As Your Lordship Commands

[Darth_Malevo]

County of Marche

It is the case, as with many great empires, that sacrifices must be made. Lives must be expended, money spent, and resources tossed about to ensure that the sun may never set upon the true rulers. This was little different from the County of Marche: Ruled through the expense of knowledge, information passing up the hierarchy as the little fish were eaten by the bigger fish, who in turn were yanked from their pools so they might feed the greatest beast of all: The beast of paranoia. And it was in the halls of Castle Velius, named after the all-seeing Spymaster, that the beast of paranoia had its shackles cast aside and its terrifying form free to roam. Its wake is easy to discern: The frequent ‘accidents’ along the cities, the tales of farmers proclaiming witchcraft amongst their neighbors…

All of which were completely and undeniably true. To think otherwise would be to fuel insurrection, is this not correct? Of course it is! The hexing hags have been about, riding atop their broomsticks! Demons have been making deals with simple farm folk, and this cannot be had! Of course, many have been lynched, and the clergy has been out in force exhorting the values of staying loyal to the “Government Approved” pantheon of deific figures. On the other hand, the Dwarfish and Elven communities have been in a bit of upheaval, the cultural diffusion- only to be expected after such prolonged contact- having caused several issues. Primarily, the birth of a generation of Half-Dwarves (Primarily from the meeting of Dwarfish traders and a number of sleazy women, most of which are currently being held under suspicion of the previously mentioned religious deviation and demonic association).

The Elves, on the other hand, have become quite discontent with Velius’s Death Hand agents. No doubt the pointy-eared ingrates were hiding something of importance, for even now the Elves were making hostile demands in the all-too-reasonable public courts of Marche, outright refusing to permit inspectors within their villages. Military force has been held back at this point, primarily due to the fact that the last time a Death’s Hand agent moved in on the Elfish part of the city with some of the local lawmen, a particularly well-aimed barrage of arrows forced the men back (without losses, though that was likely due to their archery skill than any lack thereof).

As it stood, however, there were many examples to be made: Or not. Perhaps his majesty was going to be lenient?

Mercenaries of Trator

Trator was something that other kingdoms were not: It was, technically, entirely self-sufficient with its iron mines. Extensive as they were, the mercenary nation of Trator could keep itself supplied in military goods of fairly good quality for quite some time: Especially if it rationed civilian use of iron, and kept up a high standard of maintenance. Unfortunately, this self-sufficiency supplied by iron also meant that Trator had to do some minor wheeling-and-dealing in the trade market to ensure sufficient amounts of food were supplied to the small-but-well-fortified nation. On the upside, however, the nations that supplied Trator knew full well that favorable deals should be made: Without the trusty iron and steel of the mercenaries, as well as the tacticians to put it to good use, most of the farming communities and breadbaskets around Trator would either have fallen to orcs, trolls, or highwaymen with ambitions.

Trator’s fortress, situated on the plains, had survived countless sieges even before the mercenaries had moved in: everything from bands of crazed flagellants to, at one high point, an entire hive of Formians that had been usurped from their previous series of tunnels by the Dwarves. Now, with the mercenary band present, the fortress had become more powerful than ever. Arcane sigils fortified it, its waste regulated and annihilated without pause. It never found much in the way of want, its men keeping to their training, the garrison dispatched every so often to participate in some major, foreign war between two sides for valuable pay.

Yet whereas the fortress had stood against countless armies, some numbering in the thousands, now it stood before a group of no less than a dozen lizardfolk, each one dressed in dyed linen. They did not bring any heavy armaments, if one did not consider the wood-hafted pike each one carried. Headed with three spikes, the exotic weapons were no doubt both ceremonial and militarily used. Regardless, they would do little good against the arcane walls of the fortress.

“We seek Trator!” One of the lizardfolk hissed above, a colorful headband of feathers indicating it as the leader. Granted, the other lizards wore headbands as well, but those paled in color and style compared to the large one upon the speaker’s head: Measuring from the crown of its scaly scalp to just above its tail, there was an entire plethora of avian deceased on display. Whatever it wanted, it must have been important to come in person.

Hopefully this wasn’t just a fancy assassination attempt.

SF Hope

The SF Hope drifted through the air alongside the unmarked dirigible, though the higher-altitude Hope much more in the way of subtleties. With its various enchantments and boons, the “Star Fortress” was just that: An expensive, well-planned product made with the assent- and aid of- the Magus Council. The approval to produce what could readily be called a superweapon was long in coming, but the captain of this fine vessel had no need to worry of time, nor did those he associated with: The mustering of the crew, as well as the training thereof, was yet another expense that had required time to be approved.

But the Hope had been built, and the order of mages- controlling considerable assets that the Hope could very well use- had set out their first task. The escort of the dirigible it currently flew beside, the two slow vessels left to sail across the land. The only clear sign of the massive, flying fortress were what could only be considered its children: The vessels, tiny in comparison to the grand bulk of the dirigible, were in fact quite large. They were so large, in fact, as to actually be comparable to the fortified towers of most modern palaces. Propelled by arcane means, it was these towers that sailed about the vessel, whose captain- Commodore Milo- was aboard the Hope as a guest.

A particularly talkative, alcohol-inclined guest.

“Milo finds this vintage quite…sophisticated.” The Halfling would declare upon some odd bottle, sitting within the grand tavern of the freshly-christened Hope. The room, filled with the ambient noise of relaxing sky sailors and soldiers, was quite well decorated with ornamentation. Sturdy oak tables supported the grand bulk of their iron-wrought mugs, fine silk curtains providing privacy to those in the booths that wished it. More often than not, however, those curtains merely served as decoration: Strung about the high ceiling, set to create a fabric that linked each of the great banners and tapestries proudly displayed above the room. Though the “tavern” was younger than the men that drank and made merry within it, the room had a grand sense of age and wisdom within it. Likely this came from the urns at each table, upon which two items had been set without variation. The first was a small clay urn, in which a number of scented herbs and spices had been mixed and sent to burn through some ancient alchemical trick. No doubt it was just the proper blend of powders that ensured a slow flame and a heavy smoke that hovered above the ceiling, leaving the room smelling of tea leaves and cinnamon. The second item was a small bowl of scented water, in the middle of which (by some arcane art) a fire burnt freely above a small origami isle.

The room had been crafted with a bit of the spare change from the Magus Council, who had designed it according to their accommodation styles: Milo in particular thought that it was a silly idea, but no doubt the captain of the Hope would accommodate the room as he wished once the (considerable) debt had been paid off.

Milo, dressed in his usual strange attire, leaned over the table with a whole bottle in his hand. The tiny Halfling sat within a chair seemingly too large for himself, having claimed the highest stool within the room in an open dare for the crew to make a comment. None did, however, for the tiny man had proven his oddness from the first moment. His choice of attire was the first sign of what sort of mind might be inside such a vertically challenged form. Dressed within a bright blue officer’s jacket, he had over a dozen golden bars affixed where the buttons normally should have been. The collar had been carefully set, and a pair of diamond-studded cufflinks about his wrists. His pants, apparently made from fine leather, were frayed along the bottom in such a way that loose thread always seemed to brush against the floor and his knee-high leather boots. His hair had been shaven almost to the scalp except for the ponytail running from the back of his head, a massive tri-cone hat obscuring everything above his eyebrows except for his ponytail and the hint of a wrinkle. “Milo also finds it interesting that this trip has yielded him a fine view of this fine prototype. If he were so permitted, he would be most interested in finding where its privies are in particular.”

The Halfling gave a crooked smile as he took another heady slug of the bottle in his hand; leaning back in the fine chair he had claimed. “He would also like to know how these soldiers will survive where even Haza’Lemurians have failed. The demonologists are rarely paused, let alone vanishing entirely. He would even go so far,” The tiny man had a mischievous smile on his face, though not entirely unfriendly, “as to bet a crown that they do not report back after entering the city.”

This would not be entirely impossible: The city of Geban had been cut off from all contact, and any who had gone to investigate the sudden lack of communication had not returned or even been heard from the moment they entered the city limits. It was, for all intents and purposes, a silent grave. Hopefully that would not apply to the troops en route, which would no doubt be making contact within a matter of moments.

City State of Tyris

How is it that with such a grand city to shine throughout the world, evil can still exist? How can filth gather when porcelain walls stand so proudly? What evil wretches, filled with such an inner layer of spiritual grime, might subsist in the same world as the impressive city state of Tyris? With its grand spires, cobbled streets, and prominent noble houses, the city of Tyris- under the righteous reign of King Julian Wyborn- was a compendium of reasons as to why there could be no greater cause than the annihilation of darkness.

But, for all of its mighty boons, it had its losses. The streets, packed with well trained soldiers, were not as abundant as they should have been. The baker gladly rose his dough, the seamstress merrily patched trousers, but the problem was numbers. So few of pure heart had been found to inhabit this great city, and though the ranks of the common soldiers swelled, the various clergymen- vying for royal favor- had often pointed out the lack of knights that had been trained and put forth. The temples had put forth their candidates, naturally: All paladins and holy men, devoted to their gods above all else.

The world did not need fanatics: It needed men of true virtue and honor! Knights like the twenty five men arrayed before His Majesty, each of the knights- tested and proven in their loyalty to the crown- having been drawn from their numerous duties for this singular meeting. Each man sat in a high-backed chair, the men having foregone their usual heavy armor in favor of heavy linen tabards. Every color imaginable was present on these men, but the quality of their clothing could stand for improvement. They were freshly christened knights of this kingdom, inexperienced and only moderately wealthy above the average class. Yet that did not stop them from taking the mannerisms of knighthood, and what brotherhood they shared within their arming chambers and sparring rooms vanished in the fate of this event.

A group of messengers stood in the center of the U-shaped assembly, the focus of a deadly parabola of bodies. Though the knights were dressed in what could be considered nonmilitary attire, each man was fully trained in the ways of war, and these emissaries- if they were anything else than that- would fall long before they could reach the monarch. If death was not by the trained bodyguards, then certainly by the palace guard situated throughout the room.

But thus far they had shown no outward aggression, the lead messenger bowing his head as his eyes focused upon the king. “King Torg, all hail King Torg!” The kobold yelled the second part, its voice raising several octaves and causing a number of men present to tense slightly. The kobolds had arrived as part of a larger group, camped well outside of the city walls by half a day’s journey. Yet still the campfires from the monstrous assembly were visible, and this was the first sign of contact since the camp had assembled. Only now had the emissaries arrived, carefully plodding into the royal court like any emissary should. Death could be quite swift, after all.

“Seeks to speak with King of knights, between great camp and stone camp!” The messenger continued; the crude cloth banner in its hands painted a dull brown. Yet the other kobolds, as well as a lone Troll, around it were anything but. “On field of honor, King Torg- All hail King Torg!- wishes to meet King of Knights for discussion.” There was a momentary pause in the chambers as the kobold messenger spoke so curtly, all of the pompous verbal flourishes and extensive pre-meeting exchanges with flowery and meaningless words abandoned. “If King of Knights will reply without stabbings and slashings, then he should bring recording-person for discussion. King Torg- All hail King Torg!- promises not to eat you. The end!”

The kobold, for all it was worth, was actually quite well versed in Common. It had barely reverted to primitive language at all during the short message, and had shown a fair amount of respect (for a Kobold) to the monarch before him. All the same, however, the knights assembled looked just as ready to lop the creature’s head off for its appearance. The presence of the giant, silent Troll was the only thing that likely prevented an outright execution for its presence. Even then, some of the younger royal servants looked edgy.

Wyborn would need to be quite rapid if he wanted to prevent somebody from reaching “slash happy”. Or he could follow a different chivalric path, for there was no doubt that this creature before him held some taint: It was, after all, a Kobold.

The Co-Opt

The Great Work had hit a snag. In particular, it had hit a snag in a most inopportune area: Right over a volcano that, up until a few grains of sand ago, had been an interesting mountain. As it stood, the massive Co-Opt fortress hovered above the volcano, the kobold inhabitants scurrying this way and that throughout the stone burrows as they worked furiously. Pandemonium usually reserved for peacetime was set aside, the chaos of the laboratories quieting slightly. Bugbears were shoved back into pens, the eggs of various wild creatures shoved back into the incubators. Yells and yips echoed throughout tunnels and, in the higher grade areas, message tubes. The animated asteroid, inhabited with such curious minds, became a beacon of frantic thought.

Something below them, something near the lip of the volcano had created a pulse of energy intense enough to send several pieces in the high-speed transport system flying. Thankfully, only a dozen had been killed by the rapid exchange of cargo throughout the surface layer. Something was disrupting the energies of the rails, electricity flying wildly between the stones. Great arcs of lightning jumped between the conduction stones without regard for their alignment, the entire exterior of the vessel looking like a miniature sun as energies ran rampant in this anomalous event.

The interior, however, was just as awash with activity. Magical items, previously thought worthless junk, were beginning to activate. Something within the volcano had caused this wild surge, and even now the Sauvants were under duress. Exotic golems, ranging from ones made of hay (Hey, it’s cheap!) to ones made of silver and gold, came to a life previously unseen. Magical weapons, like Zalcier’s Calcification Cannon, became fully functional with a dangerous purpose. In a somewhat related note, Zalcier’s calcified remains would- centuries later- be put on display as “The Screaming Kobold”.

Thankfully, the various burrows and dens were quite populated already, and the ensuing toll of innocents was actually a minor relief for the inhabitants within. In some of the laboratories and sleeping holes, there would actually be a bit of elbow room to speak of! Yet such relief could not be entirely condoned, considering the wide plethora of problems going on. A few rogue experiments were fine and dandy for everyday life: However, such an abrupt, massive explosion of arcane activity could not be ignored as easily as a few sentient velociraptors that got out of their kennels. As such, requests for orders came up the ranks (and down again, when some of the more work-consumed sauvants couldn’t be assed) until the very top. Set within what was likely the largest of the burrows, Mila found himself faced by a group of slightly disturbed Sauvants and Specialists. It seemed like every major research lab or den had sent somebody to talk with their leader, and most had been either eaten by freed experiments or blasted asunder by magical anomalies.

As it stood, the current group was without most of what they might normally use as magical gear, their equipment left to what not-so-primitive gadgets they kept on-hand or in easy access. One of them, a middling Sauvant named Veednaph, gave a yip of concern. “The levitation is failing! Or it will fail, I think! Either way, we have to use the brakes! Or we’ll be doomed! Doomed!” The frantic artificer cried, before B’pwep (A slightly-higher ranking arcane Specialist) gave him a firm swat across the snout.

“Oh, be quiet, you! With all this magic about, the brakes will just rip us to shreds!”

Leedtees, an even higher ranking rocksologist (A Kobold that studies rocks, naturally), smacked B’pwep in turn. “This tug has survived a freaking dragon, or so I was told by a nice girl in maintenance, and I doubt a quick pull of the brakes will do much harm beyond the freaking lightning storm on our hull!”

B’pwep, having coveted Leedtees experience and position within the asteroid, took the smack as an invitation to tackle the equally pale and skinny scholar and engage in what could best be described as “A sissy Kobold fight, with plenty of limp punches”.

Overall, business as usual.

The Kingdom of Buzurm

Within the mighty spire of the Kingdom of Buzurm, a meeting consisting of the (considerably few) undead leaders that Lord Naadir had gathered began. The spire, built with the labor of countless undead, had been made from quarried obsidian and wrought with all the creativity and life of the living dead. It was a dreary place for a living man to visit, and the abundance of open spaces indicated that the undead here had plenty of plans in the area of expansion. Their numbers, after all, could only swell provided they were not plagued with war. There were always dead bodies in need of being animated, though the processes of making them truly undead were a bit more extensive than the more common means.

But both methods had their usage within this empire of the undying, and it was the “Sentient” undead that made up the congregation here. A mixture of vampires and skeletons, each one had a purpose for being here. Well, a purpose beyond having been at risk of being staked or drowned in holy water. They had been called from their alcoves and manses in the necropolis for this great assembly, led by Naadir- who had long since grown in power since the city’s foundation. Skeletal guards stood motionless throughout the chamber, perfectly spaced to be equidistant from one another. There were no windows within the meeting chamber, any scenery that the inhabitants wished for provided by engravings along the dome ceiling and along the walls. Crushed pearls and powdered gold were used to great effect in this area, highlighting the accomplishments of the various people gathered here. Events ranging from the not-so-distant founding of the city, to the creation of its mighty bridge, to details ranging into history were on display for all to view. The statues of great necromancers were on display, each one made from ivory, carefully worked bone, and other such valuable materials. In some cases, the statues were actually made from the remains of the necromancer in question.

Yet the effect was constant: The sensation of being watched over by Naadir’s predecessors in the Arts, and even the lowly spellcasters present could comprehend the enormity of the proceedings before them. Standing in a circle about their master, the skeletons- dressed in a drab gray likeness of the robes they wore in life- remained motionless. The transcendence of breathing and eating had left the mages immune to the usual fidgeting of high-profile meetings. The various vampires and other undead, however, were just as fidgety in death as they were in life. Pressure could do wonders for the postmortem! But they were pressured for good reason: The latest batch of the living dead to be uncovered was of…an interesting origin.

In particular, one of them was from the deserts of the distant continent, well beyond the domain of Naadir and his isolated island fortress. His flesh, recently imbued with the life he once possessed, had slowed its decay quite rapidly. The embalming fluids had helped to this point, as well as the (unfinished) process of mummification he underwent. Overall, his body was quite horrible, and it had taken quite some time to recall his essence from the grave. But the job had been done, and now the zombie stood before Naadir’s high-backed throne.

“My name is Akhem-hotep.” The zombie croaked, his tattered clothing- once dyed tan- having faded to dull beige. The gold ornamentation he had worn in his burial site, a small catacomb in the recesses of one of the mountains, still hanging off his body as a horrific reminder of his nature. “And I s-s-serve.” He said, almost unwillingly. The process that brought him back to life left him indebted to the Kingdom of Buzurm, and he had a long ways to go to repay that debt.

“I o-offer much, loooords.” He warbled, his body- shattered upon its partial mummification- having endured great pains to even reach the ability to speak again. “I offer my kn-knowledge. Before my murdeeeeer, at the hands of a monsterrrrous assassin, I served the grrreat Khetep of the w-weeestern lands.”

The western lands. A territory that was far removed from the isle Naadir lived upon, but with a rich history amongst its wasteland deserts. Many artifacts were left in those deserts, waiting to be uncovered by enterprising individuals. Or so tomes had led many fools to believe, and lured them to a dry death. Khetep was the apparent leader of one of the greatest groups to inhabit those deserts, a group that had built monolithic relics lost long ago to the tumultuous times of war and famine. But the mention of Khetep was not unexpected: The catacomb Akhem-hotep had been recovered from was littered with relics of that time that- whilst individually useless- would serve as great historical references.

Primarily the ancient map carved into the ceiling of that great chamber that had yet to be removed due to the delicate nature of such a process. The mummies guarding the body within had proven a minor issue to deal with, their mindless nature requiring their unfortunate destruction. Hopefully, however, this great sage would be able to shed some light on that matter.

[Helinon]

I call Dark red for my leader and navy for my soldiers.
An Elite soldier on the walls looks down to the Lizardfolk. "If you seek the nation of Trator then you have found it. State your business here."

[Talking Donkey]

((OOC: Awesome Darth!!! This is awesome, great work, it was truly worth the wait. Oh and I call this color.))

IC:
City State of Tyris
King Julius Wyborn

The proud monarch stands up from his throne and takes a few steps forward, "Would you like something to eat or drink?" he asks, snapping his fingers while looking towards the attendant standing far to his left. Without waiting for a response the charismatic leader continues. "Loyal emissary to the Mighty King Trog, we welcome you here. Know that while in Tyris, as long as your are civil and forthcoming, you will be counted as among friends. If you wish you may stay here for the night, we will attend to any needs you have and you maybe off on the morning to report to your king that I will gladly meet with him under his terms." The king pauses as the attendant returns with a bottle of wine and several goblets. King Julius Wyborn fills each of the goblets himself and offers them to those in in the emissary, even the troll as a show of sincerity. Returning the bottle to the attendant, the king raises his glass to the emissary who spoke to him earlier and takes a sip, proving it is untainted.

"However, if you have to leave immediately, I understand as well and will be willing to meet King Torg at his earliest convenience."

[LongVin]

County of Marche

OOC: I call red

For Reference:

Nation: County of Marche

Leader: Count Titus Velius (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheetview.php?sheetid=158998)

Spoiled not to take up space.

Kingdom and troops

County of Marche
Ruler: Count Titus Velius (http://www.myth-weavers.com/sheetview.php?sheetid=158998)(rogue/fighter)
Alignment: nominally lawful neutral (secret stuff for GM! hooray!)

Titus Velius is the newly crowned count of Marche and the first of the line of Velius to rule the county. Velius had originally served as the previous count's spymaster but when he had uncovered the hidden heresy of the count he was compelled to action. Using his personal network of spies known as the "Death's Hand" he seized hold of the Marche Castle, the count and his closest advisors. Executing them for heresy, he then declared himself the new count of Marche and began consildating his power.

The County of Marche is located near the mountains making it an important gateway for forestry and mining operations which is where most of the nations income dervives from. It is dominated by the City of Marche which serves as the capital of the County with newly renamed Castle Velius serving as the seat of power. The county is primarily a human state, with mature communities of elves and Dwarves present.

@ GM. No peeking!

The government of the county is actually lawful evil with Titus Velius being a secret follower of the dark god Vecna. Serving as the spymaster and steward of the previous count, Titus was exposed to alot of hidden knowledge in the course of his investigations and quickly became enamored with a Cult of Vecna.

Working with the cult he formed his own secret police and used them as spies and enforcers throughout the county. With them in place, he then framed the former count as a follower of Vecna with forged evidence and seized control of the government.

His true goals are to establish the rule of Vecna across the continent


Soldiers of the County

These are the brave men who have sworn to lay down their lives in defense of their homes and in honor of their lord.

