Mazera Mega Story Thread

There were perhaps three lizard-men currently in the entire Ordine Medicos. One was stationed in the Mazatl capital, caring for war veterans and more common maladies that plagued the general populace. One worked in the swamps of the Yokaido front, working through the marshlands and caring for the few and largely forgotten soldiers who fought therein. And the third was a new student at the Ordine academy in Midgar.

The lizard-man who sat before Kh’Khun was none of them, though he called to mind the title of a newly popular song. He had no discernible ties to the Ordine Medicos at all, not by their own or Grigori records. Whether he had ever even set foot inside the Grigori borders were also questionable. Just who he worked for and what their intentions were was also a mystery. All he had ever said was that he came on behalf of people interested in the Mazatl's continued independence, and the only connection he claimed with the Ordine was the ability to trade in their secrets and materials.

"Having summoned me back, your lordship, I assume you have thought about my patron's offer? I understand the Sheaim have accepted peace for now, but they might re-enter at any time if they can capitalize on the chance," said 'Caqui', such an obviously fake name.

Kh’Khun narrowed his eyes at the ease with which the lizard-man infront of him addressed him. But he held any anger at the disrespect.

"What proof have you that you can deliver what you claim?" asked Kh’Khun, not bothering to deny the other's question. "For what you have asked so callously, for diagrams and information and medical data on our Wrym, you had better offer something useful.

Caqui seemed to brighten somewhat. "Oh, so you have considered! Good, good, I'm pleased to hear this. My patron was worried about approaching you too soon, but our experiences has been that it is better to approach too soon than too late."

"I do not care," Kh’Khun said with ire. "I only wish to know what he claims he can deliver, and some proof thereof. Do not tempt me to banish you from my chambers."

"Very well then," Caqui agreed. "This might be your first proof," he said, taking out a small vial of solution. "This is an Ordine spider-antidote salve that has just recently come out to market. This vial itself was one of the first batch, which my Patron had diverted and reported as lost. That is the power of my Patron."

Kh'Khun snorted. "That means little," he said. "That vial is probably just something you bought from the Medicos station before coming here."

Caqui gave the vial a inquisitive stare, and then shrugged. "Alright," he said. "So perhaps that evidence was a bit better before they were announced to the public." He put the vial away. "Well, I'm afraid I don't have any prospective medicines to give you a sneak preview of, but here are the standards of what my Patron can offer."

"Basic but comprehensive knowledge of medicine, the foundation of the Ordine Medicos itself, to help your warriors recover and fight on against the Calabim invaders." Kh'Khun looked bored: the Medicos in his capital would freely share the knowledge if he permitted their latest envoy's request to build an Ordine Citadel outside the capital.

"He can offer swamp remedies and techniques so that, when the Calabim march into your swamps and marshes, none of the threats therein will harm you, and the natural defenses shall entirely face the invader. Just as the Sheaim came to grief in the marshes you cultivated, so too will the Calabaim learn to fear and hate the marshes you call your own."

Now Kh'Khun looked annoyed. "The swamps are our natural battlefield," he said. "We already boast what you claim to offer. Please, go on. After this you can leave and offer to build snow forts for the Illians."

Caqui ignored him.

"The Ordine have developed a great number of powerful and useful combinations in their studies. Sedative powders that, if scattered downwind or coated against the vines they use to climb the swamps, could take the bloodlust and motivation of the attackers even before the battlefield. Bloodfire, a powerful painkilling-stimulate that would let your greatest warriors fight on like berserkers while ignoring the damage they take. Those sort of things. Oh, and an experimental drug that might poison every vampire who enters your kingdom."

Kh'Kuhn had been listening with such rapidly growing interest that he almost missed the last piece. "Repeat that last part again!" he demanded.

Caqui played it innocent, raising a hairless eyelid in the fashion of humans. "What, the part about nullifying the great vampires of the Calabim?" he asked. "Oh, nothing major, I'm sure. Just some new theory that some Medicos egg-head developed. Probably isn't worth explaining."

Kh'Kuhn's words made it clear that Caqui was mistaken.

"Well, if you insist," Caqui said, and dug into his pouch and withdrew some scribbled notes and drawing and handing them to the King. They looked like a child's drawings, and Caqui narrated.

"So everyone who knows about them knows that the Vampires tend to partake of the blood of their pets, yes? Like giant, over-powered mosquitos. They don't have to, technically, but it's gotten to such a point of tradition and pleasure that I hear most new vampires don't even remember how they were started. They just go nomnomnom on their slaves or prisoners whenever they're in search of power, need to reduce population, feeling ill, or just hungry."

