Zanderaw

Surya 1505 Though the founding of Surya is shrouded in legend and mystery, its recent history is less so. For the majority of its existence, the mirrored city has restricted its citizens from leaving its central island, on the grounds that the surrounding world was corrupted beyond repair and anyone who left would return only as a spy for the nameless god. Such isolation was not conducive to the pursuit of knowledge. The years melted away uncounted, and though the city was kept pristine and beautiful the people forgot what they knew of the outside world. Thus, though Surya has stood in place for uncountable centuries, it has been barely more than a hundred years since the first Suryans made their mark on the outside world. In the year 1392, a disgruntled party of Tamas turned their backs on Mihir and crossed Arjun’s channel, striking off into the wilderness in search of a better life. The Sattva within the mirrored city were weak at the time, content to feast off the island’s bounty, and did nothing. No soldiers were sent to stop them. In time, these dissidents founded the city of Chittor on the banks of the Joor river. The settlement grew quickly, worshipping a profane god of the earth and forest. By 1420 Chittor had settled vast swaths of land across Pratyush, and Suryan-descended villages dotted the landscape. Still the Sattva remained oblivious. After another ten years, rumors of the outside world had penetrated into the mirrored city despite the priesthood’s best efforts. Trade between the Tamas on the island and the settlers beyond became difficult to control, while uncontrolled expansion continued throughout Pratyush. A town to the north, Varchas, defied the control of both Surya and Chittor and declared their own realm, in service to yet another profane god of the sea. It was Varchas that finally stirred the mirrored city to action, though it took time. Positioned as it was on valuable straits with connections to the outside world, it grew more quickly than Chittor ever had. While Chittor’s economy was agrarian, Varchas made its profit hauling exotic goods across the sea. While Chittor was peaceful, Varchas quickly amassed a large standing army. Varchaasi ships were seen in the Kumbha strait, menacing the city of cities, though they lacked the strength to assault the walls. In 1439, Varchas invaded the vastly larger Chittori territory. Their disciplined army quickly overran most of the north, and even the recalcitrant Surya could not avoid the news. Still, the city slept as the war escalated. Chittor fought back with swift cavalry, Varchas advanced with stout spearmen. By 1445, a total Varchaasi victory seemed imminent. Soldiers of Varchas march south It was only then that Surya intervened. The lazy, myopic Sattva priests had for too long stood idle while the balance of power changed on the mainland. A coalition of influential Rajas in the city rose up in the earliest known use of violence within the mirrored city. Ostensibly led by a jingoistic Sattva called Rahul Gupta, the Rajas shut the great gate of Surya to prevent anyone from escaping, and then stormed the great temple of Mihir. The realm was changed overnight. Imagine the surprise of Varchas when their undefeated army caught its first sight of Chittor, only to find that the way was blocked. All the Rajas of Surya had been gathered and had ridden hard to join the fight. At the battle of the Joor, Varchas’ legendary spearmen first encountered a match in Surya’s warriors, and Surya used the influence from their victory to demand Chittor’s allegiance. A maharajas was installed, the Elder Soul’s cult was stamped out, and the two cities at last turned their attention north. The Chittori-Suryan invasion force For nearly forty years the war raged, for Varchas had grown strong and large. But Surya had an unyielding leader in Rahul Gupta. Her armies marched through jungles and plains, her ships fought Varchas to a standstill. The city did not fall easily. The battle of Varchas was without contest the bloodiest fight of the conflict, as the worshippers of the Deep One stubbornly resisted through every street, until at last the Maharajas of Chittor finally broke the last regiment with a charge on his elephant. The war of unity came to an end in 1485. It would be years before the unfaithful cults in Varchas were truly suppressed, but for now the fighting is over, and Surya is universally recognized as the greatest city on the continent. Half a century of fighting has left their army weakened, but for the first time in the mirrored city’s immeasurable history, their interests lie abroad. With an expansionist leadership, perhaps the time for Mihir’s ascendance has come again? ---------- Surya’s influence grows, as the new settlement of Manapur erects its buildings on the shores of the Kaitna river. To the south is the largest mountain anyone has ever seen, and many of the colonists wish to go visit it. But the cavalry sent to control the expedition reins them in for now, and the town grows. News of this discovery will not take long to reach the heartlands, in any case…. Arwana Kaur, the maharajas of Varchas, returns to Surya while leaving her post in the capable hands of a deputy. Surprisingly for a woman her age, it seems she’s pregnant! The child will need to be born within the mirrored city to follow in her footsteps as a Rajas. --------- Economy Expenditure (38,000 Treasury) Fields of grain and spices are planted around Chittor, and bees cluster over them making sweet honey. [1 farm for 5,000] Despite frequent pirate raids, the settlement of Seringapatna on the Red Coast has grown significantly. Scindia is raised to a full Maharajas, and the city is recognized as a the center of a province in its own right. [15,000 gold for upgrade to city] As Seringapatna is located so strategically, merchant flock naturally to the city, ready to exploit the commerce that flows through it. [9,000 gold for merchant guild] In the growing urban center just outside Surya’s walls, artisans of every trade work to make goods for the wider realm. [7,500 gold for manufactory] [1,500 gold saved] ---------- Population 5,494,589

Surya 1504 The Maharajas’ palace in Chittor was rudimentary at best. The city was large and vital to supplying the Suryan heartlands, but it had no real wealth, and it showed. The palace was more of a wooden mansion on the river Joor, and every morning Kunwar would stand on its back porch and watch the sunrise across the water. It was a simple life, but one he enjoyed, for he was on the frontier. But that could soon change, for the city was awash with immigrants. Settlers from the banks of the Kumbha Strait had poured into Chittor for weeks, and it was all he could do to hold them back. It wouldn’t be right to claim more land without approval from the capital, but soon enough he might have no choice. They were ambitious people, and they thought they would find riches beyond the river. “Sir?” Kunwar did not turn around, for the golden glow of Mihir on the Joor was too captivating. But he knew it would be Ravi, his most capable underling. “Your guest is at the docks. Should I send an escort?” Kunwar smiled, and turned. “No, I think I’ll go myself. Wonderful morning for a ride in any case.” “Of course, sir.” The burly major looked concerned. “Will you be indisposed all day?” “Most of it, I should think. Is there a problem?” “No, sir. Not yet anyway. It’s just the inlanders are packing their bullocks. They say they’ve hired a barge and they’ll be crossing before no-” He stopped, for Kunwar had slammed his hand down on the verandah railing. “I’ve had far too much of these people, major!” “Yes, sir.” “No patience at all!” “Yes, sir.” “Don’t they understand these things take time?” “Apparently not, sir.” The Maharajas grumbled something about discipline and the rule of law. “Well major, I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of dealing with this. When one sends an emergency message to Surya, one expects it to be treated as an emergency. If those people want to cross the river I certainly can’t be held responsible.” The major, still standing at attention, seemed to disapprove, but said nothing. “Of course if they do cross and die,” Kunwar continued, “it’ll be my fault regardless. No, we have to act. Well, you do.” “Sir?” “Someone needs to go east with them. Can’t be me. No, I’ll give you the 2nd Lancers, and you can try to keep them safe.” “Can’t imagine there’s much to be safe from over there,” Ravi replied. “But I’ll go.” “Good. You did well in command here, Ravi. Keep order, make sure the settlers keep performing the proper rites, and try and direct them somewhere suitable. If it’s a success, I’ll see if I can’t have you made Maharajas.” “Yes, sir. Thank you sir.” “Dismissed, major.” “Yes, sir.” Kunwar sighed. Perhaps at last this ordeal would be over. He hadn’t realize how much of a toll it had taken on him, but the thought of being rid of thousands of refugees instantly made him breath easier. With a whistle, he called for a servant to ready his horse. Then he left his meager palace and rode to the docks, where Arwana was waiting for him. ---------- An uneventful year in the grand history of Surya and its colonies. Though vicious raids menace the north, the realm as a whole prospers. Despite the aggression, the settlement of Seringapatna has grown considerably in size, and Surya dispatches an experienced general by the name of Sarjee Scindia to manage its defense and development. With such a responsibility lifted from her shoulders the Maharajas of Varchas is able to travel more, and pays a visit to her friend in Chittor. The steam monsoon hangs particularly heavy this year over the capital, and perhaps that contributes to migration away from the heartlands. A group of settlers strike out this year from the plains between Surya and Chittor, and head east. They hope for fertile soil and unclaimed lands. --------- Economy Expenditure (42,000 Treasury) Accursed pirates. They cannot run forever…. [2,000 gold.] In time, a Suryan army will cross the strait, and Suryan plows will till the soil where pirates now hide. Unfortunately the interior is more pressing for the time being, but the Maharajas have not forgotten the plight of what they call the Red Coast. In the south, the city of Chittor recruits and equips an entirely new unit of lancers, which immediately rides north to reinforce the garrison at Seringapatna. With any luck, increased patrols will lessen the pirate threat. [5,000 gold, T3 light cavalry] It comes through the gates of Surya daily. Chicken, pork, lamb for the priests. Fresh fruit, plucked from the rainforest and cultivated on fertile ground. Millet and rice, in cartloads so big they need teams of elephants to be moved. Fish, dragged from the sea and cooked in ovens as hot as the sun. [6 farms for 30,000 gold] The lush wilderness of Pratyush beckons. Maharajas Kunwar of Chittor gives shelter to a party of settlers passing through his city, and furthermore directs his deputy Ravi Singh to take command of the movement. Together with 500 Chittori lancers, the expedition heads east. [5,000 gold for a new settlement] Population: 5,135,130

