Mazera Mega Story Thread

To judge by the tranquility of the Yokaido palace, a forbidden city in itself where only the Cambion and their servants lived, none would have gathered that the Yokaido were about to lose the war. Functionaries and dignitaries went along managing the running of an empire, laborers cleaned the halls, cooks slaughtered calfs and prepared traditional feasts. Lord Onimusha remained tranquil, calming his inner fury to be released against the Grigori invaders. His demeanor let even the most worried relax, to believe that the might of the Cambion elite alone would salvage this war.

But that was not the case.

To judge by the war ministry and the nobles therein, the war had not been lost long ago, the chance for a negotiated settlement not discarded in their Lord's arrogance. They set about their work dutifully, preparing swords and crossbows for the defense of the major cities. They prepared for a heroic struggle to the end, and assumed that the rest of the nation, peasants and all, would be equally willing to die for their Cambion masters.

But that was also not the case.

The Veil temples had no concept of worry at all, only smug triumphalism. It was the nature of a religion that celebrated its adherents as the best, and condemned the failures as mere imposters of the faith. Those who remained thought that they and they alone were the true followers, and that their efforts would demonstrate such. And so the summoned pit beasts, reanimated corpses filled with diseases and maladies, and prepared the the next rights to alter more Midgarsomar of Agares, confident that their power would wipe the battlefields clean.

This was most certainly not the case either.

The Veil temples were the feel the wrath of the masses they so callously sacrificed in the Rituals. Profanes in the streets found themselves with iron daggers in their sides, and were left to wonder who would dare strike them even as they died. Priests of the unspeakable were murdered, the bloody cells freed. And the sights therein motivated the mobs even more.

This was the heatbeat of the Yokaido, for whom even the peasants, always under the heel of their Cambion masters, had a certain unique sort of pride. This was the case.

The garrisons and armories that turned or were overrun were the next to know, to realize what was happening. Human soldiers hearing the rumors that they or their families might be in the next round of sacrifices. Frantic, fearful, furious serfs seeking weapons, arms, anything to prevent it. The guards and soldiers who sympathized, who joined them, they lived. The steadfast, the loyal, they died if they were caught.

This shouldn’t have been. The Cambion ruled over them for ages of dominance and oppression, but they had belonged to them, and in return they had jealously guarded them from outside threats. They fought the Cambion’s wars, and were fought for. Takezo had proved, to them at least, that they had worth. Once tasted, it was never forgotten. But the sacrifices… the sacrifices, in which entire city districts were rounded up, taken to the altars, and sacrificed by the Veil… that had violated the Trust. That even though they lived to serve the Cambion, that the Cambion protected them so that they might keep on living to serve. It was, in some sense, similar to how the Calabim vampires had taken control. The dangled the carrot of hope, advancement, even as they moved the goalposts ever further.

But they had never, at heart, violated the Trust. Sacrifice the war prisoners, the babes and children of other civilizations. Make bloody use of the prisoners and the malcontents. But not us. Never us.

The invokers of this uprising did not spout Grigori rhetoric or Demos ideals. Not initially. That would come later, when the Grigori occupiers sought to further those who dared rise with enabling and justifying philosophies. Social compacts, noblis oblige, even that there actions would one day redeem and save the Cambion themselves. No, the invokers and first of this uprising did not think of those ideals. They had not even heard of them. They only remembered the Pyres, and knew what was to come next.

The Palace only learned of the First Peasant Rebellion when a desperate messenger nearly ran near into the palace gate, a crossbow bolt stuck in his shoulder. As they listened to him ramble of the traitors, and usurpers, of how only a core few human troops remained loyal, and that even some of the cambion had turned, it was then and only then that they realized that the smokes rising from the city was not the Veil priests returning to the sacrificial fires. It was the embers and ashes of the first Sacrifice lighting a fire of a different sort across the land.

