Winters Yoke
-
The King tossed and turned in his fitful slumber as the memory of the noose that bound him to the ancient tree in the days of accursed Mahat choked the breath from his throat. The gaze of the foul hierarchs of the god of order, eyes haughty, brows aristocratic and austere in his dreaming mind mocked him still in their sullen visages. Their head ordinator face long and gaze filled with condemnation rolled out his scroll and intoned his judgment.
"You are nought but dust”
His hollow voice decreed
“To nothing shall your works amount. To nothing. To nothing. To nothing. . .“
The priests chanted.
At once the bright white light of the templars holy fires seared through his eyes and burned deeper and deeper into the black recesses of his soul as he writhed and twisted in the night, yet just as the part of him that remained lucid in the nightmare thought that the dream would progress as it always had into recollections of a thousand years of agony, the light changed.
The Hangadrott King looked around the dream realm in a start as mists arose and the blinding glare of Mahat’s foul presence faded into a soft glow like that of the moon at twilight. The looming branches of the deadened tree upon which he had hung for a thousand years budded and brought forth a cascade of flowers as soft grass sprouted under foot and the song of nightingales replaced the condemnations of ancient priests long dead. Then the sound of footsteps upon the grass. The King turned and realised something quite unexpected.
Into his dream had walked a god.
“To what do we owe the honour of hosting the god of dreams in our tormented slumber?”
Spat the king as he averted his gaze and began to pace the dreamspace like a wolf in a cage. For the Vanir still remembered, even more a living ancestor such as himself, what younger races had long forgotten.
To look into the eyes of Froede was to become his willing slave.
The god smiled in his own mysterious way as the laughter of unseen spirits tinkled through the flowering branches and the dream shifted. It showed the king a scene long ago when the world was young, when the Tuatha ruled the land and rejoiced in the company of their creator. They were dancing merrily upon the primeval mound untroubled by worldly cares and their gazes were filled with the twinkle of youth and their lips resounded gaily with the soft melody of laughter as they delighted in their peace. The scene shifted again, the scions of Froedes kingdom mated with the tempestuous human children of Mahat and other lesser beings and became the Sidhe and the Vanir, the god of order waxed strong and the chains of law were bound upon the world as laughter and merriment stilled replaced by the groans of those who bore the weight of imperial orthopraxy. The King beheld as the sun and moon cycled over head in an ever faster spiral whilst in time to their endless circuit the lineage of the Tuatha passed down through the ages before his eyes until at last he saw himself come forth as the fruit of seeds planted in ages past, his followers bowing down before him in worship.
“You want our devotion, for you are our Ancestor God.”
The hangadrott King brought his mailed hand to his chin and smiled wickedly as he secretly scoffed at the realisation. So the god had come like a little beggar hungry for worship. Oh how the mighty have been laid low under the shadow of his old foe.
“Ah but you are also the god of deceit, why should we put our faith in your like?”
The King wagged his finger in mockery.
The scene shifted again to a town which from the appearance thereof the King recognised as the fortress of the Vatnar, for the reports by his servants and the eyes of his crows had long revealed to him the designs of this pitiful people which scurried upon the face of his realm hither and yon in futile defiance of their inevitable doom. Their scrying amused him still, the thought bringing a chuckle to his throat. Ah but what was this he spied, a circle of wizened crones whispering a warbling chant about an ugly stone idol....
“Enough!”
The King cried out as the vision faded.
“We are no fool oh fair Prince, you wish to say that our foes will turn to the Great Crone that with her favour they might cast us down. But what do you offer us that can hold back the eternal night and lead us to our desire?”
The god smiled a wicked smile and it was only then that the King noticed something that had escaped him until now as he furtively took a glimpse past the shining aura of the god. In the shadows cast by the great tree there lay watching, waiting, a thousand eyes and a twisting misshapen something like black smoke in one moment coiling and sputtering against the light, and like ink sucking in the brightness of its master, waiting, ever waiting to be unleashed, in the next.
It was then that the god spoke, his voice like liquid gold sweet as honey to the mouth.
“The brightest lights cast the deepest shadows”
And his soul shuddered.
-
A vision came to the priestess as she listened to the witches drum echoing in the dark. She saw a great being, towering above trifling mortals, ascend the mountain as the shimmering lights of the aurora and the glinting sea of stars dimmed and became an empty void. As she ascended each step towards the mountains peak, which the priestess now perceived as a great throne, mighty giants bowed in reverence, cloaks whipping about their prostrating forms in the bitter winds as they adored their mistress. As she reached the top she turned and sat down and the priestess beheld at last the face of this great being.
It was a brow without mercy, a face wizened and ancient beyond memory of man, her hair sparse and white like hoarfrost and her gaze withering with a piercing cold that chilled the spirit and heralded death to souls. Woe be to those who incur her wrath, for this is the Great Crone, the Queen of Winter and Empress of Endless Night. Behold Tallai the great goddess enthroned, for winter has come and now is her hour.
So it was that from the east unto the uttermost west the chill winds of winter rushed forth from the farthest recesses of the south to torment the living and bestow death to the weak and the humble. Tarry not dear children when the cold winds rise, for this winter the shivering wraiths of winter bestow not blessings but an icy death on those found loitering outdoors come nightfall. Their wicked cackling like the cracking of pack ice on the southern seas now echoes throughout all the towns and villages of the south as mere mortals huddle ever more urgently about their seal-oil lamps and pray desperately for pardon.
All save one that is.
The Hangadrott King is a proud monarch, and a thousand years of agony at the hands of a divine torturer did little to imbue in him reverence for the gods. Nay, despite the season and despite foreknowledge of the dire intent of the tribes of the Vatn Confederacy he bid his army sally forth to Kjarnsvik that another pitiful nation might fall under his sway. Despite his hubris such confidence was not entirely ill-considered, for the army of Helheim waxed strong in these first days of winter as Vanir flocked to his banner and the spirits of the slain and other less savory things were beckoned forth to serve at his behest.
However even as his army marched across the snows bent on conquest, the tyranny of winter did not hold back on the home front. The Crone was eager this year as her appointed time approached, as one would expect after a long imprisonment, and after washing her cloak clean from the grime of aeons in the maelstrom of despair that rose heavy across the lands in these days after the deicide, the frosts wrung from their folds in her enthusiasm were greater yet than any that memory could recall. Earlier and harsher than had yet been known was the touch of winter in Phlegra, and even as the end of the harvest beckoned a bumper crop the fields of golden grain withered under a heavy pall of frost. Facing hunger, and the malicious yoke of the notoriously cruel Vanir, many amongst the Hangadrott Kings serfs fled north to more clement lands. Pity that the labourers are made less ere the next harvest comes.
