(Double post. Sorry).

Caspian

Caspian smiled slightly as he looked upon Thalassa from his spot in the highest part of the city, the Citadel, where the High Council and the Thalassan Council both met. In reality, he should be with the High Council now, but he had sat through more meetings in his life than any Councilor had in their short careers. He felt entitled to a break now and then and what better balm was there to his stress than to look upon Thalassa, the chief city of the Avuvian Confederation, often called "Ulmo's jewel." The Avatar smiled.

Situated upon a natural harbor that looked as though it were carved by Ulmo himself, the city was a towering wave of marble white walls along with silver, blue, and white banners and drapes. Caspian could see the tall Temple of Ulmo amidst the smaller dwellings of the other gods: Asyrr'ya, Artanis, the small but proud temple of Genocide, Kildarien, Shaddam, and maybe that was a small shrine to Aleron beside the temple of Kéndi and Zari? Upon the lower levels, he could see the orderly housing of the average Avuvian citizen and, down near the harbor, Thalassan's illustrious Trading Quarter. It could have been his imagination, but Caspian thought he could smell a trace of sweet cinnamon, incense, and spice from his spot at the top of the city. In his mind's eye, he could see the rainbow of velvet, crimson, azure, yellow, orange, black, and white cloth, the strange scripts of the different artifacts that somehow found their way here, perhaps a world away from its home. He could hear the whispering and shouting of a hundred different languages, arguing over price, eager to sell and buy. He took a deep breath, inhaling the memory of the scent of the various different fish caught, big or smell, gutted, and ready to be sold to citizen and foreigner alike, either to be cooked for the midday or evening meal or soaked in salt and preservatives for a long sea voyage or a trade caravan heading inland. He could see the sun glinting off the lettering of the many warships, a few readying to set sail to escort merchant's vessels or to hunt pirates foolish enough to threaten Avuvian trade routes.

The Avuvians had six other cities like this one, some just as powerful, but none as glorious in Caspian's mind nor more well-known. Thalassa was the first Avuvian city on Ashariel and had never been breached by invader or pirate, its gates never opened for an enemy. It was one of the most important trade cities on the mainland of Ashariel. Most importantly to Caspian and its inhabitants, however, it was home.

"Sir! The High Council requests your presence!" came an urgent voice from behind him. Caspian suppressed a sigh and turned around to see a Citadel servant, garbed in silver and blue, approaching him.

"Whatever is it they want now?" he asked.

"Well, Councilor Andromeda and Councilor Sirvian are at each other's throats over tariffs," the servant told him in that sly, gossiping tone servants sometimes took when their betters were embarrassing themselves. Caspian smiled slightly.

"The way those two let on. People will talk," he mused, heading inside the tall building before him. Politics was a lot like babysitting at times.

Ulmo

Ulmo's face remained impassive as he sat at the bottom of the sea, blue light gently radiating the area as a curtain of water shimmered with his power, revealing images of the surface of the sea and of the various peoples followed him, particularly the Avuvians. Despite his imassive demeanor, the Sea God was content at the moment and the Sea reflected his mood. Sailors would recognize the weather as perfect for sailing and thank the gods or Fate that Ulmo favored them.

Indeed, Ulmo was content within the deepest depths of his domain. There was no Aleron bothering him about which was truly superior, the Sky or the Sea (as if the empty Sky contained the equal of the wonders found in his Depths) and his people honored him, the Sea, and dealt honorably among themselves and outsiders. He was pleased with this. He gazed at the images, watching his people as they made their decisions.

Outside the Mountains, in front of an entrance into the Dwarven Holds

"Dwarves and their gods-forsaken entrances! They could pick a more hospitable spot!"Dantius cursed, brushing snow off his beard as he stood in front of an entrance into the mountain. Dantius never liked snow or the cold. It was just his luck that there'd be a snow shower this morning.

"Master, the dwarves do this for a more defensible position," his apprentice reasoned, causing the old man to snap at his apprentice.

"I know that, pup! I've been trading with them for decades. Why do you think the Guild from Thermascus sent me? Dwarves respect age and experience. And they have no notion of coddling the elderly either so these old bones have to make a trip up the mountains twice a year."

"You never accept coddling anyway," the apprentice noted in amusement, causing Dantius to glance back at him, seeing only an innocent, neutral expression.

Dantius sighed. It had been quite a trip. The Merchant's Guild in Thermascus had placed him in charge of the caravan heading for the dwarves' mountains as usual, accompanied by fifty mercenaries modeled after the Avuvian army. There were 20 men in leather or, as with one or two, chainmail armor armed with a spear, round shield, and short sword, mirroring Avuvian Skirmishers, along with 10 Rangers in leather armor with longbows, quivers, and longswords, and, as Dantius' personal guard, 10 men in heavy plate and chainmail armor wield a spear, round shield, and short sword, mirroring Avuvian Regulars. All in all, adequate protection for a trade caravan between the dwarves' mountains and Thermascus.

The Phoenix in the Furnace

The Dendapim city of Galatzella sat proudly between two twin peaks, stretching its walls out to join the two. "The Wedded Mounts" themselves stood proudly northeast and southwest, looking over to the southeast a stretch of striking terraced ridges, layering chaotically down the broad hillside, the mountains stretching out to frame them. The terraces were a mesh of vibrant green grass, farms, pools of water, rocky outlays, and smooth roads broken by occasional steps. The highest terrace, on which the city sat and imitated the stepped pattern a little higher up, was being reinforced, and its rocky outlays were meshed here and there with carved stone and low lying walls.

Running down the city like a vibrant green scar was the Qsamadar, the very heart of the Dendapim's civilization on the continent. A broad stretch of white cement pavings poured with sparkling colored glass within them. From this distance the filth which gathered at the people's feet was imperceptible. The way lined with flowers, a thousand pink-haired birds of paradise stood like floral angels in salute to the building which stood like a jewel atop the tan colored city. A stark hexagon of vivid blue, containing another of golden tan, and it another of green and another of dark red, all condensing and meshing at the great hexaganol door, a gaudy mesh of gold and glass.

The Qsamadar and the Avatar's palace had only just been finished, and stood as the shining accomplishment the Dendapim so admired, while the rest of their city was a perpetual mass of scaffolding and makeshift adobe. The Dendapim thought themselves supreme, but beyond the Qsamadar, a Dendapim town was simply made of mud, and the whole city with its simplistic cranes and chattering, shifting, brightly colored people, looked like a hive, or a machine, unfinished, working hard to enclose itself in gold.

Down on the west side of the city, where the low lying walls married the two mountain peaks and looked out towards the western side of the peninsula, one could see gentler hills rolling down, covered in scrubgrass from a recent rain. On the coastline, a city dwarfed by a great rock along its coast, itself coated in scaffolding.

This was how the Dendapim had lived in their time here, building, always building, and with no end in sight.

To Rawenya, it was everything wonderful in the world.

The teenager looked out from a sky blue window, priceless glass lined her halls, faint blues and purples seemed to be the favorite shades, and the rooms were vast and open, with fountains and honeycomb floors that belched out cool, moist air, feeding the vines which choked the railings of the balcony, and were ripe with flowers.

"I love the wet season, don't you?" She asked, her servant, who pushed her rolling chair smoothly along the smooth parts of the floor. He wisely made no response.
"Soon we will be fit to show to our neighbors, though if we are to have them in the summer, all the windcatchers must be ready."

They rolled smoothly on, avoiding the elegant honeycombs of the floor, for the displeasing rattling her wheels would make on them. A discontent in the shadows of the leaves.

"Send a scribe to the Avuvians, as well as the Artisan's Council, we've been trading for a while now, but I fear if we don't close in on them soon their ships will simply outmaneuver our pitiful fleet. Tell the council to draw up plans for trade... in fact, get them started on messages to all the nations that dot this pleasant little rock. Perhaps tell the Propagandists to weave a particularly delightful tale of what we Dendapim have to offer."

The servant nodded, turning to leave, Rawenya set herself rolling. On her account, the hall had added elegant sweeping ramps, with quite a bit more metalworking than the Dendapim were used to. She would make sure these became the new fashion, they were beautiful, efficient, and would add a nice contrast to the stepped style the Dendapim seemed to love so much.

Coming down into a main hall, she observed the various officials she dealt with from time to time. She remembered the last time she stood at the top of this ramp, then stairs, looking down, only to have a man attack her, sending her rolling down. But she had won, as she had always intended.

"What a Piece of Work is Man!"

Nemea in her hall reveled in the feeling. As her followers grew, fought, worked, the hollow mountaintop she had come to became ever more comfortable and opulent. Rough stone turned smooth, geysers turned mineral fonts. The hall, atop a mountain only half present in the mortal world, was her usual abode. In time she would carve out a whole strata of the mountain, side to side a great hollow expanse, as though the mountain ceased flat and was topped with a crown of thick, ornate pillars, its own summit supported on top. Then she would build the layers and the halls and the balconies.

She breathed in the aromas, once sulfur and ash now more pleasant, the spice of incense. She took a moment to look through her Avatar's blessed eye, seeing the people in their brightly colored clothes. She wished she could interact with them, as was once so common, but gods now took such a passive place. What good did passivity bring? Seeing them, she felt a completedness, the furnace was hot, but not yet ready, there was so much to be done. She marveled at them.

Were they the gods, and she the mortal? She could send a sign, fuel a passion, at best open up a mountain spring. But even if she drained herself with wrath, she could not kill them. But they could not kill her, either. So long as men breathe they want, and wanting is what made the difference. Wanting leads inevitably to having, whether making or taking is involved was the question. Nemea was interested in the former. Oh humanity how it gave Nemea such a high. Even though flesh and bone was no different from mud and scaffolding, she felt in them a black powder and a fire, and so long as they controlled themselves, and she controlled them, they could do tremendous things.

A Man to his Mother

"The councils think it's best that the Dendapim start to understand the surrounding civilizations"
"There are no civilizations outside the Dendapim, a boy your age should not be leaving to go into barbaric hills! You aren't fit!"
"Calm mother, I have been a soldier for years, if what you say is true than you have even less to worry about, barbarians wield sticks while I have a bow and fireworks. It's not like they could withstand or even expect-"
"I'll pack you some walnut noodles, and three preserved fish, and don't you dare go off with some barbarian girl!"
"Mother! What violence have you seen? This is the springtime of the world, what violence have the Dendapim faced? Hardly more than pirates, and I'm traveling by land, so please-"
"We have lived like this for ages, why some stupid crippled girl wants to send my son out into the hellish unknown just to see if there's money to be had there-"
"I don't know why you argue this, you know our Avatar knows far more than we do, and by going I'll secure a fortune, and the prestige alone of being one of the first pilgrims into the lands beyond-"
"Stop you and your logic!"

And a man, though still a boy to one, would set out northwards in one of the first caravans. Besides Avuvia, the Dwarves, and the occasional city state along the coast, the Dendapim had hardly experienced any other culture, and most they found were still relatively isolationist. It was obviously the dawning of a new age, and soon the same mother who coddled her child would realize how insulted she would have been had he stayed. It was not one woman's weakness at stake, it was a new civilization, and so long as he was back before the next spring equinox to marry a nice Dendapim girl there was hardly any problem with a little loss. Not when so much could be gained. In fact, now the mother's only regret would not be losing a son, but not having more sons to lose.

In the ethereal realm, in the hold of the war god where blood laid spilled on the ground and great fires funneled pillars of smoke into the sky, where the crash of metal on metal and the warcries of warriors of the past, Genocide sat upon his mythical black horse and inhaled the smell of burning flesh and split blood.

