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"Lost Continent: Flight From Muurdaan" (BeckonCall's FNB!)

“Fire and Mithril shine invisible”:


@Prince Vaethorion


Sereg’Wethrin – The Highborn spymaster had walked to the cliffs to watch the High Elf ship leave the port. Nothing seemed amiss. Signals checked. But he sensed it’s movement, even well inland, after triple checking the confines and bonds of the witch they captured… Yes… nothing amiss with the ship… but all around him he sensed movement.


Clumsy Humans playing at stealth…. Good for humans, perhaps even passable for an unblooded elf – but no excuse to catch him off guard. He read their eyes in the dark, their peace-tied weapons, the way they moved. They played at trying to impress him. It was impressive enough they knew who the Highborn Spymaster was, likewise to be able to find his location in the dark, and alone… but he turned the game on them… he hid in their own shadows as they slowly closed their net… Eventually stopping their creeping…


“Was he ever here at all?” one finally broke the silence.


“We had to try. Highs are always Tricksie… And this one’s the Tricksiest…”


“But we’ve outsnooped fancier folk than us dozens of times… if he’s not looking at us right now, knowing we ain’t come for harm… we’ll catch him again. Maeder ain’t coming back unless it’s on the back of the Goddess herself. If I’d known we’d been exiled to friggin’ ATTOLIA I would have opted to board a ship bound for the sun back at port Cestus.”


…”And now Housemen. We all agree if those things are walking around, it’s worse than this is not our home – nobody is safe.”


Sereg’Wethrin had heart enough of their chatter… as enlightening as it was – Outlanders were like ghosts… so quick to tell all their secrets if you knew how to listen. He contemplated how many he might be able to pull down with a bola before un-eclipsing himself from the shadows of the men to be backlit by the moonlight of the cliff – where the humans squinted for light after darkness, by his design.


“So fifteen hares seek to corner a wolf, friends?”


Sereg continued. I know each of you, and I know why you’re here. In fact I’ve anticipated this move for some time, though I kept it to myself… I am pleased you see past what makes us so different to what we have in common – neither of us will bow to the Muurdaan, and neither of us have. The Housemen is indeed a development… thank you for sharing that… That is something I must discuss with my superiors, just… as you have taken the information to me.”


The men leered. Sereg smiled in a disarming way… but if they could see his eyes they betrayed tremendous danger.


“The elves shall help you craft your temple, and it seems you are already on the way to labor and funding it. My people have our own relationships with dragons. You will be impressed with the life we can bring to an effigy of your Dracos since some of us have lived to see a dragon up close… Make your temple and man it, but I think I know why you tried to impress me with your grass-crawling…


…You shall be my agents, Countrymen of Dracos.”


“…perhaps in a generation or two we shall call your issue “friends” – but Elven friendship takes time to steep… You’d feel the same if you’d met as many humans as I have, Flame-faiths. However, we see your value, and allies shall be enough for now. The Highborn know how to treat their allies. Make sure your temple is risen where we plan to be the ‘nice’ part of town… There we can watch each other’s backs, and I am confident we will be able to stand each other’s living conditions as well.”


He continued.


“Neither of us have come all this way to lick boots of black-iron despotism. You may not be able to stop the Muurdaan from showing themselves – but you will learn that the Highborn have a talent for making sure they come from directions, and with terms, that we expect.”


“Allies then” said Haakon, 2nd and now leader of the countrymen. “We’re throwing our dice in with you. Let Baez blow around with the rest of the tumbleweed. I’m sure there are things elves want done that they’d rather not see done with the hands of elves – and we’ve taken an eye to how you don’t waste the blood of your own assets if such can be avoided. If you guard our lives like an elf, you will see the value in having your life guarded by men from the Outlands…


And so it was – The countrymen officially cast their lot with the highborn… (+15 Dracos Countrymen – worth 4 manpower each)
 
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@Elendithas :


Go-quet had lost track of how long he'd been down here. When the blood stopped coming down from above, He was as content with the water at his heels as he was with what dripped from above. He'd slept here several times during his work... usually after endlessly bashing away at the walls that obscured his focus of study. Part to relief and part to disappointment, it seemed the runes were identical on opposite sides of this seeming crypt entrance... great because he was coming closer to completing his work, and defects on one side were seldom the same on both sides. Less appealing because he had gleaned so much from such a huge example of ancient draconic writing. He had learned much. His knowledge of the diversified "Draconic" language had been improved via purity of examples of study. He had learned too the language of the Dracon themselves, a separate sub-race degenerate or descendent of the dragonnewts of legend... and had even learned what he expected was basic syntax of the dragonnewts themselves. A part of him wondered if he should smash the edifices once he was done with them, so that these secrets would be his alone… but even compared to all of the above, there were two things (besides the tomb itself) that piqued his avaricious heart.


There was a Cypher hidden in these carvings… and he had basically remained here until he thought he had a working command of it. Not only did he figure he could now open the tomb itself, but manipulate other sites or artifacts of dracon legacy should he find them in this new world. Doors built to deny all but those long gone creatures themselves might be open to them if he could find them… and there were references here to where Dracon sites were built over or around in the ruinous city, mostly far to the west. The Cypher of the Dragonewts seemed to have several layers, he suspected more than ten – but Go-quet imagined that if he could find more sites pieces that eluded him would fall together faster and faster.


The “Salt Caves” were not far from here… and that was a good thing. His racket and splashing around attracted enough would-be predators that he needn’t leave his work to eat. “How nice, some abhorrent tentacular bug…” He thought to himself. This one was tougher than the last – but after fifteen minutes his attention was more central to continuing his work than ripping the last vestiges of its life away from it. Tasteless… except for the fishman corpse in its stomach. He stepped to the side of one of the few holes that he’d either broken in the floor from falling masonry or widened through his stomping and fighting his convenient prey and noted since he’d made a few of these holes he’d had to get more careful – the current had sped up from this development, because water was being pulled into the sewer, or perhaps the crypt itself, below.


Absent-mindedly crushing shell and sinuous tentacles in his mouth, he heard a slight ringing in his audial pit – the crude hole that hid what passed for a humanoid ear. He narrowed his Tympanic slats to the same end as a human might tilt their ears to hear a distant noise… and that’s when he heard it. A tinny voice – not a voice at all – but a vibration travelling through the air that was vibrating the bones of his simple inner ears. It spoke Draconic, it seemed, if you could speak it without a mouth. It was within his capacity to understand.


“Lizardman – seemingly no concern for neighbors around you – and why should you? Pile of neighbors been feeding you since you got here. I am Grav Rocbuilt. I am Zebani. You seem least one-directed and savage of your species… so I interrupt your defacing of our ancestral lands to see how you might be dealt with. If you understand Draconic Rune, then you understand numbers. We have more Lizard man – These sewers are relatively empty, but that was not always so. You may not care to wonder why, but you should. You seem content to make trouble below just as others disturb peace above. Prepare to talk, or bring the fight to us – all of you. Soon enough nothing on the surface will be safe, and that has nothing to do with Zebani. Though with that in mind you’d be the poorer for these watery halls to become too dangerous for you as well…”


And with that, the noise subsided. He knew not where the words came from, but wondered if he spoke if this disembodied and monotone yet aloof tinnitus could hear him back.


It was almost half-forgotten to him as soon as the voice subsided, but he made an effort to retain it’s happening. He was far more engrossed with the idea that the Crypt of the Crimson Bat, the “Chiropteran Behemoth” could be opened by him now – he need only spread his claws and press the appropriate sequence….


Summary: Go-Quet gains considerable linguistic knowledge of reptilian races historically of the continent, and an understanding of the ancient Dracon Code-Cypher they used to interact with their constructions. The vault of the crimson bat can now be opened if he cares to.


Aymarans contacted by the Zebani. Do the Aymarans care?
 
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@Prince Vaethorion:


“Of White sails and Wine-Dark Seas…”


Almost as soon as the Highborn and ratkin hit their friendly shore safely, the elven crew, small as it was thought not to tarry with half-drowned refugees or strange new arrivals. The moment it became clear the Exile welcoming committee had the arrival received well at hand and the collective barbarians would not be at each other’s throats – they sought to search the area once occupied by the island – to search for survivors, and perhaps find Flotsam of physical worth or intelligence…


It didn’t take long to see that the ships were gone. The sloop was cast to one side in the blast wave that precipitated the “Island” sinking, and while most attention was devoted to not capsizing as well, The Linguist and sailors aboard were confident the damaged and un-manned craft was unlikely to right itself. The Shipwreck of the I.O.C. was far from sea-worthy at first glance, so it was no surprise to see there was little more than shattered planks spreading from the vicinity of where it once lay.


The displacement caused by the island’s sinking seemed to leave very little behind Drawn to the abyss, little remained even to keen elven eye and an ample moonlight. At the center of where the Island once was floated a cloudy patch of sandy water, bubbling, spinning, with myriad whorls playing in the silt at the surface. Some palm leaves rode like boats atop this strange liquid beach…


The archers remained on highest alert despite the eerie night calm. If Undead or Scaled ones were a threat, it did not present itself. It seemed all the remained of any perceivable value were clusters of tropical melons that bobbed with the current amid the silt. It was not much, but The Linguist ordered that some be netted and pulled aboard. Variety of diet, succulent fruit no less – was something inviting to the highborn and it seemed sad to leave what might be the last seed or issue of that sunken place to be dashed on the rocks. Circling above it, a ring of tropical birds seemed lost and confused in the sky above the shrinking stain of sands… those birds that took flight in time were apparently in shock at the sudden vanishing of their apparent homes. The elven mast nearly brushing the formation, nearly three score of these “birds of paradise” immediately began to roost in the rigging… no two seeming alike, many with feathers so ostentatious or with such fripperies it might marvel a common soul that they could fly at all. What, if anything, would be done with them the highborn might decide once they were clear of this scene…


Still cautious, they did not move their ship through the silt-surface itself, but moved around it, carefully – as they saw it slowly shrink. Deep below there must still be disturbed currents pulling these smallest bits of matter too below the water, and before long, there would be nothing left to indicate the “paradise island” was ever there at all… That was when one of the Highborn detected the corner of some wooden object spinning in a slowly decaying orbit towards this “drain” – and the boat-hooks were fetched for it. It’s slavery to the current disturbed, it quickly righted itself – a large coffer of light wood, buoyant seemingly for it being largely empty.


Fetching it out, an archer on watch quickly rubbed away a layer of silt and sludge to reveal a great brass I.O.C. Emblem atop the lid. When opened, a full third of the chest was full of brackish water – but the light from the ship reflected in the bottom of the basin. Poured to its side, what remained were a few handful of small cut precious and semi-precious stones… the equivalent of +1 Wealth Point. The box was not even locked, the highborn noted – a fitting final testament to the fate of the Vaunted Imperial Oriental Company. They came, they brought ruin, and left naught but a flashy waste in their wake…


Highborn gain 3 units of Tropical Melons


Highborn gain 1 Wealth point.


Highborn gain a modest rookery of birds of paradise… but if the highborn have a use for them, or even if they can survive outside of their native habitat remains to be seen…
 
@Elendithas :


Goq-quet stood silently after the presumably Zebani speaker finished, running his claws against the place along the vault where the cypher would be used. He were so intrigued by what he could find inside of the vault that he almost didn't care to reply to the thing. Drawing his claws away from the stone, Goq-quet begun to speak, still staring at the vault as he begun. "Zebani. You would threaten my people when we have done you no wrong? Of course you would. You haven't truly met us yet, have you? Only watched. Watched as our people tore the servants of a horned god to pieces. Watched as we have claimed a piece of your past territory as our own. Watched as I discovered the secrets of those who have long since passed. Tell me, Zebani. Why pass judgment when you have yet to speak with one of us? You could easily have approached any of The Chosen and stated your peace. Is it so that you have already declared us as your enemy?" Goq-quet said with a slightly disgusted tone to his voice. As much as he loathed it, Goq-quet turned from the vault, searching the nearby area for any signs of life. "Show yourself, and let us speak rather than threaten.". This course of action were one that he quite heavily disliked, though not one he were unfamiliar with. Diplomacy had its place in Aymaran society, however rare it were.


With Go-Quet's words, he soon felt a slight rumble beneath and to the side of him. Next to one of his haplessly made drain holes, something akin to a crystal battering ram, reminiscent somewhat to a large, crystalline maul with it's end tapering in several facets -- smashed through the floor, widening the gap so that the rest of this ram-become arm planted itself on the floor go-quet stood. More water sped to the hole as a second articulated crystal ram came up on the opposite side and the hole was punched a bit larger when they both exerted a force on the ground sufficient to pull a larger, central chunk of crystal. Once what could be supposed was a torso broke through the flying rock and water, two stump-like crystal legs floated through the hole in front (or behind?) the thing... It's symmetry and lack of an apparent head made it difficult to guess. The torso floated unsteadily above its would-be amethyst legs, and go-quet noticed now that while close, the "arms" did not seem to be attached either - hovering where sockets should be. Then, the entire purplish-reddish crystal thing swung sloppily, recklessly almost, to a standing position nearly as tall as the aymaran himself (though go-quet was well known to be short for an aymaran.) finally a pair of pyramidal geoforms and a single octahedron rose from the pit and coalesced into something akin to a beakey head with pointed ear or horn-like protrusions. Finding its place hovering over the torso gemstone, the aymaran could see a pair of glowing eyes inside the stone head that formed atop this clearly magical rock-thing. Now with head, it stood slightly taller than go-quet... And the vibrations on the bones of his inner ear commenced again, seeming almost softly in comparison to that crashing and pouring noises of its arrival...


"Yes. Zebani have watched. We watch strength recognize strength. We see how many words lizard men have for diplomacy with your enemies on the surface. Your leader had one word, was it one word I can easily guess, or was it not even a word at all? We watched you gruesomely smash the pathetic slaves of a malign pretender, Watched as you befoul territory no Zebani would care to claim but have been humble custodians of for ages... And I imagine, sooner or later will still be maintaining long after you are dead..."


(It seems to survey the ruined floor and walls, as if one might dread a mess one might be obligated to clean)


"...and yes, we have watched as you and all of your sundry walking shit-containers on the surface have trifled with NUMEROUS powers best left alone, in every single place you can find them... Undoing in months what took the Gravbuilt centuries to accomplish..."


The thing makes rumbling and grinding noises as its parts continue to float and rub against each other above its firmly rooted stumps... Before continuing.


"If Zebani had either judged you or declared you enemy, you would not have to seek its clarification with a question, Reptile."


The ringing in go-quet's ears abruptly stops. It's yellow-lit eyes pulse slightly, and it's posture shifts as if to invite a response...
 
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"Hands of Silver, Hands of Green, Hands as red as few have seen"


CASUALTY REPORT: (1st battle of mud-elf aggression)


Bonuses to healing:


Anfel(+1) Doc(+1) Opium (+1) Cleric (+1) Tyren & elf medics (conditional)


Highborn:


Archers: 4 –1 treated and released, 3 Hospitalized with short recovery then released.


Spearmen: – 2 dead, 5 prolonged hospitalizations, Several treated and released.


