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The First House of Sirenze

If one asked a Sirenzian what they thought of the House of Veprimtar, they would most likely have responded with impassiveness. 944 NR did not come as a particularly-pleasant year for the Serene Republic, and most had forgotten who even ruled the city.

Of course, before 944, it had been the Veprimtars. The house whose lineage stretched back four centuries, whose sigil, the Kraken, adorned almost all of Sirenze's most important buildings. But now, it seemed as if the Veprimtars had disappeared into the depths like their squid-like sigil. Instead, the man heading the Republic now was Alessio di Fontana, Count of Carmelia, second-most powerful man in the nation. The most powerful after the end of the war.

It was a hot and dry day in Sirenze. Ephian Veprimtar slipped out of his family's estate as the sun came rising over the green waters of the Bay of Amira.

Many said he looked like his father- they meant it out of respect, and strangely not the fear with which they had said his name just a few years prior. The boy's resemblance to his father, the last strongman of Sirenze, was indeed uncanny. His hair hung to his shoulders in a neat white shroud, and the boy's grey eyes moved about with a calculated precision as he swung the back door shut, and locked it, slipping the key into the mouth of a gargoyle statue in the garden.

Even in disrepair the estate of the Veprimtars was a sight to behold. The house's limestone columns cast a strange shadow over Ephian as he slipped out onto the main road, travelling down the Concourse. Once before the civil war it had been the place where the great men of Sirenze marched, to flaunt their astounding wealth. One side of the great road looked out onto the bay. Where there had once been a proud fleet of warships bearing the seahorse of Sirenze, now there was a forest of broken and splintered masts, marking the place where each warship, carefully built from the keel-up by the renowned shipwrights of the Republic, had foundered.

The Concourse, too, was in a state of disrepair. The marble and granite buildings that lined its other side were hollowed-out, and gutted by fire. The only building where its interior and exterior had been restored was the courthouse.

The common folk had forgotten about the Veprimtars, as self-absorbed and apathetic as they were. But the nobles had not forgotten them so easily.

If anything, the young Prince-apparent's arrival in the halls of the College of Sirenze made a wave itself.

True, the Serene Republic had been battered by the civil war, but the halls of its college still stood proudly, perhaps the last remaining symbol of the prestige that the republic had once commanded.

If there was one thing the Veprimtar dynasty still held some sway in, it was the College.
Ephian, ever maintaining his dignified demeanour, uttered polite greetings and compliments as he weaved in and out of the college's halls. He felt a sense of pride in his chest as he passed through the grand reception room of the College, on whose domed ceiling was the motif of a Kraken, its arms and body outlined in glimmering gold leaf.

"Eph," a familiar voice called. Ephian looked around, to spot a friend. Or, given the state of the Veprimtar family these days, whatever passed for a friend.
Santino di Cavallo, the son of the Count of Cavallo nodded in greeting. Over the yuletide holidays he had grown taller than Ephian himself.

"Santino," Ephian said cooly, raising a hand in acknowledgement. "I trust that the yuletide's been pleasant for you?"

"Yes," said Santino. "I went abroad," he said, holding up a glimmering golden coin, of foreign make. "Brought a keepsake back. Speaking of," he said, glancing about the room. "How do you think you'll do today?"

Ephian's stomach twisted, as a hint of alarm registered on his face. But, as he had practiced innumerable times before, he managed a slight smile, and regained his composure.
"I think I'll be deployed in the north. It's the best outcome."

He had forgotten. How could he have forgotten?
They were turning sixteen that year. Ephian had already done so. But as with all sixteen-year-olds, under the watch of Alessio di Fontana, the new Grand Doge of Sirenze, they were to be sent to one of the Republic's many war campaigns, and battles of expansionism, to "harden their resolve".

No doubt Alessio di Fontana would try to have the last young Veprimtar killed. His power would be absolute after that.
"Oh, Eph!" Another voice said. Isabelle di Fontana, the daughter of the Grand Doge, bobbed her way across the room, which by now was filling with young nobles. She wore the latest garment to grace the slowly-recovering Sirenzian fashion industry, a long and thick dress that stopped just short of her ankles, with similarly-long sleeves that covered the hands, and a miniature rapier hair-pin run through her hair.

Ephian suppressed a jolt of annoyance at her appearance. He had found her perfectly fine to be around- before the war, at least- but now the girl was everything that opposed him. The Fontana family, Alessio di Fontana and his daughter that would no doubt take Ephian's place as the new ruler of Sirenze.

He bowed, stretching out a strained smile. "Isabelle," he said modestly, hiding the irritation from view as his gloved hands tightened inside the folds of his coat. "You must be relieved that we'll all be gone, hm? You'll finally have a quiet lecture."

The people around him fell silent, and Isabelle fell silent too. Ephian's eyes darted around, in muted panic. Had he gone too far?

But much to his relief, the silence was broken by quiet snickers. A few boys and girls nearby, all minor nobles, had heard him, and found his quip to be rather amusing. Soon, the people around him began laughing, and Isabelle stifled a giggle.

"I can't say I'm not relieved," she replied. "But come back alive, will you? It's no fun when I don't have any competition for High Honours."

Again, Ephian smiled, masking the absolute, pure hate that he felt at that comment. High Honours. As if the gods hadn't been cruel enough already, depriving his family of their relevancy and money. Now they put forward someone just as talented, if not better than him, at academics. His one strong suit, outside fencing.
"On my honour as a Veprimtar," he said, with a seriousness that was not entirely faked, "I'd sooner forsake my family than concede my prize to you."

That had hit just the right spot, Ephian figured, as everyone else burst into laughter. Genuine laughter. Isabelle grinned in response, but before she could retaliate, the bell sounded once, twice, three times.

At that signal, the doors to the amphitheatre swung open, and the students of the College surged forward into the open, into a stadium where on three sides there were stone tiers of seats for the students, and a large stage on the fourth side where the staff of the College were already seated.

Ephian took a seat close to the front and bottom of the pit, joined by Santino, Isabelle and another friend of hers, Marisa Nyremar. He didn't remember much about her, only that she was some sort of distant relative to him, through some kind of nebulous marriage a century ago, and was the daughter of the Headmaster.
Thankfully, Marisa seemed content with talking to Isabelle, and didn't try to start a conversation with him.

And the moment she did turn to Ephian, the theatre fell quiet as three people mounted the stage. Those three were Alessio di Fontana, in the blue-and-silver robe of the Grand Doge, bearing the white sceptre of governance; General Casca Suriano, looking as surly as ever, in a neatly-pressed and buttoned general's overcoat, and the Headmaster of the College, Solanio Nyremar, wearing the cap and gown he usually reserved for graduation ceremonies.

Di Fontana coughed dryly. Headmaster Nyremar took the stage, and cleared his throat; though, the entire theatre's attention was on him already.

"Esteemed students," Nyremar began. "As you know, the time has come to make yourselves useful to Sirenze, and rebuild our most beloved nation through the honour of military service. This has been a time-honoured tradition for almost one century now, and you are the latest among a multitude of cohorts to take up arms in defence of Sirenze's pride. We are most honoured," he gestured to Di Fontana, "To have the fifteenth Grand Doge of Sirenze, Alessio di Fontana, Count of Carmelia, among us today. His Serenity will be doing us a great favour today, and assigning the students their postings for the next year."

There was a smattering of applause; Marisa and Isabelle clapped the loudest. However, the mood was quickly soured when Di Fontana spoke.
"Thank you," he said, gracefully moving to the front of the stage. "It is also my duty to inform you young men and women of this esteemed academy that as a result of the war, we shall require more auxiliary personnel on the field owing to manpower shortages. Therefore," Di Fontana stared Ephian down, a subtle sneer tugging at the corners of his mouth, "Starting this year, female students of the College will also be assigned auxiliary postings as nurses, cooks, or logisticians."

There was an audible gasp as Di Fontana said this. Isabelle seemed very much unbothered, but rather resigned.
"Did you know this was going to happen?" Ephian heard Marisa hiss, as Isabelle clasped both hands over her lap. "Why didn't you tell us?"

Isabelle shook her head, whispering back.
"I heard rumours of such a thing," she said, resignedly. "But I didn't think it would happen."

Di Fontana's announcement had sent the theatre into uproar, as students turned to each other and began murmuring. Headmaster Nyremar coughed again, signalling for quiet. Once the students had fallen silent, Di Fontana spoke again.

"It is a difficult decision to let the maidens of Sirenze be sullied by war," he said, "But difficult times call for unexpected measures. I trust that you will all do your duty to your country."

General Suriano now took the stage. He began speaking, slowly and torturously, calling students both male and female forth to be assigned duties.

Ephian's mind began to race, as Suriano stumbled his way through the triplets of the Selemar family.

How dire was the situation on the frontlines, if they needed female students from the College too?

His thoughts were disturbed when Suriano called a name.
"Santino di Cavallo," he said onerously, and Santino rose from his seat, feeling the eyes of two thousand students follow him. He swallowed, and trotted down to the stage.
Ephian resumed his inner musings, as Santino was handed a scroll and shown out the back door, much like all the others.

There were another two hundred or so students before Ephian was called. The sun had risen higher in the sky and his mouth was beginning to feel parched. He trotted down to the stage, and bowed; first to Di Fontana, next to Headmaster Nyremar, and lastly to General Suriano. Then, without a word, he was presented with a scroll, upon which was written his assignment.

Nyremar held him back for a moment, his expression grave.
"Good luck," the headmaster whispered.

Ephian could not help but linger on that comment as he exited the amphitheatre, finding himself in the bustling waterfront of Sirenze. He attributed it to the headmaster's favouritism- after all, Isabelle and he seemed to receive more favours and leniency than others, especially when it came to extensions for assignments, or nominations for awards.

Though there was something deeply amiss. He just couldn't place his finger on it.

He was so absorbed in trying to decrypt the meaning of Nyremar's message that he almost walked straight into Santino, who was also standing at the waterfront.

Santino shouted, as he flailed wildly. It seemed that he would fall into the water for a moment, but he regained his balance and spun around, glowering.

"What the hells do you think you're doing?" He said, incredulously.

"Sorry," Ephian mumbled. "I wasn't looking."

Santino sighed, a long, drawn-out sigh. He showed Ephian his scroll.
"I'm getting sent to the Sunderlands," he said, face filled with dread. "Not the Sunderlands..." he moaned, gripping the paper. "Gods! Why the Sunderlands!"

Ephian's eyes widened. He looked down at his own scroll, and slowly unfurled it, praying that he, too, hadn't been sent to the Sunderlands.
But he knew the answer before he saw it.

"The Sunderlands," the scroll read. It was stamped with the leaping swordfish of the Di Fontana family.

The Sunderlands. The Sunderlands, Ephian thought, a growing fury building within him, where everything pure went to die. Where the sand dunes themselves came alive, and peppered you with arrows, where their barbaric, savage peoples fought like demons against the Sirenzians, and where the sun had even less mercy than here.