He wondered if any of the other god's felt it? There was something stirring on the mortal realm. Blades were being forged,bows were being strung, and armies were being formed. Nothing was in motion yet, but it soon would be. He could feel the growing strife forming, the rage, greed, fear, and ambition. They were yet to be realized, but the emotions would soon worm their way into the mortal hearts. War was coming, it was coming soon, in size and in number.

"Could it be? Is the time upon us once more?" Under his great helm a dark leering smile formed. "Is the time of carnage upon us? Is the end of the fourth age coming?" The thought of his treasured time coming to the world again cause the war god to first chuckle, the laugh, then rear his head back and echo a dark thunderous laughter. "WE SHALL SEE! IF I SHALL ONCE AGAIN KNOW EXCITEMENT IN THIS BORING WORLD!"

Genocide turned a nudged his warhorse froward. He rode on, still in his merriment at the thought of another chance to walk the field of carnage, pondering if he should journey to one of the other god's realms. Perhaps he would pay a visit to the other gods? Perhaps goad Aleronor Grungiinto another duel? Anything to exert his excitement as he waited for the event's that would be soon to come.

___________

Tihaltol was thrown from his horse, the weight behind the axe swing was enough to shatter his wooden shield and unbalance him from his saddle. With a loud shout of surprise he plummeted to the ground. The warchief eased himself onto his elbow in an attempt to raise himself upright. He was stopped when the blade of the same axe that split his shield was held closely under his chin. Tihaltol looked up at the other warchief that toward over him from his own mount.

"Will you submit to me." The large man asked, the wind causing his wild hair to flow with it. "Or will I feed you to Tul-hail." Tihaltol looked at the beast the other man rode on. It was a Tirhaul. A large winged beast that resembled a cross between a lion and a bat, with a rusted brown fur coat. It rested on it's hug legs and used it wings for for it's forelegs. They were wild and savage creatures, and were known to prey on anything, even humans.

Tihaltol gulped at the sight of it's drooling maw, and reluctantly lowered his head to the other warchief. "I, Tihaltol, chieftain of the Hugarto Hilarts, relinquish my authority to Hildar of Omtilo Hilarts. For he is the stronger man, and chosen by the war god as the victor of this battle." A huge cheer went up around them from the surrounding people. All around them were members of both tribes, surrounding the two in a circle and watching as they had fought their duel.

Hildar retracted his axe and held out a hand to help Tihaltol to his feet. Turning to the assembled Hildar raised his axe into the air for acknowledgment. "The last of the Hilart tribes have now been join with us. Today our people are no longer scattered, for now we are one!" The tribe continued to cheer louder. Hildar Turned to Tihaltol, giving the man a respectful stare. "With our people untied at last, we are now above the title of 'barbarians' that others have labeled us. Come with me, Tihaltol of the Hugarto, and together with the other former chieftains we shale build our nation." He held out a hand for the defeated chief. Tihaltol hesitated, then clasped Hildar's palm strongly. "Ay, my new brother, with you leading us a great nation it will be."

___________

"And so an old man turns into an old woman. Griping and moaning about the weather as though it were a plague from Icarvi." Stole called out from where he had been resting against a boulder, just barley out of the caravans view. He raised himself to his feet, shaking the snow of the his fur coat and taking another swig of his bottle as he face the merchant caravan. "Sorry to pop out at ya like this. I was just resting here a while when I noticed you guy walkin' along. Would you mine to terribly if I hitched a ride with your caravan?" He walked a bit further along the road, keeping a friendly smile on his face and a relaxed pose. "A friend of mine sent me up here to speak with a few dwarfs about some important matters for him, and I would prefer the company while I walked."

The large armored god stood on a Mountaintop as the snow and wind swarmed around him, staring down with utmost concentration at the clouds. It was hard to tell what the figure was looking at through his visor, perhaps nothing. Vigilance was the weapon of Justice. Vigilance meant everything, especially when figures like the Mask was around. The honor-less, spineless, Curr that he was. What Nemea saw in him, he would never understand.. or perhaps he simply did not wish to understand. His white cloak was tossed about in the wind, almost invisible thanks to the whirling snow. Every breath let out a small visible stream of breath leaving a pleasant vibrating sound on his helm, a welcome distraction to the winds mighty howling.

He was the God of Justice, yet such was a lonely existence. He wondered what the others were doing, Ulmo was most likely sitting at the bottom of his ocean, Grungi crafting or drinking, probably both, and Nemea? Who knew what she was up to... she was almost as strange as the Mask, but unlike the Mask, he did not have the desire to split her skull open. He turned his head slightly towards the direction of his beloved city curious as to what they where up to.



The large city was a bustle with trade and talk. Its white walls were a symbol of purity in this dark world, one that only people who dedicated themselves to the God of Justice could ever hope to achieve, but even it had its dark spots. Small time gangs still plagued the streets at night, and no matter how many the guard sliced down another took his place. Luckily no large thieves guilds had the room or time to expand into anything threatening. The guard were very good at removing their heads as they earned a bonus for every bandit their garrison butchered.

Trumpets sounded as the large oak gates swung open. A large white stallion trotted through the new opening with a tall, fair haired man borne on its back. He had smooth silver platemail. In right hand was the lance, held aloft swinging gently in the air and tucked under his left arm his helm with the symbol of Kildarien carved on the brow. The man looked to be in his early twenties with bright blue eyes, high cheek bones, and a strong jaw. Behind him came two columns of halberdiers numbering well into 50, their namesake swinging in the air as the wind gently tugged and pulled on the weapons.

As the unit marched down the streets, the people gathered on the sides cheering and throwing flowers into the streets happy to see their loved ones once again. Among the cheers was the cry of love for "Prince Valten". His reputation had grown as a leader among men. He lifted his chin in pride at the sight of his people honoring him so. He lifted his lance as a salute to his people earning more cheers. The brigade had just come back from a skirmish near the edge of the forest against some brigands who has camped there, but... from what Valten had seen, they had been fleeing from... something. He would have to speak to his father about this. Mordheim was one of the smallest countries in the land, and it didn't hold its own by not knowing what was happening around.

He looked up to the sky feeling that someone.. or something was watching him... but there was nothing but the clouds. Lowering his head he crossed the gateway of the second wall.



The squat dwarf was in his own realm, the ringing of a hammer on metal filling the long dark tunnels with one large source of light at the center. It looked to be some kind of great forge with burning magma running along the walls. The mine tunnels continued forever in all directions, and a large wooden structure was behind the dwarf. A beautiful mixture of a forge, brewery, and large mine all in one. It was true heaven if ever there was a meaning. There was no simple water, no comfort, such things where merely a wasted luxury. It is what made others weak. Him and his people they slept on stone, there pillows were filled with rocks. They were a strong durable people. No race made arms and armor like his people, no race made beer like his people, no race could mine like his people, no race could fight like his people, and no god could match him.

His large boulder like muscles flexed and pulled with every mighty smash unto the white hot metal. He was forging a blade, one for one of the other gods, which one? He did not remember. He was lost in his trance. When a dwarf begins his work, nothing stops it until it has reached perfection. His endurance allowed him to work none stop to ensure perfection, indeed his crafts were legendary. He still had to finish the blade itself, than came the tricky part. He would inscribe mighty runes that would turn the elegant blade into a true weapon of destruction able to cleave through anything, flesh or metal.

He stopped for a millisecond to pluck his pint from a rock and take a large swing, and without missing a beat he used his forearm to clear his mighty beard. He continued to hammer away at the metal humming an old dwarf song matching the beats with his swing. Others would think he was merely singing, but the song was made by Grungi himself to teach his children the correct timing in which to perfect metal. He had thousands of songs each had its own purpose, own timing, Oh, the wonders of metal!



A dwarf armored in heavy half-plate marched through the beautiful crafted throne room only to stop and kneel at the foot of a mighty throne carved from the wall of the mountain. "A caravan approaches. They will be at death pass soon" Death pass, a rightly named place. To get to the gates of Zhufbar one had to walk through death pass. A small trail where men, and usually orcs, could only walk 10 shoulder to shoulder through. On the large cliffs where many masterfully cut outs that had placements for cannons, organ guns, quarrelers, and stone throwers could fire into the oncoming tightly wedged in enemy forces. The dwarves were not a race easily besieged. The gate of Zhufbar was 20 feet thick of pure granite. It was divided into two slabs that would come together, and teemed with master dwarf stone work the slabs would close to only a hairs breath.

Truly, none could match dwarven work. King Barundin leaned forward and gave out a mighty laugh, his beard bouncing. He was a young dwarf of only 121. His father had died fighting against a great horde of greenskins... as was the tell with many noble dwarf deaths. The hatred dwarfs felt for the wretched greenskins was one none could understand. It was deep, ingrained into their very souls. "Let them in" He bellowed. Honestly, this was foolish. They posed no threat. They were few in number, and should they exceed they would easily get lost in the great underground labyrinth that was Zhufbar. "Gargrim, They will need a guide. Only our kin know these tunnels as we do" The armored dwarf bowed once more and turned giving the orders for the gates to be opened. When the caravan arrived, it would see the great opening to the hold... a wondrous sight that the younger races only got to see so often.

“Strength does not come from your limbs. It comes from your mind.”

"but we are dragons. Wyrmkin! Our very bones and scales are made from the mountains! We are the very essence of strength!" A Brilliant blue dragon, twenty-four feet in length and a innumerable amount of pounds heavy sat perched on the edge of the cliff, looking out over the coast and the eventual ocean. Her scales shown and sparkled a brilliant azure blue in the sun. She was like a beacon of radiance, and from a distance one would see only a mere sparkle of the dragon. She was a Shimmer, a chosen one of her patron God, Draig. Her name was Azyra, an allusion to her brilliant color. She was conversing with her guide and her maker, the Dragon-Lord, Draig.

"Yes little one, you embody strength. But you shall have to embody wisdom one day as well." The voice inside Azyra's head was... Indescribable. It held a tone of ancient wisdom, it was kind, but firm. His word was law, and to go against them was impossible. The voice held great strength, years of experience and being reverberated within each word he spoke. "Now, my daughter. Tell me what slays even the greatest of of you? That one thing which grinds even the mountains down." Azyra tilted her head as she looked to the heavens, puzzled. Of course, Draig did not inhabit the heavens but rather an alternate plane altogether. She had no clue what the plane was like, nor did the Dragon-Lord explain what it was like. He only cryptically mentions that every dragon will visit the plane one day.

Azyra's eyes lit up with realization, "Time. Time grinds the mountains." As a response, the voice rang clear, obviously pleased with his chosen, "Correct. Time. Time however is no match for our minds. I have created you to learn through time. Time may erode your bones, may sap your strength, but it will never take your mind. Understand that, child. My fire, the fire I used to create you, is ever burning. It will never dim, and it will never flicker, unless you allow it to." Azyra listened to every word, clung to every bit of ancient wisdom for dear life. She hoped one day she could hold even a fraction of her God's knowledge, "True strength comes from the mind," She said, "Only a strong mind can mean a strong dragon. In time, that's all we will have, our minds, and our soul, and our iron will. Strength is our will," She said, finally understanding Draig. The Wyrmgod spoke again, a bit of cheer evident in his voice, "Correct. Remember that. You are all my children, and in each there burns an unending light."

And with that, Azyra felt the majestic presence leave her. The azure lowered her great head and leveled it with the horizon, watching the sea of waves flow in and out. She pondered on the Wyrmgod's words. Every so often, Azyra flies to this exact spot on the mountain cliffs and speaks with her Patron, and he to her. Often times, she poses questions to the Dragon-Maker. Even if she was his avatar, a Shimmer, and the chosen of Draig, she didn't have all the answers. Neither did the Elder, a old dragon by the name of Oimr. For that, she spoke to Draig, and he guided her. The Dragon-Lord had a habit of not explicitly telling her the answer, but allowing her to work it out herself. It annoyed her, but it also allowed her to be independent, a trait of the dragons. And once she had obtained the answer, she flew back to her roost, and speak to her Scales about what she had learned... Of course, on her way back, she often picked... Less traveled winds. Usually over a city, or a caravan.

