Pegulis, Chapter 9

[unanun]

"Hrm."

General Kirtin had just shuffled some maps. The air inside the leathern windships was brisk and clear, the smoke from the oil fires left behind in the Black City. The bracing cold replaced it, an opposite to the Kaustrian heat. The sun cast its rays through the viewports, and down below at an angle he thought he glimpsed a bright flash.

"Orderly."

He held out a finger, on top of which a line welled red. Another paper cut. They were not common in Kaustir. The desert was dry, but the skin was so cracked and calloused, and the scales so resilient, that any cut dried out in seconds in that unnatural place. And it would have been the same in Pegulis too. But they passed through the Chersonese first, and fattened on the bounty of the land. Their skin and bodies so quickly forgot the rigors of the desert.

Perhaps twice as many bodies would be needed to bury Pegulis. General Kirtin held his hand as the attendant salved and bandaged the cut. After their experiences with the black plague, they were careful to apply a stinging, sour poultice to any cut wound, or simply dip the offending digit in boiling water. The desertrats knew their pain.

In the spring melt and mud the vanguard camped, a swirling black mess. Where green grass and tentative flowers would have peeked, the excrement of their beetles fouled the ground purple and red. Dirty smoke rose from the big campfires, and the barracks-wagons were stuffed with humans or Nocturnes in various states of sleep.

The vanguard was not quite the Czar's elite. They were pioneers, the eager who stole the march and dared to rush forward first into battle. As the Colonel's journal surmised, Kaustir's soldiers, like everyone on Sunne, knew the lessons of self-reliance. They were pragmatic. But not those in the vanguard. Who willingly dove headfirst into poisoned earth, really drove their faces into it, and chewed a great mouthful before swallowing?

The mad and mindless. The cruel and uncaring. The wanton and willing.​

They were here on their own Long March. Their Long March was not the one that crossed the path between Zirako and Avarath on a biannual basis, where all the old criminals and dying men walked for three days without food or water for a chance at salvation. Their Long March was the eternal march, a hedonistic, desperate search for the sweet relief of death. They were the ones born under a lucky star, blessed with fatalism and guided unharmed through the thorns of fate to this very point. Ten thousand strong, the vanguard would form the brick and mortar path upon which the Czar's army, now catching up from a two day march, would step upon.

 

[unanun]

[fieldbox=Still stuck under Barvelle, grey, solid, 15]"..."

"..."

"..."

"CONFUSED? I WOULD BE TOO." He did not say anything more.

For about an hour they scratched the Ghoul Sage's design into the concrete around their prison. They waited while the Ghoul Sage counted down the seconds until Ethelwen's advent could activate again. Modakra was quite generous, producing the same sort of food sludge that the anima made, albeit little ("THE NUTRIENT SHOCK WOULD KILL YOU.") He did give them adequate water, five streams dribbling from his outstretched fingers.

One the count of five, the four of them stood at the cardinal points of the spell circle and sparked their advents. A glow traced along the circle ... and faded.

"HRM. NEEDS A LITTLE JUMP START."

The Ghoul Sage had not bothered to feed Artorious, and the Aldus rogue had entered a catatonic state, so he did not react when the Ghoul Sage pushed a finger against Artorious' skull. The tip slid in ever so smoothly, parting the hair, skin, muscle, and bone. They watched with horrified fascination the writhing tendons in the Ghoul Sage's forearm as he fished around in the his head and extracted a small glowing pearl. It was blindingly incandescent, yet its brilliance did not extend one iota past its boundaries, emitting yet pulling in light at the same time.

"THIS HERE IS YOUR SO-CALLED AUX. THE KEY TO MIRACLES, THE ONE DOOR FROM WHICH EVERYTHING FLOWS." the Ghoul Sage tipped back and dropped the bit of white into the blackness of the hood. Artorious was by now quite dead, and his little silver key aux was also gone.

"This is my aux!" Amara pointed at her blind-mute Tang.

"THAT IS JUST A SUBCONSCIOUS PROJECTION. IF ONLY YOU SUNNEPHEIANS KNEW THAT EACH ONE OF YOU CONTAINED A LITTLE PIECE OF OMNIPOTENCE INSIDE YOUR HEAD. THE IMPLICATIONS WOULD DRIVE YOU MAD."

"Bu.. but that would mean -"

"YES." The Ghoul Sage did not wait for Ophanim to finish his thought. "YOU ARE ALL JUST ILIUM'S FAILED PLAN. A PLAN TO BRING EVERYONE ON SUNNE TO GODHOOD, WHICH THEN DROVE THE OLD TO THE CATACLYSM."

He clapped his hands and space flexed. The party around them felt a pit dropping from under their stomach. Medwick glanced down at his feet but they seemed to be stretching far, far down. He felt an acute sense of vertigo. Ophanim relaxed, his atrophied wings fluttering in anticipation.

The shimmering ovals around him flexed as well, and something echoed through the cavern walls, a seismic vibration more felt than heard, tracing its way through the hundreds of miles of bedrock underneath them. Whatever force the Ghoul Sage threw against his prison fizzled, and he perplexity was nearly comical.[/fieldbox]

 

[Mglo]

[fieldbox= Negotiations Done Wrong, orange, solid]
The colorful man sneered as he watched the figure in the distance, but it wasn't until Mason spoke that the man fully embraced his sneer. Nibal disliked the way the situation had so quickly undermined his previous words. Indeed, he almost wished there had never been live hostages to begin with but who was he to question his beloved Czar's choices? After all, nothing had changed. Pegulis would still fall. With this last thought, Nibal's sneer softened into the mocking smile of a man who believed victory had been gained.

"Lord Nibal, thank you for taking the time to come to our humble borders," spoke the arrogant man once more and Nibal visibly scoffed confidently as he listened.

Meanwhile, Inigo Criracan stood behind and to the left of Lord Nibal, watching the Colonel with care. Lord Nibal was a man who clearly thought highly of himself, however, so did Colonel Mason it seemed, albeit in entirely different ways. It was clear to the desertrat that these "negotiations" were heading in a dangerous direction. If life as a merchant had taught him anything, it was that men in positions of power often times had the egos to match, and that clashing egos never got anyone anywhere except after damage to those around them was done. He tensed as his thoughts flowed towards the troops now pressed against the walls. Lord Nibal flamboyantly unaffected by Colonel Mason's stroll helped Inigo stand solid. He knew the Pegulian meant to intimidate, even so, the whole situation was plenty enough to do the job in Inigo's opinion. Finally, the man arrived at the point. No surrender. Standing in the center of the room, as solid and cold as the surrounding stone, he jabbed.

Nibal nodded in fake camaraderie-like understanding. Of course a Pegulian would not understand the ways of Kaustir, but Nibal was forgiving of ignorance. To him it seemed that Pegulis was not as intelligent a nation as he had come to expect. It was young and youth was stupid.

"Do you play chess?"

The question had been so far removed from his thoughts that the well dressed man couldn't help but audibly laugh. A cold wind stung his exposed skin and the soldiers behind him shivered, but Nibal was too impressed by what he was beginning to see: Colonel Mason was a man of passion and unyielding strength, and Nibal pitied him.
"No thank you. Let us not extend this little chat when we do not have to," was Nibal's curt reply before he came back to respond to the Pegulian's previous statement. "You see Colonel Mason, we, Kaustir, have standards. We are, afterall, a straightforward people. Everyone knows where we stand, and I far more appreciate this quality than the type of returned hospitality your Lisbon girl and her friends have delivered."