"Well, unfortunately there's no good vampire balm like you can do with mosquitoes or , to marsh fungi, to keep them from hunting you down and devouring you. But our great friendly Medicos realized that you can punish them for doing it to you. It's the same concept that poisonous animals in nature take, though the Archos are a better example. You simply poison the food source: no lion will eat a native Archos even if killed because the body holds too much poison. Similar concept. It's proven that even Vampires will succumb if they take in poison, and blood-feeding is the fastest form of injection. Most blood and nutrients are taken to the stomach and soon passed through the liver and intestines, in which most weaker poisons are nullified, but a small amount of blood is conducted straight through the fangs and into the bloodstream. From there, it's only a matter of minutes before a blood-born poison is carried everywhere in the body. Humans and others, who do not share this feature which is thought to have to do with draining souls, do suffer that risk."

"So what?" asked Kh'Khun. "I am afraid we do not have generations to start introducing poisons to ourselves in levels we can adapt to, and you'll forgive me if I do not poison my people in hopes that the vampire give themselves a stomach ache."

"Well, technically, you could start small and give your warriors ever increasing amounts of poisons. Then, if or when captured and nomnomnomed, the poison would already be at lethal levels and the vampire would die immediately. But that's something you could do on your own. My patron offers something better."

"Such as?"

"Are you familiar with the story of the rise of Losha the Vampire General?"

"You are telling me to poison my stores, my wine, and my wells, to kill their forces? I think they would be wise enough to test the waters first with their own men."

"And that is why my Patron's solution is so ingenious: it will do nothing to the men."

Kh'Khun did not throw out Caqui then and there because he knew Caqui was leading to a point. "Explain further," he said.

"In their studies, the Medicos have found that there are levels at which poisons do not affect humans, lizards such as ourselves, or anyone else... so long as they are not placed directly into the bloodstream. Our bodies naturally dilute them to the point at which they are not dangerous to us, and then the poison is mostly harmless in our blood. My Patron can offer you a covert supply of such a low-scale poison the Medicos have discovered but do not use. They use a weaker version for for dealing with parasites for animals.

"If it is reduced to harmless levels in our blood, then it will also be harmless to the vampires," Kh'Khun pointed out. "Even for the blood that is transferred straight into the bloodstream, it would still be too weak, and vampires have hardier constitutions."

"From one person, yes," Caqui said, with a glimmer of mischief in his eyes. "But how about five? Or a dozen? Or a hundred? Then not even a vampire could stand consuming so much blood." He leaned back in his chair, smilling without lips.

"Consider it," he said. "A Calabim army marches into a defended settlement. You warriors, try as they might, can not help but being overrun. Their are captives. In settling in, the lords of the army test the waters first with their captors, and then with the army, and no one dies. So they help themselves. And at first, no one feels any different."

"But being vampires that they are, the Calabim leader call for a sacrifice of the defeated. The blood tastes a bit off, but nothing too intolerable. Perhaps the next will be better. Or the next. And soon, the vampire is feeling sick."

"Now, if they were like the rest of us, he would stop working, recover, and the poison would gradually work out of the system. But he's not like us: for the Calabim, the way to restore health and beauty is to feed. And so he tries a bloodpet, who won't have lizard blood in him. And that doesn't help either, and he's only feeling worse. But his lords demand action from him tomorrow, and the only cure he knows for such weakness if feeding."

"Do you see what we have? A self-reinforcing cycle of feeding and poisoning. A vampire heals by feeding, but feeding is what is killing him. It's an evolutionary dead-end. Of course, the vampire could stop feeding and recover... but vampires must eat to. Assuming they even realize that the water is what is killing them, given that their armies are fine and the twilight swamp fumes will nicely tie with the bouts of sickness, they will have to carry in sacrifices and supplies from ever farther away. And then the feasting will strictly be limited to what they bring with them and protected, or they will cease to use vampires at all. Either one would be a great evening of the field on your part."

"By what you say, I wish I could apply this to every well in the world," Kh'Khun said.

"I don't know about the world," replied Caqui with another of his humanish grins that showed his many sharp teeth, "but isn't it convenient that no less than three river systems feeding into the Calabim lands pass through your Kingdom?"

Messa did not leave with his men the next morning, even though he did eventually fall asleep. A quarter hour before his men had been set to march off, he had received a summons to the Palace from the daughter of the Prime Minister herself. His men has whistled and teased him as she stood there waiting for him to accompany her while still dressed in full battle armor, and Sergeant Yonkers had been the one who finally pushed him off.

