Xarkly

I’ll post a response here in a little bit, at college atm, but I’ve read and appreciate the post

When it comes to eventlines one thing that’s essential is passion ET need to be interested and passionate in what they’re doing in order to make it great Problem is, one of the best sources of passion and interest is that it’s typically your own writing. When it comes to the huge expanse of LOTC lore – well, obviously, it was written by someone else, sometimes a long ago. It can be really really really hard to be passionate about someone else’s writing, which is why I’ve never really looked through LOTC lore – beyond its absolute core foundations – and picked out something to make an event out of. Furthermore, the amount of times certain lore has been rewritten makes it nigh ******* impossible to get a version of it that people are happy with. For example, when I was looking at tying in some Orc lore for Vaeyl, it was an absolute clusterfuck trying to find out the old lore since so many (older) players discredited Smawton’s rewrite as pure fiction that flew in the face of old RP and lore. Example: Atlas had a bunch of lore written for each individual region so that ET could take that lore and do event shite with it. Problem was, each part of lore was written individually by LT, so no matter how nicely it was written, it was all disjointed and made for poor world-building in that it didn’t make Atlas feel like one world, or one story, at all. So I was a dickhead (and I apologize to all the LT who worked on writing that lore) and completely made my own event lore of Atlas history, and without trying to sound too arrogant, I think it made for a much more interesting story of Atlas pre-Descendant arrival. tldr; lore can often be non event-friendly, and ET tend to be much more passionate about their own writing (in my experience)

The Red Vaeyl gathered in Lasthope’s great hall. All four-hundred-and-thirty-two of them. Packed together between the massive pillars, they formed a wave of black-white plate, their bronze weapons in hand as their white bearskin cloaks draped over their pauldrons. As she approached the balcony that overlooked the horde of Red Vaeyl gathered below, Serris of Deep Harbour had no doubt that her mind was experiencing the exact same thing of each of her Knights. They were thinking back to a time, many many years ago, when Lashope had been nothing more than haphazard scaffolding scaling the enormity of Krug’s Folly; thinking back to a time where they celebrated their victory over Avendal and Tharax and the end of the Dragon War in these halls; thinking back to a time when they had smiled, laughed and danced. There was dead silence as Serris took her place at the balcony, bronze gauntlets resting on the balustrade as the Vaeyl below eyed her silently. That silence seemed to last forever before she forced the words out of her throat, “I know,” she began slowly, “that all of you are tired.” Tired was an understatement; it was all too jarring for a Vaeyl to simply recall the centuries they had endured. “I am tired too. I am tired of fighting. I am tired of having my home taken from me. I am tired of life.” Her words hung heavy in the hall. She knew each of them felt the exact same way. “But that is why,” her voice cracked through the silence like a whip, “we cannot give up. We cannot give up, lest we are lost. We cannot give up, lest we forget how it was us who led the Descendants to victory against the Fallen Daemon. We cannot give up, lest we forget Horen’s betrayal and the Exile of Aeros. We cannot give up, lest we forget the Sacking of Serrimor.” With each word, her tone grew harder, tempered by both white-hot anger and frozen resilience. “We cannot give up! Lest we forget the Dragon War! We cannot give up, lest we forget