Dragons aren't dangerous unless provoked. They do not interfere with the affairs of others, and they expect the same treatment. That didn't mean that they wouldn't speak to the odd human or elf, however rare. Dragons also wouldn't hesitate to fly over cities if it meant getting to their destinations faster. The had no fear, for what could a dragon, a beast of scales, teeth, and fire, fear?

Feeling she had spent enough time on the cliff, she extended her powerful wings and lifted herself off of the cliff. She turned over the coast and started to fly to her roost, towards the middle part of the mountain range. During her flight, she had seen a Caravan, probably trying to get into the dwarf holds below. She took a detour and peered into the Dendapim city of Galatzella. And she wittnessed many other sights during her journey home.

The God was sitting upon his chair, watching his orb, as was usual. Most, if they dared look at it, would only see a normal black glass gazing ball. However, when the Pestilence God and his chosen looked upon it, the globe contained unfathomable depths. In it clouds swirled like grey mist caught in a cross wind. When watching it, faint echoes of those mourning could be heard. This combination would drive most mortals mad, save for Icarvi's avatars. Now, as he watched, Icarvi himself looked through the eyes of a rat.

Most mortals wouldn't think much of a rat other than "Eww". They were creatures little noticed unless gathered into a huge mass. The only ones prudent enough to be wary of rats were cooks. For this reason, Icarvi had a special dislike of cooks. They were always taking his best rats and killing them with poison. In Icarvi's own kingdom however, people paid rats proper respect. They would offer a small morsel to the rats of the house each day, and in turn the rats didn't destroy food stocks. Everyone knew to never kill a rat in the Stricken kingdom; because rats were the prized spies of the god Icarvi himself.

What Icarvi was watching now was a small family of four in Dendapim. Despite what everyone thought, every civilization had an underbelly. Even in a hard working society such as Dendapim, people were unfortunate enough to be starving. This particular family of four was exactly what Icarvi needed. For too long, Dendapim had remained isolated. They may be expanding, and building, but too quickly. Icarvi decided it was time for them to learn some humility. Gently, he commanded the rat out of its hole in the wall.

"But I tell you mother, I didn't take it!" exclaimed the younger son of the family. "That prune Iva took th-" He was cut off by his mother who put a hand over his mouth. "I know child," she replied. "But there’s nothing we can do. Garn needs that locket back, and he won't believe his own daughter sold it. Now, you can have my locket, and give it to him and say you're sorry. It looks the same." "But Mom!" gasped the boy. "That's the locket dad gave yo- I say is that a rat?" That was the last word out of the boy’s mouth before the rat leaped and bit him and his mother before hiding again.

The next day, all four of the family, mother, daughter, father, and son were all sick. They had a racking cough that seized them every few minutes. It was so bad that they collapsed on their beds. When their neighbors investigated, they were all found curled asleep. The neighbors then went home with a nasty cold... Tomorrow, the entire neighborhood was sick. The cold then negated, and everyone seemed to be fine. People went about their business, interacting with others. Then about two days later, the cold came back. Suddenly almost half of Galatzella was encompassed with a horrid case of the cold. Little did the people notice the flecks of blood in the phlegm they coughed up...

Queen Yahall
Yahall woke up early to see the sun rise in synch with the lighting of Riso's Heart, the legendary fire in the main temple.
She smiled in awe of her beautiful kingdom. The pink sky was filled with many types of birds. Golden Beaks, Cloud Necks, Silver Hawks, many of the most gorgeous birds in the world, and the could only be found in the forest of Curoe. She brushed a strand of black hair out of her face as she felt a tiny creature climbing on her shoulder.
It was her animal companion, Anika, a bladed beauty. Though she didn't resemble it, Yahall was half Lakota, enough to have a spirit animal, but not enough to get an animal trait.
Her father was the chief of the Lakota and her mother was a Ming dancer. They both died from a plauge that poisoned Curoe many years ago.

Anika's winged form made it's way onto Yahall's arm where Yahall could examine her. Bladed Beauties resembled butterflies, but their wings are made from a strange material, as sharp as steel, but still light weight. The often traveled in swarms, gathering on dead trees, seemingly bringing it back to life. Bladed Beauties were to be watched out for, because a small swarm alone could shred a man to ribbons. Yahall stroked the broadside of Anika's wing, that seemed to endlessly change from red to orange to pink to blue to purple. The Queen went to her closet and changed into the traditional robes of a Ming noble: http://i705.photobucket.com/albums/ww60 ... no0073.jpg

She adorned her hair with two decorative needles: http://image.shutterstock.com/display_p ... 618105.jpg and with Anika on her shoulder she walked out of her room and found one of her assistants. This one was named Dai: http://www.animefuel.com/forum/picture. ... reid=10453

"Dai, could you be a dear and gather my generals? I feel like we need to disscuss some topics." And with a smile and a nod, Dai went off to do as he was asked.

One Hour Later
Yahall was surrounded by her generals. Crow, leader of the Corvusians sat with her silver eyes flickering back and forth between all the members of the councel. Tala Mon, the current chief of the Lakota, only second to Yahall, Tai Kwan, general of the Ming warriors, and Ma and Vu, leaders of the Priests and Priestesses of the Temples.
"So Crow, how are your spys outside our walls doing?" Yahall asked. Crow's wings shook as she answered. "Very well." she said with a voice as scratchy as sandpaper. "Our Corvusians on the coasts are enjoying all the fish they are catching. Overall, no suspecious activity is going on." Yahall nodded. Tala cracked his neck as his spirit animal, a poisonous snake call a Silver Tounge, slithered around his shoulders. "Yes, the city has been very quiet in terms of crime." But Vu shuttered. "I fear we have seen a message in the pattern of the stars. A war is coming."

"Hm..." Dantius hummed to himself, examining the newcomer closely. He didn't look Avuvian, that was for sure. And his accent... He just couldn't place it. He was dressed strangely, in a way that was not familiar to him. He sighed and nodded, "What is one more? Besides, we're almost to Zhufbar. A mightier fortress, I may never see and if you steal from us, then you steal from the dwarves and they are not known for forgiving offenses, no matter how light."

His apprentice, Leo, sighed, pushing up his spectacles. He glanced over at Dantius and asked, "Master, why do you always have to assume everyone we meet is a thief?"

"You can never be too careful, boy. You never know when you'll run into a Maskman and then you'd be lucky to escape with your life, let alone your goods," the merchant stated before smiling as they reached their destination, the great doors of Zhufbar already opening, revealing a young dwarf that he knew woulds serve as their guide. Leo's mouth dropped. Never had he seen a hall so... big. Even the merchant's guild never reached 20 feet, but this opening, it had to be 80 feet tall at the very least. Dantius, for his part, was most grateful for the influx of warm air. Trust the dwarves' halls to be warm. He had long since given up on finding out when they weren't forging something.

"Well, let's get a move on," Dantius told the guide, sounding a bit more polite than he had with the boys. He smiled slightly, "I'm sure your people are eager for these goods as I'm eager for some warm air."

Leo closed his mouth quickly, doing his best not to stare at the various runes and precious crystals embedded in the wall. Suddenly, he remembered their guest and turned to him sheepishly. He spoke, "Sorry about Dantius... He's used to much more humid climate and even then, he's not the politest merchant around. At least, when he's not with customers. I'm Leo, by the way."

Stole let out a whistle at the sight of the dwarf hall's opening. "I don't often see dwarf settlement's but every time they amaze me."

"Sorry about Dantius... He's used to much more humid climate and even then, he's not the politest merchant around. At least, when he's not with customers. I'm Leo, by the way." Said the merchant's apprentice. Stole chuckled. "Aw don't worry about it kid, I've been insulted by professionals. My name's Stole." He shrugged his shoulders with a smug expression. "Though you might have heard about me by my other name, Stole the swift sparrow. I use to be famous a few years ago 'fore I lost my left arm." His ego wasn't very well hidden when he said this. He noticed a shadow pass over them and caught sight a brilliant blue scaled dragon flying over head. Stop number two after this business with the little hairy mountain men is finished. He thought as he turned back to Leo

"So where you from Leo? You guy's look Avuvian by me guess." He asked as he fallowed the caravan in.

((Wasnt sure if I should post this tonight, this will be my final post of the night))



The dwarf nodded gruffly to the manlings and turned on his heel motioning for them to follow. "Keep up manlings. You dont want to get lost here." The great doors slowly slid closed, the sound of granite rubbing on stone filling the great halls. There would be no escape unless the dwarves wished them to leave. Once the great doors slammed shut, the hall filled with darkness, only illuminated by the occasional torch and glowing gems masterly set into the walls. It would be hard for human eyes to full adept, but Gargrim could see the smallest details. The small lone piece of gravel resting by the one-armed manlings foot. Indeed, tunnels were meant for dwarves, and tunnels these were! The great columns reaching up to the roof were rough to skilled dwarven eyes.

That is how all holds where. The outer layers were always rough meant for war not for beauty, but as they got near the hall things would change. The great statues carved into the walls, where the eyes of Grungi where always watching trespassers, looking for the slightest hint of treachery. They moved from the main hall to some of the streets where on either side they broke off into a great chasm that continued too far for the eyes to see. It gave off a faint orange glow probably from the rivers of magma running below. Dwarven men and women walked past looking or some out right glaring at the manlings. Clansmen walked down the street fully armed, but it was not of importance.

The splendor of the hold cannot be explained or ever fully known to manlings. They lacked the... basic knowledge of even a beardling. Gargrim marched proudly in front of the manlings for they were all lucky to see such wonders. He did not much like the armless manling, but that was for the king to decide. It would be a few more hours of walking before they finally came to the great doors of the kings hall. The heavy armored guards nodded to Gargrim, all of them holding their mighty two handed hammers in their hands as the great stone doors swung open to reveal the Hall.

There was no need to make them turn in their weapons, or even leave their guards. The hall was full of both dwarven nobles, clansmen, and the kings own Hammerers. The hall was more than wide enough to bring in the caravan. Gargrim stopped by the door and waved for them to go in. His place was outside.

Allaseus looked at the senators in disbelief. "Have you all lost your minds! I wouldn't even dare to think like that!" He yelled at them, trying to create a gap between them and him. "But as you see Allaseus, the only one who can talk him into allowing us, is you. It's politics my boy, you wouldn't understand." Ollomon, head of the senate, said. He was an old man, but seemed strong and charismatic. He was a veteran, with years of war on his shoulders, and he carried it with a powerful dignity.
"Invading the lands of Ulmo!? You must be out of your mind! The fleet would turn on us in an instant! We'd loose our naval superiority! And the Sons of Mastalki are closely tied to the belief of Ulmo. They'd never support you!" Allaseus could this very instance, see where thigs were going.
"You can't turn your own people down Allaseus! Ulmo, got too much influence on our people! We MUST destroy him, and to succeed, we'll have to destroy his people! The head mage Katamos have told me, that the god is only as strong as his believers. And our god must be the strongest then!" Ollomon's voice had reached a height of zealous ecstacy. The other senators were joining in, in his insane and bloodcraving frenzy.