The tribesmen of the Vatn Confederacy tried a different approach to quelling the worst of winter's icy breath, one more effective than stubborn obstinacy. Theirs was the way of propitiation, a tried and tested method, and by the decree of the glacier tribe the shamans made divinations with their whalebone trinkets and took augury to set the bounds of sacred sanctuaries to Tallai in the Vatn Steppe and in the newly incorporated lands of Fjoll, that they might fittingly offer bloody oblation unto the goddess in the snows. Phlegra is harsh and the land poor, thus the temples that soon arose on the consecrated permafrost were rustic and crude by the standards of civilised realms. Nonetheless they represented a great undertaking by the standards of the south and the small edifices of stone wherein the idols of the goddess were enshrined could be said to represent the pinnacle of Phlegran artistic achievement to date. Even the frozen heart of the Queen of Winter herself was not entirely unmoved by the Vatn confederacies obsequious gestures of devotion and soon the dark spirits of winter that brought benighted ruin on other lands came to abide in the confederacies sanctums and turn their baleful malice elsewhere as the winds abated and the chill became a little less bitter. In the long night that fell in the height of the polar winter these ill-omened wraiths swept across the land and descended upon the fallen and resentful dead, consuming the substance of their flesh and rising up as insubstantial yet not wholly incorporeal rime shades to wander the hills of Phlegra in the abiding darkness. The priests of the rime tribe soon found that their ancient prayers, long merely rote formulae kept only out of tradition, fell on attentive ears, and as they murmured incantations over their bloody offerings oft would a shade come in attendance to bear witness to their sacrifice, and hearken to their deprecations much to their foes regret.
(
Faith districts completed in Fjoll and Vatn Steppe)
Auspicious indeed was the advent of these scanty boons for it was in these days of darkness that the workings of Vatne Steppe came to their fruition. The roads planned and dug into the hard stone were completed in good order and soon the watchtower network planned against the threat of Helheim was done in its appointed time with waystations and lodges popping up along the paths and frozen rivers to provide respite for travellers and a warm fire to avail the weary. Even more pertinently to the ambitions of Tiglikte and Iqalaq, fleet-footed scouts and the efforts of the seers had revealed to them in their initial furtive forays the weakness of Helheims defense and the absence of its dread king, and with him his mighty host, from his high seat. An opportunity yes.
A daring plan was wrought in the icy recesses of the Clayr glacier, a plan which if executed well could cut the head off the proverbial serpent and put an end to the threat of Helheim to the Confederacy for years to come. At the direction of the seers of the glacier tribe, Iqalaq turns the Stalwart Walls scouting force from its wanderings and musters his men in strength for a raid on Helheim itself, cautiously marching her army up into the high country under the veil of a timely blizzard, lest her mens tracks be uncovered by the enemy and ruin the element of surprise. As it turns out however her foes, listening well to the whispers of the dead by obscene arts, knew of her coming and planned to ensnare her in an ambush at a certain vale, with the garrison of Helheim sallying forth under the Hangadrott Kings raven banner to meet her. It was here however that Iqalaq’s close collaboration with the hunters of the Tundra Tribe and cautious scouting in advance of this raid availed her much, as the enemy's advance was spotted well before they took position and their hopes of catching their assailant by surprise were dashed to nothing. Indeed it was Iqalaq who would lay a snare in wait for the hosts of her enemy.
Thus under the cloak of a moonless night, Iqalaq watched as the column of Firbolg auxiliaries shuffled through the deep snow past her position .
“Now!”
At a command the tungalik gathered by her side rose from their position hidden amidst a stony conclave of glacial erratics and released a spell long held in reserve for this moment. A shivering cold rose forth from the snow as the firbolg cried out, their hearts seized in an icy grip as one by one they began to fall.
“Where are the enemy Vanir?!”
Iqalaq asked frantically as a scout hastened to her side to dispatch a report. However as providence would have it there was no need to receive his reply for even as their serfs were struck low by the tungaliks sorceries the sound of a great horn boomed down from a high hill overlooking the plain upon which her trap was sprung, answered by several lesser horns in turn. Whipping her head in the direction of the noise Iqalaq saw what seemed like a veil of mist descending the hillside, tendrils of precipitation clawing down towards her gathered ranks with dire intent as the Vanir cavalry sliced through the snow like shards of glass.
“Damn glamour, Tungalik retreat, Snow Warriors forward!”
The Tungalik retreated to the relative safety of the rocks as the Vanir hirdlings baying horns echoed all around, the magical mists concealing their refracting forms mounted atop white horses swift and fey and grasping quivering spears of bronze adorned with black tassels couched and ready for battle. As they approached the snow warriors unleashed javelin after javelin as they ran across the snow to get within targeting range, which the contemptuous vanir nimbly evaded whilst covering the slow retreat of their firbolg skirmishers, luring out their enemy.
As the snow warriors exposed themselves the Vanir ceased their mocking showboating and turned in a wide circuit before charging headlong into the waiting throng. Widely dispersed and having already dispensed the greater part of their stock of javelins the snow warriors were easy prey as lances bore into man after man to the whooping cries of the servants of helheim, who wheeled about again and again in cycling charges in a majestic display of horsemanship.
“Militia forward”
The skirmishers of the confederacy turned tail for the rocks as militia flooded forth to cover their retreat. Here it was that the enemy erred and the numerical superiority of the Vatn Confederacy rang true. The Vanir horsemen overconfident in light of the success of their initial counter-attack and arrogantly dismissive of the power of “lesser races” rushed forward to smite the skirmishers regardless of the hordes of militia charging to meet them. True it was that the Vanir were greatly superior man to man compared to the Vatn rabble, but numbers have a quality all of their own and as the skirmishers retreated behind the militia line the Vanir horsemen found themselves encircled, their individual strength negated as they began to be separated from each other and beset by foes, five militia to each horseman.
As a warbling note resounded from their horns, the Vanir in the face of this encirclement did not foolishly resist to the end, for say what you will of this cruel race they like all mortals feared death, even more so in the course of a battle they never conceived of losing. With a mighty charge the Vanir broke their encirclement with minor losses and thus with tails between their legs they ran for home.
A jubilant cry rang through the Stalwart Wall as Iqalaq gave the command to charge forward and take the field. As Tungalik, Skirmisher and Militia rushed headlong across the plain without formation in their buoyant charge they fell upon the firbolg skirmishers left abandoned by the vanirs retreat. Whilst the tungaliks initial spell had done most of the work, the remaining forces who resisted their magics when faced with overwhelming force either surrendered, or for those who dared not revolt against the dread Hangadrott King even in the face of certain death, were dispatched with axes as they presented a futile resistance. The bloody massacre that was the result dyed the snows red, to the delight of the Queen of Winter. As news of this mighty triumph reached home, so did the people acclaim the might of the goddess, and renew their confidence in the confederacy and all it stood for.
