Xarkly

"If dishonour is nie punished, then it festers," Sigismund mumbled to himself as he practiced his sword-forms in the windswept arena behind the Nikirala Prikaz.

A Lord of the Craft Short Story EVIL UNMASKED Fabled libraries of the enlightened nations of this age chronicle the reigns of great kings, the songs of bards immortalize celebrated heroes of old, and masterful artworks commit fallen cities and kingdom to memory anew. And yet despite the knowledge of the Descendants today, the truth of their very origins remains little more than myth shaped by the crazed ramblings of the Wandering Wizard or vague legends passed down by the bloodlines of the Four Brothers. None remember in truth. None remember a time where the world was in its infancy, where it had yet to be soiled by war. None remember a time where the wiseman Iblees was a celebrated sage, and trusted counsel of the Kings Horen, Malin, and Urguan. And none remember a time where Iblees visited a man named Krug, and the world was changed forever. _________________________________ CHAPTER I: FAR RIDGE CHAPTER II: A VISION CHAPTER III: THE RAID CHAPTER IV: A FATHER CHAPTER V: THE DAEMON & THE REX _________________________________

A Lord of the Craft Short Story EVIL UNMASKED | CHAPTER V THE DAEMON & THE REX CHAPTER 5 OF 5 CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III CHAPTER IV MUSIC Iblees regenerated his mortal form some ten miles away. The leaves and grass around him withered as he drew on their lifeforce, and as soon as his body was whole he sagged to his knees. “What have I done?” he asked himself hoarsely. Withered leaves peeled off branches overhead, and began to flutter down on Iblees. Centuries of planning had gone to ruin all because Iblees had taken his Daemonic form in front of Krug. Centuries of building, of strategizing, of secrecy … “And what do I have to show for it?” He had not even hesitated when Krug was surrounded by the marauders without weapons nor chance of survival. Not had not hesitated to save him for even a second. “Why didn’t I just let him die?” he asked the morning sky. Iblees has come to Far Ridge to fulfill one of the last steps in his centuries of planning, and he had accepted the possibility that he might have to remove Krug to make that happen if he continued to resist Iblees. He was prepared for that - or at least, he had thought he was. As mirthless laughter wracked him, Iblees knew why he had saved Krug. Despite the cold, distrusting eyes, despite the bitterness and loneliness that had warped Krug, Iblees could not forget the curious boy he had raised and told stories to. He could not forget the boy he had once thought of as his own. It was an absurd notion. He was a Daemon, descended from the Skies, and Daemons did not have children. Creations and pets, perhaps, but never children. He had committed to living his life as a mortal so he could understand them, but until now he had never truly realized how deeply he was changed by that experience. “I’ve lived here too long,” he crooned softly through snatches of bitter laughter. He raised a hand, and cupped one of the falling leaves. “Nothing is incorruptible. Not even Daemons.” He let the leaf slip through his fingers, and for a moment, he only glared at the sky. “Did you make anything that was not flawed?” The Creator, of course, did not answer. It never did. Slowly, he stood, brushing the loose leaves off him and staring in the direction of where he had left Krug. No doubt Krug would already be trying to warn the Far Ridgers of what he had seen, and if he did, Iblees’ influence over the world would go up in smoke. He could not allow that to happen. That left him with two choices. He could either convince Krug that, despite what he had seen, Iblees was not a threat - on the contrary, he was trying to save the world. If Krug did not believe him, though … if he clung to stubborn distrust and hate, Iblees would have no choice but to resort to his second option. Saving Krug back there was a moment of weakness, he resolved silently. He began to walk towards Far Ridge. It will not happen again. Krug trudged through the forest alone. He was not sure how long as he sat on his knees around the burnt bodies, trying to comprehend what had happened. He had felt numb as he wrenched his axes from the marauders’ corpses, and he had begun to walk with the axes gripped loosely so that their bloodied blades nearly scraped the ground. What did I witness? He had asked himself many times over. Even after he left the bandits’ blackened corpses behind him, the image of the terror that Iblees transformed into remained burned in his mind. He could not unsee those fiery eyes, and the fear still writhed inside him like insects under his skin. It took all his willpower to prevent that fear from turning to panic. Was that really you, Iblees? Though Krug’s contempt for Iblees had grown over the decades, it was impossible to forget the kindly wisemen he had once been that had raised Krug and his brothers when there was no one else, when they were starving and Malin was sickly, and taught them the ways of the world. His secrets and his knowledge had moulded the world from a place of death and chaos into one resembling order and peace, and made Krug’s brothers kings in the process. But why, then? What are you, Wizard? When he came to a small clearing in which sat a blossoming cherry tree - one of the few beauties of northern Aegis - Krug slumped down at the tree’s trunk. A small stream snaked around the tree, gushing gently as newly-shed blossoms dappled both the water and earth. What are you, Wizard? A monster? The morning wind was still biting, but sweat and blood from fighting the marauders still warmed Krug more than his bearskin cloak. Horen, Malin, Urguan … you made them kings in the south, and they listen to your counsel without question. Why? And why did you want me to do the same in Far Ridge? Not for the first time, he wondered what kind of world Iblees was trying to build. It was true the Wizard had brought them many miracles, from farming to laws, but Krug felt like he was the only one who saw the dark side of what Iblees brought. Iblees had taught them to make weapons to defend themselves, but mortals took those weapons to kill and rob; when the inception of new farming and mining techniques brought more resources, others thought it easier to steal rather than create their own; Iblees guidance had also brought greed, malice, and hate. A monster … a monster has been guiding us all this time. With that thought, his fear began to fade, and cold anger settled in its place. “Whatever you are, you will give me answers,” he swore quietly. Before he could do anything, before he could condemn what he had seen, he had to know - he needed answers, and he needed them from Iblees. Sat beneath the blossoming cherry tree, he laid his axes on his lap and began to wipe the blood off them with the edge of his cloak. You will come, Wizard. I know it. If anything I know about you is true, you will come. He was not sure how long he sat there, cleaning his axes in the pale morning light, before he heard the thump of half a dozen footsteps pushing through the trees. They were not the gentle footfalls of Iblees. “Krug!” came Grahla’s voice, but he barely noticed. He