The Highborn would not let their kin go easily, but with the full suite of the colony's helpers, it was still not possible to save them all. The crush of the received charge and the concentrated missile receipt (which was in desperate retort to the highborns far more lethal volleys) had taken a toll. Ru'Vaen -- she never woke after a head injury brought her low, her final act to set her shield so that somebody might take her place on the line. Castien'Sullaesulv, his death was a surprise. He sustained wounds enough in the fight, but nothing that any thought would fell him. When the Highborn continued their pursuit of the Bulwark Regiment, he flagged his comrades forward -- he was tired, he'd check in with the medics. Before he crested the hill behind which triage was being conducted... Castien exploded. It rained hideous green maggots all over the vicinity, but the attentiveness of Highborn Medics, and the instinct and movement-based vision of Anuc and Weome -- all injured troops infected with the parasites were treated -- by the cold hand of Amandil, or the Burning hand of Vaal'istar...


It was later found that many highborn suffered severe eye irritation from the rust bombs, but it was treated handily without consequence.


Swordmaster Elites: None of consequence after treatment. Merry indeed were the faces of the elite until they returned from the massacre at the river to learn of their own fallen...


Aymaran:


Brutes: 7 withdrawn**, 2 dead where they fell, 1 died in sewer from untreated injuries. (10 remain unfazed)


1 was laid out unconscious by Caelis in his retreat, one had it’s face broken when it bit Caelis nearly crushing the Noble’s Torso -- the Blood Fountain's "Backlash" Magic seemed swift and brutal. Otherwise all other injuries were simply sustained by being on the front line of a full direct assault. As expected, most would recover -- but Tocxhol would do well to utilize the healing of other factions before sending grievously wounded without treatment.


Lurkers: None to report.


Scarred: 1 awakens unfazed after concussion (struck in head by collision from witch). 1 requires short recovery then released, After throwing Caelis, Backlash magic wracked the back and ribs of the titanic scarred. But they are not called Scarred in boast. Neither in a matter of hours felt any different than usual... Numbness and Pain were as normal as Night and Day to the Scarred... which is to say, neither were any reason for a care.


Cunnings: 4 wounded badly enough to seek colonial medical attention then released, and 1 prolonged hospitalization. The Cunning were utterly unable to speak about the nature of their injuries or communicate in anything besides gestures, which frankly would lead the league in the championships for all-time poorest players of charades. Their wounds spoke for them, as well as Anuc was able to develop a mutual gesture that meant "I need healing" -- Which is for Cunnings to pantomime biting on their own arm. The gesture "I have wounds" would spread among the cunnings.


DEVELOPMENT: A few Cunnings feel greatly conflicted when something as delicious-looking as a Female Tyren shows them nothing but compassion. Some of them might even remember feeling that way hours later... Impact on larger Aymaran culture is not expected, However.


Characters: Quetanka (brief hospitalization) – Mobile, but a lesser creature would be in traction. (has an injury) It was expected the spellbreaking would hurt... and It did. "Wot?!*", The spellbreaker was reported to say, when it left critical care to eat three whole sheep at the Inn... Saucing it with flesh excised from his own mana-burn, taken with him from the hospital in a Jar. Ravenous as he is, Quetanka cannot be pulled from his meal even after the Inn closes -- The proprietor however does not fear anyone coming in to pilfer anything with an Aymaran basically mopping the floor with a day's order of livestock...


*(It is well known by now the Quetanka does NOT speak common, but as a mage, and before that as a cunning, he has learned that making this noise in response to other races handily functions doubly as a threat, and an indicator that you either fail to understand, or care, about what speakers of common are saying... if you say it loud enough, you either end up in a fight or people leave you alone, he finds.)


Attolians:


Halbardiers: ZERO casualties. Majority of gear compromised by rust-bombs – it is assumed all are well, but only 5 are effectively equipped.


Sundered Kings: Nothing of Note.


Characters: Caelis sustains TWO injuries in the fight, One from a surprise attack by an Aymaran Brute, another from aggregated concussive damage from falling from his horse and being thrown across the battlefield. With Opium he remains in the Saddle to ride to Harun’Taran, but it is the collective skills of the colony in total that prove him fit to stand after the fight. (TWO injuries sustained) – Though battered, Caelis is neither visibly marred or infirm – despite the overall severity of his injuries -- these wounds need not be RP'ed.


Exiles: 19 dead, mostly from missile fire and Witch-Lightning at the start of their retreat. Exiles Acknowledge leadership of Attolians minimized casualties… +Relations, quickly dashed by association with Muurdaan House-Men, however. 35 Exiles injured, but all refuse hospitalization in the face of Tyren coin and collective healing resources. In weeks to come, Convicts with Crutches or slings can still be seem working doggedly as colony labor -- Convict enthusiasm for and after the application of Opium leads to VAST downplaying of injuries. Between the narcotics and spoils... merry nights are had to follow. NOTE: Overall Convict Enthusiasm for Drugs could strongly sway their loyalty.


MORE ON HOSPITALIZATIONS/INJURY:


* Prolonged Hospitalizations are troops that will survive, but will be unavailable for work for two months, or next season, whichever is shorter. Troops can be taken out of hospitalization, bus should be done so only in emergency. If you attempt to field an injured worker/troop – it will either return to duty, or die based on a dicerolls.


**withdrawn Brutes are unlikely to die, but when young many brutes have a tendency to eat their weak or injured, fall back on these instincts. Prolonged defensiveness during these conditions is typical, treat as prolonged injuries,


NOTE: Troops treated and released may still be tracked for injuries – repeated injuries will have predictable results. Injuries to characters and high-value troops may fade at the end of a season or 2 months of game-time, whichever is shorter.
 
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(Aymaran and Zebani Diplomacy, Continued...)


@Elendithas :


While Goq-quet couldn't quite say he had expected this, he wasn't entirely surprised by it either. The smaller races of the world had a thing for recruiting or creating their own larger beings for tasks requiring physical force. He couldn't quite determine which the Gravbuilt as it referred to itself happened to be however. Odder things have come about by their own, though the same could be said about creations. Nevertheless, Goq-quet knew once this sentient crystal came through the floor that were hostilities to break out, the Aymaran would have a tougher time than originally thought.


"And what is it you have done? Put souls so poorly to rest that a single spell from these slaves would rouse thousands of them? Maintained the still-crumbling ruins of an old sewage system? Had the Aymaran arrived sooner each of the undead would be put to rest eternally, as would the slaves of the Horned One, and these sewers would be made whole again. Is it truly your will that such important tasks be just barely accomplished, or is it that of the imps? Upon your speaking to me, I had thought the imps may have finally displayed some sort of courage. Something an Aymaran could respect. Then it became obvious they sent big brother to resolve potential disputes for them." Goq-quet were displeased overall that the Zebani hadn't spoken with him themself, as was clear by the tone of voice and words he chose to use. The Gravbuilt, however, were respectable as far as he were concerned. They themselves seemed to have the capacity to fight well enough, as could be gathered by the size of them and the way this one so plainly threw threats and insults around.


Goq-quet turned back to the vault relatively slowly. "Go home, Gravbuilt, and tell the imps that if they wish to speak with me that they should do it themselves. Nothing will come from sending their slaves, or is it the other way around? It matters not; send the imps, lest all your work be further trampled." he said, once again tracing the cypher to the vault with his claws. His interest in the vault were more than enough to have made him forget everything that happened between the Gravbuilt speaking to him and now, but he would not forget. Tocxhol would want to know everything, and he would.


But before the Aymaran could continue his fascinations with the vault the Tinnitus ring of the Zebani came to the bones of his inner ear once again:


"You Fascinate me Reptile, at how consistently wrong the apparently smartest among you are. About everything. In the ways that you do not function as a slimy ball of filth and a blind hypocrite, you at least seem to appear a scholar. So I will try to enlighten you... since you have referred to our devotion to seemingly lost causes. Do you think we have not simply tried to grind the Longdead into dust already? For Ages? They always return. They always have. Let us excuse for a moment you have erroneously called me Gravbuilt -- I am Grav Rocbuilt! I must excuse this mistake however, for as best as Zebani assess you beasts must reproduce each other... we shall not digress into how foolish you sound asserting that I built myself. Let me tell you what will happen when you begin your glorious purge of that ruin... Every one of you will fight, against an endless throng, until sleep takes you. Then, you braggarts will all die from the ample longdead that remain -- the city is vast. More vast than your ego even, Reptile. First you will win, then you will tire, then you will withdraw, then you must sleep and THEN, on your feet or in your holes, then you will die."


"Zebani do not sleep. I will not indulge you with boasts of how long the The Heetbuilt, The Rocbuilt, and the Gravbuilt you proclaim as 'Imps' and 'Cowards' fought the Longdead before achieving even this level of tranquility. As for tasks just barely accomplished, you can thank the 'imps' for extinguishing your colony's earliest entanglements with the Longdead which perhaps is the only reason my scenario of doom has not already unfolded. The Longdead are bound by powerful containment dreams, and long herded with the bells of their slumber -- bells these 'cowards' as you call them offered to you fools before you brought the Longdead upon you both quickly and finally perhaps before your ponderous species even found this shore."


"If you want to speak to the 'Imps' -- you can talk to the Gravbuilt yourself. We are All Zebani. One race, since the Magebuilt decreed it."


"What both amuses and disgusts me the most is that YOU erroneously infer that it's is Zebani that make slaves of their own children -- when we both know the opposite is true. Is it not the small-willed among YOUR race you treat as animals -- little more than slaves and grist for your bloody mill of war?"


"A Gravbuilt is not talking to you now not because they fear you -- they fear FOR you. You are approached by a Rocbuilt because your strength only recognizes our strength. The Gravbuilt know all too well that your response to them will be contempt of foolishly perceived weakness. Now if you are not too stupid to deduct that even greater Zebani constructed me -- perhaps it is YOU that should root around in that salt and protein based fruit-pit you call a mind and find YOUR fear of US..."
 
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Before Go-Quet can consider a response, suddenly a third voice -- if indeed it can be called that, is heard by the Aymaran... It does not speak in a tinny imitation of draconic language, but is instead a harrowing base-note, like the thrumming of an energy field that at once seems incredibly loud in his head and utterly silent in the air around him... The Amethyst thing looks downcast when he hears it, but seemingly shrugs to acknowledge the finality of it's entry.


[media]



[/media]
This third voice is addressing the Zebani. The note continues thoughout the next of Grav Rocbuilt's remarks... in only moments it is highly unnerving, like the threat that is soon to follow:


"Your time grows short, Reptile. Can you at least give us a convincing reason not to smash your skull on these rocks and attempt to re-initiate relations with another of the species from the surface? If you cannot, merely state an environment typical to where your race would likely leave a scholar's shattered body... for it will never be found where we might leave it."
 
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"That's more like it!" The captain cried as his men started to sweep their weapons in proper time with eachother. Well, his men and his bulls.


Folk had been going on all the time about how settling down had opened up some new ways of living for them but this was the first time the warriors of the caravan had felt it. With no roads to travel and fewer wolves (or different ones at least) to guard against boredom quickly started to settle in for the younger, brasher, minotaurs. Everyone had something new except them, who just got to stand around all day and watch the tree line. They'd almost all come to blows when the chance to go to the city and see some walking skeletons came up.


Now things were getting interesting though. As the chief brought hornless mercenaries back with him and war machines in tow. So Bruul put his hoof down and word was spread. It wasn't just the farmers who'd be practicing with weapons. The old merc was going to drill these young layabouts into a true force to be reckoned with! Or at least teach them not to step on the human standing next to them.


Luckily these hornless fought with large swords and axes just like the Tyren did, so their styles of fighting already had something in common.


["You'll fight as one! Kill as one! By the time I'm done you steers will be proper swordsmen."]


Sounded like a shaman over thinking things again to them. Then again... the warrior wagons (if they could call their groups that anymore) were already getting fancy, what with letting the elves decorate their fur and horns like they had. Learning some new ways of fighting was a much smaller step than that. And it wasn't like they were being given a choice in the matter.


So they learned to form ranks. Ran circles around the glade. Swinging branches and then actual blades together. Those human swords may have been small to a Tyren but they packed a mighty swing. And those mercenaries had some fancy moves after all. With each session the minotaurs were getting better at blocking with the width of their blade or shifting themselves to throw an opponent off balance. Without the daily trials of the road they had time to dedicate themselves to this training. Maybe in time they'd even make a real craft of it as Bruul hoped.


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


All through this some of the elves had been watching. Their jobs around the village were less demanding most days tending vegetables and the carpenters - chair singers as they'd come to be called - preferred to work under the sun and often saw the goings of the glade around them.


"Why is it the black one never does anything?" Ohmbryn asked as he lounged in the spring light sun. "He plods around the others all hard at practice and doesn't even offer to help or join in. I don't think I've ever seen that poleaxe leave his hand and he's never even used it. He is supposed to be the chief, isn't he? I thought chieftains were supposed to lead their tribe into battle?"


Lathelen was only half listening to him as she finished up yet another little distraction she was entertaining herself with. "Why don't you ask them?" She said in her sing-song way under her breath. "Gornrix, are you done for now?" She called over to one of the minotaur warriors who came stomping over and slumped to the ground, panting for breath. It looked like he'd been putting his all into the drills the shaman and the mercenary lieutenant had devised. The bulls didn't seem to know how to do something by half.


She spread out the chain of flowers she'd made with a mischievous smirk. She'd been among those that had started trying to groom and decorate the horns of their Tyren neighbors, something to give a bit of fun and to make the minotaurs look a little less disheveled. The warriors had been the worst of the lot and Gornix here had been her first success. At first he'd tried to swat Lathelen off, his ham of a fist waving around at her as he tried to shake her off like a fly, which he was prone to attracting. There was no force in his actions but the young elf had to be wary of seeing those horns swinging around. Gornix had finally caved when he found out that he actually enjoyed being brushed. The experience was soothing and Lathelen was sure he was happy to have the knots out of his coat. This time wasn't as successful as the bull kept pawing at the flowers she tried to wrap around his horns and snacking on them, earning himself a smack on the nose from the giggling elf before he'd answer the question.


"Chief is touched by blood. Blood touch not allowed to fight for fun." It wasn't exactly what he meant but Learner's Square had helped Gornix's common tongue come a long way.


"So he never trains?" Ohmbryn chimed in.


"Fights with Bruul. Now Bruul fights with us... don't know what Orm does."


"What do you mean, touched by the blood?" Lathelen asked, cocking her head. And the minotaur looked awkward at that, turning to the ground.


"Ask Shul."


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


["Did you hear about what's going on in Platz Town?"] One of the Tyren gossiped over the evening fire.


["If I don't hear any more about what's going on around there it'll be too soon."] Orm grumbled. Dealing with the leaders was one headache after another, let alone all the problems that kept popping up like mushrooms round there. Undead, things in the sewers... and something about sinking an island. How did you even do that? Orm didn't have time to deal with that, he had enough problems worrying about the natives across the river.


Mercenary guards were placed at the bridge guard post and the rope bridge on the cliff. But it was just a bandage over the wound. Even with the ballista watching over them from the defenses on the hill, it didn't seem like enough. Seemed Orm spent most of his time worrying these days.


["They've got metal giants living there now."]


Of course they did.





["And half of them hate it! It's all anyone was talking about last time I was at market. You know those fancy humans were offering out titles or something and now it looks like all the hornless we came over with are set to spit in their face rather than join up."]