"If Cassiel wants to be seeing ye," the veteran had opined, "I doubt it would be good to keep him waiting, even if you do look like something that fell out of an ore cart. Go with the pretty lady, Messa. We'll see you soon enough. Take care," he had said, slapping Messa on the back with enough force that he could feel it through the armor before turning away and taking charge. That wording should have been Messa's first hint that Sergeant Yonkers knew more than he let on, but Yonkers wouldn't have been a Sergeant for so long if he hadn't picked up the ways to lead young officers around without them realizing it.

So Messa and the minister's daughter had walked out of the base and made way to the Palace, walking down the street in search of a cab. They made an odd pair: one a Grigori Serpent Slayer in full regalia, the other a young woman of fortunate birth, though she wore the same roughly-used utilitarian trousers and jerkin that had become the Grigori fashion for all classes. Climbing into the first passenger-wagon had been almost comical: while she had climbed and lept up to the far side with nary an effort, he almost fell on his back when the wagon tilted at the addition of his armored weight. After a nervous chuckle and the accusing eye of the driver, they were off to the palace.

"Ma'am, do you know why Cassiel saw fit to require my presence even as I was about to head out to the front?" Messa asked, cradling his helmet under his arm as they sat on opposite sides of the carriage.

His opposite didn't try and hide the frown that ran across her face. "Messa," she began with frank annoyance. "I could understand acting like that in front of your men, with your manly pride and all," she rolled her eyes to demonstrate what she thought of that, "but we've been friends since childhood. For Cassiel's sake, we used to play pretend marriage when we were younger! And then you leave for so many years, fight in our war and come home, and you can't even greet an old friend like you know her?"

Messa had the sense to look embarrassed. "Well, the last time we saw eachother, you did say you never wanted to see me again..." he defended. "I thought you were still angry and hiding it. It really is good to see you again, Maour."

Mouar returned the sentiment, but rolled her eyes regardless. "Messa, I was fourteen and coming off my period. Of course I was going to be upset that my best friend was about to vanish for the next eight years and go on all sorts of adventures while I was stuck in the palace. I was green with envy for months!" She glared at him, at least until they both burst out laughing at reconciling and reunion.

"In my defense, I didn't know it either," Messa admitted. "I was just told that I was going on a little trip with Uncle Groo, told to say my goodbyes, and it wasn't until a week later outside the Bannor capital I learned I wouldn't be returning anytime soon."

"He still lets you call him Uncle Groo?" Mouar wondered. "He made the rest of the boys practice with the palace guard until they stopped calling him that."

"Not to his face, at least, but it's just too funny when I can get other kids to call him that. Completely worth it," he said, chuckling.

Mouar shook her head. "Only you, Messa, could grow up thinking traveling with the Grigori Adventurers was natural. To everyone else they're the nation heroes of the Grigori, but to you they're just one big extended family, aren't they? You're the only child I ever saw Needles like, let alone tolerate, and only you could call Father Jeon Papa Je-" she stopped, and stopped at the faux pas. "I'm sorry, Messa," she said as his eyes dropped. "I know you and he were close and-"

Messa held out a hand, stopping her. Though the atmosphere had died, when he raised his eyes they weren't as full of guilt as they had been before.

"It's alright," he said. "I'm coming to terms with it, eventually." The previous atmosphere replaced with something much less comfortable, he tried to shift back to business again.

"Do you have any idea why Cassiel has summoned me?" he asked. "If it was to ask about Father Jeon's death, wouldn't he have asked for me last night?"

"I don't know," Mouar admitted. "No one expected you to arrive on horseback when you did, though, so he might have been surprised and not have had time yesterday. You did arrive rather late, and were set to leave early this morning." She paused, and unsurely said "though..."

"Yes?" Messa urged.

"I don't know what if anything it had to do with you, but late last night a guard detail rushed from the Shrine of the Champion to inform Cassiel about something, I think that an attempt had been made to desecrate Father Jeon's body and that Lady Capria had caught the vandal in the act. Lady Capria was immediately summoned to Cassiel's chambers along with my father, and Cassiel talked in private with them. When they left, my Father came to my room and asked if I would bring you to the palace this morning." She bowed her head in apology. "I'm sorry if that was meaningless, but that is what stood out in my mind from yesterday. It... it reminded me of back then, right before you were sent away."

"Thank you," Messa said sincerely. "It doesn't answer why, but it might be a start. I had a discussion with Lady Capria last night. Perhaps that has something to do with it."

After a pause, and Messa asked a question that had been on his mind for years.

"Mouar, do you know why I was sent from the Palace?" he asked.

