NationStates Jolt Archive

The ground was hard, frozen like everything here in the icy lands of the north. It was a land that few had ever been to, or dared to explore, for it was a wasteland that vibrated with an ill will towards all good living things. Such was the Ice Wastes of Eldire. Through the falling snow and gale winds a lone figure walked. The man was hooded and cloaked and walked over the ground as easily as if he were walking on some soft grassland, the sound of his feet disappeared within the howling of the wind. The man passed over a small hillock of ice and stepped before a large arm of ice rock, part of a mountain that hovered over him. It took him half an hour to reach the other side of the mountains arm and reach an unnatural valley. Within this unnatural valley lay, visible even through the blizzard of snow, a huge crumbling obelisk of the darkest stone that rose up high as a mountain.

The man entered the valley and walked among what could only be described as a necropolis. Black basalt stone and silver veined, cold marble buildings stood crumbling and covered in ice and snow. Once proud pantheons of dark seething energies stood hollow and empty, all but forgotten by time. The man passed these without stopping until he came upon a large mausoleum.

Before him was the great carved wall of the mausoleum, its gateway bearing a large rust-covered gate. Carved into the rock over the gate was a message: “The Tomb of the Damned, Beware Ye Mortals.” The stranger disregarded the message and stepped up to the gate. With an outstretched hand and small uttering of words, a red light appeared and the gate melted into puddle of molten iron. The figure stepped over this and walked into the walled house of the dead. Lesser houses of the dead stood everywhere; graves of past warriors were in plenty, the signs of kings being signified by their large pyramids and tombs. Ice covered all, making everything blue and white with snow.

The stranger walked further into the graves until he came to a large crypt. The figure stopped before it, faced by a semi-circle of carved stone figures. Each was tall and shaped in the manner of armored warriors. The crypt door itself was a great slab of stone, belted with strips of iron and metal, bolted with chains covered in rust.

The figure lowered his head and began chanting. “Er-ros viaon kopmt umes omnes deathois in adid arl-kan.” He repeated the chant nine times, saying it louder each time. A great red light sprang from his hands and smashed into the crypt door. Suddenly white light sprang from the five figures, sending their protective magic down upon the person who would dare enter that which was forbidden.

The figure faltered slightly under the white onslaught, and then he chanted one last time and ended with the Final Words. “I-un Oarl-Krys!” The red light of the stranger’s magic beat back the white light and when touching the stone figures, destroyed them utterly, pieces of marble flying in all directions. The crypt door exploded. A great smoke arose from the destroyed stone and for a moment the stranger could not see anything. Then the wind blew and the area cleared of the blinding smoke. There the stone crypt lay open. The man went to the entrance and looked down into it. A great stone stair led down into the bowels of the earth. Without a second thought the figure stepped down them.

After several thousand steps the man came to a great long hall. It was lit by torches of pale green witchlight set up their brackets on the wall. At the end of the long hall was a door way. It stood well over the height of a man and was made of gold and silver, the only metals that truly harmed most daemons. Its surface looked as if the faces of daemons had been carved into it, depicting such disgusting and grizzly scenes of carnage that for a moment even the interloping man had to gather his courage. The door’s carvings covered nearly every inch of the large gilt door. Except for in the very center, where a circle of gold with a silver pentagram inside was inlaid with runic writing.

The stranger stepped up to the door and looked at it for a moment. He took from his robes a large black dagger, its metal made from a fallen star. With it clutched in his left hand he drew the blade across his right palm and slowly cut a pentagram into his palm. He did not cry out in pain, nor feel any pain for that matter, as he did this chore. Finally with it complete he walked forward and set his bloodied hand, palm flat, against the circle matching it bloody hand for golden door.

“I enact the pact of Lost Souls, I by name of Aphastus do call forth, from the depths once departed, thus returned now in the offering. I Arcune, servant of Darkness, give this blood price and name it paid. I call forth that which was once made, I call forth the bringer of Destruction, I call forth the ancient of ancients, I call Xahlkas,” he said, his tone empty of all emotion or feel.

At first, nothing happened. Then the air became charged with sorcerous energy and the crackled. The blood from the wound in the man’s palm spread across the lines of silver as if it was being sucked out, turning each silver line a dark red. The man suddenly lurched forward and screamed for the first time. More blood flowed forth, traveling along the intricate patterns of silver lines along the door, the blood being sucked from the wounds of Arcune.

When the entire door was thus covered with the lines of blood, the door released Arcune and he gasped. He fell to his knees and held his hand protectively in his arms. He felt weak from the exertion but raised his head to watch. He had traveled thousands of leagues and killed hundreds in order to get where he was.

The door glowed with an un-earthly light; beads of bright white light traveled along the lines of blood and covered the entire door. With a great clash the door exploded into pieces, the flying shrapnel turning to all but dust. From beyond the doorway came the sound of a thousand eternal screams of agony, such that no true human could bear and Arcune barely managed to stay upright. His ears and nose bled. Appearing suddenly from the dark doorway stepped a large form. It had to bend over at the waist to exit the doorway. Other forms that Arcune could not clearly make out tried to follow in the beings wake, but it turned and slammed its powerful hand into the darkness and a new door appeared and sealed them back. The being seethed with dark power and loomed over Arcune.

The thing was over nine feet tall, its skin blue-black and white mixed in color, with great horns of black sprouting from the side of its head. Great pure, lightning-tinged white eyes glowed and an exaggerated large mouth split from ear to ear. “I have returned,” it rumbled in a deep corrupt voice. Steam issued from between its clenched teeth as it spoke. The daemon turned to the human before him.

“I am your eternal servant, my Lord Xahlkas,” said Arcune. He bowed low and kept his face to the floor.

The daemon lowered its gaze and looked at the bowing man with pure contempt. However the man had released Xahlkas (http://img75.imageshack.us/img75/2669/dahakabysephynadx6.jpg) from a prison he’d spent the last five millennia sitting in bored with the tortured screams of lesser beings of power. Now however he was free! At last able to walk the world of Eldire and reap from it souls and blood in the name of his Dark masters. The daemon would however need help to do this. The daemon flipped a finger up and a wall beside them opened to reveal a room beyond filled with treasures surpassing all imagining and weapons and armor of terrible proportions.

“Go within and pick out a suit of armor and what weapons ye may like. Thou are to be my general and shall lead the army that I shall mass under my banner,” Xahlkas breathed.

Arcune bowed even lower and eagerly stepped into the room. He ignored the mountains of cold coin and precious jewels, concentrating on the sets of chaos sigil-inscribed armour that sat upon tables at the end of the vast chamber. Arcune found one suit that caught his eye and mind like a fly to a spider. It emanated a fearful aura that called to Arcune’s soul, or at least what was left of it. He stepped towards it and picked up the great helm that sat next to the other pieces and set it upon his head. All at once the helm seemed to convulse and crush Arcune. It felt like a thousand hammers were pounding on his skull. As he faltered the rest of the chaos enchanted armour began to glow with witch lights and piece by piece, flew into the air and attach itself to Arcune’s body.

After the armour had attached itself and Arcune’s body mutated and shaped to fill out the large armour with steely muscle and mutated sinews. From the depths of the helm Arcune’s consciousness evaporated to be replaced by the most evil and corrupt of the man’s desires. His eyes were carved out by terrible magics and two red witch flames appeared.

The newly born Chaos champion stepped over to a wall lined with swords and axes, each imbued with evil magic and terrible power. He studied them like a man buying a horse, for if the weapon did not match him then he would not be a warrior at the epitome of his strength and prowess. At last he found a double handed broad sword with gold inlaid sigils and sapphire stones that pulsed maliciously. He gripped it within his gauntlented hand and took it off the wall. With his task done he stepped back into the hall and stood before Xahlkas. The daemon growled with approval.

“You are now mine and I shall call thee Kazellor. Go forth and raise me my army.,” the daemon lord hissed.

Without a word Kazellor (http://img229.imageshack.us/img229/140/112006cart01ei0.jpg), once the Dark magician Arcune, bowed and left up the stairs of the crypt.

The blue oak planks of the ships prow cut through the waves. Lookouts kept a constant vigil for floating ice that could spell disaster for them. Theirs was a trader ship heading for Norgardia-a, a land they hoped to open new trading routes with. For such a prestigious appointment, the Emperor had placed this venture under the guise of Higetomi Matsushiro, one of his most trusted councilman. Born from a noble samurai family, Higetomi was known as a shrewd and intelligent man; a man who was as natural negotiating a business deal as he was planning a battle. Though never having a formal military rank, he was known throughout the Imperial Court as "the General." As the bleak northern seas tossed the ship, which was actually the lead ship of a small flotilla, his cool blue eyes scanned the horizon.

From below, Haru walked onto the deck. Barely over fifteen, he was glad to be assigned as the General's assistant. Haru was dressed in extra layers, and headed to the rear of the ship as he stared out at the endless rolling sea. Somewhere past all that, he knew, was his home. He closed his eyes, remembering the sounds and warmth of the harvest, the brown-skinned peasant men and women bringing in the crop...the sound of the younger girls singing (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FJq9tTksnQ0&feature=related) and the way they smiled despite the hard labor. Haru thought of that warm, emerald jewel in the distance, not noticing the shadow that had appeared behind him.

"Homesick, are we?" Higetomi asked bruskly.

"Higetomi-dono!" he blurted, bowing down reverently.

"You're young," the wise man chuckled, "It's permissable. But don't forget that your first duty is to me, as your Master, just as my duty is to the Emperor."

"Yes, ue-dono," Haru replied.

"Look ahead," Higetomi nodded, to which the younger samurai obeyed. "Farther north, past our destination, lie the Ice Wastes, where the Tortoise God resides, far from our benevolent Ryuji-kami." Haru nodded, hanging his head a bit, "Don't take it too hard...for 'The sea shall grant to each man new life; as sleep brings thoughts of home.' Remember that."

"Yes, Master," Haru replied.

Higetomi nodded and looked back across the horizon. The crew didn't realize it, but he felt something within that white expanse, colder than any storm.

A lone figure stepped to the bow of the ship and put his boot up, surveying the cold watery expanse. It offered an escape from te land. Here, title meant nothing. Only your grit and seamanship meant anything out on the open ocean. The men scattered about the deck. The wind had died and the sails waited eagerly to be filled. They played dice and traded stories. The newer sailors scrubbed the decks and went about their duties. Life as a new sailor was always the hardest. With each year of experience gained, it became easier as your poistion became higher. Until then, they do the worst work aboard a ship.

"Thorir" a voice came from behind.

Thorir wheeled around, grabbing his cloak and throwing it behind him, "Yes, Banto. What is it?"

"The watch upon the Crow's Nest has spotted a ship upon the East"

"How far?" Thorir asked, stepping down and making his way to the rear of the ship.

"Possibly three leagues"

"Good eyes, he has"

"The best" Banto admitted.

"All men to their stations, we can't wait any longer for the wind. Set about the oars and inform the helmsman to direct the ship East" Thorir ordered.

The men roused themselves from their rest and darted about the deck, making their way to the decks below and manned the oars. The Sail Master and his apprentices manned the sails and rigging, just incase the wind turned to their favor.

"Shall we prepare for battle, sir?" Banto asked, gripping his sword eagerly.

"Nay, let us discover their purpose in these waters, so close to Ethosia." Thorir decided.

A call from the lookout brought them all out of their brooding, and Higetomi walked over to converse with the one who had summoned his attention. The man described a ship off to their West approximately one and a half *ri from their position. His description matched what they had learned the people of the nearby lands used, so he wasn't unduly concerned. Of course they would have ships in the area, and it stood to reason that they would investigate a foreign vessel.

"Trim the sails," he ordered, "Lay anchor."

Haru watched the sailors get to their posts and was a bit taken aback. After all, the ship would now be dead in the water. Mostt Ryuji ships weren't that large or that powerful, relying in their speed for defense. But the other ships were responding as well, and it gave him a little comfort to know there were comrades only a few *[I]jo[I/] away.

*japanese units of measurement. ri=4295 yards, jo=3.3 yards

"They're dead in the water!" The lookout called.

Thorir clasped his hands on the side of the ship. He squinted his eyes over the horizon and saw the ships loom in the distance.

"What shall we do?" Banto asked, his voice unsure as other men moved passed them.

"They are guests in our waters." Thorir grinned, "Let us not be impolite. Come about their portside"

"Aye, Captain" Banto said and gave out the order to the helmsman. The ship steered closer and closer as the rowers made their speed slower, to incline that no ill will was intended.

"Oye!" a sailor called out to the ship as it came abreast, hailing them. Higetomi immediately quieted him, pushing him away from the side of the ship.

"Hail!" he called, hoping they understood him. He'd made it a habit of learning languages from the Mainland, but wasn't sure if this was one they knew. "We come from Ryuji, the Kingdom before the Endless Blue! We come in friendship and trade."

Kazellor, as he was now known, spent five and twenty days climbing down and across the Ice Wastes from the Valley of the Fallen Star where the lost remains of an evil necropolis stood. The man formerly known as Arcune, a soulless magician with a hunger for more power, was all but gone. The evil armour that his master Xahlkas had given him had infused him with a new sense of purpose and will. Wells of hatred and unknown depths of fierce, cold energy flowed through his corded mutated muscles. His sight was now better than that of the elves and his hearing more precise than a dwarf. He had been remade into a machine of destruction. A machine with a purpose.

After coming upon a wandering barbarian Kazellor had killed the craven creature and stolen the small hill pony it has led before it. Using his new powers Kazellor had twisted and remade the horse. It was now a head taller than Kazellor, well over six feet. Mutated muscle and bone stuck out as if the creature was constantly straining to keep its innards within its sinewy frame. The steed’s eyes burned red with hatred and a new daemonic strength. Nodding approvingly Kazellor mounted the beast and rode further south, passing below the Sea of Claws and continuing on south and west away from the Northern Marshes. It was here that he would raise the force his master needed.

* * * * * * *

In the North Lands of Eldire, close to the Ice Wastes was a land of monsters and fell beasts. The more civilized kingdoms shunned it, not even the brave adventurers of Norgardia daring to venture into its great, empty expanse. As such it was a haven for brutal, savage tribes of men and other more evil creatures that were known as beastmen. Here men and vile creature alike called to dark heathen gods, and when led by some champion, would often raid south into the peaceful lands of Eldire.

Kazellor rode over a hillock and looked down upon a massive encampment filled with such savage men and creatures. Their campfires spread out for as far as Kazellor’s eyes could see. It was a good start.

The dark infused warrior led his mutated horse down the hill side and aimed for the camp. He more sensed than saw a line of horsemen coming forth from the sprawling camp. There was no warning of their approach, no horns or telltale dust clouds. They had mastered the terrain with devilish cunning, using its folds to maneuver directly into his path. He sensed more riders appearing on his flanks and rear. The riders in front were less than a hundred yards away, waiting patiently.

Kazellor studied the men awaiting him as he guided his steed down the shallow slope. They were broad shouldered, powerful me, wearing furs and bits of ragged chainmail. Bracelets of silver or hammered brass adorned their arms, and steel helmets with mail skirts rested on their shaggy heads. Their skin was swarthy, almost like brown leather, and their bodies had been twisted by years of living beneath the baleful sun. He saw ram’s horns sticking out from the forehead of one warrior, while another one stared at the interloping chaos knight with a single, catlike eye set in the center of his forehead. Another man had two heads upon his neck, one broad and flat nosed and the other shriveled, and bestial. Even their horses showed signs of terrible mutation, with cloven hooves and mangy bodies thick with cable-like muscles. Fangs protruded from their slack mouths, and their lolling tongues were long and forked like serpents’.

As he drew nearer, three of the riders kneed their mounts forwards upon unspoken command. Each drew weapons that glinted in the bloody evening light. The man with one eye readied a long, curved sword and a steel buckler, while the two-headed man brandished a pair of long handled axes. A third man with piercing blue eyes and a ragged, drooling hole where his mouth should have been, uncoiled a long whip in his left hand and hefted a short, stubby mace in his right.

None of the other riders moved. Kazellor looked back at the men behind him, and saw them observing the scene from the rise many yards away. The chaos knight nodded. So it would be a challenge of sorts. Kazellor knew that some tribes of marauders favoured trials by combat, pitting their champions against those of their enemies. If that was their intent, then he was happy to indulge them and claim what he knew would be his due.

The three riders spread out, edging their smaller mounts forward. Kazellor’s steed, smelling other horseflesh, seemed to quicken in pace. Kazellor studied them as he cantered forward and pulled out his evil sigil-encrusted sword. He realised that they would all attack at once and took it for a compliment. He kicked his armored heels into his horses flank and charged, deciding not to wait for them to come. He turned his steed and charged hard right and at the two-headed man. The mutated beast closed the distance in an eye blink, but the horsemen reacted with amazing speed, kicking his mount into a gallop and dodging nimbly out of the attack. Then he darted back at Kazellor, slashing at him with both deadly axes. Caught momentarily by surprise, Kazellor’s supernatural skills nevertheless reacted. He brought his sword up in time and single-handedly deflected the paths of the marauder’s axes. One blade slid down and skittered off the tip of Kazellor’s hip armour.

Kazellor reined his steed around, but already the two-headed man was darting away, his horse responding to his commands as if they were of one mind. The chaos knight lunged after them when a blur of motion to his right caught his eye. The one-eyed swordsman was charging at him from the flank, his sword gleaming redly. Kazellor laughed maniacally and twisted in the saddle, blocking the horseman’s blow with a quick sweep of his sword. The one-eyed rider swept past and Kazellor vaguely felt something wrap around his sword arm and then begin to haul him back. The blue-eyed man was behind him, hauling on his own reins and trying to pull the chaos knight out of the saddle.

Gritting his teeth in disgusted anger and pumped his arm forward, fueled by dark energies. The blue eyed man had just enough time to comprehend his mistake before the tug of the whip sent him flying forwards. He landed in a heap just beneath Kazellor. With a contemptuous curse Kazellor swept his sword down and decapitated the fallen horseman.

Hooves thundered to Kazellor’s left as the one-eyed swordsman swept in, aiming a mighty stroke for the back of the chaos knight’s neck. Kazellor gauged the man’s approach, and at the last moment he kneed his horse hard and threw up his left arm. The mutated horse sidled towards the onrushing horse, closing the distance faster than the swordsman expected and throwing off his aim. The flashing sword smashed into the back of Kazellor’s armoured shoulder, clanging loudly. Then Kazellor closed his hand on the marauder’s wrist and dropped his arm, trapping the sword against his chest. The one-eyed savage let out a curse and tried to ride past, but he was far too close to the chaos steed to escape. With a triumphal roar Kazellor lifted his sword and lanced it through the marauder’s chest. The body slumped to the ground bleeding profusely and the horse cantered away in fear after its master’s death.

He was just turning to look for the third rider when a pair of blows struck him from behind. One hit square between his shoulder blades and another on his right shoulder itself. His magic-infused armour prevented the axe blades from penetrating but they still caused Kazellor to feel a reverberation in his armour and rock him forward in the saddle. However as the rider passed, Kazellor’s fist shot out and knocked into the skull of the rider’s horse, crushing it instantly. The animal collapsed, throwing its rider forwards/ He rolled admirably with the fall, tumbling to a stop more than dozen feet away.

Kazellor stepped off his horse and stalked over to the fallen rider. The marauder raised its paired war axes and shouted a war cry, charging forwards. It felt like pure boredom to Kazellor as he parried swing after swing of the marauder’s axes. After a minute of letting the rider vent his rage against the cold steel of his sword, Kazellor charged forward in a blindly spurt of preternatural speed. The marauder was still in the middle of bringing his axes down in a terrible sweep. Kazellor brought his sword up in a flashing arc and cut through both descending arms. Both axes with hands and forearms still holding onto them, flipped away in a bloody, flying arc. The two-headed marauder cried out in paid and fell to his knees. Kazellor turned on his heal and neatly sliced through the fallen warrior’s neck.

He turned and faced another warrior that came forward. But instead of unsheathing a sword, the mutated marauder got down from his horse and bowed. “We cannot stand against you fell champion,” he said in the guttural tongues of the northern barbarians.

Kazellor smiled. “None may stand before me and live. Such are the gifts of my master.” He turned and looked into the encampment beyond then back at the kneeling marauder. “Take me to your shaman and chiefs. My swords still thirsts.”

"From where do you travel from?!" Thorir called out. The other men angled their heads in wonderment. These foreigners looked strange, unlike any race of Men they'd ever seen. They were not the crew of a seafairer ship, but a mere coastal longboat.

Banto eyed them with suspicion. The two had served together on several other ships. He trusted his captain and would die for him. His hand gripped his sword which remained in its' scabbard.

ooc: actually, these ships are more like chinese treasure ships (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Treasure_ship). just not as large. perhaps, 200-300 ft at most.

ic:

"We come from the Last Lands to the West," Higetomi replied, "In the name of Emperor Yomotomi Hayato."

