadn’t. Especially with the latter groups, for in learning how exactly muskets were designed and crafted, he soon wondered how to improve the weapon’s design.
The musket was a notoriously inaccurate weapon. Battles often came down to who had more men or could fire more quickly, because if enough shots were fired, some would inevitably find their mark. There was a weapon that was more accurate, however: the rifle. Unfortunately, most rifle designs were unsuited for large scale warfare.
Anton resolved to fix this, and with his natural intellect he eventually came up with a new design. One that was lighter, more accurate, and easier to maintain than any other rifle design at the time. He then considered how such a weapon would be used in battle, and concluded it would be better utilized in the hands of dedicated skirmishers and marksmen in support of the main body of the army, which would still be armed with muskets. He then wrote an in-depth book on light infantry tactics which would serve as the basis for such a force’s doctrine.
Anton proposed this idea directly to the King, who eventually came around to the idea. Not only did he agree to adopt the design, but he also decided to fund a new regiment… with Anton as its Colonel. And thus, the Royal Rifle Regiment was founded. Its men were handpicked from the ranks of the rest of the army, based on their ability to shoot accurately and think independently, and each officer who wished to join was scrutinized heavily by Anton himself.
Although many were doubtful of the regiment’s necessity, especially since the King had to raise taxes in order to create it, it would soon get a chance to prove itself three years later.
The Orks on the eastern half of the island were a series of divided warbands, constantly fighting with one another, whilst occasionally attempting to break through the fortified mountain passes of Gara and Daralt. All of these attempts had been beaten back by superior fortifications and weaponry of the human defenders. So long as the Orks remained disunified, they would never break through. And it was believed that the Orks, barbaric savages that they were, were never capable of such cooperation.
Which is why it came as a massive surprise when the Orks did unify, under the leadership of the Ork Warlord known as Groshab, and led a massive WAAAGH! through the northern mountain pass. Although they took heavy casualties, they were able to overrun the defenders through sheer numbers, before spilling into the countryside of Gara. The Garan army attempted to repulse them, but was slaughtered.
When news of this defeat reached Talendria, the King immediately mobilized his forces. If Gara fell, Talendria would be next, and they had no fortified mountains or natural defenses to keep out invaders. The Orcish incursion needed to be dealt with quickly, on the field of battle. And so the King personally led his army northeast, into Gara itself.
When the time came to meet the WAAAGH! in battle, the King chose a very conventional means to fight the enemy. The artillery was placed upon a hill, with the infantry lined up in front, and the cavalry would circle around to strike the Orks in the flank. Anton and his riflemen were to be deployed ahead of the enemy, with orders to pick off as many warbosses as possible before retreating to the safety of the infantry formations.
Warlord Groshab, seeing the humans arrayed in such a manner, did not bother with intricate tactics. Believing sheer numbers would be enough to break through the thin Talendrian line, he ordered a frontal charge.
It was Anton himself who fired the first shot of the battle.
It was not the custom for an officer to carry a longarm such a musket or a rifle, but Anton did; a decision which was regarded as more than a little eccentric. He scanned the approaching horde, and with his incredible sight, he was able to identify the leader of the WAAAGH!: Groshab himself. Shouldering his rifle, he took aim and fired, shooting the Warlord through the eye, at a range which have been considered almost impossible even by riflemen standards.
As their leader fell, the Orkish horde paused. Never before had they seen one of their own fall to a human firearm at such a range. Their own leader, no less. The pause lasted only for a moment, and then another Warboss stepped up to take Groshab’s place.
Anton shot him as well, with a second rifle passed to him by one of his own men, who was now reloading the first rifle. Anton traded the second rifle for a third, and then killed another Ork leader. The horde soon fell into chaos, as warbosses began fighting each other on the field over who would get to take command. One warboss would kill another, only for Anton to kill him, and then his underlings would begin feuding amongst themselves for command of that one individual warband. It is said that Groshab survived the first shot, and eventually tried to stand up to retake command, only for Anton to shoot him through the other eye.
Then artillery shells began to rain down upon the Orks, killing hundreds. Finally, they came to their senses, and instead of fighting over who would hold the title of warlord, the individual warbosses all ordered their warbands to attack at once.
When the Orks approached, the rest of the Riflemen did as they were ordered, firing well-aimed shots at those who seemed to be in charge. Then they fell back, fleeing for safety behind the infantry. Anton himself joined the battle line, and as the Orks came approached point-blank range, the Talendrian army unleashed a thunderous volley.
The surviving Orks came running out of the smoke, and a desperate melee ensued. They were just about to break through a section of the line when Anton led his riflemen back into the fray, joining the melee with fixed bayonets. It was said that Anton personally slew half a hundred Orks during the fighting. Then the cavalry struck the Ork horde in the flank, which is what finally broke them.
The Talendrians emerged victorious, but at great cost: they had lost a third of their army. The Orkish army, its leadership removed, scattered into roving bands in the countryside. While men were deployed ahead to recapture, repair, and refortify Gara’s mountain fortress, the rest of the army remained in Gara to deal with the Orks who had escaped the battle. Once more, Anton and his riflemen proved their usefulness, using their skills at hunting and skirmishing to track down and destroy the savage warbands. Anton himself became something of a folk hero to the Garan people, with tales of him singlehandedly defending entire villages.
But even after the Garan countryside had almost been swept free of Orks several years later, the Talendrian army remained, and it soon became apparent that they had no desire to let the country retain its independence. This might have sparked rebellion, but after nearly being annihilated by the Orks, the people were weary from war and feared what would happen if the Talendrian soldiers within their borders suddenly withdrew.
Additionally, the King of Talendria had appointed Anton as the Military Governor of Gara, tasking him with rebuilding the region and hunting down the remaining Orks. It was due to this reason that, when Daralt declared war on Talendria a year later - ostensibly to liberate Gara and put Talendria’s influence in check - Anton did not accompany the rest of the army south, and instead turned his attention to administering the lands.
He soon proved to be an effective administrator as well as a soldier, rebuilding roads and infrastructure, and finding ways to pay for it despite the increasing war taxes. He toured the region and personally inspected the areas most heavily affected by the war, while taking the time to cozy up to prominent nobles. Tales of his mysterious backstory had spread to Gara as well, and the local church quickly adopted the narrative that he was a gift from the Four, which did much to boost his image. Although some Garans resented him, very few made attempts at open rebellion.
The war between Talendria and Daralt ended two years later in a stalemate, with neither side able to gain much ground. Anton continued to serve at his post with diligence, until eleven years later when he was called back to the capital.
The King was dying.
On his deathbed, the King spoke to Anton alone. He revealed that he had always wanted to see Sorus unified, and regretted that he may die before that wish was fulfilled. He then went on to say that Anton had proved a capable leader in both war and peace, and claimed that there was no one else more fit to rule a unified Sorus. After that, the King called in his courtiers, and before two dozen witnesses, claimed that Anton was to marry his daughter, and the two would rule jointly. This was a controversial decision, as it set aside the King’s presumed heir, Prince Willard.
Two years later, King Anton marched on the nation of Daralt with a combined army of Talendrians and Garans. With his superior numbers and generalship, he bested their army in the field and quickly laid siege to their capital, taking it by storm. But after the battle had been won, his army broke discipline, and began looting the city, inflicting countless horrors on his populace.
Anton was ultimately forced to build a gallows in the city center, and threatened to start arresting and hanging looters if they did not cease. Although they stopped, Anton’s eyes had been opened to a harsh reality of war he had not previously been exposed to.
The rest of the country soon capitulated. Yet despite the nobility issuing a formal surrender, the commoners were displeased. In Daralt, Anton lacked the heroic reputation he had earned throughout Talendria and Gara. To the Daraltians, he was nothing more than a foreign conqueror, who imposed his soldiers onto their households and stole their food.
The men and women of Daralt fled into the countryside, becoming partisans, and Anton was forced to fight them. It was a type of warfare he had waged against Orks, but never against fellow humans. Infuriated by the constant attacks on their patrols and supply lines, some of his men even began to take their anger out on local villagers and townspeople, who were believed to be aiding the rebels.
Anton did his best to reign these attempts in, but as high up as he was in the chain of command, there was little he could do to directly intervene. Meanwhile, repeated assassination attempts were made against him, but he survived every single one.
There were many nights when he was tempted to withdraw from the country altogether, but he knew that wasn’t the best solution. If he withdrew his soldiers and left the locals to pick up the pieces, there was no guarantee Daralt would be able to pull itself together again. And what if they faced another Ork WAAAGH!, or some other threat? Order had to be brought to this land one way or another.
So instead of attempting to stop the reprisals, he began ordering them. With his masterful deduction skills, he was able to correctly identify which villages and towns were aiding partisans, and deployed his men to deal with them. At first, these brutal measures only caused the partisan attacks to increase, as the partisans became more furious and the local civilians became more sympathetic to their cause. But eventually they became too much for the partisans to bear, and the attacks began to dwindle, until eventually they ceased.
Finally, Anton could return home.
He spent the rest of his time in Sorus continuing to administer his new kingdom, making a number of social and military reforms while attempting to repair the damage he had wrought during the pacification of Daralt - partly of guilt, and partly out of a need for efficiency. Daralt made another attempt at rebellion, but it was half-hearted, and Anton easily crushed it.
In his spare time, he also tinkered with some of the old pieces of advanced tech stored deep within Talendria’s vaults, becoming intimately aware of their designs, and even repairing some of them to become functioning again. The means to reproduce such weapons were not currently within his grasp, but it had rekindled his desire to learn more about the universe beyond his one small planet.
Then, in M30.837, a visitor arrived.
The crown was heavy on Anton’s head. His wife looked to him uncertainty, from the smaller throne next to his, but he gave no indication that he had seen; his gaze was fixated on the long figure who stood before him.
The visitor stood before the throne in shining golden armour, the likes of which had never been seen before. He was tall; almost as tall as Anton himself. His vessel had appeared in the sky of Talendria’s capital without warning. The landing craft had descended into the city’s square, and he had been allowed an audience at once, bypassing all the waiting petitioners. None dared complain.
When the court herald asked the stranger how he was to be announced, he had asked to only be announced as “The Emperor.” Who was this man, to claim such a lofty title, but no name to go with it, and no additional titles or achievements beneath it? The herald had been reluctant, but ultimately did not question him.
The ‘Emperor’ approached the throne, and the courtiers unleashed a collective gasp when he did not kneel. He did not even speak, and instead looked Anton directly in the eye. By all rights, Anton could have ordered him thrown out of the palace right then and there.
But he didn’t.
Because, as Anton looked upon the stranger, a sense of recognition filled him. Slowly, he removed his crown, and laid it on the armrest of his throne. Then, he rose to his feet, approached his father, and knelt before him.
“You know who I am?” the Emperor questioned.
“I do,” Anton nodded, “but I do not know why you have come.”
“It is time for you to return the fold. For you, this world you have united will be just the beginning. The Great Crusade is underway. Join me, march alongside your brothers and sisters, and aid me in my quest to bring order and prosperity to all mankind, as you have brought it to this planet.”
There were several long moments of silence, as Anton considered the Emperor’s words. Then he stood up, and dismissed his court. The guards remained, so he dismissed them as well. Once the room was clear, he turned back to his creator.
“You mentioned brothers and sisters?” Anton asked, with some apprehension.
“You are not alone,” the Emperor told him. “There were nineteen others like you. All were lost, and scattered across the cosmos. You are the fifth to be found, but before this crusade is over, I will see all the others returned to me.”
“And what is this crusade?” Anton inquired, taken aback by the revelation, but still wishing to move on to the more pressing issue.
“Long ago, humanity once built a star-spanning Empire. That Empire crumbled, and the technology of its planets was set back centuries if not millennia,” the Emperor explained, and Anton nodded, for he knew this firsthand.
The Emperor continued speaking. “I intend to reunite humanity. By word, or by force. I will cast aside all delusions and superstitions, and replace them with science and logic. I will put a stop to humanity’s infighting, and destroy those who would destroy us, so it can achieve its full potential.”
By word… or by force. “Millions will die,” Anton realized. “Countless worlds will burn.” The thought of going back to war - war on a galactic scale, no less - gave him pause. He had thought he was done with war, but clearly he had been too hopeful.
The Emperor frowned. “Across the stars, mankind slaughters itself in the name of false idols, and lives in needless poverty or isolation. Your world’s struggles were light compared to the rest. Millions will die regardless of whether this Crusade will happen or not. The difference is, we will be preventing further destruction in the long-term.”
It was a daunting task, and one that carried an immense burden. It would have been incomprehensible to a lesser mind. But Anton was a Primarch. And as the Emperor spoke, Anton instinctively understood the scope and sense of his vision.
