Update I - Divine Kindling
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The Beast ponders, his black spirit ruminating fitfully as it paced back and forth in the dank hollow of a grizzled old tree. Now is the time of bounteous increase, the time to drink deep of the waxing moon, the time to unlatch the stores of vengeance long gathered and cherished in the dark as he gnawed in anguish the chains of humiliation that bound him and raked his claws in desperation on the prison walls that entombed him in the time before he was free. So it is in a certain twisted tangled dell, deep in the cracks of Odra where not even the wildest men of that wild land dare tread that the beast did cackle as he poured out his essence. It splattered through the hollow in steaming gouts, and the twitching, quivering blackness that was brought forth shuddered, before it started to gather like tar in great pustules rising rhythmically in a perverse symphony as like some grotesque slime mold it oozed across the roots and scattered bones as the Beast watched sullenly from a corner, amber eyes lit bright like lamps in the gloom.
The heaving mass began to congeal, gather and change, becoming a writhing turgid mess of flesh and blood and bone as each pulsating pustule started to beat with its own life all wet and slick. The red meaty things that were the result slopped, slathered and slithered along the floor towards the beast in plaintive obeisance to their father mewling in adoring whines before twitching limbs sprouted like twigs from their seething sides allowing a more efficient mode of locomotion. As they prostrated their churning forms rapidly gained in size, bubbling like billowing magma as they took shape. Hair like fungus grew from their newly fashioned hides in waves, rippling across their forms as they at last took recognisable appearances. When the working was nigh finished, their eyes, cruel and terrible, finally opened.
The Beast snorted condescendingly, the steam from his nostrils shrouding his hidden lair with dank mist as he surveyed his handiwork. A coterie of beasts, beasts of fang and tooth and claw, wolves and bears and stranger things cunning and loyal to their sire stood before him. Yes, he murmured to himself, yes indeed, new generations of beasts will be begotten more readily from this stock. They will be stronger and less easily swayed by those who would bind them under yoke, would bind Him under yoke, and they would be better than those who were born never hearing His voice and would serve well his grand designs.
Revna laughs, his barking cry echoing in delight across the mountains as spittle escapes his maw and drools down his hairy neck in the throes of his delight.
“Go”
He gestures with a haggard claw, regal in austere majesty as his amber eyes squint, peering far beyond the horizon.
“Be fruitful and multiply”
His husky voice seethes. The creatures hiss with malice towards the focus of their Lords dire intent.
“Pour out my will upon the land and cast down the conceits of mortals raised up to my despite”
The creatures howled and spewed forth from the mountain and down upon the unsuspecting world.
-
It began at noon
The enemy’s advance is sudden, heralded only by a murder of crows cawing raucously as they circled overhead in cackling anticipation of what was to come. As the first glints of metal emerged from a forest some league from the walls, frantic yells of Firbolg auxiliaries awakened the soldiery as they rushed to man Don Lodur’s crumbling ramparts. So too did they dispatch scouts to assess the threat, scouts who soon returned with the report. The Emerald Kingdom is here, and they are many.
It is a teeming throng that confronts them, for the gates of Jormungand have been unlatched and the city emptied of its arms, for all the swordsmen, archers and even militia of the city have been sent forth like a great flood of gleaming quicksilver to lap at the base of the mountain and rush up the yellow road that links Odra and the Kingdom like a swift and gurgling torrent. They must be quick and decisive, so they were briefed, for they are there to seize the Svartalfar town for the glory of their Queen and the Kingdom is terribly vulnerable in their absence. As they formed ranks and array themselves for war in unhurried serenity, the fearsome sight of the host and their serpent banners all glinting green and gold in the mountain wind compels the Firbolg captains to bark orders to their subordinates and dispatch a report to the garrisons commander. Too late, when the reporting officer was forced to barge open the locked door of his office and saw what lay within did the defenders realize their dire state. Their commander was slain, his throat slit by nemedian shapeshifter. His body was found slumped in his curule chair, accompanied by those of his two chief officers splayed upon the floor, their glassy eyes dull and etched with the shock of betrayal as they stared blindly towards the heavens.
In the field Naz’jar smiled, surveying her conquest to be as they milled about in confusion atop the parapets. She stands resplendent in armour of gilt scales bedecked in an emerald green tabard wrought of fine Patalan silk and bearing a spear of the finest svartalfar steel (oh the irony). The High Priestesses deputy soon followed, calmly walking to her side and raising aloft the serpent standard of the Kingdom as she whispered prayers to the goddess under the shade of her linen cowl. The garrison of Don Lodur feels immense pressure at the sight of the gathered might of the enemy, for they know that the desires of the enemies general are simple and direct. To serve the Queen whom she loves with a love that will never waver, and to partake of a thirst for battle that can never be slaked. She will be a terrible foe.
Naz’jar waves her hand languidly and Queen Athissa’s army advances forward, horns braying. The tactics are simple, a human wave of militia rushes forward supported by a hail of arrows interspersed with teams in box formation shields raised and carrying a baker's dozen siege ladders to scale the walls. The auxiliaries of Don Lodur, bereft of their commanding officers steel themselves, remembering their training, and return fire with their own re-curved bows of bone and sinew. Their cunningly wrought bodkins of finest Svartalfar steel slip between the gaps of the militiamens minimal armour even as the local militia throw stones and boiling oil down upon the ladder bearers and the gathering foe pressing against the base of the wall. They reap a red harvest and there are many casualties. The sight of the slain breaks the resolve of many and the greater part of the militia cut and run for terror. Naz’jar hisses, glaring sullenly towards the defenders, “go onward”, she commands, gesturing forcefully to an adjutant who conveys the command with his tin clarion. The serpent knights advance, spiked shields raised up as a cabal of mesmers in their scintillating form-fitting armour slithered forward close behind and the serpent archers, eyes squinting, redouble their assault.
