NationStates Jolt Archive

Despite his personal sufferings at the secret disappearance of his father, Azrael was strangely optimistic as he arose from his bed and threw open the large curtains. He winced ever so slightly as the intense morning sun filled his room with light....light that he had not felt for some time. Deep inside he knew that this day would be like non other, and that the world itself would be shaken to its very foundations....for a New Dawn had arisen not within Automagfreek, but across Gholgoth itself. Azrael knew that this feeling was not just from within himself, for it seemed that there was a definate groundswell with the region, and something big was on the horizon....

But what it was, he could not say. As he savored his breakfast he pondered hard on what this feeling could be, and what sort of sign it was. Damien had always spoken about signs from the Gods and to be ever vigilant when one appeared, for an opportunity that is missed will never again present itself. Even as he began his morning workout he still knew not what was to be expected, but as he started to practice his sword forms he began to have a vision. He saw a world that was at peace and was united under a single banner. He saw a day and age when armed conflict was a thing of the past and all people flourished together in harmony. But in this same vision he saw a path wreathed in flame and littered with the corpses of the slain, for in order to achieve true peace in the world there must be great hardship and sacrifice.

Could this be a sign from the Gods that the time had come for action, or was it merely another illusion open to interpretation? This question he could not answer, but his suspicions rose due to a resurgence in activity within Gholgoth. It seemed that the slumbering giant was beginning to awaken, and any time this happened great change was brought about for better or for worse.

Knowing this and sensing the feeling growing inside him, he drafted a short letter that would be sent to the Lords of Gholgoth. He sat at the large desk in the throne room and looked outward through the bay windows, his eyes fixed on the snow covered peaks of the surrounding ULE Mountains. He could hear the gentle howl of the bitter north wind as it blew against the glass, distracting him briefly as he attempted to put pen to paper. At first he wasn't sure where to begin with his letter, but as he started scratching away the words began to find their way out and in no time he was already preparing to send.

~From the desk of Azrael the Advocate, Supreme Warlord of the Excessively Armed Empire of Automagfreek~

Dearest friends and brothers in arms,

I feel a shift in the tides, and it has weighed heavily upon my soul. I sense that once more we will stand at a crossroads; and in one direction we will have a path of isolation and obscurity, while on the other we will have a path of prosperity and glory. I am not sure if you have felt what it is that has touched my very core, but I feel a new life inside of me.

For ages the world has been free of large conflicts thanks to the steadfast nature of Gholgoth, for we have weathered many storms and have made this planet safer for all peoples who wish to be truely free. But there are still important works to be done, for now the message of Gholgothic freedom and prosperity is spreading and more nations are starting to listen.

But while we continue to spread our message of freedom and peace, we must also not forget the dangers that lurk around every corner. There are some who do not want the world to be truely free, and will stop at nothing to take everyone and everything in their path. Therefore it is the sworn duty of Gholgoth to defend not only itself, but all people who wish to experience our quality of life, which is free from hatred and discrimination based upon faith, economy, and political views. We are a true brotherhood comprised of peoples from all walks of life, and it is because of this that our foes are jealous of us and wish to silence our voices. But we must stand firm my brothers, we must be ready to defend all that we know, love, and have built from their slings and arrows.

But enough of doom and prophecy, let us celebrate our success and welcome new friends to our company. I invite all the Lords of Gholgoth to join me at Toke, capital of Pantera, for the annual festival known as Dal Ragash so that we can make our new brothers in arms feel at home and reaffirm our commitments to our longstanding comrades. This is an ancient festival celebrated for 10,000 years by Freeks and Panterans as a sign of their unity, but this year it falls on the anniversary of the founding of Gholgoth, and this will be a truely historic day!

Gholgoth awaits.


http://img388.imageshack.us/img388/2733/azraelnewqz8.jpg
Azrael the Advocate
-Supreme Warlord of AMF-


*********

OOC: For Gholgoth members, arrival posts are not required.

Presidential Mansion
1 Avenue of Heroes
Hudson

The morning sunlight seeped in through the thick curtains and bulletproof glass window, casting an opaque light on the 4-poster canopy bed in which a middle aged man slept. This was Aaron Preston, the once and future President of Prestonia. Groaning, he rolled out of bed and dressed, putting on a casual Armani suit. After dressing, he walked out to the dining room where his wife, Megan, was already seated, chatting idly with the wife of the Vice President over some toast.

"Well, look who finally got up," Megan said chidingly as Aaron pulled up a chair, rubbing his eyes.

"Yeah, I needed the sleep," Aaron replied as a waiter brought him a gargantuan plate of French toast, eggs, and bacon. Life had not been good to him lately; the tumult of the Revolution, his only son in prison on charges of treason, the matter of those damn Praetonians and Questarians. He had recently taken to dying his hair, something he swore he would never do. That's Prestonian politics for you. Gray hair can kill a career as quickly as any bullet, he thought to himself.

In spite of all this, there had been a silver lining in the chaotic times in which he lived. His popularity was stronger now than ever in his last term, and his old Vice President, long presumed dead, had been discovered alive in, of all places, Prestonian Osmiu, having survived the crash of his plane and lived among the colonials for ten years. While he had declined the Vice Presidency, he was open to the position of Chief Counselor to The President.

