Player Entries (Part III)

Keola: Borrowed Time (Part III)

Expansion may or may not have bothered Keola but more people meant more recruits and Keola enjoyed that.

Her druidics almost completely gone, her and her former druidic students continued to teach new, curious wanderers. There was less a focus on simply educating children now, not all adults were comfortable with an eccentric faeriekin taking their child off into the woods. Adults from the other side of the Rift were pretty boring, but there were those who had grown up within the barony still had a sharp enough mind.

While these new ‘adventurers’ could not grasp magic, there was always the practical application of surviving the wilderness, even if that wilderness seemed so much tamer now. The not as young sylph provided badges in all shapes, sizes, and mediums of the same symbol to those her knowledge spread to: A Dragonfly. Couriers, trappers, scouts: Over the years her students used their knowledge of forests and natural survival to their advantage. Without teleportation, many people relied on transportation on foot, by rail, or by wheel and one of these Dragonfly’s were certainly helpful and Keola remained around Travance Proper with Nigel, though it seemed like her efforts were starting to become a network.

Nigel, fortunately, had no issue helping supply materials and goods to the scouts. He loved having the work and something to focus on and as more people came through to visit the novel that was Travance, he always at least acquired one new happy customer a week.

Sometimes Keola was teased for keeping up with her martial training despite being in the middle of a bustling kingdom but Keola knew well, her past and the fire in her heart screamed: True peace was a weakness. Complacency was a fear even the Gods had. Even if Keola was or was not older than a God, she knew and respected the wisdom of that fear. She was happy and felt better keeping her wits sharp and body prepared, that some sharpness was left to a blade (or a stick, it depended on the situation you got stuck in.)

Ilana: Breaking the Chain (Part III)

January 1235

Azwren had done unspeakable things. Things that obviously kept him up at night and he did not want to share with the group. Ilana and Sam were not pleased, he had run off twenty years ago. Ilana thanked Galladel for him showing up, honestly. There was a back and forth but an ultimate decision was made: the demon that stayed bound to Azwren would finally get what was coming to him, the waning magic of Arawyn be damned.

Ilana sat quietly that night, looking up at the stars above and said softly, “Galladel, I promise I will do everything I can to protect the spirits. If you ever need me, please call. I will keep you close and maybe you will be able to come with me if I believe in that. I truly hope so. Maybe even Gaia and Andorra’ll notice. But, I can’t help here anymore.” April 1235 Ilana and Acer had been in the study for about an hour now, their muffled voices sometimes drifting into the next room. Simon was sitting on the corner of the table, leaning on their shield and Sam sat in a chair leaning back with his eyes closed, his usual neutral expression when he was trying to hide his stress. The rest of the team was out for the moment and their newest member, Azwren, was resting in his room further down the hall. He rested a lot but Ilana was doing her absolute best to heal his damaged flesh. The homunculi had remembered how ready they were to fight a demon just a few months ago, the excitement and rush of the moment. It had faded so quickly when they had seen Ilana’s face, how the gears in the room shifted when Ilana’s tone had her old commanding nature. Even after all these years, she could still get a room’s attention once she actually spoke up. But, now Simon was missing that feeling and knew that they needed to take their chance and take Ilana's offer: It was time to go somewhere new and to be a hero once again.

There was sometimes a sound like something may have been something thrown, a ‘thud’ that got Simon’s attention. It was silent for a time and Sam opened his eyes, sitting up at the same time as Ilana opened the door and stepped out of the room, smoothing out her hair. She smiled lightly and said in a cheery tone, “Alright, we’re bringing a tree and the seeds.” Acer popped his head out behind her, “And as many saplings as I can take!” --- August 1236

One by one the members of Ilana’s expedition crew choose their new home if they wished it. Some left coordinates to be found again, others decided this was it. Ilana did her best not to cry, happy but sad at the same time with each send-off. She did not bother trying when it was time to see Simon away. The Homunculi had been kind enough to wait until the end and everyone had made sure they had all kinds of trinkets that would not weigh them down on their adventures, small memories to keep. For their birthday Ilana had also made sure they had a good amount of the local currency to start off with. Not too much, but enough to get an easy footing.

The world chosen had some kinds of magic and similar technology, though something like the Gates of Passage did not seem to exist. Dragons were a rumor and, honestly, it was enough for them to be interested in going: If they could find a world they could reconnect with their spirit in a meaningful way again, it would be a blessing. But, most importantly, it was also a world that could still use heroes and Simon was ready.. after all, they just turned 17 so had a lot of time to learn some new skills and relearn old ones.

The gate flickered and they all held their breath. The Gates beginning to fail was probably the only reason they all decided to finally make the move: they knew they could not wait any longer.

Fortunately, the old stone they used as a marker for this world was clearly in focus and the collective sigh of relief was clear. Simon accepted the round of hugs and assured they would ‘do their best!’ before stepping off into the morning light, concluding their last adventure on Arawyn.

October 1236

Ilana, Sam, Acer, and Azwren watched the gate flicker and Ilana prayed quietly to herself. If this was the time to stop her, she understood. But, the gate opened and there was a very tiny grove of saplings before them. Sam took a deep breath and stepped through first and when it was clear he was alright on the other side, the others quickly made way. Ilana looked at the gate, then back behind her and felt a tightness in her chest. She looked to the note she had left and smiled softly, “I will miss you.” She stepped through the gate and that was the last time Ilana Darkwood stood on Arawyn.

Epilogue: The Last Link Broken

Somewhere Else...

Acer played his drum, wearing his old mask, painted with the mud of this new world and danced round the ritual circle Ilana had set up with what she could from the materials they had brought and prepared. Sam had a vice-like grip on Azwren and the elven man struggled in his grasp as his skin hissed and smoke pooled out. Beneath him, a puddle of blackness started to form inside a silver bowl and Ilana very calmly watched that puddle as Sam continued to force the demonic energy out of Azwren using the fragments of power he could, storing his reserves for a moment like this for quite some time.

Ilana, meanwhile, focused radiant energy infused in the silver as she made sure none of the physical part of the demon remained. A spark tried to escape from Azwren and Sam snatched it in hand as it crackled. Holding onto the mote of energy, he grinned wildly at the spark, “You think because we escaped, that we would let you?” He dropped Azwren to his feet and swallowed the ball of energy, staggering a few steps back. Azwren teetered and pulled himself away, still coughing, his ashen complexion quickly warming up to a natural color.

Sam took in a deep breath and held it after he swallowed, his eyes wide and latched onto the horns on his head. He looked to Ilana with a grim determination and Acer’s drum beat faster. Ilana offered Sam a soft smile and said, “I’m right here.” Through gritted teeth he growled, starting to pull down, taking a stance to balance himself. The growl rolled into a cry of triumph as an unnaturally loud cracking sound could be heard and the horns snapped off. Sam dropped to a knee, beginning to cough up black ichor like what had seeped out of Azwren. Ilana mustered up all the energy she could, the Chaotic energy burning up into nothing as it had no Abyss to find. Breathing heavily as the last remnants of the horns dissipated from his head, Sam remained on the ground. Ilana sat down next to him and waited quietly for the fully human man to compose himself.

Acer stopped playing, the dagger in his hand resting, waiting to see if it would need to be used. After a short time when Ilana said nothing and nothing happened, he moved to sit down next to the pair. Azwren awkwardly sat across from them, looking around the clearing and to the tiny 'grove' of saplings. He eventually broke the silence, “This is what a new life is like, eh?”

Ilana looked to Azwren and smiled wearily, “Hope so. We did a few tests and there’s no demons, no abyss. More ‘ordered’ using Arawyn terminology. But, well, we think we will have a good chance at a slightly longer life… and a family. Acer can keep his grove safe and we have a small cottage. There are people, but there will be a language barrier. I understand enough to get us by though they’ll be disappointed they do not get to hear of Arawyn again. Probably for the best though.” They were all quiet for a few moments and then Azwren asked another question, “…So we’re free?”

Sam looked to Azwren and smiled, tears running down his cheeks and he chuckled, wrapping his arm around Ilana and squeezing her tight, “Yeah, we’re free.” Acer took that moment to reach into his bag and threw up a bunch of maple leaves and the group laughed, ready to begin their new story.

Something happened to Swyft during the time of the Rat Plague.

At first, it was fun. Real sport, since she’d taken to running amok with the Rat Catcher household. It nurtured that feral need that had only grown since Aguara’s divine blessing during the Necrophitus Actual Almost Real End Of the World This Time...