More importantly, he had also heard the conviction in the Emperor’s voice, and he knew that refusal was not truly an option. His planet now belonged to the Imperium. If the Primarch did not yield it, then the Emperor would take it.
So without another word, the Primarch nodded his assent.
Anton spent a year under the Emperor’s personal tutelage, before he was deemed ready to join the Great Crusade. In the meantime, his planet went through all the necessary steps to join the Imperium; new technology was introduced, and candidates for Space Marines were selected.
Once the period of instruction was over, Anton took command of his legion. He looked upon these strangers from different worlds, and gave them a rousing speech which emphasized order, unity, and duty. He had experience leading people of different cultures, and so navigating such differences came easily to them. He then led his Legion on a campaign to exterminate the planet’s Orks, reducing their population to a point where they had been all but extinct - inevitably, a few spores survived.
So, a sizable garrison was left behind, while the remainder of the Legion set about pacifying the nearby worlds.
They found the Death World of Caliban, where Anton and a number of his legionnaires made a name for themselves amongst the locals by hunting down and slaying the planet’s Great Beasts.
They journeyed to the old ruined planet of Medusa, integrating the roving clans into the Imperium. There, Anton and his Legion slew a beast known as the Great Silver Wyrm. Anton personally slew the beast by using his sword to drown it in a pit of magma. However, both his sword and the gauntlets of his power armour became coated in the creature's melted flesh, fusing with both the armour and the weapon. Anton had the gauntlets replaced, but kept the sword.
A number of other nearby worlds were conquered or colonized as well, until Anton eventually came to the world of Cadia. Throughout his voyage through the area surrounding the Eye of Terror, Anton’s sleep had been plagued with strange dreams and odd whispers, urging him to take certain actions, and claiming to be the voice of his four gods. The Primarch had initially tried to ignore these voices - gods could not exist - but began to fear he was going mad.
He soon found that as he neared the Eye of Terror, the dreams and voices increased in intensity. Either his madness was growing, or there was something truly sinister at the Eye’s center. The rest of his fleet was deeply unnerved as well.
And so the reluctant primarch decided he would go no further. He did not visit Cadia, and instead led his legion into other regions of space. The whispers faded, but the Primarch still feels a drive to return there - partly to master his own fear, and partly to find if there was some undiscovered truth on the planet or perhaps even the Eye of Terror itself that he was not aware of. Unbeknownst to the Primarch, he was not the only one to hear voices; the denizens of the Warp had reached out to other members of his Legion, those who once strongly believed in the Four, and rekindled the fires of faith that the Imperium attempted to smother.
Attempting to banish the incident from his mind, Anton carried on his portion of the Crusade elsewhere. He participated in several campaigns against the Ork species, due to his experience in fighting such a foe, and was involved in the integration - either peaceful or forceful - of several other human worlds.
Current Name: The Griffin Guard Original Name: The Imperial Pathfinders
Legion Number: XI
Legion Strength: 150,000
Armour Appearance:
Warcry: “Vive l’Empereur!”
Dramatis Personae: Sorus: -Colonel Willard Calder. Commander of the Sorusian Garrison. Prince Regent of Sorus, and Anton’s adoptive brother. -Major Lucien Villiers. Second-in-command to Colonel Calder. Former acolyte of the Church of the Four. -Captain Hans Stilhart. Company Commander in the Sorusian Garrison. Former comrade-in-arms to Anton Jager.
Anton’s Fleet: -Brigadier-General Kennith Wakefield. Anton’s second-in-command. Often tasked with commanding the bulk of the legion while Anton leads the skirmishers elsewhere. -Colonel Franz Volmark. Commander of Anton’s best sharpshooter battalion. -Colonel Henri Gaspard. Artillery commander. -Captain Alfred Klain. Commander of the Chosen Men (Anton’s personal bodyguard.) The greatest swordsman in the Legion, second only to Anton himself. -Lieutenant Mercer Brun. Commander of a Tactical Squad in Volmark’s Battalion. The greatest shot in the Legion, second to only Anton himself. Notable for refusing promotions, despite being offered.
Organization: Primarch: Commander of the Legion (duh.) Brigadier-General: Commander of a Brigade (Griffin Guard equivalent of a Chapter.) Colonel: Commander of a Battalion. Major/Captain: Commander of a Company. Lieutenant: Commanders of Platoons and Tactical Squads.
Battlefield Role: Compared to other space marine legions, the Griffin Guard possess a disproportionately high number of reconnaissance teams. Due to the traits their primarch passed on to them, these are among the finest in the Imperium. These teams make for excellent scouts, sharpshooters, and saboteurs. The Legion heavily relies on their skill in asymmetrical warfare. To be selected for a reconnaissance team is to be considered a high honour, as it is no secret that their Primarch favours this type of unit the most. Many of these scouts are equipped with jetbikes or jump packs, allowing them to more easily deploy in certain environments.
The Legion’s artillery is also quite formidable, with a focus on range and precision, which is to be expected given the Primarch’s nature. The artillery will typically be used to either force enemies to advance (usually into an ambush) or to force them to stay behind cover (allowing the Legionnaires to safely maneuver into an assault formation.)
Despite this focus on ranged warfare, however, the bulk of the legion consists of close and mid-ranged combatants, armed with power swords. Their purpose is usually to protect the artillery or to lure the enemy into an ambush by the Legion’s snipers, but they are also used to seize positions - typically under the cover of artillery fire, sniper fire, and with Imperial Tanks serving as a vanguard.
The Legion’s best fighters, who prove themselves skilled at both ranged and melee combat, are selected to join Anton’s Chosen - the Primarch’s personal bodyguard.
In orbit, the Griffin Guard tends to favour ships that possess speed and maneuverability, with a strong core of heavy hitters.
Legion Ideology: The Skirmishers of the Griffin Guard Legion are friendly and jovial, quick to exchange jokes with each other and boast about their accomplishments. They walk with their heads held high, for they are considered to be their legion’s elite, and their primarch’s favoured. They extend this hospitality to the reconnaissance teams of other legions, though they may come across as patronizing at times as they consider themselves superior.
In contrast, the Legion’s melee fighters are stoic, grim, and determined. There is something of a rivalry between them and the Skirmishers. It is no secret that Anton places the Skirmishers above them, and although this breeds resentment in some, most become all the more determined to prove themselves. They have little resentment for their primarch, for although his favouritism is clear, he does not view them as expendable.
For the most part this divide remains a friendly rivalry; they may shun each other or make jokes at each other’s expense, but if they face antagonism from outside the legion they will usually rally against it.
Beneath this friendly rivalry, however, is a somewhat more concerning divide; one that is based on faith. While the bulk of Anton’s legion are staunch believers in the Imperial Truth, there are many who still cling to Sorus’s old faith - the Church of the Four. Most are wise enough to keep their beliefs secret, but there is no telling when or if these conflicting beliefs might ever spring to the surface.
Interestingly enough, most of the Four’s worshipers are in the melee infantry. They still see Anton as something of a messiah figure, but fear the Emperor has led him astray.
Relationships: Factions of the Imperium The Emperor: The bulk of the Griffin Guard is fiercely loyal to the Emperor, but those who secretly reject the Imperial Truth and still cling to the Faith of the Four believe the Emperor has led their saviour astray. The Night Watch: The Skirmishers of the Griffin Guard feel a certain friendly rivalry toward the Skirmishers of the Night Watch. The rest of the legion doesn’t feel particularly strongly toward them. The Daughters of Iron: The bulk of the Griffin Guard have a certain respect for the Daughters of Iron Legion, but the skirmishing elements of the legion don't think particularly highly of them. The Stargazers: The Legionnaires of the Griffin Guard view the Stargazers with barely disguised contempt. The Cult Mechanicum: Although the Mechanicus play a vital role, most of the Griffin Guard resent that they have been allowed to retain their religious beliefs. Alas, it is impossible to have a functioning legion without technological support. The Imperial Army: Although they recognize that the Imperial Army as a whole plays a critical role, they are also more than aware that the common unenhanced imperial soldiers possess shorter lifespans and higher casualty rates. As a result, the Griffin Guard distance themselves from the common Imperial soldiers, initially out of a desire to not get too attached, though for some this developed into a genuine sense of elitism. Imperial Citizens: Although their empathy toward the common human has dulled considerably, the Griffin Guard will still attempt to avoid unnecessary human casualties, though sometimes it is unavoidable.
Other Species The Orks: The Astartes of the Griffin Guard relish the chance to combat Orks. Skirmishers will compete to see who can kill the most while the melee infantry frequently exchange advice on how best to meet them in battle. The Watchers in the Dark: Encountered on the Death World of Caliban, the Watchers in the Dark were brought into the Imperium via the Edict of Tolerance. Although they were technically integrated into the Imperium, and they did aid the Griffin Guard in ridding the planet of the Great Beasts, the Griffin Guard was deeply unnerved by their presence and did not integrate them into the Legion. The Eldar: The Griffin Guard has engaged in occasional skirmishes with the Eldar from time to time.
Carn had awoken in the night, on a pile of furs outside the ruins of his destroyed village. Over a dozen villagers sat near a fire. Some cried, while others bore grim expressions. All bore burns, cuts, or some other sort of injury, and all were filthy.
The boy sat up, and one of the villagers noticed the movement. “Thank Cadien,” he whispered, rushing over to him. Carn opened his mouth to speak, but immediately fell into a fit of coughing. “Easy, boy, you breathed too much smoke.”
“Where is my brother? And my sisters?” Carn managed to rasp between coughs.
A few others had circled around, and somehow their expressions became even grimmer. “We don’t know…” the man said softly. “We didn’t find their bodies, though.”
“Brundt lives,” Carn whispered. “We need to find him.”
“He does?” the man’s eyes widened. “Which way did he go?”
“I…” Carn said, looking around. “I… I don’t remember…” tears began to form in his eyes. Why couldn’t he remember something so important?
The man frowned. “We’ll have to send a man out in every direction to look for him, then,” he said. “Most of us will stay here, in case he finds his way back. Besides…” he looked back toward the bodies piled outside the gate. “The dead need to be tended to.”
That was two days ago. They never found Brundt.
A mass grave had been dug for the dead, using shovels taken from the mine. Even the fallen marauders had been buried as well; to leave them as they were was to invite disease and predators. From time to time a survivor of the massacre would return, having fled into the woods during the attack. None of the others begrudged them; none of those present had survived by being brave.
Food was not much of an issue; numerous cellars were still intact, so it was simply a matter of digging through the wreckage, and two of the survivors had hunting experience. Makeshift shelters had been built against the elements. But the mood around the camp remained hopeless. They had lost everything, and would likely never see this village rebuilt within their lifetime. Even if they did, they could not replace lost friends, families, or lovers.
What now?
The sounds of snapping twigs alerted the campers to the presence of outsiders. Before they could react, a voice like warm milk sounded from around a burnt building corner. “Gods’ peace upon you, my children.” From around the corner came the two white-robed druids, the old, bearded man and his younger female companion. “Do not be frightened. We come to aid those in need - for you are the survivors, I take it?”
The man who led them rose to his feet, brushing a strand of dark hair out of his eyes. “That we are,” he nodded. “The ones who managed to flee, or weren’t cooked alive in their hiding places.” Seated on a nearby rock, Carn eyed the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.
“I see. A terrible tragedy struck you, yet it is fortunate to see that there were survivors. We rescued a young boy some ways north not three days past.” The old man raised a brow at the purple-eyed teen with the white hair sitting on a rock. “... He told us none had survived.”
Carn’s eyes widened, while the leader’s eyes narrowed. “What did this boy look like? What was his name? Where is he now?” he demanded in an inquisitive tone.
“His face and eyes were similar to yours, but his hair was brown. I would say he hadn’t even reached ten years of age yet. His name is Brundt,” the old man nodded for his colleague to start examining the wounded, “and we brought him to Morganstead to the north. He’s safe there.”
Relief flashed across many faces, Carn’s especially. “Thank Cadien,” breathed the leader, before his expression once more hardened with resolve as he fixed his gaze on the druid. “We will head to this village immediately. That boy is the youngest son of Cadien’s champion. We must ensure his safety.”
The druids exchanged frowns, but the oldest eventually nodded in understanding. “Very well. The road posed little threat to us, but it rarely does, thank the gods. Allow us to care for the wounded you leave behind, at least, so they suffer no further injury by following along. Such is the will of the Sun, after all.”
The leader paused, looking slightly embarrassed, as he quickly surveyed the people around the fire.
“He’s right, Yorn,” one woman spoke up. “Some of us are still in no condition to move.”
Yorn frowned. “That’s true,” he looked back to the druid. “We’re not leaving anyone behind. We’ll wait until tomorrow.”
Carn leapt to his feet. “But-” he began to protest, before suddenly coughing, “-but my brother!”