Now, as Aaron idly ate his favorite breakfast and chatted with his new VP, Philip Katz, Justin came into the dining room, his arms full of paperwork and mail. "Oh great, more shit to sort out. Now I know why I went into retirement, " Aaron groaned as the pile of work was deposited before him.

"Got one piece of interest boss," Justin said, withdrawing a large parchment envelope stamped with the Freekish crest. Aaron eyed the envelope tensely, knowing whatever it contained would be of great importance.

"Well, pack your bags everyone. Looks like we're going to Pantera," Aaron announced. "There's a festival of some sort, and I'm obligated by the bonds of Gholgoth to go. One more stamp on the passport I suppose."

Emperor Alexander V was a man of culture - he considered himself an atheist, but the rituals of pagan Freeks and Panterans fascinated him. He considered Azrael the Advocate a friend, a brother-in-arms. As he and his small security contingent drove to the meeting halls of Toke, Pantera, he watched the Panterans and Freeks preparing for their festival of Dal Ragash. The Emperor made little pretense - he was one of the newest "members" of the regional pact, and there was little splendor needed. His plane arrived in Toke without a band, without a red carpet, his limousine and escorts the same.

He wasn't truthfully sure what to expect - Dal Ragash was somewhat hazy to him, he really had no idea what this festival entailed, but he was interested nonetheless. He had a vague perception that perhaps the 25 Gothic Lords would be getting shitface drunk these nights, telling war stories, and bullshitting as 25 powerful people would.

As his limousine and escort arrived at the meeting hall, he had a vague feeling of apprehension in his stomach - He truthfully had not met all of the Lords in full, and this would be his first opportunity to truly talk to many of the leaders of his new, powerful allies.

The frigid winter night was a long one in Pantera while an entire people slept fitfully. Those who rose before dawn waited expectantly for the sun. When dawn finally broke over the eastern mountains, the drums began to sound. Their thunder echoed in the halls of the Seastone Palace, in the rocky northern reaches of the nation. It rumbled from farming towns strewn along Pantera's heartland valley, the Vale, to fill the great cup of the mountain ranges that flanked it. And south, into the forests, steppes and hills, even across the water, to Automagfreek.

Ten massive steel drums, burnished crimson and stretched with hides were set before the Church of the Third Eye, where beat the heart of the Blood Pact. Beaten by fur-clad Reavers, ten-thousand of their like were scattered across the nation, while a hundred thousand smaller versions added their own voices to the celebration.

And a furious celebration it was. The drums were the spark, and the nation exploded. Beds emptied, coats and cloaks were donned, and the Panteran people took to the streets. Voices lifted in song to blend with the thunder of the drums, and laughter added it's own music. The smell of roasting meat and sweet things began to drift along the nations streets, as millions of street-vendors and restaurants prepared to welcome the revellers. Billions of bottles were opened, corks gnawed free, kegs tapped, and glasses filled. Smoke from innumerable sources began to mingle their sweet cents with the crisp dawn air. Millions, if not billions, of shots banged into the lightening sky, as the heavily-armed nation began it's week-long celebration.

Where moments before was silence and stillness, chaos and merrymaking reigned.

In Toke, the Seastone Palace followed the nation into its revel. Hoardes of servants swarmed the massive fortress, scrubbing and toiling away, all the while calling to one another in loud voices, each eager to end his duties so that he could join in the celebration. Thirty head of the Lord Reaver's cattle were to be cooked, along with a like number of sheep, deer, and buffalo, with hundreds of ducks, turkey and chickens. This was only the beginning, as the palace's kitchens opened for their attempt to feed the delegates and revellers of the next week.

High atop the palace, the Evenstar lay abed still, his indigo eyes shining in the half-light of dawn. The drums thumped far below, and he smiled in anticipation. The Festival had always been his favorite time. He loved the happiness of his people. His entire people. An entire folk, united in cheer. Games would be held, tourneys and competitions of every sort, from fully-armed melee and marksmanship competitions, to art exhibits and poetry readings. The Lord Evenstar himself would host and provide fabulous rewards to the winners of the competitions.

Duels and death were common, as always in Pantera, but there was an unspoken agreement between all adults in Automagfreek and Pantera that scores settled during Dal Ragash were to be non-lethal if possible, an impressive accomplishment given the volatile passions of both nations. The Lord Reaver's smile grew at that thought. He looked forward to the Festival every year, and did his best to make each one memorable for his people and guests.

He was eager for the arrival of his fellow Gholgothan rulers and representatives. It had been too long since he had gripped the flesh and stared into the eyes of the men and women Gholgoth, and Pantera, depended on. Many of the newest Gholgothan member-nations were nearly strangers to him, in a personal way. It would do well to meet and judge their mettle.

He was also impatiently anticipating his reunion with Azrael. It had been far, far too long since he had embraced the lad and shared a bottle. Bastien would have frowned at the thought that he had let the relationship fall by. It would not do. Blood Pact was forever. He and Azrael were the wielders of that terrible power. To be mere acquaintances would not do.

