Post 1: Dragonruby/Galadon
God-King Cryan paced down a hallway, his heavy footsteps making filling the hall with quiet noise as the metal of his armor clattered against itself. It would've been a simple matter for him to silence it, almost as easy as breathing, but for the moment, Cryan relished the noise, and besides, one did not need to silence themselves within the walls of their own home. He remembered for a moment when his title had simply been 'Knight-Regent' rather something as fanciful as 'God-King'. It seemed as if everything had grown much more elaborate as time had passed. Cryan's armor was a good example of this. Where, once, it had been nothing more than practical, it could now be considered a work of art, with swirling designs of inlaid gold flowing across his breastplate, a flowing red cape draped around his shoulders and held in place by an emerald brooch, and through the slitted visor of his helmet, a muted blue burned, casting a dim light on his surroundings.
The palace was rather empty at the moment, save for a number of guards and watchmen, as it should've been in the middle of the night. Vrykals did not require sleep, and were in fact quite incapable of it, which was why a way to meditate, and thus idle your spare time away was developed in the early years of their creation. Cryan himself had found little use for it in recent times, as the work of running his kingdom weighed him down with a heavy workload, as he mediated disputes between rival lords, managed internal affairs, played diplomat with visiting dignitaries, and tried to maintain the status quo that seemed to be on the teetering edge of shattering. Tonight was a rare night that he found himself without work, and he was rather unsure what to do with his free time, which was why he seemed to suddenly find himself pacing and feeling nostalgic. Cryan gave a sigh, which came out as a deep and heavy echoing noise, as his mind turned to the matter of politics.
It was no small surprise that the Vrykals were seen as monstrosities to many outsiders. They fed on the souls of living creatures, after all, but all that could be managed as long as their cards were played right, and they remained a decent enough threat to prevent attack, while staying away from being so much of a threat that other nations would strike at them simply so that Galadon could not strike first. It was a delicate balancing act, which was further worsened by the fact that Galadon was split into a rather large number of factions, each vying for their own agendas and beliefs, as those who were once human tried to play god or find a cure for their 'curse'. Skirmishes between rival lords happened quite often, and it was all Cryan could do to stop it all from boiling over and destroy everything they had originally sought to protect. The situation in Galadon was rather precarious indeed.
Post 2: Tirin/Vasa-Wallin border
Far to the northwest of Galadon, on the western border of the Vasa Ascendancy (a border shared with the neighboring Duchy of Wallin), two large parties rode to meet one another. One was led personally by Emperor Luscar, the other by Duke Inurian Wallin, who had in years past acted as both Margrave and General for the Eximian Empire, reliably protecting its borders from any and all enemies who lie beyond them; today, his confidence in his ability to defend his own borders would be tested. As had been agreed, the two parties arrived with some hundred men in the grasslands that constituted a large part of their borders, both sides doing what they could to avoid any deceit on the part of their potential enemy. It seemed initially that the agreements had been made sincerely, and it was doubtless that both sides had a strategy of some kind in place if they had not been.
The good intentions of both parties confirmed, two men dismounted and walked forwards some hundred meters each, meeting well within range of both spell and arrow to further discourage any trickery. The two men could hardly be more different in appearance; Luscar's large, powerful frame was clad in opulent golden armor with a red tunic over it, bearing blond hair, a self-assured smile, and deep crimson eyes that all too easily invited an uncomfortable comparison to blood. Inurian was noticeably shorter, smaller, and above all older, wearing far less flashy armor and dark of both hair and eyes - and unlike Luscar, he looked grim and determined, more than ready to fight were it to come to it. In outlook as well, they differed - Luscar had painted himself as an Emperor reclaiming territory that was rightly his, while Duke Wallin had selected his title carefully, making it clear he would support the true Emperor if one were to come forth.
"Duke Wallin," Luscar said at last, having spent several seconds calmly eyeing the man up, "I'm quite sure you know why I have requested your presence, and I take your acceptance to mean that you're willing to hear me out. It is my understanding that you are a good, loyal man, as well as a skilled commander and governor; you, unlike so many others, have managed to hold your territory together in its entirety, and you style yourself not as a King nor an Emperor, but a Duke. So I ask you to support my claim to the territory of the Eximian Empire and swear allegiance to the Vasa Ascendancy. In exchange, you will be allowed to continue governing your Duchy or relinquish the privilege as best suits your needs, and be granted the temporary rank of General of the Vasa Ascendancy, from which you may be demoted as fits your ability. The only alternative is war, which will assuredly harm both our nations and our people, and more than likely end with your defeat. The choice is yours on whether to return to the fold or bring destruction to your lands."