This was Di Fontana's doing. He was sure of it. That way the wretch had sneered at him during the ceremony.

A strained sound escaped Ephian's lips, a sort of low hiss, as his eye twitched and veins bulged in his forehead. His neck muscles stiffened, as he positively steamed with infuriation.

He cursed the gods, he cursed Alessio di Fontana. And above all, he cursed himself for standing by and allowing himself to be sent to the slaughter.

The First House of Sirenze- Pt. II
Harvest, 944

Perhaps Ephian had forgotten how rapidly his life could change. It seemed the gods had decided to remind him of that.
They had one week to prepare. After that, they would be deployed to the front for the next year.

The only good thing that had come out of this was the fact that the College issued a small allowance to them. No more than a thousand sols- pitiful to some, but a generous windfall for him.

According to tradition, each soldier on the front line fought with the weapons they bought. The armour and equipment, however, was provided by the Army. The most popular choice was a pike, or a halberd, followed shortly by a crossbow.

And it was a crossbow that Ephian bought. Not because it was the least dangerous of all of them, but rather because it happened to be the cheapest. The remaining sols, three hundred in all, slipped into an investment in shipbuilding, as he believed that industry to be the most profitable in the long-term.

It was the fifth day of his one-week grace period, before their departure for the battlefield- Embarkation Day. Ephian's grandfather, Kyrus Veprimtar, was in another state entirely. The old patriarch of the Veprimtar family stomped about the house, making himself busy for once. When he wasn't pruning the rosebushes in the garden, or obsessively dusting the corners of the house, he was cursing the name of Alessio di Fontana.

Then, on the last day of the grace period, his grandfather approached him, carrying a bundle of cloth wrapped with canvas.
"This belonged to your father," Kyrus Veprimtar said gruffly, shoving the package into his arms. "His overcoat."

As Ephian unwrapped the package, he saw a long coat. Just small enough to fit his frame. It was a navy blue trench coat, with white piping on the high-set collar and shoulders. Upon closer inspection, the silver buttons were stamped with the Kraken of the Veprimtar family. The medals, and other embroidery that formerly denoted his father's status as the supreme commander of the army had been carefully removed, and placed into a canvas pouch stuffed into one of the coat's inner pockets.

Now, there were no restrictions against wearing the medals of a general, Ephian remembered, and in the case of a descendant of a general, they inherited the awards their predecessors held.

Still, he reasoned, it was best to go with a humble decoration first. Best not to overdo it. He fished out a small medal from the pouch, and fixed it to his breast pocket.
There, he thought. Now he looked somewhat respectable.

For the last time in the year, Ephian slipped out of his estate at dawn, wearing that same trench coat with the medal affixed to his chest, his crossbow slung across his chest, and a semi-empty rucksack across his back, filled with a change of clothes.

As he passed the College of Sirenze, he looked one last time at its grounds. It was much quieter. A third of the students were heading out with the same purpose as him: To fight.

His mind's focus shifted back to his grandfather. Ephian's only hope was that the old man would keep himself out of trouble long enough for his return.

But his spirits were lifted when he reached the city docks. There, the students of the College were presented with a hero's send-off. Banners hung from the buildings, and citizens that Ephian didn't even know applauded him as he walked to the customs office.

"Name," the tired-looking clerk in the customs office barked.

"Ephian Veprimtar," he replied. The clerk crossed a name off the list, and his gaze drifted over the quays.

"Pier Twelve," Ephian was told. He was shoved onwards, as the line of College students turned soldiers shuffled on.

The piers were a scene of chaos. Three dozen cargo ships- practically all of Sirenze's surviving merchant marine- and a half dozen new ships built after the civil war- crowded around the docks, loading their holds with students.

It turned out to be a clear and cool day, with a gentle southeasterly breeze. The waters were calm, the weather pleasant enough for half of Sirenze to come and watch their youth depart.

Ephian jostled his way to Pier Twelve, a jetty at the far end of the docks where one of the newer cargo ships was moored, bobbing up and down in the calm waters. Two Army officers- or at least, that was what he reckoned they were- stood at the gangway, handing out care packages to the students boarding the ship. Ephian made to board, and he was handed one of those packages, which, upon closer inspection, was filled with three bars of plain soap, a shaving razor and two spare blades, a box of raisins, two bottles of juice, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some spare change.

He was about to board when someone laid a hand on his shoulder. A sensation shot up Ephian's spine, which made him shiver with discomfort. He turned around to see Alessio di Fontana standing over him.

"Never thought I'd see the day that Elethcarsus Veprimtar's son would be sent off to war," di Fontana said, with a tone that made Ephian grit his teeth in irritation. "Though, each man must, after all, serve his country to the best of his ability... even if they are of foreign stock."
The Grand Doge flashed a mocking smile at him. "Tell me, Master Ephian, what are your plans after you return from the battlefield?"

"Finish my time in the college," Ephian replied, maintaining his respectful air. "And start investing my funds into the economy."

"Most interesting!" Di Fontana said jovially, but his sneer unmasked his true attitude. "Then tell me, Master Ephian, what if you don't return at all?"

Ephian's fist clenched. Fortunately, it was in his pocket. His lack of a reply only gave Doge Alessio time to squeeze out one more insult.

"Hmm," Di Fontana said sardonically. "I suppose the future of the Veprimtar dynasty rests on your grandfather," he added brightly, but then his expression twisted into a mocking smile. "Your grandfather," he echoed. "Your grandfather. A decrepit, senile husk of a man who can't tell day from night. And don't pretend that you have funds to invest- do you? I know for a fact that you Veprimtars don't have a rag to polish your shoes with." Doge Alessio patted Ephian on the shoulder, as his daughter Isabelle weaved through the crowd towards them.

"Come home in one piece," he said, faking joviality. "It certainly would be a shame if Elethcarsus Veprimtar's only son returned in a coffin."
With that, the Grand Doge left, his blue and silver robe billowing behind him. Many around Ephian stared in wonder, assuming that their conversation was a sign of favouritism. It was not.

"What was going on?" Isabelle said, as the two of them prepared to board the ship. "How come my father was talking to you?"

"It's nothing," Ephian said stiffly, the corner of his eye twitching. "Really." Then, a second thought crossed his mind. "This ship is headed to the Sunderlands," he echoed incredulously. "How come you're onboard?"

Isabelle's smile dissipated, as her lower lip quivered. Ephian noticed the latter, and could not help but feel a pang of distaste for the break in composure.
"I asked to be sent elsewhere," she said, glumly. "But that didn't help. Of course," she added, quickly, "I'm sure it'll be fine. They said I was to serve as a nurse." The two headed into the ship's bottom deck, where they parted ways. The hold was stuffy and cramped, filled with students from the College, most of whom Ephian didn't know. He picked out two faces in the crowd. Cosimo, son of the Count of Elisia, and Felix, son of the Count of Montaga.

The two were not particularly close with him, but they were the only ones whose faces he could discern amidst the hundred students packed in the ship's bowels.

Hours seemed to pass, before the ship shuddered, breaking loose of its moorings, and began to head out to the seas, to the cheers of the people of Sirenze. The rocking of the ship grew more intense as they entered open waters, and soon Ephian began to regret taking a berth on the bottom deck. Those with weaker stomachs rushed to the top deck, but some did not make it in time, and the contents of their breakfasts escaped their stomachs. The entire room began to stink of bile.

Worse yet, the cool morning gave way to the merciless flames of the sun. The cargo hold became ten times stuffier than it had been before, and Ephian found that every ten minutes or so he had to stumble to the top deck to get a breath of fresh air.

Lunchtime came, and he half-expected the sailors to call them for a meal, as was practice at the College, but that never came. They had no choice but to eat the raisins and drink the juice given to them in their care packages.

Ephian choked down a mouthful of warm fig juice, which offered no respite from the heat. And thirty minutes later, he realized too late that fig juice was a laxative.

That night, the heat finally dissipated. But they still had no respite from their suffering, as night's cold crept into the under-decks they curled up underneath thin cotton blankets, atop worn old mats. The sailors came down exactly once, and distributed among them hardtack and salted pork for their dinners.

Their journey to the Sunderlands consisted of daily cycles of hot, cold, and inedible food. Finally, on the seventh day, land was in sight.

Ephian's stomach sunk as he witnessed the golden dunes of the Sunderlands grow closer. Their ship was preparing to dock at Neronia, a respectable trading town along the coast. From there, they were told by the crew, they were to march to Palisia further inland where the army was stationed.

As they stumbled off their floating prison, feeling worse than they had ever felt in their lives, Isabelle caught up to Ephian once more. He repressed a sigh at her continuous reappearance.

Many of the students had chosen to remove their overly-formal and uncomfortable dress coats in the heat, but Ephian kept it on despite his discomfort. He suppressed a smirk as some high-ranking officers on leave nearby nodded in approval at his immaculate uniform.
It was pathetic. But he needed all the respect he could muster if he was to leave this sun-baked wasteland alive.

At the gates of Neronia, they were lined into an orderly column, led by a small group of officers. And as they began their march, Ephian looked back at the walls of Neronia, the symbol of Sirenzian civilisation, vanish behind him, along with his hopes.

Prologue The wide Part I

Lake Darkwater, Kingdom of the Roughlands

It was an almost eerily quiet morning on Darkwater Lake, the largest inland sea in the Roughlands. Keno had not sailed this far to the northern shore of Darkwater to cast his nets for a long time. But here, far away from Icehall on the southern shore, he could hope for rich fish stocks, as only a few of the other fishermen were willing to make the long trip north. There were four other men on board with him. They were just about to get the nets ready to cast when Keno stared at the calm water for a moment and noticed some flotsam approaching the ship. He blinked against the glittering water and was frightened. It was by no means a piece of wood... a corpse! "Hen, come over here and bring the hook!" he ordered.

A short time later, the men had recovered the body. A dead girl, barely 10 years old. Her arm was missing. "Looks like it's been bitten off!" said one of the men. Keno scratched his head and looked over to the not too far away northern shore of the Darkwater. What was that? "Look! There's a plume of smoke!"

An hour later they had reached the shore. Only a few families of the House of Kraft lived up here. Were there four, maybe five farms? The rest of the land north of the lake was inhabited by a few members of the wild families at most. The source of the plume of smoke was quickly identified. It was a fisherman's hut, the flames had long since gone out, only charred remains of the former house remained. "Up there!" shouted Hen and pointed to a group of boulders lying next to the smoking ruin. The men rushed to the spot and found a badly burned woman. "She's still alive..." said Keno. "Can you hear me? What happened here?" The woman opened her eyes. She looked around in panic and was breathing heavily. "Monster... gone..." The light in their eyes died. The men looked at each other uncertainly. "There are footprints in the fresh snow up ahead... but... I've never seen anything like that before..." Hen stammered. "What do you mean by that?" Keno wanted to know. "Look for yourself, they look like they were made by a wolf, but from the size of the prints it must have been as big as a man, if not bigger!" said Hen. "What are you talking about?"