It was to be a grand day and a grander week. The Festival was on and the Gholgothan Lords were on their way.

Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world
Like a colossus, and we petty men
Walk under his huge legs and peep about
To find ourselves dishonorable graves.

-William Shakespeare, "Julius Caesar"

* * *

The gods were restless.

Doctrine stated that the Emperor, as a god manifest himself, had the strongest connection to the Seven True Gods of his time. Of course, in the case of a coup, the priests were always quick to proclaim that, in fact, the regnant Emperor had lapsed in his faith, and that his successor possessed the mandate of the Seven to rule. Ishamael had not believed in such things. Not really. Even in Kregaia, where every hill stank of blood spilled in the name of faith and where hymns echoed in every city, Ishamael had clung tight to his skepticism. But once he had sat alone in the Cathedral of Ascension, as was his imperial right, and meditated as Emperors were taught to do...he found his gods. And they welcomed him. They said to him, At last, brother. You have come.

He could tell, now, that the gods were restless.

The Emperor knew why. He would meet the son of Dreadfire and be enriched by the experience. The gods, however...the gods did not trust Azrael. They knew his father, and perhaps he as well, served other powers. And be he the Warlord of the Freeks or no, the Seven did not care for heathens. Ishamael ignored their growls and mutterings. The Emperor had the right, sometimes, to ignore the gods, and it was difficult to imagine a less suitable time to treat Lord Azrael as an infidel. The man was a fellow Lord of Gholgoth, and would get the respect he deserved. Besides which, Ishamael was looking forward to meeting the Evenstar as well. Two men who turned the wheels of the world, and whom he was just now meeting for the first time.

* * *

The Emperor's airplane landed in Toke amidst fighters roaring overhead and soldiers quivering at the salute. This was an occasion of true imperial splendor, and Ishamael looked every inch the Emperor of Kregaia: the black cloak embroidered with gold swirling beneath the ancient, Romanesque armor of Typhon, it too inlaid with elaborate gold and surmounted on the breast by the golden five-armed cross of Kregaia. He was walking chiaroscuro, gold shining forth from ebony armor, with the simple, spiked band of the Iron Crown set above his brow. From out of the plane, a half dozen Immortals dressed in full ceremonial uniform (including the traditional polished steel deathmasks) followed him and snapped to attention. They, in turn, were followed by eight servants carrying four heavy ebony trunks between them, decorated with gold and with a single ruby set into the lid of each. Each of them was stuffed full of treasure, property of the Iron Throne, and Ishamael himself bore an even greater gift.

His herald, standing in the threshold of the airplane's door, roared, "If it please the Gods, I announce the arrival of The Most Imperial Highness, His Divine Majesty the Emperor of Kregaia, by the Will of the Gods; King of Sarmatia, Cadia, and Volscia; Lord of Gholgoth; Lord of the North; Prince of Korronis, He of the Thousand Titles. All praise to the divine Emperor!"

A Panteran dignitary approached, no doubt a man of fitting stature, and the Emperor regarded him politely, if imperiously, as he approached. Inclining his head regally in reply to the Panteran's bow, Ishamael listened to the welcoming formalities, and replied softly but in the firm, hard tone of power, "We wish to meet our most excellent brother, the Lord Reaver. Take us to him." And as the god-king followed his guide to where the Evenstar waited, his servants and his guards in tow, the jets roared overhead and the cold eyes of the assembled Panteran warriors danced with the reflected light of true glory.

Damn these men know how to make an entrance, Erika Kars thought as she sat watching the Kregaian contingent walk in. She and her several bodyguards and porters had arrived earlier in the day, as she was taking a Gholgothian tour, meeting with all her ambassadors, and occasionally a head of state if the time could be managed, but most of the time, it was a quick meeting with the ambassador in her plane on the tarmac, low key. Luckily for her, when the message arrived, she was in transit from Aleos, which allowed for an easy course change. She shifted her dress slightly, pants annoyed her too much, and then sat pensively. She knew she should pay her respects to Lord Evenstar, but she figured she'd wait till more of her Brethren arrived before doing so.

With her contingency, she'd brought a single gift: well... multiple of the same gift really, about 60 bottles of Illiorian Absinthe, of the finest and most delusion producing quality: a bottle for each leader to take home, 25 for Evenstar to keep for his pleasure at the end of the night, and a hearty 10 for the "party". It would be one hell of a night if she had anything to say about it, but she had to be wary. Erika had the feeling that the large amount of testosterone and liquor and herself might lead to some... innuendos arising, which she could have to put up with.

Her thoughts were disturbed by a tap on the shoulder as Jenna, her asistant, handed her a phone.

Southern Aleos.
Peacekeeper Base #7.

It was not a usual day for the normally quiet naval base. Home of one of the many fleets of the Peacekeepers, the facility usually tended to only a part of the assets of the country, but in the past month a flurry of activity could be witnessed by all those relegated to this location. The docks were filled by ships and submarines undergoing vital maintenance and almost all warehouses were filled with various ammunitions and equipment, proof of the industrial abilities of the northern nation.