only cocked his head to see Grahla and the other Far Ridgers from the farm pushing through the trees towards him, spears clutched and bows nocked. On any other day, he might have cringed when some of them sighed in relief. “We found the bodies to the east,” Grahla explained as she jogged ahead to him. Behind her, the other Far Ridgers eyed the clearing uncertainly as if expecting enemies. “Had you killed them? They were diced into bloody chunks, or burnt to a crisp. No less than they deserved, but … where is the Wizard -” she cut off when Krug looked up at her, and she recoiled as if she saw something in his eyes. “... What has happened, Krug? What are you doing?” Krug did not know what it was she saw, and nor did he care. He floated in an icy calm, and he slowly resumed his polishing. “I am waiting.” No weakness. Not this time. As Iblees walked through the woods, he knew that he needed to convince Krug to remain as his ally, or he would need to kill him. If it came to that, another moment of weakness would ruin everything. I have too far, and built too much. No weakness. He was dimly aware of mortal lifeforms in the distance, though he could not tell if it was Krug or not, but it could be no one else, and so he drifted towards them. It felt like only mere moments before he heard a distant yell -- Grahla’s voice, he thought, and calling for Krug. He may have already told them. That would complicate matters, but Iblees would see his mission through regardless. If Grahla and the others must die too, then so be it. He had already killed a young boy earlier that morning to protect his identity, and so he would stop at nothing now. So long as he kept what Krug had seen contained to a small group, the rest of Far Ridge could be spared. The calculating thoughts rang out in his head like a cold void, absent any mortal emotions to hinder his judgment. Then, far sooner that he had hoped, he stepped out into a small clearing and found himself facing the Far Ridgers. Some twenty paces away, Krug sat atop a mossy rock beneath a blossoming cherry tree ringed by a stream. His axes were laid across his lap, his bearskin cloak stained with blood, and his eyes had a shot, haggard look that made even Iblees falter. The Far Ridgers from the farm stood around him with weapons cautiously gripped, their hard faces a painting of tension. As soon as they heard Iblees’ boots crunch on the foliage, their eyes snapped to him. No stark terror, he noted. Krug has not told them yet, then. “Wizard! We were -” one of the Far Ridgers began, but he cut off with a gesture from Krug as he stood. He had wiped the surface blood from his axes, but they still had a red stain that gave them an eerie crimson sheen in the morning light. Iblees calmly stared into Krug’s eyes. They had a haunted cast, now, and looked both shot and relaxed at the same time. The other Far Ridgers exchanged uneasy looks, and shifted under the oppressive tension. They could tell that something had happened, that something was wrong, but they did not know what. The wind gusted, a soft, chilling breeze, and sent loose cherry blossoms spiraling through the air around them. So. You did come. That much told Krug that despite the monster he had seen Iblees become, it was still the Iblees he knew. Iblees was, at his core, diplomatic, reasoning, and logical; he would not let what Krug had seen go unanswered. He would come to explain himself before Krug could react. Before he could think of what to do or say - he had no plan, really - Iblees shifted a hand. Suddenly, the loose blossoms in the wind froze in place. Grahla’s hair went completely still, as if suspended in wax, and her frowning face was fixed in place. Neither she nor the other Far Ridgers twitched a muscle. The trees that had stirred in the wind just a second ago now moved no more than if carved from stone. “What have you done?” Krug demanded, and his voice echoed as if in a cavern. “They are not harmed.” Iblees spoke in his usual mild voice, but there was something … different about it. Something colder. “I thought it best we talk in private.” Krug inhaled sharply, and the air felt thin and stale. Once more, he looked at the frozen leaves, the unmoving Far Ridgers, the motionless trees. Time has stopped, he realized with a start. “How can you do this? What are you?!” “Before I answer, Krug, know why I answer them.” His voice echoed in the still air for a moment, and then his eyes tightened. “I am not your enemy. I never have been.” Krug clenched his axes. “What are you?” “I am a Daemon,” he answered placidly. “ … Are there others like you?” “There are. There are many Daemons, and also many Aenguls.” His lips twitched into a distasteful frown. “But they are far away in the Skies. I am the only one in this world.” A thousand questions churned in Krug’s head. Daemons … the Skies … this world? If he had not seen what Iblees had become earlier, he would have thought the Wizard had gone mad. He was already beginning to feel lightheaded as he breathed in that thin air, and tried to rein in his thoughts. His priority was to determine whether this thing was a threat. “Why are you here?” “I am here to help, Krug. This is the simple truth.” “Help? Why?” Iblees was silent for a moment as he reached out and idly plucked at one of the blossoms suspended in the air. As it moved under his fingers, flames suddenly erupted on its edges, but the tongues of fire moved no more than the trees around it. “When this world was created, there was no purpose nor order to it. No mortals knew how to survive, how to love, or how to live at all. Your kind wandered across the world as nomads, foraging for scraps of food, dying in droves to starvation, disease, monsters, the elements …” The Wizard took a step forward, and where his body brushed aside frozen blossoms, they erupted in unmoving flames. “My brethren in the Skies were content to watch you all struggle and die. More than that, some relished on the souls that poured from this plane. I, however, was not content. This world needed a guide, someone to teach it, someone to save it, and so …” he trailed off, and smiled weakly. “And so here I am.” Save the world? Krug’s mouth worked wordlessly, and his head began to ache as he tried to comprehend what the Wizard - no, the Daemon - was saying. Thousands of questions roiled in his head, but he could not pick one to ask, and Iblees calmly spoke on after a moment. “My mission, Krug, was to save you all. Instead of this hellscape of pointless suffering and death, I sought to build a paradise where mortals would be masters of their own fate, and where violence and death would be eradicated. There is a great deal to be done, but I have come a long way.” He pauses, eyes studying Krug. “We have come a long way.” “My …” Krug’s mouth was dry. “My brothers and I …” “You and your brothers were tools for that end. Like I said, mortalkind must be the masters of their own fate .. or at least think they are. They could not be beholden to me, so I raised you and your brothers to be kings. I taught you the wonders of this world to be dispensed to your people, and through you, Malin, Krug, and Urguan, I would quietly guide us to paradise.” “Tools?” Krug balked. “You would use us like puppets on a string?” He suddenly felt childish at the notion