"Men of the West? The Ryuji?" Banto questioned.

"It's been a long time since I visited those islands. Indeed, a great expanse away. These men have traveled far" Thorir craned his head back to Banto who hushed.

Norgardians were regarded as some of the best sailors in all of Eldire. Explorers, adventurers, raiders, and traders. Many a Norgardian made their living out across the oceans to far away lands. Thorir had seen much in his time and still had plenty of winters left in his body to stomach. His last apperance in Ryuji ended abruptly when Thorir found himself having offended a self proclaimed champion by taking his woman. The last image he had of that place was watching an angry mob of this champions' followers throwing stones and cussing at him.

"In the name of High King Erik I, I welcome you to Norgardia!" Thorir called out as the ship neared ever closer, almost close enough to through lines across, "I am Thorir, Captain"

"And I am Higetomi Higen no kami Matsushiro," he used his full title, "Imperial ambassador to His Highness."

The sailors aboard his own ship began to run to the side, ready to recieve and throw lines across as well.

"Captain, it would be an honor to come aboard and speak with you," Higetomi added. Haru joined his side, eager to meet these Easterners.

ooc: i rather get a kick out of the fact that asian men are considered 'Westerners,' don't you?

"Throw the line!" Thorir ordered. The deckhands lept into action and unraveled the coils of rope. The ends were weighted to make it easier to throw. They tossed over the lines and pulled the two ships together. The oars were reeled in and the portholes closed. The men exited the lower decks and onto the main deck.

"He sure has a long fancy name" Banto commented in a low tone

"Aye, they all do" Thorir smirked. He stood erect and presentable, awaiting this Matsushiro to board his ship.

Though the captain protested, Higetomi assured him that the only escort he required was Haru, who faithfully waited and followed as he crossed over to the other ship. They both stepped onto the deck lightly, noting the difference in the wood. Ryujian *blue oak was solid but subtle, not as hard as this foreign wood.

"It is an honor to meet you," Higetomi said as he greeted the Captain. He bowed, and Haru bowed lower. "This is my kohai, **Haru," he motioned towards the young man.

"Greetings, Thorir-sama," Haru bowed again.

*Yes, the oak is actually supposed to be blue

**Only nobility and higher-class have family names.

Thorir nodded and stroked his short beard. He observed these men, their odd facial features, clothes, and their ship. He could never get used to such things, no matter how many times he sees it. Still, it makes life more interesting.

"What brings you to Norgardia?" Thorir asked, "We have patrolled these waters and the outer islands for a week's time and have not seen yee until this point. I guess we are laxing in our duties"

"Oh, there is no need for admonishment," Higetomi replied. "We were exploring the waters and did not sight you as well," he chuckled. "Our Emperor has sent us to open trade with distant lands. We offer grain, precious gemstones and pearls, and exotic delicacies from the Endless Blue."

"Well, I'm not a diplomat" Thorir smirked, "I can, however; take you to the port of Oldenberg-from there you can make your way to Halgard. That's where the king resides. I'm sure the Thane of Oldenberg, Olaf III, will be more than willing to accept your trade"

"We accept your offer," Higetomi bowed to the man. "For now, could I invite you and your subordinate to a meal prepared by our chef?" he offered. "It would include delicacies from our native land."

"That sounds most agreeable", Thorir replied, "It's been a long time since I tasted food from your lands. Quite exotic I must admit"

Banto's stomach began to growl at the mere thought. Spices have to be imported to Norgardia and are rather expensive. Norgardian delicacies in Thorir's mind, weren't up to par with other kingdoms around Eldire.

ooc: gtg, late for work. will reply tonight.

ooc: back

ic:

"You'll be pleased with the meal," Higetomi said as he led them back to his ship, "Our chef is prepared to make a perfect kaiseki (http://www.japaneseguesthouses.com/about/ryokan/kaiseki.htm)," he added. "Begging your pardon...but you look familiar. You say you've visited our lands. A bold statement given our isolation...Did you perhaps know a *Master Uke?"

Haru almost stopped in his tracks; Master Uke the reknowned swordsman? How would this gaikukojin know if him?

*the 'champion' you mentioned, if that's ok w/ you...

Trouble was arising in the world, but still had not arrived on the shores of Ithilar. The sun was shining over the kingdom and the day was hot. Dhows and strange foreign ships entered and exited Beryliat’s harbor, either returning home or headed home with riches, bringing in commerce from the Free Cities or the distant East.

As the ships entered the harbor, a magnificent sight procured their awe. It was an edifice that was a source of pride for every Mechani. This was the most sacred place in their kingdom, what their ancestors had built after their original shrine had been destroyed, was the Great Temple of Lota, the Sea-Goddess. It was constructed of the whitest marble, and crowned with an ornate golden roof. It’s guilded doors towered over those who approached, and it’s great hall could easily fit many structures inside it. Sailors said they could see it’s light over fifty miles away and it was just as effective as the Great Lighthouse as well.

The inside was furnished with treasures from all across the globe. Such splendor was the last thing crossing the mind of Lução, a young priest of the goddess. A great deal had been bothering him ever since the tremor in the temple several days ago, when for a minute the whole structure shook, yet no one outside had noticed or felt a thing. Since then he was filled with a sense of dread. The Arcorazon (High Priest) had not been troubled visible by these occurrences, only one other shared his feelings of trouble, the ancient monk Barãco. The two had sought to find out the cause of this strange tremor.
-----
The temple covered a lot of ground, but also went deep into the earth. Many parts of this subterranean world were off limits to any and all but the Arcorazon himself. Barãco had once been the high priest and was still entitled to enter these areas. The pair headed down into the unknown world beneath the temple. “I believe I know what is behind this, and I pray for all our sakes that I am wrong” said the old mystic. They entered a large chamber after passing through an antechamber and going down many steps. In front of them stood a large metal door with strange writing on it, Lução opened it and the monk entered. The room was large and filled with a musk as though it had not been disturbed for a long time, it contained only what looked like a cracked altar and a very tarnished shield. Lução looked at his friend, who stood dumbfounded. “Lota help us…”

The name conjured distant memories Drunken memories of a young, troublemaking Norgardian in a distant port. An offended warrior, a woman, a fight, and a flee. He paused for a moment. It was indeed a far smaller world than he originally believed all his life.

"One could put it that way?" Thorir replied, "I met Uke once. It was during my first and last visit to your lands"

Banto leaned upagainst the railing and rolled his eyes. He too remembered the less than honorable encounter, still a humurous one though.

"I knew it," Higetomi said bruskly. He smiled a bit, "If Uke were still my master, I would be forced to mete justice upon you." Haru looked at him, worried, "*Bochama, don't worry. I have no intention of drawing my sword," he added.

"Y-yes master," Haru answered, embarrassed by Higetomi's *indescretion.

*bochama=young master. it is an indescretion because Higetomi is Haru's superior.

-------------------

Daylight glistened into the Imperial Palace, its light casting a golden hue inside its ancient halls. For His Imperial Highness, however, the beauty of the morning was lost to him. Emperor Hayato shuffled in his seat, tired with the endless meetings his advisors had set up. He hated the ordinances and edicts he had to revise and sign. He sighed and Sakeda, one of his counselors, gave him an exasperated look. If Higetomi had been in attendance, Sakeda wouldn't have dared...

The thirteen year old emperor was tired of this. He wanted his teacher back. But the others had convinced him of the trade benefits of the barbarous East, and so he had entrusted the mission to his teacher and mentor. The others had taken advantage of this, knowing it would be their only chance until Higetomi returned. Hayato's mood lightened when his wife, the Empress Masuyo, shooed the men away, noting that it was already time for the midday meal. Even her father, who was one of his senior advisors, didn't hesitate when she ordered them out.

He adored, if not loved, his twenty-five year old bride, and allowed himself to be doted on, as she loved to do. Masuyo, for her part, adored him in return, behaving more like his older sister at times instead of his wife.

"You look sad, Hayato-sama," she asked.

"Higetomi-sensei is still gone. There's been no word for over a month," Hayato answered.

"He'll return soon," Masuyo smiled warmly. She began to set his meal, "Be patient."

Hayato nodded and began to eat.

Kazellor sat with his armored legs crossed in front of the assembled shamans and tribal chiefs. He’d had them speak their names one at a time, gauging each one to see their character. Thus far the only one that impressed was Abrexta, a mutated and powerful man who radiated calm and awareness. All the other shaman deferred to him and even the warrior chiefs stepped lightly around him. He was bright for an ignorant savage tribal shaman as well, catching on to all Kazellor offered with narrow un-trusting eyes and seemed unmoved by the descriptions of treasures and gifts that Kazellor’s master offered.

“What then,” coughed Abrexta, “would your lord Xahlkas have us do?” He turned to gaze around the room and swept his hand. “We are a simple people, though large in number. Our lands are the poorest in all of Eldire. And the mighty kingdoms of Eldire keep us at bay, refuting any claims we may have to better pasture. And each time we try by strength, we are beaten.”

Kazellor watched as silence as this pronouncement caused a ripple of mutters through the crowd and nodding heads. Abrexta was wiser than the chaos warlord had originally thought. He was unwilling to support Kazellor unless he had a good assurance of victory. A wise position, one that was protected since Kazellor could not simply cut the fool shaman’s head off and be done with him, he required the mage for his influence over the other tribes.

Kazellor nodded. “Indeed, what would I and my master have you do…” he murmured. Without warning he smashed his armored fist into the ground and the entire human-skin tent rumbled. A few of them even fell over.

“I would have you fight and win!” Kazellor roared. All of them, except Abrexta, cowered.

“How?” Abrexta quietly asked.

“Bring me the least amongst your warriors and also your finest,” ordered Kazellor.

After a few shouted curses and guttural orders, two men entered the tent. One was nearly as tall as Kazellor, massive muscles that rippled with movement and scars covered his skin, bearing his experience in battle through them. The other man was smaller by nearly three feet. He looked furtively about, as if the tent was the last place he wanted to be. Each carried some weapon or other. Kazellor motioned to them.

“You two will fight to the death.”

They blinked at Kazellor.

“Now.”

Only because he was more paranoid that his taller opponent, the smaller man managed to duck below a viper-quick slash of a large battle axe. The taller barbarian warrior laughed and gave chase, following behind the smaller man as he dodged about, using a pair of curved scimitar to fend off any blows that came too close. The small man kept giving ground, circling, hoping the giant would tire or over extend himself. Neither happened. To the man’s horror and the delight of the tribal chiefs, the tall warrior kept swinging with the same force he had been twenty swings before and his breath was as calm and slow as a coursing stream.

Kazellor lifted his hands and wove a symbol in the air. He muttered words in a language that he only knew because of his new-found abilities and from the influence of the armour he wore. Once the chant was completed Kazellor clapped his armored hands together and then pointed a quivering finger at the smaller man. A fiery brand leapt forward and struck the man in the forehead. He cried out and fell to one knee, head lowered in pain. Laughing in delight the huge warrior leapt forward and swung his axe down in a whistling arch.

A jarring clang filled the tent.

The smaller man’s sword rattled as its blade kept the war axe from caving in its master’s head. The crowd gasped in surprise and the tall barbarian warrior stepped back, confused. The small warrior brought his head up, revealing a brand on his forehead, a new scar that bore a symbol of Xahlkas. His eyes burned bright with a red light and he cackled in a twisted manner. The small man charged forward with blinding speed and swung his swords. The barbarian warrior was only just able to deflect it with his axe. A dozen blows began to rain down on him, and he was pushed entirely on the defensive, much to the amazement of the spectators.

The small warrior bashed aside the warrior’s axe with one sword and slid his other through the man’s guard, cutting deep into his arm. The man howled in pain and dropped his axe. The smaller man ran around behind him and cut his tendons, causing him to come crashing to his knees. Then grinning like a fiend he swept the hulking barbarian’s head from his shoulders.

Silence pervaded the tent as the champion’s head rolled across the ground and stopped directly in front of Abrexta. The shaman picked the head up and examined it, then looked over at Kazellor.

“We shall throw out lot in with you, mighty warlord.”

All the other shaman and chiefs quickly echoed Abrexta’s declaration. Kazellor smiled and nodded. Now he had something to work with.

* * * * * * * * * * *


Later in the evening when Kazellor had been given a human hide tent and a selection of the finest warriors in the assembled tribes as his bodyguard, Abrexta came to him alone. The wily shaman bowed low and gave utterance to Kazellor as if the chaos warlord had been his master for all of his life, and not just some interloper who’d usurped power within a single night. This pleased Kazellor but also made him aware that the shaman’s loyalty could change at a moment’s notice. He would have to watch him carefully in the future.

“You have given us a new purpose, great lord, but I wish to know what our aims are,” Abrexta said with great deference. “The great and powerful Xahlkas hardly needs all of the like of us to reign destruction upon the world. What is it that we are required for?”

The shaman was sharp; Kazellor had to give him that. The chaos warlord sat in a throne made of human bone and skin, his armor never removed. He looked down at the bowing shaman with red, witch-light eyes, judging what he should do with such an inquisitive and treacherous creature. If he killed the shaman then the other tribes might break and therefore weaken Kazellor’s forces. But if he told the shaman the truth, then the mage would undoubtedly try to betray him in the future. Kazellor decided to spare him; at least he could control a man’s ambition and expect his betrayal than waste a large amount of troops.

“We shall march west, through the Ravenshorn Mountains, and then south. We are headed to a mountain peak that lies in Lordaenor, in the realm of the Dwarves. There, in the south of that land, is the Dragon’s Teeth mountain. A place of ancient founding, long before even the Dwarves took up their abode within,” Kazellor said. “Within this mountain is a long forgotten artifact which my master requires.”

“What is this artifact?” asked Abrexta, envy and desire barely held from his voice.

“It is a jewel, made eons ago during the War of the Titans, by Xahlkas himself under the tutelage of his master, the dark god Thanatos. With the jewel in my master’s possession once more, we shall humble the world and create a new age of blood and pain.” Kazellor sighed with delight as images of burning cities and rivers turning red with blood filled his head. He looked down at the shaman, seeing jealous desire carving its way into the mutant mage’s heart. Kazellor smiled inwardly. Put a man in chains and he will look for a way out, put him in a position of power or to attain power and he will gladly serve.

“I will see to it,” murmured Abrexta, “that we accomplish this task.”

“You should indeed, or else your soul if forfeit,” warned Kazellor. Another thought popped into his head and he looked down at the shaman.

“Bring to me also six of your finest warriors and leaders,” he said dismissively. “I have need of a few lieutenants.”

“It shall be done, great lord,” said Abrexta, bowing and scraping as he left the tent.

As Higetomi entertained his guests, a faint light illuminated the General's quarters. It's pulsing, peaceful azure glow coated the edges and corners in soft flourescence. By some intuitive nature, the treasure, long hidden by the Higetomi clan, awoke from its slumber.

[bump...]

"This is certainly awkward" Thoror admitted sheepishly, "I hope your master brandishes this grudge no more. It is a shame for such a petty offense to linger. I was but a drunken sailor who saw a woman that my eyes took fancy to. Little did I know she belonged to another man."

Banto stood there and chuckled to himself on the inside. Uke took a chair over the head from Thorir as Banto grabbed at his Captain to take leave.

"Regrettably, Master Uke was forced to commit seppuku shortly thereafter. Whether as a result of what happened or an offense he himself committed, it is not known to me," Higetomi answered. At that moment, the servers began to lay out the dishes before them. "For now, let us eat and think no more of these sad things..."

bumptity...

Borderlands of Silverfall

The watchman stood at his post bored. The wind kept rattling the boards of the watch tower and the gaps between posts made a howling noise that could only be described as nerve-wracking. The sword and bow he kept at his side felt ten times heavier than they should be. It didn’t help that he’d been up all the previous night gambling away the last of his purse to another watchman. He was still bitter on that point as well, he could have sworn the man had tampered with the dice. His opponent had let him inspect them, but they still didn’t give him the numbers he’d needed.

The guard yawned and looked out over the plains. The wind was up again and dust was swirling around, obscuring everything. The small wooden palisade watch fort sat on a hillock that was the only high ground for the next five leagues before reaching a mountain pass that gave entrance into the Kingdom of Silverfall. It was a short ride for a rider bringing a warning. Which was what the watchmen and his fellow soldiers were suppose to do. But there hadn’t been a single beast or bird that had come near the outpost for the better part of ten years. To be constantly on guard was boring, tiring, and made one tired since your nerves were always on edge. Gambling and the occasional cask of wine brought in by their supply caravan helped to lighten the mood.

The guard was just about to go through the list of things he’d do to his partner if he’d cheated last night when his eye caught something. A swirl of dust shifted like a delicate dancer moving at inhuman speed. What had he just seen? It had been big, he’d have sworn. Like a black shadow…there it was again! The man leaned over the side of the tower, ignoring the biting wind, and squinted. Just at that moment, the dust clouds parted and revealed the black shape he’d seen. Shapes, more the like, which he discovered for there was no single shape out there, but an entire host, a black host of lumbering Orcs.

The man cried out and ran over to the floor hatch, practically falling down the ladder there as he went down. He reached the bottom and turned around the corner and suddenly rammed into something. It was a sharp impact that had had a clanging noise to it, he couldn’t be sure. He looked down and saw a large, black fist holding a crude hilt of a sword that was buried in his chest. The guard died, knowing he’d been too late.


Gruk slid his sword from another of the human guards and spit a large bit of snot and saliva onto the corpse. Around him dozens of his Black Orc brethren finished going about their bloody business, killing the guards with the element of surprise. Gruk had been surprised himself at how easily they’d crept upon the outpost. His sire had warned him of how dangerous such outposts could be, so he’d taken care to have his boyz sneak quietly and kill the watch fort, instead of yelling and charging directly. Another Orc came over and grunted at Gruk, as formal a greeting as any Orc got.

“We’z gotz lota good killenz ‘ere boss,” the Orc said.

“Aye, good killenz,” agreed Gruk. “But do’t be dum, we’z gota report to da bigen boss.”

With a wave of his meaty hand, the band of orcs left the watch fort behind, but not before it had been set to flame. They returned to the main body of orcs and passed armored black orcs, lesser but no less dangerous green orcs, and more than a fair share of smaller, more conniving goblins. Gruk came forward to a large, ungainly caravan cart that bore the sacred symbols of the Orc gods and bowed his head to it. An Orc shaman stepped out and looked down at him. Small human knuckle and finger bones were weaved into long matted hair the color of matted mud from the shaman’s head and a loin cloth was all he wore, revealing scars from battle and painted symbols of power.

“Haf we’z takin dat fort?” the shaman asked.

“Aye bigen boss, we haz,” replied Gruk.

“Good! ‘Den da Warboss gona be hapi,” the shaman smiled toothily. “Fur da great Zalcaz!” The name of the greater daemon slipped off the shaman’s tongue as easily as honey. Gruk thought about it and wondered, why it hadn’t been an orc god and not some new god that was being prayed to. But he shrugged and rejoined his warband. He had future kills to contemplate.

Marching past the burning embers stepped the mighty, heavy tread of a Black Orc invading army. Its Warboss set on one thing: destruction and plunder at the expense of the Kingdom of Silverfall. Another kingdom filled with weak humans.

Outer moors of the Kingdom of Hospitlar

The small hamlet lay within a valley created by the rising of hills caused by the recession of water millennia ago. The villagers didn’t quite care for that however, as it was far in the past. All they cared for was the future. A future which depended on the growing of crops and raising of animals, a simple group of people who looked out for their own. Strangers were only welcome if they bore the red cross of Hospitlar. However the strangers they received that night were far from the norm.

Legends and horror stories told of them. They lived in the hollows and deepest, most dark parts of the Evermoors. Men they once were, it was said, twisted by the magic of the Evil Faeries. Others said no, they were beasts from an after time, when the Dark Gods still roamed the land like plagues. Either way, a troll was still a troll.

* * * * *

The man slammed his thick house door shut and leaned against it. He looked over at his panicked wife and daughter. Both were sobbing and wailing. Screams and similar outcries were heard from beyond the door, as well as a heavier tread of feet and a guttural, throaty roar that sounded like a man yelling through a mouthful of mud.

The man raised his hand to motion his wife to hide when a giant, green-brown three-digit hand the size of a man’s chest crashed through the door and gripped the man’s face. He screamed mutedly. The hand pulled and the man and the door both disappeared into the dark night beyond. Horrible screams came from beyond, followed by the sickening crack of bones and the awfully familiar sounds of a mouth sinking its teeth into meat.

A huge fist slammed through the stone wall of the hovel and the thatched roof tumbled down. A large, nine foot troll with dripping green, rubbery skin stepped within the ruins and scooped up the frozen, petrified mother and daughter. Similar scenes were being played out all around the small valley. Trolls of varying size and color rampaged through the village. A few valiant older men wielding pitchforks and maybe a rusty sword tried to resist, but they too were broken both in body and spirit.

