Praetor

The Grudgeborn Company MAGIC / SORCERY: The Gilded Hall. BRIEF DESCRIPTION / HISTORY: The Ancient History Long is the memory of dwarves, longer still is the memory of the Grudgeborn. They remember their ancient lore, and the tales that have faded now to little more than whispers in the halls of history. Hehodir was the first of their clan, the Gem Giver, the Rune Maker. He wrought their first Clan Runes, built their first weapons of mithril and magic. His father’s was an ancient line and though its name now lies forgotten, it is said that it could be traced back to the times of the ancient empires. From those dregs of glory secrets still leaked, and the Grudgeborn treasured them. For centuries they preserved what scraps they could of the old ways, the old traditions. Only one true secret remains now, the Extreme Sanctification of Steel. All clans can make a claim to fame. Some find pride in the excellence of their gold, others in the quality of their craft. The Grudgeborn, who have served the Crown faithfully for a thousand years, were known for the startling purity of their Mithril, and the excellence of their records. Every Grudge meticulously scribed, every year carefully woven into the tomes of history. And it is for historians to feel the bitterest pain when all that they know of the past begins to crumble, and the greed and weakness of dwarves dooms the work of their ancestors to ruin. It must be restored, by their hand or another, the ancient glories of the dwarves will be brought back to light and every grudge struck from the book. The Great Kin Grudge “It was with my blood that the name of my father was written in the Book of Grudges. The Argat Kron.” -Hehodir II The Regency Council was weak, corrupt, riddled with the greed for gold. They were killing our Empire with their every breath, and their beards were as short as a goblin’s prick! Upon the ancestors, hear my voice now, brothers! My father took it upon himself to change this. He spoke to the Clans, the Axebreaths, the Bloodbeards - He spoke to Garstram Bloodbeard, the son in law of our own Khograz’s brother! -, he spoke to the Goldsniffers and the Gemfondlers… He built an alliance to change things, to give us a future! But the Gemfondlers, ever avaricious, betrayed him. They named his a Kin Killer, an Oathbreaker! They fed him to the Regency for a sliver of mithril an an inch of beard!" -The Clan roars in anger and bangs their ale flagons against the table. Though they have all heard this tale a thousand times, their blood boils at every recounting. The unfortunate human Innkeeper has long ago gone to hide in the backroom.- “Traitors!” “Beardless!” “Take their gold!” -Hehodir II raises his hands and the crowd quiets down.- “Now, upon my ancestors, I speak the truth. For I was there that night… When they came for him, the Wardens marched into our home and gave no ember to the hearth, they did not remove their boots at the door, nor smoke at the family pipe. They took him, and in the dark streets, they cut his throat like that of a gold thief in the royal treasury!” -A renewed howl of outrage is heard, and a flagon flies through the tavern. The rest of the story is lost as it upsets another dwarf’s ale. In short order, the tavern is wrecked, the dwarves are merrily engaged in a brawl of apocalyptic proportions, and Hehogrim is too busy beating his good friend senseless to finish the tale.- But it does not end well. With Hehograz dead, Hehogrim and his clan are exiled, forced to flee, and the young dwarf must handle the crippling responsibilities of Patriarch of Clan Grudgeborn. Left with no choice, he marches south, and swears his blood and life to Ralek’s Empire, as it is known among the clan. But within him burns, as in the heart of every good dwarf, a love for the works of their ancestors, a crippling grief at their desecration by the goblin tides, and a burning hatred for the Regency that has brought his people so low. LEADER / NOTABLE CHARACTERS: Hehogrim II Grudgeborn - The Son of Hehograz Grudgeborn, the murdered prince of the Dwarven Empire. He dotes upon his young and sickly daughter, and mourns his brother’s death, slain by goblins as they fled the Regency. His main occupations and brawling, drinking and hating Goblins. Runelord Khograz - An ancient Dwarf of uncertain age, he is Hehogrim II’s great-grandfather. Part senile, he remains able to write runes of power with the skill of a young dwarf of 100. His views are… old-fashioned, but his hatred of Goblins burns bright. He considers Hehogrim II entirely unable to assume the office of Runelord upon his own death, and fears that the secrets of their Clan may die with him if no one else is found. Fulminthor Bastardborn - Khograz’s nephew, Fulminthor is an affable old dwarf who enjoys drinking, eating, smoking and sleeping. It is likely he would have stayed in the Regency instead of fleeing during the Great Kin Grudge, but he holds a deep loyalty for Khograz, who took him in when his mother died of the Black Lung, many many years ago. Enormously fat, some say he was left as the Grudgeborn’s envoy to Ralek because the Company did not have enough dwarves to carry him all the way back to the Underway. MAP LOCATION (ONLY WITHIN OR NEAR TO ANDUVIA): NATIONAL IDEA: The Extreme Sanctification of Steel: Transform ten units of metal into one unit of Mithril. Able to decipher ancient dwarven secrets better than others. UNIQUE UNIT: The Grudge Bolters The Grudgebolters wield mighty Repeater Crossbows infused with runes of power that grant them the ability to rapidly fire bolts of pure steel with great power, capable of piercing even the thick hide of trolls and giants, or the heaviest of armor. They carry great tower shields from behind which they have been known to unleash withering barrages of fire capable of devastating a hungry goblin horde. Beyond that, these sturdy dwarves, trusted with the power of the sacred runes, are also excellent builders, capable of building defenses and other minor feats of engineering with alacrity and skill, even when their resources are strained. POINT OF INTEREST: The Arkangaraz The Arkangaraz is a clear jewel of all surpassing beauty which seems to glow with a deep inner light, as if it were only a window into a deep sea of stars. Long is its history, passed down from father to son through the Grudgeborn clan since the times of the ancient dwarven Empire, who’s memory is but long extinguished embers in the minds of all dwarves. But its powers remain as vibrant as the day that it was crafted by one of the long forgotten folk, so many thousands of years before. Mithril runes have been inscribed into it with exquisite care, such that they seem to be constellations within its enchanting skies. An ancient spell has been seeded into its very being, grown over thousands of years as the gem was tended to with loving care, and finally extracted from its berth and finely crafted. Legends say that when the Clan has claimed a hold of its own, the Gem’s power will grow even further, and for the first time in thousands of years, a new spell may take seed within its crystalline depths.

The Dominate of Ayan Rus They were standing on the second floor of the Tserkov Palace, the ancient ruins which the Patriarch was very proud of. Nothing stood above them but Saint Vladimir here. The sun was bright, and the mists below seemed to glow in its blessed light. “I don’t like it, I don’t like it at all.” The Patriarch heaved a sigh, his ample chest rising with a great struggle under his many furs and fineries. Even in high summer, he always felt a chill in his chest, as if Saint Vladimir were judging him from the heavens above. He shivered. “Enouv to make trip to Vorkuta?” grunted the Foreigner in his thick accent. He wore plain robes, and his face was hidden by bandages. “Good God, no!” The Patriarch laughed easily and patted his huge belly. “Me, take that miserable rocky road to see a pile of rubble?” He leaned over and slapped the Foreigner on the shoulder heartily. “No, my good friend, I leave that to you.” “This is surprise,” muttered his closest advisor, shrugging off his hand with a barely discernible scowl. “Think of the good old times, when the Tarnished Order was whole, and all you had to do was sit next to me and make the others jealous of all the attention I gave you.” The Patriarch mopped his brow with a huge, stained handkerchief. He had only eaten seven eggs, three rashers of bacon, six spiced sausages, four potatoes slathered in butter and herbs and eighteen tomatoes stuffed with goats cheese this morning and instead of his customary three pints of morning brew, he had only had two! “Well, if we make it through all this, maybe we’ll be able to live like that again, hmm?” For lunch, it would have to be a roast hog- No, venison. Yes, Venison stuffed with leeks and garlic accompanied by a fine wine -only five cups, he would have to ration the Serran wine until this awful situation was resolved- with a roast chicken or two and perhaps some of those fine vegetable pies his cook was so gifted at making… Would it be excessive to wrap that up with sweet pies soaked in honey….? Well, perhaps he would only have three of them. Saint Vladimir did denounce any excess, after all… “... do not trust Myukor. Is mad dog.” The Foreign’s bandages parted as he opened his mouth and spat a gobbet of bloody phlegm onto the dirt. “Cursed malbchuck.” The Patriarch’s dreamy smile fell as his thoughts of lunch collapsed. “Yes. Well. Do keep an eye on him, will you? I wouldn’t trust him anymore than I would eat him, and you know that’s saying something when it comes to me!” He chuckled, but his eyes were as glacial as a winter blizzard. “We need him. We need the Tarnished. Make sure the next ones are as loyal as my dear Grandaughter. We need them to be willing to kill him when he becomes redundant.” [Actions] -One Workshop is built in Novosibirsk. What a marvelous, wonderfully mundane creation! -150 Light Archers are trained up from the peasantry to defend the island. -250 Spearman are also trained. -MOD- -The Dominate men, freshly liberated by the noble savages on the coast will try to nab some of the paralytic poison from the amazonian corpses on their way out. After all, why should anyone mind, the w*men are dead! -The reality of their situation has set in. The Bak’Nari have them surrounded, and will not let them pass. These dire days of summer pass slowly, and the nights are fraught with concern. In an emergency meeting with his Councilors, the Patriarch decrees that the soldiers will spread out across the island in groups of one or two dozen, and build small watchtowers around which they will camp. Horn-bearing archers will stand guard atop them, ready to warn the island of any incoming raids, and The Foreigner is sent to assess the status of Vorkuta Fortress, which stands upon a high hill at the western tip of the island, watching over the river split like a silent, crouching giant. [1 B, 500C spent on watch towers, signal fires and horns.] -Kalina & Myukor continue their missions… [Discord]

The Dominate of Ayan Rus _______________________________________ The valley was deep here, and tall green pines grew on either side, their boughs to thickly intertwined that Myukor could barely see the night sky above. Shredded clouds hid the stars, and beneath the trees it was dark and quiet. The mists muted every noise and gave the dirt path and its surroundings a dreamlike quality. “This is a waste of our talents,” he said. “I would be better off making my way to Adonia.” “You’d be better off doing what you’re told,” said a high voice. And out of the mist materialized a dark shape, short and thin, her features as pale as bone, her eyes milky and ever moving in the shadows. “Your grandfather must be so proud of you, Kalina,” sneered Myukor. She stiffened and glared at him, her hand hovering over her dagger. “Watch your mouth. The Patriarch’s orders are law, krysa.” She tossed her head, her dark ponytail dancing behind her. “Anyway, you have it easy. I need to track down one of these Bak’Nari pizdy and get my hands dirty.” “Whatever,” he grumbled. On any other day, he might have complained more, but these days… They continued on in silence for a good while, and their long and easy strides brought them to the end of the forest, where the trees withered and died. Here, they could no longer water themselves from the poisonous waters of the Strygoi, and turned into dust and sand, stretching out for what seemed like forever in a long, narrow, pass. A single path branched off to the right, leading up into the hills. It was barely visible, as if it were rarely taken by men, but to his trained eyes it stood out like a campfire in the night. Tell her, whispered the voice. “We should use the Fire to destroy the Fire,” said Myukor suddenly. “Restore balance. Use the Great Satan’s unholy flames against him!” His eyes shone with fervor and he stepped up to her. She would understand, they would work together, hand in hand- her gleaming knife was an inch from his throat. “You-” she shook her head and shoved him away. “Keep your idiotic thoughts to yourself, Myukor. Nobody else needs to hear that one of us is cracked in the head.” Her face darkened. “We’re the only ones left, after what happened… We have to restore faith in our Order.” She turned away and began to trudge up the hill, leaving Myukor standing alone in the sand until she disappeared into the darkness. “Which is why we need to start making a real change…” But only the sad wailing of the wind answered him. _______________________________________ Actions _______________________________________ -500 Light Spearmen and 150 Archers are swiftly trained up to protect the home island, as news of the Bak’Nari incursions reaches the Patriarch. [MOD] -Kalina, the Tarnished, is sent to deal with the Bak’Nari intruders. All lands touched by the Strygoi Mist belong to the Ayan Rus, and soon, it will be the Bak’Nari’s turn to learn this lesson… [Discord] -Myukor, the second Tarnished, is sent to the Town at the far mouth of the Strygoi River. His mission is simple, and though he is reluctant to carry out the will of the Fat Patriarch, he does as he is told… [Discord] -The Ayan Rus send a missive to the Adonian Order, the letter sealed with wax and sent through the informal systems of trade ships and caravans. Each man gets paid by the next for the letter, and so on and so forth until it reaches Adonia. Once they break the seal and open the cylinder, the Adonians would find an old, dry piece of feces inside. -A small expedition of men, with about 50 spearmen and 10 archers, is sent north to explore the surrounding badlands for possible plants or animals of a toxic nature, from which they might extract useful poisons...