And then ideas started brewing in Orm's head. The exiles they came over with were pretty tough right? They seemed ready to fight most of the time he saw them anyway. And they were always happy to take Tyren coin and goods. The thought of it would have sounded mad not so long ago, but they were already living with elves, adding more hornless to the mix didn't seem that shocking anymore.


So the word got sent out. Tyren weren't much for proclamations, they didn't even have scrolls, but they could spread things by word of mouth as good as anyone.


There's room at Hrun'taras! The folk in the hills were looking for strong hands. Plenty of people in the platz were still lacking certainty in their living conditions and didn't care for what was being offered, so why not come to High Ground? There was good shelter and food. Good pay in coin and while it had threats they had to cross open ground and climb the hill to get at you. Plus there weren't swarming undead. All they had to do was promise their loyalty to the caravan, much as the Springborn had, and the caravan would have their back in return.


Plenty of these convicts had been disowned by the masters of their homelands and didn't seem to care for the alternatives. Maybe some really would take the Tyren as an option.

- Sentries are placed with horns at the river and cliff bridges.


- Ballista is set up and manned overlooking the river from the stockade.


- Bruul organises training regime with merc lieutenant for company and Tyren warriors.


- Tyren make their own offer of citizenship to undecided exiles.
 
A Day in the Life of Tomaz and Jav

​



"Oi, Tomaz. I've got a bad feeling about how things have been goin' lately, you know?"


"Shut it Jav. We're on guard duty. No talking."


"But Tomaz, you told me to listen to my senses and they've been tingling ever since those Elite Housemen came."


"Jav, shut it. Also, it's Sergeant now."


"Y- you're just jealous that I kept my stuff safe from that dust. I can actually do my job while you're nothing but a nincy watchman."


"Dear mother of... look, Tomaz. Things are tense around here. You see how all of us soldiers are back and on patrol now? Ever since the battle I don't think anyone really thinks it's safe here. We're just lucky that none of us died so far, and may the gods preserve him, but Lord Caelis was almost taken from us. Now, I know that the others around here are terrified of the Housemen, but they will make sure that nothing will befall the Lord and protect him better than any one of us."


"But, they're just stand there... like statues in Lord Caelis' dwelling. Out of sight from everyone."


"Well, our Lord has offered everyone safety, but last I heard... he's keeping the housemen under covers as much as possible. If they cause too much trouble, then they're being sent off on the next ship back to the homeland."


"Ohh, but what of this feast that Lord Caelis mentioned? Why are we having a feast all of a sudden?"


"Well this mood certainly doesn't do us much good, but it's to honor the victory that we had here and the sacrifices that were made."


"Yea... I'm going to miss that pretty Elf Lady. She always hummed a nice song wherever she went."


"Keep your head on your shoulders, Jav. You're a soldier of the Kingdom of Attolia in serve to Lord Caelis. Besides, you're human!"


"It doesn't change the fact that she was awfully pretty... Sergeant."


"You're bloody hopeless, Jav."


"Oi, I got me a promotion too. Corporal Jav has a nice sound to it. Dun it?"


"Yes, MY bloody Corporal. I thought I could finally get rid of you and you become my assistant. What has this world come to?"


"But... Tomaz, we're battle buddies~! We're supposed to stick together no matter what. That's what they told us in day one of training."


"I shouldn't have spent all that money on ale in two days..."
 
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Deep Healing

​



The rust heart that had purposely made its way to the busy ratkin working to unload their vessel immediately put all of them on edge. As far as anyone knew only two rust hearts had made it off the doomed island alive, so for a third to suddenly appear from the ocean like an armored wraith was disturbing to say the very least. And then the thing just drops a woman's body at their feet and demands that she be healed. The few bucks and does nearby weren't exactly sure what to make of this, but with Nateema so close they managed to keep their nerves in check. Once the rust heart lumbered off to join his kin Nateema moved to check on Hel's state. The bird was teetering on death's threshold, so Nateema ordered some bucks to find a stretcher and carry the woman up to the colony. Some nearby drift wood was sturdy enough for the job, so the bucks grabbed the discarded plank and carefully placed the injured woman upon it. Nateema had heard mention of a healing house somewhere in the colony, and that is where she would lead them. She could heal this woman on her own if she needed to, but it was never wise to discount aid when available. So with three bucks carrying their charge and a few clean paws in tow Nateema headed for the healer's guild to save this woman's life.


After carefully trekking up the sandy slope and asking some confused citizens for directions, the small group of ratkin was soon knocking at the door of the healer's guild. Weome was rightly shocked to suddenly be greeted by walking, talking ratfolk, but when she saw Nateema's gentle eyes and the state of their charge her worries were put to rest as she ushered them all inside. The bucks carefully hoisted Hel onto a spare cot and promptly left the guild, this job was done and their help was needed elsewhere. Nateema and the few clean paws remained and immediately set to work. The clean paws asked for some salves and blankets while Nateema reached into her robes and fished out some special items. The skull she had used before to save the vessels from the island maelstrom was in her left hand, and in her right was a small bundle of herbs wrapped in thin roots. Nateema brought the herb bundle to the nearby fire and lit the center of it, turning it so the flames rose up into the bundle's core. A few wisps of smoke weaved through the bramble and Nateema began to inhale these fumes gently. She held the bundle close to Hel's face, and with each inhale she would exhale into the herbs and force the smoke into Hel's face. A few puffs were needed but after a moment Hel's body reacted and inhaled sharply on instinct. The smoke shot into her nostrils and once it had a shade of color seemed to return to Hel's face for a brief moment. Her breathing became less shallow and Nateema smiled at the reaction. "There's life in this one yet, a spark that won't be snuffed out."


Nateema motioned to the clean paws who in turn began to strip Hel of her armor until she was left in her smallclothes. Weome and a few other healers offered to help but the ratkin's paws proved very nimble for such a task. Once Hel was ready Nateema began to shake the skull rhythmically as she started to chant in soft tones, her pitch lowering and rising like a gentle wave. Her free hand hovered over Hel's head as Nateema's eyes glazed over and she began to look through the woman's form to see the injuries that lied within. Nateema could sense bruised muscles, freezing blood, damaged ribs, but most of all bleeding in Hel's skull. Her thin fingers wavered over Hel's forehead as her chanting began to grow in volume. The undulating tones had an unsettling affect on the other healers in the guild, but to the ratkin it was as natural as breathing. Nateema reached into Hel's essence and urged the bone in her skull to grow ever so slightly, applying pressure in certain areas while releasing it in others. Subtle changes to Hel's head could be seen as the bone reshaped itself, but the gambit worked and Hel's skull would prevent her brain from bleeding any more and risking a stroke. The chanting continued as Nateema slowly brought her hand away from Hel's head and moved down towards her chest. Her fingers hovered over Hel's sternum as she urged the bones to relax and release pressure from the lungs. Slowly Hel's breathing began to deepen, and soon she was breathing as a woman suffering from extreme cold should.


With this done the chanting began to slow and after a final cadence Nateema stopped her singing and exhaled deeply. She looked at Hel with her own eyes once again and smiled, knowing that she would make a full recovery over time. The clean paws began to tend to her more mundane injuries now, setting bones and applying salves to cuts before wrapping Hel in a woolen blanket. Weome helped them for a while but once it was clear Helysoune was stable she looked to Nateema in awe. The lady Tyren had noticed a slight bulging in Hel's skull and was worried there was internal bleeding, an injury all too common of Tyren during mating seasons. She was worried the woman might not make it, but when Nateema began to chant as she had Weome was amazed at the results. Their own shamans could work small miracles with similar methods, but none could command bone to react as Nateema had. So Weome, despite her reservations, sat down next to the old doe and found herself asking, "How you heal her?"


Nateema craned her neck and smiled at the large female and simply said, "We sing to the bones, and the bones dance."




Developments

​



- Helysoune has been stabilized from her previous injuries. It will take time for her to fully recover, but for now she is alive and healing as well as can be hoped for.


@Beckoncall @SpiralErrant
 
@KamiKahzy @Prince Vaethorion @SpiralErran @Heyitsjiwon


Sidenote @Elendithas : Trading might be something to get into (even just as security), but Aymarans might not swing that way...


"To Market, To Market, to turn a fat stack -- sales to the skeletons, klackety-klack"


__________


To call it a caravan was almost silly, really -- sure, almost everything not nailed down at market had been piles onto wagons, carts, and wheel-stalls (many of which were provided through loan of goodwill by the Tyren, as nearly everything they were used to moving had to have at least one wheel upon it -- other factions quickly piled goods where they could and rigged axle and wheel best they could. The Exiles, having been a part of moving almost every pound of freight off the beach to this date were no less handy either -- and for small wages of coin happily carried and loaded, though considerably fewer, at any price, could be enticed into the ruin itself... But to call it a Caravan? Shaman Shul laughed, when it was learned the destination for trade was less than a mile away -- approximately 15 blocks into the ruins where one of the Attolian riders and footmen with more courage than once might guess they had sense found "The Agora" -- a semi-covered market in it's day, a tomb for the unburied today, and likely tomorrow... maybe forever. A caravan of 15 blocks gave the entire endeavor a little additional veneer of tension -- like the danger of a full expedition would be compounded in the trip of hours at most.


All told, A small but worthy number of skilled merchants and unskilled tradesmen of Tyren, Highborn, Attolian, and even Ratkin affiliation set off past the Attolian Watch-Tower which served as the official boundary between the 'Platz and the boundary the colony at least for now expected these "Longdeads" to respect.


At the head of the column, was Sir Gaston De Bors -- Particularly in part because he was the only one certain where the column was going. One of Caelis’ Sundered Kings, he was seated on his mount with his head level to the Tyren that flanked him. Tyren warriors -- perhaps others would take note of Sir Bors stinking of wine, but the Tyren nose was slow to offend… unlike other aspects of the warriors might be, at least.


Behind them walked Shul, hastily shoved into his hands was the silver bell gifted to the Attolian watchmen by the mysterious “imps” -- The guards had heard and recognized his status as a Shaman, and wanted somebody close to the front to have the bell to protect Sir Bors and the column that might actually know how to use it.


At the side of the column, middle way, towered orm over the caravan, the rider, practically everything around him. The sun shone down on him and he stretched to full height to meet its glare. The bright above was in strong contrast to the cloudy ruin ahead… just a hundred meters ahead of them large groups of skeletons had already begun to mill about at their approach. Flanking the traders were highborn, doing their seemingly tireless double-duty as soldiers and merchants both. Not only noted by him was the fact that these highelves were always armed despite serving in other capacities. Was it that they trusted no one? That they were too few not to guard and be guarded alike? To a Tyren, seeing the Highborn just made everything they already thought to be about elves seem even more confusing. Elves of wood, Elves of Silver… the only thing that seemed consistent was a kind of obsession with inscrutable “elfness” -- Orm felt his nostrils flaring and his tail swatted at his shoulder as if to wake him from confusion, from the stress of “thinks” that only seemed to go round and round without resolution. He learned before the end of his youth that to ponder fruitlessly was one of the surest ways to feel the blood-touch. Better to count the wagons. Count the people. The smell of darkleaf wafted unburned from the carts, and burned some from the attolian merchants he was counting. Pride in the craft of his people invaded a moment and his tail whipped again. Count the people. Feel the weight of the weapon on your back… march.


At the rear of the column walked the high elf cleric, his direct bodyguards, and a skittering handful of ratkin. They seemed to teem all about the caravan, even in and under wagons… but as a whole, they tarried to the rear… the highborn began to notice they were always communicating, even when not talking… endless gestures they’d make, that the elves could see, if not understand, if they cared to focus. Such subtle communication. A highborn might admire it were it not so off putting it was to notice their endless chatter as not to notice it and know it there. Foul little things.


The caravan crested the hill. Rider, A few Attolian guard, A few Tyren warriors with their leader and shaman in tow, a stirring mischief of ratkin and two lines of Highborn wearing hats of warriors and the hands of merchants. At the center, whatever civilians of the races that cared not to see the outside of the caravan… it passed the high watchtower, climbed the slope into the deeper ruin… and soon enough slowly turned its wheels down the streets of what seemed to be the lonliest road of all…


(The mood of the longdead seems to be in an calm but forboding timbre -- The bard Lindar of the Highborn, aided interestingly enough by the Attolian singer, Phaedra, versed the atmosphere thusly, more or less in song:)


[media]



[/media]
The dust of the road seemed to rise around the caravan creating it’s own clouds to match with those that seemed to hang above the ruins… wherever the light was not brightest -- beside a fragment of wall, or ruin’s window, or down the odd staircase and all along the roadway -- the Longdead seemed to gather and watch the traders as they moved. Four blocks in the Colonials could see that groups of skeletons had closed the road behind them with their numbers… following the carts, small fires dancing in the eyes of some as the gestured to the wares. The Longdead seemed VERY excited, but at least peaceable… nothing the longdead could do would not make the colonists nervous however… they were dealing with the dead, were they not? Confused half-dreaming dead, at that.


As they continued their move to the Agora, bits of conversation from the Longdead citizens were overheard by the Caravan… clearly, what they saw was something much different.


“Oh! A Centaur Leads them! Their dying to a one in the war was clearly overstatement… the Pa’ani are so grave… we shall win this war yet… right?” “RIGHT??”


“Such Costumes the Pa’ani wear -- like nothing we’ve seen, I wonder if these are the new styles of conquered or pact-ed people? And the Pan! Where are they!?” (At the sight of a ratkin) “The pan are there… they are the littlest, the furriest ones!” (a skeleton cocks it’s head at the humans) “Some seem too tall and shaven for pan, do they not? Damn the clouds… for all the lighting you’d’ think we could see this parade better from here.”


“We’re in front, aren’t we father, why cannot we see well?” “We’re not on the street, are we? We’re still in the basement… Oh Look! A Centaur leads them!”


After 10 blocks the skeletons could be seen more for who or what they once were. Tattered viels, rotted gowns, rusted armors, and pitted leathers. Belts that held no pants, holding scabbards that bore no blades. The lead frame of a fancy hat tipped in greeting, the hat that once existed long gone amiss. These were a people, a civilization… countless people… trapped between life and death. Far up the road, well beyond the turn into the agora -- and barely seen through the dust and ever falling and rising clouds… was another group of undead. Numbering in the hundreds, they stood on a high ground ruin overlooking the mainstreets spreading around. They wore full armors, intact clothery, weapons, and a full glow in their eyes to match the most enchanted fleeting moments of most of these longdeads, but steady. They watched.


This close to their destination at the Agora, the skeleton of “General Sheal LONGDEAD” swooped forward with the ruined bones of what must have been in their lives wealthy merchants and nobles of the city.


“So glad you have accepted our invitation, Allies of Pa’aani! And all of you! Centaur, Pan and Minotaur! We needn’t discuss what this must mean for the wars in the east, do we? DO WE? OH GODS, WHAT HAPPENED HERE?! WHAT HAPPENED IN THE EAST!? WHAT HAPPENED TO US!?!?”


A long, lungless sigh seems to follow and calm her, her colleagues pulling closer as if to strengthen the lies of their vision with their proximity…


“Pay no mind to those folk up there upon the hill -- that group has been acting strangely since that strange noise and disturbance you folks had that bit ago -- clearly meaning the night of the battle in the ‘Platz. Pay them no mind. We don’t… please, all are so welcome -- yes, the next right. Into the Agora...