Archers
Serving as the ranged attackers of the Velius Army, archers are lightly armed and armored allowing them to move quickly amongst the lines while raining death upon the enemy. Their feats are: Point Blank Shot, Far Shot

Level 1 Warrior
Shortsword [10GP]
Longbow [75GP]
Leather Armor [10gp]
14 days trail rations [7GP]
60 arrows [3gp]
Training [50GP]
Total Cost [160GP]

Light Crossbowmen
Crossbowmen serve to help augment the archers with slightly heavier weapons. While slower to reload, they pack a stronger punch to help in taking down armored targets and horses. It is also easier to train a crossbowman than it is to train an archer, thus reducing the overall cost of training. Their feats are: Rapid Reload, Point Blank Shot

Level 1 Warrior
Shortsword [10GP]
Light Crossbow [35GP]
Leather Armor [10GP]
14 days trail rations [7GP]
30 Bolts [3gp]
Training [40GP]
Total Cost [105GP]

Heavy Crossbowmen
The elite of the crossbowmen. Only the best of the crossbowmen corps get chosen for the honor of being in this elite regiment. They are mostly confined to the defense of the castle and are rarely deployed to the field. Their feats are Rapid Reload, Point Blank Shot

Level 1 Warrior
Shortsword [10GP]
Heavy Crossbow [50GP]
Leather Armor [10GP]
14 days trail rations [7GP]
30 Bolts [3gp]
Training [75GP]
Total Cost [155GP]

Spearman
Spearmen are the first line of defense in the army. Acting as skirmishers and guards to the flank. The bulk of the army and most of the younger soldiers are spearmen. Their feats are Endurance, toughness

Level 1 Warrior
Shortspear [1GP]
Chain Shirt [100GP]
Shield, heavy wooden [7GP]
14 days trail rations [7GP]
shortsword [10GP]
Training [50GP]
Total Cost [175GP]

Swordsmen
Swordsmen are the backbone of the army. Making up the elite of the footsoldiers and trained to march in lock formations against their enemies and crush them. Their feats are endurance, toughness

Level 1 Warrior
Longsword [15GP]
Chainmail [150GP]
Shield, heavy steel [20GP]
14 days trail rations [7GP]
Training [100GP]
Total Cost [291GP]

halberdiers
Only the most elite of spearmen get to join the halberdiers. Serving as an anti calvary shock force, there sole purpose in the field is to bring down enemy knights. Their feats are endurance, toughness

Level 1 Warrior
Longsword[15GP]
Halberd[10GP]
Chainmail[150GP]
Bucker[15GP]
14 days trail rations[7gp]
Training[100GP]
Total Cost [297GP]

Nordic House Guard
Being an usurper of the throne himself, Titus knows just how much faith he can place in native guards. As a defense against future coup attempts he has acquired the services of a Barbarian tribe from a far away northern land to serve as his personal house guard. Their feats are: toughness, endurance

Level 1 Barbarian
Greataxe[20GP]
Longsword[15GP]
Chainmail[150GP]
14 days trail rations[7gp]
Training[100GP]
Total Cost[292GP]

Rangers
Hailing from the forests and mountains of the realm. Rangers make up forward scouts of the Army blazing the trail and finding new paths for the advance as well as warding off ambushes. Their feats are: Point blank shot, far shot

Level 1 Ranger
Longsword[15GP]
Chain shirt [100GP]
Longbow, composite[100GP]
60 Arrows[3GP]
14 days trail rations[7gp]
Training[100GP]
Total Cost[314GP]

Scouts
The Scouts serve as a mobile light calvary force and its members are generally made up of the lesser nobility. Their feats are mounted combat, ride by attack

Level 1 Warrior
Longsword[15GP]
Chainmail[150GP]
shield, light steel[9GP]
warhorse, light[150GP]
riding, saddle[15GP]
14 days trail rations[7gp]
Training[100GP]
Total Cost[446GP]

Knights
Knights are the elite of the County hailing from noble bloodlines they serve as heavy calvary. Being extremely expensive to field their is only a limited number of them but they make up for their lack of numbers with raw power. Their feats are: Mounted combat, ride by attack, trample

Level 1 Fighter
Longsword[15gp]
Lance[10GP]
shield, heavy steel[20GP]
Half-Plate[600GP]
horse. heavy[200GP]
saddle, military[20GP]
14 days trail rations[7gp]
Training[150GP]
Total Cost[1,022GP]

Speciality Units
Speciality Units fill niche roles within the County and within the Army. Consisting of the Death's Hand, wizards, clerics and camp followers they keep the army and the county running.

Death's Hand Agent
The Death's hand serves as the county's spy force and secret police. They are responsible for enforcing the will of Count Titus and to make sure that the population is complacent. Their feats are deceitful, investigator

Level 1 Rogue
Shortsword[10GP]
Sap[1GP]
Crossbow, hand[100GP]
30 bolts[3GP]
Leather armor[10GP]
14 days trail rations[7gp]
Training[150GP]
Total Cost[281GP]

Death's Hand Informant
Informants are aspiring members of the Death's Hand. Not yet accepted into the organization. To prove themselves they are tasked with spying on their neighbors and friends for any anti-government activity or acts of heresy. Their feats are deceitful, investigator

level 1 Commoner
Club[nill]
Total Cost[0GP]

Priests
Priests are tasked with following the army and tending to the sick and wounded as well as performing other mundane tasks around camp. Their feats are combat casting, Self-Sufficient

Level 1 Adept
Morningstar[8GP]
Cleric's vestment{5GP]
14 days trail rations[7gp]
Training[75GP]
Total Cost[95GP]

Clerics
Clerics are martial priests tasked with both tending to the sick and serving their god in battle. They often operate independtly on the battlefield rushing from hotspot to hotspot. Their feats are combat casting, Improved turning

Level 1 Cleric
Warhammer[12GP]
Chainmail[150GP]
shield, heavy steel[20GP]
14 days trail rations[7gp]
Training[150GP]
Total Cost[339GP]

Wizards
The most elite and rare of the county's army is the Wizards battalion. They provide the Count with raw destructive power. Extremely expensive to train and rare, when the wizards are seen on the field it is a sure sign that Count Titus wants to assure the outcome of the battle. Their feats are combat casting, magical apptitude

Level 1 Wizard
Quarterstaff[nill]
dagger[2GP]
crossbow, light[35GP]
30 bolts[3GP]
14 days trail rations[7GP]
Training[400GP]
Total Cost[447GP]

Specialists
Specialists represent a broad swath of men responsible for keeping the army and county running. They include blacksmiths, architects, siege engineers and the like. Their feats are Skill Focus, dilligent

Level 1 Expert
club[nill]
Leather armor[10GP]
14 days trail rations[7GP]
Tools, masterwork[50GP]
Training[50GP]
Total Cost[117GP]

Castle Velius:

Mountains -5% Rough Hewn walls
Close to Small City(Marche) +3X

Huge Castle

Alchemist Labortory. Fancy 3,000 Gold 1 SS
Armory, basic x 8 500 GP = 4,000 Gold 1 SS(8)
Barbican 2000 GP 1 SS
Barracks x20 400 GP =8,000 Gold 1 SS(20)
Gatehouse 1,000 GP .5 SS
Fancy Library 3,000 GP 1 SS
Fancy Magic Labortory 3,000 GP 1 SS
Prison Cell 2 500 GP = 1,000 Gold .5 SS(1)
Servant's Quarters 7 400 GP = 3000 Gold 1 SS(7)
Smithy, Fancy 2 2,000 GP = 4000 Gold 1 SS(2)
Stables, Basic 4 1,000 GP = 4,000 Gold 1 SS(4)
Storage, Fancy 4 1,000 GP = 4,000 Gold 1 SS(4)
Throne Room Fancy, 12,000 GP 1 SS
Torture Chamber 3,000 GP 1 SS
Training Area combat 2 1,000 GP = 2,000 Gold 1 SS(2)
Training Area Rogue 2,000 GP 1 SS
Guard Towers(6) 1,300 GP = 7,800 Gold .5 SS(3)
Tavern Basic, 3 900 GP = 2,700 Gold 1 SS(3)
Kitchen, Fancy 12,000 GP 1 SS
Dining Hall, Fancy 12,000 GP 1 SS
Kitchen, Basic 4 1,000 GP = 4,000 1 SS(4)
Dining Hall, Basic 2 2,000 GP = 6,000 1 SS(3)
Bedroom suite, luxury 25,000 GP 2 SS
Bedroom suite fancy 12,000 GP 1 SS
Bedroom suite 4 800 GP =3,200 1 SS(4)
Bedrooms basics 6 700 GP = 4,200 Gold 1 SS(6)
Chapel Fancy, 12,000 GP 2 SS
Auditorium, fancy 2,000 GP 1 SS
Tavern Fancy 4,000 GP 1 SS
Trophy Hall, Fancy 6,000 GP 1 SS
Common Area, Fancy 3,000 GP 1 SS
Workplace, Fancy 2 2,000 GP = 4,000 Gold 1 SS(2)
Guardpost 4 300 GP = 1,200 Gold .5 SS(2)
Shop, Fancy 2 2,000 GP = 4,000 Gold 1 SS(2)
Shop, Basic 2 400 GP = 800 Gold 1 SS(2)


SS=96.5 Cost= 192,300

Masonry Walls= 241,250

Total: 433,550

Extras:
Decanter of endless water: 9,000
Catapult heav x 4 800 = 3,200
Ballista x 2 500 = 1,000
Bag of devouring 15 500
Everburning torch(20) 1 800
Moat 50,000

Total = 80,500

Total: 514,050

Money left 17 360



Army:

Money:
6,434

Army

Archers 160GP x 100 = 16,000

Light Crossbow 105GP x 200 = 21,000

Heavy Crossbow 155GP x 50 = 7,750

Spearmen 175GP x 200 = 35,000

Swordsmen 291GP x 200 = 58,200

Halberdiers 297GP x 20 = 5,940

Nordic House Guard 292GP x 25 = 7,300

Rangers 314GP x 24 = 7,536

Scouts 446GP x 24 = 10,704

Knights 1,022GP x 9 = 9,198

Subtotal: 178,628

Special Units

Death's Hand Agent 281GP x 25 = 7,025

Death's Hand Informant 0GP x 50 = 0

Priests 95GP x 20 = 1900

Clerics 339GP x 10 = 3,390

Wizards 447GP x 5 = 2,235

Specialists 117GP x 20 = 2,340

Subtotal: 16 890

Total: 195,518

Money Left: 5,484


IC:

Count Velius tapped his fingers incessently against the armrest of his throne as one of his closest advisors read the report of the unrest of the Elves to him. It was a nuisance for sure, and perhaps much worst. The previous count, he who may not be named was too soft on the Elves, allowing them their own laws, their own customs and of course those ever annoying tax breaks. It was no longer time for that complacent society. Everyone must be in lockstop with the County in order to assure it's success.

Lining the walls of the ornate throne room were a throng of bearded men, all unwashed despite the best efforts of Titus to convince them otherwise, wielding axes bigger than the average Marchian man they were barbarians from a far away land. They were the men of the Nordic Guard, Titus's personal guard and hammer.

"My lord they refuse to let us collect the taxes, they are most unreasonable. To be treated in such a manner..."

With a raised hand the officer of the Death's Hand is cut off. Titus had heard enough. He turned slightly a giant red bearded man sitting a few feet to his side and behind him on a stool, Ragnar the Barbarian the leader, or jarl in his own tongue of this band of Barbarians sat perched on a stool downing a giant mug of ale.

"Ragnar, accompany the Leuitanent here to the Elven quarter with a contingent of your men. And return with their community leaders to me for a meeting. Try your best not to kill anyone. That would be most unfortunate."

The Barbarian smiled a toothy grin, it had been too long since they performed something other than just walking the walls of the castle. And, just because he was told to bring the leaders back to the castle unharmed didn't mean that there would'nt be time for some fun afterwards. A little wobbly from the ale he pulled himself to his feet and grunted to the nearest 4 Nords to follow him. With the Death's Head man safetly between them...and enjoying their full aroma they set off towards the Elven Quarter.

This problem of Elven dependence would end here and now. They would either accept Titus's rule as it and enjoy his benevolent reign or they would refuse and the full hammer of justice would come down upon them. He turned to face another of his Captains, a wizard and Titus's most trusted advisor and confidant. With a knowing nod, Titus knew he had chosen the right course of action.

[Wraithkin]

The man sitting across from Milo would normally stand out in a crowd. It wasn't the fact that he was over six feet in height, nor the fact that he was of a moderate build. It was the fact that he appeared to be a bipedal platinum dragon, gleaming scales and all. His wings sat about him like a cloak, folded over his gift from the elves: An expertly-crafted suit of mithril, his elven chain hugged his well-muscled form and moved without so much as a jingle of an errant link. His eyes were slivered orbs of gold, keen and observant, hiding an intellect that surpassed most scholars. There was also a hint of sorrow there, as ages have passed before this man's eyes.

To his right, a second bipedal platinum dragon sits, her tail idly playing with his. She, too, is covered from head to toe in platinum scales, and she also wears the armor of the elves. Instead of muscles that are shown off, it is rather her curves that are on display, of which there are plenty. Her armor is slightly different from his, insomuch as having a plunging neckline to draw the eyes of her husband. Much to the pleasure of the crew, it has drawn their eyes as well. If she notices, or cares, she doesn't let on... especially as it is likely the latter and not the prior. A pair of rings adorn each other's hands, both of plain platinum, like the small circlet that graces her brow.

The fact that these two do not stand out in this particular crowd (and likely why Milo hadn't drawn many comments) is that this crowd is, aside from Milo's entourage, entirely composed of half-dragons. They all range in type, but they all appear to be in good spirits. They had spent a great deal of time and effort constructing this fortress, and now the small peace-keeping force on their mobile platform could actually carry out the mission her creator had dreamed of.

While there was debt involved with the council, they do not hold a majority stake in his fortress... or more accurately, their fortress. He somewhat chaffed at having to borrow money from the Magus Council to complete his citadel on time, but a means to an end is how he views it. A few months, at most, they said. He would be their errand boy until he was settled up with them. This errand, however, was one in which he is definitely interested. A metropolis suddenly going silent. Not good. He likely would have investigated on his own if he hadn't been sent on this mission by the council. All the better to him... accomplishing two tasks at once.

"Seeing as I'm the one who designed, manufactured, and built this place, I should hope I know where the privies are." He smirks slightly and continues. "There's a closet over there that you can use. It leads to the destruction room." The man speaks, his baritone voice quieted by the concept of his men not making it back. "I will put two crowns down that they do. You do not know my men; they are very skilled individuals. I won't tell you the details, but I'm sure they are nothing like what's been sent in before." The fact that they also have one of his drop towers on standby in case they needed an extraction doesn't hurt their odds, either.

"So what can you tell us about Geban, Milo?" His wife's voice is pleasant to the ear, a combination of sultry and sweet at just the right tone to pull at one's heart strings.

[Darth_Malevo]

The Mercenaries of Trator

The lizardfolk leader let out a long hiss, its forked tongue dipping out of its mouth like a new appendage. A single claw-like finger was pointed up at the warrior atop the walls, its escorts leaning forward as they stared at the mercenaries atop the walls. No doubt they were at least mildly agitated at this point by the informality of the greeting, but they did not show any open sign of aggression. Even lizards were smart enough to know when pointless words would invite a swift, brutal death.

“We s-s-seek the aid of the human leader.” The lizardfolk man replied, rising to his full height of six and a half feet. No doubt he was a rarity amongst his species, given status due to his size. The ornamentation just added to his stature, which mattered little with the elite soldiers behind such tall, well-warded walls. What did matter to them, however, was the fetish the warrior produced from the long sleeves of his one-piece tunic. Even from such a great distance, it glittered in the sunlight with the reddish-orange of precious gemstones.

Evidently these little monsters had something worth having. But what would such a populous race of warriors need with outsiders? By all accounts, the reptilians were an isolated, reclusive species. They viewed outside interference as something to stab and slash and annihilate: What could possibly drive them to seek the aid of the very humans they hunted down? No doubt a question that would need to be asked later, but the scaled leader continued on to clarify the point it made. His Common, though somewhat broken, had obviously been practiced quite well for this meeting. “There are meetings-s-s that must be had. Let us-s-s in.”

Well, perhaps not well practiced. But it at least knew how to follow the rules of a more clandestine meeting.

The City State of Tyris

“All hail King Torg!” The kobolds chanted as they took the cups, the troll remaining silent despite taking the goblet offered. The chamberlain in question scurried away as quickly as courteously possible, every eye in the room focused on how they would react to the offer of wine. Some of the noble soldiers had already scooted back their chairs, fully preparing for some horrific display of reptilian brutality. It was a sign of greatness that men like these would throw themselves at a troll over something as ‘petty’ as their ruler’s honor, and Wyborn alone could appreciate such a value.

Yet the Kobolds did not toss the wine at the monarch, or attempt to try and assassinate him as some might have expected. What they did was far worse (in the eyes of some), but physically harmless to the monarch.

Each of the kobolds present looked over the goblets like the precious symbols they were, one or two of them picking at the precious gems laid into the silverwork. Yet, one by one, they eventually started to talk amongst themselves in small barks and yips. One of them held the goblet crooked, some of the wine spilling onto the carpet beneath them. Another curled his lips at the offender, engaging in a short yipping match before- finally- the apparent leader let out a low growl.

The assembled nobles at this point began to rise from their seats, their hands on the not-so-ceremonial swords they kept at their sides. This action was reciprocated by the kobolds still with wine taking their drinks. If they had waited a moment longer, no doubt Sir Ranald- one of the more forward knights- would likely have used his sword as a throwing knife. But thankfully he had a bit of difficulty with the scabbard, and as such the kobolds made up for what seemed to be earlier insolence: They extended their pinkies, each one of the kobolds sipping a bit too deeply of the cups, letting some of the precious wine flow over onto their clothing.

Yet the kobolds did not give any outward sign of disrespect, the knights looking to one person for what they should do: King Wyborn. He alone would be the judge of the kobold’s actions, and if they were fit to be dealt with. Obviously they lacked culture and sophistication like the advanced humans around them, but they had come here in peace. Whether they would leave in pieces was up to them.

“King Torg- All hail King Torg!- would be finding this delicious!” The kobold replied, “King Torg- All hail King Torg!- would appreciate this throat-stingy thing. It is very nice, like mushroom caps from home!” Looking around for a moment as if unsure, it turned back to King Wyborn with a tiny bow of its ridged head. “If King Why-Born will be permitting, we head back to camp. King Torg- All hail King Torg!- is waiting at meeting point already. Please to be going there when you are not busy!” He said urgently, nodding his head before waiting to be dismissed.

Perhaps not entirely unsophisticated.

The County of Marche

As Ragnar and his lot departed from the main room, the Death’s Hand official they passed by carefully drew out a small handkerchief after they went by, no doubt inhaling some rich perfume to try and overcome their foul personal odors. Had he done so before the barbarians, he no doubt would have been looking forward to a week in the cesspits thanks to the immigrant bodyguards.

The man did not leave, however, which must have meant that he had something important to divulge. Or that he had a wish to simply be ordered off to some horrible task in exchange for simply standing around as he was. Time was money, after all, and the County of Marche’s coffers had been light as of late. The man explained himself in short order after the barbarians left, stuffing the handkerchief back into his pockets.

“M’lord, whilst I am not one to normally raise issue with you, I feel it would be prudent to inform you of a man that has repeatedly attempted to enter within the walls of this very building. He is…not the most subtle sort, and he and his companion have cajoled me repeatedly about an audience with your eminence.” The agent scratched at the back of his neck, an obvious nervous twitch. He gave a courteous bow, as if to beg for the Count’s pardon in advance. “I would normally have such a man drawn and quartered for his insolence, but he claims to be, well, a knight m’lord! He calls himself ‘Don Quijote’, which is a curiously foreign name. He hardly strikes me as a knight however, m’lord, and whilst I would not normally burden your great mind with such a petty man, his actions have caused me some minor alarm. Especially considering the fact that the man comes with ancient, poorly-kept weapons and only a single consort: A peasant bumpkin! It is a curiosity, m’lord, that I felt should be brought to your attention directly. I will, of course, enact whatever judgment you feel necessary for this odd foreign man.”

The SF Hope

Milo raised a hand to pause the captain, “Milo does not mean to be rude, but Milo’s mighty mage demands management.” He mumbled, rushing off to the privies for a moment as the crewmen off-duty idled themselves with what they could. The lighting here was good enough for cards, which was an activity that most of the men busied themselves with. Dice were also a common pastime, and none onboard had yet to think of using loaded dice amongst their comrades. After all, justice could come in forms besides a stay in the brig. Especially in such a high-altitude location, where the wrong move could send a man plunging through a window and to a quick grave. Provided, of course, he had forgotten his airman’s wings for a safe landing.

Yet after a brief session of waiting and peaceful sipping, Milo returned, his clothing a bit ruffled from what was likely a close encounter with the direct chute to the matter-annihilating furnace of the flying fortress. “Now, to continue where Milo left off: he has not seen Geban in threescore years, but threescore years is a very short time. Or, at least, it is to Milo. He remembers it as a very big city, very big: As are all Council cities. Milo also remembers that the city contains an Artifact Vault: He knows this because he deposited goods there once or twice. A very secure place, located within the Regionar Building of the city. Only place to have a very good chance of surviving in a disaster like this. Not that Milo knows what kind of disaster has happened: If he did, he’d hardly be going here with you!”

The Halfling resumed his drinking, taking a swig of alcohol as one of the crew’s clerics approached. No doubt a message had been received from the infiltration team, which had been due to arrive that very afternoon. As the two sluggish vessels lagged behind, it was these brave souls that were venturing into the unknown, seeking out what they could in the fate of Geban.

“Commander!” The half-dragon said with a sharp salute, a scroll case in hand. “I have a message from the recon force,” he removed the parchment from the case, unrolling it before the commander, “they have reached the city’s outer limits without incident.”

A quick read of the message, which had been made quite comprehensive thanks to the facilities onboard the dropship, detailed the situation quite clearly.

Geban was a mess. What had no doubt been an industrious metropolis, brimming with walkways and intercity highways, had been utterly demolished. From what could be determined at high altitude, the city had been heavily bombarded by either arcane or a large amount of mundane siege weaponry. Entire districts of buildings were either on fire or reduced to ruins, with only scattered sections of buildings still intact. Rubble had been piled several stories high in some areas, forming horrific towers amidst large basins of carnage. It appeared as though an entire army of ogres had spent a week demolishing everything they possibly could.

Yet there were more oddities still: A large castle was visible off in the distance, centered in the middle of a massive lake. There were also a number of pink opaque domes, at least a dozen in number, had been scattered throughout the widespread devastation. No survivors could be seen picking through the ruins, though- at the time of the message- they had been too far out to determine that in any degree of certainty. As well as this, the presence of any enemies could not be told either. There were no visible troop movements, though- from their current location- a number of wild beasts were assembled around the base of the dropship, watching it closely.

The message drifted off for a few moments to detail just what sort of wild creatures were around them: Primarily mangy strays in large cities like a handful of goblins or dogs, but there was the odd exception listed with the presence of wolves and even a dire bear.

However, in closing, the sender of the transmission mentioned the presence of a seemingly intact tower elsewhere in the city. It was along the opposite end of the city, equidistant from their position in the roughly circular city. The plan, as it stood, was to advance further within the city by a few miles before offloading the infiltrators for more thorough groundwork. That plan could easily be changed, however, with a few quick scribbles and a message to one of the dedicated long-range messengers onboard.

[Talking Donkey]

"It is settled then, Inform the Mighty King Torg, that I and my small envoy of men shall meet with him within the hours. You may be on your way." King Wyborn noticed that as most of the kobolds left they took they took the goblets he offered them as they went. Little more could have been suspected from such a race, but they fact that they came in peace proved that they could, in fact, be redeemed. While they had shown little reason in the past to be trusted, Julius Wyborn felt within his heart, they only way to have peace was by showing respect. Sometimes respect came in this form, other times it came by the blade, but one way or another, respect would be shown.

Once the last of the kobolds left the grand chamber, the king called all 25 of his newly appointed knights to him as well as his three generals, one for each of his his different military regiments. "It is time. While I know not whether this is a trap, I will still only go with the Knights. As per protocol, if I fall in battle, my wife, Amnell, is to rule until my eldest son Kasius is old enough to rule. If we are over run, have the calvary ready to cut off any retreat, footmen flanking from the sides with a small contingent left to defend the archers who will be firing volleys from the front. Prepare the men. Go!"

Next, Julius sent the generals and all of the attendants out of the chamber, leaving only the 25 knights and himself. "Men, today we will ride out, and we will be outnumbered, but have no fear, your training and faith in Heironious will protect us. If things get bad and this is a trap, we will immedietly retreat in a slow, methodical manner, taking as many of them with us as possible. However, while we will plan for the worst, we will hope for the best. DO NOT DRAW A WEAPON WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!!! Now, take 5 minutes to gather your things from your quarters, 10 to pray, and be ready to leave in 20 minutes. Go."

[Illiterate Scribe]

The Co-Opt

Mira was annoyed. This was a fairly unusual event - being First Sauvant normally demanded absolute patience with whatever given disaster the rest of the Co-Opt was getting itself into, but that presupposed the cooperation of the ship. Today, though? Well, let's just say that the ship was not cooperating.

'... with all this magic about, the brakes will just rip us to shreds!'

As he rounded a corner, he came upon a brawl. Damn. Veednaph and Bw'pep, two Sauvants of unexceptional skill, were approximating what a charitable observer might call 'a fight'. One quick, sturdy blow to the head of Veednaph, the larger, was enough to settle them, and, as a perk of being First Sauvant, was quite fun anyway.