“Your brother is in good hands. I have met with the chief of Morganstead before, and he’s a righteous and godsfearing man. Allow Gibbou to grant you another night of peace before you set out on such a journey.” With that, the old man went to assist his companion with tending to a young man’s broken leg.
Carn didn’t seem satisfied by that explanation, until Yorn put a hand on his shoulder. “The Druid is right, Carn,” he said softly. “Your father knew Morganstead’s chief well. Your brother should be safe there. But our wounded will not be safe if we leave them behind to go find him. Most of us are in no state to go travelling through the night anyway. What would your father do?”
The mention of his father brought fresh tears to the boy’s eyes. “I… I…” he cast his gaze downward. “I miss him,” he whispered softly.
Yorn nodded. “We all do. So we should honour his memory by acting as he would. He had always intended for you to lead us one day, and that may yet be true, so you must remember his example. Understand.”
Carn sniffed, then somehow managed to raise his gaze to look Yorn in the eye. “I... I will.”
For the rest of the day, the druids went from survivor to survivor to tend to wounds and medicine the sick. For burns, they applied the same ointments as they had given Brundt, but they used no magic to dull the pain this time, causing a great many burn victims to howl in pain as the most charred skin was cut or scraped off with perhaps a little dull flint sickles, and the inflamed skin was heavily doused in ointments and salves, finalised with sore bandages. There was one among the survivors whose right leg had been left untreated long enough to become gangrenous, and Kaer Mirh and Kaer Anni had been forced to hack it off with an axe. Not even this one was given the respite of Gibbou, but she passed out from the pain on their own. In place of some form of tourniquet, Kaer Anni turned her tree branch staff into roots that squeezed the leg so hard, she fractured it. However, thanks to that, the woman didn’t bleed out as they severed her leg above the knee-cap.
Several of the survivors winced with sympathy at this, while one had even risen to his feet as if moving to stop it - only for another to hold him back, assuring him that the druids probably knew what they were doing. Even after the sun went down, the screams and grunts of those being treated kept the rest of the group awake.
But eventually, all had been treated, so they could assign lookouts and at last find some sleep.
The druids washed their hands in a nearby beck and Kaer Anni headed to a nearby grove of trees to pick nuts, acorns and pine cones, which she then proceeded to plant in the nearby soil. Kaer Mirh, meanwhile, walked up to the old mine shaft and started stacking stones into a small heap.
A few moments later, Carn came up behind him. “What are you doing?”
Kaer Mirh turned to the lad and smiled. “I am building a monument to Boris, the mountain god.” He placed another stone on the heap, tested the heap’s integrity and then bolstered the foundation upon finding it lacking.
“Boris?” Carn questioned. “Why?”
The druid reached to the ground and took a handful of sand. He then started filling in the holes in his heap as best he could. “Am I the first druid you’ve met, my son?”
“Another druid came to our village, a long time ago,” Carn said, after some thought. “I don’t remember much about her, though.”
Kaer Mirh nodded. “I see. Well, let me tell you, then. I am building this altar to Boris because I am indebted to him. His glorious spirit granted me power last week - a great deal of power - and for this, I must regain my favour with him before I ask for more. It is only fair, considering how much help he has offered someone as insignificant as myself.” He nodded in the direction of Kaer Anni, who was busily digging holes for more seeds. “My kinswoman Kaer Anni, meanwhile, has a debt to the World Tree, also known as the Tree of Genesis. Have you heard about it?”
Carn shook his head.
“I thought not. It’s not a god us northerners know well, as a group. It’s the god of all plants, from the tallest tree to the smallest weed. Its presence is stronger in the south, where the trees grow tall and thick, and the rain is heavy and warm.” He chuckled. “Not many in my circle have seen its body with their own eyes, but this old fool? Oh, he has, he has.”
“Where are you from?” Carn found himself asking.
This question silenced the druid’s chuckle, and his eyes suddenly stared far beyond Carn, or anything for that matter. They then blinked down at Carn again and Kaer Mirh offered a single snicker. “Somewhere far, far away from here, my son.” He nodded back at his little heap. “Would you like to help out? The mountain god is certain to offer you some favour too, if you work for it.”
Carn looked to the pile, then scanned the ground for a rock. When he set his eyes on one, he picked it up and carried it over.
Once the druids had done their duties and made certain no one else was in dire need of aid, they approached the leader of the band, Kaer Mirh gesturing northwards. “I hope the route remains safe for you when you walk it. We saw nothing dangerous on the way, but you never know in these times.”
“We’ll pray for you to have a tranquil and peaceful journey,” Kaer Anni offered and bowed curtly. Kaer Mirh repeated her action.
“Thank you for your help,” Yorn nodded gratefully, though those who had suffered the most under the druid’s treatment appeared resentful. “But will you not be joining us?”
The druids each raised a flat palm. “Sadly not. We’ve decided to travel further down south, now that we’re here. It’s been a few years since I personally visited this region, and Kaer Anni here has to stock up on remedies which plants cannot be found much further north than, well, these parts. However, we will be travelling north again soon, however, so perhaps our paths with cross again?”
“Perhaps,” Yorn nodded. “I don’t know where we will go after we find Brundt, but… we’ll find a way to survive.”
“I’ve heard Morganstead needs additional farmhands. When in dire need, my son, reach out to your neighbours. Perhaps they will take you in like they took in Brundt?” With that, the two of them turned and started walking away. “May the gods give you their most gracious blessings!”
The survivors of Thyma watched their departure in silence.
Two days later, they arrived at the village of Morganstead. The man who had his leg amputated was carried on a makeshift stretcher, while the worst of the other wounded were helped by their comrades. Others simply had to limp and endure the pain.
As they walked into the village, the chieftain approached them and sighed. Two warriors flanked him on both sides. “What brings you here, outsiders?”
“We’re from Thyma,” Yorn said, as if that would explain everything.
“Oh,” the chieftain said. “Forgive me. I was told that none survived.”
“Where is my brother?” Carn interrupted, stepping forward. “Where is Brundt?”
The chieftain stared at the white haired boy, and realization dawned. “Oh, by the gods…” he whispered in horror. “I didn’t think…”
“We were told that he was here,” Yorn snapped. “Where is he?”
“I-I’m sorry,” the chieftain said. “Warriors arrived from Ketrefa the day after the druids left. They took him. You… you can see the remains of their camp over there.”
Yorn looked around suspiciously. “The rest of your village seems unharmed.” He stepped forward, and his hand fell to an axe at his belt. “Did they take him, or did you give him up?” The chieftain’s guard levelled their spears in response, which in turn led each Thyman to place their hand on a weapon.
“Enough!” the chieftain barked, causing his guards to point their spears back up, while some of the survivors from Thyma relaxed. Some, but not all. “This village has seen enough trouble as is. I’ll not have any blood spilled within it!” he scolded, both to his guards and the visitors. Then he fixed his gaze on Yorn. “We didn’t give the boy up. The Ketrefans were bound for your village. When they found out it was destroyed, they took him and left the next day. There was nothing we could have done.”
“You could have fought them!” Carn yelled, finding his voice as he stepped forward.
“If we fought them, we all would have died,” the chieftain stated bluntly.
“My father stayed and fought! He was outnumbered, but he fought so we could get away!” Carn argued defiantly. Yorn began approaching, intending to pull the boy back.
“Your father died, boy,” the chieftain told him, “and the rest of his village didn’t fare any better. Forgive me. He was a good man, but we can’t just-”
He never got to finish. A primal rage welled up in Carn’s chest, and suddenly the boy seized a knife from the chieftain’s belt and rammed it into the man’s gut.
The village exploded into chaos after that. Bystanders screamed and yelled. One of the guards caught the chieftain as he fell, the blade still embedded in his gut. The other guard stared in astonishment and then, after recovering from his shock, thrust his spear toward Carn. But Yorn stepped between the two, deflecting the spear point with his axe. Seeing the fight break out, the survivors drew their weapons - spears, axes, picks, and swords.
The back of Yorn’s axe smashed across the guard’s face, knocking him out, while the other guard attempted to drag the chieftain to safety. Yorn let him go. “Stupid boy!” Yorn hissed, seizing Carn by the neck and pulling him back to the main group.
The villagers of Morganstead emerged from their homes carrying weapons of their own. Most had not seen what happened; only that their chieftain had been stabbed and one of his guards was down. They would not stand a chance against eighty disciplined troops from Ketrefa, but this ragtag and injured band? They could manage.
With weapons in hand, Morganstead’s residents charged who they believed to be their attackers. They came from all sides, in bits and pieces; there was no unity, and no discipline. Yorn buried his axe into an attacker’s chest. Carn watched a Thyman fall nearby, the killer moving on to another, only to take a spear in the ribs.
The villagers of Morganstead drew back; five of theirs dead in exchange for three of Thyma’s. But they were not done - they began forming up around their dying chieftain, finally realizing that they could drive their attackers back with the advantage of numbers.
“Run!” Yorn shouted, and the survivors ran, Carn among them. The man who had his leg amputated had to be left behind. They fled toward the treeline, and the villagers of Morganstead gave pursuit. Fortunately, Yorn’s group had enough of a headstart to safely make it to the brush. Even then, they continued running. A few were lost - either they broke off to flee on their own, or they tripped over roots and rocks.
Eventually they made it a safe distance from the village. Then, Yorn seized Carn by the shoulders and shoved him against a nearby tree. “Stupid boy!” the older man repeated, backhanding him sharply across the face.
Carn tasted blood in his mouth. He struggled under Yorn’s grip, then spat out a tooth. “They lost my brother!” he cried.
“Killing their chieftain won’t bring your brother back,” Yorn repeated. “You’re a bloody murderer, now. You’ve disgraced your father’s memory, got good men killed, and brought shame to the rest of us!”
Carn looked to the rest of his people, hoping someone would intervene. But nobody had any sympathy.
Yorn pulled him away from the tree and turned him away from the group. “Go,” the man said. “We can’t have you around anymore. Word will get out that you killed that chieftain, and nobody will welcome us anymore. By our own laws you should die, but we’ll let you live out of respect for your father.” He gave him a shove. “Go!”
Carn went, breaking off into a run. Tears stung his eyes and anger filled his chest as he thought of the unfairness of it all.
Carn is rescued by Thyma’s survivors. They bury the dead and set up a camp. Two days later, Kaer Mirh and Kaer Anni arrive. They tell them that Brundt is alive and then tend to the wounded. Carn asks them some questions about the gods, such as Boris and the Tree of Genesis. The next morning, the druids part ways to go elsewhere, while the survivors head to Morganstead - under the leadership of a man named Yorn.
They arrive at Morganstead are quite pissed to discover that Brundt was taken by some Ketrefans. As the chieftain is explaining himself, Carn stabs him with a knife. A fight breaks out with the villagers, with the group being forced to flee after taking more casualties.
After they all get away, Yorn is pissed. He calls Carn a murderer and exiles him from the group. Carn flees deeper into the woods.
Carn Beginning Prestige: 5 +5 for 10k character post. -1 for Carn, a child, to kill a grown man with his own weapon before he can react. Ending Prestige: 9
Longstride Beginning Prestige: 5 +5 for 10k character post. Ending Prestige: 10
Eighty-one pairs of feet trudged down the dirt road.
It was rare for Ketrefa to send a raiding party of this size out so far. But this was no usual raid. They needed miners. Experienced ones. So they needed to find a mining settlement, which tended to be better-armed and better-fortified than most humble farming villages. The Ketrefans knew of one such settlement, but it was far away: Thyma.
Lord Milos Karras had disliked the prospect of such a long journey. But he was the son of the Lord-Captain, Ketrefa's highest ranking military official; responsible for the coordination of raids and requisition parties, and tasked with leading the city's armies in times of war. Milos himself was destined to one day take up the position, and although it had effectively become hereditary over centuries of proven service, he still needed to prove himself nonetheless to guarantee that it would stay that way.
So he would arrive at Thyma, demand they allow him access to the village, seize the fittest workers from the population, and then requisition some food for the march back. If they resisted, he would have to enact some sort of reprisal. Resistance rarely occurred; the neighbouring tribes had learned long ago that it was easier to give in. There had been united attempts to break Ketrefa's power in the past, but each attempt had been crushed mercilessly. So it was often a simple matter of showing up in sufficient numbers and issuing a demand.
In truth, the nobleman found the practice distasteful. While the practice did ensure Ketrefan superiority - in launching regular raids into outside territories they not only kept their own population prosperous, but also kept the neighbouring settlements weak - the fact that the prosperity came at such blatant expense of other humans still came across as unseemly, at least to him. Yes, those born outside Ketrefan leadership were lesser men, but they were still men, which put them above the vile trolls, at the very least.
