Empire CotW Round 1 Event: A Friendly Gathering Under Darkened Skies

[Silent_Interim]

Darkhome is a place at peace.

Or rather, this is the impression Darkhome wishes to give. At least beyond the borders of its towns, it holds somewhat true. Forests of its native shadewoods grow wild and free across the rolling hills and valleys, casting vast swathes of soothing shade across the landscape. Quiet country roads wind throughout the hills and valleys, some old paths freshly restored, others newly built and still practically clean. And at the corner of perception, the quick and the observant might spot the flicker of an Umbra- but more likely, it is just the wind, through leaves that aren’t there, or a trick of the eye.

But as one moves in towards the towns, and eventually towards the center, the beating heart of it all, the lie becomes apparent. Darkhome isn’t at peace, or at rest. Darkhome doesn’t sleep. It waits. It lurks. Darkhome is hungry. And so, walking into it, there is perhaps the uneasy sense of walking into the belly of the beast.

For the people, it is more than this- it is also a place of satiation. The Umbrals are no strangers to desire, nor to indulgence, and there are many purveyors for whatever would be called vices in other lands. The land’s hunger is glutted, in what many might expect to be shady taverns and what might otherwise be houses of ill repute- but here, the vice-sellers do not need to skulk or hide. Their goods and services which might be subject to sanction or censure elsewhere are freely displayed, and citizens may equally freely partake of them. The sharp-sighted, though, will spot the signs of famine- though the citizens gorge freely on vice, it seems that there is not enough food to go around. Belts tighten; and the sense of hunger pervades even more strongly.

As they move through the city at the center of Darkhome, eventually visitors will find themselves coming towards the beating heart of it all, a plain but sprawling palace-complex where functionaries and priests move in a constant stream back and forth. At its center stands a hall, built out of planks of the native shadewood, casting an impossibly long shadow across the surrounding area.

Inside is a wide-open space, centered around a large, flat circular stone, perhaps a dozen feet in diameter. Around it are arrayed many tables, most laid out with excessive quantities of food, strong drink, and other less savoury indulgences. A few tables here and there have chairs, where the guests are directed by servants to sit and wait for the festivities to begin. The lighting is dim, with only simple candles to break the gloom unnatural for such a well-ventilated space in the middle of the day.

The contrast with the city at large, in terms of the plentitude of food, is stark. But if the many priests clad in black or red who wander freely through the hall notice, a great number partaking freely of the bounties themselves, they do not seem to care. Perhaps outside hunger rules, but here, in the belly of Darkhome, there is no distinction between hunger and feeding, just as there is no confusion between privation and plenty.

One priest, a tall, bald, middle-aged Umbral dressed in flowing robes of white, makes his way to each party waiting at their tables in turn, delivering the same greeting to each one.
“Welcome to our sanctum. Please, be at peace. I am Assan, right hand to our ruler and the one called Shadow of the Accord. Observe the banquet laid out for you; please, partake freely. Know, though, that this is a holy place, and we will brook no unholy spilling of blood here. If you must come to blows, we have an arena for such things not far from here. Kalathax will be conducting a ritual shortly; we do not ask that you respect or pay heed, but we must insist that you do not interrupt. If there is any business you wish to discuss, you may take it up with me now or with either of us after the ritual is concluded.”
With his message concluded, he bows, and, if not asked to stay and speak further, moves on to the next table.

[Miltonian]

With creaking timbers and tattered sails, the Tempest glides into port. Mist billows out from below the decks and spills across the quay. Skeletal deckhands throw lines to the dock and shimmy down to tie the ship to its berth. Admiral Archer stands on deck, Philestopheles the ghoul-parrot on his shoulder. He watches the undead crew with grim satisfaction. They did their work well, despite years holed up in Port Blackwater, waiting for the time to strike out once more. So far, the only misstep had been when they had run down that poor, unfortunate fishing vessel. The moronic captain had stood and gawked instead of moving his ship out of the way. He'd paid for his folly now.

Ship secured and gangplank down, Admiral Archer descends onto foreign soil.

"Mister Fullmain," he calls to the first mate, "Ye have command until I return. Keep the lads out o' too much trouble. This be a friendly visit." He glances back over his shoulder, what remains of his lips pulled into a savage grin. "Fer now." He moves forward into the town, his honorguard of twenty almost-skeletal, pike-wielding wights falling in behind him.

Philestopheles leans in close to the admiral's ear. "Squawk!" he says quietly, "Be on the lookout, Admiral. I sense trouble ahead."