Yrodholm! We cannot give up! Lest we forget the Black Accord, and the September Prince! We cannot give up!” Some echoed the cry, now. “Lest we forget each drop of blood we've spilled for all Descendants! Lest we forget every time we have died in the name of Atlas and the world, only to be denied the peace of death! WE CANNOT GIVE UP, LEST EVERYTHING WE HAVE DONE IS FORGOTTEN! WE CANNOT GIVE UP!” The hall exploded in lilting shouts as the Red Vaeyl took up the cry. “WE CANNOT GIVE UP!” Despite the noise, the sound of Serris ripping her bronze blade from its sheath sounded like a warhorn. “WE CANNOT GIVE UP, AND SO WE SHALL FIGHT!” She roared, her lungs stinging. “WE SHALL FIGHT FOR SERRIMOR! WE SHALL FIGHT FOR YRODHOLM! WE SHALL FIGHT FOR ATLAS! BUT MOST OF ALL, WE WILL FIGHT FOR OURSELVES! WE WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN, CONDEMNED TO A VILLAIN IN HISTORY, NOT AFTER ALL WE HAVE SACRIFICED! AND SO WE SHALL FIGHT!” More roaring. They might have been chanting, but Serris paid them no heed. She was speaking to herself now as much as any of them. “THE INVADERS BEYOND THESE WALLS ARE BABES WHO CANNOT EVEN COMPREHEND WHAT WE HAVE GIVEN, WHAT WE HAVE ENDURED, WHAT WE HAVE SACRIFICED! THEY HAVE MARCHED INTO THE DRAGON’S JAWS, AND SO SHALL WE SNAP DOWN ON THEM! FOR THEY FIGHT FOR THEIR TWISTED PERCEPTION OF RIGHTEOUS, WHILE WE FIGHT FOR OUR LOST HUMANITY, FOR FAMILIES CENTURIES DEAD, FOR A HOME THRICE LOST!” She raised her sword. The faint pale light of Yatl glimmered on its edge. “WE WILL FIGHT FOR EVERY MOMENT WE HAVE EVER LIVED! CARAI CAS SERRIMOR!” “CARAI CAS VAEYL!”

After the parley between the Red Vaeyl Order and Empire of Man were interrupted, a lone, unarmed Vaeyl approached the palisades of the Crow’s Nest, hailed the guard, and delivered a letter – the parchment already stiff with frost. It held writing in a cursive hand in deep woad ink, but written in the Common language. It read: YOU WILL LIFT YOUR ATTEMPT TO SIEGE LASTHOPE YOU WILL RETURN TO YOUR STOLEN LANDS YOU WILL BE GIVEN TIME TO GATHER THE LAST OF YOUR STOLEN FOOD YOU WILL LEAVE ATLAS IF YOU REFUSE, THE YATL BLIZZARD WILL GROW TO SWALLOW ALL INVADER LANDS. YOU WILL STARVE. YOUR PEOPLE WILL STARVE. YOUR CHILDREN WILL STARVE. IF YOU FIGHT, YOU WILL DIE THE ORDER HAS A WEAPON REMAINING The parchment was stamped with the White Eye slashed with red. It was beneath the stamp that six letters were written in sharp block capitals: T H A R A X

It had been barely a day since the Imperial forces rallied in the Crow’s Nest, though time was near impossible to keep track of with black snow clouds obscuring the sun at all times. It had been barely a day before the gates of Lasthope opened, admitting a trio, their forms mere shadows in the whipping white winds of the Wasteland. Despite that, the sentries atop the Crow’s Nest had no doubts: they did not need to see to know the three figures were clad in black-and-white mail, a Red Eye on their breast. Black-white cloaks snapping in the wind, their march came to a halt some hundred feet from the walls of the siege camp. Alarmed shouts were muted by the wind as soldiers swarmed to the palisades, watching with chattering teeth as one of the Vaeyl suddenly hoisted a staff. Eyes widened in amazement as the wind and the snow seemed to part in a dome that encompassed the three Vaeyl, and, miraculously, the snow a few feet around them began to melt, until the three Vaeyl stood in a circle of damp grass. Then, calmly, they eased themselves to sit cross-legged on the ground, and waited. The silent message was clear – a parley. A final exchange. Final words.

Joker I’m not gonna comment on the merit of the app but I will say this Applications are open for criticism for a reason, and you’re shooting yourself in the foot with your responses.