Post 3: Stoney/Ashen Tusk
It had taken weeks of glacially slow movement to rally all of the tribes willing to come. Sky Splitter estimated that roughly three quarters of the Ashen had responded to his call, including the old and the children. He watched on in well veiled concern which quickly became well veiled despair, as the ragtag collection of spear hunters and children came waddling in on mammoths that only barely qualified for the name. The puny creatures from the coldest most barren reaches looked to be a mere eight feet tall and could only just support the large tents and equipment burdened upon them. The passage down from the mountain involved steep, winding gorges that would hold little mercy for an overburdened mammoth that lost it's footing or became too tired to continue. He drew some solace in the fact that his council of Shamans had already organized most of the tribes into fighters and non fighters, ensuring that even the greenest recruit had a good spear and a set of thick rawhide armor. The Shamans themselves were all rather capable, although the lack of a common written language was proving to be troublesome. The only way a camp of this size could survive without brawling for space and food was if strict order could be implemented. A race of nomads and hunters would chafe under strict rule, but it was necessary for the survival of his people.
Night came as a bleeding red stained the clouds, finally fading further into burgundy and purple, finally descending into the pitch black of the endless night's sky. Stars shone as a million distant campfires, the cold night air blew forbiddingly around the fires and tents erected on every conceivable surface of the valley. The fire cracked and the banner fluttered, and it was long after nightfall when the final tribe he was expecting arrived. Bearing a banner of a wave of ice, the Farwater tribe marched into the camp.
"Who would approach the Host of the Ashen Tusk?" Bellowed one of the self proclaimed guards, giant hands wrapping around his spear and pointing it defensively at the hooded figure striding nonchalantly towards the camp. "Ones who come to join it." The figure answered curtly, in an accent rather alien to Sky Splitter. These appeared to be Northern Coastal Orcs, short and pale, bearing the skins of the strange ocean beasts. His approach seemed to be marked by a sudden drop in temperature, and a stilling of the winds. Based on the glyphs and runes adorning his robes, Sky Splitter had him as the Shaman. He stole a brief glance at the rest of the procession, walking up to meet the new tribe. One thing stuck out.
"You bring no Mammoths, Farwater?" Probed Splitter, voice flexed to sound more of a statement than a query. "We have none to bring, Chieftan." Replied the Shaman, looking directly at the Chief, his cool blue eyes piercing through the glare of the bonfire. "We have no land to graze them on." He shrugged off his sealskin coat, allowing it to sink to the ground as he knelt before the large totem raised before the bonfire. The Totem was freshly carved, depicting an enormous mammoth standing back on it's hind legs before an equally gigantic tree. Below it lay a mountain of grand gifts, iron swords and ivory statues arranged in a semi circle facing the totem. His face cast into shadow by the scale of the fire, he carried with him a weathered pouch, and a skull, and one of his warriors offered a roll of furs without needing to be prompted. Setting down the pack and unrolling it, he seemed not to be disturbed by the growing commotion as camp dwellers began to crowd around and stare at the newcomers. Laying down the pouch and other offerings, he bowed towards Sky Splitter in homage, before turning to stake out the small patch of land still suitable for tents.
The Chieftan sighed, before turning his back to the fire, and drawing the notched blade he had acquired on his adventures. The spirits were restless, and they thrummed constantly in his skull, a meaningless rumble of confusion and discontent. The Ashen would feel the same way soon enough, he needed to mobilize them soon or risk becoming too sedentary and unwieldy to move. He returned briskly to his large tent. Stitched from shaggy mammoth hide and illuminated by low smoky braziers incensed with spiritweed, inside awaited the unmoving silhouettes of several dozen Shamans and veteran Warriors, eager to listen to their leader detail the plan of attack.
"Brothers." He called, addressing the crowd as equals, before turning to a dusty, weathered map of the region he had acquired some twenty years prior. "If we are to move South, we must begin at dawn." The already dull murmur of the room was squashed as the Chief outlined his plan, calling for several vanguard groups to scout out safe routes on foot so as to allow the main body of the host to move quickly down the slopes and onto the grazing lands within a day. After safe routes were scouted the vanguard groups were to rendezvous with other vanguards, and begin light incursions into the Southern Lands properly, avoiding contact with settlements and fighting only to avoid capture. They were to bring no mammoths, to avoid arousing suspicion that these attackers were any more than another seasonal raiding party. Several warriors seemed eager to volunteer their warriors for the expedition, but Sky Splitter had already picked those whom he had considered capable. If the scouts could identify a sheltered path which would keep the herd away from settlements and allow them to pass without fighting the border towns, they were to report. Otherwise, a battle would be necessary to secure free passage from the local warlords or petty noblemen.
