Mazera Mega Story Thread

Lord D'tesh, God-King and Divine Will of the D'teshi Empire, looked down upon his Legion, and he was pleased. Very pleased. From a small group of Wraiths, able only to convert tiny bands of adventurers, it had grown to a mighty Legion able to rival any nation of Mazera.

Skeletal Lizards now formed the bulk of his Legion, culled from the pitiful Cualli. Ranging ahead of this core were massive groups of Wraiths, invisible death. Binders, whom he had left small amounts of free will, formed the spine, repairing any damage done to the skeletal bodies of his warriors. These Binders were all that remained of those Amurites and Kahdi foolish enough to scout his Wastelands.

Turning, he shifted his attention to Thanatos, the massive Angel of Death in command of the Legion, and a servant of his ally Laroth. Thanatos remained unbound to D'tesh's will, an unpleasant circumstance tolerated solely because of the need for a capable General.

"Thanatos, what news do you bring me?" he demanded.

Thanatos replied, bowing, "My Lord, our Wraiths report that the Cualli have taken the bait, and declared war on the Sheiam. They are now at war with all bordering lands, and none will come to their defense... The way forward is clear."

"Excellent." D'tesh turned back to his Legion, continuing, "Position the Legion along the entirety of the western Cualli border. Convert everything in your path. Casualties mean nothing; the Binders can reanimate them once the Watchers have defiled the land. Go, and do not return without Miquiztli's head."

"Yes, my Lord."

Volanna, agent of the Winter Court, had information empires might well wage war for. If she returned home with this alone, she would be rewarded richly enough to live out the rest of life attended by however many slaves she desired. What she had observed , hidden by shadow magics during the Grigori high council meeting... what she knew on her own, as a child in the dark woods of the East where no human or elfe or any other race dared to go less they be cursed into something less... that knowledge might decide a war.

But at some point, she had made the most deadly mistake any spy could. Or maybe it was her most wondrous accidents.

Volonna had gone native, and for a kingdom of humans and briefer mortals who could barely look at a forest without wondering how best to exploit it. Oh, how her sisters would laugh at her now if they knew.

If she had fallen in love, the answer from her training would have been simple. A touch of meg, a sprinkle of other herbs, and a final, deadly kiss would have seen her beloved tormentor exit this world.

But it wasn't love. Oh, she had her suitors, whether upfront men or shy young boys who were more endearing than obnoxious, but passion and bed wasn't what made her hesitate.

If it had been friendship, she could have easily disuaded whoever it was until she was alone and free once again. Or perhaps not: Sidhelle, one of the last Ljosalfar and a champion of the Grigori people, was not one to let others deter her friendships. How they had become friends was contrieved: Volonna had poised as a disident of the Svartalfar, and when Sidhelle had sought to mend the historic animosity Volonna had reciprocated in order to deepen her cover.

But while they had become true friends and were as close as sisters in some ways, Sidhelle alone would not have been enough.

It was... it was hard to explain, because it was everything and nothing about the Grigori that made her want to ignore home and hearth. Or maybe it was everything that they were nothing about.

There were no looming shadows in the Grigori towns. While you would be fool to trust a stranger in a dark alley unless it was in Junon and Cabal's ravens were around, those were earthly, mundane dangers. You never had to wonder if there was something darker and supernaturally sinister in those shadows, waiting for you to drop your guard and take your life.

There was no racial character either, not any more. Though they had once been a human nation like any other, the Grigori nation's current makeup was as much a matter of chance as anything else. Unlike at home, where elves were given the best (and the ruling elves the best of that) on basis of being elves while everyone else was enslaved and robbed on account of not being elves, the Grigori had ceased to be a 'human' nation since Cassiel's Declaration of Acceptance. Where Orcs and Goblins had once been the enemy that united the nations of Mazera, they now walked the market places with few giving so much as a second thought. It wasn't so much benevolence, as might be found in the Eloheim, as mercantile objectivity: a Gnoll's gold was as good as anyone else's, and an Orc could find his place if he did the work of two men and a goblin could make a name for himself if he could sneak through life. It remained fragile at times and tenuous at best, but sometimes she wondered when she might see elves as well walk these streets.

There was no state religion either. While that was a famous aspect of the Grigori, Volonna had lived through two different religions. Worshiping the god of nature had seemed right for a time until his defeat, but worshipping Esus had always been a game of shadows and suspicions. Did the Queen of the Winter Court trust you enough to ask for his blessing on your behalf, or would the Nightwatch show up at your dead one night and the next morning you would have disappeared? Would those secrets you whispered into His confidence stay in the shadows, or would they merely find their way to the highest bidder? There was no trust, and less camaraderie.

The Grigori, these people knew that the only ones they could trust was each other. Many hated or feared the gods too much to trust them ever again, but had far less hesitation in trusting eachother with their lives or more. She had heard stories from the front of how entire squads of Grigori would trade their lives for a handful of fellows trapped behind enemy lines. In the Svartalfar, those people would have been left to die, expected to take as many down with them as they could. But here they were rescued, and everyone expected to repay the favor.

She knew that trust. It was the same trust she had sought to take advantage of, had wrapped around her as a mantle as she had stayed and served in the palace. It had given her space for her magics, time for her spying. It had been warm, comforting, loved.

It had ensnared her as thoroughly as any chains or spider webbing ever could have.

If she went home, she would be a hero. The Grigori would be dealt a severe blow, and the Svartalfar granted a great boon now and forever. She would never have anything to fear... unless she became too popular, or her queen became jealous. To protect herself, she would have to bow her head even further into the dirt just to stay even.