Allaseus felt sick, when he looked on them. All of the senators were old, gray after several years in their chairs. Peace and prosperity had followed their reign, but now they demanded war. And then against a god who was integrated in their culture.
"Ollomon of Ranmar!" Allaseus called out, silencing the crowd of senators. "I hereby arrest you, for high treason against the people of The Republic! You, and all your associates, are to imediatly give up all resistance, and follow me, to the Incineration square!" Allaseus voice wasn't charged with wrath, he actually sounded as if high treason were nothing uncommon.
"Allaseus! You've grown old, I've planted my own minions in the palace! GUARDS!" Ollomon's face had a grim expression, as if he was about to turn this into a bloodbath.
Soldiers came in, some had been concealed behind the long red drapes with the scarlet and golden banner of the republic. They promptly surrounded him, although he could see the fear and confusion in their eyes. They'd only heard stories of Allaseus, and what they'd heard were amazing things. Stone turned to gold, the dead brought back to life and rains of fire, conjured to raze entire cities.

"If you turn now, and help me arrest the senators, then I'll overlook this slight mistake of yours." Allaseus said, building up his will inside of him. If he had to, he'd incinerate Ollomon right here, right now.
The senators just laughed at his proposal to the soldiers, who stood still. They didn't know what to do, they could feel that they were turning their backs at something, but they couldn't figure out what.
Ollomon scratched his pointy ears, showing utmost disinterest. "Just kill him allready, we have a nation to wage war on." he said arrogantly. But the soldiers of course stood still, then turned to face the senate. The captain of the senatorial guard began barking at the senate "Who do you think you are!? Talking to us as if we were dirt! You are under arrest, you criminal scum! Surrender now, or we'll have to execute you here, in a much less dignified manner.". The captain was a former general, far too old to be of much use, but he still had the confidence and strength, to impose some good fear in enemies, and inspire his own troops to glory and valour.
The senate was amazed for a second, but then the younger senators drew swords, slashing down a pair of guards. Instantly, all was chaos. Soldiers were slaughtering the 260 renegade senators, in a bloodbath, which's like had never been seen before in the House of the Republic. But Ollomon had allready fled, leaving his allies behind.

Allaseus, didn't even bother to do anything grand. The very thought of standing at the House entrance, was enough to get him there. In the blink of an eye, he stood face to face with the traitor. Ollomon was shocked, but still drew his sword. "Fight me then, enemy of The Republic!" he yelled, striking an intimidating pose.
Allaseus didn't even change facial expression, as he uttered the words. "Burn.".
The effect of his command were imediate. Senator Ollomon of Renmar, burst into fiery flames, and was consumed. His sword, clanked as it hit the floor. Truly, the enemies of The Republic, had been destroyed.

Jack took a deep breath and then let the air out. It smelled great. The smell of garbage, mud, and unwashed bodies all meddled together was what the Union was all about. Dirty, unwashed and did he mention dirty?
Heckclown City was the heart of the Union. The largest free-trade city in the lands, race, rank, moral standards or even your gender didn’t matter here; if you had coins, ambitions, potential, ideas, or just plain courage then it was the best place to start off, after all, if you dared to walk these streets alone, then you certainly did have balls of steel.

Jack smiled broadly as he looked down at the large crowds that were moving about like ants. He could spot the pickpockets, the backstabbers and even the low-life gangsters as they all walked shoulder to shoulder. He loved this city, it lived and breathed criminality and corruption; exactly what his God represented and exactly what he wished.
“Chairman Jack,” a voice called from the back, and he turned, “It is good to see that you have returned. The council is starting soon and they will be discussing how they will manage to smuggle goods from Caspian’s domain and into our own.”
Jack smiled and looked at Jim Mobley, a very high-classed gangster who wore nothing less than the finest clothes. Wearing glasses, a slight mustache, black hair that was greased backward and a walking stick that could quickly be turned into a deadly fencing sword. He was a dangerous opponent and a worthy ally of Jack; few could truly live up to the crimes that this man had done.
“Good, very good. I think I know a few contacts within his ports,” Jack said and once again smiled beneath his mask.

The economy of the Heckclown Union depended upon the trade between either the free-ports of the Union itself or the smuggling from neighboring states. The Heckclown Union was placed, geographically, to the right of the worshippers of Aleron, and frankly the poor people experienced an occasional ‘failed harvest’ as the Maskmen couldn’t really be bothered to grow such things by themselves, and they traded with other Avians who were willing to enter the contract with Maskmen…Though those opportunities didn’t come as often, thanks to the Maskmen’s lovely reputation.
Then there were the worshippers of Genocide (weird as the name was to the Maskmen) to the left of the Union. The lands were mainly barren, as far as Jack’s scouts had reported, but the tribesmen were often hired as mercenaries or raiders for the Maskmen in order to avoid getting too much blame or sparking any political hostility.
The land of the Union itself wasn’t significantly big, barely what would be called for an kingdom. A small state would be more appropriate, and for the few scholars that wanted to be absolutely specific, the Union was actually a colony of some other kingdom across the sea, but thanks to time and the lack of recording of the nation’s history, it as been forgotten which kingdom it was.

The Union has been conquered many times in the past five hundred years, all have barely met any resistance and after the wards that’s when the trouble always began. The soldiers would find that their money wouldn’t arrive. The tax collectors would get frustrated with the lack of tax collection. Officials would become corrupt, and sometimes the few who were too loyal would mysteriously disappear during the nights.
That was the Heckclown Union. You could claim the land, the people wouldn’t give a flying damn, but you could never remove the culture that the people had been born with. Thievery, assassination, illegal cartels and whatever else that challenged the natural standards of morals amongst humans.


In the dimly lit meeting room, husked voices discussed the daily matter of the Union. The twelve gang leaders would always meet once every four months to discuss their four months strategy; who would they exploit, how would they do so. They were feared and respected as their powers wasn’t merely within the Union, but without as well, each man represented a powerful gang who had plenty of resources, but all who swore their loyalty to Jack.
“Tell me…What are these goods exactly?” Jack asked.
“Organs to be exact. Certain doctors have discovered that there is a good deal with some of the foreign kingdoms, enough that they are willing to risk exposure and deal with our people.”
“Sounds very profitable, I think we could use some of the Avian ships that our pirate partners have managed to capture, what do you say?”
“Sounds illegal,” another voice stated and there was a brief chuckle, “Yes indeed,” Jack declared, “The more illegal, the better. Lets start the arrangements. Now for the next course of action, there I have heard that there is a high price on dwarven slaves amongst the slave traders, something which I’d like to start looking into. I would like to have some raids arranged against the dwarven caravans and get a hold on some of the dwarven thugs they have…every civilization has an underdog, and dwarves are no different.”





Mask walked across the fields that was littered with bodies, blood and gore. “By the Gods, doesn’t he even clean up after himself?” Mask complained as he continued to walk, his black leather shoes getting even dirtier by every step that he took. Maybe I should ask Nemea if she knows of a pair of shoes that makes blood get off by themselves…Would be very useful.

The sound of hooves drew nearer, And about time, Mask thought as he watched Genocide come closer and closer, “Oi! Slow down! Haven’t you seen the riding-speed limit!” Mask shouted as he waved his arms for the massive God to slow down.



Mortorn watched as the hundred of thousands of orcs poured out of the capital. The sound of drums matched the beat of the marching orcs. Shouts and battle-roars was constantly heard amidst the ranks.
The hulking ogres pushed or pulled the many war machines that the orcs had built for this campaign. “Finally after a whole two years of preparations, we can launch a campaign,” Mortorn said as he returned to the massive hut that was outside the fortress. He looked at the other chieftains, they weren’t all here, only the most important ones, and then his general.
“Alright you! Listen up!” Mortorn sneered at his men, “We waite too long now, and we need a good fight! We attack-” Mortorn drew a knife and stabbed it into the map on the table-“Them!”
The orcs looked on the map and then on Mortorn.
“No, wait! Again! Them!” Mortorn quickly said when he realized he had stabbed their own lands, and now having attempted again, it landed upon Kildarien’s people to face the wrath of the orcs. The orcs nodded and then left the tent to shout out the orders.

“What do you think, Grok? Will these humans live up to their reputation?” Mortorn asked and then looked at an orc that was larger and broader than himself. One would have thought that the larger orc would be in command, but if one looked at the larger orc again, there could be seen three great scars on it, all dealt by Mortorn’s sword.
One was from top of left side of the lip and all the way up to the forehead. The second was across the right side of the head, taking off a large part of the ear and leaving a deep scar. The third and last scar was through the left bicep.

“’Ey phigt good enouph,” the orc said, struggling to say anything due to its scars.
“Good,” Mortorn replied and returned his knife to its holder, “Send three warbands ahead…I want those humans ready for when we come.”

Shaddam, The Outer Murks

They were moving. The knowledge was enough to cause Shaddam to stir, waking it from whatever quiet contemplation had occupied it for so long. Curious, the God roiled and twisted, black tendrils plunging into the muck of time and space, searching for it's children. It touched the roots of the Deep Swamp, and saw it's Domain.

It found them, as it always had, at the center of the Deep Swamp. It's Avatar was not present, but then, it did not expect him to be. The child had always been fond of moving, it was why it had chosen him to serve it. Watching the muted conversations of thousands of Shaddath was calming, seeing the prayers offered to it began to eat away the curiosity that had pulled Shaddam back to reality. It saw to it's duties, blessing the soil of the newly rooted and causing the Deep Swamp's strange, toothy fish to become more bountiful. The next harvest would feed it's People well. Yes, it was pleased with the Shaddath. Quiet and contemplative, not at all like the restive humans that covered most of the land, nor the Elves, though it was unsure of how to think of them. At least they respected the Domain of their Goddess. Soon Shaddam found itself beginning to sink again, found it's tendrils beginning to retract from the world. It began to drift, it's mind toying with thoughts of elves, men, and Shaddath, always the Shaddath, it's beloved.

Then it felt him. Felt Melkiah calling. What did he want of it? What did any want of their God? It touched the world again, seeing not through the roots of the Deep Swamp now, but through the roots that were joined with it's Avatar. Where was he? It did not recognize this place of stone and mortar, this teeming mass of mortal flesh. It could not see except through it's Avatar, and it found itself worried for the safety of the child. Melkiah could be reckless, something he prided himself on. Touching it's Avatar had intensified the need of the summoning, and so it spoke.

Melkiah, The Temple of Shaddam, Thalassa


Melkiah stood, his eyes closed, focusing his need into a beacon to call the attention of his God to him. He hoped it would be enough. There were times when he could not roust Shaddam, times when the Swamp God was so deep in his meditations that even he could not attract It. Hopefully this time would be different. He felt the man stir in his arms, felt the human clutch at his hand, which lay atop a gaping wound in the man's side.

Need/Query? Blind/worry/lost/fear?

The thoughts of his God crashed into Melkiah's mind, his body stiffening under the weight of a mind so far beyond the limits of his own. For a moment his mind was chaos, the thoughts and impressions of his God meaningless to him. Then, after a moments contemplation, his thoughts shifted from the perspective of spoken words to his native language, that of light. The two were difficult to wed, many prospective priests quit their training because they could not understand their partners. Still, he had years of experience, and so while his mouth spoke words the small gathering of humans around him could understand, his eyes and mind pulsed and shifted in the language of the Shaddath.

"Oh, Shaddam, God of Healing, this man comes to you in the hopes that his body will be made whole! Please, show us your gift, show us the birthright of every living thing! Make this child of the Gods as he should be!"

It was a short speech, much to the delight of the parishioners. Many of the humans who regularly frequented the Temple had heard legends of the Avatar's lengthy exhortations to his God. Even the man laying on his back on the dark green stone of the altar gave a soft sigh of relief. Melkiah simply suppressed the desire to roll his eyes at the whole bunch of them. Instead, he simply awaited his God's reply. He didn't have to wait long, though, as the touch of Shaddam's mind caused his body to shudder involuntarily again.