It was a few hours later when the first of several veteran hunters and young seers, armed with rare steel tipped spears and arrows accompanied by the power of the spirits, began their own descent down the Mountainside, thrumming with excitement and belief that they were about to embark on some kind of great adventure.
Post 4: zapy/Galadon-Oberland border
In the Pass of Neblig (mountain Pass between Galadon and the Oberland) Out of the mist comes The First of Elite Guard in their usual squad of ten, walking in perfect unity. After it comes a Steam Carriage that contains twenty more of the Elite guard as well as its crew The Boiler Tender, the driver and the Gatling Gunner. Next Comes A majestic ornate horse draw carriage pulled by 6 Beautiful Stallions. This is followed by a Steam Panzer one Ausf. A, The likes of which no one had ever seen before It is armed with a Puckle Gun that allows for six consecutive shots then it needs to swap clips (Which takes time). The Steam Panzer is followed by another Steam Carriage that has its own twenty Elite Guards but It is towing a Gatling Gun. Riding on the Gatling gun Carriage and Caisson are its four man crew. Behind the Last steam Carriage are the ten finest sharpshooters in the Empire. As the Column approaches out of the Gloomy Mist of the Pass, It is brought to a halt by the Boarder Guard Comprising of Galadonian and Imperial alike. The Captain of the First Platoon Steps out of line and hands the Boarder guard the orders to allow the convoy through the Pass. The Border Guard is slightly surprised at the orders but He Lets the Convoy pass further into the land of Galadon. The Captain of the Guard Walks back into line and the Convoy continues on its way to the Galadonian Capital.
Post 5: Easy/Galadon
Dawn had just broken over the horizon in Allin, one of the larger active trade posts in northern Galadon. The nature of the city was such that its residents were not slow to get out of bed and begin to populate their streets. After all, there was money to be made, and anybody who wasn't out there making that money would be losing it.
Today was very unusual in that, instead of flocking to the preferred positions nearer the center of the square, the merchants and buyers of today shied away from the crier's post as though it were hallowed (or contaminated) ground. The source of their misgivings? A kneeling man, dressed in a thick, tattered black cloak and hood, there openly weeping over a couple of small cloth bundles in front of him. Minutes passed. Nervously, as the crowd in the square grew, the people started in with all their bartering and business, though with markedly hushed tones and still keeping well clear of the man in the square. Fully an hour went by, before the weeping man raised his head. In spite of their preoccupation, a hush went over the square, either because the people were curious about what he had to say, because guards were beginning to appear at the edge of the square or, more likely, some combination of both.
"Murder!" the tear-streaked man cried hoarsely, "murder!" His accent placed him as one of Galadon's, a northerner from the sound of it. Nobody recognized the man, but this was hardly an oddity. People of all sorts, after all, went in, out, or through Allin absolutely all the time, which was the source of its size and prosperity in the first place. Far more shocking was the nature of his parcels, which were delicately unwrapped to reveal a couple of bloody, mangled, and above all very small corpses; one, a little girl, who could not have been more than six when she died. The other, a boy, who perhaps could have been placed at ten. Their limbs flopped indiscriminately in a variety of horribly unnatural directions, and their eyes stared blankly upward, though one of the boy's had evidently been cut open.
"A Vrykal encountered our tent in the night!" the man cried, prompting a gasp of shock from the crowd, of alarm from the guards. "His men cut it open and dragged us outside! I begged him for mercy-" he pointed accusingly at the little girl's body - "he said, 'break her legs'. I pleaded with him to tell us why. He laughed, and said 'break her arms'! Before-" The man's voice broke into a sob, but as the guards were advancing, he took in a deep breath and went on even louder: "Before he took her life, his men had broken every bone in her body and raped her bloody! And then- and then they did the same to my son! Back, sirs! I will have my say!" A ball of fire suddenly formed in his right hand as he rose, stopping the oncoming guards as they moved to break from the crowd and take him. They traded glances with each other, uncertain whether to call his bluff or wait it out. For the moment, nobody seemed willing to make the first move.
"My fellow people of Galadon, how can we allow this!? The Vrykal have given up their humanity, aye, not to become gods but rather parasites! They force their will on our people, kill whomever they please, and what do we get in return? Nothing! Nothing but death, and sorrow, and broken corpses! Our blood on their hands! Back! You won't take me like you took them! I won't let you defile their bodies any more! Back!" But the guards, having heard more than enough, kept coming. He waited until they were within arm's length, then suddenly pressed the fire to his own chest. There was a blaze of light, and then a mass of flames that forced the guards back as the man's cloak burned and he screamed, in equal parts anger and agony: "Vengeance for the slain! Justice for the living! END THE VRYKALLLLSSSSSSS!..." and fell, still burning, over his children's bodies. On the other side of the square, unnoticed in the shadows, a wizened old woman in a faded brown traveler's cloak whispered: "Recall."