And it was here that Braca decided to pay a visit to those serving under arms. As the Supreme Commander, he was responsible for each and everyone of his soldiers, each piece of the mechanism having to function perfectly in order for the goals proposed to be achieved. But as he rejoiced at the sight of the Aleosites working under the harsh winter conditions, the ever shifting sands of the world were shifting, new avenues and opportunities appearing whilst others closed. He was not happy about some, as the preparations made by his nation were made irrelevant and his work scattered in the wind, but others brought much satisfaction to the Commander.

“The giant is awakening,” those were his words when the message from Azrael reached his ears. The leaders of Gholgoth were gathering and Braca was not one to let them wait. But Braca was not one to take Azrael’s words lightly for he too knew the warning of prophecies and dreams. He had however no faith in the gods, beings who abandoned his people a long time ago. No, his faith was with the ones carrying the weight of peace on their shoulders, his tireless soldiers and with the strength of Gholgoth and the whispers that troubled his sleep were not ones of gods or demons, for She was not one of their damned kin as centuries before her flesh and blood walked on this Earth. She was one of their own; a spirit of a fallen Queen, defying the gods for in her was the strength of Man.

“And in the end, there are always other opportunities” Braca banished his earlier unpleasant thoughts for there was much work to be done and were the peace Gholgoth strived to maintain threatened the Peacekeepers were to be prepared.

Thus preparations were made for departure and in several boxes the most exquisite diamonds of the secretive Aleosite mines were placed. Those were to be gifts for his fellow lords, together with the crystal clear vodka made from the finest waters of the region.

And as the cases were loaded to the submarine that was to carry Braca to his destination, the commander joined the crew of the vessel. The last ties with the pier were removed the hatches were checked and the Submarine hid under the waves for the journey, the silent killer was only to emerge days later, near Panteran shores.

The Flight thus far had been Inordinately relaxing, a small isle adrift in a sea of clouds, a spec in the infinite, under the great flaming orb of the sun, skimming across the great white expanse, the white, the yellow, the blue, the isle, there was nothing but, not a single worriment on the horizon, and not a care in the world. The Small Isle, Jet black in colouration with Red and Blue Trim and a strange four armed star, around this isle darted a small swarm of Bird like objects, with great wingspans and of crimson hue, yet they were not quite anatomically correct on closer view, more sleek and aerodynamic, with highly defined lines, and more obvious feathered detailing on the back facing of the wings which adjusted slightly in pitch with the winds revealing slightly a sealed bay, before the wing itself changed it’s angle, moving to a more forward swept angle as the isle picked up the pace, it’s consorts glided along, as if unfazed by the acceleration, their powerful method of propulsion keeping them up with ease, such creations would look vaguely familiar to some, indeed, some would know their predecessors, crazed mechanical birds, however these had set out on a different path from the ones which they succeeded, their flight would be different, of a more dignified and orthodox path.

The Isle was angled against the great orb, skimming through the white sea cutting through the fluffy crests with ease, as it’s bottle necked fore and octagonal rear sailed along on this tranquil sea, while below could be barely seen other sights lurking just beneath the surface of the expanse, visual detection alone would see them, for they were lost to Radar and the like, like sharks beneath the waves lurking around in search of possible prey who would dare assail this sanctuary, a place that for those within the isle, was a rare refuge from the daily businesses, though not quite in some ways expected.

“None of us have ever met our allies before, but I’m sure you’ve heard the rumours, the myth and fiction our former allies used to spew whose every sneaze meant imminent war, whose every blink of an eye meant impending genocide, whose every misstep meant the end of a civilisation, The Terrible Lords of Gholgoth, have you now?” Denteth mused from behind steepled fingers, half reclined within his chair, to the point of being nigh horizontal, while apprising his Ministerial Friends, “you needn’t be afraid, they don’t bite, then again though, not a single one of our people ascribe to the outsiders ridiculous statements that The Nations of Gholgoth are a bastion of barbarianism despite the fact that said outsiders, have yet to ever win so much as a war of words with our brothers,” The last part near drowned out by soft laughter as more signups to the reprehensible pack of cards began to filter through via the Shadowfeed Relay in the corner, including, one rather humorous image of Praetonian and Questarian Officials who would appear to have lodged Missiles up their Rectal Passages, such was their expression.

“Denteth my old friend,” returned Hugoro, holding back laughter at the preposterous image, “it has never been in any doubt who truly walks the greater path, and who walks the path of ruin, I need only lay my hand on frustrated statements from said counterparts after we pulled our assets out, the Questarians were most worried considering their current economic desolation,” Pausing for effect as he forced a horrified expression, feigning intense surprise and worry, “You could almost here them begging for us to return. The Praetonians were more irked that we had strong armed them out of our economy, which while their investments fell in at offhandedly, 3%, it in actuality damaged 20% of their own economy, and they claim that theirs is the superior path, their ignorance of other schools of thought is disturbing as always.” He waved his left hand in a gesture of dismissal as he shook his head sadly, evidently disappointed in old allies whose true colours were at last revealed, his gently reclined pose one of sorrow.