Inigo shifted uncomfortably as he listened to the Kaustrian lord, and was surprisingly thankful when Ral's miniscule voice reached his ears, "calm down! that Mason boy doesn't seem like the barbarian type...uh, despite his looks. I can see some brains in there, so don't go wetting your pants!" The little glass scorpion rarely had anything nice to say, but Inigo had come to count on him for breaking tension within himself. Ral also brought up a good point, even if not directly. Inigo had always been rather good at getting a fairly accurate first impression of someone's character. In the dangers and worries surrounding this assignment he'd completely forgotten to pay attention on something other than possible routes of escape. For the second time since their arrival, Inigo carefully observed.

"It would seem," Nibal continued, "that the topic of hostages has been… crossed off the list, shall we say?" he coyly smiled as if unaffected by the growing tension in the room.
"Clearly you could care less about your Pegulian friends' attacks, and your demeanor has given me a very unsettling translation Colonel Mason." The diplomat gave him a saddened and obviously condescending pout.
"It seems you had condemned your men to death in battle long before I came along. Such a waste!" he whimpered, "but do with your blood what you will. We'll clean up afterwards." Nibal smiled with unexplained confidence and Inigo's widened-eyes believed the man had likely never bothered to think about his own potential demise. Here was a character so easy to read and yet incomprehensible, and this was in no way a compliment on Inigo's part.

"Oh yes!" Nibal's right hand raised a finger to his cheek, "silly me!" He chuckled at length before he explained, "I almost forgot! I am supposed to signal the vanguard by sundown or they'll march." With an incline of his head, the negotiator seemed to wait. "Well then, shall I walk out to give my signal, or will you give it in my stead? I hear animalistic flair is all the rage around these parts and I have to say the color of blood on snow is my new favorite thing."

Inigo's terrified expression turned to the Colonel, the man who would decide his fate. A fate Lord Nibal seemed to embrace, whatever it turned out to be, but Inigo was not ready for some fabulous crimson display in tune with the area's fashions or whatever.
"Nibal can go suck a dick!" was all Ral had to say about that.
[/fieldbox]

 

[unanun]

A cold room in the Pegulis border fort​

"Ambassador Nibal." Mason had turned multiple times during the Kaustrian's talk, each time exposing the grooved lakestone that his thumb continuously ran up and down behind his back. He ended up with his back to the Ambassador, and did not see the smirk on his blood stained face.

"Do ...


... you play chess?"


The table they sat around was indeed an eight-by-eight checkered board. Colonel Mason turned around and began to arrange parts on it. A chill wild blew through the metal grates. The Kaustrians, lit from within by orange thermic gems and heavy furs, still looked cold while the grey and blue armoured Pegulians looked as if they were carved from it.

Nibal opened his mouth but Mason gave him a dangerous look as he slammed another piece down on the board. On his side, a white king stood behind a row of three pawns. On Nibal's side, an array of black pieces were arranged. He reached forward and traced a rook, although he did not know its purpose, nor the rules of this scholar's game. It was cold, and his finger nearly stuck to it. But Mason kept placing the pieces down, cheeks feverish, fingers red.

"Allow me to explain, Ambassador. What we have here is a puzzle. 'Checkmate in three.' The outcome is certain, but the process is all but."

Nibal's eyes glazed over, but Inigo leaned forward. He had seen the merchants play this on the docks in their breaktime. They put played on a fine mesh on top of the checkerboard, so they could periodically raise it and sweep the sand off the table.

"In your case, it really doesn't matter how you do it. Throw your pawns, throw your knights and bishops - I will crumble all the same." Mason pushed the center pawn forward, and it became fortified, protected by two pawns behind it on the diagonals. Taking it would incur a sure loss.

"So you can see why I really want to have a bit of fun, either way." Mason had a good smile on his face. A friendly smile.

-----*****-----​

The half-mile back to the vanguard's camp was tough. They had been shooed from the fort with the gentle prod of spears to their back, but the Watch left them with lighter furs from younger animals that still had their down, and gave them a thermic necklace to wear. They coasted above the light layer of snow on snowshoes, moving twice as fast.

Come quicker, the Pegulians seemed to say. Here is how you can walk through the snow. Hurry to our gates. Hurry.

Inigo's hands were warm. He dragged a bag behind him, on a sled that they had also given him. A lantern cast a dim orange cone in the darkness.

Hurry.

The guards at the edge of the camp let him through without challenge, wide-eyed. Frightened?

Hurry.

His feet took him to General Kirtin's feet. Although he had walked the entire way without gloves, his hands were warm.

Hurry!!

He sank to his feet in front of the giant anima, at a loss for any action, and simply held up the object in his hands in supplication, offering it to the Kaustrian.

Hurry!!!

Nibal's head, mouth agape, trickled blood and brain down the desertrat's arms. Kirtin nodded. The appropriate sacrifice had been made. He clapped Inigo on the shoulders and went outside to roar something. Inigo's ears were ringing against the whoops and howling outside.

 

[Mglo]

[fieldbox=Aldus - Viule Vanukar, indigo, solid]Aldus' usual reverence was visibly tainted by the events happening a long distance away. With the devil at their door, the air running through the city carried with it a tension and fear that gave its people a need to discuss fate and circumstance or say nothing at all. Nevertheless, the city lost none of its stillness, none of its contemplative and frosty presence. Shadows moved through its streets as they'd always done, except among them breathed Turin's dog, the last being on anyone's mind. As he wandered, his fluid movements and quiet steps careful to avoid society, the nocturne felt, more clearly than ever, the extent to which he had deceived himself. He wasn't part of this city, this nation even, he just lived in it. But why? He'd spent so much effort building a life of a Pegulian and yet had been unable to answer Nuria's questions as one. It seemed clear to him now that he had been playing the role of the person he wanted to be and yet had not succeeded in becoming him, not even a little. Even Vanu had been proof of it all along, but Viule had blinded himself to his aux's unchanging looks.

The wind brushed snow on the stone pebbled streets and the Nocturne felt a chill run through him. His aux, as usual, was near non-existent, deliberately flaunting his skills in quiet accusation. Viule allowed himself a sigh as he leaned against the freezing wall of an alley, taking refuge amidst the piles of the snow. This freezing stone alley Viule could relate to. The Nocturne stood unmoving, blending mind and body into his surroundings, finding comfort in its lifelessness. He focused on his own blood coursing through the smallest tunnels of his being, taking peace from his act of self-control. He'd made up his mind and had originally set out to see Nuria again, yet he hesitated and he knew why: it was a turning-point in his life.

Twelve red predatory eyes stalked from a short distance; Vanu watched his crux greedily, over-eager for something he'd been waiting for since they set foot in Pegulis. Acceptance. As Viule felt that pang of need, someone fell near the alley's edge and let out a cry. The old woman struggled on her elbows and knees, a grimace stretched out on her face as she cried from pain. By the way her gnarled fingers clutched at her chest it was obvious there was more ailing her than just her recent fall.

"Oh! Illium save me," she wailed.

Viule regarded the wretched woman silently. She was blind and unaware of him and he could easily walk away unnoticed. At length, her painful sobs quieted and Viule approached uncertainly.

"Who's there?" she cried as her unseeing eyes searched for him.

"No one," he said, and said it only because at the moment it felt true. "Shall I end your misery?" he whispered tentatively, "I'll do it for free…" His right palm rose sharply to stop his mouth. There he was. If the woman could see, she might have pitied him.

