"Lost Continent: Flight From Muurdaan" (BeckonCall's FNB!)

[SpiralErrant]

Now that part Shul understood! ["They said there's bad rock around the cliff and it aint safe!"] He yelled to Orm and the others.


["Well why didn't he say that sooner?!"] The dark furred bull sighed. Honestly, these humans had serious communication issues to work out. ["Bruul, come with me, we gotta warn the others! You boys too, whoever's fastest, get moving!"] Orm bellowed to the nearby minotaurs. ["Whoever's fastest, don't wait for us!"]


And with that they were off, hooves kicking up the loose dirt. As commanding as he sounded Orm was sprinting in cold terror. Could he use that green jewel they found? Dig up the rock himself? Maybe it'd be fine... but given their luck, it probably wouldn't. He ran on with Bruul as they pushed themselves harder, just hoping they got their in time to get their folk out of harm's way. Anything else he could deal with... just not more burials.


Meanwhile, back at the camp, Shul looked on in confusion as the little human seemed to faint just from running and talking a lot. All while calling out for what he assumed was their lover. What strange creatures this breed of hornless were. At least it lightened his mood a little as it seemed doom loomed over them in the shadow of the cliffs. "Let's hope they do okay." He said absentmindedly to the freshly horned statue. "Or we'll all be going underground again soon enough."


Orm and Bruul are off to get those miners out of there, calling for the fastest runners around to go on ahead of them. Run boys, run!

 

[Heyitsjiwon]

Lothar watched the rather bizarre sight of Tommen nearly fainting from exhaustion after what seemed like he ran for his life. Although, it ended up being their lives and not his own. Thankfully, the Tyren seemed to realize the importance of the message and quickly ran off to stop the miners. The cliff face was perilous in more than one way and had to be watched carefully. This place became much more dangerous than initially thought. There were so many thing unknown to them and seemed that every day their lives become more and more perilous. Such was the life of pioneers, Lothar thought. None of them came here expecting it to be easy, but even then each day seemed to bring its own myriad of problems.


He returned his attention to the forest line. Based on his observations, the gnolls had sentries posted in the treeline, watching the Tyren camp. But, for the most part, their forces seemed diverted to the south, so their forces were divided. A sudden attack and march to the north where the settlements would likely be devastating for the gnolls, but if they were able to hold off the colonial forces long enough for the southern armies to arrive, then the colonial forces would be caught in a nasty pincer, and the way to the rest of the colony would be wide open to the gnolls. But, if the colony had to go to war with then gnolls, then now would be the most opportune moment. Still, Lothar did not like the idea of waging war on the gnolls especially when the suspects of the cull seemed to be the masked men, or they were at the very least a part of the cycle. He prayed that the others would see the urgency of the matter. The largest enemy was not the gnolls, but the cull.


Summary:


Lothar's reaction to the sudden arrival of Tommen


---


@SpiralErrant


Lady Cassandra eventually found her way back to the Attolian settlement after waking up at the Tyren camp. It seemed that she had a vision, but all the memories she had of it were nowhere in her brain. It was then that she came upon a queer sight. The Tyren seemed to be carrying and bringing poppies to the platz. However, these poppies looked... immaculate somehow. They were pristine as if they had never suffered from a single scratch nor were they discolored. Lady Cassandra came closer and touched the product that they brought. A familiar feeling tingled her senses, but she couldn't determine exactly what it was that she felt. However, she could tell that these poppies were magical. The idea was simply exciting to her. In fact, an interesting thought came to mind. She was certain that Nicolas would find these poppies to be interesting as well. She looked at some of the nearby Tyren, and asked "Would it be possible to purchase a crop of your poppy?"


With an agreement to purchase settled, Cassandra quickly began her search for two people, Dr. Flemming and the Chemist. Cassandra was somewhat familiar with certain plants, but the poppy had a very significant presence in certain rituals due to its qualities. Once she finally discovered the two, Lady Cassandra presented the recent addition to the colony's market to the two.


Dr. Flemming immediately said "Poppy seeds. We can have medication produced in the new land. Do you know how many lives we can save with this?" The Chemist nodded as he said "I could begin producing opium from the poppies, and then further refine the medicinal properties of it." Dr. Flemming looked genuinely excited by the prospect. Opium was a drug that relieved pain effectively, and could be used to help treat a myriad of illnesses and symptoms. They just had to make sure that the doses were properly administered. With nothing more to be said, the Chemist gathered some of the nearby unskilled workers to provide some labor and proceeded to begin processing the poppies so that opium could be produced.


Summary:


The Attolians purchase some of the Tyren's Sugar Milk Poppy.


The Chemist and 5 unskilled workers begin work on producing opium from the Poppies.

 

[Beckoncall]

@Elendithas @Heyitsjiwon @General Deth Glitch :


Tocxhol had examined the crude map his follower gave him and the markings that should put him above the Barracks and Storage area they located in their previous expedition below. A large ventilation grating lay exactly where it should… It was dark in the ‘Platz, and the vision of an Aymaran is not what many would say keen in many situations – but Tocxhol compensated for this with a superior understanding of special relationships. Movement and location… he had found his mark…


*KRAAAASH!!!* -- Tocxhol shoved his huge claws through two spots on the grating that seemed particularly corroded. Putting a great piece from the barrier, he proceeded to shake it back and forth with all his weight, applying shear and compression forces that first sent rust raining down the area where he stood – and after a time – the tortured rusted bolts holding the grate together started to shake loose, or break out the entirety of the pitted metal that held them. After the Initial Crash, the metal seemed to squeal in protest of Tocxhol’s bulk – filling the east side of the ‘Platz with a harrowing noise.


Approximately two blocks away, Attolian patrolmen stapped to attention with a start… assembling quickly, the majority of Halbardiers formed a response team, eight of which headed in the direction of the noise, the others – including all but one of the tower sentries, attempted to rally the exile volunteers…


Approximately 20 exile convict volunteers – bearing torches and ad-hoc weapons, converged on the make-shift entrance Tocxhol was “constructing” – or destructing, depending on how you looked at it. With a mighty slap of his tail he knocked almost half of the remaining grate down into the sewer before turning to face the rank of halbardiers and their assembled volunteer patrolmen. The Attolians weren’t sure what the protocol for catching one of the newer colonists demolishing an area of the ‘platz for some inscrutable reason – but the Attolians worked hard enough to familiarize themselves with recent developments to be able to guess that this was the leader of the Aymarans… or at the very least one of his chosen… Tocxhol did not speak very good common – but he could deduct the gist of what they were saying… or at least what he thought they were saying.”


They were, in some diplomatic or contrite fashion – calling for him to halt, and perhaps explain. He was slightly pleased that they had at least thought to bring dozens of guards to address him… he might have felt insulted otherwise… Tocxhol was pondering whether to try to speak common back to them or simply roar a challenge in defiance… when a smell pumped into his nostrils that made him turn…


…Adrenaline… Mud… Aggression… It was coming downwind, from the east.


Tocxhol couldn’t SEE them, but he could sense some movement… They would have to come a bit closer, but the stink of forest-men caused his stomach to contract violently and a cocktail of hunger-inducing hormones to begin steeping his brain. They were moving fast now. His body seemed to relax at the coming prospect of violent action.


Then the guardsmen saw them – Masked ones – perhaps fifty of them, emerged from their camouflage and began to race into the ‘Platz…


…Where the Attolians and Exiles first stood in confrontation with the Aymaran, they rapidly came about in a loose rabble with the Halbardiers standing behind them. Threatening with their polearms to protect their supporting infantry…


The masked ones lifted spear, axe, mace and all manner of crude weaponry – this was an attack on the colony – all that remained to be said was how it would be responded to…

 

[Beckoncall]

@Heyitsjiwon :


Attolians clear 6 fields, will they start planting? And Attolians have been making houses… how is that coming along?


While the Attolian soldiers and their leader had been quite busy trying to establish and maintain an unsteady people within and without the colony – the bulk of their workers had been continuing their work painstakingly clearing boulder field and attempting to set the fields right to planting – while at the same time gaining materials for housing in the ‘Platz. In all six plots of land had been cleared of all but the most troublesome rocks and debris – and they while the planting was quite late in the spring, if they acted fast it was likely that might reap a relatively mature harvest in the fall. It was worth noting however that a modest amount of stone, a few carts full – had been liberated from the fields and could be used, if it was not dedicated to some other use, to speed up reconstruction of houses in the marketplatz. It was slow-going, but a small number of houses had already been for the most part refurbished, with several others approaching, but not quite reaching a level of comfortable human habitability. As it was now, a small circle of houses under the sweep of the crane was slowly making its way outward from the North East corner of the ‘Platz… it was worth also noting that sowing the fields as the Attolians must would take additional labor off of the housing effort… If only there was a way to acquire more labor, or co-operate in this endeavor?


The Attolians had brought seed wheat and barley for planting – but it would be need to be decided how many plots of each might be sown of the six…


Decision Point!: Attolians must decide if they are building regular stone homes or Tenement houses. For their labor for the better part of a season, they can have 10 modest stone houses, or 30 tenement buildings. One of these buildings is already reserved by the healer’s guild… (giving you a share of it’s revenue.) This decision will effect the overall atmosphere of the fledgling “Attolian Housing District” – will you have your people cramped approximately 10 to a house, but the houses are decent… or approximately 3 to a house, but the houses are smaller and less well appointed?

 

[Elendithas]

Having just discovered a rather pleasant place for his people to take up shelter, Tocxhol felt it now was more welcoming than ever to finally give his people a potential home. The caverns were practically full of food and even something to trade if they ever needed it, the sewers were nice and damp, dark, and full of surprisingly aggressive small creatures which were essentially jumping into their mouths, and there was even a crypt or something of the sort with a giant bat in it. That was sure to be fun later, but Tocxhol had further business to conduct before cracking that baby open. After the crew came back up, Tocxhol went along his business of tearing the 'Platz a new one, literally, before a bunch of concerned citizens showed up. He was just getting ready to point at the hole and say his people's name, which honestly would have just sounded like a growl to them anyway, to clear up this misunderstanding when suddenly he caught the smell of something new to the 'Platz. Not Aymaran or High elf either; more like mud than any creature, but the undeniable stench of life drifted beneath the muddy smell of these newcomers, and they didn't seem to be anything close to friendly.


Tocxhol's eye lit up when he realized that he would finally taste blood so long after first touching land here. The first of many slaughters by Aymaran hands was about to begin in this new world. As the halberdiers and convicts took up a position behind him, Tocxhol himself quickly brought one hand to his back and took out a maul larger than the average man, swinging it to the sky and releasing a blood-curdling roar as he recklessly charged forward into the battle, or if he were in fact the first there, the poor sap who happened to be closest to him. The Chosen still in the 'Platz when this happened would undoubtedly recognize Tocxhol's war cry and were certain themselves to join in as soon as their admittedly slow legs could get them to Tocxhol. Tocxhol himself was a monstrous warrior both because of what he was and how well-trained he were. Wherever he went in battle appeared to be little more than a flurry of limbs, tail, tooth, and hammer, but to the trained eye each blow was timed almost to perfection and placed well enough to nearly, if not actually, kill instantly. Unfortunately, this wasn't something he could keep up for very long. His kind are traditionally ambush predators, and as such have huge bursts of power and speed at the start of a battle that quickly wanes with it. After a time he begun to fight almost like a normal soldier, albeit more skillful and surprisingly slowly comparative to what he were just unleashing seconds ago.


Before this whole fiasco, however, Tocxhol were pretty much giving orders as any other time. Before they had left the sewers even, he had ordered Teqti to head back to the ship, gather what supplies they had and get everyone into the sewers safely, where they were to begin sprucing the place up. For all intents and purposes, sprucing the place up meant get some basic living quarters ready for everyone, aside from the brutes. The brutes were to be contained in a sort of makeshift pen until a more secure place could be provided for them. No need to have the brutes wandering around and spotting the odd human in the sewers. That could make for some nasty diplomacy. Goq-quet on the other hand, was to investigate the vault in greater detail. On the off-chance that whatever was resting inside was still alive somehow, it would need someone almost constantly watching the vault until further action was decided.


Summary

• Tocxhol and Aymaran in hearing range to partake in battle for 'Platz
  
• Teqti to bring boat's supplies and Aymaran population to Sewers to begin settlement
  
• Goq-quet to further study vault of crimson bat and potentially discover what lies inside, despite risk.
  

 

[Heyitsjiwon]

Caelis found himself talking with some of the farmers about starting to plant seeds for the year. They had both wheat and barley available to them. Both matured in a relatively short period of time, approximately 4 months, so they would be ready to harvest by winter. But, each had unique properties. Wheat simply produced more food in a limited space than barley. However, barley was much more tolerant to temperature and drought. In addition, they could use some of the barley to brew beer if they wanted to later on, which would be a pleasant treat for all. But, this was a strange world where they didn't know what the seasons were like and of the potential diseases here as well. One nasty germ could wipe out the entire harvest. With that in mind, Caelis decided to split the fields in half. They would alternate between wheat and barley for each field that way they would be maintaining a bit of crop rotation by not depleting the same area of the same nutrients. Thus, the sowing began on the cleared fields.


Caelis walked back to the settlement and looked at the buildings that they had put up in the short time that they had arrived to the new world. 10 modest homes stood on the Northeast section of the marketplatz. They were far from grand, but they were "home" and the product of their hard work and effort. However, Caelis knew that things would be cramped in these homes. This in itself wasn't a major issue pers say, but sanitation would be a larger concern. If they could restore the sewers in this part of the platz, then that would alleviate a lot of those concerns. The restoration of the sewers were definitely a major priority for Caelis. Besides, these houses weren't too important currently. Winter was the better part of the year away, so they still had time to tackle the housing issue.


Suddenly, Caelis' thoughts were interrupted by the loud sound of a crash. Caelis began to walk over to investigate. By the time he could see the incident, the settlement guard had already arrived on scene and at the same time Lady Cassandra came to see what the ruckus was about. As Caelis tried to make sense of what happened. Something surprised him. A large group of camouflaged masked men suddenly appeared to the east. It appeared that they were being attacked. Caelis looked back at Lady Cassandra and said "Start evacuating the civilians towards the beach! Ask the other colonists to help fight! And get the Sundered Kings here immediately!" She went off running to do what Caelis requested without a word. Caelis drew his sword and ran towards the guards. There he saw what appeared to be the leader of the Aymarans charging straight into the attacking force. "What in the bloody world is he doing?!" Caelis said. He then looked around the area and said "Stick together men! We will not let them get further into the platz!" He then barked orders to get the group into formation so that they could use the urban terrain to their advantage by holding a choke point in order to make the enemy's numbers less tactically advantageous. The worst thing that could happen was for them to be scattered in a field against a numerically superior force. Thus, the plan was to hold the enemy until further help arrived to fight.