The Dominate of Ayan Rus Nation Government/Leader Rank: Autocracy / The Dominus: The Dominus rules from the Tserkov, the ruins of an ancient Cathedral upon the heights of the island, where the mists are the thin and the sun is strong. The Dominus has always been the Patriarch of the Faith and rules without constraints, seeking council only if it pleases him to do so. Description of National/Provincial History & Culture: The Dominate of Ayan Rus built itself up around the ruins of an older time. Their creation myths recount a long pilgrimage through the evil lands to the north, where man died of diseases hitherto unknown to man, and children were born as twisted, vile abominations. Away from the blasphemers fled the first Ayan Rus, away from those who would spread the black and evil tale of Adon of Illian, the False God, the Tyrant of man, whose so-called ‘tenants’ were but a cage for those blind enough to follow the word of the Priests and their Machiavellian world order. Here on the island of Vozrozhdeniye, the Ayan Rus found rebirth. They lived amongst the ruins of a far ancient time, scrabbling for a living as they explored this humid land, lush in dark forests and perpetually smothered in a thick cloying mist. The Ayan Rus broke away from the Adonian Order, and follow their own vision of the world. Adon of Illian is nothing other than the Great Satan to them. They follow the teachings of the Pretendent Vladimir (May his sacrifice forever be remembered), whom they believe challenged Adon’s tyrannical and apocalyptic order, and died for his bravery. The mists of their lands and the stars above them lead their religion, and the Patriarch reads them for his flock. The memory of the Great Satan, and all of his evil creations must be eradicated, if humanity is to be cleansed of his sins. Now, with Satan’s Comet lighting the skies above with the fires of hell, the Dominate must act, lest mankind collapse back into the apocalypse once again. Architecture: The Ayan Rus’ common folk live in mean, tarred log cabins, gathered in small farming and hunting communities around the island. Most of them live under the eaves of thick pine forests and in the perpetual gloom of the Styksoi mists, their days lit only by lamp and torch. As you climb higher up the hills and the sun becomes visible, you may notice that ancient ruins made of crumbling stone have been refurbished into households for wealthier citizens and foreign envoys, who live on tall rocky hills above trees and mist. Higher still, upon the central island peak is the Tserkov, a great ruined Cathedral where the Patriarch has his court. Though the ruins are crumbling, they still hold an ancient glory to them, and in some places, careful work has been done to prevent further degradation. Around the Tserkov are the most luxurious of homes, build of stone and heavy, dark logs, these houses hold the greatest families of the Ayan Rus, who live all under one roof, with the Lord and Lady of the family the only ones privileged enough to have a private room while his sons and daughters, and their own children share a communal living space around a great firepit. Notable Characters: Patriarch Bogumir II the Great, the Dominus, 67, [8] The Patriarch Bogumir looks like a man who used to be handsome, and allowed himself to collapse into unprecedented decadence. His feasts are legendary for their orgy-like qualities, in which man feasts on wine and foods as rich and fine as peasants have never seen. The finest dates from the coasts and the finest boars from the forests. Bogumir was born into his position, as the son of the Patriarch Bogumir I. His title of ‘the Great’ is due less to his acts and more to his girth. Enormously fat, he often uses a palanquin to move around, and though he indulges in the worst sorts of decadence, it would be wrong to underestimate him. His mind is still as quick as a glass dagger through flesh. Many are those who have plotted against him, forgetting this crucial fact, and many were submerged into the Styksoi, and left to die in suspended cages as its poisons consumed them. The Foreigner, ??, [1] Nothing is known of the Foreigner, not even his looks. The only thing that the Court can agree upon is that he is from a distant land, for his accent, though subtle, lacks the qualities of native speech. Clad in a white cloak, his hands and face are entirely bandaged, leaving only two blue and bloodshot eyes peeking from underneath his hood. He is always at Bogumir’s side, and the Patriarch forever seeks his council last, before a decision is taken. Many would kill to have the ear of the Patriarch. Many have tried. But the Foreigner has survived every attempt, no matter the odds. Smirenka Poloisky, the Lady in Waiting [4] The face of the Ayan Rus in foreign lands, Smirenka is short and assuming. Plain to the point of ugliness, she could don peasant robes and not look out of place. But her family, the Poloisky, is one of the richest of the Ayan Rus, and control all steel production on the island. She is the daughter to the Lord Piotr Poloisky, and seems to enjoy being as far away from the Island of Vozrozhdeniye as much as possible, hence her appointment. A life of luxury is all she aspires for, and she always travels with a caravan of servants and luxuries, often paying for the most expensive accommodations (for herself, the servants sleep in the stables), the most expensive food (her servants can have gruel) and the most luxurious of pleasures. It would be wise to give her a gift, if one wishes to have her lend her ear to a problem. Musor, the Cockroach [10] Musor thinks that the Pretendent Vladimir speaks to him from heaven. How unfortunate that psychologists do not exist, for he is little more than a mad schizophrenic. He was once upon a time a strong believer of the Faith, so dedicated to its work that he trained in the Shkola to become a Tarnished. But the waters of the Styksoi burned away his sanity, leaving behind a gibbering, dangerously unstable mess that follows its own creed, and believes that the Will of the Pretendent is whatever the voices in his head tell him it is. If the Patriarch will not listen to him, to the Prophet that speaks through him, then perhaps it is time to make him listen. Unique Military Units (One): The Tarnished: These are the fel ghosts that carry out the Patriarch’s will. Adept at stalking their prey, they are expert spies and assassins, agile and skilled in the deadly arts as much as they are intelligent and adaptable, able to speak the many languages of the world with ease. With a knife in hand, they are a terrifying force, gifted with great skill and regenerative capacities, passed from generation to generation of tarnished. National Idea (nothing strictly mechanical): The Ayan Rus have always felt out of place outside of their island. Different, uncertain of their place in the world. They have coped with this by assimilating into other cultures easily, adopting their languages and their customs with such ease that they can often be unrecognizable from their native neighbors after a few short years. Player POI: The River Styksoi Dark and glassy are the waters of the Styksoi. Tall is the island of Vozrozhdeniye that stands there, hemmed on in both sides by the twin flows of the River Stix, from which exudes a heavy mist. To foreigners, its emissions are poisonous, and though they may spend a short stay within the Ayan Rus, they must inevitably leave, or risk developing a bloody cough that can lead only to death. Often, merchants are seen wearing cloth masks to protect themselves as they come and peddle their goods among the people of Vozrozhdeniye. The most important of foreign envoys and ambassadors are given ancient contraptions which cover their faces and clean the air for them, so that they may travel safely through the mists and up to their luxurious residences far above the poisonous mists on the high hills of Vozrozhdeniye. Only one great bridge of stone spans the river, and wood inevitably dissolves itself in these waters, for a great poison lurks in them, and all who enter them must inevitably die, succumbing to an ill that eats them from the inside and covers them in tumors. Few and secret are its hidden fords, known only to the privileged few, through which may cross its secret missionaries. The Tarnished are known to be a rare selection of men and women who have survived such an illness and return from the waters of the Syksoi, reborn.

The Life Guard Unique Cannons 25kC 6m 15NP 4x (100.000 C, 24M, 60NP) Freighters 2500C, 2NP, 1M 10 x (25000 C, 20NP, 10M) 11 x Regular Infantry 15000C 3AP 4M >The Life Guard swears Allegiance to Altaire. Glory to Altaire. >Great celebrations are had at the discovery of a psychic, Mara, amongst the common people! This young girl shall surely do great things. >15 I into counter intel.

The Kaitiaki Ora ______________________ -Four Destroyers are built. -15 Influence is used in counter-intelligence. -5 is used to establish a level 1 spy operation in Rata. -A single stealth ship continues its journey. -The fleet prepares. -[Redacted Actions]

The Kaitiaki Ora Another unit of His Majesty’s Life Guard readies itself for bloody conflict. (50.000C, 8M, 2A, 2T) Three more Light Cruisers are built. (90.000C, 60NP, 18M.) Actions Redacted! The Stealth Ship in USSC space continues its careful path towards the old Imperial Mine, to gather what intelligence it may about the system and the planets defenses.

The Hekeati >Two new regiments of Life Guard, under the tutelage of their ancients, emerge from the great fortress-camps of Temeria Tertius. (50.000C, 8m, 2a, 2t) >Two new Light Cruisers are produced. >Influence and time is spent sending agents to infiltrate the U.S.S.C. (15 I for T2 network) Actions >For lack of psychics, the Life Guard send a message filtering back through the Galactic Network. The loyalty of His Majesty’s Life Guard awaits, all that Lord Taera must do is present himself on Temeria Tertius, and face the Sample, deep within the guts of the Red Temple. There, his lineage will be tested. Should he pass the secret trials, the Life Guard will soak the galaxy in blood to ensure his Return. >[Redacted] >A delegation is sent to Lord Rata, requesting the establishment of an embassy in his land. The main ask is simple: to ensure cordial relations between elements that both once served loyally under the Emperor. >Another envoy is sent to the ERTC, requesting estimates of capital ship production prices in their Driveyard. >A singular stealth ship is jumped into the first USSC system neighboring the Hekeati, to begin a careful scouting of the system, the occupied planet, and any signs of an enemy fleet.