"Ugh." said the tall, muscular youth that suddenly appeared beside her, in similar dress and with the hood pulled up over his head to cover his slightly-exaggerated, halfway elven ears. "That 'recall' business really takes some getting used to. I never know when to expect it." They turned, in unison, and calmly began walking their way out of the square, then the town. "How did it look?"
"Quite convincing," Miranda Zasolez replied calmly. "As I've said before, your command of illusions is impeccable, and you've a talent for deception."
"So, not to complain or anything," the youth answered, "but couldn't I have done it without digging up all those bodies first? I swear, dry or not, I'm going to be smelling them in my clothes for weeks. Not to mention all the blisters I got on my hands now."
"Yes, that will certainly cut into your 'meditation'." Miranda said dryly. She had never seemed very trusting of Giland's word when he claimed he had to go "meditate" alone before bed most nights. "Or were you more worried about your swordplay?"
"Well, I'm just saying, grave-robbing isn't exactly dignified..."
"Nonetheless." said Miranda. "We needed bodies, and not only for fuel. The people will expect to find three sets of charred bones in the square when that fire dies down. Would you rather have murdered someone, or purchased them?"
"Well, if they happen to be for sale-"
"Preposterous." the old legend was clearly not open to further debate. "In any case, mine is to see you learn to be a man in whom our order may take some amount of pride, even respect. All those fencing lessons you had as a child gave you strong arms, aye, but soft hands. In this line of work, you're not always going to have your fine leather gloves on hand when conflict arises. Remember that, because this next part is going to require a lot more preparation."
Your move: Druby (/Tirin)
Post 6: Milamber/The Warren
Current Location: The Warren – Oldfort
At the heart of the Warren, under the gaze of the stars the White Wolves had made camp for the night. A sense of unease had overcome Justin Sanford that night, not even the company of his partner could soothe his mind. Rustling his partner’s hair as he slept, Justin readied himself for the following day, knowing he would not rest this night. Exiting his tent into the cool breeze of the plains, he felt his fatigue light slightly.
Sniffing the air slightly, he sensed nothing. With a low growl, his eyes burned yellow and his snout grew. Again his nose twitched, trying to catch the scent of approaching packs, again nothing. The Gathering had been announced months ago, two days of negotiations had passed and still not one pack was present. It was not unusual for one pack to veto the negotiations but for no packs to attend at all was unheard of.
In a state of irritation Justin searched the patrols, looking for the scout responsible for organising this affair.
“Garoth!”
The matured wolf responded to the summons his head hanging low. Before he could respond, Justin seized his throat with his claws, hoisting him in the air and tightening his windpipe. “Can you explain something to me Garoth? It’s something very mild really...it’s our annual Gathering to decide how to improve our nation and somehow not one pack is present. Despite the fact it’s been TWO DAYS INTO MEETINGS!”
Garoth squirmed and whimpered uncontrollably, forcing out a reply with gasps of air. “The messages...we’re...sent. I...don’t know...why..”
“Wrong answer...” hurling his body to the floor, Garoth crashed to the ground. In a desperate attempt to escape, Garoth started crawling backwards hoping to avoid punishment. Justin’s foot slammed onto his ribs and began building pressure, “then maybe I should find someone who can.”
As the pressure intensified, Garoth pleaded “I’ll find out...please.”
Justin’s rage was only being fuelled; it had been weeks since he last experienced a fight. Longer still since he made a kill, it would have been so easy to end him right then and there.
Yet a firm embrace from the waist reminded him he wasn’t just a beast but also human. The soothing whisper of his partner drummed in his ears, “It’s alright..he’ll fix it. You can carry out your own plans in the meantime right!?” Justin was quiet for a moment and simply nodded. “Just rest..and come with me” tightening his embrace, his partner leaned back encouraging him to return to their tent.
“Alright..Linus” Justin surrendered, removing his foot from Garoths ribs but continuing to give him a dark gaze. “Garoth, you will take a group and escort the main packs to these talks and as you go inform Volk that he will be making a trip to Rekka Mekura. I want to start forging this alliance with the elves.”
Garoth scurried away, ready to prove himself worthy once again.
Tag: Druby (Description of the land between the Warren and Rekka Mekura)
Post 7: zapy/Galadon
Location: Galadonian countryside
As Corsan the VI rides along in his carriage he gazes out the window thinking to himself "What a Beautiful country this is. The Air is so fresh, and the sky is beautiful. I wish I could come on these diplomacy expeditions more often." Corsan the VI begins Twirling his mustache again which is what he often does when he is bored or thinking. He goes on thinking, "I should annex those wild lands to the west and make them into the Agricultural center of my Empire.