"My dear boy! An act of kindness is best when it is freely given, and a grateful person freely gives back," she wilted smilingly and produced a leather pouch from her robes which she placed on the ground away from her. Not the response Viule expected, nor the one violent Vanu yearned for.

"Indeed…?" An act of kindness freely given, Viule thought, yet they spoke of death. Murder. It made sense. The result is what mattered. She didn't want to suffer and he could do something about it. Viule realized he didn't care and he couldn't force himself to care, but also that he didn't have to in order to act. Viule Vanukar looked at the woman reverently as he kneeled before her. Without breaking eye-contact, though she couldn't see, he bit every finger on his left hand letting his blood run down and around his fingers without spilling a drop. From a dark corner a white smile showed itself. Vanu's.

Viule felt the gleeful smile at his core, but showed no expression. He was scared, because it was feeling so right for the wrong reasons, but this moment was important. The manner in which she would die mattered. Vanu understood. It, most of all, had her to thank for what she'd unknowingly done. The disturbing form of the aux walked out of the shadows and its many eyes glowed with respect. Like a morbid black mass it melted into Viule as he seemed to absorb it, and as he did, the blood took shape around his fingers crystallizing into the shape of a red clawed hand.

"I Viule Vanukar and Vanu, take your life," with swift precision the crystal claws pierced the woman's heart.

"Your sacrifice will fuel my resolve," the tip of each fingered claw turned back into flowing blood, flooding the woman's insides. Viule had not fed and the effort to both restrain himself and mix his own blood with hers was deliciously painful.

"And your life will live on in my memory."

Blood suddenly jerked from every extremity towards her heart, making the dying woman cry out one last time. Blood flowed into fingertips, through Viule's body, and the woman fell limp as it continued to do so until the Nocturne could take no more.

When the minute passed, the advent over, Viule and Vanu walked away side by side silently agreeing on their destination. Nuria.
[/fieldbox]

 

[Peregrine]

[fieldbox=Far Under Barvelle]The silence seemed to echo for a moment, in a shocked, stunned silence, where everyone held their breath in anticipation. Despite the completion of the strange, warping sensation, it still seemed as though something was supposed to happen. That was suddenly and abruptly broken when the limp form of Artorious toppled to the ground with a heavy thud as the Ghoul Sage's hand spasmodically released from its grip around his throat.

"What did you do to him?!" Once again, it was only Ethelwen's arms that kept Amara from hurling herself at the Ghoul Sage in righteous fury, and most likely subjecting herself to the same fate as Artorious. Ophanim's wings once more went limp, and it seemed that the brief relief had only settled more weight onto his shoulders. Even Ethelwen had been set on edge, as his tail had bristled out to twice its usual size.

Only Medwick seemed unphased, although there was no way of telling whether or not that was simply a facade put on to keep himself from panic. His eyes were riveted on the spot where the Ghoul Sage had revealed the glowing gem that had come from within Art's skull, hardly blinking. It seemed that he alone had grasped something that had been missed by the rest of the shrinking group, and the implications were causing him no small quantity of mental strain.

The Ghoul Sage, for his part, completely ignored Amara, as though her interrupted attack was nothing more than a fly being halted in its path. Like Medwick his eyes seemed turned away from those things that could actually be seen, as he tried to grasp what had gone wrong.

"Well, then." With a slight shake, Medwick broke free of whatever silent contemplation had seized him. "Since it seems that we are all going to be here for a little while longer, perhaps you can answer a slightly more consequential question." His eyes were steely. "Why did you try to have me recalled to Pegulis?"

It might have been impossible to see through the blackness within his hood to his face, but the brief sneer was felt anyways.

"ASK THE CAT."

Once again, all eyes were on Ethelwen. He had long ago given up on wishing that he had never accompanied the three people who had fallen into the sewers. Despite the futility, in that moment, he wished it once more.

"And what do you know about it?"

Ethelwen gulped. "I was at the gathering. When he appeared. And spoke."

"And?"

Despite the fact that many months had passed since that gathering of the council, when he had cast his vote to keep Medwick on his quest, the words of the Ghoul Sage still echoed in his head. After all, they had been, after a fashion, directed at him.

"He thought you were going to use it to turn Pegulis against him." There was a noise, a faint rumble of disapproval. Ethelwen promptly continued. "He didn't want you, or anyone, harvesting the power of the old gods. He said something would... 'awaken from the depths'."

"What?"

Ethelwen could only shrug. Once more, eyes were on the Ghoul Sage, but the silence stretched on. Finally, Medwick interrupted the silent contemplation of the old god.

"What would awaken, Mordakar?"

Finally, the Ghoul Sage turned his attention back to the people around him. "ARE YOU DELIRIOUS, SAGE? YOU THINK YOU CAN WIELD THE HAMMERS THAT THE OLD ONES USED TO SHAPE SUNNE WITHOUT CONSEQUENCE?

"So tell me the consequence. Then I can work to mitigate it."

"AND WHAT WOULD YOU DO THEN?"

Medwick spoke of the Pegulian ideals. Education. Logical thought. Compassion. Rights. In a way, it was what Eirene codified in the Constitution of Pegulis, but delivered with true conviction, augmented by the hollowed circles that were his eyes, the whistling of his dying lungs, and how he struggled to wipe the dried spit from his lips when he finished speaking.

"HAH. HEHEH. HAHAHAHA."

Embarrassed, awkward silence followed the Ghoul Sage's outburst.

"WHEN WE ASCENDED TO GODHOOD, DON'T YOU THINK WE CONSIDERED EVERYTHING YOU JUST LISTED?"

Medwick opened his mouth, "W-"

"WE WILL DO BETTER, IS THAT WHAT YOU WERE GOING TO SAY? WERE YOU GOING TO USE THE DIVINE WEAPON AS A TOOL TO SAFEGUARD YOUR IDEALS ON SUNNE? THE MOMENT YOU WRAP YOUR HANDS AROUND A DIVINE WEAPON, YOU WILL BECOME A MONKEY WITH A CLUB, AND BLUDGEON EVERYONE FOR YOUR OWN BENEFIT."

"I have..."

"YOU CAN DO NOTHING AND WILL DO NOTHING. SPARE ME YOUR SHORT-SIGHTED NONSENSE."[/fieldbox]

 

[Nemopedia]

Ophanim Hayyoth
"…" "…" "…"

There was a whisper inside of his head that kept on chanting the same words, hypnotising him as he stood in front of the Ghoul Sage, watching and listening to what was happening. He tried to ignore the voice inside of his mind, shaking his head in the progress as to hope that it would shake itself out of his brains.

Whatever Mordakar's plan was, it failed, terribly. The energy that he had spent helping out now wasted. Artorius died and for what reason exactly? To inform them how they were the failed subjects of the gods? Ophanim gritted his teeth as his eyes flashed over to Ethelwen. What did the anima know? Did he just imply that the Ghoul Sage was part of Pegulis?

The voices inside of his head started to become louder, making the Avian whimper. With a grunt he slammed the palm of his hands to the both sides of his head. That should knock some sense in him. It wasn't a long term solution though, but at least it gave Ophanim enough time to take in the last bit of information from the Ghoul Sage.

Ascended to godhood? How? What?

Gulping a little the clockmaker felt the familiar fear he had felt earlier build up in his throat. Feeling how his mouth felt too dry to speak properly. He tried so anyway, he had to.

"Who…" he started a little reluctantly, coughing to himself as he tried to get rid of the spastic movement of his mouth corners. Fear and bitter resentment started to flood his mind. "What exactly are you to Pegulis?" he asked, warily as he wondered if the answer wasn't too obvious. Perhaps, but the Avian allowed himself to act dumb.