Vaeyl of Aegis raised his hand, bringing the column to a halt. Serris let out a shaky breath as she eased her own horse – a mare she called Beard due to his hairy fetlocks – to a stop just beside Vaeyl himself. The Lord-General was the image of grandeur in his burnished bronze mail and his immaculate white tabard, emblazoned with a black dragon.That same design was depicted on the banners that flew overhead; a black dragon a field of white, the emblem of the Third Banner of the Dragon. As such, all of the warriors who stood ready behind Serris and Vaeyl wore snowy-white cloaks, some stained with mud, upon which the black dragon stood starkly. It was a sight to behold: one thousand mounted warriors in white cloaks and burnished bronze mail, their spears and lances silhouetted in the autumn sky, turned amber by the setting sun. Yet Serris’ attention was not on the warriors of the Third Banner of the Dragon; her eyes were snared by the scene unfolding in the valley before them. The battle. It must have been some hours now since it started, for corpses littered the field. She could make out the banners of the two armies clearly from here; one was grey cloth, emblazoned with a pair of black, curving arcs. The very sight of it sent a shiver down her spine – the Black Wing Banner of Iblees seldom did not. Beneath that banner, a savage horde of creatures in spiked black mail and rotten, decaying flesh threw themselves at a line of enemy shields. Those shields were painted red, much like the banner they flew, depicting the same black dragon only on red cloth. The Second Banner of the Dragon, and their brothers-in-arms. “We’re here in time.” Relief flooded Serris, so much so that she did not realize she had spoken aloud until Vaeyl nodded beside. “Just in time,” the Lord-General of the Third Banner said mildly, his tone so casual it was as if he were discussing the weather. “Any longer and we might have found the Second Banner defeated, and raised from the dead to meet us.” Serris’ hands shook as she gripped the reins of Beard. She had been raised by Vaeyl as one of his sergeants some months ago for her valor in battle, yet her legs still turned to jelly at moments like this, in the seconds that seemed to drag on forever right before battle. She scolded herself – she was a warrior, a sergeant of the Third Banner of the Dragon, a hero of humanity. She could not be scared, not now, never. Not before the charge, not after. The slow seconds passed, but the cry to charge never came. The sounds of dying men in the battle below seemed to be growing louder. “Lord,” she said hastily, looking up at Vaeyl’s visored face. “We should charge.” Vaeyl inclined his head. “We should,” he said morosely. He made no move, and uttered no other word. Serris’ gaze anxiously flickered between Vaeyl and the battle below. The Second Banner were losing ground, and fast. “Lord,” she urged. “We need to charge now!” “We do.” Vaeyl did not stir on his saddle. “You will do it, Serris.” She blinked. “W-what, Lord?” “You will give the order, Serris. You will lead the charge.” Serris almost toppled from her saddle. Her mouth moved wordlessly for a moment before she managed a spluttered, “M-me?!” ”You. There is no other Serris in my ranks that I recall.” For a moment, she stared at him, waited for him to burst into laughter, to reveal it was a joke, and lead their charge to the Second Banner’s rescue. When silent seconds passed, she stammered, “L-lord, I-I don’t understand, we need -“ “We need to charge, yes, and I said you will lead that charge,” Vaeyl cut her off sharply, though he did not turn to look at her. Behind him, warriors shifted uncomfortably on their mounts. ”Lord,” she pleaded, “the men of the Second Banner are dying, we -” “And they will all die if you keep stammering like a fool girl.” His calm composure had vanished in the face of icy intensity. “Lord,” she whispered feebly. “Why? I – I can’t ...” If her legs had been jelly before, now her entire body was numb. It was one thing to charge into battle, and another thing to lead. Never in a million years could she manage that. “Are