"No," she answered. "I thought you knew."

He shook his head, and the conversation dropped.

Silence fell again. It wasn't the cheerful reunion immediately after they had entered the carriage, but it wasn't the uncomfortable silence either. It was peaceful, at least, and not at all bad.

As the carriage rolled to a stop, it was Mouar who stood first and offered a hand to the weighted Messa. As he took it and pulled, much as they had done during their childhood playing in the Grigori Palace, she paused before exiting the carriage.

"Messa?" She began.

"Yes?"

"It's good to see you again too."

---

The audience with Cassiel had its points of amusement, but had been no more enlightening. The amusements had come from the confusion of procedure: no longer a kingdom or a empire, protocol in the new Grigori Republic was still untested and unsure, and in some cases slips of habits made themselves known. Such as when Cassiel, Elder Statesmen of the Grigori Progress, was introduced as King, and Messa was bid to kneel and address his lord. Both had looked at the functionary with pointed looks until the little man had blushed as he realized his mistake.

When the formalities were set aside, though, Cassiel was less than his traditional enlightening. Messa stood before his audience chamber, a number of advisers to the Elder Statemen (the same court that had aided him before, no doubt) on the edges. From his peripherary, he also saw Mouar watching with a hopeful smile, and on the other side of the room was Lady Capria. Her expression was indecipherable.

"Messa, I have a task for you," Cassiel commanded without any rank to support it. The powers of the Elder Statesman were still very much in flux: technically, the to-be-announced First Consul was to command the armies and military, but no one had stepped forward to stop Cassiel when he issued tasks to the Adventurers. Precedent being 9/10ths of process, Messa mused that Cassiel had effectively seized the first bit of power in the raw system by retaining direct control with the Adventurers, even if no one was eager to deny it to him.

Then again, perhaps he hadn't. Adventurers, even Father Jeon, were notorious for being AWOL and ignoring official orders that struck them as wrong or simply burdensome. Cassiel's tasks were not really orders, per say, even if his word was just as important to the Adventurers, but he was moving in a way that made the system work around him.

"I serve the Grigori nation- I mean, Republic," Messa corrected himself, "but what requires me to leave my men at such a junction?"

"They are no longer your men," Cassiel said, and Messa's and others' eyes widened at what sounded to be a massive condemnation. Had the death of Father Jeon mattered so much?

Cassiel ignored them and continued. "The Republic has a vital task that must be accomplished, and I believe your are a man to help see that it is done. You have been reassigned to the One-Hundred-And-First Scouting Regiment," and another ripple of surprise went through the chamber.

For those who knew what it was, the 101st was the catch-all regiment that the Grigori Adventurers on missions were officially assigned to. It's missions were officially to scout Mazera, find and establish good relations with other nations, and conduct vital tasks far from the Grigori homelands. In practice, they did whatever Cassiel and the Grigori needed, wherever that happened to be.

"I am... honored," Messa admitted, "but surely there are better and more experienced men to handle it? I am sure the Adventurers from the Yokaido front will also be arriving soon, surely they could do it better than I. And my men fighting the Chislev need me, so I would like to decline-"

"You will do this," Cassiel overruled his declination by force of will and personality, "because you are uniquely suited by your experiences and history to work with our famed Adventurers and to carry out this task. Though there are more famous names I could send, this mission requires a level of discretion that you would be better suited for. Groo the Wanderer, Needles the Assassin who may well be favored by Aeron himself... they can not be hidden for who they are, even if they might be disguised for a time. But you, who have only appeared as an accessory in one song? You I can use to ensure this mission is a success. You are not irreplaceable in this war, Messa, but they are. You would best serve the Grigori Republic by carrying out the task assigned for you in their steed."

Messa wished to continue argue, but saw that Cassiel was fit to be as stubborn as only he could sometimes be. It was an ironic paradox: to follow orders would be to accept his assignment and join the ranks of the Adventurers. To defy orders and ignore his assigned task for a perceived more important roll would not return him to his command, but would also mark him with the same practices and individual will that broadly characterized the Adventurers. Either way, Cassiel had boxed him into accepting the role, if not the mission.

"Very well," he assented, as most all Adventurers eventually did. "What is your task for me, sir?"

"You will head far to the North, where the forces of both cold and fire wish to bring ruinous powers into creation. Already Bakabushi works to prevent such, and your task is to aid her to the completion of this mission. That is all I can say now: you will be informed of the more sensitive parts of your task shortly." There were a few more words, but they were mostly meaningless. Mouar stepped out of the crowd to guide him to where he was to go, but as he left he spotted Lady Capria watching him leave.