(
Vatn Confederacy -2 firbolg militia, -1 snow warrior, +3 Vatn confederacy stability)
Of course this initial engagement was not the end of the running battle fought between Helheim and the Vatn Confederacy. For as the Stalwart Wall, seeking to seize the initiative and ravage Helheim itself advanced into the hills it was met by running attacks by Vanir cavalry as the implacable forces of Vatn Steppe approached nigh even to the gates of Helheim itself. It was here however that their fortune failed them, for even as Iqalaq savoured the taste of victory and dared hope that she might behold the burning of Helheim itself in the moment of her attainment she looked over the horizon and saw what awaited her.
A dark cloud like a wall, attended by wheeling crows, heralded by the sound of horns.
The King had returned. Iqalaq was no fool, she cut and ran even as the first of the foul spirits in service to the enemy passed overhead lest her victory come to nothing and her raiding forces be laid waste. Thus did the raid fail in its grand objective of ravaging helheim itself, but nonetheless this was a mighty victory. For the power of Vatn Confederacy had been displayed for all to see and the garrison of Helheim was largely laid waste. Indeed the reports dispatched indicated that barely a quarter of the forces arrayed against her, almost all being Vanir, returned alive to Helheim to meet the Kings wrath. Furthermore this mighty triumph availed yet further gains to the confederacy as in the course of negotiations with Olafsvellir this testament of strength compelled the chiefs of that domain to join the confederacy and bend the knee to Tiglikte, where otherwise they would have likely resisted his beguilements.
As for Helheim this setback puts a halter on the Hangadrott Kings conquests, for a time at least, as they lick their wounds and avail of the coming spring to rebuild their forces. The King himself is given much to ponder for in having his beard shorn by his irksome foe the power of Tallai is made clear as well as the vulnerability of his forces to the prospect of divine intervention. Perhaps he too should avail of a divine benefactor, namely one whose prophecy regarding what has transpired was clear and unerring. Whatever his course, the leaders of the Confederacy, if not the common people, know still that his army is unmatched and that much work remains to be done before the threat of Helheim is laid to rest beneath the snows.
-
“And don’t forget your rain cloak dear”
A mother raised the hood of her daughters crimson raincoat as she sent her forth to with gifts to her grandmother. The village nestled in the clefts of Odra shuddered under the dreary skies, freezing rain spitting down even as the snows lay heavy under foot.
“Yes mom!”
The girl set forth, shuffling through the snows between the modest dwellings of wattle and daub, and the few better off timber houses scattered alongside the villages babbling brook that gurgled down the valley eventually to join with the great rivers and mires of Vaettiheim. She whistled a tune as she went, for despite the bitter chill peace endured in the merry little village in the valley, and she wanted nothing for food, shelter or those other trappings of civilisation that make for a contented life and uplift men beyond the lot of beasts. In due time she came upon her grandmother’s house, a quaint wooden shack, comfortable but ramshackle and with a red door emblazoned with a carven stag, on the outskirts of town, resting midway up a slope overlooking the village.
In she went with a bound
“Grandma!”
The kitchen witch hanging atop the stove gave no reply as the house resounded with silence.
“Grandma?”
The little girl cutely tilted her head as she deposited her hamper of gifts atop a crocheted doily neatly placed atop a round table as she tentatively tip-toed through the house. The girl covered her mouth with her hands to stifle her giggles. As everyone knows, old people like to sleep, and so she snuck her way to her grandmother’s bedroom in hopes of giving her beloved nan a surprise. Coming upon the doorway she peered in to check if grandma was there to be surprised.
Indeed she was!
And atop her mangled corpse squatted an unshapely thing, somewhat like unto a wolf. Its blackness rippling with muscle as its claws dug into the poor woman’s chest to gather up delectable sweetmeats for its ravening maw to consume whilst its nostrils belched billows of steam in delight in defiance of the cold. Its many eyed head and the roiling shifting disorder of its physical form seemed designed (as it indeed was) to provoke revulsion amongst goodly ordered folk, and the burning malice in its eyes and unearthly cunning brought terror to the soul.
Naturally the girl screamed and ran
The beast whipped its hoary head, nine eyes pondering for but a moment before it leapt in chase abandoning its erstwhile meal for the flies. Alas the confines of the house hindered its pursuit as the girl turned a corner and scurried out the front door even as the creature scrabbled at the wooden floorboards. The beast howled.
From the heights above the village a thousand howls bayed in answer.
Meanwhile, the beast ceased it pursuit and pondered its next course (plenty of time for tasty delicacies later) even as it cackled at the prospect of playing with its quarry, the girl hastened to the village which by now was bustling with the kind of activity only induced by mortal peril.
“Quick Anya, in here”
A kindly woodsman cried out to the girl, spying the calamity of wolves falling down the valley walls like an avalanche behind her from a brick house. It was the only such house in the village, belonging to three merchant brothers who oft employed the man for odd tasks and entrusted him with care of the place when they were off trading. It was their best hope for refuge in the coming storm.
As she swept through the door of the house like the wind, he slammed it shut in her wake and barred it with an axe and lodging a chair behind the handle for good measure.
“Hush child’
He whispered as he cradled her in his embrace
“The brick walls will keep us safe”
As they huddled the sound of baying and howling drew nigh as the “wolves” rushed past the house and into the village. Soon the echoing screams of the villagers joined the cacophonous chorus of the pack as the hunters fell upon their prey.
“shh , shh”
The woodsman put his hand over the girls mouth all the while stifling back his own terror as much for his own sake as for the child's.
Something scratched at the door
The girl cried out in fear.
“It won’t get in, be still little one”
His eyes darted furtively to the door.
A cackling sound like a hyenas laugh followed and the woodsman sensed a great many of the beasts gathering beyond the barricaded portal, joined by something else, something far greater and more terrible than the thing that had in its scouting foray devoured the poor girls grandmother whilst she slept.
Silence…
A thousand howls again and in time to the sonorous clarion of the wild hunt a great wind burst the door and swept through the house, throwing furniture awry and disintegrating the bricks of the house like a thousand years of wind upon a pillar of stone as it tumbled down like so much chaff. The two huddling mortals then saw the dread visage of the one who had brought ruin to their tranquil home. A great wolf, third eye atop its head afire with the spark of divinity, its paws clawing at the earth which quaked at its touch.
“Big…”
The woodsman murmured, his mind only partly lucid.
“Bad wolf!”
The girl screamed, terror forgotten in her rising anger.
“You killed my grandma! You big bad wolf!”