you good for only telling when I should charge, or can you order the charge yourself, Serris of Carrondal?” Vaeyl roared, his helmeted head finally turning to her. “Give the order, Serris.” ”Lord-” “Do you wish to be a leader, or a follower? Give the order!” ”Lord! I-” “Are you a pawn or a commander? Give the order!” No words came now. She was heaving deep breaths, as if she could not fill her lungs fast enough. He was serious. The screams of dying men seemed to be right in her ears. She did not need to look over her shoulder to knew one thousand men were watching her in anticipation. She cast one last look to Vaeyl, who met her stare through the slits of his visor. “Give the order, Serris.” She did not know with her shaking hands, but she raised her bronze spear. A streamer of black-white cloth flew from the shaft in the wind. She did not how she conjured the words, but she turned, and she shouted. ”FOR HOREN! FOR HUMANITY!” “FOR HOREN!” Echoed one thousand voices, like a thunderclap. Startled heads of both Second Bannermen and Ibleesians looked up in surprise from the field below. The sounds of battle subsided for the briefest of moments. “FOR HUMANITY!” Her whole body was jelly, yet she found the strength to heel Beard forward. She charged into battle, the Third Banner of the Dragon at her heels. Serris sighed as she looked over the ruined banner. White cloth, rotted with age, emblazoned with a black dragon. It had taken magic to prevent the thing from turning to dust, but it had been worth the effort: it was the last copy that she could find of the Third Banner of the Dragon. The last reminder of her old life, before she was turned into what she was now – before she became a Vaeyl. Before the Third Banner of the Dragon had been exiled, before they became known as the Vaeyl Order. She reclined in her seat with a mirthless laugh. All that had been so long ago – well over 1,500 years now, yet she could remember it was if it were yesterday. She felt guilty to think of those days as the good times, but in truth, they were: constant war waged between Iblees and the Descendants, yet she had been a simple human then. She had a people who accepted her, worshipped her as a hero. She shut her eyes gently. It had been that battle that had started it all for her – the Battle of the Amber Valley, as it had been named. She had never commanded more than a dozen men before Vaeyl himself forced her to lead that charge. She had almost been unable to do it. But if she had not found the courage, somehow, deep inside her, she would never have been promoted to Vaeyl’s chief officer. She would never have become of the most senior commanders of the Vaeyl Order. She would never have vanquished Tharax and Avendal, the Black Accord and the September Prince. She would never had ended up in the war she did now, against the Descendants that invaded Atlas. She would have liked to have convinced herself that she did not know why that particular memory came to her mind now, but that would have been a lie. No; she knew full well why she suddenly recalled the momentous decision to give the order, to lead the Third Banner into battle. She had the same feeling in her body now that had plagued her back then, on that day over a thousand years ago, when she had been unsure if she could give the order to charge. That memory had come to find now because when the inevitable great battle came between the Vaeyl and the Descendants, she was unsure if she could do it. She was unsure if she could give the order.

Word of a new King of Malin’s Children reached Serris of Deep Harbour barely an hour after she and a hundred Red Vaeyl Knights had stepped out of the Darkways Portal at Endmoor. Sitting beneath a white eye banner slashed with red, she growled in irritation. It did not matter, though. No, not truly. Whether they called themselves kings or paupers, the Children of Malin had denied the mercy of the Vaeyl. She had given them fair warning. You cannot be king of a land you do not own, she thought solemnly, before she glanced over her shoulder and watched the Vaeyl Knights spar in preparation.