The archer fire begins to take its toll on the defenders and as the real soldiers of the Kingdom advance and reinforce the militia Don Lodurs morale begins to waver. The hypnotic gaze of the Kingdoms mesmer elites and the venomous sting of their blades opens gaps in their defence which the soldiers of Athissa eagerly exploit. The garrisons archers change their focus to their enemy counterparts, seeing that unless the constant arrow fire is suppressed the walls will be scaled and the town conquered and to their credit the serpent archers fall one after the other to the keen aim of auxiliary bowmen. But it is not enough. For each soldier of Athissa’s that falls or is carried back to the rear for treatment, another takes their place and a great many still wait at ease in the rear for their turn to take the front. Soon one ladder, then another is raised, and the knights taking advantage of the enemies cacophonous disarray scramble up the bars to seize the breaks even as the enemies light infantry gather in force in an attempt (a vain one) to close the gaps in their faltering lines. To their regret, they failed, for tens, then hundreds of soldiers soon ascend the walls pushing the defenders into an unseemly retreat to the towns keep. Don Lodur is soon overwhelmed and the gate seized by the jubilant knights, accompanied by the now uncloaked nemedian phantoms of the Kingdom.
“You insult the Queen with this pitiful defense”
Naz’jar mutters as she rides through the gate, an honour guard of phantom assasins standing either side of her way, saluting in welcome arrayed in their grey-green mantles. The remainder of the Emerald Kingdoms armies march uncontested through the gate close behind, spears aloft in triumph. Not that the town did not resist. No they fought admirably, for when the walls were taken a fighting retreat was made house to house and street to street, with the arrows of the stalwart defenders picking off the Kingdoms soldiery even as the loyal servants of the Svartalfar Kingdom were ground down and overwhelmed by sheer numbers. It was only when the gates of the keep were battered down by a makeshift battering ram and all hope of enduring until reinforcements arrived from the high mountains of Odra was lost that the soldiers unceremoniously surrendered. Don Lodur was conquered. It was a truly lopsided battle. Naz’jar spat at the ground in disgust.
( -3 militia infantry, -2 serpent archers, no other losses. Captures Don Lodur )
As the reports of victory filtered back to Jormungand Athissa exulted, for the success of the expedition was one good tiding amongst a flood of less auspicious missives that reached the throne. The ill omens began as rumours, flying from house to house in hushed whispers like swiftlets dipping between eaves. People visited their cousins, neighbours, friends and colleagues and shared tidings such that all too soon the taverns murmured with the news. As what had occured became common knowledge, devotees to the goddess gathered in shrines to pray for deliverance and for protection for what they interpreted as a portent of doom. Yet others amongst the citizenry adopted another course, for the good god had been seen within the Kingdom and those who were wise took to leaving offerings of milk and honey-cakes on their windowsills each night for the god as they whispered pious supplications in the twilight hours when the divide with the spirit world was at its weakest. The rash and mad gathered together in choir dancing and singing strange hymns whilst unashamed they offered libations in exotic fey rites under the boughs of the ancient trees of the city parks in broad daylight. This scandalised those of good social standing who gawped aghast at the sight of such open superstition. At any rate these people were the ones who, whether wise or rash and already uneasy at the emptying of the cities garrison which had albeit temporarily left the city vulnerable, took solace in the cult of the god whose essence infused the land in every dale and dell and whose presence hung overhead like a sickle writ in the stars.
Perhaps their obeisance to Lord Froede saved the city, for despite the pall of doom that hung overhead the cities flowers were no less fresh, its waters no less clean, its blacksmiths no less sooty for it. Better yet the hosts of sidhe and vanir that some feared might cross the hills under the banner of their ancient master in some grand crusade did not manifest themselves as the prophets and doomsayers who frequented the public squares on certain days supposed. Nonetheless petitions began arriving at palace and temple alike from vexed nobility and city administrators begging the Queen to suppress the public offering of impious devotions to a foreign god, petitions which when left unanswered by legitimate authority, led to public demonstrations by traditionalists outraged at the crowns supposed godlessness. The Queen was frustrated, she had attempted to keep the matter secret to avoid just such a situation. The matter became so disruptive however that she was in the end compelled to confirm the veracity of the rumours in order to maintain public order.
“There is no cause for alarm, indeed now is the time to rejoice, for what more auspicious tiding is there than the appearance of a god? Keeping faith in Lady Lotahna, may her name be praised forever, let us welcome Him as a guest should he come...”
City magistrates and noble barons kneeling before her in the throne room were assuaged in calming tones that yes Froede was seen, but the peace of the Emerald Kingdom was assured. Athissa pointed to the success of the expedition as a clear sign that divine providence was in their favour and that even as the Kingdom would, should the god fain appear in Jormungand, welcome the Fair Prince in a manner worthy of his divinity, the Kingdoms faith in the goddess was unassailable, and she, its queen, would continue to devote itself to the Consolation of the Sick in all things. Later, behind closed doors the High Priestess, summoned by the Queen, was instructed in stern tones to seek out this foreign god wherever he might be, if he might even be found, that his purpose might be revealed and the Kingdoms continued sovereignty assured. For at least one aspect of Froedes epiphany had been understood even as the true meaning of this prodigy remained obscured to a priesthood yet unused to the the interventions of living gods. His judgment hung over the Emerald Kingdom.
(-5 stability Jormungand)
Judgement. Such a dangerous thing. For while the High Priestess, head bowed as she scurried off to fulfil her Queen's command had no knowledge of it, another series of ill tiding had by the autumn reached the throne. While not threatening to their conquest, not yet anyway, svartalfar raiders in the mountains like shadows began to attack the invaders supply lines and Kingdom scouts under the veil of night vexing Naz’jar greatly as she tried to maintain the supply of ore to Jormungand and maintain control of the newly conquered land. While the general had sent forth her phantoms and mesmers to track down these trifling nuisances, each time they came close to the scent the foe seemed to melt away into the stones, walking on hidden ways and through the deeps such that their best efforts were confounded and some suggested that it was the work of something unnatural. Regardless, it seemed that the Svartalfar would not be surprised by the Kingdom again.