Ascended to godhood. It sounded interesting. However, how did that happen? Was it even possible? Ophanim was sceptical, but willing to take the bet. If it could mean reforming this place.

The voices inside of his head never left him alone though. Once the zooming in his head ended and the effects of his own attack wore off they returned.

"Die." "Die." "Die."

It chanted, over and over again, whispering to him, luring him. The Avian refused to believe or to listen to them, his heart pounding. What if he were to die here? Here in this place without his proud wings? The clockmaker refused to fare into that direction with his mind, denied himself the access as he shook his head again. "No," he mumbled to himself. "No," he sighed and closed his eyes. Not before answers, not before he had escaped.

 

[Noctis the Devious]

Amara wrentched herself from Ethelwen's grasp as anger and confusion gave away to cold hard panic. For a moment, her vision blurred and who she saw was not the anima but a kid. She shook her head frantically-- now was not the time to be having a mental melt down. Or maybe it was the perfect time-- she honestly had no clue what was going on and it made her feel like a lost little girl in need of guidance all over again. Still gasping for breath, she turned away from Artorius, the scent of death potent, but that couldn't be right. He hadn't been dead that long, had he? She shudder and pressed the back of her hand to her mouth as stomach churned. She could still smell it... still hear them...

Damnit Amara, what is wrong with you?

"So," she tried, voice shakened. "You are one of the remaining gods said to be dead along with this Ilium" - the name sounded familiar, but right now, her mind was not on her studies - "And our aux are the astroprojections of our mind, remnants of a failed experiment? Sorry if I'm falling behind on my scholarly duties here - because ever huntress has them, don't you know - but what the fuck is going on here?" Her mother hated swearing, such talk did not further an arguement or get any sort of point across, and while she was raised not to use them, she was in her place she'd say the same exact thing - or maybe not. She was a librarian after all, she could have followed the events better.

She looked between the men - why was it always men? - she had travelled with and the faceless being claiming celestial heritage, demanding answers, or at least a dumbed down version, but she wasn't going to say that out loud. "If our aux is the projections of our mind, then why is Tang blind and mute? Why take form at all? And is that why we can preform advents? Because we are gods in the most deluded form possible? Do we actually need our aux to preform them? And why the fuck was anyone considering weilding a weapon that brought the original gods to their downfall? Was that what Eimund was after when he came back demented out of his fucking mind? With a wizard claiming to be "blessed by god?"" Once again, her anger was talking over as her voice rose. "Yeah, there's a chance we could do better, but as my mother always said, the deffinition of insanity is doing the same thing and expecting different results. The chance of us doing worse, will always be greater."

 

[Silvir]

Begun the pegulis war has

-"Right, I'm on it then" Torval responded with a nod, eyeing the young man for a moment and then whistled loudly for his people on the wall. They knew the meaning of the sound and headed down the ramparts.
Veteran troops have a certain effect on people around them. It's not their status, clothes or even their leader. No it's something else, it is the way the men and women in such a group acts, their posture. It all emits a professional and safe aura, which calms the fresher troops around them, increasing their morale for the coming of battle. And looking up at the wall Torval noticed the looks from some of the men up there and then sighed.

The Tavark men where formidable warriors, but they were not soldiers. And warriors tended to not raise morale until the battle started.
-"Somehow I know this is expected of me"
The man muttered with that in mind and stepped up the ramparts once more.

-"Eyes forward men, the enemy is outside not within." The veteran leader said in his approach towards the men he earlier had spotted, Torval then gazed out over the open snowy plains and the enemy in the distance before he continued.
-"You are the men tasked with guarding this wall. The most important task of all." Placing a hand on the leader of the group's shoulder. He could feel them listen to him and gather.
-"We trust you with this task. We trust our lives on your ability to hold this fortress and we do not doubt that ability."

Stopping for a moment he took in the atmosphere around him feeling that it rose at least a bit. This made him smile
-"I trust my back to you men when I leave this wall to do my part on the battlefield, knowing that when I return it shall still stand" Patting the shoulder his rand rested on Torval turned and walked but then stopped.
-"And do not forget you are men of the north. You know the mountains, so stand like them and look down on those who foolishly try to climb you. And when they ignorantly continue, sweep with your spears like the northern winds and remind them that this is the north, we do not relent"

Reaching his men below, the more sharp eared ones raised their eyebrows at him.
-"Shut it the youngsters likes a bit of flare" he muttered at their smiles. "Now let's find this blacksmith Schelchtfeld fellow, supposedly knows our new detail" Though with that he did not fully escape the light hearted quips and sneers from his peers on the speech as the large party moved itself to the camp. Considering it was a blacksmith they sought there was likely more to the task at hand then just guarding some important point.

"Falconeye!" One of his men then said in a serious tone. But the man already listened himself
"I hear them Kiviér. It has begun"

 

[unanun]

Searchlights

There was supposed to be a moon in the sky - but foul rituals obfuscated it. The windfishes, ellipsoids pressed together end on end, opened a row of holes from bow to stern. Out of them poured lazy smoke, gathered into a giant black anvil that loomed over the Pegulis border fort. By the magic of the weather shamans, the anvil churned in a vortex and blue lightning stormed in its eye. They waved their charging sticks, one per hand, gathering the electric and sending it up with the oil fires that boiled in the belly of the windfishes.

The rolling lightning did not escape the anvil clouds. Under the cover of this evil night the Vanguard slowly pinched off from the Kaustrian camp. They passed snake-like tongues over sharp, black teeth. Their hands caressed shivs. They wore their anticipation like a cloak, which swept their footsteps away.

"They will come tonight." The Pegulis forward scout peaked from his snow den, but he could see nothing. He was an old one, ready for his death. The thick mask hid the frost from his breath. "Remember, " he turned to his side, "you just need to-"

His companion's mouth gaped silently, a steel pike pinning him to the ground through his throat. That was why they had a partner. So if one screamed, the other could...

"-light the gem."

