Bloodlines: The Age of Lies

[VO]

The first posts in this thread will not be concurrent; it will take differing amounts of time for different houses to hear the news. We'll get them in sync later, so everyone can start at one now

Godsday 20th Hexuary, 1245.

PRIMA

Everyone between here and Wakehall had seen the blinding light in the east, felt the earth tremors as bottles tumbled from shelves and flocks of birds took to the air. In Dainsmount, she had heard dogs howl in the suddenly silent streets of the city and guards had rushed to see to her safety until the shaking was past. She was not concerned. She knew. She had read the prophecies enough to understand what it would mean, but it was here that she was still here seated at the invalid’s side when the message came.

It was not a large room where her husband lay, but it had once been the bedchamber of emperors, and the walls were panelled with thick oak inset with the sigils of the old dynasty, hung with intricate tapestries depicting Aneos, The Sky-Lord, and the baleful King of Crows. The ancient stone walls of the palace had drunk up the tremors like a sponge; leaving her to compose herself in the silence, save for the swoosh-swooshing of the curtains in the wind. She sent the servants away, and sat here and waited patiently while flustered doctors came to tend to her spouse. The sun moved slowly across the sky, and it was in the first hours of the evening when the messenger came, riding on a black horse through the eastern gates and up the ancient hill where the Dains had sat for generations. She watched the comings and going from the balcony of her husband’s room. Of course, the man would have to fight his way up through the layers of palace bureaucracy, but he would arrive soon, and then things would happen.

There was a small wheeled trolley by the bed, one set with bottles and jars labelled in a thousand different tongues, and Mikel Beldain wheezed slowly through his shrivelled throat. She did not know if he had felt, or understood the shaking. Soon it would be time for the physicians to return once again; they were finest ones she could hire, from Pegwos and Isukey and Lek-ak-mûn. They would treat her husband; use the glass vials, pestles, mortars, alembics to administer him with the potions and medicines they prepared. She did not hold out much hope for them curing him. Mikel was old and weak, consigned to bed forever and it was her who must take the reigns of House Beldain in these times. Sometimes thought that the rigours of leadership had taken their toll on her beauty, although she knew that was more the hand of time than the hours she spent with the council. She had little time to spare these days, to sleep, little time to spend as she did now by knew she could spend longer. Things would not be the same again, and this was the place to receive the news. While she could, she would sit and hold his dead hand in hers and wait for the messenger.

He entered without warning; no ceremony or circumstance here to herald his arrival. His tunic showed the green boar of Crumber, his face was red and the cloth stained with sweat despite the cool spring air. He pushed past the guard who opened the door, almost rudely, panting, manners forgotten, and handed the Lady of the Household the letter.

She turned it over for a moment in her slender hands and inspected the grain of the parchment. The red wax seal was the crescent of House Moondark; to be expected, of course, as she knew Crumber to be their sworn bannermen. Her husband turned his -head, focusing his milky white eyes on nothing – he had heard the commotion. She looked up, and picked a short, blunt knife from the physician’s trolley. Holding this, she fixed the messenger with an icy stare, until, realising his effrontery, he left the room.

She ran her nail along the edge of the paper, then cut it open in one clean stroke with the surgeon’s knife. She unfolded the letter slowly and carefully on her lap. It was written in High Speech; ornate, carefully formed letters and symbols, the language of Lords and Ladies in private conversation that would not do to fall into commoner’s hands. This was important, then.

“What…” muttered Lord Mikel Beldane. He knew something was happening, and he mumbled to her even as she read the letter at her his side. It was not a long letter, but full of the obvious shock of Lord Balun Moondark as he had penned it. The hand became shaky at points, and there were blots of ink on the page. Slowly, Prima began to smile. She sat silent for a moment, and thought about the future.

Her husband was agitated, still incoherent and calling for her. She closed the letter and turned to him, and he stared back dumbly. She did not know if he could see her, or just knew, from the twelve years he had lain in this bed that she had always sat in the velvet-backed chair to the left of his pillows. She squeezed his hand.

“Mikel,” she whispered, lowering her lips to his shrivelled old ear to make most certain that he could hear. “Mikel… our time has come.”

There were things she must attend to now, and she could not afford now to waste the them now that she knew that the prophecy was true. She did not doubt that Beldane would be the only ones to hear such news, but they would be the first; Dainmount stood closer to Newkeep than any of the other Great Houses. Lord Moondark would not alert only her, despite the healthy flow of Dainese coin he received to spy on the Emperor. She stood up, and bid her husband goodbye, then walked to the door and told one of the two armed guards in the corridor to summon the physicians once again, and then to command her small council to meet her in the Inner Chamber. The emperor was dead, the throne was empty, and there was much to be done.


Like much of the rest of the palace, the Inner Chamber of the Beldain Small Council was common knowledge to all, but unlike most, it was reachable only by the complex system of secret passages, revolving doors, and walkways that ran behind thin walls. Here people be spied on, seen eating, talking, or sometimes copulating. These were secret ways, known only to a few choice men and women of Dainese blood, and Prima had discovered them when she was a small girl in the palace, before evfen she had been told about the Great Secret. Now, with grey streaks in hair and a womb that had borne eight strong boys, moving through the hidden annexes of her home filled her with a childish joy. It was not easy to navigate them, if you did not know how; there were doors that were operated by placing a finger into a small hollow in the nondescript stones, clockwork corridors that lead to different places on different days of the week, and even, as she had found once when she was young and in the very bowels of the hill, a great copper statue that would only open to the room behind if you kissed it’s cold metal lips. You could, she had been told, never know them all in one lifetime. She had spent much of hers trying, but there was always a new secret to be found, a door or staircase that hadn’t been there the last time she had been that way. She had learnt rules, patterns in the shifting nature of the palace that lead her to its secrets time and time again, and the one most useful was the way to the Inner Chamber.

She had found that when you entered the Chamber you always came in from the far end, where the door was ten feet high in the grey stone wall, and you left by the sunken archway on its opposite side. This was the way it was done; it was not logic nor reason, but when she had tried to use the entry door to abscond, she had been lead round a circle of just-familiar passages until she came to the entrance again. This was the way the chamber worked. When you entered, as she had done on that first discovery, you looked down on those already there from the steps, and the great table cut in the shape of The Land that dominated the room. There were always lights; Beldain kept the lanterns stoked with Everfire even when the chamber was not being used. It was the way it was done.

That day, she was seven, and she had entered the Inner Chamber for the first time. She had been exploring, as usual, and heard familiar voices in the corridor so she had followed them. Her father Fauson had been at the head of the table, and there were pieces; little ivory towers and figures that he was moving about the board. Old Lucias Tordain was seated. Andus and Mikel were standing together on one side of the table ; the former still young and beardless then, her future husband was barely older. They had just entered; it was them that she had followed. Old Genna – her grandmother dead thirty years now – had been there, with Arjon Rumm and Tandor Highwater. She remembered that day, when she’d stood at the top of the stairs, and they’d looked up in amazement, before her father spanked her black and blue blue and both her cousins lived on bread and water for a week. She had been disappointed, sad, even, when Yeter had failed to locate the chamber for himself, but pleasantly surprised as Floren appeared on the high stair a day before his eighth birthday.

Now there was only Eduardo, playing with long, ornate knife and pushing his lank black hair out of his eyes as he sat with his feet on the Kojiran coastline, and the woman dressed all in purple at the far end.

“‘bekka”, breathed the Lady of Beldain. “You’ve forgone your disguise.”

Rebekka Beldain was a tall, slender woman with all the characteristic Dainese features save her eyes, which were lilac. She was Mikel’s cousin; value enough for her to serve as Beldain’s spymaster, especially given the talent she showed for the post. Usually ‘bekka donned a false beard and masqueraded in the spymaster’s public front as her fictitious brother Bekon – it wouldn’t do for a woman to hold such a post, after all. She smiled crisply at Prima, just enough to acknowledge her presence. Of all people, Prima feared that ‘bekka was the only one who knew the secret ways better than her.

“I saw things and heard other things and thought that maybe I should be present,” said the spymistress. “We are, after all, talking about the future, Prima..” She paused, and Prima kept her expression blank “A future that deserves to be shaped by all Dains. May I see the letter?”

“No” said Prima. “This is not for your eyes yet. You know enough already.”

Andus, her other cousin, and keeper of the Iron Keys entered. He was a heavy set man with none of the usual Beldain grace, although he was blessed with a cunning intellect that made him invaluable to the treasury. With him was Marc Castle, the blonde and tanned Master of Armies, a career soldier who had made his name young during the Fardain rebellion. Like all not of Dainese blood when brought to the Inner Chamber, Castle was blindfolded until he entered the door, and would be bound again when he left to preserve the secret of it’s location.

“What’s this about, milady, those lights in the sky…” began Castle, but Prima held up her hand and bid him to wait, as Marcy Inchmote and her sons Yeter and Ramus filed into through the high doorway. Among those on the council, only she and Andus would be presumed to know of the prophecy, although ‘bekka would no doubt have discovered it through sources of her own.

The council was present, save Floren, her second son, and Ramus’ twin brother Damus. They were both away; the former with the fleet and the latter in The Vale. She would have liked them all to be present for this, but knew that messages travelled fast in The Land and there was no time to gather them around her. The spymistress coughed quietly, prompting her to begin, and Prima scowledbefore handing the letter to her oldest son, and the heir to Beldain. Yeter ran his eyes over the words once, twice, his fingers brushing the mountains south of Beldain, then passed the letter to Eduardo. He looked up at his mother, almost uncomprehending. She silenced his questions and waited as the letter made its way around the council, each reading in silence, some gawking at the news.

When even ‘bekka, had read the letter (although she was much less shocked by it than Prima had hoped), the Lady of Beldain lowered her hand and began to speak. It was not a speech, but she had composed what she wished to say as she made her way here, first down the corridors that were common knowledge, then through a door hidden at the top of a servant’s staircase into the darkness where she found her way by memory, touch and the occasional shaft of light through the eyes of a painting. The words were sorted and organised; even to this small, select audience she knew she must employ her skills as a politician:

“As you have all read, the Emperor is dead and all his sons with him. There are no heirs, the Lion of Cassone is cleanly beheaded and it is now our time. It is our throne to reclaim. We will need armies and fleets, but the common folk will remember the good days under House Dain and rally to our banner. There will be those who contest it, those who claim the throne for themselves, but we shall have our legacy…”

‘bekka interrupted: “Kojiro won’t take kindly to this. They are strong, and they will want to search for Cassone’s heirs”

“Kojiro are fools, and foreign fools at that. They have neither the skill nor the history to make any pretence to the empire; even the Sereniac rebels have a better claim than them.”

General Castle opened his mouth. “We can defeat Kojiro, if we have to, with the Empire at our back. They have been beaten before.”

“And Westfreiss? Kraft? Aratin? There is a powerful autonomy in those borderlands; they will seek independence from the throne rather than bow to a new dynasty.”

“Let them. We brought those merman-****ing seabitches into the Empire in the Age of Heroes and we shall do so again. ”

Eduardo raised an eyebrow and tossed the blade nimbly between his hands. “And what of armies? We are numerous, but we cannot fight all at once”.

Prima turned to her son. “We will play them against each other. When they are divided, we are strong, and where we cannot find allies we will sew discord. There are old grudges in the Empire that will want to be avenged.”

“And grudges against us? There was a Time of Troubles for a reason, Prima” ‘bekka picked up a red-stained ivory tower from the box of pieces on the edge of the board. “We should sit fast and let the other Houses squabble, such is our way. Our plans do not have to be realised today. There will be other times.”

“Sit fast? Cousin, if we heed your advice now is the time where we will fall. We do not have time to peek through keyholes as you are accustomed to and wait for the right moment to strike. The door is unlocked, and we now must open it and take the throne for ourselves.”

“Thieves who do not prepare are caught when the guard returns,” retorted the spymistress. “We must make plans before any rash decisions”

“We’ve been making plans for decades”, said Yeter “and for what? I agree with mother, seize the throne now and damn Kojiro. The longer we wait, the less of a claim we shall have. Our day is now”

“Kojiro?” spoke up Ramus. “Our brother is off fighting pirates in the North, imagine what it would be like with Westfreiss unleashed on our shores. Damn Kojiro, let them search for a heir if they must. We should court the Blue Isle for now, and worry about the throne later.”

“And food,” said Andus “We cannot feed ourselves. If we do not count Westfreiss as an ally, we risk both piracy and starvation”

“We get food from Cassone, Sereniac and Conlar as well. There are loans we can recall.” Prima turned to her the Keeper of the Keys. “Besides, we need only seize headless Cassone as ours to supply our food forever, or pay the Sereniacs to compensate for the loss of Westfriess.”