God-King Cryan paced down a hallway, his heavy footsteps making filling the hall with quiet noise as the metal of his armor clattered against itself. It would've been a simple matter for him to silence it, almost as easy as breathing, but for the moment, Cryan relished the noise, and besides, one did not need to silence themselves within the walls of their own home. He remembered for a moment when his title had simply been 'Knight-Regent' rather something as fanciful as 'God-King'. It seemed as if everything had grown much more elaborate as time had passed. Cryan's armor was a good example of this. Where, once, it had been nothing more than practical, it could now be considered a work of art, with swirling designs of inlaid gold flowing across his breastplate, a flowing red cape draped around his shoulders and held in place by an emerald brooch, and through the slitted visor of his helmet, a muted blue burned, casting a dim light on his surroundings.
The palace was rather empty at the moment, save for a number of guards and watchmen, as it should've been in the middle of the night. Vrykals did not require sleep, and were in fact quite incapable of it, which was why a way to meditate, and thus idle your spare time away was developed in the early years of their creation. Cryan himself had found little use for it in recent times, as the work of running his kingdom weighed him down with a heavy workload, as he mediated disputes between rival lords, managed internal affairs, played diplomat with visiting dignitaries, and tried to maintain the status quo that seemed to be on the teetering edge of shattering. Tonight was a rare night that he found himself without work, and he was rather unsure what to do with his free time, which was why he seemed to suddenly find himself pacing and feeling nostalgic. Cryan gave a sigh, which came out as a deep and heavy echoing noise, as his mind turned to the matter of politics.
It was no small surprise that the Vrykals were seen as monstrosities to many outsiders. They fed on the souls of living creatures, after all, but all that could be managed as long as their cards were played right, and they remained a decent enough threat to prevent attack, while staying away from being so much of a threat that other nations would strike at them simply so that Galadon could not strike first. It was a delicate balancing act, which was further worsened by the fact that Galadon was split into a rather large number of factions, each vying for their own agendas and beliefs, as those who were once human tried to play god or find a cure for their 'curse'. Skirmishes between rival lords happened quite often, and it was all Cryan could do to stop it all from boiling over and destroy everything they had originally sought to protect. The situation in Galadon was rather precarious indeed.
Post 2: Tirin/Vasa-Wallin border
Far to the northwest of Galadon, on the western border of the Vasa Ascendancy (a border shared with the neighboring Duchy of Wallin), two large parties rode to meet one another. One was led personally by Emperor Luscar, the other by Duke Inurian Wallin, who had in years past acted as both Margrave and General for the Eximian Empire, reliably protecting its borders from any and all enemies who lie beyond them; today, his confidence in his ability to defend his own borders would be tested. As had been agreed, the two parties arrived with some hundred men in the grasslands that constituted a large part of their borders, both sides doing what they could to avoid any deceit on the part of their potential enemy. It seemed initially that the agreements had been made sincerely, and it was doubtless that both sides had a strategy of some kind in place if they had not been.
The good intentions of both parties confirmed, two men dismounted and walked forwards some hundred meters each, meeting well within range of both spell and arrow to further discourage any trickery. The two men could hardly be more different in appearance; Luscar's large, powerful frame was clad in opulent golden armor with a red tunic over it, bearing blond hair, a self-assured smile, and deep crimson eyes that all too easily invited an uncomfortable comparison to blood. Inurian was noticeably shorter, smaller, and above all older, wearing far less flashy armor and dark of both hair and eyes - and unlike Luscar, he looked grim and determined, more than ready to fight were it to come to it. In outlook as well, they differed - Luscar had painted himself as an Emperor reclaiming territory that was rightly his, while Duke Wallin had selected his title carefully, making it clear he would support the true Emperor if one were to come forth.
"Duke Wallin," Luscar said at last, having spent several seconds calmly eyeing the man up, "I'm quite sure you know why I have requested your presence, and I take your acceptance to mean that you're willing to hear me out. It is my understanding that you are a good, loyal man, as well as a skilled commander and governor; you, unlike so many others, have managed to hold your territory together in its entirety, and you style yourself not as a King nor an Emperor, but a Duke. So I ask you to support my claim to the territory of the Eximian Empire and swear allegiance to the Vasa Ascendancy. In exchange, you will be allowed to continue governing your Duchy or relinquish the privilege as best suits your needs, and be granted the temporary rank of General of the Vasa Ascendancy, from which you may be demoted as fits your ability. The only alternative is war, which will assuredly harm both our nations and our people, and more than likely end with your defeat. The choice is yours on whether to return to the fold or bring destruction to your lands."