To the south Vanir scouts were seen to probe the Kingdoms borders before retreating under glamours whence they came. Rumours also filtered north that the High King of Vanheim was gathering forces for some unknown end and indeed scout reports indicated substantial forces gathered by the nearby Jarls. The Queen shuddered as the image of her people being enslaved by the foul Vanir as visions flickered crossed her mind. For she understood well that to all who they deemed inferior the only consolation under the Vanir yoke was a quick death.
The worst news however came from the north, For here merchants of the Kingdom were greatly confused when confronted with a strange phenomenon. For when their wagons entered the lands of the Sidhe they found themselves travelling through the glades for hours as mists rose up about them. To their shock they exited where they entered after mere minutes had passed. Others reported being lost in the bewildering mists as the woodland roads seemed to shift and change all about them ominously. Some entered never to be seen again. The priestesses were at a loss but the few devotees of Froede who left on trade caravans and saw fit to offer sacrifice to the fae god when entering his domain found the way forward opened to them and when they reached Ylanati and other centres to the Sidhe found the answer. At first they were befuddled, seeing most unexpectedly that they had stumbled upon a great festival. Each slender tower of white stone was bedecked with swaying banners of every hue and in their courts dancing women singing paeans to their god circled great oaks ribbons in hand while elsewhere young men and children all garlanded with holly attended stalls in sprawling fairs laid out across mesmerising meadows all bedight with daffodils, bluebells and flowers of every kind in a dazzling display of colour. All those present exclaimed.
“Froede has forgiven us, and has laid his mantle over us as he did of old. Praise to our father who doth cover the nakedness of his children! Praise be Him forever!”.
Indeed the god’s presence lay heavy over Sijosalvar, and it was at the same time as an expedition from the High Priestess to find Froede was turned back, finding nothing, from the heart of feydom by the bewildering space and time distorting enchantment that now lay over it that a lone rider on a white horse, carrying a banner of golden spider-silk and bearing a coronet of gold with a great amethyst upon his brow approached Jormungand’s great gate.
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Whispering mantras filled the tent as the sorceress sat and meditated in the magic circle deftly inscribed in chalk upon the earth. The light of three slender seal-fat candles illuminated her wizened face and cast flickering shadows upon the furs of seals, ice-bears and other such beasts that bedecked the walls. She resolved herself and drank the sacred snow-lily wine as she listened to the attending priests intone prayers to Tallai, that the dread goddess might not waylay her soul as she journeyed on the way. She hearkened as they chanted the prayers to Froede, that her soul might be protected from evil and not lost to the world of dreams and memory. She even dared entertain some feeble hope as they muttered prayers to Liluri, that she might find what she sought and that nothing might remain hidden from her sight. Then it was time.
“Fly my soul, like a bird”
She whispered in an ancient tongue, and with the utterance thereof her head fell down onto her chest as the candles flared, and she was gone.
While her body remained where it was to her vision the world of chanting priests and crude hides bubbled away into nothing as she fell into the state of dual consciousness, becoming like a hunter who enters the dreamtime and sends his spirit-self seeking seals or other animals across the frozen sea. Before her soul, now freed from the confines of her body, the land was laid bare. It was a vast plain glittering like an endless sheet of gold. She gazed outward looking for the horizon of this brilliant new world. But there was no horizon. Neither was there a sky, only a harsh white light glaring like the snows under the gaze of the noonday sun.
Arbitrarily she called the direction that she was facing north, while behind her was south. The east was to her right and her left hand was held out against the glare of the western plain. She turned slowly in a circle to reverence this new world, no matter how surreal or strange it seemed. It was an elementary lesson, one must always show respect to the greatness of the worlds and of the gods. Then she listened for her prey.
After some time in silence she heard it, a knock. Like stones tumbling down a mountain echoing from afar or perhaps like a droplet of rain dispersing across a placid lake. The sorceress wished to move more quickly that she might reach the source of this noise reverberating in the distance, and with that wish she found herself fluttering like a moth above what she supposed was the ground. She began to fly to the west, slowly at first but then faster and faster as a goshawk might race through the clouds. The wind blew fiercely at her face whipping her long white hair behind her. It was cold. She murmured a prayer to Tallai in thanks, for without this cold wind she could not have sensed that she was moving, for the plain below remained an endless sheet of gold and it bore no features by which she might measure the distance she had traversed. She felt she was flying too slowly and suddenly she began to accelerate, streaking across the golden plain like a meteor across the spiritscape splitting the firmament like lightning with her passing. The wind was now almost like a solid wall against her face, and she remembered the chill blizzards of her youth that had frozen her face and almost killed her, and found herself wishing that there was no wind.
And there was no wind.
Then she noticed it, far off in the distance a slight dwelling in the golden plain. It was as if the glaring light of the sky had caused the ground to melt and buckle. Soon she flew over this swelling and there were others like the domes of igloos. As she flew they grew higher and higher like great golden volcanoes before at last they began to melt away revealing in the shimmering gold a white field of snow.
There she saw her target at last and with it the source of the reverberations that echoed across the spirit world. At the sight her heart leapt for fear. For it was black. It was like a humanoid shadow or ominous cloud riding a black fey horse, for the glamours that lay over him veiled her sight and what remained for her to interpret seemed in her soul’s eyes to be nothing more than a great gash ripped into the fabric of the world, a door to endless night. It was unnatural, oozing from a place that must not be like ink blotting over paper and she shuddered in revulsion at the sight of it. It, no He for she discerned that it was male, turned sharply to face her and, eyes shimmering like a burning heat and searing cold in the inky void, pierced her soul. He saw her.
She felt the sensations of scoffing and mockery as a rictus grin split apart the empty visage of the entity in derision. He then turned his back to her moving towards what she had termed the west and continued on his way. As he rode on she saw those who followed him emerge from the falling snows like phantoms. A great army, a mighty host of skirmishers and infantry alike herded forth on the march by scintillating beings that distorted and refracted in the light like so many shards of glass. These were attended on high by dark wispy things flitting like black ravens through the blizzard as other beings shrouded in black robes and bearing talismans of blood and flesh and bone trailed behind in dour procession.