---

A few hours later, he was already registered in the Adventurer's Guild and was receiving his gear.

"A traveler's cloak is a necessity," the Master Outfitter of Midgard had started so long ago, "as is a full set of Snow Gear. Not close to what the Illians make, of course, but we aren't exactly in place to be buying their stuff while they're at war with the Amurites. This set is made by the Amurites, so you know it has magical resistance and heaters built in. Good stuff. Now let me look at your weapon."

Messa, arms too full to reach for his sword, was none the less affronted when the Outfitter pulled his trust iron sword out so freely. He was even more indignant when the man took one look at his, snorted on disgust, and threw it behind the counter.

"Cheap mass produced crap," the man grumbled. "What are they thinking, sending a man out with that? Adventurers on this sort of quest need something better. Wait here," he said, and was busy looking through his inventory before Messa had a chance to reply.

Not that Messa wanted to reply when he saw what the outfitter returned with. The old man grinned at the look on Messa's face as he held out the simple but undeniably elegant mithril straight sword. "That's good quality work right there," he said. "Just got that shipment from the Yokaido armory the other day. Won't be long before we're making our own mithril weapons here either. Reckon it's just a matter of finding who their miners and smiths are and bringing them over here for study."

He then turned back to his stores, forgetting about the blade almost immediately. "Let's see... probably wouldn't have some antidotes till you get past the Svartalfar, some cold-burn will help frostbite in the North, let's see where the Amurite heaters are..."

Messa was helpless as the man every Adventurer referred to simply as "sugar-daddy" did his work. Beside him sitting on the counter, not lifting one finger in the slightest to help him, Mouar giggled and laughed in amusement. Messa's expression when Sugar-Daddy came back holding deadly traps in case he found himself being followed was Mouar's favorite, as she clearly let be known.

It wasn't for hours more before Messa was deemed suitably outfitted to begin his trek to the North, to infiltrate Illian territory and meet up with Bakabushi, who was undercover as a fur merchant/actor. Apparently it made sense in context. Decked up, geared out, horse loaded, Messa and Mouar prepared their final goodbyes.

"It sort of brings back memories," Messa said. "Back when we were little more than chore-doers back at the Palace, getting loaded down with everything..."

"You always let me get loaded down with carrying everything," Mouar reminded him. "Said that it was the only way to make me strong like a boy, and when that didn't work you said you'd tell my father I wasn't helping because I though I didn't have to."

"It worked didn't it?" asked Messa, laughing, but Mouar made an expression of distaste.

"Do you know what my father would have done if he thought I acted like a blue-blood?" she asked. "Chores were pleasant compared to that. He is not a man to tolerate that sort of thinking from his daughter."

"Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore," he said. "You've grown into an impressive and beautiful girl, Mouar," Messa complimented.

"You too. Into an impressive man, I mean."

"Beautiful too?" he teased at her misstep.

"Perhaps," she said, and they laughed uncomfortably as the compliments turned too comfortable.

"Well, I suppose I had better be going now," Messa said eventually.

"I suppose you should. Be safe, alright?" she bid.

"You keep being a good influence on your father," he bid in return.

"Don't feel you have to stay away for eight years this time. Or I really will be mad at you."

"Is that a promise?"

"Just like when we were children."

"Well then, I'd better avoid making you mad."

And so Messa mounted his horse and rode off, hoping to reach the Clan border by nightfall. Mouar watched him until he was out of sight, and then watched a bit longer. She stopped watching when she heard the annoying crunch of a bitten apple and a whistful sigh.

"Ah, young love. You two were always so cute together as kids. Pity you have to part again after so many years of separation."

She recognized the voice even before she saw him taking another bite of his apple. "Sir Cabal Tenhare," she answered steadily, not amused at his infamous teasing.

"Then again, as kids I seem to remember you making eachother a lot of promises, like how you would get his toys when he left and that you would be the first married adventurer pair and all sorts of things that are so easy to tease you with all these years later. Whatever did happen to those rings you forced me to get for you two?"

She didn't react or respond to his needling. "If you were so disappointed, you could have volunteered for his task yourself."

"Oh, I tried," Cabal confessed. "Went to Cassiel himself and said it wasn't fair, that he should get to stay closer to home after so many years. Offered to go in his place, even if it meant leaving my birds here, since I'm known more by them than by my own face or name."

Mouar looked at him curiously. "Then why didn't he let you?" she asked.

"He had his reasons," Cabal evaded. "He told me, and they convinced me. What they are, you don't need to know quite yet. Unless you are that worried for him..." he tried to tease.