Other/Domain/Cannot aid. Irritation/wonder. Melkiah/plan/can do self/far from home.

Melkiah simply nodded at the expected answer. He knew he was in Ulmo's Domain, he simply wished his God to see that others besides the Shaddath needed him. It was something he had done for years now, giving careful reminders to Shaddam that there were other species besides the one he loved the most. With a quiet sigh, he simply wove the spell, his mouth emitting a monotone hum as his eyes spoke the words of Healing.

The vines that wrapped around the Avatar's hand slowly unwound, sinking into the skin around the man's wound. The man looked down, blinked at the plants stabbing into his body, then leaned back, his face pale. There was not pain, but even Melkiah had to admit that it was strange seeing the form the Healings he wove took. The skin around the wound seemed to bunch up, folds folding up around the vines like fabric bunched between two fingers. The vines slowly drew inward, pulling the folds apart, drawing fresh skin over the wound as pus and blood were forced to the surface. Hundreds of small green tendrils connected the torn muscles of the man's midsection, tissue quickly forming in the spaces between them. As the internal wounds were healed, the skin finally finished drawing closed and the vines withdrew, wrapping back around the hand of the Avatar.

Removing his hand, Melkiah checked the newly formed patch of skin, poking it a few times to make sure the man could still feel. The man jumped in response, his hand unconsciously rising to push the probing finger away. Melkiah nodded. The new skin was sensitive, as was expected. He stepped back to allow the now-whole man to stand and examine his body.

"The skin is...green. Should it be that way?" The man was still pale, as was to be expected, since the strength of the Healing had come from his body.

"Fear not, friend. The color will fade in time, as will the sensitivity. I'm afraid that the Healing you received was not that of My God, but the healing he taught me. Do not fear, all will be well."

The man stood, plainly uncertain, and thanked both Shaddam and Melkiah before joining the rest of the assembled mortals in the room. Melkiah nodded again and raised his hands to perform a benediction to the people.

Home/need/reckless/foolish/trespass!

Melkiah jerked and lowered his arms. It seemed his God wanted him back in the Deep Swamp. Where it was boring. With a sigh, he turned to leave.

"Our thanks again for the timely delivery of more of your brothers, Holy Avatar." Melkiah was not sure when the Priest had arrived at his elbow, but the sudden voice almost caused him to jump. He did his best to smooth his voice when he answered, though.

"Oh, it was a pleasure, good Priest. My brothers are always eager to continue the Holy Work of Shaddam." He turned his head to the door. He really should leave, but how long would it be before he could have a spoken conversation again? Surely, Shaddam would not mind him taking a few more hours to speak with this man. Besides, he wasn't exactly eager to be pointed at by small children and listen to the horrified gasps of other mortals when the saw his body.


Shaddam, the Outer Murk.

With an irritated jerk of it's tendrils, Shaddam withdrew from the world of mortals. Instead, it went in search of Ulmo. How rude of it's Avatar, how inconsiderate! It resigned itself to yet another embarrassment due to it's Avatar's reckless curiosity.

Shaddam sent out a tendril of itself, setting it to seek the watery realm of the God of the Sea. The tendril-that-was-Shaddam paused for a moment, waiting at the edge of the ocean's depths for the rest of the Swamp God's mind to reach the location.

The God did not mind the Ocean, but it preferred it's waters murky and choked with vegetation. The ocean's clear water was disturbing. Who knew what eyes could see it in this mess? Shaddam did not like leaving it's own realm in any case, the loss of power was great enough that it almost felt naked in other realms.

At the edge of Ulmo's power, Shaddam came to a stop, a black, seething mass of tendrils and two unblinking red eyes staring into a curtain of water almost solid with the power of the other God. It composed itself, reorienting it's mind to speak with another God. No doubt the Gods that were used to humans would find the Shaddath's speech confusing.

That done, Shaddam pulsed at the curtain. Nothing strong, just a simple declaration of it's location and an intent to speak.

Deep Underground

Far below the surface, even further than Dwarves usually go, Vyrykon stood in silent contemplation. The occasional drip of water from the cavern roof rhythmically interrupted his meditation. He could sense his God’s unrest, and unrest mixed with Jiraba was a dangerous combination. He slowly released his mind from his trance, disconnecting his mind from Jiraba’s. He let out a rattling hiss and picked up his staff, turned around and walked back towards the underground village.

The village was nothing special, basic hollowed out portions of the cavern wall, something akin to a beehive. This was the largest of the few Shadowkin villages, the rest tended to only be small outposts closer to the surface. Vyrykon made his way to the temple, where the Shadowseers would be assembled. It was a small circular dome-topped building made from a variety of ores and stones found only at such deep levels. Vyrykon stepped through the little archway, running a shadowy claw along the bizarre texture of the construct.

“Finally. You have spoken with Jiraba?” Hissed one of the Seers.
“No. He is refraining from contacting me.” Replied Vyrykon, “You had better get some clean writing tablets, he is not in a good mood.”
“Are we to go to war or change law?”
“I know not.” Vyrykon said, “Be assured, however, before nightfall we will know.”

Jiraba The Shadow Realm

Jiraba felt Vyrykon break direct connection to him.
“Bah, you cannot run from me.” He spoke aloud to himself. He stooped and picked up a pocket of shadow from the floor. It writhed and struggled, as if in pain, and then became solid, becoming a staff identical to Vyrykon’s. He felt a faint murmur of fear emanating from the mortal plane, greater than usual. He rubbed his hands together in anticipation, his staff floating next to him as he did so. Gripping it again a grin crossed his dark features.

Jiraba assumed he would not be the only God feeling the rise in emotion. He was not interested in their endeavours; he was only interested in fear, sweet nectar-like fear. The more terror there was, the stronger the influence Jiraba had. For this reason he detested the hardy races like Orcs and Dwarves, but Humans were far more malleable.

At length he opened connection to Vyrykon again.
“Avatar, take the Spectres to the crust outpost. Send the Watchers out. Tell the Stalkers to sharpen their claws and get Phantomb in among the mortals.”
“We are to go to war, mighty Lord?”
“Not war.”
“Then what is your wish?”
“Fear. I want more fear. I need more fear. Leave the ground and provoke terror! Do you understand me, Avatar?”
“Your will be done, my Lord.” Vyrykon replied. Jiraba thought it time to mobilise himself too, he would need to speak with Gods that could instil fear, more likely Genocide, Mori or Mask, but not exclusively, and besides, time was no object. As long as there are mortals, there will always be fear, and there will always be darkness.
He set off at a leisurely pace, using his staff as a walking stick, no destination in mind, armed with the knowledge that he would bump into someone eventually. The shadows rippled as he left his realm and into another, then all was still and black.

A frown spread across his lips as he gazed down at the world from his perch. Orcs... They had a cleansing justice about them it was true, but.. It would be a mighty test for his beloved city. He did not like to interfere with his people unlike the other gods, content to watch his children flourish and grow on their own. No matter what, he could not hate the orcs. They were creatures of pure instinct, brutal efficiency, and they fought because it was their way. In some sense, the orcs were the purest race on the planet.

It was... regrettable that it was to be his people that would have to face them first, but he had confidence in them. It had been waning for years, but with the birth of Valten.. he felt his spirit rekindled. A mighty, pure, and brave warrior, he was pure human. He was no avatar yet had the valor to be one. Indeed, it is what Kildarien wanted to see, a mere human with the spirit to match a chosen avatar.

He gently lowered himself down to sit on a cliff of his white mountaintop and turned his gaze back to Mordheim. "Hold strong, my children." His voice whispered, but it was lost in the mighty howling of the wind.



Valten was standing at the bottom of the Mordheim throne. It was large carved out of white marble, an expense that almost bankrupted the small city-state country, but it was a symbol of power for the people. The purple banners hung from the roof displaying the royal emblem of the Huss family. He let his blue-green eyes roam the hall taking in everything, from the nobles bickering on the sides to the great stained windows above depicting the mighty kildarien locked in battle with the dreaded Mask. They were an interesting two gods. Both kept their face hidden, one by a dark mask, the other by a pure silver helm. They were probably the two gods that hated each other the most, outside of the savage orc god and the dwarf god.

A sudden and loud crash caused a hush of silence to fill the room, and valten pivoted on his foot to look behind him in time to see a servant running at full sprint for the base of the throne. He was bleeding and out of breath... curiosity threatened to overwhelm Valtens mind, but his father stepped in to ask first.

"What have you man?" King luther asked with that same imperial tone he used on everyone.. even his son. The messenger had his hands on his knees and was gasping for air, but he did manage to breath one word "Orcs!" There was a sudden panicked gasp from the cowardly nobles, and even Valten took a step back in shock. Among all in attendance only Luther seemed to have kept his calm "Are you daft man? Orcs this far from their lands, what fool do you take me for?" While Valten thought completely dismissing it was a foolish notion, doubt edged on his mind to. Orcs spent most of their time fighting the dwarves... why would they change now?

The messenger looked up his face pale from exhaustion and bloodloss "I speak no lies, M'lord. They burned and sacked Bellton!" He yelled, easy for all to see his strength was coming near an end. King luthers face paled a little, but he waved the messenger off to go get himself taken care of. He turned to the crowd "Summon the War Council immediately"



A large round table was situated in the middle of the room with many chairs about, but none was sitting. King Luther was pacing back and forth before the table, Valten and a few captains were bent over the large map spread across the table discussing stratagems. "Why havent they moved?" Luther asked irritated, and Prince Valten pointed to the spot where Bellton once stood. "If the scouts are correct father... there are only around 2 to 4 warbands." He said evenly. Luther stopped and looked at his son "Only 2 to 4?" He ask to clarify.

Valten nodded in confirmation, but continued to move his finger across the map "I believe they came from the mountain passes... I think these warbands are waiting for the larger horde to show." He continued gravely "We need to move our forces to outside of Cromead and prepare a defensive line. We should prepare for the worst father. I have no doubt we will be heavily outnumbered.. perhaps send out riders for aid?"

King Luther shook his head "No, more or not. I will not have Mordheim beg for aid!" He finished by hitting the table with a closed fist. "I will not have the nearby kingdoms seeing us as weak!" Valten shook his head and tried to get through to his father "Dad, if we dont get help.. We may not have a kingdom to defend!" he retorted, but Luther would hear no of it "No! I am the king, and that is final. We stand alone, and if necessary we die alone! I have sent out orders for as many men as can be spared to meet you at Cromead."

Valten bowed his head only once. He knew no matter what he said nothing would change. Best he ride hard to Cromead take a troop count and prepare for war.

Ulmo looked up, his expression stern. There was something dark within his realm, a visiting god. His feature relaxed, however, as he sensed the the life-giving and healing energy underscoring the strange aura. There were few gods that were unlike normal, bipedal beings and Shaddam was the strangest. He, or maybe it, never ventured out of his own realm often and only briefly. Upon first meeting, the entity was frightening, even to other gods themselves, but that feeling passed for the deities. He was not evil, simply alien, and Ulmo couldn't deny that his healing powers benefited even his own people from time-to-time, though, sometimes Shaddam's Avatar forgot himself, something not uncommon among Avatars, but uncommon among the Shaddath given their static nature.

Receiving the other god's signal, Ulmo stood and, opting not to instantly appear before him, swam swiftly to Shaddam's location. He was the god of the Sea, after all. He did take pleasure in the act of swimming through his realm. Within minutes, Ulmo appeared, nodding gravely at his visitor.

"I was not expecting you, Shaddam. You have something to tell me?" he asked. Courtesy was neither wanted nor needed with the alien god. It mostly spoke in short phrases anyway.