A particularly large troll with two heads stood outside the village watching the slaughter. One head, larger and far more grotesque with puss boils and moss covering it, giggled in delight as a particularly high pitched scream ended abruptly.

“We have…so…much fun,” the two-headed troll’s smaller head said. This one looked strikingly human, except for the one ear and three eyes set in its forehead. Moss and various bits of grey hair sprung up over its head in a mohawk style of hair.

The troll turned to the shape near him. “What’s you thinking then, being as you’re from the great master?”

The figure beside the troll chuckled through his great iron helm, making it sound metallic and hollow. He was easily twice the size of a man, not nearly as tall as a troll, but far taller than the average human that the two-headed troll had ever eaten. His armour was intricately designed with burning sigils of some perverse and evil lettering sprawled across its surface. It shone with a bright copper color but seemed to vibrate with veins of red that could only be described as blood, flowing across the plate armour like a living thing. A bearskin cape hung from his shoulders and a war axe the size of his chest hung from his belt.

His name was Azergal, or so he’d pronounced when he’d arrived unexpectedly within the hidden court of the troll chiefs. At first the trolls had tried to eat him, but after the fifth troll warrior had been cut down and set aflame to never grow again they’d backed down and listened to him. The chaos knight had preached the coming of a new age. The great, dark daemon Lord Xahlkas had risen again and all creatures of the forgotten were to rise up. He promised blood and flesh in unending rivers for the trolls to gorged themselves upon. The small village which they now pillaged was but a foretaste.

“I think, that by the night of tomorrow I shall rest by bloody sword within the heart of the nearest Hospitlar warrior, when we sack the northern castle,” Azergal pronounced. “It lies only ten leagues to the south.”

“We…going to…get there…soon enough,” said the smaller troll head in its clipped, slow speech. “Buckles and I…keep…our word.”

Barbaric Lands south of Ithilar

A great howl rose up amongst the storming horde of half-human beasts. War horns and war cries intermixed to make an earsplitting sound that thundered through the mountain pass like the coming of some great storm. And indeed it was a storm that was brewing. The elder shaman’s had descried the lines of magic and declared that the beastmen host must march north. North into the lands of plenty and where human kingdoms dwelt. A mythical land where a beastman warrior could slaughter and feast until he became little more than a glutton.

One beastman in particular stood on a cliff side that overlooked the marching bands of beastmen. As they passed they raised their weapons and roared or howled with approval and triumph at him. Beings with the heads of goats, torso of man, and the legs and cloven hooves of a beast marched past alongside bull-headed creatures, and others with the heads of wolves and dogs. They howled and bleated with bloodlust and an almost worshipful tone.

The beastman, Gothar (http://img80.imageshack.us/img80/4263/beastmanps7.jpg) was his name, stood watching over them, glaring down with red eyes. The color of his eyes were gone, replaced by a magic of the elder days. A gift, part of the intricate and powerful red armour he wore, of the great war axe he wielded. Gifts, from the shadowy emissary from some dark power in the far, far north. Gothar had been a large beastman before the shadow emissary had come, but now he was so large even regular beastmen warriors that he knew to be powerful and strong cowered before him like runts or children. Along with the armour, weapon, and gifts of power the beastman warlord had been given an order.

“Go forth and conquer and slaughter all you find. Do not stop until all the world burns.”

Simple enough orders if ever a beastman he been given one. So the great warrior had bullied and coaxed the other tribes of beastmen in his lands to join into one great horde that could drink rivers dry and flatten mountains with its passing. And their first known place to attack was a land known to be inhabited by elves, or what looked like elves, not that the beastmen cared to note the distinction, so long as they could bleed and be eaten.

Ravenshorn Mountains


Kazellor’s witchlight eyes surveyed the mountain pass with little interest. The wind howled and bits of snow and ice flowed in its wake, pelting off his armour like so many bothersome insects. His demonically morphed steed wasn’t bothered by the weather either, simply tramping his hooves into the rocky ground, eager to be going again. Below the chaos champion was the ragged line of mutated, barbaric marauders and other warriors that now marched under his banner.

The valley stretched for a full three leagues, and from Kazellor’s position in the center of it, the entire floor of the valley was carpeted with their numbers. A seething tide of fell beasts and chaos inflamed warriors bent on destruction and slaughter. It brought a small smile to Kazellor’s corrupted lips.

He turned his gaze westward, out of the pass, and into the lands beyond. The Kingdom of Norgardia awaited.

The Ravenshorn Mountains

The frozen winds howled and wept. They screeched, yurning for something unbeknownst the any mortal. Of course, the two riders at the top of a cliff were no mortals.

Their steeds were powerful and large warhorses. Atop them sat female riders. One was fair haired and fair skinned, with blonde flowing hair as she removed her helmet. Both were beautiful beyond measure. The other, with equally fair skin yet black hair removed hers as well and gripped it tight.

"Eydis, look upon this!" Hedda, the blonde rider beckoned. Her eyes were wide, having not seen such a sight in many ages.

"Aye, a tragedy doth await the world of men. The Halls of Valhalla will ring once more with scores of fine warriors" Eydis said with little enthusiasm.

"Beasts of all the fowl races have gathered"

"I have sensed an incredibly dark source farther to the north. In the lands no one dare travel. The forbidden regions of Eldire. Forsaken by the Old Gods themselves. It is a Daemon lord, one we have not seen before." Eydis voice sank into a pit of seriousness.

Silence lingered as far below the hordes of beastmen and monsters gathered, heading southward.

"We must do something!" Hedda pleaded, sitting up in her saddle.

"Nay, you know that interferrence is forbidden by the Gods themselves" Eydis quipped. Though, she secretly desired that it were not the case, "All we can do is carry those slain honorably back to the Eternal Hall"...

Halgard, Norgardia

The teeming city of Halgard sits at the mouth of the River Nar, a commanding river that leads into the interior of the Kingdom. A bustling trading and commerce center with a large population considering the dispersness tendencies of Norgardians. Here, the Eleven Clans join into one great kingdom that reigns over the Northern lands. They also control much of the Northern seas with a mighty fleet of warships and raiders.

In the Hall of High King Erik I, Sara, the King's daughter watched above the chambers as the two champions of Avras and Falkenvar dueled. She was young, twenty years and some to spare. She hid behind a banister, eyes fixated on Atticus. He was a strong man who fought feircely and without regard to his own life. she followed the battle closely as Fydr weilded a mighty axe again and again throwing himself at Atticus.

"My lady, you must not watch this brutal sport" Kaja, her maid peeped quietly. She was a short and frail young girl who rarely made eye contact with anyone.

"I must watched, the Champion of Avras returns once again" She smiled

The clank of metal and grunts of warriors filled the air as Atticus struggled to keep balance. Each fell blow, though did not score a death blow, still pained his forearm which was buffered by a weakening shield.

Finally, Fydr showed signs of weariness and slowed his attacks, becomeing sluggish. He threw himself once more but Atticus stepped aside and brought his sword down, releaving Fydr of his head as it rolled on the ground, followed by a trail of blood.

"Atticus of Avras is the winner. Thusly, Avras's greivance against Falkenvar is justified and Falkenvar will give away all claims to the grazing regions of the South" King Erik proclaimed loudly.

Atticus bowed his head and cleaned the blade clear of blood. As he walked away and Fydr was dragged away, head in tote, Atticus's eye caught a shape above and smiled...

Off the coast of Ethosia

"It burdens and saddens my heart to hear such a thing. Let us toast to his memory. A truly honorable man, worthy of the finest that the afterlife has to offer a man of his caliber!" Thorir raised his chalice upon high cheering the name of Uke.

"Tell me, Higetomi" Thorir leaned in, "What does your kingdom have to offer a band of heathens such as ourselves?" he smiled.

In the small town of Syracuse, outside of the capital Hospitlar, lies a small, shady looking, cabin. Inside the cabin is a small man, wearing raggedy, old, clergy clothes. He watches a cat taking a crap. His fat noise is inches away from the cat’s butt. As each cat dropping falls onto the ground, the man faces grows more and more worried. When the cat was done, he pushes the cat out of the way.

“MEOOOOW!!!!”

He studies the crap. He tastes it, smells it, and touches it.

“Oh no! This can’t be. Trolls…..thought they died out generations ago.”

He starts running around, looking through dusty books. He stops at a picture of a man like demon, standing next to a troll.

“It’s true, the prophecy is true.”

The Ravenshorn Mountains
Off the coast of Ethosia

"It burdens and saddens my heart to hear such a thing. Let us toast to his memory. A truly honorable man, worthy of the finest that the afterlife has to offer a man of his caliber!" Thorir raised his chalice upon high cheering the name of Uke.

"Tell me, Higetomi" Thorir leaned in, "What does your kingdom have to offer a band of heathens such as ourselves?" he smiled.

"As we are sure you must have many delicacies of the waters you sail," Higetomi mentioned, "We can offer the finest bounties of the Western Seas, along with these," he said, opening a small box containing dozens of pearls, each an inch or more in diameter. "And this as well," Higetomi raised his arm, and Haru bowed as he left the table. He came back soon with a bundle in his hands. He unravelled it as Higetomi spoke again.

"Our finest cloth, silk," he mentioned, offering each man to feel its supple feel.

OOC: I am working on a post for the Orc invasion Thrash, as we speak. They won't respond immediately, can't always have people finding out stuff immediately at large. But, as we discussed, the fortresses are in your way and they'll find out soon.

"Truly a great display of bravey" Henrik said as he appeared into the room. Atticus removed his armor and clothing to examine and clean the wounds sustained from the fight. All in all the warrior managed to escape away with little injuries. His left forearm was bruised and there were several smaller cuts here and there.

"Hmm..." Atticus replied, trying to rotate his arm slightly, feeling a surge of pain, "Now the grazers can rest easy" he mocked.

"What troubles you?" Henrik inquired.

Atticus turned uneasily, "Being the Champion of our city has brought little glory. When I first took this charge I was honored and felt unworthy to take up such a challenged", he paused, "I thought I was fighting for honor and glory, nay, I simply fight for small quarrels over grazing land and minor offenses"

"The age of great deeds and heroes are over" Henrik answered, "The Bards already sing enough"

"I want them to sing of me when I am dead. Yes, some in Skara do make me known but what else? Nothing! I am whored out to solve inssues of court!" Atticus slammed his fist against the table.

Henrik rolled his eyes and turned to leave the chambers. He said nothing upon exiting and gently closed the door behind him. The two of them knew each other since childhood, Henrik was a lesser warrior, perferring words over action. It was something that he was good at, dealing with words.

As he walked aimlessly, Princess Sara caught his eye. She was a gracious heavenly body that occupied the world of men and lesser beings. She caught his eye many times before. Of course, ever time he made his advances and affections upon the fair Princess, she declined him frequently.

"My Lady..." Henrik bowed as she approached, "What an honor you bestow upon me by making your presence here"

"Greetings Henrik" Sara said with less enthusiasm, losing her broad smile, "here both the Champion reside?"

The question caused his heart to sink deep into a dark pit. All joy dispersed as he came back up with a stoic expression, "He is inside the chambers behind me" he said with little emotion.

"Thank you, kind sir" Sara said, breezing past him.

Henrik turned and sneered, too long as he resided in the long shadow of his dear childhood friend...

"Such a great textile indeed" Thorir replied, "I wore these once before. Such comfort unbeknownst to any normal Norgardian. It far bests any wool or wolf's fur"

Banto eyed the pearls enviously but turned away and paid attention to his meal more than conversing.

"Such a great textile indeed" Thorir replied, "I wore these once before. Such comfort unbeknownst to any normal Norgardian. It far bests any wool or wolf's fur"

Banto eyed the pearls enviously but turned away and paid attention to his meal more than conversing.

Taking the small box of pearls, Haru collected it along with the silk and placed it at his side. He picked up his tea and sipped, peering cautiously towards the Captain's subordinate out of the corner of his eye.

"Then," Higetomi said to Thorir, "Do you believe we have a welcome market in your land?"

"Most certainly" Thorir joyfully said, "Past attempts to open trade routes have failed greatly. It's a shame, two sea powers such as ourselves never in open commerce with one another. Our two kingdoms could easily control all of the vast ocean."

The other assembled Norgardians cheered on in agreement. As they continued to talk amoungst themselves. The ship's cook brought out another meal.

"Ahhh" Thorir smacked his hands together, "I had our cook bring over a dish of our own. Sea Serpents are notoriously dangerous but also quite delicious. We killed this one just this morning."

"Most certainly" Thorir joyfully said, "Past attempts to open trade routes have failed greatly. It's a shame, two sea powers such as ourselves never in open commerce with one another. Our two kingdoms could easily control all of the vast ocean."

The other assembled Norgardians cheered on in agreement. As they continued to talk amoungst themselves. The ship's cook brought out another meal.

"Ahhh" Thorir smacked his hands together, "I had our cook bring over a dish of our own. Sea Serpents are notoriously dangerous but also quite delicious. We killed this one just this morning."

Higetomi picked up a morsel in his chopsticks and eyed it before he was interrupted by Haru.

"Master, perhaps I-"

"Nonsense," Higetomi popped it into his mouth, "There's no sense in worrying about the matter of its safety. Either it is or isn't. It's up to fate to decide."

"Yes, master," Haru replied, picking up a bit for himself. With a deep breath, he placed it in his mouth and closed his eyes.

“What is this?” said Lução walking over to the shield. He picked it up gently and looked at it, and saw his own image reflected back at him. He looked back at Barãco, who was still in a state of unpleasant shock.

“Be very very careful!!” he shouted all of a sudden

“That my son, is the fabled Shield of Lácio…only it has been sapped of its strength by recent events. We have very little time, and much to do.” Barãco took the shield from his companion and covered it with a cloth sac he brought along and headed out of the room.

“Whhat…Lácio’s Shield?” stunned for a but moment before catching up to the elderly monk “Where are we going?” asked Lução

“I am going to speak to Arcorazon Jiorno, you will be heading back to tend to your duties in the temple.” He replied bluntly

“I want to help you, look you can barely carry that shield up the steps by yourself.”

The old monk looked back at him and sighed, he then approached him and handed Lução the Sacred Shield of Lácio.

---------

The Arcorazon did not want to believe what Br. Barãco had to say.

“You come to me and say that the fabled shield has lost its power and this is a result of great evil moving about in the world? That is preposterous! The world has known no great wars for years and the type of evil that would have to be around to sap the shield’s power no longer exists.”

“Your Benevolence, you can see for yourself that this is the shield and it does not shine with the power infused in it by Lota herself hundreds of years ago. The sign can mean only one thing, the forces of darkness are on the move again. It will be only matter of time before they find themselves at the gates of Ithilar once more.”

Arcorazon Jiorno paused and though for a second, before saying “We must consult this with the King.”

The Arcorazon summoned a messenger, dictated a letter to be sent to the king announcing their short arrival and sent him on his way to the Royal Palace, a short walk away.

---------

It had happened many Millenia ago, when the world was engulfed in the War of the Titans. When Mechani were still elves, and were a wandering tribe. The war had come upon where they were staying, in a wood near the sea. Orcs, trolls and other fell beasts had surrounded them and would be marching in for a slaughter that very night.

Their leader, Lácio, went to the edge of the sea to pray for help, when a beautiful lady rose out of the sea and approached him. She looked somewhere between Elf and Human, and spoke with a soft loving voice. She introduced herself as Lota, the Goddess of the Seas, and said she had her his prayers and wanted to help. She grated their leader four gifts, an unbreakable shield with the power of protect all, a valiant sword with the power to defend against the darkest most powerful foes, armor of the brightest silver with the power to heal, and a mirror that could show any thing asked of it.

With these gifts and the strength that came from his new gifts, as well as another gift given to them by the Goddess, the Mechani were victorious. Their leader, however was not as fortunate, although his armor had the power to heal he was pierced by arrows that had been cursed by the wicked arts. Lácio was at the threshold of death, when the goddess came once more. She, in all her power could not repair his damaged form and so gave him a new one.

His body grew tall, taller than any elf or race had ever stood, and slender. His skin changed from the fairest snow white to a shimmery black as a mark of the cursed arrows, he now walked on his six toes, and grasped with his dextrous six fingers. His eyes transformed into a rounded triangular shape, with the color of a robin’s egg, his ears grew smaller and rounder, he was gifted with the powers of magic, and finally his hair turned snow white. Thus he became the first of the new Mechani. His tribe, wanting to be like their chieftain took this new form as well, and began to refer to themselves as children of Lota.

The land they were located on separated from the land to form an island, where they would build and flourish in their city of Calypsos until it would be conquered by High Elves and sink below the waves. From there they would found the Kingdom of Ithilar.

-----
The Braganaza Palace

The trio walked to the palace, accompanied by bodyguards, from the temple. There, in the throne room, the King would receive them. Lução stood in awe, he would be going to the palace! They passed through the outer gates into the palace where they met the Chief Minister of the King. He directed them to the Throne Room.

King Arano was standing in the room, surrounded by many military looking figures. They were announced and the King dismissed his military advisors. The party then headed over to the King.

"Arcorazon, it is good to see you."

"Thank you your majesty."

The Arcorazon then introduced his two companions and told what they believe was happening. The King then looked very serious and said:

"That would explain the increased numbers of incursions into the Southlands...but also why our magical capacitys are so rapidly being replenished..."

He looked to Lução


"Thing will only be getting worse, we need to recover and restore the relics of Lacio. Can I ask you a favor? I wish you to accompany a band charged with recollecting these relics and bringing them here to be restored to their proper status."

Lução agreed to go, how could he deny his king?

"Good, you will set out this very afternoon. The first item lies to the north, on Holon Island, go and get it from its resting place."

In the Castle of Duke Dragoon. A scout reports to the Duke that the Troll army is approaching. The Duke tells the men to close up the castle and hold on until help arrives.

"A battle draws near" Eydis said, grasping the reins tight, "One that could very well see the end of the world of not just men...but all races of Eldire"

Hedda sighed, "What brings these creatures together?"

Eydis stepped from her mount and placed a hand on the steed's face, brushing her hand down its' long face, calming it, "A dark force, something that has not inherited a place on this world for many a year"

As they spoke, several rocks fell down the cliff above, startling the horses. Eydis drew her sword and weilded around, eyes fixated on the source.

A horrible cackle echoed throughout the cliff as the figure of a beast loomed overhead, its' eyes red with hate. It stepped down, a beastman. Donned in human skulls and rags. It carried a rusty fowl blade.

"It's a shame that you are here" it grinned, malice in its' voice, "I'd rather the fields lay scattered with the rotting dead of human scum!"

Eydis relaxed herself, "Leave this place, Straad"

Straad, leader of the northern beast clans cackled again, "We have taken a shinning to these lands. More fertile" he beared his teeth, "Consider yourself blessed to be no mortal or else I'd wear your bones!"

"Be blessed I cannot intervene, creature" Eydis quipped. Hedda remained cautious, "Who keeps your leash?"

"No creature reigns over me. A being named Kazellor beckons us all to one banner" Straad replied, "My clans join for blood!"

"Kazellor?" Eydis asked to herself. Straad cackled once more and using his hind legs, springed over the cliff and clawed his way down, leaving the two riders standing there, coming to grasp with what is to come.

ooc: kulikovia, you wanna respond to my post, please?

Governor Parzo sat in his oak chair, considering the two men in front of him. He was well past middle age, having held this highest post outside of the national senate for 8 years. It was wearing work to manage an entire Province, and he almost welcomed the day, two years hence, when he might request a replacement and retire with honor. However, he cared deeply for his people, and it would be a dark day before a report such as the one he had just recieved would go unresponded to.

The men before him were both officers of the army, if men of radically different ranks. The younger man, barely out of his teens, was a commander in a local guard post near the western border, who identified himself as Tamon. The Older man was near 60, a tall, thin man with a stern face, a deep, pennetrating gaze, and hair just touched with grey. He was General Atreyus, who held command over all divisions in this Province and a seat in the Senate Assembally. The second youngest man to hold the rank of General in the Republic's history, and perhaps the finest tactical mind in the land. Parzo blessed the Gods that he had such a fine officer to advise him in military affairs. And based on the report, he might well have more reason for such gratitude in the future.

"Two villages, you say?"

"That is correct. The trolls left few survivors, but if they had left none the nature of the brutality of the attack would have attested to its origin." Atreyus's lip curled in distaste. "These beasts ate man and woman, young and old alike. The children were too small to give more than a snack, but stomping on them entertained the monsters. Two villages levelled."

Parzo nodded. Atreyus might be used to such things, but to him the horrors of war were still foreign. Perhaps that was just as well. He couldn't imagine what such carnage was like. Atreyus could.

"Based on the sighting by the patrols, how far do you think the trolls are now?"