Keno stood up and had the prints shown to him, which were clearly visible behind the former hut and led north. "By the gods... what was that?" he asked, more to himself. He exhaled heavily. "We have to go to Icehall and report this. I don't know what happened here, but those weren't animals and there was no feud with the wild families. Let's get out of here." Hen nodded, he too had a bad feeling about this place.

The third son The wide Part II

Whitehall, Whitefall, Kingdom of the Roughlands

Janika groaned. The meeting of her council had already lasted four hours. In addition to her new warg Hagen and the witch Alma, it also included the high priest Zappendust and the first knight and general Ser Grogor of the House of Zorn. It was unbelievable how many things still had to be settled since her father had died. They had just decided what to do with the considerable fortune of the traitorous and now executed warg Horus Tant when the next point was already on the agenda. "Ser Erk, the third son of Jarl Hoster Kraft of Icehall wishes to speak to you," said Hagen, the warg. "Let him come in!" decided Janika. A young man with a blond beard and the blue eyes of the Roughlings came in. He wore his long hair tied in a braid on top of his head. He immediately bent his knee. "Your Grace, thank you for seeing me." Janika smiled kindly. "Rise, Ser Erk of House Kraft, and tell us what brings you here?" Erk rose and began to speak.

"Two weeks ago, the crew of a fishing boat from Icehall discovered a smoking ruin and a badly injured woman on the north shore of the Darkwater. She stammered incoherently before she died. I took some Roughriders to investigate the incident. Behind the hut we could make out footprints in the snow... very unusual footprints, like those of a wolf but about six times larger and very deep. We followed the tracks north for a few days, where they led along the coast to the pack ice and only then disappeared, as if the creature they belonged to had crossed the Frozen Sea. We broke off the pursuit because winter is coming to an end and the ice is already brittle." Erk paused and looked into the interested faces of the queen and the council members. Since they made no move to say anything, he continued. "Your Grace, I would like to get to the bottom of this and ask for your permission to lead an expedition beyond the Frozen Sea, into the Wide."

Janika raised her eyebrows. "You want to go into the Wide? There is hardly any life up there, only stone and ice. Not a single human soul lives in this land!" she pointed out. "And yet, the creature seems to have been on its way there or to have come from there. There are stories about the Wide..." Erk replied when Janika interrupted him. "Do you believe in giants, trolls and ice dragons?" Janika asked, slightly mockingly. Erk was embarrassed and silent, but Hagen the Warg jumped to his side. "Your Grace, if I may speak. As you know, I am from the wild families of the north. According to the old stories, our ancestors once lived in the Wide before we moved south to the Roughlands thousands of years ago. Records say that our ancestors fled from creatures called "furwalkers" that were spreading throughout the Wide. No roughling has set foot on the Wide for many centuries. We do not know what is happening on the northern edge of the world. Perhaps an expedition would not be a bad idea!"

Janika looked from Hagen to Erk and back. "Let's assume I approve an expedition. I still would not send anyone on such a suicide mission. But if you find enough volunteers, Erk of House Kraft, then you have my blessing and support. You shall receive materials, provisions and ships to cross the Frozen Sea in the spring." The queen said. Erk grinned from ear to ear. "Thank you, your grace, I am sure my roughriders will join me and I will find more volunteers." He said. "If the queen allows it, Ser Erk, I will be the first volunteer!" Hagen said and stood up. Janika looked at him in surprise. "I have always wanted to see the land of my ancestors and a warg can certainly be of use on this journey!" argued Hagen. Janika finally nodded. "So be it," she said. Now Hagen grinned. He took Erk by the arm. "Come, Ser Erk, we have a lot to do."

The Creature The wide Part IV

Wideheim, the Wide

The next morning, a small group left Wideheim on horseback. The group included Erk and Hagen, 2 other Roughriders and the witch siblings Lanka and Unea, who came from Frostwall and had joined the expedition at Storm Cape. In their hometown of Frostwall, the two young witches had hardly had a chance against the competition from the long-established witchcraft community, so the two did not miss the opportunity to join a royal expedition, no matter how dangerous it would be. Lanka and Unea themselves were just like these two sides of the same coin. The first was dark-haired, adventurous and saw the venture as an opportunity to prove herself, while the blonde Unea was a little more reserved and cautious and seemed more worried about her situation.

By midday, the group had already covered a few kilometers and reached a small forest behind a hill ridge when Erk discovered the tracks of game and blood in the snow. The small group followed the trail and finally found the carcass of a large reindeer. Erk had them dismount. Two men stayed with the horses, the rest looked at the carcass.

"Look at the bite wound and those scratches, they're huge. It must have been a big bear!" said Erk. "Yes, we must have disturbed it, there's still too much of the carcass left. Be careful, maybe it's still nearby!" added Hagen. Lanka knelt down in front of the reindeer and carefully felt the animal's flank. "In fact, very close, it's still warm, look how it's steaming!" she said.

Erk sat up and looked around. Behind them lay the small forest, in front of them the next stony and snowy hill. He noticed footprints in the snow, similar to those he had already seen at Darkwater Lake. They led from the carcass a few meters up the ridge... and then ended abruptly. Erk frowned when the ridge suddenly started moving. What had looked like a pile of snow rose and shook itself. A monster about two and a half meters tall appeared. Its fur was white and shaggy, its face was similar to that of an ape but had a bluish complexion with bright yellow-red eyes. Erk's jaw dropped and he was just about to give a warning when the creature let out a bloodcurdling scream and stood threateningly on its hind legs. Then it charged.

Erk ran off. The creature's scream had startled the horses and two of them rode away at a wild gallop. The small group just managed to mount, with Lanka and Unea sharing a horse, as did the other two roughriders. But the creature was surprisingly fast for its size. It rushed after the riders and steadily made up ground. "The thing is getting closer and closer!" shouted Hagen.

Unea looked around. In fact, it had almost caught up with the group of riders. "Lanka, give me the bottle of dark mist!" Lanka reached into her leather bag and handed her sister a small ampoule. Unea took the ampoule and warmed it up briefly with her fingers. Then she threw the ampoule at one of the trees they rode past. The bottle shattered into a thousand pieces. There was a loud hissing sound and thick green mist seemed to spread out of nowhere in all directions at lightning speed. Erk coughed as they rode out of the cloud of mist. "What in the gods was that?" he called. "Dark mist, it obstructs your vision and takes your breath away for a moment." Unea answered. Erk looked around. The creature was no longer visible behind the mist and seemed to have given up the chase. "Thank you," Erk said shortly. The blonde witch smiled and nodded at him.

A few hours later they had reached the false safety of Wideheim. One of the horses that had run away had returned on its own an hour before the group. There was no sign of the second one. After their return, the troop reported back to the group that had been left behind.

"So these are the furwalkers from the old writings of the wild families?" asked Erk. Hagen the warg nodded. "That's right. Apparently they are something more than just old wives' tales." He replied. "Yes, quite obviously. Old wives' tales don't have as bad a breath as this creature, nor do they scare me so much!" said Erk and took a deep breath.

The men were silent for a moment. "We should double the guards and..." Hagen broke off his sentence when he heard something in the distance. He looked at Erk in confusion. "Do you hear that?" Erk nodded. A steady, dull thumping could be heard. "Are those... drum beats?" asked Hagen. Erk looked at Hagen in horror and nodded. "Yes. And from several directions..." "That can only mean one thing," said Hagen and continued: "These creatures are more intelligent than they look and seem to be on the warpath." Erk stood up and yelled: "To arms, people, this is going to be a sleepless night!"

The things to come The wide Part VI

Wideheim, the Wide

Erk and Hagen wasted no time. The day was still young and there was still a chance to pursue the fleeing creatures unnoticed. The two men therefore decided to set off alone so as not to attract attention. There were protests from the others, especially from Lanka and Unea, but Erk stuck to his decision. Erk and Hagen left Wideheim on the northeast side, which was best protected from prying eyes by a small ridge. From the small forest they carefully followed the tracks of the furwalkers. Apparently some of the creatures were injured, because the two men did not even have to look for footprints, they could also follow clear traces of blood.

After about 2 hours the tracks split. The furwalkers had gone in different directions. They decided to follow the tracks with the blood, because an injured creature would certainly move more slowly and was potentially less dangerous. After a while the men spotted two of the creatures pausing in a clearing. One of the normally snow-white furwalkers had a red flank, probably the result of a stab wound from one of the spears. The men crept quietly to within about 50 meters of the creatures. "That's close enough," whispered Hagen. They sat down behind a large tree and nodded to each other.

Hagen began to reach out to the injured creature with his senses and found the spirit of the furwalker. A veil immediately fell over the warg's eyes. Erk watched his companion carefully. The warg seemed a little restless this time and twitched slightly. Suddenly a roar tore Erk out of his thoughts. He looked at the creatures and saw the injured furwalker writhing on the ground in pain and wildly hitting his own head. Erk looked at Hagen again and was horrified when he saw that the warg was also lying on the ground and twitching as if he had been seized by a seizure. "Hagen! Hagen! What's wrong with you?" Erk shook the man, who was lying in front of him, drenched in sweat and still twitching. Erk was about to slap Hagen when the warg's eyes cleared again and the cramps subsided. Hagen stood up as if he had been stung by a wasp and looked at Erk. "We have to go." At these words, Hagen almost started to run.

Erk hurried after him. When they were out of earshot of the furwalkers, Erk called out: "Hagen, what's wrong? What's wrong with you?" Hagen stopped, completely out of breath. "It wasn't easy. It's actually almost impossible to penetrate the minds of such intelligent beings. Only very strong wargs like Horus Tant could do something like that. But I saw through his eyes and thought his thoughts... I have to go to Whitefall. I have to tell the queen!" Hagen hurried away again. The completely confused Erk hurried after him. "Hagen? What do you have to say to the queen?"

Whitehall, Whitefall, Kingdom of the Roughlands

Janika had not heard any news of the expedition in the Wide for at least a month and a half, so she immediately took her time when she heard of Hagen's arrival in Whitefall. The warg had sailed back to the Roughlands with a few men from the Wide after invading the mind of a furwalker and had immediately arrived in Whitehall. Janika received him in the rustic fireplace room, where she sat in a comfortable chair. Her nightwolf, Frosteye, lay dozing at her feet.

Hagen gave a detailed but structured report on the Wide, the founding of Wideheim and their discoveries. Janika was amazed when she heard about the furwalkers. She too had dismissed the old stories as fairy tales, like the reports of giants or dragons. Hagen finally got to the point where he had penetrated the mind of one of the creatures to learn more about the motives and plans of the furwalkers.

