NationStates Jolt Archive

((This is a semi-closed RP. It's half an introduction to a storyline that takes place outside the normal NS universe, and half a recruitment thread for the same. Telegram me for details or an invite.))

I was roused in the early morning hours of the first day of Midweek, in the month of Shirra, five hundred and twenty-seven years after God's conquest of Rhye. I would normally object to being awakened by a stranger at such an hour, but once I saw that he was clad in the robes of God's priesthood, I gathered my effects and followed him out into the street.

There, we were met by eight other priests, each with a blinking, yawning man or woman in tow. "God requires your presence," hissed one of the robed men, and I remember that I thought his voice was harshly loud in the stillness of the early morning.

In the west, the sea still glittered with fading afternoon light. Twilight was not yet truly ended, and already the eastern sky began to glow with the promise of a bloody dawn. We would not have a long night tonight, perhaps only an hour of real darkness before the bloated and crimson mass of the Eye of God heaved itself once more over the horizon.

We turned away from the shrine at the heart of Rhye, and followed the cobbled street that runs northward between our docks on the western shore and the farmlands to the east. The road winds up into the low forested hills which girdle the north and northeast reaches of the village. A river flows from out of the southeast into the natural harbor of Rhye, and makes the farmlands there among the richest on the continent.

We stumbled and tripped along the slickly cool cobblestones, and ascended into the hills. Despite the hour and the rough awakening, we made good time, and God's temple is not far from Rhye in any event.

I could not suppress a pang of dread as we approached the temple proper: the way is guarded by wooden crosses sporting the rotting corpses of heretics and trespassers. Their heads adorn the spikes that seem to have grown from the crown of the temple's tower. Gore and centuries of caked blood have soaked into the marble walls of the temple, and stained it the same color as God's Eye itself. A wrought iron gate leads into a conspicuously clean courtyard, and from there into the temple main.

I was the first to notice a vague rumble, a rattle in the paving stones of the courtyard. A buzzing came over us, more felt than heard, and seemed to ooze out from the great iron and oaken door of the temple. It gripped my head like a mounstrous insect. What happened then was not quite language or words, but I will attempt to write down what I experienced, as best I can.

Servant, it seemed to say to me, your world falters. Its life grows short, and it cannot be saved. Soon I will turn My Eye from this land, and all that will be left when I go will be ice and death. Therefore, this task I give unto you: go forth among the peoples of this world, and prepare them for My last great work. Raise up your hands and wage war upon the worshippers of My rivals. Cast down their idols and break the men and women to your yoke. When I leave this place, their bodies will lie heaped up in the cold, a testament to My might and My people. Go. You are My chosen."

I can still remember God's will clearly, though long years and much suffering has dulled the rest of my memory. I know that I am not long for this or any other world anymore, but there is yet some small strength in me. This is the last story of my people.

The Yann is a lazy river, drifting idly through the countryside. My ship, Bird of the River is of the largest of my kind, of we who follow Roon. There are thousands of gods of hearth; of home; of dwelling; of stagnation. There is but one Roon, and we please him; offer sacrifice to him by going. This is why my people do not dwell in hovels or castles or houses or keeps or towers. We dwell on ships and vessels and beasts of burden. We travel always, only stopping when we need food or rest or to work repairs.

When Slid (Whose Soul Is By The Sea) seeks to thwart our goals by making the Yann flow slowly, or when Fæl (Whose Breath Is The Wind) keeps his breath from our sails, I make the Sign Of Roon and the ship will go.

Such is the way of Roon.

Such is the way of my people.

There are some who say that Skarl's arm grows weary; that he cannot continue to beat his drum; that soon MĀNA-YOOD-SUSHĀĪ will forget to rest; that MĀNA-YOOD-SUSHĀĪ will unmake the world.

There are others who say that the followers of Mung (He Who Ends Life) have gone mad; that they make the Sign Of Mung to all who do not worship Mung; that they should be killed before they can make the Sign Of Mung.

I hear all these things, for I make the Sign Of Roon. I speak to all peoples from all places. I know of Dorozhand and Rahm. Of Sirāmi, who is the Lord of all Forgetting and of Inzana the Dawnchild. All these things are for me to know.

I make the Sign Of Roon.

I sail the Bird of the River.

I am Karnith Zo; I sail the Yann.

Upon the great bastion of stone that stood in dead centre of Ouranberg, the Red Temple stood. Here, worshippers of Ayatan, the Red God of War, come to pay hommage to Him and his two golden daughters; Sylim, the lithe goddess of Victory and her twin sister Miri, the thoughtful goddess of Honour. For thousands of generations the acolytes of the Temple have stood vigilance over the place where He blessed his prophet and champion, the ancient warrior known only as Gotte. He blessed the warrior with the strength to tame the savage people of the land, and bind them together into a nation worthy for Ayatan to call his own. The higher priests of the temple have long helped guide the nation of Dalstar through many wars with its neighbours over the ages, until the entire eastern continent of their world had been absorbed into it's glorious fold.