Once the Peasant Rebellion began, the war ended, and it was worthy of the irrationality of a Balseraph play.

Grigori soldiers marched from the mountains across the Yokaido plains. And when they came across the smallest settlements, the ones to far to have been affected, too distant to hear or believe the rumors, they met the fiercest resistance from the least dangerous settlements. A fanatical fore-guard for an army that was never formed, peasant militia that were overrun with ease.

And yet the cities, the intended strongholds for the Yokaido last stand, the heart of the Yokaido empire? Some put up resistance, had thrown out the Rebels before the Grigori arrived. The last to fall would not be for weeks.

But the major cities? The capital of Tai'dashi, the river city of Nagai, the mountain stronghold and mithril mines of Machi?

The Grigori were greeted with open gates and cheering human citizens. Cambion corpses and prisoners were paraded to greet them, and the worst of the atrocity-committers were publicly killed then and there before shocked Grigori scouts who had been sent to investigate and found themselves delivered a city. It was as if Jubilee had spread everywhere, and the Grigori alone had missed the message.

Only the capital city, the interior of the Tai'dashi, offered the resistance and fight the Grigori had expected, trained for, predicted. There, were only the Cambion were given admittance, there had been no peasants to rise up. The Cambion guards, the Cambion warriors, the elite as a whole, had pushed back and beaten the Peasant Rebels. They had had stood a strong chance of reconquering the city on their own as well, except the Grigori Serpentine Slayers had entered and found themselves in the middle of a civil war. The advance to the palace, the bloody fight to conquer the stronghold of the Yokaido leadership, that was the only part which played out as the Grigori expected. Onimusha went down fighting, as everyone expected. Perhaps they had overestimated how many he could take down, however: two men and no more. Takezo would laugh at his emperor's failure.

The Yokaido Liberation was bizarre, disconcerting. Histories and tales of the war would often gloss over it, focusing only as far as the Battle of the Last Keep and the First Peasant Rebellion. It wasn't that they were upset that the final conquest was so easy, or that the evils of the Cambion elite led to their own dramatic downfall, but...

What was a Grigori swordsman or Serpentine Slayer supposed to think when Cambions came out of hiding begging to be taken prisoner and protected from the Mobs?

It was anticlimatic, that's what. The Yokaido fell not with a bang, or a whimper, but simply collapsed before the Grigori could set a single foot in their lands. What was left was for the Grigori to sort out.

There are three common misconceptions about the Grigori.

The first is that they are weak.

No nation in Mazera is weak, or else they would not have survived as long as they had. Not even a nation which defied the gods and ignorred them. In some respects, such a nation had even more hurdles to overcome, and to date the Grigori had done that well.

The second is that the Grigori are trusting.

The Grigori believe in deals. They are not the kind to make deals with the intent on breaking them. It is simply not in their nature. But they have eyes, they have ears, and they have experience with those who would break or bend deals as a matter of course. That is why the Grigori are very careful to craft specific deals: they like to know what they are getting into.

So when the Grigori asked for Chislev assistance, they asked for the Chislev to go where they Chislev work best: the forests, the swamps. There the Chislev fought better than the Grigori could, better than the Grigori would. The Chislev handled the swamps, and the Grigori handled the mountains and southern plains. The Yokaido were stretched to the extreme, and were promptly snapped in two. And in the meantime, the Chislev were (pardon the pun) bogged down in a region from which travel from was difficult.

The Grigori offered the Chislev free passage through their lands through certain routes. These routes showed the Chislev that the Grigori did not build walls on only one side of the cities. They showed the Chislev that Cassiel knew the fire that he dealt with, and that he had set aside plenty of marble and stone to stop it if it ran out of control.

The Grigori were surprised at the timing, taken aback at the tactical initiative. Many men and women, hoping otherwise, were surprised to see death running towards them. But they did not feel betrayed.

The third is that they are gentle.

