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

[Prince Vaethorion]

@Beckoncall @Elendithas @SpiralErrant @Heyitsjiwon


The Prince was still replaying the scenes of battle in his head as he observed the enemy Mud Elves withdraw and the carnage in front of him. Mereth en draugrim ("the feasts for wolves" <slain enemy>) were scattered about and being gorged on. Heads were being sawed off and bodies looted. The Prince had ordered his High Elves to look out for any enchanted items or interesting loot. The sight of the Attolian pikemen poking at the gorging Amaryans was unsettling. There was blood, guts, heads, and more blood everywhere. The bones crushing and the crunching sounds to the sensitive High Elven ears was deeply disturbing. However, everyone present thought the same thing. "Better them than me!". The Prince had ordered his Nobles to look for anything valuable, especially enchanted items.


Make sure that witch is blindfolded, gagged, tied up, with a sack over her head, bound her legs and arms. Hold her under the platz, and make sure she has no talismans or items on her. Search her and Neutralize that toy of her. The Prince told the War Mage. Make sure she is bound magically if need be and harmless. Keep her drugged up if necessary, locked up and guarded. Lets see what we can learn from her.


This would normally be the time where he would consider pursuit and destruction of the retreating enemy. Looking about at the decimation of the colonies "armed forces", the fleeing refugees, the Prince could see that further battle was not on most of their minds with the exception of the Amaryans and perhaps the remaining Attolian calvary. The majority of the colonist were licking their wounds, and most of the Reptile ones were licking their chops presently. The Prince witnessed the exchange between one of the more terrifying looking Amaryans, that had countless scars all over it's body,Centecoatl. By the look of the big Amaryan it seemed the Amaryan still wanted to fight. They likely had the same thought the Prince had that the retreating enemy force still needed to cross the river. This would slow them down, and in the water the Mud Elves would be easy prey.


The Prince had been already heavily considering pursuing the enemy, realizing that the enemy had to cross the river to get back to their home base (wherever that maybe), looking about at the Atollians corralling bloated Amayrans and attempting to save enemy sculls. This was not the time and place for a massive counterattack, but at the river crossing the enemy would be vulnerable. The Prince was considering taking his best Elves, those able to counterattack and striking at the retreating enemies' rear, ideally at the time the Amaryan were attacking their ships, drowning and eating them. The Prince, the combative nobles, Sword Masters and Spearman could act to kill stragglers on the West Bank and deny the Mud Elves the East Bank with archers if range permitted and pick off Mud Elves in boats. The other two witches needed to be dealt with as well. The Prince had a mind to throw a spear in one of them, his rage was seething inwardly, but he was completely calm. The Prince wanted to let the Mud Elves get bogged down at the crossing and kill those retreating, or attempting to escape the death rolls of the Amaryans. For this the Mud Elves would need to retreat and the High Elves would need to be able to move fast and be there waiting in ambush. If terrain permitted the High Elves contingent want to be in position to move in once the Amaryans sprang their river slaughter and prevent the Mud Elves from escaping drowning, or being eaten. In the meantime the High Elven archers were content (under the Spearman and Swordmasters protection to harass the retreating Mud Elves with a parting volley of arrows to make it harder for the Mud Elves to re-consolidate.)


The Prince thought the plan would need the mobility of the remaining Attolian calvary, for the plan to be effective, the Calvary had the speed and power to run down and stragglers that the Amaryans did not drown and eat, and that High Elves missed on the West and East Bank. The Prince would suggest the deployment of calvary to Caelis. The Prince felt it was important to shatter this Mud Elf force into a irreparable fighting force, lest they strike again. The witches and their forces needed to die. The Prince and the Eastern High Elven doctrine was not tolerant of Dark Magic users and their armies. If these enemies escaped, they would simply come back and strike again. The Colony could never be truly secure unless a message was sent to their enemies, that aggression would not be tolerated.


The Prince turned to Caelis, sympathetically (as much as the Prince could have for an inferior life form, but in all sincerity), "Your forces acted admirably and bravely on the battlefield, as did your riders and yourself. I am glad you did not become lunch. You look terrible, but will be fine, we shall see to that."- the Prince said encouragingly like one might to a junior brother (the Prince was after all several hundred years Caelis' elder). The Prince assures that Caelis is being seen to medically and that the High Elf medics are all working on helping the wounded.


The Prince gestures at the Large Amaryan and ball of Amaryan that was just corralled. "Caelis, that big, scary looking Amaryan with the scars. I believe is planning to assault the Mud Elves while crossing the river. That's what my instincts tell me. It's a good tactical move. I am considering slaying the survivors of the Amaryan attack and denying them the banks of the rivers. If some of the Mud Elves escape, would it be possible to have your riders run them down?". The Prince said this proposition in a very natural, matter of fact way. "Prevent them from escaping or forming up again while they are on our side of the bank."- the Prince suggested. "The archers, spearman and mainly the Elite of my forces will kill any escaping enemy as well. "Lye roita i' goth ar' Ndengina sen. lye ndengina sen vee' ron tara i' duin! Uma il- lava sen auta! ". ("We pursue the enemy and kill them. We slay them as they cross the river. Do not let them flee!")


The sights and reports of many skeletons was very alarming. The idea that the skeleton army did not coalesce because of the disrupted spell was a welcome relief. Facing an army of undead and the remaining Mud Elf army would have been a likely death sentence. After the healing, perhaps the Skeletons can be redirected with the combined efforts of Enuc, Anfel, the oracle, and the High Born Cleric. Perhaps, if possible, send the skeletons towards the Mud Elves and the river. The Prince did not want to dwell among the walking dead. The Prince suggests to his cleric to do something about the situation.


In the meantime the Prince had to make sure that the wounded were being taken care of first. Although, the Prince valued his High Born immortals the most, he also appreciated the sanctity of good lives and those that he spilled blood together beside of in battle. The Prince did not know what to make of the worst of the exiles, as these kind of beings were way beneath the regality of the High Born, but nonetheless, the Prince knew that any ally of the High Born in this colony was to be appreciated and not judged.


The Prince took in the surroundings one more time and began issuing orders in High Elven. He had his long, silver spear with Elven runes on it at the ready. "Mallen pelu e' n'alaquel en' sen!" (circle around behind them), "I'quelin Mori'Quessier naa ba Mori'Quessir!" ("A Good Drow is a dead Drow!").


Orders:


* Look for magical items and items of interest while looting


* Plan: If Amaryan strike the Mud Elves while crossing the river, move into a position of ambush to prevent Mud Elves from escaping. Pick the off and slaughter fleeing ones. Suggest to Caelis that remaining Calvary mop off fleeing Mud Elves from crossing attack


* Make sure captured witch is rendered harmless, tied up, gagged, drugged, magically bound, and hidden underground under guard if need be. Find out information from her. Forcibly if need be.


* Assure that Caelis and others are being healed


* Suggest/inquire what could be done with Skeletons from various shamans, oracle, cleric and Sylvan Elf. Can they be redirected? Is it worth sending them after Mud Elves and into river? Is it possible?

 

[Beckoncall]

@Heyitsjiwon :


"Spiritual Weather Report: Partly rowdy, with chance of pain -- certainty of scattered powers in the highs by evening..."


Cassandra took a deep breath and muttered a few calming litanies before ascending once again into the ‘Platz. Strange phenomenon was being reported, and Caelis would want his Seer’s lens to fall upon it.


She thought of the time, history back before she was in the service to the Wolff family – her gifts were seen as every big an evil portent as ever she was sent to examine. Before she was even of age she fled the first mob set to burn her, and since then she’d never long been a stranger to fear… still… it never got much easier. Whether it was a restless spirit on a disused fief that died slowly and helpless in a dumbwaiter weeks after the manor in his care had been vacated, or picking the spots to be consecrated in the guts of a burned down orphanage, or the dire prophesies of dead gods, or demons quite alive… the work was always unsettling. But Caelis’ family had saved her – from the fourth mob – the one she could not escape, when she was barely a woman. From there she received her training, how to see, how to read objects, to divine the nature of that which was unnatural. On the days she felt like quitting, of even fleeing service to the house of Wolff, she need only look back into the past and see her own fate had Caelis and his agents not intervened. The flames that rose, burned off her nose and the slow contemplation that she was melting. That was the vision she relished the least… and so she once more went where Caelis directed.


She could barely see the sky, so blocked was it by the recent passing of a concentrated wave of dark energy… it was meant to unhallow and bind the spirits of restless dead in the ruin… but it had been partially undone…


…The former restless spirits, once merely shadows and reflections of who they were on the day they died, if even that… many more just a chill ethereal spark on mouldering bones… this development had made a change – uncertain how many, but a great number had been instilled with an uncontrolled will…


She could hear the gasps, echos, chattering and small talk of folk and soldiers alike, rising from all over the ruins now. Making plans, discussing days, and suddenly recoiling in horror as their souls were flayed from their still living bodies, only to have the flesh burned away shortly after in an instant…


…These spirits were confused. Many were still quiet, but many she could tell labored under the misbelief that they still lived, or that they had never died. Mostly Skeletons…. But deeper in the ruin, ghosts now…. Ghosts that over the ages had become whispers on a mute lip in a weary lung – had sprung back into vivid reflection of former spirit. The ruins were always haunted… but they could never have been more so than now… The locations of haunts coalesced in her mind… hard to catch, but easy to follow – if these haunts could be resolved (or dissolved) it might be possible to lift an ancient curse from whole city blocks at a time… but one wondered what frights awaited those who dared… and what capricious spirits, now restored, would not go easily back to a rest they had barely begun to attain over what may have been millennia…


Below the ground, she could sense GREAT upset, frustration, and despair – the “imps” as they were called, left strange essences to her arcane eyes – they were not like the auras of other living things… but she sensed them… in the ruin, in the sewer, and below everything between… grasping out at their disharmonies – she learned that for generations these “imps” had been quelling, herding, and slowly, over ages, laying these souls to rest where they could, and into hidden concentrations where they could not. All of that work was likely undone… if the damage to their efforts spanned the city, it would represent the undoing of unimaginable labors. There was great tension in the “Imps”… tension, Cassandra feared, that would lead to even more danger or bloodshed were sentiments cooled and understandings made…


….And then of course there was the “Vault House” the supposedly impregnable structure that survived any number of terrors that raked the region. Cold as ever on the outside, inside – many a fire burned. Green Fire, Gold Fire, magical fires all… in one place only there seemed to be darkness, save for a pair of marble staircases that lead into the ground below the structure… was a shadow… a cloak of some kind… even where light shone it did not where this entity walked. It looked like it was utterly enrobed, cowled, and cloaked… all by shadow, darkness, and tattered black… it wore a curious necklace… and then it turned to face her vision – with one eye of howling wind and one eye of boiling blood – Cassandra stared at it in her vision and it STARED BACK. The clatter of rusty and pitted armor shook her from her trance… and she quickly left the area… far to the east – was the battle and all the chaos it rent beneath it… she would not look there… let the normal-sighted clear ther share of the horror, and leave for her that which promised to be the worst…


…She headed this time to the Fountain Square… but then she saw them. A couple at first, but she could tell this was just the smallest glimpse of what was likely to come… Hunger Ghosts* had begun to mill on the outskirts of the ruin, and deep within the ruin she could sense that more were coming… perhaps many more. She could hear the jangling of coins from far away as they rose from where she imagined rubble had entombed them… those that did not die in the cataclysm, but instead, by trap or circumstance, slowly starved to death in the time that followed. She glimpsed their thoughts – yes, like so many of the rest of the spirits, they were unaware they died. They would eventually end up at the Grocer, or the Market, or wherever else any scrap of food might be at all… and at first she imagined, they might be willing to pay for it. But one thing she did not imagine is that they’d ever be satisfied. A single hunger ghost could despoil an entire silo of grain and cry for more – Caelis would be informed.


Cassandra didn’t even have to reach the fountain square to sense that old and formerly weak presence. It began talking to her while she was still blocks away… as she continued to approach it nonetheless… It’s voice was stronger now, and there was nothing imploring or plaintive about it…


“Cassandra! So nice to be graced with your presence – Do tell Caelis that I do not forget my friends… I hope he is enjoying the use of my amulet – When my survival was in question – It must not be forgotten that Caelis put his word forward in my defense… even if I do not need his word any longer – OR his protection…. Please let your lord know I do not forget my friends.”


It continued…


“Thank Caelis and his pawns for pouring so much blood in the ‘Platz… as you call it… Your foes are liars of whore mothers, but one thing they speak true is that this Plaza is an Altar of sorts… and you all have been so VERY generous… Now that I am strong… I have a proposition – I have regained my power – godling, lesser god, pretender, call it what you will – but I need a prophet, to spread my word. I offer, for your first offerings and refraining from dispensing with me when it once might have been possible – to accept that prophet from the house of Caelis – I would prefer Caelis himself, but arguably as much I would have you, Cassandra – become my Avatar… I can sense you fear the horrors you see – I can make that stop… for good or evil, at YOUR will – you can become a fear to bring fear to your fears. I don’t WANT an Avatar, Cassandra – I *NEED* one… and if not today, then soon… should you accept my sanguine anointment – I shall remake you more powerful than your tender frame, and gift you gifts to spite your considerable talents. I will too offer you the Artifact “Bloodscourge” – An artifact that will make shadow of curses you might attend… and when necessary – of mortals as well…”


Cassandra’s through tightened, as she saw a potential future image of her, her hands fonts of blood, floating on a geyser of red wind and water, and gazing with burning eyes of arterial fire. She gasped.


“Consider my offer, or if you are slave to the word of Caelis, as I assure you I no longer am… pass my word to him… If House Wolff will not join with me an Avatar – Perhaps the Aymarans will be more receptive… They have a love of blood that almost intrigues me, and it is my belief they will have a great need of blood for brazen purpose if they continue to go where perhaps none of you are meant to look. Then again… they skies have been so boring of late… Forgive me, I am trailing off…”


If a fountain had an equivalent to taking a breath of fresh air, this entity had one…


“If you come for questions, or proposals, or to accept my offers, please do so, Cassandra – time gets away from us, even immortals… if you do not, respectfully take your leave, or bask in my presence… I do not find your existence displeasurable…. Far from it.”


Cassandra’s head spun… there was too much going on… and too much of it stank of danger. She kept her cool… she resolved not to lose her constancy as she had with the dream of “Cull”… she had grown already. She was stronger… but that did not change the horror and wonder that surrounded her…


And the night wore on – death, flight, and looting could be heard in the east beyond….

 

[Elendithas]

Tocxhol stood with pride in this easy victory. Of course, he wasn't exactly aware of how much the other colonists had assisted the Aymarans in the matter, and thus felt as though his forces alone were more than a match for whatever the mud elves could throw at them. He hadn't anticipated that they would flee for their, now worthless as far as he was concerned, lives however. What warriors would flee the field of battle in the face of death? Apparently ones that weren't Aymaran is seemed. By this point in his thought process he was thinking of his own people in a similar light as to how the High Elves viewed themselves, but that was of no consequence... yet. Centecoatl approached as the cunnings made some attempt at corralling the brutes into a loose group behind Tocxhol, working quite well for the most part. Centecoatl was a large Aymaran which led the lurkers of Clan Tocxhol, some of the fastest swimming bipedal organisms an Aymaran was even remotely aware of, and deadly to boot. With Centecoatl's abilities in the water, he may have been a Chosen in another life were he spawned by a more wealthy or simply larger family. Alas, his talent was cut short by a distinct lack of food and the rest of his family's failure to do something with themselves.


His proposition put onto the table, Tocxhol stared at him with a twinkle in his eye, really the closest thing to facial expression he could muster. He had already planned to follow after the enemy, but the thought crept into his mind of how poorly that went back in his waring days. As everyone in the colony were likely aware at this point, Aymarans were slow. Slow enough that chasing down a fleeing enemy on foot was essentially out of the question no matter how tired or pathetic they happened to be. The lurkers, however, were the only way an Aymaran could hope to catch the enemy before they made it out of the swamp. "Take the lurkers. Cut them off at the river and bring as many with you into the waters as possible." Tocxhol responded, pointing with maul in hand in the direction of the river. The Lurkers wouldn't be the only ones to follow though. After all, six Aymaran wouldn't be enough to finish off the entirety of the remaining forces. Tocxhol turned to the gathered bunch behind him, calling out in his native tongue, an offshoot of draconic. "BRUTES! Drag your last kill into our new home and finish it there! The rest of you, with me!" He yelled out to Cunnings, Scarred, and the few Chosen present and conscious. The brutes would do nothing but slow them down since they've already had their fill, not to mention travelling such a long distance with a group of the most moronic creatures in their society would cause all sorts of trouble along the way. He was sure at least some of them would have to be tracked down and brought back were he to bring them.


Tocxhol begun a slow jog towards where the enemy had begun their retreat, his brethren in tow. He had no intention of actually catching them, but he believed that if the response by the mud elves to his lurkers turned out in his favor, or, hell even if the other factions helped out that they would get to the battle in time to decimate the remaining forces. Being the giant 'kill first ask questions later' leader he was, he wasn't even the slightest bit aware that the high elves seemed in fact to be preparing themselves to some degree to do exactly that. Though they were weak and small and had a culture so different to the Aymaran's own that each considered the others' work to be either disgusting or a waste of time, working together to annihilate a common foe could only possibly help in future engagements with one another.


-Brutes ordered to take what they're eating and go to the sewers


-Aymarans continuing assault on fleeing Mud elf forces


-Lurkers sent to cut off Mud elves at river

Vault of the Crimson Bat - Goq-quet

​

Goq-quet read through what he could of the text upon the wall, becoming somewhat fascinated by what it held. This was a rarity in itself, as more often than not Goq-quet had to labor through ancient texts only to discover either useless or worthless information. Not to mention that he much preferred the heat of battle to research. The fact that some of it came from races which likely were an ancestor to his own only helped in the growing interest, as they were sure to understand what mattered to each other. Power. the interest were in fact so great, that he did begin to tear down the surrounding walls where he could on the other sides of the vault. He had to know the combination to enter, but the story was absolutely a close second in terms of reasoning, not to mention what else could be learned of the city, if everything about it weren't on this one side. The sites were something he would have to tell Tocxhol about the next time they were to speak, as taking those could prove invaluable in the coming months and years for a multitude of reasons, one of them honestly being to say they've claimed a piece of their ancestry for themselves and themselves alone.


-Goq-quet to break away surrounding walls where possible to attempt to get the remaining combination.

 

[SpiralErrant]

The sewing of seeds in days to come


Shul shouldn't have been surprised that they ganged up on him. He was the only one that seemed to be excited by the arrival of the horned spirit. Bruul was happy enough to see the practical applications, typical war shaman outlook, but all in all he didn't seem to lean one way or the other. While Ummush was all skepticism and warnings. He didn't think they should keep the statue around, that it would make them weak or take control of them or something. By all rights that meant the rings were tied in indecision, if only one of them hadn't outranked the others by two lifetimes of age and experience. Even then Ummush could call in Orm as a deciding vote and it was no surprise who he sided with.


"The thing goes." He told them bluntly. Shul had given some protests about how it had helped the herds and the plants (and he was pretty sure it had lent a hand when the mountain gave way) but it was no good. Orm never had liked magic much and he liked the idea of it working on his mind even less. They had all noticed the feeling of calm that came off of it, something Shul thought his rage bitten friend would have appreciated, alas pride won out the day and he had to bend to the word of his chief.


"Send it away to another hill." Orm had said. "And wipe away that mark however you have to. I don't want to see it on you again." He meant the poppy mark of course. The term 'brand' had gotten thrown around a lot with regards to that. A loaded word given tyren history. "What would Weome think to see you marked like cattle, Shul? Clear your head of its poppy and think on it yourself! You aren't its pet, I won't let you act the role even if you think it in pretend." Maybe he had a point there. Shul wasn't so sure anymore. Maybe he needed a break from his smokes.


It was after one such break that he found himself on a nearby hill with his new statue friend. Orm didn't want it fully gone, even he had to admit that the spirit had been a great help and it had a benefit. The spirit could stay close... just not in the village close. He wanted Shul to part with it on good terms if possible.


"So this is where we say goodbye. Don't think I aint grateful, cus I am, everyone is. It's just that... well some us folks and spirits like yourself haven't mixed so well in the past. They just don't understand sometimes I think but what are you gunna do?" The little shaman shrugged. He didn't know why he felt the need to apologize to the spirit like this. Maybe it was because of the power he'd felt from it, or the feeling of warmth. It hadn't done them any wrong, not that Shul could see.


"Anyway we made sure you got your nice view still, nice hill to call your own. Aint know tower but still." Indeed Orm had agreed to that much. They couldn't tell if they might have need of this god thing in the future and so he asked Shul to make sure they left like good neighbors. So long as they didn't become too reliant. There was a sense in that, Shul supposed. "Folks liked all the stuff you worked back at the village, it was awful nice of you. So... yeah. You can get a nice view of all of here and I'll even be up now and then. Bring you an offering or just to chat, whatever you please."


His communion with the spirit came to an end and Shul was left to make his way back to the town alone. A shaman's work was never done it seemed. They'd already worked out some new scheme to help handle all the elves coming in. Well if Shul couldn't leave his mark by bringing in the ethereal he could do it by working his tongue like he usually did. Maybe this could be his big moment to shine.


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"Do you want to learn a new skill? Learn more of the world or make new friends? Then we have the answer for you. Language Square is now open, looking for students and teachers. Come to Hrun'taras to learn more. Food and shelter provided for weary travellers." One of the criers sounded off near the tyren grocer stall.


It seemed Shul was grabbing this chance by the horns, calling out about the birth of this project to those in the platz as well as the elves closer to home. Hopefully they wouldn't be so put off by the trip as Orm had sent out workers and bison to stomp clear a path between the two settlements. Their little town may not have had an Inn yet but some were sure even spare tyren yurts would be better than the dead boat and sails some of the exiles were still making do with.


And so the days went on and the first meeting of Language Square was held. Shul had gotten some of the older labourers to help him out. Those that had spent more time in towns working for hornless and knew their speech well enough. They started with some of the tyren basics, words of greeting and how to name everyday things and the like. While off to the side others were teaching younger tyren bits of the common tongue or elvish when one of the ancient wee-woods could be could be convinced to join in.


Shul was most surprised to see Orm making time for this. Not just watching but sat like a pupil and joining in with all the energy of a yearling. The little shaman allowed himself a quiet smile. He supposed no one ever had made much time for the charger's education.


As the first lessons came to an end things took on a more casual air as folks settled down around the fires. The whole point of this was to help learn of the other people that made up the colony so grammar gave way to story telling. Something that the tyren held up as one of the higher art forms.


Shul took the lead, telling those gathered some of the history of their caravan. Of mountains they'd crossed or storms they'd braved. Even some things from his youth you might consider adventures. Bruul was more than happy to step up and share some stories from his time as a mercenary, as he so often was. They even got a little fancy and cultural.


The tyren creation myth and the story of Auroch.

Spoiler

Auroch was the first great bull of the earth who stood as warden over the plains. Until the day he and his kind were driven away by cruel spirits and biting beasts that walked on two legs, hunted near to death. Auroch was chased to the highest mountain top, his hooves broken and bloody.


He cried out to the grand spirit of sky. "Sky, help me! My home and people are gone and I am made prey to all. Set me free of this pain, help me I beg you!"


But the sky was a distant and airy thing. "This cannot be Auroch I see before me." She said, wry as a pale cloud. "You once stood tallest of my little friends, now you kneel so low I cannot hear you from up here. No, I shall not speak with you until you stand tall again." And like the wind she was gone.


"Sky, I cannot. I am broken, my hooves too shattered to stand upon." Auroch wept and lay his head down, with nothing else left for him but to die and return to the earth and stone that made him.


But Earth felt his tears and was not happy. "What is this? Auroch has fallen so low and to lay down and weep like a calf in thunder?" The spirit of earth grumbled with all the rumbling of stone. "To think I was once so proud to have made you those strong hooves that I might know your step and call you friend! No, I'll have none of you like this!"


So even death was denied poor Auroch and he wandered and wept. Home nowhere and known by none, all seemed lost to the sorry soul. Until a kind voice as bubbly as the babbling brook spoke out to him.


"Oh Auroch your blood is far too hot, it does your thinking no good at all. Come and rest in me a while. Cool yourself and you shall see what's been in front of you this whole time." The spirit of water called to him.


Thankful for any small kindness, Auroch limped into the stream and bathed his aching bones and bloody feet. The cool water soothed his sorrow and washed away his pain. Until it was gone, replaced by something else. Auroch looked down and saw pieces of his broken hooves falling away and drifting off with the current. He marvelled as instead of falling he rose up on his back legs. He could feel the flesh beneath his shattered hooves stretching to break out like a chick from the egg. Little by little it speak out until he held up two hands of five digits each!


"Ah there stands Auroch, tall and kind as ever." Said the sky.


"There steps Auroch, strong and brave as before." Said the earth.


"Here drinks Auroch." Whispered the water. "Steadfast and gentle."


So Auroch returned to his plains and his kin. He showed them how to stand and helped then shape hands. Together as a herd they drove off their hunters and the animals of the plains flocked to Auroch once more giving their strength as he gave his.


And so it was. Auroch lead his herd west and those that stood were aurochs no more. They were minotaurs.


Of course there was mention of Auroch's wrathful kin who went east but that was glazed over as a story for another time.

Shul thought he made a good telling of it. Easily done given most tyren hear that one from a young age and overhear it from all the young that come after them.


Once he was done he opened the light to others. After all it was meant for sharing and they were curious to hear the tales of the other races that had attended.


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Orm and Shul weren't the only ones stepping forward to meet the new crowds of neighbors though. With some sense of peacefulness returning and the watchful eyes of the glade guard for safety, the merchant and craft wagons opened up for business. Aggressively so, some might say.


Minax, ever looking to get an edge on her competition even started giving away small bits of goods to those that came for the language lessons. Nothing too luxurious, just some blankets and scarves she could spare. The real money makers she held back.


Orm was so impressed by her little act of diplomacy he odered a whole cart given away for free! Kicking himself for not thinking of it sooner given all he'd heard of living conditions in the platz. So it was one day that the tyren delivered a whole cart of woolen blankets, coats and other bits to keep the sea night chill off as an act of thanks for help rendered.


Minax was less enthusiastic about that. At least he'd given their fledgling guild a healthy cash injection.


Maybe he could wrangle her some more customers while he was in the city. Last she'd heard Orm was looking for some partnership with their lords. Something to do with looking after the road and some bells, she wasn't sure. It was hard to think while all the crafters rushed around playing architect and hammering out their new iron.


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Indeed Orm was plenty busy about the coastal town. After the attack was cleared away and he'd made sure their people were safe (with plenty of hugging on Rahg's part) he sent Weome back to camp to see to their own injured. Once she'd seen to her tasks there of course. Anuc refused to leave, much to the dismay of her brother. The grumbling males gave up trying to convince her.


At least Weome would have company on her way home. The day after the attack and in others following it Orm and company went about spreading the word that there was paid work waiting at Hrun'taras as well as shelter for those that felt just a little uncomfortable living among the walking dead. He hoped at least some of the beach dwelling exiles might taking them up on the offer. If not them then maybe these new arrivals? Well at least they could bring some of those donkey-rats back with them! Those would make a nice gift for the herdsmen.


The Platz seemed to be filling up and changing each time Orm saw it but he could never really guess what they were up to though, even when he was staying at the inn. Well while he was kicking about town he could track down the other self-claimed leaders around here and see if they were willing or able to help out with the path and some defences. At least some alarms so that they might all be more prepared for any future attacks. Not to mention all those heads!