Where previously the Attolians had seen the shell of the market littered with the dead, instead it almost looked like a market day was being had. Skeletons and even hunger ghosts (who stayed far from the roads during the caravan’s approach) milled in a dark comedy of charming shopping… endless rows of bare rugs-gone-rags scattered with debris or no goods at all, delapidated stands, and shattered marketfaces, some held up only by the skeletons themselves. Beyond the outer area was the covered portion of the agora, where clearly a great space was cleared for the caravan to use to sell their wares.


… And sell they did. The longdead’s appetite for goods… not to mention their desire for the colony’s food, seemed to know no bounds. Sometimes wordlessly, sometimes with the polite dementia of the insane, the confused, and the lost. They paid with coin, or pulled off rings and other finery they must have died in, or have been buried with, or both. The skeleton of a maiden pulls from her bald head a weave of gold-thread hair, an embarassed skeleton of what must have been a portly man searching pockets that no longer exist before divesting himself of rings and necklaces for a small purchase of bull iron plates and fish. Nearly every customer almost charming and at once heart-crushingly sad. Talk of meals and the confusion of when they last had dinner… Wool Blankets were so popular… but nobody would say why, or quickly forget when they tried to… so thankful for the blankets. Gracious. Grateful. The coins and jewelry raked in -- and each merchant saw the “market day” with different emotion. Some were blinded by wild greed, some felt the guilt of the grave-robber, still others almost overcome with emotion at fulfilling needs so dire with such simple wares. The food especially. Especially the food.


Every crumb of food brought with the caravan was purchased by the Longdead and more to the point their hunger ghosts. The offered price to value was so high, Attolians and Exiles RAN back to the market in the platz to bring more -- threatening to mob if their ways were barred. At the price a Longdead would pay for a cart of food sane and insane could neither resist. The Attolian and Exile police at the tower first tried to stop this, but when the Longdead at the border became distressed, they decided to allow some through. The coffers of the market swole. The pockets of the citizenry colony wide would likely do so in parallel… and the longdead bought it all. Some colonists imagined the lavish feasts that would promptly be set to rot in some dark corner of the ruin -- but so much levity to the hearts of these lost souls just to hold a radish or a leg of mutton.


When the food was gone, shopping shifted almost seamlessly to everything else the caravan had brought. The hunger ghosts seemed to fade deep into the ruin as the food carts withdrew… and an odd green smoke seemed to rise from the wheat and barley-fields far to the east where the attolians were planting their crops…


Bull iron was also a great seller. “So fine.. and when last have you seen edges so sharp! Even a platter could slice one in two!” -- Clearly the longdead could tell this metal could be used against restless spirits… and each in their own way, that could afford while still in supply, seemed to express this in it’s own way. One customer purchased anything vaguely the size of a coin, covering his eyes with each one until he found a perfect fit, like shopping for glasses. Many skeletons did this. “I’m going to bed immediately and trying these on, friends. THANK YOU.”


No bull iron that would be sold would go unpurchased. Ancient ladies cradling small statuary or even coasters under folded arms, as one might lie on a tomb-plinth. They were taking these items to bury themselves. Some human and some Tyren merchants alike were overcome concluding these purchases. “You’re welcome. You’re welcome. You’re welcome. Come Aga- …


...A skeleton turned it’s head slowly back to the marketstall...


“...Nothing. Enjoy your purchase, may it bring you much happiness.”


Wool Blankets were a best seller -- Longdead scooped their children’s tiny bones up and wrapped them in them immediately… “See how she sleeps? She’s been having nightmares, sir -- I’m a noble lady, but I thank you doubly for this lovely cloth… so sound already. I really must get her home.” Other Skeletons pushed through in rushed exchange for a blanket or large cloak only to wrap themselves and fall where they stood. Other longdead either seemed not to notice, or gingerly stepped over the unmoving bones inside. The market guards began after a while to pile them in one corner of the Agora for confusion of what else to do. Their base demeanor was all business, but behind the light of their hollow eyes, if one cared to look, you could tell they knew.


A surprised sell was Dohvhamon -- which while favored as a treat among Tyren Hunger ghosts particularly liked. Something about the latticing of the edible fibers of different edible matter… it burned or crumbled to ash at their slightest touch, but they paid for it all. Not having purses or clothes, or hands to hold effects, they flitted out into the ruins and brought back chunks of anything the highborn might think valuable… Gilded doorframes, A pane of stained glass somehow intact and bound with platinum leaf-sealant, chunks for beautiful statues -- and chunks of gold seemingly ripped violently from larger treasures. A set of silver picture-frames with impossibly lovely etch-work… these were some of the better offerings, but the Highborn seeing the desperation of the ghosts, and at the caution of their cleric -- rapidly pressed them to accept anything a hunger ghost would offer for an elf-cake. Rusted death masks -- Broken Decanters -- there was archeological value to many of these desperate offerings, and even where there was not, “A chance to sate a hunger ghost was a treasure in itself.” Cleric Amandil whispered. These cakes are bandages on a great wound on this land… Sell all they will buy, and burn the rest right where we stand. Tonight, Another plane sees a homecoming.”


Only two of the Bronze statues of the Attolians were sold, but they fetched a fair price. A growing band of skeletons began to assemble around the cart bearing the statues. That is once a wealthy group of Longdead very interested in buying a pair of these statues made a spectacle of them… swearing they had seen them before, and their nostalgia overwhelms the light in their eyes. The Attolians selling them wonder if they had a hand in making these very statues, or owned similar works while they lived. They quickly drive a bargain and cover the rest of the statues… fear that discovery they may be selling the longdead the ruins of their own civilization overtakes the merchants in question, but it is agreed by all a prudent move.


Of Swamp gems -- none could be sold, or even given away. Looking incredulous at the small amount of these offered, and looking around them as if they were to see much more of much higher quality. “We do not need houselamps, or streetlights, thank you.” The longdead seem to think, almost as one -- the merchants have NO IDEA what the longdead are on about… they can see no sign of swamp-gems in the ruins, nor house-light, or light of any type for that matter in the ruins. Guttered braziers, empty sconces, and every street is lined with the twisted rust of a light-post… but the longdead must see something else when they behold them.


Exotic Feathers --


The ratkin beckon and chitter with their customers -- playing fully into some fool game of their being “Strangest Pan” as the Longdead called them, attentive to what the dustmen want to see, they quickly find a gait and voice that is most appealing, though not their own -- bearing elements of fae and goat. It is obvious the Longdead recognize these feathers the ratkin sell, and many seem to gaze wistfully towards the cliffs in the direction of the Isle of their origin -- whether they perceived it still to be there in a living memory, or to somehow grasp its absence. Many feathers are bought by “commoner” longdead almost immediately for small tokens in coins, buttons and chips of precious metals, and traded to other longdead on the spot. Garlands and head-dresses the ratkin fashioned for sale were doubly sought and bartered for. They had some significance to the Longdead that was beyond realization of the living merchants, and perhaps beyond the truest comprehension of the dead themselves. Because of the symbolism of freedom and identity “Birds” held for ratkin, it was logic enough to liquidate their stock. When some lamented to each other that they wished they could have sold some first to their brothers and sisters… the dustmen strangely seemed unable to realize the feathers that were left -- unable to see them all. Thusly, they kept a small amount (1 unit) for themselves… his peers cussed at the avaricious ratkin merchant for apparently breaking whatever spell their wares held… many would seek Nateema’s guidance to make sure that spirits would not be angered in their faux pas -- and Nateema would reassure them by candlelight, and sweat long into the night making good on her promises.


While the shank of sales of most wares went directly into the market economy as a whole, the high price relative to perceived value gave a needed weight to the ratkin pocket… that money would change paws several times, and the shine and shake of that wealth raised the spirits of the ratkin -- many who had not held coins so aplenty long before they left the old world.


With only hours of daylight left, everyone in the caravan VERY much wanted to leave before nightfall. Packing empty wagons and bare displays, all that remained was a single stall where newly Attolian workers, once exiles -- sold the “Earth’s blood” they were unable to part with in their auction at the ‘Platz. They kept back some at home for the ceremonial burning of Lord Maeder, but as dusk approached they stood hawking their pitch -- which seemed to hold no special value, glamor or illusion to the longdead. When almost all of the finer-attired or more intact skeletons had milled away from the agora, happily slinging their needful things… this is when the naked, the broken, and the clearly poorest of longdead came to market. They filed in and lined up like beggars -- forming a great ring where each threw in a button here, a gold tooth there, silver wall fittings, cracked gems, and rusty heirlooms. Some of these wretched came bearing nets of broken and toothless skulls, dropping shiny baubles and broken trinkets for each one. When the mound of trash and treasure was complete, a skeleton wearing lensless glasses and a robe dined liberally at the mouths of moths that may have died a century before this robe was worn by it’s current owner -- the frumpish getup, more dust than cloth, of what one might imagine were a Beggar-King.


“Whole pile for the lot of it. Throw in the shovels you dug the stall-poles with. It’s more than enough, if you please.”


The merchant nervously shook on it, and these last and most pitiful skeletons picked up the pitch-oil and took up the shovels behind them… The caravan was picked clean, and made haste back to the platz after that… and mostly in silence. The “poormen’s trove” was hastily bundled up and pulled away, and the last to leave the Agora saw the skeletons that remained, wretched and guard alike, begin to dig a pit they surely intended to fill with pitch...


...For what the caravan saw (and seldom was it ever spoken about to one who also was not there) was a whole city district of “people” buy the furnishing effects to lay their own selves to rest. Faces covered by bits of bull iron crumbled corpse and wares alike, sending ghostly soul-light spiraling up into the clouds, seeming to break the overcast with a promising permanence over the ruined Agora District. Indeed, on cloudy days you could almost make out the box above that part of the ruins where the clouds wouldn’t hang like they did elsewhere over the ruin. A pall had been lifted.


Cheerful but fleshless families melted to dust ash in the wool sweaters and warm blankets they bought… great throngs of skeletons wandered the crowds with feathers to finally pin each other, finding each other in the endless crowd of quieted confusion. These lovers that found each other vanished with the wind, or fell into the earth itself as if it were air.


The caravan slowly -- somberly -- left the way they came… this time the streets were empty, the air somehow more fresh. The coin and loot would be counted again and shared at arrival back in the ‘Platz own market… empty now in it’s own odd mirror of the ruin’s Agora. (Accounting of wealth gains to follow this post!)


Those of faith and magic power performed rites appropriate to their cultures for such departings of spirits. The sentries, the visions of cassandra, shul, and Nateema -- as well as the dreams of many in the platz that night told the story of what followed after their departure. After every lost mate was found, after every family and individual laid itself to rest where a bed once lay, the poorest of the dead dug a great pit, doused themselves with pitch, and burned themselves and the Agora itself into a spiral of soot that spiraled upwards like a vortex towards the heavens. For a brief time it seemed like all the souls coalesced, perhaps pressed or frozen against an even plane in the sky, like the barrier on the continent sought to hold them in… but like steam, it seeped through. By dawn, the last of the light in the sky was gone… and a whole district of the ruin had a cloudless rain that seemed to symbolically and physically wash it clean.


Though haunting to all, it was decided a bittersweet justice was brought to the ruin, a good brought to a land that needed it... perhaps even a scar repaired. It was said the theater district was still packed with skeletons... what needful things did they await? were they even still a threat... does one even which to have the Longdead as a neighbor, one might ask?


Phaedra and Lindar went on to compose one more co-operative refrain about the treating with the longdead after the caravan --


[media]



[/media]
the song was perhaps as much to reflect what might be read of their spirits, as well as the colonists themselves in relation to the wounds on this new land... In time, it would become a popular song for some that lived near or in the ruins by the 'Platz... though the people of the hills and of the shore had their own songs, to be sure.


Some whispered the potter's daughter Phaedra and Lindar were perhaps lovers during those nights of wine and song, others gossiped he merely was grooming her for the pleasures of his Captain... It gave something better to hem and haw about rather than the fact that the colony's first grand trade venture had been less than a mile away, to a people who had been dead for perhaps a thousand years prior to their arrival...


(Summary of wealth and caravan effects to follow immediately below!)


 
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CARAVAN SALES SUMMARY:


Food: (+3 wealth to market) Every crumb of food brought with the caravan is purchased by the Longdead, and their hunger ghosts. This leads to an unexpected jump in market wealth (+3! For FOOD!) but depletes all surplus stores. At the prices Longdead are willing to pay for food, no sane colonist could resist, and Attolians fear a RIOT should they attempt to stop ‘Platz citizenry from emptying their larders. (slight increase in solvency of Exiles, Attolians, and Tyren in particular - but purses happier for all) -- Food level of colony drops to “just adequate” temporarily.


Darkleaf (+1 wealth to market) Longdead apparently seem unable to tell difference between native and exotic tobacco, they nonetheless greedily purchase it -- They offer mostly small quantilties of coin (some quite ancient which may be a luxury in their own right) made of gold and electrum. Ultimately though after accounting this sale was lackluster -- it served a diplomatic and appeasement purpose, however at the end of the day many Wagon-kin wondered if they could have fetched higher prices if they instead sent their darkleaf back to the old world, or even just selling it to Highborn and Humans, who seemed to like blended and harsh varieties respectively)


Bull-Iron: (+1 wealth to market, +2 directly to Tyren coffers). Every bit brought to market is quickly grabbed up. No discrimination is made whether it is a bowl, or a tool, or a knife, or artful carving. Longdead quickly shamble to homes in the Agora district and bring back anything of perceived value to gain a piece of bull iron…


Single Leaf Cake “Dohvamon” (+1 wealth directly to highborn) -- hunger ghosts practically TOSS artful stonework, gilded doorframes, and chunks of precious metals torn from what might have been larger and more precious works to get the small amount of cake.


Wool: Very popular -- but they don’t seem to see or admire the design or craftwork. Still, a market is a market and there is surplus to sell (+1 wealth to market)


Swamp Gems -- Unsold. Apparently mistaken for broken lighting.


Bronze Statues: +1 wealth to Market -- broader sale raises concerns.


Exotic Feathers -- (+2 wealth to market, +1 wealth directly to Ratkin) sells well and fast enough to line well the pockets of the ratkin, surpassing expectations.


Earth’s Blood: Traded for trinkets roughly in the vicinity of 1 wealth, the Merchants insist all of these funds are donated towards the construction of the temple of Dracos.


Added Market Wealth: Previous 6 + 9 (caravan sales) = 15 WEALTH IN MARKET TOTAL (update: -2 from highborn, -3 from Attolians = 10 WEALTH, market still overcoined)





Added Faction-specific Wealth: (make adjustments to coffers or “clerical errors” may ensue):


+2 Tyren


+1 Highborn


+1 Ratkin


(above wealth does not go to market first, but instead passes directly to player coffers)


Overall the caravan JUST INSIDE THE RUINS was an overwhelming success. Instead of small amounts of coin whipping endlessly inside the bell-jar of the ‘Platz, for the first time real goods were going out and real money was coming in. “New World” coinage was commonly of gold and electrum, but almost always horribly weathered and faded, what coins that were intact had potential value for collectors, but for now these coins float freely from hand to hand in market.