Summary:


The fields are to be split in half. With 3 fields planted with wheat and the other 3 with barley


The Attolian Housing district currently consists of 10 Modest Homes


Lady Cassandra runs off to alarm the rest of the colony and begin evacuating nearby civilians towards the beach


Caelis joins the guards and takes command while hoping to hold the enemy long enough for more help to arrive

 

[Beckoncall]

News About the 'Platz:


@Leusis :


"That Anfel woman is ghostly an' altogether aloof, but I'll be sandcrab if she hasn't had an impact on the healer's guild... All sorts of questions getting answered -- many of them the type people are loathe to share as complaints. Bottom line is, many of us are looking at being healthier than the people who lived in Port Cestus!" (popularity of wood elves with citizenry goes up, colony-wide)


@Prince Vaethorion :


"The prince says he wants fish -- but all we've been bringing in is these sharks! Checking stomach contents, we only find two things: Firstly -- we find other sharks... and frequently! The sharks off the beach are generally basking, resting, or in pursuit of mates... they seem to do all their feeding below, in the "shark-holes" -- and the only other thing it seems their eating are huge chunks of whitish blubbery tissue... damned if I can tell you what it is, but few of the exiles even are willing to think it palatable. We can look for schools of fish further out, but small fish off the beach have seemingly been edged out of this niche completely... In short, you can tell the prince that if he's looking for fish, he needs to try the river -- whatever the sharks are eating is down in that abyss, and with the frequency smaller sharks are eaten, there must be some tremendous feeding frenzies going on down there..."


@General Deth Glitch @Prince Vaethorion @Heyitsjiwon @Elendithas :


"You know what's funny -- I haven't seen camp or cooking fires on paradise isle since the Aymarans got here... for a while many of us figured it was the weather -- clouds, fog, rain... but something's amiss there. I mean... the I.O.C. is supposed to be a trading company, right? Ever wonder why they haven't come around to trade? Somebody should check that out... just seeing the watchtower and their ship every now and then on a clear day -- tells me somethings not right. We're better off knowing, right?"


"One of them exile patrolmen was snooping about in those graveyards in the depression... and you know what he said he found? Some kind of Mausoleum! Can't be sure if it's from the last colony or before that -- but he said the front busted up, and he could see a bunch of space to move around down there... I ain't that kind of enterprising... but maybe there's something valuable in there? I mean, if we're to believe the Attolians the dead are already not resting very easy... can't make 'em madder, can we?"

 

[Leusis]

Belanor looked around with a quizzical expression as he noticed all those standing around the huffing and puffing man doing absolutely nothing. The only ones who even seemed to be looking for any kind of direction were Belanor's Way Watchers, simply waiting for any orders. {"Go to the forest and bring five of the Tree Kin to this mine the Tyren are digging, I will meet you there"} Belanor spoke in the sylvan tongue as he waved for the fastest of the Way Watchers to begin sprinting back to camp. It was then that Belanor noticed Orm was organizing and rushing off to the aid of his people. And like any ally, Belanor was right behind him, moving as quickly as his lean muscular frame could take him. It was likely that Belanor would have arrived before Orm if he had not had a head start and his strides were not as long as two men. Coming to a stop a few feet ahead of the massive bull he would look up to where the miners were working, screaming in the Tyren's language ["Stop now!"]. Hoping that the Tyren above would hear him and Orm and realize that not only their leader was telling them to stop, but the leader of another faction as well. During all of this however Belanor kept his hand in a small pouch on his waist, hand gripping the large nature gem that his people were gifted at the beginning of their journey. If they mine began to collapse, Belanor would need its power to prevent such a horrible fate from possibly destroying the Tyren utterly.


-Belanor orders the fastest Way Watcher to gather five Tree Kin to meet him at the mine.


-Belanor rushes off to the mine with Orm, screaming for the Tyren to stop and prepared to use the nature gem if the mine begins collapsing.


{} <--- will be used to signify when an individual is speaking sylvan.

 

[Beckoncall]

@Heyitsjiwon :


Nicholas had departed at the same time the rest of the Attolians, but while the rest of the host veered right to the domain of the Tyren past boulder field, The Artificer and his bodyguards turned due west, walking a fair distance past the foothill woods of the Sylvan elves, and the hills that ran east to west above them that would eventually terminate at the “Spire”, which sidled up the landform of by far the highest hill in the chain like some bizarre ivory smokestack. As they grew nearer, it began to grow apparent that clouds passing over the spire, and perhaps the entire hill, seemed to bisect and flow around the area above it – the skies above the spire and “Sky Hill” seemed perpetually clear – even on a thoroughly overcast day it was said there was still the smallest of windows above the tower… strange business afoot for sure, Nicholas mused.


A short distance from the spire, Nicholas had still seen no clockwork men – but he had begun to see signs of them… Rusted gears, strange spokes with keyed ends… a metatarsal structure? And a few scattered cogs. He prompted his guards to keep eye out for such treasures – but they were far more engrossed with watching for threats, and simply left Nicholas to his cautious flight of fancy. For a period of time it seemed almost that his attendants were herding him, lets they never reach the tower with his constant digressions scrounging for pieces.


“It’s quite fascinating, really – the better preserved cogs… there are tiny bumps between many of the teeth… polarizing crystal? Spar maybe? The cogs are doing work… but the crystals… are directing mana? Conveying information? These alone were worth the trip… could take my research in entirely new directions! "


A short time later they were finally at the foot of Sky Hill, and from the bottom it where a narrow path snaked around and seemingly through the hill, the spire was barely visible so obscured as it was by the intervening hill. Nicholas could see that Bas Relief and other rock carving, mostly buried under mud, moss, and ivy, poked out in places at the base of the hill, a bit above head level in another place, and seemingly more carvings that were less obscured further up the path along the Cliffside.


A short way up the path was a small gathering area of some kind, but beyond a gravel floor instead of the otherwise everpresent grass there was little to be said about it. Further up the path the walkway passed through a tunnel that wound around the hill itself – and the tunnel was very dark. From inside the tunnel, he could hear the whirring of some kind of mechanical device, but it was far enough away that it was barely audible. On the ground, half buried in the gravel… was a rusted and disembodied automaton arm.


Nicholas was tempted to grab the object, and then he heard the whirring stop. Then he thought, perhaps they could grab the object and run? Pressing on and encountering the clockwork men would be highly enlightening – but the idea of meeting them and perhaps being forced to give up the artifacts he found? He had to decide what he would do – whether to press onward… or to gather what he could from the area and depart – before he was confronted and asked to depart like it was rumored the Tyren were…

 

[Prince Vaethorion]

@Heyitsjiwon @Beckoncall


The Prince did not mind that the Doctor turned the pipe down, more for him he thought, but was pleased he shared the wine because declining was impolite in Elven society. The Prince listened patiently to the Attolian regarding their relationship with the Muurdan. The Doctor's answer was satisfactory to the Prince, and the Prince thought that these are people that can be reasoned with and worked together for a common good. Good relations were desired and seeing how that Lord Wolff had an Elven ancestor it was a good sign that human prejudices would not interfere with their working relationship. That is more that the Prince could say about his own people who tended to look down on mortals and those who are not High born. My people are stubborn, but time has taught them to bow like a tree or snap.


The Prince gathered his thoughts and gave the Doctor a penetrating look assessing the Doctor's true being. He began "Your words are pleasing to hear good Doctor. I can see you are an educated man and a man who prefers peace to blood shed. These are good attributes in an ally. We are ALL allies are we not, or must be if we are to survive and even prosper. We cannot afford division. I must admit when I saw the Amayran land, I was wary that they would view us as food, and went so far as to tell my Drill Sargent to prepare my people to defend themselves from their brutes. Not long after, the brutes helped us finish the dock. I am pleased to hear of your Lord's Elven ancestry, of the lack of good will to the Eternal Empire. These were concerns of mine and you have allayed them."


The Prince held up his glass and said "To our fledgling colony!" The Prince looked about to toast, others, but everyone was hard at work.


The Prince said enthusiastically, "It is good to see we share common goals and can discuss our concerns in a civilized manner.


What you say about the Tyren is disconcerting, but not surprising. These are beasts. Their instincts are animalistic, and they are herd animals by nature. These beasts, excuse me, these Bull People, I am told, seem reasonable enough for beast, but I should inform you that I have seen these creatures behave with extreme brutality and violence. They may seem like placid creatures that graze in peace, but they are natural born killers. My reports tell me that they have not seen these Tyren to be the same brutal beasts that murdered my people and razed our villages, but lets not be lulled into believing these are innocent sheep. They may not eat us like the Amayren, but they will bash your head like a pumpkin with little remorse". The Prince said bitterly.


The Prince caught himself, perhaps in reaction to the Doctor's expression "However, at present, This is not what is being described to me. These creatures seem to behave more like talking Bulls and Cows in the field then mass murderers, but I am warning you of their brutal potential."


The prince absently minded put his hand on the pommel of one his swords, but then adjusted the scabbard to be more comfortable, as to seem more at ease. He continued, "Yes, the Gnolls, my Tactician is right now assessing the threat and the masked Elves? Perhaps we can make contact with them. I awair the intelligence report on the Gnolls. These are nasty, nasty, nasty creatures, that understand only violence. They are formidable and will need careful execution to successfully annihilate. I do not envision a peaceful existence with them." The Prince made a gesture, like he was removing lint, and the Gnolls were this lint. The other humanoids fascinate me. My Lore master might know of them. He knows a lot. The Undead are no doubt the end result of the dark magic we detect here and will likely need to be undone by arcane means, as you have pointed out." The Prince seemed to be sniffing the air as if the magic was a scent."


The Prince changed his countenance to one of utmost seriousness. "The Cull is something very serious. This is nefarious and I have heard of such things from times long passed. We must make this our utmost priority. If we cannot find it's source, protect ourselves, we will need to seek refuge. Perhaps once the Gnolls have no more need for their caves...or perhaps we find alternatives. We must find out the source, and prevent this from occurring if at all possible. There is much power here, and it's not all good power."


The Prince nodded in agreement "I concur with the formation of a "Government". This is exactly, what I was referring to earlier Good doctor. We need to meet with the heads of the factions and form a High Council. From this High council, we can form local bodies to oversee the various projects and departments needed for a functioning society. We must pool our resources and Elfpower. This is the only way we will thrive. I completely agree. Thank you for your visit, good Doctor, I believe our two people can work together for a better colony and lives for our respective people. Good day."


.


Quest: Form High council with Attolians and other factions if they agree and from this High Council form lesser bodies to oversee projects and various departments like agriculture, civil engineering, defense, magic, sanitation etc.

 

[Prince Vaethorion]

@Beckoncall @SpiralErrant @General Deth Glitch @Heyitsjiwon


It took some time to react, as the High Elves were so busy completing the tasks that their taskmaster/Prince ordered them to do, but the Tactician took note of the impending disaster about to occur as a result of the Tyren digging. The Tactician commands her fastest Archers. to run a message. "You, Warn those in path of the cliff to move away to safety immediately! Have them spread the word! You, (she orders to others) (to another archer) "Tell the Prince about the impending danger. "Go now and with Haste!!!"


Orders four archers to warn anyone in path of the potentially collapsing cliff to clear out of it's path, orders another Archer to tell Prince about threat.

 

[Beckoncall]

@Prince Vaethorion :


Order: Engineer to assemble a team of 2 craftelves (carpenters) and 10 archers to construct barricade around tent pavilion.


“Not many men, and not much time to make the Captain happy, soldiers…”


The Engineer was half saying this to himself while at the same time addressing his work detail. Taking measurements of the area on the outskirts of the ‘Platz that was to presently be pulled into Highborn control, with an amount of room to grow, the Engineer outlined a semi-broken arc of houses that would become the “highborn defensive zone” – if the platz became fully developed this bulwark could be dismantled, but for now, if they lived in a ruin – it cost nothing to designate part of that ruin a Kill-zone.


Supplies of wood were slow to arrive (Why hadn’t the colony any market or centralized storage for materials? The closest to such a structure was a dilapidated warehouse the Exiles and Attolians shared in the Depression… but none such material was for sharing or sale… he would report to the Captain this was most uncivilized, and likely dangerously counter-productive. The team expected that once the anticipated freight-line was complete however, their task would become easier, at least with relations to materials.


The rear walls and rubble of the kill-zone were fortified somewhat with additional stone that laid nearby – in front of this, and staggered over gaps in the footprints of these structures, were close-packed sets of wooden stakes. The investment of materials was minimal, and they hoped it would do much at this point to break up advancing formations, slow down attackers, and give a place for spearmen to fight behind defended obstacles allowing for archers to strike from the rear. In addition, consulting with the Tamer and Inventor, they were able to easily improvise a kind of trap for the defensive line – where there were breaks or expected points of contacts, Bend pieces of metal – held with tension, were placed just below patches of rubble, rough terrain, or camouflaged under debris on more solid flagstones. The devices, nicknamed “Trespassers boots” would snap shut on intruders – and while not likely to maim or harm overmuch, it could potentially ensnare an enemy or at least encumber them after they managed to pull their foot, and most of the device with it, from the ground. Overall, in a short period of time the Engineer was able to report a defensible perimeter, even if it wasn’t a true and full barricade around the pavilion area… If the Captain ordered the detail to remain, they could likely do more, especially once their supply lines had solidified through the work of other details.


result: Defensive zone of the High elves created... can be improved. fighting spirit increases slightly on home ground, as it will now play to their tactics.





Of grass and Dohvamon:


Harma-Neled set to her task, and her subordinates, with an analytical focus and almost frantic tempo.


She pondered her prospective customer just as she pondered the means and facility required for trade… they were all just different stars in the same constellation – a puzzle she grappled with, trying to find elegant calculation and efficiency in her systemic thinking…


Unlike most of the rest of her fellow settlers, she knew well the differences between the Mercenary Tribes of Minotaurs in the Orc-lands and the more gentle and colonnaded ways of the Tyren. According to distant folklore, All minotaurs began to show up in several areas of the world at around the same time – but accounts of from where, when, and how often differed dramatically or outright contradicted… this was a minor amount of time by elven standards – but the appearance of minotaurs and other types of beast men predated the formation of the Eternal Empire, but not before the world was populated by a significant number of powerful human city-states. Many minotaur tribes did become mercenaries, or even thralls or labor-castes around the world. Most of these died of attrition or slowly dissolved. The main exceptions were the Mercenary clans of the Orclands, of which most any highborn knew of vividly – but known far less and generally only to the most intrepid or trade-centric elves, were the Tyren… The tribes that out of necessity broke apart into nomadic groups, but maintained a kind of persistent cultural identity. As nomads, many clans were prolific traders, and while Harma-Neled had little if any dealings of her own, she knew well of them – particularly their broad fluency with a variety of trade languages, and how if you looked far back enough, how they had a hand in propagating them over vast distances to facilitate their trade and those that came after them.