Leo's eyes bugged, "You were some kind of mercenary before, right? The best sword-fighter in the land! What are you doing here?"

Dantius, for his part, glanced suspiciously at Stole, the guards glancing at them as the caravern made its way inside Zhufbar. Nonetheless, they didn't make any move to detain him. Zhufbar was the last place anyone would dare steal, especially if you were human. Dwarves tended to expect that sort of thing no matter how long you traded with them. So, Dantius grumbled under his breath about disrespecting dwarves as they made the journey while Leo looked from the increasingly-splendid hall and at Stole as he talked.

"You're right. We're Avuvians. We come from Thermascus. Don't let Thalassa's fame fool you. It's every bit as glorious as the capital. Just a little smaller," Leo told him with a grin, "As you can see, we're merchants. The Dwarves may not act like it, but they rely on outside merchants to supply them with things not made of metal, stone, or precious stones and Thermascus is the closest human city with the most variety of supplies. The Merchants Guild in Thermascus picked Master Dantius to represent them since he's the only human among them as stubborn and hard-headed as the elder Dwarves."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Dantius growled, nodding at the dwarf that greeted them as they began their journey under the mountain, the number of Dwarves slowly increasing until the humans were being watched by hundreds of suspicious eyes.

"What are you here to see the Dwarves for, anyway?" Leo asked after a few minutes of silence, glancing at their new acquaintance curiously. He didn't seem the type to have business that concerned the ever-suspicious Dwarves.



"How do we know that the Moonshield Elves aren't a threat?" asked Councilor Aegidius, a retired naval officer from Thermascus who often thought of defense, "Their navy is the only one that can, perhaps, rival our dominance of the Sea and we've had trade disputes in the past."

"Trade disputes that are always resolved after careful negotiation. The Moonshield Isle is not next door, Councilor. There is enough distance between us to keep competition minimal, not to mention they are a new power compared to ours," Councilor Andromeda, an aging woman with calm grey eyes argued.

"Precisely. They have something to prove," Councilor Sirvian pointed out, the slight bulge of his stomach growing and shrinking as he breathed in and out.

"They have not threatened us and our current treaties on trade and colonization are being honored," Caspian joined in, attempting to end the debate Aegidius started, "Not to mention Mastalki will not favor an unprovoked attack on their part and their Avatar knows firsthand the fury of the Sea when turned against him."

He had met with Allaseus and had heard of his family's fate. He had privately asked Ulmo about the incident and Sea god simply told him that his father had challenged him and did not repent even at the tumult of the Sea spurred on by his wrath. Caspian felt that it was a pity, but most of the gods did not take kindly to the hubris of mortals and the man had been given the chance to take back whatever offense he committed, though the wife didn't deserve to die and Ulmo, after much prodding and arguing on Caspian's part, agreed.

The Avatar nodded as the debate ended with his words and turned to other matters. Jack's smuggling operations were being rooted out, but like a stubborn weed, they simply grew back as bad as ever.

The home of the Scorched Scales of Draig was located on the side of a great mountain. A number of large caves pockmarked mountainside, each cave a home to a number of ons. The incline was rather steep, but not all that impossible to climb. If a being without wings did manage to climb it, they would be respected by the dragons, if they managed to survive. There is a difference between climbing the mountain to explore, and climbing the mountain to poach. Explorers and visitors were normally welcomed by the scales, however, visitors were rare and explorers were usually dead.

The mountain jutted up to the skies with pillars of rock erupting from the ground, signifying dragon territory. These spires served as natural lookout posts for Guardians and there were a total of five surrounding the Dragonlands. Each spire held a great and power beast, a Guardian, the protector of the roosts, of the Elder, and of the Shimmer In the distance, the Scales could see the taller mountains ascending into the heavens, challenging the Gods themselves. Their view was grand, and their lives majestic. This is where Azyra called home, the The Dragon's Maw in common tongue on account of the spires.

In the distance, the Guardians saw the return of their beloved Shimmer from one of her Journeys. The Guardian merely shifted their sights toward the brilliant blue Scale for only a moment, before resuming their ever vigilant watch. behind their stoic demeanor, they were happy for their sister' safes return. Every journey, the day before, the Guardians offer one of their finest Scale to fly with her, but every time she rejects them, saying that it is a Journey she must take alone. However, she was picked by Draig himself, and no doubt the Wyrmgod watches over his chosen one. She couldn't have been safer if she had traveled with the entirety of the Guardians.

Azyra angled her wings and began to descend into the mouth of a large cave. The cave seemed to have been dug into the face of the mountain ages ago but hundreds of sharp claws. with crystals, diamonds, sapphires, rubies, emeralds, and other gems encasing the rim and inner walls and ceiling. That was how the Elder Oimr told it, and probably how the Elders before him told it. Many years ago, the first dragons came to this land from many different directions. The Hunters descended from the heavens on quick and nimble wings to hunt and catch their prey with ease, the warm and caring Roostkeepers was made of the gentle mountain rock in order to provide a sturdy and caring basis for their children, and the Guardians pulled themselves up from the hottest and largest volcano ready to protect and incinerate all who dared threatened the Scales,. They met on this very mountain and decided to make it their home. The dug caves with their iron claws and called it home. A testament to Dragon will, and pride, for not even mountains could keep them from their chosen home.

Azyra landed in the mouth of the cave with soft thud and folded her wings behind her. There was room enough in the entrance of the cave to hold three dragons abreast, or two dragons with their wings flared. Further in the cave it opened up to reveal a grand hall, indescribably huge. It was large enough to hold all of the dragons in the Scorched Scales comfortably and then some. The hall was aligned like a colloseam with stone seating surrounding a central area. The Dragon-Hall. Not even the dwarves below them could hope to match the grandeur and elegance of the massive cavern. Gems and treasures of all kinds lined the walls with a large blood red diamond in the very middle of the roof. Draig's eye is what they called it.

The Dragon-Hall seemed to be full. Dragons of all shapes, sizes, and colors were present, with the Elder, Oimr in the very center of the hall. Upon sight of the Azure dragon, and her sparkling scales, the Hall hushed to a whisper and Oimr called in a wise voice, "Our Shimmer has returned from her talk with our Lord, Draig! Come sister, and tell us what wisdom you bring back from Draig himself!" This was a routine for Azyra. Everytime she spoke with Draig, she had to tell her Scales what had been conversed about. It was almost like a sermon, if sermons involved thousands of sharp teeth and fire. She strode forward to the middle of the congregation, and begame her 'Sermon'.

“...Strength does not come from our limbs," She began, "It comes from our minds...”

---

The Dragon-Lord was peering into a pool of lava, high on top of a single mountain in the middle of his scorching desert. This was his realm, a place that burned with the warmh of a dragon and only a dragon. In the pool, he witnessed all events that was happening in the mortal world. Humans, elves, dwarves, orcs, and dragons, everyone one of them could not hold a secret from a God. However, Draig tended to keep information to himself, and refused to reveal other races secrets. They were not his to give. This often times irritated his avatar. But she was still young, and wisdom has only just began to encroach. He did enjoy her youthful excitement though. He refused to speak about events in the mortal coil to his Scales because he wishes for them to be independent and strong. Guiding them by the claws is not independence, nor is telling them what to expect. It is all part of being a dragon.

He touched the pool of lava with a golden claw, swirling the thick liquid. I minutes a view came to bare. A march of some sort. Details became clear soon, and it was revealed as Orcs marching towards the human lands. A bad tiding. Urgael seems to have sent his orcs on a campaign. The God was just as blunt and cruel as his subjects. But for their sakes, he hoped that Urgael's orcs did not invoke the wrath of the dragons. For one dragon is equal to one-hundred orcs physically and a thousand mentally. It seems that The orcs were on their way to Mordheim. He wondered how Kildarien would handle the invasion. The pool of Lava swirled again and brought forth witness to Kildarien, sitting on a mountaintop and watching his city. He wished luck to the God and his city, and also wished luck for Urgael and his orcs... To be stopped before they reached his Scales.

True, like his Dragons, Draig often withdrew himself from the affairs of other Gods, but that did not mean he did not know of them. Not involving himself is one thing, being ignorant of others is a different thing. Foolishness is what it is. Draig swirled the lava again, this time in the opposite direction. He brought witness to the other races and their doings... And it seemed dire. However, things always seemed dire. It was a true testament to the Gods and their creations that they all manage to survive. Though none were as strong as his dragons. He might have been a little... Biased, but what God wasn't?

"As Flies to Wanton Boys are We to Gods"

Nemea sat on her throne, she had just finished it, a beautiful thing, long thin sheets of smooth geometric stone, entwining like a great flat knot, the openings of its eternal, rigid bindings filled with a clear crystal. It was a plain thing, but beautiful. Its stark geometry had a regal movement to it, and it stood on a raised platform, back to the wide open patios beyond it, and pointed towards the giant hearthfire into which Nemea stared, her skeletal hand gently tapping the throne's flat, polished arm.

She was watching a man speak to a crowd gathered on the still unfinished promenade of the port city Nonya. He was a poor man, but a devout one, and Nemea was half-horrified and half-smitten with his words as he stood below the great uncarved rock which marked the city.

"Why does Nemea cast us down? Why does she murder us indiscriminately?" cried the stricken crowds.

She saw now why the Dendapim's devotion was a bad thing, they had no one to blame this on but her.

"You think the goddess has a fault? Listen to yourselves! Gods have no human aspect! Neither jealousy nor wrath passes their lips! They have no human faults, no inclinations to war nor peace! Gods are beyond such human comprehension! Gods have no attatchments or feelings. They do not have emotions nor faces as we might, but innumerable manifestations of purity that defy any attempts at humans to justify! No god is so interested in the world of mortals, and Nemea's only goal is to see us, the Denapim, perfected! If this is anything, it is a test! You know that Nemea has taught us of our free will, absolute above all things! It is for us to decide whether we live or die!"

Nemea buried her face in her hand. The irony of it all. The man was actually preaching that these people chose to be sick.

"It is the weak among us who will not survive this! Mothers, do not claim your children! They are not worth your love who do not pass this mighty test!"

Oh the splitting headache this man gave.

"Let it be known that no man is safe in his position! Dendapim! The only thing lost by these deaths is bodies. These who die have no spirit, no ambition, and do not deserve to live."

Nemea rubbed her temples. "Let it be known that no man is safe..." she mused. These men who triumphed their superiority, who felt the plague killed only the lazy and considered those not yet dead but corpses moving... It was the sort of primordial idiocy that the Propagandists had fended off emphatically. Nemea knew that balancing personal ambition and societal ambition would be hard, but this plague was weighing on her physically.

Perhaps the pain was in seeing this irony, this man so certain, yet who would go home, contented, cough up blood, and die painfully in his own bed. Spouting his certainty until the last moments, before moaning "I do not deserve this!"

Rawenya

The Avatar, in her smooth, collected voice spoke,
"Oh little darling, What do you mean by closed?"
"They locked the gates and sealed every wall. They tender anyone exposed to an island off the shore and let them die."
"Ah, I see, perhaps the sensible option, though Dalin is on the very tip of the cape, without access we cannot trade-"
"We can't trade anything! They do not accept ships, they have diverted all their healthy infrastructure to building greenhouses. Half of them with glass intended for this palace. They fish squid and already eat soup made of trash fish. They intend to simply wait out the horror. No one who leaves the city is allowed back in."
"Tell me, have their methods proved successful?"
"There are still deaths, but the numbers are decreasing, while here we have ceased to count."