The Grigori are kind, or so they like to think. They hope for the best, work for best, fight for the best. And 'the best' is a very dangerous measure. It is the sort of thing fanatics are made of. Many an Ordine Medicos has shocked his or her patient with exceptionally strong hands, or with less than gentle treatment for an especially obnoxious or aweful patient.

They were people. Some were smart. Some dumb. Some kind. Some abrassive. They were no more gentle than other people.


---

Atudire Novre marched before Kalm, the first major Grigori city to the Chislev border, and wondered when the front and back of Kalm had switched in his mind. One day, the city was rotated against the Yokaido, and this had been the sleepy back. Now, the Chislev were to the city's front, and the war fires were in front of them.

Beside him, the garrison of Kalm. Behind him, on the ramparts, the citizen militia of archers. Walking past them, Atudire had seen many of the same citizens who had rioted in the streets just days or weeks ago. The stone-throwing lass was there as well, and had been cheering and urging him on as loudly as she had accussed him before. She had even thrown something far nicer than a stone this time, and he wondered if she even remembered him from that day. Now that he knew here name, he hoped to find out.

When the Demos Reforms had been advocated, the question of war weariness had been brought up. There had been real fears that politicians would cave to anger at deaths in unpopular but necessary wars. Public opinion could change so quickly, they said.

Atudire had never seen anyone urging for a treaty with the Yokaido except at the worst, and seeing the city's current reaction only convinced him that the Grigori people weren't so foolish. They didn't demand vengance, they didn't howl for blood. The Chislev immigrants had gotten away with only a few harsh words, and the city guard had stopped that even quicker.

Instead, they acted like this man and his family, who were the latest refugees to escape from the border. He and his family, now owning nothing more than the clothes on their back, passed him with stern eyes.

"Teach those fools a lesson," the farmer stated. "Show them."

Show them what? Grigori spirit? Grigori pride? Grigori metalwork and magics, even this far back from the front? The answer was: all of them, and more. Show them why the Grigori don't need Gods.

"Of course, sir" Atudire said, and waited for the raiders to attack.

Journal of High Chief Votakara
Age of Rebirth
Year unknown


I have begun my greatest project to date. Bayamo, the city of many species. This city will be a melting pot of all the different nations. Calabim to Malakim, Sheaim to Kuriotate, Cualli to Clan. This has been my dream for so many years and it's finally coming to fruition! Soon I will be able to unite Mazera in spirit and war will be no more! I have already allowed Ljosalfar, Sheaim, and Malakim refugees to settle in the city, a good start. If I can get these species to work together, I can show that there is no need for conflict!


Journal of High Chief Votakara
Age of Rebirth
Year unknown


Bayamo continues to grow and succeed. Calabim and Mazatl refugees have begun settling in the city, bring the nations closer together. If I can get the Overcouncil and the Undercouncil merged and moved to Bayamo, we could finally have a city for all nations, a city of neutrality! Already the different nations represented are trading amongst each other, forming a bond between races. Hopefully, this will prove as an example and peace will spread across Mazera! I have a meeting with refugees from the Clan of Embers wishing to settle in Bayamo. I hope this goes well.


Journal of High Chief Votakara
Age of Rebirth
Year unknown


After meeting with the Clan refugees, they were allowed into the city and settled down. They have begun selling their wares to the other nations and the bonds of friendship are continuing to get stronger! I am going to write to Cassiel of the Grigori to secure trading rights between our nations so Bayamo can further prosper and grow. I am meeting with some Kuriotate refugees within the next two days. This city will succeed!


Journal of High Chief Votakara
Age of Rebirth
Year unknown


A setback in my project of Bayamo. The different nations represented have divided the city between them. They've made districts such the Sheaim District and the Mazatl District. This isn't what this city was supposed to be, these people should be living together in harmony! Not splitting up and declaring themselves apart of the other citizens of Bayamo. I have planned a speech for later today. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to talk to the Kuriotate refugees yet due to this unforeseen problem.