From his seat in Ouranberg, and within sight of the great Temple, the Kings have continued to build the strength of the nation and it's people; the wizened priests have long told of the Last War, where Ayatan would spur his chosen on to a final victory over the weaklings of the other gods. The martial traditions of the people of Gotte had been painstakingly maintained, despite the turbulent times the empire had found itself in times past.

But it had come at last. The High Cleric, who was himself and aged veteran, had been granted a vision. War was coming. The others where preparing, and the children of Ayatan must prepare as well. To show His favour, He proclaimed that His own daughters had been sent into the world to lend aid to His people in their darkest hours. Reports of naval skirmishes had already reached the King's ears, and nwo this. The call would have to go up, to sound the nation to war.

---

Rain drizzled lightly in the air as the two teens watched the procession march past. Dozens of wet soldiers marched in time, dressed in the heavy green greatcoats and black steel helmets of the Kottenmark Dragoons. Though the tall musket they each carried had been sealed up in a canvas bag, the soldiers still looked as if they'd be ready to fight on a moment's notice.

War was still weeks away at worst, the local chaplain had said. A true test of when the war was close was when the locals started being conscripted, he'd said to Gregor in private. When they started to conscript the able women... that's how they'd know it was going bad. Gregor had just laughed at the time, but watching the local garrison parading down the main street, he couldn't help but wonder what he'd do when he go the call. He was eighteen, after all. A prime age to go fight and die for older men. Yes, he'd go, and he was sure he'd die.

The girl who was sitting in his lap on the veranda of their housing district thought rather differently, however. Ana, the young Gregor's fiancee, was quite sure that it would never come to that; the people of Kottenmark province would surely never see such drastic times. There was always a war, somewhere, but not here. Not here in peaceful Rhonforq.

A pitiful figure greets the weary traveller on the long and treacherous road through the Empty Land, dominion of the Brigand-Prince Kassad. Though few recall his name and none speak it, when the dust storms are calm one can make out the hunched and ragged figure of Kail, the orphan God of the Desert.

Once his might had held back the desert, allowing the two rivers Kae'le and Ba'el, the twin daughters of the sky, to make this a green and fertile land. On the shores of the river Kae'le stood the beautiful city he chose to name Arisee, and as her people prospered they built great temples to him, spreading his word as far as the fortified Oasis-city Reknovar where the edge of the desert had once been.

But even he had been unable to hold back the dreadful dry heat that had slain first Ba'el and then, with agonising slowness, Kae'le, the river which had once run a mile wide becoming a trickle as the heat grew. His people beseeched him, spending weeks praying until they passed out from hunger, but no power of his could beat back this new evil. He called for rain, but the rains never came.

As the city on the banks of Kae'le collapsed into civil war and his people scattered in fear, their faith in him utterly destroyed, the sands had come, and had swallowed the wondrous city of Arisee, spreading their endless maw with ten trillion glittering teeth over his city.

None of this he recalled; without his people's faith he had withered, reduced to a form even less than a man, a pitiful hunched thing by the side of the trail, clawing uselessly at the sand with hands worn down to gleaming bone. His great mind faded, he would never perceive the hopelessness of his task, digging the shifting sands that returned as fast as he could turn them away.

And so, as the sand slowly scoured at his clouded, blind eyes, the Old Man of the Desert clawed at the sand that had taken his city from him.

Klaih left the day following God's revelations, taking with him a woman named Wyrrn into the mountains that mark the northernmost holdings of God and Rhye.
They paused to receive God's blessing, being annointed with the blood of a martyr at Rhye's shrine. Klaih took with him his horse, who was a humble beast of the field, and death with claim all many provisions for the long journey to their neighbors in the north. By the foresight of God, the mountain passes were well clear in the height of summer, and so the Chosen reached the desert beyond swiftly.
Klaih made for the ruins of Arisee, guided by a vision of the world will be as a charnel house an ancient power waiting in the encroaching desert.
Wyrrn left him to travel east along the edge of the desert, to the more verdant lands made fertile by mountain-born rivers. There, perhaps, she hoped to find an ally in the priests of Mung.
The earth will be muddy with their blood, and rivers will choke with the dead. Then I will be free.

Karnith Zo leaned back in his chair, slowly packing his pipe full of the sweet tobacco he was so fond of. His tired eyes scanned his shipmates; the younger ones leaning forward to hear his stories, the older ones leaning back, familiar with his stories and settling in for a good yarn. Once the pipe was properly filled, he murmured a few soft words, the tobacco igniting easily. He puffed a few times, before finally being ready to begin.

"To the east lies those who make the Sign Of Mung; their lands; their holdings; their taint of Death." He blew a plume of smoke which formed into a haunting skull, hovering briefly before dissipating, "Those who make the Sign Of Mung live in destroyed towers. Decay is their home; their trade; their reason for existance. Their black towers have crumbled and reek of death. None venture there save the mad and those who wish to end their own life.

"Do not go to the lands of those who make the Sign Of Mung to prove your bravery or courage. It is not a brave thing to walk to your death.

"Do not go to the lands of those who make the Sign Of Mung to seek revenge for their actions. They work the will of Mung and it is not for us to decide if Mung is right, or if Mung is wrong. Just as one would not question we who make the Sign Of Roon, we should not question those who make the Sign Of Mung."