Above him a Nocturne smiled, all teeth and no gums, skin stretched tightly over a bloody skull.

~~~​

"History has declawed us, soldier. We can't see, hear, or smell very well." Mason pulled the furs tighter around him, peering out into the impenetrable night. "A Nocturne retains his heritage - he is a born predator. They see twice as far, they can hear us walk on the ramparts, and smell our blood a mile away."

"But we can make up for that lack. Anytime now..." Mason leaned forward, strained forward, and had to be pulled back against the white explosion that lit the night sky. Under the protective pile of metal and bodies, he fiercely grinned.

"A mine doesn't feel, doesn't give any hint to its presence. And when it explodes, the shards go everywhere. Unpredictable, unavoidable!"

Blue and purple plasma flared into the sky along with a dozen bodies, tossed into the air by the force of the explosion. In the brief purple light, Mason's eyes flew over the battlefield and his hands ran over his lakestone. Hundreds of Nocturnes peppered the white landscape, at various distances from his wall.

The next explosion shook dust from the masonry, and illuminated the other hundreds of them scaling the wall. And the third explosion painted their black masks white as they stood on the ramparts. The Nocturnes weren't inside the poisoned city or the oil fires, and they removed their masks against the stroboscopic light from the thermic gem mines, diving with their fangs bared against the throats of the rampart watch.

"THE ENEMY IS UPON US!"

Powerful thermic arc-lamps blazed alight, the gems lighting coils of wire white hot. The parabolic dishes threw light across the ramparts, where thousands of silhouetted Nocturnes scaled the walls. There was no colour, just blinding white and blinding dark. Where the searchlights played across the stone facade, Pegulis soldiers fought toe-to-toe with Nocturnes. If the light swept away, then came back to the same spot, all the was left were the bloody, drained corpses of Pegulians, mummified and dried out. They scanned the open field in front of the fort for the archers and ballista to throw their thermic-tipped arrows. Explosions were the only way - the Nocturnes were simply too good at sensing bolts.

Mason fought within the illumination of one thermic arc-lamp. All around him people died, and he wasn't sure which ones. He fought pressed shoulder to shoulder, a phalanx of spears that pressed toward the wall sweepers. He had to get them off the walls.

A Nocturne leapt out of the shadows, nothing but face and teeth. He filled it with the point of his sword and kicked the beast off. A dozen Kaustrians died that way, but they didn't seem to care. Their shivs lay forgotten, their minds answering to the primal instinct of the hunt. As many Pegulians died to metal as they did to fingers, a thousand of them slithering through their armour, nails piercing their skin, fingers digging under their ribs and ripping their hearts out.

The light on them sputtered and died. He thought he saw masks and cloaks, flitting and flooding the operators, burying them in a flashing mess of steel and gurgled blood.

In the darkness his panting thundered in his ears. "HOLD!" The watchman behind him disappeared, dragged off to six hungry mouths. One by one the weight of his phalanx died away. He felt teeth on his shoulder and stabbed his sword behind him. Warmth flowed down his hand and a cold body slumped against his back. Mason shrugged it off to the tune of more teeth on his body.

His assailant scattered in burning ash. A sword, red hot, smote through his torso, cleaving him in half. In the afterglow a Tavark barbarian stood, clothed in spike and skull. He paid no heed to the teeth, and the Nocturne's feeble claws could not even bruise his skin. He cut a path through them, and Mason followed in his shadow, making for the pots of salt water that they could dump over the walls.

 

[unanun]

Under Barvelle​

The Ghoul Sage tilted his head, as if seriously considering Amara's question. A fish swam through the walls of their square concrete room, through the middle, and out the opposite wall, passing through the Ghoul Sage on the way. It was a scaly horror that surely dwelt in the deeps of the Prosperos, with teeth that stuck through its fossilized jaws.

"HAVE YOU EVER FELT ... "

Medwick's gaze burned into Ophanim and Amara's necks, the hot gaze of dying jealousy.

"NO. HAVE YOU EVER ASKED WHY YOU ARE ONLY ABLE TO PERFORM TWO ADVENTS? AND ONCE A DAY, AT THAT?"

"HAVE YOU EVER TRIED?"

Amara did and cried out. She was no stranger to injury, especially when things in her body stretched beyond their limits. Something pulled in her head, a pain she could not massage away, an unbearable itch buried deep in her mind. She fell to the ground clawing at her skull, fingers drawing blood from her scalp.

The Ghoul Sage snapped his fingers, and the space around them undulated again, completely unchanged but rippling in a way that their third eye could see. The Tavarkian huntress stopped screaming and slowly pushed herself upright.

"PERHAPS, WHILE YOU WALKED DOWN HERE, YOU ASKED WHY ARE THERE WINDOWS HERE? WHY DO SOME WINDOWS LEAD TO EMPTY ROOMS? WHY DO STAIRS LEAD NOWHERE? THE HALLWAY IS DIVIDED INTO TWO LENGTHS, ONE LOWER THAN THE OTHER. ON ONE END THERE IS A RAMP. IN THE MIDDLE, THREE STEPS. A THOUSAND ARCHES, EACH LOWER THAN THE LAST, SPIRAL INTO THE ENDS OF A WALL. CYLINDERS RISE INTO THE CEILING, AND BUTTRESSES BRIDGE THE GAPS TO NOWHERE."

"THINGS SEEM SLIGHTLY OUT OF PLACE. YOUR ARCHITECTURE IS USED IN WAYS YOU DO NOT EXPECT."

"IT IS FAMILIAR YET UNFAMILIAR."

"THERE IS A POOL," the fish swam in circles in its tank. Sometimes, its tail lashed through the glass. It flicked its fins and came up to Ophanim, its mouth barely poking through, and it darted through the Avian, its gills pumping oxygen from the medium in which it swam.

"A POOL IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES. YOU NEVER ASKED YOURSELF IF YOU COULD PUSH THROUGH IT. YOU JUST ASSUMED THE TENSION WAS INFINITE."

"HAVE YOU EVER WONDERED WHY FORTUNE FAVOURS YOU?"

"OR .. DID YOU BELIEVE THAT IT DID? PERHAPS, YOU WERE MAKING YOUR OWN LUCK?"

Ophanim exhaled. He had forgotten how to breath, steadying his lungs against the rumbling, distorted speech that came from the Ghoul Sage's hood, lest he miss any word.

For a while, their journey through the mountains drove his previous endeavours from his mind. Hunger and thirst replaced creative thoughts. He had focused on his feet as they pushed through dirt, rock, wet and dry silt, fungus of various types, and now, metal and concrete. But the circle came back to his mind, and he feverishly followed it. Wing's shivering, he reached for it ...

His ears snapped open. His sinuses dilated, and his eyes drew themselves into pinpoints. It was almost there ...

He opened his mouth, releasing a slowly building scream. His body glowed with advent light .. then faded.

"CULTURE IS A STRONG TOOL. NO ONE QUESTIONS CULTURE, OR TRADITION."

"So this is all a lie." Medwick pulled himself upright on Ethelwen's shoulder, next to the collapsed Amara and Ophanim.

"I'VE BEEN SUPPRESSING AND GUIDING YOUR CIVILIZATION FROM THE VERY BEGINNING. YOUR ACCOMPLISHMENTS ARE MY ACCOMPLISHMENTS, YOUR DISCOVERIES CRUMBS I LEFT, YOUR MORALS MY ETHICS."

"Why?"

"WE ARE NOT READY. NOR WORTHY. WE WILL BECOME DUST AND ALL MEMORY SHALL FADE. WE WERE NEVER MEANT TO GRASP THE SUN. THE CATACLYSM IS PROOF."

 

[Mglo]

[fieldbox= Moving On, orange, solid]
"Can't say I didn't see it coming," came the small scorpion's voice, but all Inigo could hear was the sound of Nibal's trickling blood.

"He knew." Outside General Kirtin had set the camp in motion, but Inigo couldn't move. He hadn't liked Nibal, yet he seemed to be mourning.

Ral cackled, "face it soldier, you wanted him to go just as much as me! Guy was dumb. Who the hell talks himself into a death like that? An' for a nation that didn't really care."

"But it was a life Ral. Life matters doesn't it? That's the whole point of us being here..."

"You're a desertrat, you do not matter... unless there's victory. And even then, only as a number" for the moment Ral had been straightforwardly sincere without his usual biting humor. It was that which snapped Inigo out of his life-questioning mood. He inhaled deeply and slowly exhaled before speaking again.
"We bury him. He chose this end, but it's me who holds his head. We then return to our original course and we forget about him."

"Yeah! Guy can suck Sunne dick. He nearly got us killed!" Ral's pincers snapped testily at a piece of brain on Inigo's arm. The desertrat stood up, thankful for the warmth the Pegulians had provided him in the form of a thermic necklace. He walked out of the General's tent, searching the outskirts of the camp for a proper spot. Ral kept suggesting a beetle-dung-smeared area and Inigo only declined because it would entail digging through it. The small grave was made at the base of a small tree and just as Inigo began to bid it goodbye, Ral interjected with a "least you'll make something grow for a change!"