Part of him wondered if it was possible for these "lesser men" to become something greater. If instead of keeping them suppressed, they could help raise them up, and work together. But his father had warned him such ideas were naive. That if they tried to share their city's wealth with outsiders, the outsiders would simply take their wealth and leave them with nothing. But still, Milos wondered...
He shook the thoughts off. Even if he was right, he was just one man, and could not bring about such change on his own. He knew of no other nobles who shared these concerns. He was certain that at least a few had to, but they wouldn't dare speak of such matters in public, and therefore they were impossible to find.
He shifted his thoughts back to the task at hand. From what he knew of the terrain, they were maybe two or three days away from the next village: Morganstead. A small and pathetic thing, just on the edge of what Ketrefa considered to be viable raiding territory. Even then, it was an open secret the lords who were normally sent this way sometimes chose to ignore it, as its tribute rarely made a significant difference. Milos wasn't certain if it would have anything to offer even now, but it could perhaps be a valuable resting point on his way to Thyma.
After another hour of traveling, the village came within sight, and didn't seem to have grown any larger since the last time it was tapped for resources. The sun was low on the horizon. Milos decided he would not seize the homes of the villagers - setting up camp outside would suffice - but they would help themselves to what food was available, as this was a longer journey than usual.
Those in the fields and streets saw the host approach, and quickly fled into their hovels, shutting doors and windows. Only one man remained in the street - the village chieftain, who eyed the Ketrefan banner carried by one of Milos's men, and began approaching to speak with them.
"Hail, Ketrefan," the chieftain said, attempting to keep his tone respectful.
"You speak for these people, I assume?" Milos asked, casting his gaze at the buildings where he knew fearful inhabitants sheltered.
The chieftain nodded.
"What news do you have of the surrounding area?" Milos questioned, waving a hand to indicate the countryside.
"Thyma has been destroyed by a raid, my lord," the man said, bowing his head slightly. "There were no survivors."
Milos's air of confidence cracked slightly, as his eyebrows rose of their own volition. "Destroyed?" he asked, shocked. "When?"
The chieftain scratched his head. "A few days ago, I think? That's what the druids told us."
"And where are these druids?" Milos asked.
"Gone. They left yesterday."
Now, Milos frowned. An entire village, destroyed by a raid? No survivors? The only witnesses conveniently gone? "I will march to this village tomorrow," he said, his tone sharpening. "And if I find out you lied to me, I will see your village burn. Understand?"
The chieftain's eyes widened with fear. "Y-yes, my lord! It's the truth, I swear!"
Milos scrutinized him further, then decided he believed him, and cursed inwardly. The entire journey was for nothing. He might not have to return empty-handed - he could take slaves and tribute from the villages on the way back - but he had failed his main objective His father would be most displeased, regardless of the fact that it had not been his fault. The shame would not be constrained to his own family either - other houses coveted the position of Lord-Captain, and would seize any excuse to deem him unfit. This incident on its own might not be enough, but as his father always reminded him, even the most minor of failures would add up without a success to make people forget them.
"I would hope so," Milos nodded grimly. "In the meantime, my men will require food and supplies." He turned to address his men. "Gelo, take nine men and go search that farm. The rest of you, set up camp."
The lowborn warrior known as Gelo, a reliable retainer who served as his second-in-command on this mission, nodded, and quickly assembled a requisition party. The rest of the host unloaded gear from the quillats which carried their supplies, and began setting up bedrolls, tents, and cooking areas.
Milos watched Gelo kick in the door of a hovel, before entering with four warriors at his back, while five waited outside. Screams were heard from inside the building. Moments later, a middle-aged man, his wife, and their two daughters were dragged out, then forced to kneel on the grass. Of the four men who entered the house, Gelo assigned two to watch the family and two to search their home more thoroughly, while he led the remaining five toward the granary. All this had been done in less than a minute; there was no denying the man's efficiency. He quickly broke down the granary door, and then his men moved inside.
This time, it was Gelo's men who did the yelling.
Rallying a dozen men who stood nearby, Milos charged toward the granary. He arrived just in time to see Gelo and two men struggling to haul out a screaming, feral boy with half his face bandaged.
Another one of Gelos's men stumbled out soon after; he swayed like a drunkard and his helmet was dented. He staggered off to the side, doubled over, and vomited. The two remaining men followed soon after; one dragging the other, who was knocked out cold.
Gelo released his grip on the boy's feet, who began wildly kicking. The two other warriors, each holding an arm, were then able to pin him to the ground, after some difficulty. Milos was astonished at how many it took. "What happened?" he demanded as Gelo approached him, breathing heavily.
"That boy..." Gelo spoke incredulously. "He was waiting for us with a piece of wood. Got the drop on us. Somehow brought two of us down. Don't give me that look..." then he seemed to remember who he was speaking to, and his eyes widened. "F-forgive me, my lord! But that boy - he's not natural. He's stronger than any man I've ever fought."
Milos did not want to believe it, but somehow, after seeing how difficult it was for the two men to keep such a small boy pinned... he did.
Then the grim reality of what just happened finally set in. An outsider had attacked one of his men. At the very least, the expected response to such a transgression was to put the offender to death. The offender who, in this case, was a small boy that likely didn't understand the weight of the action. Milos winced internally, for it was a cruel punishment. But if he did nothing, and word got back to Ketrefa... he might be seen as weak. Sympathetic to the savages.
He could perhaps justify putting the boy's parents to death instead... but then the boy and his siblings would have no one to care for them, and if they survived might be even more likely to raise a hand against Ketrefan soldiers in the future. Perhaps the village chieftain might suffice instead? Tekret... Cadien... Evandra... what do I do? he thought quietly to himself.
As he wrestled with the cruel dilemma, a deep voice he had never heard before suddenly sounded inside his head.
No.
"What?" Milos asked, startled.
Gelo looked at him with confusion. "I didn't say anything, my lord."
"Resume your search!" Milos snapped. He looked to the dozen men behind him. "Back to the camp!" With a frown, Gelo bowed and went back to the task, while the men he had gathered to run to Gelo's aid withdrew. Milos himself, meanwhile, stood alone in his confusion.
Is this how low Tekret's favoured have fallen? the deep voice resumed with contempt. Now, before you butcher this entire village to find out who is saying this, know that none of them are responsible. For it is I. Cadien.
"C-Cadien?" Milos whispered hoarsely, falling to his knees.
The child before you is of my blood. You will not harm him, or those who protected him. You will not go to Thyma, and you will not loot this village. Tomorrow, you will turn back and march home. And if I see you do otherwise, I will see your city burn. Understood?
The revelation issued in tandem with the threat made Milos pale in terror. "F-forgive me, your holiness," he whispered desperately. "I... I did not mean... I did not know..."
Silence. I can see your most deepest thoughts, and I know your true feelings. Hmm... perhaps you and your city may not yet be beyond redemption, the God mused. You will take this child back with you, you will take him into your household, and you will raise him as if he were your own son. And you will keep this conversation to yourself, he commanded.
"But... what of my father? He will not-"
Your father is dead, Cadien cut him off.
That news felt like a kick to the chest. He had never been particularly fond of his father, but still... to lose him so suddenly, to be told like this... and then there were the responsibilities he was meant to inherit. He was the head of House Karras now. And now the Lord-Captain of the army, if he could somehow attain the position - yet alone retain his nobility - after what he was now required to do. "I... I understand, your Holiness..." he whispered.
Good. See it done, the God of Perfection commanded sternly.
The young lord took a deep breath, and rose to his feet. He looked to his men who held the boy in place, and to his surprise, the child stopped struggling. Instead, the boy looked up from him with a gaze that was surprisingly free of hatred or fear. Milos wondered if the God of Perfection had spoken to the child too.
"Release him," he commanded.
Our post begins with a Ketrefan warband on its way to the village of Thyma, to procure some experienced miners as slaves. The warband is command by Milos, a young noble in his mid-twenties. His father is the commander of Ketrefa's armies, and has high expectations for this raid. Milos himself has some doubts about the way Ketrefa does things, but has learned to keep them to himself.
He arrives at Morganstead, where he hears that Thyma has been destroyed. Not good. He decides to march to Thyma anyway to confirm the story, and in the meantime has his men search a farm for something to eat.
They find Brundt hiding in the granary - he was actually able to beat the shit out of two grown men before being captured. Milos suddenly gets angsty, because if he doesn't enact some sort of punishment on the village as retribution for this offense, then his father and the other nobles back home might think of him as weak.
Just as he is debating what to do, Cadien contacts him. Cadien orders him not to harm anyone in the village, and that he must also take Brundt back and adopt him on his own. If he does not comply with these orders, then Cadien will have Ketrefa destroyed. Oh, Cadien also drops the news that his father is dead.
Cadien Beginning MP: 4 Beginning DP: 0 -1MP to stop the heart of Milos's father. Ending MP: 3 Ending DP: 0
Brundt Beginning Prestige: 10 +3 prestige for 5k characters (the amount of the post he was present for.) -1 prestige to beat the shit out of two Ketrefan soldiers. Ending Prestige: 12
He continued his aimless stumbling through the forest, almost oblivious to his surroundings. Occasionally he would trip over a root or a plant, but he would only get back up and keep moving. His knees were scraped, and his clothes were now stained with dirt as well as soot. He felt numb, and all he could think to do was keep walking, ignoring the soreness in his feet and the agonizing pain in his face.
In the near distance came the low chatter of two voices, intermittently interrupted by laughter. The voices got louder, and soon enough, a pair of white-robed shadows wielding long branches approach further down the path. Then there was silence, no doubt as the shadows noticed Brundt. They hurried over to him, the light revealing more and more features of their forms, particularly their human faces, one old, graying man and one younger, though still not particularly young, woman. “By the gods,” voiced the man and the two slowed their approach as they neared him. “... My son, what happened to you?”
He stopped, then stared at the two strangers blankly. Fresh tears began to well up in his eyes, and he began to back away.
Invitingly, the man stretched out a hand, while the woman started rummaging through her satchel, pulling out small pots and containers labeled with odd glyphs and drawings of leaves. The man beckoned warmly and said, “You don’t need to be afraid, my son. We mean you no harm.”
He stopped backing away when his back hit a tree, and he began to process the stranger’s words. Then he slumped down into a sitting position, holding his knees against his chest.
The man offered him a perfectly reassuring smile and allowed himself to shuffle in a little closer, his partner offered him the pots of what seemed to be ointments, as well as some bandages fashioned from torn linen shirts. The man took one of the bandages and rubbed it thoroughly in some of the ointment. “We see you’ve gotten hurt. Let’s try to see that it doesn’t hurt so badly, hmm? Kaer Anni, if you would.” The woman nodded with a weak smile and took her stick, peering towards the sky and mouthing some words. The man looked back at Brundt. “This won’t hurt at all, my son. It’ll just be like falling asleep.” With that, a wave of sleepiness washed through Brundt’s body, as though it was in the middle of the night and way past his bedtime. In the moments before he closed his eyes, he saw and to a degree felt the old man scrape at his cheek with ointment.
When Brundt woke up again, it was nightfall, and he was packed in a soft and somewhat moth-ridden bedroll. A few metres away flickered a campfire behind two seated shadows, one of them sucking on a pipe, the other stirring in a stomach-shaped “pot” suspended over the fire on a twig. He reached a hand up to feel the bandage on his face, wincing and letting out a barely audible whimper as he touched it.
The two by the fire turned around, the old man offering some dry, smokey coughs. “Oh, you’re awake. Kaer Anni, would you fill him a bowl, please?”
“Of course, Kaer Mirh,” replied the woman and took a wooden ladle and started filling a wooden bowl with what was likely a soup of sorts. The old man shuffled a little closer to the bedrolled boy, taking the bowl from Kaer Anni on the way and passed it onto Brundt along with a spoon.
“So, how are you feeling?”
Brundt made no move to eat the food in front of him. “Everyone is dead…” he whispered, his voice hoarse. He realized in that moment he was more thirsty than hungry.
The old man frowned sympathetically. Kaer Anni had also shuffled over, bringing with her a bowl for both her partner and herself each. She gave her bowl a gingerly sip. “Did your village get attacked?” she asked carefully. Kaer Mirh blew a slow-growing plume.
Memories of the slaughter flashed before the boy’s eyes, and he gave a barely perceptible nod.
The two nodded along somberly. “Nothing is worse than such needless, sudden loss,” consoled Kaer Mirh. “But for a child to see it… Terrible, just terrible.” He unsheathed a flint sickle from the rope about his waist and used its tip to scrape some ashes out of the pipe bowl. “The gods never wish for these sorts of things to happen, but not even they can keep an eye on all the misfortune that befalls our challenging lives sometimes.” Having scraped out the ashes, he strapped both the pipe and the sickle to his belt. “I will not tell you to forget what has happened, my son - our great lord of truth, Fìrinn, demands that we all live in accordance with our truths, after all.” He sighed. “However, do not allow yourself to be consumed by the horror that is the truth, either - seek solace for now in contact with others, solace in the love of the gods, in the beauty of nature.”
