Lovejoy

The Last Embers (No longer accepting characters)

EDIT: Thank you all for sending in Character Sheets! Unfortunately we've reached the limit for new characters and won't be accepting any more. Thanks again!

Hello!

I'm Lovejoy, GM for The Last Embers, an RP that's been running for the past two years here on RPGuild. We are currently a smaller group of writers who've created a very deep story that is now entering a new phase and have recently decided to open up the RP to new players. The Last Embers is an advanced RP with deep player-created lore and a focus on worldbuilding and characterization, but we are very casual in how we approach this. As a GM I value improvisation and player input, and one of my favorite aspects of running RPs is working with players to create cool and memorable storylines for their characters, meaning that I am willing to give a lot of trust to folks in letting them create what they want (as long as it makes sense for the story of course).

Since this RP has been going on for a while, the OOC has grown quite large. The opening post is pretty substantial, and many events have occurred in the story (too many to recap all at once). I wont expect new players to read everything in the OOC if they don't wish to, but I will gladly bring you up to speed on the more important aspects of the story.

Anyway, here is some info about the world of the RP itself and the characters you will be playing as.

***

The Last Embers takes place in a dark steampunk world that has been frozen in a magical ice age for untold eons. Seeking shelter from the unnatural cold, people in this world live within massive steam cities that exist under the thrall and protection of living gods who walk among humanity and rule over their flock like kings. These gods are all-powerful and are in constant war with one another, with their faithful adherents doing the fighting for them. Their worshipers wage war for them without scruple or complaint, for in the minds and hearts of the people, they owe their existence and survival to the gods themselves.

The story begins on the western continent, where the god-king Varya rules over the titanic steam city of Magnagrad. For the past two hundred years, the Varyan Empire, a monstrous nation of blood, iron and blackened snow, has conquered the entire continent and has imprisoned the gods of rival kingdoms and assimilated their flock into Varyan society. Having the entirety of the western continent conquered, Lord Varya now turns his armies to the east, where across the frozen oceans lies the mythical continent of El, unseen and untouched by western eyes.

We will be playing as a group of young Varyan inquisitors, or war priests, who've been sent on a missionary expedition to the mysterious continent of El, where they are to learn of the Gods who are worshiped there and if possible, convert the natives to the light of Varya.

Our characters, a group of recently ordained inquisitors, are powerful but inexperienced. They are barely out of their teens and are being given command of two powerful steam arks as well as a large force of common soldiers and support personnel to aid them on their mission.

Our group have known each other since childhood, and have bled and endured together through their years at the Red Seminary, the holy academy where the inquisitors of the Varyan Empire are trained.

Through their years together, they have formed bonds and rivalries. Some of you may see each other as trusted friends, hated enemies, or even lovers. Nothing is off limits.

Our characters are going to be priests, but they can have whatever kind of background and personality you want. They can come from noble houses, lived as orphans, former slaves, ect. They could be anything from mad zealots who would kill for their gods without question to conflicted individuals quietly wrestling with their faith. Remember, these will be young adults, so just because they're priests doesn't mean that they have to conform to what you typically think priests are like. They're human beings first, and should have their own specific character quirks.

Your story begins weeks into the expedition, as you and your companions find yourselves stranded on the ice after your ship is attacked. You have been surviving for weeks and your supplies are running low, but there on the horizon, you spot the lights of a distant ship heading in your direction...

VISUAL REFERENCES

Hider

***
Below is a link to the OOC if you want to jump in and read more info on the world (you can ignore the zeroth post). We mostly communicate through discord now, which is why the OOC appears a bit empty at the end. If you have any questions, let me know!

OOC: roleplayerguild.com/topics/167756-the…

Thanks for reading! :)

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

The Frontier, Day 3

---

***

"In that land there’s a winter."

We tell this to our children, to teach them of the cold in between the continents, to scare them into behaving, to warn them of what happens when Varya’s light leaves you. But thus far, here on the third day of our journey, miles removed from the continental aegis, the so-called frontier has proven more a gentle Muraadan midsummer than the black storms of legend. The arks that ferry us across the frontier, I can scarcely believe they exist. The ships that we squeezed into like rats, those deathtraps that carried so many of my comrades to the spears of the Lanostrans across the Bleeding Sea would have never survived this cold. Truly the marvels of T’sarae are miraculous indeed.

The crew, and the blackcoats themselves, seem perturbed by our surprise guests. The Dominion, her young nun, and the newspaper man are all liabilities, but if sending non-combatants to certain death is what the halos desire, then I won’t raise a fuss. My orders were to provide support for the blackcoats on their mission across El. Nothing more.

I am tired. I wish for this foolishness to be done.

Tomorrow the Karamzina and Grace shall reach the Narrow Gates. Beyond that the Meridian, where the skies grow darker.

I suppose things haven’t changed since Lanostre. A different shore and yet the same fate awaits so many of us.

- Three weeks before the calamity,
From the recovered logs of Commander Zoya Kiriyev

***

He had taken to coming up to the tower during his off-duty hours to gaze at the sprawling white before him. In the hazy distance a stretching wall of blue glaciers lined the horizon, and if Ilya focused hard enough, he could convince himself that he could in fact spot a long thin cliff cutting right down the middle of the icewall. There, in the place between the twin ice shelves, eternally shearing against one another in a brutal embrace, lay the Narrow Gates, the only existing passage to the East.

A broad smile filled Ilya’s face. The same smile he wore every time he climbed the tower deck to gaze out at the approaching glacier wall. Tomorrow would be the day. Upon crossing the gates, a new world awaited him.

Them, a voice reminded him from somewhere deep in his subconscious.

Oren and Viveca. They are here with you too. Along with everyone else. The ones who didn’t matter.

You are not alone.

His mood souring, Ilya cast his eyes downward to the mid deck of the Karamzina, where a score of soldiers and sailors were working on preparing the ark for tomorrow’s journey through the glacier wall. There were so many of them. Fifty, he remembered. This should be my journey, he told himself. I was born to pierce the veil. To break through the Meridian. To be the first to do it. It was all he had thought about as a child. It was what drove him through the long years at the Seminary. And now there he was, at the cusp of his great odyssey, burdened with the lives of his beloved warsiblings, and those he could care less about. Not only that, but the First Armada had beat him to the punch.

“Ah, there you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” a voice rang out from behind him.

Ilya turned and saw Father Ragnar along with that annoying reporter standing beside him. Ragnar was irritating at most times, but there he was, that bloodsucking leech from the Chronicle like a lost puppy standing behind his coat, eager for whatever scraps he could get. The short, bloated sack of a man had somehow been allowed to be embedded into the expedition by the clerical branch. He had spent the past three days pestering everyone onboard the Karamzina, desperate for whatever drivel he could spew on the pages of his stupid newspaper.

“Lord Bjornley—” the man began, holding a pen and notepad.

“Not a lord anymore. Also not in the mood to talk,” Ilya interrupted, turning away from them.

“Please, would you let him ask you a few questions?” Ragnar pleaded. He was holding a wrinkled newspaper. Ilya sighed and turned to the young Phoenix Protector. Ragnar’s face was paler than usual and the hollows of his eyes were a wine red. Had he been crying or something?

Suddenly, it flashed in his mind again. He’d been trying to ignore it, but there it was, as clear as it was during Culmination. He and Ragnar standing alone on the abandoned deck, the paling gone, the cold breaking him apart from within. And above all, the living darkness breathing down on them.

Ilya narrowed his eyes and leaned in closer.

“Something wrong with you, kid? You don’t look too—”

“Yes, something is wrong. I know you’re not fond of it, but take a look at this,” Ragnar answered, frowning. He handed Ilya the newspaper.

Ilya paid little attention to the Chronicle. On most days it was filled with salacious headlines trying to smear his family, on other days it championed other inquisitors that weren’t him. If he had to see Lior Lightningsong’s stupid face one more time-- What he saw on the front page made him smirk. This must be what everyone is talking about, Ilya thought. His gaze turned toward Ragnar and he saw the young man looking on in annoyance, waiting impatiently for Ilya to get on with with reading the front cover.

Ilya sighed and scanned the front page. The paper was from three days ago and printed on its cover was a photograph of Mother Tatiana in full inquisitor’s regalia, probably taken at the Rising Ceremony. Above the photograph in bold text the headline read “ROGUE INQUISITOR SLAYS VARYAN PEACEKEEPERS”.

“This is going to ruin her. It’s going to ruin us,” Ragnar said despairingly, ripping the newspaper from Ilya’s hands and quickly tearing it up. The newspaper man, a short stocky fellow with a thick black mustache, raised a quivering pen in protest but thought better of it.

“Us? What is us?” Ilya asked, watching the pieces of torn paper floating off in the wind.

“Our warband!” Ragnar replied in a confused tone.

“Last time I checked I was in Leviathan.”

“You are. But you, Oren and Viveca are part of our family now. And now the empire thinks we’re all tied up together in this… whatever this is. Tatiana doesn’t want to talk about it. Not even to me or Galahad. We need to get the public on our side, like they were before. Mr. Ovinski is writing a profile on Warband Phoenix as part of a larger piece and I think it would really help our image if—”

“Listen here, little squirell,” Ilya interrupted as he leaned forward, towering over the shorter inquisitor. His winter blue eyes stared into Ragnar’s own.

“Oren, Viv and I are only here because your psycho of a lancer has proven herself a liability and you need the backup should she have another accident. We are not Phoenix. We are Leviathan. Unlike you lot, we know what we are and we’re sure as hell not your “family”, so don’t try to rope us into your bullshit drama.”

Ilya walked past the young protector and began climbing down the stairs of the tower.

“Also, do your warband a favor and stop focusing on what happens back home. None of it matters anymore, only El. Now, come on, we’re going to be late for the commander’s briefing.”

Ragnar stood silently on the tower deck, his hands still gripping at the torn fragments of the newspaper. Ovinski the reporter stared at him, unsure of what to say. Finally, he patted the young inquisitor’s shoulder reassuringly and left him there alone.