The woman gasped and like a drowned man being lifted out of the waters she was dragged back into the world of furs and tents and chanting priests.
“What did you see?”
Her attendant asked. His hand wiping the sweat from her brow.
“The Hangadrott King, and a great host with him. Send word to the tribes, we must prepare”.
The menace of Helheim permeated the days of the people of the Vatn Confederacy like the stench of a rotting whale carcass beached in high summer and Iqalak of the Snows was quick to respond. Instructing further scrying of the confederations surroundings and dispatching spies, she hastened to gather levies from all nine tribes and organise the raising of defences. She deemed it most unwise to permit the army of the living ancestor rush down the mountain and lay upon the people unawares and thus presuming (rightly) that a mere palisade would not avail should the worst occur, the leaders of the confederacy in council resolved themselves to invest their resources into building a network of crudely camouflaged watchtowers stretching in the direction of Helheim and connected by communication paths carved into the barren Phlegrean rock. Through these the tribes would obtain advance warning of any invasion and be able to prepare a suitable response and the fears of the people somewhat put at ease
(+2 stability)
Not content with these preparations however, Tiglikte of the Storm, the elder of the two prominent chiefs of the Confederacy, travelled north atop her sturdy snow pony to conduct a diplomatic visit to Fjoll. For the old world-wise woman, like Iqalak, received reports regarding Helheims fearsome might and had intuited that the unification of as many tribes as possible would be required to resist them and ensure the peace of her people. Her face was grim, she was to offer military protection to Fjoll, the troops by her side handsomely arrayed in the furs of snow bears and bronze scales being evidence of Vatn’s capacity in this, lest they be overcome by the Hangadrott King, and the extension of the nine tribes tower network north to ensure they would be forewarned of any attack. A good offer she thought. Thus resolved to put on the best impression she entered the ramshackle town, gifts in hand, and sat down with the chieftains to present her proposal.
Fjoll refused.
Tiglikte smiled at the chiefs of Fjoll who bluntly rejected the confederacy. Hiding her thoughts, she continued the ceremonial banqueting and offered polite pleasantries to assuage them of the Confederacies good will before she, demurely, withdrew... for a time.
Seven days later Tiglikte’s army was spied by Fjoll’s watchmen near at hand and positioned atop the heights surrounding the town. For long foreseeing their foolish pride Tiglikte had long prepared for a takeover of Fjoll by force. Spies had in secret discerned Fjoll’s strength (negligible) and scouted out secret paths by which the armies of the confederacy might approach undetected. Surprised, outpositioned, outnumbered, it was over with the first few javelin volleys and clinched with a display of fearsome ice magic. Recognising the futility of resistance and already receiving disordinate casualties at range due lack of preparedness and their own abject poverty (even compared to the low standards of Phlegra) the people of Fjoll surrender before melee is even met. Thus Fjoll is made subject to the Vatn confederacy. Back at home, Iqalak upon receiving the report is well pleased, for winter is nigh and the silence on the southern border remains a disconcerting thorn lodged in the centre of her thoughts.
(
no losses - gains the region of Fjoll)
-
As time continued to take its inexorable toll, the scourge of the patalan plague which heaven has imposed upon the world for its manifold sins continued to reap a dread harvest even as it finally at long last began to abate (at least in some areas) whilst bestowing on others the first taste of pestilence. In Awharai where famine and pestilence travel hand in hand and another tenth of the population lay dead or dying in field, ditch and temple refectory alike, Grandkeeper Winfor was amongst those most particularly vexed by this difficult and intransigent problem.
Perhaps due to a desire to maintain order and seeing an opportunity to repair the crumbling edifice of Mahatic faith in the chaos, when the King of Awharai, seeking to consolidate his rule as his kingdom teeters on the precipice of dissolution demanded fealty Winfor saw fit to submit. The Grand-keeper, face placid and eyes seemingly vapid (his mind was not) signed in triplicate and sealed with his ecclesiastical ring the oath of fealty. It was a wise choice, the destructive capabilities of foolish kings are well known and when the population base of willing votaries (and taxpayers) has been culled like unwanted stock in a Vanir slavemart a further diminution of the peasantry through the instruments of war would be folly. Besides the King is content to leave things much as they are, all the dominion need do is acknowledge suzerainty and pay the annual tribute and it may then proceed according to its own devices unmolested. A win truly, and better yet his forces can now operate against lawbreakers and bandits with the authority of the crown, truly an opportunity sent from Lord Mahat. It is wise too for the King of Awharai, for in the willing ex-abbot of Xerconia he gains a new source of income and of trade with the Machakan legation and the enigmatic Sidhe of Sijosalvar and his legitimacy amongst the tribes is strengthened by the simple fact that they acknowledge his overlordship. How delightful, let the people of Awharai rejoice in their wisdom in averting the scourge of war. The Grandkeeper was even more delighted when reports returned to his personal monastic cell that bandits had been cleared by The Orders forces, and minor losses aside the roads and many of the more substantial settlements on the steppe were now secure.
(-100 materials, -1 militia unit, -1 zealot, +5 stability)
Ah but what was not wise was what happened after the celebratory banquets when Xerconian physicians, who had been sent forth to tend to the sick across Awharai in those areas most benighted and despoiled by pestilence were invited to the King’s court in Svopyeyvysk. Yes it was most unfortunate and unwise when certain ecclesiastical notables of the order were discovered slandering the King and perusing state documents not meant for their eyes. The scandal of Xerconia’s two-faced treachery soon spread throughout court and beyond to the tribes of Awharai and while hasty diplomatic exchanges and a disavowal of the offending clerics actions preserved cordial ties between King and abbey and ensured Xerconia’s charitable work in the region can continue. The King's favour has surely passed them by even as their standing amongst the tribes has diminished, and the representatives of the Holy Orders access at court has been quietly and decisively curtailed.