The enterprise was not without complication – Harma-Neled was able to design a very inviting product, but adjustments to make the product particularly inviting to the Tyren required a far denser paste (The caloric intake of an elf is DWARFED when held against a Tyren) – to be efficient required to construction of a Crude Millstone – during talks with the engineer and inventor, they were able to design a diminutive prototype, but to be economically viable and labor efficient (pulverizing enough grass to feed cattle-men was a daunting prospect) a larger millstone would need to be built. That would require more, resources, and perhaps wealth that Harma-Neled did not have claim to, at least at this time.


@SpiralErrant


By the time to report, Harma looked visibly harried… she had a product for the Tyren, but a very small amount of it, though with a real mill and additional time she expressed that an economy of scale would begin to present itself. She had also taken a gamble on mixing wild single-leaf into the Dhovamon – something the Tyren had begun to cultivate themselves, but at present was still an increasingly rare delicacy for them.


One of her workers had offered samples to the Tyren Herbalists of the Healers guild, and they almost embarrassed themselves with their enjoyment of it. Harma-Neled was pleased to hear this, but she was concerned the prince would be disappointed at what so far they had to show…


Dhovamon (grass cake) is now a high-elf commodity. More time and labor will be required to produce significant amounts, for now the highborn have amounts too small for market, but can offer it as gifts and exotics in encounters. So far, Tyren partaking of them enjoy them IMMENSELY.





The pulley System:


“This would not do… not do at all” … Nogoth surmised. More planning, more scheming. Nogoth had sought to create a pulley-way that would trail from the beach, all the way up the cliffs to the corner of the Marketplatz where the Highborn had set up their pavilion…. It was NOT a task for just 10 people, even if they did have good organization and guidance. Two times enthusiastic militia, eager to prove their worth to their leadership – endured mishaps relating to the placing of pinions on the Cliffside below the cliff-edge under the ‘platz… once incident involving a snapping rope and another relating to reckless climbing… one of the militia was taken off the detail for injuries – nothing life-threatening, but beyond superficial. Nogoth would be forced to scale back the ambition of her project. While she had at first sought a way to bring cargo, water, and even small numbers of people directly to the Highborn camp, she and her team eventually scaled back to a less sophisticated and elegant solution – basically a “Crate-Lift” that transported freight of modest weight up a series of columns along the side of the sandslope. – While this system terminated at the depression, it still represented an inspiring achievement for moving material up and down from the water, which had formerly only been done by power of folk and wagons. Building to last it took substantial lumber from supplies, but it would last… were the entire colony to have access to it, it promised to save a tremendous amount of labor, especially in the eventuality of trade. Were it to begin to be used for this purpose, it was likely the highborn would gain Influence for its utility and convenience.


As it stood however, the elves still needed to bring their supplies across the ‘Platz… but with a slight application of coin they were able to secure some carts from the Exiles to cover the remaining distance… and great relief and pride was taken by those that need no more carry a burden up that slope!





Restoring the Manor:


Again the elves felt the weight of too few hands… how long would it take such a small detail to rebuild the edifices, much less the vaulting interior of this place! They had sufficient stone in and around the construction site to make a very good run of building up the structure, but for it to be truly elegant and stable would require much more wood than they had to spare in cargo. Wealth would need to be applied for gilding and comforts like heating… The prince was simply asking too much of too few of his followers. Plans were drawn, the land was assayed and the structural integrity of what remained of the building was thoroughly assessed… and best of all the mosaics were properly cleaned and even to a small extent restored – the crude art of the human was easy to improve, even that of existing quality.


In the end of the detail, the manor was FAR from done – The overseers wondered if the Prince could again entreat the Aymaran to bring their weight to this task as well, at least at first… but there was no denying the area around the pavilion was significantly beautified for their efforts, and many elves enjoyed taking their meals and calmly reflecting in the more open and well-lit areas of the grounds…


(morale of elves slightly increases)


The War-mage and fountain:


Shaalth Val’istar walked slowly, and with purpose – this whole new land was full of an almost blinding number of magical currents, spoor, waste, and even scars. The winds of magic were eerily calm, but strong. A lesser mage scrying as he was would likely be blind or harrowed to their very soul with all the arcane chaff floating around the ruin, the land, the air… but Shaalth Val’istar was not a lesser mage.


He could sense currents of magic, pulling like streams in the Ether… the slight but growing trace of necromancy off the coast faded behind him as he headed deeper into the marketplatz… the annoyingly small, but significant mote of dark magic Essence that seemed to almost whisper down where the exiles made their sand-filled beds… for a moment he even caught trace of some of the tears of divinity brought to the settlement, and how likely the associated faction-leaders or their agents might not be far away…


However the greatest ley-lines Shaalth perceived were in line with other points… the weakest signature, and a recent one, seemed to pulse plaintively from inside the intact temple-like structure in the ‘platz… after that, a pulse of energy deep below the waves just southeast of the marketplatz, far below the cliffs. A force of life and nature was seemingly awakening in the direction of the Tyren camp, where he had gotten word of some idol they had unearthed… perhaps something that should have remained buried – he would decide that for himself… aside that there was a kind of blighting, eldritch force that emanated from the direction of the great redwoods… not necromancy, but something else – something that grew fat on corruption and death. Far to the north, in the direction of the spire, there was undoubtedly an awesome source of magical power – but the nature of which escaped even him… too much interference, and not at all familiar in its composition – which intrigued the mage Val’istar… for he had seen and heard and felt the composition of the magics of many races, over many years, and the effects of some that are now long gone and likely never to be seen again… That spire held a spark of the Godly, Shaalth remarked to himself… and likely of powers too great to simply be left to fall into ruin… Over the millennia his kin had found many such things – relics and artifacts of previous ages even – and many such things were guarded, or secreted from the world of lesser races even if the highborn had no use or application for them. This might be one such source of power. Of places mana might be drawn, the easiest (most fluid?) sources were from below the ocean near paradise isle, the source now growing in the Tyren holdings, A few locations that seemed to nebulously glow from deeper inside the ruins…


And finally, he came to the fountain… almost the smallest of the signs of magic that stood out against the arcane landscape and firmament above it… the fountain was nonetheless a mana well… albeit a weak one. As he approached it, Shaalth could detect the unmistakable aura and dweomer of Blood Magic… Offensive as this was to the High Born, Val’istar could tell this was born of a wholly different science as the blood-magic of the dark elves… this had a kind of clerical tinge or patina to it, as if it was granted by some kind of entity or power as a conduit to a larger magical force. The conduit itself was weak – some kind of vanquished spirit that resided within the stonework of the fountain… the spirit was ancient, perhaps even from a bygone age – that is to say, older than the highborn – which is worth remarking as there are many spirits and even gods to have come and gone in the history of the elves…


Weak spirits such as these were always easy for Val’istar to read… so easily do they give up their secrets, in exchange to keep their tether to the prime material plane. This spirit defied the natural order – it felt of an age long swept clean of this world… that was brought back to some unknown end and now clings so as not to be returned whence it came… It evidently knew better than to try to hide it’s presence from Val’istar as well. His aegis was marked and also moulded in his fight against blood magics – so he was not surprised either when the spirit seemed to radiate concern… perhaps even fear… that was wholly incongruent to it’s (perhaps long former) power.


The spirit’s voice coiled around the mind of the Highborn mage, only to be unwound and placed outside it… it spoke, but it’s will sounded distant and faint when compartmentalized by Val’istar.


“You are a destroyer of blood magic – but I am not your enemy – Just as there are gods and heroes of evil as much as of good, so too can blood magic be flexibly purposed. In this world, I was used as an instrument of peace – I gave strength to them that needed strength, I offered a deterrent to aggression in that such aggression might return to them.”


Shaalth Val’istar did not interrupt the spirit – he felt the entity sought to show him nothing, but it was already telling him everything. This thing came from Tartarus – a place fabled to many races, but that the mages of the highborn knew to be quite real. Forgotten gods, cast down idols, divine symbols and forces and agents that remained after the reigns of their pantheons – they were cast, or just as often slipped – into Tartarus – the prison of the gods. As such, this being in a way was an affront to the natural order as lesser races might understand it, but some highborn had a more pragmatic perception of this… the gods of a former age could be the pets and propulsion of ages yet to come – and while such arcana was not party to Val’istar himself, he had heard tell of such entities being bound, or contracted, or bartered with, in this and former ages.


It was dirty (perhaps impure is more fitting) though… much time and power had passed to clean it, directly or indirectly, but this thing fed on innocent blood. In its first incarnation it’s avatars were blind and virgin girls – that the spirit would occupy so that it might walk among it’s subjects. It had risen and fallen at least twice in the eons of it’s existence… and it had changed it’s stripes it seemed… though likely more out of necessity than will of its own. It spoke again…


“You seek a mana pool – I can give you that, a conduit to greater magical power so that your energies might recover faster, as well as expand in scope… you have none in this land – this fact alone should dictate that we have things to offer one another… I would open this conduit to you and to other mages aligned with you, and by doing so I might inspire you to take steps that I become stronger… From one eternal to another, however younger you may be – you can at least respect such practicalities… Forever DOES make such strange bedfellows, does it not?”


it seemed to turn it’s thoughts around themselves for a moment… Val’istar could not put out the image of a snake when he felt it’s will twist in the winds of magic…


“And that is not all – if you are an opposition of blood magic… another school of it, but blood magic nonetheless, than dare I say you may have great need of me some time… occasionally one must fight fire with fire… or if one will not, the intelligence and understanding of the tools of one’s enemy can be the greatest boon if a war is to be decisive…”


It made a case, and not one without merit – as it presently stood, Val’istar might singularly be able to extinguish it in a duel of wills – but he felt that this reality might change before long. As it stood now, whether this being remained, or was hurled screaming back into it’s abyss, was for him to decide…


Might he ply it with questions, or elsewise divine it’s past or purpose… might he consult the other highborn regarding his findings? Might he take the source of mana in this foreign land, where the elves were currently so far from familiar and ancient ley-lines of old? Or might he more likely destroy it – It is said amongst the High Magicians that the Devil you face on the field is seldom as dangerous, or as powerful, as the one that might suckle at the breast of your allegiance… but these things had their uses… and while he’d never tell the Prince – this would not be the first time he had heard tell of brokered wisdom with infernal powers for a greater good… when the fabric of reality and the souls of the immortal are at stake… strange bedfellows indeed…

 

[Prince Vaethorion]

@Beckoncall


@Heyitsjiwon


@Elendithas


@General Deth Glitch


Lindar the Bard was entertaining some exiles, in the Inn. He was singing a song about the virtues of the dock on the Beach to the Exiles " traders will come here to our dock, Money will flow like beer,...and feel as good as a mouth on a....." |


The hearing of Elves was keen, the Bard's ears were trained and even keener. The reptilian roar to him was unmistakably a battle cry. One which caused him to stop his entertaining and spring into action.


"Men, alert your people, TO ARMS, TO ARMS!" the Bard Exclaimed in a deeper, inspiring voice that had been used for centuries to inspire troops in countless battles. The Bard drew his sword and rushed outside the INN. He took out a enchanted Unicorn horn (or what appeared to be one). He blew this ancient, rare horn which emitted an uplifting, resounding sound, a rallying call reverberated out! The High Elves from some distance knew this sound and the High Elf that blew it. DANGER APPROACHED! WE MUST RALLY! The horn's blast reverberated afar with the hope, that the entire colony would be alerted."TO ARMS, TO ARMS!" the Bard sung loudly to the humans present. The Bard continued blasting his horn, to alert the colony that they were under attack.


"Astalderea, asca melloneamin! (Valiant ones, Haste!)


The medics at the healing guild began to prepare for incoming wounded and to defend Medical guild from attack by posting sentries of armed colonist available.


The blowing of the Bard's horn certainly alerted the High Elves in the Markplatz, they drew their weapons and upon the Drills Sargent's orders rallied into formation as trained into defensive positions awaiting orders. The blowing of the horn carried over albeit faintly to the hill above the beach, which alerted those working on the conveyance pulley. Those on the hill signaled with flags to those on the beach that the Platz was under attack.


At the High Elf pavilion, the War Mage was by then back at the Pavilion meditating on the Magical fountains mysteries and thinking deeply about what action to take. His reverie was interrupted by the sound of the Bard's battle Unihorn. He ran outside his tent to see that the drill Sargent was already up on his feet and issuing orders to the Sword-masters, Spear-man and archers to prepare for battle.


Drill Sargent commands!:





"Curucuar!!!" (archers!!!)





Archers: "Cuamin linduva yassen megrille!" (My bow will sing with your sword!) - the archers said in unison and nocked their arrows





Drill Sargent: "Belegohtar!!!" (spear-men!!!)





Spear-Men: "Gurth gothrimlye!!!!" (Death to our foes!) the spear-men snapped back with a sound of their spears tapping their shields





Drill Sargent: "Megiltura!!!" (sword-masters)





Sword-Masters: "Lye khiluva lle a' gurtha ar' thar!!!!" (We will follow you to death and beyond!)- the Sword-Masters bellowed with a Flourish of steel.


All High Elves in formation in Unison:


"Lye naa lle Nai!!!" ( WE ARE YOURS TO COMMAND!)





The Drill Sargent raises her Sword and says:


"Lye nuquernuva sen e dagor!!!" (we will defeat them in battle!)





The War Mage Commands:


"Mallen pelu e' n'alaquel en' se!"(Circle around behind them!)





"Once the enemy is engaged we will out flank them and prevent their escape!"


On the beach, Upon the signal that they were being attacked, The Prince got his Elves ready for battle and to ensure there was not a sneak attack on the beach, the Prince cried out to his High Elves to get armed and ready.


The Prince has the exiles alerted that they under attack!


<More to come...>


Summary:


* Bard blows Unicorn horn to alert High Elves and colony that they are under attack


* Drill Sargent and War Mage order High Elves in Pavilion to arm themselves and get into formation and prepared to flank enemy.


* Those at Cliff side use flags and signal colonist on beach they are under attack.


* Exiles on beach are alerted that colony at Platz in under attack


* Prince readies High Elves on beach for battle.


