Mazera Mega Story Thread

If this had been a play or a bard’s tale, the duel would have come before the battle. Both sides would have sent their champion, the victor taking the spoils as the losing army stood by and was disarmed.

Takezo had offered that, though mainly as a means to duel and eliminate the Grigori’s champion before the battle began in earnest. Father Jeon, nobody’s fool, had answered the challenge with a hail of arrows. The battle had begun, and the Grigori attacked the last mountain-castle between them and the Yokaido plains.

For all their fearsome and well-deserved reputation, there would have been little doubt that the Yokaido would have fallen in hours had it not been for their hero. Had it been a Cambion elite leading this army, there long ago would have ceased to be an army for all the times he would have thrown the human serfs against the Grigori swords. The Yokaido would have ordered a charge out of their castle in the mountain saddle, engaged in a chaotic and violent melee, and been killed.

Takezo had been made the leader of the Yokaido in no small part because he was not a Cambion elite, a warrior drunk on his own prowess. Takezo fought like a demon but was a human. He treated his men like humans, or if not that, at least not as disposable property. And for that modicum of fairness, they fought and died like fanatics for him and him alone. He was harsh and demanding, but rewarded them as well. It was a condemnation on the Cambion ruling class that mere heavy-handed indifference and acceptance could inspire such fanatical affection.

But even such inspired followers would not have been enough without Takezo to aid them. They fought bravely and fiercely and to their last breath, but they remained what they had always been: unevenly trained peasants wielding bronze weapons, facing the highest trained, iron-wielding Serpentine Slayers. The Yokaido had no iron of their own, and not even Takezo could demand mithril weapons for him men.

No, the reason they lasted so long, the reason they had not been slaughtered, was because Takezo was worth an army, and fought like a Beast of Agares himself. It would have been impossible to explain to an observer why Takezo had no Cambion blood running through his veins, that his presence and power were not magical.

The only thing magical about him was his sword, the bloody Masamune. It was his second pair of eyes, warning him when opportunistic swordsmen came from behind. It was a guiding pair of arms, strengthening his blows and guiding them at the same time. It was his second, his third, his fourth and fifth wind, letting him dance in blood and iron without stop, never tiring, pushing him to the physical limit of his abilities without error. Because Masamune was a Fallen angel of Force, trapped in the form of a wicked sword, and his aid and power had been a part of their dark pact.

And so it was Takezo who kept this fight going, matching one advance here, challenging another there. Where he went, Yokaido triumphed, but he could not be everywhere. Eventually the Grigori broke into the citadel inbetween the mountain peaks, and the Yokaido defenders were pushed back inside their keep. And they were pushed, and pushed, and pushed until Takezo would not allow them to be pushed anymore.

Takezo stood on the last Yokaido ramparts, daring anyone to step forward and challenge him. Behind him, his men worked to barricade the rear entrance, to make their own last stand. Takezo had stepped forth to turn back the Grigori tide himself.

And for too long, he had. This rampart, the one un-blocked path through the keep, was wide enough that one man, one brilliant man, could hold off an army by holding off any three men at a time. Far infront of him, and ever farther, a number of brave men were carried to the rear, to the Medicos who would desperately try and save their lives. They had been insects to him.

The man for whom the Serpentine Slayers parted, the man who brazenly stepped forward to oppose him, was most certainly not.

“I am Takezo,” he introduced himself to the new arrival, offering his opponent the chance to prepare himself, “and my black Masamune will be the last thing you will see in this world. Step forward only if you dare.”

“I am Father Jeon,” his adversary returned, “I have renounced my homeland of the Bannor, and I have renounced the gods of good and evil. I fight for men and women who seek to live apart from the gods, the men and women of the Grigori, and you have killed far too many. Prepare yourself,” the Champion of the Grigori warned, and drew his own blade, a simple but elegant blade of mithril, certainly taken from the corpse of a defeated Cambion.