of feeling betrayed that the affection Iblees had once shown them was for an ulterior cause. “No, Krug, I would teach you as I always have. You would learn until a time where we reached paradise, and I was no longer needed in this world. Perhaps if you were not so intent on seeing the dark in others, you would understand that!” The dark in others… Krug’s eyes trailed down to his reddened axes. That much was true, and these past years, he had come to see it in himself more than anything. Not just me, though. A thought had struck him, and he turned a level stare back on Iblees. “That boy on the farm …. Did you kill him?” Iblees had not expected the question, and he hesitated. If he suspects I’m lying .... no, it’s too late. That second of hesitation had already given Krug his answer. There was no point to deception anymore. “I did. Through my own mistakes, I was left with no choice.” “Your own mistakes,” Krug echoed coldly. “And for that, you killed him? A boy?” Iblees’ void of calmness trembled for a moment, but he tamed it to stillness. “I did not relish in it, but nor do I regret it. Nor am I the only one with blood on my hands, Chief of Far Ridge. If you had acted like the king I raised you to be, you would lead your people so that you could defend against raids such as that which happened last night. Walls, beacons, patrols - anything rather than leaving your people to fend for themselves because of your outdated ideals of how mortals should live!” Krug’s nostrils flared as Iblees struck a nerve. “You equate that to the open murder of a child?” “They are both products of our mistakes. Much like their death came from your error to lead, I erred in letting the boy see my other form. Had he lived to tell what he saw, my plan for paradise would have been jeopardized.” “As it is now.” It was not a question, but Iblees nodded. “As it is now.” “So.” Krug’s voice had gone as soft as silk, but his expression was anything but. “Have you come to deliver unto me the same fate as that boy? For paradise?” “... Perhaps. The boy was expendable, and too young to reason with. But you are different.” “Pah. You will try to bargain with my life?” Ibees’ gaze shifted to the faces of Grahla and the other Far Ridgers frozen beneath the cherry tree. “Not just yours.” Krug’s grim determination slipped for a minute. “What is it you want, then, Daemon?” “I have already told you: a paradise on this plane. I can do it without you, Krug, but I do not wish to. And so, you must keep what you have seen and heard here a secret to your grave, and you must accept the mantle of king and lead the people of Far Ridge. You will listen to my counsel, and then together we will achieve paradise.” Iblees’ met Krug’s eyes, and extended a hand between the floating blossoms. “Will you do that, Krug? Will you join me in building paradise?” Krug’s axe blurred, and the flat side swatted Iblees’ extended hand away with a jolt of pain. “You killed an innocent boy,” Krug said quietly, “and I cannot fathom how many others had to die for your paradise. You may have taught us order, how to farm, how to live, but your paradise has also brought greed, malice, and evil.” “These were traits mortalkind always possessed, Krug,” Iblees retorted harshly, and ignored the throb of pain in his hand. “Perhaps, but you gave these traits fertile ground and now mortals fight each other as much as they do the world around them.” He closed his eyes, and took a breath as if to brace himself. “Not in Far Ridge, Daemon. Not here. I will not call myself King only for those beneath me to scheme for my power and plot against each other. They will not bow to me as if I am greater than them, and expect me to tell them what to do. The murder of a boy is damning enough without all of that, and were you anyone else I would carve you up … but I suspect if I did kill you, the southern kingdoms of my brothers would collapse into chaos, and I cannot deny you have done this world some good.” He raised his axe, pointing through the woods. “So leave, Iblees, Daemon, Wizard - whatever you are. Leave Far Ridge, and do not return. That is what I want!” Anger bubbled through Iblees’ void of calm. After all I have done for you … after all I have done for everyone … “Kill me?!” he barked. “You overstep yourself, Chief of Far Ridge.” “That is a title I will never take in truth. We are done here.” “Not quite, Krug.” The void inside Iblees went still again, like a lake frozen over. He raised a hand, and he thought back to the spot he had slaughtered the bandits. There came a shrill whistle of metal in the air, and Iblees raised a hand as the sword of one of the bandits snapped into his palm. His mission was to build paradise for all mortals, and it would not do for Far Ridge to be removed from his influence under the rebellious Krug. The chipped metal of the sword shone as he spun the blade in his hand. “Not quite yet.” Krug only allowed himself a moment to stare in disbelief before he raised his axes. He had seen what Iblees had done to the marauders as a Daemon - he had burnt them, incinerated them, and gored them into minced pieces. Krug did not expect to live against that. He felt as he did when he had hunted the bandits earlier that morning - something which felt like a lifetime - and he did not fear death. The world, he knew, had nothing, or no one, left for him anymore. In a way, he felt all the more confident of that knowing it was Iblees who would kill him. “Go on, then,” he hissed. “Turn into your true form.” Iblees’ expression did not change as he brandished the sword. “I cannot hold time still forever, and I do not wish to kill Grahla and the others if it can be avoided. Besides,” his body shifted into a fighting stance, “I do not need another form to kill you, Krug.” Krug’s heart thumped slowly. He felt more at peace than he had in years. “Just tell me this. If any of what you said is true … why? If none of your other kind would help us, why would you?” A flash of contemplation marred Iblees’ otherwise still face. “It is as I said; someone had to. I am not sure why I felt the need more than any of my kin, but … but I do not regret it. Least of all …” the light shimmered on the chipped edge of the sword as he raised it, “... the time we spent before we parted ways will always be dear to me.” The curtain of cherry blossoms stirred, and the wind pricked Krug’s skin as time resumed once more. The Far Ridgers gasped as Krug threw himself at Iblees, his axes descending in deadly sweeps. With a shrill note of metal, they clashed. The first axe bounced off Iblees’ blade, and the second his hilt. He was not a warrior - they would have no place in paradise - and this mortal body was not a fighting one. He was a Daemon, though, and he understood physics, gravity, and anatomy. With barely a thought, he could calculate where Krug’s axe would fall by the arc of his arm, and knew where to swing to parry. At least only Krug needs to die. He could see the other Far Ridgers back by the cherry tree, watching in shocked disbelief as Iblees and Krug danced back and forth beneath the falling blossoms. Krug’s face was twisted in determined anger as Iblees’ sword, chipped and blunted, moved exactly where it needed to, and each blow of Krugs’ axes clattered aside. I will convince them he has