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

Votakara walked up the steps to the podium and looked out over the crowd. He saw a multitude of faces. Elf, Orc, human, lizard. All present in front of him and all living in the samy city peacefully. "Citizens of Bayamo, I am pleased that you have bonded and have traded your wares amongst each other. I am pleased that there has been no violence and that there has been tolerance for all refugees, including those of the Sheaim. I am, however, disappointed that you have divided the city into districts. This city should be a melting pot of nations, a city of all nations! You must cast off your prejudice of other races and embrace them as brothers!"
Votakara stopped and looked out over the crowd, planning his next words. "What I'm saying is how very important it is to bring about in the concious mind the radical revolution. The crisis, and there is always crisis in the world, especially now it seems to me, is a crisis in contrasts. A crisis that cannot anymore accept the old norms. The old patterns. The ancient traditions. A particular way of life, whether it is the Hippus way or the Ngomele way or the Clan way. And considering what the world is now, with all the misery, conflict, destructive brutality, aggression, and so on, man and beast are still as they were. They are still brutal, violent, aggressive, acquisitive, competitive."
Votakara look at the faces in the audience and began his next sentence. He never got to start as a member in the crowd yelled "We will never tolerate Kuriotate scum!" and there was a small explosion in the middle of the crowd. Votakara ducked and heard the moans of pain from his people. He crawled down the stairs and saw Sheaim refugees attacking and killed the other citizens. Elves were cut down by summoned demons, Malakim were set alight with unholy fire, and explosions continued as the Sheaim mages channeled their unholy magics. Votakara noticed one of the Sheaim running towards him and bolted for his palace. Upon reaching his chambers, he collapsed to the ground and crawled over to the wall. He sat up and leaned against the wall as the door to his chambers was smashed down. The man that was chasing him walked up to him slowly, his fist clenched and glowing a cruel black. Votakara reached for his sword, but the man placed the glowing hand on Votakara's face and he blacked out.

Oh, the difference three days made! A week ago when she had arrived in the Grigori capital to try and prevent a war with the Grigori, had arrived under a cloud of mutual distrust and fear. And now she was in a war alongside the Grigori, the hero of the hour. Men, women, and children smiled and greeted her warmly, and their thoughts of the Bannor had likely never been better.

Capria was under no illusion that this affection was permanent, that this would be a permanent change. But she knew her decision to support the Grigori had been the correct one. The threat of war between their two nations had been cleared from both their minds, and the rampant Chislev would be brought to heel. Without them, the Grigori and Bannor could at least be at peace, if not allies in cause. She doubted they could ever be anything more than situational allies.

Capria was no longer in Midgard to prevent a war, but to help agree how the current war would end. That had been the first agreement that she had struck with Cassiel: that the Chislev would not be allowed to be a future threat to their nations. This mistake would be final.

And so she made herself pleasant, amiable, when not working directly on the negotiations. And this evening she returned to Father Jeon's tomb. Already a great Shrine to the Champion was being constructed, but at night any were free to tour. The newest war, though, had kept most from being able to attend: though the Chislev forces were mostly away from Midgard, they remained very dangerous and devastating, requiring everyone's efforts to contain them.

And so she toured the Shrine alone. She preferred it this way: at one time, Father Jeon had been Bannor, had been one of theirs. He had fought his way out of Hell alongside her, had fought the Orcs and risked his life for the Bannor. He was no Decius, who had fought and been exiled on mistaken grounds. His ideology might have been unconventional, but he had enjoyed nothing but respect and admiration from their people.

Why did you leave? she wondered.

And then, one day during the last campaigns against the Clan before the peace, he had left. AWOL?, everyone had wondered. Impossible. No Bannor like him went AWOL. They searched for him, concerned he was grievously wounded, dead even. No signs, nothing, and so they had mourned and thought him missing in action. And for years, that was how they thought of him, remembered him. And then, when the Yokaido came over the mountains, he reappeared, rapidly gaining fame and praise with the Grigori.