INVADERS’ END “Again?! You dare to attempt to skip your tithe again!?” Savius felt the veins throbbing in his forehead as he surveyed the Renatian peasants with a glare. They stood before him, clad all in rough wool, skull caps and muddied boots, nervously twiddling dirtied fingers. They stared down at the ground, refusing to meet Savius’ gaze. Savius would have struck them with the back of his gauntleted hand, but it would have felt like striking a child. For a moment, he let his rage subside as he paced back and forth. This was just his luck; sent to far reaches of the Crownlands to collect tithes from the most isolated of peasant farmsteads. This was not what he had in mind when he enlisted in the Imperial forces; the first years had been an adventure, cutting down pagans and bringing God’s light back to the world. Yet his luck had changed when his regiment’s quartermaster had died to a Norlandic arrow due to the last crusade, and he had been assigned as the acting replacement. Of course, he had done such a good job that, upon the crusade’s end, he had been moved to requisitions. No more purging savages in the name of God; now he rode from hamlet to hamlet, collecting tithes and taxes. If not for the higher wage, he thought he might have desserted long ago. What stoked his ire now was that nearly all the farmsteads of the northern Crownlands had hardly any crops to pay their tithes in for the second harvest in a row. And now this morning, he rode into this hamlet only to learn that the peasantry claimed they had not a single bushel of grain to give. ”What am I meant to say when I return to the Capital!?” It took him a moment to realize he, in his vexation, had spoken out loud. Frustration welling in him, he jabbed a finger at the peasant spokesman. “Well!? What do I say? That the peasants of Bambrooke or Amberfield or whatever shithole this is can’t even reap a single bushel for their Emperor?!” Growling between his teeth, he resumed his pacing. “M’lord, please ...” the oldest of the peasants, a burly man with a magnificent grey beard. “It ain’t our fault. The soil … this evil cold’s killed the harvest.” “The cold! That’s your excuse?! The cold?!” Savius shot back. True, recent years had grown colder than normal – thanks to that wretched magic of those Vaeyl people that had already swallowed up Haense – yet it was nowhere near frigid enough to murder a whole harvest. Admittedly, he himself had no experience with farming, but surely a little bit of cold would not make such a difference. “It’s them Vaeyl, m’lord,” the bearded peasant insisted. “They’s making this cold every year. Folk’ve already started starving ‘cross the river in Oakford.” ”It’s the Vaeyl, is it?!” He jabbed. He marched out of the small hut that the peasants took for a town hall, and was greeted by an unseasonal wall of cold air as he stomped towards the barren fields. “So you’re telling me the Vaeyl came here – to the middle of bloody nowhere! – stole your harvest and buggered off back south, did they?” With his steel-toed boot, he kicked at the ridged soil, and recoiled in surprise; it was hard with frost. He spun around as the roar of thunder echoed from the south. He watched the southern sky with white eyes as dark snow clouds moved far faster than clouds should naturally move, twisting and churning like tumultuous waves. The sea of black clouds rushed north at an alarming speed, their thick darkness alleviated only by lances of lightning that sparked to life sporadically. He could only watch as a chilling wind picked up, sending the oak and ash trees that ringed the farmstead swaying and sighing. A shiver ran down Savius’ spine, and his hairs shot up on end. The pale, warmthless sun suddenly blinked out of existence as snow clouds swarmed in front of it, casting the farmstead in darkness. The wind only picked up until it howled in Savius’ ears, and snow immediately began to spew from the dark veil overhead. The temperature seemed to be plummeting by the second. ”Aye, m’lord,” the peasant sighed wistfully over the roar of the wind. “It’s the Vaeyl.” As the Yatl Blizzard raced further north, Serris of Deep Harbour drew her thick-bladed bronze sword. “Excellent work,” she called to the Stormsinger Mages who stood ringed around her, their black-white plate cloaked in a raven-feathered robe. In unison, they dipped their heads in acknowledgement as the wind howled. Serris stared up at the stormy sky, robbed of all trace of sunlight as it surged further north, before she raised her sword. “With me! Death to the Invaders! For Yrodholm! For Serrimor! For Atlas!” she roared. Behind her, her modest legion of Red Vaeyl – the white eye on their breastplates slashed ceremoniously with red – raised their bronze weapons in reply. “Death to the Invaders! Yrodholm! Serrimor! Atlas!” Taking one last breath, Serris stepped through the Darkways Portal, and her legion followed her.