gone mad, Iblees told himself as he stepped back, boots splashing in the stream. He looks it, and they know his disdain for me. They will believe it. He ducked, and strands of his hair were shaved off by a hissing swing of an axe. All I need to do is finish Krug, here and now. He pressed off the bank, and surged forward into the offensive. He parried Krug’s guarding axe in an arc of iron, and twisted the sword deftly, slashing for Krug’s bare heart … and left a long, bloodied line across Krug’s upper chest as the Chief jumped back to the trunk of the tree at just the last moment. Iblees frowned, his eyes shifting from the wound to the thin glazing of blood on his sword. Too shallow. He is quick. He flicked the blood off his sword. No matter. He submerged himself in a void of calmness, and advanced again. “Stop! What is this madness?!” It was only as he felt the fiery sting of Iblees’ cut on his chest did Krug notice the protests of the Far Ridgers watching in shock. They did not interfere, though; they would not know how to interfere in a sudden duel between the fabled Wizard and the one they called Chief. Krug glanced down at the blood oozing down his chest. If I had been a split second later, I would be dead. The slash had cut through the knot of his cloak, and he ripped the sagging bearskin off right as Iblees launched himself at him. The Wizard was not strong nor fast, but his blows were so precise. Krug was forced on the defensive, constantly stepping back and batting away the sword’s vicious snap so that his fingers were not sliced off or it did not snake its way through his guard. I could cry out, he thought as the sword scraped off an axehead. I could warn Grahla and the others. I could tell them what Iblees is. Even as he thought the words, though, he felt no desire to speak them. Maybe Iblees is right, he realized as a swing from the Daemon sliced an inch off the haft of an axe. Maybe he can lead us to a paradise better than I ever could. Krug did not know, and he doubted he ever would. He did know if he was right to fight Iblees, and he did not know if it was right to let himself be killed. Let this decide it, then. Ignoring shouts of the Far Ridgers and the pain in his chest, he and Iblees exchanged deadly iron blurs. He managed to work the sword into the hook of an axe, and twisted, ensnaring it to leave Iblees’ exposed. Knowing he could not bring down the second axe in time, he slammed a kick into the Daemon’s chest and sent him hurtling back. Instead of charging, he pictured the tree by the riverbank in Far Ridge, and he hurled an axe. The metallic clang rang in Iblees’ ears as he sliced the axe out of the air. This sword won’t last much longer. He grimaced as he straightened, eyeing the cracks and chips streaking the blade’s length. Krug leapt over the stream with his remaining axe clasped in both hands, and swung with the fury of a bear. Iblees brought his sword in an upwards arc, slamming Krug’s axe into a clinch. I have you now. With a sharp clang, he drilled the axe aside as Krug’s strength gave out and Iblees drew the sword back in preparation of a clean, killing thrust. This is it, then. Krug watched his own blood gleam on the sword as Iblees shifted, preparing to skewer him. It was a good a life as any, I suppose. He was almost surprised by the lack of fear. It is time to go. There was nothing left. Since he had parted ways with his brothers and Iblees many decades ago, he had come to see the truth of the world, and it had twisted him. A part of him felt like he had not been happy since he had been together with his brothers and Iblees, as a boy. “Farewell, Iblees.” As Krug spoke, Iblees’ void of calm quivered. Despite the void, despite his detachment, his plans, his resolve, despite everything, he hesitated. In that moment of hesitation, Krug’s legs shifted, coiling around Iblees to send him crashing to the ground. Before Iblees even hit the ground, Krug’s axe smashed into his neck. Hot blood spurted from his chest as he struck the blossom-strewn ground, and breath instantly abandoned him. He was only vaguely aware of the shadowy shape of Krug standing overhead as red filled his vision. Instantly, his mortal body began to die. Why? He asked himself as he had earlier that day. Why? Again? Why did I hesitate? And just as it was earlier, the answer remained the same. The void of calm held, even as his mortal form laboured for breath that would not come and his ruined neck fountained blood. Maybe … maybe I should just die here. Maybe that is better. He could feel the axe still wedged in his neck, and it felt like ice in contrast with the gushing blood. I have done a good deal for this world already. I have guided it towards paradise. Perhaps … Perhaps that is enough. I can only hope it is. But what if it is not? What if Horen, Malin, and Urguan fall to ruin without my guidance? What if we never reach paradise? Everything, all these centuries of work, abandoning the Skies … … It would all have been for nothing. Is it enough? Krug stumbled back into the tree. His body ached, oozing blood from a dozen cuts, and his chest burned as if on fire from the deep gash Iblees’ blood had cut, but he looked unharmed compared to Iblees’ gored throat. The Wizard’s blood clogged the stream and soaked the ground, and with one last wheeze, he went still. He - … he’s dead? He was not sure if he could believe it. The Wizard, the one who had saved Krug and his brothers and raised them, the father-figure who once seemed like he had the answer to everything … No, not a Wizard. A Daemon. With that thought, he banished the sadness that suddenly welled up inside him. “Krug,” Grahla breathed beside him. The Far Ridgers were statuesque, their eyes on Iblees’ body. “What have you done?” What have I done? The Far Ridgers looked at him as if he were the monster. “Iblees -” that was all Krug got out of his mouth before Iblees’ corpse exploded. No. Iblees let his power course through him. The flesh of his mortal body - dead, now - burnt into ash as he enwreathed himself in white-black fire that swept away the ash of his body as he formed a new one. I built this world. I abandoned the Skies and devoted everything to build this world. I will not give up on it now. The black-white fired solidified into shimmering white flesh with flickering black edges, and Iblees straightened up. In his form, he could feel everything; the life of the trees and grass, each blossom peeling away from the cherry tree, and the heartbeats of the terrified Far Ridgers as they beheld him. I built this world, Krug. And I will not leave it. An infernal heat washed over Krug as he fell back. A ferocious gale had whipped up in the clearing, sweeping up blossoms, dirt, and blood in its wake like a hurricane, and in the centre of the torrent stood Iblees. Not the Wizard, but the Daemon. Now, he stood nearly twenty spans tall with a skin of the truest shade of white, so bright it hurt Krug’s eyes to look at, and that skin looked as if it were metal rather than flesh. A white cloth of the same metallic white wound from his loins to cowl a face that only had the outlines of eyes, a nose, and mouth, and as he straightened up, wings of black flame stretched out to either side from his back. Backed against the cherry tree, Krug could