“Banish such regrets Hugoro, they shall mourn for their own soon enough that I can guarantee, History in that regard has proven to be an Endless Waltz, they do not know themselves as they should, and it is dangerous to learn too much into such ignorance, besides, we have neglected our duties to our true friends long enough now,” returned Izalien, as fiery as ever, her tightly spun golden ringlets shifting around her head as she shifted her gaze to cast a glance out of a window to the great blue yonder, evidently deep in thought.

Hugoro and Denteth smiled gently, and Hugoro looked about to reply hen a gentle chime filled the Cabin, “This is the Vistakal speaking, my apologies for the interruption, but we are on final Approach to Toke Panterra, we’ll be landing within the half hour,” came the smooth voice of the Vistakal piloting the craft.

Denteth rose shaking his head slightly making for a door to the north west of the chamber, pausing for a moment at the entry way sighing gently, “well it would appear my friends, that we had better make our own preparations for the coming festivities, Hugoro, ensure my charges behave themselves will you?”

The Parridigram Transport would descend through the sea of clouds, once more to engage with the world at large, the escort had already landed, it was not a sign of disrespect to their brethren, merely the typical Novan pragmatism, after all the Novan Home Isles were many hours away from their allies, and that was just via Mach 10 Missiles, actual travel time could take days, and the skies were never truly safe when fools sat upon thrones of bayonets elsewhere in the world, the Transport and it’s surrounding Tonkontu Phoenix Firebirds descended to the tarmac below, silently and without even a reaction when they landed, the sleek angular lines of the transport glinting in the sun, the tail crests of the Tokontu flexed gently and their wings pivoted up and down before swinging into a backwards swept position, nigh on flush with the main body, while this was happening the hatch of the Transport would open, overhung by the neck of the transport, and flanked by a pair of Novan Soldiers who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere, it touched the ground silently as the Novan entourage strode forth from within, in curious and unknowable garb that hid most of the forms of the Novans, all seemed intricate yet simple, as ever the epicurean tastes of the Novans borne out and function and form took precedent over fashion and flair, which was not to say however that the two could not co-operate to a higher cause, subtle braiding and layering here and there throughout the attire would keep the wearer cool in even the warmest of climates yet warm and sated in the coldest, and still dazzle and mystify through a constant change of colour through simple movement.

The Suprainister and the two ministers were foremost in the Nova formation; Denteth bore the mantle of state well, and smiled gently to the awaiting Pantrean Diginitary. Behind Hugoro stood an identical pair, who with guarded expression appraised the surroundings with wonder, the Twin Princes were an enigma to most, what function royalty served in Novan society was unknown to all, perhaps even the Novans, whose guarded personalities with regards to information, intensified further when most outsiders enquired. Behind this notorious pair came a group of Scholars, in the traditional Tunic and Robes of Xikar, and enflanked by Novan Gold Skull Enforcers, around the proceedings lurked Yuri himself, evidently entasked with baby-sitting, if such a phrase were accurate these days with the Twin Princes now being 17 years of age, the Novan delegation broke not a step as it was lead into suitable conveyance to the festivities, even though the Novans were known not to utilise cars and the like as a normal method of transport, such alien-ness to them did not throw them off in the slightest, for the most enigmatic Gholgothians of them all were now on their way to enjoin the great celebration of the Region.

There were no paths here. No walkways cut through the foliage by the footsteps of many hikers, no pavements laid by mechanised beasts, no manner of signposting or milestones to be seen in any place. So deep into the Wilds of Maguuma, only the beasts of nature had the courage to dwell, and it was so distant from any settlements of note that nobody had any reason to travel here.

Well, almost no reason.

The twittering of birds and the light rustling of the leaves in the gentle winds were torn asunder by a deafening roar, from what could only have been a colossal beast. The ground shuddered and the towering trees were parted as the beast made itself known - a k'lo, meaning simply 'the beast', a towering distant cousin of the dinosaurs, still alive and well on the isolated island of Tyria, a virtual 'lost world' in these days. Its grey, scaled skin seemed all but impenetrable, and its two powerful legs afforded it great speed, even for something that stood over fifteen feet in height. Only a fool would tackle such a creature.

Fortunately for the beast's belly, it had found such a fool. Its mighty jaws made an unnervingly close 'clonk' sound as they snapped shut merely a few inches from Burntfur's left ear. His not inconsiderable body mass flung itself sideways instinctively as the jaws opened for another attempt, and he rolled across the dirt and behind the cover of a particularly massive wreshtakena tree. He paused momentarily to catch his breath, having been surprised by the creature whilst hunting a lowly devourer. The k'lo made the devourer, a fierce insect in its own regard, appear like nothing in comparison.

Burntfur was on a cha'kunda while the Council of Clans was in summer recess, a ritual most Charr engaged in annually whereby they shed themselves of their material possessions and indulge their passions in the wilds. It had been going well too, until this animal had showed up. They were not meant to be found this far into the jungle, with their size making them better suited to the open grasslands over five hundred miles from here, and yet it was there now and Burntfur had to either evade it, or destroy it.