Post 3: Stoney/Ashen Tusk
It had taken weeks of glacially slow movement to rally all of the tribes willing to come. Sky Splitter estimated that roughly three quarters of the Ashen had responded to his call, including the old and the children. He watched on in well veiled concern which quickly became well veiled despair, as the ragtag collection of spear hunters and children came waddling in on mammoths that only barely qualified for the name. The puny creatures from the coldest most barren reaches looked to be a mere eight feet tall and could only just support the large tents and equipment burdened upon them. The passage down from the mountain involved steep, winding gorges that would hold little mercy for an overburdened mammoth that lost it's footing or became too tired to continue. He drew some solace in the fact that his council of Shamans had already organized most of the tribes into fighters and non fighters, ensuring that even the greenest recruit had a good spear and a set of thick rawhide armor. The Shamans themselves were all rather capable, although the lack of a common written language was proving to be troublesome. The only way a camp of this size could survive without brawling for space and food was if strict order could be implemented. A race of nomads and hunters would chafe under strict rule, but it was necessary for the survival of his people.
Night came as a bleeding red stained the clouds, finally fading further into burgundy and purple, finally descending into the pitch black of the endless night's sky. Stars shone as a million distant campfires, the cold night air blew forbiddingly around the fires and tents erected on every conceivable surface of the valley. The fire cracked and the banner fluttered, and it was long after nightfall when the final tribe he was expecting arrived. Bearing a banner of a wave of ice, the Farwater tribe marched into the camp.
"Who would approach the Host of the Ashen Tusk?" Bellowed one of the self proclaimed guards, giant hands wrapping around his spear and pointing it defensively at the hooded figure striding nonchalantly towards the camp. "Ones who come to join it." The figure answered curtly, in an accent rather alien to Sky Splitter. These appeared to be Northern Coastal Orcs, short and pale, bearing the skins of the strange ocean beasts. His approach seemed to be marked by a sudden drop in temperature, and a stilling of the winds. Based on the glyphs and runes adorning his robes, Sky Splitter had him as the Shaman. He stole a brief glance at the rest of the procession, walking up to meet the new tribe. One thing stuck out.
"You bring no Mammoths, Farwater?" Probed Splitter, voice flexed to sound more of a statement than a query. "We have none to bring, Chieftan." Replied the Shaman, looking directly at the Chief, his cool blue eyes piercing through the glare of the bonfire. "We have no land to graze them on." He shrugged off his sealskin coat, allowing it to sink to the ground as he knelt before the large totem raised before the bonfire. The Totem was freshly carved, depicting an enormous mammoth standing back on it's hind legs before an equally gigantic tree. Below it lay a mountain of grand gifts, iron swords and ivory statues arranged in a semi circle facing the totem. His face cast into shadow by the scale of the fire, he carried with him a weathered pouch, and a skull, and one of his warriors offered a roll of furs without needing to be prompted. Setting down the pack and unrolling it, he seemed not to be disturbed by the growing commotion as camp dwellers began to crowd around and stare at the newcomers. Laying down the pouch and other offerings, he bowed towards Sky Splitter in homage, before turning to stake out the small patch of land still suitable for tents.
The Chieftan sighed, before turning his back to the fire, and drawing the notched blade he had acquired on his adventures. The spirits were restless, and they thrummed constantly in his skull, a meaningless rumble of confusion and discontent. The Ashen would feel the same way soon enough, he needed to mobilize them soon or risk becoming too sedentary and unwieldy to move. He returned briskly to his large tent. Stitched from shaggy mammoth hide and illuminated by low smoky braziers incensed with spiritweed, inside awaited the unmoving silhouettes of several dozen Shamans and veteran Warriors, eager to listen to their leader detail the plan of attack.
"Brothers." He called, addressing the crowd as equals, before turning to a dusty, weathered map of the region he had acquired some twenty years prior. "If we are to move South, we must begin at dawn." The already dull murmur of the room was squashed as the Chief outlined his plan, calling for several vanguard groups to scout out safe routes on foot so as to allow the main body of the host to move quickly down the slopes and onto the grazing lands within a day. After safe routes were scouted the vanguard groups were to rendezvous with other vanguards, and begin light incursions into the Southern Lands properly, avoiding contact with settlements and fighting only to avoid capture. They were to bring no mammoths, to avoid arousing suspicion that these attackers were any more than another seasonal raiding party. Several warriors seemed eager to volunteer their warriors for the expedition, but Sky Splitter had already picked those whom he had considered capable. If the scouts could identify a sheltered path which would keep the herd away from settlements and allow them to pass without fighting the border towns, they were to report. Otherwise, a battle would be necessary to secure free passage from the local warlords or petty noblemen.