...Or maybe it had ended. Perhaps Verrill or Heimdall or Klarington had meddled in something unnoticed, for reality had seemed upended in the blink of an eye. Suddenly, everything was different. The unity of the gods, which would have delighted long gone paladin-hopeful Swyft, frustrated and distressed the darker, edgier Swyft. But she had been molded in a much more polarized timeline and, like it did to most cats, change upset Swyft and made her feel as though she had to explore her environment all over again. Long time friends who had stood by her side during her harshest of divine trials vanished from her life, leaving little holes in her heart as they did. Her healing and divine abilities had felt awkward and hard to grasp even before they started to fade. But one thing that never changed was her dedication to God.

Swyft, having fought the advances of gods both Dark and Light for so long, felt relief after Aguara finally claimed her. The gods’ cruel games ceased and Swyft had been given a clear purpose-- to do God’s Work, a task she took very seriously. Jediah Frost had instilled in her the importance of obeying God’s demands, and the steep consequences of refusing them. But God’s work became less necessary as the magic faded from the world. And so did Swyft’s feeling of purpose.

When the plague of rats came, she not only discovered another purpose, she discovered another way to release her frustration-- by going absolutely feral on them and enjoying every bone crunching moment.

It was… rather comical actually, watching Swyft pounce, bounce and trounce every rat she could find, sometimes simply diving into a pile of the moving bodies and surfacing with a rat hanging from her mouth and others skewered on her claws. Folks had taken to calling for her by name when a swarm appeared, and Swyft was happy to oblige. Lawrence even gifted her a flute that seemed to attract them to her and she would lead them expertly into very large but oddly delicious smelling soup cauldrons. No one went hungry in that time.

The Ratcatcher Renaissance was in full swing, and thoroughly enjoyed by her and her newfound rodenticidal maniacs. But feast comes at a cost, and though her powers were fading fast, Swyft’s divine primal blessing was growing ever larger. Time passed. She spoke less. She growled more. She would slink to someplace hidden even if she saw someone she knew rather than be forced to struggle for conversation in mundane topics. She got quite good at not being noticed.

She began to withdraw from social events, much to the dismay of Lawrence, as when she attended them, she preferred to go somewhere quiet and alone or high up, where she could simply watch people doing their people things while lazily flicking her tail and not having to contribute. Eventually she climbed enough furniture that ought not to be climbed and she stopped being invited to parties.

This didn’t bother Swyft, as it afforded her more time to dedicate to her divine meditations and it gave her the motivation to create a most delightful secret hideout in a very large, sturdy, hollowed out tree. Flora bloomed all around it and vines decorated her home in the most intriguing of ways. Ravens seemed to absolutely love it. She used it to escape the hustle and bustle of Homunculus city more and more often until one day, she simply didn’t return.

***

In time, rumors surfaced of a strange mystical beast in the woods that was able to heal the sick and wounded when other medicines could not. Those who sought it with malevolent intent soon found themselves torn to shreds, by tooth and claw, their hearts gone missing. But it was said if one brought it tribute of catnip and tuna rolls, it would grant your wish and let you live. Those who claimed to have returned were never taken very seriously. After all, who ever heard of a giant cat who spent that much time around birds without eating them?

For the better part of a year, Seth had been playing at a double life. While trying to work for Jackdaw's gang, he kept finding himself thrown away from them at crucial times. He couldn't tell them who it was he was meeting, nor where he was going. And most of all, he couldn't tell them what he was looking for. Grashugel had been in contact since their meeting in the north, which had spelled the end for the Eidolich. Missive birds, dead drops, messengers, even meetings under the dusk of night. And although Jackdaw seemed to be more than okay with his frequent away without leave, it was clear the rest of the squad was not. Eventually, Seth found it within him to finally step back from Jackdaw's group, as cordially as he felt the need to. Succinct conversation had never been Jackdaw's strong suit, and the final meeting between the two old friends, was probably the longest they had had in years. He did not tell the once self proclaimed pirate much, though he was pestered with coy tricks which attempted to pry knowledge from his steel trapped mind. Relenting, the Butcher of Bastion's Wake told Jackdaw that he was leaving the team because he did not wish to see them take the fall for what he was about to do. Jackdaw, while disapproving, did not intervene.

The man found the elf at the one place they still could meet with nary a suspicion. With teleportation no longer being available without an immense source of power, the mercenary met his old friend at the Black Keep, within Winterdark. Grashugel had been given the title of Castellan during the years prior, and the two found this the one place they could discuss in private. Seth found himself silent, upon reaching their designated meeting spot. Usually, when meeting, Grashugel would begin by disseminating information to the man, while simultaneously prompting him to return with his own report. And yet the two stood, in silence for a near minute. Though it was a little over forty three seconds, Seth swore a lifetime was passing as he stood staring at his oldest friend. He could see the wrinkles adorning the Elve's features. Spouts of grey lazily hanging up where once black hair stood firm. Seth was sure that he himself looked much worse than his slower aging friend. Strange, he thought, that this age both tarried long and endlessly, and also had been but a flash of lightning; over in an instant. Seth felt a pang pull on his heart as his mind threatened to venture back to Travance; threatened to bring back memories he would much rather forget. Luckily, his crisis was averted as Gras spoke.

"I believe I've found him." the Elf spoke in a curt whisper, slow but spitting. While Seth did not move his body much, his eyes shot from Gras' greying hair, to his eyes which retained their ferocity after all these years. "I believe he is north of here. Far more north than where the Eidolich fell." Seth could hardly believe his ears. Their joint years of study, research, tracking down what turned into mostly dead ends had ended, just like that. The two had been on this wild goose chase for what seemed like decades, though he knew that wasn't the truth.

"We can reach him by the end of the week, but we would have to le-"

"I'm not going with you, Grashugel." The Butcher said quietly, his furrowed brows now a permanent feature on his face. The half moon elf blinked and his face contorted in confusion as he took a step forward. Before he could speak, Seth spoke out again. "I found something too." He started, seeing if his life long comrade would speak to this. Silence drew Seth to continue. "I found who started this. Who moved to have the Count declared dead in the first place." As Seth spoke, his arms crossed and he leaned against the nearby stone wall, bitter cold radiating into his skin through his cloth layers.

"It seems history has repeated itself. The culprit is Stonewall."

"....Damn!" Gras could only reply, the elf connecting the dots that Seth had barely put together himself but days before. "Then," the Castellan said, turning away from his friend, to pace the small hall they found themselves within. "The coronation is but three days away--"

"I know." The human said, a pang of defeat in his voice.

"Then. We have to go, now! We have to-"

"No," Seth interrupted pushing himself off the wall. "You swore an oath, Grashugel. And I swore my own." Gras remained silent at this. He knew the oaths Seth spoke of. Though different, these vows were held to the very core of their souls. These promises are what had driven the mortals ever forward these past cold years. These beliefs, and truths, which could not be betrayed.

"I'll put him down." Seth continued, the short silence between them ripped away all too quickly. "I've done it before with Kingslayers. I'll do it again."

"You had an army with you." Grashugel reminded him, clearly against such brazen rash heartedness. "And you'd be walking against one alone."

"And *they* won't have magic." Seth reminded the elf. An advantage Seth had found these past few years. Grashugel was loath to be reminded that his own power had sapped away much quicker than the swordsman's. The elf found himself in a flash of rage Seth was so well known for, and he grunted in disapproval.

"You're right." Serr Grashugel responded, his jaw relaxing after a small sigh. "My Oath is to the Count, and I will leave for the north immediately." Gras seemed to pause at this, eyes Seth could swear were filled with pain bore into him. "Do you require anything for your journey?"

"No." Seth shook his head, adjusting a strap of his armor which he idly fiddled with. The two friends stood silent for a time, unspoken words between them growing in both their minds. The outcome, they both knew, clung to the forefronts of their brains like a leech. Yet, it remains unsaid.

"Then we will meet here again in one month's time. I'll see you around, Seth." The Castellan said looking at the man one final time.

"Yeah..." The Butcher said solemnly, a small nod to his greatest friend. "Be seeing you."

----------

It was always about power.

It wasn't long before Seth found himself on the outerwall of Stonewall's estate. Alleander had been growing these past years. Both population and obligation surged. The expansion to the east of the rift widened the kingdom's influence; allowing the Kingdom to enact its will further and with more military influence. The reduction of magic in the world meant that numbers won wars. A platoon of Longbowmen enacted as much death on the field as a squad of mages did but twenty years past. Strategies of mundane effects were becoming more necessary and far more deadly. It was always about power.