The creature chuckled with malign cruelty, and turned aside to delight in the ruin of the rest of the village. From its shadow emerged a pack of beasts, cackling anew with the delight of fresh meat newly presented, each hulking creature slowly skulking forward to better savour the terror of the delicacies gifted unto them by their dread master…
The last thing that passed through the mind of that little girl as she died, having had watched the woodsman be torn to pieces by the hounds, was the sensation of teeth grinding upon the bones of her skull even as the flesh of her limbs was being torn away. The darkness that awaited her was sweet relief by comparison.
…
Alas, the tragedy of that little valley was but one note in a vast symphony of destruction as the great hunt which would soon be described in common parlance as the “Calamity of Wolves” swept down from the heights of Odra into Vaettiheim and parts of Ulmur laying waste to village after village and town after town as even cities began to fall before the inexorable hunt of Revna, god of the wild and enemy of civilisation. In Vaettiheim the crude Vaetti for whom the region was named were laid waste by the ravening hordes of beasts and savage Skaetti called forth from the wilds to serve their god. Only those who embraced the Lord of the Hunt, burnt their huts, and came to live as beasts with their wolves in the mire were spared and of these not a few were bestowed with Revna’s savage blessings. The implacable advance of the calamity was not entirely uncontested however, indeed the destruction was made worse by the raiding Jotun sallying north from Dovievel under the veil of winter who, together with those Vaetti who turned to Tallai their ancestral maker for succour in their tribulation waged battle with the beasts in the snows south of the great mere and made their redoubts in the regions of Dalzad Qurd and Obrar Gur here holding, for the time being, the hunt at bay. Thus did the gods make war against each other anew as they did in days of old as the bannermen of Tallai contended with the hosts of Revna for rule over the land.
As for the wise and the fortunate, these fled north to Ulmur and even unto the marches Mavernus albeit they found little respite in these refuges. In Ulmur the Asangjar tribe which ruled in Groenstad and Groenwaard held off waves of beasts coming down from the mountains, sparing the rest of the Ulmuri Kingdom from the horrors that befell Vaettiheim at great cost in blood and treasure. Nonetheless they could only look on in horror as hordes of Vaetti armed and desperate migrated north in a great exodus from Vaettiheim and overwhelmed the kingdoms defence, already taxed from the civil war against the rebellious native Vaetti of the region who with a not a little satisfaction joined arms with their vagrant kin. Wolfsheim, Birspach and other cities fell before the barbarians before the King of Ulmur’s forces managed to regroup and hold the line at the fortress cities of Penzchaat and Regenschatel which resting upon the very threshold of the impenetrable forests of Asphode and had ever since the early days of the empire kept a wary watch on the woods and the servants of the unchained god. How long they can endure against the vaetti tide remains to be seen, however now that the Asangjar tribes relative power in the Kingdom has greatly expanded as a brute fact, whispers abound that the the Chief of the same may succumb to folly and seek to usurp the throne even while the battle yet rages on all sides.
In Mavernus meanwhile the echoes of this calamity resound as the fleeing peasantry of Ulmur, beset by the equally fleeing Vaetti of Vaettiheim take refuge amongst the druidic circles at Tursina whilst other less fortunate souls find themselves enslaved by the remaining Avvite estates of the region or dispersed amongst the rebellious freedom fighters and nascent slave states, bandits some might call them, that afflicted the restive region. Some even made it as far north as Pomaz where the rulers of the Communion with great concern ponder the prospect of the Vaetti, or worse the Calamity of Wolves marching upon their gates whilst their forces are otherwise occupied…
For indeed Goliath was not content with making do with the acquisition of Pomaz and sought to convert his initial successes in war to further conquests. The target of his ire was the Estate of Hebdebenu, a relatively minor Avvite principality on the verges of Asphodel that made its name in the old Empire as a bastion against the forest god. The avvites of this city, like those formerly of Pomaz are devoted to the blasphemous art of conjuring demons from the other place to serve their tyrannical rule over lesser races and were favoured by virtue of the greater demon which had offered their adepts its patronage with the power to conjure venomous imps whose foul breath spread poison on the four winds against which no shield or blade could defend. Inspired and newly experienced by virtue of his conquests, Goliath wrought a cunning plan to overcome this minor obstacle.
Thus did the armies of the Communion spend weeks and months maneuvering on the marches of Hebdebenu seeking to entice the enemy commander to meet them in the open field. Every care was taken to minimise the risk of poison gas, camps were set on high hilltops not only so the communions scouts could spy any enemy approach but to set the army above any noxious fumes pooling in the vales below. The caution led to a back and forth exchange across the march of Hebdebenu and despite every effort Goliath soon learned a simple truth. It is hard to control the wind.
The first major contact with the foe was the result of an ambush set off whilst the army was repositioning. An advance party of adepts and their conjured imps burst forth from a copse of yews and managed to overwhelm a unit of Dead Men in the vanguard, the men of which became newly acquainted with their own mortality as they died of asphyxiation, foaming at the mouth. Point blank envenomation at the hands of the cackling demons rarely ends well. Numerous minor engagements and skirmishes followed with several units of Clockworks being lost when they were caught out of position by the highly mobile demon conjurations dying in the same brutal fashion. Goliaths skill and more subtle groundwork however rang true and despite these initial losses further attempts to whittle down the Communions army largely failed to reap a substantial harvest in casualties, and indeed Hebdebenu’s attempt to attack in the field led to the loss of at least four units of slave infantry as well as a number of enslaved skirmisher units as their positions were uncovered and extirpated by Goliath’s scouts. Seeing that the Communion could not be bested in the field, and being wise to their own advantage on the defensive the remaining harassing forces of Hebdebenu retreated in haste to the city itself with the army of the Communion bearing forth in hot pursuit in an attempt to catch them in the open for a decisive battle before they made the walls and shut the gates of the city against them.
Alas the Communion failed in this task, and Goliath was compelled in the face of his recalcitrant foe to set a siege of the city even as the demons rained poison from on high into his attacking army. Nonetheless his triumph in the field together with the timely demolition of the magic academy in Pomaz and its replacement by a cobbled together collection of alchemical establishments (which would prove of much utility in areas apart from war as will be seen) raised hopes at home that the march of the Communion would continue its relentless path of conquest for the glory of Ishat and the liberation of the enslaved. In the halls of power, hope too was kindled that the “Avvite taint” would soon be purged from Ashdod in purifying flame.
(
+2 stability Pomaz, -1 outrider, -2 Dead Men (Anathamant), -4 Clockwork Greatbowmen (Anathamant))
On the other side of Ashdod the people of Haversten too entertained hope that the profane banner of the Avvite hegemony would be replaced. However the Drowner Cult would see raised atop the parapets in triumph not the fiery brand of Ishat, but the sign of a greater power whose depths and might were as vast as the boundless sea. Under their guidance the reavers of Yorvik planned their advance against Nemsisouk meticulously, sending forth agents to rouse the enslaved against their masters and turn them to the worship of Ursula. It was only then once the stage was set that their armies sallied forth in strength to put the final nail in Nemsisouks coffin and execute the priests genocidal plan to consign the cities people to the embrace of their goddess. The numbers that flowed out of Yorviks gate were vast, and like a flood Lothar’s raiders washed over the land and put to the sack the farms and villas of the Avvites almost entirely unopposed. However when they finally reached the walls of Nemsisouk itself, they found their opposition arrayed in might to contest them.