“Pay the Sereniacs? With what? If we fight the Westfreissans, we lose their loans”

“We have gold enough. We are Beldain. W hen we win the empire we can recall the debts from Westfreiss, Conlar, even Sereniac if we must. But they will not honour our vaults if they are free. We need the Empire. We have invested too much in it.”

‘bekka spoke again. “But they don’t. Sereniac is already in rebellion, Conlar and The Hexapact rejected their Houses years ago, and Westfreiss have always looked to our shores only for piracy. Seizing the throne will only tell them that we are desperate and they will reject us too. They will seize freedom instead of kneeling to a new Dain dynasty.”

“We are not desperate, we are Beldain.. It is our debt to pay and we shall pay it. The Empire IS Beldain!”

Castle: “If Dain had remained emperor, then there would not be this desire for freedom. We are strong and they will kneel or die.”

“The Empire has been dead ever since The Time of Troubles, and Cassone was simply flogging it’s corpse. Those who do kneel will only do so out of ceremony. It will have no meaning.”

Yeter spoke again. “Empire or no empire, it would be good to gain that farmland. If the situation is as it is, uncle, surely there is benefit in snatching as much as the Crownlands as we can so we need not worry about food again.”

The Spymistress: “We can’t afford to take a risk like that. What will Kojiro do when we march into the Imperial Land. And Kraft? They never knelt to us and will not do so if we act with such hostility?”

“Hostility? Are you afraid of those illiterate mountain giants? Are you not Beldain? The Empire is our heritage!”

“A birthright we must not squander by flaunting it. Open war will break us, Prima, as it will break those others who would seize the throne.”

“Others? They are pretenders. It is OUR claim to make and our claim alone. Who would dare deny us?”

“All that could. Yeter, we are strong, but we have grown weaker with the years, and the other Houses know this. We have all to lose and little to gain by fighting when we could wait for another day when we have more chance to prevail.”

Prima had had enough. “I am your Lady and it is my choice. We will move into Cassone, and claim the farmlands. We shall crown the new Emperor. We will inform the other houses that they must kneel to us, and if they do not, we shall punish them. You are all sworn to me you are sworn to me, and you shall follow my lead in this matter…”

“I am sworn to your husband,” ‘bekka snapped. “and he would never condone this.”

“… Yet he acts through me. Marc, we shall march into Cassone within a week and you shall lead our armies. My eldest son, the Emperor Yeter Beldain will be crowned before the week is out on his ancestor’s seat, in the Halls of Dain. We forge that which is our inheritance from war if needs be, although we shall do all in our power to prevent it coming to that There is no question about it, cousin. This is what we shall do. It is our birthright, and I intend to claim it while we still can”

[AI]

Fourday 13th Septuary, 1245.

ZEDDICK

It never ceased to amaze him how cruel his dear father could be. Sending him all the way up this poxy little mountain, ha! If only that were the truth! He'd spent days looking at nothing by rock and snow, with the occasional mountain goat ambling it's way by. There were barbarians too, of course, but they were even less noteworthy than the bloody goats. Gods know, he'd sooner **** a goat than a klanswoman. Although, he had heard that Bloodjaw's own concubines could set any mans pulse racing. With hair the colour of silver! Gold! Fire! Skin as fair as the snow covered plains of Southern Selenia or tanned as deep a bronze as any comely, Westfriessian Probably just wild speculation to keep the common folk trudging along through their dreadful existance, but if true - Then it was a terrible waste.

He was here now, just a few seats away from Zeddick himself. They always sat the bastard of the Frozen Pass towards the end of the table, with that demon in human skin on the Lord's right hand side, like the Man under the pissing Mountain had crawled out of his arse and proclaimed him a God. There were people, he'd love to say they were mostly barbarians but unfortunatly the majority were made up of people who really should know better, who claimed that he was the Man under the Mountain born onto the surface, and that's why Terkraft couldn't find him with all his insistant digging. Even so, he certaintly looked the part. His father often refered to him as Kraft's beast, he could believe that too. He stood thrice the size of a normal man, his jaw dripping red while the rest of his face was blue, as if it had been taken by frostbite. He had beady eyes, with torrets of hair pouring down from his skull, wild and savagly braided until it came down just past his rear. He wore a jerkin and trousers made of skins, Zeddick didn't know and couldn't care where the skin had come from - Human for all he cared, and heavy boots. Boots that could crush an infant.

Now there was a thought that made him smile. If only somebody had crushed me as a babe, hm, Lord Kraft?.

He could take the slight too personally, after all the convict lord Neverwinter was down here as well, and he was in good stead with dear old Titus. Zeddick, on the other hand, was a living slight against the Lord and he knew it. He knew it very well, as all the lords were inclined to remind him. His name was said to be a cursed one among the Kraft, and he sometimes wondered if it was a curse for him. Everytime his dear father was summoned, he'd send Zeddick. Zeddick Pine, baseborn bastard sat in a lords chair. Ha! If the old fool had enough strength in them, he was sure Titus' nostrils would flare everytime he arrived at the gates of Ironpeak. He still probably held out some hope that one day, just one day, Lord Adamite or one of his trueborn would come trudging up those hills. No chance. Zeddick knew his father too well, he would never allow himself or one of his precious heirs to go through that hell!

He cast his eyes around the table, in a lazy arch. At the foot was sat Lord Titus, Titus Chairbound if you asked his father, Titus Sorearse if you asked him. He sat stiffly, though he had little choice in the matter, strumming the fingers of his left hand against the armrest of his great, iron chair, the right sat like the dead weight it was. A great lump of iron, rather crudely cut into a fist. One of his eyes had met the same fate as well, and god knows what monsterousities he was hiding under his rather plain clothing. Either way, he seemed to be wasting away a little more with each visit. His face was long, and drawn, with not a single hair growing on his face. His hands dotted with liverspots, and thin as spider-legs. Each one ending in a brittle claw of a nail. It won't be long until the bastard ****ing well died in that chair of his, he thought to himself. Like he thought everytime he set eyes on Lord Titus, yet he kept living. And Zeddick suspected that he'd keep on living until somebody slashed his throat.

Next to him was Lord Terkraft, a man who only shared Kraft's ice blue eyes and little else. He was deathly pale, even by the standards of those sat around him. Zeddick suspected that he only crept out of the bowels of the Earth were he'd settled himself at his lords beck and call. Zeddick could have said he was a plump man, but that was a lie. He was grossly fat, with more chins then Zeddick had had women. And Zeddick had had many, though would never even consider the woman to his left. Beryll Pellomar, widow of the late Lord Werk. Poor bastard he was too, an accident in the forge during his youth had left most of his face burned raw, yet even a man like that could have chosen a better wife. Beryll was an ugly woman, especially for a Pellmari, with crooked teeth, mousey hair that never looked properly tamed and a figure that left much to be desiried. She barely made up in brainpower either, Lord Kraft had forbade her from coming to the meetings several times, commanding her to send one of her sons in her place. About as much chance of that as Zeddick's father riding up to Kraft's gate.

Taking the trend of plain clothes for a plain land to the next step, was Alhan Neverwinter, son of Lord Harnald and Captain of the Spear of the South. Titles, titles, titles. All ****ing meaningless when you walk into a Lord's hall looking like you've just been standing knee-deep in bear ****. Kraft had deemed his father 'too far away' to attend, so his son always come in his place. To be honest, I'd never seen Harnald Neverwinter - Though people said that frostbite had taken all the skin from his face and left him with raw muscle. There was no such ailment on his son, however, who was a stocky, yet muscular man. Driven down by the snow, most like.

To Zeddick's right, the Pillock of the Plains himself - Pellmori Pellomar. God's, vanity'll kill us sooner than swords, if the lord of Pellomar is anything to judge by! He thought, fleetingly, yet it was like the iron chicken calling the crow black. He didn't have Pellmori's noble features, his pale, greying hair that hung deftly on his shoulders, nor his soft green eyes, yet you could never accuse him of being a shrinking maid. Though he had been in a fair few in his time. He had a cloak that could match, or even best, the Prince of the Plains in extravagance and the finery on his clothing was just as fine. Yet he was still the bastard of the Frozen Pass. Cursed Zeddick, doomed to be used, doomed to be snubbed and doomed to be cast aside when he was no longer of any insult or any use.

And then, the final member of this farce they called a meeting of bannermen, there was Rourke. Rourke the rigid, though Zeddick could think of one or two areas he could probably best the man in when it came to stiffness. He stood to his brothers right, clad from head to toe in iron, for the better if Zeddick was any judge. He'd never been anywhere approaching handsome for the entire time that the bastard had known him, although his wife was said to have been the prettiest lady of House Kraft when she was alive. Not that Zeddick had ever met her, died before he had the misfortune of being born - Though she was Westfreissian, and they usually made for fine, if not overrated, maids. It was the bluehair that did it for most men, and the heavy tans. Especially in this part of the world. She was a sorrowful wretch, he'd heard, and he couldn't blame her... He'd be pretty ****ing mournful if he was married to a man like Rourke.

Settling back in his chair, which was as hard as the stone he'd had to clamour across to get here (purposely so, he suspected), he raised his goblet and called over to the ironbound man.

"Hail Rourke, perhaps Bloodjaw could cleave the head from your shoulders? If you're truely as rigid as they say, you'll be the image of your precious banner!"

"You'd better hope my blade is as dull as your wit, bastard." He replied, curtly.

"Gods know the bastard deserves to be cut down a notch ot two." Droled Lord Alvin, Zeddick had to smile as he took a taste of his wine. For lack of a better word. Distiled goats piss, really. Or worse.

"I wouldn't envoke their name too loudly, Lord Terkraft, or did one of your miners chance to strike The Man atop the head while expanding that rats nest your building?" He allowed himself a slight chuckle. "I'm sure we'd all be very disappointed if you had, make us wonder what else your hiding under those mountains..."

"Enough." Snapped Lord Kraft. Blunt as ever. "Cassone is dead. We recieved a piedgon from Moondark a few weeks past confirming this. The Empire will die with them."

"Let it." Snorted Terkraft. "We survived without the Cassone's breast-feeding us like babes before, we can do it again."

"I'd hate to be prudent..." Pelmori piped up, clearing his throat. "... But it's unlikely that any Emperor would want to rule over a broken Empire. Pretender or no."

"Pretender!" Zeddick laughed, this time much more corsely. "Cassone never bled blue, and nor does any of their ****ing extended family!"

"Aye!" Roared Bloodjaw, slamming his fist on the table. "The Mountain belongs to Kraft! It is Kraft's right to rule!"

"We knealt to Cassone... We made a pact, an oath..." The Prince of the Plains insisted."And what of Yeter Beldain? Did you not recieve the piegedon from Dainmount?"

"We made an oath to the lion, and the lion's dead." Put in Terkraft. "Cal the Kneeler can rot in his grave, and I'd sooner be rotting in mine then bend the knee to next Northern bastard in billowing robes and a fancy crown!"

'Beldain will not hold the throne for long, don't delude yourself Lord Pellomar." Muttered Rourke Kraft, as sour as bad wine. "They have as few friends as we do, and even fewer armed men.'

"They are still the rightful emperors of the land! We can't breakaway!" Zeddick smiled, Pelmori was almost hysterical now.

"They're no more the rightful Emperors to the land then I am Emperor Cassone the bleeding first!" Rourkes hand tightened around the pommel of his sword, but soon released it again. Whatever else you might want to say abour Rourke the Rigid, he was a senisble, level-headed man. Although Zeddick's choice of words would have been more along the lines of plain, bland and boring.

"Beldain, Kojiro Westfriess, it doesn't matter who takes the throne! They'll lay seige to our lands, and force us back... We'll... We'll be dying for nothing..."

"That doesn't sound very... Appealing." Put in Beryll, nervously.

"I suppose talking it out would be more your cup of wine, hm Lady Werk?" Zeddick sneered, taking another sip of his own. Ah, how he loved politics.

"You're worms!" Snarled Bloodjaw, rising from his seat with such force that his chair flew backwards and clattered against the opposing wall. "Plainborn filth!"

"Enough, Ervik." Lord Kraft said, cool as the ice of his eyes. "You're a fool, Pelmori, if you think that we will be left alone if we do bend our knees. They will use us, to wipe out their own enemies. Siphon our strength for their own - That is not the Kraft way. And my knees do not bend."

"So what do you purpose, Lord Kraft?" Inquired Alhan Neverwinter, who had rather sensibly kept quiet during the whole affair.