Rawenya's cool tone was unfitting for her place, encased in all sides by a large pyre, a great bowl of boiling vapors beneath her face, soaked through with sweat and wrapped with layer after layer of vivid red cloth.

"So Dalin will survive, let them, and in the mean time, tell the Near Guard to remove all sick and families of the sick from the High Hall and Artisan's Council."

"What should we have the Propagandists do?"

Annoyed, Rawenya breathed deeply from the vapors, coughing slightly and continuing, "Tell them to mark the Qsamadar as a clean place. It has the fewest rats and the freshest water. It is to be completely liquidated of the sickness. We will move all the alchemists here from their workshops, and let them perform their tests on the sick."
"But you said not to let any sick in."
"No, give the Alchemists free reign of the unfinished Eastern Wing, it has a garden there that should be a fitting place for the ill they need."
"The Menagerie? It is not finished!"
"Nor will it be, since Dalin has ceased the glass that was to cover it, now it's more a zoo." Rawenya took another deep breath, letting out her phlegm into the fire, contentedly.

"How will we feed all these people?"
"The Propagandists have been storing food for this very reason, they simply didn't know how soon they would need it. There is a newly finished stately manor, make it a colony and farm it until its barren. Keep it clean, and get some near guard to transport the food into the city as often as possible."
"My lady, how can you see so clearly in these times?"
"Because I value sight more than most." she said, touching the patch on her eye.

The man was humbled, knowing that this young girl had already had her life threatened more than once. Perhaps, since she feared no man, fearing an invisible illness was foolish in comparison.

"A last issue, my Lady, there is the entire northern army and the recent caravan you sent to the North which have all avoided the plague, narrowly avoiding it, so far as we can tell."
"I'm aware, and they are already marching north along the mountains. They are well enough prepared for a journey across the continent, but their going is slow, and I've heard they have split apart in their haste. Turns out, many of them have families wasting away here, and I've found dying lovers make fine soldiers. They are seeking a cure for this pestilence, but have heard only rumors from mystics and priests and wandering ascetics. Turns out the world is not quite so orderly as the Dendapim."

"You truly see everything, my lady." The man stepped back from the roaring fire which surrounded her. Breathing deeply again, she coughed into the fire. When alone she began speaking to herself.

"Nemea if I had not heard your voice I would listen to the masses and say you are not real. This is nothing you should stand for, if the songs are true."

She unflinchingly rolled her wheelchair out of the ring of fires, the metal parts searing hot.

"But Nemea, since you have abandoned the Dendapim, I'll make sure to whip and claw them into a fury, and together we will climb your precious High Hall and murder you ourselves, and take the place you obviously never deserved."

And Nemea in her High Hall felt like weeping, for she welcomed the day when mortal was bold enough to attack a god, and felt only joy at knowing that even a single Dendapim felt wrath instead of woe.

The Arrival of Death

Icarvi was once again watching through the eyes of a rat. This was in fact the same rat that started it all. It seemed to be very strong willed for a rat, and the more Icarvi inhabited its mind, the more the creature became aware of itself. Already, the rat was asserting itself in Icarvi's mind, not defiant, but more aware of what the god was thinking. Currently, it was wondering why Icarvi commanded it to watch the chosen Avatar of Nemea. The rat didn't see anything especially interesting about the wheelchair bound woman, save for her wounds. But, as the minutes passed, it began to comprehend. Here was a strong woman. She was not thinking about herself, fleeing for her life of bemoaning the tragedy. Instead she was dealing with the plague in a calm, calculating manner. Meanwhile, Dalin was goign to find out exactly how safe they were for murdering their kin...

Returning to his own mind, Icarvi blinked. Shaking his head, he stretched. It was then that he noticed he could still feel the residue of the rat. He thought about it for a moment, contemplating the feeling as it faded. Icarvi knew he could never really know what it meant to be mortal. Already he could feel what would have been muscle cramps fade from his body. The god decided that he would let the plague run its course. It seemed to be having negible effects in comparison to what Icarvi desired. instead of humbling the mortals; the plague seemed to be amplifying their inadequecies. Turning back to his orb, the god took one final glance into the realm of mortals, seeking Inncide.

He saw her sitting at the river nearest her house. This seemed to be her normal routine. The river was a small one, sitting in the lowest part of a mountain valley. Lying under dark pine trees, the river went along at its own pace, ceaselessly carving away at the rock it went over. Inccide set beside it, meditating. She was sitting with her legs crossed, eyes closed, and hands on her knees. Slowly she became aware of his gaze. Looking without opening her eyes, she spoke with her mind. "What is it Icarvi?" she adressed him in a familiar tone.

"I have need of you," the god responded. "I have sent a pestilence upon the land of Dendapim. In their arrogance, they are not reacting as I intended. I want you too take four of the Stricken, two women, a man, and a child to the city in which Nemea's avatar resides. You will carry my banner and declare yourself openly. Preach humility and sacrifice to those arrogant beings. I will protect you from harm. Should any dare to strike you, they will be struck down themselves."

The Avatar considered this for a moment before nodding. She got up from her resting place and set off on her assignment.

Meanwhile, Icarvi turned to journey to Nemea's realm. While bot being invited, the God figured she would be too distraught to care. Once she realized it was his doing, she would likely strike at him, but he needed to talk to her. Snapping his fingers, Icarvi disappeared from his realm, trusting his demi-god steward to administer to the plague was he was gone. Arrving at the mountain, he walked up its steps and headed for Nemea's throne.

In the center of the sparkling city, as the Taleren's called Galarta, the towering edifice of the capital building stood like a sentinel over the city. High in the very top part of the building was the temple to the Goddess. In the temple Enclave in the tallest tower, Riana Knelt with her face upturned and hands up in supplication. The Altar in front of her held a full size sculpture of the goddess Aisha and laid at her feet were various offerings; some jewelry, food, small sculptures, paintings, and other gifts to the goddess. Some were there as a thank you for blessing someone with love, or a child, other offerings were asking for the same, and some were just to show general appreciation and their worship of the goddess. Riana came up here every morning and evening to commune with the goddess, though the goddess sometimes would appear or speak to her in other places, and learn Aisha's will. Aisha didn't always appear when Riana communed thus, sometimes she spoke in Riana's mind or through the statue, sometimes there would be no answer at all.

Today the air started to feel heavier and the air almost like it was electrified. A breeze rushed in and the room brightened and when everything calmed the goddess Aisha stood next to the statue. Riana stopped chanting and bowed her head and put her hands folded out in front of her. Aisha didn't speak right away and instead stepped over to one of the large picture windows that surrounded the tower room. She opened the window and through it you could see the whole city of Galarta at your feet, it's sparkling buildings and bubbling fountains and many courtyards with blooming flowers. The bright blue sky was almost cloudless and a light breeze eased the heat to a very pleasant temperature. Aisha glanced back at Riana still bowing and frowned, "Stop with that servile attitude and posture, you know I hate it."

Riana grinned ruefully and rose to join the goddess by the window. The goddess was looking unusually serious, but Riana knew that she wouldn't talk until she was ready if she had something worrying her, though it was hard for Riana to understand how anything could worry a god. Riana waited patiently watching people as they strolled through the marketplace and kids as they ran through the paved streets barefoot or played in one of the fountains. Riana looked again at Aisha's perfectly proportioned profile and couldn't help feeling how surreal it was to remember that the woman next to her was a goddess. Aisha was sometimes so normal and friendly and was very involved with her people. She had often appeared in person among them and joined in healing or helping a woman through a difficult birth. Of course Aisha also had her self-centered, egotistical, selfish side. She sometimes acted arrogant and was often narcissistic but all Talerens new she cared.

"A war is coming."
The statement startled Riana with its suddenness and she turned to Aisha in surprise.
"When, where, who?" She couldn't help asking but Aisha just shook her head.
"I feel it coming but more than that is uncertain. I also smell a taint, a disease, from the Dendapim peoples. I am not surprised by it but it needs to be dealt with or it could spread even here. I want you to take some of the sisters of the healing guild to the Shadamm's lands and ask for his help. He may already know of the disease but if not he needs to know. The sisters are gifted healers but I fear this plague is beyond their abilities only the god of healing can possibly help now but I am sure the sisters will be useful in helping care for the people of the stricken."

"Of course, my lady goddess. It will be done as soon as I leave here, we will go. I will also tell General Targel about the impending war."
Aisha nodded and sparkled as her body disappeared. Riana didn't waist any time before she hurried down to talk to the leader and the General before going to the Healers guild. They were packed and mounted within the hour and headed to the Shaddam's lands.

In an Extraterrestrial Graveyard

Thick fog masked tombstones, millions of them, spreading out in low hills for miles. Each marked the life of someone who has passed, each piece of smooth rock the same but for their inscriptions. All identical, except for one. A stone skeleton, wrapped in a cloak, stood upon a base whose only mark was "MORI."

This was the land that the god of death inhabited, though above the ground was really only for show, in case it had visitors. It rarely did. Old, bleached-white bones rested in warm dirt, six feet under. Thoughts flew through an immaterial godly mind, thoughts flying at a rate impossible to imagine for mere mortals. Every second people were dying, and it observed each one as it happened, made note of their life, and telepathically erected a new slab of stone. That was the job; who knew what would happen if it stopped? It never did, and It never would.

Despite Mori's busy duty, the divine god could easily think as well as anyone else on any other topic. It was always aware of the happenings; especially happenings that could cause more death. War. Famine. Plague. Two out of three were happening right now. The god of death knew that war was brewing for a long time. There was no way to stop it; it was inevitable. Even so, it seemed that every nation was ready to kill another. Orcs marched on Mordheim, and the nations on the islands were ready to claw out each others' throats. And now, Icarvi, the madman that he was, decided now was a perfect time for the greatest plague the world had seen in a long time. Mori could not take this, for Mori was a strange god. The god of death was perhaps the only deity who didn't particularly like his own area of expertise, but someone had to do it, and Mori would never entrust the power of death itself to anyone who wanted such power. Its bones shuddered to think of what would happen if Icarvi or Genocide were to somehow obtain the title of God of Death.

Usually, Mori might simply let these events pass. But not this time. The skeleton beneath the ground began vibrating, and it sunk, sinking, sinking, deeper underground. It was time to pay Icarvi a visit, s

On the Side of a Hill, Overlooking Forests
Algor, undead avatar of Mori, led his group along the hill. They had been following the border of the eastern forests for days now, not far enough into the hills to attract the attention of the Hilarts but not deep enough in the forest to face its many dangers, though occasionally going into the forest to gather food. Algor, leader of his tribe, hadn't felt like meeting civilization recently. Perhaps they would continue south until they hit the coast, then follow it west until they reached the mountains. That was a lively area.

The lich glanced behind him. Almost thirty individuals, slightly less than half of them children. Most of the adults led a horse, bred for carrying luggage and not people. Each horse carried several saddlebags full of provisions, or, in the cases of a few of them, their carefully wrapped weapons and shields. He smiled. A few of the children were playing, but he could tell that his tribe was tiring. Even Pallor, an ancient, shriveled lich that was carried by horse and didn't move an inch on his own accord, looked exhausted. Perhaps Algor would lead his tribe into a town first, spend a week resting. It could do some good.

Just as he was getting ready to turn back around and continue leading his group, he heard a great squawking. A massive flock of vultures rose in the air, seemingly in all directions. Everyone stopped moving, simply staring. They circled all around. The birds of Mori, devourers of the dead. Vultures carried bad omens, bad omens from Mori itself. Algor scanned the sky for details. The vultures flew everywhere, everywhere but due east. "This way!" the leader cried to his people, leading the way into the forest. It seemed Mori was warning them; no doubt other tribes would receive similar warnings. What is going on? he wondered.