***

“Where the hell have you been?” Ilya asked Dmitri once he reached the doors of Commander Kiriyev’s warroom. The Omestrian had served Ilya’s family since the inquisitor’s birth and had sworn himself to Ilya as a child. He had joined the SA, enduring the rigors of its military academy to be able to serve Father Ilya adequately as part of his military staff. He was as loyal a servant as there would ever be, and thus Ilya wondered why Dmitri had been missing for the past three days.

“The Grace, Master Ilya. The Commander has transferred fifteen men to the ark. I was one of them.”

“How dare she? I made it quite clear to her that you are mine. She doesn’t get to order you around.”

Ilya was already annoyed, and this was making it worse. Kiriyev was a war hero, a veteran of a hundred battles in Lanostre, and the commander of the SA attachment, but she had no right to give orders to his personal staff. He would have to give her a stern talking to—

“Bjornley, is that you out there? Get in here, you’re late!” he heard Father Hassan shout from within the room. The doors were slightly ajar, and when Ilya opened them, he saw that everyone of importance was already within, save for himself and Ragnar.

Smiling his carefree grin, he glided into the room and took his seat on the large rectangular wooden table in the middle of the room. Astraea was sat next to him and regarded Ilya with an unamused look.

“Where were you, boychik? Looking for your missing manservant?” Hassan asked with a laugh.

Ilya was about to respond when Lieutenant Dragonov asked where Father Ragnar was. The lieutenant had had to endure Hassan and Ilya’s bickering for the past three days and was nowhere near suffering any of it. He was a standing at the right hand of Commander Kiriyev, who sat at the head of the table looking over a stack of documents and a large map. She was so focused on the map that she didn’t seem to notice anyone else in the room.

“Sorry! Sorry! I’m here,” Ragnar cried out as he jogged into the warroom. “One of the pups got out of my room,” he said before taking a seat next to Ziotea.

“Good. We can begin,” Dragonov stated, his voice measured despite his obvious annoyance. He was as tall as Ilya, and just as quintessentially Varyan. He had a thin but powerful frame, a warrior’s set of shoulders, and wore his dark red officer’s uniform as though he had never taken it off. Indeed, it appeared as though Dragonov would be comfortable dying in his uniform, and even more at peace with being buried in it. His half-lidded eyes, greyer than most Varyans, turned to Kiriyev, a sign that he had ceded the floor to her.

The commander cleared her throat and rose from her seat. She silently picked up the large map and hung it on the blank wall behind her. That she would do this herself instead of ordering someone else to do it was curious, Ilya thought.

She was a woman in her middle-age, clad in a loose-fitting and brazenly sloppily grey uniform with crimson accents. Her sleeves were rolled up, revealing a pair of mechanical arms that hissed and squealed silently whenever she moved them. Her hair was curly and black, barely held together in a loose bun. Her skin was a deep bronze and her eyes were a violet so severe they almost appeared red. Ilya had heard tales of people with her coloring before. If rumors could be believed, the commander was a descendant of the Nastrondr, the long dead Muraadan clan of dragonriders who were among the first to be wiped out in the northern invasions.

“Tomorrow we reach the Narrow Gates, the only known open pathway to the east. It has been the empire’s policy to sugarcoat the Gates as a relatively safe journey through an icy corridor and then, the frontier awaits with open arms. It is a lie. Painting the Gates as a simple, straightforward obstacle is good for the recruitment drives of the secular army and imperial armada, but the truth of the matter is that we could all very well perish tomorrow.”

At that moment, a wave of worried murmurs spread throughout the room, mostly from the back of the table where the heads of the engineering corps and some of the lower-ranked soldiers sat. Ilya remained all smiles however, and despite how annoyed he was at the commander for her removal of Dmitri from the Karamzina, he appreciated how straightforward Kiriyev was being with her staff.

“This first step of our journey will be a difficult one, and we must all prepare for whatever may come. The Gates are treacherous by themselves, but there are reports of… other unforeseen obstacles as well.”

It was then that Kiriyev looked to the far end of the room, where there sat a somewhat elderly blonde woman wearing an absurd ballroom gown colored white and crimson, the colors of the divine clerical branch. The woman smiled broadly, her teeth catching the light of the room. Ilya groaned.

Mother Yonah Levshin, the Sixth Dominion of T’sarae, stood from her chair with all the grace a woman of her standing demanded. She appeared much younger than whatever age she was, but some of the wrinkles on her face were still faintly visible (a result of countless magical alterations, Ilya theorized) and as she got up and walked to the front of the room with a young nun in tow holding the train of her gown, she smiled and nodded at each of the inquisitors as she passed them by, greeting them each by name.

“Darling Ilya, how good it is to see you from out behind your mother’s skirts,” she said to him in a voice so high and lilting that everyone in the room could hear. Astraea chuckled next to him and he flashed her a scathing look. By the time he turned back to Mother Yonah she was already at the head of the room.

“Dear me, how many fresh faces,” she said with a pearly white smile, gazing out at warbands Phoenix and Leviathan. Most of them had never met this strange garishly dressed woman before, but they had surely heard of her. The Sixth Dominion of the clerical branch, Mother Yonah, had until very recently been the appointed governor of T’sarae for the past twenty years. In her youth she had been the first Varyan to attend and graduate from the MUSE academy and in the proceeding years had helped expand the vaunted hall of learning into what it is today. If the rumors could be believed, Mother Yonah was the foremost expert on the fields of ethereal research and development in the empire today. It was all very impressive, Ilya thought, but why had she chosen to be a part of their mission? If she wanted to go to El, why not join the First Armada instead?

“As our stalwart commander mentioned, tomorrow’s journey will be anything but a ride down the Skyway. The corridor beyond the Gates, or what we call the Meridian, is a long and twisting trail which snakes in between the two glaciers. Some of my former colleagues in the academy believe the splitting of the glaciers to have been caused by an errant blow during an earlier clash between two or more of our Gods. My money’s on Lanostre’s lance, but I digress. The bright season causes the ice that builds up in the Meridian to crumble and melt somehow, thus allowing us passage. However! The warming temperature causes the two glaciers to break free and shift around as well, and as a result, our two tiny arks will be forced to maneuver through a shifting narrow corridor where the walls can easily crush us.”

Kiriyev pointed to the map, which showed an illustration of the Meridian, a thin line twisting and turning chaotically in-between two massive glaciers. Ilya leaned in closer in his chair and noticed a large number of smaller black circles dotted along the length of the corridor. One of the circles, at the forefront, was the largest.

“This is the First Armada. Twenty-three arks in all. At its head is the Ravenous, the fleet’s grand flagship, larger than any ark under the empire’s banner. It appears there was some manner of miscalculation, and the Ravenous could not adequately fit within the Meridian, thus the Church saw it fit to allow the use of its ether torches to carve a way forward. This resulted in a weakening of the corridor walls, and massive chunks of ice began to fall on the arks beneath it. Word from up high is the Armada lost three of the smaller arks to the ice. ”

“Those brutes,” Mother Yonah interjected. “The Meridian is a delicate operation. We mustn’t repeat their mistake. The Karamzina is one of the larger arks within the empire’s fleet, and thus we must navigate through the corridor as carefully as we can.”

Kiriyev then placed another large document over the map. On it was a depiction of a strange fanged creature with a model of what appeared to be an adult man next to it.

“There was… also word about strange creatures prowling within the ice. They attacked one of the arks and an unknown number of crew members lost their lives trying to fight them off. There are rumors that an inquisitor might be one of the casualties. We’ve not had any confirmation on this, but we should take adequate precautions all the same.”

“Who was it?” Ragnar asked suddenly.

“We don’t know.”

“Hm.” Ragnar’s leaned back in his chair, growing silent.

“Those things tore through the paling and the armor of an ark. And also possibly killed an inquisitor… This will be fun,” Hassan mused out loud, his face a mask of seriousness. It was weird not seeing him with that stupid grin on his face, Ilya realized.

“If we need to fight those things, we can’t use any powerful ether. Not if we don’t want to damage the corridor walls and have giant pieces of ice falling on us,” Astraea said, eyeing the rest of her warband.

“Any ideas on how we can all make it out of this alive?” she asked her warsiblings, stretching out the fingers of her repaired hand.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Sareffi-Astra Royal Palace, the City of Cero, T'Sarae

---

Ragnar rested his hand on Astraea's lower back as they walked through the open threshold and out into the empty balcony. He felt silly trying to steady her as she stepped unevenly on the decorated tiles-- After all, Astraea was a R'heon, a hunter of demons. But like him, she was young and scarcely removed from the shadows of the Seminary. Ragnar wagered they were all inexperienced when it came to drinking, and he was worried she might have overdone it.

"Careful," he urged her nervously. She shot an incredulous look at him, equal parts threatening and bemused.

"You are not my milkmaid, Ragnar," she warned him with a dangerous smile.

He grinned in response and brushed a hand over his shaved scalp, a nervous habit of his. Behind him, the three wolf pups sat on their haunches watching Astraea intently. They were always nuzzling up against his legs or playing with each other. Ragnar found their silence unnerving.

Astraea leaned against the balcony's edge, gazing out at the abandoned royal gardens sprawling out beneath her. Ragnar joined her, gripping the stone railing of the balcony with pale, trembling fingers. The gardens were like something out of a dream. He had never seen so much green before, so much "nature". A hedge maze extended outward to the edge of a high cliff and past it Ragnar and Astraea were afforded an unobstructed view of the eastern sea and the frontier that awaited them. Out there the frozen water appeared like a black mirror, reflecting the aurora of celestial light cast off from the crystal aegis that hung over the city. Above them, the night sky was awash with stars.

The beauty of it was paralyzing. That such a place could exist in this world, it made Ragnar's heart ache with sadness and spite. This world didn't deserve such beauty, he thought to himself.

A loud boom came from somewhere far to the east. It was so loud and resonant that the Protector could feel it crash against his chest. As the ringing in his ears began to subside, he caught sight of it; a flash of piercing violet light shining from beyond the swirling mist that curtained the eastern horizon.

Aethereal lightning.

Antonin had explained it to them along ago. Great manifestations of chaotic ether with the capacity to gouge impossible mile-long craters into the ice. The fact that they could see and hear it from this far away made Ragnar's heart weak.

Astraea on the other hand, was grinning.