"He is my friend," Mouar answered honestly and immediately. "When we were children, he was perhaps the one boy I knew wasn't impressed or concerned with my father's name or rank. He looked after me because we were friends, and I do the same."

Cabal considered her honesty, and in his hesitation she made an attempt at unraveling the truth.

"Something happened in the Shrine of the Champion last night, didn't it? Lady Capria uncovered something important, more than a simple vandalism. And whatever it was, it compelled Cassiel to change Messa's assignment. Messa wasn't just sent to help Bakabushi in some important task: he was sent far away from the Grigori, somewhere he wouldn't be known or recognized."

Her eyes widened at a flash of realization. "Don't tell me that that's... eight years ago, when-"

Cabal silenced her by not quite gently shoving an apple between her teeth and not letting her remove it.

"You truly are a sharp mind in your own right," he sighed. "Normally that would be praise, but now it isn't. Let me tell you something that is very important for you to understand: Messa is an ordinary Grigori orphan. That is what he is, and that is all that he needs to be. That is all you have ever thought and believed, and that is all you will continue to say. Is that clear? This isn't just for your good, but also for his. Is that clear? Nod once if you understand." She considered being defiant, but Cabal's gaze indicated something far more serious and unmerciful, she nodded and Cabal released her.

"Messa is just another Grigori," Cabal said. "He might have been raised on the road from the age of thirteen by us Adventurers, but at heart he is very much a Grigori like you would find anywhere else in the land. He acts, thinks, and believes like one, and in the end that is all that matters. Not blood, not parentage, just that. Cassiel has never given any preferential treatment for him that he would not give for any other similar person, and Cassiel is not out to protect him from harm: might I remind you that Messa just fought on the most dangerous front during the entire Yokaido War both honorably and without the slightest favoritism?"

"Whatever the other reasons Cassiel does not have, the reasons he gave and convinced me are far more mundane and reasonable than what you might expect. Though he is recovering, Messa still feels weighed down by guilt over Father Jeon's death. If he were to lead his men now, he would fight and push them to the limit, and himself even further in a flawed attempt to match Jeon. He might survive, but he might well put himself and his men in danger they are not capable of matching, and they would follow him regardless because they trust him enough to do so. In other words, Messa is not yet reliable enough to truly resume command, especially for one as loyal and dedicated as the Serpentine."

"But he is not beyond help, and this journey offers him a chance to heal inside, to both overcome his guilt and find his own place in the world. Cassiel believes that this journey is exactly the sort of thing that Messa is both suited to accomplish and in need for to become a better person who can reach his full potential." He paused, and then concluded with an admission.

"And if I did not believe Cassiel, I assure you I would now be on the road right there with him."

To: Osted Hastil, the Man Who Deals in Secrets and Hides in Shadows
From: Cassiel, Elder Statesman of the Grigori

You should long since have been aware of my refusal of you envoy, Hastil. You are probably furious, as you have good cause to be. You are likely vowing revenge of some sort, and intend to make the lot of the Grigori worse than the gods have already tried.

I do not care. Gold and iron weapons, while unpleasant, are no match for what the gods have tried to do to us in the past, seek to do to us now, or hope to do in the future. You yourself may well find yourself relying on our Medicos to survive this plague, before turning your intents on us. Though your machinations may hurt us, wound us, cripple us at a horrible time, we do not fear you, and will stand ready to oppose if it is so required when you make your intent clear.

I do not trust you, Osted Hastil. Any deal with you is one that puts me indefinitely at your mercy as you hold hostage my relations and friendship with both the Eloheim and whoever finds themselves the target of your gold and iron weapons. Though I did not in this case, I would ask the Eloheim outright so that they know my position, can reject it out of hand if they so wish, and we can move on with our friendships. It may come pass that I do ask them myself: my friend Einon Logos wages war against the Infernals, but the Archos are a threat much closer to home. It may be that when the Eloheim need assistance, knowledge of the world will be my price.

Or perhaps not. The Eloheim are long friends of the Grigori nation, and preserving their gentle spirit in this harsh world may well be payment enough.

But that is the nature of relations between states. What is unacceptable one season may be a bargain the next, and mindsets change. But with you, Osted Hastil, any price that forces me to bow my head least you reveal it is too much. We do not bow our heads to the gods for guidance in our affairs, and we will not bow our heads to you for hope of good relations. We Grigori are not a people incapable of secret deals, but we do insist on knowing what we are doing and for what cause.