If they wanted him they could meet the tyren around the beach. They'd caught word and scent of the new ship. More folk of fur and tail. Finally the chance of some civilised conversation!


Actions Summary

Spoiler

-Shul washes away his poppy mark and the idol is respectfully moved to a nearby hill.


-Start the forming of a path between the platz and the hills. (2 Skilled workers, 7 unskilled. All general labourers. They are given the gathered gravel to lay it for the path.)


- Tyren open Language Square! A place to learn new language, find out about new cultures and make new friends! Students and potential teachers welcome from all over the young colony. (First lessons conducted by Shul and the remaining 2 Skilled labourers)


- Tyren form luxuries guild! (6 skilled workers, 4 skilled craftsmen and 2 merchants. 4 Unskilled workers, the craftsman's apprentices.)


Goods include:


Darkleaf - The harvest is now in and this tobacco like plant is ready to be smoked or chewed as the buyer desires.


Gem bushel jewellery - Trinkets and charms made from the gem plants found in the swamps.


Fine silver goods - All that silver and skill has been put to good use. You're bound to find something to decorate your home or person here. (1 wealth point spent from treasury to give ample silver supply and hopefully jump start the guild)


Woolen goods - The sheep have been shorn and the new works are in. Blankets, scarves, coats and other items of clothing in time for winter! Orders and alterations can be made for size, please ask at stall. (some free woolen goods have been given to people who attended the first language lessons and a cart load has been given as a gift to the people of the platz. It was sent with Orm, Shul and an escort of 4 warriors)


Quest note! Although Orm is currently unaware of its progress he's seeking out other leaders in the platz to discuss forming a united governing body. Though he may not say it in those same words.


- 1 wealth point spent buying live capybara for the herdsmen. Wealth is offered to exiles in exchange for labour but the price will be delivered after service is given.

Building effort!


All available hands are still helping with the housing project and pool their resources together with the tree singers. Using the stone gathered from boulder field to use as a strong foundation for each new home. The craft wagons are also curious about the new proposal and forge bull iron from the ore gathered at the cliff to mix with the tree sung architecture. It's beginning to look as if the new houses will be made of a mixture of materials.

 

[Heyitsjiwon]

Caelis was relieved to finally see an organized effort to take care of the wounded and the sight of Doctor Flemming scurrying among the men. He hoped that many lives could be saved that day. However, several things were concerning as Caelis also began to notice several things. The exiles seemed to have finished gathering all the prisoners, and they were clearly the subject of the Exiles' vengeance and frustration. Plus, there was the sudden departure of their leader. Something had to be done to address this issue. Caelis thought of home and how this situation would be handled. It was not uncommon in Attolian history for citizenship to be offered to mercenaries, auxiliaries, and allies who had been in service to the Attolian military during times of war. However, they had to be a part of the Attolian military for at least 4 years before being offered citizenship. After those 4 years, they had the option to leave the military and live a civilian life, but most seemed to stay in the military and continue to climb the ranks.


While the Kingdom was technically not at war, it certainly seemed like the colonists were with all these hostilities going on. They needed more friends that they could trust and count on if they were to survive in these lands. Caelis was more than willing to offer this proposal to the Exiles. If they pledged themselves to him and to serve him for 4 years, then he would be more than willing to offer all men and their immediate family Attolian citizenship and its benefits. They would also be offered training and education so that they can be smoothly integrated with the Attolians. However, there was the fact that many of these Exiles likely held deeply ingrained hatred for the Empire and the Attolians were the closest symbolic representation of the Empire. So, he had some reservations as to how many would take on this offer. But, he prayed that the Exiles would see that they had no reason to despise each other. Thus, he sent a messenger to Baez and Haakon, the two current leaders and people who Caelis had the opportunity to meet and work with, about his offer.





In regards to the current treatment of the prisoners and the Exiles in charge of them, Caelis called over to his Chemist who accompanied Doctor Fleming. He whispered to the Chemist "Give the prisoners a strong dose of opium. I want them to be sedated so that they stop resisting. We want them alive, and the more that they struggle... the less they're likely to see the sun again. They have a lot to answer for, so they must live long enough for them to pay back for the pain that they have wrought upon us." He then looked over to the two familiar men who stood by him. "Tomaz, and Jav. I thank you two for helping me up during the battle. You two truly are paragons of Attolian soldiers. But we have much more to do before we can even think about celebrating. I want the men to continue searching for spoils and start cataloging. We're going to need to figure out a way to replace all the equipment that the abominable powder destroyed. But for now, do your best with what you have. We're not going to pursue the enemy in the state that our equipment is in. So, I'll see to it that you men get what you need as soon as possible."


@Prince Vaethorion


The High Elf leader then approached Caelis. It appeared he wanted to continue and pursue the enemy with some of his men, and that his Sundered Kings should be a part of it. Caelis responded "Rather than chasing after an organized withdrawal, I believe that it would be more prudent for my Sundered Kings to make way for the Tyren encampment and muster our forces there. Surely, the Tyren and the Wood Elves would be more than willing to help us in our time of need as well? They could make their way south from the encampment and set an ambush for the enemy if they're quick enough." After all, half of his own military was there, so it was in his best interest for fresh soldiers to continue fighting.


However, the most concerning news had yet to reach him until Lady Cassandra arrived at the site of the battle. She kept her head down and gaze low. No doubt all the recently departed spirits were a ghastly sight to behold for her. Thus, that meant that she had something that important to tell him. "Thank you, Cassandra, for coming here yourself. I imagine there's a very good reason as to why you are here?" Lady Cassandra than recounted what she learned about what had just occurred to the west. It took several minutes, but by the end Caelis was dumbfounded. Bless whatever god that the undead legion had turned back. That bell from the imps may have saved their lives But, there were other issues. "Hunger ghosts... we may be forced to relocate all our food away from the platz. Perhaps on our ships? I will consult the other colonists." Lady Cassandra then spoke up "There is one more thing... milord. The fountain..." she then took her time to describe its offer. Once again, these matters were largely over Caelis' head. He had no experience with such matters. However, he knew that Lady Cassandra was scared Thus, he forcefully said "Look at me, Cassandra. Lift your head." as he grabbed her hand with a firm, steady grip. Lady Cassandra looked up at Caelis' eyes and then he spoke in an unwavering tone "I will not tell you what to do. This is a decision that you must make. If you believe that this offer will help everyone, then accept. But, if you hold concerns, then do not accept it. All these years, you have never failed me Cassandra. I trust you." He then looked away and paused. Then he continued and said "However, our dear... friend still owes us two answers. I shall visit him soon."


Summary:


Send the current Exile leadership an offer to join the Attolians


Chemist is sent to sedate the prisoners so that they no longer struggle or fight their imprisonment


The Soldiers are to continue searching for spoils of war and begin cataloguing


Assuming that there's no disagreement, the Sundered Kings are to ride to the Tyren Encampment to rally the Colonial Forces there and head south to meet and engage the enemy as they retreat.


Lady Cassandra is left to her own judgement about the offer that the being of the fountain gave

 

[KamiKahzy]

@Beckoncall @Prince Vaethorion

Dust in the Dark
​

A great deal of information had been passed in a short amount of time, and for a lesser being much of it may have gone right over one's head. But Milkweed hadn't risen to the position of Chief for nothing, and so he listened intently and observed all there was to notice. His granddaughter's information was very helpful in establishing a goal for them, and soon ideas began to bloom in Milkweed's mind. But there were still questions to be answered, and so he calmly asked the aging shaman beside him, "Might you be able to smell where the stringman* is now?" Nateema's eyes fluttered shut as she concentrated, sniffing the air and adjusting her ears to the currents of the wind. "...Hard to say dear Chieftain. But if this old nose be true," she sniffed once more, "Then the stringman be on the far side of the island." She opened her eyes again and looked back to Milkweed. "He's distracted with something for now. Be small** if you mean to go into that jungle, lest he turn his bones on you."


Milkweed nodded once before he looked on to the island ahead. Stealth was something he was well acquainted with, as were the rest of his kin. Yes, they might just be the perfect group to send in for this task. But even as he thought and pondered he began to hear murmurings among his paws. Milkweed was sure they thought they were being subtle, and Neesa bless them for their ignorance. From what was said many seemed reluctant to go in, but only few voiced genuine concern with Milkweed's judgment. He really couldn't blame them. After all they'd just spent several months at sea with the promise of a new life ahead of them, and the very first day they arrive they don't even get to set foot on the new lands they were promised. Milkweed himself would be salty back in his youth, but experience had taught him that decisive action and good planning would quell such fears in short order. They needed to finish this task, both for their own sake and for those that were trapped at the tower. Milkweed was sick and tired of his people being received as vermin degenerates, and he held no fantasies that this act would fix centuries of toxic stigma. But at least it would be a step down the right tunnel.


Milkweed's course was set and he would not be deterred. His back straightened as a steely glint formed in his eye, and he spoke aloud so that all of his paws on the bow might hear his voice. "No one dies tonight that isn't already dead." With that he turned on his heel and walked towards the aft railings, right to where the High Elven ship was trailing behind their vessel at a respectable distance. He'd need to coordinate things with these new 'allies' of theirs if things were to run smoothly. He just hoped the elves wouldn't discount his plans out of hand.


Milkweed raised his paw and signaled the vessel to approach, and after some fussing on their end the vessel slowly began to sidle up next to the ratfolk ship. The elven commander approached the railing and Milkweed greeted him with a traditional ratfolk hand gesture of welcome. The elf returned the gesture in kind, and Milkweed spoke first in common. "Hail lord Elf, my name is Milkweed." The elven commander answered in common as well, likely to ensure an ease of communication. But what struck Milkweed as odd was that it felt as though the elf were speaking calmly right next to him even though there was at least six feet of distance between the two of them. "Greetings, I am Lord Master of Tongues, the High Born linguist." Milkweed nodded in acknowledgement of the elf's title before he continued. "Let's not waste time with pleasantries. My scouts tell me there's a tower in the center of the island, some ramshackle thing that looks to be the survivor's holdout. Our shaman has also sensed a puppeteer for these dustmen somewhere on the far side of the island, beyond the tower."


The Linguist nodded in kind at this news. "Indeed. I spoke before to our mage and he also smelled necromancy. The Imperial Oriental Company often employed their kind to make use of the undead for cheap labor. It would be best for all if we could slay this foul magic user, but only if the target presents itself." Now it was Milkweed's turn to nod. "Agreed, I don't much fancy a fight with a thing I know nothing about. But if we do kill the stringman, all the puppets could fall at once."


Milkweed looked the gathered elves up and down for a moment, appraising them all with a trained eye. "...Your kin don't strike me as the 'subtle' type lord Elf, so I'd rather you stay back and guard the beach. I will take some of my paws to the tower, but our shaman will remain to nudge the dustmen away from here." The Linguist looked about at his troops and, with a tiny bit of resentment, nodded in agreement. "...I agree with your plan. We High Born can lay discreetly in ambush, or work in a support role." Milkweed thought a moment on that before he spoke, "I'll let you decide how best to direct your elves." Milkweed then looked towards the tower as he pondered a few other details.


The Linguist spoke up to gain Milkweed's attention. "I would recommend a distraction for when you make to leave with the survivors." Milkweed's ear swiveled towards the Linguist when he heard this, nodding immediately at the suggestion. "Aye, though what to do..." Milkweed thought a moment before he looked over to the elves and asked, "Have you any pitch aboard your vessel?" The Linguist looked a little disheartened at that. "Yes, but Elven pitch does not burn." Milkweed clicked his tongue in annoyance, that wasn't what he had hoped to hear. "Shame. We've some pitch in our hold, but not enough I think." The Linguist spoke again, "Perhaps a horn or bell from the fog?" Milkweed's face perked up at that. "Now that is an idea..." He held his muzzle as he began to think on that possibility. After a brief moment he pointed to the east and spoke to the Linguist. "Consider this: when we make landfall you take your elves and sail to the east of here. We should be getting close to the tower if we haven't already gained access by the time you're in position. Once there, turn about and sound off with that horn you have on deck to rile the dustmen. Shoot a few of them if you must but make sure they take notice. Once they start to move you'll sail back here as fast as you can. By the time you reunite with our ship we should have the survivors in tow and past the worst of it thanks to your efforts." Milkweed looked to the elves after he finished speaking. "What say you?" The Linguist pondered that idea for a moment, obviously considering the risks that would be involved in such a gambit. But soon enough he nodded and said, "A reasonable strategy, but I would not use our horn. These fish zombies can swim quite well and I would not risk them boarding our ship. No, I'd rather set a distraction on the beach itself. Perhaps a few bells tied to a spear or something of that sort." Milkweed nodded, "Aye, fair enough."


Now that the main strategy was settled it was time to take care of the outlying issues Milkweed had noticed. He looked to the sloop that bobbed in the water next to the miserable looking wreck, a strange anomaly among many stranger tidings. Milkweed pointed a claw towards it as he spoke to the Linguist. "What do you think of that ship?" The Linguist considered the vessel for a moment before he answered. "It could be a good asset for the colony. Perhaps even the first colony vessel we could use exclusively for patrolling or trade?" Milkweed nodded as he brought his paw behind his back and placed it in the other. "Perhaps, but it may be hiding some foul things in its belly. And with no crew or sails it will only be dead weight for our escape." Milkweed tapped his claws together as he thought. "...I'll send some paws to clear out the shadows. They'll be covered by our cranks*** from here, and hopefully they'll be done before you sound the horn." The Linguist nodded at that, but mentioned a thought that came to mind. "Perhaps there are spare sails in the hold?" Milkweed shrugged, "No way to be sure, so let's assume there are none for now. Besides, raising new sails will take time. Time we won't necessarily have." The Linguist nodded back, visibly discouraged about the state of the vessel as it was.


And so the plans appeared to be set. Milkweed took one final look out to the island before he turned to the Linguist and addressed him once more. "We'll egress from this beach, it should serve to put the tower between us and the stringman." He pointed out at the tower before continuing, "Keep an eye on the tower. I know not what will happen, but if there's a commotion then be ready to sail." The Linguist nodded and brought a hand to his chest in a more traditional elvish salute. "We are with you in this. But a word of warning before we proceed." Milkweed cocked his head inquisitively as he listened. "This necromancer... Our mage mentioned he had control of the skies. If you mean to burn anything be wary, he may try to rain on your plans." A curious grin split Milkweed's cheeks when he heard that little nugget of information. "Truly? Hmm." The Linguist pointed to the beach and fanned his finger over the sand that was visible to them. "We will be ready to assist, and help to keep the beach approach clear for your extraction." He brought his finger back and balled his hand into a tight fist before lowering it to his side. "Let us try to draw out that necromantic filth for an ambush, put him down now while we can. One of my spears has fought a necromancer before, and with a bit of luck and a hail of arrows we may succeed this night." Milkweed sighed slightly, then looked back up to the Linguist. "Perhaps, but only if he gives chase himself. I didn't bring my family across the sea to kill undead, I brought them to build homes and new lives." The Linguist nodded at that, a calculated tone of empathy leaking into his speech. "Of course, lives do come first. If not tonight then another day, we will come back in force to finish things off and recover these supplies." Milkweed nodded back to that statement, "Indeed, a fair plan."


Milkweed looked back to the Linguist and stood resolute, satisfied with their discussion. "Then it seems we are in accord." The Linguist saluted once again, this time with more force and with the rest of his elves mimicking the action in perfect harmony. It was eerie just how coordinated these elves seemed to be, and Milkweed found himself wishing his own people were half as disciplined as these soldiers. The Linguist spoke in a stately manner, bringing to bear all his military training and sounding as official as any commander could hope to be. "Yes, we are in accord. Quel marth! Good luck to you." The Linguist brought his fist down and the elves behind him followed suit. Milkweed was about to leave when the Linguist spoke up one last time. "We have a saying among our people. 'Uuma ma' ten' rashwe, ta tuluva a' lle.' Don't look for trouble, it will come to you!" Milkweed laughed once in a low, hapless tone when he heard the translation. "For all our sakes, let's hope trouble sleeps deeply this night." And with that Milkweed was gone to the bow to rejoin his paws.

A Breath Before the Plunge

​

Some of the rats had tried to gather near the place where Milkweed was speaking with the Linguist, but kept a respectable distance so as not to seem rude or conniving. As Milkweed began to approach they parted the ranks to give him room to pass, walking quietly through a small crowd of rats that were not actively watching the bow for danger. He stopped at a point that put him directly in the center of all those gathered, and when he was sure he had everyone's attention he spoke aloud for all to hear. "...This is what I've decided. There's souls on that island that need help, and we're going to save them. No one has come to our aid before, and we will break that cycle by setting an example here and now. No longer will we be greeted as vermin or pests, for now we will be greeted as saviors. Maybe not to all, but at least to a few. And I would rather have earned some good will from our neighbors than none at all." There was silence among the ranks, and for now Milkweed couldn't tell if his speech had heartened his paws or sunk their spirits even further.


But there was no time to ponder that, now was the time for action. Milkweed called out to his Aged in order, "Breeze, Needle, Nateema, Coalback, if you would." The four Aged walked out of the crowd and stood before Milkweed, ready to listen intently to his orders. "Myself, Breeze and Needle will take a mischief**** into the jungle towards the tower. Once we touch sand the elves will sail to the eastern side of the island. They're going to make a fuss and draw out the dustmen to their side, away from us and the tower. If we haven't made contact with the tower yet then we'll use the distraction to get in and get the surivors out of there. After that we make for the beach here and get everyone aboard. Nateema," the old doe perked her ears towards Milkweed, "I need you here on the ship. You're in charge while I'm gone, and I need you to keep the dustmen at bay." The shaman nodded and smiled knowingly at her chief. "Coalback," the huge buck perked an eyebrow and barely managed to restrain a throaty grunt, "You're going to lead a second mischief. That ship tied to the wreck worries me, we don't know what's in there. Nateema, if you could, try and sense if there's anything foul in its belly from here. If you think it safe then send in Coalback and his paws to clear the shadows." Both Coalback and Nateema nodded at this order, with Nateema looking far more happy with the outcome than Coalback did.


With that Milkweed turned to the gathered paws and uttered an old phrase that many ratfolk were familiar with. "I need sixteen paws from the clan. Who offers theirs?" A steady trickle of rats began to step forward from the crowd until eventually 16 rats stood before Milkweed, resolute and stalwart in their stance. Milkweed looked over the volunteers and picked out six from the total, pointing them to the side. The six separated from the whole, leaving one team of six and one of ten. Milkweed pointed to the six individuals he had picked first, "You will go with Coalback to clear out the ship." The six nodded and went to stand by Coalback, whose chest swelled with just a shade of pride from being gifted these warriors. Milkweed turned to address Coalback and his mischief. "Get below decks and take six willing paws from the bucks and does. Let them cut their fangs on this task." Coalback nodded in understanding, glad of the extra help and the chance to impart some lessons into the young. Milkweed then turned back to the remaining ten volunteers and addressed them directly. "The rest of you are with me. Get below and grab some pitch from the stores. Put it in skins, bottles, whatever works. But keep it small, only one bottle per paw. And bring flint and kindling to light it!" The dirty paws nodded and began to make their way below decks. Coalback followed suit with his own paws to gather the extra souls he'd need for his task.


This left only Milkweed, Nateema, Needle, Breeze, and the eight remaining paws that hadn't been assigned to either party standing on deck. All were looking at Milkweed expectantly, wondering if he had further orders to give. And it just so happened he did, and he directed those orders at Nateema once again. "Grandmother, come here please." The old doe smiled at the respectful label and walked forward so that she stood directly in front of Milkweed. He spoke to her calmly but softly enough that only Needle and Breeze could hope to overhear. "The elves say this stringman can warp the weather." A mischievous twinkle glinted in Nateema's eye when she heard that, smiling a toothy grin that showed off her surprisingly well kept incisors. Milkweed returned the grin in kind. "Show him how foolish that would be if he tries it on us, would you?" Nateema held Milkweed's gaze with that same twinkle as she answered, "With pleasure young buck." A knowing look was passed between Needle and Breeze when they heard this request from their chief, as both were quite aware of Nateema's hidden talents.


A more serious tone took over Milkweed's face as he continued to address the shaman. "I trust in your skills Nateema, but just in case..." Milkweed reached into a hidden pouch within his tunic and drew out a shining grey stone that he'd kept on his person since the day they left Port Cestus. The Bone Tear glowed with an otherworldly light, and Milkweed was sure it was glowing brighter now than it had been while they were at sea. He looked towards the shore and pondered if the dustmen were causing this reaction. The idea only confirmed his decision as he pressed the jewel into the old doe's paw. "Only use it if you must. 'Waste not' and all that." Milkweed winked at the greying shaman who looked stunned for a moment, but then gave a smile of her own as she accepted the Tear.


Milkweed left Nateema with that and now turned to address his spy and closest friend Breeze. "Have them ready the skiffs when they resurface. I'm going to ready my gear." Breeze nodded as a tiny, knowing smirk picked up the corners of his mouth. Milkweed smiled back and left his Aged where they were, walking off towards his cabin where his tools laid in storage. He pushed open the doors to the cabin and strode to a glass cabinet against the wall. Inside he had hung his weapons of choice, and after a brief moment of admiration he opened the cabinet and began to arm himself. First was his crossbow, a sturdy model that seemed to reload faster for him than any other he'd handled. He slung it over his back, then strapped a quiver of bolts to his belt. The black shafts were pressed snugly together by a flap near the quiver's opening, ensuring they remained silent while he was on the move. Next were his trusty knives, three in total that he slipped easily into their sheathes. Two went to his waist, and the third would go into a sheath that strapped over his chest. But before he housed his last dagger he took a moment to pluck a random hair from his arm and hold it up to the light. Slowly he brought the blade down upon the hair, and was delighted to see the dagger split it neatly down the center. Satisfied, he sheathed the third dagger and pulled out his final piece of equipment. It was yet another blade, but this one had a strange brace of steel and leather towards the tang that seemed out of place on most weapons. But that was simply because most beings didn't have the right limb to use this weapon properly. Milkweed lifted his tail and brought it around so he could attach the blade to it properly. This weapon was just one example of the infamous tail blades that ratfolk were known to employ. Many warriors and chiefs alike customized these blades to better reflect their personality and their fighting style. Some were serrated, others were more axe like, and many were pitted with specials channels to facilitate the flow of intricate poisons. Milkweed's however was a simple affair, more like a steel spike than anything else. But it was just as sharp as his knives, and when placed in the right spot this could kill even the largest of enemies.


Strapped and ready Milkweed left his cabin without any further ceremony. He strode out onto the deck and was pleased to see his paws assembled and ready to move. Each looked as prepared as he could hope for, and Milkweed strode forward armed to the teeth in his own style. His paws straightened out and looked more professional at his presence, and Milkweed took a moment to look at those gathered before he spoke. He took a solemn tone as he lowered his head and said a prayer aloud to everyone, "Momma Neesa keep us warm at her side." Every rat present bowed their heads in kind and stayed silent for a brief moment of respect.


When the moment passed they all raised their heads and Milkweed got straight to work. "Breeze, get the skiffs ready. Bring three extra skiffs with us to ferry the survivors." Breeze nodded and motioned for the shore party to get moving. While they worked, Milkweed addressed Coalback and his team. "If Nateema says it is safe I want you back here as soon as you're done. We need all paws guarding the ship if we can." Coalback nodded and moved his group to a point where they could wait their turn to deploy their own skiffs. Milkweed then turned to Nateema, who stood there as serenely as one might imagine a wizened old doe would be. "Keep these dustmen off the beach, aye? We'll be small, so don't worry." Nateema smiled at her new chief, grateful that he had heeded her words. "Oh, and mind the elves. They might try something fancy on the beach later." Nateema grinned at that, nodding in acknowledgement of Milkweed's order.


Finally, Milkweed looked to his granddaughter and motioned for her to follow. "Let's go Needle." The young doe nodded at her grandfather and followed him dutifully to where the last skiffs were being lowered into the sea. Milkweed climbed aboard and waved once to his paws still on board the vessel. Soon he was lowered down into the rocking hands of the ocean, and the lines were cast from the ship and into the skiff. Milkweed sat down and let his paws do the rowing, watching as the beach came closer and closer to them. The air of dread he felt from the dustmen threatened to spike his fur, but he calmed his heart and remained cool in the sight of his kin.


Soon each of the skiffs was beached on the island, and his paws worked to quietly moor them to bits of debris and heavy rocks that were strewn about. Many of his paws began to look at the forgotten treasures with avarice, but Milkweed put them all in their place with a harsh whisper. "Touch NOTHING from this place! The whole island could be cursed for all we know." The rats looked disheartened and frightful at this, many drawing their hands back mid grasp for a shiny bauble or loose coin. Once the skiffs were secured as best as they could Milkweed addressed the gathered paws once more, "Do not attack unless attacked first. Be small everyone." The paws nodded in understanding, as many had hoped that would be the preferred plan. Milkweed then looked to Breeze and said to him, "Let's follow this junk, should lead us right to them. Breeze, you take point." Breeze nodded in acknowledgement, then signaled for everyone to fall in line. Like fuzzy shadows the gathered paws began to fan out and follow Breeze as he made his way into the brush, taking their very first steps into a new land, being led down a path they could only hope would lead to their intended goal.


The rescue had officially begun.

Spoiler

Stringman: In essence a being that controls others against their will. Often refers to necromancers, but may also refer to hypnotists, creditors or politicians.


Be Small: A colloquial phrase meant to imply that one should stay silent and out of sight, hidden and remote from danger.


Cranks: Slang for ratfolk crossbows, so named for the elegant crank system used to reset the heavy strings.


Mischief: A group of rats of varying size.

Orders

​

- Milkweed discusses a plan of action with the High Elf Linguist. It is agreed that when the main party reaches the shore that the elves will sail to the eastern side of the island and attempt to gain the undead's attention. When that distraction happens it will be up to Milkweed and his group of Breeze, Needle, and 10 dirty paws to quickly gain access to the tower and get the survivors to come with them to the beach.


- Milkweed orders his 10 dirty paws to go below decks and grab one bottle or waterskin of pitch apiece as well as some flint and kindling to light it.


- Coalback is ordered to take 6 dirty paws and 6 bucks/does to inspect the abandoned sloop tied to the wreck, but only if Nateema cannot sense anything overly dangerous with her magics. They are to search the vessel and ensure there's no hidden surprises waiting on board, then come back to the main ship and maintain the guard with the other dirty paws. While they're aboard the sloop the 8 dirty paws left on the main ship will keep an eye out and try to provide fire support if necessary.


- Nateema is ordered to stay on the main ship with the 8 remaining dirty paws and the rest of the clan. She is in charge while Milkweed is absent, and her job is to ensure the skeletons stay away from the beach with some gentle nudging on her part. She's also told to be mindful of any elves that may try to position themselves on the beach, as Milkweed doesn't want them to be shot by accident. The 8 dirty paws are to stand guard from the ship and prepare their crossbows to shoot any undead that start to look less than amiable.


- Milkweed has given the Bone Tear to Nateema for her to use if she deems it necessary. But Milkweed has stressed that the Tear is only to be used in an emergency as he's not sure how the gem will react to all these undead, or what will happen while being directed through Nateema's magics.