The avarice for Colonial food was met with equal parts alarm and enterprise…buy low/sell high had never been more evident to the foodstall-men than that day. Fear remained that the Longdead could eat the colony out of house and home -- but the merchants and supervisors were careful… food prices in the ‘platz would not go up much if edibles continued to come in as they did… meeting an additional demand from the longdead however… only the greediest amid the colonial merchants spoke of this without dire concerns...


EVENT: THE SPIKE IN MARKET WEALTH -- This is an issue all it’s own. The market, or economy at large seemed to have more money flowing in it by a great margin than any individual faction at the present time, outstripping even the coffers of the Tyren. This meant for the most part not only that the average colonial citizen could buy most whatever they wished, but that finery began to make it into the purses and homes of the average citizen as well. While this issue was already largely addressed and negotiated by the Tyren during the Silver windfall -- this had different effects in the ‘Platz beyond the happiness and prosperity one expects...


With so much coin to go around, spikes of inflation for relatively cheap wares began to arise in the days to come… and with it tensions of price gouging. The Tyren had customs for avoiding such trouble, and often shuddered wagons or covered stalls if folks seemed to be losing their senses-- but tensions between exiles, attolians, and shrewd highborn were not so easily checked. The nature of the Highborn was to capitalize on movements in the market, which gained them influence (+1 one-time influence for highborn) -- but before hoarding, panic, or violence could break out -- it was the Attolian Castlellan that brought a temporary “managed market edict” that for now settled the matter. This would have garnered a great bonus to Attolian influence if it was seen as wholly legitimate for Caelis’ faction to actually be a regulatory body -- but in the end as much love was lost as was gained for “taming” the market. Other factions saw it as an overstep, but the wise saw it as timely, and necessary… for those not so high minded -- that the Attolians were at the heart of the colony’s Police-force came around to accepting things, especially with Exile police supporting them. Combined, even the more unruly of the rabble got sent packing before much trouble could happen. However, The question remained -- should factions leverage their investments in the market to enrich themselves while at the same time checking inflation? If so, which factions would, and who would come away with what?


(the colony at current levels of population and development DOES NOT support a wealth above 8 at market… though size and development may change this. Put simply, the pot is full enough to divide up some plunder… or else expect problems of tension, inflation, and most notably theft-crime. It is likely with so much valuables moving about and so few locks and houses -- crime or corruption will be on the rise no matter what!)


TL:DR : The Market is bursting at the seams with coin! and factions should withdraw wealth into faction coffers. A market at 8 would reflect an economy where the prosperity of citizenry is in balance with the economy at large -- meaning there are 6 points of wealth that not only can, but should, be skimmed as cream for individual factions own coffers. Players may declare their interest in withdrawing funds from market, as conservatively or deeply as they care to state. If ignored, excess wealth may be divided between factions naturally (people will make it their jobs to manage the wealth) -- but how that shakes out (involving dice) might surprise one, especially if some players are keener to get hands on funds than others.


Update: -2 wealth from market to coffers of Highborn, -3 wealth from market into the coffers of Attolians, market wealth is presently 10/8 (more levy of coin is advised)
 
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@Heyitsjiwon :


"Green Smoke and Amber Waves"





The Morning after the caravan returned, Attolian planters and Exile hired hands stood around two of the crop-plots in sadness and confusion... two whole plots of grains, one of Barley and one of Wheat -- looked as if it had been burned black, made sour, drained of life. This represented a third of what the Attolians had hoped to harvest -- which was devastating to both predictions for winter stores, and to the morale of the farmers themselves. In one part of town, it seemed everyone was rolling in ancient treasure given freely by the restless dead... but here, for these colonists -- it was clear that hunger ghosts had infiltrated and were corrupting their crops all along -- perhaps even before anyone heard what a hunger ghost was. Few saw the actual turning of the crops -- chances are if you were awake that night you were watching all the ghost light rising above the ruins... but stories began to trickle together that when the ghosts were fed in the ruin, green smoke -- a whole fog of hunger ghosts, rose from the plots to join them back in the ruin.


Cassandra was consulted, and spoke thusly: "The ghosts were ravenous, and acted out of their evil nature to despoil our crops -- but the offerings of food at the ruined Agora freed most of these spirits of their madness, and have withdrawn. In my visions, the majority of the ghosts ascended amid a feast of ethereal bread and beer they had siphoned from the life of our crops. It is a bitter loss for all of us, I know -- but it was a sacrifice, albeit unwittingly, needed to make this land our own."


This, she told to populace... but there was more to the story... and quickly became knowledge to any other mages in the colony with an ear for such things*. The hunger ghosts as a whole were puppets of a greater evil spirit -- a Ma'hir -- a name for that which becomes a conscious entity from a larger mass of undead souls. The Ma'hir, working through hundreds of individual spirits, was able to infiltrate and corrupt the crops without detection... but once the larger mass of souls was free, the power of the Nature Titan in the North and that of the Titan of the Blood fountain were able to exorcise the Ma'hir who cursed the land invisibly... The fountain implies that perhaps he knew that Ma'hir was there, but also knew that events would lead to his ability to expel it... which, true or untrue, is distressing to Cassandra for different reasons.


*(Other player mages that read this post can assume to know about, and have discussed the Ma'hir with Cassandra)


The Ma'hir is an entity that calls itself "Granfaloon" -- or "Great Hunger Ghost" -- Cassandra even now can catch glimpses of this horror at the boundaries of her vision -- Expelled from the Ruined Agora where it once lived, it can (almost?) be seen, at night, towering a full three stories high as it stomps about the deeper ruins in a rage. It is wondered by some if the ascension of his ghostly slaves will eventually shrink him to nothing, or if he will instead remain a massive collection of their abandoned negative energy that will stay behind. All that is certain for now is that he cannot, or dares not come closer to the colony after expulsion by Titans allied to the colony -- and that he may or may not need to be dealt with, sooner or later.


-1 Plot of Wheat and -1 plot of Barley cultivated by Attolians. The withered plants were slashed and burned... and with the aid of the doctor and artificer fertilizers were contrived (experimentally and in a small scale) to restore the land for planting. Farmers began to talk of widespread use of such chemistry -- but those in the know of it's making stressed it's production, at least for now, was highly dangerous... to prevent the scourging of the land, yes -- but for regular application to crops? That would be a matter for Caelis to decide, a man presently with too much on his mind perhaps to bother...
 
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"Prisoners of War"


@Prince Vaethorion @Heyitsjiwon :


A place for the mud-elves captured in the battle for the 'platz had to be found, and quickly. While first priority went to chasing down and annihilating the rest of their army, then treating the wounded, and gathering the loot... the liability the mud-elf prisoners presented could not be ignored.


The Aymaran's gruffly volunteered to eat them -- but it was far more broadly agreed that the prisoners should be interrogated, perhaps even rehabilitated if they could be... and that would take time, and time would require security.


At first it was the Exile security volunteers that stepped up to contain the prisoners -- though their intentions of civility or gentle treatment of the prisoners was deeply in question. They had offered to imprison the mud-elves in a sunken silo in the depression -- a dark pit only accessible by rope from above, and through a grating into the sewer below.


While they were being lead there, in as much for their intent as lack of defined direction by anyone else, Sir Lothar stopped the exiles as they led their train of captives, bound in line hand-and-foot down the slope from the 'Platz into the depression below...


Standing with, or rather behind and towering above Sir Lothar -- were the three dreaded Muurdaan House Elite. Sir Lothar explained that there would be no better or more tireless guards than the housemen for these captives... and to the protests of the exiles he quickly put to rest by saying if the mud-elves killed a houseman, would any exile mourn? If a mud-elf tried to escape, could they think of a captor more cruel and quick to punish? In the end, it was agreed that Caelis' wishes had merit behind them... but they would not have the prisoners taken to some other location -- they would be placed in the silo, and a tent would be placed over the housemen to cover them, and the hole into their prison. Where they would not have to be seen, Most hoped there would not be trouble knowing they were there... and of course, if the mud-elves chose to try to escape into the sewers, Aymaran brutes would eat them. It did not take much encouragement to assure the odd Aymaran or three that this was a definite certainty.


It was easy to incarcerate them... the potent brews that gave them ferocity the night of the battle made them sluggish, tired, and weak come the morning... most, even awake, could scarcely open their eyes or do more than go where their jailors prodded them. When they reached the silo, still in bondage, the houseman above pushed them one by one down the pit, into the waiting arms of the towering housemen below.


They said this to Lothar, when all was done:


"We will kill any who even slightly posture a threat. Examples and Lessons of these will quiet the rest. We will not feed them, but we will neither let them come to harm they do not bring upon themselves. Send your interrogators, and if there shall be torture -- we are not without talent in this capacity... they will spoil if you do not feed them. They will starve long before we ourselves must eat."


Mud-elf Prisoners (approximately 60 after losses from compounded injuries, suicides, and Houseman "Risk Management") are now confined to sunken silo for the present time. This complicates capybara harvest, but other sewer access is easy enough not to present a problem.


Mud-elf WITCH prisoner confined in Elf-quarter -- effectively bound by conventional and magical means, and monitored by security until such time as her questioning.
 
"It takes a rat to catch a dog"





@SpiralErrant @KamiKahzy @Elendithas (he has left instructions for me to handle events like this in his absence, -beck)


The ratkin knew there were gnolls in the depression even before they knew there was border conflict with the gnolls. They could smell their piss wherever they sought it -- that stealthy dog-men, well disguised... were spying on the colony from within, and reporting to an agent that visited periodically from the east. Mostly they left scent-messages for each other in some sort of code... but the ratkin quickly learned how and when they met up to pass along their intel, which although infrequently, happened collectively in hopes to limit their potential exposure.


They stayed out of the sewers, and were therefore undetected by even the Aymaran... if an Aymaran brute could be counted on to report such a thing. There was evidence to suggest weeks later that a brute had indeed eaten one of the gnollish infiltrators, but there was uncertainty about this. The brute didn't remember eating him... but there was evidence he had consumed over 180 pounds of dog... and dog wasn't yet a food commodity the Aymarans had access to... and it's not like there were so many dogs brought overseas to the platz that so many could go missing without alarm... In any case, most cunnings had difficulty understanding exactly what a spy was... so even if the Aymarans ate one, it might not make the news.


...So the ratkin were glad to take the entirety of the responsibility (and quietly the credit) for finding, and bloodlessly capturing, the entire cell of gnollish infiltrators and their direct report officer. The entire spy ring was ambushed in one of the cul-de-sacs north of the depression, and facing a hail of crossbow bolts when they had clearly for weeks expected none could trace them -- surrendered at once. They confessed they were likely withdrawing before long anyway, as intelligence gathering had become increasingly difficult without risking notice by the highborn... but they had been operating gathering information on resources, populations and force strength in the colony -- The ratkin were reasonably certain they knew the approximate number of all fighting men and citizenry in the colony, even as far north as Harun'taras. The spies had done nothing except gather information -- there was no evidence or extraction of word that the cell had any plans for sabotage, nor had they needed to liquidate anyone to conceal their presence.


Breeze, the stealthiest among the ratkin -- in addition to the bloodless capture and satisfactory persuasion of the facts of their mission, was then ordered by Chief Rat Milkweed to Bind and Gag the Gnoll agents, and quietly and in secret deliver them to the Tyren "To be sent home with their tails between their legs" ... Orm and Bruul were surprised to have the Gnoll prisoners delivered to them... seven in all -- 6 spies and their ring-leader -- a female bigger and meaner than the rest of them almost combined. Their bindings were devious but effective -- it seemed they could move their arms or legs enough to move a bit, but that movement of one applied congruent pressure and pain to the other. They would not move much unless they had to, but could be reasonably comfortable if they laid still. Bruul liked this style... Orm, for his own reckoning -- had his own thoughts when he saw a being in bondage... even an enemy.


The ratkin Breeze was not of many words when handing the prisoners off to Orm... something he perhaps could appreciate as something they had in common. The Ratkin took Orm's giant hand with his tiny paw, and shook it with a strength that was strong enough to be a surprising amusement to Orm. He waved to the little counter-spy and Breeze waved back before vanishing almost in plain sight. The reports of their activities were all there, neatly stacked and handed off just like the prisoners.


What to do with them now? Bruul wondered how much a "living" head was worth in Gnoll currency relative to the going rate of just the heads of enemies as the gnolls seemed to like to demand. Orm himself entertained the idea of just unceremoniously throwing them over the river to be found alive by their brethren and be done with them... Orm had learned to second guess himself in these cases however, especially when it seemed they were of value by the reckoning of Bruul.


Bruul was already skimming the report, squinting hard to read the scrawl in teeny-tiny common. Without looking up, he commented on the report to Orm:


"Says here that only the Ratkin involved, and now us, know that these scoundrels were ever there... Ratkin leader seems to think common knowledge of spies, caught or not, would cause (Bruul Squinted Harder) ... a froth. Froth means panic, I guess."


Bruul continued, smiling toothily at the cadre of likely high-value captives...


"I'm not in a panic, Chieftain... are you?"


The captives squirmed, downcast and defeated...
 
@Prince Vaethorion @Elendithas @Heyitsjiwon @SpiralErrant


If it is not stated elsewhere, The Influence gains for the battle are:


+5 Influence Aymarans -- "They were appalling, but I am glad they are on our side -- They were eager to fight, and did not stop until every one of our foes was dead. I doubt they would have stopped at the river if any survived."


+3 Influence Highborn -- "It's true Caelis is the true face of humans in the 'Platz, but the Highborn contribution to the battle could never be denied. Of bodies the Aymarans had no hand on, and many they did -- an elven arrow was pulled. Seldom more than one... and that says something. So much to the Highborn is elevated to an art form -- but I hadn't considered shooting somebody in the eye or heart when I first heard tell of that. I doubt without their cover the flight of so many colonists could have been so safe, during the battle no less!"


2+ Influence Attoliand -- "No doubt Lord Caelis is the face and protector of humans in this colony, a unifier of Exile and Eternal alike... there was great fear we might have lost him in the fighting! Where other lords and their troops left the 'Platz, it was he who remained to ensure the citizenry were protected... and we were."


Relations with Harun'taran take a hit in the weeks after the battle -- but is mitigated by the proof of medical aid received by Tyren of the Healers guild.


"They were quick with the herbs, and word is the Tyren healers arrived even before the battle was over to tend the hurt -- but if those Tyren really are our neighbors, how come when it's time to protect OUR border they show up more than a day later? When the Dogfoots were at their doorstep, every faction going ran to watch their doorstep... You ask me, they got something to prove."
 
"An Aymaran reply can be no reply at all":





Go-quet squinted once again as he heard the humming below intensify... He still had yet to turn to face the thing... this "Gravbuilt" that threatened him with violence... to disturb his work. Why must so many races be so full of talk? It wanted justification not to assault him. If he feared it, he would face it, the scholar growled to himself. He need only put his claws here, and here... he began to lean against the wall.


The crystalline construct seemed to be taken aback, surprised even, by what Go-quet was doing... what he was able to do. It hesitated. It watched as Go-Quet watched, as tiny triangular tiles... buttons... rose, fell, and folded back under the Aymaran's claws. In moments the Ancient wall behind the sewer stonework seemed to peel, or fold inwardly to create a doorway, a passage... a stair into the vault.