Volonna had information empires would wage war for, and all she could bear to do was give it back. So she snuck once more through the palace. No, not snuck. She walked as if she belonged, and no one gave her a second though. The only sneaking she had done had been to use her magics to sneak into Cassiel's chambers.

The Angel sat in a chair, hunched over as if asleep. At least, Volonna thought he was asleep. She had never asked, and Cassiel had never advertised just what he did in his chambers. She saw a simple bed, a practical desk, and a small table with a liqour cabinet. She saw a room that the local merchant likely would be ashamed to call his own. But it was typical of Cassiel. Kneeling down before him, Volonna gently spoke.

"My Lord. My Lord Cassiel."

"Volonna." How he managed to remember everyone he met had always amazed others. He just -knew- people, remembered people. It was part of what made him such a successful leader.

"My Lord," she repeated, confirming.

"You need not call me that," Cassiel reminded her as he did everyone else who insisted on calling him with proper respect.

It had always been a losing proposition.

"My Lord," she said a third time, ignoring him, "I have sinned and committed great crimes against you and the Grigori people. Though you bid me welcome and gave me hospitality in your land and palace, I sought to use it against you. I spied on you and your councils, Lord Cassiel, sought out your secrets. Many I have already passed on to the Queen of the Winter Court."

"This I know," Cassiel spoke. "I have long known that Svartalfar spies have been inserted in my kingdom and my palace. I have come to expect it, though I refrain from knowing who. But why do you tell me now?" asked Cassiel. "I see the dagger under your wrist. Have you come to assassinate me?"

Volonna looked aghast that she had forgotten to leave her weapon behind. Casting it aside, she knelt even lower, her head almost touching the ground in both regret and supplication.

"Never, Cassiel," she vowed. "I will never harm you or the Grigori ever again. I come to you because I can not stand to do so anymore. Punish me as you see fit, but I felt I had to confess." She looked at him with love, not romantic, but the love all Grigori held for their leader and for their culture. "The Grigori have come too far to be brought low by myself. I could never conquer the Grigori: they have conquered me." And she bowed her head again, waiting for him to call his guards.

But he didn't. Standing, he walked to his small table and withdrew a glass, pouring beer into it. He offered her one, but merely set it down when she refused to budge. Helping himself to another glass, he sat at the table and looked at her with a contemplative gaze.

"I do not think punishment will be necessary," he said at last, but was not smiling at her surprise. "Forgiveness for past wrongs and beliefs is at the heart of my teachings. If we refused and persecuted all those who had opposed us, we would have been crushed long ago."

Volonna's face slowly lit up as she realized what Cassiel was saying.

"You will keep your name," Cassiel decreed, "so that you might always remember what you were and what you came to be. You came to us a spy, but tonight I welcome you as one Grigori to another."

Volonna bowed, hiding the first tears of happiness that she had had in nearly a hundred years. "Thank you, My Lord," she whispered. Cassiel grunted uncomfortably.

"You should also remember one of my first teachings," he instructed. "Namely, please don't act like that around me. Come, sit at my table and drink."

Volonna had the sense to be embarrassed, but rose to her feet and did so. As she enjoyed the liqour down her throat, Cassiel looked at her much more seriously and with a calculating gaze that might well have decided his judgement beforehand.

"As a Grigori," he said, "I hope we can trust you to tell us what you know. Just what did you hear, Volonna, that you would not give up?"

And Volonna did. All of it. What she had heard them attempting. And she told of her childhood stories, of the dark mansion in the woods where the moon howled and men were cursed.

When Volonna eventually left, passing a pair of surprised and embarrassed guards after promising to do all that she could to expose any other Svartalfar spies in the palace, Cassiel was left to consider what had occurred. Just how close to disaster they had come... and how much closer to a type of salvation there were now.

Cassiel did not go back to sleep that night, if he ever had been asleep in the first place. Instead he considered, he wrote, and he sent a message via a long-distance hawk. What was done was done, and morning dawned. It was time to once again run a nation.

"Welcome, Krinith." Dain invited the mage into his cluttered office. "I would like to thank you. Our cities are now safe because of your help. I would like to thank you very much."
"What for?" Krinith asked, looking around the room at Dain's scattered collection of Luchuirp mechanisms.
"For defending our cities. For scaring the Illians. For training Lorelei's archers.For the Firebows. For that, I would like to give you this." Dain walked over to a cupboard. He brought a staff back to the table. A slim, wooden staff with a rich, golden ring at the top. And, connected to the gold by a thin beam of deep red light, was a brilliant golden crystal. A flame was flickering inside of it. It radiated an aura of heat and power.
"What is it?" Krinith asked in awe.
"A scorched staff. A gift from the Malakims. I present it to you, and wish you a long and happy life."
"I can't possibly accept this."
Dain walked over to the window, whispered a spell and sat back down.
"I have a feeling that you will need this more than me. As dragons wake and the undead stir, we must be strong."
"What do you mean, the undead stir?"
"That's what the priests say." Dain pushed the staff to Krinith. As Krinith's hand grasped the handle, the room warmed considerably.
As Krinith went to leave, he heard a voice in the air.


Krinith walked out of the door, sunlight shining into the room. He opened the letter Dain had slipped to him, reading the thin, slanting writing on the page.

The Amurites thank you. I will not force you into our services any more. Go enjoy yourself.
Dain​

With a word of power, the letter caught fire and burnt, turning into ashes that were scattered in the wind.