He smiled a little, "However, we are much more friendly.

"We who make the Sign Of Roon are more likely than others to find ourselves in the land of those who make the Sign Of Mung, for we go. It is important to always know where you are, you should all know the words to divine your location, for that is one of Roon's many gifts to us.

"Aside from Roon's gift to us, you will know when you have entered the lands of those who make the Sign Of Mung for the Yann will be choked with weeds; the grass will be wilted; the trees will weep; there will be no birds in the sky nor creatures in the fields. The air will grow heavy as you penetrate further. A rain like warm grease will fall from the heavens. Blackened buildings will line the road. Not blackened from fire; blackened from the influence of Mung.

"Those who make the Sign Of Mung wear blackened robes; their hands hidden within; their faces obscured by their cowls. Some say they have the face of a skull and the hands of a skeleton. Some say they are the most beautiful of all. No one knows, as no one has seen those who make the Sign Of Mung and lived. Nor has the Sign Of Mung been seen by any who still lives.

"Journey not into the land of those who make the Sign Of Mung."

Wyrrn pushes her greasy hair out of her eyes for the hundredth time. A month in the foetid swamps of Mung left her much the worse for wear. She stumbles as the ground seems to disappear beneath her blistered feet, plunging her face-first into rancid water. She chokes, and sputters, thrashing towards solid land, which she clings to until she can catch her breath.

The sun is a distant and fragile flame, and ice grips the world. The swamps freezes around her and clings to her fevered flesh. She jerks and thrashes, the ice tearing her skin and frosting over again as quickly as she can move. She opens her mouth wide to scream

and heaves herself up out of the water. Her strength flags. She has had no food for a week, but thirst has not yet driven her to taste the filthy water around her. Still, what choice has she? She might as well go on as turn back, for she could no more reach the highlands than she could survive here.

So she rolls over, onto her hands and knees, and there she stops. Slowly, very slowly, she lifts her gaze towards the cowled head of the robed figure standing before her. Her voice is cracked and weak with thirst and ill use, yet she manages a few words before darkness claims her at last.
"In the name of God, I have come."

The parades through the streets of Rhonforq hadn't been for show. Across the country, the military machine of Dalstar was building up for some unforseen action. Even Ronforq's city Arbites precinct had been active over the last few months, with no less then six executions of discovered traitors and spies that had been caught in Kottenmark, along with eight burnings of known heretics and recidivists. At times, the unease of the populace could be felt in the air. Seeing the loathesome black-clad Arbites, all men from foreign provinces, marching down the streets in ordered ranks, thumping their black tower shields with their heavy steel truncheons was not something that endeared them to the locals.

But that wasn't their function.

Their function, plainly, was fear. Fear kept the mobs in line. Fear kept the King in power. Fear was yet another weapon in the arsenel of Ayatan.

---

Nearly eight hundred miles away to the west of landlocked Kottenmark province lay the bustling coastline of the Inner Sea. Here, in the north, was the province of Aexe. It boasted three of the best deepwater ports along this, Dalstar's western coast, and as such was the headquarters of the vast Western Navy.

With a full two hundred ships of the line under his command, in addition to almost numberless flotilla of smaller craft, Admiral Sohk was almost a law unto himself. In the chain of command, he was surpassed by two men. He superceeded the governors of the coastal provinces in any matter that could possibly concern him. As far as he saw it, he owned the Inner Sea.

But he swore he'd trade it all in if only the foundries of Hydraphur would finishing laying down the three ships hidden away in the depths of their yards.

Already the Imperator sat at anchor, and already word of it's unsurpassed power had spread like wildfire. But, much to Sohk's chagrin, that mighty vessel was the flagship of the Eastern Navy. Hydraphur, the chief shipyards of the west, had lagged behind. The St. Brostin Shipyards in the east had already completed the first Imperator, and had four more underway. Hydraphur was, apparently, close to the simulatnious completion of three.

The consensus amongst the navy brass was that with these new battleships, no fleet in existance could best them.

Not even the damnable disciples of Roon.

Approaching the edge of the Empty Land, the traveller passes the ragged townships and little villages of those who fled the fall of Arisee, clustered around streams and water-holes on the new boundary of the desert. The desert itself that spread so quickly with the coming of the heat is now retreating, slowly giving up what it took in that dreadful time when it seemed all the world would burn.

The traveller who presses on finds a but single road marked in the seemingly endless wasteland, with little to shelter them from the burning heat of the day or the terrible cold of night. Around the trail can be seen the partly-buried bodies of those who did not equip themselves wisely for the journey, often being fed on by those few creatures who call the desert home, the fleet-footed rats and skittering spiders that live in the dunes.

The traveller who presses on through the Graveyard of the Sky finds a far stranger sight there.

The bones of the desert arch up into the sky, great rusting steel ribs mostly buried in the sand, some with pieces of canvas strung between them like desiccated skin. Around them is littered the debris left by the death of these man-made beasts, broken glass and twisted metal waiting to impale the feet of one who strays into the Graveyard without care. Right beside the trail lies a single object, twice as long as a man is tall, looking like the heart of some twisted mechanical monster, a mess of trailing pipework and gears with half of a propeller jutting up from the sand at one end.