“Harpooners loose! We outnumber them two to one. Let us offer their blood to the goddess!”
Lothar savagely grinned as the first volley of harpoons careened across the wall, dreaming of the plunder that lay therein. As if to deny him this spoil a volley of arrows arced overhead in reply to the first attack piercing into the ranks of his impatient and lightly armoured harpooners, although doing little to dampen their enthusiasm. Ah but there was something else as well, a sonorous chant, each syllable like the ticking of clock and ripe with portents of doom as dark witcheries were pronounced and evil pacts invoked. Lothar squinted his eyes as he saw his ranks falter, faces grimacing and eyes twitching at first before at last some weaklings started to pant and cry out in pain to their eternal shame. For the vile words echoing from the peak of the foul tower wherein Nemsisouks witches practiced foul concourse with demons were writ in pain and suffering, and pain and suffering did they provide in full measure to those unto whom they were spoken.
As if beckoned by the misfortune of his men and seeking to delight further in misery and pain, he spied a flock of imps carousing and twirling mockingly in the air and shooting from their lazily outstretched claws bolts of arcane energy pitch black like the void from whence they came. Weakened by the sorcerous words echoing in their ears, many amongst the host could do scarce more than whimper as they were reduced to ash and charred bone too unmanned by the sorcerous arts of the defender to raise shields. All the while as their shield-arms lay slack arrows continued to fall finding the sweet embrace of flesh as they reaped a red harvest.
Lothar growled.
“Linebreakers forward!”
And just in time he secretly thought, allowing a moment of relief wash over his thoughts. For even as the sonorous conch of his herald sounded his command the gates of Nemsisouk opened in stately majesty to release a foray of slave soldiers led by an Avvite commander whip in hand. Undoubtedly they sought to take advantage of their initial successes he scoffed. This he did with no lack of cause for indeed as the slave soldiers clashed with the linebreaker front the numerically inferior serfs of the Avvites clearly proved they were no match for the devotees of Ursula, and with each slave felled a cry rang out devoting their bloody death to the Lady of the Deep. The slaves swiftly retreated to the gate, shamblers entangling any stragglers in flotsam to be hacked to pieces by Haverstens finest even as the gates slammed shut once more.
An exchange of arrows commenced anew before Lothar impatiently issued the command for siege ladders to be sent forth. In this he reckoned on superior numbers overwhelming the defence and hoped to minimise needless losses from the damned witcheries of the Avvites.
“Forth men, let us break these infidels!”
Lothar rallied the troops as the raised shields of the linebreakers led to the first ladders successfully being brought up to the wall.
“Charge!”
The great warrior led his linebreakers for the ladders and was the very first to ascend, whipping aside the paltry arrows of the slaves even as a great battlecry was raised from the hosts biting at the bit to partake in the grand holocaust that was to be offered up to Ursula once the city was lost. Nemsisouk would fall, the sanctums of demons would be laid bare, the shrines of the unseemly pleasure cults of Ishat which of late had flourished amidst the foul palaces of the Avvite princelings would be smashed, their broken idols offered up to the waters.
Lothar was a dreamer.
A truly great man.
Lothar looked up to the battlements at the timid eyes of the slaves as they shuddered in the face of death and pushed himself upwards, hungry with berserker fury to taste the blood of his enemies and slake his thirst upon the cries of a people despoiled.
So it was that Lothar died.
For even as his eyes were fixed upwards and his mind raised to dreams yet to be dreamt and conquests yet unconquered an imp, black furred and faceless with wings of shadow landed atop the parapet of the wall and suggestively reclined in mocking repose. The missives which would later arrive in Yorkik would attest to what happened next. The beast simply stretched out its finger and released a bolt of its foul magic, and Lothar like so many others, perished at its hand as the tide of battle continued its advance.
It was nothing grand. Even as his half-charred corpse fell from the ladder to the wooden picket at the foot of the wall the linebreakers behind him continued their charge up their ladders spilling atop the walls as they began to batter down their pathetic foe and establish beachheads for the army to break through into the city-proper. Alas news spreads quickly, and as word of Lothar Spinebreakers unceremonious demise spread through the ranks morale quickly wavered. The defending Avvites let out a great cry and redoubled their defence and what beachheads so to speak were established atop the wall were quickly eradicated with the help of their accustomed witcheries as the waiting masses of Haverstens grand army failed to capitalise on their numbers in the absence of a commander. One by one the ladders in their turn were cast down, and with the final ladder being thrown to ruin upon the cold earth the slaves breathed a sigh of relief, whispering to the gods their hope and prayer all in one. “Not today”.
For Haversten on the other hand It was a rout.
The deputies of Lothar were hardly men of equal caliber to their fallen commander but nonetheless neither were they incompetent. Given their humiliating failure to take the seriously undermanned defences of Nemsisouk they could at least take solace in their relatively minor losses and in the fact that they managed to regain some measure of control and set up an imperfect siege of the city. Even as the Avvites sent word to their compatriots begging for aid and reinforcements, so did Lothars raiders hurriedly prepare messengers to carry word to the authorities in Yorvik of what had transpired and requesting new orders. What was implicit in their missives was a cry for leadership from anyone with the will to bear its mantle. May Ursula bless her champion, should one arise to answer this plea, for as plague begins to fester through the ranks and as Ashdod heaves and roils under the weight of its dead, her faithfuls ambitions may yet be foiled by disease more than their enemies even as the masked gravekeepers consign ever more corpses to purifying flame and as the the drowners back home in Yorvik are left to ponder this failure even as they dispose of ever more corpses to the deep.
(
Exeunt Lothar Spinebreaker, -1 harpooner, -1 linebraker, -3 militia infantry)
-
A messenger on horseback entered through the gates of Jormungand, spared but a passing glance by the citizenry conducting their daily business within the cities dull grey walls. Yet not unnoticed was his advent by the Queen on her high throne, for after presenting his credentials at the palace gates this emissary from afar had much to whisper in her ear. Whispers of pacts and profit, and what's this? Bhir Boldahr has mobilised and is marching to free Don Lodur from its conquerors. This must not be allowed!