It was a few hours later when the first of several veteran hunters and young seers, armed with rare steel tipped spears and arrows accompanied by the power of the spirits, began their own descent down the Mountainside, thrumming with excitement and belief that they were about to embark on some kind of great adventure.
Post 4: zapy/Galadon-Oberland border
In the Pass of Neblig (mountain Pass between Galadon and the Oberland) Out of the mist comes The First of Elite Guard in their usual squad of ten, walking in perfect unity. After it comes a Steam Carriage that contains twenty more of the Elite guard as well as its crew The Boiler Tender, the driver and the Gatling Gunner. Next Comes A majestic ornate horse draw carriage pulled by 6 Beautiful Stallions. This is followed by a Steam Panzer one Ausf. A, The likes of which no one had ever seen before It is armed with a Puckle Gun that allows for six consecutive shots then it needs to swap clips (Which takes time). The Steam Panzer is followed by another Steam Carriage that has its own twenty Elite Guards but It is towing a Gatling Gun. Riding on the Gatling gun Carriage and Caisson are its four man crew. Behind the Last steam Carriage are the ten finest sharpshooters in the Empire. As the Column approaches out of the Gloomy Mist of the Pass, It is brought to a halt by the Boarder Guard Comprising of Galadonian and Imperial alike. The Captain of the First Platoon Steps out of line and hands the Boarder guard the orders to allow the convoy through the Pass. The Border Guard is slightly surprised at the orders but He Lets the Convoy pass further into the land of Galadon. The Captain of the Guard Walks back into line and the Convoy continues on its way to the Galadonian Capital.
Post 5: Easy/Galadon
Dawn had just broken over the horizon in Allin, one of the larger active trade posts in northern Galadon. The nature of the city was such that its residents were not slow to get out of bed and begin to populate their streets. After all, there was money to be made, and anybody who wasn't out there making that money would be losing it.
Today was very unusual in that, instead of flocking to the preferred positions nearer the center of the square, the merchants and buyers of today shied away from the crier's post as though it were hallowed (or contaminated) ground. The source of their misgivings? A kneeling man, dressed in a thick, tattered black cloak and hood, there openly weeping over a couple of small cloth bundles in front of him. Minutes passed. Nervously, as the crowd in the square grew, the people started in with all their bartering and business, though with markedly hushed tones and still keeping well clear of the man in the square. Fully an hour went by, before the weeping man raised his head. In spite of their preoccupation, a hush went over the square, either because the people were curious about what he had to say, because guards were beginning to appear at the edge of the square or, more likely, some combination of both.
"Murder!" the tear-streaked man cried hoarsely, "murder!" His accent placed him as one of Galadon's, a northerner from the sound of it. Nobody recognized the man, but this was hardly an oddity. People of all sorts, after all, went in, out, or through Allin absolutely all the time, which was the source of its size and prosperity in the first place. Far more shocking was the nature of his parcels, which were delicately unwrapped to reveal a couple of bloody, mangled, and above all very small corpses; one, a little girl, who could not have been more than six when she died. The other, a boy, who perhaps could have been placed at ten. Their limbs flopped indiscriminately in a variety of horribly unnatural directions, and their eyes stared blankly upward, though one of the boy's had evidently been cut open.
"A Vrykal encountered our tent in the night!" the man cried, prompting a gasp of shock from the crowd, of alarm from the guards. "His men cut it open and dragged us outside! I begged him for mercy-" he pointed accusingly at the little girl's body - "he said, 'break her legs'. I pleaded with him to tell us why. He laughed, and said 'break her arms'! Before-" The man's voice broke into a sob, but as the guards were advancing, he took in a deep breath and went on even louder: "Before he took her life, his men had broken every bone in her body and raped her bloody! And then- and then they did the same to my son! Back, sirs! I will have my say!" A ball of fire suddenly formed in his right hand as he rose, stopping the oncoming guards as they moved to break from the crowd and take him. They traded glances with each other, uncertain whether to call his bluff or wait it out. For the moment, nobody seemed willing to make the first move.
"My fellow people of Galadon, how can we allow this!? The Vrykal have given up their humanity, aye, not to become gods but rather parasites! They force their will on our people, kill whomever they please, and what do we get in return? Nothing! Nothing but death, and sorrow, and broken corpses! Our blood on their hands! Back! You won't take me like you took them! I won't let you defile their bodies any more! Back!" But the guards, having heard more than enough, kept coming. He waited until they were within arm's length, then suddenly pressed the fire to his own chest. There was a blaze of light, and then a mass of flames that forced the guards back as the man's cloak burned and he screamed, in equal parts anger and agony: "Vengeance for the slain! Justice for the living! END THE VRYKALLLLSSSSSSS!..." and fell, still burning, over his children's bodies. On the other side of the square, unnoticed in the shadows, a wizened old woman in a faded brown traveler's cloak whispered: "Recall."