In this place is a fortune in what Reknovar knows as wealth, but few have the skill to claim it, the glistening skeletons being picked clean by spiders and scorpions ample proof of those who have tried and failed.

On clear days, one who looks to the East will see a barely visible trail in the sand leading to a massive shadow on the horizon, often with a great pall of black smoke in the sky above. Many a rational mind dismisses it as a mirage, but Reknovar is quite, quite real.

Reknovar

Behind her mighty walls of iron the city of the Goddess Kinuyo remains alone, a single patch of green protected from the embrace of the desert by the will and the ingenuity of She of the Forge. Kinuyo's blessing is a most unusual one, as is Her worship. In Reknovar there is but a single temple, no larger or more grand than any other building, where She sits in the throne and the body her people created for Her to inhabit. It is a great human figure of iron and steel standing ten times the height of a man, though Kinuyo rarely stands, content to sit on Her great throne.

There are no ceremonies to Her, no sacrifices to Her vanity or offerings for Her blessing, for nothing so crass pleases Her. Kinuyo's heart sings in fire and with the sound of the hammer and the bellows, and Her praise is written in the workings of each of the mighty furnaces of Reknovar, and Her worship in the heart of each artisan and craftsman. Such is the worship of She of the Forge.

Those who She appointed to rule Her people do so with the aid of Her wisdom, down to she who ruled Kinuyo's people in this time, the Empress Dornkirk. Kinuyo's people were known for their love of peace and diplomacy, for even though their forges turned out many mighty and ingenious engines of war, Kinuyo's wisdom was that war bought only destruction. Those machines that were created in Her praise would be cast down and torn apart by strife, and that She would not allow lightly.

Neither would She allow Her city to fall so easily as fate would have it.

The Empress stood before Kinuyo in the shrine, her head bowed respectfully. With a hiss of steam, the huge form of Kinuyo looked down at her, Her mask of steel not moving as Her voice intoned:

'They come for My city.'

The Empress raised her head, slightly fearful. Kinuyo's voice echoed like the blow of the hammer in the forge, and as She spoke the scent of burning oil and the dry heat of a furnace blew over the Empress. 'Who comes?'

'They from Rhye. They come to make war.'

'Why, Goddess?'

'They believe there is no salvation, that this is the Time of Ending. They will not be swayed by words or the promise I can give them.'

The promise. The Empress knew of it, of course, that if only all the artisans of Reknovar worked will all their hearts and all the materials could be bought to Reknovar the city would be saved somehow...Though she knew not how.

'What would You have me do? The materials are not assembled.'

There was a terrible sadness in Kinuyo's voice as she spoke, 'Trade will not bring us what we need, Empress of My city. I can no longer avoid what fate has determined I must do.' A black tear of oil ran down the mask as the eyes glowed like coals.

'Build Me an army.'

Those who make the Sign Of Mung (http://freespace.virgin.net/clive.walker1/images/hushgentleman_225x375.jpg) live in decay; they embody decay; they are decay; but they are not consumed by it. They accepted the Taint and the Wasting as proof of their devotion to Mung; they would let their bodies decay but not die; they reach to Mung's very embrace; close to death but not dead. This was evident in how it strode through the fen: it did not sink into the waters; its robes were not discolored; the fell beasts of the fen did not attack it.

The acolyte looked down at Wyrrn as she lay dying before it. It breathed deep the air rasping out from her lungs. This one was at the threshhold; she was ready for Mung; she would meet Him even without its help. The acolyte lifted its hand, the robe slipping down revealing a dessicated hand covered in sores. It was young by Mung's standards; newly inducted into service of Mung; its diseases were a mere dozen. It had no thick blood; no bloated pockets of rampant flesh; no internal parasites; no bleeding eyes; no missing flesh. Its joints crackled and its flesh tore like ancient, bleached paper as it started to make the Sign Of Mung.

And then it stopped.

This was not Mung's wish.

This girl must live.

This girl must see The Dying One.

It knelt down next to Wyrrn -- the flesh on its right knee splitting, black blood trickling down its leg -- and looked her over, its diseased hand resting on her shoulder. "Child," its voice was a hissing, grating thing; completely unhuman; completely unnatural; completely unholy. "Arise child. You shall not taste Mung's embrace. Yet." The acolyte did not have the power of life; it did not make the Sign Of Kib.

It could still give of itself.

It lifted Wyrrn's chin, leaning forward until her face disappeared within the cowl of its hood. It exhaled, a foul yellowish cloud flowing into Wyrrn's mouth and nose; the corrupted air filling her lungs, making her choke. Even as it breathed, cancerous sores formed in its mouth, growing rapidly until a gaping hole formed in its jaw and cheek. It smiled crookedly as it let Wyrrn slump back to the ground; its voice hissing even more as it whispered, "Mung has blessed me."

It stood back up and waited for Mung's accursed blessing to revive Wyrrn.