"Your Grace, when I was in the Furwalker's mind I was able to find out a few things. The Furwalkers are actually quite intelligent. They are not just animals. Even if their instincts prevail, they can think and plan creatively. Since the days when the wild families from the Wide came to the Roughlands, the Furwalkers have been able to spread unhindered in the Wide without any natural enemies. Now they are on the move and their direction is south. The attacks north of Darkwater Lake were just the harbingers. As soon as winter comes and the Frozen Sea is frozen over again, they will invade our country again and this time in larger numbers," he reported. "How many are we talking about?" asked Janika. "There are now tens of thousands, or so the Furwalker believed," Hagen replied.

"That is not good news. So we have to protect the inhospitable northern coasts until winter. That is almost impossible to do," Janika thought out loud. "Your Grace, may I suggest an alternative?" asked the warg. "Speak, Hagen!" ordered the queen. "The Furwalkers are extremely worried and angry about our intrusion into the Wide. Their primary goal is to chase us out of their realms. They will instinctively focus on Wideheim first. If we expand the base there and increase the number of men, then we might be able to tie up the approaching conflict in the Wide for a while." Janika thought hard. "Not a nice task for the men and women we have to send into the Wide. But probably more promising than just retreating to our country on the defensive. I will follow your advice and call the houses to the banners!" decided Janika.

Hagen was relieved. The queen acted quickly and had each house initially send 50 men and women to undertake the arduous service in the Wide for one year each. Although just over 300 people would hardly be enough in the long run, it was a start. Wideheim would also be further fortified, the palisades reinforced, a proper ditch dug. In addition, many more weapons were sent. Finally, Janika resorted to a rather unusual means.

"Send heralds to the realms of the south. I will announce to them that the Roughriders are standing in the Wide and keeping a threat at bay that, in the end, concerns us all. Whoever wants to join the Guardians of the Wide is welcome!"

The Noose Tightens
Late Summer 944

The light streaks through the boughs in both brilliant and shadowy beams. Horses galloped and men marched forward at a steady pace, their breaths forming fleeting misty clouds in the morning briskness. The path of stone and dirt rose ahead of them in rugged perfection, the light playing over the grays and browns as if it were the fingers of a musician upon the gentle strings of a lute. Of this beauty, the group of wayfarers were thankful, for it made their journey much more bearable. forty-five men trodded on with five of their number being mounted on horses that led from the front of the column. The growing elevation made their trek difficult but all were filled with the resolve to complete it. Their minds were occupied with one thing and one thing only, death. Their spears, used as walking sticks by some of the levies, reached skyward out to the heavens, the swords in their scabbards rattled with every motion of their bodies as did the arrows in the archers’ quivers.

The lead man, a middle-aged man, guided his steed gracefully over the hill’s crest. His face bore the human ripples of pain, scars on his cheeks left behind by some pestilence, the mark that he has used his divine favor in the past. The collar of chainmail he wore hung loose around his sweat-glistened neck. He wore a jupon vertically halved in red and yellow. A leather belt hung around his waist with a sword lying dormant in its sheath. Long shaggy black hair prodded this way and that out of his scalp and accompanying the rest of his face was a burly black beard with streaks of white and gray. The quality of his armament and attire spoke of his past experiences of battle. He looked longingly down into the valley below where he saw the hamlet.

In this early summer season heat, the newly shawn sheep moved randomly amongst verdant fields until a shepherd sent his loyal hound in to round them up. At once they clumped together as a herd, moving in the same direction like a shoal of fish. Amid the wheat, amid those soft golden ears, narrow streams akin to snakes meander there throughout. On the edge of these fertile fields and pastures lay a collection of wooden homes, an eclectic collection of storehouses, and a larger pillar of sun-bleached stone inlaid with ornate design depicting the God Messor laid on the southeast side of the hamlet green. Men and women worked in their shops and toiled in the fields while others walked about committing themselves to their daily tasks not paying any heed to their hilltop observers.

Upon that hill that overlooked this hamlet, the lead rider spoke to most of his mounted compatriots who had joined him on that escarpment. The lead rider spoke, “This is Livarot… it has been some years since I visited here last. It has grown since.”

His horse, a great beast of the blackest of midnights, whinnied as the last of the bestrode riders came forward, one of amongst them being the lord Clement de Clairdie-Lysmer, son of the Duke of Lysmer. His brown eyes spoke of weariness. The journey had been hard on the young man who had never before ventured far from the hearth of his home. The experiences of these past few weeks had changed him. He rode accompanied by a woman six years Clement’s senior who wore the clothes of a man, gray hose, a white linen shirt, and a blue-green gardecorps atop her other wearings. A leather belt wrapped around her waist accentuating her feminine features, and a scabbard lay tied to the belt, blade still nestled within. Her chestnut hair flowed down stopping just below her sharp jawline. She was a truly captivating sight to behold.

It was a bewildering thought that a woman, especially that of low birth, could serve the Duke’s son, however, her skill with a sword and her gift from the Gods gave Emmelot new standing. At a young age, she entered the service of Duke Mathelin who swore Emmelot to his daughter Marguaritte. The two grew up together sharing common interests in the young men of the castle yet as Marguaritte learned the role of homemaker and mother, Emmelot learned how to use her magick and fight. When Marguaritte was wed to Girard de l'Alentoise to strengthen the Duke’s alliances, Emmelot was forced to stay at Oullins-sur-Seudre serving Marguerite’s youngest brother, Clement.

Clement spoke to those gathered on the scarp, some of whom had unmounted to observe the hamlet in its full view, “Sir Gautier,” Clement motioned his gloved hand at the lead rider, “what has caused our standstill?”

Sir Gautier was a boorish man born to a minor noble family on the coastline. He was in his early thirties of age and stood a head taller than most. Sir Gautier enlisted himself for Clement’s campaign not for honor nor a sense of duty but for bloodshed and loot to enrich himself with. Sir Gautier’s shoulders were drawn back and he gave a dour smirk as he responded to Clement, “The hamlet of Livarot, my lord,” he took pause looking at the woman next to Clement, exchanging a small acknowledging nod to her, “Lady Emmelot.”

She spoke to those around her, “Livarot’s lordship is one who is enfeoffed to the Viscount Girard de l'Alentoise.”

Clement responded, “Livarot? Aye, I have heard of it. It is in the possession of Jehan de Lélex. Have the small folk seen us?”

Sir Gautier spoke, “I am unsure, my Lord.”

“It is best if they do not,” chimed in another knight, much older than the others, “I should suggest we press our attack at once or retreat to some seclusion to plan.”

Sir Gautier, “Aye, Sir Perrin is correct my lord Clement. I suggest the latter of the actions. Our men need rest and we need more time to observe and determine the hamlet’s strength.”

“We shall rest for now and press our attack at dusk,” Clement spoke to the group of riders at large. With nods or hushed sounds of agreement, the riders turned back to the column of levy infantry. The different levies wore their lord’s liveries and arms. Some had jackets of yellow and blue for those few of Clement’s men he could rally, some wore a welt of black on a white field with a blue star in the center for Sir Perrin, others lozenged surcoats with yellow and red for Sir Gautier. In short order, the band of men and beasts scurried off of the road into the woods on either side of the road. A cauldron was unburdened from its wagon as others took to unloading their personals into small allotments on the road flanks. Most of the men took to sitting on the barren earth as a few took to moving a nearby festering felled tree carcass to sit upon its decomposing wood providing some comfort to them. Clement sat leaning against an upright tree, eyes closed. An hour or so had passed since the company had taken to the woods and as the young man rested he heard the looming heavy-footed steps of Sir Perrin, his closed eyes opening to greet the knight.

Sir Perrin d'Orbéliard, proclaimed as Sir Perrin ‘le pied léger’ for the actions he took in his youth, had a slender face of leathery skin. His white eyes, akin to that of a fresh frost on a spring morn, had sunken into his skull as bags of skin formed beneath. He was fifty-four seasons of age but he appeared to be much older on his exterior. Sir Perrin hid his balding head beneath a white linen coif and his near knee-length long-sleeve tunic concealed his frail frame. He rubbed his wrist, the pain in his joints being severe. A telltale sign that he had used his god-given gift of humored magick in past battles.

The old knight had joined Clement in earnest, seeing some form of self-redemption in the young man’s crusade against the villain Girard de l'Alentoise. Years ago, Sir Perrin had been slighted by Clement’s grandfather, Colet, as the former Duke rewarded the castle Orbéliard, the castle of his family’s namesake, to the foreigner Sir Wolgang von Ugern during the waning years of the chaos that gripped the region after the succession crisis began those decades ago. Duke Mathelin had scorned the young Sir Perrin as he had surrendered the castle to the Henri ‘le Lion Rouge’ d’Achesie II without any resistance. These decades since, the thought of his perceived cowardice toils in his mind every night he lies to sleep. He sighed as he sat on the leaf-covered soil, “Sir Gautier says the folk here believe their hamlet lay in the footprint of God known as Messor. They say that this is why no tree larger than a shrub grows in the grove and why the ground is good for harvest as Messor’s footfalls carved upon the world havens for man.”

“A naive thought,” retorted Clement.

Sir Perrin looked up at Clement giving the young man a worrisome glance as though he would be struck down by lightning for his blasphemy. The knight chuckled before easing himself and redirecting his focus to the sun's rays beating through the forest canopy. “Aye,” spoke Sir Perrin, “the Sir Gautier spoke the same. He said that the pillar of stone in the hamlet is there to honor the God Messor and as long as it stands, so does Livarot.”

Clement, paying no heed to what the man was saying, stared blankly at the fading sky above the old knight's head. He spoke in a hushed tone, “Sir Perrin, may I speak plainly with you?”

Sir Perrin looked down from his cloud gazing to meet Clement’s eyes. The knight nodded and listened.

“I hath not slain another before. I hath participated in my fair share of duels, myself always victorious, yet, these were but mockeries of actual battle,” Clement said until the knight interrupted him.

Perrin gingerly spoke, “Are you afraid?”

Clement scoffed at the thought but he knew he was afraid for in a few hours he may be lying facedown in some backwater hamlet never to rise again. He could not escape the feeling. As these thoughts tumbled within, Sir Perrin spoke again, “Eights years ago, I was in the Battle of Miletta. I hath joined the imperium’s host to wage war against the Sanjarids to regain some honor for myself in the eyes of my liege lord. Miletta taught me violence. Twas 20,000 of the imperium’s best stock against the Sanjarid horde of 60,000 men and the Padishah’s dragons. I saw dragonfire melt through plate armor and Sanjarid men, bereft of honor, mutilate men for war trophies. Fear kept me alive in the battle. Use yours, my lord, to do the same.”

A silence fell between the two men. Awkward moments passed and as Clement opened his mouth to speak, Sir Perrin spoke first, “If we are speaking plainly, my lord, why is that woman riding with us?”