hardly breathe as the wind seared him. What he beheld now - a brilliant, deific terror - petrified him far more than even the prior form Iblees had taken, like a wrathful god, and this time Krug knew Iblees was not going to spare him. The Daemon raised a seamless hand. From pure white light, a polehammer solidified in his grasp, and Iblees swung down at Krug. With every muscle aching from the duel, Krug threw himself aside right before the polehammer split the tree with a shower of flaming splinters. When Krug looked up from where he landed on the ground, only a smoking crater remained of the tree. What have I unleashed? He was dimly aware of the Far Ridgers screaming out - one of them seemed to be on fire - but for a moment, Krug could not hear anything, not even the roar of the wind. As cinders left burns on his cheeks, he only watched the blazing white form of Iblees. The polehammer vanished, and reappeared in the Daemon’s raised hands for another swing. The polehammer swung horizontally, and it would have struck Krug had he been standing. Instead, the shaft sliced through two Far Ridgers who had not dropped in time, and separated their torsos from their legs in a spray of blood. What …? How …? Iblees, not even … you could … The broken thoughts were the only sound Krug could comprehend. You could never go this far. You could not. Each descent of his hammer brought death. Iblees knew the Far Ridgers, all their names and faces. Tavo burnt to death when the flames of the destroyed cherry tree caught him; Tisa and Eoend were dismembered by a horizontal swing; and, swiftly after, he skewered Iric with a burning impale as he tried to retreat into the woods. Iblees had shared bread with them all before. He had laughed with them, told stories to their children, and spoke of the future to them. He held onto his void of calmness as he killed them, and spared not a thought for their deaths. You chose this, Krug. If you had just trusted me, we could have built paradise. The heat of his form set the treetops around him ablaze as he searched for survivors. The polehammer dematerialised and reappeared as he shifted his grip, and then buried the weapon of pure power into Amil as he poked his head out from behind a tree. The tree, and Amil, exploded in fire. If you choose to exempt yourself from paradise, then so be it. The polehammer vanished and appeared in his hands again. Only three should be left. If I kill them, then the rest of Far Ridge can be salvaged. A spear hurled at his chest, but it bounced off with a dull clung. He turned his head to Grahla, her hair strewn in the wind as she stood near the smoking ruin of the cherry tree. She picked up another charred spear from a corpse, and threw it at him to the same effect. “DAEMON!” came Krug’s cry through the wind. “IT IS ME YOU WANT! I AM HERE!” Iblees paused, his blazing eyes shifting to Krug on the other side of the clearing. Ah, there you are. Grahla first, then you. As the hammer began to form in his hands, Krug broke into a wild charge. Iblees watched in mild surprise; Krug did not have his axes, and in any case, only another Daemon could even hope to harm Iblees in this form. Krug tackled him himself into Iblees’ left leg, and he let out a harrowing scream as the heat of Iblees’ form burned him. Krug’s bare chest twisted and charred under the supernatural heat, but he did not let go. I raised you to be a King, Iblees thought absently. Inside his void, he locked out the mortal affections, the feelings that had made him spare Krug earlier, but he was faintly aware of them. And this is a pathetic end for a King. Iblees raised the leg Krug had tackled, and effortlessly kicked him off. Krug’s blackened body launched into the woods at speed, and disappeared between the trees. He quashed the remorse that swelled inside him. Krug’s eyes flickered open. Immediately, he knew he could not be dead, because death would surely not be so painful. The cuts from the earlier duel had been cauterised by the coal-black skin of his torso. It had crusted and hardened, and streaked with crevasses of dried blood and pus. His muscles felt like they had hardened, too; he could not move, and it was all he could to draw faint, weedy breaths. He was not sure where he was. There were only a few sparse pines around him, and overhead, the sky was a thick grey with a faint red hue. It was no longer morning. How much time has passed? Where am I? Pain lanced through his arms as he tried to clench a fist. Where is Iblees?! As his senses gradually returned, he realized he was on a litter being dragged through tall grass. When he arched his head and drew another thin breath, Grahla glanced back at him, the litters ropes tense over her shoulder as she pulled. Her face was as pale as milk, and it was strained with a fear Krug had never seen before. “... I thought you would die,” she said in a voice so scarce Krug barely recognized it. Krug felt like he might die. The burns on his chest would surely never heal, and he was not sure how they had not killed him already. Infection would come, though, and that surely would. “Where ….” his voice was a husky croak. He could not manage the rest of the words. “Is that … is that really him, Krug?” Krug followed her eyes north to where the vast pine forests of Far Ridge stood - or had stood. Now, fire cloaked the horizon, spitting plumes of smoke into the sky and hazing the land Krug had called home in a thick curtain of grey. That curtain did nothing, though, to obscure Iblees’ form; he had grown taller now, at least eighty feet, and he moved sluggishly through the forest in the distance. Sluggishly, and aimlessly. Periodically, he swung his polehammer of light, slicing off swathes of treetops in a shower of flame. “Yes,” Krug breathed. “That is him, Grahla. That is Iblees.” What is the point? Screams were quickly cut off as Iblees brought down his burning hammer on a group of Far Ridgers who had vainly raised wooden shields. What is the point of any of this? After Krug had charged him, Grahla and the other Far Ridger he had yet to kill had darted into the woods. He was not sure where Grahla had gone, but the other Far Ridger had gone straight to the nearest farm and raised the alarm before Iblees had a chance to destroy him. He destroyed the farm and everyone inside it, but the smoke had brought the attention of neighbouring farms, and now chaos had spread all over Far Ridge. To kill them now was pointless. The only way to keep his identity a secret from the rest of the world was to kill every single soul in Far Ridge. Is this the point of creation? He thought dully as his polehammer sledged into the ground, forming a flaming chasm. Bodies lay strewn around him - those that had not burnt to ash - and Far Ridgers dashed between the burning trees, fleeing. To struggle aimlessly and fail? That is what this mortal world was made for, was it not? He began to spin the hammer high at the treetops. Was I wrong to try to change that? Was there ever any hope? The polehammer sheared into branches that erupted into flame and rained down fire. Why does it have to end like this? As the burning trees fell around him, he let the polehammer disappear, and this time he did not summon it anew. He let his hands drop. He could kill everyone in Far Ridge to