Take your offers of hidden secrets with you, Hastil. The Grigori do not require knowledge of the gods' secrets and alterations on Mazera: we will seek them, discover them, but we do not require them. Should we come across them, we will take advantage of them in the Grigori fashion, protect them as the Eloheim beseech, but we will not look in awe and worship them.

We will search you out, we will seek your purpose. You may be far to well hidden to find, but we will make the effort. And when you reveal yourself, we will stand ready to judge you. You may be found virtuous, and your conspiracies forgiven. Or you may be found vile, and your actions hounded. But know this: in the eyes of the Grigori, no one is above the Law.


And to those who are mistaken of my role in the Grigori Republic, I am not it's leader: the Grigori people elect their own representative, now Prime Minister Esirce, and I am but an Elder Statesman. I am only observer and arbitrator in this process and experiment. If you continue to desire to address letters to me, I can only promise to offer my opinion and forward them to the Prime Minister. If I approve of them, I will add in my good word, and if I disapprove of them I will criticize them, but it is not my decision to make.

-Cassiel, Elder Statesman of the Grigori Progress

Cassiel, I knew you would give in. Asking the Elohim straight out was a bold move and blaming it on someone else? Why, that's just diabolical of you. I have returned to give you the same offer. The Elohim map for 200 gold, a shipment of iron weapons and armor, and an extra 50 gold to keep this matter a secret from the Elohim. What do you say?

Deledien stood up, her body cold but steady. The sun was setting and she was almost invisible in the darkening night. She picked up the strung masterwork longbow and a handful of arrows.

The arrows were long and needle-shaped, forged to make sure they could pierce giant-skin. They were poisonious, as well.

She put one of the arrows to the string and took aim. Inside the palace on the other side of the road, the figures of Uxol and Kasghenal leaned against a table, discussing. She took careful aim, and sent the first arrow flying towards the figure of Uxol. Another two followed quickly. She watched for a moment as the giant stumbled to the floor, Father Kasghenal stumbling to find cover. She waited, watching, until she knew that Uxol could not be saved from the poison, and slid down from the roof and disappeared into the darkness of the night...

Cassiel was the ArchAngel of Force, of the Balance of Force. In everything he did, he was measured for a certain effect, to reach a certain goal and no more. It was in his very being, the basis of his creation: unlike humans, he could not change his nature, except so much in corrupting it and twisting it into another variation of a theme.

And so, as part of the balance to prevent such corruption, he meditated. He communed with himself, and with the world. He could feel his mind flitter from his mortal body, and see everything, both good and evil.

He saw the dead, wandering in search of their ultimate resting place. Here, a demon gathered souls for his own designs. There, one of Junil’s valkyrie guided a soul to its proper vault. But most of the wander souls were aimless, barely aware of their own state of existence. They wandered into Arwan’s domain, or the more aware would follow those they had cared for in life. Here was a daughter who loved her father beyond death, there was a guardian watching over his progeny. Those more aware souls followed their kind like an invisible procession, always behind but never felt.

He saw the workings of the gods, as much as it saddened him. Though he saw Kilimorph reward an industrious stonemason, he saw another starve to death because charity was frowned upon. An Esus follower lied about his religion to others, relying on his secret god to reward him at the gambling hall. Mammon gave richly to a chosen few, but only so that he could seize so much more. And the dark gods of the Veil, they gave pittances of power in demand for ever more blood and life.

These were the moments, the visions, that reminded him why he had never, would never, give up on his quest to show mortals another way. Regardless of his disappointments, such as with the late Lord Rove, he saw again that the Grigori were that step closer to a world where the gods only watched, and only men and women acted in chaotic harmony.

Normally his tour of meditation was concluded here, but everyone once in awhile something would grab his attention.

To the far north, a gentle aura of twilight and holy fire had always burned softly. He had been content to leave it be. But of late it had blossomed, flourished, reacting to the gathering of strong souls around it. It knew, it hungered, it burned for release.

Cassiel let his spirit drift to that aura, allowed it to connect and mingle with his own. It burned, but did not hurt. It sought to incite him to action, but he did not move. Such was the contrast between His Balance and Her Passion.

“Cassiel,” it said, “It is time. Your champions have reached the pinnacle. Free me.”

“Brigit,” he recognized and confirmed. “What are your intentions?”

“To exist as I am. To be free. To restore the sacred nature of fire. ”

“You wish to act, as is your nature?”

“You wish to keep me from doing so, as is yours?”

“Of course,” he answered for both of them. “I have already Fallen, as you have not, but I will not let you bring the Gods War back into creation.”