idk what happened but isn’t it redundant to screenshare someone the next day

THE EVE OF A RECKONING With a hazy, blurred vision, Serris of Deep Harbour glanced around. Everything about Caer Caedris was exactly as she remembered it; the pale walls rising out of Serrimor’s frozen forests, the proud blue-slate towers flying the white eye banner of the Vaeyl Order, the enormity of the Caer itself, built into a jagged mountain, looming over the capital of all Serrimor. Pale-skinned people, most light of fair, thronged the paved streets below as large stone boxes sailed over the streets on wide stone rails that criss-crossed all throughout the city. Everything was the same; the smell of searing meat, the tangible heat resonating from the Heart Tower that prompted the frost to melt from the stone as soon as it stuck, and the warriors idly patrolling, mounted atop white bears and clad all in black-white plate. Yet before she could so much as process what she was seeing, everything shifted; chunks of rock seemed to rain down from a roiling sky of dark clouds, smashing down into the beautiful buildings, sending blue-slate and pale stone flying in all directions. Sheer rock speared out from the ground out of nowhere, shattering the foundations of towers and houses alike, sending them toppling to the frozen earth with a deafening quake. People screamed out as the falling and rising earth swallowed them like monstrous teeth, yet those screams were nigh muted by the shrill song of metal as blades clashed. At first, the sound seemed to come from nowhere, and then everywhere as dark shapes bloomed to life in the streets; tusked Children of Krug, swinging cleavers, axes and maces, Vaeyl Knights charging through the streets atop their bears, skewering the attackers on bronze spears. The earth shook all around Serris as the city collapsed whilst great mountains simultaneously rose up from the ground. Men and Orc fought, dying in their hundreds to the swinging weapons and collapsing towers. Her breath caught in her throat, her heart clenched tight as if squeezed in her chest, Serris’ eyes frantically shot to the Caer, where its fluted columns were slowly toppling over onto the city below. “Luin!” She called out. Her own voice sounded foreign in her ears, yet at the same time, she hardly noticed. Everything seemed so quick, so hazy, as if she were watching events unfold through smoke. “Luin!” She cried out again as she began to stagger towards the crumbling Caer. “Luin!” Her legs felt as heavy as lead. She stumbled past Orcs and Vaeyl locked in combat, but none seemed to notice her, and the buildings seemed to collapse around her, yet never on her. “Luin! Where are you!?” Then, through a veil of raining stone, she caught a glimpse of a small, golden-haired figure. “Luin!” The stiffness in her legs melting away, she moved to run. It was then that she became aware of a long knife thrust through her stomach, already drenched in her own blood. She felt nothing as she followed the hand clutching the knife. Serris was a tall woman, but the Orc that had stabbed her was at least two feet taller. He wore little armour, only a black-metal pauldron over his right shoulder fashioned like a scorpion, and tassets sewn from some kind of studded animal hide. Bloodied tusks jutted from his mouth, and twisting horns sprouted from his head like a crown, lending him a look of malevolent grandeur. Even as blood pumped from her stomach wound, Serris could not help but stare at his eyes. They seemed to be a battleground of sheer rage and profound sadness. ”You … will … pay for this,” she hissed at him. Her breath still came out in a plume of frozen mist. ”I know,” the Orc said simply. He pulled back his knife, spraying Serris’ blood across the rubble, before – in one swift motion – he slashed through her throat. Serris woke with a start. Leaning forward in the unremarkable wooden chair, she hastily flung her gauntlet to the floor and fumbled with the screws that secured her helmet in place. Vaeyl never removed their armour – not since the invaders arrived from Axios – but she simply had to check. Flinging her visor opened with a creak of protest from the bronze plate, her fingers reached to her neck. She heaved a sigh of relief to find only the marred flesh that all Vaeyl had, but her throat was not cut. As she slowly lowered his visor and pulled on her gauntlets, she struggled to determine what had shaken her so about the dream. Even had her throat been diced apart, her flesh would have mended itself. She had once died to throat wound before, when the Black Accord assaulted Sevenna, yet she had not been so startled then. With a vain attempt to banish the dream from her mind, she pushed to her feet and kicked the chair aside with a grunt. It had been her fault for falling asleep – Vaeyl did not need to sleep, yet some of the Knights still did, claiming it help them keep their inner peace. Serris had no time for such nonsense, and yet she had come here seeking a moment of solitude only to drift off herself. With slow steps, she moved to lean against the wall. There were no windows in this small room, tucked in towards the back of the castle of Lasthope – its only light afforded