The Hum from below had stopped. Only after Go-quet had stepped fully into this new chamber did the Zebani begin to charge. Go-quet touched a single bit of the mosaic-in-stone behind him and the wall of the vault closed behind him. Faintly, he heard the weight of the Zebani crash against the ancient barrier that apparently was his to control. A small amount of amber-colored dust, different than fallen debris outside, drifted from the top of this antechamber, the only visible impact of the Zebani's assault.


Aymarans were not easy prey. As far as Go-quet cared to think... the Zebani had no idea who they were dealing with... and if the same was true for the Aymarans? That he could count of Toxchol to make measure of. Now... to discover the secrets of this place...


...Aymaran vision was good in low-light, but there was truly no light to be found where he stood. He rummaged in his pack for a bundle of torches and with a cantrip producing sparks and a small flame, lit it. Just one of many tools Go-quet brought when on clandestine expedition... At the bottom of his pack he ever noted an unused dusty box of needle-picks and brushes for "delicate work"... Gifted to him by one of his contemporaries back home. What in the hells was "delicate work" even supposed to mean?! There was power in this place... he could feel it. He just had to find it.


Go-quet stood on the stair leading into a heady blackness around him. His torch could not find the walls where they lie beyond him once he was below the small square entrance to the vault he entered above... but he could sense them -- sound did not travel far here, except to below. He walked to the base of the stairway landing... a cliff of sorts, only to see steps behind him fold and break away like they had at the entrance to make their way to place the steps instead below him. Two flights in all, they seemed to be raised by nothing as he walked the turning landings which never seemed to grow closer to the walls, much less a floor. A lesser creature might feel fear here. Go-quet yawned... when he heard a minute "tick-tick-tick" in vault entrance now far above him... the minute noise outside the vault amplified massively in the silence and perfect seal of the vault... Go-quet put it out of his head and continued his descent.


Back in the sewer, "Grav Rocbuilt" had already repaired most of the damage to the sewer-floor channel that the Aymaran had made with his "excavations"... the water no longer rushed to this place to parts below as it had before. It pointed to bits of masonry and seemed to find, or form, the perfect piece to fill a hole. When it was done, the "tick-tick-ticking" of bricks Go-Quet had pulled away from the vault began to make their clicking notes as the Zebani seemed to steadily cover the vault once again. When an area was finished -- with clean lines identical to the rest of the sewers, The Zebani seemed to magically "Lathe" the stones back together... fusing them before filling the cracks with their familiar mortar, then seeming to airbrush a convincing layer of sewer-filth to make this area, once so distinct with Go-quet's work, again completely anonymous. He silently spoke to the entity below before closing the last of the holes in the ground:


"We shall let the Heetbuilt know that the manner these reptillian scholars choose to die is to be entombed forever with their discoveries, when can -- I had not anticipated this. It is a pity we must travel deep and far before returning to the conclave. If it were not to fall to us to make contact with the colonists through this agent... it will fall to some other Zebani... Perhaps the Gravbuilt and their paintings after all."


There was another atonal hum in reply.


"Yes. In a years time we will return from our larger task and tell the conclave what transpired here. For reasons of diplomacy it is perhaps better neither Reptiles nor Zebani know how poorly this diplomacy went. The vault will soon be sealed again, Rocbuilt... Beyond the mashing of these Hulks, and for the better part of it likely forever hidden from them."


By the time Go-quet had reached the bottom of his floating staircase there was no sign above of any of his work that had taken place there. Brick, dust, and mud were all lathed carefully back into place with the waving of crystal limbs... and the Zebani Rocbuilt made his way into voids in the sewers deep and undiscovered, with the atonal hum from below ever-present. If Go-quet knew he had been entombed in his discovery, he did not take time to remark on it... the stairway turned another 90 degrees to what he could see was the vault floor... and upon reaching the ground quickly sunk his feet into two full feet of fine dust.


Go-quet did not take attention to time while inside the vault until he had eaten the last bits of disemboweled cave-monster from his pack... taking a moment to find a pack of dried lizards he kept stowed, preserved rations being another vital tool he found useful in his wanderings. The last tentacle of live hunt he slurped down was ripe -- frothed in rot and crawling with carrion bugs that once feasted on scraps from their host's own hunt. Go-quet made sure to shake the last of the bugs into his maw before completing the meal, then fastidiously licked them from his hands. Surely much time would have passed... or had it passed? before he returned to the surface. Had it been weeks already? He wasn't out of torches yet, the odd splintered wood effects scattered here and there with the moldered rags that once might have been scrolls or bandages or tapestry... he continued to make light from this. He had mapped the area... though most of it so far way empty space... interspersed with pillars around which he often found broken earthen-ware and other debris he tried to make use of -- but nothing yet more valuable than a torch.


He made a "Base camp" of sorts at the entrance to the first area he found that could be said was distinct from the great void around the stairs. He seldom returned there, but he used it as a point of reference to make sure his map and distances were accurate. The chamber was huge -- an aviary or roost he speculated... an underground chamber for what he supposed was at least semi-restricted flight while caged underground. He speculated that perches or other evidence might be at the ceiling of this central chamber... this may have been where the bat was caged even whilst alive -- the texts hinted that at the surface at least. He continued to explore... but time passed...


The dust was getting to him. Far to the south, a great swathe of the wall of this massive chamber was wet -- slick with the water from the sewers above, and it was a good thing too, for this filthy dustwater became his lifeblood... food he could go long without, but water, however despoiled, he would need at least semi-frequently. The hungry dust seemed to incinerate any fluid coming in contact with the floor... but Go-quet improvised a "still" or sorts with things from his pack and some of the more intact pots. More than adequate. The warm sewer water from above was cool by the time it reached him, but where the walls might be icy were water to run down them they had long been warmed by this drain from above here. Go-quet was almost tempted to move camp here, were temperature not adequate far enough from the walls in the void... and finding the stairs was so much easier from the "north star" he had made of his first choice of camp.


All told, there were three points of interest off of this central "void of pillared dust" as he loosely named it. To one side, a great circular chamber... like a small stadium, it seemed -- accessible by a few wide-vault doors by what he supposed would be groups of humanoids, but sound told him it was far most accessible from above. There were tiers of seating... some of which seemed to be accompanied by shackles. In the center-most pit, he could see what might have been an arena of some kind... he saw shorn metal and shattered tools amid the debris, and while there was considerably less dust inside this vault than in the void, there seemed to be almost none at the base of this chamber in the pit. Mostly in the clean below, but not without presence in the seating or even as high as he could see on the walls, grazed some unknown species of blind, transluscent, albino-haired Maggots... If a Maggot ranged in size from juvenile to bull elephant. They grazed on the dust... Go-quet did not make moves to alert them, if they moved any more than this it seemed easy not to disturb them. Half of his rations were gone at this point, but he figured if hunger took him, these could be prospective meals. He sensed they moved, however incrementally, in time and at shared levels of activity -- he wondered if dining on one might mean facing them all... so he waited. It too was colder than he liked near the walls of the "void" -- and their strange fur -- a titanium white, seemed invite him doubly to hunt... Not all of the maggots were alive, their empty carapace fragments still had tufts of hair thinning on broken corpses of their previous generations... piles of shell and hair, glassy plates no longer housing grubs long now dust to be grazed by their descendants. He made a crude cloak of their thin hair... which helped some. They seemed to wear their own coats better, or perhaps theirs were FRESH.


To the east was another chamber -- partially collapsed. He noted that while the outermost layer of the seamless stonework seemed to be made of those tiny latticed triangular bits that formed the shifting staircase and where he could find writing, often buttons -- where the outer walls collapsed there seemed to be an even larger but identical massive lattice of pyramidal stones that made up the Skeleton or Boundary of the structure. Go-quet had to marvel at this construction -- was this entirely modular and moveable by some great magic? Was that it's means of construction? and on such a scale!


Go-quet gathered a heavy load of loose draconic tile (1 unit) -- for later study or perhaps to learn to craft or shape it himself. With his understanding of the runes he speculated he could at least perhaps replicate the portal or the stairway as he studied it. There was plenty here, but too much for him to move alone. He dragged what he felt he could carry to his base camp, and left it there. That eastern chamber might have served a ritual significance at one time -- but it was clear whatever Idol it housed was cast down... broken into the tiny triangular bits he turned in his hands, perhaps burying the priests themselves, he imagined. On the outside walls of this chamber were many tall engravings and blank, smooth fields... he speculated magic or pigments once cast pictures on these fields, but that the images were long abraded to time. Of the carvings, even standing on the highest mass of fallen debris he could make out little. The feet and lower robes of tall figures... but most notably two great carvings, starting lowest to the ground of the chamber, that seemed to him quite a reflection of the base of the "Blood Fountain" the Attolians seemed to keep in the 'Platz.


Go-quet smacked his lips when he thought of all the blood. A bath in a fountain of blood would suit him well by this point, he felt... By now he had reactivated the floating staircase and found to his chagrin that the stone would not yield as it had before. It was not that he was so much weaker for his Odyssey in the void, not much he figured -- but he could tell that Rock-thing has penned him in... the seal was strong, perhaps calculatedly just strong enough for them not to yield to his fiercest attempts. He would not waste his strength here... if that "Zebani" expected him to kill himself fruitlessly scratching at a wall, he would be disappointed. He folded the vault's wall back to cover the sewer's brick -- and descended back into the dust.


The third way from the void was closest to his camp. In addition to this sealed chamber, he had etchings of three areas he found on walls equidistant of each other along the outside of the void-vault that were in familiar draconic script to that he found near the entrance. He had steadily translated these when sleep demanded he return to his belongings and base of his excavation... which Go-quet faced at this point... could it have been a month? He was searching for an escape at this point. Quarter rations. Might be time to take his chances with the maggots, after all.


The door that loomed above camp in fact seemed warm when he leaned into it... some heat within where his side was still disturbingly cool. His mind was sharp -- but even he knew at this point a less adept Aymaran might have succumbed to cold. He slept longer, and more often by now. A brute might never rise -- wait for a summer that would never come... but Go-quet studied his scripts. Something would open the door. If this was a Tomb for a bat -- where was it? He had yet to find it, and he would. Study SCRIPTS...


There were 6 cabinets with single draconic runes on them beside the door -- three to the left, and three to the right. All level, all numbered. Inside the cabinets, (the secrets of such simple runes held little mystery to him after so little else to think about...) each housed a smooth opalescent orb... that seemingly had a hole drilled in their top.


Go-quet had to make choices now. He was hungry, and finally getting tired from the cold. He was close to cracking the code of the scripts... but he could only wonder what all had transpired in the world above as he made this vault his work, his home, and his would-be snare...


There was food, if he dared it -- there was water enough... there was wood even for a fire in all his collecting, but not for long, especially if he wanted to stay in torches. The torch warmed him -- but it always guttered out when he needed to sleep... waking up cold was getting dangerous. The warmth of the torch was reason enough in the simpler part of his brain to continue knocking against the puzzle of this place... he dreamt of throwing all the torches in a pile and sleeping on it this most recent night. If not sun, then a blaze to warm his cold blood.


Decisions.


Translate writing? Puzzle with the orbs? Hunt? Had he missed something somewhere?


He rose once again sluggishly, and cracked the first of the writings he found... it was the middle of some larger passage, it seemed -- it both began and ended with the rune of an ellipsis, even. The other part might begin the whole, and the other half certainly seemed to punctuate an end. (My end?) Go-quet shook his head and pulled the maggot-fur coat around him. In the days to come, He resolved that the vault would surrender the last of it's secrets, or he would add his body and effects to them... He pondered his piece of writing he translated as he steeled himself on his mighty-thewed legs, and broad tail...


"...the bat's wing cuts swiftly in the Wind, the Tree like a root lies deep here..."





If he were not a Translator by trade, as an Aymaran he was tired of the puzzles of words... but words were his tools, and Go-quet resolved not to die by them, but to use them. If he died in this place -- he would find something to kill him. Of that at least he was certain...


Summary: Go-quet has been sealed in the Vault of the Crimson Bat but may yet find egress and unlock it's secrets.


It will be mid-summer before he emerges however, if he is ever to emerge at all, that is... by his choices alone will be writ his fate...


(@Elendithas : Post or PM to continue to resolve this event)
 
@Beckoncall


Death and New Allies


The Highborn received the news of their fellow fallen immortals with profound grief. An eerie quietness overcame the Highborn mourners. Their movements became more subdued, those who spoke, spoke in whispers. The High Elves withdrew into themselves in the aftermath of the battle. Such losses were grave and deeply irksome. The night after the battle, after the returning High Born host returned from the routing of the Mud Elves at the River retreat, their was a funeral for the fallen. That night, led by the Cleric and the Prince, the Highborn gathered in single file with glowing crystals in their hands that glowed the color of lavender, they silently filed to the place where their kin fell. The cloaks of the High Born covered their faces. They wore their armor and arms, the rustling of cloaks over armor was faint but audible. There was chanting in ancient Elven. The Highborn were bidding the fallen to the next world. The bodies of Ru'Vaen and Castien'Sullaesulv (what remained) were borne in their armor, in shrouds, with shields, and weapons. A stone cairn was built near the site they fell in their honor and they were entombed there with spells, and enchantments to protect their corpses and possessions in the physical world and their life force into next plane of existence. The coffins were made of wood and after entombed into stone. The bodies were laid to rest with the idea that the vital essence of the two Highborn would continue on. Protection from being turned into the undead and the powers of necromancy was put into place. Those closest said their words of goodbyes in their thoughts and this was heard by all High Elves and Elves present. The two corpses had their own crystals which lights no longer glowed. These talismans, along with their personal effects and weapon (spears) were buried with the dead (their ancestral swords will be returned or handed to next of kin) and would help them find their ways back to the Mother, the supreme Goddess of the underworld.


The ceremony went on into the night. The words uttered were ancient, profound, magical, mystical and secretive. No one died, just the physical husk was left, the immortality would continue. Those who passed on would become more powerful and more knowledgeable as they passed on from this plane. By first light, the mourning ceremony, became a revenge ceremony. Anyone or anything involved in the death of the bodies of these two Highborn would be avenged if it took a day, a week, month, year or millennium. The Highborn could be assured that their killers were killed, but anyone else involved might be out there still. Their day of reckoning had yet to come. Those involved in the killing of the Highborn (whether dead or alive) had their names cursed and blotted out. They would be denied peace in this existence and in all existences to come.


After the sacrosanct burial in the raised stone mound was performed, the deep sadness was felt, the incantations made, prayer prayed, spells embroidered, the victims' stories were told, their families names recited and their killers cursed and named for revenge. The Highborn communed on a deep level over this. The profoundness of physical death, of immortality lost, of perfection disturbed was felt by all.


At the end as the eternal pace of revenge was declared, weapons were drawn and held aloft. First to salute the dead and after as a threat to their enemies. The Highborn then sheathed their weapons, bowed their heads in silence and headed back single file to their encampment.