As the man lay flat along the width of the wall, waiting for the patrol numbering three to pass, his mind could not help but fixate on his last conversation with Grashugel. 'An oath', he wondered to himself. Was his life really so simple? Had that night, all those years ago really set him on the singular course seeking correction again and again? Was he so unable to break from this cycle? Did he even want to? While Seth had a strong guess of why now of all times these thoughts seem to cry out to him, he didn't bother dwelling too much. In this world there are those that subjugate others for power. And while he oft found his target those who sought power in the physical or magical, political position was always just around the corner. It was always about power.

On a mission for Jackdaw at the Library of Anoch, Seth had found his proof--if it could be called that. A letter which had been recieved by a steward, filed away in a small room of one of the less than public archives. It was personal, from Stonewall himself, detailing the most recent course of action regarding the Count. It spoke of what he believed was 'best' for the Kingdom. Seth remembered nearly destroying the parchment upon reading that. The same man who wanted what was best, conveniently found himself being coronated as king this very night. It was always about power.

Scaling the wall was simple, though the aging man could have sworn his left hip had never clicked so loudly as it did on the final push up towards the third story window. A cursory glance confirmed he was alone, and the ex mercenary slipped inside the estate. He had never been one that was particularly quiet, but Seth found himself leagues above those who weren't amongst Travance when it came to matters of stealth. It seemed the sapping of power affected the next generation the most. They were pitiable compared to even children that Seth could recall from before the end of the Civil war. He was certain that most guards at this estate were of the younger ilk. He caught himself regretting coming for but a moment, thinking of the young people that might oppose him should he get caught. It was always about power.

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

The motion was quick, the sword thrust through the aging man’s chest held no remorse, nor greater or personal vitriol. Stonewall barely knew what was upon him before the deed was done. The man on the other side was similarly wounded, blood seeping from rips in his gambeson. Yet he stood. Slowly, Seth pushed the body back off the sword, allowing it to crumple onto the floor. He did it. His last job was done

___

It was Coronation Day. What might have been a glorious celebration cut short by a tongue shriller than all the music. The trumpets outside, calling King Ramiel to enter went ignored, and by chance did Owen hear it - a cry of, “Why?!” drew Owen to the sight of blood. It was a horror. A hallway decorated with tears and broken knights. Courteously, they must have spent their final breaths crawling towards the walls, as if to leave the path unobstructed for a savior. Owen drew his oathsworn longsword and charged down the hall before kicking in the doors to the king’s bedchamber.

He froze.

___

As the body lay dying before Seth, his chest pulsed red hot pain with each breath. However, any moment of respite was interrupted as he swung his body around to face the opening doors. His sword, which had been immediately thrust up and at the ready slowly lowered as their gaze met. The two men hadn’t seen each other in decades, it felt like. Not since that night. The memories of the end of the Kormyrian Civil War came rushing back. Seth recalled their last moments together: an embrace. “We won,” Owen had cried into his ear. The two men, young and full of hope celebrated with everything they had that night. Now, both past their prime, the two men were face to face again, only a whispering echo of that night between them.

“Been a long time, Piper.”

__

Those same steely eyes. Unwavering. Unapologetic. Forever and a day ago, Owen had wondered if it would come to this. He wondered if Seth’s unyielding would finally cross the line. He wondered if his sworn oaths would demand that they come to blows. Owen’s blade rose, half-hearted, to a defensive position. His gaze shifted to the dying King, to Seth, and to the window. The options raced through his mind.

‘If you break the window - call for help, you can save him. Seth is the better killer by far, but he’s wounded. If you act now, you can hold him off long enough to save Ramiel. If you act now, you can save the King. You have to act now.’

A moment passed, and his stance dropped, the tip of his sword touched the ground, and all he did was repeat Ramiel’s parting word.

“Why?”

_____

Seth followed Owen’s gaze to the window. He almost had to stifle a laugh. Always tactical, never did he stop thinking. It seemed that even though Seth’s blade had lost its edge over the years, Owen’s mind had not. He was still sharp. Good, Kormyre will need that. He was already at peace with not surviving the night. and his new opponent would be one that could take him down without lifting his arm.

With a grunt, the once mercenary pushes his sword into the rug below him, the fibers having pooled with blood both his and foreign. Using it to balance himself, his free arm pressed against the open wound in his chest, doing very little to staunch the flood of crimson.

“He was the same.” Seth said through gritted teeth, looking down to the dying monarch. “Same as them all. Backstabbing, killing to rise to the top.” The would be kingslayer spat, a red liquid hitting the floor. “He buried Winterdark, worked with Sevenlore to make sure the body would never wake up, never be found.” His eyes slowly rose to meet Owen’s, suddenly lit by a fire that the Admiral might recognize from years past.

“It’s always about power.”

___

Owen blinked. A pregnant silence ticked away at what precious little time Ramiel had left. He had suspected, but never knew. Too focused, he was, on elevating Hystern. Too focused on all the bullshit in the Kormyrian aristocracy. Never had he taken the time to look upon Ramiel with hard eyes. ‘Am I slipping?’ The wonder and self-doubt sat heavy in the back of his throat. He opened his mouth to demand evidence, but swiftly closed it with a shake of his head.

He knew those eyes. The dark red pools growing on the ground spoke all the truth he needed. This was an act born of certainty.

“Why would you not tell us then?” His voice rose with anger, but the stone in his throat prevented him from screaming. Only a bitter, frustrated croak emerged from his lips. “We could have held a Tribunal! We could have laid the truth bare before all the eyes of Kormyre! This could have been the-”

__

“There was no time, Owen.” He spat out the words, almost as violently as the blood. “His coronation was tonight, I didn’t have time.” He shook his head, breaking eye contact as his gaze fell to the floor. Second thoughts--or was he struggling to stand? “The proof came too late, he was getting away with it, and…” He paused, before meeting Owen’s eyes again. “And I don’t trust Kormyre anymore.”

He thought of saying more, but he knew his words would be meaningless. Owen knew. Since the Count’s untimely slumber, other parties found themselves easily taking to the power vacuum. Bureaucracy had never been to Seth’s disposition, and it had only gotten less direct and more complicated as the years had carried on. “It’s done, Owen.”

___

His longsword rattled within a quivering palm. He wanted to kick the sword out from beneath Seth, watch him collapse as weakness overtook him. The Lord Admiral’s eyes lost focus as his imagination ran wild. To challenge the king for the murder of his friend, beloved by all, would no doubt spell chaos for the Realm. The nobles would call it a plot. The commoner? A call to arms. Rival nations might have seen it as the moment to strike. Any number of disasters could have befallen the kingdom once the truth was revealed to the world.

And yet, at the same time, very little could have happened at all. It was a time of peace, after all. Perhaps the inquisitors would simply bring Ramiel to trial, to justice. Perhaps Ramiel would confess, and Hystern be named with peaceful abdication. There was potential for anything.

Only now they would never know. The decision was made.

“Be gone with you.” Owen lowered his eyes to the floor and dropped his sword with pitiful ringing. He stepped away from the door. “Be done with this, for good.”

_______________

The man watched the sword lower and his opponent step to the side. There was one thing Owen wasn’t, and that was a liar. He picked up his sword, and began walking. Though slow, though limping, and though through a pained grimace, Seth walked out the door he had come in from. As he passed the Lord Admiral, he paused for just a moment, giving him a small glance and nod.

“Yeah...See you around, Owen.” And he was gone. __________________

Near a moonlit lake, a body lay on an unmarked grave. The body, clad in armor and sword was still wet from the fatal wounds which rendered it such. On the bodies face, a smile.

Port Valandria

“Admiral Puren?”

“Yes, Cadet?”

“Sir, is it true what they say about you?”

Cobus Puren looked away from the chalk lines showing naval battles of long ago and far away and turned to regard the upstart in his classroom. But grizzled features and grey beard twisted in a wry smile as Cobus surveyed the other.

“Well, son. That depends. Life I’ve led, there’s a lot of room for a lot of tales.”

The lad didn’t flinch. He wore his cadet’s uniform with the same hauteur that he did his eminent family’s name. “They say that you were a common sellsword, Sir. Come over from Amon’zad.”

Cobus barked a laugh and folded his arms. “Right we’re starting from the beginning then. Go on.”

“They say that you came over here and signed on as a common sailor under Admiral Piper. That when you were promoted from the ranks, your first instinct was to deny it.”