Offput by his brazenness, Clement bluntly quipped, “Emmelot has defeated more men in single combat than you or I. Although low born, she was given the gift of the Gods and whom are you to question the Gods' judgment or mine? She is a sworn to serve me and we need all the help we can muster to bring Girard to justice.”

Sir Perrin looked sheepishly to the young man and was about to retort but Sir Gautier strode forward deferring the conversation for another time. Gautier knelt to the two’s level letting out a sigh of relief before speaking, “I saw nearly a hundred souls in Livarot. No fortifications are present. Most are settling in for the day and we shant miss the opportunity to take them by surprise. We should attack now.”

Sir Perrin looked at the lord Clement. His lips did not move but his eyes spoke of seeking forgiveness for his words, Clement nodded to him. Clement looked to Sir Gautier, “Aye, to arms.”

Clement rose to his feet and helped Sir Perrin to his before both departing to find their squires. The wood came to life as men brandished their arms and armor steadying themselves for the coming fight. Neither bird song nor conversation between men was present as the sun sank lower toward the graying silhouettes of the woodland trees. Within the hour, the band of levies and men-at-arms gathered on the forest’s edge and then formed ranks, four rows of eleven men. Five horsemen; Emmelot, Sir Perrin, Sir Gautier, Clement, and Sir Perrin’s squire, a young man named Osmont, formed in front of the footmen. With his fellow horseman, Clement secured his hounskull bascinet before unsheathing his sword pointing its tip towards the hamlet. Sir Gautier then called out loudly, “Spare none! Kill them all!”

With full throats, the men attacked. The roar they emitted, akin to that of dragons and of the Gods of old, rang through the bones of every soul present. The echo of galloping hooves of horses adorned in their embroidered splendor rang loud in the ears of those on foot charging forward, grains of loose dirt shifting beneath their feet. Opened summer blossoms were trampled by the horde along with the green carpet of long-bladed grass. No meadow flowers were noticed that day, nor the sound of the nearby babbling brook.

Within Livarot, the sound of the oncoming onslaught stirred within the homes of all. Menfolk hastily armed themselves as mothers and children tried to find someplace to flee or hide. Before the full lot had time to fully assemble, most of the hamlet men stood in a loose formation, three rows of ten or less was all they had until the rest could join them, their eyes trained on the attackers. A few held swords yet most wielded hatchets, mallets, axes, falcon-beaks, and spears. Some uttered prayers to their sovereign divine as they assembled, others wept clenching their arms as the first of the attacking force broke into the front ranks upon their horses. Men and boys alike relinquished whimpering cries of agony as they were crushed beneath the beasts’ hooves. Moments soon after, the first ranks of the lords’ levies collided with the pummeled hamlet men. Garish scarlet flowed over the dust and dirt, all baked under the setting sun. The air was stiff and stale. The smell, by the gods the smell, was an assault on the senses. Swords struck against spears as the hamlet folk desperately tried to withstand their foe. The cacophony of the battle was deafening as men screamed as they were slain.

A boy, no older than fourteen winters of age, wielded his spear into a forward thrust in an attempt to keep his opponent, a man who looked old enough to be the boy’s father in age and wearing the colors of Sir Gautier, at a distance. The boy’s youthful face grimaced as he parried his opponent's every thrust and slash. As his foe went in for another volley of blows, Sir Gautier cantered past bringing to bear his war hammer from upon his mount onto the top of the peasant boy’s head. Blood shot out of his ears as his skull was mangled by the blow. He swiftly fell to the earth never to rise again.

Clement, riding at a gallop upon his white mare, charged his steed through the struggle. A slash of his blade cut a gruesome swathe of torn flesh and muscle across a man’s face who toppled as he clutched where his nose had once been. Clement swung again at another of the defenders, cleaving a teenager’s arm in two as the boy raised it in some deficient defense. As Clement rode through cutting down his neighbors and friends, one hamlet man, a middle-aged man who wore the attire of a butcher, ran forth thrusting his spear upwards into the mare’s windpipe. A high-pitched scream echoed forth from the beast's lungs as it reared itself backward, spear still lodged in its neck, before collapsing flinging Clement from his saddle.

In this haze of blood and gore, Clement stood alone in the whirlwind of the melee, his eyes and body darting back and forth trying to identify friend and foe. His hounskull dulled the senses. A shadow darted across the young man’s periphery. His blade, shining in the setting sun as if it were fashioned from the brilliant rays themselves, lunged in that direction. His sword found its mark. The blade twisted into a woman’s innards, her tender eyes gazed into Clements. She looked like his sister Marguaritte. A fountain of red ushered forth from the wound. Clement withdrew the blade from her gut. Like a calf taking their first steps, the woman stumbled forward and shook to rise and fall until she fell for her last. She began to drag herself towards the boy that Sir Gautier had slain, calling with all the resolve she had left to his corpse, “Robin… Robin get up,” her calls grew quieter, “my son… please get up, get u-,” her head slowly fell to rest on the dirt. Clement peered down at his sword, its glimmer and shine replaced with glazed blood that coated a majority of its length.

The young man stood there unmoving, numb to the chaos around him. A force of flesh tackled him from the rear, it was the butcher. The butcher began beating down on Clement's armored torso with a right fist as he attempted to find some gap or crevice between the plates to squeeze his knife between as Clement tried to counter his opponent’s blows. Clement felt the butcher’s fury. The butcher gripped Clement’s hounskull, extending his arm and exposing his flank. Clement punched the man in his side with his gauntlet and flung him off, grabbing his own knife from his waist belt. Like two jungle cats of the foreign lands to the south, the two men circled each other locked in some intricate dance of blades. The butcher attacked first, jabbing at Clement who quickly grabbed the butcher’s wrist holding the knife. Now in control, Clement buried his knife deep into the butcher’s chest. Pink foam and blood gurgled forth from the wound as the butcher staggered back and fell, the knife’s hilt still sticking out of his dying body. Clement picked up his blade from close by and ominously gaited closer to the fallen man. The butcher’s haggard breaths exuded puffs of steam into the black of night interrupted by specks of blood. Clement came to stand above the butcher, raised his blade above his head, and brought it down. Splitting in two under the young man’s sword, the butcher’s head hewed open leaving behind pieces of bone, brain, and a fissure of blood. A hand gripped his shoulder and he pivoted to meet this stranger with his sword. As he turned and before he could bring his blade to bear, the voice of the stranger broke through the thunderous sounds of battle, “My lord! It is I, Emmelot!”

He lowered his blade. Staring through his hounskull’s eye slits, the woman in front of him was hardly recognizable, her bloodied and dirtied plate armor and hounskull concealing her beauty. As he recollected himself, he began to notice that the battle had mostly been over and the dark of night had come. He lifted his visor and looked over a graveyard of the unburied. Mutilated bodies lay strewn about as levies moved amongst the dead and soon to be dispatching those still drawing breath. Clement’s nostrils fill with the smell of blood and there is a lurching in his stomach but he saves face. He dejectedly looked upon the dead with remorse as he noticed friends and allies amongst the bloodied corpses.

A primal scream reverberates in the background, pulling the attention of the two. With the hamlet’s resistance mostly dealt with, the attacking host had taken to the sinister act of butchering and pillaging the rest of those standing. Both Emmelot and Clement turned to behold the terror.

Night had fallen with the blue haze of day lifting to reveal a cloudy night that let through but a river of starlit sky. Torches were lit and carried by the ransacking force of barbarous men. Cruelty was visited upon all as a man-at-arms of Sir Perrin yanked a crying babe from its mother's arms with a levy of Clement’s slashing open the woman's guts, a gaping cavity of exposed organs being left in the dagger’s wake. Nearby, an elderly man lay dead at the threshold of his home, bloody spit drooled from his slack jaws with his glazed-over eyes speaking of untold pain. The wheat mill burned, ghastly shrieks emitted from within as those trapped inside burned alive. Emmelot and Clement stood by complicit in the brutality being visited upon the hamlet. Was this justice?, Clement thought as the smell of burning flesh crept into his bleeding nostrils.

The Minotaur Sturs

Zlatáran Early Harvest

Maksmillian could feel the tension in the grand hall as he and the other lords and ladies of the realm sat and chatted amongst themselves, the tables were lined with boar,venison and such luxurious foods for the guests. Even still the prince knew in his heart this was just to soften them for what his father wanted, war with the Gavarians and the Volonskyaians, undoubtedly bloody affair that while it could see the prince himself ruling multiples realms seemed such a waste life when far greater foes and issues lay upon the horizons like specters in the dark.

The chatter was halted suddenly as the doors to the hall swung open revealing the host of the night, Maksmillians father, the Minotaur King Zikmund, a monster of a man built closer to his namesake than a man, standing twice as wide and three as tall he lumbered towards the throne his piercing dark eyes glaring at all in attendance.

He sat on his throne which could barely hold him as he clapped his hands together. “Lords and Ladies of the realm it brings me joy to see you all once more, I hope you have enjoyed the array of festivities I have made available.” He said in his deep gruff voice. “But now it is time for the true reason I brought you all together, King Vladsky is dead, and without a true son to take the throne what will his people do but fall under the Gavarian heel, this we cannot allow. My wife holds claim to those lands and by right so do I!” He said clenching the sides of the throne with his hands.

“My lord, if I may be so bold.” Said an older man with auburn hair, the prince recognized him as Vaněk the Duke of Sarcag. “I’ve been no stranger to war having marched alongside your sons in the battles against the Dragons of the east, be it truly wise to march on the Gavars? What have we to gain?”

Zikmund stood slowly moving to tower over the duke who didn’t flinch, staring at the behemoth of a man with an unshaking gaze.

“For to long have we sat idle and let the southern welps surpass us once more, I will not be so foolish as to not see the world now as it is.” He looked amongst the crowd. “The gods are dead, their imperium sat divided and mandate empty, why not we the chosen warriors of the bull and the hammer or the many faced one! Why bow to a rotten throne looked over by the weak!.” The King said, shaking his fist. “Now is the time for us to rise and leave our chains in the ashes of the old order, and when the ashes of volonskya and gavarian armies lay before us every man here will be granted lands from each!”

The king reached for a large tankard filled with ale, putting it up in the air. “We march not only for my wife but for our future!.”

There were cheers from the more zealous and wart hungry nobles, Maksmillian looked to the duke who only sat disheartened, he remembered that the duke had lost many of his sons in the eastern battles now they would march once more to war.

The King leaned towards the duke whispering something in the mans ear which made him go pale returning to his seat amongst the revelry. Maksmillian stepped forward, bowing to his father who looked less than enthused to see his son.

“I see you are doing well boy.” Zikmund said his voice cold and disapproving.

“Likewise father.” The prince said his golden eyes meeting his fathers black ones. “I hope that speech does not mean ill will towards Tasagne.”