Stop that this instant, the two of you! There's more important things to do. Why is everyone so incompetent here... Listen - Veednaph you get to the lightning railgun, see if anyone there can fire a clean, safe shot to give us an upward momentum, cancel out any descent, even if only a bit. If not, just tell them to stow the whole thing. Bw'pep - get ye to the rod control room and get them to turn them on the Rods at the minima of our speed. We need to stabilise our position away from this volcano. Now!

Watching the pair go scuttling off, Mira sighed. Perhaps he was being too hard on them, bossing them about like that - after all, he was the 'first among equals' on this rock. On the other hand, everyone in the Haven was in very real danger of being killed by catastrophic failure of its basic systems, so maybe a little harshness was called for. He carried on running through the ship's corridors, dodging the little crackling arcs that seemed to have taken up residence here. An idea struck - with only minor burning, the First Sauvant managed to grab an old tablet from a storeroom on the way past, its magic still relatively intact despite the storm - a sending stone. A few seconds later, it was gone.

Mira, Haven, Jalros, SF Hope.

Wild surges. View? Magical flux. Significant global risk, possibly. Will excavate source now. If interested, send someone 6°6′27″/105°25′3″.

Thanks.

Thanks Darth! Sorry for the a) late, and b) divvy post, I'm a bit under the weather myself.

[Wraithkin]

A frown darkens his forehead as he reads. Every minute detail of the message is memorized, and he hands it over to Milo. His wife also frowns as she learns what is occurring within the city. "My god.."

"Thank you. Tell the ship to leave in the same direction as they came. After they are out of sight of the city, they are to rise to twelve thousand feet under the cover of darkness and fly in again. Have the recon team jump in while it is dark. Do not jump if there is visible activity within the city. I want to know what's going on near each of the standing structures in that city. Do not have them go into them. Make sure the drop ship is on standby to grab them should they need immediate extraction. Bahamut knows what's in there waiting for them."

Once the cleric runs off, he waves over one of the duty. "I need you to alert the Battalion CO that we need to be on high alert. I want random combat dry runs for all scenarios, for both defensive shifts. And get me one of the foremen from the Interceptor work bay. I have to find out how long it's going to be before one is ready."

Sighing, Jalros looks at Milo as his hand grasps his wife's. "As you can see, this is clearly not good. What can you tell me about this vault?"

Psst... noone knows of the SF Hope's existence except those aboard it and one other interested third party.

[Liquidcore]

Sorry for the late reply, my internet access was a bit restricted the last 2 days ^^;


"Yes, you will serve. Naadir spoke softly, a thin smile playing about his pale lips. The mighty Khetep you say? This might prove worthy of my time after all..." He said in the same soft voice, a near whisper that was still audible for all those assembled.

Naadir thought for a few moments. There was a map. On the ceiling of your catacombs. Not only that, but you were also guarded, why is this? Why go through so much trouble for a mere servant? He asked, the same smile still on his lips. "Who were you really, Akhem-hotep? And can you use the map to guide me to the artifacts that the ancient manuscripts speak of?

Naadir sat in silence for a few moments, the sort of silence that gave one the feeling that it would be very unwise to break it.

"Can someone please summon Sir Varg for me?I think he should find this matter very interesting indeed.

[Helinon]

The soldier nods at the lizardfolk and replies to the, "Wait here and I will return with our leader." He soon sets off to the main building of the keep and returns with Ulfor. "My name is Ulfor Praou. I am the leader of this nation. If you require our aid, then by all means enter." Ulfor then makes a hand gesture to the guards, who then open the gate, allowing the lizardfolk into the keep.

Edit: also might not be on for awhile, or i will be on alot less.

[LongVin]

County of Marche

Titus pondered on the issue for a moment, a slight bemused grin on his face. It was odd indeed that such a man would come to the Castle so insistingly and without a true retinue in tow. There were many possibilities to this of course, he was an outcast knight, a thief, a second or third boy looking for a patch of land. Some ranged from a nuisance to mildly amusing. Though one possibility striked him as having merit. The ancient sword, there was the possibility that the sword itself could be an artifact weapon and having the wielder of such a weapon...or the weapon itself in his court would be a great boon.

Virous Amakiir, the Court Wizard seemed to have had the same idea and moved to speak to Titus. But, Titus had made his decision already.

"Tell this Knight that I will grant him an audience.'

He could see Virous smiling and he knew he had made the right decision. Hopefully, their was some magic involved somewhere and maybe he cound gain a companion sword for Frostbane.

[Darth_Malevo]

The City State of Tyris

With the sound of two score chairs being scooted back, the knights gave their respectful nods and bows before departing. Little was said between the men, knowing that their monarch’s mind had been made up for better or for worse. All that was left to them was prayer to their god, and a steady hand with their blades and wits. As the last of the knights departed through the council room’s doors, the first of the royal pages entering a moment afterwards.

Dressed in the personal heraldry of King Wyborn himself, the pages were each squires deemed by his knights to be of great potential. They would, most likely, form the future retinue of either Wyborn or his son. This was provided, of course, that they met either of their royal standards. Regardless, the squires proceeded in, each one bearing a segment of the armor upon a satin pillow. The polished set of arcane plate had been kept in segments for the royal, the young boys entrusted with keeping each piece in pristine shape for their monarch. A great lesson in responsibility.

A lesson they had taken to heart, it seems. Each one carried each segment of armor like it was made of glass, bringing it before the monarch before dropping to one knee in courtesy. Afterwards, the respective segment of armor was added. Well trained in the art of suiting up the knights, the squires worked expertly, treating Wyborn like the important man he was. Absolute care was taken to ensure each piece was locked into place before adding the next, the last elements- his shield and sword- being borne aloft with tender care.

Once fully suited, the remaining knights once more filed in, suited in similarly gleaming armor. Though none of them bore magical equipment, each knight stood with the regal standing of a true adventurer. It was them who fought for the ideals of justice and chivalry, and each of the armored men present knew it. All that they waited for now was for the order to mount up and depart, the mighty steeds for them to ride- large destriers- being gathered outside. It would take perhaps an hour to catch up with the currently-departed band of creatures, to ride out and meet them at this gathering spot they had mentioned.

Hopefully Wyborn was not riding into a trap meant to claim the best of his kingdom.

The Co-Opt

As Mira grabbed the sending stone, another burst of energy ripped through the vessel. A jarring crash knocked the kobold off of his feet, as well as sending several unfortunate passerbies cracking their skulls and various limbs against the tunnel surfaces. As the ancient axiom went: “Kobold skull is not as thick as space rock”. Well, that was the gist of the axiom, anyways. Kobolds were not the best philosophers in the world, considering most of them were clever enough to set up a trap, but not smart enough to figure out the square root of one hundred and forty four.

Which is twelve, by the way.

The messaging rock, as well as a number of other gewgaws in the storage chamber, began to spit out sparks as this arcane anomaly continued on. The Co-Opt homestead had halted its descent, but even now the currents of magic arced across its surface. A plethora of colors flashed through the corridor Mira was in as the cannon fired. No doubt a good portion of the gunnery crew had just been blown asunder from such a burst, but it made little difference: Even now, the immobile rods came into effect. With a heavy crack, the Co-Opt fortress came to a halt, suspended over the bubbling heat of the volcano. Damn, was it hot in here.

Mira would have to see about inventing AC next.

Star Fortress Hope
Excess information provided privately.
The flying bastion came alive as the crewmen in the tavern mobilized. The room rapidly emptied as the relaxing soldiers went to their duties, messengers zipping about like clockwork as the distant tolling of multiple bells marked a high alert. Magical and psychic messages zipped through the air onboard the vessel, the air crackling with potential and expended energies.

The fortress really had gone on high alert. As Milo sat back to enjoy his drink in a particularly non-military fashion, more and more messengers began to fill the halls, sprinting this way and that with scroll cases and parcels for the various troops. No doubt there was activity, even now, as the training rooms were prepared for different scenarios. Ranging from invasion to arcane dead zones, almost any number of situations could be created within those chambers. But they were of little concern and use now, especially with the presence of what was- apparently- a vault for artifacts.

“Milo is not some hoighty-toighty Regionar, mind!” The Halfling replied, rapping his knuckles against the table. “But Milo has heard things. Seen things. Possibly tasted, if he was not delusional at the time. He may, or may not, have helped in getting artifact or two to Geban. Not that Milo was ever allowed to see what he was transporting: The Council doesn’t trust him enough to actually allow him to see stuff that important. But he remembered the guards they had around it. He also remembers the fact that they sealed the artifacts- they had to be, because Milo has never seen so much magic- in solid mithral boxes. Very expensive, using that much of the metal for carrying. Milo also remembers that the castle the vault in question is situated in has many magic users. Many men too; big, tough, curt men that did not like to speak very much. Even his own crew would not listen to him in the face of the Judge they had there. Nasty men, those Judges. Milo heard once that a Judge is above all other authorities: They can take what they want, when they want, from whoever they want. Whatever happened in Geban must have been very bad for a Judge to not fix it. He remembers that the Judge in particular had a pair of golems next to him. Made of very rare metal, too! Milo has never seen what they were made of either!”

The Halfling was cut short as one of the messengers marched into the room, carrying grave news on the parchment. The scouts had reported back: The situation had not been bright. Undead prowled the streets, the arcane was commonplace, and only one survivor had been located in a city that should have had a population in the tens of thousands. There was more to the report, naturally, and several drawings had been expertly scribed onto the message scroll. But the gist of it was not pleasant: A group had occupied Geban, their numbers unknown, and their weapons quite powerful.

This would be difficult.

Kingdom of Burzum

Combination Post
Akhem-hotep let out a low moan as his reanimated flesh warped slightly, the necromantic cysts embedded in his freshly-wrought flesh twitching slightly as the undead tumors 'refreshed' the servants memories.

"I was once a...great...leader." The undead plaything conjured forth, air rushing into his putrid lungs more out of reflex than necessity.

"My tomb...the tomb you raiiided," He said, the word "ravaged" transmuting into something a tad more reverential. "Was meant to g-guide my soul to peaaaace. The map was to show my viiiictory."

"I see...so, Akhem-Hotep, or should I say Khetep perhaps?" Naadir asked, his eyes gleaming, this was even better than expected. "Where does the map lead?" He asked, looking around if Sir Varg had arrived already.

Sir Varg appears to have been delayed for some reason. Such an act would have led to a dip within the torture pool of sacred water Naadir kept for such a reason as those tardy.

But Varg must have had a reason, or else he would have rushed here.

"Khetep is my home." The ghastly reanimation replied, "And the map is my...my... domain."

"And what treasures does your domain hold? More of your kind? Relics of an ancient civilisation perhaps?" He asked, stroking his chin for a moment. "Or perhaps...the old tomes do not lie, and there is treasure to be found?"

Akhem-Hotep let out a sudden gasp of air, his mind no doubt vying with his body as the necromantic tumors in his mummified body tried to recall what he once new. The remains of nerve endings fired, his body writhing in agony as his unwillingness to divulge information combated with his newfound shackles in undeath. The man was no freer than the lowest zombie, but still he resisted, the mages around Naadir watching with undying interest as his rotted jaw moved of its own accord.

“We were wealthy.” He grated out, his hands reaching for his own jaw as he resisted the inhuman torture, “Our empire strrrretched from sea to sea. Our monumeentsssss will last for all eternity. Our civilization is eternallll, for we live where others have failed!” He spat out, each word coming out with agonizing slowness, his every fiber unwilling to be subjected to this.

"Then I do not see why you resist me so. We are not so different." Naadir said, his voice gaining a hint of loudness. "It is the very reason I founded this kingdom, this city, to take what is rightfully ours." He spoke with a smile. "The right to live, to roam this land, and unite it under one banner, the banner of Burzum."

He paused again, giving the words time to sink into the resisting mind. "You and I are not so different. Why do you resist?"

Akhem-hotep struggled, before the bindings around his tongue finally fell free at the demand to know his resistance. With a mimicry of the passion he once had as a mortal, he droned his reply, incapable of reaching the fervor he would have had if he retained his vocal cords. “We are nothiiiiing alike.” He groaned, “Khemri was a place of greaaatness. What you instate is the unnatural extension of the mortal coiiiil. Before the fall of our society, we were graaand!” He repeated, “Wee are two different creatures, necromancerrrr. You seek deaaath.”

One of his hands came up, but was unable to tear at his throat. Not that such an act would have really mattered: Only a few moments would have been sufficient for his body to adjust to the lack of a voicebox. He was Naadir’s in what remained of his entirety.

Naadir's eyes widened, this mummy's words were exactly like what he had always heard. "You truly believe this?" He asked, closing his eyes. "What I instated here, is more than mere death!" He said, his voice rising for the first time. "I give life! A second chance! Only in death is one truly free! I seek death, yes, but also life, you are a fool like all those who have never even bothered to listen! But I will make you listen!" He nearly shouted, his voice echoing across the halls.

"Burzum will be a place of greatness, a place where all are equal, where all are above death!" He shouted, before calming down, and re-taking his seat.

"Above death...like you described your kingdom....we are not different, you are too arrogant to see it....but it matters not, I will get the information, wheter you will it." He smiled, giving the words some forte.

"Or not."

The mummy remained silent, no doubt writhing beneath his arcane shackles to try and lash out against his controllers. But his will was weak, and the magical bonds strong. He was as incapable of harming Naadir, or himself, as a quadruple amputee was from living a full life.

Naadir chuckled. "Tell me. What treasures are hidden in your kingdom." The intonation in his voice made it clear.

This time, it wasn't a question.

Akhem-hotep let out a grunt as he was forced into submission, his mind being battered repeatedly as he was compelled to answer. Had they found his brain, they likely would have been able to avoid this process entirely. But the man had been smart enough to have the urn containing it destroyed, likely tossed to the bottom of the seas.

“Our wealth was that of the gods! Ra provided, Anubis claimed, Set destroyed! Weeee have the power! Weeeee were glorious! Then we were destroyed, and our treasures burieeeed. We could buiiild monuments thrice the size of whatever you have mustered.” The creature gloated, its head lolling back as it was forced to gush out what was demanded of it. “The gods provided! The divine covenant made flesh! Coffers overfloooowed! We…were… glorious!”

"And now, you are mine.” Naadir spoke simply. "Where is your treasure? Or I will give you a fate worse than eternal hell."

The undead managed enough willpower to glare at Naadir, it’s eyes full of unexpressed hate. Were there not the absolute dominance of Naadir over his servant, there was no doubt that the ghoul would have rushed the necromancer then and there, tearing him asunder like a wendigo atop its prey. It spoke, “Beneath…the sands.” He croaked, “Buried in our pyramids. In our cities.”

There was a momentary tinge of glee as the ghastly man spoke, “And you will…never…reach them.” He gasped, “For the covenant made fleeeeeesh is with ussss.”

"Then you will guide me." Naadir spoke simply.

"And in Nerull's tainted name, where is Sir Varg?!" He called out.

None in the court spoke. The messenger had not yet returned, and none within these halls bothered with keeping a tab on Sir Varg. He was, effectively, an outsider in their eyes. His eldritch nature made him feared and respected, but the last of the undead counts to try and monitor him had ended up hanging from the rooftop by silver thread during sunrise.

It had not been pretty.

Naadir sighed, and looked upon the mummy before him again. "You will not be punished for your insolence...seeing your civilisation looted, your monuments destroyed, and not to forget being reduced to a servant... it should be enough." Naadir said smiling.

"We wait for Sir Varg, but I shall send another messenger. Malal, come here please." He said, summoning his familiar.

The mummy, bound into silence, simply shook with impotent rage at this prospect. The demonic familiar, however, appeared without the same sort of pause that Sir Varg took. A small hole in reality formed beside Naadir, the familiar hovering aimlessly next to the sorcerer, its mouth twitching slightly as it spoke in the fiendish tongue.

“N’wal s’teth h’latl muh’reb?” It inquired, before reverting to Common. “What do you require, lord?”

"Malal, would you fetch Sir Varg please, he'll listen to you at the least..." Naadir spoke, standing up and walking forward, to stand in front of the mummy.

"Pledge your allegiance to me." He said simply, a thin smile on his lips.

As Malal darted off from the auditorium, the mummy let out a stifled cry as it bent to one knee, its body reacting automatically as it was slowly tortured, forced into action. But, contrary to what Naadir commanded, the undead did not speak. The mages around Naadir look amongst themselves with mild concern, turning back to the prisoner. Yet still Akhem-hotep did not vow allegiance, despite the quivering of his body.

Apparently he still had a spine.

Naadir chuckled, an icy sound that soon evolved into stone-cold laughter that echoed through the halls.

"You are a strong man, perhaps, in time, you will come to accept your new gift of undeath...tell me, if I released you now, would you attack me? Would you strike me down?"

"No." The undead croaked the statement, entirely true. The spell that bound him, though apparently not perfect, forced him into absolute honesty with Naadir.

"And why not? If I released your bonds, would you not strike me down for the horrors I've inflicted on you? Perhaps the horrors I will inflict upon the world?" Naadir asked, eyeing the undead carefully.

"The damage I have done already cannot be repaired." Akhem-hotep replied, "You will do as you please, and there is little I can do to stop you."

His slur was gone. Something had changed within the undead, but what? Was he becoming more adapted to his new life? It seemed likely, considering the time he had spent as the living dead thus far.

"So your will is broken, but your resolve is strong... I am amazed, Akhem-hotep, you must have truly been a great man in life." Naadir thought for a moment. "You could become even greater in undeath." He said, staring at the mummy.

"Or you will become a minion, except with a mind, a mind forced to watch as his capacities and possibilities go to waste. Will you join me out of free will?" He asked, kneeling down as well as to look the mummy in the face.

"Or will you join me out of my will?"

The mummy remained inert, still shivering, "I will...require time." He stated, "To contemplate this. These...restraints do not leave me fully cognitive."

"It will take some time to get used to, one is not usually given a second chance." Naadir said, standing back up. "Stand then, Akhem-hotep." Naadir said, not giving a command this time.

"You will be given accommodations and time to think until I counsel with my generals and advisors." He said calmly.

"After that, I should like an answer."

Akhem-hotep rose without a word, the mummy- having regained his freedom- walking off to the double doors out of the congress room. The flames of the oil lamps upon the walls flickered dimly over his form, casting vivid shadows on his decaying flesh. The man had his choice, and that choice was clear. Either he would be Naadir’s willing servant, or Naadir’s slave. Either way he would be forced to watch everything he once believed in desecrated, destroyed before him and left to make him suffer.

The mummy paused at the doors, the fine, ancient wood a sharp contrast to his appearance. Staring at them, Akhem-hotep abruptly turned about, his decision made.

Ramming his face forward, he cracked the glass on the oil-burning lantern, the oily flames licking over his ancient flesh. Fire raced across his horrific features as ancient, dry flesh burned like desert grass. As flames rapidly began to consume his face and neck, the mummy simply stared at Naadir.

He had made his choice.

Naadir looked upon the scene with a mixture of amazement and disbelief. "Well, don't just stand there, douse those flames!" He shouted, trying to take control over the flaming ball of undeath, trying to make him at LEAST stop, drop, and roll.

Akhem-hotep continued to burn as the various vampires in the chamber shied away, their fear of fire overcoming their fear of Naadir. The few skeleton troops, as well as the mages, attempted to assist in stopping the flames from consuming the mummy.

A crash ensued as the mummy cracked himself against the floor, Akhem-hotep's suicide expanding as he attempted to roll and drop with as much damage to his unholy form as possible.
"Know that if you die, I curse your soul to the lowest regions of Nerull's hell, Akhem-hotep, where you may die a thousand deaths, and live your greatest fear between each of them!" Naadir growled, starting the walk back to his throne, he would need to find another way to find the treasure.

"A wasted day gentlemen, a wasted day."

As the burning mummy was left to the skeleton guards, Naadir heard a distinctive, sharp crack. Malal had obviously found Varg, much to the warlock's amusement. No doubt the demonic little creature had been given a high-wavelength blast of chaotic energies for his troubles in locating the invoker.

"Malal, did you locate Varg?" Naadir asked, not expecting the familiar to actually answer "What did he say?"

“Hy’tet par’tha solu me’ri!” The Quasit screamed, Varg obviously not far behind it. Bouncing against the doorway, the warlock in question was holding the demon by the tail between his thumb and pinky fingers. Eldritch energy flowed around the invoker as he pointed his other hand at the familiar’s face, ready to blow its head off.

“My mother, I will have you know, was a woman of fine standards. Shame she tried to drown me.” Varg said, before braining the impish thing against the wall, letting it drift about with a concussion. “You wanted to see me, Lord Naadir?” He asked, looking up to the necromancer-monarch.

Dressed in a dress of fine black linen, Varg was a more practical sort. He did not scheme and plan as Naadir did: He enjoyed the finer, more immediate things in life. As was shown by the pair of vampire women behind him, both of them scantily clad. None had ever tried to indoctrinate Varg into the vampiric ranks: His bouts of near-demonic sadism and psychosis were more than enough to keep them away from anything serious. His looks, however, did not prevent the women from flocking to him.

And not Naadir.

"Yes, half an hour ago." Naadir replied coldly. "Did you kill the messenger I sent again?" He asked, trying to remind himself why he kept Varg around.

"Yes, and I fail to see why you send such minor vampyren to pester me. I've hardly found much more use for them.” He declared freely, not minding the fact that a good portion of the assembly were of the vampiric persuasion, especially his escorts. The burning mummy was finally extinguished, the creature unmoving on the stone floor.

“Their blood has been far too diluted by the passage of time to provide any useful information, and- more often than not- they permanently expire before I can ascertain if anything takes hold.” He said, sounding- for a moment- like the intellectual he was at times. Varg had odd streaks of brilliance, ranging from the usage of armed and armored undead as shock troops to attempts in mutating vampires.

He gave out a bark of laughter to cut off his monologue, “But, even more often than not, they simply can’t take a few sips of holy water! Why, that one you sent half an hour ago just wailed when he realized I mixed some parchment from Pelor’s holy book into that potion!”

"Those minor vampyren, as you so casually name them, are respected citizens of this city, and vital to our cause, you know this Varg." Naadir said, reaching out for the mummy, to see if it was still alive...well sort of anyway.

"Now then, the reason I called you here. You have heard of Khetep, correct? We are going to go there, and make sure we suck it dry of everything there is to be found."

"Khetep." Varg replied, leaning back onto the two women behind him, knowing full well his security from their fangs. "It rings the odd bell, Lord Naadir. But that, quite frankly, is rumored to exist. I also can hardly see how we're going to navigate the entire continent safely, what with pirates and the like. Or have we gained a navy since I last looked up?"

"If you call a few odd fishing ships a navy, then yes." Naadir said. "I expect you remember the pyramid where we found that." He said, jerking a thumb to the corpse of the mummy. "It had a map of the empire, it probably details how and where to find their hidden boons." He said. "And those are resources we can put to very good use."

Varg shook his head, "Pyramid? I would hardly call the ruins something worthy of that title. As for the fishing ships, if you care for us to sail across the sea in rafts, that is very well your prerogative."

"No worries Varg, we'll think of a way. We always do." Naadir said softly, a smile playing about his lips. "Remember those barbarians when we'd just settled here? We didn't think we'd find a way THEN either."

Varg simply shrugged, "Fine. Is there anything else you care to bother me with? Or can I resume my romping about?"

"I'd have thought you more enthousiastic at the prospect of adventure and it's rewards, but yes, you are excused." Naadir said, wondering again why he put up with Varg.

He then turned to the mummy.
"Right, back in the circle with him, no mistakes this time."

"And somebody replace that lamp."

Mercenaries of Trator

With a heavy rattle the gates rose, the portcullis drawing back as chains as thick as a man was wide. Men heaved at the wheel, muscles bulged, and soon enough the delegation was led inside. The lizardmen, out of obvious self interest, did not indulge the guards with disarming themselves. They kept their weapons to themselves, but the apparent delegation leader kept the treasure outstretched, tossing it to one of the guards around Ulfor with unnatural grace. The man, after seeing the fetish was harmless enough, presented it to the lord himself.