It was so long, long ago now. When the Kormyrian Civil War had just been another contract, Travance the place where he’d died, and the Navy a new and unfamiliar place rather than a home and a family. It was long enough ago that the tale of his death had likely been gossiped about and passed off as a tall tale---that sort of thing didn’t happen much, anymore.

But he still remembered that day, when the Old Man had sat him down on a bench in the Dragon’s Claw and placed a hand on his shoulder to tell him. That he’d proven his worth as a leader and a subordinate, and that he was being wasted as an NCO---and thus he was to be commissioned, promoted Lieutenant. An officer.

Cobus had teared up. He hadn’t been ashamed of it then, nor was he now. He’d told Admiral Piper he wouldn’t let him down, and rendered his first salute as a commissioned officer.

“You’re not wrong,” he said, smiling wistfully. “Sometimes when offered the chance to be greater, the comfort of what we know we can do can prove one hell of a siren’s call, eh? But I took the commission all the same. No regrets.”

The cadet’s eyes narrowed almost suspiciously at the insinuation that a former officer of the Royal Navy, even one now retired and drawing half-pay, could have turned down a chance at glory and greatness. When the youth spoke next, his tone was almost accusatory.

“They say you didn’t get a ship after that. That you put together a team of glorified soldiers, instead, rather than ask for one.”

Cobus laughed. “The ultimate sin, for a sailor. Lucky for me I was still very much a grunt, at the time. Yes, I did.”

“Why.”

“Might be more effective if you learn for yourself, son. To make sure that you do---five hundred word essay, due two days from now, on the role of the 1st Raider Force in the Kormyrian Civil War, and how it was the precursor to our modern-day marines.”

The cadet groaned, but that seemed to silence his one-student inquisition.

With the momentary insurrection silenced, Cobus made ready to turn back to the lesson at hand, but another cadet in the back raised her hand.

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“We’ve all read the histories.” Her voice was verging on petulant, not that Cobus could blame her. The history of the Kormyrian Civil War was part of every cadet’s basic instruction. “Tech and tactics, sure, but they don’t tell us anything about the people.”

Now that hadn’t been something he’d expected to hear. “What do you mean?”

“You’re mentioned. But that’s it. No one else. There’s nothing about where they came from, or what happened to them after the war.”

What happened indeed?

Dan had disappeared into the dunes---he’d done a stint with the Kormyrian Army after the Navy’s drawdown, but that contract had come to an end with no chance of extension. He’d come to Cobus in Port Valandria, in the tattered remnants of his old Raiders uniform, asking Cobus for a letter of introduction to the Sultan’s Armed Forces in Ja’hogan.

You sure you want to go through with this, Dan?

Dan had lost much, but he’d still had his trademark stone face.

It’s all I’m good for, Sir.

Albine Duchamp, his longtime right hand, was dead. The sea had called to her as much as it had aboard Saguaro, but she’d opted for the more peaceful option of the Coast Haven merchant marine rather than trying to rejoin the Navy. She and Cobus had exchanged letters for years after the war, but he had never had the chance to see her again before her clipper went on a one-way trip into a typhoon.

Just remember, Cobus, you’ve made something for yourself here. Don’t go throwing it away because your trigger finger starts itching.

He’d done his best. Hopefully she knew that.

And Axiana Lockmoore?

Well. He still had that letter. And a lot of rumors he prayed were no longer true, hoping the Gods he held no faith in heard them. Maybe one day he’d be able to find out for sure.

“Sir? Admiral Puren?”

Cobus blinked, the world swam back into focus and the faces of longtime comrades vanished as he looked back at the cadet.

“That ain’t right, I promise you that,” he said hoarsely. “Go to the Academy archives; you’ll find my mission reports from each action we were in, from the First Siege of Trunrick, to the Relief of Alieander, to the Battle of Bastion’s Wake. But you’ll also find my reports to the Old---to Lord Admiral Piper, about formation, training, who was worth keeping and mentoring for better things. You’ll read the names, see who the leaders were, who could be counted on to scrounge up food when rations were tight or get a card game together in a trenchline.”

The cadets were nodding solemnly, no longer wanting to interrupt.

“Once you know those names, those who made it all the way to war’s end, and those who didn’t make it past Trunrick, you’ll truly know the story of the Raiders. It’s their story as much as mine. More, even, for those who fell.”

Cobus looked round the classroom, making sure to make eye contact with everyone.

“When you understand that---that history, glory, victory, command---doesn’t belong to you, isn’t about you? Then maybe, just maybe, you young scions with blood blue as the sea will be worthy of a commission.”

Silence.

“And if you don’t understand just yet, I’ll do my damnedest to make sure you do. Dismissed.”

Mae-

She watched her daughter laughing in the garden, smiling at the sight of the sun playing on her hair. Her son stood beside her, his armor sitting comfortably on his shoulders. Funny that he seemed so young- she had been older than he when she went to Travance and yet... had she been that young?

The years had been kind to Mae and her family even when Namisar ceased to move inside of her. The realization that her phoenix- her sister- her soul- was gone had hit Mae hard for years. Her only joy had been her children and family. Her husband, an arranged marriage but a man she could at least be proud of, had passed away in a border raid a year ago but while she felt some sadness at his passing, in reality she could readily admit that she had never desired to be married. Her children would not live that life- her daughter had already professed a desire to be a druidess even as magic drifted away from the world. Her son was proud to serve the Emperor which was something she approved of. All in all, her world had settled in the last decades- certainly something that she had never anticipated before. Her youth seemed like a dream at times- the excitement, danger, magic, power, and tragedy was like a fantasy. She still owned her land in Travance however- something that she was planning on passing on to her family when she passed. She still had some years for that however. Even in her late 40s, she was strong and healthy, her healing magic dwindling but her skill with it still as efficient as always.

What would the future bring?

Allyce-

Growing old was something that she had never considered when she was younger. The old injuries that had never had a true chance to heal in Alok Malagan due to his tactics had kicked in violently a few years before, almost crippling her ability to take active roles in her businesses and city. She could feel the gibbering paranoia still whispering in the back of her mind that she had to run, had to show no weakness, could trust no one. She had forced herself to not order executions, commit murders, banish others when the paranoia hit too hard. Happily, she had more than enough reason to believe her people at this point- when she still had her bat, she had used it to ensure that they had had no designs. And now...

Well now it didn't seem to matter. She leaned her head back against the pillow on her chair, closing her eyes briefly. Her heart hurt to beat now- the physician and healer stated that the necromancy she had been subjected to had caused it to start to fail early. So, she supposed, Pes won after all. She opened her eyes and looked at her wall across from her, her gaze flicking from object to object arranged there for her to look at. So many triumphs. So many things vanquished. So many people freed. Some people couldn't say as much, she knew, Had she done enough? Couldn't she still do more? Her mind raged at her broken body for not being able to function. So many people she had known were still alive- still healthy. Why now- why always? Why...why...why...

She turned her head to the window and allowed the better memories to run through her mind as she watched the sun rise. Funny that the sun should rise. Funny that that might be the last thing she saw. She had always assumed she would die in the dark. Even now, at the end, she freely admitted she was still Dark. But Dark wasn't always wrong, she knew. You could use your Darkness just as well, if not better than, some of those of the Light. Something Oren had never understood.

Closing her eyes, she felt the sun's rays and warmth wash over her skin, relaxing into the fabric. Her heart and soul still raged at the unfairness and yet, her body slowed and slowed. Perhaps... perhaps things would be different now. Perhaps she could allow Juliana to live next time. She would never regret being Allyce. But.

Perhaps, the innocent could live next....

At the end, Allyce's body was found in her chair, her face tilted towards the sun. Her people honored her wishes and continued her work- freeing slaves, acting as bodyguards both for good and ill businessmen and -women. And above all, protecting her legacy. For someone who had feared her whole life of being betrayed, she had finally created a place where loyalty was never a factor to worry about. She had finally created her own kingdom and protected it to her last breath. She had finally created a home.