The battle that followed was dazzling, amazing, and even beautiful. Parry for parry, thrust for thrust, two men of completely different sword styles who were unable to conquer their opponent. Takezo fought in the Yokaido fashion of their curved katanas, slashing and cutting with his dark blade. Father Jeon fought in the simple, efficient, practical Bannor-style. There was no showmanship, no drama, only utilitarian violence. Thrust, parry, counter, thrust again. The three part cycle which had fought off the demons of hell until the Bannor’s legendary escape. It was simple, but no less impressive. The Serpentine Slayers before him nearly crowded and pushed each other off to better watch their Champion fight. The Yokaido men slowed and almost stopped their work on their own barricade, too entranced by their Hero’s form.

Neither could conquer each other outright, and alas the battle turned into one of attrition. Takezo was a young man, his youthful energies sustained, managed, and exploited by Masamune. Father Jeon was old, old enough to be a Father twice over now. He could not rely on power, on speed, or stamina, but only his experience. But as his energies flowed out, and yet Takezo’s never seemed to fade, his experience mattered less and less.

The first sign was five minutes before the fall, a slight stumble when avoiding a thrust. The second, a minute later, was the negligence to follow up on an opening. Takezo had taunted him, and had been the first to recognize what he saw. The third minute was the last in which Father Jeon managed an attack. The fourth was characterized by increasingly desperate parries and guards.

On the fifth minute, Takezo broke through Jeon’s guard, disarmed him, and checked him into the ground in the space of three steps. The Yokaido man, soaked with his own sweat, brought back Masamune, waiting for any further attempt on the part of the man under his foot to resist.


Masamune whispered in his mind, urged him to finish the man infront of him.

He is weak! Look at him, not even trying to survive! He has given up, and is worth nothing. Let me drink of his blood, and you shall be restored in part.

Father Jeon only stared back at him, determination unyielding even as his lungs gasped for air. ‘Go ahead, kill me,’ his eyes seemed to say. ‘You won because of that sword, because of my age. You still have not beaten me, though.’

‘No,’ Takezo thought, denying the sword for the sake of pride. ‘He has not given up. He lasted this long on his own strength, and nothing else. He has outfought nearly every Cambion I have ever known, and with no outside assistance. He is undoubtedly one of the strongest foes I have ever fought. To kill him now would be ignore the proof of his ability.’

If there was one thing Masamune liked, it was power. To keep the strong strong, the weak weak. It was not in its nature to kill the truly strong, but instead to slaughter the weak and those who merely thought they were strong.

Very well, the fallen angel inside his sword thought. I expect suitable compensation for being denied, though, it warned, but Takezo was somewhat pleased it had agreed with him, and he began to lift his foot oh so slightly.

All this, from triumph to decision, took less than four racing heart beats. Time resumed with a yell.

“Jeon!” came the voice from the Grigori ranks, and Takezo looked up to see a Serpentine rushing forward alone, the rest of his men still stunned in shock and surprise. A blur raced towards him, and Takezo slashed to reveal it to be the young man’s thrown helmet.

‘A diver-‘ was all the time had time to think before the rusher hit. His opponent’s blade batting Masamune far to the side, Takezo was left entirely unprotected as the charger checked him in full, sending both flying back and away from the defeated Adventurer. They landed tumbling, and his attacker managed no less than two good punches before Takezo was able to kick him off and bring Masamune between them.

“Messa! No!” shouted Father Jeon from the ground, but it was far too late to prevent what had happened.

“Pull Father Jeon back!” Messa ordered his men. “Get him to safety!” He stood between Jeon and Takezo, willing to spend his life to buy precious seconds for the fallen champion to be taken to safety. Father Jeon could live. Father Jeon could prepare. And Father Jeon could return another day, able to face this demon in human form.

Takezo looked down at the one who had denied him his triumph. Jeon was never in danger. Takezo would have spared him, released him to return regardless. It would have been the greatest demonstration of his power, and for his respect of the other’s power. But this, this whelp would so disrespect their duel and his own champion as to intervene after the conclusion had been made clear? It was an insult not only to Takezo’s skill, Takezo’s pride, but also those of Father Jeon.