”Come to my embrace, O mortals, Make right what the gods have made wrong. Drink deep of my wisdom and strength, For lonely is your path, and long.” -The Eleventh Column At last, Sylvaniel’s ambition spurs her to achievements worthy of her vast ability. The Nightweaver gazes approvingly at his servant. She knows the nature of the universe better than anyone, and he can think of no one capable of standing up to her. Though they do not directly speak often since her return to the surface, she can feel his presence when she sleeps, and understands his approval. Soon, of course, Wol-Kot and all the other gods will once more go dormant. If she is still alive when he wakes, he may have another gift for her. For now though, the dreamer rests. Almost. Perhaps it is an aftershock of his massive activity in recent times. Perhaps he is simply amusing himself. But in a shallow cavern of the Underpath, there is a strange taste to the water. Some of the insects there drink it, and grow larger than before....much larger. Over time, some get to be well over twice the height of the average Nyrnen, and it is only then that one lays a large silk-wrapped egg. For months the egg sits in place, dormant and slowly growing. But at last, a pincer cuts its way out from the inside, and then another. And from the egg emerges a giant ant-like creature, and she cries out to the cavern, christening herself Xunkiira, First Queen of the Khepri. Within moments she finds food, snatching a giant beetle in mantis-like claws. Within hours, she has laid not only her first egg, but her first five. Within days, the eggs begin to hatch, spawning mindless drones enslaved to her will. Within weeks, they swarm over the caverns, carving new burrows to house hundreds of eggs, hauling back prey to feed the brood. Their rate of growth seems only to be increasing with the resources available, and seems unstoppable until at the end of the year Xunkiira lays an egg too large to be one of the usual drones. When it hatches it becomes clear what has happened, for the newborn emerges fully aware and names herself Kerkhakrexik. At first, the two queens get along, each curious about the other. But there is something instinctual in both to prevent the friendship from lasting. Soon enough, the new queen and her children begin to challenge the old. She covets her mother’s space, her resources, her hive, and the two attack each other viciously, their minions spilling each other’s blood in a useless, petty war. At last, the younger queen retreats into exile, forming a new hive some distance away where she can live in peace....until one of them runs out of room to expand. Yet Kerkhakrexik, too, soon lays a queen egg, and the cycle repeats. And below it all, the dreaming god chuckles. ---------- The Khepri are a race of few minds and many bodies. Like anything which has felt the touch of Wol-Kot, the sentient queens are born with a strong affinity for the dream dimension, and it is through that link that they are able to communicate with their mindless children. Though each queen is physically formidable, the metabolic demands of producing hundreds of eggs mean that they generally remain sedentary, sending their drones to gather resources. Resources are usually the limiting factor in their expansion, for the Khepri are extraordinarily rapid breeders. Even so, the reality of exponential growth would soon see them cover the earth, were it not for one simple fact: there is more than one queen, and each is instinctively driven to expand even against her sisters. Soon enough, of course, the more ruthless queens learn to kill every queen egg they lay, lest their domain be torn apart upon its hatching. But this comes in tandem with another piece of instinctive knowledge: that each queen can be something more. Indeed, a newborn queen is merely the first stage of the Khepri life cycle. Should a hive grow large enough, with enough resources stored, its queen can enter an intensely-demanding metamorphosis. Though still in contact with her drones, she will be unable to produce more, locked away inside a cocoon and fed pre-digested food by her children. After lying dormant for one to two years, she emerges larger and deadlier than before. More importantly, a second-stage queen is both exceptionally long-lived and more psionically potent. If she is able to capture another queen alive, (or birth one), she will be able to compel its loyalty, rendering an unruly rival into an unquestioning vassal. Thus a hive may include many queens, though only one is truly in charge. But there is a third stage, one which is significantly more difficult to reach. A second-stage queen of a truly massive hive can enter metamorphosis again. If she were to do so, the ripples across Wol-Kot’s dimension would quickly make it known to all other queens, and the immense metabolic needs of the metamorphosis would make compelling the loyalty of any other queens impossible. Almost certainly, the combined might of the Khepri queens would be put to work putting a stop to it, and well it should: at the third stage, after ten years of metamorphosis, a queen’s reach would stretch across the world-sphere, and all her sisters would find themselves instantly subordinated under her will. May the other races pray this never happens, for the emergence of a third-stage queen would see the Khepri become a plague on the world, an unstoppable, unified swarm controlled by a deathless single consciousness. For now though, they rapidly expand and bicker among themselves. There is nothing to fear here. [CREATE RACE: 10 AP] – Wol-Kot creates the insectoid Khepri, in a hex somewhere near Lavrat-Es’ continent. [0 AP SAVED]

Surya Nobody knows when the Mirrored City was built. Over the years its influence and wealth has grown, and there is no one still alive who can recall it not being there, but the story of the city’s founding is told only in legend. It is a legend which children hear before they can fully speak, and which each of the faithful never once doubts, for they can feel its truthfulness in their bones. And through all the stories that make up the myth of founding, one name is always remembered most: Arjun, the Chosen. The scriptures differ on who he was in his early life: some say he was the greatest general of a mighty kingdom, others that he was a mere farmer. It is of little consequence, for Arjun was a humble man with a great love for his family and home. A great archer and warrior, the stories of his deeds before the dark times are as varied as they are unreliable. It is said that those who would one day become Suryans lived in the north long ago, as part of some great empire. There they prospered, and the hero who would later save them grew strong and wise. But all was not well, for though they were the beloved of Mihir they were menaced by dark forces. Though they did not know it yet, the good ruler of their realm had been toppled, replaced by the malevolent Taamas, a servant of the nameless god of night. Taamas wasted no time in fulfilling his dark master’s wishes, and calamity struck the empire. Wild magic ran free, ruining harvests and twisting men into hideous beasts. But the people who would be Suryan were devoted to their god, and they defied the orders to tear down their temples. Taamas was swift in his vengeance, and smashed the rebellion. Though they fought bravely led by their future savior, he was but a man, and the cause was hopeless. Most were enslaved. Some escaped into exile, and among these were Arjun and his wife, Panchali. Over sea and desert they fled, mountain and forest, and still they were pursued. Nobody can say for sure why Taamas seemed so intent on capturing the young Arjun, but in games of gods mortals can only choose a side and obey. The god of night had won, and every sunset Arjun wished he could simply lay down and rest. Yet every dusk Taamas’ servants would appear on the horizon with murder in their eyes. So Arjun fled, and fled without rest, until he was forced to carry his wife on his shoulders. It was only then, when he surrendered his last bit of hope, that Mihir spoke to him. In the wilderness, with demons closing in, Mihir’s light suddenly cut through blackest night. His command was simple: that Arjun do his duty, destroy his pursuers and free his people. And Arjun felt a terrible shame at having run from battle, and he turned to fight. And as he turned, golden bands wrapped around his arms, and his bow burst into cleansing flames. And his pursuers fled before him and died by the dozens, and he set out for home as Arjun the Chosen, with a great vengeance in his heart. On the ashes of the empire’s capital, a great battle was fought. Arjun freed his people from slavery and led them against Taamas, and though they were hopelessly outnumbered the power of Mihir coursed through his veins. The faithful fought for three days and three nights, until at last the Chosen reached his foe. With a final burst of energy, Arjun slew Taamas, but in the effort took grievous injuries. The realm was lost. The nameless god of night had secured its victory, and Arjun found only collapse and decay where once there was prosperity. He found his strength fading, the wounds of war festering. But guided by their god, he and his people turned south and fled across the sea. The servants of Taamas were wary, but were soon spurred forward, and again Arjun’s people were pursued, until at last Mihir led them to the island that would be their home. It was here that the Chosen spoke to his people for the last time. Mihir’s light was fading across the world, he said, and with no one to fight for it. They would build a city here, a shining city in which the sun would never set. Only then could they weather the storm that was coming, for the servants of night drew ever closer. And when the time was right and this city could again carry the Bright One’s will out into the world, he would return. Mihir would choose a champion, and Arjun would be reincarnated to finally banish the night forever. He never lived to see his city completed. But the channel to Surya’s east has borne his name ever since, however long that may have been. Every Suryan knows the story. Every Suryan believes it. It is destiny, and when Arjun returns to the world to lead them to victory, they wish him to be impressed with what he sees. --------- Economy Expenditure (34,000 Treasury) The peace of the earth. The warmth of the sun. Mihir’s land grows bountiful and rich, and His people dream of everlasting light. [6 farms for 30,000 gold] [4,000 gold saved]

The Han Dominion Autumn, HSC 11 Year of the Dog Yimu was never a man to feel guilty. But these days, he was beginning to feel tired. Yuguo floated in the space before him, and for a long moment he considered going home. Perhaps if he decloaked now and presented himself, the Lithruans would be merciful. But Yuguo was ruled by Dai Hanying now, and in truth he knew he would most likely be killed on sight. No, he could never go home. Still, he stared at the planet. The traffic around its atmosphere was busy, busier than it had ever been under the Dominion. Even today, it held more Han than anywhere else in the universe. Yimu’s father had led them there, and then died there himself. His brother had died there, by Yimu’s own hand. His wife had died there too, murdered by bloodthirsty clones who targeted schools and hospitals. His son….was alive and well, but the last time they spoke had been here. Nearly all those relationships were victims of his own ambition. And ever since the war, that ambition had robbed him of the planet itself. He would not bow to an alien dictator, and so he could never return. Such a high price, and for what? The Han shook his head, and had the Black Fleet’s destroyer turn to leave the system. He would return to Hanguo, where a thousand ongoing operations required his attention. All of them would lead to more deaths. Few would yield results. But still, Yimu would give the orders, and when those plots came up against dead ends, he would dream up new ones. It was an endless cycle that had killed billions without their knowledge and gained Yimu nothing, but he would never stop. It was his nature. ---------- The galaxy quakes with fear as they learn what Shi Yimu has already discovered: that the Ar’gakari never captured their own guardian, that in fact a guardian cannot be captured, that these invaders have been sent by their gods as nothing more than tools. As they mobilize to fight the outsiders, Yimu returns to his own domain to rest and brood. The Han want nothing of this war, indeed can do nothing, and they turn their attention inward. A vast sense of ennui seems to take the upper ranks of government, centered around one man who is tired of losing. In this atmosphere, Shi Feng is a refreshing source of energy. Still barely on speaking terms with his father, Feng makes inroads with the Dominion government and quickly gains responsibility expanding the state’s military capabilities. Unless the Jinyiwei becomes suddenly more willing to exercise its influence, there may soon be a resurgence of factional politics.... ---------- Han Stats Link: Summary: Apotheosis. [25 AP] The Dominion’s shipyards are full to capacity, producing more light freighters. [38 AP] The shipyard already in expansion is expanded more. [3 AP, it needs another 2 for SL4] With Indian refugees flooding into the Dominion, the old colony ship being kept in reserve is sent south. As the Dominion lacks itoron and refuses to trade for it, the ship has particular instructions to survey all potential systems for resources. [0 AP, founding colony.]

Surya “They were not receptive.” Kunwar chuckled and sipped from a cup of creamy, spiced tea. “Dirty pirates.” “What else could you expect?” His host replied. “They’re Tamas, and criminals already. They don’t understand anything but force.” Kunwar looked up skeptically at the woman. Arwana Kaur had been a beautiful woman in her youth - he should know, since the two had grown up together. These days her age was beginning to show, and her face was marred by a near-permanent scowl. The realities of governorship had taken their toll, but still she was his friend. Now the two sat on a sun-baked terrace in her city, Varchas. Ships came and went, whether to sea or into the Kumbha strait, where the mirrored city waited. To the north, they would be sailing through the Sea of Chandra, where the Red Suns would hunt them. Perhaps, though, they would hunt them a little less now that Kunwar had thrown them from the Suryan coast. “They’ll be back, you know.” Arwana’s tone was more distasteful than concerned. “And while you’re back in Chittor getting fat, I’m stuck defending a coastline twice as long.” “You did ask for this posting.” She grumbled. “It’s fine. Maybe this means something will finally happen around here. I wasn’t built for managing tax policy, Kunwar.” “In that case, you’re welcome.” Kunwar grinned. Arwana may have disliked being a bureaucrat, but she wasn’t bad at it. When a Suryan army had taken this city fifteen years prior it had been poor and disgusting, with the residents openly defecating in the streets. Now it was the gateway to Pratyush and Chandra, nearly as rich as Surya itself, and the streets were pristine. It put his own work in Chittor to shame. She looked at him, and smiled for the first time that day. “Why don’t you stay longer? A few days can’t hurt.” And he truly wanted to. It had been almost a decade since the two had last had time together. Instead Kunwar shook his head. He’d been away from his post for too long already. He had a ship booked for the next morning. Surya would want his report. There were a hundred reasons he had to go. Even so, as he left he realized just how remote Chittor really was. He really must come home more often. ---------- Even as their soldiers strike out against pirates in the north, Mihir’s faithful turn their attention inward. On the coasts of the Sea of Surya, more and more citizens take advantage of the Sattva’s land grants, and farms spring up to supply the mirrored city. Not just rice is raised here but fruit, livestock, spices gathered from every corner of the realm. And why not? There is little to threaten the city, not yet. So the three castes work in peace, and savor the Bright One’s sweet bounty. --------- Economy Expenditure (36,500 Treasury) Settlers from the core territories are recruited and sent north, where they claim an outpost on the eastern peninsula of the former pirate lands. [5,000 gold for an outpost on PoC] As soldiers will be needed to defend the new territory, the city of Varchas recruits a new regiment of light spearmen, to help keep order over their stretch of coast. [1,000 gold, basic light infantry] Most of the realm’s income goes to further developing agriculture on the coasts surrounding the mirrored city. Mihir’s chosen will prosper. [30,000 gold for 6 farm districts] [500 gold saved.]