- Milkweed and his party have set down on the beach with enough skiffs to ferry them all, and with three extra skiffs to ferry any survivors they come across. Once they've landed they will follow the trail of valuables to the tower, but warned not to take anything that they find since Milkweed isn't sure if the objects are cursed or not. Milkweed and his team will move quietly through the jungle, staying low and avoiding any undead patrols that they come across. They are not to attack anything unless they are attacked first so as not to alert the necromancer.

 

[Prince Vaethorion]

@Beckoncall @KamiKahzy


After the plans with the Rat-folk were discussed and agreed upon. The night air became heavy with anticipation and dread. The darkness, the mist, the unknown fate of his brethren at the Platz, the rescue of the IOC, all was a lot to digest for the High Elves on board. The Linguist never cared for this "island", not since the moment he laid eyes on it. There was something off about it. The occurrences of Dark Magic disturbed his High Elven sensitivities, and did not bode well with the crew either. Now they were in collaboration with the most unusual of allies, the Ratfolk. The very people his Elves had kept away from the Elven kingdoms for millennia, were now his fellow colonist and comrades at paws. Bull-folk, Croc-Folk, Rat-Folk, Tree-Folk, and human-folk were now intertwined with his High Born. These were unusual allies. The small crew assembled were up for the task at hand. They would rather be adventuring than standing guard at the port, feeling helpless and watching the human riff raff flood the beach with their despair.


The plan was a bit complex, but also simple. The Rat-Folk would stealthily make their way on to the beach with the intent to make it to the tower. Before they reached the tower, the Linguist would at a distance from the ship have a spearman set a bell onto a barbed spear with a rope attached, this set up would have a rigged line would make noise on a beach or an outcrop of rock. Whatever was safest and most practical. This noise maker would be placed and strung up on the shore. This would be done discretely, with the noisy object covered by cloth until ready. The archers with blunt arrows would stand watch while the most able Skilled Spearman laid the noise maker down with a good throw if possible or placed if need be (if deemed safe). The noise maker on the shore would be attached by a rope to cause the bell to ring. To start the ringing, the spearman would pull the rope from the darkness, a couple hundred feet away. if possible the rope would also be attached to a buoy which when it bobbed it would ring the bell. Once the Undead were stirred up and heading that direction, ( hopefully the movement of the floating buoy would continue to pull the string). Once the distraction was successful, the Ratfolk would have heard the noise and use it as a signal to go to the tower.


The High Born would then quietly sail back towards the extraction point, where the beach would be cleared by archers with blunt arrows if need be (hopefully any skeletons went towards noise by then), but only kill two skeletons or zombies at a time as to not alert the Necromancer. The Ship with the Spearman would then lay hidden in wait with the Archers, the archers covering the beach from the ships awaiting for the Rats to return with the rescued Merchants and the spearman protecting the ship from Fishman, Fishman Zombies and the shore from skeletons and Zombies. The High Elves were to be careful not to draw the attention of undead in the water or on the shore to them until the extraction took place.


The Linguist explained to his crew, "The Mage smelled necromancy,... so we know this isn't a case of restless spirits, which is one of the main 3 causes of undead. Restless spirits, negative energy, necromancy. If one smells necromancy, it's usually necromancers.... although extremely light or heavy negative energy which can be misleading. Our mage would guess either it's an active necromancer, or legacy animates... and the condition of the zombies would indicate it's not THAT much legacy if at all. The mage would guess there's a necromancer, or at least there was, before something went wrong.Some necromancers are living breathing folk, we can kill them like anybody else.


Others... they always come back..." (the Linguist said this hoping to be brief but continued)


"We can stealthily kill them. Often but not always much or all of their summonates will crumble if we kill the necro though...


I have a hunch that if the necromancer got dispatched, these bone fellas would drop like stones...."


The Linguist nodded eagerly, statesman like and whispered. "We can expect the Necromancer to take punishment more than the average bear -- especially if he is expecting it. Don't expect pain, for instance, to stop a necromancer. If the necro is already dead, massive trauma won't phase him much either. But if we do enough damage, they go down. It's easier to drop a necro than it is to make sure they won't ever get up again.


Burning and scattering the ashes is key. In the case of Liches as obviously dead necros, never leave the skull intact. There are certain types of necros, "Demi-Liches" that can be little more than a skull or a few bones with an evil will attached.


The IOC (Merchant group) though -- they sometimes employ lesser necromancers to animate slave labor. They expect folk in their service to die, so they protect their margins by reanimating labor. That's a good sign then -- because sanctioned necros aren't nearly as bad as rogue/renegade/immortal necros. Nevermind how repulsive "Sanctioned Necromancer" sounds, especially to a high elf... but Muurdaan don't fully abolish the practice if it's regulated. Keeps too many mines running, and it's a great way to sow crops when they're already too many mouths to feed. Necromancers are defensive. We cannot expect him to stick his neck out, but if he appears, then fill him full of arrows and burn his body." ooc: (taken from notes from Beck)


"Tira ten' rashwe!" (Be careful) "Dina!" (be quiet)"


The High Elves, in the night wore their grey cloaks to cover their Mithril armor and moved exceptionally quietly considering....


Orders:


* High born will set up a distraction (bell and rope) away from where extraction will take place and set up noise from a distance


* High Born will sail back and defend extraction point near tower approach with archers


* SpearMan will defend ship from Fishman, and Fish zombies (archers too of course)


* High Born will provide cover for abandoned ship if need be and possible

 

[Beckoncall]

@SpiralErrant (BUT OF CONSEQUENCE TO ALL! SUGGESTED POST FOR ALL PLAYERS!) @Leusis


Flash-Forward after the days of the first battle of ‘Platz:


(More recent events to follow!!!)


“The ribbon betwixt Immortal and non proves ever tenuous”


The Tyren moved the statue… it was celebrated for its presence and it’s discovery and even for its gifts, but it was not the Tyren way to embrace spirits in this way – not yet, at least – The friendship with the wee-woods was a leap enough in itself… The Tyren had settled, the Tyren had gained wealth, the Tyren had allied… and every elder in Harun’taran knew where the line was drawn – and that was at GODS. The Tyren didn’t need them, but if something wasn’t done few were so sure that would remain true… so again, though some with heavy heart, they moved the statue… and called it “Friend”…


…In the time to come Shul did treat with the spirit from time to time, as he noticed many Tyren did – the herdsmen and midwives mostly. Small cairns of rocks (well, small by the standards of minotaurs) lined the informal path from Tyren settlement to the hill of the “Fecundity Spirit” … It still greeted him warmly, and Shul greeted her back…


“Your mark is gone, dear one – but I thank you anyway… if nothing else, you’ve proven to me that mortals can still surprise the Titans. That gives me more hope for you than even I had before with my full protection… so I cannot think meanly on your choice. Perhaps your children, or your children’s children will reconsider, or some of you will embrace me, in public or in secret – in their own ways and the ways of your people – or perhaps another group of mortals yet will adopt and exalt me as I hoped your people might…”


Shul looked to the place where he had washed the mark… he never felt it more fully gone, and felt real uncertainty for his decision – his spirit-walking ever else had been a whirl, a chaos, a whorl of lesser and often capricious things… he had spirits he worked with recurrently, and even some he felt he could apply as tools – but all the spirits of the old land were gone, and it was back to the cacophony of soul and ether, making use of the voices he could. Even as he visited the Great Spirit, he knew he missed her… their bond was truly severed. But Orm’s words rang true, and Shul knew it was one of the oldest sayings of the Shamans “That you cannot lead a Tyren where a Tyren will not go.” – this was how it was going to be, the natural order of things.


In the time that followed, the presence of the spirit was still as strong as ever, but spoke less and less as fewer Tyren regarded it. Bouquets of wild-flowers grew at the base of the monument now, where the poppies once bloomed.


@Heyitsjiwon


OPIUM POPPY IS NO LONGER A RESOURCE FOR THE COLONY – however, in addition a modicum of opium being in the general economy (healers, private citizenry) the attolians are in possession of 4 units of it still for local or foreign trade (if held or traded to visitors it will generate wealth, or can be allocated elsewhere – a unit was presumed used after the battle of the ‘platz)


On another of Shul’s visits however, the spirit spoke again:


“The ribbon betwixt Immortal and non proves ever tenuous” – just as fate and circumstance saw it necessary that you mortals find distance with me, fate and circumstance will soon conspire to separate you from your immortal friends. You must say nothing of this Shul, or dire misfortune will befall them… and they may yet return. Let your two people be friends in the little time you have, it was never long to start with. You will accomplish much together… perhaps your people will weep, as I have wept for loss of kinship – dear one… but as am I you Tyren shall be the stronger for it…


The spirit warns Shul of the eventual departure of the wood elves – a worrisome portent…


Then there was the matter of the path between Harun’taras and their hopefully closer-by-effort neighbors in the ‘Platz… it was decided by the crafters wagons that the path would cut through boulder field, as when the gravel ran short the field would be made more potable by utilizing the stone that laid all around them. Breaking that stone would take additional effort, and speculation for completion of the project depended heavily on the cooperation of other factions if they would help. With Tyren silver talking, many exiles with free time from when catches were good or without coin for the Inn – signed on to work for the Tyren… a road through the fields the Attolians planted could only bring food even faster to table, and organize plots as well… but it’s actual completion depended on who and to what degree other factions would lend effort.


Gravel path under construction – additional stone and labor from other factions will help will determine progress on this MOST INFLUENTIAL development.


TYREN gain +1 influence for enriching idle and semi-idle exiles with day-labor and access to education!


The success of the language square too, depended on the notice and participation of the other factions. Many exiles and even some attolian citizenry began to show up besides simply elves and Tyren, the exiles each wanting their own thing, and the Attolians in particular interested in learning the many trading languages of the Tyren. It was hoped that directions from leaders and greater notice and investment would improve its value. For now, The attolians learned how to broaden their trade tongues, the elves and the Tyren exchanged ideas, with the (Tyren learning all they could) but until more factions had word to say of it, it remained a curiosity. Of all people, none treasured the square so much as the springborn, delighting in the dichotomy of being the hungriest learners with the odd coupling that the average Sylvan student was a multiple of any Tyren Elder’s age – though seldom in any way apparent to a non-wood elf.


Learner’s Square needs acknowledgement, seek of use, and/or contribution of faction guild-mates to grow effectively.


@Prince Vaethorion @KamiKahzy @Heyitsjiwon @Elendithas


- Tyren form luxuries guild! (6 skilled workers, 4 skilled craftsmen and 2 merchants. 4 Unskilled workers, the craftsman's apprentices.) – Commodities: Darkleaf, Swamp Gem, Fine Silver, Woolen Goods.


--And lo, what a guild it was! Fine Tobaccos, with strains milded for broader appear by the wood elves that appealed to more discerning humans and high elves, Gem-bushel Jewelry – while in short supply without a consistent work detail to maintain it, was highly coveted for adornment, potential magic or artiface applications, and some speculated you might be able to pack a whole bramble-gem with some kind of explosive to create improvised fragmentation devices… next to this, the fine silver of the Tyren attracted Attolian and Highborn alike, if not for it’s rustic charm and it’s own wild elegance than for it’s value as a material itself… and Wool – fear of winter was a visceral one, but less to those that bought the clothing and coverings of the Tyren. Curtains, Carpets, cloaks and clothes – before long many of the common folk wore Tyren wool just as they carried Tyren coin… Not the least of which was a result of the Tyren’s gifting of such products to visitors to the “Learner’s Square” – but also the demand these “samples” generated.


TYREN FORM LUXURY GUILD ALONE (Four commodities sufficient) – TYREN INFLUENCE is +3!! (bonus is +5 (indeed!) unless 2 additional factions join with at least one luxury commodity… and if additional factions do not or cannot join luxuries guild, market may (eventually) move North, from ‘Platz to Harun’Taran. – because this is in a flash-forward there is time to respond before Influence is applied accordingly -- @SpiralErrant PLEASE make note of this and keep on top of this, and road progress, with me. – Beck)


One wealth point is spent on garnering Exile free-labor, but in aggregate wealth from colony-wide populace offsets this from nominal sale of luxuries.


ALL FACTIONS MORALE IMPROVES –


Tyren and Sylvan improve to “Prosperous”


Highborn morale rises to “Comfortable” (for the time being, or if already comfortable, happy.)


All other factions gain “Steadfast” as morale level unless present definition of morale is preferred.


Finally, there was the compounded product of the union of Sylvan and Tyren in settlement. For a time relations will all the Sylvan save the Winterborn was almost romantic – but in the weeks to come a greater concern seemed to pass down the ranks of the elves… they grew more preoccupied, some even distant – to the point where even a Tyren partly obvious to the rapid gesticulation of an elf could tell.


The Winterborn had learned something communing in the “Mine of Vines” – as it was called… and while it caused great friction and division amid the Wood Elves, It was only a matter of time before most if not all were of one mind. Still – such parting of ways with lesser creatures was common to the Elves, so they did their best to honor their companions even as it became apparent that all but the springborn were growing apart.


The “Ring-Glade” was reinforced into a Stockade of sorts, which greatly rose the defenses of Harun’Taras – A nearly solid ring of wide but close-set trees – with strategic breaks that could be blocked by wagons for rapid defense – and at critical points infused with a kind of Bull-Iron Re-bar or Lattice to give it additional strength. There was not enough bull Iron to fully benefit the structure, but it would only get stronger with age. Similarly, Each group of wagons: The Herdsmen, The Crafters, The Traders, The Pullers – Each were built a Long-house of living wood with light but significant Bull-iron support. The Elves, in the last days, would Teach the Tyren how to place Bull Iron properly crafted so that it might reinforce their structures further, but as it stood, the Wall and longhouses remained a testament and labor of love shown to the Tyren, and received happily by them. Some wagons were altogether expanded, had their wheels removed, and embraced by living wood. What was undeniably a town would rise in Harun’Taras – A wall higher than a Tyren could mantle to see over, but with a few ladders to that crude observation could be done in higher boughs… For the first time anyone could remember, some Tyren had Fireplaces – even though most preferred the outdoor bon-flames for social purposes.


+1 Influence to Tyren for construction of “Glade-Stockade” and more permanent housing for an emerging affluent class. Standard of living rises for Tyren across the board.


…And then, as all things must – the honeymoon ended. Belanor, who surprised himself with his grief, did his best to explain while his advisors broke wider the news. The Muurdaan were aggressing against their homeglade, or allies that could not be denied. The Sylvan always had their secrets – and this was no different – it was enough for Belanor, Beside himself, to tell Orm that he would have to walk his path alone – but that perhaps, if he could, he would return to Harun’Taras in its hour of need. Most every Summerborn spent most unfrugally at the Luxuries guild for keepsakes of the Tyren, knowing it might be the last they saw of them and all they’d ever have to remember them by.


Tyren gain +1 wealth from elven spendthrifting before a mysteriously planned departure…


…On the final day, Anfel, Belanor, and all Sylvan with magic to give performed a great rite at the mouth of the Mine-of-vine… and in it cast the limits of the combined power of their nature gems. Not all Tyren were invited to the parting, but this secret was party to Orm, the Shamans, and other Tyren most beloved, Anuc among them, with an odd Bark-bound tome at her side. Anuc wept uncontrollably, and at a point sought to hide in the vast fur of Orm.


And before the rite commenced, Anfel herself – who looked at Orm in a way that demonstrated somehow an ice in her eye had melted – performed a song explaining cryptically why the elves must leave… and a Farewell to the Tyren from the very hearts of her people…


Play this link as you read the song of Anfel, as mild changes have been made for Genre:


[media]



[/media]
(To the tune of “The Foggy Dew”, song of Anfel) – read along with link, if you please.


I was down the glen one East-sun morn


To a city fair spied I


There armed lines of marching men


In squadrons pass me by


No pipe did hum, no battle drum did sound it's loud tattoo


But our Angelus Bells o'er the Liffey swells rang out in the foggy dew*


Right proudly high in Sylvan town


Hung they out a flag of war


'Twas better to die 'neath an Elvish sky


Than at Sulva or Sud el Bar


And from the Glades of Royal Mead


Strong-born came hurrying through


While Muurdaanian huns with their dwarf-forged guns


Sailed in through the foggy dew**


The bravest fell and the requiem bell


Rang mournfully and clear


For those who’ll died with kin beside in the


Springing of this year


While the world will gaze with deep amaze


At we fearless elves, but few


Who bore the fight that freedom's light


Might shine through the foggy dew


And back through the glen


I rode again


and my heart with grief was sore


For I parted then with valiant Tyren


Whom I may never shall see more


But to and fro in my dreams I go


And I kneel and pray for you


For slavery fled oh glorious dead


Should we fall in the foggy dew…


The meaning was hard to grasp, but the Shamans translated it as it was sung so that Orm MIGHT understand – at least the gist of it. Shul grieved. Bruul was Stoic, and Uumush – his normal resignation flavored with a mite of disappointment… They Translate to Orm:


*”The Muurdaan move where we cannot allow to fall, and noiselessly we heed the call to ambush them and blood them gravely.”


** “Our Home Glade has declared war, and too many of us think it better to fall saving our ancient home than to feign deaf and cast fortune in any land new or unknown. The very royals of their tribes rise to stop the Muurdaan ahead, knowing full well that every Muurdaan Trick and Science lay prepared for them…”


*** “It is a fight none of us can say we will survive, but at any price the Muurdaan must be brought to heel for their despoiling, and this betrayal – and should we not win, we shall bloody them so that they and them that would take arms against them long remember it.”


****”We are not happy in this parting… Heart-wounded are we with this dream unrealized. We that go, fight for your freedom too, and wish Tyren ever friend and free. We pray for you as we pray for ourselves, and let this be the last words we share should death distance us further.”


(Note Bark-Bound Tome for later reference if desired)


And with that, A great spell was cast, and Anfel herself sprouted shimmering wings, then grew with overwhelming power then to overwhelming size. Hard to be missed by any in the colony – Anfel transformed into a TITANIC DRAGONFLY and the Sylvan, almost as one, boarded her as they would an airship. The sunlight through it's brilliant wings cast everything on the shearcliffs and the hills below with a look of stained glass that might change one’s heart forever – and the glorious new form of Anfel shot like lightning from the foot of shearcliffs and through the hole in the barrier… in what those left behind might imagine in time to arrive for their martyrdom…


The Tyren stood at the foot of the Mine, feeling utterly alone in the departure of the elves.


Then one of the springborn rose from the brush, and another from behind a cart, and still more from elsewhere hidden… Until 45 stood together with the Tyren at the mine…


“We who were not betrothed or otherwise bound to the Summerborn have chosen to stay here, and be a part of this new land – and of the Tyren, if you will have us. There is the fear that we our number cannot promise to grow, and there is fear of losing our identity – but we put our concerns beside the Tyren if they will have us… as your guests, and if time and Tyren agree, as your people. The friendship of a Summerborn is long to steep, but many we are fast friends of your people… who may do more here than in some demonstration of sacrifice back home. None of us are fighters – of us we are the least of Belanor’s fighters, if even fighters at all – which is why we were given the choice to stay… that, and perhaps Illythira figures we may calm more departed elven spirits here, and stand testament to our elders who may die abroad… Let us return to the teaching square, Tyren – for I feel your story has just begun, and if fortune favors it, we will be there to witness it all.”


45 Springborn Elves JOIN with the Tyren. Strength of this bond (and possible alteration of it) will be sorted with the spending of influence at a later point… where potentially other factions might curry favor… If the Tyren will not take them, they will become a neutral entity with intention of seeking closer proximity to other elves in the ‘Platz… All other Wood Elves are considered departed to the old world… gone.


The Springborn, fascinated by the apparent meshing of bull-iron and wood-elf materials in housing construction, have begun to propose ideas for a kind of hybrid armor that might be practical for a Tyren to wear. (though some armor is common, it is far too much and too heavy to use metal armors to fully cover all but the strongest minotaurs – and even then wearing it causes some to panic or go berserk. The Springborn pose extremely light and thin layers of bull-iron impregnated in contemporary wood-elf plant-composites (hard vine ‘wrap-mail’, layered bark, and chemical treatments.) Pursuit would take time, thought and resources…

 

[Beckoncall]

@Heyitsjiwon :


“The New World order is left behind, hail to the new world order”


The dead continued to be counted, the loot gathered and catalogued, the brutes – them that did not yet lie dead in the ‘Platz, had pulled their meals into the sewer with them – to some stronghold their War-chief had planned for them. In certain places in the ‘platz by the sewer grates the Attolian workers could still hear the Aymaran Brutes… chewing, crunching, and…. (eeeesh) …NESTING.


The captives were drugged, and as per Caelis’ previous orders Opium was distributed generously to the wounded – it would save many a life, to be sure – If the Brutes had wit or orders to seek treatment more of them might have survived, but it could be seen some were among the dead or could be assumed to have died of injuries below. Not many corpses… but enough. The official tally of the dead would come after all fighting ceased. Some of the Attolians even got talented at throwing cappies at withdrawing brutes so that they might turn from their prey long enough to decapitate it, potentially upping the final yield of Mud-elf heads. Such gristly business… but when you deal with gnolls, as Caelis certainly had (the story of “walks in cull” was quite popular) – you paid in the currency they used. The Attolians could at least understand that…


In the days that followed, the Proposals to the Exile “leadership-in-absentia” were delivered – the offer of INSTANT ATTOLIAN CITIZENSHIP was not wasted on many of the exiles – it meant for a non-indefinite labor commitment, the station of them that accepted, and all their children to come – would be greatly advanced in the Old world… this was counterbalanced by the idea that few (perhaps until now) ever thought they’d see the Old world again, but still it was inviting to know that when the Eternal Empire or it’s agents DID show their faces, they would be greeted – and more to the point TREATED, as Attolian. Many Exiles were full sore with headiness of the offer. The entirety of the skilled laborers, approximately 20 in all, seemed to want to take up this offer immediately…


…The countrymen were NOT so enthused, nor was Haakon – They had bitter enmities for the Muurdaan that struck deeper than mere resentment, mistreatment, and misfortune. Haakon and the Countrymen too, held out hope that Maeder Dratic would return – and judge them harshly for thin loyalties. A few countrymen were not out of the scope of such an offer, their homeland afterall WAS annexed by the Muurdaan and this might perhaps give a chance to revisit their homeland, or at least have contact from afar be sanctioned. Still… Most of Maeder’s best fighters banged their axes on their shields in reply…


“Ye may ‘av cured the wer-plaag, anforinnit you have thanks and since your spirit at the ‘Platz you might call us friends in battle… but we’re not keen on Fleeing the Muurdaan only to become them… No deny you’ve guarded the exiles and helped most instance could be counted – but that doesn’t change centuries of collusion if not outright oppressin’.”


The unskilled workers and convicts were of various minds, precarious, mercurial, indecisive. The convicts in their eyes were already in word if not deed free-men in this new land, and not subject to the old-world cultures and it’s castes… Many more were more receptive to the joining of the Attolians for what the Attolians had done, and the offer of citizenship even repulsed some. For the time being, most of the convicts after the battle were eager for easy silver doing road-work for the Tyren, who paid in Silver – and not promises or titles. Still, many convicts might cast their lot with the Attolians… the Ad-hoc Guard, and those closest to the curing of the plague among them.


Of the unskilled workers, they seemed to teeter on where the rest, in particular the skilled among them, might go – but for the time too picked up odd labor for the Attolians and Tyren until a final arrangement was decided… at this point it did not look like all the exiles would ever be of one mind... though Baez was given great audience to speak.


“You that know me know that I would not call a brother a brother by his title, or his culture, or his station. I was an Ice-Barbarian – Before I came here I hated all races equally – death was my friend, and is still my best… But what I do say makes brothers is OUR FAITH. Maeder departs in service of the dragon, and yes – he may never return – but his faith, OUR FAITH remains. He or she that gives honor to Dracos shall be my brother… I will take counsel with all exiles in turn before putting forth my endorsement. The Attolians have been best to us, but if it is riches and power that attracts one to be Attolian, you would just as well cast your lot with the Tyren – it is their coins we use, they have their own prominence and may yet become the true power here…”


He paused for a moment.


“All factions will have a chance to try to curry favor with us – Attolian… though we cannot deny that bonds between us now run deepest, they are also new… However…”


Baez Paused, with the Attolian Delegates and more politically minded exiles in attendance…


“I have studied what I could about Attolian religion – you acknowledge a pantheon of gods and spirits, a way of creating solidarity from what would otherwise be religious friction. If all your people accept, and give honor to our Dragon-Goddess, and vow to build a temple in her honor – I can also give my endorsement… they need not put aside their many other gods, but to have ours as well. Also, you must give me word that you will do all you can to influence that Dracos is added to the Attolian Pantheon back at your capital – where the Dragon may stir in the heart of the Old Empire… Promise me that, and once the Tyren stop paying us to build the road I will see that all the least amenable shall join you… we may hear the offers of other factions, but we cannot forget that while the Tyren make us rich, It is the Attolians that tended our sick, our wounded, our enemies. This will not be resolved in a day… but knowing your thoughts on the matter may speed things, Attolian.”


He continued as the Delegation departed…


“In accordance with our faith, Maeder must receive a symbolic burial – A longship must be burned, giving his soul back to Dracos should he fall, and not be reborn in the future flames to us.” The faction that helps see this done and done resplendent, will also curry great favor with the Exiles… And All factions should know this.”


Absorbtion of Exiles by Attolians uncertain. Specific concessions may significantly improve chances. In the near future, factions can bid for Exile support with influence, though present advantage is Attolian.


Caelis played a conservative game, and did not see attractive the prospect of using 3 riders to rout over a hundred still potentially capable fighters… The distance was far, but they would ride to Harun’Taras and get their forces… even if they arrived too late to take part in the other faction’s “Gambit” – he knew his forces, and his best defense, must be brought back to the colony… so ride they did.


Back at fountain square, Caelis’ words far behind her – she remembered the choice was hers. The fountain gave an indication of mirth at her appearance… and heard Cassandra’s decision:


“I am so tired of being afraid. I am so tired of my job being to notice horror so that some other may win or lose in their throes against it. I am so tired of the nightmares, and never again do I ever want to feel the terror of a mob…”


She slipped out of her sheer robes, nude under the moon, seemingly tinges red in the mist above the fountain. She spread her arms out in her nakedness, and let her own staff fall to the side.


“The future here is cloudy – and I suspect that is by your design – but I will take your power – so that if I direct it no Attolian, mayhap no colonist, need suffer for your appetites. I’d rather be a pawn of yours than every Aymaran become as such, would I had that to fear if we did not make this pact.”


She stepped up onto the lip of the fountain, and her lithe frame paused for only a second – like one might do as one stepped off a high building… into the rising pool of blood beneath her…


…The pool was at least ten feet deep… the taste of copper flooded her everywhere. She was one with the entity in the fountain… It spoke to her:


“If you look below, you may see me – and for the last time mayhap will you know fear… but It would delight me to be seen, to be met so intimately by…. My prophet.”


Cassandra tumbled in the red, her eyes began to sting as she held them closed…


“No – I will not give you nor any other entity my fear freely ever again. Work your magic, Titan – you are the fountain, and I now, your chalice – the chalice I hold for Caelis alone, your burden I carry for him that saved me. You will walk the world in me, and you will see from my eyes – but you will not hurt them I owe, them I serve, them I love – not with your power or mine. It is not just you who binds me to you, I BIND YOU TO ME, TITAN – Now give me your eyes, as I have given you mine.”