“Your love for them is foolish boy, they see you and me as savages. We have every right to finish their departure from this world. They and their empire should have died with the gods, but for now they will remain unharmed. I seek the north and then the head of that dragon and its rider in the east.”

The prince got chills at those words, he could feel the rage in his fathers voice, but he kept his gaze giving a nod before turning to socialize with the rest amongst the gathering

“War, perhaps when I may finally be rid of such things when I take the throne… one could only hope.”

"Echoes of the Foire de la Moisson"

The sun hung low in the northern skies of Brelogne, casting elongated, burnished shadows across the undulating fields. It was Late Harvest, and the landscape was draped in fiery hues of amber, russet, and ochre, a mosaic of autumn's final splendor. This season, revered and cherished, marked a time of toil rewarded and earth's bounty gathered before the encroaching specter of winter swept across the duchy with icy resolve.

For the Aveline family, humble folk rooted to the soil of Brelogne, this season embodied both labor and festivity. Marten, the family patriarch, was a sturdy man with hands toughened by years of tilling and reaping, his frame reminiscent of the ancient oaks that lined their modest farm. His wife, Lisette, was sharp of wit and bright of laugh, a woman whose spirit was as resilient as the stones of their cottage. Together, they had reared three children: Emile, the eldest at fifteen, who was nearly as tall as his father and hungry for the world beyond their valley; Annette, aged twelve, with quick hands and a gentle heart; and the youngest, Tomas, a restless boy of seven whose imagination carried him on adventures to lands far beyond the farm.

Their dwelling—a small, sturdy house atop a gentle rise—was built of stone and thatched with straw. The scent of Lisette’s cooking curled through the cool morning air, mingling with the earthy aromas of freshly fallen leaves and dampened soil. Today was the day of the Foire de la Moisson in the nearby town of Amblecourt, a long-awaited celebration for which the family had labored tirelessly. There, amid the cobbled streets and bustling squares, they would trade, revel, and immerse themselves in a rare day of merriment among neighbors and strangers alike.

After a hearty breakfast of porridge laced with cinnamon and the last of the season’s apples, Marten spoke to his children, his voice a warm rumble. “Today is a gift hard-earned,” he began, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes. “We’ll trade a few barrels of cider, but once our duty is done, the day is yours to wander as you wish.”

Emile and Annette exchanged eager glances, and even Tomas, often prone to grumbling at the mention of chores, was alight with excitement. Visions of sweets, games, and the raucous throng of townsfolk quickened their steps as they helped load the cart with barrels of cider, jars of pickled vegetables, and flasks of honey that Lisette had carefully prepared throughout the season.

The path to Amblecourt wound through ancient oaks and maples, their branches adorned with the year’s final, dazzling show. The family’s wagon creaked beneath its load, each turn of the wheel a steady beat in rhythm with the distant songs of autumn birds. When at last the rooftops of Amblecourt appeared over the crest of a hill, the children leaned forward in anticipation, captivated by the distant din of revelry and the flutter of pennants in the breeze.

The Foire de la Moisson was alive with a cacophony of sounds, smells, and colors. Stalls lined the square, each laden with wares—silks from distant lands, dried herbs bound in delicate bundles, spiced meats roasted on open flames. A minstrel played a lively tune on a lute, his fingers nimble as sparrows on the strings, while children darted through the crowd, shrieking with laughter as they played their games.

Marten set to work arranging his barrels beside those of Old Beric, an affable neighbor whose stall brimmed with salted meats and cheeses. The two men exchanged nods, a silent pact of mutual respect and familiarity.

“Another bountiful year, eh, Marten?” Beric remarked, scratching his grizzled chin.

“Indeed, Beric,” Marten replied, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Though I expect your cheeses will go quicker than my cider, as always.”

Meanwhile, Lisette guided Annette and Tomas through the throng, pausing to marvel at stalls laden with crafts and wares. Emile, brimming with the boldness of his age, drifted away, drawn to a gathering of youths who were watching a wrestling match. He leaned in, his eyes wide, captivated by the sheer strength of the competitors and dreaming, perhaps, of one day proving his own might.

Annette was entranced by a potter’s stall, where intricately painted vases stood in delicate rows, each piece adorned with scenes of Brelogne’s sweeping landscapes and noble tales. She watched the potter’s skilled hands as they molded the clay with precision and care, her fingers itching to try her own hand at such a craft.

Tomas, however, had been drawn to a small puppet theater. The puppeteer’s deft fingers brought to life a tale of a gallant knight who braved dragon fire to save a princess. Tomas stood enraptured, his small hands gripping the edge of the puppet stage as he watched the knight’s bravery unfold, each movement filling his young heart with dreams of valor and adventure.

After a time, Lisette treated each of the children to a honeyed tart from a nearby baker’s stall. The sweetness of the apples, mingling with the flaky crust and the warmth of cinnamon, felt like pure indulgence—a rarity that each savored in silence, their lips sticky and their smiles wide.

As dusk approached, the family gathered near a bonfire, its flames casting a warm, golden light over the crowd. An elder storyteller took the stage, her voice as rich and textured as ancient parchment as she wove a tale of Brelogne’s forebears, heroes who had carved their legacies from the land itself. Her words rolled like thunder, painting images of battles won and kinship forged, her audience enthralled by the histories that bound them all together.

The sky darkened, and a chill crept into the air. The Aveline family began to prepare for their return, their hearts full from a day of laughter, wonder, and connection. As they packed up their cart, Old Beric ambled over with a small wheel of cheese wrapped in cloth, a gift for their journey home.

“For the road,” he said with a nod, his eyes twinkling. “Think of it as a reward for the best cider in Brelogne.”

The journey back was quiet, the children lulled by the day’s excitement. Annette clutched a painted vase she had traded for, her fingers tracing its delicate designs in the dim light. Emile lay back, eyes closed, dreaming of the wrestling match, while Tomas dozed beside his mother, his fingers still curled around a small wooden sword gifted by the puppet master.

Upon returning to their hilltop home, the family settled in by the hearth, sharing their tales of the day’s wonders. Emile regaled them with tales of strength and valor, Annette proudly displayed her new vase, and Tomas waved his wooden sword, declaring he would be a knight who would one day save all of Brelogne.

Marten and Lisette sat back, listening to their children, the flickering fire casting shadows that danced upon the walls. In this moment, life felt complete. Late Harvest, with its gifts of both labor and leisure, had once again reminded them of all they had to be grateful for.

And as the final embers glowed, they knew that the memory of this day—of the Foire de la Moisson, the laughter, the love—would sustain them through the long winter to come, a light within that would never dim.

Coronation P.1

Pt.1

It had not been long since the Diet had convened at Heilinburg. During that historic session, Hildebrand had been forced to abdicate, and an election was called the very same day. Reinhard emerged victorious over Maximillian, securing his place as the new emperor. Following his ascent, and under Hildebrand’s guidance to ease him into his role, Reinhard set to work earnestly. His focus was on mending the fractured trust between the crown and its subjects, all while preparing for the time of his coronation.

A significant new law, a rework of the imperial succession system, was introduced with the approval of most of the Diet. While it was heralded as a move to enhance the stability of the empire, it drew considerable ire from Maximillian and his faction. The law barred outsiders from claiming the throne or participating in imperial elections. Furthermore, it stipulated that should a reigning monarch choose to abdicate, the crown would automatically pass to the first in line of succession, rather than triggering an election.

But finally the time had come for Reinhard’s coronation. For those past months, he had been pondering whether to uphold tradition by journeying to Sankt Sigfrid and holding the ceremony in the grand Sigfridssaal, or to break with custom and host it in Lillienheim, as it was easier for him and more efficient. Though Reinhard was never one for outdated traditions, he knew that deviating from them might provoke the more conservative nobles. In the end, he chose to continue the tradition and proceed to Sankt-Sigfrid.

Settling into his new study, he began drafting letters to spread the word among the nobles and other dignitaries. The study had been mostly emptied, with Hildebrand having taken most of his belongings back to his mother’s estate, leaving behind only books and a few minor items, “Maybe I should put my weapons collection here.” Reinhard mused. Time passed as he worked, nearly completing the final letter, pausing only to wait for the wax sticks he would use to seal them. There were none left so he had to send for someone to buy a few.

Suddenly, there were three knocks at the study door, “Is that you, Mihnea?” Reinhard called out.

“It is I, Your Majesty. I have the wax sticks—may I come in?” replied a muffled voice from the other side of the door.

“Yes, yes, of course, come in.” The door opened, and in stepped Mihnea, the grandson of the former Statthalter, Dragos, whom he had replaced just two months earlier. A young Ledenian from Kowasna, Mihnea was still in his early twenties and had struggled at first to adjust to his new role, though he had since settled in well, “Danke, Mihnea.” Reinhard thanked him, taking a candle to melt the wax onto each letter. He pressed his seal, adorned with his family’s sigil, into the warm wax, carefully sealing each letter, “Beautiful.” he muttered to himself.

“Have you already planned your route, your majesty?” Mihnea asked, curiously.

“Yes.” Reinhard replied, meeting Mihnea’s gaze, “I plan to follow the Dämmer all the way down to Sankt Sigfrid, with only a few short stops along the way—Lindau, Eskstadt, and possibly Eulesgarten, if I decide to take the forest path rather than continuing along the river. There's a small, thirty-minute trek to an opening there, where Eulesgarten lies, but I think the people would appreciate a visit from their emperor. It’s not every day the people of the Reich get to see their ruler in person.” He paused, considering the journey ahead.

“Quite. I believe they would appreciate it.” Mihnea replied, “I heard they've had a poor harvest this year, and, to make matters worse, suffered a bandit raid, shortly after.”

Eulesgarten was just one of many villages in the central regions of the empire that had endured a poor harvest. A combination of adverse weather in some areas and pest infestations in others had left many communities struggling. However, thanks to its proximity to Lillienheim, news of Eulesgarten’s plight had reached the capital more quickly than that of other villages.

“That’s terrible!” Reinhard exclaimed, “Why hasn’t Warmund reported this to me yet? It’s his job. Gods give me strength—I’m going to need a stern talk with him about his duty. Perhaps Burgolt would have been the better choice, when I was picking someone for the position.” he sighed, frustrated, "Now I can’t help but wonder how many others are having issues without my knowing.” Turning back to Mihnea, he added, “I want three carriages stocked with gold, supplies, and some weapons, added to my entourage. It’s the least I can do for them.”

“That’s very generous of you, Your Majesty.” Mihnea said, a broad smile spreading across his face.

“No subject of mine, once I know of their hardship, will endure it alone. It is my duty as emperor.” Reinhard declared firmly. The lessons from Hildebrand had left a lasting impression on Reinhard, teaching him that a good ruler is one who genuinely cares for the well-being of their subjects, however, unlike Hildebrand, he also learned where that relationship stopped, “But enough of that—here are the letters. Give them to the couriers and instruct them to deliver each one with haste.”