Surya Kunwar Viswan, Maharajas of Chittor, wiped sweat from his brow. The steam monsoon was at its most intense, and so the air was chokingly hot, the humid heat that made a man feel he was being boiled alive. Yet to Kunwar, it signalled that he was almost home. A year he had spent in the darkness, serving Mihir at the cost of his own purity, and though he tried to rule Chittor with his best judgment he knew that the longer he stayed away from Surya the more that judgement would be tainted. “When was the last time you were sanctified, Ravi?” He asked his second suddenly, turning to face the man who rode beside him. Ravi was burly for a cavalry officer, with a large waxed mustache that now repelled drops of the man’s sweat. Ravi thought. “Five years, maybe? Not easy making the trip. Chittor’s so busy these days.” Kunwar shook his head disapprovingly. “Dangerous, captain. Dangerous. At least you’re here now.” The air was hazy courtesy of the monsoon, but even so the hot sun blazed down on his skin. Further east, he knew, it would meet cooler winds and the steam would condense into rain, watering the plains around Chittor. When he returned to his post, there would be a bountiful harvest in the making. “Nearly there, I think,” he commented, and as if in answer the haze cleared for a moment, and light glinted into his eyes. The glittering Kumbha strait lay before him, and on the other side, the greatest city in the world. Walls of Surya, eastern water gate Surya could not be missed even from this distance, for it was the mirrored city, where the light of Mihir never faded. Each tower and house within the walls was covered from top to bottom with mirrors of the finest quality, strategically angled to spread the light of bonfires across the city at night. In that way one city on the earth was sheltered from the night, its people untainted. But in the day, the mirrors reflected the sun outward, warning all that they were approaching a wonder of the world. Kunwar, like all Rajas, had grown up inside the walls, but he was in awe nevertheless whenever he returned. “You see, Ravi! Mihir reaches out to us!” He spurred his horse forward, while Ravi followed slightly less enthusiastically. ---------- It was another two hours before they reached the strait, and another hour after that before they could take a ferry to the city docks, but when they finally stepped through the shining gates Kunwar was no less enthusiastic. He yearned to step through the fire unharmed, to be sanctified as soon as possible. Unfortunately, he had barely stepped foot inside the mirrored city before a bearded Sattva approached him. Purification would have to wait, for the highest of the priests wished to speak to him. In a stone-carved room illuminated with fires and more mirrors, he found the man. Chanda Mazumdar had not been high sun-seer for long, but he was in his position for a reason. Kunwar had not met the man since his ascension, but he knew better than to underestimate him. “We have not seen you in some time, Maharajas.” The Sun-Seer was at prayer before a large open window, and did not turn. Kunwar bowed his turbaned head nonetheless. “Chittor is demanding, Holiness. Surya needs its supplies. I try to return each year.” “I see Arwana nearly every month.” Kunwar suppressed his annoyance. “Varchas is up the strait. It is not such a difficult trip.” But knowing the Sattva would not accept such an answer, he went on. “I have no excuse, Holiness. But my loyalty is to Mihir, as always.” “Good.” The priest nodded, and got to his feet. When he turned, Kunwar saw an old and stern man with a painted forehead, and a long white beard. “It is good that you are here now, Kunwar,” Mazumdar called him by his first name. “After you are purified, I have a job for you.” “In the city?” “No, north.” The sun-seer stepped closer. “Pirates.” Kunwar frowned. “I would think,” he replied, “that the maharajas of Varchas would be better suited to such a task.” The priest responded with a full-bellied laugh. “Have you met Arwana? No, she’s not suitable. We don’t have the men to waste on the kind of assault she’d try, and besides...these thieves are an opportunity.” “You want me to make a deal?” “I want you to demand a deal, Kunwar. Mihir does not barter with criminals.” Kunwar was silent. “You will take an expedition north, and you will tell them that Mihir’s protection falls upon them. Henceforth, they will be guarded from any who might menace them on land. But in exchange…” He smiled. “A tithe of their loot must be sent to Surya each year. And of course, any of them who attack our ships must be turned over, in the future.” “Steep terms, Holiness.” “The thousand spears behind you should prove persuasive. But try not to need them.” Kunwar raised an eyebrow, but nodded. The infantry regiments of Surya all came from Varchas, and so were under the command of Arwana Kaur, the city’s maharajas. She had a temper, and he suspected she wouldn’t be pleased that they were being borrowed. “I’ll go to Varchas at once, then.” He was not worried about Chittor. It was about time Ravi had a taste of governorship anyway. Still, as the sun-seer wrote out the orders for him, he could not help but feel apprehensive. It was the darkness infesting him, surely. The sanctification ceremony could not come quickly enough. ---------- Proud, wealthy, and sprawling, the realm of Surya is nevertheless unready for conflict. There is much to do within its borders, and so this year the Sattva of the mirrored city command that commerce among their subjects be allowed to blossom. The Rajas interpret this by implementing their own merchant guilds loyal to the faith, and by granting land to the Tamas, that they might prosper and know Mihir’s grace. Economy Expenditure (45,000 Treasury) A merchant’s guild is established in each of the three cities under Mihir: Surya, Varchas and Chittor. [27,000] The farms around Chittor are expanded, with more rice fields planted every day. [15,000] Kunwar Aswan leads an expedition north, with 500 light cavalry lancers and 1,000 spearmen. He is to demand to meet representatives of the pirate lords there, and present Mihir’s generous terms. [No expenditure] Tamas traders from Varchas soon arrive on the shores of the Xian Kingdom, the Order of Elders, and the Surukai. They seek profit, and wish to open up various trading ventures. [No expenditure.] [3,000 saved]

Nation Name: Surya BRIEF History: Surya, the mirrored city. Surya, the city of eternal light. For centuries, the greatest of the west’s capitals has sat on the Kumbha Strait, the bridge between the twin continents of Pratyush and Chandra. (Known as Esman and Golun to outsiders.) It lords over the jungles and hot plains that surround it, just as Mihir the Bright One lords over the world each day. None can doubt its splendor, nor escape its armed servants, who have so bravely brought neighboring Varchas and Chittor into the fold. By day, a ship can see Surya from miles away, for the many towers of the city are covered in mirrors which scatter Mihir’s light in every direction. By night, the mirrors serve a different purpose, for the purifying light of Mihir must never fade. In Surya, bonfires are lit each sunset, and their warmth refracts throughout the mirrored city. It is a wonder beyond any in the western world, and the surrounding land is kept in constant awe. To the north is Varchas, city of merchants and explorers. To the south is Chittor, providing the eternal city with great shipments of supplies. Nation Culture: To be touched by darkness is to be tainted, for the darkness is alive and seeks to rob you of Mihir’s gifts. None understand this better than the Sattva, the pure. The priests of Surya are born within the city, and must avoid leaving lest they become unfit to channel Mihir’s grace. When one is seen abroad they are constantly surrounded by candles and mirrors, in a shallow imitation of the sun’s judgement. The Sattva are revered, and spend their days paying tribute to the Bright One and seeking to spread His will. But a city cannot survive closed from the world. That is the reason for the sacrifice of the Rajas, the Sanctified. They too are born within the mirrored city, and so come into the world untainted. But a Rajas does not fear the darkness as the Sattva do. Instead they go out into the world as warriors, as kings, to brave the night’s poison in the service of Mihir. They are however permitted to return to Surya, in fact encouraged to do so in pilgrimage lest they fully lose themselves to darkness. To a man, they are devoted servants of the Bright One, but they can never be permitted to defile Him by channeling His power. All others are Tamas. Born beyond the walls of the holy city or else having turned to apostasy, they are forever torn between day and night, and may choose to serve either. A Tamas cannot live permanently within Surya, but they are permitted to visit in order to trade and receive blessings. They make up the vast majority of Surya’s realm, and are largely devoted its cause...at least when the Rajas are watching. Human Or Humagi (Describe Humagi): Human – By Mihir’s grace, the people of Surya remain untainted by darkness. Their eyes are bright with righteous faith, their skin dark from the warmth of their lord. Nation Government System: Caste-based theocracy: The Sattva are the highest caste and their word is law. But the Rajas function as de facto rulers, for only they leave the capital regularly. Economy: 6: The twin continents of Pratyush and Chandra are a land of natural wealth. The jungles teem with exotic animals and timber, while plentiful rain and fertile soil lend themselves to farming. The large population are willing to pay Surya’s taxes, for Mihir’s splendor is clear to all. Education: 1: Outside Surya, the farmers think little and know less. Inside, the Sattva turn to their god while the Rajas are concerned with practical matters. Most innovation is stamped out as heresy. Size (include rough area on map): 8: Surya rules a sprawling, agrarian swath of jungle and hot plains, where rain is plentiful and people more so. The Kumbha Strait divides its territory, but due to the city’s strategic position this is more of an advantage than anything else. Military: 2: Three units of spearmen, two of light cavalry. Two cogs. (Total upkeep 2,000 gold) Mysticism: 4: MIHIR SEES ALL. MIHIR GUIDES ALL. Key Figure 1: High Sun-Seer Chanda Mazumdar Key Figure 2: Arwana Kaur, Maharajas of Varchas Key Figure 3: Kunwar Viswan, Maharajas of Chittor Unique Unit: War elephants: massive, aggressive, and deceptively fast, the elephants of Pratyush have long been used as mounts by the natives. With their vitals protected from spears by thick armor, and archers and pikes on their backs, they are a terrifying sight for any opposing army. The Rajas of Surya train them to go where directed and to smash enemy formations with long, fierce tusks. It does, however, take practice and a good deal of nerve to stand on the back of these beasts and fight. They are not cheap. Hidden Fruit: Lichi