Atreyus frowned.

"Not so far that our riders could not over take them. However, they were near the borders of the Hospitaller's kingdom, and the horsemen could not pursue far without violating their boundaries. Moreover, offensive actions require the authority of the Senate."

"You have disregarded that authority before."

Atreyus smiled grimly.

"Yes, but it costs dearly. Such actions should be taken only when nessissary." However, I wish to consult directly with the Protector and the Senate, and I believe you should be pressent at this meeting."

Parzo rose.

"Very well. I will lead you to the audience chamber."

(OOC: given the troll raid's proximity to my lands, I thought some might have spilled over, if that's acceptable).

West of the Ravenshorn Mountains

Kazellor sat idle upon his mutated steed as he looked out over the immense size of the forces under his banner. The trek through the mountains had cost his host a few paltry numbers, easily made up by the other feral tribes that lived upon the very face of the mountain side, fearing the Norgardians no longer and having pledged fealty to Xahlkas. Shamans and demi-mages from across the forgotten lands had gathered outside his tent as if attracted to a lode stone. A dark cloud followed over the army, a blessing from Xahlkas himself.

However the chaos champion knew that time was running short if he was to accomplish his task. He knew that this invasion would not go unnoticed by the free kingdoms of men. He would have to strike hard and fast in order to achieve victory; a victory that lay far, far to the south in the land of the dwarves, in Lordaenor. A noise behind Kazellor disturbed his thoughts and he turned to see the shambling form of Abrexta, the powerful shaman that had helped forge his fighting force since the crossing from the Northern Wastes.

“You called for me great lord?” Abrexta asked, groveling on the ground before Kazellor.

“Indeed shaman. At first light you shall lead a portion of the army west while I shall take the rest on a continued march to the south,” Kazellor replied.

Abrexta abruptly looked up, fury and envy written in every line of his face. “B-But I was to help lead the army south, into the land of the stunted men!” he wailed in jealous anger. The shaman even stood up and eyed Kazellor with animosity.

The chaos champion tilted his helmeted head to one side and rested his gauntlent on the hilt of his great sword. The movement caught the shaman’s attention and the old man looked away, apparently cowed. Kazellor sighed to himself. He hated having to work with the old shaman, but the man had made himself indispensable.

“You will march west and lay waste of the Kingdom of Norgardia. If Norgardia is allowed to resist our march south then the southern kingdoms will have time to rally. I cannot allow this, nor will my master be pleased if we are rebuked,” warned Kazellor, an icey note filtering into his voice. The shaman visibly gulped. No one, insane chaos champion or powerful mage would want a seemingly all-powerful daemon lord coming after you with vengeance in mind.

“Then so shall it be,” said Abrexta, accepting that for a time he would be put off from his path to gaining the Heart of Xahlkas.

Southern Ithilar, unknown city upon the sea…

Gothar stood over the decapitated body of yet another Mechani peasant. His axe was stained red with the blood of hundreds. The monstrous beastman warlord picked up the head of the dead Mechani and tied it to his belt by the hair, adding to a large collection that already hung there. Next he cut up the body and grabbed up the arm and began tearing his teeth into it, eating his fill. Gother turned around as he ate and watched as different warbands of his great horde slated their hunger upon the dead of the Mechani village.

It was the fourth village to fall under the thunderous hooves of the beastmen horde. Each time Gothar would descend with his warriors in a mass charge in the middle of the night, with the element of surprise. Each time the villages fell, their occupants hardly able to offer any real defense before succumbing under the axes and crude swords of the beastmen. But all that easy meat would soon be coming to an end.

Gothar raised his axe and let loose a terrible roar that echoed throughout the night like a war horn. The other lesser beastmen around his raised their cries to the sky and lifted weapons high in salute. Blood ran in great rivulets and the homes of the dead burned, their embers flying into the night sky. The beastman warlord led the warband away to rejoin the main host.


They traveled for an hour before they came upon the encampment. It was placed upon three hills that overlooked a large natural bay at the side of the great sea. Below them, standing like a frightened child, ripe for the slaughtering, was a stone walled fortress city of the Elven-kind Mechani. Gothar trundled through the human and Mechani-hide tents and come up to his own large tent. Two large guar beastmen bleated out cries of salute and bowed as he passed.

When the great warlord entered a large assemblage of beastmen shaman debased themselves before the tread of his hooves and mumbled guttural words of prayer and worship. Gothar sat down in a high-backed throne of stone and flesh hides. He set his axe next to his leg and looked down at the shaman. One stepped forward and bowed.

“We’ve made ready for the siege, great one,” it bleated.

“Good,” replied Gothar. “Then we will take it in the morning!”

Evermoors

Azergal’s machinations within the troll chiefdoms had yielded better fruit than the chaos champion had fully expected. Determined not to be outdone by the army being led by Azergal and the two-headed troll chief Buckles & Mord, another tribe had gathered its forces and begun sacking villages and small townships along the border of the Star Kingdom.

* * * * *

A large twelve foot, lumbering cycloptic troll with skin the color of pale gray stone smashed his giant fist through the burning wagon of hay and sent it flying over the heads of the half-armed peasants that had been hiding behind it. Laughing and throwing up bits of moor mud and moss the troll grabbed two of the smaller figures and smashed their heads together. Blood, brains, and skull bits flew in different directions, splattering all over the other few defenders who promptly threw down their weapons and began running. The trio ran straight into the side of several more trolls who had appeared around the side of another burning building.

Another village of the Star Kingdom was gutted within hours, the warband under the great Urlock making its mark felt upon the kingdom.


Inside the borders of Hospitlar

The small army of trolls under Azergal stood outside the walls of Duke Dragoon’s castle. The larger warriors were pulling up great rocks and even large trees from the ground and throwing them with great force at the walls and gate of the castle in an effort to break through its defences. The chief, Buckles & Mord, threw things along with the rest of them. Standing to one side behind these strenuous efforts was the chaos champion himself.

Azergal was becoming frustrated with the trolls efforts. None of them had any sense of aim, as evidence by the fact that only one in about every ten things thrown at the castle was actually hitting the wall or the gate. Though it landed inside, Azergal knew that wouldn’t do much damage or internal destruction unless they were lucky enough to cause fires within the castle walls. But that was unlikely.

The chaos champion called out to the troll chief and shook his helmeted head. “We’re going to do this the old fashioned way.”

* * * * *

Minutes later Azergal was directing a team of six trolls who had lashed together three of the largest and longest tree trunks they could find. The massive root systems stood out and the leaves tickled the nose of one rather short, but brawny, troll. Azergal pointed at the gatehouse of the castle and the iron portcullis.

“Smash it down,” he ordered, hoping that it was simple enough for their puny brains to assimilate.


Protective Wall of Silverfall

Under the cover of darkness the massed horde of orcs came upon the great curtain wall of Silverfall. It was a massive, single stone wall that was meant to be a barrier between any orc incursions and the rest of the Kingdom of Silverfall that lay beyond within the land of Anfalas. It was also a symbol of hatred for the Orcs, for it had stopped cold every previous attack in the last hundred years. Gruk Fellblade would make sure that this time things went differently.

Gruk (http://img139.imageshack.us/img139/3844/blackorcwarbossbytaidaimz1.jpg) stood on an outcropping of rock that overlooked the pass and the wall itself. He could see the torches that lined the wall and the men that manned it. Try as he might, the element of surprise had been impossible to attain against the Curtain Wall. Few warbosses had ever been able to fully cease the sound an orc warband made, and for Gruk’s large horde, it was practically impossible. But even forewarned, the giant black orc Warboss was confident in a quick victory.

Gruk turned around and looked at his shaman, Ogrik One-Eyed. The shaman was bent over a small, black runestone that had Orcish sigils running all over it. The shaman looked up and nodded at the Warboss. “Itz redy great boss.”

“Good,” rumbled Gruk. “Juz make sure yu and da oder magik boyz get it right!”

“Aye big boss.”


The Orc shaman stepped over to the edge of the outcropping and raised his fist, the runestone held in hand. He chanted aloud in some guttural form of Orcish, and made hand signs with his other, free hand. A pale green light erupted from the shaman’s feet and surrounded him. It pulsed to the heartbeat of the magic user and grew and the shaman’s voice grew louder and louder. With a final cry the runestone erupted in his hand and a great swath of black smoke rose up like a tornado. The roaring black tower of wind and smoke blew down the bluff and stopped in front of the wall.

With a second uttered outcry the tornado ceased to move and exploded outwards. Within the span of a few minutes, a large curtain of black smoke hung over the battlements of the Curtain Wall, blocking out the sight of all. Gruk grinned toothily and then raised his war axe and roared.

“Waaaaaagh!”

The cry was echoed from a thousand other throats and a wave of green skinned warriors charged towards the now smoke enclosed Curtain Wall with hook ropes, wooden ladders, and a few tree trunks fashioned into battering rams.

Off the Coast of the Icing Darklands

The Wrathblade rode the Endless Bluewith a winter gale at her back, her indigo-dyed sails of human hide stretched to their limit and the slate-grey coastal waters hissing along her sharply-raked hull. Her druchii crew knew their trade well, gliding effortlessly along the pitching deck like hungry shades at the sibilant orders of their captain.

They wore heavy robes and thick leather kheitans to keep out the icy wind, and their dark eyes glittered out of the icy wind, and their dark eyes glittered like onyx between the folds of dark woollen scarves. They were racing before the storm with a full load cargo chained below, but the craggy southern coastline and the mouth of the river leading to Ambor lay only a few miles off the bow. The wind howled hungrily in the black rigging, singing an eerie counterpart to the muffled cries rising from the hold, and the sailors laughed in quiet sepulchral tones, remembers the revelries of the night before.

Tyrant Darkblade stood at the corsair’s prow, one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other resting on the ship’s rail as he watched the sharp towers of the sea gate rise before him. A heavy cloak of nauglir hide hung from his narrow shoulders and wisps of black hair spilled from the confines of a voluminous hood to twist and dance in the wood. The cold clawed at his face and he bared his teeth at its touch. The highborn elf pulled a carefully folded token from his belt and held it to his lips, breathing in its heady perfume. It smelled of blood and brine, setting his senses on edge.

This was the smell of victory, he though, his lips twisting into a mirthless smile. He was finally returning from another aid against the coasts of the kingdoms of men and he had much news to impart to his adopted uncle, the Champion of the eternal Witch King. The world was apparently going to hell in a basket and Tyrant would be damned if Naggoroth didn’t profit from it somehow or another. Much as he would profit from the two hundred human slaves in the hold of his ship.

The dark elf laughed aloud as he heard another high pitched scream of anguish and terror.

In Lordaenor, Land of the Dwarves, far from all the fighting the Dwarves were not still, they knew something was stirring but they knew not what is was, with a might Dwarf smith taken by the orcs, from a city no less, to the babblings of the mages up in there towers, something had to be done.
And done it was, the Dwarfish ways, futher north bording the lands of the dammed goblins, plans were being made, cities were being fortiifed and docks armed, if the Dwarves were left uncheck, in a few months most of the beaches and landing zones around Lordaenor would become battlements and forts, being built up slowly and slowly.


Twilight beach
A Dwarven runecaster overlooked like assembled Dwarves below him, he looked deep into them, and began to say what needed to be said
"My fellow breatherin," he began "The Earth Father has given has grave warnings, A dark cloud is rising, and our traders talk of strange happenings all over the world, Gathering of tribes, raids more common then usual It is the lead up to a path of darkness! our expidition to the north, has come back with grave news it is as we feared,Darkness has been released from its tomb, and once again will we need to ride out the storm."

he paused, and thought out his next words carefully
"It is in these times, that we must stick to our honored traditions, we must do things our way if we are to survive! We must do as the great Kutle do(A type of armoured shellfish native to Dwarven waters, very small with a very very hard exterior impossibly hard to crack without tools and coated in a poision)We must stand strong, and watch our enimies break upon our sheilds, and when they are bloodied and wounded, when they have lost the spirit we shall attack!" he led them into a rousing cheer before saying "Now get back to work" he muttered before walking off, much to the groaning of the assembled Dwarfs.

Such a act was being preformed all over the kingdom, blocking up all the beaches, an landing zones making it nearly immpossible for any would be invades from across the seas to land at any place other then Stormheaven port, Cove beach, and at the gates of the Dwarfs Mightyest fortress and capital city.

"And yea, verily, an Incognitian trader came unto the lands of Ithilar, and heard report of incursions of beastmen in the south"
"Shut UP Thomas!"
"Yes, sir."
"We came to do business, and that's just what we'll do. Them lot over there can deal with beastmen and such."
Thomas' father waved vaguely in the direction of the emissary's ship. It was moored further down the docks somewhere, while it's cargo - the emissary himself - came to discuss matters with the local government.

The said emissary, George Ponsonby, was waiting to present his credentials, and express the concern of the Incognitian Assembly at the 'unsettled' circumstances that seemed to be everywhere. Well, that and finally settle that damned niggling border dispute. It was tiny, but claim and counter-claim had been going back and forth for years.

___

Not far different in time, but quite different in place, a dwarvish emissary was sent to Lordaenor. It seemed politic, and there were enough of them in the Assembly that a suitable dwarf was easily enough found. William Hightower was selected, and for a dwarf at least, the name was appropriate, though he was still distinctly shorter than a man.
His mission was to ask the purpose of the vast programme of fortification that was underway, and to give assurances - if such were necessary - that Incognitia at least had no intention to attack.

Halgard, Norgardia

An unfamiliar silence loomed in the air. These moments are precious and far between. The crackle of the fire is simple yet soothing. The fire dances a mysterious and natural dance. Flickering and glowing gently. Atticus completed the last bandage and sat back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. Such moments must be seized and made to last. Sadly, the ability to let loose and relax passes quickly and Atticus stands up and moves to the balcony, opening the door, releasing a cold blast upon him.

It wakes him and brings back alertness. The air is cold and brisk. He gazes up at the moon, taking note of how small we really are in the grander scheme of things in this world.

"What troubles you?" A subtle female voice gently puts aside the silence.

Atticus turned around to see Princess Sara standing in his chambers, "Phantoms" he simply says.

"Phantoms? Such a sad thing, dear Champion" Sara said, "Ease your mind, you fought bravely today"

"There is no glory in this business, my lady" Atticus stepped back into the chambers, closing the door behind him, "There is no honor is killing to put an end to petty land squabbles."

"I see..." Sara dipped her head down, "I apologize for having offended thee in such a manner"

"Apologize not, my lady" Atticus reassured her, "You know little of this life"

"Aye, the ways of a warrior are indeed strange to me"

"Where is the Duke of Lansgaar? Is he not here to be by your side?" Atticus asked, curiously.

"He is away" Sara's tone changed, ''The charges of a Duke keep him many a day"

"Truly?" Atticus asked.

"Truly" Sara stepped closer, cautiously, "Lansgaar is rather independent and I believe this arrangement is more to bring Lansgaar closer to my fathers bosom without him having to plunge a danger whikst doing so"

"Duke Valkar, correct? I have met him once before" Atticus said, "He is...a Duke in all ways"

"Indeed" Sara sighed, her hand idly graced along the table, her mind wandering or so it seemes.

--------------------

Henrik mused about the gardens alone. The wind snapped like a whip at his back but the saddened man noticed it little. He allowed the cold to bite at him so. He'd rather feel the blinding cold than anything else at this point. The woman he held close to his heart did not mirror the same feelings but held out for another. A man he knew she could never have but longed for regardless.

"What troubles you?" A figure asked, cloaked.

"Nothing, my lord" Henrik snapped back to reality.

The figure walked up to him, taking off the cloak, it was Duke Valkar, "Have you seen the King?"

"I believe he is at rest, my lord" Henrik replied.

Valkvar asked, "Is Princess Sara awake then?"

"Aye, as far as I know"

"Excellent" Walkvar smiled, he steeled himself from a gust of wind and recovered, "I have never been to the palace before, can you take me to her?"

"I must warn you, my lord..." Henrik crookedly smiled.

--------------------

Temple of the North

The Temple of the North is an ancient temple at the northen end of the Ravenshorn Mountains. Cut from the rockface by the ancients, it is a marvel of Norgardia. Here, the Priests of the Northlander Gods perform their duties. The air is misty and cold. an enclave of High Priests and Priestesses of the Goddesses live.

High Priest Aksal, an aging man anointed with magical abilities. In this world, magic is a very real thing that is around all beings. It inhabits the woods, it is a natural force. Only a certain few can channel its' energy. His white beard is white as snow. He is a gentle soul, a fatherly figure to the others, being the head of the temple.

He stood at the foot of a small reflecting pool, deep in thought. Smoke filled the room from inscence. Ceremonies were underway in the Main Hall, dedicated to the God Odin, an ancient God. These oractices were brought by their ancestors from across the Endless Blue. Suddenly, he gasped for air, face frozen with horror.

"By the Gods!" he shouted, "This can't be? Why couldn't I sense it before?!"

"Father Aksal, what disturbs you?!" A young priest by the name of Soren.

"Where is Aldric?!" Aksal demanded, seizing Soren by the shoulder, frantic toned.

"What is going on?!" Soren asked, worried for his master.

"The world is in peril, we must not waste a moment's time!" Aksal rounded the relfection pool, towards his private quarters.

"Tell me!" Soren stepped in front of Askal, refusing to move without an answer.

"We are in danger. I sensed an incredibly dark force with malice intentions. It is pure evil! Unwavering evil, bent on death!" Aksal replied, "It draws over the Ravenshorn Mountains. We must send Aldirc to warn the Clans!"

As he turned to make his way to the courtyard, a dagger plunged through his back, exiting out his stomach. He gasped for air, blood poured from his mouth. He grunted, and thrashed his arms in the air.

"Be still..." Soren said in a calm voice, twisting the dagger ever more. Aksal dropped to the ground, lifeless. Soren cleaned the blade and exhaled deeply.

Meanwhile, a group of beastmen ascended the rockface. They infiltrated the Temple compound and proceeded to do what they yurned for. They moved swiftly through the temple, cutting down any human that came in sight. Many were gathered in the Main Hall. Screams and prayers, mixed with growls echoed throughout the hall as a bloodbath ensued. Their leader, Straad stepped into the couryard. He grasped a head and tossed it into the reflecting pool. Watching the blood spread throughout the water.

Soren looked over the dead Priest, "Foolish old man, no one is going to make this known" he mocked.

"Where is the rider?" Straad asked, his looming figure stood in the doorway.

"Aldirc is still away, so is Elsa" Soren replied.

"When they return, they will die" Straad sneered.

--------------------

"Don't worry. It's quite delicious" Thorir laughed, "Who knew something so dangerous could be so good tasting?"

The seas offered plenty. Of course, risks were plentiful as well. Fantastic tales of sea serpents and other sea creatures that inhabit the seas. Norgardian sailors bring back tales of mermaids and powerful and dangerous creatures that can destroy whole ships with one blow. Thorir had seen his fair share of such things. One sea serpent nearly destroyed his ship three eyars ago as they rounded the Isle of Ethosia. Thoir himself dove into the water to rescue a bull headed member of his crew and successfully killed the creature with his dagger.

Beryliat, Capital of Ithilar
Braganaza Palace

The King was worried with the situation in the Southlands, the beastmen were moving rather quickly slaughtering all in their path, it had been peaceful until very recently and the south had been under manned, which would soon change.

Then, a messenger came running into the audience chamber

"Your Majesty, Aliaton is besieged by beastly hordes!"

"What!?"

How could they have reached Aliaton so quickly? he asked himself

"Summon to me my generals and admirals."

"Yes, my King."

That very afternoon a fleet of 150 set sail from berlyiaat filled with those trained in the magical arts and soldiers to help defend the sticken city.


----
Beryliat Harbor

A group of guards and assistants had been sent by the Chief Minister to greet the Incognitian Emissary and accompany him to the Palace. They boarded the Incognitian vessel and saw him, a human, standing on the deck.
The leader of the group exended welcome to the Kingdom.

"Saraiva, embaixador! Boa vinda a Beryliata! Você fala o mechanês?"

Halgard, Norgardia

"Don't worry. It's quite delicious" Thorir laughed, "Who knew something so dangerous could be so good tasting?"

The seas offered plenty. Of course, risks were plentiful as well. Fantastic tales of sea serpents and other sea creatures that inhabit the seas. Norgardian sailors bring back tales of mermaids and powerful and dangerous creatures that can destroy whole ships with one blow. Thorir had seen his fair share of such things. One sea serpent nearly destroyed his ship three eyars ago as they rounded the Isle of Ethosia. Thoir himself dove into the water to rescue a bull headed member of his crew and successfully killed the creature with his dagger.

"Ah, if it's dangerous foods you are interested in," Higetomi offered a prepared plate. "Fugu is considered the rarest of delicacies. But it is not for the faint of heart. For if the fish has not been prepared correctly, its deadly poison permeates the meat. Those who eat the poisoned fish have only a day to live..."