Cassandra shot vertically out of the pool, perhaps twenty feet or more, a ring of blood from the fountain radiated from her as she spun in the red moonlight, splashing a ring around the fountain and staining her discarded robes a deep crimson – they rose like fluid sanguine serpents, twisting into far less humble regalia… her staff rose as well, with the blood splashed upon it twisting and contorting it into something entirely new… The depth of the fountain itself seemed to lower a full inch of volume as it took shape in her hand – A skull-topped War-staff – crimson light flickered in its eyes and danced at the back of it’s mouth. The wood of the staff had VEINS… which seemed to graft to her wherever she touched it. This was THE STAFF BLOODSCOURGE – and in that moment she knew she was now a thing that could make fear, not suffer it. Her new eyes scanned the tiny realm beneath her, and she knew she was a threat, if not a match, to any mage among the factions. Her heart beat like a HAMMER, and she knew strength she never felt when… she lived? No… her new form was as vital as it was familiar… Best to keep the staff close though…


….And then she FLEW back to Caelis to present to him herself as his avatar of blood. She scanned the future to see what she had done… what had she done?! But it was not far to see her new power… Fear of death crumbled away from her like shattered glass.


“I am Oracle, I am Seer, I am the Chalice, Bloodmage, and Bloodscourge – Long live the sons of Attolia, and the Titan who puts their fates in his domain.”


She knelt and kissed Caelis’ steel-shod boot – she had to show him – show herself – that she owed deeper loyalty to him than that… god… that she shared a soul with…


Cassandra now wields “Bloodscourge” – and has an untapped, unrealized and so far unexplored potential for blood magic… she may have to experiment… no longer a Seer, she is a Blood Mage… though her powers as a seer, nay ORACLE have not at all diminished.

 

[SpiralErrant]

Regarding the elves





Orm strained his ears as he listened to what the remaining little elves had to say, stretching his limited knowledge to try and understand, his time at the learning square was helping but he was still a beginner in these matters. He was surprised to see any of them appear from the brush at all, let alone so many! It made the more inquisitive part of his mind wonder why they had hidden themselves away while all this had gone on rather than stand with their kin and give some last goodbyes. Though knowing what he did of the elves they probably did it in secret some nights ago. Elves seemed a private bunch to this bull. Yet these ones, children by the standards of their own, were brave enough to stay behind. Those that had made such fast friends amidst the caravan and embraced folks in a way so against their own traditions. Something that the tyren (or at least Orm) experienced so rarely.


These last few days had planted some seeds of hope for the chief as he watched their burgeoning village take shape. For the first time any of the minotaurs could remember they had HOUSES and fancy clothes and all kinds of things they'd never had the luxury of. They had placed down their nomadic ways and taken it in a strengthening stride. They had claimed their bit of land and made something beautiful upon it! Something they were determined to never let anyone take. And then a lot of those hopes flew away in the form of a giant bug in one gob smacking moment of awe.


Well here was something that remained of it. And Orm, being the deeply emotional fellow that he was, embraced wholeheartedly. Literally, he scooped up the elf that had spoken to him into a massive hug (normal by his own standards) and only let go when Bruul pried him off the poor twig as their ribs threatened to give way.


"Sorry..." Orm muttered out bashfully in the common tongue, his vocabulary already improving.


It was later at Hrun'taras that they started on making the arrangements. Many of the minotaurs seemed to fuss over the little elves as if they'd just lost a family member... thought thinking about it, some probably had. Homes were made ready for those that stayed amid the tops of the trees where possible and others on the ground where it wasn't.





It was later that night, when the village was gathered around the social fire pits that Orm presented the elves with a folded piece of cloth. It was long and thin, folded into layers upon itself to make its body thicker. It was the bright yellow given to the sun in any child's drawing, in its centre was a circled drawn in black with an arc above it, much like a little pair of horns. Orm had practised this a few times now, he'd gone aside with Shuul jsut to learn this part, he had to make sure he got the words right.


"This means tyren." He said to the gathered elves, his voice like the rumbling earth as he slowly paced out each word as best he could. "This means us." He pointed to himself and the minotaurs around him. Reaching into one of the smaller, guttered out, fire points he pulled out a piece of wood charcoal and handed it to one of the elves that had stepped up as one of the leaders of those left behind. "What is elf... what is you?" He patted at the cloth, encouraging them to step forward.


The elf seemed to grasp his meaning as she budged up to Orm and with sleek and swift movement she drew the flowing symbol of the sylvan elves beside that of the tyren. Orm gave an approving, snorting, nod. Then with rehearsed movement he unfurled the rest of the cloth to reveal the blue striped above and below the yellow stripe as he rose to his feet.


"Here... is sea!" He bellowed to all that were gathered, flapping the bottom of the flag. "Big blue we cross TOGETHER! Here is sky... biggest sky-" He meant to say something other than big and biggest that meant the same thing but unfortunately Orm forgot it come the moment and he didn't want to ruin his flow and stop to ask Shul like a yearling accepting his adulthood rights. "Far sky... free! And here... is us!"


And he moved from the top to the middle and the two runes beside each other. He motioned to the elf and pulled the lass to her feet, offering her a side of the rough flag, letting them hold it together in the firelight. "Here us together. Together we make home... together we are STRONG!"


"STRONG!" Brayed out the warriors in roaring approval and many other tyren joined in with cheers and drumming stomps of their own as their chief gave this updated version of the founding speech. "Together... we... make strong home and NONE take our home! Together!" Orm just wanted to repeat that word again, just to hammer the point home. He wasn't good for subtlety and frankly was just proud that he started mastering common tongue words of more than one syllable.


Around the fires Hrun'taras gave these new citizens a rousing welcome as well as celebrating its fresh founding as the village erupted with music and dance.

 

[Beckoncall]

@Prince Vaethorion @KamiKahzy


The Highborn ship slid silently past the ramshackle vessel of the Ratkin – once a safe distance away it seemed to speed up in tandem with some disturbance behind the ship – There was no way for the Ratfolk to tell, but the Highborn ship had a waterwheel networked to four rear-rudders to give it fine tactical movement, but that also these rudders could be turned horizontally to “Paddle” the ship if the sails provided forward motion – and the wind was good. Good for Highborn sailing, and good for hiding masking the noise and intrusion of the ratfolk beach-head.


Milkweed and his team waited in their boats (both filled and for rescues) with needle continuing to scan as much as the darkness would yield to them. They’d have to get past some dunes before they could really see what they were looking at. The plan was that they were not to make for the beach until the Highborn had begun their diversion – and it seemed at the speed they were passing the wrecks to the east and rounding out of sight that this wait would not be long. While milkweed and his aged seemed unmoved by the wind rattling their skiffs against the outer hull and simply waiting for the next thing to happen, the fur of the dirty paws behind them were alternatively sleeked back or coarsely on edge, unconsciously exaggerating the size of the relatively small creatures. Their eyes, white, yellow, red, green – darted about nervously. Only Fakesmirk shared the composure of his elders. Even Boulderrabbit was visibly stressed, his fur almost comically “poofed” – combing down both his ears and shoulder-fur with his heavy crossbows.


Below them, they could already see the 3 skiffs of Coalback’s group already lowering into the water. The buck and doe volunteers were heartened to see their leaders and warriors ready for deployment as they went, a strategic decision to control THEIR intestinal fortitude for their aspects of the endeavor.


When Coalback’s vessels got close to the floating sloop, a handful of cranks shot rope arrows to the side of the sloop, simultaneously mooring the skiffs to the sloop itself and giving Coalback’s team a means of ascent to the Sloop’s Topside… The team took little peeks at the still swaying skiffs of their superiors before coalback quickly ascended first, with the dirty paws right behind him. The bucks and does, agile climbers they were, were still pulled up by their larger counterparts, and the scaling lines were hidden in the shadows and scatter of the Sloop’s erie deck…


The first thing they noticed was that the sloop was without sail… quickly followed by the realization that live bark grew all over the main-mast, and that the making of young tree-limbs had begun to wind around the mast, as if to strengthen it further… They looked up at it in slight marvel, momentarily distracting them from their immediate surroundings, seemingly safe though it might be…


At this point, the elven craft had travelled a quarter distance around the island, and Iilayloc, known among his unit as the strongest spear-thrower, cast his spear, tied with rope, In a running high arc he loosed with the very full swinging of his arm. The spear arced over the dunes and landed FIRMLY in the TOP of one of the closest palms to the shore. Most of his peers smiled at the accuracy of his shot, but the Linguist successfully, or legitimately contained any signs of being impressed. A gentle tug on the knot at the end of the spear freed the diversion-bell, and he tied the rope to the railing. The initial success of the diversion would be tested by vibration sent down the cable, but a buoy was quickly being prepared so that the wind and current would do this work for them and enable the ship to return in time to support further ratfolk action…


A quiet but ominous creaking started to come up from the wood at the front-deck below them – but the wind, the crashing of waves, and the Uplifting sound of the anticipating highborn bell-toll conspired against their notice. Veiny cracks and a strange flakiness began to form all over the deck where Coal-back’s team was standing – they were too late to notice some terrible frost-action had been subjected to this part… who knows, perhaps all of – this ship. Some hurried repairs looked like they had been begun, but not finished… or come undone from neglect… useless details as many of the ratlings were faced with the ground beneath their feet vanishing, and a fall into the yawning recessed below deck…


It was basically a disaster. Coalback fell first, and brought much of the surrounding wood around him down when he attempted to catch himself on the brittle wood around him. Each of the dark paws instinctly sprung back, dove, or leapt for the ropes they had just moments ago stowed which also fell down the pit. The bucks and does? Not so lucky. The Dirty paws began to scale down to find them, as well as Coalback…


Three of the youngest were unconscious or otherwise unmoving from their injuries. Coalback himself had broken an arm in the fall, but he did not seem deterred. The bucks and does whined like kittens as they knelt around their friends, but the Dirty Paws quickly silenced them. They were in the forward cabin area, some of them in various rooms. Coalback made a splint out of his shovel and a wind of cloth tied around his waist.


“Half the Dirty paws, take the clipped-ones back to the arks and get them mends back aboard our ship. I am not yet ready to tell milkweed all we have found in this wreck, because all we have found is Stripes*. Them that stand, remember you volunteered. If you’s a pup, back to an ark with you – but if you a Rounder* you’re staying with me… and stay they did. They watched as half their force ascended with their injured, and collected themselves in the tilting halls of the abandoned sloop. The moonlight came down upon them and made it easier to see – this ship had clearly been decommissioned. Even the bed-racks were bare and there was no sign of gear, labor, or laziness in any room around them. For a while they jumped at shadows and made leers at unguessable background noise. They found a stairway into the lower decks, and there was almost a collective sigh when it was seen that every crate – any sign of cargo, had been liberated from the craft perhaps months ago.


What did not escape them however was that the Hold was damp – and they could hear the lapping of water on the far side of the ship – The team re-discovered their stealth, and their nerve, and slowly, almost noiselessly made their way to the source of the noise…


…As they got closer, they could smell smoke, and the waste of soot from days before. Traces of fish, and that old… familiar and all-loathed smell… human shit. The dirty paws drew their weapons…


…It was easy to sneak up on them. Five in all, they were as wretched as they were starved as they were thirsty. Their burlap rags, which might have seemed like horrid dress on the best of days, was soiled with algae, water, blood, oil, and any other stain you could imagine if you’d been reduced to slowly dying trying to catch fish in the same bilge water your fellows would crap in. A couple of the ratfolk wondered why the humans of the old world judged ratfolk so undesirable and unclean – no Ratling ever, even in a sewer showed this poorest level of hygiene.


Apparently these poor souls had decided to eke out an existence FISHING out of a hole they’d apparently broken in the bottom of the boat. This in most cases would have certainly flooded and sank the ship, but it seemed this sloop had a chambered bilge, so that damage below the waterline might flood some chambers leaving time for repair while leaving the majority of the vessel’s basin more or less dry. The wood all around the pit was acrawl with algae and lichen, and the wood was already rotting in the entirety of the area these poor sods toiled in seemingly terrified misery. Waste filled buckets were filled and emptied on one side of a bilge-barrier, while fish were eluding feeble capture just feet away in the ajoining “sink”… The dirty paws raised their crossbows, and a youngest in the rear each lit a torch to announce their presence. The shadow of Coalback was cast HUGE on the wall behind them.


The filthy humans barely reacted. They seemed to softly register their demise. It seemed hope had left them long ago… Perhaps death would come swiftly now…


Coalback spoke good common, because in his trade getting measurements wrong or using the wrong unit of weight could get you killed or robbed just as easily as anything else a miner might encounter… He quickly learned that these five humans were “Thralls” – some fancy word for slaves. They said their owner, “Vorenus” made some pact with some devil, and it betrayed him. They escaped the day it happened, and hid in the guts of this sloop. Since Vorenus was killed, it was every man for himself and they said a Necromancer, who had already begun to turn their fellow slaves into undead labor – began to grab anyone in sight and turn them into “the only kind of follower he could trust”… Their lord supposedly had many warriors at his command, but they figured if they came out on top they would have known over a week ago. Like the “Pampered ones” shuddered up in the warehouse, they were probably dead already.


The reason they were here, they went on to explain, was that they were not allowed to hunker down at the warehouse with the rest of the “Company’s real employees” – they were to stay here and fish, and if they caught enough, An Adventurer, Helysoune, would bring them clean water and even leave a bit of the fish they caught for them to eat. Helysoune had not been seen nor heard of for days now – and the Thralls definitely thought the worst for her. “We heard her fighting on the beach, nights ago – we know she got caught. None of us brave enough to gather water when it rains, and the wind gets the salt in it too fast to do anyway. We know we got a day left tops before thirst takes us…” the only thrall who’d yet spoke uttered defeated through lips that cracked and bled even as he spoke…


“Whatever horror of the island or the company you are, I don’t think anyone cares if we die now, or a few hours hence. Make it quick, my young life’s been too long already.”


There was nought else to be found in the wreck but these five dying slaves and a couple of rotting fish… except a small collection of barrels filled with exotic and resplendent feathers – from scintillating to pearlescent to metallic, to prismatic – this plumage looked every bit of treasure to the Ratkin when they saw it. The thrall who spoke barely took notice of their interest at all but merely muttered: “Lord Vorenus wanted some of the birds kept as exotic pets – I’m thinking most of them got away during the chaos… but the rest of them? He wanted them roasted for his men. He thought the feathers were valuable, so we were looking at a beating if we didn’t pluck and pack them well… When I first got here some of us looked at the feathers for inspiration… amusement. All is devoid of color to me now, little beast person… if indeed that’s what you are, or if indeed you’re actually there…”


(Ratlings may take 3 units (barrels) of EXOTIC FEATHERS (Luxury good) if they so desire)


Decision Point: The team turned to Coalback – they would await his orders…


Back at the Ratling ship, they too heard the sound of the Highborn bell on the wind… quickly lowering their craft into the water. Quickly ashore, they beached a skiff at each end of a row and carried the rest to be secured more easily launched between them. A wave quickly broke behind the landing-line, erasing the brief traces or their feet and craft… They perked their ears again and heard the bell continue to ring… Needle ran point, with milkweed and the rest behind – at the tail of them, was breeze – his tail swishing behind him… as the mischief ran in single file, breeze expertly swiped away the slightest sign of their footprints. Were Needle not attending, he would surely be at front to spot for danger – but with her the luxury of hiding their presence would be his… a sweet plum those in his profession could seldom resist. They ran towards a break in the dunes and needle and breeze each quietly scrambled up one of the mounds to scan the land beyond. More vegetation. They could see the foot of the tower structure much better from here, and a line of paving-stones that ambled their way each to the larger structure – now obviously a warehouse.


Ahead of them, in response to the bell, the Mischief could see that the bell had drawn the majority, if not all the undead away from both structures where they slowly were already ambling east… it was hard to tell – some could be in the weeds, any number of laid out corpses could be dustmen ready to rise…


The mound where the Watchtower and surrounding barricade was soaked – an unnatural cloud seemed to hover over it, making the whole structure glisten with rain, and rivulets of water seemed to run downhill in various directions. The group endeavored not to be distracted by the various shiny, valuable, or otherwise interesting objects on the trail through the dunes towards the structures. Breeze more than once had to stay the hand of a sticky-fingered paw…


Needle turned to her left to see a zombie – a horribly mutilated but nonetheless well-dressed man dragging an empty flower-pot with a dangling arm… approaching their position. Still laying prone, she reached back to draw one of several boot-knives which she threw to her side to hit the zombie in the thigh. The husk-of-a-person looked down at the wound, bending over in confused wonder at the black rivulets running from the wound. When it came to a stop hunched at the waist, its arm swings forward and snapping the last tendon holding it in place. Rising to a crouch, needle fires the heavy crossbow from the top of the dune, skewering the bewildered zombie through the top of the skull and driving its head down into the newly dropped flower-pot with its body tumbling after it to stick vertically up out of the clay receptacle. Needle worked HARD to stifle a laugh at her handiwork, only to see breeze shaking his head at her from the other dune. Quickly regaining her composure, she gave the all clear.


Ratfolk and highborn alike lost sight of the mischief as they passed over the dunes, the Highborn ship quietly gliding at this point back to where this operation had begun. There was nothing in the landing zone to cover. Tense minutes passed, with the bell arhythmically ringing with the movement of the buoy-line. The injured from Coal-back’s group arrived by their skiffs and they were hurried aboard, Nateema attending to them as a handful of other paws drew them below.


The Mischief reached the outer barricade – bones, debris, and bits of corpses were scattered about the walls. On the east side, facing the warehouse, there was a small but growing breach in the defenses. Claw and pound marks were particularly concentrated here, as if boney fingers sought to pull the wall open at this point. By cover of rain, darkness, stealth, needle and breeze rapidly scaled the sloped barricades, and leapt to the supports – hiding themselves in the darkness below the watchtower. Beneath them, roughly twenty-odd armored men huddled in misery around a guttering fire. In one corner, a small clutch of civilians hid in makeshift shelters made out of crates. Below them, the tower seemed to be held up in part by a hulking armored warrior – while another similar figure practically tip-toed around the tiny perimeter of the structure looking over the wall. The mischief, able to see their observers through the dark, were silently conveyed this information and huddled close to the wall as the striding hulk passed by them.


Those would-be giants… they could be none other than “Muurdaan House Elite” – one of the most prominent symbols of Muurdaain supremacy, oppression, and outright racial hatred. Within those suits were the broken-willed bodies of the sons and daughters of Royals and Leaders who betrayed Muurdaan Fealty by revolt. Utterly brainwashed, practically entombed in armor – they stood both as bodyguards to the Noblest of the Eternal Empire and as ever-present reminders to those who would dream of turning on their Imperial masters. To look upon them gave even Breeze a chill – and needle was scared more by that realization than the fear she felt beholding those… things… below them. Likewise, milkweed and his host were given pause when they saw Breeze make the coded symbol for “Rust-Heart” – a name given specifically to these… human monsters. The subjugation of the ratfolk by the eternal empire was not won easily or cheap – however it WAS won with countless Rusthearts. Tireless, Terrifying, and utterly one-directed – the Muurdaan used them, with countless other terrors, to dig the largest concentrations of ratkin and the most beloved leaders out of hiding and into subjugation.


Needle symbolled to Breeze, the corners of her eyes watering in what was a normal stress reaction for many rat-kin.


(Is it true they cannot die?) she gestured.


(I have seen them die. Many times… never assume one is dead, however. Never.) Breeze replied.


Meanwhile, the mischief on the ground had a better earful of what little talk took place behind the barricade… hushed whispers, it seemed they didn’t want their armored giants to hear them…


“Since you Engineers and Architects are the reason half of us Mercs actually have a wall to sit behind, we’re waited about as long as we can before we’re gonna have to eat you blokes…”


(sobbing is heard from inside a couple of the crates)


“S’funny, y’know? Like – after that point, what’s the difference between us an’ the zombies REALLY, eh?”


Another mercenary replied…


“I can no longer saw we’ve gotten out of worse traps than this. Daurgar went over the wall last straw-pull and says Hel’s marching for that Black Prancin’ Bastard, now – that she got caught on the beach… I don’t wanna know what kind of shade-thing she’d turn into… but it’s bad news.”


“We can’t go back to the warehouse again, neither – the “House-Boys” are the only thing keeping this structure together, and if they learn there’s still blue-bloods hiding in that warehouse we’ll lose control of them, or worse they’ll turn on us. We’re just waiting for the right moment, and these tin cans are going to cover our ass while we get our “prize” out of this deathtrap…”


“You been hearing that bell?”


“Yeah – Necromancer’s been using ghost sounds of all types to get us to go over the wall, or even look over it. The last brother who felt it was important to investigate every fart or burp on the other side of the wall is now a few hundred yards away – standing in a square formation as a tool for that Black-art.”


“We are waiting for the warehouse to FALL. When all the yelling and killing is going on down the path from us, that’s when we make our break for the beach. We’ll either take the sloop, or use it’s oar-craft to get the hell off this island. We got plenty of rain for our cups – we just got to broaden our definition of “cuisine” for this contract… any day now. Any day.”


Milkweed and Breeze continued to communicate as the giant steel sentry peered over where his mischief was hiding… choices would have to be made… Did they still wish to even save these humans? If not, would they risk their lives to save THEIR captives? Could they with any sanity or conscience SAVE, directly or indirectly, one of the Hated Muurdaan House Elite? …and what was this “Prize” they spoke of?


Even Beyond that, were there more survivors at that warehouse so close to the east -- and were they of any disposition more attractive to rescue than these desperate lot??


The Ratlings had seen the darkest corners of the nature of men, and seen all of what they pretended not to be and demonized the ratkin with by ignorance and prejudice.


…From their new vantage point under the watch-house, Needle could see in her scope a well-lit area on the far side of the island… Amid boulders of coral and above a tiny saltwater inlet lake, The Necromancer sat on a bloody and greasy throne. Shambling around before him were dozens of skeletons, many with strips and chunks of flesh still hanging from their frames. To his right standing in a weave akin to drunkenness were an equal number of skeletons – most of them the animated corpses of fish-men. Great fires burned at the foot of many idols and at the boundary of the inlet. Beyond the island, beyond the fires, Needle could see at the fathest range of her scope a kind of reef, upon which squatted must must have been a massive idol of a fish-man in a reclining posture… expect as needle watched, it shifted it’s weight and allowed one of it’s arms to fall into the water and wet it in the moonlight. Smaller (human sized) fish men stood, sat and lay all around it on the reef, diving into the water in unison at the wave of the giant’s hand… and the first men, as a unit, swam into the inlet, seemingly to do battle with the Necromancer’s “forces”… like some perverted game of boards, knights, and kings it seemed the Necromancer and this giant lazily tried to kill each other with their pawns… what the stakes of this game might be needle could only guess in nightmares. Before she put down her lens, she saw the wretched captive of some cleric – he wore healers robes and the symbols of many deities. His leg was bound to a ball and chain, and his neck was chained by collar to the necromancer’s throne. In one hand, the Necromancer held a staff of Burnt-Black wood… and in his other hand, he covered some glowing stone, casting an eerie blue glow against the dancing shadows and firelight.


She “Pensed*” in silence to Breeze, who in turn gave his Pence to Milkweed. There would be calls of his to make…


Ratkin Cant:


*Stripes – wounds


*Rounder – Professional, especially in terms of thievery


* Pense/Pence – To convey what you are thinking without speech. This can be done simply with gestures and smells, but can also be in reference to telepathic or other musical communication. It is a portmanteau of the language “Pensive” (meaning to quietly think) and “two give your two pence” (to give one’s impression.)

 

[Beckoncall]

@Elendithas @Prince Vaethorion :


Battle of Ent's Bridge, First Battle of Highborn/Aymaran Reprisal versus the "Mud-Elves":


The foe had been evenly and well routed from the ‘Platz – that much was obvious, even to Tocxhol – behind him most of his cunnnigs were already running to him, a few stragglers whipping and caning the brutes off of the battlefield before intending to catch up. The Gigantic Warchief of the Aymaran plodded after the withdrawing enemy – if they thought the fight was over they were horribly mistaken. The fight was over when Tocxhol made it be. Behind thm, four of the towering Scarred, it was noted that one of them had fallen in battle – not to the masked blood-bags, but in retaliation by the Lord of the Attolians… One of the scarred beat his chest in a chopping and ill-sounding laughter. Crawling practically on all fours far to their right the lurkers – the huge scarred one driving his cunnings ahead of them.


Normally the Lurkers would be far slower than Tocxhol and the more land-inclined of the Aymaran – but ample rains gave them pools and slick tracks of mud if they followed a path of least resistance parallel to the cliffs. It was doubtful as it seemed now that they would beat the mud-elves to the river, but they would make better time than their Leader and his retinue.


The Highborn were equally intent on pressing an advantage and not allowing the Mud-elves to leave the field so easily. Once it became clear that the Aymaran were going to press the attack, even if the Attolians would not, they quickly rallied the forces fittest on the field and moved rapidly, though as stealthfully as possible to close the gap on the withdrawing offenders. Twice the Highborn came relatively close to one group of Aymaran or the other, but it quickly became clear that NONE of them, not even their LORD, spoke any language they recognized. They began to wonder If the emissary they met on the beach was the only such of their number that could communicate, even if they wanted to… The highborn found a comfortable distance to move parallel to the hulking lizards, and quickly outpaced them.


The Aymarans Hissed and took croaking breaths as they pursued the Bulwark Regiment. Fatigue was too sophisticated a reaction to be had by them, pain and discomfort were the luxuries of things that came after the Aymaran… many kept pace despite numerous wounds, without any change in countenance. A few of the scarred blithely broke javelins and arrows that stuck from their heads or bodies. Such was the buzzing of flies to them.


The spearmen regiment was in no shape after the engagement in the platz to continue pressing the attack. A couple of Spearmen took up the mantle of archers and moved behind the swordmasters, who cautiously screened the archers behind them. Just over a dozen elites formed a single line, each warrior a full sword-length away from his closest comrade, giving a deceptive illusion of a line that was not completely in threat. The archers hurried behind the Elites, and upon passing the Aymarans got close enough to begin harassing the withdrawing enemy nearguard with arrows. The first volley felled a few, but the following arrow volleys, broken up and in the dark to prevent predictability, quickly met resistance as the rearmost of the unit moved it’s Mask-shields into position to receive the majority of the relatively inaccurate extreme-range fire. What it DID accomplish however – was slowing the withdrawing bulwark units down as they needed to maintain cohesion with the rearmost ranks moving backwards.


Lest the Elites get it into their minds to charge, the remaining two witches ROUTINELY raked the area in between them with bolts of greenish-white lightning… They seemed out of range, or perhaps just intended their spells as a deterrent. The Aymarans began to move at a pace more at speed of the slowed mud-elves, and the highborn saw the Slippery lurkers pass them a while ago on their right…


The harassment went on for a considerable period of time. If seemed the witch that The high elf mage had slain at the end of the combat was picked up from the field and was being pulled away, unlike all the other wounded, for whom it seemed there was no regard, even for masked ones of rank.


The Archers peppered the Mud-elves all the way to the river, but were firing more sparingly now, as their ammunition was becoming depleted – However it was obvious they had slowed the retreat long enough so that the Lurkers could get into the river before they crossed, and that the Aymarans could keep up with them.