The Hekeati Kaitiaki Ora - His Majesty’s Life Guard Capital World - Tiakina Capital - Manatu "We fought for Kaumai while it fell to ruin around us. We fought until our gunbarrels burned cherry red and our swords shattered. We fought in the inner chambers where the marble was splashed red. Whatever might make you think that we ever stopped fighting?" -Toasûl Kiris Aloiki. Cultural Composition A cultural anthropologist might be interested in the finer points of the Hekeati’s meaning-making in a Post-Imperial landscape. But when people speak of the Hekeati, they speak of that distorted shadow that it casts, the jagged edges behind the roundness, the gun-metal grey under a dusting of gold. When you say Hekeati, I think Kaitiaki Ora. The Hekeati are a collection of refugees, imperial planets and noble families that gravitate around a force far more important than them. His Majesty’s Imperial Lifeguard, the Kaitiaki Ora, stand behind the Hekeati and their Three Houses, whose authority is subject to the tacit approval of the Toasul, the Commander of the Life Guard. Some might question the purpose of a Life Guard with no living Emperor. But who are they to question ten-thousand years of genetically perfected loyalty? The Bloodline cannot fail. Somewhere, drifting within the galaxy, an heir stirs. Their blood is thick with royalty, and the Life Guard shall find them. And when they find them - and find them they shall - the Guard shall return them to the throne, and shatter every opponent in their path. On Governance The Hekeati operate as many a nation do, with the Three Houses administering to most of the tasks of governance, while the Kaitiaki Ora focus on most military issues. Their people are a collection of refugees from many an imperial world, and form the bedrock of their new society, a mass of serfs and workers who serve the nobility of the 3 Houses and the many Houses Minor. Much like the Empire, the Hekeati operate a senate, though it lacks many of the powers of the Imperial Senate, and much of the authority lies in the hands of the Regent who is not so secretly subject to the authority of the Toasûl himself. In many ways, this ‘Small Senate’ as it is often called, acts only to rubber stamp bills created by the Three Houses and the current elected Regent. (More on Hekeati Election Customs on p.33-44) The Retimana Sangu These are those who lead the religious worship of the Emperor, his Bloodline and the search for a worthy heir, which sends their seekers out into the stars, their minds trained and bent into such a manner that they can detect even the slightest genetic similarity in the inflection of a voice, the gentle trace of a cheekbone, or the signature look of superiority of Imperial Blood. Those who fit are spirited away, if they may be, or approached directly, if they may not. The Legitimacy of the Sample is held as faultless by the Kaitiaki Ora, but the tests for those who would wish to claim descent from the Bloodline are dangerous, and death or the shattering of a mind is not an uncommon byproduct of those of weak blood. What those tests are, remains a mystery to all but the highest echelons of the Kaitiaki Ora and the Retimana Sangu, who hide it deep within the bowels of the Red Temple on Manatu Minoris, the Capital’s only moon. It is said that even the Kaitaki Ora may bow before the authority of the Retimana Sangu, who instills the worship of the Divine Emperor in their souls, and blesses them before battle. Excerpt from the Anthropological Works: Three Imperial Houses rule the Hekeatii, it is a static system with no mobility. The Houses will never change, as long as the interregnum endures, so will the Houses. While one House rules, the others advise, and when one ruler dies, the Houses nominate a new Regent. But when they have chosen a new Regent, the leaders of the three houses leave the opulent and gilded Regency Palace, and march down the broad Ara Ngakau, the grand avenue that cuts the Capital, Manatu, in half. In a grand procession, their subservience is witnessed by every citizen who stands along its sides and within the glittering spires that line it, they march to the Maotatoa, the Citadel. Its steps of white marble, worn by the endless marching of metal-booted feet, climb up to a dominating construct of ugly black metal and gold, like an eagle propped atop a mount of bleached bones. There stands the Toasûl, the Commander of the Life Guard, the Kaitiaki Ora, flanked by those who stood at the Emperor’s side for a thousand years, their loyalty never questioned. It is a symbolic gesture now. The House Candidate cuts his hand, and lifts it up, palm up, pooling the blood. The Toasûl must either cut his own palm, and clasp hands, not a drop of precious Imperial blood spilled, or reach out, and turn the Candidate’s hand over, spilling his blood onto the steps below, rejecting his worth. Such a process is repeated until the Toasûl selects a worthy Regent, and nobody may ever forget who is truly in control. -Customs of the Hekeati Historical Context Guards of the very palace within which the final stand on Kaumai took place, the Life Guard fought with their brethren until their guns ran dry, their bayonets shattered and their fists were bruised and broken, shedding their blood in one last hopeless venture to protect their Lord. “The Emperor is dead. The Palace-Moon burns. I this final hour, I send this message to all who may receive it. The Imperial Guard will follow the path of the Emperor with dignity and honor, until the stars go dark. Glory to the Empire!” -Unknown Officer of the Imperial Guard, on open channels, following the Sack of Kaumai, as recorded by the Life Guard. Yet in the final hour, when all seemed lost, and the Irik slicked the palace halls with blood, the Emperor turned to his most loyal, and spoke to them one final time, filling their lives with divine purpose as his physician took a final vial of blood from an arm weakened by the duel with Erasmis. “Take this blood of mine, that those who have watched over my line will watch over it again. Now flee this place and save the legacy of the Empire. Return with an heir at your head, or never return again.” -The final words of the Emperor to the Life Guard, as recorded by the Kaitiaki Ora. These remnants of a once proud Legion, reduced so horrifically in numbers that they seemed more a regiment than a legion, fought their way through the hordes and captured an Irik ship, escaping the blockade only through the skill of a loyalist pilot, who has been immortalized in their halls, a certain Howard H. Parr Jr. Thus the Hekeati now exist, biding their time and waiting for an heir who’s blood is strong, so that they may seat him once more upon the Throne, and watch as Erasmis is cast into ruin, and the Empire restored. Characters of Note Kiris Aloiki He was but a young Lieutenant in the Life Guard during the fall of Kaumai, but by the time he and his men escaped, he was the highest ranking officer left. Thus was the burden of leadership thrust into his hands, and he has found himself well suited for it. Beloved and trusted beyond death by his men, he rules the Hekeati with a first of iron and shadow. He makes no secret of the Life Guard's dominion over the Three Families, but nor does he rule overtly. A careful man, Kiris Aloiki remembers the last Emperor, and the duty of every man woman and child in his lands has always, and always will be turned towards the reconstruction of the fallen Empire. Slow to anger yet quick to act, he is decisive and believes that any reaction is better than none. With decades of experience fighting in the chaos of the new order, he has little to no mercy for lawbreakers and pirates, and even less for anti-loyalist dogs. Pehak / Pierre Teniert The Life Guard recruits from Orphans and rejects, the scraps found in the streets and the unwanted donations of old families, discreetly deposited at their metaphorical doorstep. Others find their way there by themselves, pulled to the ranks by something that they may not even comprehend. Pierre Teniert is such a product. Born of the union of an rebellious young Teniert who left his home in the search of adventure, and a barmaid, he knows the blood that flows in his veins, and his growth amongst the ranks of the Life Guard have led him to despise his father, and his abandonment both his family and the Empire. A man can never fully escape his past, nor those to whom he is bound by blood. But Pehak likes to believe that the blood that binds him more tightly than any other is the blood he and his brothers spilled fighting in the name of the Emperor. Maalea Sangunis One of the chief priestesses of the Red Temple as a member of the Deep Sangus, she is a mysterious figure that is rarely seen amongst the people of the Hekeati, or even the Life Guard for that matter. Some say an aura of discomfort follows her like a thick cloud, and that instead of eyes, her empty sockets are soaked are slashed and scarred. What little is known is that within the Retimana Sangus, she is feared and respected in equal measure and resides deep within the temple. Her role in the Sample Trials, and in the broader religion are little known, but none who has seen her has doubted her importance. Unique Units His Imperial Life Guard -Heavy Infantry- Psychics may approach many foes with confidence, but it is not so with His Majesty’s Life Guard. Imperial Conditioning, two words that strike fear into any assassin or manipulator of minds, for Life Guards have been trained in the Deep Secrets. No Psycher has ever shattered a Life Guard’s mind. To the Psychic Eye, the Life Guards are simply not there, their minds like vapor, afterimages that cannot be pinned. But in the flesh, they are no less formidable. A grand array of cybernetic and biological augmentations affect a plethora of abilities from speed, strength and memory. Above it all, they done the Kila-VI Armor, a slimmed down suit of power armor that compromises neither grace, nor agility. A relic of bygone golden age. Their brutal training has taught them expertise in all forms of combat. But what quells a discontented noble’s rebellious thoughts at night is that singular fear of steel, held in the hand of one who’s loyalty cannot be bought. Though the Empire has fallen, its custodians remain, waiting for the day when their Emperor returns. TLDR Points: Atreides-XVII Defense System -Land/Space Artillery- An highly expensive and powerful artillery piece capable of firing at extreme ranges with a degree of precision high enough to reliably hit Heavy Cruisers and above with devastating Gauss-powered projectiles. A traditional piece of the Imperial Guard's armory, they are both deployable on planets, and in space as immobile weapon's platforms. (4 may be transported per freighter) Fires once every other turn. Only able to Hit HC+. HP: 10 Speed: 0 Range: 15 Damage: TBA (18xD4-1) National Idea: The Empire MUST Survive: All military worlds start with Ground To Orbit defenses, an LSRB and are heavily fortified. Can apply same bonuses to any newly acquired (Non Military) system with a 5 turn cooldown. Military worlds do not consume build slots, non-military ones do. A Letter: S for Sigma

The Crusader State of Jena So fell the beast, a lord of the sky. Did we judge it too harshly, strike too eagerly? Was the light of the Hieoromar clouded by greed and a lust for battle? Perhaps. The drakers acquited themselves bravely, and faced the danger without fear, even as their own fell from the sky. And we fought with equal valor. Yet, even as I stand observing its shattered remains, I cannot help but feel that this valour has been diminished by the calamity of such a death. It was not our place to strike down such a beast, a creation of our God. Yet we took it upon ourselves to do so, and I fear that we may pay the price only once we are dead. -Extract from General Klauzewitz's diary, 1890. Actions -Construction of 10 Material Industry. -1 new city is founded within the great wastes, surrounding a large oasis. California. -The Retia Illia is brusquely sent back to these new lands. This time it takes with it a team of naturalists led by a certain Jolta Heezerstein, along with a group of Spiritus Sanctus Machina. It shall fly farther and deeper, alone, to explore these new and mysterious lands. It has 5000 Books of Horatius in its hold, for distribution amongst the poor natives of this land! They are to discover more of this land, and not return until they have a comprehensive report to present. Research -Vitriol Judge Armor [Cont'd] -Ancient Slot: Research into gauging the technological level of the ancient orbital defense systems. Are these cannons of a familiar design, are they beyond the comprehension of the Spiritus Sanctus Machina? It's priests wander this desolate installation, muttering litanies, burning oil in incense burners and filling the air with the fumes of gasoline as their inspect these behemoths. Just how advanced are they? Trade Power 16

The Pact of Jena 1890 _____________________________ The Acadian Consulate, the Crusader State of Jena and the Koninkrijk Aadrensveld-Rhynsland hereby agree to the following terms, now outlined under the name ‘The Pact of Jena’: To offer unflinching support in times of aggression against one of the signatories. Offering either fleet or armies to protect their sovereignty and self-determination. To face no obligation to aid in wars of aggression against other parties, unless such war has been proven beyond any doubt to be preventative war, such that no other option exists, other than to further delay and face an inevitable, and better prepared enemies. Such aid must be unified, and sent forth by both non-aggressed signatories. To face no obligation to aid in colonial wars of aggression. To face only obligation to aid in attacks against a signatories continental (Old World) borders. To commit to favorable trade agreements between parties, trading goods at fair and competitive prices without suspicion or economically exploitative tactics. To face obligation to reject trade agreements with those with whom a signatory is in open war with. To face obligation to reject trade with those who have engaged in piracy against a signatory. To allow for the inclusion of further nations into the Pact if a majority vote has been achieved. Failure to achieve a majority dictates the reconvening of a council the following year. To elect a representative to the Pact, seated on a rotating basis in each signatories capital, changing at the end of the third year. Signed by, Lord Commander Solomon Horatio of Jena Eden Roucayrol, First Consul of Acadia His Grace, Johann Friederick van Alfrenz, Duke of Jannenveld, Chancellor of Aadrensveld-Rhynsland, in the name of His Majesty, Bartholomeus van Aadrensveld, the Third of his Name, and by the grace of Hierormar, King of Aadrensveld-Rhynsland, Prince of Rhynsland, and Duke of Coenstaad