Troop count and whereabouts:


At Pavillion/top of hill:


Approx (as far as I can tell):


15 Sword-Masters


19 Spear-man


24 Archers


7 Nobles


At Tyren Camp:


5 Sword-masters


5 -Spear-man


5 Archers


One noble -Tactician


At Beach:


5 Sword-Masters


5 Spear-man


9-Archers


one- noble -Linguist


Prince


At medic: One medic (spear-man)+one wounded archer


At Inn- One noble - Bard


The medics at the healing guild began to prepare for incoming wounded.

 

[Heyitsjiwon]

Nicholas eyed the tunnel once again. What he would give in order to closely observe these automatons in person, but what they are designed to do was a mystery. Thus, he erred on the side of caution. After all, he had quite a lot to study already. Besides, Nicholas didn't think that the clockwork soldiers would be going somewhere. They were programmed to guard this spire for eternity, or at least so it seemed. Thus, Nicholas began to dig out the disembodied arm that was half buried. That was the last artifact that he would go after before returning to the settlement so that he could study and properly analyze the parts that he had so far gathered.


Summary:


Nicholas begins to dig out the arm and plans to return to the settlement to study his findings once he is done digging.

 

[Beckoncall]

@SpiralErrant :


Investigation of the Idol:


Bruul could determine little with his disciplines of magic – the statue radiated energies of earth and nature, The statue itself was magical and not just the spirit contained in it… it was very likely that the idol was specifically made to hold this spirit, and by virtue of that he speculated it would be very hard to destroy. There was very little “edge” on its magical radiance – to Bruul this generally meant enchantments, summonings, and augmentations to a dweomer of this type. From what he learned in battle around such forces – it wasn’t the thing in question you needed to worry about… it was whatever the heck it was being used to Augment. There were passive auras as well, but a War Shaman, or indeed no Shaman out of the first circle, would likely be able to read those… but he was confident Uumush could. Most people felt slightly more elated, even rejuvenated, when in proximity to the statue – but Bruul could tell Uumush did not… Bruul could tell Uumush still had his body-pains – not the ones of age, though they were considerable… He knew, perhaps better than anyone, That Uumush was carrying a great and magical burden – one that Uumush was utterly unwilling to share. Whatever it was, it’s weight more than compensated for the lift this idol might grant… though that could hardly be said for many of the other folk – the Late-spring/mid-summer rutting season would begin in earnest soon… and already many elders expected more pregnancies than usual… especially as sired by the Warriors. The Augur and card readers – usually just known for their cantrips and intuitive fortune-telling for strangers began to swear they saw twins in the future… Indeed, the herdmen had also noted that spring mating amid the flock had redoubled in earnest since the Idol arrived… but it was hard to say if this was not because the herd had never been so sedentary without travel to otherwise tire the herds… This was a boon indeed, though Bruul was loathe to lay responsibility all at the feet of a spirit. The Tyren had come here by themselves and had made good. The Tyren should be blamed for their own success…


Uumush examined the statue from afar, sitting atop a wagon as Tyren children underwent their firstlessons… The yearlings were taught to fear the first shaman, and Uumush played up his role as their boogeyman up until their rites of maturity where he proudly recruited them to bedevil their youngers in the tests of courage. He put forth a Rictus face for the youth of his community – they needed to know that indeed terrors lurked beyond the caravan and the herd, and someone was testing them to make sure they would be strong… this mask fell away with the rites of passage however, when those of age learned that Uumush, despite often being distant and almost silent – was the parent of every Tyren old enough not to have them. He was “all-father” – and if this new spirit they kept camp with need be tested, he would be the one to do it…


He stared long at it, and confirmed his suspicions… it could not see him… it could not perceive him, and that was why he was not blessed with the “Great Chief” and the other shamans… the reasons for this were obvious to him, but he considered it a potential complication if this small fact came to light… he would remain aloof and at a distance, and if the spirit never saw him, and no Tyren saw him near it, perhaps the spirit would never hear of him either. He opened a small black box and rubbed various powders, filings, and dusts on his fingers, playing them together as he focused on the idol. In his other hand, he held a blind eye he retrieved from a small jar… and set it on a holder above his pack atop the wagon. He casually regarded the eye as if it were a friend, waving a hand to disrupt the light around it. Occasionally he would whisper something to the eye, and for once, if anyone noticed, he instead had the countenance of a listening student rather than the brooding headmaster he normally maintained.


He determined that the spirit had basically spoken true to the Tyren thus far, but the eye seemed to wonder if that statue had not simply fallen in boulder field, but if it was not also subsequently buried. It rapidly had the power to free itself through natural magic once uncovered… it seemed so convenient that it was covered so thoroughly. He was able to see that the entirely of Harun’Taran was bathing in a sort of unseeable glow spread by the idol… The Darkleaf and Singleleaf were blooming apace, and the herds, and even Tyren themselves were more ardent for the health this aura lent… This was a valuable boon – if it did not come with hidden price…


DarkLeaf and Single-Leaf are now renewable and can be brought to market! Single-leaf is a luxury for Tyren but otherwise basic food for other races.


It was not of this age… not originally – it was very old… Uumush didn’t know as much as many wizards might about the structure of the planes and the cycles of creation – but he knew a little. This spirit was small and young when the world was very new – before any mortal that was not a giant walked the world. The first creation, who those who found fossils or means to see back would call the ages of the “Neverborn” – gigantic beasts and titans wrought of raw divine, which stomped and swam and flew with mighty powers that shaped the very earth. This spirit – was one of legions that first sowed the grass so that the great bull of the sun and the great bull of the moon would stone the ceaseless earthquakes of their fighting and settle down to graze… Uumush could read a type of rings around the spirit, like those of a tree – the smallest spirit at the center, a few times empowered and favored, until it eventually became regarded as a goddess in its own right. Scars in the immateria (or Wyrrd-wounds as he was taught to recognize them) marked the spirit at several points. It grew large to the point it threatened to steal devotion away from its creator, and was laid low – banished to the prisons of divines. Much later, it was reborn here by means and magic unguessable even to Uumush – and again slowly grown in regard until more and more regard was heaped upon it… only to fall again… and to then be found in the ground. Uumush saw that he people who treated with this spirit, in quick or in time – come to depend on it. While there was no ill-will as Uumush might perceive it, he looked at the spirit with consternation… the Tyren should not become another ring on this tree, and might do well to be careful not to. Above all, two things were clear – it would refuse no devotion… and it does NOT wish to return to Tartarus…

 

[Beckoncall]

@Leusis @SpiralErrant :


"The rising green and falling grey"


Belanor and Orm were the first to reach the mine – while Orm was by no means the fastest of the Tyren, his newfound endurance allowed him to out-pace his runners. Indeed, Belanor would likely have left him far behind were he not pushing these newfound reserves of stamina to the limit. Running further west would be Belanor’s agents – to bring back a team of Forest Kin though both wondered if they might arrive in time should the threat be precarious and immanent.


The High Elf Archers, not knowing precisely where the mine was – instead fanned out through the hills raising a warning to any folk about south of Shearcliffs. A number of herdsmen, thus alarmed – set to return to the Harun’Taran until an all clear was given… The High elves had the thanks of some of the Tyren for this…


Looking up at the Scaffolding, Belanor’s eyes widened at what he thought he might be witnessing… Orm, possessing not the same speed of wit nor sharpness of vision, seemed to process the same but breaths behind him. The Mine was filled with the Tyren mining detail, working enthusiastically, pulling chunks of iron, lead, and chalky blocks of whitish stone from the phenomenally loose gravel – much of which was becoming so fine around the excavation that a kind of sandy-gravel was running from the hole down the cliffs to the wagons below – where a couple of other workers combed the silt for any significant chunks of material and placed them in the cart.


Tyren now have 1 cart of Iron ore, a half cart of lead ore, and a small amount (not nearly enough for a cart, but significant) of “Chalky White Stone” – The Tyren don’t know what it is, but TWO of the Skilled workers swear they’ve seen it for sale somewhere in their travels in the old world, so even if it’s not valuable it might have a use – if they can find out what it is…





To Belanor, the mine looks like an hourglass of sorts, or a sand-clock… it’s only a matter of time before the Tyren displace enough gravel before literally tons of loosened earth collapses into the space below it, buries the workers, and potentially ejects massive amounts of stone and gravel into the landscape underneath as the shifting mass pushes against the shale-rock wall of the outer shear-cliffs. To Orm, the entire thing looks brilliant, just as his followers must have – the mine is obviously productive, and the rivulet of silt is practically a conveyor for material to make its way out of the mine! However, Orm knew that appearances were often deceiving, and he had it on convincing authority that the threat was real.


Orm gave out a cry of warning – a call more than a word, which would travel far and be an unmistakable


Sound of alarm, at the same time, Belanor called to the miners on the scaffold in their own Tongue, first


Incredulously blinking down at the figures below then quickly rising to urgency when they saw that Orm


Was present with Belanor as companion.


The foremen Tyren quickly begin calling into the mine – and shortly afterwards a veritable STAMPEDE of


Panicked Tyren are storming out of the mine, causing the area around the opening in the cliff to visibly


Shake and disturb the scaffolds as well. The Foremen and Orm and Belanor attempt to manage the


Throng from below, but once silt begins to pour ankle-deep and rising from the shaft – it becomes apparent that while the rising terror was precipitated by the alarm outside, the trampling crash of Tyren


Are now fleeing what is obviously a shift of earth within the mine… most, but not all of the Tyren workers have made their exit but still scramble outside and beneath the mine as the scaffold GROANS in response to the strain and the mob of fleeing miners.


**WHHHRUMP!** The Entire scaffold seems to jump in place, and Belanor and Orm both feel a shift in the ground, as if the top of this part of Shearcliff seems to lurch above the excavation -- several Tyren are thrown from the scaffold closer to the ground, some tumbling to the ground whole tiers below them. They both know, in this instant, that if they do not do something decisive to intervene – something terrible is going to happen. Without discussion, they both reach for their tears of nature – Orm throwing a bolt of wild Creation, while almost simultaneously Belanor looses his own ray of natural energy – Releasing a substantial amount of his gem's power but as is his tendency attempting to control its channeling so as only to use as much as is needed…


Belanor’s narrow and focused beam strikes and then winds around the Great spike of dark green energy that flies furiously from Orm’s hands in the direction of the mine… the whole of the rock-face around the scaffold is instantly COATED in a SHEET of thick moss, the glow from both jewels bathing everything around them in a green glow that seemed to pulse and suffuse everything with crackling energy… the moss began to creep into the mouth of the mine-entrance and then for a brief moment seemed to block it entirely just after the last of the miners escapes into the sunlight and begins to clamor down the scaffold… the moss bulges forth, as if holding back a tide of silt seeking to erupt from the tunnel.


…just then-- another THUMP, this one louder and stronger than the first, is felt by all, not just those standing at the foot of the Shearcliff -- but as far as the outskirts of the Tyren and Wood-elf domains themselves. To the complete shock of Belanor and Orm – and to the absolute horror of the substantial number of Tyren still clinging and climbing down the Scaffold – A nauseating peal of crumbling rock runs up the cliff-face – two cracks run up the cliff – one on either side of the scaffold, which rapidly BURST into yawning wounds in the rocky mass like a great grey dam breaking away to unleash an unstoppable wave of sandy gravel behind it… The mossy growth on either side of the cracks seems to throw reaching tendrils to bridge the gap, but Orm is certain at this point that the entire face of the cliff around the mine is going to fall, in one piece, like a massive and all destroying monolith down upon him, upon Belanor, and upon every one of his kin at the mercy of this disaster. Clapping one of his hands down upon Belanor standing beside him – part in hopes of bringing greater synergy between their powers but just as much in what might be a quiet thank you and farewell should they be dead in the space of the next moments, his eyes slit and bloodshot in utter defiance – he squeezed his Tear of divinity in his hand as if he might break it…


…At that very moment back at camp, Shul snapped out of a brief but particularly convincing hallucination, while half regarding the fainted Attolian "Rock-Scholar" with similar incredulity as his phantasms...


"Let's hope they do okay." He said absentmindedly to the freshly horned statue. "Or we'll all be going underground again soon enough." Almost as if in response, the symbol on his hand seemed to warm.


Just then back at the mine GREAT VINES ERUPTED FROM THE MOSS – The power of the gems seemed to both resonate and intensify. The great fibrous and living cables jumped from all about the rocky cliff,


Entwining with other vines simultaneously to pull the cracks back together like MASSIVE SUTCHERS on the skin of the very earth. The vines coiled about the scaffold, both securing and reinforcing it as the fleeing Tyren continued to flee and sisperse. Shortly after the writhing stalks, many as wide as trees began to snake and converge on the mine entrance – Orm could see the verdant cables spiral around the corridor into the rock, with still other great vines seeming to knit into a lattice emanating from Belanor’s supporting energy. The sound of the straining and crawling and snaking vegetation rose quickly above the din of the heaving rock, and then almost all at once both noises seemed to subside...


…As the last of the miners tumbled to the ground or ceased their running from the crisis, all stopped to stare in awe at the green pulsing illumination that emanated from bioluminescent bulbs within the corridor…


Orm and Belanor have created: “The Mines of Vines” – this is an enchanted structure, but more investigation in necessary to determine its capabilities. Belanor’s forest kin quickly learn that the plant life within is highly responsive to tree-singing, and it is consistently (but dimly) lit at all times… It is also considered a Nature Mana Source.





Miraculously, not a single Tyren was lost in the event, however terrifying it was as it unfolded – much rejoicing was had when all hands were accounted for, though 8 of the unskilled workers had sustained


Various light to moderate injuries in the evaculation – the worst being a couple of broken bones, and the majority minor lacerations or heavy bruising. However marked or unmarked, all were glad to be alive.


Belanor held court to his Forest Kin who excitedly reported their reading of the magic coming from the mine – The older among them, Belanor included, knew of such enchanted tunnel systems – but they were seldom if ever able to be made by tree singers outside of the grounds of the most ancient or sacred glades – and the largest of these had long fallen into disuse with the ascendance of the Muurdaan and the taming of wild lands that they brought…


Such places were both valued and revered to the wood elves, if these tunnels were anything akin to what they’d seen in the old world – enabling the most gifted Sylvan a means to tap not just Nature magic, but of earth as well!