“G-gods?” Brundt whispered. “F-father said he was chosen by Cadien. But father is dead, and Evandra saved me…”
Kaer Mirh nodded, and Kaer Anni responded, “An honour to be chosen - and a curse to stand out. That you were saved by the flame is fortunate, for certain, though…” She eyed the bandage with a somber frown. “Her mark will stay with you forever, my son. As with your father, it may be an honour - and it may be a curse.”
“We cannot say for certain, however,” Kaer Mirh added. “While the past is set in stone, the future is written with the wind - the song of the world can offer the insights beyond mere mortal minds, and both sun and moon see the world from leagues above the surface; and yet, no matter how hard we try, the future remains the greatest mystery of all.” He smiled sorrowfully at Brundt. “Have you kinsmen in other villages? Anywhere you can stay?”
He thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I don’t know.”
Kaer Anni once more offered Brundt his bowl of broth. “Any relatives that might’ve gotten away?”
He recalled the massacre outside the gate, and shook his head.
Kaer Mirh and Kaer Anni exchanged looks. Kaer Anni shrugged and then Kaer Mirh said, “Alright. Have some broth to recover your strength, and then we’ll set off in the morning. You can stay with us until we reach the next village over.”
“Or however long you’d like,” the woman added.
Brundt’s gaze lowered to the bowl in his hands, and then he slowly spooned some of the liquid into his mouth. It was watery and only slightly flavoured by the bones it was made with - had it boiled for longer, it would’ve been tastier, most likely. However, it was liquid and rich in fats and protein - the ideal mixture for a swift recovery. Kaer Anni nodded.
“Good. Keep drinking that and get yourself some rest when you’re full. Tomorrow will be a long day and, unfortunately, Kaer Mirh here hasn’t recovered his favour with the Moon and the Mountain yet, so he can neither help with respite nor endurance.” The old man scratched his chin gingerly.
“Well, that hunter was also in dire need, I say…”
“Oh, sure, sure. You just make sure to keep praying and look out for shiny stones to offer, okay?”
“Don’t have to tell me, Kaer Anni,” mumbled the old man, and then rose to his feet and wandered into the woods. The woman turned to offer Brundt another perfect smile.
“It takes time and ritual for us to replenish our magic. We’re sorry we cannot do more for you.”
Brundt said nothing more, instead choosing to finish his broth and go back to sleep.
The next morning started as early as the sun came up, when Brundt was awoken by two whispers coming from the druids kneeling on the path where the sun shone the brightest, facing the sky. They intertwined one hand each with the other’s and held their free hand up with a flat palm. Both had their eyes closed, and their voices seemed almost eerie and two-toned, as though something else within them also spoke.
He sat up and watched, remaining silent as he attempted to hear what they were saying.
“... in your light that the plants grow, the beasts see and we live. Oraelia on high, we greet you a very fine morning and ask humbly that your sun will light our path until Gibbou calls for us to rest once more. We are forever faithful to you.”
With that, the druids prostrated themselves humbly once before getting up and dusting their robes off. “You were a little off on your spiritsong, Kaer Anni,” mumbled the old man. The woman’s eye twitched ever so slightly.
“W-well, it’s not -my- fault someone overslept so I didn’t have time to do my vocal exercises!”
“Excuses, excuses,” Kaer Mirh replied playfully. “Next time, just ignore me and go ahead with the exercises. You know me well enough by now that you should remember that I never miss morning prayers, and--... Oh! Good morning, my son.” Kaer Anni turned to follow his gaze and also put on a smile. “Good morning, my son,” she echoed. “Would you like some breakfast?”
He nodded. “Who is Gibbo?” he asked quietly.
“It’s ‘Gibbou’, my son. She is the moon high above us - the largest one, mind you; the purple one is, uh, is Cadien’s.” While Kaer Mirh talked, Kaer Anni pulled out some flatbread and dried meat from her satchel, which she offered to Brundt. “Gibbou is our guardian in the night, and she makes certain that the hunters in the dark always just so happen to look elsewhere than where we happen to be when they’re out hunting.”
The boy took a bite out of the dried meat, chewed quietly, and then swallowed. “Why didn’t the gods save my village?” he asked them.
The druids sat down on each side of Brundt, facing in the same direction as him. Kaer Anni took a bite of her own piece of bread and Kaer Mirh pulled out his pipe, patting a bowlfull of dried herbs into the bowl. “... Now that’s a question we hear quite often.” He stuck the mouthpiece in between his perfect teeth and patted his cloak down. Evidently not finding what he was looking for, he shuffled over to last night’s campfire and started digging in the coals and ashes until he found a still smouldering piece of wood. He pressed it as hard as he could against the herbs in the bowl, sucking through air as though it was a snorkel. After a much longer period than it should’ve taken, the herbs eventually started smouldering, too, and Kaer Mirh lobbed the piece of wood back into the campfire pit. Blowing a long plume of smoke, he replied softly. “See, my son - contrary to what some parts of this world believe, the gods aren’t almighty. Oh, they’re strong, sure, but they can’t do everything - not on their own, at least.” For a moment, the old man eyed the sky as though he feared lightning would strike even though there wasn’t a cloud in sight. “It’s likely they didn’t see your village in peril, or that they simply couldn’t look away from what they were doing - wherever they are…” The old man sighed and squeezed Brundt’s shoulder gently. “The gods are not to blame for the destruction of your village, my child, and finding someone to put the blame on can be a journey far more dangerous than the raid itself. Like we said yesterday - don’t forget it, but don’t let yourself be consumed by the memories, either. Make it a part of your truth, for it is already part of reality.” The sentence was punctuated by more smoke.
He nodded slowly. “Oh-okay,” he said, wiping the tears from his eyes. He finished eating the meat, and moved onto the bread. “Um… where are we going to go?”
“If we’re not mistaken, there’s a village not too far from your home - I’d say about a day or two on foot - which should have places to stay for all of us. Morganstead, I think it’s called. You’ve heard of it?”
He nodded.
“Good, then this oughta be a little easier for all of us,” Kaer Mirh said in relief. “Alright, eat up, you two, and we’ll be on our way soon enough.”
“Don’t hasten yourself,” Kaer Anni added with a grin aimed at Brundt. “Take the time you need. We’re in no rush.” Kaer Mirh pursed his lips skeptically, but shrugged and got to packing his things. Kaer Anni did the same.
Sure enough, roughly two days later - the pace being a little slower than the druids were used to - they arrived in Morganstead, a small hamlet consisting of seven mud huts with thatch roofs, surrounded by green, unripe fields of various grains, separated by drainage pits and wicker fences. Among the fields wandered the odd goat, sneaking a bite or two of the nutritious stalks. The villages were tending to their various tasks, and a few lit up upon seeing the trio entering the hamlet grounds. They were approached by a small crowd who recognised the white robes and immediately came to the druids to beg for medicine, healing, stronger grain, more fertile goats.
“All in due time, all in due time,” Kaer Mirh said calmingly as though he had been through this a thousand times. “Me and my kinswoman Kaer Anni will take care of your sick, your wounded and your expecting very soon. First, however, we come with grave news - and a gift.” Gently, Kaer Mirh guided Brundt up front. “Thyma to the south suffered a terrible raid a few days past. None were spared. To those of you who had kinsmen in the village - we offer our deepest condolences.” The crowd thickened and worry and fear spread outwards like wildfire. Kaer Mirh raised his hand for all to quiet down, and almost as if by magic, the villagers did. “That being said, one managed to make it away.” He patted Brundt on the shoulder. “We pray that in exchange for our aid with whatever you may need, you will take Brundt in as one of your own. No child should see what he had seen, and I pray you can help him move on.”
The village chieftain, a brown-haired man in his early thirties, stepped forward. “That is a fair enough deal,” he agreed. “But what of those who attacked Thyma? That village was ten times the size of our own. What if our village is next?”
“Me and my kinswoman here will journey to survey the village of Thyma. In the days after we leave, you will task one watchman with staring skywards. If we find that danger is heading your way, then the star of the North will flash a pinkish red for one whole night. That will be the signal for you to evacuate. If you see nothing for four days, then the roving bandits that attacked Thyma did not cross our path.”
“Very well,” the chieftain nodded. “We will find a place for the boy, in exchange for your services.”
Brundt, somewhat nervous at the prospect of being exchanged like that, looked nervously from the chieftain to the druids. Kaer Anni knelt down and patted him on the shoulder.
“Don’t worry, my son. You’ll feel right at home here. Go on.” She gently pushed at his back so he’d move forward. Brundt reluctantly complied.
The chieftain gave the boy a nod. “I think Beric and Greta have some space,” he looked to a middle-aged man with greying blond hair. “Is that so?”
“We have space, aye,” he nodded. “Could use an extra pair of hands on the farm. Once that wound is healed up, of course.”
“Good, good,” said the old man. “Now, who needed me to come check on a sick mother?” The druids were quickly pulled along to various parts of the hamlet to offer their services.
Brundt is walking in the forest when some druids - Kaer Mirh and Kaer Anni - notice him. They notice his burned face and decide to help him out, applying ointment and bandages to the wound. He tells them a bit about what happened to his village, and they talk a bit about the gods. They give him some food, and in the morning decide to take him to another village nearby, where he might be able to stay.
They arrive at the next village - Morganstead - and the druids offer their services to the locals on the condition that they take Brundt in. After that, they plan to head back to Thyma and survey the ruins, to see if the bandits are gone.
Brundt Beginning Prestige: 5 +5 for more than 10k characters. Ending Prestige: 10
Circle of the Long Stride: 15k characters = +5 prestigios, ending at a total of 5.
After merging with the fragment of a god, Konrad would have thought that his life would drastically change.
But… it didn't.
He continued to work in the smithy, going about his everyday life, with his divine passenger asking him questions about his job, his village, and humanity in general. He did his best to answer, offering his own opinions as a humble village coppersmith. The village of Thyma was a small and prosperous village, owing to the local copper mine in the nearby mountain, which was the village's main livelihood. It was this copper they traded with other nearby settlements, in exchange for crops and other goods. They were just outside the range of Ketrefa's raiding parties, only seeing two incidents in living memory; both of which happened before Konrad was born.
Thyma was situated on a small hill, at the base of a mountain. From its mountainous position, the village appeared to well-protected by a wooden palisade, constructed after a raid in order to deter potential attackers. A local militia had also been assembled, to protect the community from threats. So far, they had managed to remain independent from any larger settlement.
As for the nature of humanity itself, Konrad was a smith. He was not a philis... a philas... a... whatever those 'intellectuals' in the more 'orderly' areas of the Highlands called themselves. Yet Mekellos was not deterred, and from the back of Konrad's mind began asking more questions. How he felt about certain things. Why his neighbour acted a certain way. Some of those questions were of matters that Konrad had never thought of before, and soon he found himself thinking more broadly of the world and his place in it. The conversations, while tedious at first, eventually became enjoyable.
In the meantime, the smith underwent a change. He had always been hairy and large-bellied; not what one would consider attractive, and desirable only because of his occupation. Yet as time went on, his body grew slimmer, the more excessive patches of body-hair began to recede. After a year, he woke up and his hair was white, which was something of a shock. Mekellos claimed he had only been making 'improvements.'
But the hair was the final straw. One morning, a dozen militiamen had assembled outside his house, with torches in hand. Both the village chieftain and the priest stood at their head.
"Konrad! What is the meaning of this?" Chieftain Brundt demanded. He was in his late thirties, his beard long and his hair lined with streaks of grey.
"The meaning of what?" Konrad questioned nervously, rubbing the last bit of sleep from his eyes.
"Your appearance!" the Chieftain snapped angrily. "Were you ever going to explain why your eyes changed? Why your hair is a different colour? What has happened to your body?"
"I... I have been blessed by Cadien," Konrad answered nervously.
The priest's eyes narrowed. He was an old, bitter man, with a bald head and a harsh face. "If you were blessed by Cadien, I think I of all people would know!" he snapped.
Mmmmmmmmmm.... no. I don't think you would, a baritone voice echoed in their minds. Everyone instinctively looked around to see who had spoken. Only Konrad remained still, frozen in shock, as he instinctively knew who the voice was.
"Who... who said that?" Brundt asked in a quiet voice.
'twas I, Cadien, and that 'priest' does not speak for me. The priest, who had been just as shocked as everyone else, suddenly paled, as all eyes turned to him.