"Incredible," she whispered. The lighting strike had seemingly sobered her up, for her emerald eyes were now alight with determination.

With all he could, Ragnar tried to avert his gaze. He could not face it. The waiting storms, that darkness to the east where the countless stars in the T'saraen sky seemed to suddenly vanish. His skin turning cold, he gripped the frigid stone railing tightly, trying to find some impossible warmth in whatever he could.

This was a mistake.

The words echoed in his mind as his heart began to race.

They were not ready for this. Warband Phoenix was just a few months removed from Culmination. They were being rushed out into the thick of things. And the Karamzina... It was meant to be Mother Indira's... Now it was theirs... Was something wrong with it? Creid, Antonin, Indira... They seemed caught unawares by their assignment to join the invasion armada... The three of them were the very best teachers in all the empire, those who would shape the future of the inquisition... Why send them?... Why was everything happening so suddenly? Were Warband Phoenix being sent out out to die? Was *he* being sent out to die?

Varya sees. Varya hears. Varya knows.

Did the Ravenous Lord know...

... about him and his myriad sins?

The paling within him cracked, and out began to seep the hidden things. Father Ragnar, protector of Warband Phoenix, began to choke.

A firm hand gripped his shoulder. A distant voice called out to him. Ragnar stood silent, breathing as fast as possible. A thousand tragedies unfolded in his mind. All of them would be his fault. All of them his punishment.

"Ragnar," the voice repeated, this time loud enough that it seemed to pull him from the darkness. He seemed to jolt awake then, and when he turned to face Astraea she looked down on him with what appeared to be annoyance.

"Get it together," she told him.

Ragnar took a deep breath, and found that he couldn't. His lungs seemed to be made from stone. But he stood straight as an arrow all the same, trying to emulate Stina's resolute insistence on standing proud after the Great Bear's cruel attacks on the training yard. Like he always did, the young Muraadan forced the troubles within him deep into the darkness, and attempted to smile.

"I'll be alright. I've just..."

"Whatever it is you're going through, you need to conquer it," she said before he could finish. It was spoken without emotion, as if it was an order she would give a soldier out on the field. As if it wasn't something he hadn't been fighting his entire life.

"I'm fine," he said, the smile on his face as genuine as he could make it. "It's just... I'm a bit worried. It's our first mission, after all."

Astraea regarded him with a curious look before turning away and looking down at the garden, where Ziotea and Rodion had just emerged from one of the entrances of the hedge maze.

"You're our Protector. We need you to be resolute and calm. If you lose it out there, even for just a second, people will die. The paling needs to hold."

"It will hold," Ragnar responded, trying to sound casual and non-plussed about it. He looked down at Ziotea and her companion, who was pointing outward at the horizon, where the flash had colored a small patch of sky.

"After all, can't let anything happen to Rodion," he added with a light smile, glancing at Ziotea.

Astraea chuckled. It was strange hearing her laugh, Ragnar realized. She had always been so stern and aloof, and could be downright standoffish if the mood took her. She and Tatiana had gone through their fair share of arguments and scrapes growing up. Maybe the R'heon was still a bit drunk, he wondered.

Astraea's laughter trailed off into silent contemplation.

"Those poor fools," Astraea said, a mixture of sadness and pity in her tone. Down below, the two of them were standing together, watching the frozen sea in silence.

Ragnar understood the sentiment, but winced at the R'heon's wording. Noticing this, Astraea glared at him.

"You're close to both of them. You know what it will lead to. He will only be hurt, and she will only grow more hateful. If you truly cared for them, you'd try to do everything in your power to stop it."

He had never been comfortable with Ziotea and Rodion's relationship, that much was true, but he could never get in their way. Ziotea was angry most of the time, and he didn't blame her. Ziotea didn't deserve the life she was given and she didn't belong in the seminary. She was like the wind, sometimes calm, sometimes destructive, but she was meant to be free all the same. And Rodion... Well, it seemed like all things in this world were lightless and dead to him, except for her.

"They... They belong with each other. And they aren't stupid. They know what they're doing," Ragnar said, trying to convince himself as much as he was Astraea.

"The Church will see through whatever facade those two put up. Neither of them are native Varyan. They'll force them, Ragnar. Force them into having a child... and then that child will suffer the same as we did--"

"I believe in them, and so should you. They deserve to be happy," Ragnar interrupted, trying desperately to not think of such a future.

Astraea stood quietly, swirling the bottle of virrika around. She began to raise it to her lips, but thought better of it and placed it on the railing. Sensing his chance, Ragnar tried to change the subject.

"So... What about you? Are you seeing anyone?"

Astraea scrutinized him for a moment, her expression stone-like. A moment passed before a bemused smile cut across her face.

"A few individuals, but nothing serious."

Ragnar couldn't help but be surprised.

"A few? Hm. If you don't mind me asking--"

"No one you, nor anyone else in the warband, would be familiar with. And I prefer to keep it that way."

"Fair enough," Ragnar answered. He shouldn't be shocked, he realized. After all, it wasn't unheard of in Lanostre to have multiple partners before settling down.

"And you?"

The question came like a dagger. Ragnar, caught completely off-guard, began to sweat immediately.

"O-Oh... Me? I..."

He wasn't sure if he should lie or not, and thus, an awkward silence began to fill the air.

"Come on, tell me! Does Ragnar have a special someone? Did he get lucky at that pub with Stina and Hassan?" she asked, digging her elbow into his arm, a wry smile on her lips.

"I..."

"Why are you so nervous? Every one does it, you know. After Culmination, before first assignment, every inquisitor goes out and gets laid. That's the unspoken rite."

"Er... No. I don't... I mean, I just haven't gotten the opportunity is all," he tried to say, but Astraea wasn't having it.

"You're still a virgin? Gods, Ragnar. Stina and Hassan have utterly failed you as brothers," she said, laughing. She slapped him on the arm.

"Please stop hitting me. And no, it's just... It's not important right no--"

"Those two idiots... Now, it'll be more difficult. Everyone on those arks is either a warsibling or a direct subordinate, and you remember what Indira said about that. Can't do it, it's immoral."

Ragnar let out a tormented sigh.

"Come now, cheer up. I'm sure there's a nice cute girl in El just waiting for you to sweep her off her feet!"

At the mention of the word "girl", Ragnar winced, his face turning even paler than usual. Upon catching sight of his sudden change in expression, Astraea's boisterous laughter stopped.

"Ragnar..."

Realizing his grave error, Ragnar looked at Astraea with a pleading look. He took a step backward, retreating from the R'heon as if they were in a duel. Behind him, the wolf pups began to snarl.

"Please... You can't..." Ragnar's voice was a low whisper.

After glancing around them to check if anyone was nearby, Astraea strode toward Ragnar and gazed into his eyes.
The realization, the shock, the horror. It was writ plain on both of their faces.

"You... You're..."

Ragnar couldn't face her. His gaze drifted downward and stared at the tiles. They were so beautiful, despite their age, and they covered every inch of floor of this empty husk of a palace, where the feet of strangers and invaders were now traipsing upon.

"Yes," he whispered.

For the longest time, he didn't even know himself, but at that moment, he understood the truth of it. And some small part of him, the remnant of his life before Varya, when he was just a boy climbing mountains and running alongside his sister in the snow fields of Muraad, felt a great rush of freedom to allow this part of him into the world.

But that didn't matter, for with this confession, he was now putting his entire warband in immense danger. The practice of having or seeking relations with members of one's own sex was a grave sin, prevalent and celebrated only in the heathen nation of Omestris, and in the Lord Varya's eyes those who shared in this sin deserved the most severe of of punishments.

"They could excommunicate you," Astraea whispered, her expression hardening.

"They won't. Not if... Not if we keep it a secret," he pleaded, still unable to face her.

"Look at me, Ragnar," she spoke, placing her hands on his shoulders, and squeezing hard. The tips of her fingers dug into the muscles of his chest. "Tell me the truth. Is there anyone you've been seeing?"

"No. Of course not."

Her eyes narrowed. Anger flashed within them. He was putting them all in danger. He understood this, and yet, Ragnar finally stared back, meeting her growing rage with defiance.

"This changes nothing. I am the Protector, and I won't let anything get in the way of that," he said.

She blinked once and left him there on the balcony without another word.

Ragnar stood alone. For a few fleeting moments he felt utterly terrified.

Tatiana...

Galahad...

Everyone...

but he then realized that he wasn't as terrified or sad as he thought he would be. No, true oblivion was what awaited them beyond the meridian.

This didn't kill me, he thought to himself with a smile. If I survived this, maybe I can survive what's coming up next.

He walked toward the stone railing, picked up Astraea's discarded bottle of virrika, and began to drink.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

New post is up! Sort of.

Will add the rest tomorrow-ish. It's really late and I need sleeeep.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

The Christening Ceremony, Cero Drydocks, T'Sarae

---

As the nameless sun began to set on their final day within the empire, the inquisitors of warbands Phoenix and Leviathan stood in a singular row on the decorated pier. Behind them a small army of pale-faced men and women stood in ceremonial formation. They were dressed in the dark crimson of the Secular Army and the grey and scarlet of the Imperial Armada; and though their clean and well-pressed uniforms made each of them look a proud warrior, the fear and worry in their eyes was all too apparent.

Facing the First Elurian Mission, on a raised ceremonial stage of Lanostran obsidian, Lord Inquisitor Ilyon stood, his grey wrinkled hands gesticulating to the sky.

"... It falls to you." He spoke with a voice like a hiss of smoke, his strange lightless eyes gazing at the collected soldiers, sailors and war priests who, in the coming months, would set out to brandish the faith of Varya across the sea.

It was the first time Ragnar had ever laid eyes on a Lord Inquisitor of the High Council, and the visage of the ancient priest filled him with awe, terror, and what could only be described as a quiet disgust.

The Lord Inquisitor appeared tall and gaunt, his limbs thin like wire under the folds of his unadorned black cloak. He was taller than even Stina, which Ragnar thought impossible, but there seemed to be few things natural about Lord Ilyon. The Lord Inquisitor appeared human only in passing. He was old-- older than anyone Ragnar had ever seen. His back twisted in a strange angle and one of his long branch-like arms trembled on occasion. Despite this, and the thin depleted voice that struggled to escape his throat, Lord Ilyon's face was completely smooth and free of wrinkles or any specific markings or color. It was void of expression or emotion-- a circle of grey skin, eyes, a nose, and a mouth, wreathed by the folds of his cloak which stretched over and around his head.