The tree shook as the beast rammed its head against it, trying to get past through the narrow gap. Rules of the cha'kunda were quite specific, and he wore nothing but a leather belt and carried only a satellite phone (one of the burdens of holding a lofty leadership position). He had only the weapons the Gods of Fire had gifted him with at birth. Just as the beast's jaws snapped dangerously close to his left leg, he ducked and ran around the tree, emitting a roar that challenged the k'lo's own as he ran straight underneath it and used the large horns on his own head to stab into its belly. They sliced deep into the soft skin of the k'lo's exposed gut as Burntfur thrust himself upwards with strength that only a Charr could muster. The k'lo reeled and let out a high-pitched roar in pain as his head-first assault was completed, allowing blood to patter down on the soft dirt below.

Ducking and rolling as the creature's large tail swung above his head, Burntfur took advantage of the creature's pain by skidding to a halt and running straight back at the beast. When he was close enough, he pushed against the ground with his powerful legs and leapt into the air, bringing to bear as many of the spikes and claws on his body as was possible. With such momentum, Burntfur's impact knocked the creature sideways a little and the blade-like protrusions easily gouged into the creature's side, slipping between its large ribs and delving deep into vital organs. Burntfur was thrown to the ground as the k'lo span around, and he jumped out of the way just in time as his prey slammed down to the ground, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the surrounding trees. The forest went silent again at last, the only sounds to be heard were the wheezing final gasps of the dying k'lo.

It was beaten.

"You are a worthy opponent, beast," Burntfur said, panting deeply. "Your death brings us both great honour."

He cautiously stepped forward, unsure of how much life may be left in the animal. When it appeared to be very little, he patted it on the side heartily. The k'lo emitted gurgled growls of anger, but went silent shortly after. Feeling pain, he reached up with his bloodied hands and touched his brow, feeling a deep cut on his head. He reached up further and found that the tip of his horn had snapped clean off, and he groaned. It was a small price to pay for such a victory.

"Now... how am I to carry home this trophy?" Burntfur pondered aloud. Just as he was considering just how to remove the large head from the k'lo's body at all, his satellite phone began to ring. "By the gods, this must be a celestial joke."

He sighed and unhooked the phone from his belt, holding it up to his ear reluctantly. "Clan Leader," came the voice of one of his aides, who was meant to be on holiday himself. "You are needed in Lion's Arch immediately. Give your location and I shall have a whirler collect you."

***

He should have still been deep in Maguuma, the ancestral home of his pack, tribe and clan, enjoying a six-week holiday from the infuriatingly humanised world of international politics. And yet, here he was, touching down on foreign soil. As he glanced over at the burning firestone interpretation of a Fire God he wondered, is this their idea of a joke?

"They don't like you very much right now my friend, do they?" Viletooth's incessantly amused voice remarked. His old friend and thorn in his side sat opposite him, his arms around two females who sat dwarfed at either side of him. He had apparently noticed Burntfur's irritated glance towards the statue.

"They seek to test me, Klarr," Burntfur said simply. "I have no notion to openly question our Gods, nor has my respect for their honour ever diminished, but... sometimes they test my patience even more than yourself."

"Ha!" Viletooth emitted a bellowing laugh. "Even my powers of annoyance must pale when compared to those of a god. Anyway, I am certain that you prefer to interact with bald politicians than with beasts that seek to shorten your horns."

"I thought you said you would not mention that again..." Burntfur growled, glaring at his darker-coloured comrade.

"My dear friend, I never make promises about such sources of humour," Viletooth said with a grin. "Besides, I am sure none of your human peers will notice. It is... quite... erm... discrete." With that he let out a bellowing laugh, pushing his females away as he rolled onto his side.

Burntfur simply glared at him, not sharing his amusement. "I will have my vengeance Klarr, if you mentioned my... injury in public. You'll be bald for a month."

"My fear is almost palpable, Bonfaaz," Viletooth said, and then shrugged. "Perhaps you could wear a hat like humans do..."

"Gah!"

"Well I for one look towards the coming events with eagerness," Viletooth said with a note of finality. "While I hate the spin and rhetoric that 'Azrael' character placed in his most eloquent invitation, I don't recall meeting any of these particular baldies in person before, even during my brief stint as your stand-in."

"I have had sporadic encounters with a few of them, but as you know we keep to ourselves even amongst allies," Burntfur told him as he stood up and prepared to leave. If it was the wish of the gods to play a cosmic practical joke on him, they certainly seemed intent to follow through with it, for the plane came to a halt. The door clunked open and the time for them to step upon foreign soil was near. "They are typical baldies in many regards; with egos that bely their stature, a hunger for dominion over others, a bizarre tendency to twist any truth that does not shine divine light upon them. Compared to most of their kin, though, they have more redeeming qualities. You will see why when you meet them yourself, no doubt."

"Mind that statue!" Viletooth shouted at one of the Flamebearers who nearly dropped the half-Charr-sized construct, before turning his attention back to Burntfur. "As you keep telling the Council. I just hope they have decent ales and meats!"