 

[SpiralErrant]

Orm let out something between a tired laugh and some ragged breaths as he looked on the... the... he didn't even know at this point! Vines and trees and all kinds of things that had gone and held the mountain face back like a dam! It was bloody impressive there was no doubting that. And pretty too. But that glimpse of godlike magic craft would have to wait because right now the biggest thing in his mind right now was the safety of those he'd sent to this deathtrap and all them not getting buried alive. Heart still in his chest, Orm paced over to the wagons and the crafters that were leaning against them as they all got themselves together. The call had gone out and heads had been counted, by some miracle (a leafy one in this case) no one had been lost. Though the apprentices had suffered some nasty falls and knocks. They wouldn't be running around for a while.


"Can't believe I didn't see it happening!" One of the elder crafters moaned, admonishing himself. "Such a fool I am."


"You couldn't have known." Orm comforted him, cutting off a building rant of self hatred. "None of us could. What's important now is that we're all making it home. And with a damn fine haul!" He patted the side of the wagon, now weighed down with half a hill of ore. Another cheer went up from the nearby tyren who were riding high on making it out of there.


Orm had to admit, now that he had some calm to think in that they had really snatched something great from the jaws of tragedy. Even the elves seemed very excited about the seeds that had taken root in the cliff opening. Which got those clunky gears in Orm's head turning... this was it, this was their chance. A Better one than this wouldn't present itself if they tried! The elves had helped save some of the most important folk in the caravan and this joint action seemed to have given the elves a treasure of sorts judging by the way their plant mages fussed over it. If this didn't get both sides riding high of brotherly love for one another then Orm didn't know what would.


Orm managed to catch up to Belanor before they all took their leave for camp. The language barrier between them but they'd had to work together a few times now and the minotuar liked to think there was something of an understanding between them. Orm clamped a meaty hand on the elf's shoulder, shaking him a little more heartily than he might have intended.


"Thank you." He managed to say, 'Th' noises always gave Orm trouble. It was a little more solemnly that he handed the green jewel over to Belanor in open sight of all those nearby. "Now." Orm nodded to him, shaking his head in the direction of the other elves and the forest, hoping the message would get across. Maybe it wasn't as fancy as he'd imagined this happening but it was probably best to strike while the iron was hot. Feasting and things could wait until after things were more secure and they had some things to actually feast to.


@Leusis: Orm gives his nature gem over to Belanor


They returned to camp to be greeted by cheers and an avalanche of hugs from worried well wishers and family members. It seemed the sound of the rock break had been heard even from here, leaving everyone to assume the worst. It looked like Orm had a few tearful mothers to avoid as he made his way to the waiting shaman. They all had things to say about the new guest in town.


Bruul was talking about the statue itself. Shul was saying how the mark on his hand had gotten warmer for a bit, it had stopped now but he couldn't be sure of what it meant. Ummush gave a quiet warning, more with a look than words. This statue was much like the poppy it brought. Sweet and uplifting but gripping in its way. All very interesting stuff but for now the statue and the spirit could wait, they had much more material matters to deal with right now.


Orm spread the word to his mostly gathered people once things had calmed down some. ["All should be ready to expect more elves soon. As of today we're opening up the lands we've claimed to them in full and theirs to us!"] A lot of tyren were pretty confused by that as was expected. ["The wee-woods have done some great goods by our people these past seasons. Without them we might never have made it here and now they've even helped to have saved the lives of many our folk!"] No one was denying that. ["If we are to see ourselves as a wagon in a grand caravan made of these many folks then I'd see us bond it in our own terms."] Orm said to them, mirroring the words many wagon elders had spoken to him since their arrival.


["The forest folk want much the same as us and would treat us as equals better than most hornless we've gone and met. I promise this aint the last you'll be hearing of this but for now, as chief, I ask of our wagons to trust in this and that we'll be stronger together than apart."]


The news quickly spread through the caravan but Orm would have to wait to find out what the big gossip about this was, he hardly had any time to rest before it was time to set off again.


No one may have died at the rock but it looked clear for Orm to see that some of the smaller youngsters had suffered some broken bones. He'd seen enough in his time to recognise them easily. They'd want to fetch Anuc and Weome from the healers building to see to the injured right quick. Normally something as simple as that wouldn't need the chief's presence, Rahg was happy to go get his kin himself, but Orm had more business to attend to on the coast than just that. If this incident had taught him anything it was that his people had lost more knowledge of the crafting arts than he cared to admit. The elders of the craft wagons were great artisans and makers of things, Orm would fight anyone who said otherwise, but architects they were not.


If they didn't want a repeat of what had happened here then they'd have to consult the other groups who were better versed in stone crafting and building. Even without that Orm was hearing about the mystery uses of a white stone and the gravel that needed to unravel. So he'd start with the Dracos exiles. They'd already worked with these humans at the market and they'd shown themselves to be an honest sort, plus Orm had heard good things about an inn they'd built in the town. This was the kind of thing he was looking for. With the promise of some of all the coins they'd saved up maybe they could hire some of their better builders. Now that would be something! For the tyren to be the ones having others working for them! That would be moving up in the world.


He brought Bruul along as well to act as translator and to help with any negotiations. Despite the gruff shaman's grumblings it was agreed that Shul would be better fitted to helping with things back at camp with all the foreign folk wandering about. They weren't even sure how soon the elves might start moving in.


@Beckoncall: The trio of Orm, Bruul and Rahg head out to Market Platz to fetch healers and business.


Things were looking grim back at the healing house. The sounds of fighting could be heard even from there, mixed with feral shouts and roars of various races that were each giving themselves over to adrenaline and bloodlust in whatever way they could to survive. Weome's arms were hugged around herself as she anxiously paced the inside looking out but unable to see anything that was happening so far off. The others had seen to the injured elf and his injuries seemed well in hand it seemed.


["You should come away from there. You'll do yourself no good making yourself worry, I'm sure they've got it handled all those fighters out there."] Anuc assured her.


Weome wasn't convinced. ["Maybe we should go back to- what was that? I think I saw something moving out there!"] She squeaked as much as a tyren could, clutching at the window frame.


["Let me see."] Anuc whispered, pushing her way up for a view. Their sight may not have been good at a distance a minotaur's eyes were more sensitive to movement than any sort of colour. It wasn't much to Anuc at this point with all these scents and sounds mixing together on top of it... but maybe it was better to be safe. Something was moving closer, whatever it was.


"Block the doors." She said firmly, switching to the common tongue. They didn't have much in the way of defense in this little building but there were tables, chests and other things they might be able to use to barricade the ways in until help arrived and they could be sure it was safe.

 

[Leusis]

The conjuring of such a magnificent web of vegetation that held back the tide of dirt and stone left Belanor speechless. Only moments ago he had thought that they were to be crushed, even with the combined power of the earth and nature gems. But it seemed like something greater had different plans, as something had obviously boosted the strength of both stones. This both excited and worried Belanor, as it may have saved him and the others for now, but he knew little to nothing about what caused it. Belanor decided he needed to return to his council and discuss this matter with them immediately. But before he could even travel ten paces he was gripped by the shoulder and jerked back and forth rather hard by the joyful bull. Listening to his simple words and grabbing hold of the nature gem as it was presented to him Belanor would simply nod his head in response, understanding perfectly what the Tyren Chief was trying to get across.


Journeying back to his home as quickly as possible once the Tree Kin were done with their initial evaluation of the new vegetation. It was only when he had gathered all of his available council members before him as he sat on his wooden throne that one of the more elder Tree Kin explained what they had discovered about the glade that seemed to sprout from the cliff side. Shock and excitement took the faces of a few of the assembled Winterborn, something very few things could do to such experienced and generally reserved characters. There was no denying that this was an amazing accomplishment, something that could have only come about with the cooperation between the Tyren and Sylvan, and Belanor would take advantage of that. {"An enchanted tunnel, something that many of our kind haven't seen for an age, something that has not been created by our kind for centuries, and here, in this new world we have done just that. An act that even the most powerful mages of our race have struggled and failed at. But here, with the aid of the Tyren we have done just that, and not only have the Tyren aided us in this. But they have gifted us a smaller nature gem which likely holds enough power to replace what we used in the creation of that tunnel."} Belanor spoke as he reveled the gem that Orm had given him before he had left the cliff, though to his happiness the Winterborn seemed to show minor signs of pleasure towards these words. It seemed, that even the elders of Belanor, who have experienced far worse than he at the hands of other races could not deny the aid the Tyren have brought their people.


{"Now, Orm has offered us to live among his people, as a joint civilization in which we can work together to protect each others best interests. He does not expect us to live in hovels like the other races and respects our culture, offering to let us build glades where we may to live within. He only asks that we combine our efforts to further aid each other, living greater lives than either of us could alone"}. Belanor paused, looking over the stoic faces of his elders, most of them showing little to no emotion other than slight disagreement towards living with the Tyren. {"I have chosen to accept this offer, as I know the history of our people well, and standing stalwart but alone against the forces of destruction that have always faced off against us have brought us nothing but pain and loss. Our most sacred lands have been conquered and burned, and cities of stone and iron built where ancient trees once stood. I say no more! If we must place our faith in another race to assure the safety of our kin for the ages to come, then I will do so with no regret. But I will not stand alone in the face of destruction when their are willing and capable allies a stones throw away! I will watch the saplings we nurture in this new land grow into mighty and ancient glades, not burn at the hands of those who seek to destroy us! I will stand with the Tyren!"} He spoke with a fervor that had been unseen from him for well over a century, as her rose from his throne, looking upon the faces of his elders, hoping that they would accept his words with joy instead of discontent.


- Sylvan join in alliance with Tyren and send a fourth of the population to the Tyren encampment so that they can begin planting trees and saplings in a thick ring around the Tyren camp.


- Put four Glade Guard on guard duty for the enchanted tunnel which will be named "Menegroth" (Meaning Thousand Caves in Sylvan)


Anfel slowly approached from behind one of the large Tyren females, looking around he bulk to try and get an eye on what they were speaking of. Using her vastly superior sight it was much easier for her to tell what was approaching "Mud elves" she spoke calmly to the two Tyren. Moving quickly and with grace unknown by most lesser races Anfel glided across the floor towards the storage room. Passing by the two High Elf spearmen she spoke simply "Up the ladder" as she opened the door to the storage room. "Anuc, Weome, grab a small table that you can fit into this room and press it against the door from the inside and hold the door shut, I doubt this dirty creatures can force it open with you two leaning against it". Hoping that the two Tyren would listen to her she ushered them inside of the storage room before reaching into a small pouch at her hip, tossing a dozen or so seeds on the ground in front of the door, each one etched with the same symbol before slamming the door shut and order the two Tyren to wedge the small table into the door and push against it if anybody tried to get in, but not hard enough to break the door. Next, Anfel would climb the ladder into the attic, noticing that their were two windows. Without missing a beat she would make her way to both windows, reaching into a seperate pouch, tossing six seeds in front of each window. These seeds also had symbols etched into them, only they were different from the ones that were left downstairs. Now confident in her planning Anfel would pull a flute from its position on her belt, playing a soft melody that could easily soothe even the most savage of beasts. Her music being easily capable of calming the minds of all her companions and keeping them diligent and focused, almost as if she were buffing them in some way with magic. (wink wink)


- Anfel issues her orders to the people within the Healers Guild building.

 

[Beckoncall]

@Elendithas @Prince Vaethorion @Heyitsjiwon


The Battle for the ‘Platz : First battle of Mud-elf aggression…


The near-deafening, adulent roar of Tocxotl nearly split the night – to an elf, the disturbance in the air around the creature, the very vibrations of it, was a visible phenomenon. The Aymaran longed for combat, craved blood, and held no curiosity more highly than to find out what the still beating hearts of his new foes would taste like. It rattled even the exiles behind him somewhat, and perhaps the Attolian Halbardiers might have been taken aback if they were not better insulated in their armor… On the cliffs far below them, Tocxotl’s spellbreaker craned his neck, and leering sardonically coiled his tail around the padlock to the brute pens – squeezing it like a reticulated python until it popped from its latching. He and the cunnings snapped and barked at them, as they slowly abled onto deck, dove into the water, and ponderously ascended sandslope to the ‘Platz high above. Progress was low, but not their enthusiasm… a concentrated RIVULET of drool and digestive effluence trailed behind the disorganized wave of Aymaran – they anticipated meat, and dimly in their tiny minds did they also anticipate a clash with an enemy…


…The mud elves were not intimidated – To Tocxotl, they seemed like they were in a berserk rage, or kind of trance… they scampered through the ruins, sometimes on two legs and others scrambling on four. They had a strange smell about them – but Tocxotl but this out of his mind… they would soon be in range for him to lash out upon…


To the right of him and a bit back, A core of Attolian Halbardiers approximately ten strong held a center line surrounded by almost three dozen exile volunteers… little more than a whooping mob on either side and behind them. They threw torches and rocks as the foe approached, then hefted their clubs, cudgels, picks, and hatchets… some merely had wrapped their hands in thick rope for crude pugilism. A lucky shot from each salvo occasionally hit home, but the Masked ones were undeterred. Their eyes were wild, their hands – gripping fancy and sometimes gilded weapons in various states of disrepair, were curled and bony like claws. They hissed at the Attolian brigade and auxillaries, and while the majority still headed for the great Aymaran, a contingent broke off from the rest and set to move around to the flank of the Attolian unit…


“Stand Firm!” Caelis is coming! Hold the line! Help is on the way!!” Tommen shouted… to the other halbardiers who knew him and his true voice, they could tell it was a bulldog front – but it emboldened the exiles about them, which was the desired effect.


“The Torches of Dracos seed the field they sought to skulk, Attolians! The rock will not hide them, the dead tree will give no shelter – and as for the exiles, They shall not find us easy prey!!” – Naxxos, one of the pirate mutineers exonerated for their part in the at-sea mutiny to depose Maeder, has steeped up as de-facto leader of the exile police-come-warband. From waist to pate he was covered in mariner and prison tattoos. He was far from the most respected or liked among the group – but all the exiles wanted to be where he would be fighting. This held their formation. Naxxos pulled the rope belt from his burlap pants and let them fall to the ground leaving him only in his loincloth. He used the rope to tie two Shining pickaxes end to end to make it a wicked two-handed weapon. He spat his words through crooked teeth. “Stick to the A’tols – they won’t break. Atol’s already lookin’ to fix ‘em, exiles ‘gun envelop or flank ‘em. Give Boss Maeder one good scrap, and give one more for Dracos – and mays-bein’ we sets ‘em running before many of us is dead. Protect the ‘Tols… no ‘Tols, no unit. No unit – we ‘gon rout… and I kill you all myself.”