Why did you leave?

Father Jeon had fought long, fought hard. He had been disciplined, as all who had escaped Hell had been. And after the escape, he had torn into the missing histories of Creation, of the people and the events that had happened during their stay in Hell. And that had been when he had gained interest in the fallen ArchAngel of Balance, Cassiel. And that had been the start of his fall from the Bannor.

Did you dislike Our Lord's Order so much? Did you truly feel it was so corrupt?

Father Jeon had been one of the first to quietly ask her about the legitimacy of the Priests who convened with Sabbathiel. It was ironic that it had been he, the doubter and most opposed to the imposition of the Order across the Bannor lands, who had been the catalyst to the Order's reform. The thought of what might have transgressed had he not sought her private counsel that dark night...

He had been drunk, no doubt. Not drunk enough, never drunk enough, to do anything improper, but enough that he had spoken thoughts that otherwise could have had him sent to the Confessors.

"I've come to understand a certain pattern in this life," he had started, looking down his clasped hands and away from her. "The gods and priests agree too often. If the priests changes their minds then, miraculously, the gods seem to change theirs as well. When the time for war comes, the gods demand blood and martyrs. When the priesthood wants to expand its temples and embellish itself with grand and costly items, the gods suddenly expect grand and expensive tribute. I don't know about the gods themselves, but religion is clearly an arm of the priests, not the people."

She had listened to his doubts, tried to reassure him, and then had seen that he arrived safely to his home with no further incident. And she had been prepared to ignore her own doubts about the Priesthood who alone communed with Sabbathiel, but Father Jeon had disappeared the week after, and his words stuck in her mind.

And so she had sought an audience with their Lord, and been denied despite her position. The Priesthood, they said, managed their Lord's affairs. Nothing she had done had convinced them otherwise.

A lesser woman or man would have given up. But she was not now one of the most important figures in the Bannor state because she was a lesser woman. She had gone through and applied every piece and tidbit of Bannor and Order law, loophole, and minor issue and demanded an Audience, as was her right as war commander. And when the Priests still stood in her way, she risked everything and had them arrested for obstruction of justice.

Sabbathiel had been surprised when she walked through the doors without announcement, flanked by trusted soldiers on either side. She had been surprised he still resided in his Halls after the corruption of the Order had become clear. Sabbathiel had been helpless so long as the Priesthood alone controlled his means, and all realized how perilously close the Bannor empire had been to falling into corruption.

That flaw, that threat, was no longer possible. The Order had been purged of its transgressors, and the Bannor laws were updated. Sabbathiel now met with not only his priests, but the secular aspects of the Bannor government as well, and also select foreign dignitaries. The corruption had been staunched thanks to this man who lay before Capria, who had rejected the Order entirely.

As she explored her thoughts, she heard another soul step into the shrine. The steps were steady and sure, and looking to the entrance she saw a familiar young man step through.

He seemed surprised to see her. "Lady Capria!"

"Messa of the Grigori," she returned calmly. "It's been some years since I saw you last, traveling with the Grigori Adventurers who occasionally came to our lands. I had last heard you were at the Yokaido front, two weeks away."

"We received aid from a Hippus regiment who sold us some of their horses," Messa said. "We only arrived hours ago, and I march tomorrow morning."

"You should rest, then," Capria advised. "Horse riding is no easy task, and you will need your strength to lead your men into battle. They require a strong leader in front of them."

"I know. I will," he acknowledged, but Capria had dealt with enough young officers to see that probably wouldn't. "I came to see him again," he said softly, indicating Father Jeon's body.

"That's right," she recalled. "You were at his side when he died. Your name is already in bard songs, if only as an accessory."