Ragnar had heard the legends of the inquisition's heralded bishops being granted an increased life span by Lord Varya, but nothing concerning similar enchantments being bestowed to the lord inquisitors, who were lower ranked in the church hierarchy. What divine gift, if one could call it that, did the Ravenous Lord impart on the lord inquisitors?

As Lord Ilyon spoke, Ragnar could not help but look at them. A pair of grey, thin hands hanging limp at the lord inquisitor's side.

Those hands...

That the fated children who would eventually unite to form Warband Phoenix and Leviathan had been allowed to suffer through the Seminary's brutal years at all, that they had been plucked from their corners of the empire and brought together-- all of it had been ordained by Ilyon and his brethren, all had been guided by those long, pale hands.

Ragnar forced himself to look away.

Standing behind Lord Ilyon a blonde woman dressed in the white and crimson dress of a cleric-mother stood with a smile, and flanking her were two younger sisters of the clerical branch. At his side, Ragnar felt Hassan leaning forward slightly, his deep azure gaze falling on one of the sisters, a young woman with wild black hair and dark storm-colored eyes.

"That nun there. She was at the pub. I saved her from a smuggler," Hassan recalled, seemingly to himself. Ragnar looked at Hassan's hand. It was still bandaged. Apparently he had received that wound shielding a young nun from a hand cannon blast. Ragnar tried to remember that night and found that he couldn't recall most of what had occurred. He had been too excited by the whole stopping a rocket with a paling thing to pay attention to anything else.

On a raised platform above the stage behind Lord Ilyon a chorus of young acolyte children dressed in white and red stood with blank faces. Ragnar looked on at their faces curiously. Each of the children was expressionless and all of them seemed to be missing the scars and bruises that he and the rest of his warsiblings had amassed at that age.

"... It is a land engulfed in shadow." Lord Ilyon's thin voice could barely be heard if not for the complete silence, and yet it captured Ragnar's attention.

"Since His reunion with the lost pantheon our Lord has dreamt of Eluria's ebon frontiers. Our Emperor has glimpsed with His all-seeing eyes the darkness that chokes at Eluria's heart. Its people suffer in silence, waiting for their savior and it is Lord Varya's salvation that you shall bring them. You shall be the dawn that brings light to shadow."

From the corner of his vision Ragnar could glimpse Hassan rolling his eyes at the Lord Inquisitor's speech.

"We'll bring salvation to them, alright. Right after the First Armada cuts a swath of destruction through the place," Hassan whispered to himself.

"Are you really doing this now?" Ragnar hissed at him with a venomous look in his eye. Hassan smiled and winked at him.

Ragnar allowed a burdened sigh to leave his lungs. Despite the timing of it, Ragnar couldn't help but agree with Hassan's musings. The fact that the First Elurian Mission's aim was to convert the people of the wild continent after the invasion had never sat right with him. It reminded him too much of the invasion campaigns in Muraad. Of course, it was all comparatively ancient history, and the chieftains of Muraad's myriad clans had officially acquiesced to the empire's sovereignty, but still...

What if the Elurians didn't want to embrace Lord Varya's light? What would follow?

"Warleader. Come forth," Lord Ilyon turned to gaze upon Galahad, who stood at the center of the inquisitor line.

His warsibling bowed and made his way to the raised obsidian stage. As he walked forward the crowd of reporters and press standing at the far end of the pier began to murmur and take photos. Ragnar scoffed.

"He hasn't even done anything yet," he said dejectedly.

"Have you really not heard tell of our little escapade in Lanostre?" Astraea asked bemusedly. He turned to face her with a confused expression. As always, she towered over him.

"I've been busy helping plan this entire thing so no, I haven't heard anything. Not like any of you idiots will tell me anything."

"Well, when you get a chance, read this morning's paper," she answered with a wry smile.

Ragnar frowned and turned to face the stage once more. Galahad was kneeling in front of the Lord Inquisitor, his palms outstretched, waiting.

"Inquisitor Quaid of the Phoenix. By your hand the will of Lord Varya shall be done. Through your strength the people of Eluria shall be brought into His bosom."

The blonde cleric-mother dressed in the formal white and crimson robes approached the center of the stage where the Lord Inquisitor stood towering over Galahad. Resting on her palms she carried a decorative sword forged of what appeared to be shining ruby. The sword's blade gathered the light of the falling sun and shone beautifully in the growing darkness. It seemed to flicker as Lord Ilyon took the sword from the woman's grasp and placed it resolutely on Galahad's open hands.

"With this sword you wield the divine voice of our Emperor. Do not fail."

The crowd of onlookers at the far end of the pier began to cheer and applaud for Galahad as he rose to his feet. Ragnar wasn't certain if such a thing was allowed at these ceremonies, but it didn't seem to matter to the Lord Inquisitor. As Galahad turned around and stepped down from the stage, gaudy jeweled sword in hand, the chorus of child acolytes began to sing and with that, the roar of the crowd began to grow louder. It was in that moment, Ragnar realized, that the people gathered there had chosen his best friend and rival as their hero.

His heart aching, Father Ragnar smiled and clapped along with them.

***

Sareffi-Astra Royal Palace, the City of Cero, T'Sarae

---

Night had fallen, the tables had been cleared, but the grand ballroom within the Sareffi-Astra Palace, former home of the dead kings of T'sarae, was still alight with music and the murmuring of laughter and conversation.

The state dinner had been a night-long affair, and Ragnar, to his surprise, had found himself enjoying the pomp and circumstance of it all. It was nice to finally get to relax with his war siblings, even if such a thing was truly impossible. All of the uncertainty, fear, his jealousy... Not even the smiles and laughter of his beloved siblings could make him forget it all. But of course, he couldn't let them see. He was their Protector and thus the bright cheerful eyes and friendly grin had not left his face all night.

He was sat alone at one of the high tables on the second level of the ballroom. Compared to the ballroom at the Great Basilika where the Rising Feast took place, this chamber wasn't as massive or ostentatious. While it was lacking in the Lanostran-obsidian walls and tiling and the shameless display of the Church's prosperity and power, it had one thing going for it. It wasn't as cold. Of course, the ballroom at the Basilika was located fathoms above the glowing sectors of Magnagrad, at the greatest heights of the Godsfall where the Church made its home. The T'saraen palace was modest in comparison; a beautiful estate by the coast of Cero City, but hollow, small, and, if Ragnar had heard the servants correctly, mostly abandoned.

The wolf pups were growing restless again. He had sneaked them some food below the table during the feast, and for a time they had been content to lay at his feet, but something was making them anxious.

"There, there. Calm down, little ones," he urged them softly. He reached down to stroke each of their backs, and to his surprise, they calmed down. Ragnar giggled to himself. He really did have it. Not even a decade spent in Varya had stripped him of his Muraadan-born gifts. He could calm any animal he wanted. This was proof. He'd have to brag to Ragnar and Tatiana later.

Beneath him, the floor of the ballroom had been made into a makeshift dining area. Soldiers, sailors, and select members of the Varyan and T'saraen nobility were sat at their tables or mingling around the room. Some members of the press had managed to finagle their way into the feast as well. Ragnar could see them scurrying around the dining floor, trying to speak with his warsiblings. None of them had wanted to speak with him yet, which picked at him to end.

I'm the Protector, godsdammit. I'm easily the most important member of the warband. Why won't they even take my picture? It's because I'm Muraadan... and short... and still look like like a child half my age. I hate this so much. I wish I liked drinking. I wish I could just get drunk and forget how I feel. But you can't forget, Ragnar. You can never forget. You can only bury it.

He forced his eyes shut.

Ethereal light cycloned within the deep indigo of his pupils and then faded. He guided the light inward, through the grey flesh of his brain, into the hollows of his skull, and allowed it to awash in the pit of his stomach, where all the burning anxiety lay. He formed the light into a miniature aegis and collected all of his failures, his hatred, his shame and jealousy, picking them up like trash washed up on a shore and gathered them all in his arms and dropped them within the aegis, imprisoning the refuse of his emotions where they could no longer hurt him.

That would do for a while.

Ragnar opened his eyes and found them wet. Hastily wiping the moisture from his eyes, he rose from his seat, leaving the pups sleeping beneath the table. He walked to the edge of the floor and leaned out over the gilded barricade. He felt better now, but something still hung over him.

Fear. There was no getting rid of that.

He looked down at the dining floor, where many of his warsiblings were mingling with the rest of the members of the expedition. The barbed thorns were gone from his stomach, but he was still terrified, and he didn't know why. He wondered if his warsiblings felt as scared as he did.

He searched for Ziotea and Rodion first, but couldn't find them. They were probably spending their last free night together in the city. Part of him wished he had joined them.

In a dark corner of the dining room, standing in the shadow of a balcony, Oren observed the rest of the floor, his pale gold eyes like a pair of stars obscured by a clouded sky. He had been quiet, almost silent throughout dinner. But, then again, that was normal for him, Ragnar mused.

Elsewhere, at the bar, Hassan and Stina were drinking with a crowd of secular soldiers. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and the soldiers, who up until then had been grim-faced and nervous when in their company, appeared to be laughing and telling jokes. Perhaps it was just the drink, but it was ideal for the warband to form a certain connection with their military support. Creid had taught them, year in and year out, the importance of this. Ragnar wondered if Stina and Hassan were intent on keeping to Creid's teachings, or if they just needed drinking buddies.

Ragnar's eyes were then drawn to the center of the floor where Viveca stood ensconced within a gaggle of the nobility and what appeared to be high-ranking militarymen who weren't part of the expedition. She had a drink in her hand, and someone was telling them to gather together for a photograph. Ragnar smiled. At least she had the right idea.

Standing apart from the collected crowds, Ragnar immediately caught sight of Tatiana's black curls as she made her way through the floor, stopping and talking with important-looking nobles and journalist, then moving on. She seemed to be slowly heading to one specific spot. Ragnar's followed her intended path to the far end of the room, where Galahad sat at a lone table with Commander Zoya Kiriyev and her two lieutenants, Dragonov and Lycaon.