…The enemy was already here – dozens of them by the look of it, fanning mostly into a broken arc around the Aymaran Champion, as if every one was ready to pounce, but none were ready to go first just yet. The horn of the high-elf minstrel sounded back as if to answer the roar of the Aymaran, and a regiment of Highborn began to cross the ‘platz to the area they expected they’d be needed most – the battle horn conveying in metered blasts to relative position they were expected to take – some filthy hex in the ‘Platz ruins that would put them roughly in-line with the human mob, with the intention of refusing the right flank to the enemy by virtue of their arrival and supporting any fighting already taking place when they got there. The Prince himself gathered a handful of swordmasters around him on the beach, and taking the tear of divinity in hand… he thought quickly at whether he could afford to take 5 of his swordsmen, ten, or perhaps none at all. He beckoned his five best – and called unto “the ways” -- They Vanished into thin air…


Seconds later, the battle was joined.


Tocxotl eyes dilated widely, and time seemed to slow to him – he was all his foes descending upon him, some bounding high into the air with blades swinging down over their heads, overs rushing low with spears… still others moving in from the sides. To the outside observer, one could not be sure if the great croc-man had begun to smile, or bare his teeth in anticipation of the attack… time slowed yet further it seemed for him as he loosed his Sudden attack –


WHOOOOOM-*CRAK!* -- Tocxotl’s Massive spiked maul smashed into the middle of dilapidated pillar in the ruin, standing atop it one of the more fancily adorned of the masked ones… the upper half of the pillar SHEARED from it’s base, flying in an arc that seemed to mimic the trail his maul would have taken, only it were now a 5 foot long and thick chunk of granite masonry. The whole first rank in front of him was reduced to a pulpy mess, and before even pulling his maul back to him he lurched forward, craning his neck to swallow one of the leaping masked ones almost whole, his arms raised above him and his weapon flying over and past him as they were the only bits of that assailant that did not immediately find a berth in his now-bulging crop. As another decended upon him and brought a mace down upon his armored head, Tocxotl popped his morsel-ed victim’s head off by pressure of his tongue, and blew the masked-one’s head out of his maw as one might a cannonball… shattering his attackers torso utterly before their feet even reached the ground. This speedy first strike was often all he had to dictate the direction and momentum of an unbalanced fight, and he felt time slipping away from him – his instincts surrendering back to the slowness of his bulk. Before this could take hold completely, He could see the masked ones on both his flanks moving in to strike. He whipped to the left to receive on charge, trusting in his tail to strike or deter those coming from behind…


A few Mud-elves were tripped and thrown back by his tail-swing, but the majority rushed him at his rear. Still ahead, a similar number closed the distance.


Wounds… like the tiny bites of vicious primates assailed the Aymaran. A scale parted here, a viscous drip of sap-thick blood there, there, and there. A lucky strike at his back made him dimply aware of a spear-head near full inside his body. The smell of his own blood rose in flavor of the man his bulging craw was already dragging into his abyssal stomach. Did half-elves call such trifles wounds? No… Half elves seemed to splash when Aymaran’s hit them… so no, Tocxotl would not be calling these wounds, not yet…


“COUNTERATTACK!” The Halbardiers shouted, in unison – rushing the gang of masked-ones that sought to weigh down and overwhelm the Aymaran. In many hearts, the gristly scene gave fearful pause – but the inspiration that Caelis might soon arrive, and the oddly soothing sound of the elven horn – steadied their nerves. The Halbardiers clamoured forward, and at maximum range brought their polearms down on the group behind Tocxotl. A few fell, lopped and cleaved, but most, skirmishing, dodged out of the way. The exiles however – zeal rising amid the field of torches, enveloped the rear contingent facing the Aymaran and brutally began to drag them to ground… casualties mounted on both sides, but the exiles were breaking their offending unit, as twos and threes pinned and executed the foes they brought to ground. (Exile Casualties sustained) (1/3 mud elf units disrupted)


“HALT!! RECEIVE ASSAULT!!!” the Halbardiers pulled tighter – a second unit, this one larger than the first, was bearing down on them over the broken ground, with speed. The halbardiers took two steps forward, and braced the points of their weapons against the ground behind them, covering the exiles bringing their fight to the ground and forcing the foe to rush upon their front to close into melee. What exiles had not yet found a foe to grapple took place crouching beneath the halbards to the front, and lending weight to the regiment from behind. The Masked ones slowed their charge, and instead sought to soften their opposition by casting two volleys of javelins into the human regiment. The halberdiers with their superior armor were unscathed by the rattling missles, but a few more exiles hit the floor as the serrated missiles fell among them. (Scant exile casualties sustained)


The Highborn, now first arriving on the field, a good distance southwest of the fracas – saw how much in error that maneuver was. With the spearmen still running double-time to take position a bit south along the attolian flank, the elven militia archers had fallen into a walk-and-fire posture… their missiles falling much thicker, and more accurate than the masked-ones. The unit the Attolians stalled in front of them were BUTCHERED in a staggered rain of arrows, causing the entire mob of skirmishers to break and fall further back into the ruins, where reinforcements were coming up to meet them. (1/3 mask skirmisher units routed)


“RIGHT FLANK SECURE!!” The Attolians sounded. They held the line and waited as two ranks of spearmen began to form up a bit to the side of them, in twos and threes as they rushed, each one falling behind another in support of each other three deep.


They could hear the broken and raging chatter of the mud-elves… they clearly were not expecting any kind of organized resistance. And while it seemed a third of their forces were already either dead or engaged against Tocxotl and some of the exiles, two times that number were still moving into the ‘Platz.


Just then, Caelis had arrived with his brother sundered king on horseback – the third, as of yet unnotified, had yet to take the field. From horseback, far ahead of the footmen leaving the Tyren garrison behind them… the sounds of battle once heard, spurred them on where they halted briefly at the outskirts of the ‘Platz…


To Caelis, it seemed like the fight was just beginning – His spyglass could determine little in the moonlight, but he divined that there were Masked-one skirmishers, perhaps 3 loose regiments, already in the ‘Platz… but a much larger force moving west through shadowfields… The center of which looked every bit as savage as the rest, but better equipped, and dare he say, less mongrel… He could not make out the particulars, but a series of banners – made of what he guessed was gnoll furs and flayed skin… was a dead giveaway for some kind of command unit. Caelis guessed that the Mud-Elves had planned to invade he ‘Platz after thinking, perhaps rightly, that much of the colonist forces were garrisoned at the Tyren camp. They had clearly met more resistance than anticipated, but did not seem deterred. His forces had yet to see him, but Caelis would have to consider carefully how he might enter the battle – he could wait for his infantry to arrive behind him, or detour around the fighting to come up behind his unit, and the heavy calvarlyman in him – in every sundered king, would never directly rule out the idea of a frontal charge, no matter how cavalier.


At this point in the battle, almost two thirds of the invaders had already been slain, or seemed to be fighting a losing battle. A remaining unit of skirmishers, previously seeking to flank the Attolian/exile formation – now came face to face with the rapidly assembling highborn. They threw a salvo of crude javelins at the high elves as they closed ranks in the difficult terrain, most of which clattered uselessly against shield and helm. Here and there, a spearman or archer bled – but not a one fell, the silks beneath their armor elegantly caught such projectiles without tearing, aiding in non-vital puncture wounds wadding and clotting as the missiles struck. The injured elves quickly used field medicines to maintain their vigor, broke the ends of the offending missiles with grim discipline, and resolved to fully treat such wounds after the field was taken… With their javelins now gone, the last unit of skirmishers charged over the broken ground and ruin directly at the highborn regiment just as the last of the archers finished their previous target and came behind the spearmen. Some light fire shifted in the direction of the new target, but it was clear the last unit of skirmishers would close their charge before the next concerted volley would let fly…


“Ranks close! Spears are tiered and prepared for war!” – shouted the militia officer, the highborn spearmen locked in two ranks of approximately 9 elves, almost a score points leveled and spread to receive the charge. Behind them, the swordmasters had concealed themselves behind the wall of shields and sought perhaps to leap over, or move through the ranks of the spearmen once the enemy had expended their shock upon their shining mithril barrier. (Third unit about to charge highborn, receipt of which can be posed by player)


Unseen by all but Caelis, the much larger unit of Masked ones began to reach the edge of the ‘Platz… the center unit with not just adornments of twig and leaf, but these wore masks and garments of twisted armor, skull helms, obviously real, many bloody and recent acquisition from the forest Gnolls -- rib-cage breastplates and bone armguards shared presentation with bracers and plastrons made of bent and hammered wood and metal weaponry. Some of the masks were great and hideous, covering not just the face, but the entire torso of the wearer… the front rank looking more like a wall of horrific faces than the tower-shields the masks presented as… in the middle of that, beneath the gristly banners of the masked-ones, was a small group of cavorting woman-warriors – their faces, shoulders, breasts and other vitals covered by silver masks. Their long whipping hair, wild eyes, and fluid movements were distinctly elvish… They drank from pots of blood and poured the rest of it over themselves before splashing the remainder on their surrounding retinue… a dull glow seemed to issue from the unit as a whole, and the eyes of the silvermasks burned red in the night air, steam rising from their bodies as much from the heat of their wild dance as the crimson spoil that ran over them from the pots.


..As the unit moved further into the ‘Platz, the various assembled forces against them began to take their notice. Their primary banner seemed to billow in a dark absence of light… almost obscuring it completely were it not to shed layers of shadow as it flapped in the advancing wind blowing from the cliffs… dark magic was afoot there… either sustaining them, or held with the intent to unleash it at a decisive point...

 

[Beckoncall]

@Leusis @SpiralErrant @Prince Vaethorion :


Defense of Healer's Guild:


Many blocks to the east of them, closer to the edge of town where the mud-elves had already passed through, a different struggle was unfolding – Masked ones, unclear in number – had surrounded the Healers guild. A full fourth skirmishing group, not that anyone could tell for sure how many or how equipped…


Anfel heard them well enough before they arrived – they would not be surprised. She took a gnarled wand in her off hand, and in her other she pushed into a bark-skin glove. From a secreted pouch, the needle-like tips of the glove she dipped in a black substance ensconced in the shell of a birds-egg. She pulled the glove TIGHT, and the wand and glove both began to crackle with energy. In the room behind her, Anuc and Weome – the Tyren Herbalists, were shuttering the ground floor windows and pushing piles of furniture in front of doors. Two high elf militia, one a medic and another recovering from injuries sustained climbing the cliff-face (his waist completely bound in bandage and bracing) stood and sat respectively, awaiting sign of foe or direction from the Sylvan Mage… Shadows moved outside, noise could be heard on the roof, and a window to the small storage attic upstairs was heard to rattle, then fall quiet…


Anfel ordered all in attendance up to the Attic – “Elves, stand above the trap door and let nothing ascend, Herbalists – make slight yourselves in that attic and let the soldiers do their duty. Keep out of harms way, but should the need arise, what you lack in training may be overcome with brawn and spirit.”


She began to scatter runed seeds about the lower level that glimmered briefly with a yellow light, both at entry points and choke-points leading to the attic… she began to play her small harp, and the seeds seemed to creak in response…


“In my presence, every friend of the Sylvan can be made deadly.” Anuc and Weome did not know what betwitched or enchanted them, but they felt a flow of energy come from Anfel, emboldening both them and the highborn that stood guard…


After all others ascended, Anfel FLOATED vertically up into the attic and came to rest gently on the attic-boards – she cast a handful of red seeds in each direction, which bounced, like so many dice, onto and around the windowsills, glimmered with a magenta-esque glow, and likewise menacingly creaked as their shells strained in unison with the flexing of Anfels glove, Then resumed the ominous dirge she plucked on her harp.


“You may move near the seeds in the attic, my pawns – but do not think to cover them or bring them harm… for your own safety, not mine.”


There was crashing below as the one of the barricades was breached, and the sounds of many footsteps flooding in, followed by the breaking of windows below and more forced entry. The needles on Anfel’s war-glove gave her harp an increasingly eerie pitch and her eyes rolled a solid white before tilting her head as if to determine where perhaps a score of individual enemies were all located on the floor below… then she plucked a note on the harp that at once sounded raw, defiant, and vicious.


The seeds below seemed to all go off like tiny improvised munitions, or blackpowder noisemakers – The frenzied Masked-ones, streaming towards the back rooms and by extension of that, the attic – were suddenly blinded and coughing by an soapy, resiny yellow cloud. When it began to clear, the Mud-elves could see they had been ambushed… each of them were surrounded by enemies – who had seemingly boiled out of the yellow smoke-screen in what they hoped would allow them to end their intrusion quickly… Each one immediately set upon their closest neighbor in the slowly settling fog… Anfel curled her lip in a kind of wicked smile.


“Nobody must go below for a time, children – We must allow our guests to entertain themselves for a while…”


A horrible battle began to rage downstairs… enemies outside rushed in, yelling repeatedly reached a crescendo, only to ebb and start again… a couple of times the highborn poised at the trapdoor had to thrust down at the base of the ladder, but for the time at least they seemed preoccupied with some other fight… Indeed each masked one exposed to the cloud saw their fellows as a foe, and set savagely upon one another as they fell to this ruse. They strangled, stabbed, and throttled each other -- and as more entered in aggression or in effort to stop their insanity, they too succumbed.


Just then, Weome shrieked as a pair of masked ones – burlier, with teeth filed to points – burst through the east window. Seemingly without the attention of Anfel even one of the seeds seemed to POP open, with little fronds at the base of a tiny emerging vine using the shell fragments to dig and moor itself into the wood – Before the foes could raise to their full height or the high elves could turn to face them, a great black thorny vine swelled, coiled, and struck out at the intruders like a cobra covered in poison knives. One was struck just below the neck and impaled with a gnarled protrusion, nailing him to the sloped wall of the attic that held up the arched roof… Once pinned there the degenerate first desperately, then vainly clawed at the offending thorn that had struck him so… Anuc could see the undulating of the vine as it rapidly drained the Masked-one first seemingly of all color, then nearly of blood in a throbbing display of noisome suck all along the course of the vine. As if in response to this, a skinnier tangle of brambles from the same seed wound around the other foe, first restraining him, then mummifying him, then he seemed to be reduced to a set of eyes in a spooling tangle of vines that seemed to choke more life out of him with each passing second – a growing pool of blood seemed to spread beneath him, the terror widening with his pupils before stopping abruptly... somewhat hideously the leaves and thorns in the mass began to shake, and the pool of blood began to shrink in circumference... the other seeds on that side of the attic seemed to creak, and their runes glow, in response to the feeding of the crawling bramble...