It seemed the Mud elves intended to cross the river at the point where a giant tree – perhaps an ancient Ent to the more observant, had fallen across the raging river. To the north and south of this narrow woodbeam-bridges had been laid like siege-ladders for smaller numbers of troops to cross quickly and in single file. These crossings were safe if travelers were unassailed, but promised to be far more perilous if used under attack…


The Lurkers slipped into the almost raging river – to look downstream was to quickly realize a series of rocky dips and increasingly white-water. If there were any eyes looking for them, between the dark and the noise of the river the Lurkers easily slid into the waters seemingly undetected. Tails whipping and spreading all four of their claws, they maintained pace with the fast water flowing underneath them… each lurker floated near a different set of ladder-crosses, with the scarred lurker themselves hiding in the shadow of the enormous fallen tree—the main crossway. Close to the waterline, The Scarred Lurker noted that there were multiple dormant insect-hives… some kind of firefly or stinging gnat. Fiercely territorial, numbers of them whorled towards his giant bulk whenever he approached… seeking to fill his eyes and nose that poked above the current. The Scarred Lurker wondered if the mud elves would find the swarms quite as navigable as he did when he roused them during the crossing…


…And the crossing had come. Moments later the Hundred and so remaining masked ones formed up on the west bank of the river an began to break into quick and organized formations to cross back. Larger and more statused troops crossed the “Ent bridge” while lesser or lighter armed forces crossed the beams. Just as they began to do so, the Tocxhol and his forces crested the slope above them, and the Highborn, well to their right flank, had a fine column of fire at least the better way over the river.


The mud-elves knew the entire way that they would be pursued, and were apparently ready to take casualties during the crossing if it meant the majority could fade into the woods beyond. The highborn continued to harass, and as they did here and there a mud elf either fell into the river for its wounds or lost its balance on the cross-beams to the perils of the river below. The lurkers waited… the first of their foes ran overhead, and still they let them go… you do not stop a herd of prey at the front – you strike the middle, go for the vitals and tear it to pieces. The cunnings waited for their Scarred leader to strike first from the water… It was instinct… wait for the neck, wait for the belly to show itself, then pull the prey below…


The Scarred lurker saw the witches above on the great crossing… floating between them, their black-burned sister resting on some kind of magical litter. It was then, even as Tocxhol prepared to order his forces to pour down the slope at the enemy – That the Greatest Lurker slammed its full weight against the Ent-Bridge. What seemed to be a score of Stinging hives suddenly boiled up at once, An angry green cloud of them surrounding the whole bridge all at once. Upon hearing the vibrations of that strike underwater, each lesser lurker burst up from beneath the flimsy siege-bridges, sending the better parts of them flying skyward in splinters with the rest of them quickly dragged down to the hungry falls only moments later. Masked ones flew skyward both jumping for the banks and thrown into the air.


The river began to fill with mud-elves… briefly. Too fast did they lose themselves to the current, some floundered to rocks or the opposing bank, but the Lurkers, few that they were brought jaw down again and again – death rolling each victim once and leaving their broken ragdolls to swirl inevitably over the falls to be dashed on the cliff and rocks below. Once the Ent-bridge became a snafu of blind and choking victims of an almost blinding cloud or angrily gleaming and stinging insects, the elites descended the slope allowing archers to fully exploit the advantage of high ground. Every arrow they had left rained into the rear of the formation and broke all semblance of a controlled crossing of the bridge.


The initial charge of the Aymarans, Tocxhol pushing and elbowing for position with his scarred as the cunning dove out of the way as they still clamoured forward… the impact of their initial charge threw a whole rank of rearguard into the water, some dead from the impact before they even hit the water.


The highborn elite looked for a window of entry, but the stinger swarms were only getting larger and more livid.


The Scarred Lurker leapt, in blind rage, at where it felt the witches stood as they too fell to the panic – something else was happening that the Aymarans, the Highborn, even the Masked-Ones themselves had yet to fully realize. Bounding full over the Ent-Bridge against the current, the great lurker flew through the air, it’s mouth filling first with stinging insects, then filled with roasted witch, it’s magical litter shattered on impact… the two remaining witches shrieked in horror at the taking of their sister… who’s body then found the depths of the river and then the depths of the Lurker’s stomach shortly after. The great lurker savored what he thought might have been the merest spark clinging to its victim, then kicking off the riverbed to surge back to the battle above. The contrasting clear of the north side of the bridge clashed vibrantly with the boiling red of a rapids filling with blood.


Tocxhol and his warriors were faced with a final barrier of shield-bearers, the insects already sweeping amongst them… as they mysteriously began to fall forwards… backwards, and every which way before the Aymarans could mount their second charge…


Arrows began to blanket everything in number and vectors rivaling the small, though deadly highborn regiment… the opposing bank was AWASH with gnollish archers, rising from camouflage, and loosing their crude short bows from what seemed to be almost every tree on the far bank above the crossing.


Finally, all at once the lurkers hit the Ent-bridge, managing to shake it slightly – just enough to spill scores of pitiful victims, most dropping weapons and waving at their faces from what must already be hundreds of stings, into the merciless waters below.


Those mud-elves that DID make it across the river died almost immediately where they stood, never getting off the bank of slippery clay due to the merciless rain from the foliage above the sandy embankment ahead. The witches loosed their lightning one last time, setting a swath of the forest alight, before they were murdered in a concentrated rain of arrows from both sides of the riverbank…


It did not seem that even one mud-elf or witch survived. The Gnolls had not been idle – and while it seemed they would have sprung their trap in any case, there was no denying how devastating it proved with the colonial pursuit compounding it. As the last mud-elves fell – on the west bank, on the east… clinging to the center bridge… the sounds of the angry insects began to eclipse the screams of the dying and the flight and the falling of arrows.


The Aymaran Warchief and his forces quickly saw there was nothing left to fight, little more to take or eat, and just the rising noise and temper of the glow-swarms… Their attentions might have been endurable, but were not at all pleasant – registering even to their cold-bloodedness in their vicious quest to fill any breathing hole, any trail of exhalation – with stinging venom. The Aymarans had to withdraw – It was either that or storm across the bridge through concentrated bowfire if they chose to attack the Gnolls on the far side of the river. They opted to scale back up onto the rise above the river…


To the right of them the Highborn Elite had done the same. Only a handful of desperate warriors fled in their direction… only a handful of pools of blood in the sand where there stood. They too ascended back to the rise. Less than 30 enemy warriors lay dead on the west bank on the side of the colonists, with barely more than that dead full of arrows on the opposite bank…


It was clear the Gnolls had made no target of the colonist’s forces – but once the battlefield became a low-hanging cloud of buzzing green luminescence and what few bodies remained that were not bound for the great falls… the unspoken cooperation seemed strained. The Aymarans, and for that matter the Highborn, could only see what had to be a substantial number of camouflaged Gnoll archers… who just stared… waited for the strangers of the opposite bank to leave the field, or to not…


The Bulwark Regiment of the Mud-Elves, and it’s coven of witches were slain to a man… slain to a witch, in fact. But the air was tense, and one could feel that with any misstep, any careless move or aggression – that a new hostility would break out right after this one that had so thoroughly seen completion….

 

[KamiKahzy]

Of Wretches in Wrecks

Coalback did not have to think long before he made his decision. The sorry state of these men and the dead pits of their eyes told the whole story, one Coalback was all too familiar with. Chief Milkweed had gone to the island to save lives, and Coalback wasn't about to contradict such a simple goal. He pensed to his remaining paws for them to gather these men along with the fancy feathers and bring them topside. They did so, and with only a few minor difficulties they were able to bring their charges up to the mooring lines and lower everything down safely into the waiting skiffs. The men put up no resistance at all, their will was so broken they had not the capacity to do anything but obey. The rats then sailed back to their ship, raising the skiffs gingerly and unloading the cargo of men and feathers. The 'thralls' were taken below decks to be treated with the other volunteers, but Coalback did not follow. His broken arm had not stopped him from manning a paddle, and it would not stop him from keeping watch for the others on the island. The other dirty paws noticed this and were inspired by the buck's stoic vigil. Rather than head below to rest from their mission they too remained on deck to keep watch, alert and ready to act as soon as movement was sighted on the beach.


Luxury Commodity Acquired: Exotic Feathers

Midnight Musings

Of all the men Milkweed would have dreaded to find on this mission, mercenary merchants were high on the list. Mercenaries in general could be decent folk, but in his line of work the I.O.C. was a dirty company with an even worse reputation. But what really spiked his fur was when Needle pensed that there were rust hearts among them! How the I.O.C. managed to gain even a single Elite for their journey Milkweed could only guess, but there were two of them not 10 feet from his nose and the very smell of them put him on edge. In his mind they were nothing but toys, weapons of war that were no longer a shadow of the men they once were. He might have left these men to their fates had it not been for the hints of other lives among these crows*. Milkweed would be damned before he let innocents die when he had an opportunity to act. And with time against him he had no other option but to save all of them, rust hearts and all, and deal with the consequences later.


Milkweed pensed out for his dirty paws to climb the barricade and remain hidden just below the ledge, forming a firing circle around the mercenaries and their fire. In a flash they were gone, climbing the cobbled structure with ease and easing into place where they could quickly leap from hiding and attack if necessary. Their training was paying off as the rust heart patrolling the perimeter didn't flinch or make any move that he had noticed the rats. Once they were ready Milkweed then climbed the barricade himself, vaulting easily over the ramshackle rubbish and landing neatly in the shadows near the crates where the civilians were being kept. Once he was sure he had the element of surprise he called out from the shadows, loudly and boldly so that the mercenaries might hear him, "Oi! You lads send up a signal?"


The mercenaries, 20 of them in total, all rose from their fire and turned at the address from Milkweed. A short bald man with an ostentatious orange mustache pours what might have passed for coffee days ago out of his helmet as he slips it over his head. Following the gesture the rest of the mercenaries, with varying degrees of fear, peer in Milkweed's direction; some even taking cover in the debris on the other side of the enclosure. The patrolling House Elite... just stops. It's hot breath seems to flow from the helm, as if his whole head was steaming rather than in a great exhalation.


The seeming leader, who sat on the mercenary band's paychest, answers the question. "Indeed we did, strange sounding one... Though we were certain the Black Hand was using his water magic to keep us unseen..." He pauses for a moment, then continues, "If you're here to rescue us then how come you're hiding behind them crates? Is it safe to leave, and if so to where?"


Meanwhile a knot-hole in one of the crates Milkweed crouched behind suddenly has an eye pressed against it. Milkweed wasn't sure if the witness did not care that he was a ratling, or that from his narrow perspective he thought Milkweed was wearing a fur cloak. Either way there is no hesitation as he whispers in a frightened pitch, one that would normally be too low for a human to hear or even make sense of with the ambient noise outside, but it is well within Milkweed's range of detection. "Plllleeease help us! Even if you intend to rescue us all, there is no way these men will let us live! They were supposed to protect us, but they took us from the warehouse and won't let us leave! The workers are in the warehouse! If you can't save us, save them instead! Do not trust these men! I beg you!"


Milkweed does not respond to the frightened voice inside the crate, but he does rap his knuckles on the wood twice to acknowledge he heard what was said. The eye remains in place but the heavy breathing from within seems to lessen just a slight degree, a good sign it would seem. Milkweed stepped slowly into the light from his hiding place, his paws stretched wide and far from his knives. "Just a precaution friend, you lot seemed jumpy as is." As soon as Milkweed shows himself the mercenaries immediately relax their guard, stowing any weapons they had half begun to draw at the sudden intrusion. Clearly these men don't care that Milkweed is ratkin, but whether that's due to their situation or past experience is unknown. Meanwhile the House Elite stopped patrolling and instead seems to be measuring the size of Milkweed's head in relation to his fist. After flexing his mailed hand he rests it at his side and goes back to looking over one side of the wall, some of the dirty paws less than two feet below the railing.


Milkweed looks about the men and sizes them up. They looked about as ragged as he was expecting, they had probably been surviving here for weeks judging by the state of their dress. Milkweed nods towards the mustachioed man, who currently sat on a large chest of unknown origin, and asks, "You in charge here?" The man responds, "I sit on the paychest, so for now I'm in charge. The Paymaster didn't make it, but tradition in this regiment dies hard." He spits out some black sludge to the side then continues, ""So... you here to break us out? How many of you out there? I've seen ratfolk, but I aint never seen one alone... If you're here to get us out, I say we set to doing that immediately forthwith."


Milkweed wasn't about to give up such information to armed strangers so easily, so he fell into a role he liked to use when in situations like this. "Not so fast friend, I aint here to bust you out just yet. My Chief's back on our ship an' he don't act without information. 'Specially when there's dustmen walkin' about, eh?" He let that sink in for a minute before he continued. "I'm just the scout, so if you value your lives you'll tell me everything I need with the quickness. Time's short out here." Milkweed points one claw at the group as a whole and asks, "Is this the lot of you, or are there more out there in the shit?"


The temporary Paymaster looks leery at Milkweed's words, his eyes darting around the barricade walls when he realizes that Milkweed completely dodged his question about the ratfolk's numbers. "What's left of the I.O.C. is either in this junk-heap, slowly dying in a warehouse a short stroll to the east, or one of the puppets of the Black Man not too far to the north. We got a few of the prissy ones in here with us, but they lost their sallets days ago. We've been keeping them hidden for their own protection. We should let them folks rest... they been through a lot." He breaks another bone and throws it in the fire. "Was it easy getting up here?"


Milkweed shrugs nonchalantly, "Easy enough, bones are moving to the north seems like." A blatant lie, but he had a plan in mind and he needed these mercenaries to play along. Milkweed jerked a thumb behind him at the civilian's makeshift prisons and asks, "What about them? Any reason they be caged in them crates?" The Paymaster sneers slightly and clicks his tongue, "Ever since the dead started walkin' and occasionally takin' to leaping over the walls, everything of value gets crated. Them crates got people in 'em for their own protection... ever since they've got it into their heads to try and make a break for the warehouse." He moves to pick something out of his teeth before he continues, "Warehouse used to have a lady adventurer, name of Hel... doing most of the movement between. She aint been around lately... not in any familiar sense, you'd say. If adventurers can't make the trip to the warehouse, no diploma with shoelaces be going without armed escort. And seeing as we aint doing any escort until we know it aint certain death, we're keeping 'em covered."


The Paymaster cocks his head to the side and asks, "If the walkies are off to the north, which way you come from? If the way is clear we can handle ourselves." It's then that the Paymaster notices a few men moving about behind him in a fearful manner. He barks back at his men and berates them, "Everybody calm down. Our guest is good news. True we've never heard a rat talk without fear unless they got something to back them up," He turns to look back at Milkweed, "but that's in our favor isn't it, Undertowner? We're all friends here, so your strength is our strength." The Paymaster pointed to some obscure direction beyond the barricade and asks, "Why don't you have your little friends show themselves, we still got some coffee left..."


Milkweed looked to the 'coffee' that was offered and did a mighty fine job of hiding his disgust. The brew looked more like watery pitch than coffee, and probably tasted twice as bad. Milkweed shook his head slowly in refusal. "Thanks but no, I'd wager there's piss in that brew to help the flavor by now." The mercenary adjusts his helmet but doesn't shift from his seat on top of the chest. His frown shows teeth... He's a desperate man and things don't seem to be going his way.


Milkweed completely ignored the Paymaster's ire and instead turned his attention to the big, lumbering golem in the room. He looked to the Elite patrolling the barricade wall and spoke directly to it. "You there, Elite. I know your kind, and I know you don't answer to this lot." Milkweed gestured to the gathered men as he said this, and many of them looked either incredulous or hurt at the implied accusation. "So tell me, where is your Master?" Some of the heat-smoke draws out of the rainy air and back into the helm as Milkweed watches the chest underneath the armor struggle to breathe under the full weight of the mail. "The Master is dead. So too shall you be if you ever again address me as an equal, lest it forbidden by order or decree of the Eternal Empire. If you did know my kind you would at least know that." A splash of rain falls from his head and shoulders as he rises temporarily to his full height.


Milkweed could only cock a brow at the display of this Elite. He had never spoken to one in person but he had been lead to believe they were mindless constructs of torture that had enough capacity to follow orders and little else. He hadn't been expecting quite so much... emotion from this enslaved warrior of the Empire. Milkweed bows low and looks directly to the ground as he responds, "Apologies Elite, didn't mean to offend." The Elite is unmoved.


Upon seeing the potential hostility of the Elite one of the other mercenaries gets nervous and talks out of turn. "Furry mate, lets drop the pretenses and tell us what's happening out there... Are we rescued? I don't want to die here because some boss' emissary had an attitude and got smashed by one of these golems... Please, lead us the hell out of here!" Milkweed looks to the frightened man and speaks with more genuine concern in his voice, "Near as I know that's the plan friend, but as I said the Chief won't move without news. But..." Milkweed put a paw to his chin in mock thought and tapped for a moment before he looked back at the gathered mercenaries. "Look, here's the deal. Our ship's to the south of here, away from that shitstorm up north. I gotta head east to that warehouse, can't be leavin' loose ends. You could try and head south, but my Chief's ordered that anything approachin' the boats without a rat dies." Milkweed looked the men in the eye with a serious glare, "And I do mean anything. So if you want to risk it be my guest, just know you'll be angerin' them what's tryin' to save your sorry hides." Milkweed folded his hands in front of him and continued, now speaking directly to the . "Way I sees it you got two options. Sit here and wait for us to get back, or come with us and help speed things along. What say you?"


This was Milkweed's plan from the start. As soon as things started to look sour he knew he had to make him and his rats invaluable to these mercenaries. By telling them about the 'order' to kill any intruders to the beach the mercenaries now needed them alive to save their own skins, and that included the rust hearts. With the earlier lie about where the bones were heading there was nothing to stop these men from playing into Milkweed's ploy.


And wouldn't you know it, after only a few moments of thought the Paymaster stood straight up from his seat and addressed his men, "Faith of the Rich, we are LEAVING! Stow and go, five minutes!" Two mercenaries behind him immediately picked up the chest and held it like they were guarding their own child. The Paymaster turned to the Elite on the barricade and bellowed at him, "You Elite, stop poppin' your eye at my friend here and get the crate. We both know it may be mine now, but you know your masters will want it." The Elite stops glowering at Milkweed and scoops the crate into one hand, which he then rests on his shoulder. A small splash and cry of some sort emanates from the soaking-wet box, but then goes silent. Turning to the other elite holding the support, the red-mustachioed man barks to him as well, "Let that thing fall over in the next high wind if it must, we are already gone pilgrims. Scoop up all our antsy little pantaloons into one box and carry that with us." The Elite complies, first pushing each crate so the open side is at the top, then plucking each pitiful little scholar like a goldfish and placing them in the crate over its shoulder.


The Man then turns his face back to Milkweed and says with anxious contempt, "Okay... Scout. You're calling the moves now, get us the hell out of here!" Milkweed smiles softly to the mustachioed man, ever so glad that things have worked out just as planned. "Of course," he says with just the faintest hint of a smug smile. Without a word Milkweed penses for the rest of his paws to leave their posts and form up on the eastern side of the barricade. He himself then leaps onto some gathered junk and scales the barricade, hopping the wall and landing deftly on his feet. He waits for the mercenaries to leave the barricade and present themselves before the other rats. It takes a little doing to open a wide enough hole in the barricade, but soon enough they're outside and waiting before the other rats. The Paymaster looks with a leery eye at the assembled rats, his breath clearly hitching when he realizes half his men could have been killed before any of them drew steel.


Once they're assembled Milkweed speaks to those gathered, "We'll move first. Stay behind us and keep on our tails. And try to keep it down would you?" With that Milkweed set off into the brush with his paws in tow, making their way east towards the warehouse that was spoken of.

Fine Wines and Soured Seas

The entire group made its way along the pavestones, the armored men far more noisome than the ratkin at their lead. Needle looks nervously to Milkweed as she runs ahead of him, winding through a carpet of vines and low brush until what was little more than the top of the warehouse stands prominently ahead. There are windows on every side, but they seem hastily boarded on both fronts. The front door bulges outward on its hinges, a pile of debris and furniture heaped so heavily behind it almost daring to burst outward. To the right of the building is a melon-patch, and indeed the right side of the building in its entirety smells like soured melon-wine.


Milkweed and his rats hear very careful movement inside near some of the windows, which rapidly recedes. The distraction bell to the east can be heard far more clearly from here, and Breeze and Needle report that a small number of skeletons are moving away from the coral and fires towards the sound of the bell. Breeze reports that it is highly likely that when the Stringman's own guards make contact with the distraction he is likely to turn his attention there as well. There is not much time.


Milkweed doesn't even need to look away from the building as he utters his orders. "Needle, Breeze, find a hole." Luckily the puzzle had an easy answer. "The entire roof is a hole," Needle whispered. The next moment she had taken Breeze's hand and made a vertical leap in unison to the eave overhead. Breeze landed ably on his feet atop the roof in one bound, while Needle fell short and grabbed the ledge with her other hand, allowing breeze to pull her up with a second effort by her legs to make light work of it. "You have much to learn yet, Needle." Breeze said with a smile. "Allow me to do the talking up ahead... A human cannot be honest with it's stress as we are, often not even to themselves. Learn to read them, and you will spend less effort dealing with them. Any sniper can seek to kill a leader or his secondary. Learn who's loss is felt dearest after that, and panic will do your work for you." Needle tried to make like she understood some deep inner truth, one that she'd look for later. For now, they carefully avoided the broken glass (some kind of early warning system?) and disappeared into the warehouse.


Breeze, who in his line of work needed not only to understand but also convincingly speak a variety of tongues, addressed the folk scrabbling beneath him in the darkness. He lilted his voice with a tinge of Ferraran, an accent that nobles and sailors might be disarmed by. "We have arrived by imperial charter to rescue all who will come with us now. Personnel and absolute essentials should be gathered immediately." He began to hang a block and tackle from a broken beam near the roof-hole, tugging at the coil of rope at either side. Moments later a few decrepit, staggering and some drunken colonists wandered into the moonlight streaming through the broken roof above. They were emotionally shattered, hungry, and stank of the mash-mill that apparently occupied a good share of the warehouse. An uncertain number of finely coopered casks of melon and berry wine lay stacked against the wall, but that would have to wait until later.


As it was, Breeze was working the rope at the floor and a further 15 workers of various trade were brought to the roof where Needle received them. From there they were brusquely brought to ground by the Elites, but Milkweed only waited until one was brought down. As soon as the first survivor came forth he asked, "Where is the woman called Hel?" The one he spoke to seemed too dazed or drunk to register his words, but soon another voice rung out from the slowly growing crowd. "Hel?!" One of the filthiest among them had spoken, introducing himself as the faction's 'preserver'. "She must be dead. Only one brave enough to leave the compound to fetch fish... And methinks run water to people trapped outside..." He seemed to wince at that. "If you aint seen her yet then she's a toy of the black man by now, and woe betide us if she should bar our path!" He took a moment to slow his breathing and his frightened heart before he continued. "If them folk behind you is all that's left of the soldiery, then there's only one alive unaccounted for." He pointed to the north, "Lord Vorenus' healer, or priest, or what have you. And no one sane should seek him out... The black man has made him a pet after a fashion, so where the healer is that necromancer cannot be far!"


Milkweed clicked his tongue in frustration, then pensed up to the roof where Needle and Breeze remained. "Needle, look to the north. Is there anything alive besides the throne slaves? Look for a female!" Needle scanned the area, dark as it was, long as the shadows were by the flames. She did her best to scan for what milkweed sought, but it was a daunting task. She could barely tell one zombie from another under these conditions, much less pick out some lady adventurer that might not want to be seen. That's when Breeze pensed down that the undead had pushed over the tree that held the highborn's trick bell.


Needle growled lowly to himself, "Piss and bile." He spoke aloud to those gathered. "Nothing for it. Everyone follow us, we head south. Eyes sharp and feet soft, we're almost clear." Milkweed looked to the armed mercenaries and the Elites, "You mercs should guard our flanks, keep the civilians in the center. The Elites might guard the rear, but far be it from me to order a superior being." There was only a ghost of contempt in his voice as he addressed the Elites, but as soon as it was said Milkweed turned from them and went to the foot of the warehouse to wait for Breeze and Needle. As soon as they were on the ground Milkweed pointed at the warehouse and spoke boldly to his paws, "Torch it!" All of the dirty paws looked to each other and Milkweed in confusion, but in short order they silently obeyed. They used the pitch they had taken from the ship to start a small fire near a wine-soaked corner of the warehouse. Milkweed was glad he had ordered them to take the pitch, otherwise this would have taken far longer than he would have liked.


One of the mercenaries was looking incredulously at the act and moved out of formation to make his fears known, "What in the blue fuck are you doing!?" Milkweed looked calmly up to the man as his paws worked. "I'll not waste time looking for a lone woman in a hellhole like this. If she's alive she will see the fire and come to help. If she's dead she won't care." The man was not placated by this, but Milkweed could hardly be bothered. Already a small fire was starting to take hold and within moments it was licking merrily at the alcohol rich wood. Milkweed spoke up, "Alright, that's good enough. Let's move!" His rats fell in line and soon the entire group was moving south at a quick pace, completely unable to hide their presence thanks to the fear and exhaustion of the survivors.


And, as one might expect, their presence did not go unnoticed. Not two minutes later Needle pensed that she had sighted undead moving towards them en masse from the north. An entire column of skeletons had been sent to block their path, and at the rate they were moving they would soon reach that goal. The group might have been able to outrun them, but by the time they reached the beach they would soon be outnumbered and overrun. Milkweed shouted for everyone to move faster and so they did, but not before Needle shouts again that she sees... something. It looks like a human but it's hard to tell, it's moving fast and running straight towards the undead line. The thing crashes with the line and sounds of a struggle soon start, the clashing of steel mixing with the screech and crack of shattering bones. Whatever it was, it was holding the line just enough for the group to push on and make for the beach. As the group passed the figure one of the Elites nearly tripped over them, just barely noticing the female features with finely made armor and weapons in hand.


The group pressed on to the beach and quickly hopped the dunes, sliding down the sand and making for the skiffs. Thankfully the extra skiffs they had brought seemed to be enough to hold everyone, even if they were a little snug. Milkweed stayed behind with Needle and Breeze to make sure everyone was afloat before they boarded their own vessel. As he ushered folk onto the skiffs Milkweed kept looking back up to the tree line for any signs of movement. The only thing he could see was a giant column of smoke and light to the east, no doubt the result of their warehouse handiwork. The flames were growing far more intense, and Needle mentioned she thought the woods were starting to catch fire as well. Once about half the group was boarded a freak rain cloud started to form over the warehouse, slowly gaining shape and letting loose a torrent of rain once it had built up enough mass. But it was a losing battle, and the flames only threatened to reach up and light the clouds themselves ablaze.


Soon everyone was afloat and Milkweed jumped into his own vessel with Needle and Breeze. They paddled with the others, looking on to the island for any signs of movement or life. Surprisingly there was no movement from the treeline, only the warehouse flames could be seen doing battle with the steadily growing rain cloud. The group quickly reached the ratkin vessel, and the paws on deck quickly began to haul up the skiffs and lock them into their cradles. Milkweed was just getting off the last skiff when he heard one of the rescued civilians shouting on the fantail. "Look! Look there, it's Hel!" Milkweed raced to the fantail to see for himself, and just as the man had said a single female was limping her way down the dunes and waving her arms helplessly at the ships. Milkweed immediately turned and shouted at his rats, "Ready the skiffs! There's one still-"

Spoiler

BOOM!!!

No one anticipated the force of the explosion that tore through the night air like an extraterrestrial demon. Unknown to everyone a large supply of alcohol fumes had been gathering in the basement beneath the warehouse, silently packing every square inch of the space full of toxic, flammable vapors. Fire tends to rise when it burns, so it took a little extra time for the flames to eat a big enough hole in the warehouse floor for the vapors to escape. Just enough time for Milkweed and the others to get away safely... but not enough time for Hel to be saved.