The response to this new information was swift, agents were sent forth into the hills to lay traps on likely paths and nemedian scouts in the form of ravens flew forth from the tower of phantoms to keep watch upon the stoney ways and thoroughfares of Odra, those golden roads which once filled with merchants and traders brought wealth and prosperity to the Emerald Kingdom and which now expected the march of iron-clad soldiers armed for battle and the spilling of blood.
Despite the great boon of foreknowledge however, the first reports returned by these scouts boded ill. The phantoms, their pale nemedian faces betraying an unusual befuddlement revealed that the Svartalfar, on the unnervingly few occasions where they were spotted, seemed to be avoiding their traps as if they knew they were there.
“Impossible!”
The Queen exclaimed.
But no matter, for the cunning way of her patron goddess was to lay plans within plans, thus did her contingency take effect. The Phantoms taking the forms of rodents, sparrows and other unseemly vermin sallied forth anew at her behest carrying with them the consecrated blessings of the mistress of decay. Slinking under the cloak of night they entered by some miracle unseen the city of Bhir Boldahr where passing unnoticed amidst the encamped hosts of the enemy they manage to infiltrate the granaries and infect the cities stores. Praised be the goddess! The following day the soldiery groaned with poorly countenance, their bile flowing freely as the actinic poison seared their bowels and introduced them to the corruption of the grave. If the Queen hoped that this would put an end to their ambitions of reconquest then she was sure to be dissapointed. For only so much damage could be done through trickery, and the hosts gathered to reclaim the Svartalfars lost property was mighty indeed.
(
Bhir Boldahr: -2 heavy infantry -1 unit crossbowmen)
Thus did the Emerald Kingdoms army march forth in strength to besiege and conquer Bhir Boldahr hoping thereby to set the terms of the two powers exchange. The advantage, the strategists confirmed, lay with the enemy. The Svartalfar are natives to the mountain heights and given the numbers gathered were relatively equal and the foe armed in strength and incensed with the fire of vengeance this home field gave Bhir Boldahr every confidence of victory. The cold-blooded naga for their part shivered under winters yoke as they ascended the snow-laden slopes and prayed to their goddess that the magical prowess of the Emerald Kingdom would lead them to triumph and that the heady drink of victory might warm their bellies once they were past the svatalfar cities gates.
The start of the battle would prove to be much earlier than they anticipated, with its beginning being sudden and entirely unforeseen.
As the Emerald Kingdoms army trudged through the snowdrifts towards Bhir Boldahr the Svartalfar army emerged from a cavern in the mountain on a slope above the slowly advancing men of Jormungand and their crossbowmen, taking but a moment to line up in ranks. With mechanical precision they initiated a withering barrage felling many and ravaging the courageous serpent knights which took the initiative to boldly charge up the hill in a vain attempt to stall for time and enable the shaken army to take a defensive formation. The Serpent Archers for their part responded with counter-fire of their own, taking advantage of their greater range to strike back and claim heads here and there evenly across the Svartalfar line. The Svartalfars heavy plate and large shields availed them much however, and each volley from the Serpent archers was met with raised shields and the tinkling of fallen arrows, soon to be followed by mocking war cries. Mere arrows it was clear could not pierce the famed svartalfar steel with which their counterparts were arrayed. Such was Bhir Boldahrs initial advantage that it was only the mesmers efforts at healing the wounded as the Kingdoms front materialised that prevented this initial exchange from devolving into a humiliating rout.
Nonetheless once the two sides were established in their positions in good order the svartalfar hopes for a swift victory did nought but fade like the mountain mists under the steady light of the sun. Seeing a gap in the withering crossbow fire, Naz’jar gestured and had her phantoms slip from between the ranks in the form of great cats, mighty snow leopards flying across the snow towards the Svartalfar shield wall and the scattered throngs of Firbolg mercenaries releasing javelins from the front even as others in the forms of diving peregrines descended upon the crossbowmen from on high in a two pronged assault. Claw and fang bit into the firbolg even as the crossbowmen were forced to divert fire to the diving nemedians. These nemedians were to the credit of the crossbowmen forced off lest they be overwhelmed and destroyed, their efforts doing little in this foray to quench the crossbows defence and granting the front line only a brief respite from their piercing volleys. The nemedians knew however it would not avail the Emerald Kingdom to sacrifice men needlessly in the face of this relentless foe, more opportunities would come later and in this took some consolation.
Seeing as the initial forays and the prolonged ranged fire proved to be indecisive, both sides seemingly of common accord finally initiated a full frontal infantry clash, one which would last all day even until the sun declined below the mountain heights and the bitter winds of the angry night that hastened from the east chilled the flesh of the soldiery of both sides, claiming casualties as surely as any blade. The mesmer sorcerers proved their mettle in this battle reaping a substantial harvest through sorcery, but as the day carried on the cold blooded magi failed in the face of both the bitter cold and svartalfar endurance and the advantage turned towards Bhir Boldahr. Nonetheless in the early infantry exchange the Kingdom laid waste nigh the entirety of the mercenary firbolg the enemy city had gathered to aid them in their war of vengeance. their core forces of hardened and heavily armoured svartalfar, undeterred fought on and spilled a bloody libation to the snows through spear and sword even as they were eventually compelled to reluctantly retreated, still fighting a rearguard action all the same, beneath the rocks into caverns which the Emerald Kingdom, wisely, refrained from entering.
The toll of this battle was bloody on both sides and its outcome indecisive. Even as they, for the purposes of propaganda, claimed a victory in the field causing despair and resignation amongst the conquered people of Don Lodur who finally realised salvation would not be near in coming, the Emerald Kingdom was forced to retreat back to Don Lodur lest they found themselves caught unawares a second time, and destroyed. Indeed in the secret chambers of the court, the strategists realised that it was only their ample preparations and heavy resource investment that led to this battle being anything other than a catastrophic failure on the Kingdoms part.
(
Emerald Kingdom: -10 Serpent Archers, -9 Serpent Knights, -2 Mesmers, -4 Phantoms, +5 stability in Don Lodur)
(
Bhir Boldahr: Heavy Losses)
Ah but it was not all bad news for the Kingdom, no indeed. For the Cult of Froede and the Cult of Lotahna could rejoice in the raising of two great temples to the god and goddess of the Kingdom. Even as the svartalfar denizens of Don Lodur murmured against the imposition of a foreign faith and scoffed at the bizarre and mystical rites of the Lord of Dreams performed in the new temple built in their city, the adopted children of Froede came in pilgrimage from Jormungand and delighted in the favour shown them by their Lotahnic queen with their fears of oppression and the divine wrath of their god being appeased, for now. For the Cult of Lotahna’s part the raising of temple in Jormungand proved the Queens continued devotion to the goddess and the primacy of place their religion enjoyed within the spiritual hierarchy of the Emerald Kingdom. It was a political coup, one made even more triumphant by the completion of the two temples at exactly the same time at a most auspicious hour determined in advance by the court diviner, lest anyone say that the god and goddess were not equally first in the hearts of the Kingdoms people. Froede would surely wrack himself with garrulous laughter at this little jest although what mischief he may unveil in turn remains to be seen as does what the ill-pleasure of other deities slighted by the Kingdoms rejection may call forth.