Takezo glared. “I will murder you where you stand,” he promised in a snarl, and they both knew that Messa expected nothing else. Takezo rushed in fast as lightening with a brutal horizontal slash, forceful enough to slice through plate mail with ease.

Messa did not try and block. His iron blade would have been as effective as a stick of butter. Instead he put his sword at an angle and diverted Takezo’s blow oh so slightly upward, ducking under the black death. Takezo reversed the flow long before Messa could attempt any sort of counterattack, coming down from the top left corner in a diagonal slash. Again Messa barely managed to angle and duck the blow. Each time Takezo attacked, Messa blocked at an angle, letting the force be redirected harmlessly away.

But such Balance could not be kept up for long. Masamune shredded Messa’s own iron blade with each slice, cutting off slivers of iron like one might cut a block of cheese. With each blow the sword was lesser, weaker, and soon it was less than nothing. Before Messa could even try and throw the hilt, Takezo beat it out of his hands with such force that the hilt ripped open Messa’s scabs as it flew out of his hands, sprinkling specks of blood on Takezo and Masamune. Before Messa could let out a shout, a scream, a sob of unexpected pain, Takezo returned the shoulder slam from earlier and sent Messa crashing into the ground.

Messa’s place under Takezo’s feet was nothing like Jeon’s. Jeon had been strong even in defeat, had given the aura of one who only let you stand on his chest because he tolerated you to do so. Had Takezo stepped back, Jeon would have risen once more and kept on fighting until he was knocked down again, and again, and again.

Messa lacked his father-figure’s will, his warrior ethos. He was not afraid to die, but he was resigned to it. His stolen glance towards him rushing men, his look at Takezo said it all. ‘You beat me,’ his eyes seemed to say. ‘Even without arcane power, you still beat me with only the sharpness of that sword to help you.’

‘But I already won. You can’t reach him now, and when you’re done killing me my men are going to mob you, to tear you to pieces. He lives, and you will die soon after me. And nothing you can do will change that.’

Takezo, or maybe it was the taint of Masamune inside of him, hated the condemnations of the weak. They always tried to justify themselves to the end. That they gave up their pride, were willing to set aside their own lives… it made Takezo want to stab the ungrateful fool beneath him over and over and over again.

Masamune agreed, more frantic with bloodhunger that Takezo could ever recall.

Do it! Do it! Taste his heart’s blood! it cried, frantic with greed and hope and non-sensible desire. Kill him now! I must have his blood, and it will help set me free! I will not let you deny me for this one. DO IT!

Takezo had no desire or intention of sparing this one. He thrust down.

“Messa!”

Takezo could only watch in shock, shock mirrored in Messa’s eyes, as Masamune plunged into Father Jeon’s back. Father Jeon’s momentum alone carried him forward, head butting Takezo in the stomach. The surprise and shock loosened Takezo’s grip on Masamune, and the with the last of his energy Jeon threw his body in a twist, sending the blade clattering onto the floor. Before Takezo could even try to dive for it, though, the Serpentine Slayers he had seen charging before tackled him. They hadn’t even had time to the space to draw their weapons, but without Masamune Takezo was unable to overpower or push them off of him.

From his spot on the floor, Takezo could see and hear his two most recent foes. Messa had nearly crawled to Jeon’s side, and tears were already streaming down his cheeks as he cradled the dying man.

“Papa Jeon…” he whispered, “…why? You were supposed to survive! I wanted you to survive!”

If this had been a drama or novel, Jeon would have somehow raised a hand and gone into a long soliloquy on his affection for his former squire before dying while surrounded by his friends and allies, while their foes merely stood by and watched.