The blast rocked the boats with it's force, pushing them away from the beach with the sheer strength of the shock wave. The blast also shook the sand loose from the dunes above, sending a tidal wave of the stuff crashing down on top of the doomed Adventuress. Or perhaps she was thrown bodily into the sea from the force, it was impossible to know for sure. Meanwhile the undead that had been near the warehouse were thrown dozens of feet into the air, their parts and ligaments spraying about much like the water from the island's geyser. The forces of undead that had been moving to intercept the escapees were thrown back like a card house, toppling into each other and creating a giant, macabre tangle of bone and tendon.


Back on the ship nearly everyone on deck was blown off their feet from the force of the explosion, though Milkweed was one of the lucky few who had managed to hang on to the railing and keep his balance. Even with his ears ringing he was already shouting orders to those that were regaining their feet, trying desperately to get a team together to rescue the woman that he now knew had bought them the chance to escape. But even as he did so a second series of explosions was sounding in the distance, not nearly as forceful as the first but much louder and far more quickly. This one was caused by the wine casks lighting and subsequently going off like blast charges, and to their credit the sound was nigh indistinguishable. Still Milkweed tried to get his rats together, and they seemed to be recovering quickly enough to form a small team. If they worked fast they could make it and try to find Hel before the undead recovered!


And then the impossible happened. The ship began to shake and rumble once more, but this was not caused by any sort of explosion. Milkweed looked on in disbelief as a wide bulge began to form in the water between his ships and the island, pushing his and the High Elf vessels even further from shore than they already were. From this bulge rose a massive whale-like head on a long, thick neck, the early dawn light glistening off its grey, dripping hide. The beast was larger than any living animal Milkweed had ever seen in his life, and for now he couldn't understand why such a thing would suddenly surface here of all places. The beast roared in anger, but those that heard it swore it sounded more like a terse yawn than true fury. Just as quickly as it had risen the head sank beneath the waves with a ghostly moan, and as it seemed to sigh in exasperation the geyser on the island erupted with the largest burst of water Milkweed had seen yet. That's when the pieces all fell into place, and it was then he understood that this thing, this animal, was in fact the entire island!


The beast's head had gone beneath the waves, and once it had the island rumbled and began to sink slowly along with its owner. Fear gripped Milkweed's heart as he saw the sea start to pool and be sucked into the vacuum left by the sudden submerging of this 'island fish'. He shouted to his crew, "All paws on deck! Man your stations! Full sail NOW!!" Immediately the rats turned to, climbing into the rigging and getting the ship sailing as fast as they could manage. Needle had climbed up into the crow's nest with her crossbow to view the whole spectacle, keeping an eye out for anything new that Milkweed would need to know. What she witnessed was nothing short of incredible.


In the distance she spied the coral thrones that had been the staging points of both the necromancer and the fish golem for their undead forces. The necromancer was trying valiantly to use some kind of sorcery to survive the rising waters roiling around him and his puppets. He was clutching something in his hands that was radiating a brilliant blue light, as pure and azure as the sea itself. It was slowing the process down around his person, and it seemed that he might even survive when he managed to get his throne afloat with the helpless cleric still dangling from his chains. But just as the necromancer thought life was in his grasp it was snatched away in an instant. From the churning seas leaped his giant fish golem adversary, flying in a majestic ark before it plucked the necromancer from his throne and dragged him back down into the sea with a piercing wail. As soon as the necromancer had been snatched the pillar of water keeping the throne aloft fell out from beneath it, sending the throne and the cleric tumbling down to their watery graves. The water had completely covered the once-island by now, and all that remained was the unforgiving sea.


Meanwhile the ships were having trouble escaping from the rapid currents of the whirlpool. The warehouse explosion had helped to push both ships away from the shore somewhat, but they were still getting caught in the edge of the rapidly growing maelstrom. The wind just wasn't on their side, and that was when Milkweed called out for help. "Nateema!!" He bellowed, hoping beyond hope that the old shaman could hear him over the cacophony of swirling water and the chaos on deck. For a moment nothing seemed to change, and the vessels continued to sink slowly back into the whirlpool despite the best efforts of both crews. But then a chant began to grow on the wind, softly and quietly at first, but growing steadily until every soul aboard both ships could hear it with clarity. Nateema was below decks, sitting in a meditative stance and shaking a ratkin skull filled with secret charms that made it rattle with every move. As the chanting grew in volume so too did the wind, and slowly a gust began to pick up behind both of the struggling vessels. The gale filled the sails as full as they could be, and with this extra help the vessels were slowly winning against the whirlpool. The sleek elvish vessel was able to crest the lip of the whirlpool and sail away from the maelstrom, but the ratkin trader was not nearly so nimble. But neither were they sinking more into the depths, so after a while the whirlpool eventually began to settle and the waters returned to a more even chop.


The danger had finally passed, and once it had the chanting and the wind stopped in unison with each other. Nateema slumped forward in exhaustion, trying hard to recover her strength from such a strenuous and sudden act of mysticism. Up on the fantail Milkweed could only look behind his vessel at the few pieces of flotsam that had managed to survive being sucked down into the depths. A few trees and pieces of wood were all that remained of what once was.


Milkweed looked out to the water for a long time as the vessel sailed towards the mainland, silently hoping he'd catch a glimpse of Hel or even a glint off her armor. But as the sun rose in the sky he knew it was hopeless. No single person could have survived that whirlpool without powerful magics, and Milkweed knew that Hel had died trying to save them all and herself. He sighed heavily at the revelation, the looked to his side where the civilian from before also stood and watched the waves. Tears were forming in his eyes as he looked on, and Milkweed wondered if this man had been Hel's mate or lover. The tired rat spoke up and asked the man, "What was her full name?" The man did not turn away from his vigil, and spoke with a slight hitch in his voice, "Helysoune... Her name was Helysoune..." Milkweed nodded and looked back from the fantail one last time. "She will be honored." The man could only nod his head numbly, his eyes still glued to the spot where he had last seen her that day.


Milkweed turned from the fantail and now faced the bow, looking ahead to the mainland and the final promise his people were granted. A new life was waiting for them, and they had just survived a hell of a thing to get there.

Burning Loose Ends

Before he could let himself rest Milkweed had one final piece of business to attend to. There was no way he was going to just let these mercenaries go free after the hell they had put him and the civilians through back on the island. No, they were going to pay him back for this one way or another, and right now he was going below decks to collect. Milkweed pensed for his dirty paws to follow him, and the ones that were able to did so silently, each noting the hint of anger Milkweed had let out in his pence.


Many of the mercenaries and the Elites were standing topside, eagerly watching the mainland come into view with the other civilians healthy enough to stand. However the one Milkweed sought was down in the cabins, sitting on his 'special' crate and leaning his back against the paychest while smoking a pipe and playing with his red-orange mustache. His legs dangled over the side of the crate, and in that stance he very briefly looked to be sitting atop a throne of conquest. Five of his most trusted men were in the room with him playing a game of cards, seemingly unfazed that each of them had just been snatched from Death's jaws by the skin of their teeth. The company's new Paymaster took a bucket of seawater and dumped it through the air holes that had been carved into the side of the crate. Whatever was inside cooed at the gesture with an ethereal voice, one that sounded oddly like whalesong Milkweed had heard in passing on the trip across the sea.


Milkweed entered the room first, and upon his arrival the Paymaster addressed him. "Thanks are certainly in order for your assistance friend Scout. ...Strange bedfellows, but one can't be choosy about one's rescuers..." He puffs at his pipe once more as he watches Milkweed with an appraising eye. Milkweed flashes him a polite smile as he responds, "Indeed, and I'm certainly glad that we've all survived that little adventure. But I fear there's a matter you and I must now discuss Paymaster." As he said this his other paws began to file into the room, easily outnumbering the men the Paymaster had at his immediate disposal. To his credit the man didn't flinch, he merely took another drag from his pipe and blew the smoke out the port hole. His men tried to look casual as well, but the sweat on their brow belied their minds. They were nervous, and silently bracing for things to get ugly very quickly. The Paymaster spoke up, "Do we have a matter now, 'Scout'? Don't fear, as we like to say, 'where there is life there is enterprise'. If you've got business then lets settle it, whatever it may be."


Milkweed's response was cool and calm, "I simply wanted to ask about your intentions for the civilians we rescued alongside your men." The men at table seem to relax at that as the Paymaster continues to smoke his pipe. "We are bound by contract to ensure their protection, it's our intention to guard these civilians until they can be integrated into a larger community of their choice serving Muurdaan interests as per their charter, and ours." He pauses, letting the smoke simmer in his nose before exhaling. "As for us we've already been paid, and half of us being lost must have their Tals (dogtags) sent back home so their families or designees can get their pension. That's as important to me as the lives of those folk, though granted not as pressing. Once the Tals get sent home we either get our contracts renewed and received replacements or we leave the colony on the first trading ship... provided these personnel are well cared for. If a safe creche agreeable to them cannot be found over that duration, we will escort them home on the first trading or supply vessel." He took the pipe from his mouth and held his arms wide, making a slight show of the movement. "There you have it... nothing up my sleeves. What say you to that?"


Milkweed smiled back just as coyly as he had before when he answered, "I'd say it's a bit odd for a man to show such care for people he was set on eating not six hours ago." The men's backs stiffened at that, their previous apprehension returning in force from this sudden change in tone. The Paymaster cocked a brow at this statement and tried to calmly explain his situation. "Friend, those were extreme circumstances we found ourselves in. We were just-" Milkweed cut him off by taking a step forward towards the Paymaster, still giving him a sweet grin but his eyes held nothing but steel for the man. "But if what you say is true then I have nothing to worry about. Of course, I really shouldn't have anything to worry about since all of you now work for me." Now the Paymaster was giving Milkweed a genuine look of confusion, and before he could ask Milkweed was already explaining. "Back there on the island you gave me direct command over yourself, your men, and all of your belongings. I believe your exact words were, 'Alright, Scout, you're calling the moves now.' By my knowledge of mercenary protocol that would constitute a verbal change of command to a higher ranking official in a battle scenario. Am I right?"


Still the Paymaster did not flinch, though Milkweed swore he saw the man's mustache twitch a few times in agitation. "...You'd be right, if we were a regular troop of soldiers. But that's just not the case, we're mercenaries friend. Maybe you know a lot about mercenaries with the way you're talking, but maybe again you don't... We can switch sides in the middle of a battle, and have before. And if you think-" Milkweed interrupted him, "And now you're stalling for time. Look, I think we've both played this game before many times over. To be perfectly honest, I don't care what happens to your men. To me you're all just soulless husks as is. Crows like you would sell your own children if you thought they'd fetch a fair price, so really you're no better than the Elites up on deck." The men visibly bristled at that and immediately turned to face Milkweed as one at the insult. But they were stopped short when they heard the distinctive singing of dagger steel leaving it's sheath, from no less that fifteen different sheathes at that. They sat back down in their chairs and looked on intently to the exchange between leaders. Milkweed continued, "But each of you owes me a life debt, and I intend to collect. So Paymaster, since you're not willing to work off this debt with your men, you are left with only two options. Make a counter offer, or make a move." Milkweed let his hand rest lazily on the handle of his right-hand dagger, waiting patiently for the mercenary leader to respond.


The Paymaster puffed on his pipe for a long while, visibly upset but clearly thinking over the situation. After a moment he kicks against his crate-seat twice, causing the beast inside to cry out once more with it's eerie voice. "Here's my counter offer. We have a prize here, rights of salvage and all that, spoils of war, et cetera... You know, typical mercenary perks. Instead of hijacking me men and the contract, how about I cut you in on a little finders fee for our prize over here? You don't tell and we don't tell, and come start of summer you'll never see us again, and you'll have [two wealth] to show for it. Your cut, no questions asked. If you're smart, and I'm beginning to think that you are, then that's the offer you'll take."


Milkweed only briefly pondered the offer as he studied the Paymaster's face for any telltale signs of deceit. Surely this man would try and swindle them later, but for now Milkweed had him in a corner and this was the most beneficial offer he could provide. And the price he was suggesting was nothing to sneeze at, so in the end Milkweed decided to let things lie there. "Then that is the price I will accept to settle your life debts." The mood in the cabin settled down considerably, though tensions were still high enough to be uncomfortable for all. The Paymaster nodded in acknowledgement, but Milkweed wasn't quite done with him yet.


Milkweed ran a hand over his head before he spoke, "Now that that's settled, my main point of coming here was to ensure you knew that I am taking charge of those civilians for the time being. They will be treated, and once they're healthy and able they can choose whatever life they wish at the colony. As long as you hold to your oath and protect them as you swore then you and I will have no quarrels, and we can be done with each other as soon as possible." The Paymaster nodded at that, a stray thought of relief flashing through his mind of the day when he didn't have to deal with these ratfolk anymore. But suddenly Milkweed's voice became harder as he continued, "But should you cross me, and attempt to harm those civilians or my rats for any reason at all, well..."


Milkweed trailed off for a moment as he let the statement hang in the air. He extends his hand to one of his dirty paws, and without a word the rat hands over one of his spare knives. "See, that Necromancer back on the island? He'd kill you once if you crossed him, then trap your soul in your bones and use you like a toy. Tragic really, but cross me..." Milkweed spat on the blade, loosing a great green glob of searing mucous that began to sizzle on the metal and leave pock marks where it landed, "And I'll have Hawthorne kill you a thousand times, each one different and unique from the last." Milkweed eyed the Paymaster with a steely glare as he handed the blade back to his paw. "Are we clear?" One of the men at the playing table was visibly shaken when he saw the acidic phlegm hit the blade. The others admonished him with deathly glares but Milkweed had already caught it, and was silently pleased with himself that he could still intimidate men of this caliber.


The Paymaster however very calmly puffed at his pipe and gave Milkweed a genuine smile as he responded, "Clear as day friend. If things fell out the way you say I guess I'd just be earning my pay by the cent... But it's fine Scout, any contract we can both walk away from is good by me. The civs? Treat 'em, do what you will as long as you don't damage the goods. As far as their protection is concerned you can consider us your goons... we still have to abide by the contract after all. So at the end of the day, maybe you're still calling the shots... Until we get you paid and get ourselves out of here that is..." He coughs slightly as he blows more smoke out the porthole, "Then you can use all them exotic tortures on somebody else."


Milkweed smiled back at the Paymaster with a genuine grin of his own. "Good, I'm glad we could work things out civilly." And with that Milkweed turned on his heel and promptly left the room with his paws at his heels. Just as he was about to leave the deck Milkweed's ears picked up a very faint curse from the cabin, and despite his good hearing he couldn't quite tell who it was that had said it.


"Fucking rats."

Ratkin Cant

Crow: Arguably the worst insult a ratfolk can give to any sentient being. It is used to describe someone with absolutely no morals or values other than personal gain.


Rust Heart: Ratkin Cant for the Dreaded Muurdaan House Elite -- After their subjugation by the Eternal Empire, Ratkin were relegated to live largely beneath the cities of the Muurdaan. The 'Rust Hearts' were key weapons in bringing the Ratkin to heel. Fearless, Tireless, Relentless, What history they share is sorely remembered.

 

[Beckoncall]

@Heyitsjiwon :


Caelis asks Cassandra to read the ancient Muurdaan Banner, still on the field as loot is gathered and the fallen are tallied...


Cassandra spoke:


"I shall tell what I see only to you my lord, though my eyes be of the fountain -- they were first yours and remain forever."


Cassandra lays her hands on the standard, and runs her fingers over the tattered cloth -- as magnificent the faded design seems to be, she sees countless layers of gilding, dye, runes, so many faded iterations of the standard where now only a patina of dye and decoration remains.


She sees through the eyes of the standard bearer, who is breathing heavily. Something is flying towards him to the left, which is blasted by spell fire from down the slope. Looking behind him for his savior, his deep black armor, gilded with the muurdain embossment of an earlier era, sees a Mage wielding some kind of controls to a bloody great green-glass walking machine- the Mage pulls levers inside the glass monster's head, melting cracks with great flames in one hand and throwing devastating magics with the other. The standard-bearer gazes in awe and horror at the sea beyond the beach below... An entire muurdaan invasion fleet has either crashed against the barrier, or are being blasted by bolts from it. A massive monster, a revolting giant Naga of a woman, is gorging herself on stranded sailors desperately trying to get out of the sea at the domed island below.


He looks up to see his own blood splatter the banner, his arms and chest are riddled with red-crystal knives. He takes a knee and looks as fellow muurdaan warrior prime fight their way up the Sandslope - before he falls to the dirt a much mightier warrior grabs the standard, and holds it aloft. The few ascending the slope all salute, and the new bearer kneels and braces himself planting the flag, with his other arm a spinning steaming bracelet of barrels and bolts - a fabled "Gatling bow" ... A lone musician sounds a horn with three proud notes, and the fantastic bow SCREAMS at the land ahead of them. The sound of cracking and tinkling crystal can be heard through smoke. The smoke is raked over and over until the breaking glass begins to subside, an explosion knocks the bearer onto its back, and out of consciousness.


He awakens being dragged in full armor by two other gilded foot knights. He's soaking wet, they all are, as is the banner hanging slack ahead of him... It is strapped to the back of the greatest knight, in a "Sashimono" style. They move carefully now, because they are few. Even through the wood, beyond the cliffs they can see their fleet still burning, sinking, disintegrating.


The vision changes, and it is clear they are running though it is doubtful they know where they are going. Entering a clearing, one of the remaining knights is impaled on a giant horn from the wood, hoist backward into the air, back into the wood. Moans of agony blend with the sound of shredding metal. The banner casts a shadow ahead of the subject of cassandras vision... Held ahead of it a great sword wielded in one hand, and in the other he holds out a gauntlet forged with a beautiful gilded Gatling bow, the name embossed "Touryan UnterHerr" his armor crackles with energy as he whips around... He is alone in the clearing now. He plants the standard to make his stand, the woods all around crack with the movement of a giant beast.


The barrels of the gatlingbow spin as trees are felled by the storm of iron bolts. The leaping giant horned one dives into the brush, and the lone warrior spins around just as his barrels spin to spit missiles all around him.


For a moment all is dark and pain, then Cassandra sees the subject is inside a mouth of whirling blades, rotating instead of his gauntlet that lay severed on the ground below, along with his broken claymore.


A grey, mottled claw knocks the banner down in adulant wicked laughter... And the sounds of agony and grinding metal begin anew...


Then, in the last moments of the vision, the body of the mottled, horned beast lays curled in slumber... Amid the decomposing bodies of gnolls and half elves, various treasures lay. The beast is older, less sinuous, but only a small part can be seen... Mud elves, the type seen in the battle for the platz, comb the debris and leaves of this dry cave for trophies and totems for use in the battle to come.


The vision fades as Cassandra sees the banner held aloft as a group of mudelves turn to face high elves closing on their left... And then all that can be seen is arrows and darkness.


That, my lord Caelis, is the story, or perhaps just *A* story of this strange standard..

 

[Prince Vaethorion]

STATUS UPDATE:


At the Bloody Banks:


The Prince stood above the banks where the scattered, arrow riddled corpses of the Mud Elves lay. Once again the Prince was impressed by the ferociousness of the Amayrans. The Plan worked perfectly. There was blood, lots of blood. The Mud Elves suffered a horrible defeat and the Prince oddly felt sorry for his distant kin and their horrible fate.


The Gnolls were across the bank and the Prince gestured towards to the Gnolls and presented the dead Mud Elves with non-threatening flourish of his hand, as if presenting them as an offering.


"Our enemies are dead!, here their bodies rot and we present them to you!" the Prince said in his heavily formal and accented common. The Prince struggled with a universal gesture to demonstrate this in case they did not speak common.


"Wara Huan" ("Dirty Dogs") The Prince muttered to himself. The Prince was not pleased with the arrangement made with the Gnolls, he found the beast abhorrent, but did not want to have more hostilities if it could be avoided. The Prince wondered where the Mud Elves lived, where were their villages, their families and if their children could somehow be saved from the Gnolls retribution.


The Prince turned to his High Born, "Sangana mani harma lle can utuaar' be desiel a' kela!" ("Gather what treasure you can find and be ready to go!") he ordered his High Born.


Once the field was looted, the Prince, the rest of the High Born would head back to the Platz.


Surviving the Explosion and the "Island" :


The Linguist and the rest of the crew were grateful of the magical intervention of the Ratkin Shaman. Without the wind at their backs, all would have been lost. The Linguist expressed his and the others gratitude and would report what happened to the Prince. As the sun rose, the Linguist ordered his men to attempt to salvage any goods and items that would float to the surface from the Island sinking (and although unknown what might have washed down stream from the waterfalls). After checking for crates, or items that might have floated to the surface, the Linguist headed back to port and sends the fastest to inform the Prince of what has occurred.


At the Tyrren Camp:





Upon hearing news of the battle of the Platz, the Tactician and the 15 High Born accompanying return to the Platz.


Other Business and Relations with Other Factions:


The Prince saw the departure of the Exile leader and the division among the Exiles who did not want to join the Attolians as an opportunity to ally themselves and become closer to the countrymen. The Prince overall sought harmony in the Colony. He spoke to his closest advisers and looked to see what common ground the High Born shared with each of the factions.


Attolians:


The Attolian leader with his noble leanings and temperament, desire for order are the closest to the High Born's. However, the usage Blood magic is of dire concern (The Mage will speak with the oracle to express concern in the Fountain). There was already and existing relationship between the two factions and this will be continued to be pursued in an attempt to cement an alliance between the two factions. The absorption and offering of the Attolian citizenship to the Exiles in the depression made sense to the Prince but unsure how this was significant, if the exiles were to remain in the New World. However, order must be maintained and the two factions could work together to maintain order and build prosperity. The Platz, the depression, and the Beach/port could be made into a first class trading hub with the combined efforts of the Attolians, Exiles and High Born. Also, the defense of the Colony (having shared the battlefield) would be an important goal to further together.


Exiles:


The Exile Country men's mutual history of fighting the Muurdan was very close in parallel to the High Born, and the High Born seek to combine their interest with the Countrymen using their shared history and interest in the Beach/port. The beach and port were important to the success of the colony and working together could be mutually beneficial. This offer would be presented to the Countrymen's leader. Furthermore, the Prince would explain the close relationship the Highborn have with Dragons in an attempt find a common interest. More importantly, the Prince would offer to help build a place of worship for their Dracos religion and beautify it (as only High Born can) as a offering of good will. Those remaining convicts not currently employed by the Tyrren and other exiles interested could partake eventually in work that will be needed at the Port, beach, depression development. Those who wished to become Attolian could become Attolian, but those that wished to not join a pro-Muurdan faction could ally themselves with the High Born also. Either way, the High born regarded the Attolians as important allies, so to them there was no conflict of interest, just the interest of the colony and naturally making more allies for the High Born. The High Born realized that with the departure of Sylvan, that they as a race were now alone and had to make inroads with the other races. Additionally, The High Born were sympathetic to the poor living conditions of the exiles and would help to develop better lodgings for the exiles and better sanitation. Among the projects the High Born were interested in were public baths and improving the quality of life in the Colony, by improving housing situation.


Tyren:


The Prince had to overcome his own initial prejudices of the Bull race, but he has had time to see they are good natured and productive. The Prince appreciates their gestures of good will. The Prince sends a High Born Skilled worker with language affinity to learn their language and teach other Highborn basic phrases and words to be friendly to Tyren. The Bull Metal could be useful to be forged and the Grass that the Highborn learned to cultivate will be produced in larger quantities to be traded with the Tyren, for metal, silver, wool and their luxury commodities. The High born could also offer them artisan items that are of high quality like the Sylvan Elves, but unique to the High Born.*


(@Prince Vaethorion : Stated commodity too vague. Name artisan items being produced or commodities you have supply of)


Sylvan Elves:





The High Born had thought that the Sylvan Elves and the High Elves would be natural friends and allies. This relationship never occurred and before any friendship could be cultivated, the Sylvan hastily departed. Nonetheless, the kinship and history of the Elves is eternal and important to the High Born. The High Born are friendly disposed towards the Spring Born as their is a lure to Sylvan culture for man High Born since they are viewed as a rustic version of the High Born. The High Born would be pleased to exchange ideas and knowledge with the Sylvan and speak in Elven tongue.


Amayran:





The High Born have a martial culture and the brute power of the Amayrans has been seen as indispensable in the battle with the Mud Elves. Their abilities to help with physical labor is also regarded as important. The High Born appreciate these contributions. It's believed that the Colony would have been overrun if not for the Amayrans fierceness in battle. The High Born will continue to seek out sources of food to exchange for labor. The building of the sea wall is the next big project where the Amayran strength and aquatic abilities would be crucial. It's unknown when bad weather might strike in Winter perhaps and the Sea Wall would allow the port to become a harbor.


Ratkin:





The Ratkin has already proven themselves in their adventures on the Island. Admitedly, the presence of Ratkin and their known mating habits is a bit alarming for the High Born who have always kept them away. The Rat Kin are known to steal, but also make great spies. Their espionage abilities will be invaluable to the High Born and the colony. However, their other tendencies are a concern. The Prince is grateful for saving the lives of his High Born and his vessel. The Prince would find ways to have common ground, and work with the Ratkin for the betterment of the colony. The Prince would make it clear to the Ratkin leader that ANY theft of High Born property would be regarded as a severe breach of trust and would likely have dire consequences. Other than establishing those understandable guidelines, the High Born would work with the Ratkin and behave favorably.


I.O.C :





It is likely known by now that the Linguist and the High Born crew assisted in their rescue by creating the distraction that helped enable their escape, the High Born would be receptive to those Wealthier I.O.C seeking better surroundings and a higher standard of living. Any trading expertise is an asset for the Colony and to the Prince's ambitions to develop the Port into a trading hub. The Prince would present this offer of working with the Traders to improve the Port. The Mercenaries, being military minded and trained are useful for the colony's defense, but their lack of morality makes them distasteful to the High Born. The High Born would work with the Attolians, Exiles, the Ratkin to find homes for them and see to their integration.


This is the disposition of the High Born to the other races. Whereas, the High Born are elitist, and realize their superiority, the High Born also desire the Colony to succeed and to be a cohesive entity. For this purpose, the High Born will work together with the other races to this end.


Wrapping up loose ends with battle:


-Loot Mud Elven corpses and communicate non-aggression with Gnolls


- Tactician and High born accompanying at Tyren Camp return to platz


-Linguist in ship salvages anything that floats to surface water


Objectives:





1) Explore North of the Ruins that are unexplored Send Spy, with 10 Elite Swordman,10 Skilled Spearman, 10 Archers to explore.


2) The High Elves War Mage opens a Magic guild - a guild for the arcane. Offer to sell enchantments and to begin an apprenticeship for other gifted magic users. Others are welcome to join


3) Search for resources send 5 elite swordsman 5 Skilled Spearman and 5 archers to the Barrier Hills


4) Build Windmill for energy Engineer, 5 Skilled spearman 20 Archers to begin construction near Manor in Platz


5) Attempt to incorporate countrymen into High Born alliance, by presenting Leader of countrymen, and subsequently those convicts other exiles not interested in Attolian citizenship the idea to combine efforts and propose Beach trade monopoly by forming a Port Authority and Dock workers guild. The High born will dedicate 5 Skilled and 5 unskilled to begin. Make this offer more attractive by offering to help design, build and beautify a Temple Dedicated to Dracos.