blow it out your ass

Blow it out your ass

”Offer to me your Body, your Strength, Offer to me your Mind, your Will, Cast your dreams to my abyss, And they will rise as something more.” -The Tenth Column In the beginning, Kaha-Nu-Buhu gifted all living creatures with a spark of the divine. This gift was the soul ichor which now infused the world, and it was an act of profanity. That one god should lord over the essence of mortals for all eternity was never in the plan of Ao, and more importantly it was offensive to Wol-Kot. For eons he had watched his wretched sister claim the right to what was not hers. He had long thought and dreamed to himself of how such a mistake of creation could be remedied. But the laws of nature were becoming set in their ways, and only through great power could they be altered. So he had slept. He had slept, and in Soth-Kogarth a great reserve of strength had formed, straining at its bounds, eager to be unleashed. In the days before his plans come to fruition, the signs begin to appear on the surface in the form of strange dreams, not limited to a single area as when before he visited Yngbald’s forest, but now across the entire World-Sphere. There is a mountain in Soth-Kogarth, a great craggy mountain of black glass, and it screams in terrible agony. Above it is the red moon Vulu-Marama, its light casting eerie shadows on the still landscape. Each night for three days, the mountain screams in the minds of sleeping mortals. On the fourth night the screaming is nearly unbearable, and at last the ordeal comes to a crescendo. The mountain shatters, crumbling to its roots as from its crystalline form writhes a great worm-like horror, its gaping maw gnashing hatefully in all directions at once. Rising, the creature devours the red moon, letting out a final shriek of victory as it collapses to where the mountain once was. There is only an abyss below, dark and yawning, and the worm falls, out of sight, into a vortex of deep fog. With that, thousands of mortals wake up in cold sweats to discover that Vulu-Marama is still in the sky, where it should be. But all is not the same, and those with the means and knowledge to recognize it speak of a massive wave of psionic energy emanating from the deep earth. The other gods, for their part, know immediately what has happened. The vast reserve of power held within Soth-Kogarth has collapsed in on itself, and the void left in its place hungers for more. None can tell what Wol-Kot plans for those who fall into its clutches, but the endless vortex now pulls on the souls of all mortals, opposing Kaha-Nu-Buhu’s intended afterlife. In most cases, of course, her claim is absolute. But those who have dabbled in blood magic see the vortex when they sleep, and find themselves wondering what lies on the other side. ---------- The night of the vortex’s birth, Sylvaniel was awake, anticipating that her god was soon to do something major and insulating herself from direct exposure. Even so, she felt the outpouring of strength from below and knew that there had been a change. Around her, the inhabitants of her enclave tossed and turned, but she merely turned her eyes to the stars. A flash of crimson above, and a streak of light through the sky. Something had fallen from the heavens. It crashed into the dunes nearby in a plume of sand, and when she went to investigate, she found a small stone, only the size of her fist. Three words were carved around its widest point, in the script of Wol-Kot’s temple. “For your conquests.” But the rock gave off no particular energy, and she could not detect any consciousness or use in it. A moment more, and the sand around her began to shift. She stood still as a floor of smooth basalt emerged below her, and a pedestal with markings rose. And as she had with Yngbald’s eye, she set this rock too where she was commanded. And the rock glowed red with hunger, and the script on the pedestal glowed with it, and the script said: “Behold, mortal, the SOUL STONE.” Around Sylvaniel, the floor was rising, and walls of more basalt formed to surround her. In the town, she could hear sleeping Kyrkal cry out in terror. Before her, the script continued to form. ”The power to correct the wrongs of creation lies before you, crystallized so that no man or god can destroy it. Only the stone on which you stand can awaken it, bathed in blood given willingly.” There was a sharp edge at the near side of the pedestal, and the priestess assumed she was expected to use it. As the first drop of her blood fell to the floor, the walls suddenly burst to life with carvings, glowing red. Now there was a power surrounding the stone, and truly surrounding everything around her. More of the script appeared near the ceiling. ”This place shall be your home, your palace, the seat of a new rule that will bring order to life and death. You must spread the stone’s influence, for all the souls of all who die in its realm will be spared the tyranny of the Red Lady. You shall learn how, in these halls.” A basalt door had formed, and now slammed open. Sylvaniel turned from the stone’s chamber and stepped into a long hallway covered in the script of Wol-Kot. Some was knowledge she had already learned: rites of blood magic, to be performed on the soul ichor of others or oneself. But some was more practical: designs of great black obelisks, bathed in sacrificial blood, to extend the reach of this new gift. Sylvaniel smiled. At last, it was becoming clear what her god desired. And as she thought on how long she had waited for this, she stepped out into the morning light and looked up at the black structure that would be her throne. [CREATE FORCE: 20 AP] – The endless vortex, a void in Soth-Kogarth beyond which nobody knows what exists, begins to pull at the souls of the mortal realm. While the vast majority are still tied to their creator, those who have severed their ichor from Kaha-Nu-Buhu through blood magic are helpless before the new divine force. When they die, their souls are cast adrift, and slowly but inexorably pulled to the realm of Wol-Kot. [CREATE ARTIFACT: 6 AP] – The Soul Stone, a manifestation of Wol-Kot’s will which requires monuments of sanctified basalt to properly channel. In its area of influence, which may be expanded with the construction of such monuments, the soul ichor of those who perish is ripped from its proper course to the Ruby Lady, and pulled toward the stone itself. Clearly, it is the Dreamstalker’s intention that this flow of ichor should eventually go to him, but in fact it has a tendency to linger around the artifact itself. With a great number of deaths occurring in the influenced area, blood magic performed close to the stone could be exceptionally potent. [SHAPE LAND: 4 AP] – As the first of the Soul Stone’s monuments, and as a standing command to his most favored mortal, Wol-Kot raises a massive basalt pyramid around the stone, on the outskirts of Sylvaniel’s enclave. The interior contains enough rooms for the functions of palace and temple, with cavernous halls and private chambers, but the centerpiece is clearly the tiny chamber at its center which holds the fist-sized glowing rock. If the stone were used as intended, the building could soon be host to great power, but for now it is little more than just that...a building. 0 AP SAVED

”My siblings are weakness incarnate before the greater truth. You are weakness incarnate before the greater truth. I, Wol-Kot, gift you salvation.” -The Temple Walls Sylvaniel had spent an eon in the darkness at the center of the earth. She did not eat, and she did not sleep, apart from her walks through the endless expanse of Soth-Kogarth. Though the temple never increased in size, somehow there were always new hallways to pace down, new records to peruse. She had read every rune, every magical incantation in the building, and practiced them to perfection. Over centuries of watching from afar, she knew of the races which infested her planet, and of the paths she could take to reach them. But she had become bored. The useless dreams of long-dead mortals were of little interest to her, except to remind her how petty the lives of her ancient kin had been. So it gave her great joy when finally, after hundreds of years, her god spoke to her again. ”It is time, Sylvaniel,” the voice of Wol-Kot echoed from the walls, cool and steady. “You know all that I do of this world. It is time to return.” And Sylvaniel replied. ”What must I do?” Laughter came in reply, and the Nyrnen thought she saw the glowing scriptures flash brighter for a moment. ”What would you like to do? I have watched you, Sylvaniel. You yearn to use the power I have gifted you. You would see mortals bow before your crest, fear you like a force of nature.” He paused, still amused. ”It is as I said to you all those centuries ago. As you will it – so shall it be.” Mist gathered in the temple halls, obscuring the way farther in. Sylvaniel’s heart pounded in anticipation. At last. Power sizzled around her as she once again sat in the stone boat across the quicksilver lake. The temple’s light flickered behind her. ”Make of the world what you will, but do not die!” Called the voice of her god. ”I shall have need of you soon!” [COMMAND GOD-TOUCHED: 1 AP] – Wol-Kot is planning something. He expends a minuscule effort to speak to his Nyrnen servant. She is to go to the surface, anywhere on the surface, and wait for him to speak to her again. In the meantime, she is free to make the most of her time....