"We strive for independance." He stated, letting the words hang in the air as if they needed to be consumed, before continuing. "I do not wish blood to be spilled on the mountain, and I like the prospect that my people will be dying on forgien plains even less. However, to declare for another house would make this a certaintly, not a possibility. We do not attack, unless we are provoked."

"And... If we are provoked?" Questioned Beryll, carefully.

"We retaliate."

"All hail the King of the Mountain!" Bloodjaw roared, yet Zeddick could see that others among the Lords bannermen were less convinced.

"The King of the Mountain." Terkraft agreed, much more sollemnly. Beryll only nodded, looking more like a shrinking maid then she probably ever had in her life - Even when, if such a time ever existed, she was one herself.

"The Bear of Neverwinter rides with you, as always, my Lord." My lord and not my King?, Zeddick noted. But thought nothing of it, the people of Neverwinter were a prickly lot if ever there was one.

"Well, I speak with no authority, as you go out of your way to make painfully clear, my Lord." Zeddick began, taking a deep breath. "Yet, I daresay my father would be a fool to disagree against such overwhelming odds." He fixed Lord Pellomar with a sideways state, before indulging in his wine cup once more.

"Yes, yes..." He consented, throwing down his hands in a motion of defeat. "But this is still folly!"

"The matter is settled. Nikkel!" The Kraft family's steward stroled up to the Lord's left, taking a short bow before straightening himself. "I want iron chickens sent out across the land, with this message: The Mountains of Kraft have claimed Independance of the Empire. We will not interfere with their affairs, if they do not interfere with our own. If they choose to contest King of the Mountain's right to lead his people, they will face the full might of Ironpeak and their bannermen."

Well, thank **** that's over. Zeddick mused to himself, casting aside his empty goblet, And not a moment too soon.

[SW Freak]

Nineday, 28th Hexuary, 1245

PADI

He stood at the window, watching the sun rise. Silhouetted against the glowing orb, the dragon flew on, both pairs of wings pumping serenely. Its path was already decided; it was to fly over Serniac lands, hopefully making it through unscathed. The lady and the rider astride the dragon would ride all the way to the Beldain border, where she would be dropped off. It was something of a gamble, but if it paid off then they could avoid war with Beldain. For now. Sighing, the old man turned from the window.

“Safe journey, my lady,” he muttered.

Walking slowly, from habit more than age, The Spider made his way to the council chambers. There had been no need to rouse them for this early meeting. The Report two days previous had confirmed the Catastrophe, and sorted fact from fear. This, in turn, had forced the hand of the council, and few of them had gotten much sleep over the past forty eight hours. Plans had been made and, today, the first and probably most important one was enacted. And they would only learn of its success with the deciphering of the next Report on Fourday. Meanwhile they had other matters to attend to.

“She is away,” said Padi, addressing them in their native tongue. “Are we ready to deal with the other houses?”

“Our relations with Serniac are well enough, despite their hostilities towards Cassone. That friendship may pay off soon enough. And though the trade talks with Westfreiss were interrupted by the catastrophe, they are well underway again. The knights are something of an unknown, though the proposal we have formulated should be enough,” replied Yukimora Samada.

“What about Tidemaster? And the desert clans?”

“Inconsequential, all of them. Tidemaster is nothing but a crippled house led by a crippled old fool. We needn’t bother ourselves with the tribes of the desert. I don’t believe they’ll meddle in our affairs.”

“What of Kraft?”

“We will deal with them later. They have no wish to be part of the empire any more anyway, if The Spider’s sources are correct.” Padi nodded, the look in his eye daring anyone to accuse him of falsity. “I would rather not sully my hands with them any more than I must.”

“And what of the people?” This voice, low and deadly, belonged to Ichiro. Terao Ichiro, the peoples’ champion.

“Messengers shall be dispatched. They will be told to do their duty for house Kojiro, so that house Kojiro may do their duty to Cassone’s legacy. These are dark times, and we shall let them know that we require them to remain strong as much as they require us to do the same. I’ll leave the exact wording to you, Ichiro. The peasants listen to you.”

“Are the plans in place for the Hexpact?”

“Yes. Already a diplomat is on his way to Hex lands. He will, hopefully, barter a truce between us. After all, these are dark times, and we cannot waste our energy on misdirected hostilities.” There was a sneer in his voice.

“I do not like this…” This was Shodan. “All this subterfuge, this sneaking. It feels…wrong.”

“But imagine how much worse it would be if any of the other houses were to seize the throne, Rotuga.”

“Are we not handing Beldain the throne, in a way?”

“We will be able to keep them in line this way, with luck. Fear not, Shodan. We shall prevail, and we shall keep Cassone’s legacy alive.”

Shodan fell silent, but he did not look pleased. Samada looked around the faces of the council.

“We act for the good of the land. I stake my honour on the fact. Now, someone go and rouse Lady Akata. If she is willing, she may have a part to play in this affair. A second part, so to speak.”

AKATA

They were beautiful, each and every one. Roan had had them planted, years ago, before his death. He had said that they were to stand as a testament to his love for her for all time. They stood still, but he did not. It had been five years, and she still sometimes woke hoping to see him beside her again. Fifteen years they had been married, and she had loved him as much as he loved her. Now all that was left was the orchard of cherry blossoms, their petals a beauteous mark on the cold world. She spent a lot of time in the pavilion now. She couldn’t explain it, but she just couldn’t move on.

“My lady.”

She turned to face the messenger, Padi. He bowed low, his features grave. Lady Kojiro turned back to look upon the trees.

“Speak.”

“The Cassone line is dead, my lady.” He said this bluntly. Her look of shock told him that he had been correct in his delivery. Any gentler method would have had her disbelieving. “There is now a power vacuum. The council wishes to take advantage of it. They need your help to do this. Plans have already been made and enacted.”

“You wish me to take a husband.”

“I am sorry, my lady, but yes. I told them that you would not agree, that you were still in mourning for-”

“If it is my duty, then I shall do so. There was a look of iron resolution in the woman’s face Padi had not seen for many, many years.

“Akata-”

“I have been hiding away for far too long, Padi. I will go to speak with the council. I will find out what must be done.” Her eyes softened slightly. “Do not worry, Padi. Roan would not want me to lie idly by and watch as his legacy is destroyed. I very much doubt he is proud of my behaviour thus far.”

Padi looked as though he was about to speak again, but bowed instead and led the way to the council chambers. Several hours had passed since their first meeting, during which they had further discussed their plans. Messengers had been dispatched to all of the villages, bannermen, forts and to Tetsuya. Lady Akata would have been there sooner had she not left strict instructions that she was not to be disturbed. The Spider had only agreed to talk to her, as her friend of many years, the closest thing she had to a father and the only one she was likely to listen to, after he had eaten his breakfast. It was one of the many games he played with the council.

“Lady Kojiro.” Samada stood and bowed.

“I am sorry for my absence, my lords. I hope I am able to render my assistance.” As she spoke, her eyes scanned the room.

The council’s chamber was a circular room with an oval table in the centre, and chairs enough for all thirteen of them. Scribes were seated around the room to take the minutes and today, unusually, a number of clerks stood by to run errands. Another unusual guest was the Steel Dragon who stood, clad in his lacquered armour, with two swords, one beneath the other, at his waist. His armour was glossy black with a hawk rampant, diving with claws outstretched. Looking at his face, Akata saw that he was young enough, no older than thirty-two, with a tightly trimmed beard and long dark-brown hair tied back with a black ribbon. The warrior’s hand was curled around the black leather-wrapped scabbard of the topmost sword of the two and he stood strictly at attention. Seeing her gaze, he bowed respectfully.

“Lady Kojiro, may I introduce Ikoma Matsu. He is-”

“I have heard of the Swooping Hawk, lord Samada. I am not entirely ignorant of the happenings of Kojiro. The Spider has brought me information on a regular basis, though I have made nothing of it for so long. Again, I apologise. Welcome, Master Matsu. I pray your services shan’t be needed.”

“As do I, lady Kojiro.”

“Lord Samada, please proceed,” Akata said, taking her seat at the head of the table.

“My lady, my lords, I shall be blunt. The house of the lion is dead. Cassone has been wiped from the land in one fell swoop, regardless of whether it was the fury of the elements or the hand of man. We have acted. Already there is an emissary on the way to Beldain. She shall-”

“Are we safe to talk about the details, lord Samada?”

“It is safe, Masazumi. I can vouch for each and every man in this chamber, barring those sitting at this very table. Those who have lifted themselves above the authority they gave me.”

“Be silent, Padi. We grow weary of your suspicions.”

“It is my duty to be suspicious, lord Samada.”

“Then save us your thinly veiled contempt. Be silent.”

“Kakita, Padi, stop it.” Akata’s voice brooked no argument. “Lord Yukimora, please proceed.”

“Yes, my lady. First, there is the matter of your sister.”

TSAI

Godsday, 29th Hexuary, 1245

The wind whipped and clawed at the silken curtains of the sedan chair the dragon clutched in its foreclaws. Tsai Kojiro, the publicly unknown sister of Lady Akata, breathed deeply, her eyes closed. She was going to address the lord and lady of Beldain as Akata Kojiro, and hopefully prevent hostilities between the two nations; such important speeches were nothing new to her. Since her sister had gone into mourning and neglected her duties, the council had requested that Tsai take her place. The two were almost identical, and almost no one, bar the council, knew of her existence. Hers was a lonely life, for the council had decree that her existence should continue to be a secret. Thus they had locked her away in the summer palace of Yakuro, with but a handful of retainers to attend to her needs and talk to about the outside world. But she did not waste time being bitter. She was too important, she knew. She did her duty for house Kojiro, and she was proud to do so.

A shrill whistle sounded out, and the faux lady Akata let out a sigh of relief. They would land soon, touching down just outside Beldain land. Flight was fine enough, but she had been cooped up in this box for too long. Within moments she was on the ground again, a sight in her pink and white robes with her black hair artfully made up in the latest style. Her make-up, if not the close resemblance of the sisters, would mask her identity from any of the Beldain nobles who may have seen Akata before, she knew. Tsai looked at her escort of five imperial guardsmen before glancing back up at the dragon that had carried her here. Mount and rider were already on their way to the borders of Serniac land, where they would rest. The dragon had been flying for the entire day and through the night, taking only the occasional short break. They would both be rewarded well, she hoped. The Spider, whose plan this had been, was generally good in recognising services done. Steadying her nerves, she accepted the help offered and settled herself on the saddle. Sitting side saddle, she motioned the men forward, her eyes fixed on the distant speck that was Dainmount.

[Wesforce]

Unday 20th Hexuary, 1245.

Shipmistress Melan'siela Wavesen - Mel to her friends - lowered her expensive, salt-stained Serniac-made Binoculars, and the ship she'd been looking at seemed to jump back suddenly, from 50 sealengths away to more like 500. A young Shipcadet standing at her elbow waited patiently for her instructions.

'They are signalling der hailing signal. They want to come have a chat vith us.' She turned, long blue hair, the instantly recognisable mark of the Westfreissian people, blowing across her face lazily in the soft breeze. She brushed it aside to look her young second-in-command in the eye. 'Make closing speed and break out der tea and crumpets.'

'It vill be done immediately Ma'am!' The woman (More of a girl, actually, thought Mel, who was just past 30, and noticeably so) turned back, long uniform tunic fluttering as she set about her duties with gusto, like a Cadet just out of Port Staple. The Blue-on-blue fabric made Mel paw at her own, unfamilar uniform. The fabric made her skin come up in lumps.

Still standing at the bow of the Mer-Chicken, Mel turned and watched as the girl - Trine, her name was - Trine Whalesong - Handled things. At her barked commands, shaggy-haired, brutish men went to their stations. Nimble-limbed girls in stripy jumpers clambered up and down the rigging to set the sails, and a bald, scar-headed man dressed in an ill-fitting uniform tunic wrestled with the steering wheel. More barks and cries rang out as the slaves below-decks were ordered into action, along with the high-pitched hooting calls of slave mermen setting about their own tasks. The ship’s twin, blade-like hulls, slicing the water like hot knives through fat, heeled in the water and the Freight-Catamaran Mer-Chicken came to a new heading.

'Vot a splendid show, eh.' Said Mel, to no-one in particular, sipping a glass of Midwinter Red wine. It wasn't anything special, but they had lots of it. If they needed more - they would, at the rate Mel was drinking - They'd be in trouble. She grew notoriously belligerent without a glass of red in her hand.

There was no cause for disappointment here, as the Mer-Chicken drew up alongside its nearly-identical counterpart in admirably short time. According to the letters painted along her flank, the vessel was named Sea Ghost.