Having been crafted from polished bronze, the fetish was in the shape of the holy symbol of Pelor. Onyx gems studded the edges of the symbol, diamonds laced along the golden cover. The name of some long-passed nobleman, unspeakable without heavy mispronunciation, had been scored into it with chips of obsidian. An engraving of the deity himself could be seen in baroque styling, strands of some exotic creature’s hair- possibly unicorn hair- having been carefully preserved in amber as decoration.

The item was likely worth several thousand gold pieces on the open market, if not more. The lizardmen leader let out a sharp clack of its teeth to draw attention back to its employment. “You offer soldiers for useless baubles, yesss?” He prodded, “Our den has collected many of your baublessss for these occasions. If you wish to gain more of your precious stone and fur dens and more tasty meals, you will take this job, yes?” The chief asked, his excitement at this situation causing his Common to break slightly. “We require warriors for great campaign! We pay well, you fight well, yesss?” He questioned with a rush of excitement, “You shall butcher our enemies for these…petty metal things?” There was a faint clinking as he held up a pair of copper coins. Perhaps, for his rehearsed Common, the lizardman didn’t entirely comprehend human culture?

But he had money. That was what was important, right?

County of Marche

The Death Hand’s official left with the required amount of hemming, hawing, and plentiful bowing. Lavishing praises upon Titus’s wisdom and eternal rule, the man left through the royal doors, which were soon occupied by the royal guards. Several minutes passed before a loud clattering could be heard, as well as a series of grunts and muffled complaints. A loud crash was followed by the tensing of the royal guards, before an armored heap clattered through the doors.

Titus would have taken this for a joke, if this ‘Don Quijote’ didn’t act absolutely serious. Dressed in rust-crusted iron armor, he was hardly the epitome of knightly preparation. Pieces of his armor were missing, large portions of his underlying layer of cotton clothing visible beneath. A helmet, handcrafted from what appeared to be a mixture of cardboard and thickly-wadded parchment, sat atop his head. Several cracks indicated where the plaster used in its construction had cracked. This man was beyond a joke in appearance.

But that look in his eyes. He knelt before Titus as soon as he was through the door, despite the field worker behind him slacking a bit on the bow-down-before-the-one-you-serve part. The field worker in question was dressed in ragged shawls, threadbare from what appeared to be frequent travel. A long quarterstaff had been rested upon his shoulders, cloth bundles on either side of them. No doubt these were for Don Quijote’s knightly effects, like his spare shield (and other such oddities that knights carried, none of which Titus had particularly cared to learn .There were scholars for that sort of thing, scholars that were loyal to him.)

Setting his lance down so that its tip faced the ceiling, Don Quijote entered a long tirade, just like a proper knight should do. “Oh great and mighty lord! Liege of lieges, king of kings! I come before you, ever so humbly, to seek your great and mighty blessing! I have fought and slain many giants in your great kingdom, and seek to slay many more from the back of my steed Rocinante! But before I do so, oh great lord of lords, I seek your humble blessings! It will make my life worth the world should you bless me on my quest to rid these lands of foul giants, and I will be forever indebted to you should you make me your champion, oh mighty Count of All!”

Now that was the right way to beg! The thin, aged man hardly seemed fit for being a knight. But his words, those were words of conviction. Even though he had tattered armor, he truly must have been a great giant slayer to be present here, to spew forth words with such passion and greatness!

But the choice was, ultimately, still up to the Count of Marche.

[LongVin]

County of Marche

Titus was amused to say the least. This was quite an odd man before him, he had no appearance of the knight but the words rang true, more so than the so-called knights in his service.

Discreetly he let his hand drop to the side of the throne and waved it in a circular motion a subtle sign to Virous to cast a spell of detect magic on the Knight to see if that ancient blade of his had any power.

The count smiled as the Don continued his accolations and recounting his feats. He may be an old man, and if all of those noble deeds have indeed been conducted it must have been long ago for it did not seem like he had slayed anything recently. Titus would have heard if a giant had been killed in his lands. Either that or his network was failing him.

Either way, giving this man his blessing would throw the court for a loop and perhaps instill the proper amount of loyalty in his Knightly retinue.

"Sir, good knight rise. It is indeed an honor for me to be so rewarded with a knight of such renown presence. Of course you may have my blessing in your great and noble quest. You are free to stay within these halls as long as you may wish before embarking on your chivalric duty. My servants shall make sure that you are more than comfortable."

Taking parchment and quill he writes a quick note before handing it to Virous. The Death's Hand would be tasked with investigating who this man was and if he was truly who he claimed to be. He had either gained a powerful but eccentric ally or a new court jester.

[Helinon]

The item was likely worth several thousand gold pieces on the open market, if not more. The lizardmen leader let out a sharp clack of its teeth to draw attention back to its employment. “You offer soldiers for useless baubles, yesss?” He prodded, “Our den has collected many of your baublessss for these occasions. If you wish to gain more of your precious stone and fur dens and more tasty meals, you will take this job, yes?” The chief asked, his excitement at this situation causing his Common to break slightly. “We require warriors for great campaign! We pay well, you fight well, yesss?” He questioned with a rush of excitement, “You shall butcher our enemies for these…petty metal things?” There was a faint clinking as he held up a pair of copper coins. Perhaps, for his rehearsed Common, the lizardman didn’t entirely comprehend human culture?

But he had money. That was what was important, right?

Ulfor examines the symbol of Pelor closely and listens to the Lizardman Leader's offer. "That is basically how it works. If you are able to give us riches such as those petty metal things and baubles such as this symbol, we would be glad to provide you with men to butcher your enemies. I hire out my men individually, so let me give you a list of the prices for our men." Ulfor calls for a scribe and has the scribe write down the following message in Lizardfolk, assuming that is their native tongue.

This List contains the prices for hiring the Mercenaries of the country of Trator.
Each Spearman costs 200gp
Each Warrior costs 300gp
Each Tactician costs 400gp
Each Berserker costs 450gp
Each Elite(To a maximum number of 5) costs 650gp

[Wraithkin]

"You owe me two crowns." His voice is suppressed and somber. He reads the report twice to ensure he has it right, and hands it across the table to Milo. The mental link he shares with his wife carries the information to her, and she fights back tears as she excuses herself. "I'll be in our bedroom if you need me." She kisses him gently on the head and leaves. Her overwhelming grief travels through their link like a tidal wave, and it is everything Jalros can do to fight back the emotions.

"There may be survivors, but right now, we have no way of getting to them. They half-melted one of my drop ships with a pair of shots. It will take days to repair that ship, not to mention the inscribing of wards that I will have to do. Weeks, perhaps." He drifts off as his mind does the calculations, mostly in an attempt to busy himself until he can recover from the emotional shock he is experiencing.

"Milo, how can we possibly protect your vessel if one of such sturdy design as my drop ships is nearly blown apart by their weaponry? Not only that, but now they know we are coming. At least we have the survivor." Jalros sighs in relief at this fact. At least there was one. Looking at the messenger, he passes along his instructions.

"Inform the drop ship to make haste here, and alert Shipyard Alpha that there is a damaged drop ship inbound and a VIP on-board. Make sure we get him to the infirmary as soon as possible. Alert Kialus that she is going to have a patient soon. Assemble the officers in the war room and tell them I will be there shortly." Nodding his head in dismissal, the messenger runs off as quickly as they had come.

"Milo, we're going to have to take that drink to go. We have an encounter to plan." He stands, without waiting for an answer from Milo, and walks over to the bar for a bottle of what the man is drinking. "This is for the road. Please follow me." With that, he exits the tavern and heads towards the central control shaft. With Milo in tow, he and the shorter man fly upwards many stories and come to stop at a room with and ornate pair of darkwood and cherry tables filled with an odd-looking sand. The walls are covered in exquisitely-detailed maps drawn with an expert hand.

The first table seems to be in constant motion. Upon closer inspection it is actually the topography of the ground beneath them as it updates as they move. The other is a perfect replication of Geban, as it was prior to the invasion. In the room are a multitude of half-dragons in various garbs, all with military rank adorning their clothing. They all present arms as he enters and he returns the salute. "Everyone, this is Milo. Milo, everyone." He extends a hand towards the officers to great the captain of the other ship.

[Liquidcore]

Naadir sighed, the second attempt at reviving the mummy had proved fruitless. "Dispose of it, burn it at the pyre." He spoke, standing up, only to start pacing the room.

"Send out the horsemen." He ordered one of the skeletons that stood with him in the room. "Have them explore beyond this island, I want detailed reports about the nearest settlements. I want to know who inhabits the mainland, what defences they have, everything. Just make sure they don't get themselves killed." Naadir stated, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb. "And make it snappy, I want to be in Khetep before the month is over.

Lord Naadir smiled, now all he had to do was wait for the reports, and then, his plan would be set into motion.
You are all dismissed, I'm going to retire to my bath chambers. Do not disturb me unless it's important.

[Talking Donkey]

A compilation of mine and Darth's



King Wyborn and his men near the camp without incident. Each horse, royally attired in fine cloth and hammered gold, easily keeps pace with the other group of envoys. Horses are, after all, quite a bit quicker on the uptake against a bunch of scampering kobolds running around a slow-moving troll.

But, keeping their distance, the knights soon arrived at the forest to the north, cutting through several segments of woodlands in pursuit of their lead. Heavy undergrowth parted under their hooves, the knights traveling without complaint in the shadow of the creatures ahead.

Finally, the canopy opened into a wide clearing, revealing a massive earthen hill ringed with sharpened wooden stakes. The hill, in reality more of an elevated plain, was entirely consumed by a sprawling camp. The ring of stakes, little more than a familiarity, were broken in several places where the craftsmen were either too lazy or too busy to finish. It was quite believable that such crude stakes would overwork a group of crafters.

This was, after all, a kobold camp. Or, to be more precise, an entire nation of them. Stretching for at least a kilometer in every direction, a series of crude wooden shanties having been built around the massive encampment. Even Tyris would have difficulty repelling this size of force, and it would take plenty of divine favor to do so.

The front gate to the fort, one of the few finer items, was wide open. Made of thick oak, each of the gate doors was tightly bound in iron. A lattice of metal helped to reinforce the wood, but that meant little due to the fact that the gates were wide open.

Assuming King Wyborn and his men proceeded directly through the front gate, the fort is shown to be quite well packed. The wooden buildings, all shabbily constructed with various pieces of driftwood and skewed nails, were host to countless kobolds. From the main street of the camp, there had to be at least a hundred of the tiny humanoids rushing about, dressed in leather and animal pelts. Some carried buckets of water, others working in streetside kilns to fire crude pottery and bread.

Yet as Wyborn as his knights passed, as of yet unmolested, they paused what they did. Their eyes wide and protected, it was as if the monarch was the monster here. What could only be a kobold woman pulled a litter of young away, urging them through the bead curtains of one hut.

It was disconcerting, to say the least.

Eventually, signs of more habitation became evident. Several large stone huts had been set up, each one squat but quite wide. The sounds of eating could be heard within, as well as the crunching of wet flesh and fighting. The inhabitants of one such hut were visible, a band of trolls dragging large clumps of mud along the seams of a half-built stone hut. Kobolds scrambled around the feet of the trolls, carrying buckets of soft earth to be clumped for insulation. Several large slabs of slate were piled next to the hut, waiting to be added onto the rock longhouse.

There were no doubt even more creatures within this camp, all bound under the unseen power of King Torg. Whoever this leader was, he must have been truly potent to bring them all together in this modicum (or parody) of civilization.

Further ahead, a large tent could be seen near what was likely the center of the camp, groups of armed- and armored- monsters on patrol. Several kobolds rode atop a quartet of landed hippogriffs like horses, tugging at the reigns from atop a thin cloth blanket. The creatures, evidently tamed, snorted and squawked at the horses as they neared. The steeds, for their part, were not intimidated by the calls.

As the group neared, the tent could be seen for what it was. Stretching out in a wide radius, it seemed like something a sultan of the east would reside within. Cool air flowed in from the central flap of the tent, the massive structure held up by several vertical rods. A pair of trolls, wearing inexpertly-wrought iron breastplates and carrying thin oak clubs, stood guard before the tent flaps.

At the approach of Wyborn, the trolls stepped aside, the entire group of knights allowed entrance (though, naturally, their mounts were kept with the two trolls up front). Unescorted, the group was led inside, walking across a series of knit-together animal furs. Everything from bear to snakeskin had been wrought into a single rolling carpet, the lights within the tent kept to the minimum of daylight that crept in through the flap and the hem of the tent cloth.

The tent appeared to be segmented with cloth walls, but the path for King Wyborn seemed clear enough. Dead ahead, a pair of large stone slabs had been placed. Thick iron chains ran up to the tent ceiling, silver rings spaced at odd intervals. High up, more of the rings were visible, as well as hooks into the cloth ceiling. Something, obviously, used those chains as a roost.

And it was crawling down. The chains shook several times as a massive shadow moved a dozen feet at a time, swinging like a chimp down the chains. The massive form stopped when it reached the sunlight, its massive claws gripping onto two of the rings on the chain.

Roughly the size of a bugbear, a massive creature suspended itself from the web of metal. A pair of milky eyes looked down on Wyborn from high up, a head of thin, black quills protruding from its scaled head in a parody of hair. Its long snout let out a sharp yip of laughter, revealing a row of sharpened teeth as it spoke common. It barely even had an accent.

"Greetings, King Wyborn! My apologies for not coming down in person, but it is quite...uncomfortable to leave my roost." There was another yip of laughter, followed by more of the deep, melodious voice, "But that is irrelevant! It pleases me that you have come here, to my warden! Is there anything I may get you, or your men? We have much to discuss, and I would hardly find it right to force them to stand about in such heavy suits of metal for so long!"

"It is not problem at all King Torg, we are more than happy to make the trip and it is an honor to be invited into your home. I have always wished to have strong relations with all of our neighbors, and I am please that you have called me here today. Please tell me, what is it that you wish to speak of?"

"I wish to speak with you as you might speak with another monarch of a realm." The monstrous face replied, the metal rattling further as he shuffled ever downward. Eventually, the entirety of King Torg was visible, the giant landing with a heavy crash onto the paved floor. Specks of dust rose up as his talons dug into the floor for traction, the quills of his back smoothed against him like a cape.

His entire body seemed to be covered in the meter-long spines, each one ending in what appeared to be a razor-sharp point. Despite the ghastly possibilities for their usage, however, King Torg did not seem to try them as the weapons they were. He instead had most of them covered (somewhat poorly) by the entire fur suit of a skinned bear, the animal's hide wrapping around the bugbear-sized ruler with little difficulty.

The most striking thing, however, was not his muscles- which were quite possibly as large as those of the trolls serving under him. The most striking thing was actually something that Wyborn had to take a moment to realize.

King Torg was a kobold. A massive, three-hundred-plus pound kobold.

"As you likely know, it is unusual for 'my kind' to form communities such as this. We have existed in communities, yes, but rarely has there been such a case where we have banded together in more than caves. Even rarer yet for trolls to join kobolds."

There was a pause as King Torg smiled again, his milky eyes focusing on Wyborn. He did not look at the man with fear, nor did he treat the other monarch like prey. There was understanding and mistrust within those seemingly blind eyes, which seemed oblivious to the knights currently edging in towards their leader for his own protection.

"I will not deny that we are a race with barbaric tendencies, just as the humans and elves once were. But, I feel, we have evolved enough to become civilized. To start our own kingdom, within these very lands. My scouts have already located sizable ore deposits in the mountains, and timber from the woods has helped build our current homestead. Which, I assure you, I have no interest in leaving now or any time in the foreseen future."

There it was. The fact of the matter. Though Torg said words in a manner not quite royal-like, he had a manner of sincerity about him. He was stating what he intended to do, and cushioning them in words that he seemed quite well versed in.

"So I called you here, King Wyborn of Tyris, to discuss the formation of my new kingdom. A national name will arise, I suppose, in due time. But for now I have sent for you to discuss the simple matter of land, as well as what I hope will be a dry, friendly relationship between our two cultures. Would such a thing seem reasonable to you, as it seemed to myself and my consorts?"

The Human Monarch stood facing the Kobold Monarch, no sign of his thoughts or intentions betrayed by his face. After a few moments a small smile comes to his lips. "King Torg, you do yourself, and your people a great service. Raising yourself above the expectations that others have put on you, and your race. For that, I commend you. For too long, your "people" have been oppressed, whether by the views humans placed on them, or by the barbaric ways which are their nature."

King Wyborn stopped a moment, almost as if to way his words before speaking again. "However, it takes more than just words to bring about stability. It will take hard work and determination. It will take understanding and compassion. It will require loyalty and goodness. I, my men, and the people of Tyris, will help you in any way we can. We will trade with you forthright, and be honorable in our dealings. You have timber and ore, but what of food?" The monarch asks.

"King Torg, I will be willing to open up a trade agreement with you, food supplies for ore. If this is acceptable to you, of course? Our grains, meats, and cheese will allow your people to have a steady diet, to grow stronger, to forget what it is like to have pangs of hunger in winter. My people will prosper, being able to build large buildings, and walls. What do you say?"

"And know this, that our friendship will not be based on our trade relations. Should you choose not to trade with us, we will still hold your in high regards. You will have nothing to fear from us. I only hope that we can expect the same courtesy."

With that, the Tyrisian Monarch awaited a reply from the Mighty King Torg.

[Darth_Malevo]

County of Marche

Don Quijote stood bolt upright, saluting as he marched backwards from the royal, giving several bows as he spoke. Truly, if this man was a joke, he certainly knew how to multitask his groveling well. “Oh, thank you, m’lord! Truly, you will not find a better knight than myself in your service! Oh, thank you, your greatness! This has to be the happiest moment in my entire life! I cannot ever, ever thank you enough for the great honor you have bestowed upon me by making me your knight!”

As soon as the doors closed on the man and his seemingly-indifferent one-man retinue, Virous leaned forward, his stately robes parting slightly at the hem as he whispered into the monarch’s ear. Whilst Titus himself was an accomplished man, Virous was a useful arcane aide at times, a tool to be utilized like the Death’s Hand agents (and more besides).

“M’lord.” The man spoke slowly, choosing his words quite carefully as he always did. The man was not paranoid about his security in station, as Titus had figured out upon elevating him, but he certainly knew of the fact that his master was no mere mortal to be trifled with. “There was… some magic I detected. But it seemed to be very weak, barely more than what a weapon might receive from a glancing blow by an enchanted blade. Judging by the age of what he was wearing, I would guess that his equipment is little more than hand-me-down goods and second-hand weapons: unless, as I might think, the sword is hiding its own magic for some peculiar reason. Artifacts have been known to disguise themselves before, sire, and to affect the mindset of their wielders. Regardless, I will check into the man’s past, and see if any branches shaken might produce something of value.”

With that, the mage moved towards the doors, as if to depart. Before leaving, however, he paused at the cusp of the exit. “And one minor matter, m’lord: I have heard tell of contact with a city of philosophers from my agents in some villages to our eastern edge. I would hardly expect a group of thinkers to mount any sort of reasonable defense, but I did not, however, wish to presume upon any opinions you might have of exploiting such a place.”

Mercenaries of Trator

The lizard stared at the prices given with a slight tilt of the head, one of his eye slits seeming to coil in what could only be called the approximation of a raised eyebrow. “Gee pee?” He asked, flicking out a forked tongue at the slate before a mild realization came in. Looking up at Ulfor, he then looked around the city, his head seeming to swivel without his body doing any obvious motions. The display of nature-given dexterity over, the lizardmen commander planted his exotic pike into the ground.

“You only wish for precious things, yes?” He said, nodding his head up and down in a pseudo-hypnotic fashion. “How many precious things will it take for all of your troops to be hired? Fast-quick!” He emphasized, “Soldiers must move quickly like monitor, be prepared like great spider in den!” He gave another bob of the head, “Precious things will be given for all, yes. But the den must have all of the human soldiers! All of them!” It emphasized, pointing to the “Elite” limit on the prices provided.

Star Fortress Hope
Milo gave a minor growl as he read the parchment, “Milo does not like the sound of this. He dealt with weaponry like what is reported before, nasty stuff. He never used it, of course, but he has seen what it can do to an out-of-control airship. Whoever got their hands on it has done this sort of thing before.” He pushed the parchment away as Jalros collected another bottle of ‘Bearhuggers Fine Vintage’ alcohol. The bottle, made from hardened glass, was of dwarven make. Yet another gift given to the vessel from its christening and first, eternal flight, meant to help signify just how close the dwarves and the vessel’s inhabitants were to hopefully become.

As the duo made for the central war room, several more officers joined them midway. Once at the war room in question, however, Milo gave a short whistle at all that was on display before him. “Milo finds this quite fancy, but he has seen better.” The Halfling replied off-handedly, dismissing the marvels on display here. He did, however, let his gaze linger on the map of Geban. The tiny man walked over to it, waving his hand over the table to no effect, looking slightly perturbed.

“Hmm, that isn’t quite right.” The Halfling stated, “He thinks there might be a few more difficulties here. Captain!” He called, pointing to the castle in the center of the lake drawing, “Do you know if this dropship of yours can fly back to the domes mentioned when it gets back?” He asked cryptically, lost in thought. Milo pointed at the location of where the under-assault dome had been. “Milo thinks there may be a relation between these domes and what is going on. Do you know where Milo might find something fast that can carry…oh…”

Milo was lost in thought, thinking for a moment, “Four objects the size of siege engines?” He asked suddenly, a small smile on the side of his face.

Kingdom of Burzum

The congregation of undead left the room at Naadir’s command. Every vampire, skeleton, zombie, and other similar creature filed out with a deathly silence, their necessary conversations having been had already at this point. Ever since Naadir had taken control, the kingdom had been full of just this sort of life. Focused, clean, precise! Mere mortals wasted their breath with meaningless pandering, whilst the undead- as timeless as death itself- required no such petty banter! Oh, they were certainly capable of it, and the more self-styled aristocrats used such banter betwixt themselves, but the dead were not naturally inclined towards it! It was the final revolution!

As Naadir sank into a bath of scented oils and soaps, the sounds of distant hoofbeats could be heard, undead horses rushing through the night with no impairment. Whereas other riders could only go so fast, those blessed souls now departing his walls were capable of riding day and night, their only impediment the extent their master wished to go.

It would be a day before the first of the scouts returned, having only gone a short distance to maximize the amount of time taken. As the first of the skeletons returned, bearing hand-written details of their explorations, the details began to trickle in. The riders, not having been fully sentient, were subject to the same limitations as normal undead: To-the-bone facts of what they had been commanded for.

After a full day’s relaxation, the three reports of worth were handed to him, scribed precisely by each rider with exact directions to them from the front gate of the spire.

Settlement: Lochton
Inhabitants: Humans (200 est), Elves (100 est), Goblinoids (600 est), Dwarves (50 est).
Defences: 7ft thick brick wall. Six brick watch towers attached, each of which is 30ft high. Each tower has a ballista or one to three armed militiamen in it. Clerical presence is believed to exist. Arcane presence is confirmed as existing. Arcane spellcaster is of mild to moderate strength. Military strength estimated at one hundred town lawmen, supplemented with upwards of three hundred civilian militia.

Settlement: Cheektowaga
Inhabitants: Humans (1,000 est), Elves (600 est), Lizardfolk (3,000 est)
Defences: Moderate slope ringed with outward-facing palisade of wooden stakes. Large presence of armed hunters within settlement, indicating stealth capabilities. Clerical presence has been confirmed. Households appear to be constructed of flammable cloth, if well patrolled. Quick response times due to proximity of homesteads.