-
Athanasia Grey, tricorne atop her braided hair, her hawk-like gaze staring implacably north, stood atop the prow of the Grey Whale as it slipped its moorings under a cloak of darkness accompanied by the four great flagships of her fleet. The captains of ships... of these we shall make mention at another time perhaps, needless to say however that the armada needed wood if the Lady Grey’s ambitions were to be fulfilled and Timbercove possesses this most necessary of maritime amenities in abundance. War was inevitable.
"Prepare the sacrifice"
The pirate queen ordered her crew with an imperious scowl. She herself cared not for the whims of the gods and scoffed at the pious imprecations of those who devoted themselves to them. But she was no fool. She wisely foresaw that placating the mistress of the abyss was a necessary chore to ensure the success of her endeavours. No ship can sail on an unfriendly sea.
The first mate, a burly man, nodded and went below deck with heavy stomps before swiftly emerging with a boy, bound with rope, hobbled with a stone and gagged that his cries might not sully the solemnity of the occasion, struggling and screaming soundlessly in his arms.
"Bring him here"
The first mate dragged the boy as he screamed into the cloth lodged in his mouth and struggled against his arms to the ship's prow as Athanasia drew a gold coin from her pocket.
As he was held fast over the water, dangled over the figurehead of a sperm whale that graced her personal ship by his captor, she uttered these words which echoed across the waves in a loud and clear voice.
"Mighty Ursula”
She cried
“Most beautiful and greatest of the gods to whom all mariners give worship and whom no shackle can bind. To you we offer this sacrifice and payment for passage across your realm"
As her voice faded and silence reigned over the waters she nodded...
And the boy was promptly cast overboard.
"Now off we go"
Athanasia smiled and flicked her coin behind him and into the depths.
As the sacrifice sunk into the unfathomable depths and to a fate unknowable to mere mortals the Grey Whale cut north like a knife, untroubled and unmolested, across the sea. Of its companion vessels sent ahead in anticipation of the invasion only two of the three ships sent emerged from the mist to meet her as they came upon Timbercove some two days later, the captain of the Golden Cup being a little too spendthrift in his tokens of obeisance at the cost of all hands. Athanasia spat, another ship to be replaced and yet more men would need to be shanghaied to man the oars. No matter Athanasia thought, best to focus on the matter at hand.
"Crows Nest, any ships in port?"
"None Captain"
The boy atop the mast shouted as he scanned the port of Timbercove.
“Good.”
The Hallows were too concerned with their own navel-gazing it seemed to bother aiding the templars who still governed the town to resist her advances. The fools, what use is mysticism and worthless prognostications when the time was ripe to seize the tools needed for power and dominion in this new age after deicide, gods be damned.
"Now men, let's liberate these land-lubbers and let the men of Emyur share the fate of their god"
With a hearty cry the black flags of the armada were raised aloft and at Athanasia pointed her cutlass dead ahead they sped to the unsuspecting port...
...
"Lady Aisha, Timbercove has fallen to Athanasia Grey"
Aisha waved in response to the bureaucrat and uttered a single word
"Leave"
As he left she began to pace her office and furrowed her brow. The last six months had been most vexing for the Hollows. Efforts to set up a quarantine had failed miserably, with funding deficiencies and political squabbling between the three peoples greatly hampering and finally aborting attempts to establish quarantine facilities whilst smugglers and traders ignored border controls at will, aided by corrupt and incompetent local officials more intent on gaining profit through bribes and advantage for their own people than on the common good of the whole community. Thankfully heaven saw fit to see the plague wind down in Lanun, a side effect perhaps of rampant piracy hindering normal intercourse between communities and the efforts of roving Lotahnic clerics.
( -2 stability)
This latest trouble however portended ill for the Hollows. Without lumber and the infrastructure to build ships there could be no additions to the Hollows fleet, and gaining an ample supply of lumber near at hand and the expertise to work it to this end would be... difficult, without Timbercove in her possession or at least allied to her. She bit her lip as she realised that the three peoples were effectively trapped on Lanun unless this problem could be resolved...
"Such a conundrum"
Optimism should be a salve to heal her malaise yes? Look on the bright side, the magical capacities of the hollows have advanced leaps and bounds thanks to ample resources being poured into the mist-weaver and thunder-walker fraternities. Indeed their new conjuration looks like it would greatly enhance the military power of the Hollows in an emergency. The development of the town also has advanced greatly despite the debacle and political scandal of the matter of quarantine.
Furthermore the spies of the pirate queen had been uncovered before they could report anything of use back to their mistress and so she would remain in the dark about the Hollows true capabilities. This could buy her time, precious, invaluable time.
Aisha smiled.
-
A short journey across the sea in Patala a smile did not grace the faces of the members of the Council of Knives despite the plague subsiding as a result of the grace of the good goddess Lotahna. For word had come from Lonnaghar that the Nagaraja had raised up anew the ancient walls of that mysterious city and raised a mighty army of men assisted by the adepts of the goddess Lotahna. The evidence was undeniable, the ancient naga race in the absence of Mahat was working to restore their ancient domination of the land and Xaru in its appointed time would suffer the suffocating yoke of Avyukt’s coils.
Something had to be done.
Thus emissaries were sent, sacred white elephants adorned with golden trinkets and laden with gifts and grain (to ameliorate the scourge of famine) in their train, to Amunekamam and Paloserang to negotiate common cause against the serpent king. At home on the other hand shrines formerly consecrated to Mahat were repurposed and re-consecrated in lengthy rites, as priests of the goddess of mercy recited melodious mantra and dashed libations of holy water against the stones to cleanse them from Mahatic taint and by devotion to this new goddess, whose power so efficaciously consoled the sick and purified the land of pestilence effect auspicious tidings for the city.
Whilst immediate benefits appeared lacking such that some proposed propitiating a less widely revered deity in hope for a more favourable response, these rituals seemed to have fulfilled the cities intent for when the emissaries of the city returned from their assignments they brought word that the kings of both Paloserang and Amunekamam had accepted their proposal of alliance against the Nagaraja of Lonnaghar that by their brotherly endeavours peace might prevail in Patala and the serpent folk kept at bay. That said the council was disappointed that their proposal for a confederation was politely albeit firmly declined. A shame they thought that the cities were so proud as to not come together as one.