The Han Dominion Summer, HSC 11 Year of the Rooster “You’re certain about this, Syrz?” “The dirty Attusians think themselves invincible! If we want our allies to help, I have no choice. I will prove them wrong, colonel.” The Rontan stormed out of the room, and Hu Yan’s concerned expression faded into one of amusement. If he had doubted the Jinyiwei’s ability to stir up chaos in the past, that notion had been dispelled the moment he’d returned to Han space. The people of Rontus were at each other’s throats, and no one seemed to notice that the belligerents were the two superpowers where Han investment had fallen most heavily. But the job was not done, and so Hu Yan had been sent as an advisor to the Kachak pact, where he was to keep them convinced that the war could be won. As he exited General Syrz’s headquarters, he passed two disappointed-looking Ganvius observers, and winked. In the distance was the fortified city of Jetklan, still smoking from Attusian air raids. It had been taken the day before, and now Kachak was going to take it back. If he had been maybe half as smart as he was, Yan thought, he might have liked to be a soldier. There was something thrilling in watching the vast cogs of an army whirr into motion, the massed strength of a nation hundreds of millions strong. The Kachak pact was made up of several such nations, and even though not all had yet joined the fighting, the ones who had still brought enough determination to go around. Yan had watched three major clashes since he arrived, and in each one they’d suffered abominable casualties. Attuse was the wealthy, advanced “heart of Rontus” after all. But it made not a shred of difference to how Kachak fought. Today, like before, they loaded their soldiers into armored cars, massed tanks together, and the constant rumble of artillery raised to a deafening thunder. Yan wanted them to win: though he could say nothing about it, Chan was on the other side of the lines, working the same mission for the enemy. Every night he called her, and he didn’t think he could stand it if she was able to gloat again over the quality of her advice. That’s why he had done a bit of extra work this time. Kachak’s assault started the moment the first rays of sun crept over the nearby mountains. A massive tank column hundreds strong surged into no-mans-land, while thousands of infantry advanced alongside, backed by thousands more. In the highlands around them the fight would have gone on through the night, and Yan was happy not to have been there: despite their short stature the Rontan were fierce fighters, curling like pillbugs to roll through hails of bullets. An infantry battle on Rontus was a chaotic melee, and few made it out unscathed. He and the Ganvius observers were to watch at a safe difference, and he chatted with them in a cordoned-off area for foreigners, exchanging empty pleasantries on how unfortunate the war was. “Senseless butchery,” said one. “Pointless slaughter,” said another. “Such a waste,” agreed Yan, his attention elsewhere. On the north side of the battlefield, to his left, there was an even but sheltered patch of ground in the arid highlands, overlooking both the city and the eastern road into it. It would make a perfect place for heavy artillery to isolate the target. Had the general taken note of his offhand remarks the night before? In the valley, the tanks began to run into resistance. Attuse had worked quickly: a minefield was already in place blocking their advance as much as Kachak’s. They must have been expecting a counterattack after all, and Yan realized Chan knew him better than he gave her credit for. The thought only made him more determined to win. General Syrz was ruthless. With their armor held up the infantry advanced straight into the minefield, clearing it by hand or by their sacrifice. Every so often the roar of jets would fill the sky, and Attusian bombers would sweep in to defend their gains. Yet still the soldiers of Kachak pushed forward. Yan watched a dozen tanks fall to an ambush through his binoculars, and then surmised that the Attusians had been subsequently surrounded and caught. The opposition was effective - if they could reinforce their numbers, and they usually could, they would beat Syrz’s back. Now the army was at the city outskirts. Machine gun fire belched from garrisoned buildings, and the advance slowed. This army had been in this position before, and it had never turned out well. Attuse had maintained air superiority for the entire war thus far, and the general had few options to clear strong defensive positions. The tanks would penetrate a few blocks, but beyond that the city would be a death trap. Suddenly though the Han’s heart leapt, as despite the odds The Kachakers were receiving precision support against the defenses. He looked to the highlands with his binoculars, and grinned with excitement. Somehow, in the night, Kachak had taken his position! With proper air defenses and some decent artillery crews, they could more than match the Attusian air force in express-delivered destruction. As he watched, already Kachak infantry was pouring into the town’s streets, the assault moving along smoothly. “Three-one,” Yan thought in satisfaction, smiling. Though he was at still at risk from air raids outside the cordoned foreigner’s area, he turned to walk back to his quarters, already looking forward to speaking with Chan in the evening. He suspected she’d deny his role in the victory, but that was fine. There were going to be many, many battle to make up the difference. ---------- Beyond the bounds of the galaxy, there was darkness. It wasn’t like the darkness at the edge of a solar system, nor even like the vast space between stars. It was the sort of inky blackness where a flashlight would seem to be a supernova, and yet at the same time the Milky Way hung below, a grey cloud strewn across the endless horizon. Through this sea of black a single corvette crept forward, great flood lights spewing forward into the abyss and revealing nothing. “Sensors are reading debris ahead, captain,” called the ship’s comms officer. “But no station.” Feng was stonefaced as he ordered shields up. He had been angry when he found himself in Han space, but that anger had passed. He could not take out his frustrations on the likeable agents who had hired him in disguise, nor could he fault the soldiers on Hanguo for whisking away the mysterious package he’d delivered. They were all the minions of his adoptive father, and he would save his decades of angst for Shi Yimu. But now Yimu was missing. Feng recalled his briefing. Before he could leave the planet, the odd priest character who seemed to run the place now had summoned him, looking desperate and ragged. There was a station, he had learned. A prison, out here where the light of a trillion stars could not penetrate. The priest would tell him little else, apart from that his father had last been known to be there, and had not returned. A fleck of light on the viewscreen, a mote of dust reflecting the headlights. They were close. Then a door, a piece of plumbing, and finally the entire rear half of a transport came into view. Feng glanced at the sensor readings as he called a halt. The ruins of Heibai station floated all around them. “What in Yuguo’s name happened here?” the first officer was the first to speak. Tangled in the ruins and debris were bodies. Most were Han. Others had the carapace and mandibles of Ar’gakari, their black eyes staring lifeless into his. “The debris field appears heavily irradiated,” the comms officer spoke unsteadily. “A reactor overload?” “Maybe,” said Feng at last. The station had been torn to bits, but who could have found it out here? “Life signs?” He asked without particular hope. “None, sir. But there are still power signatures coming from that transport.” The captain doubted it. The twisted wreck floating in front of them was barely recognizable. But the priest had asked for a report, and he would gather one. “Tell security to meet me at airlock three. Bring me a vac-suit.” No one contradicted him. The corvette was keeping watch, and its commander was never one to give up this kind of chance to prove his bravery. A minute later, Feng had pushed off the ship, and was gliding towards the wreck accompanied by two ensigns. There was no identifiable name, but it looked like the kind of transport his father would use, small and comfortable. Sparks flew occasionally from where the ship had been ripped apart. Perhaps there was still something inside. The corvette pulled in closer, and Feng and his men spent the next hour creating a temporary coupling between the ships, filling the most intact hallway with breathable air. The bridge was sealed, and if anyone was inside there would be no killing them when he entered. He needn’t have worried. The door to the wreck’s bridge was forcibly opened, and nobody was inside. Some of the men wondered aloud how the door could have been sealed with an empty bridge, but Feng was silent. The lights were still on and faintly flickering, and the ship’s computer seemed still barely functioning, albeit while emitting a constant faint noise of static. The captain leaned in to inspect it, and suddenly the noise was unbearable. Almost unintelligible, he heard laughter, and then a voice. “Too late, Shi Feng…….” The voice crackled and cut out over the poor speakers on the ship, and Feng lept back. Again, laughter echoed in the bridge. “............late………already won………...home.” “Who the hell are you?” Feng looked around him, and noticed that his men were swiftly backing away, back down the hallway. “Tell me what happened here.” “Human fool!” The laughter was back, maniacal and shattered by intense static. “Don’t recogn…….livered yourself?.....won in the e………..gika Traa’k………...igh Commander of the Ar’ga………...” None of it made any sense to Feng. He shook his head, and heard his first officer calling from the end of the hall. “Sir? Something wrong?” “May have found something,” he replied, narrowing his eyes as he turned back to the console. He could not tell where the voice was coming from. The communications unit seemed irreparably damaged. “What happened here?” He asked, ignoring who he was talking to. “Where is Shi Yimu?” At that, the laughter hit a sudden crescendo, and the static rang in his ears. It was a shrieking laugh, the kind one might hear from the kind of person who’d be quietly put down on Yuguo. “Dead!” It cried victoriously. “...illed him! Ju….like he killed me! Killed me and put me in…….veryone else too! He thought he…………………...” “Sir, the bridge says they’re detecting a power surge. You might want to come back.” Feng took a step back, looking through the viewport at the destruction which surrounded him. “Dead?” “....ead, Shi Feng.” The static suddenly cut out, the voice as clear as if someone had been standing just next to him. “And you’re next.” Feng was not the type to run. But he ran then, down the hallway as the laughter came again, and the half-ship bucked and heaved. A single reactor, undetected at low power output, overloaded in an instant, and Feng threw himself clear as the wreck melted. The shock hit his corvette immediately after, and the wall around the airlock instantly collapsed inward. Not fatal damage, and he had his vac-suit still. But it would be a slow journey back. His father was dead. Whatever that had been, it had killed him. Feng couldn’t blame it, he had wanted to do so on many occasions. But as he walked back to his bridge in a daze, he couldn’t help but feel empty…. ---------- Two hundred thousand Indian refugees arrive in Han space. They aren’t exactly the pure Han master race, but with such a shortage of manpower the Triple Crescent takes what it can get. A new colony is to be founded next year, where the newcomers can have some level of self-governance - under the watchful eye of the Jinyiwei, of course. The colony ship is already on hand from years before. Somewhere in the galaxy, Yimu still breathes. ---------- Han Stats Link: Summary: The Han watch Rontus, particular the relationship between its two largest powers, and continue to send missionaries and advisors. They shall watch their career with great interest. [0 AP] The shipyards of the Dominion are filled yet again, filled with light freighters to improve its transport capability and infrastructure. [25 AP] Apotheosis. [10 AP]

”1 cup unsalted butter 2 cups sugar 5 eggs 3 cups flour 1 tablespoon baking soda” -The Temple Walls Much was occurring on the surface, and the dreaming god watched it with quiet interest. So, too, did his half-mortal servant. For a thousand years now, the Nyrnen priestess had seen the world as a god does, and had come to see its inhabitants as little more than pawns put there for her entertainment. Their lives were brief and narrow, their ambitions narrower, constrained by their puny lifespans. After this long in the temple, she could manipulate the world in ways they could only dream of, and knew it in a way they could never hope to. When she was bored she would wander the tunnels at the world’s core, and found that the horrors there no longer could threaten her. Soth-Kogarth, too, had often been the scene of her explorations, and through her forays into that changing landscape she had come to know something of her god. He was patient and aloof, and though his thoughts were abstract she could sense a deeper plan, one which she had no doubt he would reveal in time. But Soth-Kogarth was as vast as the power of her creator, and however far she walked she would never truly grasp his full majesty. Wol-Kot would speak to her when he was ready. For now, he was conserving his strength. Of course, the Nightweaver had not said anything in well over two hundred years. And though there was still vast knowledge to be found here, Sylvaniel found herself becoming restless.... NO ACTIONS 16 AP SAVED

”And the weak-minded shall shudder and break before me, And look upon my works without comprehension.” -The Temple Walls And so Sylvaniel conquered the Adamantine Tree. As she stepped out into the mist with the jewel wrapped in cloth, the figures in the distances seemed somehow satisfied. One beckoned her to follow, and she walked helplessly through unfamiliar glades. The temptation to use the eye was strong: perhaps it could show her a way out. Perhaps it could tell her what this fog truly was. But she had had a glimpse of its power, and such a thing could not end well. She followed where she was led. At last, the mist cleared, and she found herself standing before little more than a hole in the ground. Fear gripped Sylvaniel, but only for a moment. She had come this far; she had defied one god in the service of another. There could be no turning back. Skilled in the magical arts, she conjured pale light to banish the cave’s shadow, and stepped in. The cave did not stop. It wound down ever further, soon widening into an impossible maze of caverns. She would have been lost there had not Thokub-Nir shown itself again, its vague silhouettes calling her down the right path. For three hundred days she walked in darkness. The Eye grew heavy, and she grew tired, for the farther she went, the more horrifying the creatures here seemed to be. Every day – if there was a day down here – Sylvaniel crept along, determined to notice the next nest of monsters before it noticed her. Every night, she heard the whispers of the Nightweaver. He spoke to her with pride now, and she saw visions of the journey ahead. She was close. But this deep in the world-sphere, there were things she could not hope to match. Nameless things, which slumbered for eons waiting for the scent of prey. So on the last day of her journey, the Nyren priestess crept over a crag to see a horror she had not anticipated. The serpent was larger than anything she’d ever dreamed of. And as it turned its malevolent gaze toward her, she knew that she would soon be dead – save for the grace of Wol-Kot. Again, Thokub-Nir showed itself, and clouded the beast’s eyes. Clutching the Eye close, she crept past. Soon, she walked on spindly marble fibers, as she crossed the void at the very center of the earth. But her light simply faded into the distance, and she could not appreciate its majesty. A full year had passed to the day when Sylvaniel finally set her eyes upon the Nightweaver’s Temple. At last, peace. A stone boat carried her across the mercury lake, and she wandered between vast columns, bearing inscriptions in a language she could not understand. It was some time before she realized her light was no longer needed. An eerie glow flickered from within the temple, and she felt compelled to follow. Thus it came to pass that a Nyren priestess looked upon the portal to Soth-Kogarth itself. It was a realm both peaceful and strange, and as she stared into its vast alien landscape, a stone pedestal rose from the floor in front of her. ”The Eye,” called the voice of Wol-Kot, reverberating from every wall. Sylvaniel unwrapped the artifact for the first time in years, and placed it on the stone before her. Behind it, Soth-Kogarth rippled with satisfaction. In seconds, trees bore fruit where once there were barren plains. ”Good,” called Wol-Kot again. ”Look closer.” Sylvaniel looked down at the pedestal again, and suddenly found that she could read the inscriptions. Many were analogous to the runic script, and described a blood rite by which the performer would sever their own ichor and pass it through the Dreamstalker’s realm. ”A final ceremony, of consummation. Perform it now, and see the world through the eyes of a god!” A dagger of black glass rose from the floor, and as Sylvaniel drew it across her skin, chanting eldritch phrases without trepidation, her lifeblood spilled onto the stone around her. There it became mist, floating into the portal, and the Nyren gasped out a last breath as her body grew cold. And there it lay. For a time. After one day and one night on the surface, Soth-Kogarth expelled the once-mortal, her god-touched ichor flooding back into her body. As she drew her first rasping breath, the echoing laugh of the Nightweaver echoed through the great hall. ”Rise, Sylvaniel,” he chuckled, as she got to her feet. ”Rise, my most favored servant. You shall have all you have dreamed of and more.” As he spoke, the priestess felt a weight on her head, as a crown materialized from thin air. The script covering the temple walls glowed with unnatural energy, and Sylvaniel realized she could read it, every word. She glanced to the Eye of Yngblad, and found that it showed her everything she longed to see: her old village, the Adamantine tree and its runes, but other things as well. Wild continents and races beyond her own. The many paths through the subterranean darkness. Even the location of divine artifacts, far away. ”Drink of my knowledge, young one. You are worthy.” The god’s voice is proud, quiet. ”But when you are ready, you will once again leave this place. You will find your own will too strong to resist, I know. And as you will it, so shall it be!” And so for five hundred years Sylvaniel stayed in the company of her god. On the walls of the temple, she learned the true history of the world-sphere, and looked into the dreams of all who have ever lived. She gazed into the Eye of Yngbald, watching as events unfolded on the surface. Ambition mixed with contempt as she spied on their humble lives. They could never hope to match her power, her knowledge, her skill. Yes, when she returned, things would change.... [CREATE GOD-TOUCHED – 8 AP] – Wol-Kot rewards the Nyren Sylvaniel in a profane ritual. When she returns from the enlightenment of Soth-Kogarth, she is no longer restricted by the pathetic limits she once felt as a mortal. Age cannot touch her, and she is blessed with an immense spring of psionic power, not to mention her considerable skill at magic. And of course, as the consort of Wol-Kot, she possesses an affinity for the dream-world utterly unrivaled by anything short of its creator. [CREATE ARTIFACT – 6 AP] – Wol-Kot adorns his champion with a crown of vast power, soon to be known and feared as the Crest of Sylvaniel. The artifact draws upon the strength of the wearer’s mind, granting them the power to warp the minds of others. In the hands of the usual mortal, it would be invaluable for the creation of useful illusions to trick others into doing their bidding. But resting on the head of one such as Sylvaniel, it has the potential to enslave them entirely, bringing whole armies under a demigod’s sway. It is an altogether evil item, and has a certain level of sentience itself. As such, those without an utterly unbreakable will may suffer from prolonged usage.... 3 AP remaining.