This wasn’t a drama or a novel, only a short piece of a much greater story. The Serpentine who were not piled upon him were streaming past, and already the sounds of the final stand in the final keep of the final mountains was beginning. Without him to steel them, his last men would be slaughtered, except that in watching his fall they lost their hopes and motivations. Any retreat, any return to the Yokaido lands, and they would merely go back to being lesser objects to Cambion lords. There hopes and dreams lived and died with him. As the Serpentine Slayers tore through the wooden barricade with uncommon fury, eager to avenge their champion upon these pitiful souls, they were taken aback and tested to the core of their character as one Yokaido soldier after another threw down their weapon and wept and offered their surrender.

But Takezo wasn’t thinking of them, though they were thinking of him. Being separated from Masamune after so long had sent his head reeling in the absence of foreign thoughts and the freedom of his own, and all he could focus on was the sad scene before him.

“Messa you fool,” Father Jeon whispered not with anger but with love. “I couldn’t let that sword kill you for its own purpose. That was not your fate. Your fate is so much… so much greater. Messa, never forget why, why-”

“Why what?” Messa asked as Jeon fell silent. “Why what! Jeon! You have to stay, you have to tell me! Never forget why what? Jeon!”

“Jeon!”

Tarkar Merek looked out over the battlements. The Balseraphs were closing in on the city of Crystalhollow and he was there to help in the defense. Dural losses had been high so far, but they were able to successfully hold the Balseraphs at bay, losing very little ground. He had come to Crystalhollow with the bulk of the Dural army to make a charge into Balseraph lands. He scanned the groups of warriors below him, at the different weapons crafted to be beautiful, but deadly at the same time. Some blades were enchanted to be so beautiful, enemies regularly become captivated by the blade swinging towards their heads. He was one of the medics for the army, trained by a Grigori Medicos named Pakun. Pakun had wished him the best of luck when he left to join the battle and Tarkar felt like he would need all the luck he could get. Tarkar noticed the tacticians getting the warriors into formation which usually meant the charge was beginning. He headed down the stairs to meet up with his platoon with a heavy feeling in his chest.
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"Ready! Chaaaarrrggeeee!" The Dural warriors raised their spears and swords and charged towards the Balseraph lines. The Balseraphs dug in and began playing their war music, a seemingly happy song that clashes with the bloodshed of battle. The closer the Dural got, the more the inexperienced warriors became unnerved by the smiling painted faces and cheery music. When the two armies finally collided, the music hit a peak of intensity. The Dural thrust their spears into the giggling Balseraph warriors and were cut down by freaks and taskmasters.
Tarkar Merek stayed behind his platoon and began healing patients brought to him. Several were healed well enough that they could immediately return to the battle, while the Balseraphs cared not for healing their warriors. The battle ended up becoming a battle of attrition as the Dural cut down the Balseraph forces, losing some and constantly recycling wounded warriors. Throughout the battle, the Balseraph music continued to be gleeful and the smiles never left the Balseraph warriors' faces, even when they were dead.
Tarkar looked up after healing a patient and noticed another large group of Balseraphs charging towards the battlefield. He stood and ran to the mages. His fist was glowing a yellow color and he stood prepared, waiting for the Balseraphs. The other mages got the hint and began to prepare the same spell, watching and waiting for the Balseraphs to get close enough. As soon as they were close enough, Tarkar opened his fist and pushed it outwards, sending a blinding light from his hand with a loud bang. The mages did the same and soon the Balseraph warriors were screaming and clutching their eyes, some burned by the intense heat of the light. They turned and retreated back to their lines, still giggling along the way.
The Dural warriors followed up behind them until they reached a mountain pass. They fortified one of the entrances to the pass and dug in to rest after the battle. Tarkar Merek was busy healing many wounded warriors that night while listening to the gleeful cackling of the Balseraphs at the other end of the pass.

The spider scurried up the tree and out onto one of the branches. Its eight eyes viewed its surroundings and alerted it to movement below. The spider moved slowly to see what it was and found a man with a strange bird on his shoulder walking through the forest. The spider was hungry, but it wasn't strong enough to kill this meal yet. It would have to follow and it would have to wait.

Then it will feed.