by a low-burning candle in the corner – yet she could hear the winds of the Yatl Waste howl through the thick walls. The wind of the eternal blizzard that had once been created to fight the September Prince, and now had been enhanced to fight the Invaders on her orders. Her scouts had delivered her the latest reports just the day prior, though ‘days’ were difficult to keep track of: the blizzard had brought with it widespread famine to the Sleetfells, inhabited now by the Invaders of Haense, and the cold had already killed hundreds. Soon, starvation would claim thousands. Once the blizzard spread further north, that would become hundreds of thousands. Hundreds of thousands dead. She blinked at that. Not because the number of deaths she hoped she would cause shocked her – in fact, it was the opposite: back in the days of the Yrodholm Imperium, when the Vaeyl Order ruled all Atlas, she would have been the first to raise her weapon at anyone who planned to inflict such mass death and destruction. What truly shocked was that she felt nothing when she contemplated the deaths of all those invaders. A numb absence. “Kaef!” She called, still slumped against the wall. The door into the room opened to admit a Vaeyl Knight, clad all in the black-painted bronze plate trimmed with white, the white eye on his breast slashed with red. “Yes, Lord-General?” Kaef of Caer Baddyn spoke with the harsh accents of his home. Serris sighed. She was still not used to the title of Lord-General. Yet there was no one else to take the mantle now – she had no choice. “Have the Children of Horen answered our ultimatum?” It had been against the advice of her counsellors to issue the ultimatum to the human invaders to lift their attempts to siege Lasthope, yet though she herself knew it was futile, she knew she had to try. She simply had to offer them one last chance to lay down their arms. She had prove to herself that she had a scrap of humanity left. ” … No, Lord-General,” Kaef answered slowly. “They show no signs of lifting the siege.” She clenched a gauntleted fist. She was not the same woman who had served as standard bearer for Vaeyl of Aegis back when he was the General of the Third Banner of the Dragon, driving back hordes of Undead on Aegis; she was not the same woman who had married and birthed two children on Aeros before the Third Banner had been betrayed and exiled; she was not the same woman who had taken up the mantle of Second Bannerlord of the Vaeyl Order, commander of the Order’s infantry in Serrimor; she was not the same woman who had led the charge against Avendal and Tharax, against the Black Accord, against the September Prince; she was not the same woman who had saved Atlas. Now she would be the one who would destroy it. ”Summon the Stormsingers.”

A MISSIVE TO THE CHILDREN OF MALIN It was the fourth day of the Deep Cold, though the evergreen treetops of the Loftywoods still seemed a summer paradise compared to the blizzards of the Yatl Wasteland that had grown to cloak all of the south in frozen darkness. That night brought with it a chill wind, and a banner on the road. The banner’s cloth was jet black, and emblazoned upon it was a White Eye, the iris ceremoniously slashed with red. The banner, stirring in the night’s gentle but bitter wind, flew above a party of three riders. Each rider was clad in black-painted plate with trim, and that same White Eye slashed with red on their breastplates, and each rode mounted atop a hulking, white-skinned bear. They moved with no urgency, bronze lances raised skywards except for the rear rider who carried the banner. Black-white cloaks spread over their mounts rump, they lumbered towards the gates of Caras Eldar before coming to a halt. Narrow slits of painted visors affixed on the city’s gates, a moment of tense silence reigned before two of the riders heeled their bear forward another few feet, leaving the standard-bearer at the back. Then, one called out in a strange, musical language. “Kvaeth yv Tyne, Malinyr.” A second later, the other figure spoke in that musical accent, but in the Common Tongue. “Peace and Fire, Children of Malin.” The accents of the two riders were nigh indistinguishable, excepting the deeper voice of the first speaker. “Yffir Vanhart car Caer Caedris,” the first speaker proceeded. “Aevynd huir lhor saien Serris car Daein Lund, Riacht carai Vran Vaeyl vyssai Malinyr.” “I am Vanahart of Caer Caedris,” the other rider translated with smooth, if not fluent, Common. “I carry the words of Serris of Deep Harbour, Lord-General of the True Vaeyl, addressed to the Children of Malin.” As soon as the translator finished, the first speaker – Vanhart – took up his spiel once again, almost impatiently. “Syr Riacht rand hyf hein riacht varassai Endmoor. Cvain hath ydvryr vaix vhar aiien hhysar rand saeduil.” ”The Lord-General summons your leader to the ruin of Endmoor. While this summon stands, your trespassing upon Vaeyl lands will be pardoned.” As soon as the translator spoke the last word, all three riders guided their bears around, and charged down the road. The bears moved at alarming speed and soon the riders vanished beneath the canopies of the Loftywoods, their Red Eye banner with them.