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


The Highborn were still recovering from mourning when the news that the 15 Countrymen would be joining them was shared. The Countrymen were the first to welcome the Prince, and their narratives of fighting the Muurdan resonated strongly among the Highborn. The death of their kin had strengthened the resolved of the the Highborn. They were saddened, but sought to make sure that the deaths of their brethren were not to be in vain. The politics of the various races, the diplomacy that it required, the exertions of modesty were all challenges to the less experienced Highborn. The Countrymen were known. The reputation of the Countrymen as warriors were good among the Highborn and their strong faith made them lawful (relatively speaking) men that could be trusted. The departure of the majority of the Sylvan elves was a disappointment to some of the Highborn and the news that the Countrymen would become their allies cheered them up. Despite their apparent superiority, the Highborn were out of their natural element and were in the need of allies. The Countrymen of the Outlands would become "agents" of Sereg’Wethrin the Shadow warrior, their skills as insurgents both utilized and learned from. They would be treated well and looked after as the Highborn looked after their own (such the Prince decreed). The Prince ordered 2 spearman, 2 archers and a Elite Swordmaster to train specifically with the Countrymen, to teach them the martial abilities of the Highborn and to study the insurgent tactics of the Countrymen. This unit would specialize in fighting behind enemy lines and bringing th fight to the enemy.


Summary:


* 2 High Born put to rest, revenge promised


*15 Countrymen welcomed into the High Born fold


* Insurgency unit made of 15 countrymen and five High born formed


* Insurgency Training with and learning skills from Countrymen to begin
 
Highborn join luxury guild. Offer Dohavamon as luxury resource.


Highborn offer Cleric to Healing guild for serious cases.


Highborn will soon initiate other guilds.
 
@SpiralErrant @KamiKahzy










"Trade in skulls, at times Attached." :


Bruul came up behind Orm and placed a great and beefy hand on the Chief's shoulder. Orm's tail, which swished fiercely as he looked to the other side of the river fell still. The Ratkin had bequeathed to the Tyren the entire Gnollish spy-ring to them – somewhere off to their right, in a ditch surrounded by fierce Tyren Warriors – they laid yet hands bound in a convenient ditch – one which was made long enough ago when wagons were hasily moved away from the river for to protect from the threat of gnollish shortbows. What Orm had resolved to do with these prisoners was far from what came naturally to him. At the back of Orm's skull he recalled the calm and sightless visage of Mirgirak "Fire-Shout"... and then there was Bruul.


Orm ordered Bruul to attend to the prisoners, and moreso double to the Warriors that watched them. It was planned they be returned alive to their side of the river – but without Discipline, the blood-touched might handle them too bruskly, or worse. Bruul nodded, knowing all too well that a stew-pot of tyren anger is swift to over-boil. The prisoners were made ready to move... sighs and grunts of their drowned whim of vengeance died on the wind. Orm would handle this personally, With he and Bruul holding the front of the chain of captives and a handful of warriors at the rear. A saying lost on Orm was the Muurdaan euphamism of a "Tyren's Blindfold" – but the Gnoll captives were experiencing it. In the dim moonlight, as they crossed the ford in the river partially slowed by some of the debris of the previously constructed human defense-works – the gnolls were totally eclipsed by the silloettes of their long-horned captors. Not a ray of light fell upon them, and whether they looked ahead or behind them, they saw only darkness, and even with their acute night vision – saw little more than walls of sinew that ushered them forth, or pulled them along. The gnolls faltered in the river, and Orm – in his best attempt at being gentle about it despite the heat in his blood, pulled them along. The Ratkin it seems had somehow numbed or otherwise lamed the prisoners in their legs – Bruul wondered if the Ratkin trusted Tyren to keep a hand on a prisoner – especially no-doubt slippery ones like these, but he knew these gnolls would remain pliable. An aire of Uumush's handiwork hung about their necks – their minds were dulled.


The Tyren brought their unwitting charges through the river and beyond into the dark of the wood on the far side of the river. Voohn, the last warrior in tow, accidentally knocked over a bit of barricade as they reached the short rise into the forest. A few humans still tarried here from time to time – more a means of alarm for the colony than any kind of security force, one of them pulled a rusted helm from his head and threw it down into the sandy shore, grabbing a hatchet and box of nails one might suppose he would improvise a repair.


Orm knew the gnolls were watching – they always were, and most intently since the first bloodshed. If there is one thing a culture of shepherds know, it is where the wolves think they hide. Every eye in the dark a beady little moon, every stealthy move unheard instead revealing a scent or some other spoor of action. The Tyren frame was not by nature a predator, but nor was it ever a day made to be easy prey.


The gnoll scouts withdrew, and sounded a horn which quickly recieved a response. The second horn was MUCH louder, an announcement, a warning, a threat by the design of the instrument. Orm and Bruul softly tugged the chain, and the gnoll spies, the whole chain, were drawn to their knees in the bracken, leaves and grass of the wood. The Warriors in the rear-guard fanned out, almost in unison swinging their massive bull-iron weapons from side to shoulder. Two of them wore the gifted armor of the wood elves, but it was noticed to be heavier in the days since their mages had left. Cords of hardened vine and plates of dark wood that were once comfortable and light showed the weight previously belied their strength... but cumbersome or not, it was armor and gifts they trusted.


It was exactly as they thought – This "Big one" – the whispered and spoken of "Walks in Cull" the hornless supposedly treated with ultimatums, debt, and threats – it was this beast that met them before they reached a first clearing – Two young trees pushed over as if to create a portal for them to come onward... and Onward they advanced – Orm's followers utterly devoid of fear, and Orm himself only harboring one – that this delivery of these prisoners would go badly – his fear was for whomever would face him, and distantly second any harm that could come to his people. Orm and Bruul pulped their hooves into the stumps of the fallen trees to enter the clearing... where stood before them, "Walks in Cull" beckoned them with the slight bit of paw that stuck out beyond the strange head-shaped guantlets he wore.


Though not nearly as massive, "Walks in Cull" stood every bit as tall as orm, if not slightly higher. His strange-shod boots gave him some height, one might guess, but he stood as a gnoll would craning to full height. This "Gnoll" looked more like a strange beetle in the armor he wore – it reminded him of the Scorpion armor the wood-folk's highest guard wore – but if Cull's suit was fashioned of an animal it was of no type any Tyren had ever seen, or even imagined. Orm did not fear the wearer of the armor – but the smell coming off of that suit spoke to him in the rootest part of his nature... Cull wears a suit fashioned from the carapaces of some hideous apex-predator – a nightmare to a herd, herd-kind, and them of the herding existence. In the southmost parts of boulder field Tyren occasionally spoke of a kind of uneasiness... Orm knew what this Gnoll Warlord wore was the REAL wolf out of sight. Orm's nostrils flared as he rejected and re-sampled this alien scent... made all the more disturbing on the visage of a wolf... Orm held up his hand in a gesture of peace, and in a gesture of diplomacy which oft-fell to Bruul, the War-Shaman made his own gestures learned from gnoll desert raiders, who seldom traded what they could not take themselves, and communicated in old trade languages that these gnolls might have imported.


Bruul simply stated that introductions were uneccessary.


At a glance the Gnoll Warlord showed all -- the spy ring was not known to be captured... Surprise on a face that is seldom accustomed to such things, Bruul chuffed to himself. "Walks in Cull" blinked incredulously at first, then removed his morbid beetle-helm to count the vanquished livestock Orm seemingly had to offer. Every spy was captured, including their ring leader. It could be seen that Walks in Cull could not contemplate how such a thing could be accomplished by elves, much less humans or Tyren... but he put his shock aside. A wry grin replaced it... more suitable to a general that is not used to being impressed.


"We will talk terms..."


Bruul both mostly spoke for, and interpreted and nuanced what the situation as Orm saw it related to Gnoll and Tyren alike. To Orm, the returning of their troops unharmed shifted the balance of things to a debt owed the Tyren. The Gnolls did not expect their spies to be caught alive, nor returned alive either – and the Warlord was almost uncharacteristically quick to terms for their release. By making the Tyren the agents of this delivery – The Ratkin had given the Gnolls the one thing they didn't have until this moment as regards the conflict – a sense of known unknown quantities – that not only were his would-be foes strong and resourceful... it was foolish once more to expect they were incapable of such surprises. One needed only look a few hundred meters to the south, where Bruul had CRATERED the tree-line during thier last engagement with a boulder – for Walks in Cull to resolve never to underestimate these newcomers again.


At the conclusion of a hand-off, walks in cull growls to his secondaries in the very old dialect of desert gnoll that "The Bitch Queen" must be informed at once. Walks in cull gives orm a chain of objects that cannot by anyone, until seen by Ummush alone, distinguish as being none other than metallic compound eyes, or some kind of orb-faceted gems. 9 are black, one is a slightly larger, and a nasty rash-like purple. It's made clear that it's a token of respect, that ransom or other payment would have to be negotiated. Orm complimented the Gnolls on their metalwork – which "Cull" first thought was meant to be some kind of joke, only to plunge him back into the mystery of how such creatures of thin-cunning could outwit his hand-chosen spies – ones that (granted with extreme difficulty) had managed to elude the attention of even the elves, thus far...


Negotiations quickly were settled. For the prisoners, yes the Gnolls would concede a debt owed the Tyren and Orm and the others would argue that although the gnolls retaliated for some of their own people being killed the tyren had nothing to do with that... Having not even crossing the river at the time and the only ones killed on the gnoll side of the river was one of their mutual foes – A mud-elf torn to ribbons by the Warrior Rhag. In the Gnoll's attempt to get at the wood elves they killed some of Orm's own people who had nothing to do with the matter, forcing the tyren to defend themselves. Bruul Cracked his giant mitts outward as he instinctively pointed a horn to where his impact crater must be, and at the same time his tail swatted a glowing, stinging insect that in the gesture drew too close to his face.


By Tyren logic Cull and the gnolls commited the same crime against the tyren Belanor did against them: they owe Orm the same debt. But Orm declares he had no use for heads so demands water, meaning safe use of the river for the colony, free from any gnoll attacks.


Walks in Cull concedes to these terms. Congruent wrongs would cancel one another – though pride would forbid him from failing to mention that the slaying of so many mud-elves meant their previous debt was already cancelled. The gnolls had collected the skulls due already – though how they might have gotten them from the field without notice certainly escaped any Idea of the Tyren.


Once Cull had given Orm the bizarre chain, Orm offers the gnoll a pouch of dark leaf -- Saying once this is over that perhaps they could do more peaceful trade. If the gnolls come to the bridge over the river in peace and with trade goods then Orm will secure them safe passage to trade with Hrun'Taras, he even compliments the gnolls on their metal work... something that seems to re-ignite a contempted mix of beffudlement and ire. The Warlord says that the token gift will be given to the Bitch Queen herself, who is fond of such things. The value of heads owed would be cancelled, and another value of heads taken in the battle of mud-elf aggression would be assigned a value, depressed as it might be for the state of relations between their peoples.


"Gnolls will not spy, if even we thought again we could, Herd-Thing – and yes, the weight of the scales of our people has oddly shifted. Our people owe a debt – but there will be no trade. No peace, even – until the last of the mud-elves is dead." The Warlord pulled his guantlets back over the tips of his paws and continued his growling treatise. "Until such time as the mud elves are dead, you can be little more to my people than another reflection or avatar of the 'Horned One' our masked foes worship – your actions I can concede can almost be confused for what a Gnoll would call honor..."


The Warlord cut his agents free – were the chain been of bull-iron and not supplied by the ratkin – perhaps the giant gnoll might not have popped the links like so many sheep's vertebrae -- "...But it matters little either way – when the Cull arrives, you will all be dead, and your bones will mingle with all the rest that lie beneath the great tree of woes. May you enjoy your evenings until that day comes, Herd-Lord... I take my leave."


The Tyren returned to their homes... and for the first night in a long time, the only moon that seemed to be staring out of the darkness at them hung high above in a windy sky...


In Conclusion:


2 influence gained by the Tyren relating EXCLUSIVELY to the Gnolls (not added to total)... though whether this will ultimately be currency for trade or diplomacy is yet to be seen...


Tension with Gnolls drops precipitously -- though mud elf aggression and surveillance is assumed, colonists in the days and weeks that follow can almost forget the unending scrutiny of the gnolls across the river, though perhaps not so swiftly the scrutiny through their own windows and homes...
 
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"AHha...hha" Nicolas, the Artificer, gasped as he ran towards Caelis with his new findings. He nearly collapsed as he approached Caelis. While catching himself from an awkward stumble, he excitedly blurted "My Lord, you won't believe what I saw and what I have bought with me." as he carefully laid his findings on the ground before Caelis. Three odd objects laid before Caelis. While he had seen similar creations before, Caelis himself was not exactly familiar with them and how they worked. Caelis nodded and asked "Nicholas, care to explain what it is that you have found?" The Artificer nodded vigorously and said "Of course my Lord, pardon me. Let me explain." First, he lifted up relatively familiar looking item that Caelis had seen in machinery before.

"This, My Lord, is a piston, which moves automatically based on heat. I believe there is some liquid in the contraption that triggers the movement. If we use this as a base for our own models, then we may be able to make more effective machinery and tools."

The Artificer then continued onto the next curiousity. It was a bit creepy as it roughly resembled an arm. "At the Spire, there are these metal warriors who move on their own. They appear to be powered by the piston, and this is the arm of one of those metal warriors. If we could make our own artificial creations, then I think I can come up with a strong support system to improve their physical capabilities using this arm as inspiration."

He then giddily went on to point at a bunch of cogs with odd crystals. "Now these, My Lord. These are cogs, but these crystals seem to carry information planted into them and can convey this information. I shudder at the possibilities that these cogs and crystals present."

Caelis nodded. These seemed like interesting findings. Being able to begin some sort of development in machinery would be a godsend for this colony as many menial jobs would be much easier and quicker. Thus, he saw this as a priority to develop. "I assume that you will need time to fully examine these objects?" Caelis asked. "Yes My Lord, but I am optimistic of the potential results of this. Of course, if you granted me resources to carry out my research and experiments, then I can say that the fruits of my research will bear more fruit." Caelis nodded. This was an opportunity that he would not let slip. "You will have a small fortune at your disposal and select your own team of 10 skilled workers to assist you as well as the engineer. I expect practical results from this, Nicholas." The Artificer could barely contain his joy as his eyes beamed. "Thank you, My Lord. I will start immediately!" He quickly scrambled to pick up his findings and ran to whatever he had in mind. Caelis was not a scientist, but he appreciated the value that they brought. After all they were often priceless and in this case the results would hopefully be a great boon to this new colony.

---

Summary:
Research from the Discoveries at the Spire Begins
 
CURRENT COLONISTS: (this is a great example of how to model your Summer activity plan, note he includes the projects of other factions and delegates manpower... this will produce the best results!) Heyitsjwon may still want to review and edit these things before I resolve them, I made a comment about market wealth and Attolian use of it.

For future projects that are to continue for the next 4 months. I was hoping to achieve a few things.