Archer laughs. "Ye worry too much. These be not but soft landlubbers. And we be here only to take their measure."

The lead wight, distinguished from the others by wearing a hat instead of a helmet, turns towards the admiral. "We be here to defend ye, Adm'ral, if need arises. I, the dread Fortesque, shall ensure no bloody bleeders lay 'ands on ye." The other skeletons let out a ragged cheer like the clattering of so many bones. But even such a fearsome cry seems to echo hollowly in the midst of the Darkhome, with its unnatural peace.

Together, the company marches in to the city. The wights jeer and leer at the surrounding peoples, eyeing the various vices on display with course amusement. Fortesque barks orders at the pair that get a little too interested in one of the houses of ill repute, but other than that allows them to let their eyes wander freely. As for Archer, he strides ahead, expecting the crowd to give way.

In to the main hall and commandeers one of the largest tables. Archer immediately plucks up a whole flagon of some drink or the other and lets it splash into his open maw. "Ye hear that, lads?" he says sternly to his crew, "No killin'. Play nice and eat up." He laughs. "Let's see if'n their food runs out before yer appetites!"

The wights cheer again and set upon the table like a pack of wild dogs. Archer puts his boots on the table and liberates another flagon of wine. Only Philestopheles restrains himself. For his part, the parrot picks over a prize piece of pork, but keeps a watchful eye on the proceedings.

[Gengy]

Dvergar of Fikta, Arrival

There had been much discussion in the Undirgaurd about traveling beyond the safety of the wings of the blessed flame. Many were opposed to the idea. Biskops prepared to spend many resources and maneuver their allies - and their foes - into positions that were more favorable. There was a resounding agreement among them all, as they pulled upon their beards in consternation, that they didn't want to go.

The Elder, Konugs Riki, had calmly said to the gathered Biskops, "Relax, you aren't coming along. I'm going. I'll take some guards."

To which the Biskops replied, "Have a nice trip."

Which is why, some months later, Darkhome is visited by a procession of stocky bearded men and women in ash grey robes, their hoods pulled up over their faces as they moved single file. In their middle, in much more voluminous robes of orange and white, a taller figure walked slowly and with purpose. He was stronger looking than those around him, and his beard was a bright orange. Upon their arrival to the sanctum, the line of ash grey robes surrounded the man in orange and white.

Looking around carefully, the taller, stronger Dvergar let his hood slip off. His head was shaved clean, and he silently looked around the room. The candlelight glinted off a monocle of steel attached to his face in a way that was quite indistinguishable from his skin, and it made his gaze from his right eye give off a fiery red glow. Nodding carefully, as though approving of something, he waved a hand to one of the ash grey robes. The others seemed to melt to the various corners of the room, taking up positions were they could see both the remaining Dvergar.

The remaining figure in the ash grey robes strode forward, and speaking carefully, in an almost gravely voice, said, "The Elder, Konugs Riki, of the Dvergar of Fikta greets you, Assan. May the Speed of Flame be upon us all this day. We have brought gifts for you and your guests, in the hopes that this gathering might be the fostering of new friendships."

[SOSDarkPhoenix]

Subtly and largely unnoticed, a figure dressed in a deep black cloak arrives (https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/807871969873625158/808215725650214912/Hooded_Figure.jpg), his arms tucked away and face concealed by the dark hood. The only bit of skin visible is his mouth, ashen-grey, boney ridges on either side of his jaw that end in small protrusions beneath his chin. The figure listens intently, visibly scanning the room as each new arrival comes. Whoever this man(?) is, they do not seem an obvious threat, but neither do they seem interested in approaching anyone for talk.https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/807871969873625158/808217575116636200/Hooded_Figure_Icon.png

[Lleban]

The voyage up the coast was a largely peaceful one. The alchemists of Margaritarum were very familiar with the routes that winded up and down the coast. Goods and people had traveled this path long before the swarm and hopefully, they'll continue for long after. No matter which way the winds blew the Tazmat Dhows gracefully pulled into the umbral harbor like lily pads in a pond.

The Diumverate of Ibn Jezzet and Amatu Khalifa march through the city with a small company of privateers armed with steel half-plate armor, bucklers, and crossbows. The Dimuvarete are dressed in elaborate deep red robes laced with golden trim. Behind the procession lay a wagon filled with manuscripts, writings, philosophy commentaries, and the elusive dragon eyes.

At the table, Ibn Jezzet speaks "We of the New Republic come with good tidings, studying the great mysteries have to yield treasures we're eager to share."