A shame indeed…
For in the bowels of Lonnaghar the Nagaraja of the great kingdom of Mani Akkitha foresaw the folly of the Patalan princes as they luxuriated in their bathhouses as was their want and concerned themselves more with the pleasures of the flesh and their own vanity than with the cold truths of power. The gates were unlatched and the army Xaru’s agents had unveiled marched forth to Paloserang and in haste assaulted the walls. Casualties were heavy but the city fell, its nobles fleeing to Xaru like scurrying rats to take lodging in other men’s palaces. The Nagaraja’s army soon returned to Lonnaghar, perhaps in preparation for a counter-assault from Xaru, save for a garrison left behind to man the walls and quell the restive populace. Nonetheless the Avyukt is confident that the priests sent forth from Lonnaghar can sway the people with the aid of Lotahna, for gratitude is surely the certain outcome of benevolence, and what if not benevolence is healing the sick and maintaining a light touch over those of his new subjects who desist from futile resistance?
Thus did all Xaru bewail this inauspicious subjugation of their all too brief ally at the hands of their future foe. But look on the bright side ye sons and daughters of the city, the princes of Paloserang fretting like butterflies at dusk in their silken brocade all soiled and sullied by their hard journey bow before your princes as they recline upon their high thrones and pledge with sycophantic grace eternal fealty if only Xaru restores their city unto them and casts the serpent back into the darkness of the deep jungle where it belongs. Sweet catharsis it is indeed that the mighty have fallen so low and that they who reigned as Kings now hold company amongst beggars.
(Paloserang falls to Mani Akkitha)
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The ragged lines of Pomaz's slave army stretched out through the orange orchards as far as Goliath could see. The evil sound of their drums boomed rhythmically without cease, as if they were the heartbeat of a single organism sprawled under the shade of the trees. Over the drumming—and between curses directed alternatively at the dead men's outriders, vanguard and logistics officers—Goliath heard the first commander of the outrider cavalry telling his officers that the army they were facing was somewhere between thirty and forty thousand strong. Goliath tried to find some relief in the grizzled old cavalryman’s apparent lack of concern at the legion being matched man for man and outnumbered counting demons into the mix and focused on counting the number of Avvite legionnaires in the enemies centre from his perch atop a hill ensconced in the midst of his army.
The enemy lines were only about eight hundred paces away from the legion’s front line, but the drums, the shrieks of the crudely armed slaves, the growling and howling and screeching of the imps careening overhead, and the occasional shouting of the men behind him made it surprisingly hard to keep track of the number. The fact that the slaves were not arrayed in tidy, disciplined lines, but in a seething mob in constant movement only barely restrained by the avvite whips rendered it more of an exercise in estimation than an actual count. He glanced back toward his own centre and saw the standard of Ishat rising high. He grinned wryly, glad that he wasn’t the object of the god's ire even as he secretly entertained displeasure at the gods wicked sense of humour and inscrutable signs.
Wrenching himself from his recollections he mused that the Avvites had arrayed their forces much as his advisors had predicted they would, although there seemed to be rather more demons lined up on the flank facing the Outriders than on the other side of the battlefield.
“How many imps, deputy?”
Goliath demanded.
“I make eight hundred, perhaps eight hundred twenty, Your Holiness.”
“David and I both count nine hundred. Still, that’s not bad.”
Not bad that only six hundred outriders held the right flank against nine hundred enemy demons and a throng of slaves? It wasn’t exactly what he would be inclined to describe as good, either. But he held his tongue. His deputy was not a man known to appreciate wit at the best of times, and this did not seem to be a wise moment to try his temper.
As if in response to the demons snarling before him, Goliath’s stomach growled. Today marked his first actual battle. While he was a veteran legionnaire of the Empires army, mere police actions could hardly compare to the real thing. Ashdod had always been fairly peaceful unlike the marches of Vanheim or so he had heard in his younger days when he was a fresh-faced recruit in Emyur, and he knew that the reality of war was unlikely to match the glorious accounts of the imperial annals. He drank to wet his throat and handed the flask to his page, then pointed at the enemy lines.
“What are they doing down there?”
Below them, a group of slaves on foot was beginning to emerge from the shadows of the orange grove followed by a cabal of avvites in black robes intricately embroidered with scarlet sigils each black-cowled giant being accompanied by a bevy of unarmed human slave-attendants. Closer to the front, each slave soldier facing the vanguard carried little curved objects that looked much too small to be proper bows, but it wasn’t until they stopped about twenty paces from the base of the hill and began to shoot from the quivers slung on their backs that he realized that was precisely what they were supposed to be. The deputy was quicker on the uptake.
“Clockworks, front and centre!” His voice was loud enough to drown out the avvites drums, which, up close in the vanguard, was nearly deafening.
“Shields ready!” Goliath called, his bugler bursting out the command in a steady rhythm.
He'd already learned in the early skirmishes of the campaign against Pomaz that the slaves' bows had little range, and he also knew their archers would have time to loose only a few shafts before the Communions Anathemant bowmen would force them to retreat with their superior range and firepower. Without thinking about it, he began to count the archers. There were two thousand of them in all. He was relieved to see they were raising their bows high and to the right, to shoot for the cavalry, rather than aiming them directly at him and the Vanguard at the fore of the line. The slaves released their first volley.
“Shields up!”
A moment later, he heard a loud clattering sound from the right flank as the arrows began falling on the upraised shields of the outriders, followed by the terrible, gut-wrenching shriek of a wounded horse screaming in agony. While their rider’s shields guarded their vulnerable eyes and their saddles protected their backs, the horses’ naked haunches were still exposed to the falling arrows.
Fortunately, the clockworks soon responded, and he grinned with satisfaction as the air resounded with a series of whip-like cracks. With the ease of long-practiced experts, the elite Anathement bowmen hurled their bolts at the slave archers below in synchronous volleys. A good twenty enemy bowmen collapsed immediately, followed by an Avvite slavemaster, who fell clutching a shattered knee. The remaining slaves managed to loose one more haphazard volley, in which most of the shafts fell well short of the Communion lines. Then another piercing round of bolts drove them back to the safety of their own lines.