The Crusader State of Jena “I must find my anger, I must saturate my flesh in its fire, And when all has been burned away, I will be free.” -Book of Horatio, 2:45 ----------------------------------- The Play - A Tragedy of Four Chapters ----------------------------------- The Protagonist - Imicus Dune, the bastard son of a high-ranking Jena noble. Ejected from his home only three years ago at the birth of the Duke’s legitimate son, his only consolation was a lowly spot as a lieutenant on the Babylon. ----------------------------------- The Plot - Solum Tempus Narrabo. ----------------------------------- Scene One - Bastardus Et Dominus ----------------------------------- Imicus Dune, young Lieutenant to the Babylon leaned on the railing and looked out over the wastelands. It was quiet still, this early in the morning. A thin mist had rallied against the ground and skittered along the rock-riddled sand and here, high-above, the air was cold and sharp, like a draught of liquor. The mountains that had so jaggedly limited Jena ambitions for centuries glowered down at him dowerly, promising much pain to the man fool enough to send an army across them by any other way but the distant gap, where, if he squinted just right, he could see the first beams of sunlight glint against the white walls of Arce Jerusalem, the Jerusalem Fortress. “Brandy for the bastard?” A muscle twitched in Imicus' jaw and he repressed a glare. A man in the white and gold uniform of naval lieutenants leaned against the railing beside him, all smiles, his hair tousled, his face young and bright, barely burnt by the wastelands carelessly cruel winds. He held a small flask, the aromatic smell of southern brandy wafting from its open top. “Really, this early, Zutzën?” But Imicus took it nonetheless, and savored the rare treat. “It’s never too early to get drunk on this pile of scheiss,” said the Zutzën. He hawked and spat over the edge. The gobbet of moisture dwindled away into the early dawn light. Imicus judged that it might just make a lucky wasterats day. “I don’t know. I like it well enough,” he replied after a pregnant pause. Somewhere, a call went forth, and a small bell clanged. Once, twice. A change of course. He held onto the railing as the ship began to shift, metal groaning and engine chugging out black contrails of smoke as it turned into the rising sun, and Imicus lifted his hand up to ward off the rays. Somewhere ahead of them now, lost amidst a sea of sand, the city of Jena was rising. Bakers were pooling their meagre resources to feed the growing bread lines, butchers slashing throats and beggars begging for gold and scraps. Above it all, the Church Bells would be summoning the people to mass. His father would be there somewhere, praying, or pretending to. The words practiced enough to slip past pale lips as his mind considered business, blood and gold. Would he think of the bastard son he had thrown away so easily? Not likely. Maybe his own half-brother would be crying now, demanding- “Hey.” A hand on his shoulder, and he stiffened, shaking it off and shrugging. “You had that look again, like you wanted to put a stake through a heathen’s heart.” “Just one heathen,” muttered Imicus. He took a longer gulp from the Reismark brandy and wiped his mouth roughly with the back of his white glove. A bell was clanging dolefully now, and below, he heard its echo from a small village, its houses clustered around an oasis amidst the blasted wastes. All over Jena, the bells would ring, over hot sand and stone, beneath the growing rays of Sun. All were called to worship. All were called to pray. But Imicus had only one prayer, and he doubted the Infinite Hieoromar would be very partial to it. Actions -By decree of King Solomon Horatio, so-called ‘pre-Emptive’ Draker activity has been permanently suspended in Jena. Drakers must apply for a Permit from the local government, and may only do their work on a regulated number of already deceased draken, once they have been moved from their resting place at the Drakers own expense. The Crucifier class LC August Maller will be enforcing these regulations. For The Book of Horatius, 1:4 decrees that “For the worship of the Infinite Hieoromar must therefore be extended to his every creation.” -A single Light Cruiser, the Retia Illia, is sent to explore rumors of shores to the east, whispers of a new world. -Construction of Material Industry [10] Research -Vitriol Judge Armor: Research goes into vitriol infused armor capable of being highly resistant and also offering Judges the opportunity to control their mass, allowing for extremely long jumps, or controlled deceleration during a descent. -Ancient Tech Slot: Priests of the Spiritus Santcus Machina begin to research the predictive possibilities of the Weather Installation, in the hopes of being able to emulate it, and gain the ability to know weather patterns in advance... And perhaps, one day, control them.

The Crusader State of Jena Focuses Nation Trait: Advanced Logistics Economy: Trade Hub Society/Government/Other: Isolationist Resource Deficiency: Grain Army Doctrine: Massed Warfare Naval Doctrine: Capital Ships Economic Focus: Heavy Industry ___________________________________________________________________________________ National Idea Spiritus Sanctus ___________________________________________________________________________________ Culture Church of Hieromar - The people of Jena believe in the Holy Spirit of the Original Hieromar in much the same way as most. They hold a particularly strong belief in the Spiritus Sanctus, or the Holy Spirit of Hieromar the Originator, and put less of a focus on the Sanctity of his disciples, preferring instead to worship their supposed Father and Saint, Horatius, who’s bloodline they claim still runs strong in their ruling family. "What makes a Crusader State? Must it be forged in blood, as Jena was? Must it be led by Knights of Hieromar, as Jena is? Must it be devoted to the Sanctity of the Hieromar, as Jena is? The blood of the 42nd House of Horatius flows strong in our veins, his words resonate through his holy scriptures, they remind of the mission for which we were chosen. Nostra terra sancta est, et nostra numquam corrumpetur. We carved this land with our swords, we broke the heathen’s grasp with our maces. Let not that which is now holy be corrupted. Monasteries await those who doubt, and death awaits those who betray. Sons of Jena, when the Bishop stands before you, swear your oath of sanctity. When bullets fly by you, remember your oath of sanctity. When death claims you, and the golden gates open before you, hold onto your oath of sanctity. For it is the key to heaven." -Horatio Horatius, speaking at the Gala organized by Petrus Malachite, 1778. [The people of Jena are a multicultural assembly, as one might expect in a Crusader state founded by a variety of groups from across the Hieromatic world.] ___________________________________________________________________________________ History Sons of Jena, hear me well, For I have this tale to tell, A tale of Horatius good, And of how well he stood To keep these holy lands From cruel barbarian hands! T’was early in the age, He was but a sage, Yet our Holy Hieromar, He saw his future far He named him forty second, And then he rightly reckoned That this here poorly sage Would wield sword without rage, Would conquer but not plunder, Oh how the skies did thunder! When Horatius kept the pass Against evil Amarnass! And when this land was ours And we smiled at the stars, Then Horatius spoke a speech, That we today still preach: “What we have built today, Has here been built to stay, Founded on zeal, Founded on steel, Barbarian’s bane, Believer’s gain, Holy god given land, Here we forever stand. My sons I say today, That we are here to stay, Until the world burns ‘Till Hieromar returns.” The Lay of Good Horatius, 1677. ___________________________________________________________________________________ Point of Interest The Spire of Saint Horatius “Long past are the ages of Greed, the ages of the Covetous, of the liars and of the thieves. What remains of those ancient times are but relics of hell, temptation for the depraved and the weak of mind. Reject them, burn them. Cleanse your lands of that which once was. Begin anew under the ever watchful gaze of the Hieromar.” Saint Horatius, circa year 50. Upon a spire of rock stands not the gilded cathedrals of Jena, the glittering chapels of an aristocrats estate. Here, in the middle of the desert, fifty leagues from the nearest village, is but a humble spire of rock, like the crooked finger of a long dead giant, it reaches up into the stars, grasping at that which can never be held again. Here sat Horatius, the father of the 42nd Family, whose bloodline we lay a claim to. And he looked into the stars and spoke to the Hieromar for seven days and seven nights. And on the eight day’s dawn, the ash cleared from the sky and the Sun shone down upon the world once more. We do not build an altar to our God in this Sanctum. Climb the jagged steps, molded by the Hieromar’s touch. Touch the stone, warmed by the Hieromar’s golden gaze. Stand upon it’s crest, and feel his presence. Sit within the circle of stone, feast upon your life. Contemplate that which was, is, and will be. Be one with God. ___________________________________________________________________________________ Unique Units The Babylon Class Dreadnought [2/5/6] “Submit yourselves therefore to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from you.” Ancient is the tradition of melee combat within the Crusader State of Jesa, and the Babylon encompasses it in all its glory. Ill suited for long range engagements, the Babylon is a hulking, painfully slow mass of guns and armor so thick that it can shrug off the worst of blows. It carries a host of guns of all sizes, allowing it to deal with even the smallest of ships with terrifying efficiency at close range. It struggles at longer ranges, and its engineers have overcome such troubles by giving it the powerful System Overload, allowing it to reach extreme amounts of speed for short amounts of time and close the gap. In brawling range, it’s plethora of cannons can unleash the fury of god upon all ship classes. Each model sports a ram at the front, capable of cracking even the toughest of hulls with a proper blow. The Crucifier Class Light Cruiser [5/3/3] “Be angry and do not sin; do not let the sun go down on your anger, and give no opportunity to the devil.” The Crucifier is the nail in the coffin of every fighter pilots dreams of glory. The flyswatter which crushes the buzzing gnat. Fitted to bursting point with Anti-Air guns and secondary armament capable of devastating destroyers and fighters, it’s angular shadow is enough to strike fear into the bravest of granship pilots. Most fearsome is its terrifying 88mm cannon, capable of mounting armor-piercing or flak rounds, and firing them with devastating speed in combination with its plethora of machine gun fittings. The Crucifier is slightly smaller than a typical cruiser, and is designed to be able to protect the Babylon's during a brawl by maintaining speed and avoiding enemy main guns while warding off smaller threats. The Judges [Infantry] “Man is sin, and sin is in man. But in death can one find absolution. Deviants, liars, cheats! Solace is upon you, for Judgement has been suspended until death, and God will look at your deeds and smile, for you have been redeemed.” The wayward sons of the Jena Aristocracy are brought to the Monasteries to find salvation. Plain food, cold stone barracks, grueling training under the most unforgiving of taskmasters. Upon leaving the Monastery, the Children of Judgement are some of the most hardened fighters in the world. They wear steel, vitriol-infused armor which gives them both great resistance to enemy weapons, and the ability to dramatically slow-down any descent. It is a fine tool for leaping from ships onto land, and gives them great potential as shock troops, as well as short range boarding parties, with the armor allowing them to make gravity defying leaps. Each wields a great two-handed sword (Or Sword & Shield for boarding) aswell as a compact water-cooled machine gun and a wrist-connected flamethrower capable of short-range bursts of flame. Characters of Note: -Solomon Horatius, King of Jena King of Jena and son of the Horatian bloodline. -Admiral Achilles von Klauzewitz Commander in Chief of the Jena Air Navy. -General Tullius Schlieffen Command in Chief of the Jena Army. -Sergeant William Moltke of the Sons of Judgement A young officer in the Sons of Judgement, entered into it by his father for his constant drunken debauchery in the capital of Jena. -Lieutenant Paulus Moltke of Abraham's Gavel. Elder brother to William Moltke and a respectable product of the Moltke family, now serving as a junior officer abord the Abraham's Gavel, the pride dreadnought of Jena.

Vrena -With the arrival of the Concordant on their border, the Vrena Principality constructs a Fortress in the mountain pass seperating them from the badlands. A wise idea even without this new looming shadow before them. They try to position in a dominating position overlooking the pass, upon a good hill with a source of uncorrupted water and an overlook of the main paths leading between the two. Men are sent to garrison it. (4M, 5000C) Research -With the mass implementation of waterproof clothing and cartridge boxes for the army, researchers begin to look into the industrialization of hydrogen isolation. A well known process for many decades or more, the idea is to find a way to do it as a mass scale, so that it may be used to create bigger, more effective blimps. (Slot 1)

The Vrena Principality -Following the obliteration of church forces in C5, most of 2nd Corps is sent to secure the mountain pass into the wastelands to the west in A7. Knowing the predicted difficulty of the project, they establish a line of small outposts along the way, each garrisoned with a detachment of men to secure the area. The Rovfagel flies above and ahead, coordinating with the light cavalry as they secure the region before the infantry. Once the open lands have been secured, the forces will begin to move back towards the mountains and secure those. They all remain alert, weary of this forsaken land beyond the mountains, where things ancient and alien stir and old wives tales speak of a dark and dangerous people beneath the earth... -The Königreich Zunderland and the Vrena Principality sign the Toleyran-Gründwent Agreement, stipulating that the Königreich shall gain possession of the province labelled as C2, in return for certain concessions. Namely, researchers from the University are to retrieve any relics found within the hands of the Church, or in ruins within that land once it has been secured. Research -Telegram (Fall 3252) -Waterproof, mass-producible clothing. (Summer 3251) -Modell ‘51 Gustav Cannon (Winter 3251)