Settlement: Dunmyre
Inhabitants: Humans (5,000 est), Elves (1,000 est), Dwarves (300 est), Halflings (400 est).
Defenses: 20ft thick reinforced stone wall, with a confirmed magical reinforcement on city gate. A minimum standing army of five hundred is present, with upwards of one thousand militia possible. Arcane caster presence confirmed, with mild to moderate capabilities. Divine caster presence confirmed, with mild to moderate capabilities.

Kingdom of Tyris

King Torg gave a jubilant laugh. “This is good, King Wyborn! I had my concerns over bias, but I see that they were unfounded in confiding within you!” He affirmed, “But do not worry about us feeding ourselves! We’ve had our methods of surviving the lean months, but the offer is appreciated nonetheless.” He pointed to his teeth, giving them a good chomp for emphasis. A jest, hopefully! The other option was a bit morbid to consider.

But the large kobold gave further thought, a small yip escaping his snout as he contemplated the next matter. “But, more important than trade is the matter of lands. As I see it, my kingdom is quite large. We will require land to hunt, and land to- eventually- cultivate.” He stated, “But above all, we will need land to live in. Now, whilst the woodlands and mountains may prove fair to others, my people and I will need something more open. Something where we can truly put our skills of survivalism to the test. Whilst your offer of peace aids this somewhat, we will still require parcels of land. Parcels of land, I fear, that only you may have the proper judgment to dole out. Am I correct?”

[Talking Donkey]

"So you wish to test your survival instincts on the open plains?" The monarch stroked his chin. "Land as fertile and bountiful as that which we currently possess, and of course have families with homes and farms on are hard to come by... but good neighbors are even more rare."

The monarch paces from side to side, still in thought. "We can spare you the land, dependent on how much you need. We have a mostly unsettled are to the north and east of Tyris. Of course we must hammer out specific details, survey the land, and come to a fair, workable agreement for both parties, and of course, inform the few who live there of their new neighbors. "

This could work. This could really work. All the time I've devoted to ridding the world of evil, and this opportunity is thrown in my lap. Turning a whole tribe to good, even if they are still pagans, is better than slaughtering them.

"Would you care to travel to this area with me, to see these lands, or would you rather send an emissary."

[Helinon]

Ulfor looks at the Lizardfolk leader with incredulity. "For ALL my forces? I..... I have never had such a large request before. I would estimate the cost to be around 110,000 gold. 111,750 gold to be exact. And for a regiment of forces that large, I will allow 10 of my Elites to be hired. That would bring the cost up to 118,250 gold. The rest must stay here, for the defense of my settlement and keep. You would be getting 150 Spearmen, 100 Warriors, 75 Tacticians, 75 Berserkers, and 10 of our Elites."

[Wraithkin]

Jalros tilts his head in thought. "It depends upon what type of siege engines you are talking about. Each one of my drop ships is capable of carrying five, but it depends on what they are. Otherwise, if you need something larger, I can possibly make it, but I doubt it'll be what you're looking for. Besides that, this fortress is it. Why?" Jalros' mind was churning at what the man was talking about.

[LongVin]

County of Marche

The count contemplated the possibilities of actions for a moment regarding this city of philosophers. His army was large and needed battletesting but perhaps this was not the time for warfare just yet. Titus knew better than anyone that skill at arms was not the best way to take advantage of a situation. Now, it was time for a more subtle approach.

Calling over one of the members of court, an older and worldly man who served as an official translator and host to foreign emmisaries. Titus instructs him to put together a small entourage and travel to this city of philosophers to make contact with whoever rules it and attempt to establish trade relations.

[Liquidcore]

Naadir slipped into a silken robe, smiling at the reports. Three settlements nearby, all three would fall to him, but the tactics would be...important, he would take them in order, from smallest to largest.

"Lochton..." He said, savouring the taste of the word in his mouth.

"Ready the troops." He ordered one of his higher-ranking skeletal mages.

"We leave at sunset, we return at sunrise. There will be no mistakes." He said, narrowing his eyes.

"Tonight, our ranks will swell."

[Darth_Malevo]

Kingdom of Tyris
King Torg stood above the massive leader as he proposed the deal, the knights around him sharing glances with one another at what was transpiring. As the Kobold king nodded his head at the offer, one of the elder knights- Greismeyer- finally spoke up. “This is insanity!” The elderly knight declared, interrupting the proceedings. King Torg simply watched the man with keen interest, one of his scaly eyebrows raised in curiosity.

Even though a few of the knights attempted to hush him, Greismeyer continued on his protest. “I am a sworn Knight of Heironious, a man bound to the tenants of justice and peace!” He hissed, pointing to King Torg. “And as I have sworn to protect you, it seems I must protect you from yourself!” He said to King Wyborn, shaking his helmed head. “For my entire life I have served this kingdom in one way or another, lord, and I will not see the lands myself and my brother knights have shed blood for given away to some…some…newcomer!”

The massive kobold said nothing to this, simply watching the knight as he said his part, scratching his chin with a sharp set of claws. He seemed to be hung on every word of the enraged nobleman’s case against the reptilian, and his lack of comments said even more than what a quip or parable could ever accomplish.

“If this were some man-to-man dealing, I would keep my words to a whisper, sire!” Greismeyer continued, “But you are willing to offer our soil to this? This is not the aristocracy I was raised to believe in! This is not pure-blooded royalty, or some great leader of nations! This ‘Mighty King Torg’ is nothing more than a warlord! You, sire, hang on his every word! You are pamphering to him!”

There was a sharp intake of breath from half of the assembled warriors, but the other half held their silence, not bothering to make any comment or outward sign of either approval or disapproval. “So I ask you, Lord Wyborn, show some sense! Let us return to the castle and forget this silly mockery of a meeting! Your humors are off, my liege, and I simply cannot stand idly by whilst some ailment afflicts your judgment!”

Mercenaries of Trator
The large lizard flicked out his tongue at the numbers provided, before shaking its head in disinterest. Yet even as its head shook, the chieftain tapped the exotic pike it had embedded. There was a momentary pause as the group watched, followed by a single flash as the pike sent out a burst of arcane energy.

Then, in response, one of the men from the walls called down. “A force of lizardfolk, m’lord! They’re approaching on foot!”

There was momentary alarm before the report was clarified. This was not an invasion force: Three score of the reptilians were approaching, each one laden with treasure. Some rode upon the backs of great beasts, others simply carried gold and silver and artwork in backpacks made for humans rather than mighty lizard backs. The wealth they carried had to be at least double what the monarch had asked, the sheer number of over laden creatures indicating their wealth.

“We require all, yess?” The leader prodded, wealth obviously not an issue, “Money isss not an issue.”


SF Hope
Milo tapped the side of his head, his smile developing at Jalros’s reply. “He likes where this is going!” The Halfling replied with glee, tapping the table with the image of Geban. “Milo believes that if this dropship of yours is fitted with enough extra armor, it could- perhaps- carry enough troops to swarm the cannon! Of course, Milo does not particularly care to be one of the troops to fly directly towards the giant death machine, but Milo still thinks that all of that room could be put to good use.”

As Milo spoke, the various officers began to talk amongst themselves at the concept. The idea was possible, but the materials required would weigh the dropship down, slowing its fly speed to make it that much more of a sitting duck. The relationship between speed and survivability was a tough choice, but Milo seemed inclined to press the issue, “But he also has another idea for when your flying fortress gets into range. He would propose, in the odd possibility that his own airship was indeed as weak as some people might imply,” There was a momentary pause as he shot a dirty eye at Jalros for his implication of Milo’s airship being weak, “that a suitably slow target might draw attention from something fast moving in. Milo would like to be compensated for the risk in the latter, but it’s a workable idea.”

Jalros looks at Milo as he thinks over the ideas. "First, the drop ships are not required to get my troops to the ground. All of them are capable of free-fall landings. The towers are there for protection, so weighing them down with additional troops is a needless risk."

"As for using your ship as bait... not going to do it. Last thing I want is for your ship to be damaged. After hearing about what two shots did to my drop ship's hull, I'm not inclined to believe that your airship will fare much better." He shakes his head. "No, we can't do that. I want to destroy the cannon before we get close to it. This will require an increased altitude so our heavy weaponry can fire from a higher arc.”

"How would you feel if I were to land your vessel in our courtyard so we may fly higher without worrying about your ship stalling, and then we can bombard from an altitude beyond the weapon's reach? Obviously, we would make every effort to conceal the contents of your vessel."

Milo gave a disapproving look to Jalros as he once more doubted the Halfling airship’s integrity. “He would get into an argument about the finer points of crafting that dwarves have done with his airship, but there are bigger fish to fry. In particular, the idea of throwing tiny rocks at it. Milo never saw siege weapons fight siege weapons, but he does not like the fact that you only have so many rocks to fling, and they- if that report is right- have made a lot more.”

The Halfling man looked Jalros up and down at his offer of landing the airship in the courtyard, cocking an eyebrow. “This plan of yours relies on several points. Tell Milo, why should he believe that you will not just hop onto his ship to take Magus Council property for yourself? You register as non-evil, yes, but Milo has seen people fool that test before. He has also seen what curious people do when something like his airship is put in easy reach. No offense meant, of course, but Milo has to be cautious, yes?”

"I would not trust you if you were not as cautious as you are, Milo. First, I have no ability to fly your craft past its fleight ceiling. There's also the assumption that I'm somehow concealing /all/ of the auras of the men and women under my care. Lastly, I don't have any inclination to piss off those who have assisted me in the construction of this citadel."

Milo nodded, “But all the same, Milo would like to have his own men patrol around his ship. He will land it in the courtyard, yes, but he would appreciate it if the courtyard is kept clear. He does not want to deal with a very angry Haza’Lemurian back on ship. She is very angry most of the time and Milo is fully prepared for a thorough bitching out when she hears of this plan.” The Halfling subconsciously rubbed at his shoulder, wincing slightly.

"I will tell my men and women to stay clear of the ship, and to utilize the spiderclimb enchantment to make their rounds. You are welcome, and invited, to post your own security on, around, above, and below if you so choose."

Milo nodded his appreciation, "Indeed. Milo would like to know, however, what you plan to do after the cannon is knocked out. There's bound to be plenty of undead, especially considering how there was only one survivor caught in the whole city."

"That part does not actually have me worried. There are more than enough troops here to provide a suitable offensive push into the city. Or, at the very worst, enough to hold off while we scour for the remaining survivors. That Cannon will prevent us from getting close enough to do our job. Eliminate that cannon, and we hopefully can close the gap."

"And if there is more than just one cannon?" Milo asked morbidly, interested, "And this ship cannot hold more than a thousand or two men! How can they hold up against an entire metropolis of reanimated corpses?"

"I have roughly two-thousand well-trained half-dragon troops of various abilties at my command. In addition, I have siege weapons that fire ammunition filled with holy water. There's also the aspect that even if these undead were to present an insurmountable quantity, we simply fly above where we need to activate your device -- whatever it does -- and they cannot harm us. As for another Cannon? Gods help us if they have more than one of those things."

Milo frowned at the mention of his device. "Milo would not suggest attempting to fight the undead. For every well-trained, able troop you lose, they gain one more." He commented, "Though the holy water is a fine touch. He would very much like to pilot a vessel like this one day, if the Council would ever let Milo pilot anything other than a fancy flying barge." Wistfully looking around, he looked back up to Jalros. "And you mentioned more survivors? How do you plan to get them all? The defensive domes are neigh-unbreachable, and Milo has seen their like survive direct hits from falling stars before. It was an interesting experience, to tell the truth."

"Yes, but if we remove the threat, then there is no longer a need for the domes. I am sure they are willing to drop them once the undead are dealt with. I can always utilize conventional rocks to attack the hordes of undead. This vessel has a cargo hold below where your ship will be landing that can hold three hundred thirty-six thousand cubic feet of goods. I'm certain we can use some of that for storing ballista and trebuchet rocks. I already have roughly thirty thousand cubic feet full of ammunition and goods for the survival of my citadel. I think we can take on a bit more." He thinks for a moment. "And if you'd like I can arrange so that you can have a vessel similar to this... for perhaps the right favors."

Milo gave a small sigh, "He would, but he is currently in a Blood Contract with the Council. So unless these favors are tidying up around the house, Milo can't really help there. In the meantime, however, there is an interesting conundrum to your idea: What if the other survivors can't turn off the domes? The Regionar building, that castle, might be the on-off switch for the city defenses. At least, it would be if Milo was a Regionar. As well as that, how would they know the danger is passed? Those domes can't be seen through. And he wouldn't lower them even if you paid him a king's ransom without proof that it's safe outside."

"Or they may be similar in design to this citadel. Haven't you noticed how those outside this castle see nothing but a mile-wide cloud but once you set foot in here, it's as if there is nothing there? There is nothing saying those domes aren't like that, unless you're telling me that you were inside one before. I think our first issue is clearing out the city. We will do so in a calculated and methodical manner. The first step to that is getting your vessel safely aboard mine. Once that's done, we can gain altitude to about four thousand feet or so, and from there we advance on the city from the northwest. If we find any hint of the undead army, we smash the tower and then make our way towards that castle. Sound fair?"

Milo nodded, before pausing suddenly, cocking an eyebrow at Jalros, then looking behind him. Giving a momentary, pleading look to the half-dragon, he let out a sharp yelp. "No! Not again!"

Then, in a flash, the Halfling seemed to blur out of reality, his body discorporating with no grandoise level of theatrics. One moment he was there, the next he was blurred out, vanished from the room. But, in all fairness, there was no ensuing violence. As abruptly as Milo had arrived here, he had vanished, no sign of his passing beyond a thin layer of fine black sand upon the floor. It was at this point that the talking intensified, the officers debating not only what had just transpired, but the logistics of a full invasion on Geban as well.

Jalros mentally reaches out to the magus council.

The Magus Council was never a pleasant experience. The concentration required to draw their attention was immense, and even as Jalros thought, he knew that it could take hours- if not days- before they would even consider responding to his thoughts. They were not a group to be summoned leisurely: More often than not, they would not even dare to respond to him, or even deign him with a ‘shove off’.

But this time was different.

The first sign of an audience was the gentle dimming of the lights around Jalros, despite the fact that the flames were still visible in their torches. The air became heavy in the dragon born man’s lungs, his heart beating faster to supply enough oxygen to his body. His mind, more receptive to the ebb and flow of magic, burned with the sensations manifesting around him. To invite the Magus Council was to invite a thorough invasion of your personal space, both arcane and physical.

Finally, in the blink of an eye, Jalros no longer stood in the middle of his war room. A thin sliver of the floor he stood upon was all that remained with a pure field of abyssal white surrounding him. He couldn’t even shuffle his feet: He was too precariously placed for such a minor motion. All that surrounded him was an unpainted canvas of non-reality, with the tiny segment floor the only sign that he had not been whisked off to some alternate reality.

"Where is Milo?"

The question echoed throughout the abyss, Jalros's inner thoughts seeming to echo in its wake. There was no response, his summons having been granted, but the inquiry left unanswered. The sensation that, perhaps, the Council did not care about Milo was left to creep into Jalros's invaded mind.

"If you want me to continue this mission, you had better answer my question. I cannot prepare properly without the captain of the other ship. And I will not jeopardize the crews of both ships by planning haphazardly and without his input."

As Jalros spoke aloud, the abyss above him began to darken in color. A miasma of black and purple energies began to swirl over the ceiling of this meeting ground, energies crashing down from the heavens in a thunderstorm so realistic that his skin shivered with each thunderous explosion in the air above him. This was no mere thunderstorm: This was an atmospheric recreation of what could only be hell.

Finally, with a single, monolithic motion the remaining white of this pseudo-prison was blotted out in a sea of red. What seemed to be a tsunami of heavy cloth rose around him, a veritable mountain of crimson bubbling up above him. Standing like a mortal before a pantheon of gods, the hooded figures of the Magus Council were visible. Their bodies stretched forever downward in this dreamlike meeting, their veiled faces as large as the entirety of the Hope. As one, they all looked down upon Jalros, their voices singular in both tone and mannerism.

“Your service as the captain of the Hope is not necessitated in any form.” They spoke out in legion, their voices seeming to thunder despite the calm quiet they exuded. “The status of Captain Milo is insignificant, as he is subordinate to Chi Master Li Fe. Now, inform us of Geban’s status, Captain Jalros of the Superheavy-class Airship Hope.”

"Geban has been laid siege by an undead army. All its inhabitants, save my one guest, have either been slain and turned into undead or hidden within the domes of the city. The enemy utilizes a cannon which, after two shots, has melted half the armor plating on one of my drop ships. I was planning to assault the city from high altitude, outside of the range of the cannon, and attempt to destroy said cannon and the entirety of the undead army. In order to do that, Milo's vessel needs to land in my courtyard so I may go above his flight ceiling."

The Council did not speak for a score of minutes, Jalros left standing there before a response was given. “The survivor will be transferred onboard the Council airship, Captain Jalros, for interrogation upon landing. As for the Arcane Bombard you encountered, Captain Jalros, permission for its destruction has been granted. Chi Master Li Fe has been apprised of the situation, and the necessary information for its annihilation will be provided. As well as this, it has not been deemed necessary for the Council airship to land within the Star Fortress Hope’s courtyard.”

"Interrogation? This man has lost both his legs and arms, and endured a torturous experience at the hands of some slime. You're going to interrogate him?" His voice is bitter at their implication. "How am I to destroy the bombard from low altitude, in addition to protecting your ship?"

“The matter is not for the Council to resolve, Captain Jalros. The Council airship will be capable of defending itself until it enacts Conversus'ad Excisio Incendium. The destruction of the Bombard is not a priority you should be concerned with, but the recapture of the Regionar building has become a new priority within your operation in Geban. You are henceforth tasked with the twofold mission of securing Regionar Augustus and the protection of Council work crews as they scour the building. Is this understood, Captain Jalros?”


County of Marche
The translator gave a deep bow as his orders were given out to him, the man taking his orders in stride. Within the next day, he had gathered up the supplies necessary for the three-day trip, rushing off into the sunset for what most might call “Adventure”. But, for the Count of Marche, it was really just another tedious diplomatic action that would likely end in some great big bloody scuffle. Joy.

But what was a joy was what entered through the dictator’s door next; his loyal cohort Ragnar. Unfortunately, the man hardly looked much better for his mission. Several arrow holes, complete with realistic bloodstains, marked his shoulder. As well as this, one arrow remained jutting out of the right side of his ribs, the partially-visible head having been wickedly barbed. In his hands was what appeared to be one of the Elven elders, his legs clearly broken and his arms tied behind him. Yet Ragnar, true to form, did the rebellious pointy-eared bastard the favor of dragging him by the hair, complete with groaning and yelping.

Yet as Ragnar, alone, rose up to present the body, the Elf elder continued to squirm in his grasp. “My lord!” He boomed with glee, before bouncing the old man off of the floor to stop his squirming. There was a sharp crack, but the Elf proved a bit more resilient than his namesake. There was simply a low groan as the barbarian spoke uninterrupted, “I bring you this pitiful Elven leader, at the cost of five of my greatest warriors!” He grunted, spitting on the Elf before continuing. “He and his mewling lot fought to keep this one hidden away, going so far as to try and burn down one of their pitiful treehouses! But he is yours now, sir!”

There was a heavy crash as Ragnar tossed the Elf before Titus, the man screaming as his broken limbs skidded across the royal carpet, landing in a heap at Titus’s feet. One of Ragnar’s fresher men planted his foot onto the Elf’s chest, prepared to behead him at a moment’s notice. “So, sir, please indulge me the honor of watching you make him spill his guts before the court!”

Kingdom of Burzum
The mage gave a silent nod of the head, before departing to begin rallying the troops. In short order, the spire came to life, every floor of the vertical necropolis coming to life. Skeletons marched up and down stairs as coffins were lifted from their chambers. Zombies of every make and size shambled into the armories, grabbing row upon row of weapon and shield. Armor, nonexistent for the living dead, was used only by the most paranoid of vampires. And not even for protection against the members of Lochton: It was protection against their own side.

Against the man who, currently, strolled alongside Naadir before the assembled force of undead. Decaying zombies stood vigilant before their leader, their spears pointing towards the heaven as they stood at perfect attention. None could question the posture of these mindless troops, their minds having only just begun to form. They were the lowest of the undead, their loss barely something to blink at. Even the ability to speak was a trial for these, well, expendables. To lose them would be like losing an attack dog. They were something that can, perhaps, have the most basic of feelings beyond the urge to follow the orders doled out to them. Their loss, though regrettable, was nothing grand. They were the great shock troops, the warriors of the state that would die in droves just because they were asked to.

Behind them stood the skeletons and even more of the zombies, all of them mindless beyond their urge to fight. Those that survived would likely gain a semblance of personality, until they had fought long enough to finally become actual members of Burzum’s society. But until that point, they would charge and die in droves. It was at the rear of the force, with the archers and the vampires and the other sentient fighters, the true backbone of Naadir’s army. Horses huffed, fighters prepared their weapons, and vampires chattered amongst themselves as they prepared for feasting unlike any other.

Varg himself rode atop one of the vampiric horses as the army moved on, their steps echoing like thunder as they moved as a singular entity. Even if Lochton heard their approach, there was little the village could do to shore up against the might of the undead army on the move. They were tiny, Naadir was large. None could oppose the might of the undead!

And thus they moved. Their march was unimpeded by the woodland creatures, the landscape before them barren and devoid of life. The animals knew that death was moving, and they did well to avoid the necromancer and his legion. The air became stale in their wake, the magic of their motion causing grass to wilt and trees to shed their leaves. Yet, after what seemed to be several hours of unending march, they came upon Lochton in the late hours of the day. They had been forced to stow the vampires mid-march so that the vampires could rest out of the sunlight and keep moving. Yet they had moved perhaps too quickly, and had instead ended up a few hours before the sun would fully set. Yet even without the vampires, they still outnumbered the village defenders.

Their force was arrayed before the village gates, the thin walls weak compared to the mighty undead force before them. Even as the church bells rang and hounds howled into the day, the undead pressed on. Farmers from the outlying households boarded up their homes, preparing for an inevitable onslaught. An onslaught that Varg pestered Naadir to launch, “Come on, sir!” He egged, “They’re just waiting in their little homes! I would barely need five score troops, and I could get half that added to our numbers! More, if they have children!”

Varg was truly a pro-undead man, or simply a sadist. He had no computations about adding the young and the old to the ranks of the dead, as evidenced by his eagerness to strike down the houses and reanimate those within. Inside of the village, the militia and what little standing army there was began to flood towards the walls, the ballista weapons firing shots too short to strike even the outskirts of the army. Naadir had planned well, for the village was still trapped even though it had siege weapons to defend itself. With the lack of supplies needed by most of Naadir’s troops, he could potentially simply starve Lochton into submission.

Into willing undeath.

[Helinon]

Ulfor flinches at the sudden flash of energy, and has little reaction to the report. "I understand your need for my men, and that our pay is not at stake but please understand, we have made many enemies through our history. We need some men to stay here in case we are attacked. We will give you as many as we can but we must keep some here."
Diplomacy = 1d20+10

[LongVin]

County of Marche

Titus gritted his teeth, those men were valuable and tough to obtain. While more could always be obtained from Ragnar's clan an expedition would need to be launched...perhaps he could establish a town of them somewhere within his borders. But, that was planning for the future. Now. This fool would pay for the insolence of his people.

Titus leans over in his chair to look the elf in the eyes. "Tell me, friend elf." he says in Elvish before switching to the common tongue "Why have you made me resort to such harsh tactics which have resulted in the loss of my House Guards and no doubt many of your kinsmen. Have I not been more than accomadating to your peoples? Does the hammer of justice need to come down upon then or will you submit to rule?"