Perhaps lacking the pomp and grandeur inherent in the arrivals of some of their 'balder' allies, only a single small brown jet plane arrived in Toke, and it carried only a handful of Charr. They saw no need for hundreds of escorts, never required an entourage of servants, and lacked the desire to send more Charr than necessary to foreign lands.

First from the solitary plane, then, came five heavily built, heavily armoured, heavily armed Charr soldiers of Guardian rank. The five Charr quickly began to sprint to positions around the plane, their ears twitching and their noses held high as they instinctively and dutifully surveyed the area for any threats. Following their swift alighting, Bonfaaz Burntfur stepped down with his two surviving mates staying close behind him, as though they were nervous. Klarr Viletooth and two of his numerous mates came next, stepping to the side of Burntfur, and a lone human woman struggled to get down the large steps after him.

Lastly, two more heavily-armed Charr soldiers came down the steps, carefully carrying a peculiar statue of a hideous three-legged beast between them, which seemed to be constantly ablaze with a dim fire. These were the Flamebearers, honorary members of the Society of Flamekeepers who had been authorised to tend a divine flame on this single outing - a great honour, bestowed only upon the most worthy of Charr. They carefully set the statue down somewhere off the runway, on the first patch of natural land they could find, removed their boots, and dropped to their knees beside it. So long as this statue burned within this foreign city, then Toke could be considered a blessed place by the Charr and they could remain safe in the knowledge that their gods were present.

And, as they were whisked away to the location where this meeting was supposed to occur, they could only wonder what manner of event these humans had cooked up. Well, Viletooth was more concerned with what manner of meat they had cooked up.

Here I am again... Pantera. Less than one year later. He had promised both Dayne and Damien to not return until he had proven himself worthy. The crushing defeat of Vetalia, the massive humanitarian efforts to terraform great swaths of Sahara... the unheard of political stability. From troubled time, the Brotherhood had united the people. Except the damn warlords in Africa... They still proved a small thorn, disrupting terraforming efforts here and there, but were mostly subdued after two years of constant warfare against the military.

He stepped off the transport in an outfit only he thought looked good. A great coat not in style for five hundred years graced his otherwise bare torso, over a simple brown leather kilt and below that a pair of unshined combat boots. His eye was made up to look like the Eye of Ra, to top the whole bizarre look off. With him were two Civils and two others that were polar opposites to his outlandish style.

One was the most enduring facet of Crimmond, Larea dinAthos. The naturally bald woman was had served as the moral balance of every ruler since Riel Tian. Now serving as the head of the Senate, she held political sway almost as great as Omar himself. She also had much better taste in dress, wearing a simple dark blue pantsuit that held no decorations.

The other was a tall man wearing a Marine cut officer's uniform. The only difference was that it was matte black, as opposed to the gray-green normally worn. He was a severe, dangerous looking man, even unarmed. His uniform name tag read 'Daunt' and he wore the insignia of a Lieutenant Colonel.

The three rode in a vehicle to the center of town, where Omar, Daunt and one Civil exited. Larea and the other Civil continued on towards the palace alone.

"General... is there any reason you had us get out miles from where we ant to be?" Daunt asked, looking around at the festivities and the small crowd that was gathering to look at Omar. Daunt noticed that many seemed amused, rather than awed.

"Yes, Ian. I plan on enjoying the festival here for a time and then go on to the palace and meet with Dayne and Azrael. I doubt the Lord Reaver will mind my wanting to get a good look at the tradition as the commoners celebrate, before going to whatever lavish feast he has planned." At that, Omar and the Civil strode off, with Daunt following.

The only reason the Civil and Daunt had allowed any such deviation was the trust they had for the Panteran people. After about ten minutes, they ended up sitting in the front row of the audience for a storyteller recounting legends of Panteran battles and of one in particular, about 'The Taker'. After a moment of hearing the man describe the Taker incorrectly, he stood. "Excuse me any offense... but I have stood face to face with the Taker."

The teller scoffs. "I'll bet. And who are you, sir?"

Omar smirked and stepped forward, the Civil at his side. It wasn't too surprising that his face wasn't immediately recognized. "I am General Omar Pace. And I have spoken five times with the Taker. His actual name is Gar the Executioner and he stands not nine feet tall... but only seven. He smells of earth and seaweed and his only weakness seems to be modern firearms. He can't dodge a bullet... but he can take fifty high caliber rounds and limp away to heal, when others would be torn in half. And I do bring words from him... He has told me on three occasions that he considers all of Gholgoth his lands. Including Pantera. Any war that comes to your shores shall gain a response from the Taker." Omar then nodded at the surprised storyteller and takes his leave, to enjoy the rest of the festivities.

Toke International Airport
1300 Hours Local Time

Air Force One to Tower, permission to land, over. Air Force Colonel Sven Johansen's voice cracked through the headset on his head as he kicked his Gulfstream Five around, lining up on the runway in anticipation of clearance. After a short minute the voice on the other end came back. Air Force One, permission granted. Enjoy your stay, over. With that, the plane circled once more before extending it's landing gear and coming to the ground with a slight bump.