The Vrena Principality Winter - 3251 It was a chosen field, near the old walls of Stör Avigrad, politely hidden from the city by a thin screen of old pines, planted some many years ago by an old duke in need of privacy. Engström had wanted the parks, but the Sovereign had rebuked him sharply. ‘Better that you two resolve your damn foolishness away from my view, lest I come out myself to end you both.’ Haraldsson smiled a little at that. The ire had been pointed two ways, but still, Engström’s bluster had been something for the ages. “You are quite certain that there is no other way, Haraldsson?” asked Knieffson, standing beside him in the snowy field. He looked tired, worried, his hat a little off-angle, the yellow feather peppered with snow. “You have risen from the ranks, sir,” said Haraldsson. “Should this be my final battle, you will replace me. You alone understand the infantry man as I do.” His second bowed to him so deep that Haraldsson laughed, a short bark, smothered by the snow. “Come now, I’m not the Tsar of Soglasigrad, kiss my cheek and let us have this done with!” But when he departed, and Ulrich could look across the field, he felt just a little alone. Two sabers separated him from Engström, and he wondered if he would be able to enjoy Tchadkovsky’s reception tonight, at the Sovereign’s palace. Now that was music. The arbiter, a friend of both, and thus of none, Minister of the Cabinet Holden Peskali strode forth, his face wrought with disapproval, but his words bound by honor. “This is the last chance for a peaceful arrangement, Gentlemen, lest blood be spilled.” The field, wide and quiet, remained undisturbed. A gruff snort passed Haraldsson’s lips. Engström was a stuck-up prick of the worst sort, but he had been a cuirassier, riding down barbarians in the badlands for a decade before he got his command. The horrors of a single pistol no doubt meant very little to him. “Advance three paces on my mark, and fire whenever you wish!” “One, two, three!” Engström’s pistol muzzle seemed to grow bigger, and bigger, until it encompassed his entire view and Ulrich thought to himself that he could see the ball at the end of that long tunnel, like a rock rolled over the gates of heaven. A flash of fire, and a rushing wind. Pain flared on his cheek and Haraldsson almost smiled. Pain was good. Across the field, Engström lowered his pistol and stared at him with an unflinching gaze, tall and unmoving. He lifted his pistol and switfly fired. Engström collapsed without a word, but a gurgled grunt escaping his lips as his second rushed forward along with Peskali, their faces white as the snow was red. “Damn unreliable weapons,” said Haraldsson as Knieffson rushed up with a somber look on his face. “I was aiming for his leg.” He handed the empty pistol to his second and walked towards his sled without another glance backward. “Have Peter Drakenberg raised to Lieutenant General.” They settled into the carriage as Engström’s body was lifted off the ground. “Now, what was all this nonsense about those damned Church fools fiddling about in our territories?” Actions -2nd Corps, under the newly minted Lt. General Peter Drakenberg is sent to winter quarters along the northern border. The General is already well aware of his duties, come Spring. The total annihilation of Church forces across the border, and the finding of the Holy Relic which they seem so intent on appropriating from the hands of the People. -God & good weather willing, the Rövfagel flies over the church-held lands during the winter, attempting to locate a concentration of force, or the general disposition of their people across the region, while the Ny Tid flies to the river Vod and docks in Stör Avida, waiting further orders. -Vrena public attitude turns decidedly against Mirasol as news begins to filter outward of its current position vis-à-vis to the Concordat, and Mirasol musicians find themselves facing a rather lukewarm reception in the venues within which they are invited to play -which remain rather numerous, if their skill is of any true worth- . Still, music is music, and the Concordat Officer is the exception within the midst, invited as he is to play in a variety of prestigious venues along with Tchadkovsky. Ultimately, he if seated at the same table as Gustav Sigmarsson, Sovereign of Vrena, during a reception, where, in a round-about fashion, Gustav hints at Vrenian interests in the benefits and demands of Concordat cooperation. Research -Telegram (Fall 3252) -Waterproof, mass-producible clothing. (Summer 3251) -Modell ‘51 Gustav Cannon (Winter 3251)

The Vrena Principality The War Room had that same tense atmosphere that it always held whenever Field Marshal Haraldsson and Lt. General Adolfus Engström had to share the same space. That sort of bitter tension that spoke of spurned honor and long unburied resentment. “This is preposterous,” blustered Engström. “Absolutely inconceivable, it goes against Doctrine, against tradition! My lord, with all respects I cannot- I will not engage in such frivolous tactics! A man of the infantry is to stand and deliver fire, not rush at the enemy like some addled badlander!” Haraldson's coffee was good, not too bitter, a touch of something sweet. He took another sip and sighed. Those Soglasigrad chaps certainly knew which imports to ship in from overseas. Engström liked to think himself a conservative, a man who had existed before Haraldsson’s ideas, and resented his promotion. “Sir,” said Haraldsson slowly. The sun was warm today, a welcome break from the windy, grey Autumn that had been afflicting Stör Avida. “You are under my command, and you will do as you are told.” “I will NOT have the traditions that have built this country be besmirched by a peasant upstart!” roared Engström, slamming his fist on the heavy oaken table, his ruddy wrinkled face red with anger. “You go too far, this time!” Haraldsson put his cup down and slowly stood up. “Now it is you who goes too far, Sir. It would be within my rights to have you stripped of your rank for those words.” He held up a hand when Engström made to speak. “I would ask you to apologize, or repeat yourself now.” A murmur ran across the room. Engström glowered at him darkly, and his reply was already in his eyes. “I will not having a peasant upstart besmirch the honor of my Corps, good sir.” With careful movements, Haraldsson removed a card from his pocket, a small thing with his name and rank upon it. He gave it a small rip, took a quill and signed it, before sliding it over the table to Engström. This had been a long time in coming. “Then I will have satisfaction. We may be old men, but my honor remains where my body has withered. Lord Knieffson, you will be my second, sir?” Of course, his most loyal man accepted without hesitation. Actions >Invitations continue to be sent out for the Queen Amelia Concert. However, a change in policy has been made, and it has been decided that the Concert shall be played on the 1st of January, to celebrate the new year. The organizing committee offers to house any competitors and cover their expenses during the Winter months. (Yeah i didn’t realize it wasn’t spring, **** you give it to me this turn) >The Holy Relic is taken from the badlands and brought to the University where the leading expert, Astrid Gelarvsen will begin study of the object, to gain an understanding of its nature, and purpose. >The Rövfagel and Ny Tid, now finished with mapping the Mirasol border begin to make regular fly-overs of the KKK, flying high enough to avoid danger the men within simply inspect the land with telescopes, mapping them in detail in turn. They do not afford the KKK the same diplomatic considerations given to Mirasol when avoiding direct fly-overs of their territory. Should any ambassador complain, the response is simple. “Who else flies through the skies as we do? Does the sea belong to the man without a ship?” >Vrena continues to expand into the wastelands. What was once territorial has now become a Holy Mission. If one Relic was found, then more must exist. The men are urged onwards with zeal as three brigades march into the wastelands. Once again, they aim not for direct violence, and instead incorporation into the Principality. Central push: 2nd Corps, 3rd Division, 7th Brigade under Brigadier General L. Lünd: -6000 Vanligt Infanteri -1000 Skirmishers Right push: 1st Corps, 2nd Division, 3rd Cavalry Brigade under Brigadier General C. Kelëv: -3000 Light Cavalry -1000 Dragoons Left push: 2nd Corps, 4th Division, 9th Cavalry Brigade under Brigadier General F. Björk: -3000 Light Cavalry -1000 Dragoons Research -Telegram (Fall 3252) -Waterproof, mass-producible clothing. (Summer 3251) -With the Gustav School of Logistics and Engineering established and running, the engineers of the University Department of Armament and Military Technology turn their attention to the improvement of artillery. Named the Modell ‘51 Gustav Cannon, the idea is to create a cannon not with a particularly better range or precision, but with a higher rate of fire. To do this, they seek to perfect the crafting of the cannon itself so that batteries will face less misfires, and gun crews will have to deal with less obstructions and fouling's in the barrel. The hope is to simply increase the volume of rounds fired by every cannon by improving quality.

The Vrenian Principality Actions -The Queen Amelia Piano Concert is launched, in honor of the Grand Architect’s wife, Queen Amelia. The Competition will take place during the entirety of the month of March at the Stör Konserthall in Stör Avida. While any person, Vrenian or foreign may apply, the Organizational Assembly does not expect a large influx of foreigners in its inaugural run. Nonetheless, invitations are sent to the nearby Tzardom of Soglasigrad, Königreich Zunderland, Mirasol, the KKK, etc. The Concert functions as a competition, with a panel of judges from the University Department of Musical Arts judging each event. Each Concert will be based on either Violin, Piano, or Voice. >12 are selected for the final. Here, instead of playing a piece of their choosing (Vrenian or other), they play a piece selected by the Jury. All finalists are given the honor of being recorded in the Department of Musics annals, and are often showered in gifts from the Vrenian nobility. Many being Vrenian themselves then tour around the city and towns playing for various nobles, and foreigners are not excluded from this privilege. >The Laureat is, if Vrenian, given the privilege of being Nobilified at the Awards ceremony by the Grand Architect. If Foreign, they are given a home in Stör Avida and a Ring of Status. (This competition will occur every Spring.) -The Rovfägel and the Ny Tid begin their cumbersone trips along the Mirasol border, rarely flying over it, and instead preferring to simply pass through the air along the Vrenian side with Cartographers on board making the most detailed maps possible of the 20 or some kilometers visible to them by telescope and eye. They pass over the land back and forth, and cross-check their results to form standardized maps. -An Ambassador is sent to Klandestan, with a proposal for a five year Non-Aggression Pact, to be renewed if both sides deem fit. Another is sent to Wetserveld, Yashida, and the Könighreich Zunderland. In Westerveld, the Ambassador requests permission from the government to send for some of Vrena's engineers to observe the railways. He is open about their desire to learn more about this new scientific breakthrough. -The Grand Architect mandates that the 1st Army should begin to secure new land for Vrena. He thus orders General Haraldsson to plan for it, and plan he does. The 1st Infantry Division, 3rd Brigade under Brigadier General H. Aström (6000 Line Infantry, 2000 Skirmishers) will march from the south into the unsecured land, while the 2nd Cavalry Division, 4st Brigade under Brigadier General C. Kelëv (3000 Light Horse, 1000 Dragoons) will loop around from the north and meet them in the center. They are not expressely violent, and should the local populace be cooperative, they make no attempt to evict them. Resistance is met with unrelenting force. Research -The Vrena Principality’s brightest mind in Astrid Gelarvsen is turned from her various ventures after some cajoling and bribing, and is finally convinced to research a theory that has been flicking around scientific circles. That of the theorized 'Telegraph'. -Founding of the Gustav School of Logistics and Engineering in Stör Avida, where a special Officer Logistics Corps shall be formed to study the science of logistics, analyze and perfect both the effective and efficient transport of goods and ammunition, as well as methods improve communication and predictive delivering of supplies and better administrative systems to keep track of where what is, what is used and what is needed, so that the Armies of Vrena may never lack. (Using Research Slot to fund this until I swap, or Mods decide that the study of Logistics as a science has reached its current peak.) -Chemists at the University begin to search for mass-producible, better waterproof clothing for their troops and Eriksson Machine (EM) Crews. They hope to find a product that can replace standard issue coats with something able to repel rain much more effectively, to protect both cartridge boxes and men.