'Hello der!' Called a friendly voice, an uncharacteristically tubby Westfreissian Sea-Merchant. Just in front of her, a pair of burly, bare-chested slaves, glistening with sweat, heaved mooring ropes over to the Mer-Chicken so the two ships could be moored together. Mel could tell they were slaves - They didn't have blue hair, rather the bright red, and pale skin of Midwintrians.

'Hello yourself, eh!' Called back Mel. 'Ve saw your signal about der injured Crew-woman and are ready to help!'

'Injured CrewWoman? Der must be some mistake eh!' Called the Merchant over the sound of knocking wood as the two ships were fastened by ropes. 'I signalled der invitation to dinner!' - And then her eyes went comically wide as a sidearm appeared in Mel's hand - An ornate, carved duelling-Dartpistol.

'Here's your injured Crewwoman!' Laughed Mel. With the characteristic click-THUD!, the pistol sent a mini-harpoon into the Merchant's shoulder and she fell back screaming.

That was the signal. Westfreissian Women and men, slaves both human and merman - former slaves, on this ship - suddenly sprang from their concealed positions behind the Mer-Chicken’s bulwark. The rigging girls screamed a war-cry and swung to the other ship from their rigging ropes. Mermen, under the water, clambered up the sides of the merchant ship with amazing speed to launch themselves at the stunned merchant crew with tridents grasped in their muscular arms. The rest of the crew of the Mer-Chicken swarmed over the bridging point to sweep aside the stunned crew and SeaGuards of the trapped merchant vessel, Mel at the forefront, swinging her Harpoon-Blade, laughing maniacally.

The merchant crew didn't have a chance. Mel swung her blade and chopped diagonally down into a Westfreissian Crewman's shoulder, swinging again and bashing a crew-woman's brains out with the blunt edge of the hefty weapon. Next to her, Trine had discarded her uniform disguise and shot a Dart through a slave's head as he defended his mistress, spinning to shoot said mistress with the pistol in her other hand. Lumpscale, the oldest and toughest of her Mermen crewmembers was just finishing off two merchant crew with a bone-cracking bearhug.

'Vait! Stop, eh! Ve give in, ve give in!' cried the wounded Merchantwoman, who Mel had lost in the confusion. 'Take it! Take it all! Just don't hurt us!'

Mel put her arm up, and immediately all her crew stopped what they were doing - Not that there was much left to do. Quickly and efficiently, they'd herded what was left of the merchant crew to one end of their vessel, where they lay scattered, dazed, bleeding or cowering: all except the resident SeaGuards. Professional, highly trained sea fighters, they hadn't let themselves go down without a fight, Mel knew all about that; she'd used to be one.

'Ve vill take it all,' said Mel, taking another swig of the wine she’d put down only briefly. 'Not like you vill be able to stop us!'

'Vhy, vhy you fiend! You PIRATE!' said the Merchant SeaMistress, suddenly incensed.

'Mel! Watch o-'

In the blink of an eye the merchantwoman had her own pistol out.

Click-THUNK!

Mel stood there, not looking very impressed, with a glass of wine in one arm and her blade harpoon in the other. A mini-harpoon was sticking from her leg. She holstered the pistol and raised her uniform skirt over the harpoon, showing the enemy Captain where it had thudded into the Oak of her leg.

The woman gasped, like a fish on dry land.

‘It is you! Monopod Mel!'

'And don't you forget it, eh!' The Pirate Captain laughed as Trine punched the woman in the face, shattering her jaw and putting her out cold.

'Right, vhat have ve here?' Mel said to herself, taking in the crew and its cargo. 'Serniac-made cogwheels. Kraft Brandy. Assorted fabrics and vegetables from Kojiro. Vell, it'll do, eh. Take any of these pox-ridden mongrels who vant to join us.' She instructed Trine and Lumpscale. 'Then take half of der ones who von't, anyway!'

It had been a good morning's work for the crew of the Mer-Chicken and her new unwitting crewmembers.

***

Döv of Dørner took awhile to steady himself, stepping blinking off the ship after so long in the dark, dank hold of the Merchant vessel Island Oak. The light was so stark and bright here, and the wind, the wind bit at his tanned skin and his hands rubbed over goosepimples on his muscular, metalworker's arms. He stopped to pull on his simple grey tunic, and was almost crushed by two of the locals carrying crates and barrels off the ship. Huge, muscular brutes with layers of fat and fur against the cold, they grumbled something violent and aggressive at him, something he was grateful he didn't quite understand.

'Vell,' Said the storesmaster, a fellow Westfreissian named Ster Shörborn, a man he'd grown friendly with during the long voyage. 'Ve are here, he. Vot do you make of lovely Port Triána?' he smirked.

'It’s cold!' He said, sounding pained. 'And-' Döv looked around, taking in the sights. It was a strange town, looking half Westfreissian and half... Something else, as if two sides had taken turn placing buildings like pieces in a game of Regicide. Strange smells and noises assaulted his nose and ears respectively. All this time Shörborn had been taking pleasure in Döv's discomfort, and the musician composed himself, determined not to let his displeasure show. 'Its cold and its not bloody Dørner, and that’s good enough for me, eh!'

Döv had always hated his hometown, and had wanted to leave all his life. Well this was it, and this was his dream coming true, and he'd be damned if he'd let some smarmy merchant sailor take that away from him.

'Vell if you say so,' Said Shörborn, still smirking damn him, 'But its your choice, and I admire that. Be careful on your journey, and make a good impression for Westfreissia. May the Sea Lord's Western star guide your way-'

'And yours too, friend.' The two men clenched arms with the traditional Westfreissian goodbye. And then without further ado, Döv turned and walked away from the Quayside, wondering what in the name of the big blue sea he'd do now.

A familiar sound found his ears.

A group of Mermen were being herded into a wooden cage set at the docks for livestock, and they hooted and clicked at eachother in their native tongue. Döv stared at them without meaning to. He'd heard they were a gift from Westfreissia to house Kraft. He thought about the hellishly arduous journey that awaited them, across the bleak frozen plain beyond the small port, and then up into those mountains. Those huge inmposing mountains that dominated the skyline as if they were the very edge of the world. He stopped feeling so sorry when he realised he'd probably have to take the same journey. The thought depressed him - Depressed him so much he felt driven to drink.

Luckily he found a tavern in short order. 'Bloodjaw's Bastards' read the name in crude script. The picture on the sign fluttering in an energetic breeze looked intriguing and bloody, but he couldn't quite make it out. Nevertheless, he went in, un-slinging the 9-string Bannett he carried on his back. If I play a jaunty tune, he thought, perhaps they'll give me a drink, on the house.

It wasn't to be. The Tavern was empty, aside from a devastatingly corpulent, ginger barmaid who looked shockingly pale and pink to Döv's jaundiced eye.

'Wh't c'n ah get yer?' She grumbled.

'Dearest maiden, it vould please me greatly to sample your finest local liquor, eh!'

She looked at him blankly, as if he was speaking Areggan.

Döv pointed at a fearsome looking bottle and laid down a colt. The barmaid shrugged and poured him a shot, which he tasted. It was fierce, and made him feel like he'd taken a hammer to the gut, but once the aftertaste of old boots had cleared, he felt pleasantly energised. Seeing the barmaid in a whole new light, he ordered another, and liked the way she winked at him, craning over the bar to watch the wiggle of her hips as she walked, and got him another drink, and another, and another...

The next morning, half-crushed by the naked barmaid under filthy bearskin bedclothes with a head that swam when he moved it, Döv wondered just what kind of impression he was going to make for Westfreissia...

***

Shipcadet Vaden Seabold looked at the cheering crowds and the banners and pennants flying over Port Staple’s bluestone and obsidian buildings and felt like it was Navy day. It wasn’t of course – The anniversary of Oceanlord Coralen’s annexation of the islands that bore his name wasn’t for another 3 months now, but the spectacle awed him nonetheless. He felt the cheer and good-feeling in the air – Felt it directed at him, standing in full dress uniform on the deck of the Midnight Vale, the newest and one of the largest warships in the Westfreissian Navy. Of course he wasn’t alone, the rest of the Officers, Men, Women and Slaves of the ship crew were with him – The slaves on the floor in the posture of obedience of course – But as a young man of 18 years, he felt right at the centre of the occasion. He brushed a piece of confetti - flying in swirls from the crowd – from his left Epaulette, and caught the eye of a pretty blue-haired (they were all blue-haired) girl standing on the quayside with her family. She threw the bouquet of Azurebells she carried at him. They went miserably short and flopped into the water. The girl blushed. Vaden smiled at her, and she blushed even more.

But then Vaden and the rest of the crew stood ramrod-straight and clenched their fists to their chests in the House Westfreiss salute. The band had just started playing the Westfreiss Anthem, ‘May the Western Star Guide Us’, and that meant their guest had arrived.

And here he came, striding up the gangplank in a plain blue-on-blue Shipcadet’s tunic and cap over a scowling, unhappy face, carrying his ceremonial Blade-Harpoon and a Dartpistol. The Ship Commander met him at the gangplank. The crowd went silent.

‘Shipcadet Coralen-Döv Shöalen-Westfreiss reporting for duty sir. Permission to come aboard?’ said the second-in-line to the throne of House Westfreiss.

‘Permission granted.’ said the Ship Commander in a gruff tone, without ceremony. The Prince beamed widely and stepped onto the deck of the ship.

And that was it. The crowd, bemused by the ceremony’s anticlimax, let out a half-cheer and a confused mumble. The Prince had wanted it that way – He’d wanted all the way through his training to be treated just like any other cadet, and he had been – Albeit a terminally sullen and miserable-looking one. Vaden noted how the Prince seemed happy enough to speak too (happy for a Naval officer anyway) but soon lapsed into a scowl whenever he wasn’t speaking. He could only guess at the Prince’s – no, his fellow Officer’s – unhappy childhood.

There was no time to think on that. The Ship Commander had just ordered the ship to set sail; she’d already had her figurehead blessed by an Acolyte of The Sea Lord. There she was, The Lady of Midnight Vale, looking over the crowd as they cheered, properly this time, and the ship sailed out of Port Staple, into turbulent seas.


***

Sharktooth the Merman opened his eyes, slowly. He was comforted to find himself back in water – His recent memory came back to him in a rush. One concentrated babble of deliriously unhappy feeling. Days spent tied to the back of a wagon, juddering up the side of a mountain, getting farther and farther from the sea. The sting of cold air blowing against his drying scales. He remembered a mountain-town, a disgusting, filthy and dry settlement seemingly ludicrously far from any water… And it was full of Drylanders. A new type of Drylanders, big men with yellow, brown or orange hair – Not even his smaller, blue-furred masters. He remembered the laughter of his new Drylander captives poking and prodding his inert form, thinking he had died from lack of moisture.

The shame of it all. The indignity. Even when he was a slave-soldier for the blue-furs he’d been happier than this, but now… Now he’d been taken far from his spawning ground, far from his podmates, seemingly on a whim, to… To where?

He examined his surroundings. Flat, transparent walls, that kept him and his fellow captives in water, suspended on a brass pedestal. There was little light in this place, and the merman judged he must be either underground, or he was inside a drylander’s dwelling at night.

Adjusting to the gloom, his side-mounted eyes detected two figures entering the room, a yellow-furred, ugly creature of a drylander and a minature version of the same, which seemed, bizarrely, to be clutching a tiny porcelain replica of itself.

Sharktooth pounded his meaty fists against the wall of his cage, his aquarium. The larger of the figures pointed at him for the benefit of the smaller. They were talking, talking at him, as if he was just some obscurity to be ogled.

‘Let me out of here at once!’ He said in the harsh tones he’d learned from the blue-furs.

‘How strange, it talks! It talks like a Westfreissian!’ said the taller figure and both laughed. ‘Oh look, one of them has died.’ said the taller figure again. It left the room with its giggling minature. Moments later, the taller drylander came through with two others clad in pieces of metal. They clambered to the top of the brass and glass cage, pointing weapons at Sharktooth to keep him and his fellow captives still while they fished out an inert Merman who had, indeed, died in transit.

‘What are you doing with our Pod-mate?’ Growled a merman Sharktooth didn’t know.

‘Waste nothing.’ said one of the drylanders, and shrugged.