(
Faith districts completed in Jormungand and Don Lodur, -5 stability in Don Lodur)
At any rate, even as the drums of war echoed through the Emerald Kingdom north beyond Bhir Boldahr in Unocta, an equally freely chosen conflagration looked certain to arise. The Unoctans are a technologically advanced but culturally barbarous people of exiles, descendants of some half-remembered folk who met Ursulas divine displeasure long ago. Huddling in their caverns, they remained despite their token fealty to Mahat, little versed in the intricacies of old imperial praxis or the rules of diplomatic discourse. Seeing after the deicide an opportunity to emerge from their isolation however their grand councils immediate actions were to firstly demand fealty on the part of the great Nemedian cities of Nazca and secondly make representations to the Sidhe.
The gall.
Needless to say the great bastions of Nemedian civilisation did not take kindly to demands of submission from those they considered little more than chattel, and proclaimed war to subdue the upstarts and enslave their people, politely according to orthodox custom arranging a field for the two armies to meet and decide the outcome of their dispute. Yet even as Chamombles great army mobilised to meet the “unoctan rabble” in the field Unocta demurred with promises of meeting the field of battle come summer. Worse, Chamombles supposed brethren from Gretaux failed to commit arms to the cause, despite their flowery expressions of camaraderie and vociferous condemnations of Unoctan barbarism. Nemedian politics is a cut-throat game afterall and the elders of Chamomble well understood when the reports came in that they had held back their army in the hope that Chamomble might suffer a major loss opening the door for them to seize the advantage and claim hegemony over Nazca. Nonetheless the Chamomblois host marched on despite these setbacks for the sake of honour lest their good name be disgraced in the eyes of their rivals .
They were received with an empty field.
Perhaps realising how vastly outmatched they were in the face of Nemedian power and civilisation the Unoctan army, swayed by the auguries of their High Priestess who foretold that Nazca united could not be conquered, or perhaps simply holding to their councils will to not entertain the field of battle till winter had passed they simply failed to arrive. For their part for Chamomblois were content not to pursue the unoctans into the hills and to simply return home, honour and prestige much advanced and their rivals dishonoured. The lack of losses served to make the victory all the sweeter. The people of Unocta for their part feared that their bluff being called (and their reputation shamed) and the Nemedians being decisively turned towards hostility to their little nation boded ill for the future.
(
-4 stability Unocta)
Fortune however did not entirely abandon them, for even as nemedian braggadocio sapped public morale, word came back to the city from the ambassador to the House of Towers in Sijosalvar. Met with what the unoctans assumed was warmth, the Sidhe Lords together with the Tuatha bard Syvarchia, an ancient being high in the favour of Froede who had taken residence in the court, much to the delight and acclaim of the Sidhe nobility, in service to her divine master, graciously hearkened to the unoctans request for advice regarding the proliferations of strange beasts in the mountains (which the mountain folk in error presumed fell under the rule of Lord Froede) suggesting a tribute to the honour of Froede, sent of course to the high court of Ylanati, would merit his divine aid in quelling the beasts, even more so if a temple was raised to the gods name.
The Unoctan council cared not to promote the worship of a strange god (fearing rightly the envy of their own goddess, recently slighted by the raising of a temple to the same god in Don Lodur) and indeed their priests at councils prompting made a clear sign of their continued reliance upon Liluri when the state summoned forth three work-beast automata to aid in resource acquisition and other sundry tasks. Nonetheless seeing an opportunity to secure relations with a powerful neighbour in the face of political headwinds elsewhere, they did not disdain to send a grand tribute of gold and other valuable together with a magnificent vestment worthy of adorning an image of the fair prince to the Sidhe, nay the robe sent was worthy of even adorning the most sacred body of the god itself even if the Sidhe found unoctan tastes garish and overwrought.
The House of Towers for their part, initially surprised at the magnitude of the offering, quickly took great pains to interpret it as a tribute paid upon their greatness by a “lesser people” who came in rags begging at their door under portents of ruin in order to quell the murmurings of certain co-ethnics who still held them as apostates to Froede due to their old service to Mahat. This being despite the fair princes magnanimous forgiveness. They could well refer as well in the face of these naysayers to the advancing dominion of Froede, whose influence despite the intentions of the Unoctan council spread to that realm much as it had to the Emerald Kingdom due to their efforts, as folk turned to the Lord of Dreams in pursuit of their hopes and ambitions all thanks to their whispers and diplomacy and under the shadow of their own fears. The light of hope quelled whatever unrest the councils craven refusal to meet the field of battle against Chamomble invoked amongst the people at least for now.
(
+4 stability Unocta)
That is not to say the Unoctan military was entirely idle over the winter. Not at all. For as travellers and the occasional trader from the west filtered in to Unocta of the horrors that had unfolded in Ulmur of the calamity of wolves (emissaries sent to the same region failing to return, and presumed dead) the Council, who had seen the unoctan countryside being vexed for some time by revnic beasts saw fit to the send the army, and any foreigners who deigned to participate, on a grand hunt in the hill country to quell the beasts and erase some of the shame they had experienced in the face of Nemedian honour.
Alas for their noble dreams the hunt failed to live up to grand ambitions. The heavy unoctan infantry were hardly suitable to hunting down, in rugged terrain no less, nimble beasts blessed by the god of the wild, especially in winter when the hills were covered with a thick blanket of snow which further slowed the advance. Bogged down, a unit of pikeneers was even so unfortunate as to perish from exposure during a mountain blizzards, with the remnants reporting their brethren being picked off by stray beasts, great wolves of many eyes and stranger things flitting like black shadows through the trees and staining the purity of the snows with their inky blackness.
The veracity of these reports left much to be desired though, for few such beasts remained in northern odra given they had largely fallen upon the west in fulfilment of the commands of their god. Lacking suitable quarry, ill-contented with the inclement conditions, and not willing to shoulder further losses for little to no result, the armies “grand hunt” in the end was reduced to a glorified patrol of roads and borderlands. The villages were a little safer than usual this winter, and the rustic inhabitants were well pleased with the attention from the higher ups, but was it really worth it in the end?
(
-1 pikeneer, +3 stability Unocta)
Efforts on the part of the Unoctan army to contain the Patalan plague also proved for nought, the ravages of pestilence continuing to reap a good harvest of souls even in the remotest and most ill-bred part of Nazca. Indeed in the absence of medicines such as the alchemical concoctions brewed by the communion, or of the divine blessings of Lotahna or even sufficient funding, it was simply impossible of the military to contain every travelling vagrant or waif from wandering the streets. At least the people appreciated the effort.