But this smith... Konrad, his name is, does. He is the host of my avatar for the time being. And I will be quite furious if you run him out of this town.
Now the Chieftain paled. He pointed a shaking finger at the priest. "Thr-throw him out!" he shouted frantically. Three guards immediately moved to comply, grabbing the weak, protesting priest and hurriedly carrying him toward the gates. The Chieftain and the guards who still remained knelt before Konrad, who was both astonished and mollified by how this had all turned out.
Things quickly changed after that. Cadien never spoke to the village again, but he did not need to. Konrad had suddenly become the most important man in the community, with the chieftain constantly deferring to him for advice. It was a role he would never imagined himself occupying, but one he turned out to be well-suited for; his conversations with Mekellos had sharpened his mind like a blade on a whetstone. He could no longer dedicate as much time to his smithing duties, but one of the nearby villages had an excess coppersmith who was willing to take over his duties.
Konrad became the village's new spiritual guide, and soon found himself preaching Cadien's ideals to the village. To work hard, to always strive to better oneself, to bask in both your own glory and that of others, but to not take it for granted or become complacent. Although this particular village had put equal stock in the five so-called Patrons of Humanity - Cadien, Evandra, Tekret, Oraelia, and Neiya - worship of Cadien soon became the most prominent, for his avatar walked among them and guided them daily. Travelers from neighbouring communities came far and wide to hear Konrad speak.
He took the Chieftain's daughter - Lucia - as a wife. She was named after a wandering healer from legend. On his new wife, he sired four children. Karn was the first, born three years after Mekellos's arrival. Then came Evette, Alys, and Brundt, the latter being named for the village chieftain.
The four children, carrying the blood of a divine, soon proved to be remarkable. Most of them had inherited their father's pure white hair and violet eyes. They were all beautiful, fit, and bright, yet each had a particular aspect which they were supernaturally skilled in.
Karn would scrape his knee or suffer a bruise, only for his body to mend itself mere minutes later, and he never seemed to suffer any rashes or blemishes.
Evette was extraordinarily fast, and had lightning swift reflexes, sometimes seeming to react to things before they could even occur.
Alys possessed an unnatural beauty, and there was no doubt she would grow up to be the heartthrob of the entire village. However… she had a dark secret, Mekellos revealed to him one day. There was great power inside her, mighty and unstable. She would be a threat to everyone around her, including her own siblings. But according to Mekellos, there was a way to stop it. The power was tied to her emotions, so if they subdued her emotion, they would subdue her power. It broke Konrad’s heart, but if it was necessary to protect his home, and the rest of his family… then so be it.
Then there was Brundt, who was always unnaturally strong, capable of hoisting large objects - even other children - above his head with ease. Yet his own strength scared him at times, so he became quiet and withdrawn. He had black hair like his mother. If not for his violet eyes, some might have accused her of adultery.
There could be no doubt that these four children, blessed and gifted as they were, were capable of great things.
Mekellos had never intended to stay.
It was never meant to remain in one place for a remarkably long period of time. A few years in one body, then a few years in another, learning a bit here and there, and spreading Cadien's teachings, before moving on. That had been its intended purpose. Yet it felt drawn to its first host, and the life he had built. It was reluctant to walk away.
But it had to, for eventually Cadien decreed it. So, three years after the birth of Brundt, the Spirit of Perfection reluctantly withdrew from Konrad.
Konrad had been distraught, barely eating, and never speaking to anyone - not even his own wife or children - for weeks. Although the village did not know of Mekellos's departure, they too became fearful, worrying that Cadien had abandoned them, or that Konrad had foreseen some great doom they were hopeless against.
Konrad snapped out of it, however. One morning he realized his perfect body was going to waste. Then he looked upon his crying children. And he realized he had been a fool. He may no longer had Mekellos's power, but he had the Spirit's wisdom, its gifts, and most importantly, his responsibilities. Although he no longer received Mekellos's guidance, he realized he no longer needed it, for he could recall it all by heart. And so, he threw himself back into the role of father and spiritual leader, and in good time too; the village chieftain died the next year, and Konrad as the natural replacement. He soon proved himself to be an effective leader.
Time passed. Konrad's children continued to grow. Karn was thirteen years old. Evette was eleven. Alys was nine. Brundt was eight.
From the door of the village longhouse, Konrad smiled while watching Karn and Brundt chase each other across the village, whilst Evette and Alys watched, talking and laughing amongst each other. And with his siblings by his side, none would surpass him... if they didn't go on to marry into and take control of nearby tribes, which was also a possibility. His wife was nearby. He smiled contentedly and wrapped an arm around her waist. He thought of his breakdown five years earlier, and was glad he had not squandered all that lay before him.
He thought back to the tales he had heard in the following weeks. Tales of a savage tribe, a thousand strong, butchering all in their path, and supposedly heading this way. Konrad prayed those rumours were false, and that if they weren’t, that these marauders would miss his village. The village’s life was the mine; they could not afford to simply get up and abandon it.
His family had heard these rumours too, and even if some of them were too young to truly understand the danger, they knew something terrible might be coming. Their evening meal later that night was quiet.
Konrad had taken precautions. He had doubled the gate guards and had scouts patrolling the woods. More weapons were forged, and more time was dedicated to training. An evacuation plan was devised, in case the worst came to pass and the village fell. He just hoped it would be enough.
It wasn’t.
The attack came in the afternoon, when most of the village workers were toiling in the mine or the fields.
They came from the woods. Hundreds of them. Clad in furs, wielding weapons of bronze and copper, and screaming savage battlecries. Their faces were painted with the designs of an unknown tribe. There had been patrols stationed in the woods, meant to give a pre-emptive warning. Their heads now adorned spears carried by warriors at the rear. The sentries atop the platform next to the south gate, half asleep, jolted to attention and shouted an alarm.
A few arrows flew from the platform, but they might as well have been loosed into the ocean, for all the good they did. One or two attackers fell, but none were deterred. They came to a stop just before the gate.
A robed figure stepped forth from the crowd, and lowered his hood, to reveal a pale face with dark hair. He made a series of gestures, followed by a pushing motion toward the gate. Then there was a great splintering sound, as the gate quite literally fell over.
The mage nodded to another warrior - a big brute of a man, with orange hair, a bushy beard, a crooked nose, and a scar across his cheek. He hefted an axe over his shoulder, which he pointed at the opening his spellcaster had just created. “Go forth, my warriors, and show no mercy!” he roared, before he began charging, with hundreds of angry men and women at his heels.
They spilled into the village like tide, rampaging inward. Some warriors split off to ransack houses, while the majority followed their leader toward the village center. There, the last of the village’s resistance awaited.
The attack had taken Konrad by surprise. There had been no time to don his armour. Now he stood in the village center, with fewer than two dozen fighters standing by his side, most of them old men. He gripped his sword more tightly, and glanced off to the east, where the village’s civilians fled toward the north gate, his family among them. The best he could do now was buy them enough time to reach the mine, where they could join with the workers and flee.
With grim determination, he turned to face his attackers, ready to receive their charge…
Only for the enemy leader to call his men to a halt. “I am Dalkar, of the Kolaris Tribe!” he shouted. “Who would you be?”
“Konrad, of Thyma Village!” Konrad shouted back. He did not know why these words were being exchanged now, but they seemed to be buying time.
Dalkar grinned. The buildings behind him were already beginning to catch fire. “In the name of the Five, I challenge you to single-combat!”
Konrad took a few moments to think the offer over. At face value it seemed to be disproportionately in his favour; there was no hope that his paltry group of defenders could successfully hold off the attack. If he faced this ‘Dalkar’ in single combat and won, not only would he deprive the raiders of their leader, but he would also both demoralize and delay them in one fell swoop. He would not win the battle, but the rest of his tribe would survive.
“I accept,” Konrad declared, wondering if there was some sort of trick but realizing he was doomed either way.
With weapons in hand, the two warriors strode forth to meet one another. Dalkar reared his axe back for a swing…
Karn was scared.
He had always wanted to be a warrior. To march into battle. To protect the innocent. To vanquish evil. He thought he would relish the day that he would one day be allowed to raise a spear in his village’s defense.
But now his village was under attack, and he was nothing more than a scared and frightened boy.
They were fleeing with the rest of the crowd, positioned near the front. Brundt and Alys each held one of their mother’s hands. Brundt and Alys’s other hands were held by Karn and Evette respectively. “What about father?” Brundt asked.
“Your father is keeping us safe,” their mother said, holding back tears. “Just… st-stay close to me. Keep moving.”
They were approaching the northern gate, where they would follow the road to the mine. A pair of guards hastily opened it just in time to let the refugees free, and they surged out onto the open road.
“NO!” Evette suddenly screamed, and just as she did, dozens of arrows flew forth from the forest to the east, striking the crowd in their flank. Their mother fell, an arrow lodged in her throat. The rest of the refugees panicked. Some turned and fled back into the village, only to be blocked by those still trying to get out, who were oblivious to the danger. Others decided to take their chances, and fled toward the woods to the west.
Alys broke free from Evette’s grip, and rushed back toward the village. Evette attempted to stop her, but the crowd suddenly got in her way. She was pushed left and right despite her best attempts to dodge, and she could see neither her mother nor her siblings anymore. Then someone seized her by the waist and attempted to flee west, perhaps trying to save her by taking her with them.
There were archers to the west as well.
The man fell, struck in the chest. Evette tumbled from his grip, rolling through the dirt. She rose to her feet, and looked west where she could now see the concealed archers. Then looked east, where the crowd still struggled, and there was no sign of her siblings. Gulping, the girl turned and continued running north. Many arrows flew her way, but somehow, she was able to dodge each one.
She could see the miners emerging, shouting frantic cries as they raised their shovels and pickaxes, rushing to the aid of the village. Evette wanted to have hope, but then she looked back at the carnage outside the gate, and the smoke beyond the wall, and she knew they would fail. Instead of seeking safety among her number, she broke off to the west - she had made it past the line of archers.
And just like that, Evette the Deft disappeared into the forest.
“Alys!” Karn shouted, seeing his younger sister flee toward the village. In that moment Brundt broke free from his own grip, and the younger boy crouched next to their wounded mother, still holding her hand. Tears formed in Karn’s eyes, but as more and more villagers fell to the arrows, he knew they could not stay. He grabbed his brother’s shoulder.
“Brun… we have to go…” Karn whispered.
No response.
“We have to go now, Brun!” Karn shouted, finding his voice.
Still nothing.
Karn tugged harder on Brundt’s shoulder, only to be shrugged off. Then, an arrow almost found its mark, grazing his arm. He could not stay.
He glanced back to the village. The crowd had thinned out significantly. He could make it… search for Alys, then find a way out. He hoped. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to his brother, before fleeing back through the gate.
When Alys’s mother had died, something had felt… off.
There was an odd sensation around her heart, and one of her eyes began to water. She could not explain it. She had not been injured, and as far as she knew, she was not sick. Then she heard the screams as more villagers died, and a new sensation appeared, accompanied by an urge to get out of there. So she gave in, shaking free of Evette’s grip and fleeing back into the village. She heard Karn call her name, and felt a new desire - to go back - but she ignored this one. All these conflicting feelings…
That was what they were. Feelings. The things other people experienced, but never her. Why was she suddenly experiencing them now?
Then the village’s main square came within sight…
“Taking too long…” Dalkar grunted as he and Konrad circled one another.
Konrad attempted a lunge, but Dalkar batted the blade aside, and swung out with his own weapon. Konrad narrowly avoided having his guts spilled as he leapt backward. Dalkar followed up with another swing, which Konrad dodged, before lashing out with his sword to score a shallow cut across the raid leader’s shoulder.
Dalkar staggered, and Konrad brought his blade back for another lunge, when suddenly…
“Father!”
It was Alys. Instinctively, Konrad’s head turned, and that was all Dalkar needed. The flat of Dalkar’s axe collided with Konrad’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Then the bandit leader raised it into the air and swung it down, striking Konrad between shoulder and neck.
Konrad, once a lowly coppersmith, later the Avatar of Cadien, and now a Chieftain, looked at his killer in astonishment. Then blood began to gurgle from his mouth. Dalkar gripped the axe more tightly, then gave Konrad a savage kick in the chest, ripping the axe out in the process. Konrad fell backward, his blood spilling out onto the dirt. The village militia who watched the fight gasped, broke, and ran.
Dalkar laughed.
“FATHER!” Alys shrieked.
Although Alys had not felt any emotion ever since Mekellos placed the binding on her, that did not mean the emotions were not there, buried under the surface. She had loved her family and feared death, even if she had never felt either of those things. And although the binding was strong, it was not foolproof, for Mekellos had never predicted such traumatic circumstances. Her mother’s death had been the first crack. Her father’s death was the last.