---

Those who made the Sign Of Roon had no homeland, but if one was to ask, "Where do those who make the Sign Of Roon meet? Where do they share stories?" The answer, simply, is: Where the Yann meets the Sea of Tri'ar. It was at this place that the Bird of the River was lashed to the Lady of Night; Karnith Zo speaking with Arton Keh.

Arton Keh sailed the Lady of Night; usually in the Sea of Tri'ar. He was younger than Karnith Zo; more brash. Despite his youth, he still repected Karnith Zo and defered to him; for Karnith Zo was the Chosen Of Roon; he knew all of Roon's tales; he had been blessed with all the Gifts Of Roon; when Karnith Zo made the Sign Of Roon, anything would go and go faster than any other follower could make something go.

"It is a dark time, Karnith Zo, Chosen Of Roon. Those who make the Sign Of Mung venture out more and more; those who follow the Other Gods are seeking preparing for war; those who build ships of metal are also preparing for war. I fear that even the Lady of Night's cannon will be no match for the tools of war that are being prepared."

"I have heard these things, Arton Keh; Roon has whispered of these dark times in my ear. Roon has told me that then End Times are here. Those who make signs to the Other Gods are doing the bidding of their patrons; those who make Signs to the Other Gods of war make for war; those who make Signs to the Other Gods of trade seek to sell their goods; those who make Signs to the Other Gods of peace seek to calm those Other Gods of war." Karnith Zo sighed softly, sipping from his cup of bitter tea, "And those who make the Sign Of Mung will soon attempt to embrace all the world."

"Then the world is finally over? We make the Sign Of Roon. We can fight but we are not warriors; soldiers; assassins! How can we possibly survive, Karnith Zo, Chosen of Roon?"

Karnith Zo smiled, "Did you not see the glorious pattern of Roon's will? Armies do not stand still; they do not have dwellings; they go. Even if they do not make the Sign Of Roon; even if they do not know Roon, they give praise to Roon. Every army on the march praises Roon; ever navy on patrol praises Roon; every family fleeing the tides of destruction praise Roon." He shook his head sadly, "Roon shall yet triumph. All who shall die are those who make Signs to the Hearth Gods and the Home Gods. Fear not, Arton Keh. We who make the Sign Of Roon have our task! Roon commands you! Go to the waters and spread the word to all who make the Sign Of Roon! Roon commands us: We must go; we shall only stop to spread the Command Of Roon to others who make the Sign Of Roon and to spread the Word Of Roon to all who do not yet make the Sign Of Roon. Roon shall have his followers, both those who knowingly make the Sign Of Roon and those who give praise to Roon without knowing!"

Karnith Zo took a great knife from his belt and cuts the ropes binding the Bird of the River to the Lady of Night. "By the will of Roon," he cried as he made the Sign Of Roon and the Bird of the River did go; faster than any ship ever did before or since.

Firelen shines eternal.

They say that beyond our lands the world is fading. The legends come to our ears that entire realms have been swallowed by deserts, others tainted by decay, and still others that survive have had failed crops, greater storms, colder and longer and more terrible winters. Yet, through it all, Firelen shines eternal.

Here the great red sun, the very eye of Sii'Ris still warms our fields, the forests are green, the summers are still long and pleasant. Here, in this land of eternal light, we live good lives; we are wealthy with ore and gems, we are strong in arms, and we are blessed with knowledge by the scattered ruins of the Yárai, the Ancients. It is said even our language echoes that of the Yárai. All this has been granted us by Sii'Ris Fe'nar the Golden, Lady of the Stars, Queen of the Dawn, Goddess of Beauty and Wisdom and Power. She watched over the Yárai as She watches over us, and puts forth Her power to guard us from the darkness that closes in elsewhere. She is good to us.

In fact, some of us, She grants but a shard of Her power. Some of us have yet a few drops of the Ancients' blood in our veins. We are taller, more slender in build, longer-lived, more hardy against disease, nobler of features. We are closer in form to Sii'Ris and likewise closer to Her heart. We are the highborn, the hína'Ris, the children of the Lady, and we are permitted to do great works likewise similar to Her own (though of course far lesser in scale!). We are given the knowledge of the Yárai, and put above the lesser people of Firelen, and in return for these gifts, we likewise have great responsibility, to ensure the well-being and prosperity of the people. We need them as much as they need us, and all Fireleni, highborn and common alike, have always remembered this.

Yet things may yet be changing. In recent years, the Hierarchs - the leaders of the hína'Ris as we are leaders of the Fireleni, and who commune often directly with Sii'Ris - have been shifting their directives. Our military strength has been steadily increased even beyond its previous levels. New weapons, pushing the very edge of our knowledge, have been designed and created. Ships were being built, troops were trained. It is even said that more great relics of the Yárai than ever before - relics of untold power, beyond our understanding, until now largely hidden behind the walls of the temples after being unearthed from the ruins - have been authorized for use. We knew not why this was happening, lacking any obvious threat; it is said our fleets and armies now rival even those of mighty Dalstar. Only the highest echelons of the hína'Ris were privy to the Lady's divine secrets, the sheer scope of Her plans. The rest of us were told simply to obey, that it was the Will of Sii'Ris, and all would become clear in time.