The Next Chapter Pt 3 Kel sat in the sunroom of her home, her weapons and armor scattered about her as she saw to the care of each piece. Her current focus was a chestpiece, which she currently worked to clean and polish. As she worked, she talked out loud. “Sometimes I still wish you were here,” she said quietly. “You would love my new squire I think. Reminds me a lot of you some days. Still got a long way to go, but I’m sure he’ll get there. Winks is doing well. I mean, well enough I guess. I try my best to help him, but I’m not sure how much longer he’s going to be able to keep doing this. I wonder some days if I should tell him to rest. I know as soon as Owen names a replacement he’s stepping down but just… where do I go from here?” Content with her work, she set the piece aside and picked up the next. The way she moved showed that this was a well known routine. “Do I stay as Winks’ retainer? I could keep helping him as I do now. Staying at his side and supporting him. Do I go back to being a Knight of Kormyre? All I have ever wanted was to help and serve the People. I’ve learned how to do it on my own. No more powers from Valos, no more dragon spirit to help strengthen me. It’s my own power now. And while it’s not where I used to be, I can still do it. But I wonder if this world is really for Heroes like me anymore.” Her eyes flicked to a small shelf in the room. Placed carefully where the sun would hit it each morning was a well-worn bust that she had kept with her since her days in Travance. The face of Tristram looked down on the room, and it is obvious this is what she had been talking to. “I’m sure if you were here you would give me some wise advice that ultimately leaves the decision up to me. You were always good at helping me figure it out on my own.” As she finished the final piece of armor, she tucked it all away in a corner of the room dedicated to storage. Reaching up she brushed a hand across an old worn shield with a Lion Rampant and lightning bolts on it. The old shield she used all those years ago. “I guess I’ll stick with Winks for a while longer. Maybe we can do some good in Loez or something… maybe we can actually get a solution for that Empire of Vorllorn. I’m sorry I never got…” her voice fell and she hung her head for a moment. “All these years and I can’t let go of revenge, huh?” she muttered to herself.

She might have gotten lost in thought if it weren’t for a call from somewhere further in the house. Seems her new squire was here and ready for his training. A final glance at the bust and she gave a small smile. “I miss you old friend. And I hope I’ve made you proud with how far I’ve come.”

Part 1:

Foul Murder - 1237

“Sitters of the Tribunal, o High Magistrates of the Great and Noble Law of the Ever-Growing Kingdom of Kormyre, I profess to you, this most reasonable suspicion that the Lord Admiral, confidante and namer of Good King Hystern, had motive and means to enact the Foul Murder of King Ramiel the Elevated.”

Owen Piper sat in the Accused Chair, blankly staring forward. He did not fear the Tribunal. The Lawful Eyes of Kormyre rested upon him, and all the Eyes did see was boredom. The room was full of persons in brilliant, yet grim, livery; some of the greatest magicians of the time, enervated as they were, had placed their mightiest wards all about the Cold Iron Chamber; the crime of the century had repeated itself only 25 years later.

And yet Owen Piper, the Accused, was bored.

The Trial assumed a cyclical form. The Inquisitor, a face Owen did not recognize nor remember years later, was in possession of a stubbornness and zeal that led them ask the same question a dozen different ways. They led Lord Admiral Piper through several reminders - that he campaigned for Hystern, named King in the wake of Late Ramiel, that he once was the master of a spy network without oversight of the Kingdom, that he declared, on many occasions, that he would do anything to serve the Kormyrian People.

“On these notions, I assert that Owen Piper acted on the assumption that, although the late Ramiel served his Kingdom well, King Hystern would serve the people better, and thus a Foul Murder would ultimately serve the people.”

The Tribunal weighed the argument. Owen did often make plays of Greater Good, and so the conflict between his ethics and morals did come into reasonable question. The trial continued with what few physical truths the Inquisitor had.

“Whose hands bore the royal blood of the late Ramiel upon the arrival of the Guard?”

“Mine,” sighed Owen.

“And did you see a killer in the room when you were beside his body?”

“No,” he said, for the thousandth time.

“Were there no mirrors in the room?” The crowd stifled an ugly chortle. Owen only closed his eyes.

“What dishonor we bring to him by making jest under these circumstances.” Owen rested his face upon his hand as silence took the room. The long pause was broken only after an awkward cough by a magistrate.

“Did you call for help when you were beside his body?”

“No. I did not think to. Good judgement escaped me as I looked upon a man I once called friend.”

“Curious. You’re quite honest about your failures to our Late King.” Concerned eyes met around the Chamber.

“I am. I have nothing to hide.” Owen’s eyes passed far beyond the Inquisitor, blinking slowly. His low, monotone voice echoed throughout the quiet room.

“I suppose I should ask you then, Lord Admiral,” The Inquisitor faced away from Owen then, as they uncorked a bottle of fine brandy and slowly filled a tumbler. “Did you murder the Late King Ramiel Stonewall?”

“I did not murder him.”

“Did you conspire to have someone do it for you?”

“I did not conspire.”

“Did you kill him?”

“I did not murder him.”

The Tribunal adjourned by midnight, six years to the day before Owen Piper was declared Baron of Travance.

Winks Part 3

Winter of 1244

He doesn’t stand throughout his public audiences anymore. He can’t. But he keeps receiving petitioners just the same, as it’s one of the few things left for him to enjoy.

Wrapped in a red and black wool cloak, huddled in his chair, Lord Winks Nurodo nods to Ser Keladry, his first knight, signaling her to usher the last of the petitioners out of the room for the day. Eventually only three people remain in the hall: Winks, Kel, and Owen Piper, Baron of Travance, who had surreptitiously kept to the shadows since his arrival, not wanting to intrude on Winks’ lordly duties.

Kel hovers by the side of the chair, making sure Winks is comfortable. He pats her arm and smiles, nodding again first to Owen, and then at her. Understanding, she walks to the entrance to the hall and takes up a post just outside the door, leaving the two old friends their privacy.

“You’re getting old, either that or the position is getting to you,” Winks says with a smile, pointing at Owen’s mid-length salt-and-pepper hair.

“And you do not look a day over a hundred, my friend,” Owen returns with a smirk of his own.

“I could still run circles around you though.” “I bet you say that to everyone from the old days.”

Winks sighs, “nah, mainly just you, and Caelvin when he visits. Which isn’t nearly as often anymore since he got promoted as well. I’m really not as young as I used to be.”

With a snort, Owen tries to brush off the last comment, but it’s half-hearted, and he knows it. The Lord of Drega’mire is now over 50 years old, and the longest presiding lord in the land’s tumultuous history. And although Owen himself is only a few years younger, goblins age differently than humans, even those who are half hobgoblin. As much as the new Baron doesn’t want to admit it, Winks is showing his age to an extreme degree. Long hair gone almost fully gray, wrinkles in his face, even the tips of his pointed ears seem to droop lower every time they see each other. The continued appearances of the rat swarms that started a few years ago haven’t helped, he’s sure, though he knows Winks still gets up and does everything he can whenever they return. Owen opens his mouth to offer words of encouragement, but Winks cuts him off.

“I can’t do this anymore, Owen.”

A moment passes that seems like an eternity. “Well, I cannot say that I saw that coming…”

“Oh come on. I’m an old man now, a literal grandfather after having the nickname for years. Do you remember when we first arrived in Travance, people around the world thought that the life expectancy for goblins was only thirty years. Even though we discovered that was only because of their horrible treatment in Gaaldron and New Gaaldron, we still don’t live as long as a lot of the other races of Arawyn. And here I am, fifty-one years old, unable to move nearly as fast as I used to, in fact needing a cane to get around more often than not. I have to rely on Keladry more and more lately, and I hate it, and she knows it, and that’s not fair to either of us. And then…”

He pauses and heaves a shuddering sigh. Owen braces himself, he thinks he knows what’s coming next.

“And then we got the news about Gaaldron. That hit both Kel and I pretty hard, for different reasons. For her, the thought that after all this time the people of Vorllorn still continue the misguided ideas of Baliol. And for me, well, although Travance has been my home for the majority of my life, Gaaldron is still where I was born, and I had actually been keeping up communications with my family after my own grandfather passed away. I haven’t heard from them in months, and now I know why. I have no idea who, if any of them, are even left.”

Owen takes the opportunity to chime in. “You know I understand all of that, my friend. If memory serves there have been very few of us old hats who have not lost family at some point. It is never easy, and some of those losses are harder than others. So it is natural to feel the way you do right now. But in terms of your ability, need I remind you that you were the first to welcome me when I was appointed Baron last year. We have worked together either directly or peripherally for too long for me to ever doubt your capability to serve as Lord. You have been a boon to both Travance and Kormyre your whole life and…”

“And after all this time I deserve to rest.”

The silence between them stretches from seconds into minutes. Winks slumps back into his seat, and after a few moments Owen awkwardly pulls a bench over to sit down in front of his friend.