“It shall be done. Anything else?” Mihnea asked.

“Not for now… No, wait—actually, do me a favour and ask Thiemo, the avener, to prepare my white stallion, Winter, for the trip. Please and thank you.” Reinhard paused for a moment, lost in thought, before speaking again, “That will be all. If I need anything else, I’ll call for you. Now, I must speak with Captain Berengar, so I’ll be in the courtyard, may anyone be looking for me. You may go now." Standing up from his chair, with a wave of his hand he dismissed him.

Mihnea bowed respectfully and left the study room without uttering a word.

Pt.2

In the castle courtyard, Captain Berengar was training a group of Imperial Guard recruits, known as the Wolfsgarde. This elite unit, created by Emperor Gunther II, was a permanent force dedicated to safeguarding the emperor and his properties. Comprised mainly of Ledenians—renowned for their skill in defending the frontier lands with success—the Wolfsgarde was revered within the empire for its rigorous selection and training.

Impoverished Ledenians would often send their eldest sons to Lillienheim, where the recruits endured a demanding training regime. Only those who met the unit’s strict standards could join the ranks, gaining the privileges reserved for a Vindari and a substantial salary—enough to support their families back home and afford a few personal indulgences. As a result, most Ledenians with sons in the Wolfsgarde enjoyed a significantly improved standard of living.

The clash of steel echoed through the courtyard as Reinhard observed Captain Berengar shouting at what appeared to be two young boys, no older than fifteen. He was attempting to teach them how to defend themselves with a bardiche, though with limited success. Nearby, older members of the Wolfsgarde were reviewing their own drills with swords and shields, some chuckling as they watched the boys’ struggle, likely remembering their own awkward first attempts.

Captain Berengar of the Wolfsgarde was the son of a Ledenian mother and a Vindaric father. When he was just a baby, his family moved to the town of Dünserberg, the seat of the Margrave of Hohenmark, and later, in his youth, his father enrolled him in the Wolfsgarde—a decision Berengar deeply resented. He moved to Lillienheim to begin training, but his defiant attitude and dreams of a different path quickly put him at odds with his superiors. Often disobeying orders and refusing basic tasks, he was nearly expelled multiple times. Though Berengar wouldn’t have minded leaving, the thought of facing his father’s disappointment kept him from walking away.

One night, in conversation with a fellow recruit, Berengar was reminded of the incredible opportunity before them—to complete the training and finally lift their families out of financial hardship. He spent the next few days reflecting on those words, feeling torn. He knew his family struggled, and the pay as a member of the Imperial Guard was unmatched by anything else he could pursue. Yet his own desire for a different life was hard to shake. Eventually, reason won out, and Berengar recognized that this was a rare, once-in-a-lifetime chance, one not afforded to everyone.

From that moment on, Berengar’s attitude shifted. Determined to make up for past mistakes, he threw himself into his training and worked to mend his strained relationships with his superiors. Over time, his relentless dedication and willpower allowed him to surpass his peers, surprising everyone around him. By graduation, he was celebrated as one of the finest recruits, swiftly earning a position as one of Emperor Ulrich’s personal guards. By thirty-two, he had risen to commander, and at forty, upon the previous captain’s retirement, he was appointed Captain of the Guard.

Reinhard admired Berengar immensely—a man who had risen from nothing to become one of the most respected figures in the empire. Even as emperor, Reinhard felt the same respect for him that he’d held long before his own ascension to the throne. He often thought back to a memorable day when he’d had the chance to train with Berengar, considering him the finest teacher he’d ever had.

Noticing Reinhard’s approach, Berengar commanded everyone to halt their training and offered a respectful half-bow, “Your Majesty, gods be with you.” He greeted warmly, the rest following suit.

“And with you as well, Berengar. How is the training progressing? I can see you giving them a hard time.” Reinhard inquired, while chuckling to himself.

Berengar groaned. “The new recruits are a bit stubborn, but with time, they’ll learn—they just need a little more motivation. As for the others, we're just reviewing the basics, making sure they’re one hundred percent prepared for anything that might come their way.” he replied, casting a watchful eye over the men.

“Good, but be sure to give them a break now and then.” Reinhard said, once more chuckling to himself, “I don’t want the men to fall asleep halfway through their shift.”

“Of course, Your Majesty. So, what brings you here today? I assume you’re not just here to gawk at the troops training.” Berengar replied with a smirk, “Though you could certainly use some yourself. Word has it you made a few blunders while training with your cousin. It’d be a shame if one of my finest students embarrassed himself in a duel.”

Reinhard looked away, slightly embarrassed, “I admit, it was a rather shameful oversight on my part. But I’d be honoured to test my mettle against you again so you can help me correct my mistakes.” Clearing his throat, he continued, “But that’s not the main reason I’m here. It’s about the journey to Sankt Sigfrid for my coronation. I want you to join my retinue and accompany me.”

“It would be an honour, my lord; whenever you require my help, you need only ask.” Berengar exclaimed, his voice resolute, “The day I graduated, I swore an oath—to protect the emperor, whoever he might be, until my dying breath. And I have no intention of breaking it.”

As tradition dictated, every member of the Wolfsgarde, upon completing their rigorous training and graduating, was required to swear an oath to the emperor. This pledge bound them to protect the emperor with their lives above all else, followed by safeguarding his properties and, lastly, the empire itself. Their purpose was not that of a common regiment but of a dedicated personal guard, loyal to the sovereign alone.

“Thank you, Berengar. Your loyalty is deeply appreciated in these trying times.” Reinhard said gratefully. “I’ll need you to prepare two companies to accompany us—one on foot and the other mounted. I’m also planning to have Captain Cuno join us with another two companies. I’ll instruct him to recruit some men or hire mercenaries as needed. The rest of our forces will come from whatever the other nobles provide.”

“Your Majesty, I mean no disrespect or insubordination,” Berengar began carefully, “but don’t you think that’s too many soldiers? We aren’t raising a war party, and Sankt Sigfrid isn’t far. The road there is one of the safest in the empire.”

“I understand your concern, but let me explain my reasoning,” Reinhard replied. “First, I’m well aware that many nobles won’t send the required number of troops. Instead, they’ll likely send money as compensation, leaving us short on manpower. Second, I plan to make a stop at Eulesgarten. I have a supply train to deliver there, and I intend to temporarily station some troops to assist the village. There’s also a band of bandits I want dealt with. And finally, it’s my coronation—a grand and pompous entry feels only fitting for the occasion.”

"Fair enough," Berengar conceded with a nod. "Will there be any persons of importance accompanying us?"

“Until I receive any replies, I can’t say for certain.” Reinhard admitted, “But I do know Herr Heinrich von Hals and Frau Osanna von Hals will definitely be accompanying us. The knights Fridl and Karsten—I’ll ensure they’re there as well. Freiherr Ludwig is also on the list. And…” Reinhard hesitated briefly, “I know you might not like it, but the High Priest will almost certainly insist on joining us, the council is over and he’s going to need an escort back to Sankt Sigfrid.”

“I was hoping he wouldn’t.” Berengar grumbled, crossing his arms, “He’s going to start preaching about Frey’s love, Aiwaz’s wisdom, a balanced spirit, and all that nonsense, hmph.” He let out a resigned sigh before adding, "But your word is law, Your Majesty. If he must come, then I’ll endure it.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he doesn’t.” Reinhard assured him with a wry smile, “I have no desire to hear it either. Believe me, I understand your pain all too well. Archpriest Jost is always questioning why I haven’t been attending church or his sermons as often, every time we cross paths. It’s exhausting.”

“Thank you.” Berengar said, bowing respectfully in gratitude.

“Well then, Berengar, I fear I must leave you, as I have others to speak with.” Reinhard said, “I’ll return in about three days, give or take. Have the soldiers assembled in the courtyard by then—I want to inspect them personally. I’ll ensure someone informs you when I’ve finalised the timing.”

“Very well, Your Majesty. Take care, and may the gods be with you.” Berengar replied, bowing deeply once more.

“The same to you.” Reinhard replied, bidding his farewell with a motion of his hand. He turned and made his way toward the stables to ready his horse. The day was still young, and there were many others he needed to speak with and numerous preparations to finalise before his departure.

Tales of La Superba- Chapter I
"The Sunderlands"
Late Harvest, 944

Summer had given way to autumn, and the trees' leaf-shedding had only further highlighted Sirenze's decrepitude. The outer districts of the city were stripped of their foliage, unmasking the half-collapsed buildings and weeds that had grown in the streets. Grand Doge Alessio's efforts to restore Sirenze to its former glory had been concentrated primarily on the city's waterfront, clearing away the wrecks of sunken warships, reopening shipyards decommissioned by the civil war and raising the Sirenzian coastal defences.

Presently, about four dozen colossal ballistae lined the walls guarding the entrance to the Bay of Amira, loaded with dense metal quarrels designed to punch through a ship's decks into the sea below, opening it up from top to bottom.

The Grand Doge walked leisurely along a great stone causeway, overlooking a massive pen, wide and deep enough to comfortably accommodate the entirety of Sirenze's war-fleet at its peak. Di Fontana leaned over and peered at the murky green waters.

"And you're sure?" he said, looking at the massive iron portcullis blocking off the entrance to the pen. Beyond that was the ocean. "It's escaped?"

The person he was addressing, a grizzled one-armed beast of a woman, was the Beastmaster for the Veprimtars in the days before the civil war. Her name was Corisenda de Alidosi.

Corisenda nodded. "It escaped," she said, pointing to a section of the enclosure where the underwater stone wall had been cracked open. "Sometime during the civil war, when we were too busy fighting off the insurrectionists, it blew open the wall and made it into open waters."

"And there's no point hunting it down," Di Fontana concluded. "It's been years... who knows where that infernal thing's got off to."

"It's probably still in the waters around Sirenze," Corisenda said, tossing a wicker basket filled with fish into the water. "We've been trying to trap it using all sorts of methods, but it's simply too elusive. We know it comes back every once in a while," she gestured to a pile of empty cages. "Because the food we leave out is always eaten. Some of the night guards have seen it slipping back in in the dead of night."

"Blasted kraken," Di Fontana grumbled. He proceeded further into the Kraken's enclosure, noting a rack on the wall inside the Beastmaster's quarters. "What was stored there?"

"The Horn of the Leviathan," Corisenda replied, squinting at the rack. "The Veprimtars to call the Kraken out at sea. I came back to my office after the battle for the city had died down and it was gone."

"But to where?"

"I don't know. A friend at the port told me he had seen it being loaded on a merchant ship heading north..." The weary beastmaster shrugged. "It could be as far north as the Roughlands now."

"Hm," Di Fontana said, slowly. "I remember hearing from the Council of War that they'd lost it in the Sunderlands. One of my ministers thought it'd been lost at sea along with the Veprimtar flagship."