They were right.

Sii'Ris has spoken to Her children; not last week, She spoke to me. I was in the Great Temple, in the city; and there, with the graceful, golden-haired marble statue of Sii'Ris gazing down at me with its ruby eyes, I heard Her Voice, echoing in my mind. I cannot quite describe it; but in all my years I had never personally heard Her before. She was soft, yet regal, and the sound of Her Voice warmed me like the sun, yet there was a coldness as well, a coldness I had never before perceived. Her words were beyond my ken to understand, yet from them, I somehow comprehended the following:

For countless centuries I have nurtured My people, she said. And in all those ages I have asked for nought in return save the respect due Me. Yet now this world begins to fail, its sun fades. When it flickers out at last, all will die. Thus I must ask My people, My children, to complete but one final Testament to My power. This task I give unto you: Cleanse this world. Smash the heathen idols, burn their temples, kill any who disparage My name. Do this in the name of My glory, and I will watch over you, My people, and protect you from the certain doom that faces this world. You are My Fist and My Sword - Go, and do not disappoint Me.

Firelen shines eternal? Eternal no more, perhaps. But in the darkness of the fall of this world, Firelen will shine more brightly than ever before.

I am a mage of Firelen.

My name is Isildae Tárindur, and I am hína'Ris.

It is near, now. I can taste war upon the winds, and the earth sings with bloodlust. My Chosen walk amongst my people, arming them and training them in the ways of conflict. The stars sing of the things they see in the fleeting night: machines of power and mighty fleets, yet I am not afraid. I have not made the same mistake the other gods have made. I do not trust mortals.

Mung's acolyte takes Wyrrn by the ankle and begins dragging her, unceremoniously, across the fen, towards the tower where the Dying One resides. Her breath comes shallowly, in quick gasps that rattle in her throat like a dying wheeze. The acolyte smiles vaguely, reassured in the deadly gift of Mung's blessing.

Soon, though, her failing breath seems to sound more and more like faint whispers and half-articulate pleas. Her captor pauses, now uncertain of the process. She should not be waking so soon. It turns back to watch Wyrrn, listening to see if it can make out any of the words.

"Drula koa, anchtsu roa," Wyrrn starts, falling off into unintelligible mumbles. Now, she seems to argue, and in a markedly different tone from her prior whispered ramblings. Mung's acolyte leans down, to hear more clearly, but springs back when Wyrrn shrieks and goes rigid. Her eyes stare vacantly skyward.

It shrugs, and, taking her ankle back in its hand, resumes the trip to the Dying One's tower.

My Eye sees many things. Once before, I watched the world die. I saw living things wither and grow sick. I saw the seas boil away, and the land grow black. I felt the death of many gods. Their blood was sweeter than any other thing I have ever tasted.

Lost and mad with thirst, Klaih stumbles, by providence or God's grace, upon Reknovar. He drags his nearly empty pack behind him, his horse long since dead, as he stumbles and gropes his way towards the great black walls of the city.

The unyielding sun burns him, sears his skin until it blackens and splits. The sand abrades his hands and blisters his feet, and he would weep were there any water left in him to spare.

He raises his hand to touch the iron wall, and screams with the pain of day's heat trapped in metal. His flesh peels, and he glimpses the bones of his hand for a moment before collapsing from thirst, his hallucinations passing away beneath the weight of oblivion.

It is near, now. Soon, one of my Chosen will be ready.

Along the Aexe coast, Sohk's fleet assembled. Across the warm and tranquil Inner Sea lay the old land of Rhye, and it was here that the disciples of Ayatan concluded that their war should first be prosecuted. The entire Western Fleet was to be sent to protect the masses of bloated galley-haulers that were required, each packed full of men and gear. The journey would take a month, gods willing, but the destination was viewed as worth the effort.

If everything went to plan, the 7th Cardinal Dragoons and 3rd Braxis Hussars would be hoisting their banners amongst the burnt-out ruins of Rhye two months after landfall.

That was, of course, if everything went to plan.

The Dying One was the eldest of those who make the Sign Of Mung; the most diseased one; the one closest to Mung. It was a horrific sight, those who saw it never forgot. Necrosis had long ago taken its legs, leaving rotten stumps; its arms were little more than bone due to the wasting disease it had been stricken with; its face (for those chosen few who had seen it) was covered in sores and pocked with bleeding holes. Although none could see it, inside was just as bad: a collapsed lung; a heart that barely beat; and dozens of other diseases and necrosis eating away at its body and organs.

The acolyte uncerimoniously dropped Wyrrn on the floor in front of the Dying One and bowed deeply; honored just to be in the Dying One's presence. "Master," it hissed, "Mung has delivered this girl to us. She makes the Sign Of Other Gods and was sent to us by the Other Gods."

The high priest standing next to the Dying One looked at Wyrrn and the acolyte, "Why did you not make the Sign Of Mung, acolyte of Mung? Why do you bring this to we who make the Sign Of Mung and the Dying One?"