“So what is it you want to do, Winks?”

“It’s not what I want, but what I need to do. I have to step down as Lord.” He holds up a hand to keep Owen from interrupting, “It won’t be right away. You know how much I love Drega’mire, so I’m not just going to leave you in the lurch. I will stay until you name a successor. Kel knows my plan, and I’m going to let her decide what she’s going to do when the time comes. I’ll likely head back to Loez, and speak to both Aleister and His Majesty about what, if anything, I can do next. If my remaining years are numbered, and my health is only going to last for so long, then it’s not fair for me to hold on to power here. I don’t know what His Majesty’s plans are regarding what happened in Gaaldron, but maybe I can provide him some insight.”

A smirk makes its way onto Owen’s face, “that does not sound very much like resting.”

“No, maybe not. But it will hopefully be less taxing on me than my duties here. I don’t know, maybe I’ll just become a hermit instead, make myself a cabin somewhere in the woods, and throw things at people from my porch when they come too close. My aim is still pretty good.”

Owen stands up from the bench, “so what now, then?”

“Now? For now I’ll continue, until you name a successor to take my place. And don’t take your sweet time about it either.”

“Well there goes that plan.” The two of them share another laugh, but the mirth is tinged with sadness.

The two of them share a bit more small talk until Kel comes in to let Winks know that dinner is ready, which Owen politely declines to join. As the Baron of Travance leaves Oringard that night he wonders, “who could I ever find to fill those shoes?”

Robert Wrightman - Stamped and Sealed

All to plan. Best case scenario. Gold flowed, at first in gouts, but now in rapids. Every stray silver had to be dammed into the right place for the mortal kingdoms to have some- any chance. The Lord-Provost stared out the grand windows of his office with his last working eye, letting the numbers flow through him. Countless businesses, companies, and officials- stones he'd placed over decades to guide the stream. Even consumed in Khitan's most recent embargo down to the last digit he still heard the door creak open. He recognized the gentle plod of his goblinoid steward- the shift of black and gold fabric-

Rog Smorkel kept his gaze low in his address- his tone measured, "My Lord."

Even from the brief address he could tell Smorkel wanted something, "What?"

"A missive has arrived from your son- as well as your husband-! They wish to-"

"Leave it on the table."

"Y-yes my lord." Smorkel collected himself as he placed the plain letter amongst the other missives and notices- Gathering his courage for something...

"My intended wishes to marry this Springfair- beneath the Jaws of the Rift. If I may catch a gate I would request a days time to-"

He'd missed so many weddings. So many name-days. So many Yules. The River had to flow, "Sojourn to the maw? Springfair is a busy season. In that time I require 200lbs of venison, 50 gallons of wine, 10 pounds of gold to be transported..."

The goblin restrained his disappointment. Always a loyal agent,"Of course my lord."

"Ensure it arrives at a vital bonding ceremony at the Jaws of the Rift... Goblinoids do not oft taste venison- ensure it is not over cooked. Flank meat requires only a brief seer. Take a month to ensure this... Do you understand my instruction Smorkel?"

Surprise and giddy excitement slipped into the little vassal's otherwise professional tone, "Y-Yes my lord-!"

"Good. Get out." The door slapped shut. More work for himself, but the river had to flow. He approached the desk, taking up the letter. The Provost wondered if his son still thought he got the scars fighting dragons.

The Descent Part 3

[CW: Death]

A sickly caw broke the sound of the night. The worn collar around it’s neck marked it as one of Khala’s old flock, and only the strange patches of missing feathers really gave away the fact that this raven wasn’t actually alive. One of the last remnants of Khala’s old flock and her only remaining undead, the bird that had once been Reason stood guard outside her current hideout. A small run-down cottage far away from people was her current temporary location, and it looked relatively normal from the outside. Although most would find themselves caught in some sort of trap if they weren’t careful approaching.

Inside the stench of death permeated the building, but Khala seemed to pay it no mind. The years had not been good to her. It was hard to imagine this gaunt, crazed figure had once been the woman who spent her time in Travance. Now she sat hunched over a desk in the basement scribbling madly. The room behind her was filled with markings. A circle drawn on the floor surrounded by various runes and markings. There were crystals and candles scattered in strategic places. Every bit of her knowledge of magic from the years had been poured into this. “I have to get it back…” she muttered to herself. “It can’t be gone. I won’t let it. I need it back. I just have to use the final piece… it should work this time. This time I’ve done it right. I have to…” Her eyes drifted over to the man bound in the corner. She showed no recognition of his fear or muffled cries, trying desperately to free his bonds. She didn’t even know who he was. Some poor farmer that had happened to be out at night alone. Even though her magic was mostly gone, she still had some of her natural stealth abilities and thieves training. You didn’t need supernatural strength to know how to sneak up on someone and catch them off guard. And she had been practicing lately. Every ritual she had been attempting to try and bring the magic back included a sacrifice. Commonfolk had been disappearing over the past few years. It had started with just one or two from different towns, enough that if you hadn’t been looking you might not have seen the pattern. She kept moving too. Different lands and countries, rarely did she stay in one place for very long. The past year she had become a little more aggressive about it. The kidnappings were almost nightly as she kept tweaking her work. Vaguely it tugged at the back of her mind that she was somewhere in Travance right now, although she couldn’t remember which land it was anymore. As fast as the thought had come, it was gone again, her mind back to the task at hand. Everything had to be perfect. “Almost time…” she muttered. “It’s almost time. Gotta keep trying. Gotta bring it back…”

A noise above her made her fall silent, cocking her head to listen. At first she thought that maybe it was just one of her undead, but then she remembered that she hadn’t been able to create one in a long time at this point. A sharp hiss escaped her lips as she darted into a shadowy corner where there lay a few discarded bodies. Once there she crouched and fell still, blending in with them as she listened. It wasn’t long before she heard another sound. Footsteps on the stairs. Hushed and whispered voices. A faint tickle of memory in the back of her mind. Her wild eyes locked on the two figures that entered the basement.

Her mind didn’t even register the words they were saying. What she did register was when they crouched down to start untying her sacrifice. That was her tipping point. With a snarl she leapt from her hiding spot, one hand pulling out her dagger and the other grasping at strands to try and throw a spell. The magic fizzled weakly, what little got through was deflected easily.

“Khala…” she heard a familiar voice say. It almost sounded like they were pleading. There were more words but she didn’t hear them. Instead she snarled out a loud “Don’t touch my materials!” before lunging forward, slashing with her dagger. The words they said went over her head. Briefly she recognized someone asking her to stop. Asking her to rethink what she was doing. But they wouldn’t stop her. They couldn’t stop her.

Or could they. Suddenly pain flared. Blinking, she looked down to see the blade in her stomach. She managed to get out another couple weak slashes with her dagger before she slumped, feeling arms catching her. Looking up at the face above her it was like a veil had been lifted and clarity came into her eyes. They might have aged since the last time she saw them, but she recognized the faces of Aleister and Maria as they looked down on her with sadness and concern. Her mind remembered lessons in his home. Picnics with Maria where they just escaped from the world for a little while. People who treated her like family. And everything hit her as she shuddered in pain, tears falling down her face.

“I didn’t... “ she muttered quietly. “I’m sorry… I just wanted it back. But don’t worry I’ll come back. I always do…” Her voice faded away. And this time… this time her soul didn’t come back.

1243 - Bitzzz leads an envoy to the Hybernian lands under a flag of peace to discuss a trade allience. She knows they will be suspect, but a hand open with a new ruling class may be the start of a new way. Enax can be honored without violence, but with coiommerce.

1235: Caelvan walks up to a large building in the middle of Oringaurd. He takes a deep breath. He hasn’t stepped foot here in so long. The guards stop him until they see the sigil on his warskirt that marked him as a March Warden of Selendrias and he steps inside to speak to the steward. He was lucky the Lord was in the manor today. The steward opens the door and Caelvan walks in to see his old friend sitting behind the desk. He looks him over and simply starts with…

“You’ve gotten old.” Winks gives his old mischievous grin before replying: “Still can tumble circles around you anyway I bet.”

Caelvan sighs as this debate still will never be settled it seems. “Glad to see you again old friend. I’m glad you haven’t changed. I came here to help with the expansion and wanted to stop by and say hello before getting too involved to do that.” Winks smiles and replies, “I still have the obstacle course set up, we should run it again sometime soon. In the meantime, it was a pleasure seeing you again.” Caelvan, thinking his old friend had business to attend to, “Be interesting after all this time. I’ll leave you to your busy work as a fancy Lord now. Hopefully I will see you soon.”