"He took a blow meant for me," Messa admitted. "I still don't understand why. He should be the leader that my men look at tomorrow. If he were to lead them, I have no doubt the Chislev would be turned back in short order. He was that sort of man. And I?" He looked at the casket and looked lost, confused. "I am not."

"You are right," Capria agreed. "Father Jeon was that sort of man, and you never can be." Messa's downcast look didn't change, but Capria continued. "You can never be Father Jeon because you are not Bannor. Father Jeon fought alongside me in Hell, where the only strength we had was in each other. In Hell, any weakness in the group can doom everyone. You have to be that sort of man, who can drive men to fight the unbeatable and not be broken. Until you have experienced that, grown timeless in that sort of struggle, you will never be like Father Jeon."

"But would you believe that he would not want you to be a copy of him?" Capria asked. "I don't want you to be a copy of him. No one who has escaped Hell would. We our a breed apart, and would be happier if we were the last of our kind."

Messa looked at her in silent confusion, and she went on.

"I have heard what you Grigori think of the Bannor. That we are so organized, so regimented, so bound by the uncompromising laws of the Order that we have forgotten we are not in Hell anymore. But I tell you: we embrace such things because we are not in Hell. When I was a child, I could not play, lest a demon grab me away. I could not walk alone in the dark."

"I did not live your childhood, Messa. I can not say yours was easy of perfect, with no father or mother to call your own, but you could play. You could frollic. And in my lands, our children can do so as well. My niece can cartwheel, something I still can not do. But so that she can play and be secure in her childhood, I and the others will continue to embrace the means to preserve that. We will maintain our regiments to repulse all foes. We will stick to our schedules, so that everything is done on time. And we will punish transgressors harshly, so that they will not repeat and harm our children again. We do that so that our children, and our children's children, will not have to be like us, but only resemble us."

"Father Jeon would not want you to become him, Messa. He would be honored that you wish to emulate him, he would be pleased if you were to take his virtues and strengths and add them onto your own, but he would be most disappointed if you cast aside what you were in a hopeless attempt to become him. You must find your own path and development, Messa of the Grigori. What you will become, Father Jeon can only be a part of. You must find your own talents, and your own strengths, and it will be up to you to apply them in the best way. That is what Father Jeon would surely say, on my word as his former friend and comrade."

"Now go," she said, not gently turning him around and pushing him back towards the door. "Your men will need you more in the morning than he needs you now. Remember your place, and what your duty now is. Nothing will happen to his body now, as long as I am here." She pushed him away from the casket.

He walked to the door, but paused to turn around. He was still unsure, but no longer lost. "Thank you, Lady Capria," he said, bowing in respect as he had seen the Yokaido do. "You have given me much to think about." And he left.

Capria felt an absent smile come to her lips as she watched him go, even though her own questions and confusions remained unanswered. Just like a greenhorn recruit, with potential but unsure, only needing a shove in the right direction to grow. Had he grown in the Bannor lands, he would have been molded into a fine officer indeed.

After the smile passed, her expression hardened. She too walked towards the exit, but as she passed a pillar she threw her gauntleted fist into the shadows. A fleshy throat halted her blow into the nothingness, and the shadow magic dispelled as the person collapsed in shock at the blow. Capria did not give him or her the chance to recover, stomping a wicked knife out of the other's hand. Soon she had him pinned, and an activation of her own magical Ordine tags had summoned her own guards to race into the temple, and the Grigori guards stationed outside would surely follow them in.

"Did you not hear me?" she asked. "I said that no harm would come to this body as long as I was here. Or were you following the boy?" The masked shadow said nothing, and only tried to spit in her face. She backhanded him with ease, and did not let him go until her own and Grigori guards arrived and restrained the shadowed figure.

"Well, I'm sure the Grigori authorities will be as interested in your purpose as I am."

They had left Deremei Diranth's kingdom as soon as they had heard of the new war. Groo and Needles, the invaluable assets who's efforts had distracted and diverted the Midgarsomar of Agares as much as it had, had been warmly seen off by Deremei.