The Vrena Principality Culture Vrena worships the Outsiders as gods, and considers it their holy mission to rebuild that which was left behind. They see a world in the image of what once was, and despise the Church for the way in which it has closeted the secrets of the past. Holy Relics (Artifacts) are their most prized possessions, and the search for a greater understanding of their Gods drives them forward in an ever expanding attempt to rebuild and reunify the world. Vrena is an Aristocracy, where the leader may be elected from the ranks of the nobility, whose breadth is decided by those families over a specific income, land-holding and, uniquely, cultural impact. As such, great artists, authors, musicians and various scientists are all quite often brought into the nobility by the Grand Architect and much importance is made of refinery, noble countenance and one’s knowledge in various fields of science and literature. The University, led by Rector Vang Kolbec, is the home of both religion and knowledge in Stör Avida, the Capital of Vrena. It stores the Holy Relics, and welcomes worshippers to the Hall of Enlightenment, the most prestigious hall of Worship in the nation and many of the nobilities children go there to study War, Science and Literature, the 3 Pillars, as they are colloquially known. Vrena wages what it considers to be a War of Barbarism against any it does not deem to fit its tight standards of development and enlightenment. Despite a refined aristocracy, it finds itself quite opposed to those who would not understand that its goals transcend their petty territorial squabbles. The Grand Architect is named as such for a reason. He sees the plan given unto them by the Outsiders, and will do what he must to achieve it.. The plebe are, to the nobility, tools of Advancement. The gates to nobility are not closed, but one must prove themselves worthy to pass through them. Notably, one of the Plebe may gain entry to the University through the General Examination, a yearly test which decides entry and is engineered to massively favor the nobility. An exception to this is General Ulrich Haraldson, one of the nations best Generals, and a dedicated natural scientist. History It is said that a long time ago, this was a place of learning for a people before recorded history. That the University once taught others. No one knows if this is true, but that is the story behind the University, and the city of Stör Avida, built around it. A history built on the worship of knowledge, and those who knew it all, the Outsiders. Of slow growth, steady expansion, and a spark, an idea in the minds of those who led. The light at the end of the tunnel. A better world, for all. Characters General Ulrich Haraldsson: The son of a tinker in the slums of Stör Avida, Ulrich Haraldsson is what one might call an exception. At the age of fifteen, the mandated age for the General Examination, he was the single non-noble to pass them, after having stolen and worked to pay for access to an archive with the necessary books to learn. He would continue to excel at the University, creating fierce enemies as he climbed, for the Nobility was not so forgiving of a peasant in their midst. Upon graduating, he went into the military as an Officer Cadet attached to the staff of one of the armies leading Generals. Here again, he would clash for his new and disruptive ideas about the usage of artillery and the ways in which to use Infantry on the field of battle, culminating in the current-day (and still challenged) Haraldsson Bayonet Line, a strategy stipulating the use of 3 or 4 rapid volleys at 75 paces, before entering a bayonet charge. This idea is challenged by the more traditional Vanligt Firing Line, where the Vrenian infantry would use superior training to overwhelm the enemy with their relentless firepower. He is now older (59), and a leading General, but still faces regular opposition at court, and has few friends amongst the nobility, holding his position by raw skill and the favor of the Grand Architect, above all else. His hobbies include Horse Riding, Playing the Violin, Fishing and Botany. Astrid Gelarvsen: One of the top researchers at the University, she is a leading expert on most matters relating to the Outsiders and an avid natural scientist and archeologist. She graduated the University as the first of her year, giving her the Honor of being granted her Diploma and Letter of Rank by the Grand Architect himself at the ceremony. She went on to pursue a life of academia at the University, publishing a variety of papers on Outsiders. While her early career was met with incredulity and ridicule, she soon grew out of her ridiculous ideas, leaving behind such papers as "Why the Curse is the residue of weapons beyond our comprehension, and other explanations." and "An essay regarding the Outsiders, and why they have departed to live on the moon." Much of her oddities were attributed to her genius and she soon went on to more serious matters of study. She became a famed archeologist, so talented at finding Outsider relics that some said that she needed only look at a site to know where to find one. Her work with outsider technology and in the field have left her hands so badly damaged by the curse that she must keep them constantly bandaged to prevent her blackened and leaking skin from sloughing off. She is great friends with General Haraldsson and often invites him to University events, despite resistance from her peers. Her hobbies include reading, the creation and study of terrariums and insects, painting and reciting poetry. She once played piano, but can no longer handle it. (Here seen on an early expedition to examine a Cursed tribe, before her hands degraded.) Erlund Hellström: Once but a simple infantryman in the 2nd Division, 3rd Brigade, 2nd Regiment 'Berlund's Blackhats', Erlund distinguished himself in combat at the age of 19 by saving the life of his Captain in a minor conflict against tribals. He lost his left ring finger in the process and nearly died of the ensuing infection. Yet fate would have a hand in altering his path after that. For one night, his Captain invited him to his home, upon their return to the town of Berlund. There, he saw his daughter playing the piano, and though the Captain mistook his enthrallment as that of a man in love, it was a fascination for the instrument that led him to sit before it after she had finished. Despite his missing finger, he played back the piece to near perfection, and brought the small assembly to silence with the care with which he played each key. Soon, he was playing for the noblest of Berlund. Now, he plays for the noblest of Stör Avida, and many are those who say that they expect the Grand Architect to name his House one of Noble Blood before the decades end. For few create such beauty, and fewer still can enthrall the picky and snooty nobles of Stör Avida with their music. His hobbies include playing the piano and playing the piano. Uniques The Eriksson Machine: The pinnacle of Vrena technology, this floating blimp is able to transport up to 1000 men at once, and can reach heights that exceed any dangers. Announced as the herald of a new era, the EFM has a huge range, propelled by a steam-powered engine and propellers. It can be blown off course by storms and is not maneuverable at all. Can replace its hold of men with impact-triggered bombs in limited amounts. (7 province range) Vanligt Infanteri: Extremely well-trained and disciplined line infantry replacing normal infantry, the Vanligt Infanteri are renowned for their ability to fire devastatingly rapid volleys thanks to intense, daily drilling in rapid reloading. Their unflinching discipline allows them to maintain formation on the field of battle. They are distinguished from lesser units by the yellow feather atop their hat.

The Felsen Reich The Dom Weihwasser The Cathedral of the Church of Segel lies at the bottom of a vast pit, reaching into the black abyss of a caverns above. Ancient pipes rusted and mangled with time, lead into this gaping maw, and from them pours forth the grey, metallic-tasting Holy Water of the Outsiders. At the bottom of the pit is a great pool, ringed by sharply cut stone flagstones of black and white and grey. Here, the waters from above fall without a splash and dim lamps light the glass-like waters with a sleepy flare, like the dark eye of an apathetic God. Beyond stretches a long and wide room with pillars of grey stone, gilt in gold and bronze. Wooden piews sink in the darkness of the hall, rank by empty rank, for today is not a day of worship. And behind the pool, intermittently hidden by the surges of water from the infinite above, a stone balcony sticks out from the rock, and behind it a dark door. Here would stand the Cardinal, if service was being rendered upon the Flock. A channel cuts from the pool down the hallway, slicing the piews in half with its darkness, and from it is as if a shadow comes forth, absorbing what little light still flickers within the Dom. One man straddles the narrow channel. His gloved hand holds a cane, and his leg is bent at an awkward angle. He looks up into the darkness, but his face is hidden behind a mask of pale ivory, blank but for two dark slits over his eyes. He does not speak, but even in this place, he is respected, and the gentle whistle of a wind above has stilled in the presence of Diktator Von Achten. He does not speak, but in the darkness of his Gods' gaze, he prays. Actions -The Felsen Reich's brightest mind in Ursula Müller is turned from her various ventures after some cajoling and bribing, and is finally convinced to research a theory that has been flicking around scientific circles. That of the theorized 'Telegram'. -DIGGING. -The Felsen Reich sends about 1000 ranged cavalrymen, loyal auxiliary units formed from an assortment of tribes living aboveground in Felsen land, to harass the Mirasol borders. They seek neither combat nor truly valuable targets, preferring instead to appear from below ground in the relevant border region and launch brief but brutal raids on undefended villages, taking slaves and loot where they can, and retreating at the first sign of a military counter-attack.

The Felsen Reich Culture The Felsen Reich is a nation of underdwellers. Beneath the earth, life is dark and bleak, and the poisons of the Departure have squirmed into the roots of the world, corrupting the water, and the people of the Reich. Scarred by the Curse, no longer can they easily suffer the light of the sun, and the blue skies of the overworld inspire nothing within them but a restless discomfort. Generations have brought them to believe in the Fundemental Truth or ‘Grundlegende Wahrheit’, that only through surviving the Curse can one find strength, and only those who can bear the burdens it imposes upon you are worthy of the bounties this world has to offer. There was born the Church of Segel, the great religious arm of the Directorate General. All who are born in Felsen are baptised in the Holy Water, and all prisoners are given a choice. Baptism, or death. Those who survive may join their dark ranks in their eternal march against the schwachlings above. The schwachling’s are undeserving of the green lands which they occupy, undeserving of the bounty that this world can offer, and before this world’s end, the Felsen will have it all. Almost hypocritically, the Felsen wear masks to hide their Curse in public, and many even at home. Though they express pride at their hardship, and curse those above for how easy they have it, they themselves often hide their appearance, in a vain attempt to make others forget the horros beneath. History: Though their origins have been lost to time, they are the remnants of old bunkers whose doors may have collapses, or who were trapped underground by seismic shifts. Generations survived and began to adapt to the darkness, as the poisons of the Departure began to mutate them little by little. As bunkers began to tunnel and connect with each other to survive the lingering horrors above, the darkness became their ally, and the sun was nothing short of blinding. In time, they could no longer even suffer it, and only in darkness did they find a reprieve from the eternal suffering inflicted upon them by the pain of their mutated existence. They organized, united and waged wars in the darkness until finally, Bunker XVIII, under Helmut Von Felsen, toppled the final dregs of resistance and unified their once disunified network of scattered cities into a whole, Das Felsen Reich, which now expands beneath the surface… Unseen until the ground trembles, the drills burst forth and their black-cloaked men swarm their foes above. Characters (Up to 3): Erwin Von Achten, Diktator, 38: The Diktator of Felsen is a cold, hard man who's wife died of heart disease and whose twin children disappeared at the age of three. He rules with an iron fist from Bunker VIII, the capital of Felsen, and has neither sympathy for those above, nor for his own people. His ambitions are conquest, the subjugation of those above, and the gathering of great hordes of slaves to fuel Felsen's ever growing tunnels. He dreams of Empire, and of glory for Felsen. Ursula 'The Beauty' Müller, 21: The Beauty is one of the chief Archeologists and researchers into the Outsiders. She is also a Priest of the Church of Segel, and an zealous follower of the Grundlegende Wahrheit. She is often tasked with going deep into the guts of the earth, or far from home to retrieve valuable artifacts and pieces of Outsider technology. Obsessed with her work, she is callously uncaring when it comes to the human cost of her expedition, be it of her own people, or above worlders. Her work has so degraded her hands than they are permanently bandaged ruins of blackened and leaking flesh with cause her constant pain. A constant cough brings up flecks of blood and she herself expects to live little longer than to the age of thirty at this rate. But certain things are more important than life, and uncovering the secrets of the Outsiders is just that. Tyler 'One' Steinkamp, 25: He's a bit of a problem. He also is an elite member of the Underguard, is 6ft5 250lbs and bench press a Kriegbohren. Location (Pick 3 Provinces): Unique Units: Kriegbohren: A large drill bit stands before a cylindrical body capable of holding up to 500 men within its body. The Kriegbohren can travel up to [redacted] hexes away from the [redacted]. Able to burst out of the ground and offload its troops very quickly. Also has a mechanisms at its rear to pull itself back into the ground. Well armored, slow and heavy. Creates unstable, non-permanent tunnels behind it. Moving more than 5000 troops behind one risks causing collapse. Angriffstruppe: Grenadiers for the Felsen Heer, Angriffstruppe are more armored than the typical soldier, and carry a large complement of grenades, along with their preferred assortment of melee weapons and a revolver. They have dark lenses for daylight fighting and are clad in heavy black leather tailcoats over their breastplates and bracers along with a blank black mask over their faces. The Angriffstruppe excel in CQC and have high morale. They are zealous fighters, who believe both in their own superiority over the weak greenlanders, and in death in combat over death by curse.