She screamed. Like a dam, the binding broke. All those years of suppressed emotion suddenly surged to the surface. And with those emotions came power.
The fire had consumed much of the village huts, and now, it turned on those who ignited it. They latched onto the raiders in the village streets like tendrils, ignited their furs and leathers, and sending them into fits of agony. It did not stop there, for the village’s inhabitants suffered the fiery wrath too, burning alive in their hiding places.
The hooded man, the same mage who had broken down the gate in the first place, rushed to his chieftain’s side. Calling upon his mastery over mana, he formed a barrier around him and his chieftain, shielding them both from the attack. Meanwhile, Alys continued to scream, and the warriors of the Kolaris Tribe continued to burn.
Karn had witnessed both his father’s death and his sister’s outburst with wide eyes, and could only stare in stunned silence. Finally, the boy composed himself. “Alys!” he called out, taking a step forward… only for a tendril of flame to lash at from a nearby building, setting his clothes alight. Karn screamed, ran, tripped, and fell into a nearby trough of water.
Eventually, the inferno ended.
The mage collapsed, gasping for breath, and Dalkar placed a concerned hand on his shoulder. Alys breathed heavily, in shock at what she had just done, but still in a state of deep confusion as new emotions - fear, despair, hatred - surged through her. The young girl looked at her father’s killer, whose protector was exhausted and spent, and in one final burst of rage attempted to finish him off. But no power came. Her arcane strength was spent.
So instead, a more practical emotion took hold. She turned and ran down a scorched alleyway.
And while all this had happened, Brundt had remained by his mother’s side, even after the life passed from her eyes. Even when he was the only living person still on the road. The miners, who had made a desperate charge to save the village, had either died or fled.
The archers emerged from the woods, and slowly surrounded him, but not with the intent to kill - they stared in awe at the destruction behind him. They remained like that for some time, not speaking a word or even appearing to notice the distraught boy, who in turn did not appear to notice them.
Finally, the flames died down, and Dalkar stepped out of the village, the mage leaning on him for support. “What… what happened…?” one of the archers asked in a fearful tone.
The mage coughed. “We have offended Evandra,” he whispered. “Quickly, we must give her a sacrifice. To make it right.”
Their eyes settled on Brundt. A few moments passed, then one of them seized the initiative and stepped forward to place their hands upon the boy.
That was the moment Brundt finally moved.
Rising to his feet, the child swung his fist up into the archer’s gut, doubling the larger man over. Two more archers came to grab him, only for Brundt to fend them off. Then more came, until finally Brundt was overpowered. Three different men carried him toward the village, and began shoving him toward a flame on one of the burning buildings.
He did his best to resist, but even with his divine strength, he was but a child, and there were too many. His face inched closer and closer to the flame, which began to sear and burn his cheek. Ironically, the boy began praying to the very goddess they intended to sacrifice him to, begging for mercy.
“Evandra, please accept our offering and forgive us for whatever offense we may have caused you,” the mage prayed behind them, as Brundt began to scream. The men pushing him smiled. To them, this was more an act of cruelty than piety. With a final push, Brundt fell into the fire…
Or at least he should’ve. Before he could hit the ground, the fires parted as if avoiding him. “What…?” The mage let the words out in surprise. The fires circled around Brundt and joined together in front of the men who had pushed him, making them back off in panic. The fire grew unnaturally into a large pillar and the men shielded their faces from the heat and the brightness. When they looked back the pillar had disappeared, in its place was left the shape of a woman the colour of fire. Her face was devoid of any features save a pair of white slits where the eyes should be, and they narrowed upon seeing the raiders.
“Evandra…” Dalkar whispered the name then he and the mage fell to their knees. The other men soon followed. “Goddess Evandra, forgive us for angering you! Please accept the boy as a sacrifice!”
“And why would I accept it? Of all the things you’ve done today, hurting this boy was by far the greatest afront to me. For he’s a child of Cadien, your progenitor.” Her voice boomed, but did not deafen.
Dalkar and the mage brought their heads to the ground. “We did not know, Goddess! Please forgive us!”
“I will pardon you lot this once out of your ignorance. But should you, or any of your men, lay a finger with malicious intent on any of His children…” She raised a finger towards Dalkar. “You. Will. Die.”
“Thank you… For showing mercy, Goddess…”
“Now leave this place. You already lost the Sun’s favor, you lot ill need make yet another God angry.” With those final words Evandra’s shade dissipated along with the fire that made it.
Then there was a silence, broken only by Brundt’s weak childlike sobbing and the collapse of the village’s few remainingh huts. No one dared move or say anything. Then, slowly, they began to filter out of the ruins, leaving the boy behind.
Clutching his ruined face, Brundt continued to weep. He began dragging himself along the ground, toward the gate. When he reached the corpse of his mother, he embraced her, lying in a pool of her dried blood. He wept some more. Then, slowly, he rose to his feet, and began to aimlessly stumble off in a random direction.
Back in the village, Karn’s eyes fluttered open. But he couldn’t breathe, for the smoke had been too thick. Taking to his feet, he began stumbling toward where he believed the gate should be, rasping and hacking all the way. When he finally made it free of the smoke, he saw Brundt stumbling away. He attempted to call out, but the lack of oxygen finally overtook him, and he instead collapsed onto the dirt.
Konrad settles into his new life as Mekellos’s host. Not much changes, with Mekellos content to just observe his everyday life and engage in philosophical conversation. In the meantime, the Avatar begins to make improvements to his body, which the rest of the village notices. They confront him, he claims to be Cadien’s avatar. Just as the priest is about to brand him a heretic, Cadien speaks into their minds and tells them to shut the hell up. Suddenly the priest is the heretic.
Anyhow, now that his “divine avatar host” status is public, Konrad quickly becomes the pillar of the community. He advises the chieftain, takes a wife, and has four children, who are all born with supernatural abilities.
There is Karn, who can regenerate from any beauty disfiguring wound. Evette, who has lightning-quick reflexes. Alys, who is supernaturally beautiful and secretly a witch (Mekellos placed a curse on her which dulled her emotion, and therefore suppressed her spellcasting capabilities.) Lastly, there is also Brundt, who is remarkably strong.
Eventually Mekellos has to leave though, because he’s only supposed to hang around with a mortal for a few years. So he does. Konrad is depressed but eventually gets over it, because he still gets to enjoy everything Mekellos left behind. He becomes the next Chieftain and is actually a decent leader.
Fast forward to about fifteen-ish years after Mekellos and Konrad first met. The village is under attack. Konrad attempts to hold the attackers off while the women, children, and elders get to safety. The leader of the raiders, Dalkar, challenges Konrad to single combat. Meanwhile, the civilians blunder into an ambush.
Konrad’s wife is killed. His children all narrowly survive. Evette flees into the woods. Brundt won’t leave his mother’s side. Alys runs back into town, and Karn follows her. Alys reaches the village center and accidentally distracts Konrad, getting him killed.
His death breaks her. Under the weight of all the emotion accumulated over that one night as well as the years since she was a toddler surge to the surface, along with all the magical abilities she had been suppressing. She lashes out with her power, turning the raiders into cinders, except for Dalkar and a mage who shielded him. Karn is also hit, but luckily he falls into a trough of water.
Her power exhausted, Alys is unable to finish off Dalkar, and runs away.
Not understanding what just happened, Dalkar and the mage assume the incident was in some way connected to the Goddess Evandra. Fearing that they angered her, they decide to sacrifice the first person they can find… which happened to be Brundt. They attempt to throw him into a fire, but then Evandra herself manifests in the flame (as an illusion) and saves him. It’s a very brief occurrence, she was being prayed to at the time, and it was thematic, so no might needs to be spent in this particular case.
She basically tells them that they are idiots; she had nothing to do with Alys’s power, and the kid they just tried to murder is technically Cadien’s son (sort of.) She says that if they attempt to harm one of Cadien’s children again, they will die. Then she leaves.
The post ends on a pretty depressing note. Konrad is dead, his wife is dead, his village is destroyed, and his children are scattered to the winds. You could say it is... tragic.
Cadien Beginning MP: 5 Beginning DP: 4 -1DP (discounted to 0) to grant Karn the “Regenerating Beauty I” title. -1DP (discounted to 0) to grant Karn the “Regenerating Beauty II” title. -1DP to grant Evette the title: “the Deft I.” -1DP to grant Evette the title: “the Deft II.” -1DP (discounted to 0) to grant Alys the title: “the Alluring I.” -1DP (discounted to 0) to grant Alys the title: “the Alluring II.” -1DP to grant Brundt the title: “the Strong I.” -1DP to grant Brundt the title: “the Enduring I.” -1MP to temporarily suppress Alys’s emotions, resulting in the village-destroying explosion. This is an extraordinary occurrence and is unlikely to be repeated without additional MP or Prestige expenditure. Ending MP: 4 Ending DP: 0
Evandra -1DP to curse the surviving members of the Kolaris Tribe so that they will burst into flames if they ever harm one of Cadien’s children.
Regenerative Beauty II - Karn can regenerate from any beauty-disfiguring wound within minutes. The Deft II - Evette has exceptional reflexes, with time seeming to slow down when they need to act quickly. The Alluring II - Alys has an enchanting beauty, capable of stopping people in their tracks even if they are not physically attracted to them. The Strong I - Brundt unnaturally strong, capable of performing impressive feats of strength beyond what any mundane human is capable of. The Enduring I - Brundt’s skin is unnaturally resilient and pain tolerant.
Konrad was the finest coppersmith in his village. Everything he made, he poured his heart and soul into.
He had just finished producing his latest work - a sword for his chieftain - when an unusual purple light filled his smithy, blinding him. A strange presence passed over him, invading his mind, and then his soul. It was not painful, but it was a jarring experience nonetheless. He dropped his hammer, slumped to his knees, and clutched his head, hoping it would end.
End it did, only a mere minute later. The blacksmith opened his eyes to see that his smithy had returned to normal. Confused at what just happened, he picked up his hammer, and slowly returned to his feet.
Hello! two chipper voices, one male and the other female, suddenly spoke in his head.
The shocked blacksmith jumped in his skin, and brandished the hammer as if it were a weapon. His eyes swept around the smithy, glancing for the intruder, but he was alone.
"Who is there?" he demanded.
I am Mekellos. Avatar of Cadien. I have chosen you to be my host. the voices said, no less enthusiastic.
"Cadien?" His eyes widened. "That... that's... I never thought... wait, host?"
Yep! Here goes!
The surging feeling returned, and he felt as if something was burrowing deep into his chest. Once more he fell to his needs. "What..." he gasped. "What is happenning!?" His life flashed before his eyes; his past, his achievements, his skills, his desires. Was he dying?
Then the sensation ended, and he felt raw power burning through his veins. A sense of confidence filled him. It was as if he could take on the world!
Then, new images flashed before his eyes. Images that were not his own. From a time long ago, in Galbar's early years, in the eyes of one of its oldest entities. Cadien.
His god.
And with those images, the God's wisdom was imparted on to him as well. He could take on the world. He could do just about anything he set out to achieve. But that didn't mean he should. Restraint was important. He had to use this power wisely and responsibly, and most importantly, he could never forget who had given him this power in the first place.
He opened his eyes, which turned purple. "I... I accept."
Mekellos finds its first host, a blacksmith named Konrad.
The God of Magic was hard at work, surrounded by mana that came and went as wisps which traveled up into the sky to watch the visions and probe them. He was holding orbs of silver light or dim golden pyramids in his hand while thousands symbols appeared and disappeared before him. This place was not Galbar, nor was it akin to his own realm. His powers here were muted. It was beyond a doubt a creation of Lifeblood. The God of Magic had already theorized that making a portal wouldn’t be too hard. After all, this coliseum seemed to have a special connection with his birth realm. Though two thousands years of working as a hermit gave him some odd traits.
“Damn Lifeblood can make a tear then I should be able to make some Lifeblood-damned portal to Galbar right?” He said, to no-one in particular except himself. “Shouldn’t be so hard. I just need to find the right anchor with the world and it should be fine. Yes, yes it should all be fine. In just a few more hours I’ll be back. Just a few more hours.”
“Talking to yourself, hm?” questioned a nearby voice. “You’re not the first to develop that habit, I suppose.”
For a moment Qael was pulled out of his concentration. The voice did not sound familiar. He turned to face Cadien. Only when the god of perfection pointed it out, did he realize that he was doing it. “Ah. I suppose when you’ve got nobody to really talk to, you make do.” He said. “I don’t believe we have met. Though I do think I’ve encountered some of your creations. If, indeed, you made them in your likeness. But let me introduce myself first: Qael’Naath. God of Magic.” He greeted, with a small but polite bow.
“Cadien, God of Perfection,” the white-haired god nodded back. “Still trying to get back to Galbar, I see?”