"Stop the dick jokes Ral. Let's go."

"It's what soldiers do. You're just too new to the trade."

***

Inigo returned to the bloodthirsty camp as diurnes prepared to march. The Nocturne vanguard had already gone ahead.
In the distance Inigo saw bursts of purplish light, pushing their way through the false night.

A man huffed beside him, "wait till we get our turn. We'll pay them back double. Take a look." The diurne handed Inigo a spyglass. Despite Inigo's unwillingness, he raised the spyglass up to his eye and realized the speckled light had appeared as such due to the flying flesh of his allies. He handed the spyglass back as the man gave him a slap on the back, "let's make them proud!"

Since Inigo had joined the Kaustrian army he had done nothing but survive. It seemed he'd grown accustomed to it because the sight of what was to come, the cruelty of war, did not make him falter as he walked to prepare himself for battle.
[/fieldbox]

(Thanks to @Desire for forcing me through this! >:[ )
(P.s. I kid)

 

[Silvir]

The difference between predators and beasts

The echoes of explosions and screams from the battle could be heard from afar. The leader of the rangers that had previously been smiling and relaxing now shifted his posture. The man's eyes glimmered in the dark as he moved his men through the tunnels that would guide them outside the walls. While his mission was clear he was determined to grasp the situation before making his move.

No plan survives the battlefield. It's he who can adapt that will be victorious.

The darkness was almost thick, momentarily cut through by the light beams and the explosions of the mines creating short lived shadow paintings. His group of thirty took in the scene and sounds that was now in front of them.

"Light em up" Torval commanded and two mages stepped forward aiming their staffs towards the sky. Instantly with a short screeching sound four blasts cast away the veil of darkness that hid the movements of the enemy on the fields.
The soldiers stared at what was ahead of them and waited for their leader to decide.

"Okay here's the plan" He said turning towards his peers, explaining what he had in mind.
While he could do noticeable damage with his mages attacking the rear of the charging enemy. The situation was clear to him now as he looked out over the battlefield that had momentarily halted, surprised by the flares who had now began to fade. For now all he could do was stall for time.

The first move struck the flank of the attacking nocturnes. The very ground turning against the disorganized masses along the front. Strange dark arrows found their marks in the chaos on the far eastern section of the wall giving the defenders there a moment to gather themselves. But before the nocturnes could turn to bite back, the flanking attackers where gone leaving a trail of dead.

The predators had become the prey as pegulis soldiers of a different calibre had entered the battlefield. And even though they were few, they had become every soldier's nightmare.
An invisible enemy. And as if to make sure they did not forget this new threat they were struck again further back in the lines. Like wolfs patiently wearing down their prey.
"When their communications begin to fail we start the next phase of the plan, so stay focused"

 

[fatalrendezvous]

[fieldbox="The Courage of Cowards, #9348EE, solid, 0, Palatino Linotype"]

Ilsa laid shivering upon the snow, welcoming its frigid embrace like it were a lost love. In many ways, it was. So accustomed had she become to the mild and temperate Chersonese weathers that even her body seemed to shun the cold that her heart longed for.

Soldiers from the fort rushed to her aid, hoisting her up with her arms over their shoulders, wrapping her sparsely clothed body in wool and casting a thermic necklace over her as they trudged back to the relative safety of the fort.

"A sword," she demanded through clattering teeth. "Give me a sword. So I can run it through those wretched sandrats."

"Give it time, Captain," one of the men responded quietly as they brought her indoors.

----​

So she laid in the infirmary beneath blankets and thermic gems, eyes wandering and without rest as the sounds of dying comrades filled the night, intermixed with the echoes of the explosions from Colonel Kavactian's mines. Moonlight and dimly glowing thermic gems were all that lit the room, save for the occasional brilliant flash of light from a mine blast.

Her body was weak, certainly; months in idle captivity had caused her to atrophy, but she could not bear to sit idly by as good Pegulians lost their lives. Throwing the blankets off the cot, she rummaged in the darkness for something - a lantern, a sword, anything.

"Why?"

Ilsa spun around.

Pax sat perched by the window, eyes affixed upon his Crux in a heavy gaze. He seldom had need to break his silence, but like a thought lingering within the depths of Ilsa's mind aching to be noticed, he chose those occasions carefully.

"We have had the courage to fight," Pax reminisced quietly, as thoughts of all their confrontations thus far flooded Ilsa's mind. Each one she approached headstrong. "It's time to have the courage to run."

Ilsa stared at him, her vision losing focus as emotion clouded her eyes. He was right; she was in no condition for combat, and the fort was almost sure to be lost. Rather than throw herself into combat from bloodlust alone, she needed to warn Barvelle.

Fumbling through the desk drawers of the empty infirmary (though if the fort were still standing, it would likely be packed full come morning), she found paper, quill, and ink, scribbling out a quick note to explain her absence before fleeing towards the stables.

[/fieldbox]

 

[fatalrendezvous]

[fieldbox="Dane Myros - Call of the Present, gold, solid, 0, Garamond"]

Nothing.

Dane had searched. Toiled, even, through the three standing spires of the six that once comprised the walls of Aldus. He knew not what he was searching for; he simply knew that he would recognize it once he found it.

As dawn broke over the snowy hills of Pegulis, as the midway fort miles away was sieged, Dane remained seated at the dining table of the Lisbon home. He continued his maddening ritual, hoping to grasp some concept just outside of arms reach, to regain the knowledge he had tasted but so quickly lost.

Where he once traced circles with his fingertip over and over again around a point in the wood, slowly a groove began to form in the flat surface of the dining table. He had worn it down, tracing the same damned pattern and each time trying but failing to understand what he was looking for. Ilsa's mother had been kind enough to supply him with quills and parchment for his obsession instead (if for no other reason than the fear that he might continue to damage their family table). Dark circles had grown in below his eyes that only seemed to darken each passing night that he refused to sleep.

So he traced. He drew. He expanded. He started with a single point, then circles, then spheres, then... then what? Each next piece of parchment inevitably found its way to the floor because it wasn't right.

None of them were right.

He needed more; to visualize his thoughts upon a medium that did not exist. The same way his visions didn't exist, except that they did. Or they didn't. What the hell!

"Dammit!" Dane's gloved fist slammed against the wood of the table before he quickly realized that other people within the home were sleeping, causing him to grimace sheepishly and withdraw his hand. With a groan, he set his elbows upon the table and buried his face in his gloved palms.

"You can't always learn by doing, Dane!"

Karissa's voice snapped Dane's attention as he looked up from the chainmail of his gauntlets.

"Sure, you can learn a lot by just doing them, but sometimes you gotta read to learn how they work, too! There are lots more ways to learn things than just by trying to do them over and over. That's practice! But before you practice you gotta learn! That's why you need to learn how to read!"

Stumbling to his feet, Dane pushed out of the doorway of the Lisbon home. He was still a relative newcomer to Aldus, but had spent so many of the last several weeks aimlessly wandering the streets of the city that they seemed to carry him before even he really knew where he was going.

Before he knew it, he stood before an old trinkets and bookstore.

A Way's Away.

[/fieldbox]

 

[Peregrine]

[ooc sound link is pretty loud]

Under Barvelle​