The black-robe adepts then began to whisper sonorously and draw wickedly serrated knives from beneath the folds of their vestments. Goliath turned his head as he spied an evil-looking haze rising in their midst and latch on to each slave chosen for the rite by the adepts from amongst each members accompaniment of attendants.
"What is that?"
he asked his commander.
"Demonic adepts, blood magic by the looks of it"
he replied with disdain.
"Damned stupid of them too, they ought to have saved their spells for the assault, used them to blast a hole in our line for their soldiers to enter"
"Don't discount them just yet"
Goliath secretly cursed.
Their chants seemingly reaching their conclusion the adepts in single movement slit the throats of their chosen slaves. In concert an equal number of crack dead-man infantry collapsed in the centre, blood pouring from their mouths as their eyes bulged.
"see what I mean".
"Centre advance!"
Goliath gestured as the bugler rang
As if incited by the advance of the Communions legion, within the enemy ranks a great cry rang out as a great number of slave soldiers rose up and took arms against the Avvite legionnaires disrupting the cohesion of the enemy ranks and causing them to falter in setting up a defensive line. Goliath secretly praised the work of his agents who had long sowed dissent amongst the Avvite slave pens. A fairly simple task he presumed given the uses the slaves were being put towards.
Time passed, and the sun rose higher. Based on its height, Goliath guessed it was about an hour before noon. The air was heating up, and the last vestiges of the cool morning breeze had vanished some time ago. He was beginning to feel the first sense of perspiration under his arms as the battle lines began to unfold. The vanguard chanted battle rhymes, the slaves shrieked, and the horses whinnied. Finally, after another round of spells from the demonologists had brought to heel the slave revolt the enemy infantry moved forward to hastily engage its Communion counterpart. Then the air was filled with the clashing of metal on metal and the cries of the combatants.
He glanced right to the outriders, and this time he saw a flock of imps cackling as they hurled dart-like spines down upon the retreating outriders below, their re-curved bows of little use against the agile abominations careening above their heads in delight as the bodies of men and horses fell to litter the hillside. Meanwhile in the centre the adepts continued to cast maledictions upon the Communion vanguard sowing confusion and fear upon the front which Goliath saw wavering for fright and allowing openings for the enemy forces to exploit.
Another bugle, and the Clockwork archers turned right and loosed volley after volley amidst the demons dropping the things as the bolts ripped through their scaly hides, their corpses evaporating into an unclean haze upon their demise, their soulless spirits returning back to whatever hell they had been conjured from.
“They’re trying to draw our riders off the hill”
His deputy exclaimed in realisation.
"They don't dare to come to meet them for fear we'll charge them while they're climbing the slope. Those slave archers didn't bring us down to them so now they're trying demons. Once they're down they can break our centre with the help of those foul spells"
Goliath harrumphed
"We just need to break their line and kill those damned witches then, dead men advance in the centre!"
The Anathement heavy infantry reserved behind the vanguard raised their swords in answer as the phalanx split to allow them to pass. A great many enemy slaves ran at the sight while those forces that resisted were cut aside by the whirling maelstrom of swords like wheat before a farmers sickle. Soon the Vanguard reformed and advanced to impale the pieces left behind by the whirling Anathemant dervishes in their hunger for Avvite blood.
"Get the outriders back on the flank"
The outriders, newly liberated from the demonic assault charged down the right flank towards the milling slaves shooting their arrows into the throng taking full advantage of the enemy confusion as the day turned decisively towards the Communion..
In the end the assault of the elite dead men was too much for the forces of Pomaz. Few of their mighty host were left to rout, both due to the predation of the demonologists and the barbs of demons who impaled any and all deserters and wildly shot into the melee without care for friend or foe. The field was left a bloody mess of corpses as the crows descended to glut upon the bounty of battle.
(-2 militia infantry, -1 vanguard, -2 outrider, -2 deadmen, -1 clockwork)
If Goliath expected the siege of Pomaz to be an equally bloody affair than he was pleasantly surprised. For when his army, diminished but intact, approached the gates he found the way opened to him and his arrival heralded by rapturous applause. Under the light of the noonday sun ranks of spears gleaming row after row marched behind the banner of the Ashen King and to the uncouth melodies of bawdy hymns through the gates, even as the corpse of the local princeling hung aloft from the parapets, dangling obscenely from his own intestines overhead whilst a white crow plucked a glassy eye from its socket for his own reward.
It was here in Pomaz that the fruits of the communions sedition, and it was whispered the workings of the Free Father, stoked a general slave revolt. With the armies of Pomaz crushed on the battlefield, the remaining garrison was simply too undermanned to stave off the human wave assaults of the local serfs leading to the avvite courts capture, execution and butchering by their rebellious chattel. Goliath chortled when he saw the loot gathered together in a handsome pile in the palace court of the erstwhile avvite prince and bid it be returned to Titan’s Fall as an offering to the god who bestowed upon the Communion this triumph, Ishat.
( Pomaz captured )
Here, in the heart of the Communion did Goliath raise up in truth what had heretofore been seen only in the mists of dreams. With care and patience did he command his acolytes each assigned and blessed to fulfil that very purpose to lay each foundation stone of the divine sanctuary with tenderness in ground consecrated with the blood of rams, black and vital. Verily as the stones rose up to heaven and the people cried out with religious fervor as each was set in place and in the rising Goliath glimpsed something the hidden truths manifested to him by the god and which initially he had failed to understand, for truly the trowel of brotherhood and love makes flat divisions and earthly discord and cuts mortals into a new shape that they might be worthy of becoming living stones in God’s Temple.