AN OFFER TO THE INVADER REALMS Word spread quickly throughout Atlas. It had begun in Haense, but word soon spread to Adria, Renatus, Sutica, and every land to the south. Riders clad all in bronze plate painted black with white trim, with white eyes ceremoniously slashed with red on their breasts, called for attention in market towns and at crossroad taverns. They preached of an ultimatum that echoed throughout Atlas in fearful whispers, and on an odd leathery substance that was not quite parchment pinned on noticeboards indiscriminately across Atlas. Soon enough, even hawkers and criers began to tell the tale of the what the strange folk in black-white armour had said, though whether it was because they sought to warn their fellow Descendants, or had been slipped a few minae to spread panic and awareness, was anyone’s guess. The missives, all of which appeared to be handwritten, held bold words written in a cursive hand with the rich blue ink of a woad leaf. TO THE INVADER; THOSE WHO CAME FROM AXIOS AND USURPED THE LANDS RIGHTFULLY BELONGING TO THE VAEYL ORDER AND THE YRODHOLM IMPERIUM THE TRUE VAEYL ORDER, THOSE UNAFRAID OF VENGEANCE AND PURSUERS OF JUSTICE BENEATH THE BANNER OF SERRIS OF DEEP HARBOUR, ISSUE YOU AN ULTIMATUM THE CHILDREN OF HOREN, OF THE INVADING REALMS OF HAENSE AND RENATUS, MUST LIFT THEIR SIEGE ON LASTHOPE AND END THEIR ALLIANCE WITH THE ‘WHITE VAEYL’ TRAITORS ALL INVADER FORCES MUST WITHDRAW NORTH OF THE RIVER CZENA IN RETURN, THE TRUE VAEYL ORDER WILL END THE ETERNAL BLIZZARD THAT HAUNTS THE INVADING REALM OF HAENSE, ALLOWING CROPS TO GROW ONCE MORE THE TRUE VAEYL ORDER WILL ALSO BESTOW, AS A GIFT OF GOODWILL, THE BLACK SEED TO THE INVADING REALMS, THE WEAPON THAT THE ORDER USED TO DEFEAT THE SEPTEMBER PRINCE OVER A MILLENNIA AGO YOU HAVE UNTIL THE YEAR’S END TO ANSWER REFUSE THESE TERMS, AND THE YATL BLIZZARD SHALL GROW TO COVER ALL ATLAS AND CRIPPLE THE INVADING REALMS WITH FROST AND FAMINE REFUSE, AND YOU SHALL HAVE NO WEAPON WITH WHICH TO DEFEAT THE SEPTEMBER PRINCE REFUSE, AND YOU SHALL DIE - SERRIS OF DEEP HARBOUR LORD-GENERAL OF THE TRUE VAEYL ORDER

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