”Many will try to contest my domain, And at the end of time all will lay slain.” -The Seventeenth Column Soth-Kogarth quakes, as the dreaming god is filled with anger. On the surface, a profane artifact has come into existence, one built to spy on him and the entire world. His brother has overstepped his bounds. As the gaze of Wol-Kot turns to the Adamantine Tree, the forest seems somehow restless. It begins among the Nyren, most attuned to the Nightweaver’s essence. Every morning, they begin to speak to each other of strangely-vivid dreams. Damp tunnels beckon, filled with every horror imaginable. Gargantuan columns of ancient stone, carved with a language that none recognize. But most of all, the ever-increasing sense that something is coming. Some nights, the weak of mind awake in terror, and the strain becomes great enough on the community that few seem to notice the thickening fog in this part of the forest. Whatever it is, the mist soon surrounds the Adamantine Tree on all sides. For the Nyren, things only get worse. Those who go to investigate the Tree seem unable to make it there: some who enter the fog are led astray by the shapes they see there, exiting far from where they meant to go. The rest never return. The mist calls out with the voices of their loved ones, it tempts them with what they dream of most. So long as Yngbald’s disgusting eye sits within this Tree, none will enter. Except one. For Wol-Kot has watched these Nyren all their lives, and knows of their worth. One has caught his eye: a priestess, with ambition as strong as her will, and magical skills to match. Though her tribe has suffered at the hands of Thokub-Nir, she has resisted. Though they cower in terror and refuse to sleep, her dreams are lucid and psyche unfazed. It is on a dark night that he finally reveals himself to her, with only the Red Moon above. Whispers in the forest draw her out. Within the mist, a silhouette calls her name. ”Hear me, mortal!” cries the figure, its voice echoing from every direction. The woman, iron of mind, presses forward, but the silhouette retreats and fades into the fog. From her right, another appears. ”Hear me, Sylvaniel.” It speaks to her again, its tone softer. One shadowy figure becomes ten, then a hundred surrounding her. In the mist are Nyren, birds, deer, and even the dark outline of a massive sandworm. ”It is I who have cursed your people. I, Wol-Kot, the lord of shadows and dreams. The pathetic tree you have found here is a profane temple built by my jealous brother. And within it, he seeks to spy on my actions. You will stop this.” Before she can answer, the god’s voice continues, virtually compelling her attention. ”I will guide you to the center of this sapling. I will show you my brother’s treasonous eye, and you will bring it to me. Do not fear. You shall be shown the way. And when at last you reach me, I shall reward you with power and knowledge the likes of which you cannot even dream of.” At that, most of the dark silhouettes fade into the mist, and the fog clears before her. She has been led to the tree’s entrance without even realizing it. [COMMAND AVATAR: 4 AP] – Thokub-Nir materializes on the surface, to terrorize the Nyren and carry forth the Dreamstalker’s message. 5 AP remaining

“All things are one in Wol-Kot. I alone understand beauty and ugliness, joy and fear, for I have seen them in all of you. Linger here, and perhaps you shall too.” -The Temple Walls The Dreamstalker is awake. Every night, he looks into the very souls of the mortals that now cover the earth. They are fascinating creatures, like gods in miniature, and though their goals are infinitely smaller they still seem to carry some of his own ambition. It will be amusing to see what they make of themselves. Perhaps he will even help, if it serves his ends. But it is not the future ambitions of mortals that tempt him. For each carries within them a spark of the divine. In some cases, that spark was once his. He wants it back, with a desire that goes beyond mere fancy. It is a thirst. These souls, without his intervention, will flow to the realm of his sister. She does not deserve them. Wol-Kot is no wrathful god like the two which now spar on the surface. His thirst is cold and patient, and he continues to silently watch. Soth-Kogarth is still and utterly blank, as the full gaze of the Nightweaver turns outward. He prods at mortal souls, whispers to them of things that live in the dark, but above all begins to devise rites to sever their ichor, and claim it as his own. With the Dreamstalker’s view on the outside world, energy begins to accumulate within his cavern. Over the mercury lake around his temple, a silvery mist rises. It grows larger by the year, rising until it fills the cavern, but does not stop there. Over the years it simply thickens, becoming more dense until nearly opaque. Somewhere within, it congeals, and soon shadowy figures walk through the fog, barely visible. Some are humanoid. Some look like nothing anyone on this world has seen before. The temple walls call the being Thokub-Nir...haze of lies. CREATE AVATAR – A thick fog takes form within Wol-Kot’s cavern, mobile but subservient to the god’s demand. Shadowy conjurations of every form imaginable move within it....or do they? To know for sure whether they are real, one would have to get close, and every time you try they seem to move deeper in the mist and are not seen again. Perhaps they are just illusions, made to unsettle you with...look out behind you! (-10 AP) 1 AP remaining

The world shuddered at my command, and to the surface I bequeathed thought, As wide and as deep as my own will, a spark of life to echo the gods themselves! -The temple walls As Wol-Kot slumbers, his unconscious ambition leads his focus away from Soth-Kogarth, and his dreams become echoes of the world around him. There are presences out there, presences as old and strong as him. He would find them. Their thoughts would become his. Far above, one in particular calls to him. The dream-world extends outward, surrounding the resting god, bait for the Dreamstalker’s snare. Like a wild beast, the presence seems to latch on instinctively. But at the last moment, it pulls away, having changed its mind amidst its sleep. But again, Wol-Kot feels it shape his dimension and pull away. With unthinking hunger, the Nightweaver extends his tendrils, engulfing the indecisive god and merging their worlds...and finds that the dreams of another god are nothing like those of animals. His peaceful drift through the cosmos abruptly ends, and in its place is a maddening hellscape. The landscape is never the same, shifting like the ocean surface. The air is choking, and the sleeper’s dull consciousness cannot tell whether it is truly air at all: it burns with an unending inferno, but somehow the fire is mist, clean and bright and dry. No, not mist – sand. It whirls around him, its touch scalding hot. It thickens, then clears inexplicably, and Wol-Kot’s tortured mind struggles to adapt. He pushes himself through the ocean of fire-mist-sand, his ethereal body morphing between forms beyond his control. It is too much. With a cosmic surge of energy the link is broken, and Wol-Kot at last awakens. A scream of terror and relief shakes the dream-world’s very essence, and across the world all sleeping creatures everywhere are suddenly jolted to alertness. A massive burst of divine energy follows, as the Nightweaver expels the vision of himself in a world without order, which soon takes corporeal form. On the world’s desert continent, where the sun beats hottest, the energies coalesce, and a new species is born. They take many forms throughout their life, born as they are from the indecision of Ixthalizzum. These first creatures are barely the size of a sand grain, feeding off the warmth of the sun which lingers on the dunes’ surfaces, but they multiply quickly. Soon they molt, and in time become sedentary: a plantlike cocoon which takes hold on solid rock and grows as tall as a tree. It is in this form that they breed the most, releasing thousands of the small larva into the surrounding desert. But it is the final stage of life which will be remarked on by visitors to the desert. When the sedentary form has lived long enough, it bursts open, and releases into the surrounding desert a large creature, without eyes or legs, but well-suited to movement among the sand. Nomadic, these worms swim through the desert, filtering their microscopic young from the dunes for sustenance. They are born fully sapient, capable of communication with one another through telepathy and with a great affinity for magic. What’s more, this consciousness grows as they do. And how they can grow! Wol-Kot, now fully conscious, looks upon the race he has created with both surprise and satisfaction. They are hardly what he expected, no, they are far more. There would be much to watch on the surface in the future. [MAJOR ACTIONS] – Creation of the first sapient race, a multi-staged species of sandworms on the desert continent. In their final form, they are fully intelligent, magic-capable, and can grow to be miles long. (19 AP + 1 from Mith) 0 AP REMAINING