He walks out onto the busy streets of Oringuard and heads back to Albriar.

1239: Caelvan shoots fire arrows into these rats. These damn things that would have been easy to deal with 20 years ago are such a nuisance. Can’t even kill these things, just shove them away ever since we learned their weakness. Ugh such pests. They retreat for now and the area becomes safe, if only for a little while.

1242: It happened. The first of many Caelvan knew would come when he took on his mantle of being a Grove Spirit. He got the notice that his mother passed away. He sat in the Dragon’s Claw Inn drinking. He hasn’t tried to get this drunk in decades. His thoughts were consumed by “I can’t do this anymore.”

A female voice starts replying in his head. “You can. We discussed this when she was getting old.”

“That was before this became a reality. It’s easy to agree in abstracts. When it actually happens, and I realized that this is only the beginning, it hurts even more. mortals don’t have to worry about this.”

“They do. Everyone has to feel the loss that you are feeling with your mother.”

Caelvan slams his fist down on the counter, frightening the few people gathered in the room.

“Not like this. I will have to watch my friends and relatives die all those I hold dear, even those I don't know yet. Not many need to feel this. What am I supposed to do?”

The voice pauses for a moment. “Live. Live for those who can not live forever. Watch over them and keep them safe from the small pockets of violence still in this world.”

Caelvan relaxes. “You’re right. But I do need to head home. I need to say goodbye.”

“You know we only have one of those left right? If we come back here we will need to travel like everyone else, by land or sea, it will take months to get back here.”

“I’m already three months late. It took that long to get here. I need to go back.”

He leaves a letter for Alister describing the situation and how to reach him if he needs help in the future. A short one, but one that conveys all the feelings that he had in helping him for almost a decade, as well as during the time of heroes.

Afterwards, he walks to the old location the Hunter’s Grove was located. The thorn bush has lost its flame, but it’s tie to Araywn was there, if very faint. He puts his hand on the top and shimmers. In a flash of primal light he was gone.

1243: Caelvan was kneeling before the Queen, his charge and closest friend slightly in front of her. He was reciting an oath similar to one he took two decades prior when he was re-instated as a March Warden. After the oath is complete, the Queen steps forward. “Rise Lord Marshal Caelvan Renaith.” He stands and takes his place next to the Queen on the opposite side of Voice Oakenheart, pride swelling inside him.

6 Months later he’s in his office overlooking a map of Selendrias as Oakenheart comes in. “Caelvan, we need you to form an escort for one of the most important events in our history. The final treaty needs to be signed and it requires the royal seal to be completed.”

Caelvan nods and puts himself at the top of the list of Wardens in the escort. He remembered the hunts that his people went on against other elven nations and he had every intention of seeing the historic peace occur.

Cardinal Ephrem at the election of a new Pontiff, winter of 1241 (Part III)

“No!”

The other Cardinal jumped slightly at the severity of the old man’s response, so much that the delicate tea cup in his own hand rattled against the saucer in the other. “But….but Ephrem, there is no other choice. Darsen’s control over the voting Cardinals is choking the process. You are the only one who can break this stalemate. For the gods’ sake, you carry The Crown. You’re the only one who both sides …”

“No!”

After some silence Ephrem sighed, pausing to bring his tone down. “I am not the proper choice according to the will of Valos. Of this I am certain.”

“But the electors will never come to consensus. Farrow does not have enough support among the elder cardinals. The direction Mitliff seeks is unsustainable; we all know that. Your nomination is the only way that …”

“No!” with a wave of his hand, “No more mention of that.” Another long silence wedged the air between the two cardinals of the Church of Valos. Ephrem continued, “Stinhope, my time is over. The time of heroes and miracles has come to a close. Artreus and I both belong to a bygone era. It is no use denying it.” With a wearied look he added, “You do know, my friend, that I am only a few years younger than Artreus is - than Artreus was.”

“Nonsense. You are more hale than either that reactionary or that radical. And if I do put your name as candidate, Farrow will most definitely support you and will probably be the obvious choice soon enough after your pontificate is over.” His words trailed off as he realized the chill of his last remark.

Ephrem leaned forward in his chair to look more directly at his friend. “Don’t you understand. This is not about wielding power, not about church politics, not about manipulating processes. This is about faith and trust in our...” His words were interrupted by a loud knock at the door and a voice on the other side, “Your Eminences, the Conclave is called to continue!”

As Ephrem and his friend were joined by other cardinals, the corridors became rivers of vestments merging the electors into the chapel ante-room. Porters held the doors open leading into the expanse of the main chapel as armored clerics patrolled and guarded the area. Groups of cardinals formed clusters within. The general din of the chapel grew louder, punctuated by occasional outbursts, as informal discussions and debates began.

All fell quiet as the presiding Cardinal-chamberlain ascended the stairs onto the large podium to announce the start of the session. As he reached the high seraphic sculpted lectern all eyes were on him except for the few stray glances cast upon Cardinal Ephrem who was to speak in this crucial session of the Conclave. After the opening chant, the presider led the prayer with the ritual responses by all.

Each of the cardinals had the right to speak at the Conclave, but in the past few centuries the practice had developed that the entire clergy would cast a pre-conciliar vote to choose twelve who would take the roles of Orators of the Conclave. Ephrem with the most support was in the pivotal role of the Orator Penultimus (the next to last speaker) as the Orator Ultimus simply spoke the ritual words for the call to vote. In the past, Orators could question candidates from the podium. An Orator also had the right to call upon a celestial to aid them. But with the waning of power no one now had that ability, or so everyone had assumed.

The Cardinal-chamberlain announced, “Cardinal Ephrem of Travance, come forth to speak.” No one watched the presider descend the few stairs down from the lectern. All eyes were upon the white bearded prelate slowly making his way through the men and women of the conclave. His dusty robes and walking staff all looked worn and haggard from his many journeys. However, his slower pace moving through the cardinals was more intentional rather than a result of his nearly eighty years on Arawyn. As he ascended the steps he took a deep breath and silently prayed that the true word of Valos fill his heart and pour forth from his mouth.

Although not as strong as of old, his voice carried and echoed through the main chapel. Ephrem spoke with wisdom and eloquence of hope in the coming future. He spoke of faith and love carrying the world into this new era of waning powers. He spoke of “how sweeter and stronger the faith could be” when the evidence is not tangible and obvious, but instead is made evident by the intangible truths of the heart; how “faith will endure because faith will carry the people of this world beyond what can be seen.”

“And now," he continued, "as to the reason for this Conclave. We must select the new High Pontiff to take us into this undiscovered world that people of faith must enter.” His voice rose in volume, “Therefore I call upon my right to question the candidates. I seek to know how each of them will face temptation and corruption.” Raising his staff and shouting the words, “To test these candidates, I call upon my right to bring forth a celestial from the realms of Eodra!”

As his staff came down upon the podium, a corona the color of the brightest light formed around it. All who were present felt the power of Valos as it felt before the waning; but all knew that this was a last liminal vestige of that power ever to be seen on Arawyn. The light shot forth like spears to where the three candidates were seated. But where the light hit the floor a black smoke rose up. The smell of sulfur and phosphorus filled the holy place. From the darkness a slithering figure took shape into the form of a huge snakelike creature with the upper body of a brawny, bearded man. The celestial looked sneeringly at the candidates, turned, looked up to the podium, nodded in greeting, smiled and said, “Ephrem.”

Cardinal Ephrem nodded in return. “Jed.” After a brief pause he added, “They’re all yours. Let’s see what they’re made of.”

Part III: Warhound Becomes the Alpha

Father Donny walked into the feasting hall of Glen Athyll. In their tradition, he was unarmored and simply armed. Just a fellow, a priest with a sword. His wife, Mother Hazel, came with him.

The pair of hounds marked him out as different. Large, mastiff type dogs with intelligent eyes and large heads, they obeyed their human, but no one approached without the dogs taking note. “I am Father Donald MacFhionnlaigh, The Black Bull of Glen Athyll, the Athair Gaisgeach. Kin to Glen Athyll and Caer Fayolin, Deeded ‘The Bloody’ by the late Argyle Del’Dragon Reign, One time bearer of a war banner of Kormyre during its Civil War. I was present when the Ri na Fola passed from this world, and ended the feud between our lands. I once defied fear itself when the mighty were paralyzed by it. I answer the summons of my kin and chieftains.”