[Miltonian]

The Admiral's mind wanders a little bit. As he consumes yet more wine, to the point where some of it spills out from his emaciated, mummified form, he finds that his consciousness has found the freedom to wander. His lips laugh and cheer and jeer, but he sinks downwards all the same. And from that vantage point, he observed himself and those around him.

Lift hand. Put flagon to lips. Drink deeply. Slam flagon down. Laugh at something someone said. Make amazingly and devastatingly witty comment. Repeat. Such was the way of parties. This one was no different. How long had he been doing this? He had lost count. Perhaps he would ask Philestopheles later. The bird knew things, many clever things. Then again, even if he did know, what would be the point? Why bother knowing the exact number? It would not make it any less or make his actions less rote.

The world faded around him and he saw before his eyes the vast expanse of the years laid out in front of him, each more and more grey. The same as the ones before. Onwards, ever onwards. But then again, why did it have to be the same? Was there not still adventure in the world? Duels, battles, daring escapes, and even bolder deeds?

Why, the stocky ones in the corner, with their grave demeanors (heh. Grave. As if he and his were not the 'gravest' of all!). What would it be like to see their homes in flames? To laugh as their dead stood back up and slaughtered their friends and family in the streets? And those dressed like pirates in their own right? Ah, to set their sails aflame and watch them leap screaming from their own ships into the cold embrace of the sea. What a delicious thought that was. He felt a twinge of something grip his long-silent heart. His hand flexed and gripped the chair of his seat. Excitement. Anticipation.

He licked his lips and stood up. With a leap, he landed on the table and addressed the full company. "Gentlemen, and ladies," he said to those assembled, "I pray ye give me yer attention. I believe I am ready to make a speech." He raised his half-empty flagon. "First, to yer health, an' all that rot. As if it'll do ye any good in the long run, but ye might as well make use of it while ye have it."

He cleared his throat and spat a glob of something indescribable onto the floor. It sizzled and smoked a little. Wiping his mouth, he continued. "As fer me and mine, we look forward to gettin' to know ye more personably-like." He grinned. "So expect a visiti from us sometime 'ere in the near future! I trust ye will be gen'rous hosts, like our current ones here." He raised his flagon in the general direction of the Umbral priest. "That's all fer now."

He descended back to the floor and sat down again.

[Silent_Interim]

Dvergar of Fikta, Arrival

There had been much discussion in the Undirgaurd about traveling beyond the safety of the wings of the blessed flame. Many were opposed to the idea. Biskops prepared to spend many resources and maneuver their allies - and their foes - into positions that were more favorable. There was a resounding agreement among them all, as they pulled upon their beards in consternation, that they didn't want to go.

The Elder, Konugs Riki, had calmly said to the gathered Biskops, "Relax, you aren't coming along. I'm going. I'll take some guards."

To which the Biskops replied, "Have a nice trip."

Which is why, some months later, Darkhome is visited by a procession of stocky bearded men and women in ash grey robes, their hoods pulled up over their faces as they moved single file. In their middle, in much more voluminous robes of orange and white, a taller figure walked slowly and with purpose. He was stronger looking than those around him, and his beard was a bright orange. Upon their arrival to the sanctum, the line of ash grey robes surrounded the man in orange and white.

Looking around carefully, the taller, stronger Dvergar let his hood slip off. His head was shaved clean, and he silently looked around the room. The candlelight glinted off a monocle of steel attached to his face in a way that was quite indistinguishable from his skin, and it made his gaze from his right eye give off a fiery red glow. Nodding carefully, as though approving of something, he waved a hand to one of the ash grey robes. The others seemed to melt to the various corners of the room, taking up positions were they could see both the remaining Dvergar.

The remaining figure in the ash grey robes strode forward, and speaking carefully, in an almost gravely voice, said, "The Elder, Konugs Riki, of the Dvergar of Fikta greets you, Assan. May the Speed of Flame be upon us all this day. We have brought gifts for you and your guests, in the hopes that this gathering might be the fostering of new friendships."

"Be welcome, then, Elder, and enjoy our hospitality. Your gifts, I am sure will be pleasing, and I too hope that friendship may be fostered today." He bows before moving on to the next party.