The echoes of the Ghoul Sage's voice had long since faded, and still no one had spoken. It took Medwick several moments to suddenly realize that everyone was looking at him. Their eyes were trained on him, waiting for him to proffer the next question. And that was only to be expected. He was the one who had led them down here, had always taken the lead, the next step forward. Amara and Ophanim had questions, but theirs had already been more than answered. Ethelwen was only here because Medwick had insisted on a guide. And Artorius... he wouldn't be asking any questions ever again. He was the one who was supposed to ask the questions now.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Medwick had nothing to say. He tried to remember the passion that had driven him down here, the wild spark that had pushed him to ascend the exterior of Barvelle to reach the tower of the Archon. He tried to remember the passion that had filled him as he had sworn he was going to get to the bottom of this. It seemed to have become lost in pain and apathy.

"NO MORE POINTLESS QUESTIONS? NO MORE MISGUIDED OBJECTIONS? GOOD. I WEARY OF YOUR IGNORANCE." Another traced symbol appeared before the group. "DRAW THIS ONE NOW."

"And, what, is another one of us going to have to 'jump-start' the spell?" Amara still seemed to possess a flicker of indignation, but none of the others complained. The circles they had spent tedious hours drawing into the floor were gone now. They would have to start all over.

Everyone was still looking at him. They needed him to say something. He scrambled for a subject, for something of import. There had to be another question, after they had come so far.

"What of Kaustir's march upon the Cheronese?"

"AAAAAH .. THE MAD ONE FROM THE EAST. HE MARCHES UPON PEGULIS."

Medwick flinched in surprise, ruining the line he scratched upon the ground. "What?!" The noise of outrage was repeated around him, echoing through the empty spaces. "And how do you intend to protect your nation?"

"I DO NOT."

There was a spark inside of him. Medwick closed in around the tiny flame, gently nurturing it, trying to grow it larger. It seemed so small against the pain inside of him. "And if he invades Barvelle?"

"HE CANNOT NAVIGATE THE TUNNELS." Off to the side, Ethelwen stirred slightly, looking as though he had something to add. Medwick plowed right over the anima, not daring to let his small flame die.

"But if he does?"

"SO WHAT?"

The flame burst into life. "So what?! You said you created this nation, and you would simply let it fall?"

"I NEEDED A NATION OF MY IDEALS. IF THIS ONE FALLS, I CAN SIMPLY BUILD ANOTHER."

It felt like something twisted within Medwick. All the complaints, all the illness, everything that had gone wrong from the moment he had left Barvelle on the Prosperous Quest to find the Divine Weapon, came pouring out in that moment. Behind him, perched on a back rock Carval began to glow as his advent was unconsciously triggered.

"Oh, yes, the magnificent Ghoul Sage, Mordakor, whatever other names you have decided to use to designate your glorious self. The genius God of the Old World who knows all the answers. Oh, I'm sure that's what you think. I'm sure you exist under the absolute certainty of everything you believe being absolutely right." Medwick's voice was beginning to rise in volume, splitting and cracking as vocal chords that hadn't spoken above a whisper in Ilium knew how long were stretched to their limit.

"But you don't know everything. You've become so lost in your own power that you don't even realize the half of it. We are not objects. We are not a nation of dull-witted children to be herded by your schemes. We are people. We are free, weighed down by a heavy past perhaps, but free all the same. We will progress into the future, no matter the machinations of a crazy god who thinks he can control everything. The present has the right to be free from manipulation of the past. Pegulis will be free of you, and the chains of the past with which you have so arrogantly bound us." His voice was starting to fail, but somehow that seemed to spur him on more, as though he was determined to get out the last of his words before his voice, as everything else, failed him.

"You say you won't save us. That we are nothing, insignificant, and if we fall you shall simply build another in our place. Well that is fine. That is just dandy! We don't need you to save us. We don't need you at all. You think you have controlled everything, but you haven't. You have failed in your one goal. We don't need you to save us because we can save yourself. After all, my quest was successful. The costs were beyond counting, but I fould the Allsource in the depths of the Prosperous Ocean, and I brought it back to Pegulis. At this very moment our finest scholars are analyzing the thing, and if Kaustir marches upon Barvelle we will put it to use. With the Allsource in hand, we will forge our path forwards."

Throughout Medwick's speech the room had slowly but surely filled with rage. But at the end of Medwick's rant that rage was filled with overt malice, caustic and scarring. The three others who still lived cowered from the Ghoul Sage, unable to interrupt Medwick or silence him under the power of the advent. They knew without doubt in that moment, if it were not for the barrier that separated them from the Old God, they would all be struck dead in an instant, and then end would not be pleasant. Medwick, however, seemed oblivious to the looming threat in front of him, and he continued to speak until his advent faded away.

The moment the magic came to an end, however, he was interrupted by a scream of fury from the Ghoul Sage.

"YOU..." He seemed incapacitated with rage. "RECKLESS! FOOLISH!" His words were his only weapon, and they seemed to have no effect on the irate sage.

"You will see."

"BUT YOU SHALL NOT! I PROMISED YOU I WOULD MOVE YOU FROM THIS PLACE, AND MOVE YOU I SHALL! I'LL CAST YOU INTO THE VERY MOUNTAINS THEMSELVES!"

"Medwick!" Ethelwen threw himself towards the scholar, pulling him back from the Ghoul Sage and towards the others. But even as he moved the room began to warp and swirl around them, descending into a mess of noise and chaos. In the last instant before they were moved, thrown randomly into the mountains to land, and die, where they would, Ethelwen stuck out his other hand, desperately reaching for the huntress and avian.

And then...

 

[unanun]

K'Jol's journey was long. His pack animal, part lizard, moose, or camel, plodded through the sand with a relentless, almost irritating stubbornness. The famed warrior was also surer than a rain spotter that he had walked past Nu, with another companion. But he paid it no heed - the affairs of Lut Sar were not quite his business anymore.

He camped three times in the desert, struggling to unfold the thin tarp, boiling water for tea and drinking kresnik when he couldn't be bothered, before he discovered that his steed did not need to sleep like he did, and could walk through the night. In this fashion, he awoke to the massive gates to Avarath, slightly ajar. The small details, the carelessness and lack of attention to security, was louder than any sound of battle. He pushed the lizard-camel through the gates, watching its body contort and squeeze as it wedged through the stone doors.

He found the place dead. The spice lounges did not belch their fragrant smoke from their multicoloured and bannered chimneys, sandlewood burned with their signature spices to carry their calling cards across the city. The streets were not alive with peddlers, desperate small time merchants hoping to strike up a conversation with a merchant Lord who browsed the streets for some kresnik sweets. It was a ghost city now, and sand infiltrated every slightly open shutter, filled up amphoras of wine and turned it into mud, turned rectangular adobes into domes of sand. The dockhands told him all he needed to know, and stopped to feed his mount before urging it along the coast, to the Chersonese.

It had been a long journey, but he had actually traveled to the war front in under a week. He felt it weighing down on him now, as he stood at the edge of the vanguard's camp. He saw it all transpire in slow motion: bodies tossed into the air by some sort of explosion, the bright blue flares pockmarking the permafrost of the vast plane that separated the Pegulis border fort from the camp. Still, more of the supposed vanguard streamed past him, snarling and howling with a certain bloodlust he had never seen in his days in the army.

The planes went silent. Whatever was causing the explosions, there was only a finite amount of them, and in that deafening silence the howls of the Kaustrians came as monsters from the night.

Not like this. A low, constant growl sounded from K'Jol's throat. His lips were peeled back and the shaft of his halberd creaked from the force of his grip. This isn't how it is supposed to be.

There was someone next to him, who clutched his sword, hands slick with a cold sweat. As the man brushed his hair away from his frost-encrusted mustache, K'Jol thought he recognized him. "Inigo!"