Ostwind, Imperial Capital

The Emperor sat at the head of a long table. At the table were the various ministers of the Empire, each with a speciality. The monthly meeting had been underway for over an hour as the Emperor listened to the heads of the departments discuss the goings-on within the Empire and their offices. Things were turning towards the Empire's security, as the Minister of Trade finished his presentation.

"And that will be our quarterly budget for maintaining the northern trade routes. Also, we may be able to expand towards the River Palest, as we have been in discussions with the Kingdom of Aldarland about opening a trade route along the river. However, the Kingdom of Ondire is intersecting the route. We may need to talk to them about trade through their territory. Infact, we may even be able to get them to agree to protect their own stretch of the river."

The Emperor nodded, giving his silent blessing to the plan. His intelligent, strong azure gaze fell next upon a handful of men in military garb. The military advisors for the Empire. One of them, an older man in a shining silver breastplate and greying hair stood up respectfully and began.

"There are reports of warfare from all directions. We have recieved word from the Navy that the Gulf of Tobias is alive with activity and that testing of the Galleon has failed. They are redesigning the ship from the keel up and it may be months before another prototype is finished."

"Further, merchants coming in off the western roads out of the Evermoors claim that areas of the Hospitlar Kingdom are under attack by trolls and potentially other greenskins."

The Emperor lifted one brow, "Has there been any word or reaction?"

"No, Sire. The Hospitlars have been silent. It seems they decided to just fort up and try to ride it out." The man frowned thoughtfully, "Those knights, they get covered in armor and all they can think about is defense when faced with sudden situations like this. They seem to have sturdy walls, but they've backed themselves into a corner already. You can't fight from a wall with a horse. They haven't asked for any help."

The Emperor interrupted, "And the Star Republic?"

"Well, as you know we do not use spies so all I can tell you for the moment is that they've been inactive. They're a buffer between us and the trolls so for the moment.. it's their problem if the trolls get bored with trying to climb the Hospitlar castles. There's also rumors along the trade roads that those Silvan beasties have been stirring. No one's sure what they're up to, though."

The Emperor stood, indicating that the meeting was finished, "Tend to your duties, all of you. I want all garrisons alerted to double up on border watches. My orders are for the Ostwind District Garrisons to begin muster. See to their equipment and supplies, make sure the horses are all shod and rested. The Navy is to remain near our shores defensively. Dark times may be nearing, and we will not be caught unawares."

Governor Parzo stood before the deep, sparkling basin of enchanted water. It was a scrying pool, and law demanded that every governor's residence, assembly hall, and permanent military base possess one. this network of rapid communication was the Republic's greatest magical feat of engineering.

Parzo gestured to a robed mage, who began to chant and poor magical energy into the pool. Slowly the water rippled, a form emerging across its face. When the image was fully formed the water seemed to freeze in place. A scribe of the Protector stood in attendance, as always. When Parzo had voiced his request, the scribe informed him that the Protector was in council, but that he would inform him at once. A few minutes passed, and then Protector Valarian appeared, surrounded by several prominent officials and flanked by a quartet of guards. Parzo and Atreyus inclined their heads, murmuring the traditional greeting, hands held over hearts. Then Parzo related what Atreyus had told him, and Atreyus presented the full report.

The Protector frowned.

"Has the Hospitaler Kingdom requested any assisstance Atreyus?"

"Not to my Knowledge, Sir."

"A pity. I will send a message to their realm, requesting permission to pursue troll raiders into their territory. In the meantime, do you have sufficient forces to patrol the border?"

Atreyus shook his head.

"The major towns are always garrisoned of course, and rotating patrols have been sent out to keep a watch for further incursions. However, I can't patrol every village at all times. We'll probably catch a large raid, but one could easily slip through."

General Maximus stepped up beside the Protector.

"Perhaps we could reallocate some of the troops from the eastern provinces for the time being? Their is no immanent threat from the Empire, and it would be easier to remove a few companies of cavalry from the east than to call call up reserves or worse, simply leave stretches of the boarder unprotected."

Atreyus nodded.

"That seems a reasonable course of action. However, if the raids intensify, I request the authority to launch retalliatory strikes. It is an old truth of warfair that the best defense may be a strong offense. "

Protector Valarian nodded.

"Proceed Atreyus. I thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I trust you to carry out your duty effectively."

"Thank you, Sir".

(OOC: Do the Hospitallers and Empire have similar means of communication to the one I just described? It would make things much quicker).

Dardet, South of the Ravenshorn Mountains

Temujin lay slumped forward over his horse, his body wracked with pain and thirst. He winced, biting back the pain as the arrow in his side twisted with the movement of his mount. For six days he had ridden towards the setting sun, leaving behind the memories of his family and his tribe. For a moment he remembered his father's face again, seeing in his mind's eye the look of serenity on the old warrior's face as he walked alone, sword in hand, towards the burning ruin of his village and the hulking oni who swarmed over it.

Oni. Their names in other lands were many. Beastman. Monster. Daemon.

Temujin had watched, unable to disobey his father's order not to help, as the monstrous creatures closed in. Their stinking breath misted in the night air as they screamed, baying at the human who dared challenge their authority. He saw his father silhouetted against the billowing flames as he moved to a perfect striking stance, his sword glittering in the night as it leapt toward the nearest monstrosity. The beastman, a hulking brute with cloven feet and ram's horns, howled in pain as the blade sliced into the fingers of its weapon hand. Three more strikes, too fast for it to react, laid the beast's throat open to the air and it fell gurgling to the ground.

The others leapt, startling Temujin's already panicked horse, and he was dragged away from the scene. His father's voice echoed in his ears, screaming vengance for his slain wife and daughters. He had chosen his death, and it came to him with jagged teeth and burning eyes. Temujin had ridden away as hard as he could, pursued by a pair of lithe, gazelle-like beastmen whose horn bows spat black-shafted arrows. He had escaped, though not before recieving one of their barbed shafts.

The sun beat heavily upon his back, and the wind seemed to whisper his name. Temujin lifted his head, and was almost overcome by a wave of nausea that sent his mind spinning and his blurred his vision. For a moment, he thought he had seen a horseman, but the pain became too great to concentrate, and Temujin slipped slowly from his horse, unconcious before he struck the ground.

Beryliat Harbor

A group of guards and assistants had been sent by the Chief Minister to greet the Incognitian Emissary and accompany him to the Palace. They boarded the Incognitian vessel and saw him, a human, standing on the deck.
The leader of the group exended welcome to the Kingdom.

"Saraiva, embaixador! Boa vinda a Beryliata! Você fala o mechanês?"

All this way, and suddenly his interpreter is nowhere to be found! Damnit, what does one PAY these people for! Well, it must be fairly obvious...Hello, ambassador. Welcome to Beryliata. Then maybe...'what have you to say to the mechanes?'...possibly.

"Uh, thank you. I have been sent by the Assembly to discuss matters of import to both our nations, but especially regarding the incursions of beastmen into your southern lands, and how it links to other events around the Middle Sea."

That damn interpreter better show up soon, or as soon as they got home he'd be looking for another job. He just hoped for now that one of his interlocutors could speak Incognitian.

Forsaken Empire,Dark Marshes, Dagaard Keep

Deep in the swamps marshes and bogs lay Dagaard Keep, Lord Soth's unholy fortress. The black stoned fortress city lay surrounded by deceptively deep marshes filled with foul beasts and other beings more horrific than beings that inhabit ones nightmares.

The thick putrid smell of rot and decay would make even the most hardened of warriors gasp for air.

Dagaard keep had not always been a place of misery and despair, once its great walls had been a bastion of peace and good in the world, Upon Soth's death and fall into the world of darkness his soul had corrupted the land and brought on corruption of the land, a reflection of Soth's soul itself.

Soth arose from the black marble floor of his ritual chamber and began to making his way to down the hall somewhat hurriedly.

His footsteps were heavy and echoed down the dark halls overgrown with moss and fungus. He paused at a seemingly random place along the wall, and muttered a few words in a tongue only he knew. Slowly

"Does something trouble you Lord Soth?"
A shadowy figure concealed under red robes, who spoke in the same twisted tongue Soth had spoken to enter the secret chamber.

"A great evil roams the land, I know not from where it hails, nor do I know what it seeks, but I sense it.

I have come to seek your help in discovering what this evil is, and more importantly what it wants great seers."

"We will tell you all we know Lord Soth if the proper offering is made."

Another similarly robed figure emerged from the shadows followed by another

"You will have your offerings after I have been given my information"

"Conquest...it seeks...from where it hails is a mystery...A great champion of evil....calls thyself Kazellor......This is all we know."

The last of the robed figures emerged spoke.

"And now our offering?"

Soth spoke again in the twisted tongue, two groveling and terrified men held by two large beings shrouded in the darkness as Soth exited the chamber the two men were forced inside. As the door began to close screams of horror and agony were heard but cut short by the sound of choking and gurgling.

Soth continued on flanked by the two shadowy figures which had been detaining the offerings.

"Send riders, a greater evil roams the land, perhaps we may find an ally against the kingdoms of men."

The two figures flanking Soth said nothing but nodded and turned to carry out the dark lords wishes.

ooc: I hope the seers dont violate the rules, I made them rather vauge and mostly just as a tool so that I could catch up in the main rp. If needed I will edit as necessary.

Governor Parzo stood before the deep, sparkling basin of enchanted water. It was a scrying pool, and law demanded that every governor's residence, assembly hall, and permanent military base possess one. this network of rapid communication was the Republic's greatest magical feat of engineering.

Parzo gestured to a robed mage, who began to chant and poor magical energy into the pool. Slowly the water rippled, a form emerging across its face. When the image was fully formed the water seemed to freeze in place. A scribe of the Protector stood in attendance, as always. When Parzo had voiced his request, the scribe informed him that the Protector was in council, but that he would inform him at once. A few minutes passed, and then Protector Valarian appeared, surrounded by several prominent officials and flanked by a quartet of guards. Parzo and Atreyus inclined their heads, murmuring the traditional greeting, hands held over hearts. Then Parzo related what Atreyus had told him, and Atreyus presented the full report.

The Protector frowned.

"Has the Hospitaler Kingdom requested any assisstance Atreyus?"

"Not to my Knowledge, Sir."

"A pity. I will send a message to their realm, requesting permission to pursue troll raiders into their territory. In the meantime, do you have sufficient forces to patrol the border?"

Atreyus shook his head.

"The major towns are always garrisoned of course, and rotating patrols have been sent out to keep a watch for further incursions. However, I can't patrol every village at all times. We'll probably catch a large raid, but one could easily slip through."

General Maximus stepped up beside the Protector.

"Perhaps we could reallocate some of the troops from the eastern provinces for the time being? Their is no immanent threat from the Empire, and it would be easier to remove a few companies of cavalry from the east than to call call up reserves or worse, simply leave stretches of the boarder unprotected."

Atreyus nodded.

"That seems a reasonable course of action. However, if the raids intensify, I request the authority to launch retalliatory strikes. It is an old truth of warfair that the best defense may be a strong offense. "

Protector Valarian nodded.

"Proceed Atreyus. I thank you for bringing this to my attention, and I trust you to carry out your duty effectively."

"Thank you, Sir".

(OOC: Do the Hospitallers and Empire have similar means of communication to the one I just described? It would make things much quicker).

ooc: Nope. The Empire regards magic with a healthy suspicion.

ooc: Nope. The Empire regards magic with a healthy suspicion.

(OOC: Dang, I'll be stuck with couriers then).

Tower Illithiel, Siluvair's Western border

Mage Apprentice Kerenol Morningstar was preparing the ingredients and materials for a divination spell he had learned earlier this week. This scrying spell, he hoped would enable him to see if lady Dalenia Taresiel would take his hand in marriage. He carefully set out the bowl and ingredients, then started to chant the words of power that formed the spell. As soon as he felt the rush of power leave his body, he started to see a vision.

He could clearly see lady Dalenia, removing her clothing as she was preparing for her bath. He attempted to stop the vision, but could not do to inexperience..and the fact that as much as he felt it was dishonourable, he simply couldnt. Suddenly the vision changed, he felt a small ache in his temples then saw scenes of horror and carnage he never thought possible.

Blood rained from a storm wracked sky, corpses littered the fields of some foreign lands in great heaps, then the lands became more and more familiar in the visions until finally he was forced out of the vision with a jolt of power. He was afflicted as if by a feeblemind spell and in his madness he stumbled about the tower, gibbering prophecies of assured doom.

++++

"I apologise, High Mage Orethiel, for disturbing you at this hour, but its about the boys story, the other mages and instructors are seeing similiar visions, and experiencing similiar forced endings to their spells." Mage Haryldin stated. The Sun elfs long black hair reached his shoulders and he wore a perpetual frown. High Mage Orethial on the other hand was always in good spirits, and appeared no older then one hundred to any who met him, but those who knew him knew he was well over eight hundred years of age. "Very well Haryldin, send word to Coronal Leuthilian, he should know of this immediately. No time for sendings, find someone who has a teleport spell at hand and send them, immediately to the Coronal's palace, give him the ward stone to get through the mythal."

Orethiel dismissed Haryldin and set about preparing his own table for scrying. After calling for healers and listening to the boys story, disturbing events indeed had been witnessed at the tower, he would attempt to scry personally, using the most powerful spells and tools at his disposal.

++++

Coronal Celeol Leuthilian deliberated over the news he had just recieved for some time with his advisors. At the moment he stood on his throne, his black mop of hair hanging in front of his dark features. Knowing house Aerothil would use its tiny alliance of minor houses to delay any possible action aside from notifying High King Rendacil, he had called for his most trusted friend and aide hours before, but he had still not arrived.

His court mages had already sent messages, detailing what they did know about the portents of destruction to High King Rendacil, Grand Duke Kendall of Arendacil and Duke Haramir of Heronor. Soon the Divine Council would decide what to do about this situation, but he for one would not wait. Though he could not officially act without angering the houses with unilateral action, he could do something.

He was considered a bit of a firebrand, partially because unlike his father, who had passed away only thirty years before he was trained as a bladesinger, but he was the youngest Coronal in Siluvair history. His Father, Seilithil had been killed at the battle of Arack Thar, the final siege of the fortress of the corrupted ones in the last war of heronor. He was only one hundred and seventy two years of age, and he had no patience for councils that would wait weeks simply to decide where to hold a meeting. Sun elves valued patience, but sometimes patience was not needed.

He rose from his throne, the robes of the Coronal hanging loosely off his frame as he went to greet his old friend, Gilead Farstrider. Gilead was reknowned as the greatest bladesinger in Siluvair. He was as skilled in magic as some archmages, and as deadly with a blade as all but the best swordsmen in the Divine Kingdom. In all of the Divine Kingdom, only Aramir Yannericil, the Arendacilian Eldritch Knight was his equal, and then only just.

He strode with a confident air, his waist length blonde hair tied in a pony tail. He wore the loose robes and pants, as well as chain shirt of a blade singer and carried the baneblade Torviel at his side. "My Liege, you have called for me?" The Coronal sighed with relief that the Grand Master of the order of the Golden sun had arrived so quickly. The order of the Golden sun was the largest order of Knights in Siluvair, they counted nearly four hundred members, many of which were divine champions of Corellon Larethian, as well as clerics and fine swordsmen. Though he had fewer mages and bladesingers then most, his men were the finest in the entire kingdom with a blade.

Coronal Leuthilien started towards a side door of the audience chamber. "Walk with me my friend. Gilead followed and the pair strode through the lavish gardens. "Tower Illithiel reports portents of doom from the north, and the council would take months to decide how to act on our own. Now is the time for action, as High mage Orethiel reports that these portents may not yet have come to pass, and that we may avert this peril that will eventually claim all of our lands if left unchecked." Gilead understood the problem, which as always with such a long lived race had plagued the sun elves since time began. They were simply too patient, too careful and at times such as these, action was necessary.

Soldiers understood that fact, and Gilead was the Siluvair's finest soldier. "I am ready to leave immediately my liege, shall I go alone?" Leuthilien nodded. "It would be best to draw the least attention. Use your own divinations and trust in Corellon for guidance, return back alive my friend, for we need this information more then the head of some warlord, monster or mage." Gilead nodded, and started to leave. "Sweet water and light laughter till next we meet my friend." The coronal called out. "Sweet Water and light Laughter my friend." Gilead responded, then turned and left.

++++

Gileads Divinations had indicated he should go north and west, to the lands of the Empire. He would leave through the northwestern border, in to unpopulated wildlands [or so he thought at least.] and head to the Empire's northern reaches. Though the human realm had existed for some time, he had never visited it. It was close to the Divine Kingdom, close enough for merchantmen to possibly visit but his duties had never seen him there.

He took a good horse with him, stocked well with provisions and set out for the lands of the empire. Wagering that the men of that at least semi civilised land might be able to aid him with information or more physical help in fulfilling his quest.

OOC

Gilead is heading through the Silvan Draconian territory, unaware that it is indeed inhabited. He is then heading to the northern reaches of the Empire to investigate these strange goings on personally, hoping to find leads in the more northerly country.

Elsa rode hard over the hills. Her steed's hooves impacted the ground, sending up clumps of dirt and grass. She sat up in the saddle, fire in her eyes. Just three days prior, all was right in the world. All that changed when she and her brother, Aldric came upon the village of Glengale, a small hamlet at the base of the Ravenshorn Mountains, belonging to Oldenberg. Oldenberg being one of the stronger houses of Norgardia. They rode throug, delivering important items between the temples. The village of Glengale was laid to waste by a horde of beasts and orcs. Her brother was wounded but insisted on riding to Oldenberg to warn the city. He ordered her, amoungst the fire and ruins of the village, to ride North back to the Northern Temple, to warn Aksal.

She cried and demanded that she would not leave but Aldric insisted and forced her away. The last she saw of him, he was riding West, a band of beastmen in pursuit. Despite this, she had a charge that must be completed. For three days she pushed her steed harder, covering an amazing amount of land in that time. The cold snapped against her face which was covered by a scarf. It trailed behind her.

As she made the way up another hill, she halted. A horse stood off in the distance with a figure lying next to it. Elsa rode cautiously up to the figure to discover a man, badly injured and unconsious. He had several barbs sticking from him, these she'd seen before. Elsa removed some items from her pack and placed them on the ground. First, she gently removed the barbs from the man. He grunted but remained unconcious. An infection could set in but she used some special herbs and a concoction of her own making to plkug the wounds and bandage them.

"What happened to you?" Elsa asked, not sure if the rider heard her or not.

Easten Frontier Lands

The normally idle frontier guards had somewhat grown complacent in their duties. Being that nothing ever happened and it had been months since anything closely resembling a humaniod had been seen.

Today however would be different, from a small outpost constructed with an earthen wall and a four stone towers erected at each corner of the small fort. In the center stood another tower, much higher than the ones posted along the walls.

"A rider approaches!" yelled out one of the sentries on guard duty. In disbelief several dozen sentries rushed to the walls and tower to confirm the lookouts alarm

"Dispatch the riders!"
The captain of the outpost yelled as he was coming out of his stone and earthen hut, adjusting his armor his sword and helmet in his hands.

From the backide of the outpost a gate opened and fourteen riders thundered out the gate, out to intercept and bring the unknown rider back to the outpost where it would be determined what to do with him or her. Half their number circled wide around the outpost in order to come from the rider's rear and flanks

The group that approached the rider head long, hoisted several banners represenative of the Silvan empire. Their horses fresh the riders would be meeting this unknown rider in a few short minutes

The Ice Wastes
The Iceguard were Watching, it was what they were good at after all. And Anyway they had been given no orders to deal with the uprising of barbarians and other evil folk that had been a part of the Natural hazards of making their homes in the Ice Wastes for some time. In fact, this turn of events seemed to be a good thing for the Celticans as they had no knowledge that other races even existed outside of the ice and snow where they made their home and if the Barbarians were going somewhere else then wonderful. Unfortunately Owain Hawk had recently learned that there was a wider world outside of the Ice wastes and the guilt of unleashing a horde of enemies upon those kingdoms had fallen squarely on the heads of the Celticans. So now the Iceguards were watching. Using the eyes of their snow hawks they saw the ennemy forces moving southward en mass and finally had found exactly what they were watching for. A massed group of barbarian fighters that the Iceguard and their force had been traking since news of the happenings in the lands of the south has reached Hawk. Sophia Hawk came out of her trance and turned to General Webb.
"we've found them. Ready you forces general it looks like we may actually have a fight on our hands."
"fair enough" Replied Webb "but how, exactly are 25 000 of us meant to take on that Immense force over there?."
"Just leave that to us," Replied the third member of the group as he walked up with a large white wolf trailing him. he himself resembled a wolf in some ways with the bristles of his armor covering every inch save the Grey steel helmet. "Just stick to the plan and all will be well."
"If you say so Artemis," Replied Webb

Some time later a smallish force of just on two hundred Iceguards were walking in plain view towards the Massed hord of the ennemy's camp.