The table had been completely cleared and the three of them seemed to be in a serious discussion.

Ragnar had not been able to meet Commander Kiriyev due to her being so busy preparing for the journey. In fact, she didn't seem to have much time for any of the inquisitors, except for Galahad. Despite them technically outranking her, Ragnar was getting the distinct feeling that this fact mattered very little to her.

She and her two lieutenants sat stoic and calm, speaking directly and confidently to Galahad. Despite the warleader of Phoenix Warband being in their presence, the three officers didn't seem to be cowed by him at all. In fact, it was strange, but it almost seemed like... they were looking at him with something approaching disdain. Or boredom.

Commander Kiriyev reached into her red officer's coat and brought out what looked like a miniature version of a tactical map. She placed it on the table and stabbed at it with her finger.

It was at that moment that Tatiana reached the table and slid onto the chair next to Galahad with the casual grace that always seemed to come so natural to her. She leaned forward on the table and began to look at Kiriyev's map. The three officers glowered at her silently, then at Galahad. Tatiana said something then, which Ragnar could read from her lips as "carry on".

This was too interesting, Ragnar thought. A mischievous smile formed across his lips as he gripped the barricade tightly. He leaned out as far as he could while summoning a bit of his ether. Turning his head, he enhanced his hearing, trying to focus it on the table where Galahad and Tatiana sat.


"You mentioned their leader-- this "man in black", heading eastward and warning you not to pursue. There is only one known path through the glacier sea. If he should follow it, there is a high probability that we will encounter the Silver Fleet," Lieutenant Dragonov spoke in a cold, measured tone. His eyes, a blue so pale they almost appeared grey, focused on Galahad and then Tatiana in turn.

"According to the church reports he has allied himself with the apostate, Father Dara. Should we cross paths with this individual, what is your plan? Do we fight? Do we allow them passage?"

Before Ragnar could hear anything else, an armored hand pressed on to his back and lightly pushed him forward, causing him to jerk himself backward from the edge of the railing.

"Hey!"

"Spying doesn't suit you, Ragnar. Leave that to Oren and Hassan," Astraea said coyly. She was standing behind him, holding what appeared to be a half-empty bottle of virika.

"Are you drunk?"

"Halfway there," she said, holding up the bottle and giving it a light shake.

She strode up alongside him, leaning over the railing to stare down at their warsiblings and the three secular officers. Ragnar's attention was drawn to Astraea's bare muscled arms. He rarely got to see them, with her always wearing her armor, and thus when he caught sight of the horrible-looking half-healed scar that covered her right bicep he couldn't help but reel back in shock.

"What the hell happened to you?"

"Lost my arm in a battle at the Glacier. Had to restore it through ether. It was my first time doing it. Kind of made a mess of it," she said, glassy-eyes staring at the wound. "Antonin would be ashamed of me," she added, strangely bereft of humor. Her eyes were focused on the three officers sitting with Galahad and Tatiana.

"You need to tell me everything that happened. Gods, everyone's been so quiet since we got here. It's strange."

When she didn't answer him, Ragnar looked down once more at the table, burying his chin in his arms. The battle in Lanostre... He hoped Galahad and Tatiana would tell him about it eventually. They had spent their entire childhood together. The three of them were closer than most.

"It's really happening," Ragnar said, "Galahad is finally going to take charge of the warband... officially, I mean. Those three don't seem too impressed by him though," Ragnar wondered aloud.

"Those three."

Astraea took a swig of virika, speaking in a tone Ragnar had only heard once before, when she had learned what Father Magnus had done to Ziotea all those years ago.

"Those three can die slowly, if the gods are just."

Ragnar looked at her in confusion.

"What-- What are you talking about?"

She took a deep breath. Ragnar could see that she was trying to calm herself down, but was failing.

"The blonde one-- Dragonov. He did things during the war... things that not even war can justify. Children..."

Astraea did not go further then that.

"And his master Kiriyev let it all happen."

"Astraea--"

"The other one. Lycaon. He was one of us. A Lanostran, born and bred. Before the war ended he abandoned his comrades and turned to piracy. While loyal soldiers remained to face the Varyans and the inquisitors, he fled and spent the next twenty years reaving his wounded homeland. "

Astraea's eyes burned emerald. "Fucking coward. Fucking oathbreaker," she spat beneath her breath.

Ragnar was silent for a long moment.

"We've done worse," he whispered, "the inquisition has done worse."

Astraea stared at him, the shame in his eyes mirroring her own.

"I'm done here. Let's get some air."

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Aboard the VSS Karamzina, Cero Drydocks, T'Sarae

---

_{[written by CollectorOfMyst, Scout & Opposition]}

After talking to Oren and leaving a note for Tatiana, Viveca returned to her room to meet them. She shut the heavy, metal door behind her, taking a first look at what would be her new home for the coming months. She breathed a sigh of relief… good, they hadn’t gone overboard. Part of her had worried that it was going to be ornately decorated and overbearing, but surprisingly enough, her room was rather modest. However, the Inquisitor had been quietly warned by Mother Indira that this was originally meant to be her room, so truth be told it was bigger than Viveca would have requested. She wasn’t going to complain, by any means. She could tell a few edits were made before her arrival - they’d received her shipment of affairs. A closet was lined with uniform items and an assortment of clothing, mostly sleepwear. Two weapon racks and a few displays adorned different corners of the rooms; one carried several spears of varying lengths and tip-types while the other had several types of curved swords - sabres, falchions, cutlasses, and even an old khopesh that her “father” had sent her once. It was rather impractical as a weapon, being so old and produced from an inferior blacksmithing technique to modern styles, but it was really cool and she appreciated the gift.

She reached for a vent and opened it to ensure the room would have plenty of airflow before finally taking in her surroundings. The entryway of the room opened to a rather cozy, unexpectedly large floorplan. Her bandmates would probably be a little surprised when they arrived. Viveca wasn’t the type to need a lot of space to herself, but Mother Indira had given her one of the largest rooms on the ship. The metal deck of the ship was covered in laminate designed to appear as hardwood. Wood was preferable, but this was just fine, a couple rugs of intricate red and gold designs padded the floors.

Running perpendicular to the doorway was unmistakably a bar. Viveca blinked - no way did they actually put a bar in her room. She owed Mother Indira big time. Striding around the side to look on the shelves underneath, she found more than enough liquor, at least for herself, and a few sugary mixers. Fresh fruit was at a premium on the ship, so she would have to ask the galley for it herself if she wanted some, but there was even salt and several different types of glasses secured to the underside of the bar.

On the far end, there were a few cartons of cigarettes which Viveca had purchased and sent ahead of time to meet her here. Double checking her vent once more, she removed a pack from one of the cartons. Lighting one of the cigarettes up, she took a few minutes to enjoy the silence and solitude. The stick dangling from between her lips, she placed a tumbler and a bottle of scotch on top of the wooden bar. Two ice cubes and a splash of liquor later, she finally felt relaxed. Just five minutes, that’s all she needed, then Oren and Tatiana could come in. She placed the journal she had found on the desk and pulled out two more glasses for the others. Viveca removed her coat and hung it on a rack by the door before taking a seat behind the bar to wait for the others.

No sooner had she done so than a knock came from outside. Viveca sighed - oh, how quickly five minutes turned into ninety seconds. She rose from her seat and slowly made her way to the door, blowing one more puff of smoke toward the vent before grabbing the handle and pulling it up, the bars slid back, and a pale-faced Oren walked into the room. With a trembling hand, he showed her a piece of folded paper, and with a soft voice, he spoke to her.

“What does this mean, Viveca?”

---

Tatiana nearly stumbled from her feet as she exited the room. She felt as though she was struck by a plague, having an underlying sickening sensation all throughout her body. Was it her work or herself within which that cruelness found its origin? Tatiana would never know, nor would she truly want to. As she padded back through the labyrinthine halls towards her room, she pondered the thought of what was to come. Was it true that a storm like no other would obliterate the forward armada? Would the Karamzina fall in line and become the successor to the same fate? Again Tatiana was unsure. How often that was the case.

Tatiana struggled with the heavy steel door in her fatigued state, but it wasn’t long before she entered her newfound living quarters. She couldn’t have said that what she then saw was unexpected, but just witnessing the space that Mother Indira had created for her left Tatiana with an odd sensation. At first, she couldn’t place it. She just felt distant. The room itself was very homey: spacious, decorated and carrying with it an uplifting atmosphere. Tatiana couldn’t help but feel out of place. Luckily, she didn’t spend much time there. A note had been left on her mantle, more particularly a summons. It felt like ages since Tatiana had last talked to her friends in Warband Leviathan, and as much as she wanted to be alone, the eerie sensation that made her skin crawl in the room made her want to leave just as quickly as she’d entered.

Without bothering to do much more than wash the blood and viscera from her skin and face, Tatiana stepped from the room. Her inquisitor’s coat looked as though it had been through each of the Varyan conquests. A close eye might even catch the subtle black-crimson tint to its originally muted colors. Tatiana’s very presence seemed to carry with it an aura of the death and pain the coat had seen inflicted in the past days. Maybe Tatiana didn’t notice. Maybe she didn’t care. Even she was unsure as she stepped further into the maze of hallways to seek out Viveca’s room.

---

Meanwhile, Viveca was staring placidly at Oren, who seemed to almost fall through the threshold. She motioned toward the bar.

“Is that your letter from Mother Indira? It means exactly what it says. We’re all facing a suicide mission if we don’t do something about it. I hope you used your time between graduation and now wisely, Brother,” She said, a small smile forming on her lips finally. “Because we’re about to have a very exciting few months. I would like Tatiana to get here before we start diving too deeply into our Good Mother’s message, so…” She pulled the journal she had found in the catacombs out of her things and placed it on the bar.