"Lord Auric should be pleased with me when this works!" Galdin giggled gleefully as he glanced around the icy cave. Before him lay the unconscious form of the Hippus king Tasunke who he had kidnapped without his lord's knowing. Galdin raised his arms into the air. "Drifa! Most beautiful Drifa, dragon of ice! Hear me! The Illians require your assistance and Mulcarn Reborn craves your return to Garduk! Hear me and rise!"
The cave rumbled in response, causing icicles to fall and shatter on the ground. The bones of a great dragon were pushed slowly out of the ground until the rumbling stopped. "Drifa! I bring you this kingly sacrifice! Rise!" Galdin's breath hung in the air before floating to the bones of the dragon. It grew and enveloped the bones, then crystallizing into ice. Under the ice, muscle and sinew began to grow and weave itself together. The ice shattered and the skin hardened, separating into scales. The dragon's eyes filled in the sockets and its wings unfolded for the first time in years.
Drifa the White Dragon stood and let out a loud roar before spotting Tasunke and taking her sacrifice.



Cities as far away as Braduk the Burning heard the roar of the great dragon and felt fear.

"Hear me, all you worms! You dare to call yourselves Sheaim yet you live peacefully by lizards, vampires, Elves, and Orcs. A true Sheaim would call upon Agares for his blessing to smite this city of the Elven scum! The Orcish plague! The Mazatl corruption! The Calabim blasphemy! Even the self-righteous Malakim. Rise up, I say! Rise and use your powers to bring corruption to this city and bring it under Sheaim control! Crush the rebellion against the Final Fate! Come! We go to the Malakim and we will crush their skulls as grapes! For Agares!"

- Averax the Cambion before the Malakim Massacre which started the Battle of Bayamo

One of the most important merchants in the Grigori nation could find audience in just about any capital these days, that was true. But in the vassal state of the Malakim, the first vassal on the face of Mazera, the respect and attention given to him by the Malakim was... unsettling. While generally pleased with Cassiel's (lack) of demands from them (they were not pressed into the Yokaido War, the Empyrean Church was still standing though less prominent than before), it was clear that many assumed that he was here to issue demands. And so they treated him with more than the usual hospitality, saw to his every possible whim, and were terrified of upsetting him and causing him to make harsher demands.

Goodreau hated it. He had had to directly tell them to bring him water, not wine, that he was not interested in making the acquaintance of whatever fair women just so happened to be around the palace, and similar veins of hospitality awarded to a conquering master.

It was with some relief when he was able to meet with Varn Gossam in private, though even then the national deference irked him. Not checked by the guards, he had handed his own belt knife to them before entering.

As he entered, though, he saw Varn nodding in approval, and realized it was a test of sorts, one that he had passed.

"Welcome, Goodreau," Varn greeted, smiling in the warm light that entered the council chamber. A Empyrean tradition, but a good one: the skylights offered much natural light, making it far easier to read proposals during the day. "I trust you have enjoyed our hospitality?"

"It was overwhelming," Goodreau answered simply, and left it at that. If Varn detected the not-complete truth, and he likely was, he could sort out the meaning for himself.

"So what else brings you to this land, my friend?" asked Varn easily. "My people are very grateful for your assistance in setting up this branch of our farmer's guild. Our common market benefits both of us well, and is an enlightened difference from what I hear about Cualli and their Calabim masters. I see I was right in knowing that Cassiel would be a fair protector."

Goodreau nodded, accepting Cassiel's praises as due. His own respect for the angel was very high. But it was time to answer Varn's question.

"Now that the Farmer's Guild and common agriculture market is set up, I come to discuss events that come to be, and proposals for which Cassiel hopes you can be of assistance." Varn shifted in his chair, but said nothing.

"First, I am sure you are aware of the Battle of the Last Peak," Goodreau began.

Varn nodded. "I mourned the passing of Father Jeon and so many brave Grigori as did so many others here," he said.

Goodreau nodded again, in gratitude. "My adopted son was there as well," he admitted, "and came close to death himself."

"I hope he takes the benefit of his survival and appreciates it," Varn said. "I understand that all that remains is a final push down the mountains and through the heartlands."