Continued Goals:


-improving Manor and surrounding area in Platz with remaining labor, turn the High Born quarter to the Upscale Quarter


- Stabilizing food source by spreading vertical gardens throughout the living areas of the High Born


- Explore and find resources (food, minerals, commodities, animals to tame, artifacts)


-Improve and maintain good relations with other factions


-Continue drilling and training High Born for one hour before breakfast and for one hour before dinner


Long Term Goals:


-Sea Wall would allow the port to become a harbor - might need Amaryan support


-Fishery - After these goals


-Improved Colony defense


-Establish government


-Build armory for Colony


- Remove Undead from Platz


- Avoid or kill Cull


- Prepare for winter


Suggested guilds at first meeting of Governance Council.


Military/defense guild, Banking guild, Inventors guild, colony planning comittee, engineering guild, farming/gardening guild, builders guild, spy guild

 

[Beckoncall]

PRESSING CONCERN/DECISION POINT! :


The Undead waiting at the edge of the ruin have so far respected the boundary with the 'Platz, perhaps in part to the fact that colonists haven't been entering their ruin either. But it is becoming increasingly obvious that many skeletons (and all the hunger ghosts) want to shop in the market. Many have brought dusty coinpurses or long-buried bits of art or valuables -- mostly shiny stuff. They are making it clear that the general economy, and perhaps all factions, could get a potential uptick in wealth were the market to be open to them.


If two factions consent, the Undead will have access to the marketplace in the 'Platz.


The Red Fountain proclaims that it can restrict the entrance of the undead to the market to during the day, when they would be much weaker and (relatively) less able to cause trouble... at least for now.


The Red Fountain also counsels Caelis that if the Undead are NOT allowed to shop in the 'Platz, they may realize they are actually dead, or for other reasons become more pointed in their coveting of goods than simply pressuring for the opportunity to buy things.


If the right people come together or the right resources are committed, skeletons could be allowed access to the marketplace while still barring hunger-ghosts... which are the largest liability, especially if they enter the market at night, when their appetites would be insatiable.


In any case, these guys have been hanging out for a little while now. Public policy or other action regarding them may become necessary very soon.

 

[Beckoncall]

@Elendithas @Prince Vaethorion :


"Hair of the Dog"


So there it was again -- colonial forces on one side of the river, facing gnollish forces in the trees beyond. What was going on in the minds of the Gnolls, was unknown -- the Aymaran did not care what a potential enemy THOUGHT, and the Highborn despite signing or hailing got little more than steeley gazes as Larger, armored ones began to pull away the corpses on their side of the river.


Tocxhol was never one to turn away a chance for a fight -- but the time was coming to assess wounds, and regroup. He turned for home, and with one motion most every Aymaran followed him... the lurkers ponderously pulling their weight out of the water they so gracefully moved when under.


A scarred or two took one final swipe at the dead at the base of their bank -- but the omni-present insects made the pain of acquiring meal or trophy undesirable. When it was seen that the gnolls neither acknowledged highborn attempts at establishing a truce, nor that an Aymaran could not loot effectively without being wickedly stung -- what loot that might have remained was left on the ground -- and both factions forces withdrew. When they returned to the 'Platz, it was likely that the true cost of the battle -- the tally of the fallen... would be soon known to all...

 

[Beckoncall]

"Flea Market of Dracos"


Since authority in the exile faction has begun to de-centralize (becoming more convicts, workers and countrymen as distinct groups) there has been a push by the countrymen to part with certain goods Maeder might have been saving for a rainy day -- they show up at market...


1 "Cartfull" of "Earth's Blood": This was found abandoned by either former colonists or citizens of the mage city itself. Amounts to a substantial number of barrels... a couple dozen, give or take. This is basically refined fossil oil... and may have many applications besides throwing it on people and lighting them.


1 Seemingly complete and functional but unassembled Muurdain Ballista: of the "Crossbow" variety, it is of top quality and is obvious to ANYONE that no Port Agent in HELL would intentionally put this siege weapon into the hands of the exiles... maybe not to anyone in the colony at all. Comes complete with 6 log-sized projectiles with steel fists as ram heads, and a further 6 wholly wood missiles honed to a point.


Bidding for these items starting at one wealth each, time will be given for counteroffers or especially persuasive folk may be able to close a sale more quickly...


...Proceeds will go to the construction of the Temple of Dracos.

 

[Prince Vaethorion]

Shaalth Val’istar, the High Born War Mage was now alone with the Platinum Crown examining it in a ruin. The Cleric had accompanied him before, but left to continue to attending to the wounded. They had been examining the Ivory Scepter, and once the Cleric left, the Mage turned his attention to the crown.


He was gently probing the object with a probing spell to determine the nature of the item. He discovered what it was, and a wave of terror overcame him. His heartbeat sped up, a noticeable trickle of sweat dripped off his forehead. This was no crown. This was a "Gongchong". An evil magical creature PRETENDING to be a crown. Fortunately, the Mage did immediately not show alarm, and alert the Gongchong. The Gongchong was fully capable to jump on an unsuspecting victim. Gongchong's are an extremely evil, semi-intelligent parasite that can mimic headpieces and other finery. These were hunted to extinction everywhere in the old world, and now was a in from of the Shalth Val'istar. Once linked to a host, it can use their brain power to operate on a much more sophisticated level. This evil item was likely bound to one of the witches. The witch seemingly used it to control low level troops to make them more ferocious. Every host that died, the Gongchong would seek another victim.


When it was left behind, it revered back to it's prior independent nature, a parasite waiting for a host to feed off. This one was waiting for someone powerful to put it on. It could even revive dead host and control them.


In it's current form it was still a beautiful, platinum crown. As the Mage processed these thoughts, his anxiety grew and this put the Mage on extreme alert. One false move and this would be upon him. These creatures moved extremely fast and were clever. The Mage continued pretending he did not know what it was. What should he do, he thought. Alert others? No, he could not leave it alone, it could move from here and leap on an unsuspecting victim. The Mage despite his discipline, centuries of training and experience inwardly desired to scream. If he screamed it would attack. The Mage decided to destroy it, but this was easier said than done. The Wizard had a grudging respect for this hideous thing, many more powerful than him had fallen to a Gongchong.


The Mage casually turned to look at another object on a table across the room. The Gongchong was seven feet away. The Gongchong must have sensed that it's illusion was no longer working. The Gongchong, began to change. Out of the corner of the Mage's eye, he could see the creature was shaking off the cloth attached to what was once a crown, it was now taking it's natural form, one that is best described as crab with a ring of obsidian eyes. The room was a ruin, there was a door closer to the creature, a high window and half the roof above the Mage was still intact. The Gonchong began to chatter with audible excitement. It was going to leap any moment now. At this point, the Mage was aware that if did not respond swiftly, it would entail his demise. The Gongchong crawled to the door and shut it closed, trapping the Mage alone with the Gongchong in the ruined house.


The War Mage spun around, and from his hand, a bluish shield of light, a force field created a barrier, but before the mage could complete the somatic gesture to complete the spell, the Gongchong had already leaped at his face! The creature was mid air, all ten limbs spread and it smashed against the force field, just over a foot from the mages head. As fast as the Mage was, the evil creature was faster, before the Mage could strike again, the Gongchong crawled under a decrepit bed frame. The Mage blasted the bed CRACK, which disintegrated, but the creature moved to quickly. The Gongchong leaped at the war mage again, bouncing off of the field, which visibly ablated with the gonchong's own insidious counter magic.


The Gongchong scurried to flee and seek an easier target, and headed to leap out of the window. The Mage dropped his force field to attack the creature. The Mage thought of a dozen spells in the millisecond standing there, one wrong decision and the creature would turn on him. The Mage cast dispel magic. The Dispel magic created a cone between the crab like sinister, magical entity and the Mage. He only grazed it, a greenish smoke came off of it, and it visibly slowed. It stood there on the floor, apparently unaware that his shield was down. The creature now in a pathetic gesture, held up two of it's limbs...as if in surrender.


ZZZZZZAP! The Mage unleashed a bolt of lightning. The creature died instantly. Strangely, it did not look any different dead than alive, it's eyes still blinked, it's limbs were moving. The mage lets out a deeep breath! The Mage knew it was dead, but still was not going to take chances and disintegrated it. It turned to a shiny pile of sand. The mage was taking zero chances. The Mage took the sand towards the window and cast it star ward, it kept floating higher and higher. The mage was uncertain if it was his magic or another force which carried it away, but the Gongchong was now gone.


Were he not the victor, he could only imagine what chaos the gonchong could have wrought with a Highborn War Mage as a host...

 

[Heyitsjiwon]

Caelis watched, in shock and awe, as Cassandra flew through the air and landed before him. She had a fiery gaze that seemed capable of burning through flesh. Her new clothes accentuated her body and left less to imagination. Could this woman really be Cassandra, the quiet, demure lady who was frightened by the very idea of blood? Caelis was worried that Cassandra may have made a horrible choice that would come to haunt them later. What price would the fountain extract from Cassandra for all these new found powers? Caelis was unsettled. There was no going back. As Cassandra knelt before him and kissed his feet, Caelis backed up slightly and said "Cassandra, there is no need for you to prostrate yourself like that. Your loyalty and my trust in you are proven in your successes as they always have been. I see that you have made your decision and I will stand by it. Now then, let us hurry. There is much that we must do."


---


In response to the requests made by the Exiles, Caelis had drafted a decree to make his statements official and leave record of his words in order to show his sincerity and seriousness in his offer. The decree states as follows:


In reverence to our fellow brothers at arms and humankind, I, Lord Caelis Wollf, Heir to the Estate of the Wolff Family, promise the following:


1. In response to the Exile request for Lord Caelis to do his all in introducing Dracos to the Attolian Pantheon, I will not be brass enough to pretend that I have much religious authority to truly make a difference. Thus, I will not make a promise that I can not duly fulfill.


2. However, in a sign of solidarity, I pledge to help construct the temple by contributing the architect to the project once the housing shortage is no longer an issue.


3. In addition, I pledge the expertise of the shipwright to help with the symbolic burial of Maeder and construct a respectable ship for the event.


It is with high hopes that this decree will help foster relations and lead to a brighter future.


Sincerely,


Caelis Wolff, Lord of the Kingdom of Attolia


---


Relationship Building:


Tyren:


In an attempt to continue fostering relations between all races present at the colony, Caelis has decided to send his Linguist to the Language Square to facilitate the learning of various languages among all factions. In addition, Lord Caelis, in consideration of the recent attack of the Platz, has ordered for the complete withdrawal of all Attolian Forces back to the settlement. However, the Attolians have decided to commit to building the road between the two settlements and thus provide 10 unskilled laborers for the job. They also bring 2 carts of stone to help build the road.


IOC:


The Lord thanks the gods for the safety of the remains of the IOC. Caelis welcomes these citizens of the empire and promises them safety and security among the Attolians. However, due to the question of whether the thralls are citizens of the Empire, Lord Caelis has also decided to offer them the same terms given to the Exiles.


Highborn:


Caelis thanks the Highborn for their assistance in the battle. He understands that there is some concern with the recent developments with the fountain, but hopes that they can continue to work together while both being weary. Caelis wishes to help with the highborn project to build a seawall, and pledges 2 carts of stone to help facilitate the project and 5 skilled laborers.





Ayamaran:


The Lord also thanks them for their assistance in battle, but expresses great concern on the very possibility of friendly soldiers being targeted. Thus, Caelis wishes to express his interest in finding a way for Ayamarans to be able to discern friend and foe or at least find something that will keep away brutes from friendly soldiers during the heat of battle.


Ratkin:


Caelis welcomes these newcomers and praises them for their ingenuity in the rescue of the IOC. He warns them to be wary as the ware-rat plague had been solved not too long ago and some people remember the events rather vividly.


---


Division of Labor/Orders:


1. Architect, 5 Skilled Laborers and 20 Unskilled Laborers continue to build the Attolian Housing District. They have 2 carts of stone to help them with the project.


2. Engineer, Geologist, 5 Skilled Laborers and 10 Unskilled Laborers are to begin constructing a mine on the hill with the most likely availability of iron


3. 20 Unskilled Laborers are to continue clearing Boulder Field


4. Chemist and 5 skilled workers are to begin making glass from the sand


5. Falconer is to begin to start training some birds for use as messenger birds to help facilitate quick communication between the two settlements


Attolia joins the Luxury Goods Guild. They bring Bronze Statues to the market

 

[SpiralErrant]

Things had come such a long way since the caravan had made landfall. Things had been hard, no doubt there, with the attacks of the natives and the loss of their wood dwelling friends was still a sore blow.. but each morning when Orm stepped out of his little hut home and ducked his horn under the door frame he felt a swell of pride to look upon Hruntaras. Houses and homes, the first time in his life they'd set down in a place and planted roots strong and deep. To his eyes those circled longhalls and forest walls were things of beauty. Strength of an oak and bound in bull iron. With the cold metal's touch their very homes could become fortresses against malicious spirits. This right here was a good feeling, the minotaur reckoned. But the more they grew the more there was to do and a chief's work was never done. It seemed nothing in this land took a moment to stand still and there were still more and more folk to be dealing with.


The Sylvan


Well the young wee-woods were taking to the hills like ducks to water but there was still the looming question of what to do with their old place of residence. With their leaders gone the remaining wood elves were left wanting direction and their most conflicting issue seemed to be what to do about the foothill woods. Some said how it was only meant to be temporary but moving to the larger forest beyond the river but that seemed a distant dream now. Others wondered if it might be taken under the care of the Tyren and joined with Hrun'taras. The elders of the caravan had staid up a few nights talking that over with some of the springborn that had stepped forward as the more forward of their group. It was a nice thought but without the older elves around anymore their numbers were far too few to spread themselves out that much. Maybe it was Orm's herd instincts talking but these little ones admitted they weren't fighters, they couldn't afford to leave themselves so far off from all sources of help.


He could at least try to meet them half way though. Elves seemed to be a sensitive bunch and these ones had just had to wave off everyone else they knew as they went off to war. A bitter blow to take. He couldn't promise the elves that he could safeguard the woods completely, not as things were but he could offer them the next best thing. Sending most of the elves back on the task to gather anything left in their old wood homes that they couldn't stand to part with and to collect the readily growable crops they'd made there. That way they could make the hills feel a bit more like home and to salvage the hard work they'd put in there. There tree mages may have been gone but with time the glade would grow and together they could see it grow into a woodland of their own. Time being something the elves were said to have by the wagon load. He also told them to mark out the site of the graves they'd told him of, where the bones Shul had found were buried. Nice and clear. Even if Orm couldn't guard the whole forest he could promise them his voice in demanding their dead be treated with respect.


Those that didn't go back to the woods went to investigate this bizarre mass of plants in the rock face up above. According to the springborn their elders were the ones who really knew how the magic of this place was supposed to work, leaving those that remained to try and work it out for themselves. Well... it had gotten two of those gems poured right into it, that must have done something. It was hoped that there were some secrets left for them in the strange book they had left for Anuc and if they were any to be found she and Ummush would be the ones to find them. It was out of that kind of curiosity that the springborn brought some of the gem bushels into the mine with them. Everyone said there was some potential magic in those things and that the mine worked well with plants... so maybe they could work well together. If nothing else it could make good ground for growing new crops.


The exiles and the platz


That pile of stone by the coast was busier than a bee hive in summer! All kinds of things had gone on at the colony since they arrived and most of them seemed to be happening at the platz. The big prevailing word was that others were vising to tempt the humans that had come over with the first wave colonists to bend the knee to them and swear loyalty to all these fancily dressed lords that had come over since. Something which Orm just didn't understand. They still called themselves lords and princes but the places they claimed those titles from had sent them away? Very strange. But the elders advised him not to turn a blind eye to this. The more people they claimed power over the more hands they had to call on. That was how tribes and clans got formed, usually into the kinds of groups that had so often forced the tyren from their ancestral lands at sword point. Orm may have been a new comer to the game of politics but he would have to play it none the less. And as he saw it the useful they made themselves to the colony as a whole the more folk would listen to them and the safer his people would be.


Word had it that the leaders of the exiles all wanted fancy buildings and bonfires for a dragon they worshiped. Orm had never seen this dragon so he had to wonder as to how friendly it actually was.


"It's a spirit that they call a dragon." The grocer told him one day when he was at market. "I don't know if it used to be alive or what but I haven't seen any sign of them bringing it with them except some books it wrote or something?"


Dragons were writing books now? "And they all worship it?"


"No, I think they're from all about the place. They got brought here in chains but the jailers and the loudest of the humans all worship it. Or something like that I think."


Well either way Orm couldn't offer them any of the bigger things they wanted. He didn't have the means and frankly he just didn't understand how humans made such a clamor over things like spirits. To a tyren the worship of a god was to try and tame a spirit and to try and tame a spirit was to try and put a collar on the wind. Well fine, they could always go and make their worship around the nicer part of the hills. There was the hilltop where the statue now lived, no doubt it would like some company so the tyren spread the word around the platz that Hrun'taras was religious neutral ground, where you could worship whatever you pleased so long as you were peaceful about it. The wood elves had already claimed what little space they liked for their nature god so the exiles were free to do the same and make a shrine of Dracos on the hill as well as any other non-dracos worshiping exile that kept their own ways from whatever was their home.


With luck that would get them some more helping hands around Hrun'taras. And if the chance of free faith wasn't enough maybe folks would be tempted to it by all the coin coming out of it. Or the fact that it WASN'T crawling with the undead and a spooky talking blood fountain. That place was insane.


The Attolians


Public opinion was riding high with these ones right now, ever since their shrieking scholar had given warning of the rock slide. That had saved untold numbers of lives there and Orm wasn't so stubborn as to deny them some goodwill and credit as far as that was concerned. Though Bruul still held a low opinion of their translator and leader for the insults given to him and the caravan during their first meeting and the weak excuse of an apology their brother had offered. However you viewed them these humans had veered from one extreme to another. It seemed the jury was out on the Attolians for now. Only time would tell how things would go from there. Either way Orm would have to attend some more language classes if he was going to be dealing with them more in the future.


The Highborn


Well these ones had been polite in their first meeting at least as well as offering to help defend the camp from the gnolls and running off to give warnings when danger was near. Maybe they would be as much like their wood dwelling kin? That might bode well for future relations but until the they and the Tyren actually interacted more no one could tell. One thing Orm had learned of them that set him on edge was their number of warriors. Everyone who'd come to the new land tended to identify themselves by their job, their role among their people. But these self called Highborn had brought no farmers or carpenters. They all defined themselves by their weapon and their leaders were things like war mages and spies. What's more Orm had heard that any day they weren't working, they were training for battle without fail. These new elves seemed to be a very warlike people.


The Aymaran


Just one would eat a shark whole! And they had to be whipped and battered into line by the few with enough brains to control themselves! It was like an entire clan made up of Orm on his worst day. The herd wagons almost had a nervous breakdown when word reached them of these new arrivals. Thankfully they'd stuck to the sewers of the platz so far and were willing to get their meat at market but what about when they wated to spread to the river? Steps would have to be taken if any of them took a liking to all the sheep and goats that roamed the hills. Or the tyren themselves...


The Ratkin


Finally someone who made sense! Granted Orm himself had never heard of any major contact with these folk back in the old world. As he understood it the rulers and goverments around there liked to keep the rats underground and in the cities, while they did their best to make sure the tyren knew they were not welcome in any city. Sticking them out in the countryside and wild places, just not any of the ones they wanted to be in. But that was some kind of common ground. Both were folk of fur and tail and both had sailed out here looking to get away from folk who thought to tell them where they could and couldn't live. Maybe things could go well with this lot. And did they find the bulls' old boat?


The I.O.C


Oh so these ones were back on the mainland... and apparently things hadn't gone well. The caravan had only had a small amount of contact with these humans during the sale of the boat and yet it was probably more than any other group that was still left. Folk kept talking about how they worked for the EMPIRE and represented all sorts of evil and such but the tyren were never made a part of the old world politics. One group of humans seemed much the same as any other to them, these ones even seemed to dress the same as the Attolians and all, at least according to the fledgling fashion sense of the minotaurs. These ones at least had just spoken in the cold language of trade and coin, something the bulls understood well and oddly made these hornless more manageable than others. Now, as Orm understood it, they had a company of mercenaries looking for work and profit in the name of trade. Well Bruul had experience with such things and so far Hrun'taras was making the most coin of any other spot in the colony. And it was in need of fresh guards with the departure of the glade guard. So perhaps something could be worked out.


The colony


So with everyone intent on growing their claimed lands and having even more people running around, Orm figured it was high time they all started trying to work together instead of around each other. No one was going anywhere, maybe, so they might as well work out their living arrangements. He was pretty sure this was how settled folk did it. He'd tried getting their attention before but that massive outbreak of violence put an arrow in that plan. So now he wasn't going to play around anymore.


Orm sent out word to ALL the leaders that were still knocking around and invited them to meet in boulder field. They set up a yurt and everything so they could have a proper meeting place to talk things out, just like chiefs did it. So now it was just a waiting game.

Spoiler

- 35 springborn sent to the foothill forest to gather any remaining belongings as well as root veg and mushrooms.


- Plant new plots for the wood elf root veg and mushroom crops around Hrun'taras to help renew supply.


- Make clear markings around the grave made for the fallen elves in the woods.


- 10 springborn take bushel gems and investigate mine of vines. Ummush, Bruul and Anuc aid in investigation with bark-bound tome. (Bruul's main task is being the shaman inside the mine, no one dares to ask Ummush to go climbing at his age)


- Form Farmers guild to stake out land and protect herds from possible displacement. (see guild setup spoiler)


- Offer up one of the hills around Hrun'taras as possible areas of communal worship and shrine building for those of all faiths to the colony at large. No favoritism is made in Hrun'taras with regard to religions.


- Approach 'The cult of the rich' to open negotiations to purchase their contract and form a guard for the northern part of the colony.


- Setup a meeting place in boulder field for the first meeting of a colony council.






Forming Farmers Guild!


The remaining elder herdsman and the other herd wagon bulls join. (1 Skilled, 20 unskilled Tyren workers bringing LIVESTOCK)


Some springborn join in an attempt to recover the sylvan crops that have been moved from the foothill forest and to bring their own knowledge to the Tyren crops (15 Springborn bring mushrooms/ root vegetables and Sunwatcher plants)


Luxuries Guild


12 skilled Tyren workers (6 skilled labourers, 4 skilled craftsmen, 2 merchants) 4 unskilled tyren workers (craftsmen apprentices)


4 Springborn (Bringing Sylvan woodwork to the table... that they probably made)


List of goods now includes: Darkleaf, Gem bushel jewelry, Fine silver goods, Woolen goods, Fine wooden furniture.


Learner's Square


2 Skilled Tyren workers. 1 Shaman (Shul)


6 Springborn


Grocer Guild


2 Skilled Tyren workers (1 Merchant, 1 dedicated grocer)


5 Springborn


List of goods now includes: Mutton, Milk and cheese, Roots, Mushrooms.


Healers Guild


2 Skilled Tyren workers (Anuc and Weome the healers)


5 Springborn

 

[Prince Vaethorion]

@Beckoncall @Heyitsjiwon


Prince Vaethorion was sitting on his "throne", in his provisional throne room, he received the news of Shaalth Val'istar's battle with the deadly Gongchong with consternation and alarm. The Prince was grateful that his close, trusted friend, confidant, second in command and War Mage was powerful enough to defeat such an evil, dangerous creature. Nonetheless, he was very concerned of the potentially dark nature of the other items looted from the Mud Elves and their Dark Elf masters.


The Prince stood up from his "throne", an enchanted, ornate, crystal wrought chair, with engravings of lions and dragons. The throne shimmered as he rose and changed color from a light blue to a deep purple. This chair was the chair he used in the Eastern High Elven High Council and was a much smaller replica of the one his father sat on in the Grand Throne room. The Prince gestured emphatically. "These foolish Mortals are dabbling with blood magic and Dark items they do not understand. This will be their and the colony's undoing, if they are not more careful. Can you imagine if one of these Humans put on the Gongchong what would have occurred. We must insure that the scepter falls into the right hands."


The War Mage nodded solemnly and replied. "Yes, the outcome might have been tragic. These mortals are playing with fire. They think that an entity like the fountain exists to serve them, while it is they whom serve it. The Scepter could be wielded by many here, but I agree that our Cleric is potentially the most reliable. Incidentally, There is currently a more pressing matter, Ama Handasse Marenven, your Strategist and Commander is here to brief you and has an issue that needs to be resolved."


The Prince seemed to cheer up. "Yallume! ("At last") he said.


The ancient Strategist, War lord Ama handasse Marenven entered the "throne room", wearing her full armor as usual, but without her helm. Her Mithril shined, her crimson sash was vibrant, but it was clear that she had been recently out living in the field. One could tell this by the wildness of her long, flowing platinum hair. She bowed, and saluted by forming a triangle with her two hands. She gave the Prince her hands for him to kiss. The Prince kissed her hands and she kissed gently his mouth, as was their custom.


The Prince said pleasantly, and with reverence "Elen sila lumenn omentilmo." (" A star shall shine at the moment of our meeting")


Ama responded "Cormamin lindua ele lle, Nae saian luume" ("My heart sings to see thee, it has been too long")


The Prince said politely "Mae govannen, Oio naa elealla alasse" ("Well met, ever is thy sight a joy"), "Please report".


The Commander cleared her throat. "My Prince, I have much to report. The majority of the Sylvan elves as you know have departed and with them their most ancient and powerful leaders. Their absence has weakened the defenses of the Northern Tyren settlement. Presently, options are being sought to shore up these lines, but at present it is vulnerable to attack. As far as we can assess, the Gnolls are not planning to attack presently and the Mud Elves are still licking their wounds, but this may change. The Tyren, with their wealth are seeking help from the Mercenaries whom have made some pact with the Rat people. Currently, our defenses are spread thin. The Majority of the colonist are defenseless, the Attolians are advocating the formation of a Garrison as you know, but even so that Garrison presently would be weak unless there is a massive effort to train the colonist into a more cohesive force...."


"As for other threats The Skeletons are overflowing the ruins, there are ghost, hunger ghost, lost souls, small machines, snakes in the swamps, imps and Amaryan in the Sewers, Ratkin have been burrowing to the North East of us, the exiles are discombobulated, there are scheming, immoral mercenaries running about, Fishmen in the ocean, the cull, and various creatures that are still unknown to us. This goes without mentioning the various forces of Dark magic and deities that remain here including the Blood Fountain, and the Deity that the Tyren uncovered. I am pleased to report that the IOC necromancer on the Island has been dispatched, along with the undead he wielded."


The Prince nodded, he knew all or most of this already and already had some ideas on how to deal with these various threats. "Yes, I am aware of this, However, I value your opinion, I would like you to write up a complete threat assessment along with strategies, and contingencies to deal with EACH of these threast. We will then soon convene to discuss the strategies to deal with each of these situations one by one."


The Strategist replied "As you wish my Captain." The Tactician had more on her mind it seemed.


The Prince gestured, "I see you are here to tell me something else."


The Commander gestured to an Elite Sword Master guarding the door and another Elite Sword Master entered with the fallen Muurdan Standard the Prince captured in Battle. She continued, "My Prince, the Cleric has informed me that we won an ancient Muurdan banner in the battle for the Platz. How I wish I was present to bring our house such glory. It is my understanding that you were considering to convert this ancient standard to a flag for the colony."


The Prince nodded again, curious to see where her Commander was going with this.