More fighting downstairs… scattered… weak… it seemed some assailants were crawling upon each other below, until finally silence again fell over the Healer’s guild. The highborn could see, if they strained, that more than two dozen -- perhaps even three dozen -- masked-ones lay dead in the main room of the building below, all of them set upon one another with the last exhausted and hallucinated would-be assailants throttling the life out of the last of their equally murderous comrades.


Anfel sighed lazily, priming anoher one of the seeds at the window with a creaking gesture from her glove. Once again hovering, she lowered her feet again to the wooden floor of the crude dwelling and sat down with folded limbs, and began to play her harp more gently…


“Our danger has passed for the moment, I dare to dream, my pets – the question I ponder (addressing the high elves), is whether we must keep our position here, attempt to get these Tyren wards out of harms way, or if perhaps our talents are not more avidly sought in whatever larger conflict might be unfolding….”


Almost total silence came from below now... the yellow cloud seemed to linger at ankle level, here and there she could hear labored breathing, the rasping respiration of the mad and dying... She jeered mercilessly down the attic-hatch, more seeming for her own amusement than as a message to any would be attacker... Weome and Anuc found her scary as hell -- but quite relieved that this obviously powerful mage was on their side -- and sought their protection, Anfel's crown of hair, blown by some inner wind bounced and splayed like a halo about her head and shoulders as he mocked into the rooms below:


"I am the Witch and Doctor of Glade Bruig, my curses are as certain as the eternal snow -- my song is that of anger and contempt... I am Winterborn, and the blood of my foes must freeze in their veins."


.... Yup. Anuc and Weome were certainly glad she was on their side...

 

[Beckoncall]

@Prince Vaethorion :


THE WAYS: FIRST JAUNT


In his own moment and own time, Vaethorion slipped through the elsespace and into a place known to him, and many other high elves through the ages – as “The Ways” – In times even ancient to the elves, with powers no highborn that might know cares to speak of – a spectacular network of magical bridges was constructed to allow the highborn to travel the world, and some dare whispered to others. Floating in ether, these pearlescent and ivory spans connected to doorways that spanned the globe, allowing elves to move quickly incredible distances – and unerringly travel to fantastic places un-numbered…


…but that was millennia ago. More years than most who knew of the ways dared guess. In ancient wars with the dark elves and others, the ways became corrupted, broken, dark, and dangerous. What remained was a realm of vertigo, darkness, and unseen hungering entities… where strong bridges once spread in a network of blazingly illuminated power and strength, few paths remained that were even barely intact… many roads lead to dead ends, sheer cliffs. Many doors had crumbled or were forever broken or sealed. Even the best of paths, hovering above endless darkness was cracked, pitted, and in many places broken completely… The ways were for the bravest, and for the desperate – and not just because the paths were treacherous…


…Things… dwelled in the ways now. To call them demons would perhaps not give them adequate gravity. Forgotten things, things never remembered, and more likely entities never known now dwelled the ways… in search of brave or desperate souls, often followed by clouds of eons of their victims. Vaethorion immediately fell a few inches to the ground with his handful of swordmasters, who gazed around awestruck. Around them some of the sand that was swept through with them fell in oddly balanced piles, while other grains seemed to rise vertically like bubbles suspended in liquid darkness… Far to what Vaethorion would only erroneously call “North” he saw the faintest light appear, and with it, the slightest rise of hair on the back of his neck, a rush of blood to the cartilage of his ears… a sound beyond his absolute threshold called, or spoke, or screamed… Vaethorion put it out of his mind… You do not commune with the entities in the ways, you flee from them, and all exceptions known since the corruption of elsespace have ended in tragedy. They would have to move quickly.


The Prince turned the tiny astral tear in his hand, watching as the inner light split into various prismatic bands… quickly tipping it back and forth, he found the way to hold the tear that emanated only a single point of light… in the direction of the southwest. They stood on a platform of greenish cracked stone, numerous broken ramps stretched away from their location, most terminating abruptly or became little more than bands of floating debris… The south road was intact however… There was no door here… once could never go back in the ways… only forward… always forward.


Vaethorion ran at full speed, his elites behind him likewise sprinting without question… they knew where they were, though the ways were something seldom spoken of except in campfire stories and the laments of history. The light to the north burned brighter and a vague ringing… like tinnitus, filled the ears of the high born. The intact path bent, and weaved, and in places broke entirely necessitating the highborn to make measured jumps – none too difficult, from one island of road to the next. To travel in safety was slow going… but it would not do to lose themselves in the abysses below only to be caught later by what they sought to avoid… Every so often he would tilt the gem, and correct their bearings. The ways were different wherever in the world you entered them, so these parts of the network Vaethorion had never seen – the barrier, those highborn that knew of it, saw that where it was reflected in elsespace it rent the ways asunder for gaps of roads hundreds of miles wide… crossing it wasn’t done… not by those who did not wish to be consumed by the terrors within…


The light was all along the horizon now. Little bulges of light along that bright horizon bearing down on them seemed to glimmer in the still far but closing distance. The group came to a junction…


…Further south, was the door the astral tear had pointed to – a black-rock affair with a simple elven latch. The ancient desiccated bones of some types of utterly unfamiliar humanoids lay about the doorway as well… far beyond the doors platform was another floating disc with no paths at all to lead to it – upon it was a mountain of skulls, with some kind of sign or banner drooping windless above it. A cold chill rolled over all of the highborn, as if reluctant to approach even what promised to be their quick escape back into the real…


What Vaethorion saw on the other path? A twisted broken spiral of stony-road that lead yet another platform far below. Straining the limits to observe below, it seemed a mass grave of high elven mages – seemingly splayed haphazardly around a massive black sphere of rock. Even from here he could see the relics and artifacts that lay strewn amid their remains… staves, wands, rings and crowns… it all lay below – but the horizon grew ever nearer, and the tinny whining frequency had begun to climb to a palpable high… the sensitivity of the highborn ear compounded this discomfort, and to their surprise two of the swordsmasters spontaneously developed nosebleeds. There was a message in the high-pitched whine, but Vaethorion bid his attendants not to give over to listen. One of his Elites, Aubran – addressed him:


“Prince! There is no disputing there are treasures that must be returned to the High Kings here, to your family, and of the other kingdoms that proceed eternal. I do not know what fate awaits me, nor do I care – I ask permission to try to recover some of what lies below, before exiting the ways as you intend.”


His closest companion, Lathai – the fastest of the elites, chimed in:


“Nay, Prince – send both of us, or send me. I do know what waits for me should I fail, and I would risk my soul’s endless torment for the recovery of what promises to be just below us. You mean to make a surprise attack, to unite with our forces in the ‘Platz, yes? What lies below us is an opportunity for far greater gain and advantage… It is worth the risk, Prince. Let us, let ME, go.”


Vaethorion would have to make his response – on one hand his entire group could be falling back through elsespace and in the midst of their own troops, or those of the enemy, and on the other one or more of them could extend the required distance to exit only nominally further – but with the promise of great reward… there was no time to think on it unduly – his decision would have to be swift, or not at all.

 

[Beckoncall]

Fragments:


Haakon and Baez sat in the stateroom of Maeder Dratic, official leader of the exile faction… but Maeder was not here. Haakon pushed a scrawled parchment around the table distressedly, obviously upset and showing nervous energy. Baez, only beginning to learn to read – depended on Haakon, first of Maeder’s countrymen, to explain what had happened…


“Maeder’s missing, or rather, it seems he’s left us with orders – he says he examined the wererat book, and it convinced him there were, and possibly still are, agents of a non-imperial plot to sabotage the colony… that the wererat infiltration was a manifestation of that, but that other agents or plots may be uncovered. He also says that his tear of divinity had given him a vision – Celestial allies, or perhaps creations, of the Dragon Goddess Dracos herself may be contactable, even reachable, perhaps rescuable, in the Northwest hinterlands. He’s left us in charge – and with the goal of continuing to grow the faith of Dracos here. He fully expects to return with allies or artifacts that will bring new life and power to the faith. He has been given a pilgrimage by the Goddess, in his eyes. We must hold the line for him. He dared not tell anyone of his plans, lest aforementioned agents sought to track him before he his trail turned cold.”


Baez scratched his cheek with a furrowed brow, plucking a rogue hair from his cheek as if to snap himself into some form of clarity…


“I cannot grudge my leader, I will not cover the fire that might say Maeder is a possible prophet, or… (Baez searched hard for a word) … a martyr to our faith.”


Haakon replied: “Where does this leave us?! What will we DO without a legendary hero to lead us?!”


Baez let out a massive sigh, unintentionally snuffing out the candelabra on the table, throwing the room into virtual darkness – pretending that this was not a sign of some sort to him…


“May the fire guide us, Haakon… May the fire guide us.”


They stared at the smoke rising from the snuffed candles, then went back to their duties…


Paradise Island:


The Admiral’s pact with a malign undersea power clearly had not gone as planned… that’s for sure. There were bloody coral idols all over the island now, and the Fish-men were getting ever closer and bolder with each passing night. The survivors of the O.I.C.’s mercenary company – “Faith of the Rich” laid about on the sandy ground, sitting and leaning against piles of supplies… whatever remained that is, of what was scavenged from the Merchantman when it was destroyed. Cramped, but for the moment safe behind a multi-layer barricade made of what remained of the ship, the warehouse, and some of the idol debris back when they first started proliferating all over the island (and they still had the freedom of movement to pull them down)…


Rising high above them, was the Center Watchtower, the last intact structure on the island since the arrival of their faction’s settlers. Two massive Muurdaan house elite, their hulking armored forms standing on crates to look over the wall, constantly scanned the darkness. The mercenaries, surrounding a campfire burning hazardously beneath the watchtower, stared at the stars… gazed into the fire, and quietly murmured to one another as they snapped bits of wood, and more strangely bones, before tossing them into the campfire. Huddled here and there were a handful of clearly crestfallen nobles… the last of the admiral’s advisors yet alive huddled close to the fire, clothes wet, shivering, and miserable.


The conversation turned:


“Shouldn’t that Necro be out of skeletons already? We been breaking and burning every one we seen so far.”


“Not even close… colonists on the manifest were in excess of 80 individuals… if we don’t starve first, you can bet every one of those bones is going to have to wind up on this fire to keep it from coming back, Most of the workers kept to themselves, but you can bet on your contract that if they aren’t in here, it’s only a matter of time before they’ll be marching skinless for that Black Bastard out there and his cleric henchman…”


“Besides… half of these skeletons are fishmen now. First we kill ‘em, then they send em at us skinless and we have to kill them again. I’m not saying the company hasn’t clamored out of worse, but this is a pretty picture.”


“Paymaster died in the last assault – now I’m here holding this bag of Tals for assurance of death benefits, none of you dogs have permission to die. We keep doing that, this bag is gonna get heavy. Speaking of bags… any idea where all that wealth and coin went after the first attack?”


“Nooooooo idea. I’m guessing either it’s spilled all over the seabed off the coast, or the Necro has it. Put that out of your mind. No talk of spoils until we can realistically talk escape.”


One of the mercenaries gestures over to a crate half-buried at a corner of their strong-point… which occasionally issued a sound like a quiet whale-call, or hovered a translucent tentacle over the lip of the crate…


“Tell me again why we haven’t burned THAT thing yet?”


“That ‘thing’ is ‘Anais T’leth Aboleth’ – and I’m practically certain she’s the only reason we’re not dead yet. The fishmen have been hitting the wall in smaller and smaller numbers ever since we let her in, neverminding they swarming us the minute we try to step outside… Besides – that thing is supposed to be a universal translator… you guys are wondering about finding the Paychest, when the real treasure is right in that box. That’s not just our alarm system and creepy repellant… that there, if any of us survive… is our meal ticket that just might make this job worthwhile. You take so much as a piss behind that crate and I’ll be breaking your bones over this fire by sunrise the following day.”


“Think anyone from the Mainland will come to check on us? You know, eventually?”


“We don’t know that any of them got off their own beaches alive after the fishmen got aggressive. If we were safe on the beach we could check… but I’m starting to think we’re it, battle-brother.”


“What I do know is that we can’t get a signal fire going as long as that Necromancer madman is holding that water gem. The tower over he campfire is the only thing keeping him from raining it out, and we can’t get a signal to burn in the tower even if there was anybody to see it.”


One of the full-plate goliaths, A house elite, stepped down from the barricade and sat before the fire… his grey platemail glowing a glaring orange reflected in the firelight. A mercenary addressed him:


“You ogres don’t talk much – I appreciate that… but we all know you can… any plans for getting the lot of us out of here?”


The dark helmet, hiding any feature at all that would suggest the armor was inhabited, Tilted his head and slowly ground out a response…


“Plan? My plan is to protect imperial nobles that remain alive, and return to colony to serve Imperial leader. Your job too. We all have contract. Read yours.”


Just then, the House Elite still on watch saw the walking corpse of Lucius Vorenus – lurching around the permeter of the barricade with a dozen other skeletons and walking dead of various trait and state of decay. His uniform was unmistakable.


“The Master is Dead” Declared the walking suit of armor.


The Behemoth at the campfire replied… after only a brief hesitation…


“Yes… but the Master yet lives.”

 

[Beckoncall]

@Elendithas @Prince Vaethorion @Heyitsjiwon (@Leusis footnote)


“Red Fray, and Parlay”


With the backstabbing mites behind him brought to ground by the sinewy weed-like exiles – Tocxhol turned the entirety of what could only barely be confused with attention (it was more a blood-induced madness) on the foes in front of him. I curved sword pierced his side and numerous masked-ones jabbed again and again at his forefront, The Aymaran flexed his chest muscles turning the sinew beneath his hide into what would seem an impregnable wall to their stone ad wood armaments. Isolated tears of blood dripped here and there from his underbelly, A tiny rock turned in his head… “I am being flushed out… these chimps. The real soldiers are watching. Let me give them something to behold!”


Tocxhol swung his maul in a downward arc smashing the entire back rank of his attackers, many of which were torn apart not as much by his weapon by but by their sudden impact with the ground. At the end of the strike, his fists holding the maul were brought down on the ground ahead of him, smashing a small number of mud-elves (two? Four?) into a thin layer of jellied paste that sent the foes standing next to them flying back towards the Attolian line.


Just Then, Caelis and his companion rider swept around the conflict and pulled into direct-command range of his formation. His mere arrival caused whoops and hollars from his forces – who lock-step advanced, first stabbing the newly fallen foes settling in the dust of the Aymaran’s strike – then opening the formation on each side of the halbardiers so the riders could pass through if desired without disrupting the exile auxillaries. They then tacked slightly to the right in formation to enter the fray the already grappling exiles had entered with the Aymaran’s rear attackers… the mud-elves were held, pinned, and broken on the ground… it was a matter of coup-de-graces when the Halbards arrived.