"Go deal with the Chislev," he had bid, "and then we can talk of Cassiel's recognition of my kingdom." No hint of Groo's quiet warnings of the earlier night were evident, and both Adventurers wondered if Deremei would attempt to raid and expand into the occupied Yokaido lands past what Cassiel had agreed to grant. If so, their next meeting would likely be less than pleasant on Deremei's part: surely the Goblin-King was aware of just where the alegiences of his most skilled forces lay. Groo hoped that the Goblin continued to be as clever as he had proven to be: he had grown fond of Deremei.

And so Groo and Needles, rode a cow-drawn wagon that Deremei had provided, and they made their ways through the northern frontier to the Grigori lands. Roads were few and of poor quality: though Grigori war engineers and the new flow of Gretchin laborers race to connect the former Yokaido lands to the Grigori homeland, it would be some time before they came out this far. For now, they rode through various villages, some occupied by Grigori troops and some protected by the Peasant Rebels who had quickly been set up as the Grigori hand in the Yokaido lands. Those last ones were the less trusting of him and Needles, and the orc often had to show his pass to be allowed through.

And as they rode, they always, always were passing Serpentine and Swordsmen marching back to the new front, while others marched to deal with the Yokaido remaining on the western marshes.

As they rode through these forests, Groo stood watch while Needles slept. Whatever sleep his friend was having, though, he was getting little rest: he tossed, he turned, and his lips were moving in whispers that Groo couldn't catch.

At the first flickering shadow, Groo became alert. At the second, he slowly reached for his sword. And at the third, he reached back and shook Needles awake. He was taken aback at the strength of Needles grip, of the bloodshot eyes that hid behind the dagger at his throat. For a moment Groo was even alarmed, but Needles gradually recognized him and withdrew the daggers.

"Have nice dream?" Groo asked.

BloodFireSlaughterAGreatEvilWatchingHimSmilingChaosBloodWAR

"It was nothing," Needles evaded. "Why have we stopped?"

"Someone watching us," Groo answered. "I think he wants us to come out."

"That someone?" asked Needles, pointing towards the road. A great and looming man stood in the middle of the road, watching them and smiling. He surely had stepped out when Groo had turned.

"Yes," Groo answered, and both carefully disembarked from their wagon.

"Who are you?" asked Groo.

The figure continued to smile. "I am the Baron," he said. "That's both a title and a rank, though it's been my title for so long it's become more of part of my name to me, though I hear the Grigori have mostly done away with such now."

Groo raised an eyebrow in confusion. "You Grigori or not? Friendly or foe?"

"I am not Grigori as you know it. Not yet, anyway," the Baron said. "As for friendly or foe, I can be either, depending on how events unfold. I'm not too sure yet myself; for now, I'm here to watch and then decide."

It wasn't quite an answer. "Let us pass, then," Groo asked.

"Would you mind if I tested your strength first?" asked the Baron, and that was all the warning before he charged.

Groo didn't even have time to draw his sword. Instead he drew it so the pummel would connect, hoping to stun the Baron, but the charging figure dodged far too fast. Without the space and time to draw and swing, Groo threw his sword away and met the Baron's charge with his bare hands. The charge turned into grapple, a grapple in which the orc was being overpowered until he shifted his weight and turned it into a tumble as Groo pulled them both over. But the man called Baron bounced from the ground and landed into a flip on all fours, grinning as Groo scrambled to his feet.

The grin faded as Needle's knife made it's presence known at his throat. "You picked the wrong person to wake up," Needles said, beginning its slide across the throat.

"That's enough," came a fourth voice, it's owner gripping Needle's arm and pulling it away. Needles spun around with a second knife, but stopped as he recognized the face and it's wolf-like features.

"Carrow the Hunted!" he exclaimed, and drew back his knives as the Baron stepped back and was smiling once again. "Where have you been all this time? Last I heard, Cassiel sent you off on some quest or another. Explain."