[Talking Donkey]

"Sir Greismeyer, you will hold your tongue." The King began, his voice had a sense of understanding, although it was obvious it was not a question. "You are right, you, as well as I, and all of these men here with us, are men sword to the edicts of justice and peace. What kind of justice do we show when those who have done us no harm are not given equal treatment. What kind of peace do we champion if we cause a war, that will cost thousands of deaths in our own camp as well as in that of our enemy, when we could, nay, should champion that same "peace" through a few words and a firm handshake? I value your opinion, your concern, and mostly your friendship, but you are wrong. This discussion is over."

Turning back to the the Kobold King, Julius began again. "Pardon the interruption King Torg, you were saying?"


Diplomacy roll to calm Sir Greismeyer down and get him to see my point of view. If I get modifiers for being his king, friend, etc. it will be higher.
[roll0]

[Wraithkin]

Jalros' features twist into a sarcastic sneer as he growls his response: "I don't have much of a choice, do I?"

After they disappear, and Captain Milo is nowhere to be found, he glares at the other officers before him. The air around him wavers with his barely-contained anger, but he knows he cannot take it out on them. "Navigation: Bring us to one two niner five feet, heading zero one six, how copy?"

"One two niner five, heading zero one six, confirmed." The voice is feminine and comes from everywhere and nowhere at the same time. All aboard can feel the air around them start to thin and the light changes directions. "Relaying course change to drop ship alpha."

"Gentlemen and women, we have a change of plans. It would appear the council wants us to secure a structure here." He points a clawed digit at the building he has been assigned to take, and it zooms in on the city and the building itself. "It is likely the only building left standing intact, and I am sure there will be plenty of combatants to be had. I suggest we make a drop in landing in groups of twenty to land on the roof of the structure. Intervals will be ten seconds to adjust for casualties and enemy situation."

He pauses as it zooms out slightly. A large cannon-toting tower appears on the map, as well as can be detailed based upon the description provided by his recon team. "This cannon has enough fire power to melt through half the armor plating on one of our drop ships in two shots, only one of which was a direct hit. We cannot afford to confront this thing at close range. Therefore," he pauses and looks at his artillery CO, "You will need to prep your troops for long-range engagement of targets. Estimate no less than two thousand feet to target. I will have the remaining three drop ships shuttle back and forth appropriately-sized rocks for you to practice with so we do not eat up our ammunition reserves."

The sand zooms out further and shows the city. It shows the Council airship floating above the city, supported by a strand of sand at a relative altitude of 500 feet. The SF Hope well above that, at the approximated 1,295 feet.

"As soon as we see the tower with the cannon, we will begin launching attacks at it as we approach. Ideally, we'll be able to provide enough of a distraction for them to fire blindly at us under cover our warding, in addition to our height difference, that our troops will be able to land without being targeted."

He sighs and pauses for another moment as he thinks. "I want all our drop troops to double up on their gear this time around. I don't know how long of a contact we're going to have to wage, but I do not want to be caught short. Make sure the troops know to carry double their allotment of glyph weaponry with them, and double food and water. As soon as the first group lands, I want them to pepper the entire exterior of the building on all sides with the various beads. This will ensure we won't have to worry about the undead army for a short while so we can secure the building and make preparations of moving out."

He turns to look at the drop ship CO. "Based upon the report my team made, the lethality of the cannon exists within the confines of the walls of the city. They will support from within the clouds, flanking our position, raining destruction down upon the undead that inhabit the city."

"I'm not going to lie to you. I have my ideas of what makes this cannon so powerful, and it unsettles me a bit. The only way you can generate that kind of energy is through the expenditure of souls. Psions do it to a lesser degree, as my esteemed colleagues can attest, when they overchannel themselves. However, the kind of energy this cannon puts off must sacrifice hundreds or thousands of souls in a single act, generating a massive blast. I want all attempts made to destroy that tower, and anything else that could be used to mount that cannon."

He relinquishes his mental command on the sand, and it changes back into the form of the city they are traveling to. Turning to his defensive forces CO, he looks pensive. "I want you to pull all your archers and ballistae troops off the walls once we get within a few hours travel of the city. If we do get hit by a round, the wards and armor will protect the citadel, but I'm not certain it will protect all of the troops on the walls. Ensure everyone has their airman's wings on before they get to their post."

"Alright folks, that's all I've got. We need to make this happen. Good day." After they present arms to him, he returns the salute and then walks down to the engineering bay of his construction yards. Finding the lead Interceptor engineer, he pulls him aside. "Please give me good news regarding our completion time."

[Darth_Malevo]

Mercenaries of Trator

The treasure-bearers followed into the opened gates, their large haul of wealth on open display for the mercenaries within. Coins of every size and make were present upon the heap, the lizards obviously having had some manner of lucrative gain. Or, at the very least, an obsession with hoarding what they did gain. As both the four-legged and two-legged pack mules came to a stop, several pieces of treasure caught Ulfor’s eyes. In particular, a large statue that appears to be an exact lifelike replica of a heavy-set man in a toga, a laurel around his head. Large diamonds serve as his toenails, and a series of solid gold bars serve as his teeth. The statue might have come from a previous associate of the lizardfolk, but it seemed in too pristine a condition to be mere loot. Granted, the other baubles present were in equally perfect condition. Obviously these lizards knew the value of keeping the valuables valuable.

As the horse-sized lizards came to a stop, the first of the riders dismounted, emptying large burlap sacks full of coins and various gemstones onto the floor. Onyx, amethyst, diamond, and countless others were spaced between the steadily-growing mound of copper, silver, gold, and platinum. Some were inscribed with the heads of rulers both ancient and recent; others still merely tiny discs of the material in question. Seeing as most coins were imbued with only a thimble’s worth of the material they were denoted for, that actually made some of the coinage here worth more than its namesake.

The lizard, for his apart, appeared only mildly appeased by this explanation. “But surely more can be spared, yess?” He prodded, “We have need of many troopsss, for many fights! Precious baubles will be had by you, provided we get the service wanted. Ssso, what will it take for more than what you say, but do not mean? We can meet great pricessss, and not just in baublesss.”

As if to prove its point, the feather-headed lizardman pointed to the lizard mounts beside it, as well as their riders. One of the riders in particular looked interesting: His tunic had several twine fetishes hanging from it, constructed with a myriad of materials. Some of them incorporated ivory, others using the bones of deceased animals. Yet the presence of an arcane caster was, most importantly, unmistakable. Negotiations had just taken a twist for the more interesting!

County of Marches

The Elf muttered something quite profane in his common tongue, the likes of which earned him a solid boot to the back of the head from Ragnar who- though not fluent in languages- was quite fluent in insults. There was a nasty squelching sound as the older elf’s head bounced off the steps leading to the throne, a small amount of blood being left where his pointy-eared skull bounced. However, the inferior being was held aloft once more, where his formerly-perfect teeth were on display in all their broken glory. Ragnar had really given the cretin a royal treatment for the loss of his comrades.

A punch to the thigh got him talking, “There’s only so much you can do, tyrant.” He said, speaking the last word in Elvish. “The more you spy on us, the more you try and coerce us, the harder we’ll resist.” There was a moment of silence from Ragnar as he let the Elf tie his own noose. “If arrows are enough to make you drop this vaunted ‘Hammer of Justice’, I wonder how you’ll respond to…”

The elder purposely trailed off, another punch from Ragnar causing him to groan. “Well, I suppose that’ll be for me to know.” He gave a wry cackle, “So what’ll it be, Count? Are you going to…” A heavy wheeze erupted from the ancient Elf, “Cut my head off? Or are you going to show some wisdom and just give up?”

Such cockiness! Several of the chamber guards appeared ready to move forward to decapitate such an insolent whelp, but the Elf simply remained limp, ready for whatever beating Titus was going to dole out. Obviously he fashioned himself a martyr!

Kingdom of Tyris

Greismeyer did indeed calm down, though it was more of a succession into brooding rather than a peaceful resolution. Yet, to the public eye, he had indeed held his tongue. The knight resumed his position as King Torg eventually nodded his head. Apparently the kobold had passed his own judgment of what had just transpired, for better or for worse. But the wannabe monarch did not show any sign of aggression in spite of the outburst, speaking as politely as he did before.

“A tour would be appreciated, yes. Though, if you would not mind as such, I would prefer to take my own honor guard. Not for my personal safety, mind, but to simply illustrate to any onlookers that this is a genuine royal visit. Hopefully this is acceptable?” The large kobold asked, his seemingly blind eyes locking with Wyborn’s. There was an intensity of purpose in there, inspired by Wyborn’s willingness to give this project his royal approval. “As well as this, I will go in person. And, the more I think of it, perhaps trade could be established? We do not have much in the way of assets for now, but any food you could care to send us would be greatly appreciated. What little that can be spared in return would be sufficient, I hope?” King Torg asked, as- unbidden- half a score of particularly large trolls entered. Each one wore what looked like a red poncho on his torso in a parody of a knight’s tabard, crudely-forged iron longswords looped into cow-hide belts. Evidently Torg was taking aristocracy to heart when he built up his kingdom.

The amusing image of a castle King Torg might live in came to Wyborn’s mind, if only for a moment. Even if this didn’t work out, there would at least be a few chuckles in the courts. At whose expense…that remained to be seen.

Star Fortress Hope
As Jalros gave his reply, the sensation of a sudden abandonment by the council overtook him. Obviously the mages there did not take to sarcasm well, as the feedback from such an abrupt return to reality had given him a slight migraine. One that promised to get worse as the night went on. Thankfully, however, his crew seemed eager and ready to make the upcoming conflict have a minimum of unnecessary headache.

As men moved back and forth, the sand-shaped image of Geban enhanced to reveal the Regionar building. The castle was situated in the middle of the five-hundred-meter lake, situated on a tiny island. Imposing defensive towers jutted up from it, the walls looking impressively thick for what was supposed to simply be a glorified office. But the real reason for those thick walls was known to Jalros as well: The Artifact Vault inside, in all of its heinous glory, was a juicy target for any force. As Jalros motioned, the sandy image of the castle clarified, revealing what appeared to be a large hanging courtyard jutting from the central castle. Little more than a glorified balcony, it would prove a useful landing point for the soldiers.

Yet as the image zoomed out and Jalros continued to speak, several of the officers looked mildly uncomfortable at the mention of soul-powered weaponry. The nature of the spirit, as well as the terror its consumption can work, were not lost on them. Indeed, as the artillery commander was told what his mission would engulf, he seemed almost relieved to be in charge of removing such a threat to what survivors there were.

The dropship commander, on the other hand, looked pensively at the tower in question. No doubt thoughts of how he would have to set up firing arcs came to mind, even with assurances of the limited range of the cannons. No plan, after all, survives contact with the enemy: Especially an enemy with such vast resources as to possess a device like this.

The defensive commander was perhaps the most concerned of all, giving only a short nod as he stared at the Regionar building, as well as Geban itself. He confided with several of his aides as Jalros took his leave, pausing only to join the others as they gave a respectful salute. In the wake of the flying fortress’s captain, countless messengers sprinted about. Soldiers had to be moved, training halted and rearranged. Work crews hurried to and fro as they attempted to shore up what they could, and make scarce what few areas they could not. The Interceptor workshop was little different.

Inside of the construction yard, nestled away in its own forest of iron and stone, were the Interceptor laboratories and workshop. Timetables had been given, and a large amount of resources had been diverted to ensure the success of the project. Crew hurried about with long rolls of parchment, exact measurements being taken as the expert laborers heaved this way and that. Arcane energies seethed inside of the confined workspace, the power inside of this mini-fortress of work areas causing the air to become rich with magic. Jalros’s growing migraine began to fade, the supercharged atmosphere helping the workers as they flourished this way and that.

The main hull of the vessel, suspended in the air by a series of thick shapesand bonds, was currently under heavy work by the crewmen. Tools and other necessary materials were quickly materialized as they became necessary, the large fabrication stone situated in the middle of the room handling their needs. The rock, carefully embedded into a marble pedestal, was tapped for the unending plethora of necessities the crewmen ran into. Ranging from simple hacksaws and hammers to entire sections of piping or necessary gemstones, the lone fabrication stone handled almost all of their needs. What needs couldn’t be handled by the rock were in place handled by the forty-odd men running around, each one with a definite purpose. Entire teams of men struggled to properly slot, lock in, and seal the basic components that made the frame of the Interceptor.

Elsewhere, magical barriers flashed and crackled as Jalros moved through them. Specifically warded against dangerous reactions, the transparent walls separating the work area of each engine were as solid as any other in the fortress. The main reason they had been made both transparent and semi-incorporeal was to allow for the quick movement of crew in case of an emergency, as had happened several times before during the construction of the Interceptor engines. The new demands, coupled with the new need for both speed and versatility, had caused the skilled craftsmen onboard to become bogged down with design flaws. It had taken almost a total revamp of their current engine design, and several trips to the infirmary as a result, but the lead engineer of the project smiled as he lifted the treated cloth from his mouth.

“Good to see you, Captain Jalros!” The man said, scratching at his chin. “But, unfortunately, things aren’t exactly going according to plan. Now, I can get the engines running,” He explained quickly, pointing to one of the heaps of piping and coiling behind him, “But the problem isn’t in getting the ship flying. The problem is getting the things to stop: Every time we try to get the blasted thing to tone down, fuel just floods the engine and makes it go…well…we had to almost completely rebuilt the last engine. But everything else seems to be working just fine! It’s like the bloody machine just doesn’t want to stop going!” He complained, gesturing with a spanner towards the offending machines.


Kingdom of Burzum

Naadir nodded at Varg. "Yes, yes, you may charge soon enough, but no battle is fought with actions alone." He said, stepping forward, amplifying his voice with the natural magic in his body. "Lochton! The day of reckoning is upon you! Send forth your leader, so we can discuss the terms of your surrender!" He shouted, his every fiber shining with confidence.

The village burst with activity as the defenders scurried back and forth within their walls, seemingly every ballista upon them aimed at Naadir as he spoke. Varg bounced within his saddle in glee, already gathering a platoon of the undead spearmen around him, quickly doling out the orders necessary to burn and plunder every of the houses outside of those impressive walls. Upon Naadir’s command, the villagers would rapidly become corpses. A veritable plethora of corpses that would fuel the military machine of Burzum, whether they liked it or not! As Varg waited eagerly for the order, a lone soul came out of the village gates, which quickly slammed shut behind him. He was perhaps in his late forties, age having crept within his body like all mortal souls. A symbol of Pelor hung from his neck like a shining beacon, a silver-and-gold cane being used to support him as he plodded towards Naadir’s army.

Once beyond range of the ballista, and well into the camp, the holy man looked up to Naadir. “Well, son?” He asked informally, his bifocals slightly steamed up with the late-day dampness. Rain would come soon. “I know what you’re here for. Plenty of folks have come through here for the same thing. So let’s cut through the fuss, shall we?”

"Indeed." Naadir replied simply, looking the man in the eyes. "This day has only one possible end. The paths to that end are many though." He spoke, observing the man, was HE the clerical activity mentioned? Less than impressive. "I am by no means an unreasonable man; therefore I will give you a choice. Both you surrender now, and your deaths will be quick and painless. Or you choose to hold your ground and fight, and you will be given no such mercy."

The man gave a wry smile to the necromantic leader. “You are an imposing man, as I can see. I am sure that many fear you and this army you have assembled. As I would understand it, you likely could kill us all.” In a minor sign of weakness, he fingered his holy symbol, leaning on his cane a bit more. “But, having reached a ripe old age, I’ve come to realize that death is inevitable. Attempting to escape it is simply a pointless battle, more often than not leading to a quicker death than scheduled. And, whilst giving in would perhaps make our deaths a bit quicker, I would have to remark that the Gods have a time and means for each of our ends.”

He stood up straight, adjusting his bifocals with one hand as he looked over Varg and Naadir. “I know that my time is here, at this very moment. When is yours?”

He eyeing the man, he said, "Your words are wise, very wise indeed. You have accepted death, you know it comes...but do your people? Are you in your heart, able to go back there, to those women and children, and lie to them? Will you tell them all will be okay? Or tell the truth, and tell them that they will, indeed, die?" He asked, pointing towards the town. "You have accepted your fate, but have they? Can you truly defend your city while children cry, women weep for their lost ones?" He asked, hoping to force the man into weakness.

The elder gave a small chortle of laughter as he eyeballed Naadir back, "They know well enough that this could be our final hour. We have all lived hard lives here. Against trolls. Against goblin bands..." He lingered at the mention of the goblins, adjusting his glasses again. "But I do not feel that this will be their final hour. It is certainly my last few moments, but I feel that they still stand a..." He gave a crooked smile, revealing slightly cracked lips. "Fighting chance."

Naadir raised an eyebrow at this statement, preparing a dispel in his mind, he knew these types of statements, and they rarely meant any good. "Trolls, goblins, I'm impressed. But have you ever stood against this?" He asked, stepping aside to put an emphasis on the army gathered.

The old man shook his head as he stared upon row after row of skeletons and zombies, their rotten features left to burn in the daylight, mold spreading across their putrid forms as internal organs turned to baked mush. "Hardly." He replied, "But I suppose that each day brings its challenges. Now, is there any further gloating you care to do, or shall we get to the part where you lop my head off? I would appreciate a clean slice across the neck, if you don't mind." He stated with an element of morbid humor in his voice. "Hate to have my face go to the hells now."

Naadir felt like screaming at the man, it was no fun when they didn't fight back, still, wasn't a free kill a free kill? "Such indignation! You EXPECT me to chop off your head now? I, who wanted no more than a peaceful talk....you may not fear death." He said, motioning for Varg to come over with a few fighters. "We shall see how you feel about undeath." He spoke, staring at the man. "I wonder how many of your loved ones you will kill...." He said, still preparing a dispel in his mind, last words were usually nasty.

The elderly cleric gave a clever smile in response, "I'm old, stricken with arthritis, and need a cane to simply get around the house. I would care to think that a stiff breeze would knock me over, even if I had a bit of magic in me. So," He replied, grabbing his holy symbol as the undead fighters circled around him, swords in hand. At a single order, there would be a sweeping clash of unified blades. There would be no chance for the old man to escape beheading, or any other form of mortal wound. "Feel free to my carcass drag around. I'll be partying with Pelor by the time your spell works, I'd think."

At this point, Varg arrived, grabbing the old man by the forehead as a single, point-blank surge of energy blasted the entire back of the old man's head off. Flames flickered out of the back of his gutted skull, the warlock not even pausing to shrug before tossing the lifeless old man's body back onto the grass. There hadn't even been a single flicker of resistance or rebellion. He had just...taken it!

"Help me resurrect him, now." Naadir commanded, starting the process to make an undead out of the corpse.

It took barely a moment, Varg simply invoking his eldritch power as he produced an onyx gem from a large cache in a belt pouch. After finishing it, the old priest arose mindlessly, his zombified remains stooping low as drool pockmarked the grass beneath where he had laid not a moment ago.

Varg was a potent animator, that much could be said: Though his animations were not as powerful as the ones Naadir could achieve, he had no limit to the number of times he could raise the dead, his only limiting factor the number of onyx gems he could acquire. A limiting factor that was not so limiting, considering the natural resources of Naadir's mountain-laden island!

"Beautiful, Varg." Naadir said. "Think you're ready to raise this pile of bricks to the ground?" He asked, smiling broadly. "Spare none, slay them all. And tell you what, do it with as little casualties as possible, and you get your pick from the finest maidens of this settlement." He said, knowing exactly what it would take for Varg to do his best.

"A forward assault, m'lord?" Varg asked, smiling faintly. He no doubt had some of the vampires he wanted to toss at the walls for 'testing purposes' of those ballista. "Or do you have something more...devious in mind?"

"I was planning to wait until nightfall, so the vampires could get onto the walls undeteced, slay the guards and open the gates, giving us free entrance....but I assume that is too long a wait for you?"

Giving a sly look to the undead priest before him, he shook his head. "I believe I could find ways to...amuse myself, sir." Varg replied, flicking the zombie's skull as it continued to drool mindlessly.

"Good, then now, we wait..." Naadir said, smiling again. "Now go enjoy yourself."

Varg led the zombie away as the army remained where it was, waiting just as the village did, well out of range of the town's ballista bolts and the arrows of its archers.

Yet soon, the sun had reached its final phase of descent, darkness consuming the village. In the distance, creatures could be heard singing their nightly songs of intimidation, oblivious- or perhaps eager- for the conflict ahead. No doubt they were expecting to loot what Naadir left in his wake when this battle ended. Yet as the vampires were roused from their coffins and the undead finally given impetus to begin movement, Varg returned, the zombified priest in tow. Evidently no serious damage had been done.

"So, what's the plan, sire? A straight smash-and-grab, just like the old days?"

"As soon as the gates open, indeed...smash-and-grab." Naadir replied. "Now then, we begin!"

Experimental Combat System Begins. Round 1, Burzum has initiative.
Troop Numbers:
Burzum:
30 Vampires in gaseous form, ranged 30ft ahead of formation.
50 Vampire Spawn surrounding Vampires, also in gaseous form.
200 Zombie Humans with spears, at forefront of formation.
200 Zombie Warriors behind spearmen, armed with greataxes.
200 Skeleton Warriors behind Zombie Warriors, forming a protective ring around Fighters.
-Varg’s Tyrannical Commander Aura: +5 to Morale Checks.
-Naadir’s Necromantic Commander Aura: +1d6 damage by all undead troops against living ones.
200 Skeleton Fighters centered around Varg and Naadir.
-Varg’s Tyrannical Commander Aura: +5 to Morale Checks.
-Naadir’s Necromantic Commander Aura: +1d6 damage by all undead troops against living ones.
6 Skeletal Wizards of weak power (1st)
-Varg’s Tyrannical Commander Aura: +5 to Morale Checks.
-Naadir’s Necromantic Commander Aura: +1d6 damage by all undead troops against living ones.
350 Skeletal Archers, at flank of assembled formation.

Burzum Objectives:
Primary: Break into the village and kill the inhabitants. [Auto-victory]
Secondary:
-Destroy the ballista [30 VP]
-Disable the guards on the walls [20 VP]
-Destroy any religious or magical presence [30 VP]
-Rout or kill all militia present. [20 VP]


Lochton:
Visible Troops:
15 ballista operators amongst the 3 watch towers facing Naadir’s army. 3 are manning the ballista, and 2- armed with longbows- protect them.
Eighty Elven archers armed with a mixture of longbows and shortbows, situated around the central gatehouse.
Two arcane spellcasters of weak (1st-3rd level spells) capabilities atop each watch tower adjacent to the gates.
100 Human men armed with an assortment of cudgels, clubs, and similar weaponry. Heavy cloth and light leather armor for protection. Improvised shields, primarily made of wood.
Two to four divine spellcasters of weak to moderate (1st-4th) capabilities dispersed amongst wall top troops.

Lochton Objectives:
???

The army waits until the vampires materialize in the towers to move forward, the archers told to open fire when they get in range. If the vampires have trouble getting the gate down, it is to be rammed down by any means necessary.

The first of the vampires begin to appear, a solid mist of phantasmal fog creeping up over the lawmen. Where possible, the divine casters attempted to repel the fog, but even as they did so the first of the guard towers became overrun. Vampire spawn attacked like the monsters they were, the fog keeping a good distance away from the divine casters before it attacked the ballista. In a matter of moments, the five-man crews were overrun and slain. There were no apparent losses to the vampiric shock troops, though a sudden burst of movement would indicate a soon loss of life.

As the vampires slew the last of the men, a single fireball streaked up into one of the block towers from behind the walls. Bricks shattered and melted, concrete flying wildly as the entire top of the watch tower was blown off, left to crumble outside of the walls. Losses, apparently, were not entirely nil.

Burzum:
4 Vampires and 6 Vampire Spawn lost.
Ballista disabled. [20 VP]

Lochton:
15 ballista operators lost.

Turn 2
Naadir, shocked at the sudden loss of vampires, felt a streak of rage going through his bones. "Destroy them!" He shouted out, sending a bolt of lightning at the gate. "Get that gate open now! Leave none alive!"