preserve his plan, but a part of him knew he could not. With a quake, he dropped to his knees, the ground blackening around him. This morning had changed everything. No longer could he pretend to be a wiseman and silently guide Horen, Urguan, Malin, and especially Krug. Maybe guidance was always futile. Maybe mortals can only be led, not guided. He stared at his blinding white hands. Maybe the only way is to act as their god. As the world burnt around him, Iblees let his form vanish. His bright flesh burnt up, turning to ash and was blown away in the searing wind as he regenerated his mortal body, slumped down in the charred dirt. Everything had changed, and Iblees knew he would have to act on it. He knew would have to act. For now, though, he just sat in the dirt. He sat in the dirt, and he wept. “We - we have to go back!” Krug strangled the words through his burnt throat as he watched Iblees’ titanic form sink to the ground. A brief glimmer of hope made him wonder if someone had managed to fell the Daemon, but that seemed unlikely. He had seen Grahla’s spear bounce off his metallic flesh. His demand seemed to instil some of Grahla’s old vigor. Though she snapped at him, her anger was comforting compared to her fear. “Go back!? We will die!” “There are others back there!” Krug growled back. “I am not - …” the words died in his mouth. He was going to say that he was not afraid to die. He had not been afraid when facing the bandits, when he duelled Iblees, nor at any other time in his life. But now … As he watched Far Ridge - the only place he had ever called home, even if it had been a lonely place - burn, as he heard screams distantly permeate through the air, and as pain stung him from every angle with each breath, he knew he was. He could not die yet. He could not die before this was avenged. “Yes … you are right … we cannot go back …” Grahla nodded slowly, mild surprise marring her blend of deep worry and fear. She began to pull the litter again, leaving Krug to watch the forests of Far Ridge burn. “I am glad you agree,” she said softly. “... but I do not know where we should go.” Krug knew. “We will go south … to my brothers.” He would tell them everything -- he would tell them the truth of Iblees, the truth of this world. “And then … together … we shall make him pay.” "... When Iblees tempted the Four Brothers, Krug did not trust the Daemon as easily as his Brothers did and was not swayed as they were. After Iblees could not offer wealth, food, or power to pacify Krug, Iblees transformed into a vision of terror. During the long battle against the fallen Daemon, Krug raced at him, and his skin was burned and molten by the flames of Iblees, and the world was forever changed." - The Wandering Wizard

A Lord of the Craft Short Story EVIL UNMASKED | CHAPTER IV A FATHER CHAPTER 4 OF 5 CHAPTER I CHAPTER II CHAPTER III MUSIC “... and if you put in the soil -” “Can I please just go play with the others? This is boring,” Krug drawled. His face was propped up on his two hands as he sat cross-legged in the dirt, and his youthful eyes watched the small hole in the ground. “You can play with your brothers soon,” Iblees said, his voice as patient as a stone. As he crouched down so that his eyes were level with Krug, his dishevelled grey hair and the folds of his brown cloak stirred in the wind. “And this is not boring, Krug. It is the future.” “The future is boring, them,” Krug shot back stubbornly. He wanted to be back at the tents - the other children were playing chasing - but Iblees had dragged him aside for one of his lessons. “What’s so special about a stupid dead tree, anyway?” “Not a dead tree.” Iblees’ muddied hand opened to reveal a brown oval in his palm. “A seed, Krug. It’s special because if you take care of it just right, it can grow into an entirely new tree.” Krug rolled his eyes. “There are trees everywhere already.” “Some trees, yes. But with this,” Iblees gently rolled the seed over in his fingers, “you could grow an apple tree, or pear, or nuts. When those trees grow, they’ll produce even more seeds, so you can grow as much food as you want.” Krug eyed the seed doubtfully. “As much food as I want?” He was only a child, but for as long as he lived, the search for food had always been constant. That was why they wandered across the land, foraging and hunting the game. “A … dead tree can do that?” “A seed,” Iblees corrected again with a soft sigh. “And yes, it can. Not just one seed, of course, but if you collect enough and plant them in good soil, then you produce all the food you want right at your feet. No need to wander, no need to hunt, no need to gather.” Krug’s eyes widened incredulously. For a moment, he only watched Iblees as the light of the evening sun fell on him, strands of his grey hair gleaming like silver, and the wind gently gusted across the field. Infinite food, an end to wandering the wilderness hunting and gathering, an end to death by starvation, monsters, and the elements … It can’t be. That’s too good to be true. As if reading Krug’s mind, Iblees smiled warmly. “Like I told you, my boy, it’s the future.” “How … how do you know all this?” “Why, I learned it, of course,” Iblees said as if growing new food was common knowledge. He bent down, scooping out a little more dirt from the hole with his hand. “But why tell me?” Krug’s voice had gone meek. “I - I’m only ten. Why aren’t you telling the elders?!” “Because,” Iblees stared up at him, and then pressed the muddy seed into Krug’s hand. “A father should teach his boy some tricks.” ______________________________ “Krug.” With a grunt, Krug’s eyes slid open. The childhood memory of sitting with Iblees in a field glazed gold by the setting sun vanished from his mind as the stench of smoke, burnt thatch, and death stung his nose. This is hardly the time to let my memory wander, he scolded himself. And why that memory? It had come to him unbidden when he had closed his eyes for just a moment’s rest. Thinking of it left him with a strangely mournful feeling, as if he had last something. That memory had been a long time ago. “Krug?” the voice that had disturbed him repeated. “What?” Krug asked gruffly as he pushed off the tree he had been slumped against, and turned his eyes on Grahla - a Far Ridger with a proud, bold nose and a certain wild beauty about her. Krug did not often think such things about women. “Tracks have been found,” Grahla explained passively, but she looked troubled. “The farm was razed, but the farmers still managed to mount a resistance. The brigands have left tracks leading north, east, and west. They are scattered, as if they left in a hurry.” “A resistance … Hmph. For all the good it did them.” He had chosen a solitary pine to rest on about thirty paces from the burnt farmhouse, and from here he could see the bodies of the murdered farmers arranged outside the hut by his reinforcements. Nearly everyone had been killed. Leadership could have prevented this. You could have prevented this, echoed Iblees’ infuriating voice in his head. Krug clenched his fists. “Shut up,” he hissed, and when Grahla flinched, he added, “Not you. Come on.” Grahla looked around to search for who Krug had been speaking to, before she frowned and plodded along beside him back towards the farm. Smoke still hung heavy in