“I have no desire to start that war. Let me bring back the true nature of fire to this land, as it was before my Lady’s Fall. There are mortals willing to change her as well, Cassiel. The Redeemers still walk this plane. Set me free so that I might lead them and return the true nature of Fire unto this war, as it was before the Age of Ice.”

“Your crusade, no matter how proper you think it, will only fall into the same self-righteous fanaticism that are just as horrible for the freedom of men’s souls. I will not stand idly by and let your run across creation for whatever purpose you desire,” Cassiel vowed.

“Then make it your purpose,” she urged, her aura’s glow pulsating in driven intensity. “Order your men to assist and free me, Cassiel, and I will serve and fight for your Grigori purpose as a sworn Duty. I will drive your people to greater heights, and I will let them see what the Precept is truly about. In the bottom of their hearts a Fire will kindle, enhancing their will to see to your Balance. They will know that my Lady’s Fall was a violation of the Balance of Fire, and that restoring Her is in your own precept. This I offer to you in exchange for my freedom.”

“No,” Cassiel returned once again. “Your passion may drive them, but It also risks upsetting the delicate balance that we Grigori have established in our minds. If we were to become so dedicated, so driven, to achieve our aims, we might blindly throw behind that Balance and succumb to your Lady’s passions.”

“No, Brigit,” Cassiel said. “My champions will not release you in all your power unto Mazera, no matter what service you offer. For as long as you wish to wield divine fires, I will oppose your entry into our fragile world, whatever the cost. So long as that desire remains, we will block your agents.” He began to withdraw his aura, preparing to return to his physical self.

“And if I were to warn you that there is one who seeks to take upon the Mantle of Ice and bring back the previous age?” asked Brigit, almost desperate in her appeal, her aura straining to remain connected with his.

Cassiel paused. “If another should attempt to ascend to the God of Ice, we would be in opposition to him as well,” he affirmed. “When, if, another seeks to bring Muclarn’s legacy into this world, only then might we be willing to tolerate your full release. But such a day is likely long, long away.” Cassiel withdrew his aura and headed back to his body.

“Cassiel!” Brigit fumed, her aura lashing in her righteous anger. “You may be willing to condemn Creation for your beliefs, but hear this warning! Your people are not you: they have their own divine spark, their own experiences, their own ambitions and hopes for your philosophy, and deep within their hearts I resonate! My Lady and I both speak to them, drive them to put those hopes into action! Even behind your own crusade of balance, the Fire burns!””

“You may refuse my Kindling in the name of Balance,” Brigit’s voice faded, “but will your children?”

Cassiel woke in his chambers, and shivered.

Icarus continued his relentless trudge forewards, deep in thought. A bright shine from above caught his attention. He snapped into reallity, pulling out his twon short-sword like daggers. Almost two feet in length, half his hand-span wide, and wickedly sharp, they were his best weapons. He looked to the skies. Laughing at his paranoia, he realixed that all he saw was the glint of the sun off of Telemachus' wing.

Shaking his head Icarus started on his path again when he noticed something. HE stopped, closed his eyes, and listended. He heard nothing. He strained his ears, but still, nothing. Not the callsof the gaudy birds, or the howls of the many monkeys which inhabited the deep jungles of the Chislev. Calmly, he shoved one of his daggers into the ground, and reached into his pack. HE pulled out four palm sixed pughes and tied them to his belt. Inside the pouches was an odd substance called "Blasting Powder". He managed to get his hands on some of the presiouis substance by doing a Khazad alchemist some favours. He then took out a tool he made called the "quick-light flint". Shoving that into his belt he put his daggers back in their sheaths, and continued to walk causually. Telemachus circled the sky high above him, acting as a second pair of eyes. As he walked he listend for any disturbance,, sniffing for the tang of metal or sweat. There, a rustle i the leaves. He had only a second to raise his dagger to block the first blow. As he blocked, he used his second dagger to kill. He whirled around, and saw the he was surounded by a Chislev war party. He lit and threw two of the black powder puches at the feet of the wariors in front of him. Using the distraction, Icarus slipped passed them. Just to be safe, he lobbed the other two puches through the smoke at head level. Turning, he ran. He ran tirelessly for hours on end. He stopped only as sunlight faded.

Finding a good spot, he lay down his pack, and set up camp. Telemachus was not with him, but he would come. Telemachus could always find him, but the wariors could not. Only one as skilled at tracking as the elves would be able to follow him. He stepped lightly, despite running through thick bush. It was one of the many skills he had gained from his time as a preformer. He settled in a comfortable position to sit and think. He was safe for now, and Telemachus would be at his side, soon.