OOC: Orbat
10 000 Steel Wolves
5 000 Iceguards
10 000 Rangers of the army of the Hawk

All this way, and suddenly his interpreter is nowhere to be found! Damnit, what does one PAY these people for! Well, it must be fairly obvious...Hello, ambassador. Welcome to Beryliata. Then maybe...'what have you to say to the mechanes?'...possibly.

"Uh, thank you. I have been sent by the Assembly to discuss matters of import to both our nations, but especially regarding the incursions of beastmen into your southern lands, and how it links to other events around the Middle Sea."

That damn interpreter better show up soon, or as soon as they got home he'd be looking for another job. He just hoped for now that one of his interlocutors could speak Incognitian.

"Fear not my good lord Emissary, many of us and our King speak the common tongue. We have been awaiting your arrival, and are here to escort you to the palace, where the King will meet you in the audience chamber. Thank you for coming in this gravest of times."

The minister Donato motioned in the direction of the palace

"Shall we go, the docks are neither the most appropriate place for a welcome, nor are they the safest. We have a carriage awaiting.

The towering Mechani began to walk, almost like a glide, back towars where the carriage and driver awaited

"Ah, thank you indeed. In which case" he turned quickly to one of his guards "you stay here, my good man, and when my interpreter shows up tell him he is no longer in my employ."
"Yes sir." The guard looked impassive, even while considering his master a fool, for not wanting someone along to translate any byplay in the local tongue, and ensure that no mistranslations occurred.
"Right, my good sir, I am in your hands."
OOC: (In other words, while a tour of the best sights of the city will be interesting, feel free to skip straight to the principals actually meeting one another if you prefer).

***Silvan Draconia, Eastern Frontier***

Gilead had been riding for days now through rough, rocky terrain. He had entered a series of forested marshlands, that had at least, seemed uninhabited. The sudden realisation that they in fact were inhabited came when Gilead noticed a group of riders gaining on him, and fast. So I travel north and villainy could be afoot already. Gilead thought to himself with a sardonic smile on his lips. He cast a few protective spells as he rode, then cast the spell Expeditious retreat on his horse. His mount immediately started to move half again as fast thanks to its now magically enhanced speed. Gilead rode forward, off the trail and in to the forest itself, his elven mount surefooted in woodlands.

Though he did not know what the riders wanted, they had strange heraldry, runes and icon's most unlike those of the men they had met in the past. Also as they had started to gain on him, he noticed that they were larger, heavier set then Tel'Quessir, perhaps instead these were N'Tel'Quessir like orcs, goblins and dwarves. Gilead did not wish to find out, he prepared a simple spell many novice wizards would use in a battle, and waited to see if these strange foreigners would gain on him. He weaved a trail through the woods, not wishing to find out what these men, if that's who they truly were, wanted.

If he wished he could unleashe all manner of magical hell upon them, but his mission was one of utmost secrecy. Using spells capable of devastating large tracts of forest and snuffing the life from a man in seconds were not exactly inconspicuous. Instead he would simply run from his pursuers, though he was starting to believe the portents might have a little truth to them after all.

Aldric managed to lose his pursuers in the Glengaren Woods, a vast wooded expanse west of the village. People dared not enter the woods. It is a magical realm. Much of the wilds belong to the magical beings of this world. There are of course the races of creatures, Men, elves, dwarves, orcs. But there are other more pirimal and Earthly beings that represent the world itself and the elements.

The orcs dared not follow into this realm. These are pure realms, too pure for dark beings. Aldric navigated through the dense woods and brush. His horse was tired, having ridden hard for three days. His concerns were that for Elsa. Did she escape? Has she reached Aksal? Is there still hope? The canopy of overlaping and gigantic trees made the whole forest floor dark. Only periodic shafts of light beamed down. He dismounted and led the horse on foot.

Suddenly, there was a distant snap of a twig in the distance. He froze, grasping the hilt of his sword and drawing it slowly. For a brief moment, he could have sworn he heard laughter, female laughter.

"Show yourself!" Aldric demanded

"What a strapping young man..." a female voice said coyfully. It resonated all around him, "Rest yourself, you need not that weapon"

Vines suddenly coiled from the ground, wrapping around his legs and up his torso. Aldric struggled but could not break free. He cut down some of the vines but more grew in its' stead. His arm outstretched, forced by the vines and the sword dropped. He lifted off the ground and into the air.

"What-What is happening?!" He shouted, "What do you want of me?!"

"Want is an appropriate word" a playful giggle, "I wouldn;t struggle if I was in your situation. The vines are very sensative...They take offense easily"

"Show yourself!" Aldric growled. He continued to strain through the vines which simply coilled tighter.

A figure stepped from behind a tree. A woman of unparalleled natural beauty coyfully presented herself. Drabbed in white, long reddish hair. A crown of garlan around her head. She stepped barefooted, despite the cold. Everything suddenly became warm and Aldric became sedated.

"Be still...Save yourself, dear rider" She said, "Few an unwitting traveller enter these woods. But on the occasion they do, they rarely ever return" She smiled.

"W-Why?" he said faintly. Something took hold. Perhaps the air conspired with a toxin. Maybe the vines had seeped a serum into his veins.

Halgard

"Tell me, Atticus" Sara asked, "What beckoned you to this life?"

Atticus's gaze lingered away to the fire. It glowed warmly and gently against his face, "My Father..." he replied, "My father was a great man. He was a gifted warrior. Enthir, that was his name, killed many foes in combat. He even led a band across the Ravenshorn Mountains-deep into the Ice Wastes to the lair of the last known Frost Giant in the world. It plagued the people of the Eastern regions, wrecking havoc. He slew it, an accomplishment thought impossible. He was a wise man, I wanted to live to his expectations. Sadly, fate robbed him of what he desired most in this life"

"What was that?"

Atticus took a deep breath, "A noble death" he paused, "That was taken from him. His arm was severely injured whilst he repaired a longboat. An infection set in and took him..."

"I am so sorry" Sara said in a humble tone, edging closer. She placed her arms on his broad shoulders. There was a silence. They locked in a stare but Atticus pulled back. There would be reprecussions but his reservations soon passed and he brought her against him and their lips locked.

The door exploded open. Her soon to be husband and three guards entered the room.

"Seize him!" Valkar ordered, voice full of hate and contempt. Sara was pushed aside. Atticus chose not to resist, "Take this-noble warrior away!"

"Takvar-what are you doing?!" Sara pleaded

"Silence!" He drew his hand across her face hard, "You betray me in this manner?! How dare you do such. I am the Duke of Lansgaar and my wife will not be a whore!" Valkar shouted.

As Atticus was led away, Henrik appeared, smiling.

"You bastard!" Atticus suddenly broke his solemness. The guards had to restrain him. Henrik's eyes darted to the floor.

ooc: kulikovia, do you mind us skipping to my arrival @ the port so I can go ahead and join in...?

OOC: Sure, that'll move things right along.

Higetomi was busy with trade negotiations, and had allowed Haru to wander through the city on his own. He went down street after street, exploring the strange land, recieving wondering looks from those he passed by. This was certainly an interesting culture, Haru admitted, but he still preferred the sounds and smells of home...

ooc: not really sure what's happening, so feel free to rp stuff happening to me...

The group of Silvan frontier guards continued their chase despite several of their more inexperianced riders having to drop back as the pursit continued through the dense forest.

Seeing the rider's horse accelerate despite obivious long time spent on the trail somewhat confused the pursuing guards, however they too had a trick of their own as in a matter of moments the remainder of their number which had rode wide around the camp would be closing on the intruder.

As the chase continued the several others of the larger less agile Silvan warhorses were cut off from the pursuit two riders were thrown from their horses while trying to turn to quickly and causing their steeds to loose their footing.

Still three pursuers particularly the Silvan captain kept up witht the unknown intruder, only a few horse lengths behind now.

"Halt by order of Lord Bloodbane!"

The captain yelled at the unknown rider while ducking a low branch and narrowly guiding his horse between two more trees.

"Halt!"

he yelled again now only two lengths behind the intruder, anxiously awaiting for the rest of the guards to appear on the scene and hopefully subdue this most elusive intruder

Temple of the North

Moving through the falling snow like so many wraiths, was a line of mounted horsemen and behind them a trudging column of beastmen. Their bleats and cries were muffled by the roaring wind. The riders, black armored knights, glared balefully with red, glowing eyes out from beneath their great helms. They were a small splinter group from the massed horde further south, sent on this errand by the wizard Abrexta himself, though the chaos knights all answered first to Kazellor, whom they called the Daemonclaw.

The wind parted the falling snow for a moment and the lead rider caught a glimpse of a great stone edifice carved out of the very mountain side. The building was tall and large, a hallowed place for some feeble god of the weakling kingdoms of men. It was here that they were to meet the great sorcerer’s agents. The knights dismounted from their horses outside of a large, wooden door jam. One of them uttered an order to the beastmen to remain behind and watch for anyone nearby.

The leading knight stepped through the portal and over the corpse of some priest, a bloody stab wound in his back. Inside were more beastmen, lackeys that Abrexta had sent for his agents to use at their whim. They looked up at the knights as they entered and momentarily growled and grasped tight their weapons. The lead knight cowed them with a glare.

“Where are the sorcerer’s agents?” the knight cried aloud, his deep, corrupted voice echoing throughout.

Northlands

The tribe was encamped on the eastern side of the Ravenshorn Mountains. It like many other tribes had been left in the wake of the greater horde, unable to keep full pace with the main march. But even more tribes were coming from further north and east, drawn by the promise of blood and destruction of the kingdoms of men, or by the simple inner calling of Xahlkas himself. Each marched, intent on making their way ever more westwards.

Archaon sat astride his black horse looking over the Skinrider tribes encampment. They numbered several tens of thousands but were little better than lesser beastmen and mutated marauders. They would serve his lord Kazellor none-the-less. Archaon, like other chaos knights, had been created and armed by Kazellor himself. They were to be his best troops, shock troops, leaders of lesser warriors like the beastmen or marauders. Each was infused with black armor from the cold north and armed with weapons forged in eons past. Each owed Kazellor and Xahlkas fealty and worship.

He was just contemplating when he would begin forcing the tribal warlords to march more when his heightened senses espied something. His witch-eyes looked to a hillock several hundred yards away where a line of swordsmen were approaching. The beastmen camp guards started grunting and bleating, sending out warnings. A warhorn was sounded, its deep note resounding across the land and reverberating back from the mountainside. Archaon kicked his warhorse forward and rode into camp, intent on rallying the troops that were just no coming awake.

Norgardia

Abrexta (http://img392.imageshack.us/img392/6654/harvestorofsoulsbykingmjs0.jpg) marched at the head of his new army. Mutated beasts of the nether marched in his wake, led by chains that were attached to the pommel of his saddle. He held high his staff and from it shone an eerie green witch-light. All around him rode hundreds of Kazellor’s lackeys, the black armored knights which he had created from the strongest and most cunning of the tribes of men from the east. They stared balefully at Abrexta, their red glowing eyes shadowed by the great helms they wore.

Next came columns of beastmen and marauders, great swelled companies of warriors and creatures of hideous origin. They seemed beyond number, only the high Ravenshorn mountains, now far to the east, overshadowing their bulk. Even then, if he’d wanted, Abrexta felt sure he could order them to crush the mountains down, and they would do it. It was a heady feeling, the power he had now at his control. But he craved more, much more. And it all lay to the south, where he was not going.

A rider suddenly appeared over the rise they were marching on and Abrexta rose his hand for them to halt. Abrexta had followed his new lieutenant’s advice. The black armored knight Uldoom had warned that most of the host’s cavalry should be sent out in a screen, watching for enemy movements.

The mutated marauder dropped down from his exhausted beast and bowed low to Abrexta. “Great lord! We’ve sighted a city some ten leagues further west. It is large and has strong walls from what we can see.”

“Have you spotted any troop formations?” asked Uldoom, the chaos knight nudging his horse forwards next to Abrexta.

“No great one,” the marauder replied.

“Good,” Uldoom sounded pleased and turned to Abrexta. “Then we shall have them by surprise.”


Ooc: Cookeland, what is the port city that the beastmen are attacking in the south? Hospitlar, I need a reply for the castle siege of the trolls.

***Silvan Draconian Frontier: the chase
Bloodbane huh, that doesn't sound promising, go north, see if these portents can be stopped. he chuckled, thinking of his orders. he kept riding, weaving through the forest until he had lost sight of all of his pursuers. All but one. He let go of the magical energies of the web spell he was holding, and prepared another spell.

This one is decent enough Gilead grinned to no one in particular, he turned his mount sharply, in to the forest to the left and cast another spell on himself, this one would render him invisible. He did not however, cast this spell upon his mount. he swung his mount back up towards the trail and let go of the reins, guiding the animal with his feet as he continued towards the west, hoping to outrun, or outwit his pursuers.

"I must make passage to Oldenberg. There is a great threat!" Aldric continued, "Allow me to pass, please!"

"Mhm...Interesting" the woman said, "But even with saying please, I cannot allow you to pass. You are trespassing-You!" a delicate finger pointed. She rounded around Aldric, enjoying the struggle.

"W-What is happening?"

"Men stay in the towns and roads" She continues, "We stay away-You stay away. That's how its' been since the Gods of yore. Since they dereed it such. You have violated it. Now...You are mine" a smile spreads across her face.

"I belong to the Order of Valkr, we served the Northlander Gods!"

"What concern is that of mine?" She asks, "I am simply Erika, a being of the woodland realm. A daughter of Eldire herself. I have occupied this world far longer than your Gods!"

Erika was beautiful, but dangerous. There woods and indeed much of the uninhabited areas do belong to other creatures. Parents warn their children from straying. It was by pure happenstance and bad luck that Aldric found himself in this new peril. The orcs were less dangerous than this woman.

"Please..." Aldric's words were fleeting, "I have-"

"Shhh...You are tired, rest yourself" with a wave of her finger, a vine wrapped about his mouth and brought him back to the ground. She picked up the sword, examining it with distaste. It dropped to the ground, dismissed as a violent creation of man.

The situation was dire. Oldenberg, though a powerful House of Norgardia, remained unaware of the approaching threat.

Northlands

The tribe was encamped on the eastern side of the Ravenshorn Mountains. It like many other tribes had been left in the wake of the greater horde, unable to keep full pace with the main march. But even more tribes were coming from further north and east, drawn by the promise of blood and destruction of the kingdoms of men, or by the simple inner calling of Xahlkas himself. Each marched, intent on making their way ever more westwards.

Archaon sat astride his black horse looking over the Skinrider tribes encampment. They numbered several tens of thousands but were little better than lesser beastmen and mutated marauders. They would serve his lord Kazellor none-the-less. Archaon, like other chaos knights, had been created and armed by Kazellor himself. They were to be his best troops, shock troops, leaders of lesser warriors like the beastmen or marauders. Each was infused with black armor from the cold north and armed with weapons forged in eons past. Each owed Kazellor and Xahlkas fealty and worship.

He was just contemplating when he would begin forcing the tribal warlords to march more when his heightened senses espied something. His witch-eyes looked to a hillock several hundred yards away where a line of swordsmen were approaching. The beastmen camp guards started grunting and bleating, sending out warnings. A warhorn was sounded, its deep note resounding across the land and reverberating back from the mountainside. Archaon kicked his warhorse forward and rode into camp, intent on rallying the troops that were just no coming awake.

OOC: I'm assuming the northlands post was in response to me?
IC:
The small group of iceguard stopped dead at the sound of the Horn.
Sophia Hawk Turned to the group while smiling of all things. "now look shocked for the nice brutes over there" She grinned. Then turned back to the enemies Camp which seemed to be milling around in confusion.

The 200 iceguard troopers, acting as if they'd stumbled across the enemies and were completely taken unawares, stood entirely still with their mouths pen staring at the camp. Then sophia hawk shook herself and turned to speek to the troops and at her command they shook themselves into a single line and began marching away from the camp while continuing to face it.

New Eldstad,
Capital of Teritha

New Eldstad was a seemingly endless sprawl of towers and bridges that loomed over the squares and plazas of the commoners whose backs the city was built upon. Temples and statues built in reverence to their pagan gods reached into the fog that swept in from the Middle Sea. Even under the blanket of twilight the Jewel of the West was bustling with activity and alive with magically conjured flames that lined the marble and stone city streets.

In the center of New Eldstad was the monolith that served as its heart. Iliustar was the tallest structure in all of Teritha. Its emerald capped towers predominated the entire region, the glass that lined their peaks reflecting the light of the sun across the breadth of the city and down into the valley outside the gates. The flame of Iliustar, from which the palace earned its name, burned at the highest tower of the palace and could be seen miles out to sea as a symbol of Terithan majesty. Even their high elf cousins in Quelthonas were humbled by the achievements of their neighbor.

Arathos Stromheart was the third ruler of the Stromheart line. His family hailed from the old tribes from Everwood and Ravenshore that migrated into the Eldricsbrad region by way of the northern river. He was descendant of the royal line of Old Eldstad, and his ancestors included the druid Queen Eliana who reigned over the Everdark Woods in the time before the Consolidation. It was only appropriate that the Stromheart legacy be intertwined with the High Throne and the Valkyr Runes of Oldain.

The Emperor sat motionlessly in the royal lavender cushioning of the High Throne. Two small blue flames on either side of the throne and the illuminant teal glow of the runes bounced off his pearl armor and mail. The Sun had now disappeared beyond the plateau sinking into the Middle Sea, but its struggling rays leaped into the grand circular throne room and vaguely penetrated the shadows from where the Valkriyan Guard kept their vigil. Though through the view from the throne room was the best in all the lands, the Emperor kept his eyes shut and his mind locked into a world that was not his own. The winds that blew in from the sea climbed up the edifice that ruled over Teritha and they brought with them whispers. Whispers that traveled from the their greatest god who had presided to the north. Oldain, the one eyed watcher who roamed at the top of the world, had news to bring to his mortal representative. The wind that blew tonight was unusually chilly.

“A storm is brewing.” the Emperor muttered, briefly slipping out of his trance.

A woman emerged from the shadows, a cloud of mist trailing after her scantly emerald robe and cloak of silvery white feathers. Alija Valarine was the Lady of the Valkriyan, an order of druids and huntresses tasked with the protection of the Emperor. Bed time stories of humans turning into wolves under a full moon were purveyed by their mystical talents. The gifts had been passed down to them almost a millennia ago when the Knights of White Leaf helped to purge the Everdark Woods of the Troll Horde, earning the hospice of the Wood Elves who called that land their home. With their talents and gifts even a dozen of the Valkriyan were capable of warding off a hundred. Their numbers were in the thousands.

“What would you have us do, my liege?” She spoke as her stride carried her to the throne where she knelt to a reverent bow.

The Emperor leaned in his throne, his expression stoic as he stared out into the Middle Sea. The tide ran against the rocks in the distance and came to him like calming symphony as he dwelt in contemplation. The Emperor’s rune atop the platinum crown burned a brilliant green, prompting a connection between the Emperor and Valarine. The green in her eyes overtook her pupils and flashed like a flicker of flame. The lady then burst into a cloud of green smoke, and the feathers of her cloak conspired into the form of an eagle. The rise of magical mist occurred all across the chamber as falcons, crows, and hawks took to the sky. The Valkriyan were gone and now the Emperor was alone, alone save for the whispers of Oldain whose wind blew in from the north. Arathos could scent the crisp of winter soon coming in the air, and the smell did tell of bitter days to come.

OOC: Arathos isn't exactly sure of what's brewing up north, but his connection with the man-god Oldain has allowed him to be in touch with the realm of his god (the north). If it's okay, I'm going to send some of my druids as scouts into Norgardia and the Dardet Plains to keep an eye on things.

Elsa decided that the grass hills were not a suitable place for an injured man to recover. It was better to attempt a way back to the Northern Temple. This mysterious man needed healing. Herbal medicines could do only so much. A spell could easily close the wound but her expertise was limited in that field. She slumped him over the horse and they trotted off. The Ravenshorn mountains lay in the backdrop, a looming and majestic vista. Sadly, dark clouds spewed over the peaks, forbodingling dark clouds. She knew what marched under their protection...evil.

As she made her way down to a glen, a small stream that cut through the plains. Several figures loomed in the distance. One carried the Bannder of Oldenberg, A castle keep with a blue backround. The riders sat atop War Wolves, large wolves bred for war, fearsome creatures. They made their way down to her.

"Halt, from where do you hail?" Their Captain asked.

"From the Northern Temple" she replied, "I belong to the Order of Valkr. Please, this man is injured. I have urgent news"

"What is that?"

"The village of Glengaren, two days ride to the south was attacked and the people massacred. A large body of beasts and foul creatures make their way over the mountains, straight for Oldenberg!"