The chieftains, many of them receiving tutelage in arms from the aging-but still potent-warrior priest, looked on. “Your father, our last elected king, has passed on. We have elected you. You ken the ways of lowlanders more than we, and we have decided to honor this wisdom and place you on the throne.” “My brother is wiser still than even I.” the priest stated, in the ritual of poking holes in the Council’s decision, a way of testing their resolve. “Your brother, he is wiser, but not the man who taught us arms, and whose wife taught us letters, healed our illnesses and wounds, and taught us the heart.” replied Duncan, the head of Clan Gordon. Things had gone a long way since his father had thrown the grandsire of Duncan out the window of this very hall, close to fifty years ago.

“You have often spoken with us, and exposed the flaws in our thoughts, kept us on the straight path, for the good of our people. We will accept no other as our Righ- and no other than Hazel as our Queen. It was unanimous.” boomed the rumbling bass voice of Seamus, of the Ul Neiras. They once ruled, but stepped aside when they had no one eligible to put on the throne. Instead, they put Donald’s father, Angus, as King. Angus had met his end as he would have wished to- axes in hand against a foe threatening his people. Now, Donald would rule. Donald did not like this at all. But the will of his people he would do. Even in Kormyre, he took in foundlings, taught them, and protected his people at any cost where he could. He would never kill Necrophitus, or Balliol. He was human, with human faults and failings. That did not matter, because his loyalty to his people, even when unpopular, or in foreign lands, was noticed. Kormyre may have spurned him, but the Dawn Blade, Caer Fayolin, and Glen Athyll all saw. Now he was being asked to serve still.

Hazel smiled. She knew this was coming. She had been told. She took her husband’s hands and led him to his new throne, the dogs sitting at his feet. There would be more ceremonies later.

When the rats came, Donny figured out how to use light and fire to stop them, but the Warhounds of Glen Athyll also had a third weapon to use: dogs. They bred dogs, in all forms, in respect of their clan sigil- the blue hound. Shepherds, guard dogs, war dogs, and even terriers for ratting they had, and as a result, the swarms were lessened there. Fewer rats to begin with means fewer rats to swarm.

Donald also recommended finding a way to bridge the rift up here. That was a process still in the finding. He sent congratulations and talked by correspondence to the new Pontiff.

Few heroes came to Travance from the Highlands. There was no need of them in a foreign expansion, but how to keep from getting encircled and annexed by Kormyre, a real concern in a lot of minds. “They can have the east of them, but North they cannot turn.” was King Donald’s thoughts on the matter. Emissaries came, seeking to assuage the thoughts of his people, to which the Athair Gaisgeach replied “We like you and your people plenty. We just have no desire to become you or make you become us. Do not turn north and we will be fine.” Donald watched the Hobgoblin Empire go with a wary eye. This made him feel old. The people he had fought since his boyhood were no more, and he sent people scrambling to watch this new empire. “We would have to learn a new way of war to fight them, should they get adventurous.” a thought he hoped would never come.

In the years since becoming a lich, Tari continued to feel her powers wane. She used them as often as she could and yet they still continued to fail. Cyan had lied, she was not stronger. Tari had taken a gamble and lost. It was time for Tari to put her affairs in order for when magic left this world, she would die. Tari had given up her chance to join the weave, and now what did she have left? Only one person left to see, Seamus

Tari had not seen her father in over twenty years. He did not know what had became of her, nor did he ever try to find out. Tari, however, had always known where he was, tracked him in one way or another. When she found him, he was in another dusty library, creeping towards him she could feel his heart beating, hear the slow turning of the pages and the pen furiously writing. As she neared she planned how this would go, excitement rose. Tari stepped around the corner, “Hello father, miss me?”

A much older Seamus looked up first with delight at hearing Tari’s voice. Then upon seeing what she had become Seamus’ face turned to sorrow. It was in that instance Tari finally fully understood the weight of her actions.

They talked long into the night, a deep meaningful conversation filled with yelling, accusations, tears, please, and finally forgiveness. He was a hunter, she was a lich there was only one action left to take; but in the end the father won over the hunter and Seamus stayed his blade. He invited Tari to stay with him, said he could find a cure to fix her. Tari knew this was hopeless but she agreed to stay anyway, for she had finally done it. Tari had returned home.

As the Hobgoblins fell, and the masses of the citizens of New Galderon rejoice, Bitzzz meets with the other leaders of the those now in charge.

Following the tenants of Enax that those who win are in charge, works to make it a reality.

The old ways of attempting to expand and defeat other nations failed Galderon to the point of destruction, proved that did not and will not work.

Instead, working as a nation to better the nation. The slave pits are emptied, giving homes, jobs and status to the workers. Creating an economy based on production, and free citizens will be difficult, but citizens working for themselves to better their families work harder than those threatened daily with death and murder of their loved ones.

Instead of exporting armies to die, exporting well made goods and materials will prove to Enax that they are a better nation.

Bitzz looks over what she and her allies have built, and thanks Mercy, and those who showed kindness in her time there and in Travance in her prayers.

Hopefully, she will be able to further New Galderon’s new government into a peaceful relationship with those of the human run Kingdom.

It would be glorious for all. Well, except for those who followed the old ways, and caused the downfall of Galderon.

Narcissus, after the release of the hordes of rats had rushed back to the keep. His ability to control them was lucky at best, and the only thing he could manage was to get them from devouring him. He was lucky to notice that they did not like the lantern he had been carrying, with live flame.

He would have to come clean about the decade lie he had been holding from Reno, if he wanted to keep them and his children safe. Thankfully, the keep was built well and in about a year or so he had perfected the placement of torches and lights around and inside the keep. He had attempted to win the favor of the hordes by giving them the bodies of his meals (He could no longer sustain himself easily on small amounts of blood), but their voracity was too great and he watched as oceans of rats left Alok Malagan to enter the rest of Palmydia.

He knew that at least now, his family would be safe from the waves of rats that he had unleashed onto the landscape.

He now sits on the edge of Nox's bed, the orphan he had taken in. Nox was asleep soundly as it was way past midnight. The child nearly ten years in age had grown up mostly out of Narcissus' sight.

When did he change? Narcissus used to light the torches himself before nightfall, but soon it became harder to desire to be up when the sun shined on the land. It burned and blinded and soon his own room would be sealed off from the light, the most dangerous area of the Keep.

He had expected the turn to be more momentous, but it had been slow and draining. When he was younger he hadn't thought anything would have been worth fighting a change, but as he kisses Nox's forehead a small sigh escapes his lips. Oriel and Nox, grew up, only seeing him at Night, assuming they were not asleep by the time he awoke. He had shoved this burden of child rearing onto Reno.

And As he returns to his own room, feels for the first time in a very long time, genuine guilt.

He lights the smallest of candles, just enough to illuminate what his well adjusted vision could see and he looks in the mirror of his vanity. With his weakening power, he had started the process of consuming his vestige to keep his strength long ago. It's now been several days however, since he felt any link to Melarus. He knew that it meant that Melarus had been weakened and consumed to the point of non sentience. This was the end for Melarus and Narcissus knew that there was likely no stopping the aging of himself.

Now nearly fifty, he examined a new grey hair that had appeared. He counted every one. The aging seemed to come quickly, he had expected to be stronger after the change, but perhaps this weakening affected that as well. As he looks at himself he suddenly confronts the reality.

He was going to die. There was nothing he could do to slow this slowly approaching death.

He pulls out parchment and begins to write to his siblings, nothing important is contained in it, just general conversation. He wasn't sure, how to spend the rest of what he now realized would be a short life, but perhaps with loved ones was the way to go.

Serr Thomas Bell - Of Swords and Ploughshares "Let's cut this wheat-!" Esther Bell clomped up onto the Tiller- she reached down, pulling the chord as the great beast hissed and roared to life.

"Let's get this bread-!" Jonah Bell clamped the bolts into the receiver with a green hand and pulled back the charging handle as the blades began to spin all about the hungry chariot.

"Plentya-Bread today!" As Esther peered out the view port, the seas of skittering scuttling teeth looked as good as dunes of gold ,"Ratter-one is up and rollin'!"

Her chariot gave a whistle signaling to the other ratters that it was time to get sniffin'. Her invention crashed into the waves, scything blades turning the hordes to crimson mulch as she whooped and yelled- the new blades worked hella good.

On a nearby hill Tom ruffled a hand through his gray hair, as he watched the death machines carve through the ocean of rats, "Well I spose it's somethin' like farmin'."