"Indeed. And then the war will be won," Goodreau said. "The Yokaido have holed up in their cities, plainly intending to make a stand. And when they fall, and our siege craft trundle towards them even now, the war will be over."

"And what then?" asked Varn. "What does Cassiel intend for then, after he has conquered the Yokaido?"

"Peace," said Goodreau. "Cassiel intends for peace, hopes for peace, plans to ensure peace. The Yokaido will be sat on until we can reform them, a task we hope your aid in. We will rule them until they are no longer a threat to either their own people or themselves."

"You intend to forcibly vassalize them," Varn said.

"It will not be like our relationship with you. We will manage their affairs directly. One day we might let them go, but not until we deem fit. So long as the polical nature of their regime is the same, it will likely be some time."

"But regardless, after the war there will need to be much rebuilding. Reworking of the systems and cities already in place. Raising new cities to the south and east, where we hope to respond. And this is where Cassiel hopes to make a proposal for you, as your people would also benefit from this." Varn leaned forward in interest, and Goodreau continued.

"Cassiel intends to announce a competition between the two schools of practice of smiths, the Fabricaforma of the Dural and the Stonefire Guild. Cassiel has recently discovered that among the few remaining Khazad dwarves who were away from Khazak at the End, a small and modest band of the Stonefire Guild had quietly immigrated into the Grigori lands. The only others exist in the Luchirp lands, far from here."

"Cassiel will announce a contest between the two, for whom will guide and teach the worksmen of the Grigori forges. The Fabricaforma can teach us to make all sorts of beutiful trinkets and means to maximize on our means of commerce and beauty. The Stonefire Guild teaches the dwarven methods for forging and casting, and though less ornate they are even better at producing quality goods. Unfortunately, the two compete with each other in practice and requirements, and both can not be set up in the same city."

"Cassiel asks that whichever party loses, you accept. Even if we can not utilize the other now, one day we might and we do not want to have lost the knowledge. And the same should surely apply to you. So say we accept the Fabricaforma: their works will bring us closer with our Dural friends, our merchants will prosper, and the Grigori economy will expand. You, however, would probably prefer the Stonefire Guild: their utilitarian works and enhanced production would speed your rebuilding considerably, and allow you to catch up to where you once were. And, at some point of the future, either one of us could ask that one guild from the other replace our own in one city: should you reach the point in which the Fabricaforma would meet your needs, we could provide. And if the Grigori find themselves assaulted again, the Stonefire Guild would be better at producing the weapons with which to win it. And much as with the farmer's market, we could both enjoy greater benefits with a common metals market."

Varn considered the offer, and thought it generous indeed. "That is quite a favor Cassiel hopes to extend to us," he said. "But what is the price?"

"Only that you provide a merchant or smith of enough renowned to convince them to join you," Goodreau said. "That is all. Search your artisan's workshops, your forges. I know you have been building them. They surely have one gifted master or another to help. And in the future, we hope you remember the favor and respond."

Varn nodded. "I will look into it," he promised. The Malakim were known for their priests, but they had their skilled workers as well. "What else did Cassiel have to ask of me?"

Goodreau spoke has he dug into his bag for something. "There were some minor things: we would like to invest and develop your undeveloped resources for you, in exchange for a share. And he has a case to make for you that you focus your expansions both north east to the Amurites/Khadi, and to the west towards us. Cassiel has visions of a safe trading corridor from East to West, and your nation could become very prosperous indeed in becoming a key trading route. But there was one other thing..." he trailed off, pulling out a sheet of paper and handing it to Varn.

Varn looked at it, and was perplexed. "What does it say?" he asked, looking at the dribble on it.

"We do not know," said Goodreau. "That is some sort of Khazad code, taken from the Khazad capital describing some strange technology. Our sages and those of our Austrin allies have puzzled endlessly over it."

Varn looked up. "And what would you have me do?" he asked. "I can not read it either."

Goodreau looked uncomfortable. "We were hoping you could shine light on the coding," he said, and left it that.