"Oldenberg?!" The Captain's tone changed. He quickly turned to one of the riders, "Send word to the city, go!"

The rider turned his wolf and they sped off, over the hill. Elsa was exhausted, having seen so much destruction and desperation already. Now word has reached the right ears. Sadly, she knew very well what lay ahead. The Order of Valkr is a military arm of the Northlander Religion. They are small in number but fearsome fighters. Even with Oldenberg on alert, she doubted that they could hold back this tide.

==============================

"Wh-Why are you doing this? You don't have to do this" Aldric tried to reach Erika. He came to realize that this woman is in fact no mortal woman, but a woodland nymph. They were the things of lore and myth. No one ever sees them. Some say they exist everywhere. There were stories of wayward travelers who veered off into the deep woods or far far from human settlements, never to return. or those who did manage to return, brought back stories of these creatures. He unwittingly stumbled upon one. This nymph appeared to be less than pleased to have a human in her woods.

"Don't worry, my lovely" Erika reassured, "You are safe...you are loved here" her voice grew more tender and soft.

"Will you release me?"

She laughed slightly but recovered, "Of course, it lies solely in your hands"

The vines loosened and eased him to the ground. They retreated back into the ground. Erika stepped over and offered a hand which Aldric reluctantly accepted and stood tall. A haze covered the area. She stood on her tip toes, theur eyes met and she kissed him. He wanted to pull away but something drew him closer. She stepped back down, smiling, licking her lips, "You taste of dirt and war, I don't like it"

Suddeny, he felt a great weight lift off his shoulders. Everything became...right. His worries, sorrows, and concerns evaporated like water on a heated stone. It was strange, one moment he was bound to kill this woman. The next, he falls in love.

"Stay here-my stranger" Erika beckoned, "I have longed for a man for such a long time..."

'B-But I have to...I have to go?" Aldric felt dizzy, he collapsed to the ground and sat up, holding a hand to his face, rubbing away the dirt.

Erika giggled, broad smiled and enjoying every moment, "No-No you don't. What happens outside these woods is no concern of ours. You are safe here. No darkness ever enters here."

==============================

A sharp pain spiraled up his leg as a swift kick brought Atticus to his knees. His lip was busted and stripped of his weapons, left in tattered clothes. The guards were less than hospitable. Valkar made sure of this, having seen his fiance in the warm imbrace of another man, took a heavy hand to her. Making it know throughout the palace that is displeasure was only comprable to his fury. Atticus had shamed himself and Skara. The Warrior Code was broken in a passing and brief moment. In an instant, his world collapsed. He composed himself accordingly, remaining stoic and steel eyed. As the guard beat him down, Atticus kept this image, his eyes were furious.

"How dare you" Valkar's voice rung throughout the hall, "How dare a lowly killer such as yourself betray me in this fashion. Coveting my fiance in embrace. I always knew her heart yurned for another, but I believed this to be fleeting. Now, I stare at the agent that sabotages me so!" He kicked Atticus in the chest and knocked him to the ground.

"Peace" Aethir, the representative of Skara pleaded, he was an elderly man. Gray bearded, battle hardened, but keen eyed.

"Nay! There shall be no peace as long as this...dog does still lives. His very breath is offensive!" Valkar continued, "I shall starve a dozen wolves for weeks time and thorw you to them for this insult!"

"Let the king decide his fate, Lord Valkar" Aethir said, "This matter concerns him just as much.

"Indeed it does" High King Erik I said himself, entering the hall, flanked by his bodyguards, "I have spoken to my daughter about this matter already."

"Allow me to dispose of him!" Valkar demanded, "I must have my vengence!"

"Still your wrath" Erik raised a hand, "I have a more suiting punishment"

"It was a time of darkness, a time of evil and death. The light of this world dimmed as the mortal races felt a chill sweeping their bones. The Four knew of this coming darkness and did their best to prepare the Kingdom. But it wasn't enough. Nothing we did prevented what was about to pass."- Archmage Thelion, Grand Order of the Magi.

**************

The Kingdom of Silverfall was not lacking in the currency of information. The four Archmages of the Kingdom, Zethus, Aeisha, Darian and Kaeris were always vigilant in their watch over the kingdom, employing their own arcane methods to spy on the Orcs of the Black Sea tribes. However, with the recent rise of Xelkhas and his minion Kazellor, the shroud of Chaos had fallen. After the burst of dark power had spread out from the Ice Wastes, the four Archmages were having trouble in their long sight to see anything beyond their own borders. It was not total night yet, but the darkness was deepening. And this worried the Archmages. Several outposts had not sent word at the appointed times and the Archmages could not determine what had happened. As such, scouts had been sent out instead and a Council was called in the city of Heldain, one of the largest cities of Silverfall and the home of the Order. All four Archmages were seated in a large circular chamber, with a series of five dark brown polished wooden chairs, made of the finest wood from the southern forests of Anfalas.

Zethus was the first to speak, his plain robes showing his common sense and his mastery of magic. The other three each had their own preferences and areas of magic they specialized in, though they could use the other areas with skill unseen by most of the Order, but he was the master of all. Standing up, he looked at his friends and family that had been with him for so much of his life. "My friends, we have come to a time that requires careful thought and preparation. As I am sure you are all well aware, the powers of Chaos have once again awoken and are prowling the wastes of the world. And due to its choking power, our sight has been reduced dramatically. Several kingdoms across the world have become hidden by a black void that even our combined sight cannot penetrate. I fear the ancient foes of the Light have begun to arise to finish the war they lost long ago.”

Aeisha, the Mistress of Flame, second youngest of the Order and most fiery of the four, narrowed her eyes as she turned to contemplate the many objects in this hidden sanctum. “Indeed, Zethus. Also, our many emissaries to the world outside have begun to bring in terrible news. Whispers of large hordes of beastmen, trolls, and other foul creatures have begun to launch assaults on Kingdoms in the North. And a whisper of a dark name, the one whom leads them, whom they give their praise....Xalkhas.” They all looked at her, shock on their eyes. Zethus fixed his gaze on her.

“Are you sure about this? Was the scout in his right mind?”

She glared at him. “Of course he was. I wouldn't bring this up if I wasn't sure. He overheard several beastmen discussing their leader whom would give them victory over their hated foes, men, elves and such. The forces of Chaos are gathering and we are going to come under assault soon. We will need to be prepared.”

Darian and Kaeris nodded in agreement. The former spoke. “We will need to inform the King about what has occurred.”

“There is no need.”

They all turned to see the form of the Mage-King of Silverfall, Elsin the First (http://i91.photobucket.com/albums/k308/Nirokasa/081___Battle_Mage_by_Arcandio.jpg). His great crimson robed flickered about him, covered with arcane runes, while his shoulders and chest had hovering, golden armor which radiated arcane might, centered in the floating helmet above his head, with the symbol of his house. All of the four Archmages stood and bowed, while Elsin waved a hand.

“There is no time for such things. I have received news from the scouts we sent out. Or shall I say scout, seeing as four of the five we sent out were killed.” Elsin took a seat in a nearby chair as the Archmages followed suit. They all tensed at his words. Darian was the first to speak.

“And what did he have to tell us?”

The Mage-King handed over a parchment and Darian proceeded to read it, his eyes widening and then narrowing. He gripped the parchment tightly and glanced up at Elsin. “So....the time has come once again, then?”

Elsin nodded. “Yes. The whisper of Chaos has rushed throughout the world of Eldire and has awakened the Orcs battle lust once more. An Orc horde of incredible size is marching towards the Curtain Wall, and it would appear from the size of it and if our knowledge of the Black Sea Orcs is correct, a Warboss will be leading them.”

Zethus' face turned grim as he realized the implications. The Orcs were attacking once again; another Great War could possibly occur. It had taken a great effort, many lives and aid of a certain fickle race that owned land in Anfalas to force the Orcs back. They were stronger now, but with the powers of Chaos rising, they would be hard put to turn them back. “What of the armies of Althain, Khaldath, and Larkan?”

“I have already sent couriers to them, and they are mobilizing for war. I have already notified the Advisory Council, whom had announced the attack, our state of war and has begun the necessary modifications to prepare us for war. Training camps are being constructed, blacksmiths are moving to production and conscription has begun. It will be some time before any major force competent enough will be able to join our forces. Our armies will have to suffice.”

Aeisha shook her head. “Our armies to too small to handle the Orc threat alone. And the largest detachment of our forces is at the Curtain Wall. If they are overwhelmed, much of our fighting strength will be gone.”

Elsin nodded. “The Advisory Council knew this and, with my blessing, has also ordered Larkan to take her forces and move to assist the Curtain Wall. I am afraid that the Orc horde will be assaulting the Wall before she can get there. So we will have to trust the commander there and our forces, as well as any of the Order, to hold the line.”

********************

Curtain Wall of Silverfall, Western Silverfall. Nightfall

The scout which had informed Elsin had passed through the Wall several days before and the Wall had already begun and finished many of its preparations for battle. The three fortresses the wall was centered around were massive military bases, complete with armories, training areas, and farmland to ensure the Wall could be largely self-sufficient. It also served to make the Wall virtually impregnable and able to survive months of siege, with its large amounts of food and water stocked up, its powerful defenders and large stone walls. This would be tested yet again, tonight, as the massed horde of Orcs stood off just out of bowshot from the Wall. The entire Wall was lined with the shining silver steel armor of the swordsmen, spearmen, and dismounted kinghts whom were ready to defend their land from the Orcish threat. The longbowmen stood in front, ready to unleash a hail of death upon their foes if they came within range. The Wall, itself, had its own defenses. Jutting out from the base of the Wall was a series of fire-harded wooden stakes, tipped with sharp steel heads, making it difficult for any force to get close to the base. They also had trebuchets, catapults, spear-launchers, and vats of boiling oil waiting for their foe.

”And some other surprises....” Commander Feorn the Orc-Slayer stood on the battlements beside his men, be-decked in his armor, and holding his helmet in one hand, the other clasped onto the holds of a large shield. A single brown eye gazed out with intense hatred at the Orc horde facing him, the other covered in an eye patch. A gift of an Ork horde whom tried to attack the wall during his time on the Wall. He was sure to pay them back plenty. After gazing at the Orcs and their array, he moved up to a fortified building where several mages of the Order stood, looking at maps and conferring amongst themselves. One of them walked over and bowed.

“Greetings, Commander Feorn. We have finished the preparations you requested and have received news about Silverfall at large.”

The commander smiled. “Indeed, Thelion. Tell me more.” He began to walk into the building as the mage spoke.

“Well, King Elsin has received word of what has happened and has begun mobilizing the kingdom. It will be some time before we can have sufficient support to handle ourselves. He is going to send out emissaries for aid to any whom are not already under assault. He also had a message for you.”

Feorn glanced at him. “Yes?”

Thelion sighed and began to speak, as if reciting something. “I have begun the build-up to fight this war against the Orks, but we will need time to get ready. And if the Orcs break through the Wall, we will not have the time we need. You must ensure the Curtain Wall does not fall, Feorn, no matter the cost. The forces of Chaos are awakening and moving to crush the mortal races of Eldire, and some of the immortal ones. We will need to be a shield against the Dark and provide a bastion of hope for the world. I am leaving it up to you to do so. Archmage Aeisha is on her way to aid you, but it will be some time before she can get there, and Larkan is going to march to reinforce you. Both will not be there in time, so you will need to use your skill, our mighty Wall and the courage of our soldiers to keep those Orcs at bay. I am putting my trust in you Feorn, and I know it will not be wasted.”

The commander nodded. “I see...Thank you, Thelion. Are you all ready for the battle ahead?”

Thelion glanced at all the mages grabbing what weapons or armor they had and moving out to the sections of the Wall assigned to them. “As much as we'll ever be. As acting leader of the Order here, I will be stationed with you.”

“Excellent. Then let's go.” They both walked out to face the Orcs, whom had gone strangely quiet. Arrows had been stacked, soldiers placed, rocks readied for the siege weapons. Now, the only thing left was for the Orcs to attack. Feorn was wary; if the cause of the attack was the rise of Chaos, then the Orcs would have something up their sleeve if they were making such a serious attack on the wall. He was not disappointed as Thelion gasped, a key sign magic was being used. A large tornado spun up from an Orc shaman and came towards the wall. The mages prepared themselves as the tornado suddenly stopped and then exploded. Shock registered on the faces of all, until they began to try to get the smoke out of their eyes and to see the enemy. They could hear the Orcs shout and the charging of their feet. Feorn struggled to see through the stinging smoke. Smart bastards...Well, we can play that game too.”

“Thelion!”

The mage responded as he focused his Will, in tandem with the other mages along the wall. The idle breeze of the night began to grow stronger and stronger, the faces of the mages straining with exertion as they called more and more wind to them. Finally, when it was ready, they pushed it outward, pushing back the wall of smoke, and not only pushing it away from them, but towards the Orcs. Feorn smiled grimly as he drew his sword. The others on the wall followed suit and they prepared for battle. The Orcs as they were charging towards the Wall would start to encounter traps as they came close to it. When enough weight was applied to a section of ground, the dirt gave way to become a deep pit of sharpened spikes, which would cause many Orks to fall into the pit and die from the spikes, crush of bodies, or both. There was also small runic triggers that would cause a small flash of light to daze some Orks, others being small explosions of fire. They would kill some Orks but not a lot, but it would work overall to confuse and hurt the Orks. When they finally came within range, Feorn gave the order, and hell was unleashed.

Longbowmen, well-trained and experts of the bow, pulled back their arrows on taut strings, aimed up and then loosed their arrows. A hails of hardened shafts capped with sharp steel barbs, with designs making them effective at piercing armor and skin. They calmly loosed their arrows, reached for another, set it on the bow, aimed and waited for the command. Trebuchets crews launched their payloads of large boulders, rocks, and pieces of rubble towards the Orks, seeking to crush entire groups. Catapults launched their own smaller but still deadly projectiles when the Orcs came ever closer to the wall, and even closer held more dangers. Large, crossbow-esque weapons stood on the wall, and began to launch out large spears to impale Orks as they came within range. The hail of this weapons combined had been the bane of many moderate Ork forces and the beginning of a quick victory over large Ork hordes. However, Feorn felt in his gut it would not be enough by itself and that he would be fighting a battle not seen since the Great War.

Oldenberg, Kingdom of Norgardia

The sky grew dark and storm filled. Strangely colored lightning sprang from dark cloud to dark cloud in hues of red and purple. Wind howled like the growl of a hungry beast. Only the smallest beam of sunlight could be seen, far, far to the west of the great Norgardian city. Around it, in seemingly endless numbers, was the greatest horde to be seen in hundreds of years.

Abrexta sat on his pale horse upon a hillock that gave him an advantageous view of his army and the walls of Oldenberg. Beside his mighty force it seemed like an insignificant fly about to be swatted by the dark hand of death. And he would be that death, thought Abrexta. He cackled and laughed aloud, causing his minotaur bodyguards to shift their hooves and wince, the power released from his throat hurting to their ears.

Another horse drew alongside the shaman wizard. Uldoom synched the harness of his saddle slightly tighter and looked sidelong at the shaman as if he’d only just discovered his presence. “You seem delirious with delight my lord shaman,” the chaos knight rumbled through the slit of his full helm. Abrexta considered the black armored behemoth.

“Of course Uldoom, we are about to win our first major battle and then move onto the next,” hissed Abrexta, explaining it as if to a child. Uldoom’s hand fell lightly to the pommel of his sword.

“Indeed wizard, but it shall be won on the edge of my sword and axe!” he roared. The chaos night unsheathed his sword and raised it high, letting loose a war cry that echoed down the hill and throughout the encamping army like the voice of the damned. Beastmen turned and bleated their own guttural cries and marauders uttered the foul names of dark gods and chants of victory. Uldoom lowered his sword and smiled. “We shall win.”

Many leagues south of Oldenberg

The two men sat atop their black war horses looking down at the approaching column of beastmen and marauders. It was a small force, a vanguard, meant to attract any army foolish enough to attack it to get bogged down until the much, much larger force marching a few leagues behind it caught up and crushed it. The two riders however didn’t much care for getting bogged down.

“There’s at least five thousand down there,” the rider on the left said. He held a small metal tube to his eye, a new invention that out of Stirland, that allowed him to look through the crystals in it and see things from far away.

“Aye, there seems that many,” replied the other. He turned around and looked down the hill where five hundred other similarly armored and armed riders sat, hidden by the lee of the hill. “Though that matters little to me.”

“But general,” the other rider said, “We must get back to the frontier and warn Citadel Andbar. The Free Cities must be warned.”

General Alexander Barca grinned like a wolf. “Indeed lad, and we shall, but first I feel that my sword needs to be wetted.”

“B-But sir! Didn’t you just say there were-?”

“I don’t care, damn your eyes,” the general thundered. His pale features and stark black hair made him intimidating, as his green eyes would always shine brightest whenever he was annoyed. Many of his aides had learned that about the old Legion commander.

“At least let us ride back and join Captain Heinz’s men, then we’ll have a thousand of us.”

“No, no I like 1 to 10 a lot better. Means there’s more for me!” General Barca laughed. He reached down and unsheathed his saber, the curved length of silver shining in the afternoon sun. He turned to his men behind him.

“Men! We will hit them hot and fast, then be gone like ghosts! Form up on me, wedge formation!”

The general turned back and started down the hillside. His aide cantered up as well, taking a position on his left. The five hundred other riders came over the hill and quickly formed up, one after another, into the serried ranks of their lines, creating a wedge. The point, General Barca, laughed aloud and waved his saber high. The Legion force picked up the pace, hooves beginning to ring like thunder. The wind soared past, too slow to keep up, and the black wings on each rider’s back flapped in its wake. The flapping started up the next sound, a sound that each rider knew and loved, but terrified their enemies. Like a horde of banshees released from the damnation of hells worst pit, the winged lancers charged thundering down the hill.

The mutated men and beastmen of the vanguard column hardly had time to react before the keening of banshees and the bass note of war horns were heard. The Legion cavalry struck like a hammer. Lances impaled a beastman and then went on to plunge into another. When they broke, the riders skillfully unsheathed their bright sabers and hacked and sliced at necks and heads. A few riders were not lucky however and fell, a beastman’s spear in their chest or a marauder’s lucky arrow stuck in them. The powerful charge crushed the head of the column in a matter of minutes. General Barca however did not stop his horse, and they drove on and through the entire column until they came out on the other side. The cavalry commander raised his saber and directed it to his right, and the entire wedge shifted, cantering away back the way they had come.

In their wake the Legion left thirty-two dead riders and several hundred dead beastmen. The forces tried to follow, but they simply could not outrun the lightning quick horses of the Legion. General Barca, having suitably wetted his sword by slicing open three beastmen’s throats, led his men back south to return home. The Free Cities had to be warned.

Duke Dragoon’s Castle, Kingdom of Hospitlar

The troll battering ram slammed against the iron wrought gate yet again, sending an echoing boom throughout the land and inside the castle. The six large trolls hefted the giant tree as if it were a toy. Again they leaned back and raised the battering ram, swinging it forward in a quick jerk of sinewy, green muscle to slam again against the castle gate. They had been at it for the last two minutes, and Azergal was beginning to see that the gate was starting to buckle, pieces of wood and iron flying off with each impact.

The chaos knight turned away from the battering ram and looked over the small host of trolls he had at his command. It was quite sizeable all things considered. More than six hundred trolls of a tribe led by the double-headed behemoth Buckles & Mord. They were simple creatures, far from the cunning of goblins and orcs, and a further cry still from the corrupt marauders that Azergal wished he had. But he had to deal with such shortages for now. Once they took the castle, then things would be very different.

Northlands, East of the Ravenshorn Mountains

Archaon succeeded in reaching the center of the encampment just as the resounding call of more war horns grew in the night. He cursed and kicked his heels into the side of his great, mutated steed, moving towards the place where the mysterious group of warriors had first appeared. When the chaos knight reached the encampment’s border he saw that huge companies of beastmen were charging out at the retreating figures of the humans, as Archaon now saw that they were. But that confused him all the more, for there were suppose to not be any uncorrupted men in the entire region.

The beastmen bayed and bleated terrible war cries, charging headlong at their foes.

Ithilar, Southern Sea City

Like a rock slide the horde of beastmen charged against the walls of the city by the sea. The Elven-kind defended themselves as best they could. Arrows and spears fell in thick clouds, cutting down and killing beastmen in huge swathes. However that hardly stemmed the tide. They cried aloud to dark gods and heathen patrons of the dark, eye red with hate and mouths frothing with berserk rage. Behind them all, the gargantuan form of Gothmar stood watching, desiring more than anything the fall of the city.