The man jumped and slowly turned to face the Draken.

"You sneaky little rat!" He clapped the merchant around the shoulders. "What are you doing here?"

"Thought we'd chase our fortunes," quipped Ral. "There wasn't much other fortune to chase, anyways." Inigo gulped. K'Jol's hailing had reminded him of his nausea.

"Yeah. Well." The Famed Warrior picked his teeth.

"You're not meant to die. Not yet. It's their turn first."

Far behind them, General Kirtin watched the tenth line on the water clock pass. Ten minutes and no further explosions - and whatever traps the Colonel had laid inside the base were probably spent. The anima cocked his head, and a signal flare rose high into the sky. The windfish moved forward as one, an impenetrable pack of sheet metal, filled to the brim with oil.

 

[lynzy]

As time had passed Shar had almost given up on ever seeing her brother alive again. She had run out of funds ages ago and found some work lifting and hauling for a trader. It was a meager amount but she had no great needs. A place to sleep, food to eat was all she cared about anymore. The life had gone from her steps and she cared not for the looming war. All she thought about was her personal failure to keep the dargonette safe, her friends safe. Everyone had died, EVERYONE. except her... pfft! Why was she the only one left? Well, Caoimhe might be alive, she hoped so, but doubted it. What with those dragon fanatics chasing down the young dragon, it didn't look good, especially since Caoimhe didn't want her around. She gulped her drink down and grimaced at the bad taste.

It had become a regular thing for her to spend her evenings in the pub drinking what she use to just sit and stare at. Now she got lost in the bottom of her cups like all the rest of the losers (in her mind), except she hated it and herself. She really was lost, besides hating herself for going with Caoimhe and not staying with her brother she at the same time hated herself for loosing the wolf-girl and dragonette.

Her fur had turned an off-white that showed her ill-health too. It was full of mats and bugs and her muscles had somewhat atrophied do to lack of use, lifting and hauling didn't hold a candle to what she use to do. Her claws were chipped and broken from lack of nutrition and her eyes were always red from lack of sleep as well as too much drink.

Shar raised her hand to signal for another round and someone bumped her, almost shoving her out of the seat. Standing up and turning to face the fool with ears flattened and a snarl coming from deep in her throat she asked, "What's the matter are you blind or something?!"

You could hear a pin drop as there came the response of, "No, whoa you're one big... uh never mind." and the man backed down and away leaving by the door he had come in by. Shardis slumped back into her chair grumbling about idiots that couldn't see more than two inches in front of them and how their parent had made a mistake....

 

[Noctis the Devious]

Under Barvelle

Amara couldn't tell what was happening exactly. It was all happening too fast and too slow. There were raised voices, panic, and Ethelwen reaching for her, and in a split second decision not consciously made, she reached for the anima with one hand and with the other gripped her stones hidden in the depths of her pouches.

It felt as if she had activated her secret Empathy advent, with her traditional senses falling away and leaving behind a world of color only she can see, touch, smell, and taste without doing so whatsoever. All awareness of her surroundings fell away and a feeling akin to weightlessness over came her. The thing was, she wasn't the only one undergoing the strange phenomenon, the others around her also experienced the strange sensations as they were hurtled into the moutain.

The world seemed to tilt around them and it suddenly all came to abrubt halt when they crashed against stone. The huntress laid there dazed, not entirely sure if they stuck to the ceiling or pressed against the wall; there was no differentiating up from down. Was that how it felt to be stuck in a mountain? No, she imagined it to be at least suffocating, yet she was breathing just fine. She was left lightheaded in the wake of her returning orientation and made an effort to push herself up.

She blinked.

She blinked again.

Either she was as blind as Tang or they were in a place very dark. "Everyone okay?" she asked, looking around blindly. As she was fairly used to the experience she was relatively uneffected for the most part. Others weren't so lucky as a few groans broke the silence and what may have been somone heaving out their stomach contents. She staggered to her feet but a wave of dizziness over came her and she stumbled, her boot catching on a solid mass on the floor and sent her tumbling down. The solid mass let out a squeak and she chuckled awkwardly. "Oh, sorry Ophanim. Didn't see you there."

 

[fatalrendezvous]

[fieldbox="The Courage of Cowards, #9348EE, solid, 0, Palatino Linotype"]

Pegulian nights are horrendous.

Not because the sun sets particularly early upon Pegulis compared to the rest of Sunne, blanketing the Frozen North in night for longer than her Eastern and Western counterparts. Not because of the horror stories and urban legends of Night Terrors, the souls of the dead not properly put to rest, awaiting lone travelers to prey on in order to regain life. Not even because of the very real threat of wolf packs and other predators.

But because it's fucking cold.

Ilsa was all but certain that the bonefreeze was setting in. She clung to the horse she'd managed to find in the stables at the midway fort, finding little solace in the furs of its mane other than that it at least provided one less direction the night could assault her from. Her barely-clothed body was still draped in rags and blankets, framed by a nearly-faded thermic necklace that did a wonderfully poor job of fending away the biting cold. Icy night winds stung at her skin, causing her already fair skin to pale a deathly Nocturne white. Each breeze elicited a terrible shudder. Even Pax, incorporeal though he might be, huddled up against his Crux in some vain attempt to create more warmth.

It was hard to tell exactly how far she'd gone from the midway fort; the flashes and sounds of explosions had halted long before she was out of earshot, and certainly she'd still be able to catch sight of one. The midway fort was almost assuredly going to fall, and she wasn't far enough north yet. If she stopped to make camp this close, Ilsa feared she would be discovered and slain before she even awoke in the morning, left to rot and join the ranks of the Night Terrors.

So she continued to flee, running from what would be Pegulis' first loss in Kaustir's assault. In no way aided by the freezing dead of night, Ilsa pondered over the realization that running was actually harder than staying.

-----​

A day passed, then two; at some point Ilsa managed to huddle up in an alcove and build a crude fire to catch a bit of sleep, but she had no resources to hunt and her hunger found inopportune times to jolt her awake. The thermic gems were merely placebo now, naught but warmthless rocks connected by string.

Her teeth clattered so hard that her jaws ached from the wear of the movement alone. Delirious and with eyes half-lidded, she was in the vicinity of Barvelle but had no way to signal her arrival. She had traded in her armor and Aldus Watch pendant when she and Coul had made the (poor) decision to infiltrate Kaustir posing as an indigenous Chersonese tribe.

Somewhere near Barvelle, the horse released a stubborn huff before collapsing of exhaustion and malnutrition. It succumbed to the North, and Ilsa was thrown from its back, lacking even the strength to roll over and crawl. Pax perched worriedly upon her chest, body nearly transparent as Ilsa felt herself beginning to fade.

"Together, Pax."

Ilsa was too weak even to continue clattering her jaw. She wasn't even sure she'd spoken. But for what she feared might be the last time, Pax sank into into her chest before bursting a barrier out from within her, kicking up clouds of snow and launching the poor dying horse to what would probably be its demise. She was not ready to die, by any stretch, but if this was going to be how, she supposed there were worse ways to go. Gazing up at the sheets of white that began to settle back around her, Ilsa had almost made her peace.

The sound of Bridgette's shouting for help caused Ilsa to pull in a gasp. She might have cried if she had the hydration left to produce tears.

Ilsa was hoisted up and quickly carried inside, ushered to the same infirmary that Vrein had been in when he'd had the bonefreeze.

Vrein. Vrein?

Ilsa tried to call his name, to request for him, but in her weakness, she had no idea if they'd heard.

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