Carrow smiled gratefully at his fellow adventurer. "And so he did," the embittered mistheist said. "He sent me off to find special reinforcements for our war with the Yokaido, and so I did. By the time we arrived, though, the war had pretty much ended, and so we have been making our way to Midgard. Forgive the Baron: he is the kind who was looking forward to a fight, and found it denied when we arrived."

"If he wants to fight, he can try the Chislev," Groo said, stepping forward. "I'm not sure how much one man alone can do, but he is welcome to join us against them. They have turned on us, and their fighters who fought in the swamps raid as far as these woods."

"We know," Carrow assured. "We encountered them on our way here."

"Besides," Baron said, stepping forward. "He did not bring just me. I am a Baron, after all." On cue, the underbrush shook and men and women began to emerge. They looked mean, they looked lean, and they were of all different races and word all different sorts of clothes in various states of repair. There were elves and men, and even some dwarves in his ranks. Infront of them, most feral, were a small number of Chislev warriors. Their paint was still new, and each had a dark gash or bite mark on some limb or another. They were shifted, assuming harrier, more beastly shapes, with furs and fangs and claws even though they still held weapons.

And they all parted and payed due regard to the Baron.

"I am Baron Duin Halfmorn," said the Alpha Werewolf, "sought and called for through the Feral Bond by Cassiel of the Grigori to aid in his cause. And with me I have brought my retinue of werewolves, to fight and die for me and whatever cause I choose. I have come to see and judge the Grigori, and see if they are worthy for my service."

"He means if we can justify using him and giving his kind refuge," Carrow translated, a feral look in his own eyes. "It will be explained later, but for now he is willing to help us fight the Chislev." A growl at the enemy's name escaped the mouths of the pack, and Carrow looked slightly apologetic.

"Please hurry and point us towards either the enemy camp or towards our own supplies: we have had a long journey, and we are all very hungry."

The sentries looked at each other. "You heard the latest about Votakara aswell?"
She nodded. "I did. I hope they find him and are able to cure him." She looked grave. To many of the soldiers, Votakara was like a father and a hero to them. She looked at him again. He didn't look at her. He looked at something behind her, and his face was frozen in despair. A nasty-looking arrow protuded from where his right eye had been only a moment ago. She screamed and turned around.

The demon lifted her body into the air, its claws fastened around her chest so she could hardly breathe. It spoke with a horrible, sepulchral voice: "Do you know, who I am?"
She sobbed desperately and shook her head. "I am Lord Moloch. And I have come to claim the children of the Austrin. Go, tell your masters to prepare. I want a real fight this time."

I am an Arms Dealer
Fitting you with weapons in the form of cures.
As long as this continent keeps bleeding,
That's just the business I'm in!!!

This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
I'm not a friend to rely on, but I digress.

I'm a blind deaf man
And the potions I devise are so intricate, oh so intricate
I'm a blind deaf man
And the potions I devise are so intricate, oh so intricate

I wrote gospel on life and death
(You aren't dying on me yet)
The real pathogens have already struck
(Primma donnas of the plague)
At night we're curing condemning you while you sleep
Upping downing lefting righting
Just like B-B-B-Balseraphs

This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
Plague-wagon's full, please, catch another

I'm a blind deaf man
And the potions I devise are so intricate, oh so intricate
I'm a blind deaf man
And the potions I devise are so intricate, oh so intricate

All the soldiers the battlefield didn't love
All the civies who couldn't flee fast enough
Breath until your lungs give out

This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
(Now you)
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
(Find a new cure)
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
(Malady some more)
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race
(Oh oh)
This ain't a scam, it's a gods-damn arms race

I'm a blind deaf man
And the potions I devise are so intricate, oh so intricate
I'm a blind deaf man
And the potions I devise are so intricate, oh so intricate