Subtly and largely unnoticed, a figure dressed in a deep black cloak arrives (https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/807871969873625158/808215725650214912/Hooded_Figure.jpg), his arms tucked away and face concealed by the dark hood. The only bit of skin visible is his mouth, ashen-grey, boney ridges on either side of his jaw that end in small protrusions beneath his chin. The figure listens intently, visibly scanning the room as each new arrival comes. Whoever this man(?) is, they do not seem an obvious threat, but neither do they seem interested in approaching anyone for talk.https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/807871969873625158/808217575116636200/Hooded_Figure_Icon.png

Upon noticing the mysterious stranger who apparently came uninvited, Assan gathers a few lower-ranking priests, who linger nearby in a poor imitation of nonchalance as he makes his way towards the unknown figure.
"Greetings, stranger. May I have the courtesy of knowing your name? We were not expecting any... additional guests, on this day, and I do not recognize you from among those we invited to attend this gathering."


The voyage up the coast was a largely peaceful one. The alchemists of Margaritarum were very familiar with the routes that winded up and down the coast. Goods and people had traveled this path long before the swarm and hopefully, they'll continue for long after. No matter which way the winds blew the Tazmat Dhows gracefully pulled into the umbral harbor like lily pads in a pond.

The Diumverate of Ibn Jezzet and Amatu Khalifa march through the city with a small company of privateers armed with steel half-plate armor, bucklers, and crossbows. The Dimuvarete are dressed in elaborate deep red robes laced with golden trim. Behind the procession lay a wagon filled with manuscripts, writings, philosophy commentaries, and the elusive dragon eyes.

At the table, Ibn Jezzet speaks "We of the New Republic come with good tidings, studying the great mysteries have to yield treasures we're eager to share."

Assan eyes the wagon full of treasures with cool interest. "We, too, are eager to share our treasures. Be welcome, you of the New Republic, and share in our bounty."


The Admiral's mind wanders a little bit. As he consumes yet more wine, to the point where some of it spills out from his emaciated, mummified form, he finds that his consciousness has found the freedom to wander. His lips laugh and cheer and jeer, but he sinks downwards all the same. And from that vantage point, he observed himself and those around him.

Lift hand. Put flagon to lips. Drink deeply. Slam flagon down. Laugh at something someone said. Make amazingly and devastatingly witty comment. Repeat. Such was the way of parties. This one was no different. How long had he been doing this? He had lost count. Perhaps he would ask Philestopheles later. The bird knew things, many clever things. Then again, even if he did know, what would be the point? Why bother knowing the exact number? It would not make it any less or make his actions less rote.

The world faded around him and he saw before his eyes the vast expanse of the years laid out in front of him, each more and more grey. The same as the ones before. Onwards, ever onwards. But then again, why did it have to be the same? Was there not still adventure in the world? Duels, battles, daring escapes, and even bolder deeds?

Why, the stocky ones in the corner, with their grave demeanors (heh. Grave. As if he and his were not the 'gravest' of all!). What would it be like to see their homes in flames? To laugh as their dead stood back up and slaughtered their friends and family in the streets? And those dressed like pirates in their own right? Ah, to set their sails aflame and watch them leap screaming from their own ships into the cold embrace of the sea. What a delicious thought that was. He felt a twinge of something grip his long-silent heart. His hand flexed and gripped the chair of his seat. Excitement. Anticipation.

He licked his lips and stood up. With a leap, he landed on the table and addressed the full company. "Gentlemen, and ladies," he said to those assembled, "I pray ye give me yer attention. I believe I am ready to make a speech." He raised his half-empty flagon. "First, to yer health, an' all that rot. As if it'll do ye any good in the long run, but ye might as well make use of it while ye have it."

He cleared his throat and spat a glob of something indescribable onto the floor. It sizzled and smoked a little. Wiping his mouth, he continued. "As fer me and mine, we look forward to gettin' to know ye more personably-like." He grinned. "So expect a visiti from us sometime 'ere in the near future! I trust ye will be gen'rous hosts, like our current ones here." He raised his flagon in the general direction of the Umbral priest. "That's all fer now."

He descended back to the floor and sat down again.


From a distance, Assan watches the Admiral's speech with a broad smile on his face. "It is as though they were already of the faith." He snaps his fingers, and a nearby priest hurries over to listen to his orders. "See to it that the undead get anything they request. Anything. I don't care if you have to send a rider to the farthest reaches of Darkhome, bring them whatever they ask for."



At the far end of the hall, a procession of priests in black and red, led by an Umbral wearing white robes to match those Assan wears and a young human woman in plain brown garb, begins to make its way towards the rock at the center of the hall. All of the priests present turn to watch, save those busy with tasks; even those, once their tasks are finished, observe the procession as it filters forward.

Assan stands by the foot of the great stone centerpiece and calls out. "The ceremony is about to begin! I remind you again that no interruption will be tolerated, but do continue to avail yourselves of the bounty upon the tables."