“Take a look through this, let me know if anything stands out to you… It’s proven itself rather dangerous, so don’t try to read any of the ciphered words out loud if you can help it. What’s your poison of the night, Oren? Or are you abstaining?” The Inquisitor asked, swirling her glass before taking a small sip and putting out the butt of her cigarette. Get here soon, Tatiana…

Oren opened his mouth to retort, but the words died before they even left his throat. Silently, he sat down, resting his forehead on the knuckles of his right hand. He… could understand where Viveca was coming from, there. If they were to meet, then it’d be best to pool all of their knowledge at once instead of having to repeat things when Tatiana arrived. Making a circle in the air with his index finger, two bottles - rum and water respectively - shifted forward on their shelves.

“I… so much has been going on these past few days, Viv. I have a thousand questions and I can only piece together the barest minimum... and I don’t understand any of it. First Iddin-Mar, and then Marius, and now this? I feel like I’m going mad.”

Oren paused, looking up. He swallowed a gulp of air. “I’m scared, Viveca.”

Tatiana took no pause at the door to her comrade’s room. Within just a second, she pushed the monolith of steel inwards, bracing herself as the groan of the metallic scraping resounded around the Karamzina’s empty hallways. Clasped in her hands, Tatiana carried Viveca’s note at her side.

Viveca lightly placed a hand on Oren’s before moving to the shelf to grab the bottles he had motioned for. Pouring him his drink, she sat back down, “Me, too… Don’t worry, we’ve at least got the knowledge that something could go wrong, we can work forward, right?” She asked, keeping her tone as calm and reassuring as possible. It wavered slightly - she was terrified too. Of the book, of the story, that Indira had told, and of a demise so shortly after their graduation. “We ca-” She stopped as the door creaked - good, now they were all here.

As Tatiana stepped into the room, she spent a long moment in silence, letting the air be pervaded only by the echoic creaking of the door as it soon shut behind her. Her solemn eyes lay upon her colleagues with a certain degree of sorrow locked behind them. Tatiana fiddled with the note between her fingers as she spoke. She made no attempt to tread further into the room from the door.

“It seems omens have become commonplace in the lives of those that tread our path…” Tatiana bit her tongue for a moment. “The future doesn’t look upon Varya’s servants well.” However much she tried to hide it, Tatiana couldn’t fully conceal the doubt that pervaded into her tone. With haste, she shook her head, switching to a more upbeat tone of voice. Facade or not, she was trying. “But never mind that. Sorry. It is good to see you two again…”

Viveca gave the best smile she could muster at the sight of Tatiana. It wasn’t much. She rose to her feet, “I agree. It’s bleak. You both have been through Hell the last few days, it looks like,” She gave a weak laugh, reaching an almost shaking hand for her drink. So had she, but by the looks of it, they had all experienced very different things. “I’m glad you’re okay, I’d hate to see the other guy,” The woman pointed out, looking her friend over before ducking behind the bar to fish out a bottle of rimerite.

“I don’t want to go first, if you don’t mind… Oren, I’d really like to hear about Iddin-Mar. I desperately wish I could have gone too, what did you find?” She glanced to Tatiana, sliding the journal down the table, “At leisure,” She added quietly, tapping the cover of the forsaken literature.

Oren paused as both women turned to him. Right. His would sound the simplest of the three, at least in concept. Taking a deep draught from his glass, he turned in the chair so that he faced halfway between Viveca and Tatiana. He cast one last look at his hand before beginning to speak.

“You both presumably know why I went to Iddin-Mar. I wanted to connect myself to the history there, experience it at least once. In hopes of forming a tighter bond with Mother Ziotea of your warband, Tatiana, I asked her to accompany me. I am grateful that I did that, now, because otherwise, I don’t think I would be alive and well here before you. Or perhaps I would - either way, I almost was not. So allow me to explain.

“On our journey north, we were met by a young soldier, Private Andrei Semenov. He didn’t look much younger than us; half a dozen years or so. Reportedly, he was to accompany us to Iddin-Mar - I didn’t question it. Two Omestrian-blooded Inquisitors headed for an old ruin ought to warrant something, wouldn’t you agree?” Oren shook his head. “Andrei wasn’t there for the Seminary, or the Clerical Branch, or even the Secular Army. Keep that in mind.”

“When we got to the ruins themselves, the Marian Gate was mostly deserted - just two soldiers, Sergeants Mikhail and Veena. They seemed surprised by our arrival, as anyone would be - we hadn’t exactly sent word.”

Viveca intently watched Oren as he recounted his story, nodding now and then. “Seems odd, though… a Private accompanying two fully-fledged Inquisitors to Omestris? Even if he was Secular or Clerical, what could he have possibly done to protect you or stop you from doing anything he was ordered to prevent..? Doesn’t seem like a very well thought-out excuse,” She pointed out with a shrug, taking a sip from her drink, waving her hand - she didn’t want to overshadow Oren, sounded like they had quite a few twists and turns to buckle in for.

“Well, my thought process - and his - was that if Semenov were not to return, that would be sign enough. When we made our way down, he attempted to… cosy up to me, I suppose. He showed me a pendant of some kind, with Mother Indira’s symbol, claiming to be… some sort of acolyte of hers, I suppose. I’ll tell you now that he wasn’t. So I told him to stay at the barracks - Ziotea and I went into the ruins alone. And in there, well...”

He bit the inside of his cheek, pondering what to say next. Should he tell them? He had no reason to lie to them… Mother Indira trusted them enough to let them in on her grim, though uncertain, fate. When he thought of Fie and Vahn’s faces, though, it made him hesitate. His eyes flitted to Mother Tatiana… the unknown in his equation… maybe the best option would be ‘not yet’.

“We met a woman. Lyessa al-Nors. Old, but an immensely powerful apostate, or ‘retired inquisitor’, as she put it. She… well, she surrendered her catalyst to me, in exchange for amicable conversation. I believe that Ziotea was… wary, as any of us should be, but I was more curious. And, well…” Oren took another gulp of his drink. “She told us things about Omestrian history… or even Varyan history, to look at it in another way, that have been all but forgotten, now. And about an azure circle, that every inquisitor of Omestrian blood sees in their vision at culmination… that is why I believe her. I saw that circle on my hand - almost engraved upon it.” His fist clenched, almost involuntarily, but enough to hurt. He carried on. “Ziotea claims to have seen one of her own. And I know that you must have seen one in yours, Viveca.”

Viveca nodded, “I most certainly did…” She shuddered, “I’ve only felt it twice… Once in the vision and once while looking through this book. A cold unlike any other followed it closely behind - in the vision, it was branded to my chest,” She explained, absently stirring her drink with one hand as the other rested gently upon the splotched mark on her neck.

Oren nodded at her, even as his eyes tracked her hand to the mark. But here came the part that he shouldn’t dare utter. Even though he knew it to be true, it was heresy against the Church he served and the God he owed his loyalty.

“...What she told us last, is what we need to think about… We know that Lanostre devoured C’eione, the Right Hand that held her. We are told that Varya consumed Risgyn the Right Leg, Retmis the Left, Phiiuss the Eyes and Kirana the Soul, while T’sarae and Muraad watched on, and that Omestris awakened around this time. What Lady Lyessa revealed to us… she told us about another god… the brother of Omestris. The Shield, Asherahn. A being that burned with the hate of the Fire Titan… and how he planned to betray his sister. How T’sarae, Varya, Muraad and Omestris united against him, to imprison him… and how he might still be influencing Omestrian Inquisitors through our Aspects.”

“Another god…” Tatiana interjected briefly, but soon trailed off again. The thought of the Broken Pantheon splitting even more made her head hurt, but it also offered insight into what may have been before her at the glaciers of Lanostre. “Sorry. Go on.” Tatiana shook her head, then gesturing to Oren.

The pale inquisitor bowed his head towards Tatiana in turn. “…but I am inclined to believe her. Because on our way back through the garrison, we… well, we were attacked by Seminov, Mikhail and Veena. But not as I thought they were… I can’t quite explain it… they were almost like demons - but also not. Armoured bodies that our weapons could not pierce. Crystal arms that were more blade than limb. I admit to being shaken by their appearance - and by how close I came to death.”

“The crystalline warriors… More godlike entities… We’ve dealt with very similar things in Lanostre.” Tatiana’s mind once again began to wander as the fog of her mind overcame her will to offer any words. She half expected to fall back into another sort of trance-state with all the talk of the demon-like creatures. Glimpses of the memory rushed back to her, and for a moment, Tatiana felt as though she could once again see the fell creatures and their reinvigorated form in her dream-state.

“I believe they come from the East— the creatures, I mean. I don’t know what they are, but demons never before identified inhabited the Glacier. They were harbingers of the Varyan fleet’s demolition…” Tatiana bit her tongue. The aching pain cutting through her head gave her pause as she tried to recall the most important details of her journey with Galahad and Astraea. So much had happened that she was unsure of how to sift through important and unimportant bits of information. Regarding her time around Polarpike, though, Tatiana was apprehensive to even mention it.

“Much… Very much has happened with regards to the Varyan troops and inquisitors stationed at Lanostre, but we should also discuss our other business. Has Indira given word to the two of you?” Tatiana palmed the letter in her hand with the seal of her mentor. A part of her knew how much she failed to offer her fellow inquisitors. Another part of her recognized that she was redirecting her focus for a reason.

Viveca drummed her fingers slowly on the bartop, her brow furrowed in thought as her eyes would glean the cover of the forsaken tome apprehensively. “I did not receive a letter… She told me the story in person and bade me to find you two once we arrived to the ark. What Father Creid saw may be our very same fate if we don’t find a way to stop it… or prevent it. Because nothing we say is going to keep these arks from taking off,” She pointed out, running a hand through her hair.

“I haven’t read the letter, but Mother Indira told me everything they saw… She dubbed it Vai’roth… I’ll save you the time, because it took me a moment to figure out, it’s Omestrian for Hellfire.” She shuddered at the words, “It came from somewhere in the sky, so fast… so imperceptibly fast, it decimated the ark, causing destruction at every turn, disintegrating all in its path. She said it took but moments… The way she described it made it feel so real - as though the thought alone of looking at it was enough to cause a severe burn.” The Inquisitor reached to the back of her head and carefully brushed her ribbon, reassuring herself.

She sighed, “If we’re to do anything about this, we only have today to gather what little resource we can find. We’re on our own starting tomorrow. And that armada was doomed before the blueprints were even complete for its creation.”