the air, but it was thin enough to see through now. Krug, however, almost wished he could not see: burnt, ravaged fields surrounded him, and his boots crunched under torched soil with each step. Slaughtered animals lay motionless in the pastures, and all that remained of bushels and bales in the fields were mounds of ash. The brigands had been thorough in their destruction. As I will be in theirs. “There is something else,” Grahla spoke up as they walked. “Two of the farmers - Pad, and his son - chased some of the brigands into the woods. The Wizard and I went to search for them, but the farmer’s son turned up dead.” “And? Is there something strange about that?” Krug’s voice was more curt than he intended, but his patience had been worn too thin for niceties. “Not exactly. It is just … Pad was fighting one bandit when the Wizard and I arrived, and he had sent his son to hide. I killed the bandit and Pad and I searched for his boy, but … We saw no trace of anyone else in the woods. It is not clear to me who killed the son.” “It was Iblees’ who found the body?” Krug was not surprised when Grahla nodded. Could he …? He began to think, but then shook his head. Have I gone mad? Iblees would not really kill a child, would he? He sighed, and stared down at his calloused hands. Sap, dirt, and soot made dark ridges in his flesh. No, this is just paranoia. Iblees would not. Why would he? It made no sense, but then again, many things that Iblees did made no sense to Krug. For the briefest of moments, he saw himself back in that sunlit field as a young boy with a man he had once called father, with a muddy seed in his hands. “Rotting Wizard,” he whispered to himself. He stomped towards the group of Far Ridgers gathered outside the burnt farmhouse. As he approached, he could hear the wails of two of the survivors - a man and a woman - kneeling on the ground and clutching the corpse of a young boy. Iblees stood just next to them, short and gaunt compared to the Far Ridgers, his clothes all cloth and wool rather than furs. As he approached, he whistled loudly to draw the attention of the Far Ridgers standing around the bodies. “The cravens had fled,” he declared as their cloaked bodies turned to him, their wood axes and boar spears glinting in the pale sunlight. The man and woman kept crying over the corpse of the boy, but Krug spoke over their sobs. “There are tracks leading north, east, and west. We will follow them, and kill them. Grahla will take half our number and follow them west; Tavo, you will take the other half east. Two stay to watch the farm. I will take the north trail alone.” No one objected to him going alone - everyone knew he could handle himself. Quiet, grim talk broke out again as the Far Ridgers began to organize themselves. Krug spared one brief glance down at the dead boy, an ugly red gash across the width of his throat and glazed eyes staring up at the sky in unseeing horror. Gritting his teeth, he began to march north and tried to put both the dead boy and his childhood memory of Iblees out of his head. He was not sure why it kept coming into his thoughts, but he did not like it. A father … He spat. I can’t believe I let him speak to me like that. He brushed back his bearskin cloak to pull out the twin axes hanging from his belt. He spun them in his hands, and flexed his grip on the shaven handles. They felt good in his hands. They felt right. He crossed beyond the farm, and the fields beyond, until he found himself in a sparse wood of towering pines. The ground here was littered in leaves and needles, and it rolled gently downwards. He neither paused nor turned around when he heard footsteps on the burnt ground behind him. “I said I would take the north trail alone, Wizard.” “I fear the marauders may have regrouped.” Iblees’ voice lacked its usual unfaltering calmness. There was a weariness to it now, and a grimness that had not been present earlier. “You could walk into their entire band. Can you fight six of seven of them alone?” “Probably not.” Krug’s stride did not slow. “You fool,” Iblees glowered, and that was not normal either. Something about the Wizard had changed since their exchange in the farmhouse. “You’re just going to walk into your doom?” “If that is how it is meant to be,” Krug answered, and he suddenly felt calm. Do I mean that? He asked himself. The possibility of death did not frighten him. It had once, long ago; he was certain of that. When he first came to build Far Ridge, when he first wanted to build it as a beacon of how mortals should live, he had wanted to survive to see it to fruition. Now, though, he did not think he would mind dying. I have no purpose in this world anymore. “That is not how it is meant to be.” There was heat in Iblees’ voice. Krug paused, and arched his head to give Iblees a sidelong look. “Why? Because that is not how you wish it to be?” He balked a mirthless laugh, and then began to trudge through the foliage again. “It would not bode well for your plan, is that it? You raised me and my brothers to be kings and rule through us, but I cannot be a king for you if I am dead.” “So you will get yourself killed to spite me?” Krug’s smile did not touch his eyes. “That would be a good death.” “King or not, Krug, I will not let you die.” “Why? I will not serve your wishes.” When he spoke again, Iblees’ voice was an impatient snap. “Did you perhaps consider that I might care for your wellbeing, now as I did back then? Not just whether you are alive, but that you have become miserable and wretched up in this wasteland!” Krug froze. The hair on his neck stiffened, and not from the chill caress of the wind. My … wellbeing? He looked back at Iblees again, not with a glare this time. The Wizard did have a weary, haggard look to him, as if he had not slept in days. Krug tried to see past that deceptively unremarkable face and forget the man who had taught them to farm, to build, to fight, and tried to remember another man. A father. For a moment, Krug was not sure if he was angry or not. He opened his mouth, but it was then that Iblees’ eyes suddenly shot open. “Duck!” As soon as the word came out in a strangled cry, Iblees threw himself forward to tackle Krug, and they both went down in a heap. As they fell, Krug watched an arrow sail mere inches over his head, the flint point gleaming coldly in the sunlight before it thudded violently into a tree. As soon as they struck the earth, focus replaced Krug’s surprise. He rolled off Iblees with a grunt, and sprung to his feet as his eyes darted about the trees surrounding them. Figures, clad in heavy furs and wool, were stepped out from behind thick trunks, weapons in hand. Each of them had the lithe and lean features of Malin’s Folk. Six, seven …. Eight. Rotting idiot, he cursed himself. I was so distracted that I did not notice their tracks. As he heard bows creaking as drawstrings were pulled back, he moved on instinct. He dashed towards the bowmen, and before they could fire, he slashed one of his axes into the earth. The blade skimmed the foliage, and threw up a cloud of the fallen leaves like a smokescreen. He rolled immediately, and allowed himself a twinge of satisfaction as two arrows punched through the cloud of leaves at the spot he had been. He leapt forward off the right foot, closing