The gate rocked backwards as Naadir’s spell impacted it. Wood splintered and charred, voices overhead yelled as the vampires swooped down from the heavens, their ghostly visages terrifying and beholding the men. Cudgels swung out as the zombies and skeletons advanced, the front ranks of spear-wielders shambling in unison. Spear tips leveled towards the gates as the clerics closed in around the gatehouse, their holy symbols held forth in an attempt to push back the vampires and their spawn. But it was for naught, as lawman after lawman fell, cudgels swinging. The corpses of vampire spawn fell from the walls, some hissing and shrieking. One or two of the full-blooded vampires joined the cry, no doubt having been splashed with what holy water the defenders possessed.

Eventually, however, the cry rang throughout the night. “Fall back!” A distant voice yelled, “Head to the streets! We’ll hold them off there!”

And thus, in a moment, the lawmen began their hurried retreat. The Elves, for their grace, were no less hurried in leaving. Arrows sailed out to impact the undead flesh of the vampires for what little good it did, seeming to cover the ‘holy’ men as they left the walls in a hurry. Brick crumbled further under so many pounding feet, as the first of the vampire spawn entered the gatehouse.

With a heavy clacking sound, the gates were slowly drawn back. This battle was going easily, a fact that even Varg was showing upon his face. Even as he indulged himself by spurring his horse ahead to the pike-wielders, the gates spun open, revealing the desolate streets as the defenders poured betwixt households for cover. There was nothing too complex about this village’s urban layout, but it could still prove a problem with how confining the streets were.

In the background, the chanting and cheering of the distant monster tribes grew louder, the creatures no doubt celebrating the fall of the defenses.

Burzum:
5 Vampire Spawn lost. 1 Vampire injured. 26 Vampires remaining. 39 Vampire Spawn remaining.

Lochton:
30 Lawmen lost. 1 Divine spellcaster lost.
Turn 3
"Any vampires who wish to do so are allowed to retreat to their coffins!" Naadir shouted over the battlefield. "Everyone else, CHARGE!" He ordered, motioning for the archers to get up on the walls with the spellcasters, so they'd have a better vantage point. "For Nerull!"

The vampires above retreated in droves as the troops below advanced, the tight alleys perfect for a massed charge of long, pointed spears. Though somewhat disorderly, the mass of pointed tips quickly sought out flesh, the stragglers fighting to the bitter finish. Clubs bounced against zombie flesh and the skeletons fanned forward into the buildings. Overall, this was a textbook takedown. They had come for what they wanted, claimed it, and were even now butchering as they pleased. The first signs of the peasant militia became present as pitfalls and crude booby traps afflicted the spearmen. Stones fell from overhead as wires were tripped by unthinking zombies, one or two skeletons receiving cinder blocks weighted above doorways as they entered households.

Losses were minimal, and the boobytraps were poorly prepared. How could a village like this last for any sane amount of time with such a pathetic defense? Varg voiced as much as he pulled back to Naadir and his escorts, the retreating vampires flowing around them like a deathly chill mist. “I don’t like this.” Was all the warlock remarked, “You don’t just…run off when an invading army is knocking on your doorstep.”

He grumbled mildly as the boobytrapped streets gave way to what appeared to be one of the last layers of defense: A crude barricade of furniture and wagons, hobbled together in a rough circle before what appeared to be a minor chapel. Honestly. What sort of defense was this? This was pathetic! Barely an hour into the fight, and he was already at the heart of their defense!

Burzum’s losses:
20 Zombie spearmen and 30 skeleton warriors.

Lochton’s losses:
40 Lawmen and 50 Militia slain. 100 Goblinoid innocents slain. 30 Elves slain.
Turn 4

Naadir nodded. "I don't trust it at all, this is going TOO easily..." He said. "Are they ACTUALLY this weak? Or do they have an ace-in-the-hole?" He pondered out loud. "Everyone, halt! Surround them, do not attack unless directed to!" He ordered, pondering the situation, when it hit him.

"Varg, that chapel must contain something special indeed... they have dozens of better places to construct a defense from..." He said. "Damn, do we charge them? Or burn it to the ground first?"

Varg shrugged, "That place is probably a fort, and I wouldn't be surprised if they've tried to fix the place up against just the occasion of trying to burn them out." He suggested, "Whoever mounted this defense couldn't possibly be that stupid!"

The whooping from the hillside reached a crescendo, thick rings of smoke rising up as the distant tribes of monsters began their celebrations in earnest. They were quite the noisy lot, to say the least, and even now they could be seen marching down the hillside, torches raised for one hell of a looting spree. It would be a good while before they arrived however, and that left plenty of time for Naadir to take the valuables before letting the creatures take as they pleased. Of course, if he were so inclined, he could easy march up those steps and crush the little bastards. He was, after all, about to gain a great surplus in troops!

The warlock bent down as the screaming continued on, touching the park-like area before the village area. Plenty of trees were in the area for ample firewood, or a simple battering ram to knock this last pitiful barricade over. “That’s odd…” Varg remarked, holding out his index finger to Naadir. There was some glittery powder smeared onto it, “It looks kind of like silver. But why bother lacing the ground with silver? There’s got to be at least several thousand gold worth in the stuff along here…”

"Probably to make sure undead don't touch the barricades... or the ground...bastards are smarter than they let on." Naadir said, rubbing his chin. "Why were they THIS prepared for an undead attack..." He wondered out loud, getting increasingly frustrated. "Damn this, Varg, at my count, you and I blast the barricade with all we have." He said.

"Ready?!" He shouted. "Three, two, one, Varg, now!" He ordered, sending a bolt of lightning at the barricade.

The Warlock threw his own might behind the unified attack, the two blasts hitting at a singular point: The one point directly before the chapel doors. With a singular unison of both fell and arcane energy, the barricades fell apart, just as the silver powder in the area outside began to flitter with life. The damage was done, the trap sprung. Even now, the undead around Varg and Naadir began to shudder. Zombies groaned, skeletons rattled as their bones began to vibrate.

The entire area seethed with holy energy.

“They’ve consecrated the chapel! Damn it to the hells!” Varg yelled, watching as the first of the divine casters from before emerged. Apparently they were not just clerics: Less than half a score of men in heavy plate armor could be seen, brandishing massive cudgels and axes. Paladins! Here!

Evidently the man behind this defense had plenty more brains than anticipated, for the paladins and the first of the undead pikes clashed. It was a horrifying battle to behold, the Paladins charging into the skeletons like a hot battle axe through an elf’s flesh. Blades slashed out at zombie flesh as the holy men attacked on a jihad unlike any other, the remainder of the militia in their wake as the weakened undead were forced into a now-equal playing field.

In a relatively confining courtyard, especially with the trees arranged as they were! Even as he watched, one of the paladins seemed to tear through multiple skeletons with little self preservation, an undead-hunting machine!

Burzum’s losses:
40 Zombies with spears, 40 regular Zombies. 20 Skeleton Fighters.

Lochton’s losses:
2 Paladins
Turn 5
Naadir had never before felt such an urge to scream in rage, he nearly started shaking as he started unleashing his spells. "Curse you and your god!" He screamed at the paladins, pointing at the one closest to him. "To hell, to hell with all of you!" He roared, trying to rip the man's hands from his body and animate them.
Cast: Grim Revenge

As Naadir hexed one of the paladins, he realized that- individually- they were not powerful. They could not have been more than recently initiated into the holy orders, but they fought like men possessed. Their strength was much greater than that of the average man, and even as one of them fell to the sensation of his own hands throttling him, another was blown asunder by a pair of eldritch blasts from Varg. The skeletons, for their part, were losing numbers rapidly. But the tide of losses was being stemmed. Soon, the battle would turn around once more. Naadir's legions would swell again, and then he would march once more!

Until he received that one, horrific message.

Reinforcements. Location: Breached gate. Numbers ranging upwards of three hundred and counting. Aid requested.
Burzum's losses
20 Zombies with spears, 10 Skeleton Warriors, 5 Skeleton Fighters.

Lochton's losses:
3 Paladins. 3 remain.
Thirty militia. One hundred remain.
Turn 6

"Skeletons! To the gate! Support your brethren!" Naadir shouted over the turbulence of the war. "Varg, with them!" He ordered, turning to the paladins "I shall personally rape and KILL every female you have ever loved! And not in that particular order per-ce!" He shouted, unleashing yet another bolt of lightning at the paladins. "THEN I'LL RE-ANIMATE THEM AND DO IT AGAIN!"

As over half of Naadir’s army broke off to help their companions, the remainder swarmed the remaining three men. Like the gods of battle they were, each paladin took a dozen undead with him, fighting to his very last breath with axe and cudgel. They had stood back-to-back, fending off spears and swords with heroic grace. Had Varg not grown bored of being awestruck by this sight, they likely would have taken a score each. But as it stood, another lightning bolt and a pair of fell blasts finished off what was left of this paladin raid. Dead skeletons littered the ground, and even now Varg watched as the broken militia fled into the church, seeking sanctuary in those holy halls.

“Orders, m’lord? I doubt the militia will be creeping back out anytime soon, but I hardly feel in the mood for hunting any brave ones down later when we settle our little reinforcements problem.”

Further ahead, the sounds of screaming and chanting could be heard. Obviously, the tribes had become a tad eager in their want for loot. They had rushed headfirst into the archers and mages atop the walls, who no doubt were reaping a bloody toll.

"Collapse it. We clean the rubble of corpses later." Naadir stated simply, turning around. "I'm going to assist the skeletons"

Varg nodded, "Right, I'll lead these knuckleheads in knocking this hole down." Was all he said, directing his mount with a subconscious thought. Whistling to the zombies, he set them about the task of felling the sacred trees in this grove and setting them up as kindling for a bonfire. The church, Naadir suspected, would burn good.

Rushing back to the front lines, he arrived in time to see a band of goblins charging towards the front gates, wherein a large force of the remaining skeletons stood waiting. Armed with hatchets, clubs, and everything inbetween, what appeared to be at least two tribes' worth of goblins had emerged from the woods in their eagerness to get the first pick of the plunder. But the archers upon the walls, with the sureity of death itself, were steadily picking away at their numbers. Volley after volley struck the front lines, steadily forcing their tide into a trickle of creatures. Which, all things considered, was quite considerable.


Lochton is defeated!

Goblins:
40 goblin looters slain
Turn 7
"Strike them down!" Naadir roared, overlooking the situation. "Skeletons! Hold your ground!" He shouted, moving to the walls, to get a better overview of the situation.

Rushing up the stairwell so-recently used, Naadir scrambled over the overturned torches, eventually arriving at the top of the walls. The tide of goblins was thinning, yes, but still they continued to rush from the woodlands, charging at the gate like the crazy monsters they were. Yet, as Naadir scaled the last few steps, he began to notice that they weren’t just charging ahead.

Some of them had brought ladders.

Burzum Walls:
0 Skeleton Archers lost.
0 Skeleton Warriors lost
0 Skeleton Fighters lost

Goblins:
20 Goblin looters slain. 140 remaining, with 6 ladders.
Turn 8

"Push the ladders down as they're placed." Naadir ordered, this was the easiest problem he'd encountered yet. "And see if you can't light your arrows on fire." He commanded, finally calming down, everything considered, these goblins were like a mosquito on an elephant who had just survived the tar pits. He rammed his hand forward still, and sent out a pair of magical darts, trying to take out as many goblins as he could.
Cast: Magic Missile

The two darts zipped off into the distance, and it soon became evident to the goblins that the situation was lost. The abundance of archers firing arrows was dooming their scattered advance, and what puny ladders they had were quickly knocked over by either the skeleton spellcasters or Naadir himself. Though a few skeletons were lost to idle injury and sling stones, the goblins had been repelled with a minimum of risk. The day was won! Lochton was Naadir’s!

What was left of it, anyways. He had taken a fair share of losses, and this victory would grant him- hopefully- a minor boon. If the numbers were in his favor.

Burzum's losses:
20 Skeleton Archers

Goblin losses:
30 Goblin looters.

Goblin army has routed!

Losses/Gains:
Lost:
4 Vampires
11 Vampire Spawn
80 Zombie Spearmen
40 Zombies
40 Skeleton Warriors
25 Skeleton Fighters
20 Skeleton Archers

Gained (In corpses):
15 Ballista operators
100 Lawmen
120 Militia
190 Goblinoids
50 Elves
8 Paladins (Post-reanimation spellcasting powers unknown)
3 Divine spellcasters (Post-reanimation spellcasting powers unknown)

Village wealth plundered: 60,000 GP.

Following troops gain a level:
1st level Skeleton spellcasters (level 2)
1st level Vampires (level 2)

[Helinon]

Ulfor thinks over the Lizardman's offer and paces in short circles. When he stops he says, "You do make a very good point. There will be many battles and allowing more of our more experienced men to fight with you will increase the number of men who return. And with your offer of magical services, I feel compelled to agree with you even more. I will agree to allow half of my Elites to fight for you. The rest make up our defenses here. That is all I am willing to spare. Are these term reasonable?"

[LongVin]

County of Marche

Pulling a wicked looking dagger from its sheath, Titus approaches the Old Elf. Grabbing the dissident by the hair he tugs the man's head back and holds the unholy dagger to his throat "You wish for a martyr's death? Then so be it. Know this though, your death will be painful and long. And you will talk before then, even if I have to summon your soul back from the hell I will send you."

Leaning in close he whispers into the Elve's ear in his own tongue

"And I will make sure to send your soul to Vecna himself for an eternity of torment. You will have no rest."

Slipping the dagger around the back of the Elf's neck he snaps it upwards cutting the elder's hair off. Speaking in the common tongue once again he addresses Ragnar "Take him to the torture chamber. I want to know everything. Summon a priest if you must to keep him alive...and get a priest for yourself. I want the Elf alive to be executed."

Turning to another barbarian he continues issuing his orders "You, get a stake. If he tells us what we need he gets the privellege of being burnt at the stake, if not" Titus adds with a shrug "impale him."

"And ready the army, I will see the home of the Elves burnt to the ground and their people on their knees before." Titus leaves the throne room heading to his quarters to prepare for the upcoming battle. He will see the enclaves of the elves burnt to the ground himself.

To be mobilized:

10 Nordic House Guards and Ragnar(to serve as Titus's bodyguard)

40 Archers
60 Light Crossbowmen
50 Spearmen
50 Swordsmen
12 Rangers
10 Scouts

10 Priests
3 Clerics
3 Wizards(standing close by with the Nordic Guard to keep them protected)
5 Death's Head Agents

Strategy:
The army is not moving to engage the Elvish force as they know the Elves will just pick off them in ambush. Instead the Army is going touse the Elves tactics against them. Armed with torches and flaming arrows they are going to set alight the elven settlements and funnel them towards the waiting army where they will either surrender or be killed.

[Liquidcore]

Naadir sat in his throne room, pondering the battle of Lochton.
"Paladins...I still can't believe they actually had paladins.." He said. "I cannot help but wonder what the next town will hold, this time we will be more prepared though." He continued, knowing that even now, more skeletons were being raised, more siege equipment was being built. Lochton had proved to be a profitable undertaking and, though saddened by the loss of good vampires, Naadir was overall pleased with the results.
"This Cheektowaga will be no easy task, Varg, from the reports, do you think we're up to it at our current strenght?" He asked the warlock.

New army: see OOC

[Wraithkin]

Jalros hmm's to himself, looking at the engine design critically. "Have you considered throwing in a choke valve that will throttle the draw of the energy from the containment chambers to the exhaust manifold? This way, before it's converted to thrust -- and thus easier to control -- you can cut it off. Make sure the valve is variable, as the pilot will need to be able to feather the throttles of the engines on his vessel, of which there will be nine altogether.

Remember, while you're designing these engines, they need to be able to tolerate incredible stress while on their pivots. Expect no less than twenty six g's, and build them and their pivots to withstand twice that. The pivots will be in a two-hundred seventy degree control on both axises, meaning that if the pilot wishes, he will be able to go full throttle in one direction and throw the engines in reverse to perform aerial acrobatics."

Seeing the gaping jaw of his chief engineer, he smiles. "Don't tell me you'd be thinking that I, of all people, would be asking for a pleasure cruise ship." He chuckles slightly. "I have faith in you, good sir. If you need anything more, simply let me know. If you need more workers, more materials, or anything, simply let me know. When I originally designed this, I anticipated two months per Interceptor. If you can get it done sooner than that, within specifications and the ship flies well, you and your men get a fat bonus: one percent of that interceptor's market cost. That's twelve-thousand gold to split between you and your workers. Per ship."

[Darth_Malevo]

The Mercenaries of Trator
The large lizard gave a nod of the head as the various treasures were offloaded. All told, there was a princely sum before the mercenary leader. If not in priceless art or gewgaws, then certainly in the multidenominational currency on display; this, in turn, meant that the Mercenaries of Trator were that much wealthier. That did not even count the spoils the soldiers would doubtlessly take from the battle these filthy lizards were so interested in!

But, as Ulfor felt a minor twinge of greed, a thought occurred to him as well: Whatever these lizards wanted his troops for, they wanted them bad. Bad enough to part with what even they had to know was a neigh-unholy sum of gold. Enough gold, in fact, to practically drown himself in wealth! Naturally, with so much money, he would likely need to spread his feelers a bit. It had been a while since he had bothered with greeting somebody without an axe.

But regardless, that was all future concerns for the warlord. As it stood, the lizard mage presented a tiny scroll to the leader, upon which a simple writ had been created. One that was so simple in its wording, Ulfor had to question the reason as to why these lizards wanted it signed. It stated, word for word, “The person who so signs this document is bound to perform the agreed service for the other party.”

A tiny line was situated at the bottom of the contract, but no pen was provided. Instead, Ulfor noticed a particularly sharp ridge along the base of the parchment. Evidently these lizards hadn’t ever heard of the more civilized fashion of signing in ink: This was a contract bound, quite literally, in blood. So…antiquated. But apparently it must have been important, for only the leader spoke as they waited. “The deal isss made, yess? Ulfor will ssserve for the campaign, and they will receive richesss in exchange?”

This had been pretty damn straightforward, in Ulfor’s books. The Mercenaries of Trator enjoyed straightforward ventures. It was so much easier without pomp and aristocracy!

County of Marche

Titus was armed within his chambers by only his most trusted agents. These were men who, through the constant trial of both body and spirit, had proven themselves of the utmost loyalty to Titus and Titus alone. It was fitting, then, that they would help him arm himself in preparation for the battle ahead. Oils and cloth were applied to the royal; a foreign stylist having been brought in at Virous’s cost. Though he had originally thought it a waste, even Titus had to admit that the man had a sense of style when it came to the regal attire of a man beset by foes. Functional, classy, and- above all- secure, even the Nordic Guard had to begrudge that Titus appeared every bit the absolute ruler that he was.

And he was absolute in his rule, or else he would not currently be endeavoring to crush this petty band of upstart elves. Though they likely could have survived as vassals, the Elves had to learn their place. If Titus had given them even the slightest bit of lenience as some of his predecessors had done, then the entire nation would be clamoring for lenience. Give the masses an inch, and they will take a mile! Never before had such wise words been spoken, and even now Titus found himself reflecting upon them. A pair of Nordic Guard escorted Titus as the troops were mustered over the course of an hour, every man roused from his bunk and barracks, informed of the details according to rank, and then rushed into the courtyard for Titus to appraise.

Though not much in appearance, the force before Titus understood the necessity of discipline and function over style, their resolve was unshakeable. Whereas they had little personal indulging beyond their cots, these soldiers each rang out as individual souls. They were the fist of Titus, and they full well knew that they would serve their king until the end of his great rule. That, naturally, was defined as when a successor finally figured out some chink in the monarch’s political chainmail.

Regardless, the soldiers stood present. The crossbowmen, arrayed in three lines of twenty, proudly shouldered their mechanical marvels. Such interesting devices Titus’s crafters churned out, once given the motivation. Even more interesting was the sudden presence of Ragnar, the various arrow holes on his body having been branded shut. A series of fresh cuts along the back of his forearms indicated his kills with the Elves, a solid half-dozen marks. A barbaric practice, really, but one that Ragnar was hard to dissuade from.

“Burning villages.” He remarked, “This takes me very far back. I had almost thought we were too civilized for this sort of thing!” He recalled with joy, Titus almost swearing that he could hear the distant scream of an Elf on the wind. But it was likely just that, the wind. Ragnar drew his attention back as he punched a hand through the air, signaling the troops to move towards the elven settlement. “But now? Now I get to really let myself go! I certainly hope that these Elves remain so forward in rebelling, I could stand for some of these flimsy whoresons to be tossed around!”

As a single entity, the strike force came about face. Weapons holstered or shouldered, each man advanced, moving towards the Elfish settlements. Gods help those pointy-eared bastards, for a storm the likes of which they had never seen was about to fall around their necks. The trip itself would take three days, all of which would prove relatively uneventful beyond rations being distributed and sleeping within tents and whatever rooms could be wrangled by royal decree. Oh, and the odd assassination attempt or two, but that was to be expected whilst on the move. Really, what was it that people thought they could accomplish by charging a monarch’s table with a steak knife whilst surrounded by his men?

Oh well, it was all fairly quick and simple, just pleasant buildup to the main course of this delightful little conflict. The elves themselves: Situated within a small wood, the pointy-eared rebels no doubt had planned to divide and ambush Titus’s troops as they moved through the vegetation. It would have cost the dictator countless troops to secure anything worthwhile, and as such had no doubt thrown a particularly large wrench into their plans as his archers raised their bows.

And then, with a single salvo, fire was introduced into the elf-protected woodlands. Trees older than Titus’s kingdom went aflame, the oil-soaked arrows proving more than apt for the purpose of removing the woodland. And, just as expected, the elves rushed forth. Innocents, ranging from painters to bakers, all screamed as they fled from their treetop homes. Some attempted to shoot back, but their bows were far too short to hit Titus’s prepared troops. Still, there were a good number currently fleeing in the direction Titus and his troops sat. No doubt seeking refuge.

What a bother.

Kingdom of Burzum

The remains of Lochton were steadily be disassembled by the undead, Varg having remained on horseback after the hours-long effort of raising the fallen foes from the battle. The various viscera that could not be animated were instead tossed into a pyre constructed of building wood. The warlock had expressly forbidden the desecration of either the chapel or the miscellaneous items around it. The period he had spent animating the dead had been grossly lengthened by his constant inspection of the tiny chapel’s remains. From time to time, the researching Warlock plucked out odd bits. Naadir could see iron nails, bits of the dead occupants, tattered books, and more besides. Eventually, after over an hour of aimless shifting about, he assigned a dozen of the freshly-raised undead to handle picking through the debris.

Obviously, Varg was a busy man. Several of the buildings around the chapel had been leveled by his, not Naadir’s, command. Skeletons and zombies alike hacked the wood with axe and sword, some employing their cold, lifeless hands to pry wood directly from the nail. A steadily-growing pile of useless lumber began to form in the center of the ruins that the chapel once encompassed. “Hmm?” The eldritch invoker asked, one of his eyebrows cocked as he used his hands to direct a group of skeletons on the finer points of knocking a building down without any sign of restraint. “Cheektowaga?”

There was a pause as one of the skeletons rammed a sword right between two beams, using it like a crowbar. “Ah!” Was all the warlock said, before nodding absently. “Yes, we’ll do fine, liege. The siege will handle everything.” He replied, gesturing at the air. A small amount of smoke filled the air as he converted oxygen into fire, a quick blast of his innate abilities causing the air to crackle. “It’ll be a fine victory, I’d think.”

The warlock, for his part, yelled to one of the vampires gorging themselves in an abandoned slaughterhouse. “One of you bloodsuckers get some parchment! A desk, too, while you lazy fiends are at it!”

It has been stated before that Varg held both the fear and respect of the vampiric community in Burzum. No better was this illustrated than by the sudden rush of several actual vampires to bring over a desk and some parchment, upon which the warlock was quickly writing. Furiously scribbling, even, as the four undead monstrosities waited like obedient puppies. Of course, had Naadir told them to break up the desk, they’d have done it just as obediently. That was what all undead were: Obedient.