To the east in Xerconia efforts to aid the afflicted were however better funded and in turn better received with the Axes of Danbalor tending to plague-victims and spreading the message of the Mahatic faith of the abbey far and wide. This charity, combined with good old-fashioned demagoguery on the part of certain clerics against the monarchy of Awharai’s lacklustre response to the pestilence resulted in increasing trust being placed with the order by the benighted peasantry and led to many new recruits gracing the abbeys halls come the advent of spring.
(
+3 stability Xerconia)
Apart from charity and propaganda however it was a quiet winter of recruitment and training for Xerconia, with numerous pyromancer adepts and hedge templars being trained quietly and efficiently by their instructors under the abbeys auspices. Whilst interpreted by the commoners as a sign of the Abbeys commitment to public order given the unrest and instability of the region some in the royal court interpreted this military build up in other ways as a cold war between court and abbey seemed to build up out of sight under winters shadow.
As for other lands to the north, Mani Akkitha and Xaru deep in the jungles of Patala in a tropical echo of Awharai’s tensions conducted a war of espionage and lobbed diplomatic daggers through the jungle even as the languid folk of that region got the occasional shiver from an unseasonably cool season and rejoiced in the power of Lotahna that saw the plague, finally, peter out in that land. That it simply joined the list of Patalas endemic diseases was par for the course naturally.
In Lanun the pirate queen rested and built up her fleet anew after the losses earlier in the year even as a state of ennui overcame the Hollows, with the tribes remaining divided as to how to respond to the threat of piracy. Political deadlock led to a dangerous lack of action on the part of their leaders, one which would surely lead them into mortal peril once the seasonal storms blowing from the south open the way for Athanasia Grey to entertain further conquests.
Elsewhere the Kingdom of Pythium saw its Kings authority largely renewed over the mainland holdings of the realm with the plague ebbing away due to his policy of propitiating the gods with the court beginning to contemplate the prospect of reasserting royal authority over the colonial outposts of the realm that had largely become independent in truth if not in name after the imperial yoke fell away.
Meanwhile the savage lands to the north of Haversten largely continued as they always had despite rumours of Anathemant movements in the tropical deserts, whilst Emyur languished in ruin awaiting a future yet untold and yearning for deliverance from her tribulations.
-
The boy, ribs clearly visible through his sunken skin, dug with his stick into the hard ground. The winter had been hard, and with Emyur in a state of chaos famine stalked the fields as trade and the grain stores had run dry. Digging for what tubers had been preserved by winters cold was one of the only ways to gain some measure of food and live another day, well that and other more unsavoury methods...
Determining that the spot he had been digging in was not likely to merit any reward, the boy shuffled on to another, slightly danker spot. Passing a family friend on the way he gave a polite salutation.
“Good Morning Mr Debruyn”
The decomposing body of his once-neighbour disdained to speak, his pallid corpse reposing languidly by the roadside. A worm lazily wriggled as it feasted in an eye socket as if in reply to the boys greeting .
“Let’s see if we can find some more potatoes today!”
The boy continued digging un-energetically, occasionally revealing a bit of vitality when he successfully found not one but two potatoes, a bit rotten but still edible, which he carefully stashed in a basket out of site in case of theft.
“Time to go home”
It was still early in the morning, but everyone knew that once day was well upon the land that the bandits came out. It was also the ideal time for flesh-hunters to emerge and seek their prey, whether they be the beasts that now prowled the plains and gorged themselves on the corpses of plague-victims and the starved, or those degenerates who endured through the consumption of living flesh, such sweet-meats being sold to those who could pay in ramshackle fleshmarts away from the public eye.
The boy was scrawny and there was not enough meat on his bones to make a decent meal, but it was better to be safe than sorry.
As he was walking he spied another boy, walking towards him from the west. He was sun-tanned, his eyes bright and green and his brown hair entwined with leaves. He looked like a street kid, but the boys discerning eyes detected no trace of famine on his face, and noticed that he was not one of the locals.
“Who are you? You’re not going to steal my potatoes are you”
The boy grasped his basket nervously.
The other child quizzically looked upon him, before he continued on his way. As he approached, the boy raised his digging stick half-heartedly out of weakness, before the wayfarer did something very strange.
He began to sing.
But his song was not the song of men.
From his throat emerged the singing of birds, something like a joyful lark and a mourning oriole all in one. Interspersed within it was the music of magpies and the twittering of sparrows and of birds unknown to mortals altogether. It was beautiful and the boy stood locked in rapture at the sound, stick falling to the hard earth as tears flowed down his face. The song echoed far and wide, as raiders and plague-victims, mothers weeping for their dying sons and desperate fathers eking little profit from their fields all turned their heads in wonder at the sound. For the song of this child echoed far across the land and all of Emyur stood enthralled at the music of it.
The little wayfarer began to dance in time to the threnodies of his song, and with his footsteps the rhythm of life beat anew after the cold death of winter, sprouts of green grass raising their heads from the dust left after each light and winsome footfall. Waving in a warm breeze that swayed hither and yon to the melody new growth budded into being upon the branches of haggard trees awakening after a long rest. The cold winds from the south seemed to reel in a start howling in frustration as they fell away to be replaced by a comforting warmth, the chill of frosts being cast aside by the mantle of rain and mud and fertile earth. Death fled before his face replaced with life and joy.
O blessed child, who casts aside the prison bars of death.
O great and unconquered god, who bringeth forth a font of incorruption from the barren rock.
The Herald of Spring continued his song, and the druids of Asphodel who had took residence in the land of Emyur exalted joining their own voices to His voice, their own footsteps to His as the little child's words in the language of birds extolled the end of winter and drove into the Crones cold spirit like a stake driven into the ice of a frozen lake. They cried tears of joy, for at last the free god had awoken from his rest and his words beckoned life and liberty. A renewal of that golden age long lost when man stood naked before the stars and before their gods and knew not death or the corruption of the grave.
Spring has come, the turning of the season is at hand!
The boy with his potatoes knew none of this however, seeing only the green eyes of the strange child as he danced his way joyously to the east even as ears of grain rose in the fields all about him and chrysanthemums bloomed all about the roadside where he stood and his body ravaged by hunger was renewed with each syllable that left the wayfarers lips.
He knelt and cried out in wordless gratitude.
For even little children understand when they have met a god.
-
Map
pending
Notes
1) Stats will come Saturday (american time) I have it on good word.
2) Apologies for getting this out relatively late
3) Regarding Svartalfar prescience against the Emerald Kingdom, I won't note the cause but I will note that they obtained it in the previous turn.
4) Haversten and some others got unlucky with their rolls, the gods are fickle.