1. Continue the clearing of boulder field and converting it to farmland planted with wheat and barley. Winter is coming after all. 20 Unskilled Laborers, 5 Skilled. 1 Wealth Point to hire additional labor

2. Continue building/expanding the Attolian Housing District and renovating some of the older structures/ruins, especially the root cellars. Some defensive structures would also be appreciated towards the east. Architect, 10 Skilled, 10 Unskilled

3. Assuming research doesn't take all the time. Have the artificer begin making golems from rock.
Artificer, Cassandra, 10 Skilled Workers.
6 Carts of Stone, 2 Wealth Points
2 Power going to Speed

(depending on some dice rolls, development of rock-constructs would begin after all research is done, or if a particular breakthrough is made with the arm)

4. Help establish a road between the platz and the other settlement.
15 Unskilled Laborers, 5 Skilled

5. Help the High Elves with building the sea wall.
Shipwright, 10 Unskilled Laborers, 5 Skilled

6. Get mines up and running at the proposed mine sites that has iron. (Not sure if the ratkin player is still around, but I had an agreement with them that they would help me with the mines.)
Geologist, 10 Skilled, 14 Unskilled

7. Get the linguist to participate in Language Square to learn other languages and to teach Common and Attolian culture.

8. Have the Castellean begin the process of establishing and implementing a proper taxation code. After all, a police force can't run on its own and right now the Attolian soldiers are the only proper guard that are actively patrolling. (I'm looking for more legitimate ways of extracting wealth without drawing criticism. After all, the inn and the healer's guild operate in the Attolian Housing District and the healer's guild uses an Attolian made building.)

NOTE ON MECHANICS: STRUCTURES (LIKE INNS) and GUILDS (LIKE THE GROCERS AND HEALERS) ARE HOW FACTIONS CAN DRAW WEALTH OUT OF THE ECONOMY AND INTO THEIR COFFERS AND PROJECTS. IT IS FIRST COME FIRST SERVE, AND IN MOST CASES COMPLETELY LEGAL. wealth of an certain amount above the colony's size and sophistication is eventually wasted (as is evinced by 1 wealth already disappearing) -- so leveraging this is not only proper, it's SMART.

THREE MARKET WEALTH IS DRAWN INTO PROJECTS FOR ATTOLIANS. Economy Stabilizes.

9. The 5 soldiers who no longer have proper equipment are to offer training to those of the Exiles who want to continue to help protect the platz and mingle with people at the inn (time to start winning hearts and minds). The rest of the soldiers and Sundered Kings will continue patrolling the platz.

10. The Falconeer is to try to train birds as messenger birds in order to facilitate communication.

FINAL NOTE: I will not be processing any summer orders until I have summer orders from Elendithas Elendithas Prince Vaethorion Prince Vaethorion SpiralErrant SpiralErrant -- KamiKahzy KamiKahzy may not be able to post his summer orders but he left suggestions to do so. Heyitsjiwon Heyitsjiwon : This is a capital example of how we should proceed.
 
The summer sun beat down in the constant way it always did. It was easier these days though, without the strain of the road and with plenty of shade offered by the glade Orm found his fur feeling lighter and made slick by sweat and sticking to his eyes. And if he ever got tired he could just retire to his house for a little while. His house! His own little house! One that was getting fresh wool rugs and a bed on the floor that sheltered him from the wind and the rain better than tent flaps ever had. His house that had literally planted roots! Their little village had been standing for weeks now and Orm still caught himself marveling at it. The thing they thought impossible had taken a sturdy shape. It wasn't even a new thing to brag about anymore but he just didn't care, Orm'd never get tired of it.

What he would quickly get tired of was the never ending list of things to do. Of the cull still dangling over their head. Well maybe they'd make some progress on that. Hrun'Taras never truly sat idle as the minotaurs and elves went about their rustic way of life. All while the human's they'd hired to help defend them peaked through the gaps in the top of the stockade and saw to the needs of the giant bow they'd bought. Orm was pretty pleased with that.

The third trophy of his collection was dangling from his forearm. The chain of rusted orbs the gnoll had given him wasn't quite large enough to comfortably fit over Orm's head so he'd chosen to loop it over itself and wear the thing like a loose arm band. It clinked when he moved his arm. The bull didn't really notice it anymore but now and then it'd catch his attention and he'd look at the weird purple one and how it caught the light. That gnoll was a big one, it was rare for Orm to come across anything that came near his height. And that armour... the smell it gave off... what was it?

Yet another thing to wait. They still had the mud elves waiting deep within the woods across the river as well, though hopefully they'd be left to lick their wounds back in their holes for a while. Maybe they'd be able to head into the forest in numbers soon. Though if Orm had his way they'd be off into the swamps first. That would also have to wait though. Orm looked out over the boulder fields from atop the hill. Even now they were all hard at work, even Ummush had been roused from his usual snoozing to work his old eyes.

Orm would have to wait to satisfy his other ambitions. Foundations needed to be laid and plans given detail. Orm would wait.

TAKE 3 WEALTH OUT OF MARKET

1) Sew the mushrooms and root vegetables taken from the old wood elf settlement for future harvesting and to fill the veg vacuum in the colony diet. Forming up the farmers guild in order to openly hash out crop placement and stop any possible displacement of their herds. (15 Springborn 1 Skilled worker)

2) Now that the river is safer to work near the hill dwellers have started gather clay from the deposits found near the riverside earlier. Add clay to resources and pottery to the luxury guild goods. (3 skilled workers 9 unskilled workers 5 springborn)

3) Shaman Ummush and healer Anuc investigate the secrets of the bark bound tome gifted to Anuc by the elven seer before their departure.

4) After their encounter with all the undead in the platz speaking as if they knew who the Tyren were and mentioning their being an embassy of minatuar folk Shaman Shul, the spirit speaker is sent with a party to scour the abandoned parts of the platz to see if they can find any relics of these lost minotaurs and any clues as to the nature of the cull. (1 Shaman, Shul. 4 fighters. 10 Springborn. 5 Skilled workers. 10 unskilled workers. Spend 1 wealth for labourer help)

5) Have the more agile Springborn see about planting gem bushels in the mine of vines and investigating what remains in the mine after Anfel worked her magic on it. (10 springborn)

6) Assist in improving the gravel road between the two settlements and setting up an alarm system in case of any emergencies such as beacons or a blowing horns. (Spend 1 on day labour. 10 unskilled workers. 2 skilled workers. 10 IOC mercs to act as guards and messengers along the pathway)

7) Help the Ratkin out with any excavations they may need doing when making their warrens, aiding in the heavy lifting and such, asking if the Tyren may keep any stone leftover. (5 skilled workers. 10 unskilled workers)
*****
Forming Farmers Guild!

The remaining elder herdsman and the other herd wagon bulls join. (1 Skilled, 20 unskilled Tyren workers bringing LIVESTOCK)

Some springborn join in an attempt to recover the sylvan crops that have been moved from the foothill forest and to bring their own knowledge to the Tyren crops (15 Springborn bring mushrooms/ root vegetables and Sunwatcher plants)

Luxuries Guild
12 skilled Tyren workers (6 skilled labourers, 4 skilled craftsmen, 2 merchants) 4 unskilled tyren workers (craftsmen apprentices)
4 Springborn (Bringing Sylvan woodwork to the table... that they probably made)
List of goods now includes: Darkleaf, Gem bushel jewelry, Fine silver goods, Woolen goods, Sylvan wooden furniture. Pottery.

Learner's Square
2 Skilled Tyren workers. 1 Shaman (Shul)
6 Springborn

Grocer Guild
2 Skilled Tyren workers (1 Merchant, 1 dedicated grocer)
5 Springborn
List of goods now includes: Mutton, Milk and cheese, Roots, Mushrooms.


Healers Guild
2 Skilled Tyren workers (Anuc and Weome the healers)
5 Springborn

Mage Guild
Shaman Bruul joins the mage guild
 
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"Ply the mud elves with questions"

Standing above the vault in the depression, Caelis' men and a handful of highborn waved off the exile guards who were paid a pittance to watch the hole, they seemed to be relieved to turn their backs on it for once. Down in that hole, there were 23 mud elves -- Feet bound tight with sailor's knots and pegged to the ground with great steel nails, the elves could hear the occasional chatter among them, their hissing speech.. the clinking of their rotten teeth.

One by one the handful of Attolian soldiers and another hand of Highborn descended the rope into the dark rectangular chamber below. They were arranged as they had been the day they were deposited there. Following the interrogation party was one large, tattooed exile, slung on his back was a crude piece of masonry attached to an iron rod almost as long as himself. "Raki, The Jailer" he said, to nobody in particular.

The elves expected to see the prisoners bound hand and foot, not laid against the walls with their filthy talons free. The highborn officer immediately glared at Raki, implying an immediate response was demanded.

"We un lose a single un yet, shiny-one -- Raki and sum o' duh Dracos Bruvs here took the tar out of each and every one of these blokes the first days they arrived. We unbound the hands so they could pass... ya know... pass the buckets around. Plus we ain't feedin' em by hands no more. They subdued, but some stillz bite -- Alvie lost a finger, un fact... nunufus sigh on for that Bruv. None indeed."

The vault smelled of piss and... buckets, even though they were routinely poured down the grating in the center of the room and down the sewer below. on one end of the chamber an arch with a mighty portcullis lay blocking a small cul-de-sac... the dust within it undisturbed.

The prisoners DID seem defeated. There were no taunts, no provocations... silence reigned. Raki vowed he was confident which ones were the toughest, at least when they arrived -- and they would be the first to be interrogated. Five at first, unstaked by a pry-bar at the other end of Raki's Hammer. One by one their legs were tied to the rope the interrogators descended, and hauled through the roof into the moonlight upside down, into the waiting arms of other exile thugs. Hauled into one of the warehouses, they were blindfolded and questioned.

settlements, defenses?

Their answers, individually more or less matched up.
"We live in the wood of the horned one." "The glade of flesh." "With him."

numbers of civilians and numbers of combatants and magic users?

They seem unclear with the concept of what a civilian is. they spoke a patois of common and a particular dialect of wood elf. When "civilian" is explained... "one who does not fight" -- they generally laughed, or grew amusedly silent. One prisoner was seen to get very flush and drool almost uncontrollably at the prospect of getting hands on a "civilian" -- "All fight. All fight for the Horned one." In numbers, they could say little... it became clear none could count higher than ten, with a physical gesture to imply more than ten. There were more than ten mud-elf combatants. It didn't seem like applying additional pressure... no need to get violent, not yet at least.

Magic users?

"Five. Horned one, his three wives -- and broodmare, all's mother, all's wife. Two of the prisoners had seen the witch taken prisoner, but they were convinced she yet lived. Implying that she might not be, or might not be for long elicited laughter. You want to see horned one, you kill his wife. Then you die... but you will only find HIM in supplication, he will smell your surrender and know you are ready."

What are monsters in the trees leaving piles of bones?

"Cull, you... Civilians." (laughter) "The Cull sleeps in the tree until the season comes. Then back into the tree it goes. In weeks that follow, bones fall like rain, then just a little here and there, but always, bones always fall." "Your doom is up that tree, metal-men -- your shiny bits will not protect you when the cull is loosed. Your only hope is to join the the Angel of the glade of flesh -- join the Horned one." "What's up that tree has been up that tree forever. Maybe even before the city was gone. Used to be much bigger -- all the trees. but the Gnolls got away, and we the people are forever safe. Land doesn't feed it like it used to... so it's gotten smaller. Witches said the cull was made to cover everything -- in the war that gave the whole earth to the horned one... but other things made to stop it, equally terrible. So it sleeps. It will grow when it consumes you, and then it will wane again. You will be gone."

What is the cull? How to protect selves against Cull?

"Join the horned one." "Strip naked, peel your fingers and toes like the first children did... and weep and scream before his divine maw. That is how you will survive the Cull. Join the horned one, and you will survive. Only way." "You cannot protect. Last group like you could not either. Next group will not either. You already dead."

What are the areas of interest and can they make a map for us? Draw map. Make them all draw maps.

It seemed their "world" was very small. They drew crudely the platz, and the ruin beyond as solid scratches implying impassibility. They drew the river... and the Tyren area, but not the land beyond. on their side of the river they drew a spiral for "the glade of flesh" -- not that far east into the wood if one crossed the river... not far from the cliffs. They drew the Shearcliffs, and a settlement of gnolls, and what ostensibly looked like a great double door leading into the rock behind their settlement. at the midpoint of the river different captives draw different things. Lights. Fireflies. burning skulls. a woman surrounded by concentric rings. Pressed about this they say "No-one's land" -- bad spirits there, Horned one lets them stay -- we do not fear them, but if not crossing careful they kill us. Gnolls afraid of lights though. kill gnolls too, easier.

Could the witch or prisoners facilitate setting a trap for the horned one ? How powerful is the Horned one?

"We are his children, his playthings, his food. No." (one captive finds the idea so humorous he is almost useless for further interrogation.) "The one has put his evil inside us. In... here. (points to center of her chest.)" "None will betray. give yourselves to him as we have and you will understanding."

As for how powerful, the mud-elves find this humorous. "Witch says horned one invincible. His hunger is bottomless -- and he only would die by his own hand. Why don't you ask him to kill himself? See what happen." "You will see. You will know exactly how powerful. You will see."

What other treasure or items do the Mud elves have? Is ransoming an option? Can they show treaSure on the map?

More variations of more than ten. They don't seem to understand the concept of ransom even when explained. Treasure they interpret as "what belongs to the horned one." -- with two of the captives drawing a spiral over everything on the map, and two others just put an "X" on the platz. the last subject just laughed... "The treasure is in your skull, food... and WE will harvest it all."

When returning the prisoners to the vault-hole, one of the prisoners seems to get sick, or lose their nerve. An explosion of vomit pours on the brick atop the vault as his legs are re-tied. vomit and blood... and a tiny scrap of metal.

It's a chisel. The god-forsaken scum had eaten an accursed makeshift chisel. The highborn strained to hear down into the vault, and they could hear the scratching. Not at the floor, but at the portcullis. How long had they been at it? could they hope to breach that barrier -- where would they go if they did?

Raki began to re-bind the captives and prepare to cast them back down the hole, like a fisherman catching and releasing.

"See? Ol' Raki got it all under control, bruv. You wan' annuver five to give the squeeze or can we call a night?"

The Highborn could did not hide their displeasure at the state of affairs, at a situation the attolians rapidly began to put together... Raki smiled back, confused, as if the last to hear a punchline he still did not understand...
 
Nicholas, Cassandra, and Attolia's Engineer examine the "bramble gems" -- are they magical? :


Nicholas turned the strange fruit-like gem in his hand...

"The bramble-gems grow as an elliptical stack of rectangular shards that are tapered on the outside to little points, empty like a cup at one end. Quick cursory study determines that they can hold magical charge -- mages, or the Blood fountain or other mana-sources can "Fill" a Bramble gem and the energy will remain captive even as the caster recovers their power. The mana inside seems to emit a soft red glow as far out as 20-30 feet, or white if the tapered ends are filed. As an artificer, it's most practical application is a mana-battery, or maybe a light source."

Cassandra, holding one of the bramble gems -- is revisited by her vision of an intact fountain square, and 'Platz... this time, the only truly substantial thing she sees is Bramble-gems atop engraved-steel lamp-posts -- with radiant light shining from them everywhere... streetlights! She sees they were once grown to the north in great numbers -- in an area that was once not a swamp -- these organic crystals were used as lanterns!

The engineer studies the bramble-gem independent of his contemporaries...
"I don't see a magical gem, or a LAMP-SHADE or whatever it is the lass sees -- it's either a decorative raspberry or a fragmenting case. wonder how hard you'd have to hit it from the inside to get it to turn those tapers into knives? You see it too, right? Completely."

"Yeah. It's a delivery medium for filling people with little knives. right?"
 
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