A nagging at the back of her mind caused her to turn back to Oren, “But you mentioned Asherahn, right?” She asked, resisting the chill down her spine at the word, “Look at this. Be careful,” The Inquisitor warned, pulling her tome’s cover aside and flipping pages until she came to the one with the circle etched on it. The word Ashe-rahn was written inside. “When I read this, a terrible cold enveloped my body… I froze, literally, almost completely encased in ice…” Viveca sighed, “It was horrifying, I’ve never been so helpless to death… I was certain I was going to die in the archives… I found the book with a family in these strange sarcophagi. And on the way here, I found this too.”

She flipped a few more pages and revealed the image of a brilliant white sphere colliding with an azure dome, shaped as a perfect circle encapsulating a cityscape. “I have no way of knowing for sure… But what do you two think? This here,” The woman pointed to the city, turning the book so they could see it, “Looks like Iddin-Mar. If I had to guess, at least, it’s the only city I could think of it being anymore. And this,” She moved her finger to the sphere, “I don’t really know… I wonder if it isn’t Sydon-Mar, but that doesn’t make much sense… If it is, how was Iddin-Mar protected and how did Sydon-Mar end up so far to the North? Lastly, based on this azure circle business we’ve all been looking at… the dome protecting the possible Iddin-Mar, could it be a blessing from Asherahn? Thoughts?”

Oren studied the picture for a moment, before a stray word flashed through his mind; fallen. Lyessa had called it the ‘Fallen Star’. And he shook his head. “I believe not, Viveca. Or if it is a blessing, it has since become His curse. The woman spoke of it as the Fallen Star - and, if I am correct, its trajectory could have been what made the Scar, before resting at the northern end… and eventually becoming Sydon-Mar. What this ‘Star’ truly is or how it ‘fell’, I cannot say. But we only have half-truths and fragments of the past to go on…”

Tatiana tapped her hand idly on the countertop. She almost seemed imperceptive to her own movements as her thoughts had swallowed her whole. When she finally seemed to break away from her listless gaze off into distance, she spoke in a low and quiet voice, as though talking to herself. Tatiana’s tone soon picked up, though, her random thoughts finally starting to offer pieces of a solution.

“Hellfire…Vai’roth… There must be a way to escape it. That place—the east— there must be a cause of it there.” Again, Tatiana took a long pause in her speech. She wrestled with herself in an attempt to force herself to reveal more detail about the events at the Black Glacier. “I may have some insight into what lies beyond. Perhaps not the cause of the ‘Vai’roth’, but about what’s behind it.” Tatiana’s eyes flickered open and shut a few times. Her mind wandered to her vision at the Glacier, or at least she tried her best to recall it as perfectly as she experienced it.

“There’s something, or someone rather over there. A people— a society even. I saw them through the strangely new demons at the Glacier. One of our colleagues at the Red Seminary is even there… I think. Father Dara, the other summoner. I’ve been wondering since first reading Indira’s letter… They must be controlling or at least aware of this ‘Hellfire’s’ causes.” Tatiana still had not met the gaze of the Leviathan inquisitors until that point. Just as her eyes flashed over those of Oren and Viveca, however, they just as quickly flicked away to stare at the empty glass before her.

“The people over on that other side, they even spoke to me. They were a king and queen on wooden thrones… They—and Dara—could be related to whatever eradicated the first armada.” Tatiana sighed with finality. “I don’t know. It was like our visions at the Seminary… However crazy that may sound.”

At this, Oren let out a hollow smile. “Everything that we have been discussing sounds insane, Mother Tatiana, if not heretical. Fire, and dead gods, and demons of the like that no one has ever seen? We have no answers, no explanation, and we haven’t the time to search for them… not here, in any case.” His smile dropped, and he stood, turning away from them to face the window, looking out over Cero. “...So what are we going to do? We cannot keep this to ourselves, that much, I am sure of. Father Galahad will need to know.” He thought back to Ziotea’s insistence on letting her warsiblings know what was going on. “...And perhaps a few others.”

Viveca drummed her fingers on the table once more in apprehension, finally putting her cigarette out in an ashtray. She picked up her glass and refilled it, offering more to anybody who needed a drink with her to cut the tension. She listened to each of them in turn, absently pulling the ribbon from her hair and weaving it between her fingers in different patterns. It helped distract her and, more importantly, kept her from lighting more tobacco as the conversation only festered more anxiety.

“Nothing anybody has said sounds so crazy when we’ve all experienced some form of incomprehensible bullshit in the last few days. I agree that we should talk to some more people about this… Ziotea probably deserves to know. Tell who you will, everybody has something to give, but we also don’t want to sow chaos if we can avoid it, right?” She bit her lip, staring at her drink as the lone ice cube swirled around the glass in her hand. Her amber eyes remained fixated for a moment. Now came the hard part - deciding what they could possibly do about it with what they know now.

Viveca took a long inhale, shuddering slightly as she let the breath out. “I don’t like this - what I’m about to say… But Tatiana, I feel like you’re one of few people who can help with the hypothesis. You know I’ve never had much… flashy power with my ether… But maybe your experience with summoning can lead to something here. Like I said before, I called forth some wretched power from that forsaken tome. Perhaps it was lack of experience, perhaps it wasn’t summoning at all, I know nothing of curses nor summoning, but do you think it’s worth looking into? If it can be controlled, maybe it has something to do with this shield and if I’m not the only one who can do it, we might be able to use it among other things.” She placed her glass back on the bar and pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment, shaking her head, “I really don’t know, and I really don’t want to try, but if it could help and I wasn’t alone, maybe I could try to do it on purpose.”

“Are you willing to take the risk?” Oren asked quietly. When Viveca looked up to answer him, she saw a glint of steel behind his eyes, and the hand that held his drink was white-knuckled and shaking. “Are you? I am not. Whatever this… book, this thing did to you; you said it almost killed you, and you want to try again? If it is tied to Asherahn, and I believe it is, then it is more than simply dangerous.”

Viveca met her old friend's eyes, solemn for only a brief moment before a renewed determination fortified her gaze. “We have very little choice than to experiment if this is our fate. I've a few scars from the ice, I pushed it down once, with help I'm sure it's worth looking into. If it can stop this, then we have no choice.”

The two stared at each other for a few moments, an unspoken battle of wills passing between them, before Oren broke away. “So be it. Tatiana?”

Tatiana eyed the glasses spread across Viveca’s bar despite her empty hands. In the end, she recognized the thirst not for any one spirit, but for an escape. Tatiana turned around in her seat, examining the rest of the room instead. She pondered the question that Viveca proposed to her. Could her summoning succeed in finding a solution to the hellfire? While her odds didn’t seem likely, Tatiana hadn’t yet found a problem that her and her abilities couldn’t solve.

“I would try to assist with the book should you believe I can help... What would you have us do?”The thought of her warband within the mighty Karamzina braving the endless cold was foreboding alone, but what Tatiana saw of Dara, of the demons, of the strange king worried her even more. The Vai’roth was just one more problem to add to the mix.

“Perhaps there is something we can do to stop it…” Tatiana stopped at that thought. She didn’t have any particular strategies in mind. Her absent gaze must have telegraphed that. “Perhaps those that traveled before us will have somehow stopped the threat. We won’t know for sure until we set off— until we run into it…”

Tatiana’s thoughts traveled back to her strange encounter on the bridge to Polarpike. She wondered if the solution was in the hands of the inquisitors. She wondered if perhaps the message received from the foreign emissaries could be a solution on its own. “I may find a way yet… One of us must.” Tatiana balled her hand into a fist as she spoke, determination pervading onto her rather stalwart expression. “We ought to start looking—sifting through what we know, what we’ve learned, and so forth…”

Tatiana nodded her head at her own words, rising from her seat as she did so. “There are things I could study, things I could explore. No matter where the solution is hidden, perhaps we shouldn’t be looking for it in drinks.” Tatiana eyed the door before looking to her colleagues for their input.

Oren looked at his glass - though a fair portion of it was empty, the dregs of his drink still swirled at the bottom of it. He looked at Viveca. He looked at Tatiana. “...I think I have a plan.”

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Forelands outside City of Cero, T'sarae

---

In the darkness to the east of the city a lone ship sped across the white expanse.

The Sword of Dawn, betraying its namesake, was a jet black steam craft, its form sleek as an arrow, its ethersails like shadowy wings beating against the night.

Dmitri stood at the helm, frozen hands gripping the wheel, his bright yellow Omestrian eyes resolute as they focused on the shining horizon dominated by Cero's massive crystal aegisdome. He was shorter than most men, and didn't look like much a soldier. For a decade he had trained for this. Behind him, his master sat on the deck cross-legged, shirtless.

Even knowing that Master Ilya had spent all those years in the Red Seminary, seeing the young inquisitor sitting there near naked, defiant against the violent cold, was unnerving to the Omestrian soldier. Dmitri knew the cold, as all soldiers did, but to treat it with such disdain as Master Ilya did, here outside the aegis' protection, bordered on insanity. And yet Ilya sat there, his bare skin bathed in the aegisdome's intensifying light, smiling.

Master Ilya had been gone too long, and the man that returned was not the boy who left.

The sun began to break through the clouds just as the Sword neared the Ceroan forelands. In the pale light of morning the black ship appeared like a dark serpent on the ice. A tiny serpent, for it was a speck compared to the hundred or so Varyan steam ships floating on the frozen water outside the city.

The Second Armada wasn't as grand as the First, but seeing the black and steel vessels dotting the Ceroan coast was both a grim and empowering sight. Several months from now, these ships would follow Master Ilya's own ark, the Karamzina, eastward. The second invasion wave... Dmitri wondered if it would even be needed.

A gruff voice, tinged in the southern lilt of T'sarae, spoke through the radio, bringing him out of his thoughts. It demanded to know the Sword's docking credentials. In response Dmitri offered a sixteen-letter code. The voice on the other end of the radio remained silent for a moment.

"Welcome to Cero, Your Reverence" it spoke before guiding Dmitri to the nearest open dock.