The Duchy of Eadomhain Discord name (PM if you wish): . Nation Type (County/Marcher Lord/Free City): Margrave. Nation Name: The Duchy of Eadomhain Capital: Carraig Fitheach Ruled by Clan Siurdan Nation Culture (Brief description): The people of Clan Siurdan rarely use the appropriate title for their land, Eadomhain. Perhaps that is most telling of their integration into the Empire. Living on the border, these people, descended from the clans of the Wold still hold to their ways. Imperial high fashion has yet to even be a whisper within the halls of Carraig Fitheach, and half the population barely even speaks the common imperial tongue. Indeed, the dominant tongue is still that of the Aitrianni, and a huge majority of the population is directly descended from such folk. Only the rare merchant, aspirant missionary or nobleman seeking glory on the most vile of frontiers hails from outside these tightly-knit communities. Here, people hold their families close, and the Old Ways are still spoken of openly. The Vaseric Church is only barely tolerated within Carraig Fitheach, where an unfortunate bishop preaches to a flock of foreigners and the occasional noble in his small church adjacent to Eochaidh's keep. But within the forests and fields, the ancient magics of the Old Ways still beat like a bleeding heart. The Aitrianni mistrust imperials, and though they pay their taxes and their lord heeds the summons of his Emperor dutifully, very few similarities exist between the average peasant here, and that which can be found a few hundred leagues west. Nation History: Clan Siurdan has existed for centuries in an isolated region of the Wold. It, like many other clans, spilled the blood of its neighbors and fought vicious wars. It won, it lost and its people bled for that which was theirs. Then came the times of Morag Siurdan. In those days, even the Siurdan knew well the works of the Empire. They knew of their bloody conquest and their assimilation of the ‘Traitor tribes’. Now Morag had a son, and this son saw differently from those around him. For they reviled the thought of the Empire, and continued their petty conflicts, spilling blood over old feuds and fighting over scraps of storm-blasted coast. This son’s name was Eochaidh, and perhaps his vision would have become reality, were it not for his unfortunate predicament. He was a second son, and to be second son is to be nothing, amongst the Aitrianni. Still, he dreamed of a different world than that which surrounded him. He dreamed of Empire, of conquest and of domination. He saw beyond the squabbles that surrounded him, he saw crowns and titles, riches and the power to subjugate all those who had once stood equal to Clan Siurdan. Indeed, Eochaidh saw the modern world, and the way in which the clans of the Wold would be left behind. But he would not be of those who were consumed by the tides of times, cast aside like so much flotsam before the Imperial prow. And so Morag died, and swiftly after, Eochaidh’s brother was felled in a duel which they fought over slight. At the age of 15, Eochaidh uprooted his people and for two years he fought his way across the Wold, leaving the weak behind to die, and destroying those who would oppose his migration through their lands. Until he reached the Imperial border in 727. Then begun the most comprehensive and brutal raiding campaign in the past few decades. He ravaged the Imperial borderlands, demanding tribute from local lords and straining the regional Lord’s ability to respond to him militarily and economically. For Eochaidh saw power, and would not relinquish it to become a second rate baron, subject to the whims of whichever Margrave would stand above him. He would answer only to the Emperor, and after 3 years of bloody raiding, he received his wish. In return for peace, he would be granted the lands on the extreme western border of the Empire, the right for his people to practice the Old Ways, the position of Margrave, and a seat in the Sejm. In the past ten years, he has served faithfully as a bastion against all encroaching attacks, absorbing them before they could impact the Empire. His people have been called to serve in many conflicts, most notably the disatrous Fourth Trazmiri War, in which he lost his beloved cousin, Callum Siurdan, who fell during the route, trampled by hooves of a routing contingent of imperial knights as he tried to organize his bannermen into a cohesive line. They in turn died protecting his battered corpse. Callum Siurdan and his bride to be, Aelin, before he marched off to war. While the Clan Siurdan stands separate from the norms of Imperial life, they serve loyally, and shed their blood for the protection of their new Homeland. Religion (Jozsefite, Vaseric): The Old Ways, though the Margrave pays lip service to the Vaseric Church. Special Characters: Eochaidh Siurdan, the Raven, 30 - Cha: 2 / Martial: 6 / Leadership: 10 / Arcane: 3 (General) Eochaidh and his youngest son, Moragh. Eochaidh Siurdan brought his clan from the far reaches of the Wold into the Empire at the age of 14. By 17, he held a seat on the Sejm. He is a quiet man, with an intensely calculating gaze. Often, he seems almost uninspiring, for he is lithe for a warrior, and has a pale complexion. But his skill with a blade or a spear are what allowed him to defeat his brother for the leadership of the Clan, and his cold, calculating decisions allowed his people to survive, and thrive. Were it any other man but Eochaid at the head of Clan Siurdan, their story would be a footnote in the lore of neighboring clans. He prays at the Vaseric church on the proper days, reads imperial, and speaks it with a light accent and rules his people with unflinching, iron fairness. He is not known to smile, nor to be particularly diplomatic. He bought his title by the sword and holds it through the respect of his absolute authority. Beyond this, he is an intensely private man, who seems to show true devotion only to his wife, Niahm, whom he married apolitically, from within his own people, in what is regarded as a marriage of love. Eochaidh follows the Emperors decrees with unyielding loyalty in matters exterior to his own Margrave or matters of border protection, but is known to ignore or pay lip service to decrees demanding changes from his people that he does not see fit. To the people of the Wold, he is known only as An rí fealltóra, the Traitor King. Calahan MacTalaihm, the Hunter, 41 - Cha: 6 / Martial: 4 / Leadership: 5 / Arcane: 4 Calahan offers up the token of a raiding warlord to Eochaidh. Calahan MacTalaihm is and was one of the most important men in clan Siurdan. A scout of unparalleled skill, he guided and advised Eochaidh during the Long March. More than once, he saved their people from ambush. Now, he rules as baron of the borderlands, the first barrier against the Aitrianni. A ruthless fighter, he is known for personally tracking raiding parties down and slicing off their heads to leave them on polls along the border. Calahan MacTalaihm is completely loyal to Eochaidh, but is well known for his anti-imperial sentiment, and his presence is often diverted from Carraig Fitheach during important visits, as he makes little secret of his hostility towards the Vaseric faith, the Imperial way of life and Imperial nobles. Cillian Siurdan, the Twisted, 13 Cha: 4 / Martial: 4 / Leadership: 5 / Arcane: 5 Cillian before polio struck him down, standing beside his mother for a painting. Eldest son of Eochaidh, Cillian was a healthy, strong boy at birth. His parents rejoiced, and so did the clan at the sign of such a promising heir. His heir was as dark as his mothers, and his eyes as piercing as his fathers. He rode, trained to fight, and read. Then, at the age of seven, he was struck low by polio, and the disease ate at him so voraciously that many thought he would die. But his mother took him, alone, and rode into the Wold, and when they returned he was alive, but his legs were twisted parodies of the originals. He could not walk, and found himself doomed to spending his life in crutches, or seated in a wheelchair. Cillian feels the pressure of his father’s disappointment, and his youngest brother’s health and charisma grate on him, for what greater threat can a crippled heir face, but that of a healthy younger brother? Still, Cillian is wickedly smart, and while his father’s face betrays the pain of seeing his promising heir brought low, they still enjoy a good rapport, and Cillian continues to learn the ways of rulership. His will is strong, and his wit is quick. One can only hope that they will still the blades of his brother Moragh’s ambition.