At last as the temple swiftly rose and its capstone was put in place, the priests gathered in the temple court to consecrate it fully and set it apart for the service of god. It was far from done, much carving remained to be completed upon the walls and the temples auster dignity was but a skeleton, a foretaste so to speak of the gilded splendor revealed in the prophets dream. Nonetheless it would be set aside for worship as planned, for the people were in need of a focus for their devotions and with fitting tribute gathered and ready to offer up to the god what better time was there to offer up this sacrifice to Him than when they were flush on the giddy drink of victory?
The chanting was slow, rising and falling like waves each syllable pregnant with power as time ticked down to the appointed moment. The high priest led before the altar a red cow fat and fertile with a golden chain as the mantras echoed even unto the secret sanctum which lay empty and unfilled. He whispered invocations and raised aloft a knife of black obsidian, and as the chant ceased and everything was still in the great silence of the gods did he plunge his knife deep into the inmost parts of his victim.
Oh great mystery, even as the lifeblood of the holy sacrifice bled out upon the altar steps did a wonder beyond all telling occur. What truly happened cannot be spoken of, for what words could describe the inconceivable? what voice repeat the threnodies that resounded forth from heaven into the hollow minds of those there gathered? Nonetheless we can describe the rumours that filtered out to the common people…. They say even as the first drop of the cows blood fell upon the ground, did a pillar of fire descend from on high and smoke flow forth and abide even in the very deepest sanctum of the holy sanctuary. They tremble with fear and jubilation alike for they understand a simple truth. The temple is the house of god.
Regardless of what transpired, a procession of priest upon the onset of the next days dawn entered the courtyard each in time and presented offerings unto the Lord of the Flame, that they might be set aside to be transformed in fire from mundane trinkets of little worth into the holy instruments of god. Indeed little mortal, see how the mighty have fallen before the god, wonder at his care for his votaries and be astounded that the powerful who trampled upon the meek were cast down by his hand through his servants. Rejoice ye peoples and proclaim this truth. His Prophet’s holy words shall come unto all peoples and their utterance shall bring solace to their weary spirits long suffering under the yoke of tyrants and petty lords. Rejoice even more and shake for joy even as lightning shakes the firmament that in Communion with each other and with the god you might find salvation for your souls and victory over your oppressors.
Thus did the people have confidence even when the news arrived that Sepputenu and the Ishatymes Estate had cowed the Lords of Tadjefu and compelled them to swear fealty. Let them build up their kingdom of deceit and oppression, their time will come and their princes shall meet a reckoning at the gallows like unto that of their fellows.
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North in Haverston the rise of Sepputenu as a major regional power caused concern amongst the drowned priesthood and the royal court. It is perhaps because of this rising power to their south that their gaze was fixed on Nemsisouk, lest this Avvite stronghold in a like manner to Tadjefu fall under the yoke of the Ishatymes Estate. The drowned priests gathered upon the beaches and poured libations beseeching the favour of their goddess before dispatching Lothar’s raiders to reeve and pillage that the power of Jorvik might be impressed upon the Avvites.
When reports arrived at Nemsisouk that their countryside was being put to the torch and their chattel taken to serve other masters they responded with admirable force. An army of slave-soldiers aided by demonologist adepts was gathered and sent north to compel the raiders to meet them on the field in pitched battle lest the various raiding parties be picked off one by one. In this they were only partly successful, for while the summoned demons, spiteful little creatures of darkness who hurled bolts from on high put to flight many isolated groups of Haverstons soldiery it soon became apparent as they gathered together in force that their numbers and armaments were superior to the force the avvites had assumed would be sufficient to deal with a mere pillaging party. Thus did it come to pass that the pitched battle the lords of Nemsisouk originally desired never came to pass as their own army sedulously avoided coming to the field against the heavy linebreakers and fearsome harpooners of the foe. Nonetheless they made a fighting withdrawal and their imps made good work of the linebreakers before they were driven off, whilst their presence just as much as Haverstens own desire to limit themselves to plunder rather than conquest preserved the fighting strength of Nemsisouk mostly intact, as well as keeping its sovereignty secure.
(-1 harpooner, -3 linebreaker, -1 militia infantry, -1 development Nemsisouk, +233 material)
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All this turmoil in Ashdod blinded the quarrelling princelings to an ancient and more inscrutable power lying in quiet repose deep in Asphodel. Sensing opportunity for the first time in an age slowly, like an ancient tree putting on its green raiment after a bitterly cold winter, the druids acted. Vexed by the haughtiness of the Communion, the gaze of the tree shepherd's turned to Emyur. Like sparrows flitting tree to tree, the green-clad missionaries of the God of Liberty and Lord of Abundance hearkened to the huddling starving masses liberated from Mahat’s yoke and proclaimed to them a simple gospel. Adore Malakbel and the earth shall yield unto you its bounteous harvest and you shall live, reject him and you shall perish in your abjection and be made subject to crueler masters than the one that has been slain. Many grasped at this life-bestowing truth like drowning men gasping for air and these, these lived as the scorched earth yielded to the touch of divinity. Strengthened, they were the least affected of the plague in that benighted region where the scythe of pestilence reaped another harvest all together, with another third of the population perishing by the wayside to be made the food of savage beasts that grew ever more numerous and more cunning as nature reclaimed the heart of civilisation.
Elsewhere tidings were less dire, rumours travelled north from Ulmur that the King had subdued one or another Vaetti tribe in the ongoing civil war therein for instance and tales of Malphasim continued to filter south from Machaka amongst a thousand other tidings truthful and otherwise. Of the plague in Pythium, new centre of the world with Emyurs continued descent into anarchy and a brutish state of nature the Kings efforts to quell pestilence seemed to succeed much to the relief of the erudite and well-informed, with the death rate falling over the previous year mostly due to the efforts of the Lotahnic clergy, and this likewise appears to be the case elsewhere in the realms. But fear not dear children, the wise sense a change in the wind and listen to the whispers of the stones and proclaim that great change is near at hand. For the plague continues its long march west even as it abates in the east and even now it laps upon the shores of Ashdod even as winter beckons and the cold winds rise from the uttermost south. Know too that above it all in the darkness the gods stand watching, waiting.
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MAP