***

It had been a short yet arduous journey, and Father Ilya's mood had been as mercurial as the water that he lazily shifted to and fro while standing at the deck's edge. In the first few days, during their journey southward and across the hallowed sea that stretched between Varya and Lanostre, Ilya had been bored and restless. Sailing across what the Lanostrans called The Wounded Sea, through the final resting place of thousands of soldiers and dozens of inquisitors-- Dmitri thought it would be enough to rouse the young lord from what he called his "post-Graduation stagnancy", but alas, Ilya spent most of the journey through the Wounded Sea in his cabin.

It wasn't until the Sword had to sail through the ice tides east of the Wounded Sea that Ilya returned to his usual self. The bright season was fast approaching and thus the sea itself was changing. Crossing the tides during the summer wasn't something even the most seasoned Lanostran sailor would willingly do, but Father Ilya Bjornley wasn't an ordinary navigator, and the Sword of Dawn wasn't an ordinary ship. With an entire glacier plateau breaking apart around them and a particularly vicious summer hail storm threatening to perforate the ship's tiny but powerful aegis, the Sword barely made it through the tides. It had been an afternoon of non-stop sailing since then, and Ilya's blood still ran hot.

He needed a drink.

"Leave it to the natives," Ilya said as he stepped off the Sword's deck and onto the first solid ground he had been on for the better part of a week. He was still shirtless, for the increase in heat within the aegis bothered him, or so he claimed. His pale blue eyes looked across the busy port. It didn't take him long to find the tavern he was looking for.

Dmitri looked to his master with uncertainty, his arms hefting a large crate full of Ilya's belongings.

"I don't trust these folk. I will unpack the ship, my lord."

Ilya approached him, his crooked smile widening.

"Don't worry. There's nothing here of importance," the young inquisitor said, placing a surprisingly warm hand on Dmitri's shoulder. "To be honest, I don't care if they toss it all into the sea. Now, let's go drink."

With that, Dmitri sighed and shoved the crate on to a passing T'saraen sailor's arms.

"This is the ship of Father Ilya Bjornley, Inquisitor of Warband Leviathan. See to it that all his belongings are safely delivered to his chambers aboard the VSS Karamzina. If anything should go missing I will personally come and find you, T'saraen," Dmitri spat to the sailor, staring down the lad.

"A-Aye, sir. It will be done," the sailor stuttered before yelling at a group of uniformed men to follow him onto the ship.

"Right then. Let's go get drunk," Ilya said before walking in the direction of the tavern, not bothering to wait for Dmitri to catch up.

***

It was a nice enough place, Ilya thought. He had spent the last decade of his life getting drunk in secret with passing SA soldiers at the Seminary. Thus sitting down at an actual pub was a lot nicer than sneaking around in dark hallways where Marius couldn't find him.

It was shameful, a sin according to some clerics, to partake in alcohol while serving under the shadow of the Red Shrine, but Gods what else was he supposed to do in the Seminary? Ilya was not meant for such places. He was meant for the battlefield and the sea, to be among soldiers. As he walked through the pub, Varyan soldiers saluted him. This is more like it.

"Barkeep! I will pay for everything," he said to the T'saraen tavernkeeper as he passed him by. The Varyan soldiers cheered him on in approval.

"Your Lady Mother would never approve of this," the young Omestrian warned as Ilya took a seat at a table at the front end of the tavern.

"Approve of what, man? Her darling son celebrating his Culmination? Perhaps me drinking in honor of the successful maiden voyage of her newest, most shiny steamcruiser would be enough for her to turn a blind eye."

"You are an inquisitor, Master Ilya. A champion of the Varyan people. And this place is... beneath you. It is disreputable. The city is crawling with men from the Imperial Chronicle, if they see you in here--"

"Let them see me! Look at my abs! Look at these arms!" Ilya yelled, laughing out loud, flexing his well-toned muscles. He took a swig of his drink.

The shame on Dmitri's face was palpable.

"Sit down, why don't you? I don't see you for ten bloody years, then Mom forces us on that ship without giving us a moment to catch up... but now we're finally here. We can relax, take it easy for a while," Ilya spoke, his pale eyes regarding his young servant warmly.

"Have a drink with me. Or several."

Dmitri leaned in, his lips inches from Ilya's ear.

"You very well know that I can't do that. Now please, at least put a shirt on."

Ilya smirked in response and said nothing more. He continued to drink as the hour passed. He invited soldiers and T'saraens both to his table, drinking merrily with them, asking for the latest gossip. He learned of rumors regarding a black-haired summoner who had escaped imprisonment in Sapharan, and of the whispers surrounding the destruction of the small Varyan fleet patrolling Lanostre.

His eyes stared unblinking as he heard tell of these rumors. Dmitri remained silent.

"What about you, Reverence? Are you excited for the journey?" a young Varyan conscript asked him.

"Pft. Of course I am! Wouldn't you be?"

The conscript looked around cautiously. He took a drink and took his time placing the glass back on the table.

"I... I think... If I may speak freely?"

"You may."

"I think it's a mistake. There is... darkness across the sea. It's a place of demons and devils and... people who consort with such monstrosities. Our Lord has already brought all of the peoples of the world under His protection. This strange place beyond the storm -- the people there, why do we need to bring them into our flock? They are no better than the Omestrians," the young conscript spoke in measured words, his eyes falling on Dmitri with disgust.

Ilya's smile disappeared from his face.

"Hm. I'll have you know that I have served with Omestrians and I can vouch for their strength and tenacity. They worshiped the wrong God, of course, but they themselves aren't so bad."

The conscript cleared his throat, and once again stared at Dmitri.

"I didn't mean any disres--"

"Dmitri here has served my family since he was a child. He was born in the pipeworks. His parents died in them, giving a lifetime's gift of their ether to us. He was destined to do the same, until my parents saw in him a calling for something greater. Do you know what that means?"

The conscript stared back, unsure of how to answer.

"For an Omestrian to rise above cattle, they must prove themselves of having extraordinary potential. Thus, if you ever come across an Omestrian who is free of his chains and serving the Empire proudly, nod to them in reverence, for each one of them is a treasured pearl worth several of us Varyan men."

A derisive laugh rang out loudly from a table at the far end of the tavern. The pub immediately fell to silence, and all collectively turned to face the one who would dare laugh at a Varyan inquisitor.

A dark-haired man sat alone at a table, sipping from a martini glass. He was dressed in ordinary civilian's clothes, but there was no mistaking him.

Ilya smiled. "Father Hassan," he said, his voice reaching throughout the quiet interior. The T'saraen inquisitor stared back silently. He was leaning back in his chair, the shadows were still around him, his lightning blue eyes like two sapphires in the dark.

"I didn't notice you come in," Ilya cried out.

"You don't seem to notice a lot of things," Hassan answered, chuckling to himself.

Ilya rose from his seat. He found that he had become... cold for the first time since entering the aegis. He glanced at Dmitri, and immediately the servant removed his own officer's coat and draped it around Ilya's shoulders.

Hassan was on his feet. His lips were curved into that dagger smile of his and as he began to walk towards Ilya the Varyan inquisitor felt his ether begin to surge within himself, a natural instinct, but when Hassan greeted him with a warm embrace, Ilya allowed the magic in his veins to dissipate.

"It's been a while. Shame you didn't join us on the journey down here," Hassan said, clasping Ilya on the shoulder.

"Believe me, I wanted to. But... family obligations," Ilya answered, glancing at Dmitri.

"This your man-servant?" Hassan asked, turning to regard the Omestrian with a curious gaze. "Ah. You have clear eyes. Not as sunlit as most I've seen. They're very pretty. Take care of those," he added, winking at the servant before turning back to Ilya.

"Come on then. We have much to discuss."

Without turning back, Hassan walked out of the bar.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Yeeess Oreeen

Btw, this OOC has been kinda dead, but the RP isn't! Not sure if anyone in the forum reads this thing, but we do most of our planning/chatting on our discord these days since it's easier. The OOC is kinda... yeah, but the RP itself is still going strong!

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

Mother Xera Athalos, "R'haelyn" (Lanostran for "Hunter of God")
Age: Unknown
Occupation: Lanostran High Inquisitor



One of the most powerful Lanostran inquisitors in known history, Mother Xera Athalos is a name spoken in high reverence throughout the nation. For near a century she was the edge to Lanostre's spear, defending the nation from both rebellion and threats from outside the nation's aegis. At the end of her long tenure, the aged inquisitor faced down the Varyan empire's invasion, using the last of her power to defend the nation for as long as she could. At the end of the war, she dueled Father Gregoroth for three days on end, and it was only after they were both mortally wounded that Lady Lanostre herself called a ceasefire to the fighting.

After Lanostre's annexation Xera refused to serve Lord Varya, claiming that her blood was bound to the Goddess and no one else. In honor of her service to the nation, and some would say to appease the Lanostran inquisition, Mother Xera was banished from the nation instead of being outright executed for her defiance. She was sent on a coffin ship into the southern blizzards and is believed to have perished, though there are some who believe her to have survived.

***

Father Lior N'halaam, "The Lightning's Song"
Age: 35
Occuptation: Varyan Inquisitor



A flamboyant inquisitor of half Lanostran/T'saraen blood, Lior is a celebrated hero throughout the empire. He is renowned for his adventures into the western storms to hunt demons for sport and is beloved as a patron for the commonfolk of the empire due to this outspoken criticism of the Varyan nobility. Lior was the former warleader of Phoenix Warband-II, and his rivalry with Mother Indira continues to this day. A mercurial and restless thrill-seeker, he was the originator of Warband Seraph but abandoned the group halfway into their training once he grew bored with academic life, an act which has earned him no small amount of ire from other inquisitors.

A talented machinist and even more adept marksman, Lior created a full armory of magical weapons that only he could wield. He currently commands the Red Wrath, a powerful Varyan stormship at the vanguard of the Elurian invasion.

The Last Embers (Dark Steampunk/Fantasy)

@The Angry Goat Awesome post! It was really cool seeing the parts of Cero City that aren't traditionally T'saraen. Makes you remember that there are just normal everyday people in the T'saraen race who aren't super intelligent engineers and scientists. :p

The ring is a super cool idea! It's definitely a rare item, with the wood and the unknown stone. I definitely have some ideas about where it could've come from, but I'll save that until it becomes relevant... which might be soon-ish, depending on what happens. :p