The acolyte bowed again, fearful of the high priest's wrath, "Please, hear me out oh High Priest Of Mung. She spoke with the voice of another; with the voice of an Other God!"

"What did she say, acolyte?"

"She said 'Drula koa, anchtsu roa.' I do not understand these words and hoped that others might. Spare this humble acolyte, High Priest Of Mung."

The high priest raised its own diseased hand to strike down the acolyte, but was stopped by a hushed wheeze from the Dying One. The Dying One's voice was like a gasp from Mung's very mouth. Each word expelled a cloud of yellowish fog; each word carried the horrific stench of death; each word was a nail in a coffin; when the Dying One spoke, even Mung listened. "This... acolyte has... done well. Leave... the girl... to me..." It raised a skeletal hand towards the acolyte, "You have... done... well, child. Mung... blesses... you." The motion of its hand was barely perceptable, but the power was felt by all who made the Sign Of Mung.

The acolyte cried out and dropped to its knees, vomiting violently and spewing out blood, bile and a strange black substance. It continued to hack and wheeze, vomiting out more before screaming in pain as the violent actions cause its eye to explode in a shower of vitreous humor, the jelly running down its ragged cheek. After a few moments, the Dying One adressed the acolyte again, "Mung has blessed... you. Arise... Cleric Of Mung."

At the wall

In the brief moment before he passed out Klaih might have noticed a figure hop over the dune behind him, outlined against the blazing sun, dressed in loose desert clothing with most of its face and head covered by a cloth fastened with a dark-coloured band. The figure hauled him to his feet and pressed the neck of a bottle to his lips, forcing him to drink the unpleasantly bitter water inside, then slinging him over its shoulder as it walked back into the desert.

His weak protests didn't seem to concern the figure that much.

The Empty Land

Klaih awoke in a low canvas bed at one end of a small tent, the figure at the door barking an order to the one tending to him. Had he got chance to look at her, he'd easily realise from her face - foxlike with long pointed ears atop her head and a short muzzle, framed with long sand-yellow hair the same colour as her fur - that she wasn't human.

The figure at the door was the same one who had picked him up, its face still covered. It took a step forward, a rifle wrapped in rags to protect it from the sand in one hand, and spoke, the language thick with the accent of the desert, 'Those of your wounds that are most severe have been treated, though some will need time to heal.' He gestured to Klaih's burned hand, 'And that will never heal.'

The figure sighed theatrically, upending Klaih's empty water bottle and then tossing it aside, 'What brings one so ill-prepared into my desert, friend?'

The land of Dalstar is not quite, and never has been, what it appeares to be. It has long been a source of pride that in all of their wars, the great nation has always won through strength of arms and faith; not, unlike many of the other, "lesser" empires of Humphalos. No, there was no occult taint to be found in Dalstar.

At least, that's what the official records state. The reality is rather different.

Like the people of the rest of the world, a certain tiny fraction of people in Dalstar are Gifted. Witches, warlocks, magicians; they have many names. In Dalstar, they're mutants to be hunted. It is the holy duty of the Purgation to find these heretics, and bring them to heel. It is a dangerous duty, and only the most hardened and wise cleric of Ayatan is permitted to join the secret order. Their task is to find the Gifted, and bind them with the Wards of Nullification. It is during this process that nearly all of the Gifted lose their sanity, as they are wrapped in thick straps and heavy chains, strange painful runes are carved into their flesh, and blessed spikes are driven into their bodies to absorb their taint. Once the binding is completed, they are taken to the ancient crypts beneath the Red Temple in Ouranberg. There, they are blinded, deafened, and muted, and left for eternity. The bizzare thing about this proceedure is that the Gifted are granted a strange, twisted kind of immortality. Age seems to forget about them.

But it has always been during one of the Great Wars that the real reason for keeping the Gifted in this cruel prison is demonstrated.

The Priesthood of Ayatan maintains, at the heart of it's Great Temple, ten pairs of ancient war machines. Legend tells that they were built by Ayatan himself, and gifted to Gotte's children when their father died. The ancient machines eventually came to be known as Feldkanon, or Fell Crushers. Standing three times the hight of a man, the huge lumbering steel beasts heft a pair of massive hammers, which strike like devestating lightning. But what was later discovered was that the primal sentience in each machine could not be kept awake forever. Each required nourishment to stay fruntional; they needed to consume the life of a mortal to fuel their war-lust. But it was eventually discovered that not just any mortal would do: While an ordinary man could keep a Feldkanon fueled for a day or two, the soul of a Gifted man could fuel one for months. So it was that, in order to maintain the fuel supplies for their holy machines, the Priesthood barred the practice of magic, and ordered all it's users to be hunted down.

Three of the revered Feldkanon and their attendants have been stowed aboard one of the fat transports, along with eight Gifted that would serve during the campaign. And, if the fight went badly, the secretive priests mused, they could always unbind these poor wretches and leave them behind to cover their retreat. After such abuse, they would naturally lash out at the first people to come along with as much deadly force as they could muster....