…The savage Naxxos, first of the brawling exiles – was happy to see the rearguard advance… on his gruesome two-handed double-pick he had impaled no fewer than three attackers, and could now no longer lift it, nor dislodge them. He broke his improved weapon in half and hefted the better part of one of the two broken picks he had previously swung.


With Caelis arrived, morale of his regiment soared – but they would advance no further without word of order from their leader.


Tocxhol roared again – loud enough as well to rattle ally and enemy alike – whoever watched will have had their show… and as he paced himself in the Arenas, Act 2 would be even more of something to behold.


Unbeknownst to Anfel and the rest of the healer’s guild defenders – their actions had caused great positive effect in the NE section of the ‘Platz, newly dubbed the “Attolian Housing District” – with the majority of mud-elf warriors drawn to the Hospital and slain there, The Attolian Evacuation was a complete success… the majority if not entirety of folk resting in their new homes ran in a bee-line south out the district only to see to their west a regiment of mud-elves already in full charge towards a bulwark of High-Elf Spearmen… Were the highborn not there to draw them on, many feared they would have run directly into the arms of their aggressors… instead those that dared look while fleeing towards the depression were treated to the outcome of their charge…


The Highborn had seen many exotic charge strategies in their time, and had read of even more – but they were surprised by what the mud-elves were willing to do to get into grips with them. The front rank of barley-armored curs SPRUNG from just out of range of impact, almost a dozen of them DIVING onto the elven spears – SPIT-ROASTING themselves upon them, from head to gristly exit. The weight of the corpse instantly rendered the spears unusable, though some remained held up when perched on the rank of shields ahead of them. Some of the rabble began to run low, well obscured by the clamor and disruption of the weighted spear line, while another rank sought to jump INTO the ranks of the spearmen themselves –


--This act was DENIED by a sommersaulting line of Elite sword-masters, who meeting in mid-air cleaved each of the second unit of jumpers in twain. Upon landing, they quickly turned their heads behind them and impaled one of the low-runners in the back – though a choice few were lucky enough to survive contact with the shield wall. Crooked rusty knives stabbed recklessly over the wall, two spearmen falling from a neck and shoulder wounds before the elves, as calmly as a drill, yielded the shields just enough to have their leaning interlopers fall on their faces on their side of the wall, where mithril shod-boots crushed their skulls like rotted pumpkin.


In the rear of the unit, a handful of some different kind of warriors, covered in the bones and fur of gnolls prepared to lunge at the elites before the spearmen could advance to support them….


…It was at this moment Prince Vaethorion heard the tell of his bodyguards as they stood at the cusp of the exit to the ways. He would not hear of gambits to recover lost treasure when fiends behind him drew close, and his own men – in the real, might have need of him. “The Door. Let there be no talk about it, my Swordmasters.” – was all he said. His fastest pulled the latch open for the unit, and without barely a look beyond to orient them they pounced through to make their arrival in the real…


…Just as they crossed the thresh-hold, they thought they could finally hear the words of whatever whisper/screamed behind them… it was too loud to ignore… but they were already through… They were flying, some ten feet above the ground, over their regiment of Militia Spearmen… beyond that, they sailed over a number of their fellow swordmasters, who seemed to be cutting down the whole front ranks of some charge… directly ahead, where they might be landing – were some kind of bone-adorned warriors, who’s previously exalting posturing began to give way to the truth that several hundreds of pounds of singly-directed, armored, and impeccably-trained high elves were descending upon them through what appeared to be an extra-dimensional hole…


The entire unit of Mud-elf champions was slain instantly before the Prince Even landed. Their standard, tossed high in the air at their moment of impact, seemed to lazily turn in the air and fall down towards them. In a zig-zag motion of his blade held one-handed, he cut both post and fabric of the falling standard into no fewer than FIVE pieces… and in a final graceful motion both sheathed his blade with one hand and grabbed a scrap of red-banner fabric, like a streamer, out of the air to subsequently wipe a small bit of mud-elf ichor off of his pristine and gleaming gauntlet.


(handful of serious injuries to Highborn Spearmen, opposing unit OBLITERATED.)


Directly ahead of him, he saw the disorganized by successful evacuation of Attolian workers… dropping the bloody rag he waved two fingers over his head, and his archers, newly settled to position, loosed a covering volley that caught both straggler in the field, and removed any hope of any concealed foes of escaping suppression should they decide to rush the column of evacuees.


Vaethorion’s Mage Quickly moved to his side, while his cleric pushed into the shield formation from behind to minister to the wounded. The Highborn Bard sounded his horn in a style of Elven war-heraldry… if they considered themselves elves at all, or had any knowledge of their culture… they would parley. The Massive central Regiment of the masked-ones – not skirmishers or raiders but a seemingly disciplined force… strode forth onto the edge of what seemed to be decided the battlefield. They parted their banners and waved the center in acknowledgement of the Parley. Vaethorion’s Mage whispered counsel…


“To keep them talking brings more of the colony’s forces closer together and greater in number – but I promise you, They are buying their own time – Dark magic is swelling on each of their fallen – they sacrificed these whelps not only to get us to show our strengths, but to sow this field with foci of death that they shall employ in the battle to come… The Cleric and I can counter this somewhat together – but should you decide that, the wounded, however few behind us? Those Highborn will likely die. If you will not risk that I can on my own attempt countermagics, but the result will not be the same should fighting resume, M’lord.” (Elven Decision Point – rally for counterspell or save casualties?)


The eyes and teeth of the Mud-elf dead seemed to cloud in blacks and silvers to the gesticulations of the masked dancers of the enemy command unit… they marched ever forward… Tocxotl single-handedly forming the left flank of the colony’s battle-line, and east of that the Exile-Attolian force sharing the center with The shields, swords, and bows of the highborn. Time WAS bought – as when the forces met across from one-another, the MOB of drooling brutes began to trickle onto the right flank of the Colonial battlegroup. The Cunnings WHIPPED and VICIOUSLY BIT the brutes that were distracted by the smells of blood and attempted to break “formation” to scoop slaughtered mud-elves into their jaws… Leading them all was the Aymaran Spell-breaker – who being slower and bulkier than all of them contrived a means to ascend the sandslopes swiftly, by forcing a team of brutes to deliver him uphill via the elven pulley-system. Quetankha assessed the magical essences in the air – the ropes in the wind to clip, the fuses he lights out of order, the weave he seeks to ruin… assessed them all with consternation…


“These witches are cooking something large… got deep powder under them. Not sure how far to push on them – but any way I see this going… this is gonna hurt.” Quetankha thought to himself. “Still… they want to stall and talk to cook their chantings? Brutes are more real and solid than anything these wicker toothpicks can likely summon. Metric tons of Aymaran are coming in behind ME – my summoning is CONVENTIONAL, but as true as they’ll all likely be lizard-spoor tomorrow, mine’s effective.


So there they were – the initial stages of the battle drawn, and the dust began to settle over the fires… red flame licked the area from as was thrown by the exiles, and a new, black fire began to float in the areas above the highest concentrations of Mud-elf dead….


The High Elf Bard assailed them in multiple dialects – it seemed they could only recognize very out of fashion dialect… nothing “old” by the standards of true elves… but definitely degrees apart.


There stood Caelis with Attolian and Exile, There stood Vaethorion his force arrayed, There stood Tocxhol – who was at the farthest end from his forces, but yet he could see the brutes arrive with his spellbreaker… disorganized as they were, croaking in defiance at the steely masked formation.


The four elven witches floated above their regiment to an area in the ground between them… daring the lords of the colony to discuss terms or make claims…

 

[Beckoncall]

@Heyitsjiwon :


Even before the first blood was spilled in the 'Platz, Artificer Nicholas had yet to return from the spire of sky hill...


His men were set to guard him, while he -- almost giddy as a child, removed a set of excavation needles, mallets, and brushes -- fully intent on removing the arm with the least big of additional damage possible. Even the simpler pieces he found before -- precious as they seemed, were far too delicate after how long they'd been exposed to the elements. This particular find had several bits of a kind of armor casing -- pitted with rust, but protecting the condition of some of the workings inside.


Nicholas marveled at some of the engineering involved -- at it's heart, it was truly a clockwork humanoid -- you fronted work with some kind of key or wheel device and the thing ran on that amount of stored dynamism/momentum... but BESIDES that simplicity were entirely different intricacies... bands of coiled copper fiber, for instance... that he just KNEW were meant to contract and expand like muscle-tissue when exposed to mana... This was a marriage of scientific sorcery that truly shocked him. Magic making devices work was a science that had proceeded apace for millennia... "It moved because our forces make it move" -- but this was a different paradigm... this was magic serving matter, not matter doing the bidding of magic.


....He had to have this device. A grief washed over him with the thought that the inventors of these devices might all be dead... how much was already lost when what he barely held in his hands was more than he hoped in the old world to discover? Nicholas sighed, stopping in half breath as his guardsmen barked "what ho!" and took defensive stance.


Whirring from the Tunnel up the path into the hill was heard, and stepping into the light was a smallish clockwork man... seemingly in a modest state of repair, it had tiny pinholes for eyes and above it's "waist" (which really just looked akin to a human spiral column) his carapace seemed to be smeared with a flaking layer of Pristine white-lead paint. Below his waist he was the more common colors of exposed metals... iron, copper, bronze... as if his upper body was placed on the legs of a different automaton.


Nicholas would not let this prize be lost to him. He silently stayed the hands of his guards -- but his demeanor spoke that he intended to make away with this treasure.. it was too important not to bring back to study.


As the automaton got closer, it could be seen that it was holding it's arms out ahead of it, with it's hands up and holding the torso of a far more rusted and broken automaton... it seemed to cradle it... though it was clearly non-functioning, arm-less, and it's head lolled over the side of it's carriers arms as if a tatter of the cradled body it was attached to.


Nicholas halted his guards as he clearly saw they were prepared to sweep this singular emissary into the brush at the side of the path and vivisect it... It dropped to it's knees mere feet away from the Attolians, in a posture similar to how Nicholas was kneeling over his tiny excavation.


A little hatch opened in the solar-plexus of the white automaton, as it gently laid the "Corpse?" it was carrying in the dirt beside where Nicholas was digging. The lead paint that was layered over the hatch slid off like a teaspoon of sugar -- so dry and this was it... and behind the hatch was a tiny diamond needle on an arm that seemed to pull various grooved discs along a spoke -- like an abacus -- but Nicholas knew what these wheels were akin to... "Record Discs", as Gnomes and Dwarves had called them... one could carve pits in the discs that would create vibrations that were evocative of sounds, voices, music... Nicholas hadn't much exposure to it, but he had seem some curiosities... this was far more refined... small scale, elegant. He watched in fascination as the the little white assembly -- a toy, really... ran the needle on a variety of discs which all seemed to have different assortments of syllables on them.


Nothing made sense... almost two minutes went by... the only thing even close to recogniztion was "Pa-Pa-Paa'aani" came up several times in numerous addresses. Finally, the thing left the wreck of his companion on the ground next to nicholas, and placed two copper coins over his eyes, as if in a rite of burial. It then turned over one small set of discs and ran the needle over them.


"R-R-R-R-R-tist." the servos behind the pinholes whirred. It rose and started walking backwards in the very same steps it took down the hill.


Nicholas ordered his men to carefully, but even more than that, reverently, pick up the torso that was left beside where he was removing the arm. As it was packed for travel, his hands flew to liberate the arm in the block of dirt around it -- he would clean it in greater care once he was away from this place... He must get back to the 'Platz. He wondered if he had years enough to learn all he could from these construct pieces... but he no longer wondered if he would one day be famous...


They would head back to the Tyren camp, then secure additional guard to take the price back to the Attolian Quarter in the 'Platz... surely that would be the safest place to examine it right now, wouldn't it? ....

 

[Beckoncall]

@Leusis :


"- Put four Glade Guard on guard duty for the enchanted tunnel which will be named "Menegroth" (Meaning Thousand Caves in Sylvan)"


"Menegroth" was alive -- there was no mistaking that... the Glade Guard stood at the mouth of the "Mine of Vine" ... all of them noting that as they climbed the ivies to the cave-mouth (which incidentally was the only thing holding the Tyren scaffolding together, and they'd just as well not set foot on that, if it was all well to do without -- they sensed not an intelligence, not a will, but a purpose in the strange plant that held the cliff in place... it was Gestalt... the leaves grasped the hands of the elves as they climbed, and thorn and knot seemed to seek the load-bearing foot of the climber. They stood at the opening, which was a knit-work of vine and branches almost completely obscuring the rock underneath -- that the cave was more like the hollow of a jungle or deep-forest tree... and stretching into the darkness beyond were cables of root and vine... interspersed with greenish yellow bulbs of dewey light.


The Glade Guard wanted desperately to explore the cave -- but Belanor had given them orders -- Guard the entrance. Keep watch. And so they did. When a light rain came, the Guardsmen smiled when an awning of rubber-tree-like leaves formed a canopy above the entrance. Instead of needing to fall back into the cave or cover up, they squatted where they were and collected water as it fell in vertical spouts past them to the cliff below... filling their waterskins and taking a moment for ablutions in what had so far been a sweaty day.


Below them they watched Tyren and Elves travelling back and forth between their respective camps. They had no idea what Belanor had planned -- but the tree-singers were evidently at the heart of the project.. trees were going to be moved, sown, grown, or all of the above in the direction of the Tyren camp. They talked about what this might mean... In the old world there were few races the Sylvan could call friend that did not predate the arrival of the elves themselves... the Ents, Fae, and Dryads being the most notable.. and some druidic faiths the most recent -- and all of those more few, more strained and more silent when they left.


...Still, the Winterborn's wisdom was Belanor's to command. If a Tyren could not be an elf's brother, perhaps they could be a friend... though the tea of friendship in the elven heart for many seemed to steep longer than a Tyren might live. The Glade Guard talked about this, and what it might mean... "I will give today's Tyren my bravery and honor -- and if it is returned, then I will tell the great-grandchild of the first Tyren who stood by me of their ancestors, and how this horned mayfly had been earned my friendship by the deeds of family he had never met... We will tell these mayflies stories in just a century that to them will seem ages forgotten. Poor things." ... "And if they are not worthy?" one of the others put forward, running his tongue over his teeth as if to shoo a poor taste.


"The Winterborn thought it not amiss to have dogs guard the feet of our trees -- how much safer will we be if our glade is forbidden at the clamor of bullish hoof?"


And there was laughter. None of the glade guard had brought room for much hope when they came to the new world at Belanor's behest... but behind an eye or two at least may have danced a dream of it...