“Of course!” Qael’Naath exclaimed. “What else is there to do? Wait until we start tearing eachother apart like a pack of famished wild dogs?” He motioned to his other siblings. “Besides, I’m not done with Galbar. Not at all. It is far too interesting. Wouldn’t you want to go back either?”
“Oh, make no mistake, I do,” Cadien said with a shrug. “It’s just that, portals aren’t the way, I don’t think. Not for us. I don’t know if you’ve tried this, but apparently you can send things through the portal other than yourself. So it seems to me that portals aren’t the problem. We are.”
Qael struck an inquisitive look. No, he did not yet attempt to make a portal. He wanted more knowledge first. More understanding of it. He didn’t know if Lifeblood would punish him for it or not. Yet Cadien seemed to have more intimate knowledge on the subject. “I haven’t tried it. Not yet.” Qael said, slowly as he pondered over Cadien’s words. “How come you know this, brother?” He asked. There was only honest curiosity in his voice.
“My own experience, and the experiences of others,” Cadien shrugged. “We can still communicate with our followers, we can still give them the occasional blessing. One goddess told me a mortal was able to successfully pass from her realm into Galbar through a portal. So, the Lifeblood isn’t blocking our portals. It’s blocking us.”
“It’s only blocking what it can see is us,” a new voice said, startling the other two gods, “Sorry for interrupting, but I wanted to clarify. I’m Iternis,” the God of Journeys stuck out his hand in greeting as he continued, “And I spent pretty much the entire skip trying to break through the portals to Galbar, and I found a few things out, like how it has to be big for the Lifeblood to recognize it as a god…” He trailed off before clarifying, “I could send pebbles through and even single strands of my hair, but if it reeked too much of my own godly energy, that's when the portals reject it…”
“Well, yes,” Cadien nodded. “I’m not really sure if the Lifeblood can see, though. Maybe sense would be more accurate. But the thing is, whatever word you use, it always knows when we try to enter Galbar ourselves. And either it doesn’t notice, or it doesn’t care, when we interact with Galbar indirectly. But what if I told you there might be a way to directly indirectly interact with Galbar?”
“Are you suggesting something like....” Iternis paused, gears turning in his brain, “A Proxy? Like we use one of the creations we made before the banishment to do out work for us? If we do that, we’d just be advisors helping someone else do all the fun stuff, not doing it ourselves.”
“Mmm, yes, that is true. But it’s better than nothing, I think,” Cadien said. “Remember that goddess I mentioned? The mortal she… sent… to Galbar, she had given a portion of her own soul. He had opened the portal on his own initiative, and successfully passed through.”
“She had a mortal?” Iternis bit his thumb in thought, “Do you know if she made it in her isolation? She probably did, but if she didn’t, if she had a mortal that was from Galbar in the first place… and he passed through the portal no problem? It’s a long shot but... did anyone manage to bring parts of Galbar with them?”
“I didn’t. I couldn’t. But you could throw bits of your own hair through.” Qael pointed out. “And clearly this goddess could send a mortal imbued with a portion of her soul through the portal as well.” Subconsciously he began to touch the scar that was still on his chest. “This is progress. Dangerous progress. I have some experience with taking a part of yourself. Though in my case it birthed a goddess of pure, malevolent chaos. It is very dangerous to do so. Still, it seems like a way forward.”
“You say she was an entire new goddess?” Iternis was a little taken aback but quickly latched onto the idea, “But if that mortal didn’t become a god when our sister gave him part of her soul… Either way, that proves that we can make distinct beings from parts of ourselves. Would it be possible to make something just distinct enough that it still is part of you but the Lifeblood doesn’t recognize it?”
“That is exactly what I was hinting at, yes,” Cadien nodded. “According to this goddess, that mortal is now capable of performing divine feats as well. If she told it truly, then all we need to do is send a portion of our soul to Galbar, in a mobile form, and they can perform actions on our behalf.”
“Then I suggest we begin our experiment.” Qael said. Emboldened by the knowledge Cadian and Iternis had offered him. The probing wisps of mana quickly gathered themselves again a few feet away from him. Creating a mass of the magical substance. With his mind he envisioned Galbar and linked the mana to it. It began to push against the reality of the coliseum in an attempt to open up a portal. But the resilience was fierce. It felt like he was hitting a massive wall again and again. The large orb of mana shook. It’s surface rippled a few times. Then Qael let out a sigh. “It would seem Lifeblood prefers not to have any mortals to Galbar from here. Perhaps we would have more success in one of our own realms?” The orb of mana dissipated.
“Whose portal is the closest?” Iternis asked, looking around, "I seem to have already forgotten which one’s mine so I think my realm is off the table…”
“Well, mine seems to be right over there,” Cadien said, gesturing to his own portal.
"Hey Cadien!" A summer voice buzzed alongside a long pull from a flute. Illyd Dyll walked up with a flute in his mouth, "I found a flute." His "f"'s were punctuated by tiny chirps from the flute.
“Hmm?” Cadien turned to regard the new god. “Oh. Uh… that’s good for you, I suppose.” He then looked to Iternis and Qael. “We’d best be heading to my realm then. You might as well come too,” he nodded to Illyd.
"Sure!" Illyd said through a flute note.
And on that note, Cadien led his three fellow gods through the portal. They stepped out onto the cobbled pathway of his realm. “Welcome to Meliorem!” he declared, having just thought of the name on the spot, but it seemed right.
Qael’Naath stepped through the portal to witness the greatness that Cadien called Meliorem. Even though it was a singular location, he was impressed. The place looked gorgeous. “A fine place.” Noted, as he followed his siblings along the cobblestone path. Though the complete lack of anything magical made Qael feel a bit uneasy. Iternis, looked around the realm and was mildly impressed, but made no comments. Illyd, on the other hand, was giving supportive "oo"s and "ah"s.
Cadien led them along the stone path and up toward the black walls of his fortress, passing through the formidable gatehouse and into the serene courtyard. “Well, I suppose this is as good a place as any to begin,” the God said.
“Agreed.” The god of magic said. Mana flowed from his outstretched arm and concentrated itself into a large, multicolored orb. It was significantly easier here to create the portal towards Galbar. Almost instantly he had broken through the barriers of reality. The colors began to pull back towards the edges of the orb. Revealing the green plains of the Garden.
“Mmm. No, not there.” Cadien snapped his fingers, and at once, Qael’s powers were overruled, and the portal closed. “Please ask permission before you do that, next time. Anyhow, I think we should create the representative before we open the portal. So… alright, here it goes.”
The God focused. Gibbou had granted a mortal a portion of her soul in order to enhance its lifespan. There were no mortals to be had, and although he could easily create one, his thoughts once again turned to the question of loyalty. Even if he made a mortal that was unquestioningly loyal to him, what if its experience with Galbar, or with other gods, broke that loyalty down? Cadien had listened to countless prayers, and he knew that even the most stubborn or determined mortals could change over time.
Then he had an idea. Must his soul be bound to one specific mortal? And must that mortal be in his sphere to be imbued with a portion of his power? Perhaps he could…
Concentrating, the god extended his arms, and focused, as he attempted to draw a tiny fragment of his soul out from his body. He felt a subtle tearing situation from within. Not quite painful, but mildly uncomfortable at the very least. Then, a tiny purple crystal materialized between his palms.
A piece of his soul.
Then, more energy flowed from his palms, coalescing around the crystal, and encasing it in a large glowing ball of purple light. Then Cadien lowered his hands, and the orb of energy began to rapidly dart around the courtyard, as if taking in its surroundings, before once more returning to its place in front of Cadien.
“What am I?” the ball of energy questioned.
“You are me. Part of me, anyway.” Cadien answered. “I am Cadien. I am your master, and I will call you Mekellos.”
“What is my purpose, master?” Mekellos asked next.
[color=violet]“Your purpose is to serve as my representative. To go where I cannot, and carry out my will. You have a part of my soul, and thus, part of my power.” He reached another hand out, this time to touch the orb directly. “I am giving you knowledge of my memories and my own purpose.” Then, he waved his other hand, and a portal appeared - this one leading to the Highlands. “Now go. Find a mortal. Bond yourself to them. Learn their ways. And spread my message. I will be watching.”
“Yes, master!” Mekellos dutifully responded, and then zipped through the portal. The Lifeblood did not resist.
Cadien’s eyes widened. “It… it actually worked.”
Qael’Naath wasn’t about to risk his powers with a simple mortal. Not even one of his own creations. No, whatever he made could have no agency of its own. No personality. Not even a mind of its own! The most it could be is an extension of himself. A creation so chained to him that it could never have a free will, like Qullqiya has. He quite intently watched Cadien create his proxy. Though privately questioned his choice for something that clearly had at least at some level a will of its own. He didn’t like the fact that it could ask questions. But then the big moment came. When Mekellos zipped towards the portal. Qael, secretly, had a magical ward ready to be cast. Whether or not Cadien would dislike it or not. He wasn’t about to be caught in the wrath of Lifeblood. Yet to his surprise, the orb just zipped straight through the portal.
A strange warmth flourished in Qael’s chest. Filling a void he knew he had but didn’t know just how empty it had made him. He felt hope. Hope that at least in some capacity he could return. “It… did.” He said, equally as stunned as Cadien. Though his shock was quickly replaced with curious excitement.
He reached with his hand towards his chest. The scar was still there, and he used to draw out a part of himself. Slowly he pulled it out, making sure not to create another goddess. He took the littlest bit he could. The tiniest fraction of himself. It was a completely invisible creation. Even though it floated in his hand, he could feel it, see through it. As if he was holding himself in his hand. Yes, it was perfect. An extension of himself. He took a deep breath to steel himself. Hoping it would work. The creation was small, yes, but still very tethered to him. He hoped it would not complicate things as he tossed it into the portal.
For a moment his connection with the gaseous form weakened. But as it appeared in Galbar’s sky, the mana rushed towards it. Creating waves of rainbow colors around his proxy. More importantly to Qael, however, was the fact that he could see and hear everything clearly. As if he gained another set of eyes and ears. For perhaps the first time in more than two millennia, he laughed. It was a cheerful laugh, though perhaps a little unhinged as well. “It works. It works!”
“This is big,” Iternis murmured as he took a few steps back, eventually sitting down to think, “There are so many possibilities it’s all been opened back up…”
Iternis ran his hands through his hair as his gaze shifted to an unseeing stare. He murmured to himself for a while, but eventually stood up with a frustrated sigh.
“This is too much, I need to think more before I act, we may only have one shot at this,” He declared as he started to head back to the portal to Antiquity,
““But first thing’s first, we need to tell everyone else about this! We can finally return to Galbar!”
“Go on, tell them,” Cadien nodded with a smile on his face. [color=violet"I want to try," Illyd Dyll nodded eagerly, eyes fixed on the existing avatars. He pulled the flute ]“I will stay here and monitor my… avatar’s… progress. Yes, avatar. That’s a good word.”[/color]
"Hey, let me try!" Illyd Dyll popped the flute from his mouth and snapped it over his knee. With little else, he tossed one half idly into the air.
Without much fuss or warning, a hand identical to Illyd Dyll's grabbed it from the sky. In fact everything about the figure now holding the flute was identical to Illyd Dyll. A big smile formed on both Illyd Dylls' faces and they blew a single echoing note from each flute at each other.
"Well this is just a grand... Fun," Illyd Dyll summarized.
"It sure as summer is!" The other answered back.
“This is getting out of hand. Now there are two of them…” Cadien whispered, then cleared his throat. “Anyhow, best send him to Galbar then. Before this gets confusing.”
"Off ye go," Illyd Dyll waved his hand. The other Illyd Dyll waved back.
"See ye guys later!"
There was a small shared giggle between the two before the avatar disappeared through the portal. Illyd Dyll put his hands on his hips, "I'm gonna miss 'em."
“Well, that’s that, then.” Cadien said. “After two thousand years of isolation, not only have we reunited with the other gods, but our influence can now be felt directly on Galbar again. Yes, this has been a very productive day. Anyhow, yes, the other gods deserve to know too.”
“Makes sense to me!” Illyd supported.
Qael is talking to himself as he ponders ways to get back to Galbar. Cadien overhears him and strikes up a conversation. Iternis overhears and decides to join in as well. They share what they know about the Lifeblood and how it is keeping them trapped in their realms. Then Cadien reveals that there might be away around it, and reveals what Gibbou told him. The other two agree that there is merit in the idea.
Then Illyd appears and rejoins Cadien. The four head over to Cadien’s realm. Cadien, Qael, and Iternis make their own avatars, then send them to Galbar, while Iternis decides to hold off until later, but they all agree to go tell the other gods.
Avatars can now be made, provided one of the gods who knows about it actually tells you how.
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