"If you don't stay east, you may find out the hard way, a raspy voice echoed in the avatar's head. Mori. Algor simply nodded his head and carried on, drawing a sickle. Who knew what they would find in the forests? The sudden detour meant he didn't exactly know where they were, but once they made it through the forests, if they made it through the forests, he could simply follow the coast until he found a city in the Avuvian Confederation. He would be leading his tribe either through Vailsora or Ke'yei, he reasoned, so they didn't seem to be in any danger other than the inherent dangers of the forest.

In the otherworldly domain of Icarvi

A few bones erupted from the earth, a couple meters from the Lord of Pestilence. They rattled on the ground, then lay still. A moment later, the rest of Mori's skeleton followed. It was not an especially intimidating appearance, a bleached white skeleton. The god of death decided to take a more menacing appearance, bones levitating to create an anatomically correct human skeleton. A black cloak appeared around them. It was strange; the bones' movements became fluid, like they were held together with invisible muscle.

"Icarvi," a hoarse voice called, drawing out the three syllables. "Are you mad? Do you not feel the death already doomed to happen?" it asked in rapid-fire succession, "My job would have already become more difficult and gruesome, cataloging the deaths of thousands of victims of war, of the god Genocide." The angry god took a moment to pause, attempting a threatening exhalation. Wind rattled bony jaws. "Then," it exclaimed, "Then, you decide to start a damned plague!" The skeleton gesticulated wildly with his strangely-held-together arms. "But don't worry," it said, "I won't meddle with what you've already done. I'm not one to do such a thing. But be warned, Icarvi, immortals should not anger the god of mortality." Mori bluffed. It would never make a fellow deity a mortal, even if it was able to. The god wasn't completely aware of whether it was possible, anyway. It had never attempted such a cruel feat.

With his steed galloping across the burning and bloody field, The war god had a brief moment to pull hard on his mount's reigns. The black horse reared back with the pull and abrupt stop, giving a loud ear piercing screech before bringing it's hooves down with a thunderous boom.

"What buisness do you have with me Mask?" The Genocide growled at the god of thieves intrusion. "I am on my way to retrieve the axe I commissioned Grungi to forge." He leaned down, a small dark smile hidden under his crimson helm. "If what I smell is true, then I will be needing it soon."

_______



Stole listened happily to Leo's ramblings, his ego slightly inflated again that some people still knew his name. When ever the caravan passed by a group of dwarfs that made glaring at visitors a pastime he will put on a cheesy grin and wave. He loved the disgruntled or confused looks he would get for his cheery face would get.

"What are you here to see the Dwarves for, anyway?" Leo asked him after awhile. Stole gave Leo a glance and thought about it. "Well," he started "Ya might say I'm doing a little walk about the region. Visit a few old friends, hit a few taverns that sort of thing. But a more serious reason I guess is because I've become the unofficial ambassador of the newly forming Hilart federation." The one armed swordsman said like he was discussing the weather.

______

Shaddam, Ulmo's Realm

Shaddam writhed for a moment, it's tentacles whirling about as it processed the words of the other God. It didn't enjoy speaking the language of the other mortals, but understanding them was not beyond it. Once it understood, the God of Healing spoke, tendrils wrapping and rubbing against each other to mimic the sounds of speech. The resulting voice was deep and raspy, like gravel being mixed with dry leaves.

"Yes. Was seeking. Child, my Melkiah, is far from home. Your territory, yes? His safety, I would appreciate. Temple, mine, I think he is. He is comfortable there." Shaddam's words became more easy to understand the more it spoke, the effect of years without speaking an audible tongue sloughing away as it remembered more. "There is movement, out in the world. It grows, prepares for change. The swamps tell me, and I worry. Will there be a gathering?"

It's body roiled in distress for a moment, the very concept of whatever cataclysm was coming, whatever would shake the world and disrupt the slow, quiet peace of it's swamps causing it's tendrils to whorl and dance around it's staring red eyes. It quickly mastered the outburst, the tendrils and tentacles slowly assuming a more humanoid form as they wrapped around one another. It's eyes rose from what was rapidly becoming a chest, almost floating up through it's neck and assuming nearly normal positions on what would be a head on a human, though they still had a tendency to quiver whenever the God felt strong emotion.

Melkiah, Thalassa

Melkiah thought he could feel Shaddam's disapproval as he discussed the comings and goings of the world with the Temple's priests. He thought he could feel Shaddam nudging him to leave the city, to return home where he was no doubt needed for something an average priest could do. Something the priest said caught his attention again, and he turned his gaze on the man, taking in the devotee of his God.

The human wore he simply brown and green robes of Shaddam, with a mantle of dangling, twisted threads that seemed to suggest hanging vines hanging over that. Clothing was something he still had trouble understanding. His body was covered in plants and moss, but humans seemed to insist on making statements with the cloth that covered their bodies.

"No, Brother. I do not think we would be better served withdrawing back to the Deep Swamps, no matter what plague or battles are brewing. I think we would be better off obeying the commands of our God and offering Healing to whomever needs it in the affected areas." He raised a vine and bark encased hand to forestall the human's protests. "Shaddam has commanded us to Heal, so Heal we will. Now, I must go."

Melkiah stood taking the robe and scarf he used to hide himself up from the city's populace from the chair where he had carelessly tossed it upon entering the Temple. Raising the hood of the garment, he moved in a slow shamble towards the door small door that was the only entrance to the modest Temple.

Melkiah shrugged the large hooded robe over his wide shoulders, a scarf obscuring his more disturbing facial features, but not his red eyes. Not that he would hide them anyway. He took pride in have a feature so much like that of his God. He often wondered if it had not been an intentional part of Shaddam's blessing, the one that had joined him to the God of Swamps, Healing, and Mist, had made him more than he had been. The thought was intriguing, and he pondered it as he shuffled through the streets of the city. Cities were fascinating places, places where people, human and otherwise, congregated and shared information, most speaking to different people every day! It was difficult to keep his head ducked, to hide his face from prying eyes when he wanted to look up, to marvel at the height of some of the buildings in the city. It was so different from the quiet, low home of the Shaddath. There was no sound, but there was always a light of conversation in the Deep Swamps. Maybe mortals weren't so different after all. The thought made him chuckle as he made his way to the city's main gates, pulled by the quiet, insistent will of his God.

Hildar was tired. He had spent the last four hours attempting to solidify his new council. The council of the wise was a gathering of members from all of the conquered and allied tribes. It was formed with two elected representatives from each tribe with Hildar as the head. It was the largest gathering of Hilart cheiftains, shaman, and elders in over three hundred years.

And they had spent the bulk of the meeting arguing. It was over little thing's like which territory belonged to who, which herding ground were allowed to which tribe, who had authority over who, and so on and so on. When the bickering had reach a loud enough point Hildar's patience broke. He jumped between two elders that were about to come to blows and swung his axe down between them, embedding it in the ground. The two men back away from each other and the council proceed to discuss things in a more orderly fashion.

It was decided that each chieftain would remain the governing head of their tribe, paying homage to Hildar's. Each month they would send a pair of representatives to take seats on the council. Members of the council would come forth and pitch a proposition for the council on a whole to debate. Hildar would act as a moderator for council discussions, head of foreign affairs, and be the supreme commander of the army. If a state of emergency was declared he would take full control of the council, though it was safe to say that he was respected enough by this point that most of the assembled men and women here would fallow his decisions unquestioningly.

Overall it had been a long meeting, and he still had to ponder how his relations would be with his neighboring nations were now that the Hilarts were one as well. Stole, a long time acquaintance and friend of his was out on a journey to the other lands. Stole was a bit... irritating towards others but he held the most knowledge of different cultures from his time as a mercenary. He would help establish connections with the other peoples but Hildar was stuck trying to figure out what relations they would need to build.

Hilarts had gotten by with raids and animal herding but the former would be difficult to maintain now. The new Hilart economy needed a more established method of income, and since they were geographically in the center of the continent trading opening a trade road seemed lucrative. But the problem was that the Hilart's had little to trade beyond livestock and hides. They might be able to get what they needed off glass work but they could only produce so much at a time.

Hildar sighed and leaned back from the empty fire pit and stared up at the opening in his tent. "There use to be a time when all I had to worry about was whether or not Genocide would give me his blessing on the battle field." He muttered. abstinent mindfully he picked up the large war horn that had been sitting in his lap. It was smoothly carved and had scarlet runes wrapping around it's white exterior, letters written in the language of the gods.

It had been a gift from the war god himself, as a reward for claiming a bone spike of the back of the Huraghtan. It had been a hard won victory, the half immortal beast nearly taking his leg of at one point. But it had been worth it, as he both gained the respect of the greater portion of the Hilart people and Genocide's favor. "If only the war god could offer me advise on what to do after the war has been won." He mussed.

His thought's were broken as he felt a weight crash into his back and a cry of "Helloooo Papa!" filled the tent.

"Hello Alustila." He grunted, a small grin worming it's way into his face as his adopted 'daughter' hugged him. "How are you today?" She humped at him and moved to sit beside him. "Oh now you care." She said with haughty false irritation. "Here I am worrying myself sick over whether or not you'll come home this time. And as soon you get back you immediately shut yourself in with those wrinkled smelly old people, without even stopping to say 'hi' to your only daughter!" She turned away from him. "Humph, some papa you are."

"Oh," He said, amusement in his tone. "I'm sorry, normal fathers don't conquer and and build nations to save their daughters don't they. Would you like me to take the more traditional path and get you a pony?" Alustila shot him a glare. "Oh you just love to hold that over my head don't you." She sighed and uncrossed her arms leaning back with him to look out the smoke vent of the tent. "Are you alright papa? You've looked tired ever since you got back."

"Just the annoyances of dealing with politics, I've discovered that leading a debate is harder then leading a charge." He rested a bit, feeling the drains of the days activities on him seep out now that he had a moment to rest. "One particular complaint came up." His eye's darted to her with an accusing look. "Apparently chief Hircal's son got a nasty kick in the groin by one of our tribes women. Anything you'd know about that."

Alustila's face went red with embarrassment. She turned away again as she spoke. "The pervert wouldn't stop staring at my chest! I say he deserved it." Hildar grunted. "Then you should have let me handle it. I'm sure the boy would have learned his lesson better with a slightly larger boot in the crotch." Or an axe instead. He thought darkly.

Alustila caught the look on her foster fathers, rolled her eyes, and started pinching and pulling on his cheek. "Stop that." She pulled hard slightly harder, too which Hildar replied a staotic 'ow'. "I'm a big girl now papa, I can take care of myself." She finished letting go of his face. Hildar rubbed the abused cheek. "Forgive a stubborn father, but I will always feel the need to be mindful of my daughter, Alustila."

She smiled at Hildar and rested her head against her father's shoulder. "You worry to much. But still, I guess it's nice to know I can count on you always be there to keep me safe." Hildar let her rest against him, a smirk on his own face. They stayed like that a moment, Hildar relaxing in the company of his daughters presence and letting the comfort of family ease away his stress. Alustila was his only real treasure in the world, and he would protect her even if his life depended on it.

Protect... protect... protect...

Suddenly Hildar was hit with an idea. What if they signed a protectorate treaty with another nation. The Hilarts would offer military protection to another nation in exchange for supplies and tribute. If they did that then the Hilarts would have better access to trade supplies and bolster their economy. It would give the army something to do, improve foreign relations and take care of their supplies problems once and for all.

"Alustila, you've just given me the perfect plan." He stood up abruptly, causing her to almost fall over. "I need to call the wise council together before they leave." He marched out of the tent, a new resolve plastered on his face.

Alustila just sat their with a confused look on her face. She'd never understand men.