"Could be the case," Corisenda said. "Either way, all the papers pointing to the horn's transport logs were burned to stop the rebels from getting their hands on them. So consider it permanently lost, Grand Doge."

"Fah." Di Fontana sighed. "The Kraken was never that important of an asset anyway. I'll just have more ships built to compensate for its absence."

-

Western Serensea

"Faster!" Captain Dragos shouted, as their galley sliced through the water towards a fleeing merchant ship. "Catch them, before the Sirenzian navy arrives!" Beneath his feet, a hundred of his men frantically pushed and pulled on their oars, as the chopping of paddles grew faster. A handful of his archers stood at the bow, and fired arrows at the retreating merchant schooner.

They were hunting a better prize than usual today. Their quarry was one of Sirenze's modern cargo ships, the sort built after the war, with a sharp prow that lended them more speed than most of their maritime counterparts, and as such, they were struggling to catch up.

But what they, the crew of the Black Revenant, did know, was that such modern merchant galleys were normally tasked with carrying the more important cargoes. Weapons. Gold. Spices. Perhaps even a noble to ransom. His corsairs held mattocks and swords, prepared to board the ship at a moment's notice.

They now passed through a series of islands, worth comparatively little, but still claimed by the authorities of Sirenze as their own territory. The merchant ship disappeared behind one of the islands, and Dragos howled at his men to keep rowing.

That was when their ship shuddered and slowed to a sickening crawl, oars caught by the unseen obstacle snapping like tinder. Shouts came from below as some men were thrown out of their benches by the force of the sudden stop.

"What on earth is going on?" Dragos rushed over to the railing, where the water below was bubbling. "Have we run aground?"

His helmsman looked bemused, then shook his head. "There aren't any sandbars in this area. The water's well over a thousand feet deep, captain."

"Then what?" Dragos turned back. "What stopped us?

He didn't have to ask for long, because the water then turned a deep black, as clouds of ink billowed to the surface. A gargantuan tentacle, as wide as a man was tall and bejewelled with colossal suckers, rose from the depths. A myriad of smaller tendrils curled their way up the sides of the galley, finding oar-holes to snake into.

The boatswain's face blanched; Dragos vaguely remembered the man having been through some sort of squid attack at sea. The boatswain sprinted over to the ship's bell, and began ringing it.

"Kraken!" He shouted, grabbing a sword. "Kraken!"

Almost immediately the battle began. The ship rocked wildly as another set of tentacles shook it from below; several corsairs standing at its edge were thrown off into the water below, and immediately dragged down by an unseen force. The smaller tentacles forced their way through oar-holes, holding the ship in place, as tentacle after tentacle grabbed men off the deck and severed rigging with careless swipes.

Dragos batted a tentacle away with an axe as his quartermaster shouted for calm.
"Get the jars of pitch!" he screamed over the chaos. "Shoot it with flaming arrows!"

The Black Revenant's structure began to give way as the tentacles in its sides forced their way deeper into the bowels of the ship. The crew tried desperately to repel the tentacles but often found that their weapons had little to no effect on the creature. And worse, their blades stuck to the monster's suction pads, and those holding on to their swords were ripped off the ship.

The ship quivered again, her deckboards straining. Finally, she snapped in half amidships with a mighty stroke of the Kraken's tentacles, sending bodies and debris flying into the air. Captain Dragos was flung up high, and landed in the water below as the Kraken's tentacles dragged the two halves of the ship under. He paddled for the nearby island, ignoring the shouts and screams of his crew- by now, the merchant ship they had been chasing was probably gone for good.

He hauled himself onto the stony shore, limbs screaming with pain, and collapsed there, fading into unconsciousness.

Several hours later, what started as the gentlest touch against his neck morphed into a sharp stinging sensation. Captain Dragos' eyes fluttered open to see two Sirenzian soldiers levelling their spears at his neck.

"We have a live one here," one of them called. Another pair came hurrying over, dragging a body. "Clap him in chains," one instructed. "Take him back to Sirenze."

Before he could react, the two men hauled Dragos by the feet to a nearby rowboat, where they locked his ankles together with cuffs, then did the same to his hands. They then placed a bag over his head, and transported the feverish captain off to a waiting warship.

-

Warcamp Thirteen, the Sunderlands

The stifling heat had turned to stifling humidity instead, with the coming of late-Harvest rains. The barren hills of the Sunderlands were suddenly alive with flowers and small bushes in the wake of near-daily rainstorms. A small slice of paradise, surrounded by the sand dunes of the Golden Sea.

But that paradise was tainted. Scorch marks scarred the beautiful hills, left by the clashes between Amarish nomads and Sirenzian troops; jagged stretches of charred topsoil streaked across the countryside where the Sirenzians had lit a fire to escape after a particularly disastrous battle.

Ephian hummed to himself as he forcefully scrubbed wooden plates and tin bowls dry, plunging a rag into the greasy water. He didn't mind the humidity so much as the heat. Although scrubbing dishes felt almost humiliating. He pitied himself, until he reminded himself that several others routinely stooped to similar lows- Isabelle, and Santino, for example.

The boy stooping beside him putting away the pots and pans stood.
"I'm going away for a while," he said.

"To where?" Ephian said, raising an eyebrow.

"To pray," said the boy, looking morose. "For the protection of my friend's soul in the afterlife. He died of his injuries today."

Oh, so ridiculous. To pray to Peregrinus for protection, then to pray to Peregrinus for safe passage to the afterlife.
Ephian wondered if the rest of these common riff-raff had the same delusions.
Oh, no! His prayer for protection was ignored! Time for me to pray for his protection in the afterlife! He was surprised these people had even survived up until now.

He continued to scrub the dishes, suppressing a mocking laugh as he did. Finally, when he was sure no one was looking, he turned back to the plates, and focused a great deal of willpower on scrubbing the dishes dry. An unending group of knights cantered past, having returned from a sortie. They barely paid him any attention as they rushed back to their tents. Another two hours of scrubbing passed, and Ephian was allowed to sneak some leftovers- fried onions and preserved fish on stale bread- from the kitchens before he then ran to and from the medical tent, carrying supplies and notes for the doctors and the officers for the next hour.

It had been two months since he had arrived in the Sunderlands, with only ten months of his tenure left. It didn't seem that he'd survive. Of the two hundred students sent there, fifty had died already, whether that be in battle, of their injuries, or heatstroke.

A quarter of them, gone, and less than a sixth of their enlistment had passed. At this rate, all of them were going to fall in battle before their time would come.

As the Sirenzians suffered more and more losses, the momentum of their offensive stalled; the southwards tearing of the Free Republic's armies across the Sunderlands had been faltering. More seasoned troops from the Republic's other campaigns had been brought in; whispers abounded of the arrival of the Knives of Sarella, a band of elite mercenaries drawn from Sirenze's many companies, organized into a single division. Killers without mercy, the figurative knife by which Alessio di Fontana overpowered and mauled the nation's enemies with.

But as far as Ephian knew, he had never seen a single of these so-called Knives. What he knew was that it was up to him, and only him, to ensure his own survival. He certainly wouldn't hinge his fortunes on those idiotic soldiers with who he had to fight alongside, or the bumbling officers that led their squads to the slaughter. The remaining College students were drilled and trained mercilessly, in accordance with some general's wish that their fighting force be more regimented. He marched, shot his crossbow, and sparred until his hands were blistered, and fell into bed every night sore and bruised.

For weeks they trained and rarely saw battle; it was only the knights and heavy infantry that left the camp to confront Amarish raiders. Until, one day, they woke up to find the camp abuzz with activity.

"Up, up!" Someone was shouting, running past their tents blowing a horn. "Now! Get up! We're marching out!"
Ephian stuck his head out of the tent. The warcamp was already awake, and its denizens moved for the gates, heading off to battle.

When Ephian had donned his armour and retrieved his crossbow, he joined the rest of the army. The College students lagged behind, so he took up marching formation in a company of spearmen.

The objective of their march soon became clear; a tall, flat plateau. They had arrived late; a large army of Amars, a force dwarfing what they had seen so far, waited for them across the plateau.

This time they had no chance to form up unharassed; they scrambled into an outward-bulging crescent under withering arrow fire from the Amarish, shields raised to the sky. Soon the Sirenzians returned that favour, unleashing a volley of crossbow fire. Ephian grimaced as he scrambled under the cover of his pavise, ducking a rain of arrows while an officer screamed at him to move to the front of the line.

As far as their drills and training went, they were utterly... useless. The students of the College forgot what to do, and ran left and right for cover in the face of a storm of arrows.
Horns blew, and the Amarish force surged across the hill. Most of them seemed to have been waiting behind cover, because the force that poured out from the slopes of the plateau numbered probably in the tens of thousands. The entire rock-speckled plain seemed to swarm with dark, cloth-wrapped nomads, their curved swords and barbed polearms shining radiantly in the harsh morning light.

The Sirenzians moved forward to meet them. Ephian ran onward, almost tripping over loose rocks and depressions in the plain. But almost immediately it was apparent that the Sirenzians were losing this engagement. What started as an orderly battle devolved into disorganized, jumbled, skirmishes, each between two dozen or three dozen fighters from each side.

Out of formation and still groggy, the Sirenzians slowly but surely lost ground. All Ephian could do was swat away the occasional attacker. He moved back towards what he presumed to be friendly lines, catching an Amar with a quarrel in the neck.

The dust raised by the frantic struggle limited their vision to ten paces in front of them. All he could see of the fighting beyond his immediate vicinity were the flashes of blades and semi-obscured blurs of movement. The Sirenzian army began to buckle rapidly. The divisions at the rear saw the odds pitted against them and withdrew, followed shortly by their flanks, then their cavalry.

Ephian was left behind; he saw the Sirenzians begin to pull back, the stragglers picked off by arrows and javelins. Those around him made a break for it, the slowest among them being caught and ran through.

A soldier beside him slammed his knife into the chest of an Amar, only to be tackled and skewered by two more with spears. Another group a dozen strong did well at first picking off stray nomads that targeted them, but were soon overrun and pinned to the ground and sliced to ribbons.

The Amar had learned their lesson, and at this engagement they had no battlemages present. Not that it would have made much of a difference, as the Sirenzian army was on the run. Ephian shot another nomad with an arrow to the knee, and turned to run, only to find his way blocked by a small group of the Amars. He turned to run another direction, but the soldiers holding that avenue of escape fell, overwhelmed. Everywhere around him, the Sirenzians ran off.

Now that the bulk of the army was gone, the Amars' objective turned from killing to capture. They forced lone survivors to their knees, binding them with rope and hauling them off. Ephian backed away, but didn't see the nomads creeping up behind him.
One swung the shaft of their spear into his head. Ephian stumbled forward and fell to his knees, his vision swimming. The nomad hit him again, knocking him out. They tied his wrists together with coarse, sinewy rope and dragged the Veprimtar away onto a waiting camel.

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