Ama Continued. "I have examined the banner and this is no ordinary banner, but one of serious historical significance. There may be serious ramifications if this banner is mistreated and/or marred. You see, Touran Unterherr, once held this banner, you are too young at being shy of 4 centuries old, but if you recall your history, Touran Unterherr was an early dynastic Underlord. This Underlord slaughtered many of our kin. This Muurdan leader "Thaurer" (abominable one) participated in the so called "Pacification" (She said this word with disgust) of our people. This Underlord likely perished a millennium ago in an invasion of these lands. Touryan Unterherr was no regular Underlord, he was the seventh Underlord sent to the East, after your Grandfather and Uncle previously slayed three Underlords in a series of battles called the "Stairs of Red Snows". To you this is mere history, but for me these are very powerful memories, since I was there. These series of battles led to the truce that ended the war. Unterherr's put his forces in our Grand museum at the base of the capital. A museum, he told your Uncle with a true tear in his eye, that it's loss would be a loss for the world. He threatened to make our museum the first of priceless sites he must burn to the ground. This act of extortion, and the consequent sparing of High Born culture and artifacts, ultimately led to your Uncle into touring a wing of Touryan's own personal marble frescoes. Their mutual appreciation of art and culture saved countless lives on both sides. Out of this love of art, culture and history, an agreement was made. The "Compromise". Neither faction would mar the treasures of the other. Unterherr Touryan valued nothing more than this own Standard which lies here before you, this standard has a history that the HighBorn really never cared to learn. However, by marring it, by making it the Colony's standard would be a direct violation of your Uncle's and our people's vow made to the Muurdan. Touryan was a pragmatist, he knew he could subtract a great deal of Highborn history if he pressed the war for one more month. However, he made a truce with your uncle on the basis that the Eternal Empire had already paid for the HighBorn's fealty and respect, in blood. This offer was made, even though, your Grandfather had personally threw Touryan's own Nephew off of A'el Highmont two days earlier, from a height so high that it was rumored his Nephew was buried in a cup. Now that you understand this long history, the significance of this very Standard, the vow your Uncle took a millennium ago, I must strongly advise you that this Banner should properly be returned to Touryan Unterherr's descendants if they still live, or at the very least to the Muurdan Underlords in the old world".


The Commander took a step back, presented the Standard (that had been since been cleaned and put back on a pole) and took a bow.


The impact of the Strategist's speech was clear on the Prince and those present. The Object now seemed larger than life. It was both an object to be revered and looked at with contempt. Every Highborn knew of the "Stairs of Red Snows", it was a turning point in Eastern High Born history and a era of great sorrow, tragedy and to many, pride. The Prince vaguely knew of the names of the various Underlords that invaded his ancestral lands and the name Touryan Unterherr was known. The Prince did not know such detail, and stared at the captured Banner and his beloved strategist with fascination.


The Prince was clearly impressed by his Commander and by this banner. How did this object come to him, a thousand years later? There must be great significance in this. The stars must be speaking to him. The Prince was torn. This Banner, was a spoil of war, but also a potential source of contention between himself and the Attolians.


The Prince knew well of the Attolians desired to send it back to the Old World. The Prince initially scorned the idea, for the history of the Muurdan and the High Born was born out of force and blood shed, not love. The Prince initially thought there would be honor and glory in the Colonist retrofitting the Banner into a new Colony Flag. However, now that there was a vow involved, this was a completely different matter and the act of altering the flag, ironically would now be a dishonorable one. Vows were sacred to the HighBorn. Highborn did not easily (if ever) break vows, certainly not ancient ones with friends or foes. It seem to the Prince that the Underlord Touryan Unterherr had spared the relics and historical artifacts of the High Born, made a deal with his ancestors and that the Prince did not have the authority, or lack of integrity to break a vow that his family made. Additionally, the Prince looked upon the Attolians favorably and did not wish to create an incident with the Attolians. It did not take the Prince long to decide on a course of action, he was not left with much choice.


The Highborn instructed the tactician in good faith to inform the Attolians whom the original owner of the Standard was, and if Caelis wanted to return the Banner to Underlord Touryan's Unterherr's family, that the Highborn would respect their wishes.


The Prince makes clear to those present, that the entire history of the Standard, of the familial vow, of Touryan's history and relationships to High Born, was on a need to know basis only. Those present were vowed to an oath of confidentiality of anything spoken in the Prince's chambers. Although this knowledge might be in some obscure history books, it was not common knowledge. Due to the sacredness of High Born vows, they were not to be spoken of openly. High Born vows were a private matter, especially ones made by one's family and stayed among the High Born.


Vaethorion was now relieved that a vow prevented him from behaving in a potentially hostile manner. An act that could have had potentially negative consequences for his people, the colony and also put a strain on relations with the Attolians. The Prince could be impetuous at times, and he felt fortunate to be surrounded by wise council. The Prince realized that the Attolians also demonstrated wisdom in this matter as well. What the Prince perceived initially as submissiveness to the Muurdan, was actually good diplomacy on part of the Attolians.


The Prince gestured to the Spy Master and asked him to insure this secret was kept, to let it be known that the Prince would reluctantly wash his hands of the Standard as an act of good will towards the Attolians and the rest of the Colony. (Have the Standard's discovery documented in enchanted code and put in the annals of Eastern HighBorn history).


The Prince was not overjoyed by this development, because the history of the war with the Muurdan was a painful wound, but as the Highborn looked for signs in everything, the Prince could not help but think that fate brought this banner to him for a reason. The universe has allowed him to fulfill a vow made by his Uncle, and in this there was great honor. His desire to be honorable overshadowed his initial instinct to resist Muurdan authority and act in an arrogant manner.


The Prince said, "Tell Caelis that he may return the Banner to their rightful owners as he wished to"


He gently dismissed his Tactician, by saluting her. Her beauty always made the Prince smile.


"Cormamin niuve tenna' ta elea lle au'" ("My heart shall weep until it sees thee again") the Prince said.


" Lissenen ar' maska'lalaith tenna' lye omentuva" ("Sweet water and light laughter till next we meet") she replied.


She then ordered the Elite Swordmaster (her aide de camp) to take the Standard (which was then wrapped in a cloth and tied with a ribbon), and ordered him to accompany her to deliver the Banner to Caelis with the knowledge of who it once was owned by.


In all her power and beauty, she turned to leave the room, with a flourish of cloak, a jingle of armor, and weapons she stepped out of the Prince's throne room. Her musky, sweet scent lingered long after.


The Prince continued to plan with his War Mage and Spy Master...


Orders - Summary:


1) Strategist is asked to make a threat assessment of the various threats the colonist (and Highborn) face and a strategy to deal with those threats


2) Banner is to be allowed to be returned to the Muurdan by the Attolians as an act of good will by the High Born


3) Tactician will present Banner to Caelis and be informed of who the owner was and whose family it belongs to.


4) Spy is to insure that sacred family vow is to remain discrete, that the Banner was handed off to the Attolians because of Caelis' wishes to return it to the Muurdan Underlords. That the Highborn will allow because of good relations with Attolians and subsequently will insure the Attolians return it.


5) the discovery of the Standard is to be documented in enchanted code in the Highborn annals/chronicles, It's discovery, and return is believed to be of historical and mystical significance. The keeping of such an ancient vow is important to chronicle. Also, document the handing off of the Standard to the Attolians to return to the Muurdan. This hopefully will contribute to the good relations between the two factions it will be noted.

 

[SpiralErrant]

["So you think you got all that?"] Bruul asked and it was clear by the way Orm was literally scratching his head that he hadn't. The gruff shaman gave a snorting sigh and started again. Going through the terms the mercenary captain had given as simply as he could. Orm was new to this business after all, his limited education never had much time for things like contracts and civil planning. Yet with all that was happening recently it seemed all Tyren would have to learn soon enough. Changing times indeed.


["So they're already hired? But we didn't pay yet."] The chieftain managed once they reached the end. Again.


["No forget that. They're hired by all to be here, like you could say we are by the under ones to make this trip in the first place. This last bit of pay is for the right to command them, that's what we need."]


["But they need a house on the beach too?"] These humans needed so many things so far spread out it made Orm's head ache.


["That's so they can bring more folk here. Like what we're hoping to."] Well that part made sense at least.


So with even more talking and the shaking of hands the contract was paid for. The bulls agreed to the Paymaster's terms of keeping an office by the water and the mercenaries in turn would guard Hrun'taras and the trade goods that came out of her. Orm even offered to lend a hand to help the company recover their lost numbers when the promised ships came if they would lend their service in kind.


Next came the exiled market.


------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Orm couldn't say what kind of god this Dracos was. It hadn't spoken to any of the shaman or those that were sensitive to the voices unheard, nor had it shown its power in any way. And yet so many of the exiled hornless seemed dedicated to it. Well Orm didn't need to understand their devotion, just their demands.


They'd set up an open auction of sorts, trying to sell off the extra goods they'd brought on the voyage to fancy up a new building of worship. Why they valued that over making better shelter was just another question Orm would have to stop himself asking. The wool had gone down great, helping them gain new friends and business so there was no reason not to try again while putting the dust gathering silver to use.


The bulls approached the speaker in charge of all this and offered up the extra stone and metal they'd dug up from the cliff side. Giving it with compliments, saying how no doubt the humans could make better use of it than they could and how they hoped it might help the exiles as they had helped the minotaurs.


Then the bidding itself came. Orm had his sights set on the giant bow that sat in pieces waiting to be claimed.


"Wouldn't have thought you lot would have much use for something as finicky as that." The auctioneer commented with raised eyebrows.


Of course! As Bruul and the more eloquent merchant bull were happy to explain they were looking to get their hands on the large mounted weapon to help sure up the fresh defenses of the stockade around the village center. Hrun'taras was on the edge of the wilderness and served as the first line of defense for the people of the colony if those that lived in the forest wanted to attack in force. By now stories of all the possible monsters that lived there and that they would need some big blades to point at them, so that was exactly what they were going to do. Along with the mercenaries who were well trained in the construction and use of these weapons the Tyren were looking to train their own warriors alongside them to form a proper defense force!


Like the ones the gathered leaders had all been talking about.


And this was just the beginning! Just as the minotaurs had helped get the road between the Platz and the hills that helped carry the crops to market, once they had the giant bow properly set up they pledged to help set up the towers the rats had put forward. That way alarms and messages could be passed between the two settlements easily and the people of the colony could travel all the more easily and safely.


For as strange as all these new changes were for them many of the caravan had embraced them with a passion. Better than Orm could have ever imagined, his people had risen to the challenge and for some reason kept calling him the great chief for some reason, as if he'd done it all himself. These resent days the biggest thing he felt like he did was hand out the big order back at the village telling those that worked out in the fields that they'd have to practice with weapons as if they were warriors themselves. A heavy thing but something that was needed since the wood elves left and took their fighters with them. Those that stayed admitted to being no warriors but Orm could hope that their natural talents would see some progress made with the weapons of their people. As things stood he could only try and keep his promise to them in part and only make them train part of a day, letting them keep most of their peaceful lives for themselves. Instead of turning every waking moment into something dedicated to violence as the other elves had. He knew what that felt like more than any of those silk ears could... not to walk into it merrily but to be compelled to it... consumed by it.


Orm told himself every time he locked horns with the rage that its time would come and it would serve the caravan in its way. He'd give himself to the blood so they didn't have to. That's what he told himself anyway. Folks came here to try and live in peace, and they had a right to that peace. How far Orm was willing to stretch it for the sake of their lives was yet to be seen but this war machine and fresh fighters might give him some room to move in.

Spoiler

Spend 1 wealth point on cult of the rich mercenary company contract. Paymaster can keep his office by the water if it helps things run smoother.


Bid 2 wealth points for the ballista.


Donate cart of unknown white stone and half cart of lead as building materials for temple project.


New militia rule. The Tyren (20 unskilled) and Springborn (25) of the farmers guild and mine of vines are to spend the morning of every fourth day practicing with a sling and bow respectively.

 

[Beckoncall]

"Bring me your tired, your poor, your monsters without conscience..."


@SpiralErrant @Heyitsjiwon @Prince Vaethorion @KamiKahzy


..On the night of the Ratkin Rescue.. In what is now open water, Elven and ratkin ships speeding away on a wave of displaced seas and blast-force. The fighting in the ‘Platz, is winding down or moving away. A changed Cassandra pours her vow of fealty to her lord, and is dismissed. Her eyes… no, the fountains eyes, see something in the inky blackness to the south, to the sea… She rises high to locate it, and the fountains eyes and her gift gaze from a metal tank – a barrel of spite, with eyes. She raises her staff and watches…


…


… Holding my breath. Reflex. Alive. Hateful.


…


I am cold – colder even than the sea I must be in. Water. I remember. I am Hate. Not dead yet.


Bloody corpses sinking in a cloud of falling sand. In the sparkling silt I see the red and black clouds rising as they sink. Will I drown? …. I am oriented. Armor heavy. Rays of moonlight confirm. I know up. Hold breath. Lungs burn. Small things to a Giant.


Hate. Ships are falling… Sinking in front of me. I tread in place, in the deep. I fell in the vines… to the necromancer. Left for dead. The mistake is common. Hate… and duty. The cloud parts and I see the Noble, Hel… sinking like a stone. Blast waves wake an Elite… They make others sleep. The island is gone and we’re all sinking to the bottom of the sea.


Brisk movement. Burning Lungs and Muscles too – Nowhere near as hot as the fire that made me. Diving in this armor is easy… I catch the leg of this charge of mine. Also armored. Hate. Rise. Hate. Rise. Hate. Hate. Rise. Too many bubbles coming from the head of my noble ward. Refuse to sink. Moon getting farther. Hate. Hate. Fall. Vicious refusal. Vision dimming. Holding Hel High. Too far to get the noble air. Blood Burns… Bubbles stream from my mouth. I Exhale hate. Blood Screams. Am I screaming? No – my lungs are emptying. I reject death. Grip on the noble is strong. Eternal… like the grave.


Cassandra holds her arms out, and she and the staff bloodscourge, floating high in air – are unnoticed by looters and moaners and grievers below. Blood drips from the skulls mouth, agape, forming just another puddle of slick gore in the ‘Platz this night. She closes a fist on the center of the staff, and focuses on the blood of the being she is watching die beneath the waves. The Blood begins to boil. Water in the lungs, blood in the veins even – Molecular entanglements free oxygen… it will have air.


My conditioning returns. Truly kicks in. The other Elites. I will find them. I will plant this noble on the ground as every footfall of mine is a flag of the Eternal Empire. Red Wizard high in sky. Serves who will be my master. I care not how I know this. “Caelis.” Only he may spend my life. Hate and Pride this time.


I am a soldier. I am a warrior. The other elites must also survive. My heart, my song, is one with theirs… our contempt and disgust shall be a symphony to friend and foe alike. Live.


Vision sharp again. Everything sharp. Agony revives me. My lungs, my bloodstream… it is full of bubbles from the broiling universal wave of all-consuming pain. I burn from within. The cold of the sea leaves like a thief discovered. A sea-cliff is ahead of me. I begin to climb. I close my fist over the nobles head. If I cannot give it air, I will deny her the water. One arm, and kicking. I climb to a shark filled shallow.


Below in the deep a great beast twists and pushes me along. Hate. Rise. Hate. Rise. What remains of my sanity, the part my God-Empire needs, sings my defiance.


The Fishmen come. Hate. I stab one with the steel-shod boots of the noble. Another I crush with my weight against the cliff. The heat and air are leaving again… but I am in shallow water. I sling this “Hel” over my shoulder and turn her on her side. There is plenty of room where she sprawls blue-skinned on my shoulder-guard. I pound the water out, and hear the cough and the air go in. Sharks all around. Loathsome. Not easy prey. Never. Easy. Prey. They tug at the plate suit that is my home. I kill one and tear it to pieces to distract the rest. My feet are planted – An elven ship and a merchant craft pass me unseen to one side… I am flung to shore – away from the port I see.


Cassandra lowers once again to the ground. She warms the blood of the castaways. She does not fear the monster she saves… For it will be the monster of her lord.


….


On the shore, ratkin and Highborn congradulate each other and the ratkin, each other. It was not without injury, but it was without death on the part of any brother or sister. The Elves quickly make preparations to go back out – to seek flotsam or whatever else the moonlight might promise in lieu of where that island was… They are efficient. They are gone quickly.


The Ratkin unload the start of their supplies and of course, their rescued refugees. Milkweed addresses the condition and loyalties of his mercenary “guests”… The Exiles that first greeted them seemed shocked and alarmed by scores of Ratkin landing on the beaches, but the High Elven Linguist defuses the situation. Something about a plague. The Ratkin are often accused of bringing disease, so the clean paws are pragmatic, cautious and diplomatic with their would-be hosts or assailants. When the Highborn Linguist is done and preparing to set sail, The exiles are welcoming the clean paws, with offerings of news and from talks deep into the night what would become offers of shelter – though clearly stated temporary, in the tenements above. Once the “were-rat” issue was at least partially navigated, the commonality of exile and ratkin both being cast-off of the Muurdaan was tacky substance for further understanding. The Clean paws did their best of common custom – which was enough for it seemed the Exiles were even less sophisticated, or at least most of them were, it quickly became apparent.


Of the rescued, The 5 thralls recovered by coalback and his mischief pleaded for asylum with the Ratkin. “If I am not a slave, we care not if we ever see another human again, three concede. A fourth remains quiet. Broken. The last, it seems his trappings might have been the finest before becoming soaked, salted, tattered, and smeared with shit. He whispered hoarsely as he drank from a rescue-cup. “As a thrall I was a butler to Muurdain Elite… For rescuing myself and my comrades, I will lend what I know of custom – and pay my debt by putting a human face where racial hatred might deny Ratkin a Voice. I am Schwalaut – Footman of Rats, I suppose… now that Lady Helysoune is gone.”


There was no doubt where the Muurdaan House Elite would go – they would find the closest thing to Old-world Tyranny and seek to growl outward at the foot of it. Milkweed dealt with the mercenaries – some kind of deal was struck, but not for their service, apparently… they eventually made their way up to the depression, where their “Paymaster” acquired a wooden house squatting under its own weight leaning against yet another and another in the slum. They would later Join the “Tyren” – Beast-folk who seemed to stomp into market, pay in hard coin for whatever they wanted, only to crash off once again somewhere they camped, far north. They “bought” the surviving mercenaries. The Downtrodden Exiles, seemingly hawking Fire-grease and other strange items for what appeared to be some religious purpose… the Tyren just bid higher for what they wanted higher than an exile was willing to wait to risk the offer. They were huge, but had a somehow gentle way about them.


Of the rest of the survivors – A noble Castlelan, with the fragile small-beaked face of a rat himself, leered disfainfully about at his rescuers. He stood by the elites. “Take me to where the REAL humans live, Housemen.” They parted with no love lost, with another one of the rescuees, “The Preserver” – he had already begun to climb all over the Elites and examine them for what apparently seemed like damage. He pulled strange syringes from his waistcoat, and knives. The elites seemed to ignore him as he worked… even when blood poured freely.


This is when the last of the Elites, Who apparently swam from the sinking island… Lumbered from out of the shadow of the Ratkin ship. It dropped Helysoune at the foot of Nateema and other assembled rats… like you would let a coat slip to the floor… sofly but without grace. It turned toward Nateema, but it’s head seemed to swing as if seeing the ratkin as one thing, a single entity. It stank, and it’s breath, hot AND cold, boiled like fog from its lightless helm, alone comparable in size to a young ratkin’s whole torso.


“This Noble is dying. Heal it, sub-humans – she is worth more than all your pitiful pelts combined. Do not think to fail the Empire in this. I have killed more of your kind in an afternoon that all your vile dirty feet have slain combined. I can smell a bitch among you that can heal. You will do this.”


The Lumbering Iron thing stumbled over to its brethren and the preserver seemed to jump to it, it visibly regaining stature in the face of its ministrations. The preserver, Thankful for his rescue, seemed to stammer over the giant suit as he worked. “You Ratkin truly have our thanks. I apologize on behalf of it, of them… They’re really very narrow of purpose, but fascinating instruments, if you study how they work, like me. If you truly understood one of these things, you wouldn’t be offended by their threats…”


He paused.


“You should take them seriously though. Housemen are very dangerous. As I am sure you know.”


The Elites, now three of them, seemed even bigger in greater number. The metal covering where their hearts must be heaved under their collective breath. The pulse of the worst-worn seemed to level, or average, with the signs of life of his partners. More foggy breath. Hot now. Odorless, the Ratkin noted.


Of the rest of the rescued, The 10 skilled workers thanked the Ratkin profusely, and asked their regards would be shared with the highborn. Already there was talk of this “Caelis of Attolia” – they didn’t hesitate. One of the workers, a young man wearing a monocle, a belt of pick-like instruments and a horribly stained apron stopped before the Ratkin before the elites took them up the sandslope.


“Good News of the Ratkin, what we know you respresent, will precede you where we go – unlikely saviors. I know not what waits us inland, but I shall preach that on THIS side of the ocean, a Ratkin is obviously a friend… a friend at the very LEAST.”


They took their leave.


Them that remained were 3 seemingly giddy and eccentric gentlemen… though of varied age and voice, the Ratkin could barely tell them apart even by smell… Archaeologists. They would stay with the ratkin.


“You’re gonna be digging, right? It just makes SENSE!” said one.


“Really, so nice not to be dead or a zombie, furry ones… downright capital. So excited to get started in the mainland.”


“Oooooo! Look at all the strange effects they have even! Every day is a school day, chaps! Show us to your warren or whatever… I don’t trust those mercs to protect us anymore anyway!”


Almost in reply to that, five more refugees sided with the ratkin. An Architecht, 3 Engineers, and a bald, stocky man with no nose and the blackest hands the ratkin ever saw on a human – they weren’t dirty, they were SEASONED… but his friendly smile completed his picture. (it was assumed rightly he was the assistant to the engineers.) It was unspoken, but Breeze and Needle knew why. Their countrymen had planned to eat them (Gruesome to be sure, but far more alarming to humans than perhaps a species with a history of far more grim survival) and perhaps they preferred to cast their lots with Milkweed. Needle yawned at the new arrivals… To maintain a killing stare for as long as she had on that mission, she was already dreaming of straw and a curtain. Breeze was more thoughtful. None were threats. None were spies. All seemed sincere. Milkweed he hoped would be pleased that even a handful of birds chose to side with him – though he wondered truly where their loyalties might lie once the sun rose and they saw other humans around them… Lastly he looked to what he hoped would be Milkweed’s prize… He did not know why milkweed cared for this particular bird. Nateema was seeing to her – this “Hel” as she was known. Maybe they’d know more when she was conscious and perhaps a color more akin to her species. Perhaps if the Highborn were in less of a hurry some of these birds would have veered elsewise… but Breeze, lost in the shadow of the newly landed ship, pinching a black-glass dropper into his red eyes so even they disappeared in the winnowing moon… was content to become the surroundings. He watched the clean paws and their exile hosts, and would watch them all night… unseen. “no’ shorts, o’ Losses.”


POPULATION GAINS:


TYREN: 20 Mercenaries “Faith of the Rich” (Gallogleigh Infantry) follow the Tyren. They are 3 manpower troops. (net gain 60 manpower)


Tyren also gain Ballista from Exiles, (net loss of 3 wealth for mercs/machine.)


ATTOLIA: 10 Skilled workers, 2 Very Skilled Workers (Castellan, Preserver) and THREE MUURDAAN HOUSE ELITE swear allegiance to Caelis. House Elite are valued at 5 Manpower points each. (net manpower gain 47)


RATKIN: 5 thralls (one expert of Empire custom),


Very skilled workers: 3 Archaeologists; 1 Architect, 3 Engineers and a skilled Assistant. (all seem pretty mentally fragile, so care must be taken if they are expected to remain joined to the faction. (net manpower gain 46)


Highborn: 15 “Dracos Countrymen” – upon seeing the Muurdaan house elite, they cede from their faction and seek a permanent arrangement with the Highborn… (see in further post – net manpower gain 60)


Undetermined: 1 Adventurer – the Noble “Lady Helysoune” -- Nateema will only rouse her days hence...


Ratkin Cant: “no’ shorts o’ losses” – used as a wish, command, or promise – it basically means that while safety cannot be assured, no theft or loss of friends should happen.

 

[Beckoncall]

“We serve at the pleasure of the Lord of Attolia”:


@Heyitsjiwon


There was some kind of rope conveyance on the sandslope… high above, the unwashed exiles had told the “fancy folk” that a “Lord Caelis” fancied himself in charge if they were willing to climb high enough. Up the slope… through the slum. “Not a bad man, they said – just one that many beach folk wondered could be THEIR man.” When the house Elite showed up, Never more deeply had such a thought come into question. If the convicts were not fighting, looting, or bleeding in the ‘Platz above there was little doubt they would have set upon the iron giants without hesitation. They wondered if Caelis was charismatic enough to somehow play off both being a man of the people AND an employer of one of the bloodiest, most feared instruments of the Eternal Empires very worst side… Maybe the cleaner folk already smacking their lips at the prospect of becoming “true Imperials” could see past it… but Maeder’s Countrymen? They disappeared the minute they saw those hulks ascend that slope. It would be hours before any but the most observant ratkin could guess where they had gone…


(Exile Trust in Attolia amid convicts and countrymen CRASHES – Attolia should take steps to mitigate)


The Elite could seat three persons each on their shoulder, if there was no thought of comfort for the rider… their shoulder-guards fanned well beyond their arms, with a vertical “Fin” of some sort intended to block horizontal swipes at their neck. They blew their smoky breath ahead of them and ignored the contraption that it seemed would make ease of their ascent. There was a rhythm to the breathing… like a beat, that when coupled to the steel-shod marching almost seemed… musical. The preservers ears perked. He had heard that Elites might occasionally, when brought together, reinforce their conditioning… and he was fascinated. As they ascended the Sandslope… The preserver patted the top of the helmet he unsteadily sat next to.


“You may sing.” The preserver said.


And they did… all the way up the Sandslope, all the way through the depression, and to the side of Caelis and his Riders, who by then prepared to head for the Garrison at Harun’Taran to muster his forces. The “drowned one” lead the group, and the chant… no sign of fatigue… or wound… or mercy.


The song of the House EliteTake slight artistic license for genre)


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Upon reaching Caelis, Cassandra was there to greet them. The Elite crunched their fists in unison at seeing the bloodmage, and knelt to spill before Caelis his newest would-be citizens. They would have to be brief… Caelis wanted his forced concentrated and relocated already – but there was no denying, when he saw the fealty of the Muurdaan House Elite – that his force was already greatly advanced. These things were among the most hated symbols of the Eternal Empire – but to possess even one meant having a bodyguard almost peerless… and here were three.


The workers and Preserver did not approach, when the Elite Knelt, they disembarked and allowed the Castellan to come forward. His every move a symphony of Muurdain/Attolian diplomacy… ohhhh… this one was good. Caelis felt honored even by the display of this man – celebrated. Such charm was valuable if it was yours to wield in your dealings…


“Lord Caelis…” His voice was syrupy, full of both confidence and subordination.


“I am your Castellan, these are your Bodyguards, and that which remains to join you of the Ill-fated I.O.C. Faction operation. I can see you are already somewhere else in your mind, and I will not slow you – but I am here to tell you that given your authority, every project you propose, attempt, and complete will be Stronger, Faster, Better. You are a leader of men, and I am a leader of men’s men. Take me, and these my followers… and make use of us. We will talk when you have time.”


(Should Caelis accept the Castellan economic efficiency is immediately improved to essentially equal the gain of +1 wealth point. Other benefits may be explored)