***

The frigate tossed and turned in the turbulent waters, making the small lamp hanging above Leading WaveCommander Ster Wake-Wavesen’s desk swing about like a headless mer-chicken hung by its fins. He was just inking the first draft of his proposal to send a fleet around the Areggan desert to make contact with the lands run by the Knights of Conlar, and the desert tribes, as no trading posts had been set up. If they didn’t wish to trade… Well the fleet would have to force them. It would be a major boost for Westfreissian morale and the economy, and for the career of the fleet’s commander. Wake-Wavesen didn’t believe he himself would command such a fleet – He was known as an academic among his fellow officers, and was a quiet, unobtrusive man, not some hot-headed glory hunter. At almost 60 years of age, the fire just wasn’t in him anymore. A long and wearing , yet distinguished career at sea had done that to him. A lifetime at sea, and the loss of his daughter, almost 15 years ago now.

Has it really been so long?

Composing himself, he put the finishing touches to his proposal, suggesting the new Cruiser Midnight Vale be chosen to head up the expedition. That done, he put his quill back in its pot and let his parchment dry before putting it in a waxed envelope in his desk. It would be sent back to Port Staple on the next ship when they reached Sentry Island.

Moments later, wearing a waxed jacket over his tunic and his cap tight over his head, he emerged onto the Aridia’s deck. The first of its class, the ship was showing wear and tear – splintering woodwork here, corrosion there – but like him, it still had a good few years in it.

The two seaguards came to attention with fists clenched to their chests. Wake-Wavesen returned the salutes quietly, and continued up to the bridge where the ship’s second in command, a dour Westfreissian born on Midwinter Isle, saluted him.

‘Cold night.’ Wake-Wavesen murmured.

‘Yes Vavecommander. Stormy as all hell. Have ve done something against der Sea Lord’s wishes?’

‘I should think not, Kerek. Ve are his servants, and go only vhere he, and his noble servants, the admiralty, command.’

‘To der arse-end of hell, by this veather.’ The executive officer chuckled. It was indeed bad weather. 15 sea-length swells, a fierce gale, a blinding white flash on the horizon…

‘Wha-‘

***

The city looked peaceful enough. The Capital of House Tidesmaster – Wakehall – was far from the town it had once been, after the devastation wreaked on it by the rebellion 15 years ago and the plague that followed soon after. Seaguard Primary Vehest Altsea gazed out upon that peaceful city from the deck of the Aridia-Class Frigate Harpoon and detested it. The city had no right to peaceful existence to his mind.

Tidesmaster had once been a great naval power. Great enough to rival Westfreiss and Midwinter Isle even, and back, many many years ago the two had combined to try and drag Westfreissia down into the depths. It hadn’t worked. Westfreissia ruled the waves, and now Midwinter Isle. Tidesmaster – Altsea spat at the now-inappropriate name – Had remained strong. Strong enough to unite in rebellion against house Cassone 15 years ago.

The Sea Lord had not been smiling on them. Vehest Altsea had been a young Seaguard during that war. It had blooded him, made him a man, and a veteran soldier. His Father had died during that war, in a bizarre magical conflagration that burned his ship to cinders and scorched the flesh of men until fat bubbled and ran, and skin crisped like a suckling pig. Vehest had avenged him, again and again, and though the rebellion had been crushed, though Fardain and Forrester had been dissolved, though Tidesmaster had the remains of her fleet burned at anchor, it hadn’t been enough.

There was hatred in Altsea’s eyes as he looked at the slumbering city, but a cold hatred, tempered by 15 years of naval service, battling pirates along the Areggan coast, and punishing Tidesmaster whenever they sought to rebuild their fleet. But the hatred remained – And would be enacted in full soon enough.

‘You!’ Vehest barked. One of the two Seaguards he commanded was daydreaming, letting his eyes wander and not paying full attention to the Rotary Powder-Harpoon he crewed. ‘Pay attention. Those Tidesmaster bastards have rebelled before, I’ll be damned if I let it happen again. Just because they’re playing safe for now doesn’t mean they will forever, do I make myself clear?’

‘Yes Seaguard Primary!’ barked the soldier, attentive now. Discipline was hard in the Seaguards – Far harder than among the rank and file of the rest of the Navy. Seaguards were the elite of the Westfreissian military, expected to fight equally well on land or at sea, and die before giving quarter. Altsea would hjave been justified in sending the daydreamer to be flogged. He didn’t. He wanted all his men fit and ready. He’d been to war before, and he missed it. But something told him he might get that chance again.

The veteran naval soldier rubbed his clipped blue beard thoughtfully. The next war would be different from the one he’d fought in last. He looked at the Rotary Harpoon. A damnable invention, any number of things could go wring with it. The powder could, and frequently did get wet. The gears could jam while being cranked. The barrels could warp and bend. Yet, when working at full effectiveness, the weapon could launch ten harpoons in a few seconds, each capable of spitting a man like a mer-chicken – And then it would take an age for the barrels to be reloaded.

Altsea grunted and hefted his Blade-Harpoon. Simple, yet effective. It had served him well before. It would serve him again – soon.

***

‘How long vill this vile institution continue?’ shouted Vörae Coralen. ‘How long vill our people live and get fat from the suffering and slavery of our fellow human beings?’

‘How long vill it be before that rambunctious girl shuts up?’ Laughed two well-dressed young men walking through sun-drenched Anko park. Vörae let that one slide and took another glance at her notes.

‘Students! Fellows! Westfreissians! Do you know that at this very moment there are men and vomen in Midwinter Isle being whipped and manacled to provide the food you eat? The wine and beer you drink? How can they not taste like ashes in your mouth after hearing this?’

‘How can ve be expected to swallow this blithering rubbish!’ Shouted a heckler from the small knot of people gathered there around speaker’s stone in the shadow of the towering, blazing white marble buildings. It wasn’t the first time Vörae had been heckled, though. She decided to change tack.

‘You sir,’ She pointed out the man. Well a boy really. She didn’t recognise him, he must have been a new enroller. ‘You’re a strapping young man. Do you think you would do a slave’s work? Could you toil in the fields all day, carrying twice your veight? In manacles? Vith the slavemaster’s lashes on your back?’

‘Of course not!’ said the heckler. ‘Ve have slaves to do that for us.’

Vörae was flummoxed. ‘You’ve missed the point,’ she began.

‘No, you’ve missed the point – And you’ve missed my attention too. Friends, let us vithdraw to the amphitheatre!’

Now being openly jeered by the crowd, any attempt Vörae made to put her point across was drowned out, but the worst sight was of her listeners (for want of a better word) turning their backs and walk away. It was time to give up the ghost – but how disappointing. Where else but a University could one be expected to find likeminded, liberal people, support for the cause?

At least they’re not throwing things this time she thought bitterly. But as she bent down to pick up her papers, she laid eyes on the stack of lithograph prints she’d planned to hand out. Ghastly depictions of the atrocities done to Midwinter Islanders and Mermen, sent by an artist she knew there. The pictures filled her with renewed anger and spirit. She might have lost the crowd here, but she’d try again, and again, until people saw reason.

***

‘Brave girl. Foolish, but brave.’ said Triana Estarkson, first aide to the ruler of house Westfreiss.

‘Pardon?’ said the Dean of Westreach Institute of Theorems. Only his neatly-trimmed blue beard and heavy tan marked him as a Westfreissian, for his head was completely bald, tanned and speckled like a mer-chicken egg. He balanced a tiny pair of spectacles on his nose. One large lens and one tiny lens gave him a remarkably eccentric appearance.

‘That girl down there,’ said the Aide, ‘I was just wondering who she was.’ Triana pulled the cord that closed the wooden slats, letting the dusty library-room bathe in darkness once more. The view over Scholar’s Square was pretty, the sea beautiful as ever, but ever since hitting her fiftieth year, the small, kindly-looking woman had found the sun rather a lot to bear.

‘Ah, that vould be Vörae Coralen, our, ah, local agent provocateur. Pretty girl, nice rump, but dumb as they come. Frankly, her great ancestor would be ashamed.’

‘Oh?’ asked Triana politely, having automatically discounted his indiscretion against her gender. ‘Vait, you mean… Isilaan Coralen?’

‘The very same.’ said the Dean in a disinterested manner. Triana had him searching for several important documents, and he was concentrating, so Triana didn’t want to press him. ‘Oh don’t you vorry about that nitwit, eh!’ said the Dean cheerfully as he rifled through browning stacks of scrolls and books, not even looking at the second most powerful woman in Westfreissia. ‘Her and her ilk von’t come to anything. They may not like our institutions but they’ll come to realise like der rest of us that our economy vould collapse at the drop of a rat vere it not for slavery. Just some misplaced guilt over her ancestor’s supposedly bad actions. Now-’

I wish it were that simple, but I cannot believe it. Triana thought, but the Dean had already changed the subject and was rattling off the latest findings from the Naval Armaments Committee. For the second most powerful woman in the land, she didn’t half feel sidelined by this blustering old fool. Yet she couldn’t help but shake the feeling she’d be hearing more from Vörae Coralen, sometime soon.

***

‘Isilaan Liebschiff! Vot in the Sea-Lord’s name are you getting up to when you know full-well your supper is ready!’

Like any hard-wearing Farmer with a pushy wife, Isilaan shuddered internally when his wife called using such tones. Yet, he loved her all the same, and loved the cookery-magic she could work on just about anything. Even the mer-chickens that were the bane of Isilaan’s life right now.

‘Coming dearest!’ He called, his voice echoing through the jungle encroaching on his lands. Here in the shadow of Lone Peak, Westfreissian traders ran a huge logging operation, pushing the plantlife back from the shores and the mountain. That was the idea, anyway. Isilaan felt the heat and unbearably sticky air every time he moved, and every day his hair felt matted and sticky from sweat, flies and tree sap. Worse still, the creepers and trees seemed to grow back just as fast at you could cut them. Isilaan had spent all day building pens for his mer-chickens. He hadn’t quite finished them, but the one-legged aquabirds were too dumb to realise, and fearing the alien jungle surroundings, they stayed put around Isilaan’s farm.

Isilaan shouldered his rough leather sack of tools and walked back to the house. A tanned, leathery-faced Westfreissian of thirty one years, his back groaned in protest, but he stuck his barrel chest out all the same. He’d done his bit in the war against nature: He could walk tall today.

‘Papa! Papa!’

Sandrine, named for the Princess, came running from the log-cabin farmhouse, her little legs pistoning.

‘Hello dearest!’ He called to his 7 year-old daughter. She ran and jumped into his waiting arms, knocking the wind out of him. She was getting heavy. ‘Does Mama have supper ready?’

The little girl ignored him, she was excitable.

‘Look what I found!’

She opened her hand. Every day in this alien environment, Isilaan saw strange, often ghastly things. What his daughter had was one of the strangest. It looked somewhat like a frog, but with short, tufty fur all over its body, and big floppy rabbit ears.

‘Oohm’ said Isilaan, scratching his head. ‘It looks like a, whatcha call dem things in Selenia? L… Lemur?’

But Isilaan stopped himself. It couldn’t be. Lemurs – if that was the right name – were big. This one was tiny enough to sit in the palm of his daughter’s hand, and it only had one eye.

‘Well,’ he said, rubbing his bearded chin, ‘I don’t see what harm it can do.’

It flicked out its amazingly long tongue and licked a fly off Isilaan’s cheek. He decided he liked the little creature better.

Coralie glowered at him when he came in. He walked over, put Sandrine and her new pet down and hugged his wife, kissing her. Afterwards she pushed him away.

‘Yes yes, now sit yourself down and eat your mer-chicken stew. I want you up bright and early tomorrow, to get a decent price for our stock down at the slave camp.’

‘Yes dearest.’ Isilaan smiled. She was just like his Mother – no wonder she’d been so eager to get the two married. All the same, he was luxuriously glad to have left Great Freissport – He could handle his wife’s nagging. He’d never be able to stand both his wife and mother.

Just then, he felt a slight tremor, a judder in the ground. Coralie looked at him, puzzled. A bizarre, pained animal call came from the jungle, then another, then another bizarre call by a completely different kind of animal. A conjointed cacophony of clucks rang out, which he realised was his mer-chickens, hopping around their coop screeching their heads off. It was like the whole damned jungle was going haywire.

Sandrine, terrified, ran over to him and buried her face in his gut.

‘Make them stop, Papa, make them stop!’

Her own little pet, forgotten, jumped around squeaking on the floor like a mad-thing beholden by daemons, its long tongue shooting out in random directions.

‘Watch her!’ Isilaan commanded. Coralie took their daughter off him, into her comforting arms. Isilaan ran to the window, just in time to see the flash…

And then the tremors hit.