Curtain Wall, Kingdom of Silverfall

As one the mighty Orc horde advanced. Orcs swarmed forward in their thousands. Some carried ladders. The defenders, thought temporarily distracted by the spell of black smoke, were not caught totally unprepared. Their own mages cast spells, sending the smoke back. The orc shamans hooted and chanted, clapping their hands and making obscene sigils in the air while calling on the gods of the orcs. The smoke dissipated in seconds, as if it was never there. With loud cries of a blood curdling nature, flaming fire balls were launched from all along the orc lines from shaman hands. As they charged many stepped upon hidden traps and were killed, but the orcs continued on heedless of the loss. Inexorable as the tide, the orcs advanced.. They howled, cursed and chanted in their foul tongue as they advanced. Their red eyes glittered with unquenchable malice.

Before the attackers were half way to the walls the defenders responded. Catapults hurled huge boulders out into the oncoming ranks, smashing the spawn of the Black Steppes to bloody pulp. Mages sent other magical attacks arcing outwards to explode among the tightly packed bodies. Thousands of arrows blackened the sky. The orcs roared defiance and trampled their fallen comrades under their iron shod feet in their determination to get within the Curtain Wall. Even as they died, they howled obscene prayers to their dark gods.

The twang of mighty bolt thrower arms surging forward filled the air. More orcs died. Their masters looked on, sending more fire balls and great glowing snakes of monstrous energy at the wall. The horde came on, racing forward, brandishing their weapons. The orcs reached pits of stakes and halted for a moment. The mass of their comrades rushing behind them drove the leaders forward once more, so that they stumbled into the stake-lined pits at the foot of the wall. Roaring and screaming, they died, but still their comrades advanced, until the pits were so filled with squirming bodies that the remainder of the force could trample over them and reach the base of the wall.

Arrows from the orc horde rose and fell upon the wall. Ladders were thrown up against the wall and ropes with hooks attached were thrown to attach to the lip of the battlement. Orc warriors began climbing feverishly, desiring to get to grips with their foes.

Northlands, East of the Ravenshorn Mountains

Archaon succeeded in reaching the center of the encampment just as the resounding call of more war horns grew in the night. He cursed and kicked his heels into the side of his great, mutated steed, moving towards the place where the mysterious group of warriors had first appeared. When the chaos knight reached the encampment’s border he saw that huge companies of beastmen were charging out at the retreating figures of the humans, as Archaon now saw that they were. But that confused him all the more, for there were suppose to not be any uncorrupted men in the entire region.

The beastmen bayed and bleated terrible war cries, charging headlong at their foes.


The Two Hundred rangers launched just two volleys of Arrows into the ennemy. Of course these were from Celtican longbows and had a range that exceeded even the ordinary longbows used by other nations. Also the arrows had been magically hardened by the magic of the bows drawing on the Archers own magical talents.

Having fired their two volleys the company turned on their heels an began to run for a nearby path running through the hills.

They seemed to run faster than normal men could have and an observant watcher might have noticed the fact that despite their speed they seemed almost to be holding back to keep the beastmen chasing them.

Oldenberg

Lord Sigmund, the Thane of Oldenberg stood at the ramparts of the mighty wall. He has witnessed the dark cloud and scouts sent to investigate have returned with the gravest of news.

"Have riders been sent to the other cities?" Sigmund inquired, holding his wits quite well despite what faced them all. These things have not been seen in many years.

"Aye, my Lord" General Jorvik replied. He was a steely old soldier. Having seen his fair share of battles and yet remained in the land of the living. He was respected and feared. A bold warrior, a guardian of The Code to the last word, "We have prepared the defenses the best we could. They enemies numbers are vast and numerous. We have but 5,000 members of the Garrison."

"Call all able-bodied men to the Great Armory to obtain weapons. Are the provisions and water wells checked?"

"Aye, the stock is in plenty. I worry not about the likes of these beastmen and orcs. They lack the sophistication and tactics to breack the mighty walls. An enemy has never breached them and will never as long as I am the Guardian of the City"

"I have the upmost faith in you, General" Sigmund replied, "We can only hope that the riders have made their way past their lines and within the month, the might of Norgardia will fall like a heavy handed hammer upon our foe"

Oldenberg soldiers rallied to the walls in good fashion and order. As many villagers that could be brought to safety were. The city swelled with frightened civilians. Many able bodied men were mustered to make the defenses strong. The walls of Oldenberg were a testiment to strength that the city enjoyed. Not once in hundreds of years, has a single enemy managed to breach the walls and take the city. It has remained in Norgardian hands for such a great time and the leaders were confident that it would remain such. The Wolf riders and regular cavalry stood ready to make a sortie into the enemy ranks. These lowly creatures hadn't the stomach for such a fight.

==============================

Glengaren Wood

"You are indeed a strong man, Aldric" Erika said.

"How do you know my name?" he asked in return.

Erika smiled, almost like a mother kindly smiling at the silly question of a child but entertaining them regardless, "The winds carried your name to the trees and the trees passed it on to me. Your sister Elsa is in safe hands. More...Men have found her"

A wave of relief swept over him. Aldric's chief concern his whole life was ensuring his sister's safety from harm. Despite her tough demeanour, Elsa is delicate on the inside. So few have seen those true emotions. Now, there were greater problems to deal with.

"So, you have little to concern yourself about. Your sister is safe, you are safe, we're all safe" Erika raised her hands and laughed, "I fail to see the problem"

"The problem is that I have an oath that I am sworn to by blood. I must accomplish it." Aldric persisted. The Order of Valkr were warrior magicians in an over simplified definition. He had the capability to escape but had to bide his time. She seemed gentle but had the capacity to turn in an instant.

Curtain Wall, East Silverfall


Feorn watched as the hail of dark arrows plunged into the horde of Orcs and caused entire waves of the green monsters to fall to the ground, flailing and gushing out their life's blood. He watched as giant bolts ripped limbs and heads off countless orcs, penetrated flesh and armor, even sticking through two or three at a time. As rocks fell to crush more orcs, as flame and ice exploded amongst orc ranks from the traps, as many fell impaled by the spike pits they had so carefully made, he watched the horde continue to come. His eyes narrowed in anger and worry; this was going to be a hard battle. A blast of fire hit the wall and he looked up to see the shamans casting spell after spell at the wall, snakes of energy and great fireballs looming to hit the wall. After one fireball hit a group of swordsmen and lit them on fire, he turned to Thelion, whom nodded.

All the mages on the wall paused a moment and then started to counter the shaman's magic. Fireballs suddenly were pushed away to land amongst their own forces, energy hit invisible walls and splashed upwards into the sky, and the mages own answering hails of ice shards, fireballs, and energy came roaring down towards them. Ever on, the arrows kept flying, deadly accurate and piercing, catapults and trebuchets continuing to pound the Orc army and the bolt throwers continued to launch mighty spears into the thrashing bodies. The Orcs, however, eventually got to the wall, and begin to throw up ladders and climbing hooks with ropes. They would have a hard time doing so as at the base of the wall, where they were milling, there was a large series of spears jutting out from the wall's base, covered in sharp steel and ready to impale any whom weren't careful.

Feorn watched and decided the next phase of battle had to begin. "Warriors of Silverfall! Repel the enemy!" The archers continued to fire into the horde, but some stepped back to allow swordsman and some engineers up to the walls. As the orcs climbed, the worked to get the hooks out of the walls and to push back the ladders. Several fell to the blasts of energy whom came through or the projectiles shot from the orcs towards them. Shining warriors fall to the crude darts of their rampaging foes. Several ropes were cut or even lit on fire by torches to burn away and cause the line of orcs to fall on top of their comrades, skewered by their own weapons. Ladders kicked over to crush masses of orcs. But they kept coming, and Feorn knew it would only be a matter of time until the Orcs managed to summit the wall. However, he was damned sure that he was going to kill as many Orcs as he could before that happened. By the Light, he would.

(OOC: Sorry for the delay. I've tried posting three times, and kept having problems. I'll try one more time, but I'm getting real sick of writing the same post again and again).

Stirland, the Free Cities
on the East Middle Sea Coast

The Far Ranger had escaped their rather unfortunate encounter (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showpost.php?p=14125517&postcount=105) with the human warship Lady's Laugh. Rather well off monetarily, however, but now missing 4 crewmen and underhanded.

But the first of their original destinations was now almost at hand, a Free City on the coast, bustling with trade. It was here that Skalk hoped to get a decent price for his cargo. Actually the trip was looking to be nicely profitable. He wanted it over with quickly and didn't intend to get involved with anything time-consuming or dangerous.

It's cute how people have intentions, isn't it?

Northlands

Archaon ran his steed to its limit, running back and forth amongst the rampaging companies of beastmen. It was only his beastial shout and slicing a few heads from select shoulders that the chaos knight was able to restore some order amongst the troops. However that didn’t stop more than eight hundred of the beastmen from charging straight up the hillside and after the retreating mysterious human warriors. Archaon turned and shouted orders. The rest of the warriors under his control would not go charging so foolishly forwards. The chaos knight knew better than to think a mere few hundred warriors would dare to attack so large a force without reinforcements.


Oldenburg, Norgardia

Abrexta looked down from his horse and studied the lines of his army. Their position was a strong one. Most of their vast camp was protected by the curve of a nearby river. Hordes of skin-clad barbarians worked frantically, erecting earthworks and excavating trenches facing the city. Lines of sharpened stakes jutting out form the base of the earthen wall being erected behind the trench. Uldoom, directing the warriors on Abrexta’s behalf, was taking no chances with the riders of Norgardia sallying forth from Oldenburg to engage them, even if they did outnumber the defending forces.

The sky above was thick with black, swirling clouds. They pulsed with fantastic colors as the winds of magic moved about like furious tornadoes and whirlwinds. Abrexta could feel them, reach out and touch them. With a thought he could harness them and send shattering spells against the city. That however would have to wait. Behind the trenches, out of bowshot from the wall, large skeletal formations of catapults and trebuchets were rising from the earth. Massive engines of destruction that would see Oldenburg fall.

Uldoom rode up behind the great shaman. “Things are moving apace lord,” he said.

“Good,” murmured Abrexta. “Once the siege engines are constructed, do not stop in your assault.”

“As Xahlkas wills it,” the chaos knight bowed.

Curtain Wall, Silverfall


The head orc shaman spat in anger as he watched the majority of his fellow shaman’s spells being repelled quicker and quicker, even though more than a few got through to strike the wall and its defenders. Deciding that sending any more fireballs would be a waist, the shaman raised his totem staff and bellowed an order to the other shaman. Each turned and nodded. They would ceased their magical attacks for a time.

In the mean time, the orc warriors were climbing the walls as quickly as they could. Several perished as a ladder was pushed back, crushing those below as well as above. One orc who had reached the top only to be speared through the stomach twice, grabbed a hold of his killers and took them with him screaming as he fell backwards over the wall. At the base of the wall the other Orcs waited in lines, stepping over a growing mound of corpses. Others decided on a time honored trick. The small goblins that accompanied the host, armed with short spears or swords, in some cases simple shards of metal, were picked up by the huge orcish hands and then tossed up onto the walls to fall in amongst the defenders; as much to kill them as to cause a distraction.

For every rope that was cut or let loose, three more took its place. For every ladder that was pushed back, two more fell to replace it. War drums and war horns beat and blasted, sending a cadence of fervent music through the orc warriors, making them act more aggressive and in some cases even move faster and have greater strength. Cries from shaman, using magic to modify the melodies of throaty screams, added to it.

All the while Gruk the Warboss looked on from a high perch on the side of the valley.

Stirland Port, Land of the Free Cities

Stirland City was perhaps one of the largest cities in Eldire. Well over two hundred thousand people lived within the sprawling morass of houses, the smallest being only four stories in height, and within four concentric stone walls. Even beyond what was suppose to be a curtain wall the buildings stood. The cobblestone streets were packed with men, women, and children. The city watch in their signifying tabards walked around holding their swords and spears with official pomp while fisher wives curtsied and chatted, talking about the newest gossip. Merchants sat behind small wooden stalls, shouting out the wonders of their products. Children ran rampant, playing games or trying their hand at picking pockets. Elves from afar looked over the fine craftsmanship of dwarven silver. Gnome clock makers presented their work and argued the finer points of mechanics with stout Dwarf machinists. Mercenaries from across the Free Cities called out their skills for hire. Scantily clad women waved scarves down at passing sailors. It was a city booming with life.

Joachim, a rather fat man, sat in his silk robes under a pavilion next to the harbour. Ship captains stepped before him, handed over the small fee of five gold that each ship owed for weighing in at the harbour, and then went about their business. Behind the harbour master the grim looking fellows of the City Watch kept a close eye over foreigner and local alike.

Northlands

Archaon ran his steed to its limit, running back and forth amongst the rampaging companies of beastmen. It was only his beastial shout and slicing a few heads from select shoulders that the chaos knight was able to restore some order amongst the troops. However that didn’t stop more than eight hundred of the beastmen from charging straight up the hillside and after the retreating mysterious human warriors. Archaon turned and shouted orders. The rest of the warriors under his control would not go charging so foolishly forwards. The chaos knight knew better than to think a mere few hundred warriors would dare to attack so large a force without reinforcements.

OOC: nice :)
IC: As the remaining beastment chased the small troop 2 000 Iceguards stepped over the crest of of both hills through which the path threaded. a further 800 stepped up out a trench blocking the path. and lined up behind it. The two hundred fleeing bowmen jumped the trench and joined the lines as the total off 4 000 bowmen poured arrows into the group of beastmen. Behind the trench the 1000 remaining Iceguard drew swords and waited. The remainder of the Celtican forces appeared on the crest of the hills. 1 000 Steel wolf, heavy infantry marched towards the rear of the small enemy detachment. The remainder of the Celtican force lined in front of the of the larger ennemy hoard as the iceguard poured arrows into the small, trapped, detachment. four lines of Steel Wolves Faced the ennemy with the massed Rangers of the Hawk behind them.

"Ah, thank you indeed. In which case" he turned quickly to one of his guards "you stay here, my good man, and when my interpreter shows up tell him he is no longer in my employ."
"Yes sir." The guard looked impassive, even while considering his master a fool, for not wanting someone along to translate any byplay in the local tongue, and ensure that no mistranslations occurred.
"Right, my good sir, I am in your hands."
OOC: (In other words, while a tour of the best sights of the city will be interesting, feel free to skip straight to the principals actually meeting one another if you prefer).

“Very well,” said Minister Donato, “let us go to the palace.”

The party was led to an open air carriage drawn by two strange looking animals, with a tug they started up a road plated with stale

“This is the Royal Road, the main street of the city, all roads lead to it. This will take us directly to the palace.”

Soon they entered into a huge plaza, filled with people of all classes

“Here is the Great Plaza, and in the center is the Mirror Fountain built by Queen Yazmin the Just.”

After passing through several neighborhoods that progressively nicer they came upon sets of massive gates to a many and tall towered castle.

“This is Braganaza Palace, home of the Kings.”

The party was escorted by a pair of guards and led to the grand audience chamber, where Arano, King of the Mechani, was waiting for them.

Welcome most honored Emissary from afar, what tidings do you bring from your native lands?

Stirland Port

The fee was a heavy one, but then it wasn't exactly unexpected. Skalk walked along the creaking dock to the harbor master, a small sack of coins ready to open up and dash the gold into the waiting palm.

As he began the transaction he asked casually, "Any news in these parts?"

The party was escorted by a pair of guards and led to the grand audience chamber, where Arano, King of the Mechani, was waiting for them.

Welcome most honored Emissary from afar, what tidings do you bring from your native lands?

"We in Incognitia have heard whisperings of trouble from afar. We have seen movement all around the Middle Sea, and even in the Dolthiac Ocean. And, most relevantly to your own people, we have heard word of an incursion of beastmen into your southern territories.

Clearly you will have known before we did of this, and I am certain that your military will be dealing with the situation. We wish to ask, however, whether there is anything the Incognitian Republic can do to assist.

Equally, we have become aware of a Crusade being run by our neighbours to the north, the Holy Empire.
While they have directed it northwards, we are nonetheless concerned at a sizeable military expedition aimed at eradicating magic-wielders and non-human races, no matter which direction it is headed in, and wished to discuss this with your government."

Hell had come to the Curtain Wall and Feorn was in the middle of it. He knocked aside the axe strike of an Orc and impaled him, watching as the Ork grunted before punching him. Another warrior came up and beheaded him, kicking the still twitching body over the wall. Arrows still pounded the Orc host, stinging darts of death washing over their green bodies like a swarm of locusts, killing and maiming. Still they came, ladders and ropes clamping onto the walls and Feorn knew that they could not prevent all of the ladders and ropes from getting onto the walls. Even now goblins and Orcs began to scale the wall, falling amongst the swordsmen and spearman, as they battled for supremacy on the wall. The ground soon become slick with blood, both Orc black and human red, as they battled. Feorn turned to Thelion.

"Thelion! Tell the archers to get to the towers above us and have more reinforcements come to the wall. Take your mages as well; they won't do anything but hinder us here!" The mage nodded and called to his brethren, whom began to move the archers away from the wall. After they disappeared down the tower stairs, more soldiers wearing steel armor came barging up, wielding swords, spears and even axes in some cases, slamming into the invaders whom were struggling to get onto the wall. Ropes were cut, ladders pushed away, but more kept coming. Soldiers fell, clinging to their insides as goblins cut them open with their little knives, only for others to stamp them to pieces or throw them over the wall. The sounds of weapons clashing and shields blocking blows could be heard. Battle was joined as more Orcs came to the fight, even as the human soldiers rushed up to repel them. Feorn threw himself into the fight, seeking to repel the enemy he had sought to prevent Silverfall from dealing with again for so long.

The archers and mages appeared on the towers above the wall and they resumed their battle. The mages stood still and silent as the archers renewed the waves of arrows pouring into the Orcish lines. Thelion waited; he knew the shamans would attempt something else at some point and they would need their strength to hold it back.

Archaon's Camp, Northlands

The Daemon Knight watched in grim silence amongst the stirring ranks of his beastmen host as he watched the group of fools get slaughtered in a matter of moments. The group of beastmen that had charged blindly after the fleeing interlopers were caught squarely in a crossfire of longbows, a deadly hail of arrows that sliced through hardened beastman hide like a hot knife through butter. There was nothing that Archaon could do for the fools. He turned to the forces he now had gained control of, having them formed up into their respective tribal companies.

"Tribe of Split Tongue, tribe of Black Heart march forward!" Archaon roared, raising his sword and pointing it angrily at the line of human warriors. Two giant blocks of beastmen three thousand strong separated from Archaon's host and charged forward.

Not waiting for another quick slaughter, Archaon rushed back and forth along the line of beastmen, sending the rest of the beastmen charging towards the flanks of the humans. Archaon led the group on the far left and let loose a terrifying war-cry that keened above the sound of the baying beastmen who charged headlong into the human war band.

Curtain Wall, Silverfall

Gruk Ironhide watched dispassionately as hundreds of his warriors fell beneath the biting blade of human swords or were cut down by a well placed axe. But not everything was going the humans way. He watched as another of his heavily armed Black Orc warriors landed on top of the wall, crushing a defender beneath him and swinging a giant cleaver the size of a man's chest in a wide arc, cutting limbs and chests open. The fighting was fierce all along the wall, and the orc warboss knew that it would only get worse, as he saw more human warriors reinforcing the wall.

The warboss turned to his shaman. "Sen' in da biggin boyz, an' tell 'em to make sur' dey getz it rite," he ordered. The shaman nodded and nervously bowed before the gargantuan size of his warboss, then turned and scurried off into the waiting ranks of the orc host. Standing clearly above the ranks of orcs were several Hill and Mountain giants, evil creatures that would more often than not fight orcs and goblins as much as humans, but they followed Gruk under the promise of pillage and battle. They were a special force in his great host and they would prove their worth now.

The largest giant picked up the orc warrior in his hand, the hundred of pounds practically nothing to the giant's strength. The orc was outfitted in furs dripping with water, and a giant barrel strapped to his back. The giant used a torch in the manner of a match and lit a small piece of cloth that stuck up from the barrel's small top hole. Once it was going strong, the oil it was soaked in fueling the flame, the giant turned and with a mighty roar, send the orc and barrel flying towards the wall.

Giants are renown for their impressive aim when it comes to throwing boulders and the orc and barrel was far more easy to throw. The crazed orc landed right into the middle of one tower, the barrel smashing apart and sending a cascade of brackish oil over the orc and every defender who was atop the tower. Within the same moment, the flaming rag that had been in the barrel fell amidst the oil and caught alight. Within a heartbeat the flame roared and spread, catching to everything the oil had touched.

A dozen more similar orcs with oil barrels strapped to their backs were thrown at the walls. Three never made it, landed amidst the orcs waiting at the foot of the wall and kill dozens. A few more fell beyond the wall, flame and smoke erupting from the rear.

Gruk Ironhide watched and grinned toothily. He liked fire.