Discord name (PM if you wish): . Nation Type: Kingdom. Nation Flag (optional): Nation Name: The Iconografikos Nation Culture (Brief description): The Ainur have a distinctly familial and meritocratic culture, in which powerful families stand one rung below the Icon, and their heads of house are selected from the many by the Head before death. Failure to make such a selection can often end in viciously bloody turmoil within the house, until one rises above the others. They are fervently religious, and worship their Icons in great cathedrals in which liturgies and long, often beautifully sung chants are one of the main vehicles of worship. They love all that is light, and seek beauty in their surroundings, often filling their homes with splendid art and crafting these very homes with magnificent, delicate architecture. Thanks to their wings, much of their architecture is designed with flight in mind, leading to splendid spires, high ceilings and lofts. A deep, bitter hatred for the stygoi burns in the heart of every Malakhim and Seraphim, so strong that they cannot abide those who would worship the darkness. They are abominations, who corrupt their veins with demonic magic, and must be exterminated. The Ainur are a highly militaristic society driven by an ideal of eternal conquest. They seek to forever expand their territories, taking from the heathens, and turning all into a glorious Iconic Empire. Though they seek conquest and the blood of the non-believers, the Ainur are not cruel to their own subjects. Far from it. They treat their subjects with a firm benevolence, as parents might treat a child. The humans of the realm are given all the privileges of life that one might realistically hope for, and have their own nobility, which desperately scrabbles for scraps of attention from the Malakhim. A privileged few are even allowed to visit, or live in Serriha. Mostly, they govern themselves, with the Malakhim acting as provincial governors, important generals, etc. The humans are zealously religious in turn, to the point of fanaticism. The Ainur are worshipped as demigods, and the Icons are worshipped as the true gods that they are. It is rare for messengers of the gods to be physically present, and this simple act has anchored the zeal of the flock for centuries in a way that books cannot. (Though they do have the Lexicon of the Twenty from whence priests may spread the holy word.) Organizations & Notes of Interest: The Iconograf - Name given to the Seraphim who has imbued the will of an Icon within himself and now rules in his name. The Astra Canonica- The Church which operates as the religious authority on the Icons. Headed by the Archon, who lives in the Cathedralika Verasita in Serriha. The Ordus Missari - The Order of Missionairies is a sect of the Church which sends forth human missionaries to convert foreign populations to the cult of the Icons. These missionaries are called, predictably, Missari. They are the peaceful arm of the Icons. The Ordus Diplomatica -The Diplomats of the Iconografikos. A delicate task not trusted to the humans, the Diplomats are Malakhim who have been disgraced to such an extent that they are sent into foreign lands, to besmirch themselves within the lower filth of the humans and act as diplomats. Such is the zealous pull of the Icons that even after having their wings sawn off, the Diplomats will act for the good of the Icons, seeing their fate often as the will of their Gods. The Untouchables - These Malakhim are exiled and sent from Serriha never to step foot within it again. Their wings are sawn off and their eyes gouged out. They will never again be able to witness the glory of the Icons, and most go mad amongst the humans, who shun them in turn, fearing them as much as they revile them. A large majority die very swiftly, but some survive, husks of what they once were, transient souls waiting to die. The Twenty Schools -The Twenty Schools are places within which humans may learn the ways of the Icons, and can be equated to universities. They are highly prestigious and difficult to succeed in. Many break from the stress, or simply cannot handle the work. The Hall of Agony produces those capable of the most cruel of tortures, while the Hall of Light produces healers of incredible skill. The Hall of Law produces, predictably, lawmen and the Hall of Storms produces the finest ship captains that the Kingdom may want. It is from the Hall of Ruin that the Crows of Azkal come forth to do their terrible deeds. The City of Serriha - The City of Serriha is located on a plateau overlooking a valley buried within the mountains. The valley itself is lush and stays open during the winter, allowing domestic trade throughout the year. Many humans live within the valley, witnessing glory, but forever unable to grasp at it. The City Itself lies on the plateau, with broken ground leading up to it constituted of cliff-faces, high slopes and rock-filled patches of ground. The most reliable approach is an ancient causeway leading to the main gates, a huge, 300m wide gentle slope leading all the way up to the top of the plateau, lines with statues on each side, depicting humanized versions of the Icons, heroes of war and enslaved demons. Serriha is built of marble and gold and gleams in the sunrise like a jewel. In the language of the Ainur, Serriha stands for Dawn. The Forbidden City - It is here that the Summoners learn their devilish craft. In these deep underground levels, the Stygarkan, or Demon Masters are taught the vile arts. Endless chambers of pain, entire sections dedicated to the summoning of specific monstrosities. Cages full of convicts, experiments… That which happens here is spoken of nowhere else. The powers of the Stygoi are channelled far from the glitz of Serriha, and their wills bound to their conquerors. The Stygarkan: These chosen few worship Blaeros, Aenea and Rasht. The Icon of Sacrifice, Balance and Wrath. They worship Blaeros for it is through his will that they have given up their lives in service of the Icons. Each Stygarkan bears the Brand of Blaeros upon their brow, an eternal reminder of their duty, and a marker against all contact with those they once called kin. It is Heresy to speak to these Malakhim, who’s will is the Iron that cages their enslaved enemies. It is Heresy to touch them, for they have sacrificed their blood and flesh in the name of the Icons, and they are tainted by the demons. They worship Aenea, and wear it’s robes of White and Black as a mark of the precarious balance they strike between that which is cursed, and that which is holy. They are revered for their ability to conserve their mind and soul in the face of demons. They Worship Rasht, and remove their left hand in his name, letting their blood pour onto the altar as they give up their hand in return for the chains of servitude with which they shall wrap the stygoi. The very demons they enslave shall now be their left hand. The Stygarkan are revered and feared in Ainur society, and mostly keep to the Forbidden City, though they are all provided for richly by the Kingdom. Nation History: The Iconografikos are born of the Seraphim and the Malakhim descending from the mountains to enlighten the people around them, many, many centuries ago. With the Seraphim and the Malakhim came their legends and their history. They spoke of the Great War in Hell, and the battles they waged against the stygoi, conquering them and thus gaining rightful ownership of their magic and their service. They spoke of the Icons, and their absolute superiority, though few human have ever seen the Saintly City of Serriha. They brought with them their arts, their culture and their zealotic belief in the superiority of the Ainur. In time, they uplifted the humans around them and built a Kingdom centralized around the Saintly City of Serriha, from which the Seraphim and Malakhim rule, governing with a benevolent hand those who believe. Many who refused to bow to the Icons were persecuted, crucified and burned, exiled or killed in battle, for the Ainur suffer not the disbeliever, and would see a world which bows to the Icons. Nation Race (Human, Dusii, Dawekii): Humans & Ainur. National Idea: The Ainur are a small elite within the Kingdom of Heaven. They are divided into two groups, The Seraphim and the Malakhim. -The Icons, the Lords and Gods of the Ainur. The Icons are angelic beings of such incredible power that the Ainur have quarantined them to their own micro-worlds, pocket dimensions which take the shape of their Icon, turning into landscapes of an incredible, and often mind-bending nature. The Icons are so powerful that they are never released from their quarantine. Though they rule, it is the Seraphim who rules in their stead. -The Seraphim, most powerful lords of the Ainur (Cap of 10) With four angelic wings, a glowing halo surrounding their heads and pure blue, shining eyes. Their voices echo as if many were speaking at once. Wherever they go, light follows, and they are immune to dark magic. Also much more resilient than any normal man. Seraphims are mages. -The Malakhim, the bulk of the Ainur. With a single set of wings, the Malakhim give off a gentle glow and, when in battle or afflicted by intense emotions, can manifest a halo above their heads. They have very slow regeneration. It is too weak to impact battles, but can help wounded soldiers recover better over time. (5% of starting pop, grows at same rate) -The Ainur -The Masses Breed: Manpower recovers 25% faster. -Zealotic Fervor: Troops will not route or face uncertainty in battle. -The Masses Believe: All light infantry units are 50% larger. -Inner Heart: Manpower is 3% -Empty Lands Beyond: +500 per manufactory. Cannot trade. -The Will of the Icons: If one of Those Who Darkens the Sky rules, and the Ainur are not at war, income is reduced by 75%. If one of Those Who Brings Light rules and the Ainur are at war with a Light nation, income is reduced by 75%. In addition, if the Iconografikos border a heathen nation they are at peace with the during their reign, income is reduced by 25% (non-stacking.) Focus: -Domestic -Leadership -Wisdom Unique Units: The Hero of Hell: These are Seraphim who in the darkest hours of the wars against the Stygoi bound themselves to the demons, and became one with their enemy, turning into twisted corruptions that, when unleashed, wreaked ruin on all. Now, they have been chained, bound and controlled by the Pure. The Heroes of Hell now served as focused rage and hatred, their perpetual agony and soul-consuming fury turned to the service of the Iconografikos. They now act as lethally dangerous engines of war. Summoned forth, the horror of their presence and the wrongness of their nature ruins the morale of their foes and drains the life of those around them, friend or foe, if they are not protected by the powers of Heaven. Upon being summoned, the Heroes channel the raw powers of Hell through their mutilated and crucified bodies, blasting enemy structures with concentrated energy capable of shredding any fortification. The beams are able to work on alternative targets, but are much less effective. The Crows of Azkal: The chosen of Azkal, the Icon of Ruin, the Martyrs are the first through the breach and the shock troops of the Iconografikos. They wear white armor upon which the priests rub the ash of a Holly wood fire before battle, reciting litanies to the Icon of Ruin. Their faces are concealed by masks with crow-like beaks and their cloaks are made red with the blood of sacrificed oxen with a mantle of threaded crow feathers. Within their armor, the Crows are tombs of flesh, lacerated by the punitive training of their masters, the Caretakers of Ruin. They are completely immune to pain and will continue to fight until they are physically unable to. They never retreat unless ordered and fight with a near berserker like ferocity. Perhaps their greatest asset is the blessing of their Master, which allows them to sprout ethereal black wings allowing for a brief leap, either high or far, but only every hour or so, making them ideal in attacks against entrenched enemies. They fight with a small buckler and their choice of OH weapon and wear medium armor for flexibility in tight confines. Special Characters (Up to 3, generals/mages/agents may be added or included if purchased with starting funds): -Tyr: Graduate of the Hall of Sacrifice, he is one of the twenty guardians to the Iconograf. Tyr was born to the prominent Gabrielos family, but gave up his name in service to the Icons. He was once brought before the Iconograf for fathering a son in service, a capital sin within the Kingdom. But the Iconograf, whom he still serves, forgave him this act, and reinstated him as one of his Guardians. Now, Tyr must work thrice as hard to prove himself in the eyes of his once compatriots, and the eyes of the society which still spits upon his cloak when the eyes of the Iconograf are turned away. (Champion, Agent.) -Gramekos Ir-Alas: The leading Diplomat of the Iconografikos, Gramekos had his wings sawn off for heresy against the Icons when he wrote his treatise A revision of the classic interpretation of the will of the most Holy Icons. It earned him a prison sentence at first, but when he refused to abandon his ideals, his wings were taken. He remains convinced in his own ideals, believing the Icons speak not through the Seraphims, but through the stars. (Diplomat, Agent.) -Felleya Ashworth: One of the only human generals within the realm, Felleya Ashworth, 46, is a battle-hardened veteran of a hundred battles who rose through the ranks through merit, and pierced into the higher ranks through her steely demeanor, and refusal to bend backwards for the Ainur. This has created many enemies in high places for her, and she must constantly fight against those who would undermine her position due to her race. But her ambitions don’t end there… (General, Agent.) Primary Magic: Path of the Watchful Stars Secondary Magic: Chains of Servitude Unique Point of Interest (Unique "wonder" building/location/artefact, natural or otherwise, that will confer a small bonus TBD): Iconopolis “We didn’t have a choice, we had to do it. Is there any torture more pure than discovering that your gods are flawed? The chains we bound them in were meant to last for eternity, but sometimes I pray that the millenia will one day rust their bonds…” The Iconopolis is the great quarantine city of the Icons. It is buried deep within the mountains, and accessed only by an ancient causeway, ruined by time and wrecked by the elements. It skirts the edges of many a cliff and climbs up mountain after mountain, through wind and snow, the way illuminated by small glowing prisms that flicker and seem to fade in and out of existence. As one nears the Iconopolis, they will find the land around them turning...strange. The Sun might shine for a while, and the mind would find that to be the most normal of things, even if the stars had held control of the sky but a moment before. Laughter will echo, and the path will suddenly veer into the void, firm beneath ones feet though it is hidden from ones eyes. Time changes, emotions become frayed toys, tossed around by the wind as reality becomes unreality, and the bonds and laws of nature are undone. Then one sees the Door. The Steward guards the Door. The Steward is death to those mad enough to come so far, for as long as the Iconopolis stands, so does the Steward, and none can pass if the Steward still stands. He is the Magic of the Icons, incarnate, bound to his duty for eternity. The Door is set upon the edge of a cliff, but one who steps beyond will see the Iconopolis, where the world is undone, and the mind bends with reality. The Iconopolis itself appears differently to all. To some it appears as a twenty-branched tree, to others, as a hallway with twenty doors. Some see orbs floating in space, while others must jump into pools of water. Those who see nothing soon go insane, for their mind has blanked out the incomprehensible nature of the Iconopolis to their minds. All handle its unreality differently, but all see Twenty. Concealed within this Twenty, bound by magics as ancient as the mountains that surround it, are the Icons and their worlds. Each world is unique, twisted by their Icon to fit their image. The Seraphim may travel freely from them, learning from the Icons themselves, and taking up their banners, while a chosen few Malakhim may be privileged enough to earn the favor of the Icons. No Human has ever stepped foot within the Iconopolis. It is the Heart of the Iconograkifos, the Heart of the World. Once every five years, one Seraphim passes through the Door, as another returns to their world, and comes to sit upon their Throne within the Saintly City of Serriha, imbued with the Will of an Icon, to rule in their name. (Effect determined by Mod.) The icons Aest Ma Hodera i Satal / Those Who Darken the Sky -The Icon of Death, Melikos -The Icon of Wrath, Rasht -The Icon of War, Nedrask -The Icon of Agony, Rea -The Icon of Ruin, Azkal -The Icon of Vengeance, Veshna -The Icon of Undoing, Ur -The Icon of Storms, Ystral -The Icon of Night, Hod -The Icon of Sacrifice, Blaeros Aest Ma Rilur Râ / Those Who Bring Light -The Icon of Purity, Ios -The Icon of Light, Zelestra -The Icon of Hope, Fléas -The icon of the Stars, Asteronomica -The Icon of the Sun, Metar -The Icon of Life, Liur -The Icon of Knowing, Kaet -The Icon of Law, Gozel -The Icon of Time, Droknas -The Icon of Balance, Aenea

The Captain They had been running wool to the Empire, and Jebediah Corkstock had owned the ship he had captained, and been quite proud of it as well. It was a strong thing, with large sails and a row of oars on each side. He had used up half a shipment of profit to dye the sails red once, after he was convinced it would ‘draw attention to him’ at port. But the man had scammed him, and the dye had run off like paint in the first rains. Now, everything was grey. Even his skin felt grey, as if the life had been sucked out of him. Horrible shivers wracked his body as his muscles rebelled in the bitter cold and a cut-glass wind sliced through his tattered cloak. They had been run aground onto a reef an hour before as they tried to escape the clutches of a mist so thick that a man could barely see his own feet. Now, waves crashed into his fractured ship, making it groan like a wounded beast and Jebediah was too cold to feel its pain. A few crewmen still survived, clutching at canvas scraps of sail in the cold, their hollow, exhausted eyes like darkened lamps in the night. “Cap’n, it's him, it's him it has to be,” stuttered one through chattering teeth. “Shut yer dirty trap, Gabon, it ain't but some pissin' mist,” grunted the Bosun, a hardy man from Nyre called Schlomo. “We shall wait for it to pass,” croaked Jebediah. His throat felt crusted with salt. “And we pray to the gods.” And as if summoned, as if his words had called it forth from the murk that surrounded them, conjured it from whorls of mist like a nightmare born of the scrap of a forgotten dream, it appeared. A grey-sailed unfamiliar, carrying at its back a huge and birdless silence that seemed to quell even the waves in their fury. Its oars sliced the waters without sound, and shadow lingered upon its deck like captured souls. The imperial in the crew began muttering a litany to his god-damned dragon, while another whimpered and fell to his knees. “It’s him, it’s him, it’s him,” he muttered frenetically. Jebediah felt it in his gut like a ball of lead. That certainty of death one felt when faced with an apocalyptic storm, or a dagger in a dark alley. The myths and legends felt out of reach now, far from the reality of a grey ship in the mist. “The Mistreaver,” he breathed. “Aye,” said a low voice, like a whistle of wind through a cracked window. “It be him.” And suddenly, they were surrounded. Monstrous apparitions born out of a twisted nightmare realm. Humans warped by the darkest curses of the sea, twisted into fish-like monstrosities with flat eyes and scales, with gills and barnacles hooked to their green and blue-veined flesh. The crew recoiled, but Jebediah stood his ground. A fool he may have been, but this was his ship, and these were his men. “T-This ship has nothing for you, let us be, or the Moon shall have its judgement!” If only his voice had not sounded so thin in the darkness. The imperials litany grew louder and louder, his voice ragged with the frantic urgency of the dying. Then something flashed in the darkness. Black steel parting red flesh. A gurgle. Silence. “The Moon cannot judge what it cannot see,” said a far more human voice. The crew parted, and there stood a man, robed in grey and black, his hair dark and a single patch over an eye. His skin was pale, as if the sun had not touched it in many a year, and his features almost aristocratic. A pipe hung from his lips, smoldering in the darkness and releasing a foul scent. But when Jebediah looked into his only eye, he saw more monster than in any of the terrible crew, for there was a demon-sickness in that eye that made him reel back, as if he had stared into the realm of the stygoi itself. “And I,” said the man, stepping forward until he stood before Jebediah. “Find myself in need of crewmen.” He moved then, swift and sudden, and his black saber now lifted Jebediah's chin until he was staring into the Mistreavers eye, a thing that seemed to spiral on forever into a deep abyss. Jebediah shook now, his whole body torn by tremors, and he could not break the cursed man's gaze. “Do you fear death?” He nodded now, for he did, deep down at his core and his heart froze at the thought of the end. “Do you fear the dark abyss? All your deeds laid bare, all your sins… punished? I can offer you… an escape.”