[AI]

30th Hexuary

TORBERN

He brought the hammer down in one, almighty stroke against the orange glow of near-moltern iron. Torbern was a smith born and bred, his father was a smith, his forefather was a smith and his forefathers father was a smith. Iron ran through their veins, they may as well have been weaned on it from the teat. If there was something that needed to be forged and wrought, Torbern could do it. He'd made everything, from Iron Chickens, blades, armour, domestic tools, ornamental decoration, and all to the highest quality. He prided himself on it, as he prided himself on being born under House Werk, the greatest smiths in the Land.

He paused to wipe the fermented sweat and grime from his forehead, admiring the shaped metal panel laying down on the anvil in front of him. It was true that Torbern had made most everything there was to make in the Iron Mountains... But not this. This was new. The order had came down a week or two ago, by order of Lord Titus Kraft himself, so it was told. Most every skilled blacksmith in the Mountainforge had been turned to producing them. It was a great honour.

"T'll never work..." Though not everybody shared that sentiment. Torbern's bastard 'prentice boy, Pot, sulked in the corner of the room. A sickly, pathetic boy, barely able to lift a pice of parchment, let alone a hammer - Yet Torbern had a debt to his mother, and had to take the poor lad in. "... It's too big, bigger than nowt else we ever did!"

"Gettout wit' yer, yer wee bastard!" Roared Torborn, throwing his hammer in the boys general direction. It clatted off the wall that his head had been leaned against just a few seconds earlier.

"I'll tell mum!" He screeched, cowering under the table where Torbern had spread out the tools of his trade.

"Aw, come now lad - No 'arm done, eh?" He said, removing his gloves and cursing the boys mother under his breath. "But yer know what our greet, and noble lords words are, don'cha?"

He should, for Torbern repeated them at every oppertunity, his chest swelling with pride as they escaped his lips.

"We... We forge?"

"Say it with pride yer scrawn..." He cut himself off, his hand ready to come down on the ignorant little bastards cheeks. He counted to ten, throught of his mothers baking...He liked that, especially her cream filled muffins, and wouldn't want to loose them over this scrawny little runt. "We forge lad, we forge the whole pissin' world if we have too, and nobody tells us anythin' ain't possible!"

He turned away from the boy, who was now nodding furiously, and returned to his work. It was a crying shame really. Mrs. Agate was a respectable enough woman in the Mountainforge, being the wife of Mr. Agate, who managed the forge that Torbern worked in. If word got around that she'd had a bastard born to another man, ha, if her husband knew that she'd had a bastard born to another man... Well, no telling what would happen. She wasn't sure why the woman cared so much anyway, must have been some kind of mothers madness.

"We forge, lad..." He repeated. "It's all we know, an' we're the best at it! Forget those spider-****ing swines in the plains, don't even know what good quality forged iron looks like, you mark my words! Userpers, I call 'em! Help the bastard Empire out in a few wars, and suddenly you might as well **** gold!"

"What..." Began Pot nervously. "What about... You know, the steam engines..."

"Clever little buggers, no doubtin' that!" Torbern spat. "But lemme, or any Werk smithy, take a look at 'em an' I bet we could improve. Little plain-born mud ranglers ain't got our values lad, waste nothing! Forge everything! And kiss me axe too, if you like. Ah, I hope it does come to war, all this business, just so we can show the bastard's what's what and who rules the south."

His 'prentice went awfully quiet, so he went back to work, his shoulders sagging under the grave importance of his task, yet his chest swelling all the same to compensate. He stepped back once more, and regarded the steadily cooling masterpiece in front of him. If it was possible for his chest to expand even further, then it did so. This was only one part of a great construction, much like the part he had completed a week or less ago that had been whisked away nearly as soon as he produced... But it was still the most beautiful thing in the world to Torburn's eyes...

... Well, maybe the second most beautiful thing.


MAGNESSE

"Did I ever tell you the tale of Lady Deep Grief? A very curious name, though it was said she had the blood of Emperors running through her veins. I'm not sure about that, but one thing I do know is that her grief isn't the only thing that's deep about her!" Boasted Zanis, as the children of Ironpeak, future lords, ladies and servant boys and girls alike, gathered around him. "As you know, for a time I was the close personal friend and advisor for Lord Gerus of the Hexpect..."

Magnesse sighed audiably. She'd heard of Zanis' conquest of Lady Deep Grief a dozen times or more, worded one way or another. And if it wasn't her, it was some other lady mage who meant nothing to her... Or a tale of how Great Gerus One Eye would weave intricate spells, and had a dungeon under his great fortress, where he would torture man and woman alike, deriving a sick pleasure from it. She'd even tired of hearing how he'd summon daemons to do his bidding with a snap of his fingers. If she was honest, she'd rather listen to the rampant rumours about why he never lay with women that came freqently from the kitchens and servant quaters. The most popular at the moment was sodomy, she understood.

"... Is there a problem, Lady Magnesse?" He turned his bald head towards her, running a hand through his beard. Zanis was a preist, though you wouldn't know it from looking at him. He was a portly fellow, donning white robes stained brown with mud, red with wine (most likely) and yellow with... Well, she wouldn't want to hazard a guess.

"Yes, I grow tired of your exagerations and stories of the lands of the Hexpact." She informed him. "Let us hear about how you marched side by side with Lord Lenrick during the Serniac revolution, or how you single handedly sailed from the Twin Peaks to North Coralen on naught but rats."

Yet she already knew that Zanis was more interested in another kind of twin peaks these days. When he had first arrived in Ironpeak, all those years ago, Magnesse had only been a babe. But he had been so striking then, so powerful and so muscular it was beyond belief, even in the hardy mountain lands. While he was here, he had bested a young Ervik Bloodjaw in an arm-wrestling contest and outdrank hardy, disfigured old Platton Werk, who was known for being fond of his ale. He hadn't seemed like much of a preist to Magnesse then, and still did not now, but he told such tales! Such wonderful tales! Tales of the Serniac rebellion, in which he played an active part at Lord Lenrick's side and how he feld south, hiding for days on end in the Spider Forest and escaping the odd skirmish with Klan Killkraft to escape to the Spear of the South. He'd tell tales of Kojiro, and their strange customs and how he brought the seven Gods to some reigons of their heathen lands and the deserts! His treks through the deserts where he had become so tanned he thought his skin would peel off! And how he rejected all the artistic delights of the Tribal Cl'onin for a kiss from a beautiful maiden. But it was his talk of Westfriess and Tidemaster and the sea that she was most in awe of.

Yet they were no more. The hardy, strong as a bear adventuer she had loved had gone. The man she had dreamed she would marry, and who'd take her away with him, was dead and no more. He had been to the Hexpact since, and come out a sot - No better than Alvin Terkraft. All he ever spoke of was the mages, and their great power - And how he had overcome it, of course.

"Ha!" He roared, causing the children to jump. "All just mere insects compared to the might, the beauty and the granduer of the Hexpact, my lady! Who wants to hear about sand, and rock and plains and blue-haired whores, when you can hear about magic! Intrigue! And the greatest military and political leader of all time!"

"I did not realise you were telling tales of my father or uncle, Zanis." She said, her voice full of distain.

"You wound me, Lady Magnesse." Every group of travelling performers across the Land had lost a great actor the day Zanis decided to take the cloth, his voice was wounded - But his eyes full of fire. "No disrespect to your father, and certaintly none to your uncle - But you have not seen the prowess of Lord Gerus!"

"Yet I am sick of hearing it." She stated.

"Did Gerus burn Deep Greif to cinders with a fireball?!" Asked Cal, her youngest brother, and she knew all was lost. She rose from her seat abruptly and left the room, her skirts trailing behind her. She wasn't surprised when she found the melancholy fool Cragface waiting outside the door.

"Lady Magnesse." He moped, bowing so low his forehead touched the floor, with his lute tucked under his arm. It might have been comical, if not for the expression on his face.

"Come Cragface, there's nothing for us here..." Looking at the fool made her sad as well, she remembered him how he once was, much like Zanis. So young, so full of life, with a constant sparkle of his eyes. He'd sing songs of The Sister's Mercy and The Man Under the Mountain Stubbed his Toe, all the while telling racy jokes about Kojiro that her father frowned upon but she loved so! Now he was mostly ignored by the younger members of the house, and pitied by most of the older. For his years of loyal service, Magnesse had taken it upon herself to raise a smile to those lips, but it was becoming harder and harder with each passing day. As if Ironpeak had drained the life from him. "... I hear there was a fresh delivery of mermen to the aquarium a day or so past, we should go see!"

She didn't give him much choice, grasping him by the hand as she ran through Ironpeak like the child she once was, her copper coloured hair spread out behind her. Magnesse was aware of her own beauty, and knew many of her fathers bannermen begrudged her father for not marrying her to their sons. She knew it was her duty to the house, and that it was a long time coming - She had been a woman grown for a number of years now, and was always told to expect it. Yet, it was as if her father couldn't bear to send her away. Uncle Rourke had always told her that it was because she looked so like her mother, yet father would always be close to mother, so it made little sense to her. The fool stumbled along behind her, as she entered the room where the great glass aquarium rested. The guards instantly cleared the room of any stragglers as she and Cragface entered, which was nice - Yet sometimes she wished they wouldn't.

"Lady Kraft." Bowen Flint, one of her fathers guardsman, addressed her. She smiled, and would have told him to address her as Magnesse, but it made little difference. It was just his way.

"Bowen." She greeted him. "What of the new additions?"

"Still a bit hostile, m'lady. But we'll soon beat it out'uv 'em."

"Oh..." She really wished they wouldn't. Part of her knew it was wrong to keep such wild things in such confined spaces... Yet, it seemed good enough for humans, so why not?

She strolled over to the glass, and as always most of them ignored her. Many of them refused to even talk to her, and the ones that did only issued short gruff statements. But at least they had become used to her, and knew that she wouldn't bother them much. She recognised most of them too, yet she couldn't spot anybody new. She pressed her hand against the glass, arched her feet to get a better view, and then he came. Like a ship on full sail, he burst out from the gaggle of swiling bodies and slammed up against the glass. She was so shocked that she tumbled backwards, screaming all the way down. It was a stroke of luck that she regained her senses just in time to call off the guards.

"Who are you?" She asked, softly, as she rose again to face him.

"Am Sharktooth! Want out! Out and back into BIG WATER! Want KEEL ugly dryborn girl!"

"I... I don't mean you any harm..." She spoke before the guards could. "I only want to know what it's like outside, outside in the world..."

"World is cold. Cold and dry. Full of fur-heads and drylanders." He grunted. "Want to spawn! Grr. Want break heads... Want KEEL!!!!"

No... No..." Magnesse insisted, realising she hadn't got through to him. "I mean where you come from... Where you were before they brought you here."

"Ugly fur-head ask too many question! Want keel your question! And keel you!" He snorted, pressing his great, grotesque face against the glass.

"Please! Cragface will sing you a song in return, I promise." He rocked back and forth sporadically for a few seconds before snarling once more.

"Dry-lander promise mean nothing! I smash promises head!" He went silent for a few more moments, long enough for Magnesse to consider giving up altogether, before he continued. "Live in lowergrounds around home islands. Nice... Dark...Away from great kerosene lamp in the sky. Good spawning. Good squid... Biiiig squid! KEEEEL!!!"

Magnesse nodded, and Cragface plucked on his lute. It was a sorrowful note, almost as sorrowful as the man himself...

"I looooost, my looooove on the Seleniaaaa plaaaaains..."

"No care about dry-land plains! I KEEL the plains! An I keel love on it! Sing of big water! Sing of dark cave! Sing of spawn! Sing of squid! Sing of BIIIIIIG SQUID! Sing of KEEL! Or sing nothing!"

Cragface cleared his throat, nonpulsed, and played a new tune. One that, Magnesse could image at least, should have been played out on great bells... Right across the land. Bells of mourning, and yet, somehow bells of hope. Perhaps the perfect kind of tune for the time that was fast approaching.

"Wild waters were running,
While children were running,
They were running out of time.
The tides were rising,
The Mermen were rising,
Men were running from the killing time..."

The song depressed Magnesse beyond words, yet the merman Sharktooth seemed to revel in it. The water frothing as he twisting back and forth in a frenzied state, presumably showing his apprication. She had had all she could stomach of the mermen for now, but she'd be back... She'd found one who'd talk to her.

[Statalyzer]

2nd Septuary, 1245

"Crowell!!!! Where be ye, my friend?? Crowell?"

The voice belonged to a tall, imposing Knight on horseback. Shadow Knight Crowell stood up from behind his plow and stared at the horse and rider rapidly approaching. "Right here, I'm here....Jangum is that you?" Knight Jangum called out between heavy breaths "It is I indeed. Glad to see you."