Which suited Naadir just fine.

Star Fortress Hope

The engineer scratched the back of his head, chewing on his lower lip as he contemplated everything required for what his captain proposed. Eventually, the man nodded his head, giving a whistle to the crew behind him. “You heard the bloody man!” The mechanic could be heard yelling, as the others fussed about with the engine’s insides. “Now, somebody please help me get the godsdamned engine supped up! We’ve got only so much time before this thing needs to get flying, and I’m going to have it ready by our arrival!”

That done, Jalros watched as the men set back onto their work, left alone in the hustle of the engineering bay. The peace was not destined to last, however, for apparently the draconic leader was to receive a guest. A message came directly to the captain via magic, his slightly-soothed headache flaring up slightly as he received the message.

Visitor present on main courtyard deck, means of arrival appear to be organic. Visitor is not immediately hostile. Visitor appears to possess magical ability.

Wonderful. What now, a freaking dragon?

Err.

You know, one probably should think about what they wish for. It can have gods-awful consequences in the long term, especially if you’re the gods-fearing type.

[LongVin]

County of Marche

Atop his steed Titus surveyed the battlefield. All was going as planned the Elves were already on the woods as their ancestral homes were devoured by the flames of progress and his divine right right to rule.

The Elvish rabble surged towards his force and he knew it could spell calamity for them should they get within the ranks of his men. Calling out his orders he orders for his men to ready arms, and the soldiers drew their weapons in unison and tighetened ranks for preparing for the charge.

The second call came out for the archers and crossbowmen to level their weapons at the tide of Elvish refugees and the order was given to fire, sending hundreds of arrows and bolts into the mass of traitors.


EDIT: Orders for Combat

The archers and crossbowmen are going to fire in lines to keep the firing constant. If the Elves should get too close for them to continue firing they will retreat behind the lines of swordsmen and spearmen.

The scouts will stay on the flanks preparing to assist against any real troops that are within the midsts of the Elvish rabble once they engage with the troops

[Helinon]

Ulfor takes the paper, cuts his finger and writes his name on the contract line. "I agree. The deal is made." Ulfor then turns to the nearest Elite. "Go to town and get the men ready to leave. Be sure to tell them who they're working for, I want no surprises for my men. Also tell them that there is a high possibility of spellcasters on the side we're fighting for.. Now go, and make haste!" The Elite salutes and gets the nearest horse and rides off to town. "I need five men here to go with these folk. Who will volunteer?" Four hands are raised and Ulfor chooses another. "You men go armor up." Ulfor then turns to the lizardmen, "Now is there anything else you may need? We would be glad to provide provisions or lodging for you, as a gesture of goodwill."

[Wraithkin]

Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Jalros sighs to himself. He would like very much for this day to end. Walking back towards the elevation tube, he brings himself to the courtyard level and walks out, looking at who decided to make their presence known.

The ride down was succinct, thankfully, but once in the courtyard, Jalros was greeted to the sight of what appeared to be some sort of exotic dragon. Its body appeared to be several dozen handspans in length, a pair of seemingly vestigal claws at both its "head" and "tail" ends. The body between the two sections was just one long, snakelike body covered in jade-colored scales.
A short man stood before the long-bodied dragon, his body wrapped in a light blue linen dress. It was of obviously foreign nature, and the man himself was just as exotic. His face was covered in a heavy white beard and mustache, his hair having grown long before being tied in a ponytail. He was currently arguing with one of the soldiers, his hands in a menacing pose to the man. The sort of menacing pose that comes
right before a windpipe-crushing judo chop.

"You are a guest in my home. A guest who has neither requested nor received permission to come here. You may wish to stand down, as my man is doing his duty." He walks forward, wings draped over him like a cloak and his tail whisking in irritation.

The man unclenched his fists, walking towards Jalros in return. "You are a funny man, dragonkin!" He said in heavily accented Common, "You speak like this is-a youuur ship!" His laughter stopped suddenly as he yelled, "Do you not know who I am?! I have killed men for less!"

"I speak like this is my ship because it is my ship." His voice is tense, and this man was quickly wearing out his welcome. "No, I don't know who you are. I also don't care why you've killed men, as that's your business. Thirdly, you have a lot of explaining to do, seeing as no-one is supposed to have knowledge of this vessel save those who are already here." His migraine grinds on his nerves, knowing exactly who sent this man.

As Jalros approaches the man, he notices just how short he is. He's practically a midget, and there appears to be some sort of bony ridge along his forehead. His hands are long, his fingernails seemingly as sharp as claws. His skin is baby smooth, and the rate of the man's approach indicates that he's a quick mover as well. "I am Leeeeee Feeeeee!" The tiny man screamed, pointing to
the dragon behind him, "And you will respect my authority!" He pointed to Jalros, his hand looking oddly like the tip of a silenced crossbow right now. "And I answer to nuh one! Least of all scaled inferiohrs! Now, explain your lack of progress! Quickly, for I have little time for such mongurels!"

Jalros quirks up an eyebrow. "Get off my ship." He turns and raises a hand. Every ballista, archer, and troop that's present readies themselves to fire on Leeeee Feeeee.

The tiny man seems ready to pop a vein. "You dare to use puny arrows to shoot Le Fe?!" He asked, his hands curling into fists as he entered a fresh stance, "Do not be foorish! You will be an outlaw, and you would die anyways. For I have slain tenfold what you have on this entire ship!"

Jalros scratches his chin idly, looking around as if he's heard something but he wasn't so sure from where. Turning around, he gets a faux surprised look on his face. "You're still here? I thought I told you to leave. Hmm... you must not understand common too well." He leans over, a completely placid look on his face, and addresses Le Fe. "YOU. UNDERSTAND? YOU. GO. AWAY. NOW." Nodding his head, he smiles and rights himself.

The tiny man looks at Jalros for a second before nodding his head. "You are going to regret that...very badry."

Reaching down for his belt, the tiny man made no apparent motion for violence. There was a tiny hum in the air, followed by a sudden rush of air all around Jalros. Like that, Le Fe had vanished into thin air. Gone.

"Finally." He sighs and looks up at everyone. "Carry on." He gives his command and walks back towards the tower so he can go see his wife. Hopefully she could ease this headache of his.

[Liquidcore]

"Well then, we should head back to Burzum and prepare. We attack next nightfall." Naadir simply said, walking over to Varg
"What are you writing? He asked, leaning on the desk.

How delightful it all was, the nightsky would once again be lit up by a burning town. Or perhaps he'd claim Cheektowaga as his own, and make it an outpost for his kingdom. He would have to expand eventually...

But first things first. At least two more settlements needed to fall, then he'd have enough recourses to start on his sea-voyage.

"We're that much closer to mounds of treasure, Varg....that much closer."

[Darth_Malevo]

County of Marche

Ah. The screams of the dying! The crackle of flame, and the hiss of ancient wood being consumed, filled the sky. A handful of the Elven innocents attempted to surrender amongst the terrified mass, but the clatter of Titus’s archers and crossbowmen eliminated any chance for the soldiers. Leveling their deadly tools at the approaching cluster of pointy-eared vermin, the first barrage of bolts sailed between the two groups. Sharpened iron struck like lightning bolts, bodies flying like ragdolls as the lightweight Elven frames were struck by tension-propelled iron.

It seemed a slaughter, the front ranks of the Elven rabble collapsing in on itself as the dead and injured forced those behind them to slow down. Dead bodies began to mount up as the rabble lost its will to live, eventually fleeing back into the woodlands, the dying and weak-willed left for the dictator and his men. Ragnar, in particular, relished the fact that victory had come so swiftly.

But, as Titus looked over the two-score corpses scattered less than a hundred feet away, an inner sense of wrongness filled him. This battle had come far too quickly to a close, and as he contemplated several reasons as to why, the actual reason presented itself with terrifying rapidity. The distant rush of water perked his ears, and the sound of sizzling flames was followed by an onrush of sound.

There, visible beneath the treeline, a group of water elementals had begun the work of extinguishing the flames. Draping about the ancient oaks like blankets, the water elementals were dousing the oil-accelerated fires, seemingly uncaring for any personal safety. Evidently, the Elves here had been quite busy as of late, preparing for the chance that Titus might one day take their pitiful village to the sword.

A shame, because he still could.

The Mercenaries of Trator

As Ulfor signs the contract, the apparent mage amongst them takes the scroll back, resealing it. The leader of the group curls back his lips in what could be best approximated as a smile, the reptilian features making a horrific parody of what would be a human example of happiness. “We thank you for thisss offer.” He said, his headband fluttering slightly as the Elite rode off to town, leaving through the reinforced gates of the city entrance.

“But we ssshould find it prudent to discusss the matter of the campaign at hand. What we sseeek is the death of those that invade our lands. The first of these offenders is the Ragefist Clan, who has driven uss from our tunnels to make way for their fire and sssteel!” It declared, “It will be a sssimple battle, to drive the Dwarves out. They are few in numberssss, and they are doubtless filled with contentment after slaying so many of my kin.”

The leader gave a short pause of contempt for the Dwarves, “For the price paid, we expect the Dwarvesss to be slain to the last, yes? They showed little mercy to us, and the wealth your clan possesses should be enough to sate your lust.” It measured Ulfor as it spoke, waiting for some indication of either approval or refusal at this point. Perhaps it did wonder if the amount of wealth given had been too little? That was a bit of a pipe dream, however…no race could be that poor with money, could it?

Star Fortress Hope
Jalros’s return to his tower is relatively uneventful, the crew having watched as Le Fe’s draconic mount simply flew off. Obviously, this was likely to become a reoccurring problem. But, for the moment, there was little he could do. As he rose up the tower, he could see the distant sight of the wounded dropship, limping along towards the docking bay. It was actually, all things considered, quite ahead of schedule. Perhaps that cannon had somehow supercharged it?

No matter. Even now, Jalros could hear the sounds of preparations. The massive rock throwers below him were in full motion, the operators working furiously as they prepared the proper munitions. Healers could be seen doling out what aid they could before the battle, the wards upon the exterior of the vessel being thoroughly examined for any sign of flaw or chink.

Sighing, Jalros runs his hand along his face and steps out of the flight tube into his room, waving the guards to stay seated. Walking into his room, he closes the reinforced door and he plops himself down on his bed, his arms sprawled out and lets out a massive sigh. "Y'know, it's times like this that make me wish I could sleep."

And indeed, Jalros could have slept quite peacefully, but a lengthy conversation with his wife helped cure at least some of his mental ailments. A thought that occurred to him, however, was the chance that Le Fe could very well be waiting to ambush him. It would not be very difficult, after all, to simply stow away in some loose odds and ends somewhere, waiting for the chance to remove of the "inferior being". But still, he was left to his own devices after some time, the dropship doubtlessly having been docked by now. The thing that was odd about that was that nobody had bothered to inform him, or bring it up with him. He had at least considered the courtesy of a messenger to formally inform him.

Sitting up, he walks out of his room and looks at the guards curiously.

The two men looked to Jalros with cocked eyebrows in return, one of them speaking up, "Is there a problem, captain?"

"Has any messenger been by lately?"

"No, captain." The man replied shortly, "Should we be expecting one?" He asked afterwards, a small look of curiosity on his face.

"There should have been one sent. I am leaving. I am charging the two of you with the protection of my wife. Seal this portal until I return. Use the barrier I constructed for this purpose." With that, he steps into the tube and drops down to the docks.

As Jalros moved down to the docks the four men kept watch over the door, now slightly more alert than before. As the captain's travel paused, he found himself within the deck in question, the odd tool or part left on the floor. The usually disciplined crew seemed to be working quite hard at this point, driving at nails hard enough to rattle the wood, or tightening bolts with enough force to make the metal squeak. Nobody cared to greet Jalros as a good number of men flooded around the damaged dropship, bringing valuable tools this way and that as the entire floor seemed focused on repairing the lone dropship. Tools were ferried constantly by engineer and menial alike, the fabrication stone glowing brightly from the constant usage.

He steps off, looking at the ferverently-working crew with a cocked head. While it was important for the ship to be repaired, it was unusual for them to dedicate everything they had to the repair of one ship. "Get me the lead project engineer. NOW!" His voice booms over the din of work and echoes within the protective shell of the docks.

The activity on the vessel continued to hammer away, and it took several minutes for the lead engineer to appear once more, his head tilted slightly in confusion as he spoke. His eyes seemed particularly alert, but that was likely just the hustle and bustle going on. A vessel so thoroughly damaged is a rare event. "May I help you, sir?"

"I would like to know two things." His voice is tinged with tension that is unusual to the Commander of the SF Hope. "First, why has the entire engineering staff been pulled off interceptor duty to work on this drop ship? Or am I not seeing something? Secondly, why was I not notified of the drop ship's arrival?"

The man looked at Jalros as if he had just sprouted two heads, "Interceptor duty?" He asked after a moment, "Oh. Yes." He said after a moment, "Because work on the dropship is important." He said eventually, "My apologies. It has been a very long day. Double apologies for not notifying you. I will make sure to do so in the future."

"It is I who should be asking you." He guides the man to a quiet part of the work area. "Sit, relax. I can't afford to have my lead engineer drop from exhaustion."

"I will be fine, sir." The engineer replied, "But I must continue my work. With your permission, can I do so? I have been very busy. The time schedule is very pressing."

As Jalros looks the man over, he notices the engineer doesn't seem to be magically bewitched, but notices that the signs are there. In particular, the man seems like a golem when he moves. But that hardly means much, seeing as almost the entire construction crew has been on almost nonstop work, trying to either get the interceptors running or getting any other number of tasks accomplished as they filtered in from above.

"What would you like to drink? I'm sure I can get you something." He intentionally ignores the request to leave.

The engineer pauses for a moment as he thinks over just what he would like to drink before answering, "Tea would be preferable. Double sugar, please, with a pinch of honey."

With a pass of his hand, an expertly-crafted table is created suited perfectly for the engineer's sitting position and atop it is steaming-hot water on a heat pad, with a pair of cups on it. Numerous teas from around the world adorn a dish, with honey and sugar sitting in their own miniature carafe's. Inside each cup is a tea ball ready to accept the users's choice of tea. Sitting down across from the man, he leans back. "So tell me about home."

The engineer passes on the tea, obviously having been used to his captain's grand displays of power. "Home is where the heart is." He replied, "And this is my home. And, if you'll excuse me, I must return to my work. These interceptors shall not handle themselves, after all."

"Last I checked, I'm the one who wants you to finish them. I also provide the resources and other needs of their construction." He leans forward, fixing some tea for both of them. "So... no. You have earned a slight break." Pouring the water into each cup, he sets the container back down and sends a mental request to his wife. "Please go to the control room and halt our movement. Distribute the order that all crew are to head to the stasis chambers below the courtyard and seal themselves in. We're taking the castle up to sixty-thousand feet. Ensure that everyone understands this is a Long-haul prep drill. Please advise me when the last of our occupants have been sealed. Thanks."

"Very well, then." The engineer replied, rising, "I will take my break now, if that is acceptable with you." He took the cup of tea, drinking all of it in a single dose. Particularly hot tea, too. "If you have need of me, please contact me. Sir."

Standing up, the commander frowns. "You will stand fast." This is not a request.

The man opened his mouth to Jalros, revealing a slightly burnt pink tongue, lips, a full set of teeth, and a hot breath that smelled particularly of honey and sugar water.

"Alright." He looks at the man, and frowns. "Do you remember what a long-haul drill is? A yes or no will suffice."

A moment's pause. "Yes." Was all the engineer replied, blinking again before speaking, "Is there a problem, sir?"

"Where are you to go if that's the case?"

An even longer pause, the engineer's lip twitching slightly before he gave his answer, "We are to head to the...stasis bay, I believe. I should go there now."

"I want you to send everyone there, and you are to come with me."

"All of us?" The engineer asked, shaking his head, "But the dropship requires work. The interceptors require work. Surely we do not all need to go?"

"Surely, we do. Issue the order to lock everything down, seal the bay, and go. And you are to come with me."

"Why must we go?" The engineer asked, the others continuing to work, "What we are doing is very important for this ship. Everything here is fine. The timetable must be kept in order, sir."

"Do it. This is not a debate."

"I must protest, sir." The engineer replied, "We will seal the bay, and I will come along. But please do not cause any further delays." Again, that infernal pause, the engineer pouring himself another cup of tea. "Geban will need the interceptors. This is just an unnecessary delay."

"I'll be the judge of that." He focuses his mind as the engineer pours the water, manifesting his powers.

Manifested True Seeing

As Jalros looks over the man with magic, he notices nothing visibly wrong with him. He is still the same engineer, with no arcane disguise about him. His body, solid as it is, seems to have no sign of transmutation about it. It is, as far as Jalros can tell, physically the same man as he appears to be.

“Finish your tea and issue the order.”

The engineer took the tea in another great gulp, "Why?" He asked again, "There is not evident danger to us, and it is vital the dropship is repaired in time. I see no feasible reason to us to abandon our important task."

"You are relieved of your duties until further instructed. Stand fast." With that, he walks over to the work area and barks out orders for everyone to head to the stasis chamber per Long-haul drill procedures.

The crew turned to Jalros as he yelled for them all to stop, hammers and supplies slamming to the ground in a caconophy of noise. Hammers bounced, sheets of lead and brone rang, and all around the engineers looked to Jalros with a mixture of confusion and misunderstanding. The surprise of his orders allowed him to take in the situation: In particular, the fact that every crewman present had stopped the moment he had yelled at them to.

"Oh for the love of... " he looks at them and grits his teeth. "Get your asses moving! Secure this trash and get moving to the stasis chambers. NOW!" The air around him wavers as psychic power bleeds off of him in his frustration.

As the dragonborn captain commanded his crew, none obeyed him. They simply stood there, before the lead engineer spoke up, "We cannot do that. The dropship must be repaired. There is no reason for us to leave this place. Please let us continue our work."

"Sure... after you go visit the stasis chamber. I think something in there is broken."

"That is not our concern." The lead engineer replied, "The timetable given mandates the repair of the dropship and handling of the interceptors. We will address any malfunctions within the stasis chamber later. Sir."

"I knew I should have purchased golems." He mutters to himself. Walking over to one of his workers, he grabs him and bodily drags him away. "Guards, restrain these men and place them in the stasis chamber."

As Jalros grabs the man and passively drags him away, the guards do not move. They instead remain where they are, dressed in full combat gear, yet unmoving. Something here had gone from awry to worse.

Letting go of the man, he stalks over to the flight shaft and goes back to the court yard. "Le Fe, get your gods-damned ass out here. I know you can hear me."

As the draconic man left, the crew resumed their work, hammering and chiseling with unnecessary force. Drifting upwards and through the abandoned halls, the captain eventually emerged in the abandoned courtyard, his challenge to Le Fe unanswered. It could very well be that the midget was not there. Or he could be simply waiting for Jalros to give up and accept the Chi Master's superiority.

Jalros found the ship abandoned as he roamed the halls, only a handful of stragglers still making their way to the stasis chamber. The order had been carried out quickly and effectively, the navigation chamber inhabited only by five souls. Jalros's wife, and the four bodyguards he had assigned to her. Each one looked mildly to severely concerned, but the order had been carried out.

Jalros brings the vessel up to 9,700 feet in altitude and halts its ascent. Flying back down to the courtyard, he looks around. "You have two options. Show yourself and apologize for your intrusion, or I am not going an inch further towards Geban unless you do that. And unless I get that apology out of you, I will bring this vessel up to over ten-thousand feet. I am confident in my troops' abilities to withstand altitude sickness. I doubt you have the same type of constitution they have, seeing as you are not of draconic blood."

As Jalros made his demands and intentions known, the ubiquitous midget made himself known in a way no other mortal possibly could. With a cry of something that could easily qualify as jibberish, Jalros was treated to the spectacular sight of a particularly large and heavy object flying towards him.

It was at the last moment that he realized that, in fact, one of his ballista weapons had just been ripped from its mounting and thrown at him in a particularly interesting fashion. A fashion that could best be described as, "Le Fe's #25 Special: Siege Surprise".

Reflex: 18 DC: 20
Damage: 18

Kingdom of Burzum

Varg gave a short smile as Naadir looked at what the Warlock had scribbled, a series of slightly-cryptic notes. Yet, with a bit of staring, Naadir could discern some a general purpose. They were siege engine designs, ones that incorporated stone and what appeared to be fire in place of wood and iron. His fellow necromancer gave a short nod of the head towards the remains of the chapel before speaking.

“That temple we destroyed. It’s not very often I get to study holy sites, let alone ones that are somewhat intact. Whatever this place was, it had to have some significance for the Freyan temple here. Yes, those were paladins of Freya: The nature goddess hardly likes to flaunt her military side, but this was an exotic case, I’d like to think. If we had the time, I’d…actually…”

Varg gave a cool smile to Naadir, “I think we could manage to build at least some siege weapons here, don’t you agree, sir? I mean, travel back to Burzum would take more hours than I’d care to waste, let alone construction time for the siege weapons you’re speaking of. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to stay here with a small contingent of soldiers. Those goblins we raised should prove sufficient enough to hold the place down, wouldn’t you agree?”

It didn’t take a genius to see what Varg was up to, his note-taking having halted abruptly, and as Naadir looked over the desk he could see a small pile of the dust that had once been scattered about the area around the chapel. Evidently the Warlock had a keen interest in religion. For once.

[Helinon]

Ulfor thinks about this for a second. After all, the dwarves could be potential employers. 'Ah well. I'll have to send a messenger after this is over.' "It is your orders my men will follow, and if those orders are to exterminate your enemies, they will obey. They will not enjoy it, but they will obey. Also, it will take a day and a half for all my men to assemble here and to brief them on their job. My offer of provisions and lodging still stands."

[LongVin]

County of Marche

His eyes narrowed at the sight of the water elementals. Those must be what the old elf wretch was talking about. If this was the entirety of their secret plan Titus considered himself lucky. It was merely a nuisance, he would have liked to see the whole forest burn but what they got already was good enough.

Turning to the wizards and clerics assembled at his side he snaps "Can you not do something? Get rid of those blasted elementals!"

Loading his handheld crossbow he kicks his horse into a gallop leaving the Nordic Guard behind. Yelling orders to his archers and crossbowmen to fire on the new targets. Taking aim with his crossbow he pulls the trigger. Twang! The flaming bolt shoots out magic propelling it towards its target. Let us see how the watery beasts like the magical fire present within the Count's weapon.

Orders:

Archers and crossbowmen to fire on the elementals

Wizards and Clerics to summon monsters to attack the elementals and cast what spells they can against them.

The Rangers and scouts are ordered into the forest and to find and kill the Elf wizards responsible for the summoning.

[Liquidcore]

Naadir's lips curled into a thin smile.
"Very well. You stay here and finish those weapons. We will meet again here come nightfall, when we will march upon Cheektowaga." Naadir felt delighted, Varg, studying religion...Naadir knew this could only end well. Very well indeed.
"I'm riding back to Burzum, keep whatever troops you need here, I'll take the others." Naadir said as he started walking towards his mount.

"Move out! Back to Burzum!" He commanded, knowing that his every command would be heeded.

It was indeed, good to be the king.

[Wraithkin]

Jalros looks at the hunk of wood that was just ripped off its foundation and thrown at him in blank surprise. He tilts his head as it soars through the air and collides with him in the shoulder. Sand sprays everywhere behind him, as part of his shoulder is missing, but otherwise he looks no worse for wear. Slowly, the drifting sand begins to coalesce with his body and make him whole. "You know, you're the one who turned this violent. I simply wanted an apology for your abrupt and rude behavior as a guest upon my vessel. So be it." With that, he flies up to the top of his tower and sends a mental signal down to his wife. "Take it up until I tell you to stop. Maximum speed."