"Ugh." said the tall, muscular youth that suddenly appeared beside her, in similar dress and with the hood pulled up over his head to cover his slightly-exaggerated, halfway elven ears. "That 'recall' business really takes some getting used to. I never know when to expect it." They turned, in unison, and calmly began walking their way out of the square, then the town. "How did it look?"
"Quite convincing," Miranda Zasolez replied calmly. "As I've said before, your command of illusions is impeccable, and you've a talent for deception."
"So, not to complain or anything," the youth answered, "but couldn't I have done it without digging up all those bodies first? I swear, dry or not, I'm going to be smelling them in my clothes for weeks. Not to mention all the blisters I got on my hands now."
"Yes, that will certainly cut into your 'meditation'." Miranda said dryly. She had never seemed very trusting of Giland's word when he claimed he had to go "meditate" alone before bed most nights. "Or were you more worried about your swordplay?"
"Well, I'm just saying, grave-robbing isn't exactly dignified..."
"Nonetheless." said Miranda. "We needed bodies, and not only for fuel. The people will expect to find three sets of charred bones in the square when that fire dies down. Would you rather have murdered someone, or purchased them?"
"Well, if they happen to be for sale-"
"Preposterous." the old legend was clearly not open to further debate. "In any case, mine is to see you learn to be a man in whom our order may take some amount of pride, even respect. All those fencing lessons you had as a child gave you strong arms, aye, but soft hands. In this line of work, you're not always going to have your fine leather gloves on hand when conflict arises. Remember that, because this next part is going to require a lot more preparation."
Your move: Druby (/Tirin)
Post 6: Milamber/The Warren
Current Location: The Warren – Oldfort
At the heart of the Warren, under the gaze of the stars the White Wolves had made camp for the night. A sense of unease had overcome Justin Sanford that night, not even the company of his partner could soothe his mind. Rustling his partner’s hair as he slept, Justin readied himself for the following day, knowing he would not rest this night. Exiting his tent into the cool breeze of the plains, he felt his fatigue light slightly.
Sniffing the air slightly, he sensed nothing. With a low growl, his eyes burned yellow and his snout grew. Again his nose twitched, trying to catch the scent of approaching packs, again nothing. The Gathering had been announced months ago, two days of negotiations had passed and still not one pack was present. It was not unusual for one pack to veto the negotiations but for no packs to attend at all was unheard of.
In a state of irritation Justin searched the patrols, looking for the scout responsible for organising this affair.
“Garoth!”
The matured wolf responded to the summons his head hanging low. Before he could respond, Justin seized his throat with his claws, hoisting him in the air and tightening his windpipe. “Can you explain something to me Garoth? It’s something very mild really...it’s our annual Gathering to decide how to improve our nation and somehow not one pack is present. Despite the fact it’s been TWO DAYS INTO MEETINGS!”
Garoth squirmed and whimpered uncontrollably, forcing out a reply with gasps of air. “The messages...we’re...sent. I...don’t know...why..”
“Wrong answer...” hurling his body to the floor, Garoth crashed to the ground. In a desperate attempt to escape, Garoth started crawling backwards hoping to avoid punishment. Justin’s foot slammed onto his ribs and began building pressure, “then maybe I should find someone who can.”
As the pressure intensified, Garoth pleaded “I’ll find out...please.”
Justin’s rage was only being fuelled; it had been weeks since he last experienced a fight. Longer still since he made a kill, it would have been so easy to end him right then and there.
Yet a firm embrace from the waist reminded him he wasn’t just a beast but also human. The soothing whisper of his partner drummed in his ears, “It’s alright..he’ll fix it. You can carry out your own plans in the meantime right!?” Justin was quiet for a moment and simply nodded. “Just rest..and come with me” tightening his embrace, his partner leaned back encouraging him to return to their tent.
“Alright..Linus” Justin surrendered, removing his foot from Garoths ribs but continuing to give him a dark gaze. “Garoth, you will take a group and escort the main packs to these talks and as you go inform Volk that he will be making a trip to Rekka Mekura. I want to start forging this alliance with the elves.”
Garoth scurried away, ready to prove himself worthy once again.
Tag: Druby (Description of the land between the Warren and Rekka Mekura)
Post 7: zapy/Galadon
Location: Galadonian countryside
As Corsan the VI rides along in his carriage he gazes out the window thinking to himself "What a Beautiful country this is. The Air is so fresh, and the sky is beautiful. I wish I could come on these diplomacy expeditions more often." Corsan the VI begins Twirling his mustache again which is what he often does when he is bored or thinking. He goes on thinking, "I should annex those wild lands to the west and make them into the Agricultural center of my Empire.