"Why is it you are out of breath?" asked the military head of the Knights' Council, "When it's your horse that be doing all of the running."

"Never mind that, Crowell, I've just come with expedient news! The Emperor is dead."

Crowell sighed with a hint of a smile as he paused to reflect and spoke half to Jangum and half to himself. "Well, like his father before him, the bastard agreed with his grandfather's decision to disband us. I cannot say but that I am glad to hear of his passing, may the Sky Lord forgive me for taking joy at the expense of children and wives." His countenance had altered and his voice was more solemn. "But unless you wished to hold an immediate celebration, why have ye hurried so. Emperors come and emperors go, what is it to me?"

"Emperors, aye" responded the taller, younger man, "But entire families?"

"Surely you don't mean the entire family." Crowell would not distrust Jangum even were his life in his friend's hands, much less distrust his words. But such stunning news brought flashes of doubt. "I mean it exactly. Rumors of how it happened are too numerous to count, but I have it on good order that the widow in Kojiro is the only living member of the Imperial family."

The older knight shut his eyes without uttering a sound. For several seconds not a word passed between them as the great warrior dwelt for what seemed like hours on his 14 year old daughter, his cherished wife, his two brothers, Rasev his favorite nephew, and what it would be like to lose them all. It would destroy his soul. His plea for forgiveness from the Sky Lord had a mere formality, for no honorable Knight would dare appear to another Knight as callous to the sorrow of a widow or orphan. But now he felt ashamed for himself.

"Ahhhh" he muttered as he gazed on his friend. "This is a different matter entirely. Come, cross the field to my house and partake of a delicious meal first, and then summon the council to meet at the Darness Temple on the 2nd evening hence. We shall have no easy decision to make."

3rd Septuary, 1245

The clang of metal filled the air as four-pointed swords clashed together in unison. "Now all you attackers, slowly show me how to respond to that blocking tactic with a right cross-stroke." 15 young Knight-wannabes swung their blades up to the right and back at 15 other shoulders. "Watch it young master, I doubt Ern wants his arm actually chopped clean does 'e?" Laughter ensued. "I don't want anyone being demoted back to sticks here. Now then, Rowen, hold your arm up like this when you make the stroke, or your opponent will get your arm before you get his."

Preston didnt like being given the job of training the adolescents who aspire to Knight school someday, but he was growing to enjoy it. The rest of the Council had foisted it off on him since he was the youngest member of the Knight's council. But he'd be skipping for a while. Blasted council meeting out of nowhere. Damned messenger didn't even give a reason. He didn't even have time to stop by Irilien to see Jacy. He was planning on asking his fair lady to marry him within the month. So far only his brother Crespin knew of it, assuming the loudmouth hadn't let anyone else on.

**********************

Medel, southern scout for the Knights of Conlar, crouched low and silently among the bushes. Someone was approaching from the South, from the region of House Kojiro. Someone riding like a madman. Medel took a deep breath and gathered his courage and focus as the rider approached. "Halt" he yelled, arrow on the string. "Or else I'll shoot!"

"No worries, good man," said the voice from atop the horse as he slowed to a near-stop about 50 feet distant, "I come in peace." ......

[Nyerguds]

AAAAGH WTFF???!? Not only has it started, but with such huge amounts of text??!?!?

anyway, from the beginning...


Godsday 20th Hexuary, 1245

Seila Linnoc, Serniac spy

"Trex, be still!" Seila said to her ground spider. At first the Serniac Intelligence Council had been against her taking the beast, but she managed to win them over in the end. Ground spiders were very easily camouflaged despite their size, and could hide in any opening barely bigger than their body.

At the moment, none of that seemed to matter, as hers was shrieking its head off. Which wasn't good, considering they were hiding in the forests south-east of Newkeep after a mission of intel gathering.

The spider kept shrieking so hard Linnoc barely noticed the glow over the forest. It was only when the spider suddenly stopped shrieking and stood petrified that she turned her attention towards the glow.

While she looked up at the awesome ball of fire coming down from the skies, she felt the earth under her tremble.
"By the Harlot Queen!" she cursed. She hit the spider on the middle of his body to get him out of his stupor.
"GO! Run with all you've got, Trex!" she screamed. The spider ran off, the small woman barely managing to stay on top of it, clumsily holding on to the ever-moving front legs. So, that was why spiders weren't ridden then... at the moment she couldn't care less. All she wanted was to get out of there, and now.
They went out of the forest, straight south. She didn't care the people seeing her. If she didn't move, none of it would matter anyway.

A few minutes later, the spider was blown off its feet by a huge shockwave.
Seila managed to shield her fall with her backpack, but still hit the ground badly. She looked back to the chaos where the meteorite hit.
"No..."
Her objective as a spy aside, she was appaled thinking of the number of people that must've died in that shockwave.

As a matter of fact, she knew she was soon going to be one of the casualities.
"Trex..." she said, weakly.
The spider moved towards her, still dazed from the shock.
"It's no use, Trex" she said, as the spider sprayed its hunting venom on her wounds to sedate them. "I won't make it..."

She grabbed her knife, and cut seven of the eight bags loose from the spider's legs. Looking through the contents of the seven bags, she found what she was looking for. Paper, pens and ink. She dragged herself to a nearby rock to lean against, and started writing.

The message she wrote was simple, but got the point across. Judging from the power of the blast, they'd already know something happened in the North anyway. This would just tell them what happened.

Fireball from the sky annihilated Newkeep completely. My research indicates all of the Imperial Family was present. No one could've survived it.

Neither will I

-Linnoc

She emptied the last bag, and put the document in it, secured with a ring that would weigh it down enough to prevent it from flying out with the spider's movements.

"Go, Trex..." the woman panted. "find your stables. Get them that message."

The spider looked south, then turned back to its trusted companion, not sure what to do.

"Please, Trex." the spy woman said. "Go."

The spider turned around, and ran as fast as it could.
Spiders were quite intelligent, and this one had been trained to ge 'home' should its companion tell it to. So that's exactly what it'd do.

"Good boy." Seila smiled, and waited for the inevitable.

[Serenla]

Octday 17th Septuary, 1245

EISTHORN

He sat alone with the child in the Crow’s Chamber, tapping one hand impatiently upon the stone table and glancing alternately at both the heavy oak door and the gilded window for which the Chamber was named. A bevy of crows in varying stages of flight danced about the window frame which was centered upon the imposing backdrop of the Spire itself. He was often fascinated by the details of Aratin Keep, so much more grand than House Eisthorn’s own manor. Living in the Keep was one of the benefits to being named regent, along with the power of course, and the influence. But as the Lord of Eisthorn and regent to the Lady Karina sat alone in the Chamber with his charge, he also felt the drawbacks.

The Lady, though the title was conferred out of respect only for she was scarcely more than a child, sat across from his at the table, her grey eyes fixed upon his face. He studiously avoided looking her way but knew none-the-less where she looked. The child was the only obstacle in his path to power, yet he couldn’t yet dispose of her. Not safely, anyway. Her tutors had schooled her well in being wary, as well as her studies and she was thoroughly aware that Eisthorn served her not out of loyalty, but from ambition.

The door creaked open slowly and Eisthorn suppressed a sigh of relief. In formal circumstances such as these, it was always awkward to be alone with the Lady.

“My Lady, my Lord,” murmured Tophin, Lord of the Flamesworn, as he bowed.

“Please, Commander, take a seat,” instructed Karina graciously before Eisthorn could speak. “I suppose you’ve heard the rumours by now?”

“Indeed my Lady, and they are most unsettling,” Tophin replied. Eisthorn kept his eyes on the door as more men entered, but his ears remained tuned to their conversation. “Should I assume then, that they are true?”

Karina laughed daintily, “Many rumours have a grain of truth Commander, as the Lord Eisthorn has often told me. The trick is to find that grain and cultivate it. Isn’t that so?”

“Quite so,” mumbled Eisthorn gruffly, before turning back to the new arrivals, and marking their entry. “If I may interrupt though, I do believe everyone is here now.”

Most of the seats at the table were yet empty, but that was to be expected on such short notice. Northaven’s Elfisher House had a representative in the city, but Eisthorn had not deigned to inform him of the meeting, and he would not now have the time to arrive. Likewise the three eastern houses wouldn’t have had time to arrive, though Eisthorn was certain that the savages had received word from their own sources. Which left only one minor House present. Eisthorn would have preferred to have excluded the aging Lord Vairin from the meeting, but the child had insisted, arguing that it was ‘necessary’ and would have been ‘improper’ to ignore him, being as his house was only a short distance from the capital.

The remainder of the seats, then, were taken up by officials from within Arashin. There were no qualms about inviting any of them, since they relied upon Eisthorn –and regrettably, Karina- for their positions. Topher of the Flamesworn was one such, dressed formally in the colours of dragons and running a hand through unruly red hair. Mattias, Lord Commander of the army was another, though he had forsaken his military attire in favour of a simple tunic and breeches. Despite his casual garb though, there was no mistaking Mattias for anything but what he was. Both he and Topher appeared nothing if not alert and even sitting at a table they seemed ready to attack. Life in the wasteland required no less. The final member of the meeting wore regal robes, more extravagant than even Karina or Eisthorn, but then, the High Illusionist Sanneth was often given to vanity.

“Surely not everyone,” said Karina, “I was given to understand that Elfisher’s son was in the city? Was he not informed?”

Damn. She knew. “Of course he was informed my Lady,” Eisthorn lied, “but he came to the city for other matters and I imagine his schedule is quite pressing. I should not imagine he would have time to attend such a meeting as this.”

“Very well then. Shall we proceed?” There was a collective murmur of acquiescence and Karina produced a small letter from her robes, laying it on the table. It was a worn piece of parchment, the seal already broken. Eisthorn recognized it as being that of House Moondark, but he expected few others to recognize it. Minor houses of the south mattered little to most northerners. Eisthorn himself had known it only from his experience in dealing with the other Houses.

“The emperor is dead,” Karina said simply to varied expressions. Eisthorn noted though, that no one seemed particularly surprised or shocked. “As many of you know,” she continued, “Cassone had several heirs, but it seems fate has intervened and *removed* them so-"

"Excuse me my Lady, but when you say 'removed' I assume you mean..." Vairin caught the look on her face and flushed in embarrassment. "Yes, of course, please forgive my interruption."

"Of course, Vairin. As I was saying, the Empire is now in somewhat fickle hands, and the matter of succession is a delicate one. We meet here to discuss the future of the empire and what actions Aratin should take to insure the safety of both the empire and Aratin.”

“I suppose,” Vairin said carefully, “Both Kojiro and Beldain have some claim to the throne. Perhaps we should back one of them to postpone any hostilities.”

“Let them come,” growled Mattias, “The wastelands have broken armies before and can do so again. We should use this time to try to break for independence.”

Sanneth cleared his throat and everyone turned to look at the illusionist. “That is precisely what other houses will be doing Commander. Does anyone here harbour the absurd notion that Westfreiss will wish to stay with this dying empire while they thrive on the waves? What, too, of Kraft? They often see themselves as separate from the rest of us. Who can tell what they will do? No, I’m afraid that war will be upon us no matter the side we choose.” It often struck Eisthorn as odd how an illusionist managed to strike at the heart of the matter so well; he had reached the same conclusions himself upon reading the letter.

Karina spoke up then, and Eisthorn heard his own words come from her mouth. He hid a scowl – sometimes she listened too well to what he told her. “War may well be inevitable Sanneth, which is why we must decide upon a course of action immediately. If the empire fails, House Aratin stands in a poor position. Both the Cl’onin and the Conlaren hold some animosity for us and fighting a two-front war won’t be to our benefit.”

“Damn the knights and damn those desert bastards!” yelled Mattias, slamming his fist onto the stone table vehemently. “We can’t let them stand in our way.”

“And we won’t,” Karina reassured him smoothly, “Which is why I propose we stand with Beldain on this issue.”

“We don’t even know where Beldain does stand, my Lady.”

“Even you don’t believe yourself this time Topher. Everyone here knows Beldain will make a play for the empire. They have claim, they have force, and they certainly have desire.”

Mattias began to interject again but Karina silenced him with the raising of her hand. “Our options are limited in this. We can either support one of the southern houses in holding the empire together, or we can let it fall. Your confidence in our military prowess aside, Mattias, I do not think we would long survive the empire’s death. Beldain is most likely to succeed in their endeavour, and it is there I suggest we place our loyalties.”

Eisthorn suppressed his anger at Karina’s domination of the conversation before he opened his mouth. “Besides,” he said, gritting his teeth, “If not Beldain, then who?” He leaned forward across the table and grinned at Mattias. “Would you propose we ally ourselves with Kojiro, Commander? Would you have us join the Dragonlords?”