The Han Dominion Spring, HSC 11 Year of the Monkey Feng narrowed his eyes at the viewscreen in front of him, and smirked. “That won’t be a problem will it, Captain?” “As if. Just have to be quick about it.” He tapped his foot a few times in thought, then called to the helmsman, a young Cynn. Avians always made good pilots. “Signal Billabong and Swagman. We’re leaving while we still can.” He paused. “Just tell them to stay close; I’ll figure it out as we go.” The man beside him glanced to his wife across the room, and back down to Feng. “Uh, you sure about that? If it’s really that much of a risk…” “Mister Callaghan, you’ve sunk quite a bit of money into this expedition. It’d be a damn shame to have to ground it for another two months while we sit out an Ar’gakari blockade. Or worse, of course.” He winked. “Now, I’ve already made a fortune off you. May as well give you your money’s worth, I figure.” He lifted a microphone, addressing the ship. “All personnel brace for liftoff! We’ll be accelerating to full fusion power immediately. In three, two one...” Feng nodded to his helmsman, and the Jumbuck quaked under the pressure of its sublight engines. Full power liftoffs were generally frowned upon by the authorities, mostly for the damage they caused to their surroundings. Actually now that he thought about it, there would probably be a heavy fine for doing it with a heavy freighter like this. Oh well. He was working for the Australians; they could afford it. “Incoming hail sir. Cevelli port authority.” “Ignore it, obviously.” The Callaghans looked at each other again, and the woman crossed over to whisper to her husband. “I think we’ve got a clear shot. Our comrades are in position?” Feng eyed an updated map of the fleets in orbit. There was quite a lot of red. “Billabong, yes. Swagman’s en route, but she’s coming a lot slower.” “Why the hell does no one ever listen to me? I thought the orders were pretty damn clear.” He turned back to the Australian couple, mustering up a grin. “Not to worry, there’s still a bit of time. We’ll be alright waiting a minute or so.” As if the universe were conspiring against him, the ship cleared the last of the planet’s atmosphere just then. The visual screen before him offered a spectacular view of the beginnings of a large fleet engagement...which was not nearly as far away as he’d expected. Feng’s smile faded. “Captain, hails now incoming from the port authority and the allied fleet.” “They’re busy. We wait.” On the viewscreen, a corvette peeled away from the ongoing fight and turned its bow directly towards them. Mr Callaghan leaned in. “That one thinks we’re worth his time. Is that a Cevelli ship?” Feng gritted his teeth and shook his head. “Turn her around! Full shields on stern, and get the damn warp spun up. Port authority wasn’t lying about these ones. Bloodthirsty shrimp!” The cargo ship was sluggish to move and even more sluggish to turn. Before long the corvette was in range, its exotic weapons slamming against the rear shields. It swept past, and before long it was swinging around again from the side. A single torpedo streaked toward the smaller of the two freighters...but the Jumbuck had already dipped its nose down in a sudden motion, placing itself between the projectile and the smaller Billabong. The impact was a miniature sun, shorting out every sensor on the bridge for a moment. Several crew were thrown from their seats as the whole vessel quaked, but when the lights came back on the ship was still moving - albeit with a massive hole near its prow. “Well,” said Mrs Callaghan, picking herself off the ground. “I’d rather not do that again.” “Might not have a choice.” The corvette swung around again for another hit, but it was at that moment that Swagman finally arrived, careening out of the atmosphere at full speed and followed by several very angry-looking Cevelli fighters. She’d taken some hits from them already; they must have actually caused some damage in liftoff. Still, in this case the fighters were a blessing. As soon as they noticed the Gakree ship they peeled off, and the corvette likewise changed its priorities. Jumbuck’s helmsman sighed in relief. “Should we get out of here, sir?” “I’d say we’d better. Signal the others: straight into warp, and worry about course later.” The response was immediate: one by one, the three ships jumped into FTL in entirely different directions, all while ignoring more furious hails from the surface. Feng got to his feet, leaning away from the prosthetic leg. The Callaghans looked at him with unreadable expressions. “We’ll need to come out of warp for repairs somewhere, but there aren’t any safe ports around with the war. I’ll probably have the others group up with us somewhere in deep space for that, then we can get underway.” Mr. Callaghan raised an eyebrow. “We can’t just go to one of the safer Cevelli ports? It’d be quicker.” “You joking?” Feng grinned. “After that stunt, we’d be lucky if they didn’t confiscate the ships. Nah, they’re not happy, and they’ll be looking for us.” “Hm. Well, in that case, send a transmission back. They’re welcome for us distracting one of those Ar’gakari for them, and they can pay the repair bill to Johnny Penrith.” For some reason, that seemed immensely funny to his wife. ---------- In their chittering tongue, the Rontan often commented somewhat drily that they’d have all stabbed each other to death long ago, if only their exoskeletons weren’t so thick. The blazing sun of Rontus had seen a thousand wars, as for centuries the same violent cycle that humans often malented had driven their civilization forward. Still, both species were still around. Evidently, thought Wutai to himself, the thickness of one’s exoskeleton was less important than some would like to believe. He would know: being made of solid stone, the Kuilei’s exoskeleton was probably the thickest on the planet. He was nothing like the other offworlders, and because of that the locals had taken an instant interest in him. He’d had to explain through translation that Wutai wasn’t his real name, as his people communicated entirely through telepathy. His real “name” felt something like a large cone stretching upward, so the Han had named him after a mountain and never thought about it again. Not that he resented them. He had been spared the endless cycle of primitive wars, brought into the fold of a spacefaring civilization, and now his people held a rank of honor in a faith which prized their mental potential. Some had even begun to speak his language amongst themselves. When the Han monks had called on him to go to Rontus, Wutai had not hesitated. Kuilei were not naturally-evolved for the desert, but the embassies all had subterranean wings, and he’d never particularly minded sunlight anyway. Besides, awakening the locals was a noble cause. They came to him by the dozens now, brought to the light of the Crescents to seek ascension. There were no words in these meetings. Most of these Rontan could not understand his language, and he would not spoil the sacred moment with the use of a translator. In any case, words were not needed. The locals came before him, and with a touch of his mighty hand he would clear their minds, opening them to their own power. Today, though, things were different. He had met these Rontan before. The eldest was Hokkan, tall by Rontan standards and with a dark, scratched carapace. His two sons Karik and Garul followed loyally, stepping into the embassy beside him. All three were warriors in spirit as well as profession. For that they had Wutai’s respect, though he doubted they could best him even together. He got to his feet, but before he could reach for his translation device a psionic greeting came from the trio: the feeling of a thick mist parting. They had begun to speak like Kuilei. “You honor me with your visit, Hokkan,” Wutai replied in the formal manner, his thoughts of stable earth becoming sound as he switched on the Han-made translator. “You are well worthy of it, Wutai.” The Rontan spoke aloud, his own insectoid chitters becoming Mandarin. “I regret that I cannot stay long. The Coalition has been called into emergency session yet again.” The Kuilei towered over the diminutive creatures, but his eyes glittered without condescension. “If that is why you are here, you must know I cannot help you.” “Of course. Of course…” Hokkan paused, clearly troubled. “Wutai, you have called yourself my friend in the past.” “I still do.” “Then tell me.” His beady eyes looked up with worry. “Is what they say true? That the Humans support Kachak?” If Kuilei could sigh, Wutai would have done so then. The Rontan Coalition was as much a unified nation as was the feudal society he’d been born into. They’d only managed to put aside their petty differences for a moment when the Ganvius had made contact, and now the edifice was beginning to rot, it seemed. The Kachak Pact, a confederacy of poorer nations, had recently received quite a bit of off-world investment, and their rhetoric had become decidedly aggressive ever since. He had asked the elder Han about it, but all they had told him was that if there was unresolved conflict on Rontus, it should be resolved soon. “The Han support the Rontan people, as do I,” Wutai finally replied. “One does not undermine their friends.” “But if negotiations fail...will they not be forced to choose?” “They will be forced to pay attention. Beyond that, I cannot say.” He sat down. “You are worried. Don’t be. Beyond this world you are well thought of. The Ganvius approve of you. So do the Han in their way, and that’s far more rare.” Hokkan let out a rasping laugh. “You must forgive me, Wutai. My worries are small. I had not even considered what was happening beyond our atmosphere. I just...I do not wish to see my own country smashed by somewhere like Kackak, or Attuse, or…” “And if the coalition breaks, you do not think you can defend yourself?” The Rontan slowly nodded. The Kuilei laid a great stone hand on his carapace. “The Dominion will not forget you, Hokkan. Not so long as I remember you. You know that of all of your people, you...and your sons...are my favorites.” “You have taught us much, Wutai. But I would learn more.” “And I have more to teach.” He gripped his armrest, and the room suddenly hummed with psionic energy. Hokkan’s sons took a step back nervously. “The Crescents are a pathway to many abilities some consider unnatural.” Hokkan was silent for a moment. “You know what I ask for.” “You wish to learn to fight with your gift.” The Rontan nodded, determined. “Then I will teach you. The Crescents favor your people. I promise you, if the Coalition fails, you will not.” “And the Han? Will they approve?” “They listen to what I have to say. You will have their favor.” He nodded. “Go to your council. I shall meet with you again tomorrow.” The glow of Wutai’s golden eyes diminished as the Rontan left. Things were moving faster than he thought. The monks would be pleased. ---------- In the relative calm of the south, the faith of the Triple Crescent now rules. But things are not peaceful on Hanguo: news of a third extragalactic invader confirms what Han monks have suspected for years. The end times are at hand, and only through ascension can the people of the Milky Way survive. Their missionaries hold not only the Han to their beliefs, but walk among the Rontan, spreading the word of the Dao. On Rontus itself, Han agents work subtly to raise tensions between the two great powers of the planet: Kachak and Attuse. Funded by the sale of Xylorite and Borite, they slowly build the nations’ capabilities, and watch closely the politics of the Coalition. In the north, Yan and Chan finally convince Shi Feng to leave his mercenaries on an expedition to Da’rigar’s grave, in the guise of Hephaestus entrepreneurs. But no sooner have they left Cevelli space that new orders come from Hanguo in secret, and the Jumbuck turns to a new destination… On Yuguo, Dai Hanying gives birth to the first of her children, a boy. Living peacefully on her tea plantation, she watches the events elsewhere and wonders at his fate. Meanwhile Huang Jie’s health begins to fail. The old human emperor will no doubt soon pass away. Perhaps it is better, because the galactic situation grows more dire by the hour. Faith, rebuilding, gathering strength. That is the credo of the Han now. And behind it all, now silent, is the elusive figure who guides it all. For Shi Yimu has a plan, and he works toward it in absolute secrecy. ---------- Han Stats Link: Summary: The Han watch Rontus, particular the relationship between its two largest powers, and continue to send missionaries and advisors. They shall watch their career with great interest. [0 AP] The shipyards of the Dominion are full to capacity yet again, filled with light freighters to improve its transport capability and infrastructure. [28 AP] The shipyard floating above Hanguo is expanded further, and will soon be capable of manufacturing battleships. [20 AP for SL5] A small sum is sent to the Trade Federation, through multiple backchannels and proxies ending with a mysterious “Thulean” tycoon. [1 AP] A black site is built for unknown purposes, entirely outside the galaxy and known only to a select few in Shi Yimu’s inner circle. [1 AP]