Time has little meaning to me. What, after all, should I mark it by? The growing of things I do not eat, the passing of seaons I do not feel? Lives, cities, empires, civilizations? A very long time ago, the world burned. The sun began to die, and its bloated corpse seared away all life, and I danced among the flames.

At first, all that comes to Wyrrn is a vague and somewhat lighter blur that replaces the deeply dark blur of her fevered delirium. The blur slowly begins to resolve itself into distant shapes: unhealthy-looking ovals marked by darker shapes in the rough arrangement of faces, flickering lines that might be walls, and remote bright shapes that must surely account for the unsteady nature of all the other shapes.

She peers up at one of the faces as it moves. The mouth-shape writhes, apparently speaking, but she fails to hear whatever it's saying. Slowly, then, it dawns on her that she cannot hear the crackling of the fires, or the shuffle of her hosts' footsteps. With a sense of growing alarm, she realizes she cannot hear at all.

She struggles to climb out of the sickbed, fighting with the covers and her hosts and heedless of her nakedness, screaming ancient words that she cannot hear. She cannot hear. Why would her God curse her so?

Power demands sacrifice. It is time.

A light and a pain pierce her mind, terrible and all-encompassing. Her hair stands on end as an electric crawl slithers across her skin and arcs between her teeth as she screams. The light seeps out of her head, streaming from her eyes and mouth in a most unnatural fashion. Thought gives way to pain, and in the end, even pain is shredded and cast aside before the power being channeled through her.

When once more she wakes, it is not Wyrrn who looks out from behind her eyes.

I am come, at last. Mung, old friend, attend me, and look upon what I have done.

---

In the desert, Klaih considers his resuer warily. He did not know that any people lived in this forsaken place. Still it would be rude to ignore the person who saved his life.

"All men of faith suffer for their conviction. God has sent me, to tell the world of its final days, and gather all peoples to Him. Will you come to Him, and be one saved from the death of the world?" He looks at the foxy woman, earnestly eager, for her sake.

---

Far to the east, a fleet of meagre fishing vessels sets sail towards Dalstar. None of the boats is more than two or three dozen feet long, and not a one among them is armed with anything but scattered bowmen, but each is heavily laden with men and women, supplies, and food for the voyage to Dalstar. Coso sails with them, Seventh among the Chosen and commander of God's fleet, such as it is.

Doubt nags at his heart, for the armada of Dalstar is legendary. How can mere village boats best the greatest fleet the world had ever seen? Coso stares into the dawn, and feels his doubt blossom into fear.

The sailing across the Inner Sea was anything but easy. The weather had turned with the seasons, and storms began to pick up as the midyear passed away. One of the picket destroyers was even lost after floundering in a great swell. Still, the priests offered comfort, saying this was Ayatan's test to decide who was worthy to fight His war. Those He found wanting, they said, would not even be granted the glory of dying on the field.

---

Still the months wore on, and as the soldiers grumbled in their cramped quarters, the journey wore on. Three and a half months passed before the land they'd been sent to burn was sighted. The trumpet call from the front picket was a welcomed with a hail of cheers from the packed fleet. But that wasn't all the pickets had encountered.

Less then an hour after spotting land the Bleeding Edge, a small six-gun sloop, rang it's alarm.

"Fishers," scoffed the first officer, standing next to the captain on the bridge as they both peered at the suspicious vessels spotted with their telescopes. "Nothing serious. They'll move when we pass."

The captain, a rather short and swarthy sea-dog, grunted his approval. "Still, fire a shot across that big one's bow. Scare 'em off. It's a whole deep-sea fleet, and they'll need encouragment. Signal the Protector and the Invernesse. Get them and their squadrons to stand by to blow these simpletons out of the water if they don't make way."

"Aye sir. Gunnery! Warning shot, two points to port! Signals..."

"Belay that..." the captain muttered, again peering through his scope. "You see that?"

The first officer looked again. No, this wasn't right... more ships had come into view. Far more. Too many for a fishing fleet...

"All hands to quarters," the captain ordered, the thrill of potential combat creeping into his voice as the first boom went out as the warning shot fired. "Signal the squadron to engage."

Coso watches helplessly as the captain of the merchant ship, the largest boat in the fleet, shouts orders. The crew fights with the vessel, straining to prepare it for the oncoming storm. A sudden gust tears a rope out of a man's hands and turns it into a whip that leaves a growing welt beneath another man's eye.

The ship surges upwards along the face of a wave, and seems to perch precariously at the crest for an eternal moment, then slowly, oh so slowly, tips back down and slides down the reverse slope, to land with a splash that again soaks every man on the desk.

"Captain," the Chosen cries out, "Finish up here and get below. We have been seen by the enemy. I do not fancy a fight in a storm." He turns to pick his way aft and up, ignoring the redoubled frenzy of activity. He, at least, has to stay up here, to see the fleet through what is to come.

A sudden splash forces him to raise an arm to shield his eyes. Moments later, the sound of cannonfire ripples across the turbulent waters. "Fancy or not, it doesn't seem we'll escape it. All hands, seek shelter!" The last booms over the fleet quite unnaturally.

He turns to peer at the horizon, his eyes seeking the enemy fleet. "God have mercy on us."