Meanwhile in the cabin, Aaron Preston was busy taking care of last-minute paperwork via laptop while his wife chatted with the wife of his Vice President. Vice President Katz would be running a routine check on the Prestonian Embassy while Preston attended Dal Ragash. The women meanwhile would likely hit the Mall of Pantera, rumored to be one of the largest in the region. All told, the party would spend three days in Pantera during which Prestonia would be effectively run through President Preston's laptop. Not the best situation, but not the worst, Preston thought idly as he closed his laptop, noticing that the plane had arrived in the gate.

At the airport, the only indication of any unusual activity was the presence of five uniformed Republican Guardsmen, one of whom had the "nuclear football" of Prestonia handcuffed to him. Stopping only for a soda and the occasional autograph from those who knew him, the party made great time through the crowded terminal towards their respective limos. In a few short minutes, Preston would be at the ancient place where Dal Ragash was to be held.

Speaker Drew Haltom sat at his desk, reading his outrageously long list of "urgent" e-mails from the night before. After John Philips had been killed, with shouts of conspiracy coming from all directions within Sniper Country, the Senate had been in near-chaos. However, Haltom was a man of character and charisma, and neatly utilized his personality and leadership style to regain control of the nation before anything out of his control broke out. At twenty-seven years old, he was the youngest Speaker in Sniper Country history, but he was well-experienced. If anyone was capable of turning the Senate back around, it was Drew, as far as anyone was concerned. And turn it around he did.

As Haltom scrolled through the e-mails he considered of less importance, occasionally stopping to delete an advertisement for male enhancement pills and hardcore pornography, he saw the name of Azrael; he stopped in his tracks. After reading the message, a smile drew across Haltom's face. He called his secretary, a young brunette who wore a yellow skirt which rose about three inches above her knees. Any other national leader would have fallen into lust months ago. Drew would have as well, if his secretary wasn't his sister. He would be the first to tell anyone that his sister was gorgeous, but it was true, and he wouldn't deny it. He had no feelings for her, other than the older-brother instinct of love and protection for his little sister. He proceeded to ask her how her day had been thus far, and after several minutes of less-than-lively discussion, requested that his plane be readied within the hour for a trip to Pantera. She complied, and Haltom reclined in his chair. He'd never been to Pantera before, and could only wonder what was in store for him when he arrived. He looked forward to speaking with other Lords of Gholgoth, as he now gladly accepted the identifying term. It was going to be a summit of glory - what he lived for.

-----

"Blue Force Six, Remington tower, good afternoon, on departure fly runway heading up to six thousand, wind zero-two-zero at niner, runway two, cleared for takeoff," the controller's voice came over the pilot's headset.

"Tower, Blue Force Six, copy winds and we're outta here," the pilot responded as the large FalconJet departed the runway.

"Blue Force Six, contact departure, safe flight," the tower controller said seconds later, as the pilot switched to the departure control frequency. He was placed on a heading toward Pantera at an altitude of 40,000 feet. It would be about a six hour flight, but Drew needed the time to think and prepare.

Drew differed from John Philips at many points. The most obvious, though, was his appearance. Philips was generally well-groomed, and, for the most part, wore respectable clothing. He had short hair, which was generally covered by a hat of some sort, and shaved often. Haltom, on the other hand, had long, semi-slicked back hair, and sported a goatee. (http://images.ctv.ca/archives/CTVNews/img2/20060726/160_miami_vice1_060726.jpg) He wore t-shirts and jeans, and didn't really care what people thought about it. In Sniper Country, though, people enjoyed having a leader that told it like it was, dressed as he pleased, and could balance his work and life. Most citizens, in recent polling, were decidedly more in favor of the new Speaker than the former. However, on deeper levels, the two differed in belief systems. Philips, a devout Christian, spoke many times of never backing down in times of crisis, but rarely did he back his own claims up with any enforcement. Philips also sought peaceful resolutions, rarely willing to utilize the powerful Sniper Country Armed Forces for much more than leverage. Haltom, however, was quite possibly the polar opposite. He was a deist, but claimed no formal religion and never spoke of it in public; moreover, he has been reported as stating that, "religion is the bane of mankind's existance. How about we leave God alone and He'll leave us alone." Moreso, Haltom had a large talk, but made sure he covered himself with actions. After assessing the state of Ghillie, one of the most nefarious and infamous crime/narcotics cities in the world, he assured the Citizens he would crack down heavily on the gang activity and needless violence. Within three months, the city had been cleaned up by a margin of 76%. In these operations, he utilized the SCAF to practically invade the city and take it over, block by block. For his actions, the people of Sniper Country praised him and looked forward to his control.

For this trip, Haltom was ready for anything. He knew the situation Gholgoth was approaching, and he was ready to do his part for the Kingdom. He brought no bodyguards, simply as a sign of faith in his Gholgothan allies. He and his pilot were on the plane, and that was it.

-----

"Blue Force Six, Toke Tower, cleared to land one-niner right, wind calm. After landing, exit at bravo and taxi to park this frequency."

After landing, the plane pulled into its gate and shut down. Haltom rose, opened the door to the plane, and stepped out. Donning his Oakley sunglasses, he smiled. It was a good day.

[Is this still alive? Guys?]