“For on each being’s thoughts I spy, And in their thoughts does power lie.” -From the second column A shimmering, eerie light emanates from the Nightweaver’s temple, casting the long shadows of its columns over a silver lake. It is dark here, dark and quiet. The monstrous keepers fear this place, and turn their sightless eyes to more mundane hunting grounds. Wol-Kot is alone. Somewhere within that dim light is Soth-Kogarth, and somewhere there is the dreamer. He watches, but does not think. He acts, but does not plan. In his slumber, the god’s thoughts are amorphous and abstract. A primordial being of instinct, he waits but does not know what he waits for. But the time will come. In the meantime, semi-conscious bursts of energy leak from Soth-Kogarth, infusing the surrounding area with Wol-Kot’s essence. If one were to watch over the course of years, they would see characters slowly carving themselves on the temple’s surfaces. They tell the story of creation, and of all that has happened since. The more writing appears, the more they begin to dully glow with supernatural power. The temple is something more than hewn rock now. It is an archive of all that Wol-Kot has ever seen, and all that he will see. Many characters correspond to Yngbald’s runes, telling of spells the Dreamstalker has learned or invented in his meditation. Some are mere verse or declarations from the god himself, telling of his glory to any who can read them. And some are conduits into the dream-world itself, a surreal archive of the many things Wol-Kot will see. In time, the knowledge held here would be a great source of power to any being who found it....but only if their mind could handle the strain. [CREATE LANDMARK] - Wol-Kot’s temple is infused with supernatural power, creating an archive of all he has ever seen, expanding accordingly. This includes his personal musings, the dreams of mortals, and ever-increasing magical knowledge. Of course, to see the universe from the view of a god is immensely demanding, and anything less than a god-touched will probably be driven immediately mad if they try to read it. 11 AP REMAINING

“Firstborn of Ao, my vision was pure; Yet lesser gods coveted my throne. They could not resist my birthright’s allure; And they carved profane realms of their own.” -Inscribed on the first pillar of the Nightweaver’s temple At last, peace. With his web cast over the entire world, Wol-Kot slumbers, drifting through his dream-world of Soth-Kogarth. Stars dance over a barren world, but closer, closer. Touch them and they blink out, but somehow the light remains. For this is Soth-Kogarth, and the rules of nature do not apply. The Dreamstalker is not alone. He can feel them: dim presences subtly bending his essence spread across the world. He does not stir from his rest, but he feels the truth even in his slumber. Someone has imbued the earth’s creatures with a spark of the divine, an aspect as everlasting as the gods themselves. They are not strong enough to truly walk in his essence, but that time will come. And then... Soth-Kogarth has changed. Where once there were stars is now a gaping maw, tongues lashing out in search of prey, teeth grinding each other to nothingness. In its center, the sleeper sits formless yet visible, aware but unconscious, ravenous but patient. And in an instant, the mouth is gone. A sea of mercury and pyramidal islands of obsidian stretch into the distance. In the sky, a storm brews, but is far away. [ACTIONS] – None

“Heed my words, ye who enter here: when the seas have vanished, when the earth is a lifeless husk, when the stars flicker and die, I shall remain. All shall be arrayed before the Nightweaver in perfect darkness, in eternal service.” -From the walls of Wol-Kot’s temple None have disturbed Wol-Kot in his tomb. This is good. He will be forgotten by the surface, by the other gods, perhaps by Ao himself. Slowly, he drifts through the lightless reaches of the deepest Underpath, and grows weary. But he cannot return to his temple to slumber. He cannot retreat into his dreams, for the way to his palace is unguarded. None but the most worthy must ever delve into the bowels of the earth. And so Wol-Kot materializes as a silver mist, and from him crawl the grotesque forms of monsters. Spiders as large as horses, colonies of huge acid-spitting centipedes, blind amphibious bipeds which lurk in the Underpath’s rivers....all stalk the newly carved tunnels, sustained by fleshy insects grazing on mineral-eating fungi. But it is not enough. In the deepest caverns, where silence reigns unbroken, Wol-Kot fills the darkness with nameless horrors: creatures which slumber like Wol-Kot himself, waiting for unfortunate beings to wander just a little too far into the earth. None are alike, and yet each shares an insatiable hunger for anything that comes near. Woe to he who seeks the Dreamstalker and instead finds his keepers, for Wol-Kot has no tolerance for fools. At this, the god returns to his temple, and seeps into its walls to rest. His will bends the dream dimension, anchoring it to the temple and creating a pocket realm disconnected from the world, which he calls Soth-Kogarth. At his whim, a rip in space opens within the structure, and Wol-Kot passes through, vanishing from this world to a place he can truly be alone. There, among a million stars, he finally goes to sleep, and watches the world through his dreams. [MAJOR ACTION] – Filling most of the Underpath with an ecosystem based on mineral-eating fungi, in which most of the creatures are predatory in nature and generally horrifying. Arthropods and amphibians are both present, and stalk the tunnels for unsuspecting prey. The lower levels of the Underpath are filled with unique abominations, some with supernatural abilities and some without. They lie dormant for the most part, but are consumed with hunger while awake. [MINOR ACTION] – Creation of Soth-Kogarth, the astral realm. A portion of the dream dimension bent to be separate from the world entirely. Accessible via a portal in the Nightweaver’s temple, Wol-Kot rests here and watches the dreams of mortals. It is the center of his web, and the final resting place for the souls he ensnares.

Blightswamp The mood in Vallum Palus is sombre: of the many men sent to the collapsing falls, none returned. None can say that the Blightswamp has shirked its duties. Nevertheless, the citizens know what their relatives died for, and understand. In time, the blood of other Altaireans may protect them. They say their prayers and return to their slowly-improving lives. The missionaries from the far south are quite the curiosity. Most of the locals in Vallum Palus are fairly dutiful in their worship, but the Venandii are less so. While they are nominally brothers of the faith, Venandii are often so isolated that their religion differs on innumerable tiny details. The visitors will be hard pressed to make their message heard among people that have often never even heard of a proper town. For the time being, Marcus continues to turn his attention to the expansion of agriculture in the swamp. Catfish has proven a successful source of food, as the animals are not affected by the blighted soil and breed rapidly. Nevertheless, under no circumstances could the province be called civilized. Though his Venandii scouts have brought back more detailed information on the region between him and Bronak, the route to the Green River is still far from safe, and the entire western half of the province is completely uncharted. Truly, the legion did the bare minimum when they claimed this place. Though all investment this year goes to the governor’s agricultural project, his attention turns to a ruined port at the northwest edge of his domain. Clearly, the province does not have the resources to recolonize it just yet. But if it could be reclaimed, it would serve not only as a superior point of export to the south, but also as a civilian forward base, allowing civilization to be brought north, in time. Colonists begin to be gathered... With a surplus of lumber, shipments flow south through the Grey Coast bound for the capital. It is hoped that the province’s lumber will aid the empire in all manner of construction projects. Summary Selling 2 lumber to the capital – [0 AP] Gathering willing colonists to reclaim the province’s port in the near future – [0 AP] - [28 AP]

I am Wol-Kot. I was there at the World’s beginning, and I shall be there at its end. Submit, and know the true nature of the universe. Thus does the Weaver of Night engrave upon the walls of his temple. Near the very center of the earth he burrows to hide from the other gods, and manifestations of his will carve a great cavern, raising cyclopean walls and great columns in a grand structure that few will ever see in the subterranean darkness. In this cavern at the roots of the world, he surrounds his temple in a lake of mercury, before he looks outward. The architect, the one who called herself Axis of Heaven, is near. She has made a realm of her own, and now sits cloistered in an infinitesimal point within the empty core. Good. She can stay there. Wol-Kot carves a passage from his cavern to that empty space, and soon his essence wanders between its great marble threads. Majestic, yes. But its majesty would honor Wol-Kot. More caverns spread from the core-void, and reach out through the world from its center. A network, too vast and labyrinthine to navigate, large enough to hold a hundred civilizations. Rivers flow through its empty reaches, and sounds from miles away echo through the darkness. The Underpath, Wol-Kot calls it, or Yal-Gokor. And once the first few branches of these primordial caves reach the surface, the Nightweaver is at last satisfied. He returns through his great maze to the core, and thence to his temple, where at last he rests. But his work is not yet done. Slowly, thinly, his essence spreads outward. It infuses every stone and breath of air in some tiny way. The other gods feel it. But the earth is not affected. Rather, the essence of Wol-Kot is itself changed by what it touches. And so the shadow-world of dreams is for the first time created. An echo dimension, malleable and attractive to souls without grounding. The Dreamstalker sets his net, and watches.... ---------- [MAJOR ACT:] Creation of the parallel dream dimension, into which slumbering mortals are drawn. There, their wills will shape reality, and Wol-Kot will watch, silently or not. The dream dimension is by default a shadow of our world made up of Wol-Kot’s being, but it is easily bent. [MINOR ACT:] Creation of the Underpath, Yal-Gokor, and the Nightweaver’s temple. The temple sits in a lake of mercury, and its cavern is only accessible through the hollow core-void. The core-void sits at the center of a huge network of caves: some large, some small, but all so convoluted that a surface dweller could never hope to come even close to the core except with divine guidance. The Underpath is sprawling and empty....for now.

APPLICATION Forum Name: Come on man Skype: Come on man God Name: Wol-Kot, the Nightweaver, the Dreamstalker Appearance: Wol-Kot is formless, never truly materializing on the earthly plane. Those who have spoken to him describe only a silver mist enveloping their surroundings, with dark figures barely coming into view in the hazy distance, before vanishing. His voice comes to them always as if standing just behind their shoulders, and though it sounds kind, his words rarely are. Agenda: The Nightweaver ultimately seeks to harvest the souls of the living, to arrange them all in perfect service to himself within his ethereal realm of Soth-Kogath. Any god who stands in his way will be remembered. Description: (Long-form description of your god’s nature, personality and vision for the world.) It has often been wondered why Ao saw fit to give life to Wol-Kot, the Nightweaver and Stalker of Dreams. From the start, he held little interest in shaping the world that Ao had wrought, and he looked upon his fellow deities with indifference. Alone, he carved a realm for himself deep in the bowels of the earth, where he hid, for centuries ruminating on questions forever unknown to us. It was only when the first mortal souls breathed on the world’s surface that he once again stirred. While mortals slept, Wol-Kot spread a portion of his being thinly over the world, and their spirits walked freely through the shadow-world he had created, imprinting their own fears and aspirations onto its nature. Thus were the first dreams dreamed, and the mortals accepted them. But they did not know then that the Nightstalker was watching. When he at last revealed himself, it was in the full knowledge of what these insects truly desired. He offered it, but with a steep price: their service, in life and after. Their souls would be his in the darkest pocket of the shadow-world, far below the earth...Soth-Kogarth. Who can say what the Dreamweaver wants with the souls of the once-living? Perhaps the gods know what lies behind the veil of Soth-Kogath, where Wol-Kot waits beyond the land of dreams. But if one were to tell you, would you trust him? Sample Creation: (Could be anything to a law of nature, a place, race or a magical avatar of your will. This is just to jog your imagination.) The shadow plane is an echo of our own world, made up of Wol-Kot’s essence. It is naturally a pale reflection of physical reality, but is malleable to the whims of mortals. It is here that their spirits wander when they dream, living out their unconscious thoughts whether pleasant or not. Notably, two mortals cannot interact with each other here, as their individual power over reality prevents either from seeing the other. To enter into the dreams of another, one would need command over a small part of Wol-Kot’s power. If a mortal were so blessed, we would call them a Dreamstrider, and the people would hope that the power be used for good. If a beast were so blessed, we would call it a monster, and the people would stay awake.