Mattias shook silently in his seat and reddened with ire barely contained. Topher, too, went deadly still and his hand found the hilt of his sword.

“Stop baiting the Commander, Eisthorn. No one here is suggesting we ally with Kojiro. Now, if you’ve finished bickering like toothless hags,” at this Karina glared meaningfully at both Mattias and Eisthorn, “then I shall assume there are no further arguments against the sending of an envoy to Beldain. No reasonable arguments,” she amended when Mattias started to speak.

“Good then,” she said brightly and rose from the table. “Lord Eisthorn, I will rely upon you to inform the minor Houses of our decision, and I shall inform you of who will be sent to Beldain shortly. Good day gentlemen.”

[Nyerguds]

Godsday 30th Hexuary, 1245

Dutchess Kereva Serniac

"Enter!" came the unmistakable sound of her father's voice from behind the heavy wooden doors. She didn't have to push them open - the clockworks inside the walls took care of that.

When the Lord and Lady first came to inhabit the Crimson Castle, they were rather disappointed at the lack of secret corridors and intricate clockwork traps, like the ones rumoured to be so abundant in the Beldain castle.
So they fixed it.

Kereva looked around the table. The message had been urgent, but it was inevitable that her siblings got it sooner than her. Even her fastest spidercarts hadn't compensated for her disadvantage in distance.

"Welcome, Ker." Lord Serniac greeted his daughter. Kereva was rather surprised at the banquet presented on the table. For an urgent meeting this looked oddly like the Motherday feast. And it was still a week too soon for that.

"Hi, dad." she said. "Surely this banquet looks exquisite, but I doubt it was worth exhausting the fastest spiders in my stable."

"Your spiders will get a cool bath." lord Mackrain smiled. "But now, please join us. I have quite... shocking news."

As she sat down, her father stood up. Kereva saw all of her younger siblings were equally ill at ease at this sudden banquet.


"First of all," Mackrain said, "I would like to offer my sincere condolences to the family of one of our most exquisite female spies, a woman named Seila Linnoc. She died getting us the best news I've heard all year."

"Love, get to the point." Lady Leivasa interrupted.

Mackrain smiled. "Very well. I have received a message that the light and tremors in the east one week ago were caused by a giant fireball from the sky that completely annihilated Newkeep."

He paused a short while to let the message sink in, and then continued. "The entire Cassone family died in the disaster. The war is over."
He sat down, and waited for their reactions.

"We're free then!" Kelbert said.
"Far from." Thorpin cut in quickly. "Knowing House Beldain, they'll have their own emperor on the throne soon enough."
"You think so?" Mackrain said.
"Oh yes." Thorpin replied. "You'll see. And they'll be all over us again."

"That could be a good thing." Kereva said. "They will most likely just ask us to pledge our allegiance instead of trying to reinstate the Lenrick pigs."

"The Lenricks fled to Newkeep."
Kereva turned her head towards the new speaker. Wenoran hadn't said a word up until now. He had a reputation of saying only what mattered.

"True, but we have no confirmation of their deaths." Mackrain said. "Besides... it wouldn't surprise me if our eastern friends will dispute Beldain's claim to the throne."

"What shall we do then?" Theilis asked. "With our current resources, we can't stay independent, can we? We will have to choose between Kojiro and Beldain. Both have powerful armies, and both will be after the Selenian plains."

"I prefer an alliance with Kojiro." Mackrain said. "Despite the war, they have kept trading with us. We don't owe anything to House Beldain. If we play this right, We might even get some of Kojiro's dragons to secure our borders."

"Well I know what I'm going to do." Theilis smiled, "I'm going to expand the Bornic territory to include Cassone's Southwoods."

"That's a bold move." Thorpin said to his twin sister, smiling. "But I guess that if you're fast, no one is going to claim them anyway. The Hex will keep to their valley."

"Thei's latest personal conquests aside," Mackrain said with a sly grin that made it hard for everyone not to think of the Dutchess' personal life, "everyone in favour of seeking support with Kojiro rather than Beldain, please raise your hand."

Wenoran frowned. "What of the Kraft, dad?"

"These stubborn mountain giants have no reason to ally with Beldain." Mackrain said. "All the more reason not to ally with them either, if we don't want Kraft's soulprisons fighting it out in our lands. In fact, if we can hold off Beldain, we might come to a favourable agreement with the Kraft."

"I don't think so." Wenoran said. "These brutes prefer fighting over talking."

"We'll see in due time. For now, we will vote. All in favour?"

Wenoran reluctantly raised his hand when all of his siblings did.

"Very well." Lord Mackrain said. "We will dispatch messengers to House Kojiro, House Westfreiss, House Kraft and the Hexapact, stating our official status in this situation, and requesting theirs."

"How about Beldain?" Thorpin asked.
"If your prediction is right, which I think it is, they will send a messenger to us soon enough, asking our allegiance. We will just have to send the poor man home empty-handed, rather than risking one of our own be captured by Beldain."

He stood up again. "Well, with that issue out of the way... let's eat!"

[Statalyzer]

4th Septuary, 1245

"Curse thee, vile creature!" The fierce headwind Crowell was riding against had been bothering him for the past hour. But when it pleased the Gods to blow a wasp right into face as he rode up the slope to Darness Temple, annoying turned to rage. With astounding futility, he drew his sword and began swinging at the stinging menace. The only result was a series of brilliantly-executed slashes through the air.

He thought he faintly heard the sound of laughter from a top the hill. Crespin and Emmerny were there before him. Unable to see the wasp, both fellow councilmen had a fine view of Crowell shouting in rage while apparently dueling with the invisible horseman. "That was quite the display of swordsmanship, did you kill the poor fellow?" "Poor fellow? It was a damned wasp, and hell no I didn't kill it."

"Ah, I can see the nest from here" remarked Emmerny, leaning on his lance. Crespin gave the lance a subtle kick as his fellow Knight crashed to the dirt. "Dammit." Crowell just sighed. Crespin's place on the council was assured due to his excellent grasp of military strategy as well as a place among the feared warriors of history for his feats in repelling a rebellion of the remnants of Corezin and a few hundred disgruntled knights in 1236, but the man's juvenile attitude was nearly intolerable.

"Sorry my friend, but I shall soon make it up to you." said Crespin. "How?" "Listen carefully. A few minutes past, Crowell was stung by a wasp. Nearby, beneath that bent tree, is the wasp's nest. A few months past, Knight Laton beat you in a game of lots with a rather large sum of money at stake. Nearby, approaching the tree, is Knight Laton. A few hours past, I rode to this temple. Nearby, in my saddle bag, is my bow and arrow."

"You wouldn't."

"Of course I would."

Fortunately for Knight Laton, his path up the slope didn't pass by the tree, so only a few wasps scattered far enough to find the target. Unfortunately for Knight Crespin, Knight Laton was not Knight Laton. It was the Council Elder, Knight Nestor himself, and the pious old gentleman warrior was not amused. The council meeting was postponed as the normally unflappable Nestor stormed off to the holy pool behind the temple to convince the priest to let him splash the healing-liquid on his swollen face.


3rd Septuary, 1245

Medel looked suspiciously at the approaching figure. The stranger appeared to carry the lance of a Knight but wore no armor. Was this a warrior of Kojiro who had killed a Knight and stolen his armament? "Hail, friend", the voice spoke again, "I'm a Knight like yourself. Harma is my name."

"Hold your position" shouted Medel in return. Harma? He remembered Harma, and Harma had never worn a beard. "If it's really peace you bring, drop your weapon." "Gladly." The lance hit the rocky ground with a hint of a clang.

Medel approached to within an arms length with his hand on his knife, ready to toss it with deadly accuracy at the first hint of hostility as he diligently studied the face before him. "Aha, it is you Harma! Greetings." Harma grinned as he stepped down off his mount. "You didn't recognize me with this." he said, stroking his beard. "I surely did not. I apologize for the harsh words I gave you. But why were you riding about in Kojiro instead of - gaahhhhh" The last scream came as an arrow speed in just past his head and firmly embedded itself in a nearby stump. Medel dove for the ground as Harma ducked behind his horse and commanded the animal to kneel. Another arrow missed Medel by a large distance, but he watched in horror as it pierced his camel through the brain. The unlucky animal was dead before it hit the ground.

"It must be Kojiro! They've followed you here and plan a suprise assault on us!" Harma turned halfway round toward the scoutsman, perplexingly confident. "No, they are not from Kojiro. They are Knights of Conlar." Medel had thought he was angry before, but at this he was truly in a fury. "Why would these traitors attack us? Do you know what the meaning of this is?" Harma still didn't seem worried. "They aren't traitors, and they aren't attacking us. Only you."

Medel hesitated for just a second, completely in bewilderment. "Why?" he asked as another arrow whistled overhead. "For the same reason I am." said Harma, just as Medel noticed a small knife in Harma's opposite hand. Medel thought to himself "The lance was in his right hand. I didn't even check his left" at the same moment that he recalled that Harma was left-handed. His heart sank. How could he have made such an elementary mistake?

All those thoughts take time to read, but it only took a microsecond for them to enter Medel's head, just before Harma's knife did. Harma stood up and faced the distant trees where the arrows had proceeded from. "He's dead men, now onward we go!"

[CKW]

Godsday 20th Hexuary
DEEP GRIEF
She stopped curling up. The dust... the heat, the shockwaves, that unsettling sensation that the earth was going to be ripped beneath her feet had ceased. Trembling, still shaken of the events, rose to her feeth, rubble and dust pouring away from her well formed, although dirty figure. By the Harlot Queen! That sure had been a close escape from the claws of the Crow King. Walking outside the makeshift cave shelter she had been hiding, she breathed the smelt of burnt and dust that cloaked all the desolated landscape. Winds swept the place with rage, as if mourning those who had died today. Combing her red locks into her back, she felt only emptiness. Embracing herself, she rubbed her arms to her travel-weary garments. The great house Cassone, gone. She had never had a great sympathy for the ruling house. She had witnessed so many crimes in its name. Yet she could not feel the slightlest of satisfaction. That had not been Justice. Not if the world was going to be plunged into chaos.

"Are you okay, Lady Grief?" A familiar manly voice shouted at her back. It was Keno, her Umi escort.A nonmagical, combat trained member of the clan, wearing his traditional balck garments to conceal his shape. In his face, usually emotionless a look of worry in his face. Yes. Even a cold blood trained assasin could have been affected by the desolation. His mud-stained face revealed a half pity, half worry face.

"More or less. I'm still on one piece." She smiled faintly, her beauty not visiblely altered by the many travels and the whole incident.

Keno rubbed his chin, while pacing towards her. Posibly trying to decide what to do.

"It's okay, Keno. I will be fine. Go warn the Council of the Hexapact." Somehow, she had guessed his intention.

"We shall be awaiting you in the Wizard's March." He dropped a spartan curtsy, and with a vigorous jump, he set out in opposite direction, with one thing in mind. Inform the true leaders of the Hexapact.

The woman known as Deep Grief sighed. Conmotioned by the desolation, she felt compelled to do a last symbol for the former rulers, now wiped out of the surface of the lands. Unfolding her arp,who had not suffered sustantial damage, he cleared her throat.

"Where are thou, House Cassone?
Whose will mourn thy death?
It all started with blood
and with blood it shall end.
Ye who under thy power stood
upon thy remnants shall descend,
hearts obscured in foul mood."

GERUS

He grasped his chair, wincing in pain. The entire world was shaking under his feet as faerie flames hurted his arms. The pain was diggind deep into his mind. Unable to hold it in, he screamed, in top of his longs, but no voice came. He jolted violently, in his ears screams and ringing noises. And heat. And THE heat.

And then it finally was over. All in a sudden, the only things he perceived was his fast-pacing heart, and his lungs. And the tingling senstation in the stomach... Oh no. He stood in his feet, trembling, trying to reach something... Too late- his meal travelled backwards through his throat, leaving a pool in the ground of the stone room. He then gaped for in through the bars of his room, into the fresh air of the evergreen Mountains, in wich his home, the Rock Towers was set.

A little more settled after that ordeal, Gerus Ravena collapsed in his bed, staring up to the ceiling. It definitely had not been the first time of the seizures. He had carried such stigma since he was a little kid, just like the others of his bloodline. But... this seizure... had been exceptionally intense. His heart shrunk in doubts. A bad omen. A really bad omen. That's what his fast-pacing heart told him. But of what? What could have been so great to disturb the unseen flows of the world?