the distance between him and the panicked archers before they could draw their second arrow. One, two. His axes descended in two clean sweeps; one for the first archer, then a pivot brought the second down on the other. Malin’s Folk were no physical match for Far Ridgers, and the axes cleaved in deep with a crack of bone and splash of blood. Both of them dropped, gurgling. Easier than cutting down wolves. He ripped his second axe free right in time to throw himself away from a spear as a third marauder charged him. Falling on his back, he swept his legs forward to kick the brigand’s feet out from under him. He bounded upright once more, but he did not have time to finish off the spearman as a fourth bandit - a woman, he could tell from under her cowl - rushed at him with a blade and shield. With a shrill rasp of metal, his first axe parried her sword aside, but the shield slammed into his chest before he could strike again. The wind was knocked out of him and his ribs seemed to tighten, but he did not allow himself to lose focus. No matter what he had said to Iblees or admitted to himself, he did not intend to die today. He swung his axe, and the woman was sent back as the weapon sundered into her shield. When the axe remained stuck, he cursed and released it before launching a kick into the woman’s splintered shield to drive her away. A flicker of motion in the corner of his eye prompted him to whirl around. The spearman was back on his feet, his cowl brushed back to bare a strikingly young face twisted with rage. His legs tensed visibly as he prepared to charge, the spearpoint levelled at Krug. Rot, he cursed. He pictured the tree by the riverbank back by Far Ridge’s longhall, he flung his remaining axe. With a half-shriek and half-wheeze, the axe rent into the spearman’s chest, and he collapsed. This time, he did not get up. “Krug,” came Iblees’ alarmed voice as the Wizard backed into him. His chest stinging and lungs labouring from where the shield struck him, Krug looked around to find that the remaining marauders had closed in on them in an armed circle. The woman with the sword threw her ruined shield to the ground, his axe still in it, as her fellow brigands formed a loose ring around Krug and Iblees with spears levelled. I … I am going to die here. Both he and Iblees stood weaponless, and he could barely draw breath. The brigands were talking in hushed, urgent voices to each other, but their accents were so sharp that Krug could not make out what they were saying. “I … I told you I would go alone,” he said stiffly to Iblees. The Wizard’s face was hard-set and not quite afraid, but his eyes jumped from bandit to bandit in a mad dash as if searching for a solution. Iblees swallowed. “... No. Neither of us are going to die, you least of all, and not to these worms. Just …” he licked his lips as if his mouth had gone dry. “Just promise me that you will remember the future we must build.” Krug narrowed his eyes. “What are you -” Iblees took a step forward, and then he was no longer Iblees. Smoke wreathed his form, and his clothes burnt away to reveal flesh as black as onyx streaked with veins that glowed like magma. He grew in size, doubling to twelve feet and then sixteen, and his head grew long and serpentine. Fires blazed in the sockets of his eyes and mouth, and black horns twisted out of his skull to crown him. With cries of terror, the brigands began to scramble back, but Krug was rooted to the spot. Iblees - no, the Demon - slashed forward with an elongated arm, and black-red claws gored one of the spearmen like a leaf. As the claws protruded from the brigand’s back, his body burst into violent flames. A second claw slashed at the woman with the sword, and diced her into bloody chunks in one swing. The entire band broke, then, and took off running with petrified yells. The Demon stepped forward on hooved feet, and a ring of fire - black fire - erupted from nowhere between the trees, forming a perfect circle around Krug, the Demon, and the marauders. A perfect cage. The Demon loped forward leisurely, the ground quaking under each step, and the bandits scrambled in every direction to find an escape. Some tried to push through the fire, but the second they touched it, their bodies combusted into ash. It was only then that some of the bandits turned, flinging their spears at the Demon like javelins. Though one slid right into the Demon’s chest, the horned horror kept advancing as if it were nothing. Without any sense of urgency, the Demon picked off the remnants in deadly, burning swipes. Within seconds, silence befell the forest but for the cackling of the flames. All the brigands lay dead, their corpses either burning or slashed to bits. The Demon turned, then, and its flaming eyes settled on Krug. Krug had always thought of himself as brave. He had bested bears in single combat, faced entire wolf packs, and driven off brigands for years. But as that Demon stared at him, as he looked back into the caverns of its eyes, he felt fear - a truer fear that he had ever felt in all his life. And then it was gone. The Demon’s form twitched once, and then it dissolved into smoke and ash. At the same instant, the black fires encircling Krug winked out immediately. Only blackened earth indicated there had ever been any fire at all. The Demon - Iblees - was gone, and Krug found himself standing alone in the forest, surrounded by bodies. “... what just happened?” he asked weakly, but only the oblivious chirps of birds answered him before he keeled over and began to vomit.

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE DAY OF A SIEGE "Push, Farald!" "I am pushing!" he hissed back through grit teeth, and then heaved a sigh of relief when the wheels of the cannon finally pushed out of the cart-rut it had gotten stuck in. Despite the exercise and his fur-lined Haense Royal Army beret and cloak, he was shivering. The winter cold still showed no sign of abating, and Farald - like everyone else - blamed the Trolls for that. "Rot," he breathed. "This is suicide." Beneath her own beret, Lyssa narrowed her dark eyes at him. "What, pushing the cannon?" "No," he shot back. "Just ... this," he spread his arms to gesture all around him. Lyssa turned, frowning at the siege encampment being erected just two miles south of Krusev. Despite the cloaked shapes of HRA soldiers moving all around them, hoisting up sharpened stake-walls and hastily-constructed log watchtowers, there was very little noise. Nobody spoke, and nobody wanted to. Beneath berets or half-helms, stark faces stared out with grim eyes, and Farald imagined he looked the same. His eyes drifted past the cannon to where Lost Krusev stood to the north, its ice-glazed walls gleaming in the warmthless sunlight. Farald did not want to see the ruins, but he could not keep himself from looking at it no matter how hard he tried. It was a stark reminder of the upcoming battle. And our upcoming deaths. Lyssa mimicked his sigh, her gloved hand resting on the cannon barrel as she too looked towards Krusev, black cloak twisting around her in the wind. Occasionally, they could hear distant growls from Krusev, and those sounds always made the soldiers freeze in their preparations and looked towards the ruins in alarm. "We're doomed either way," Lyssa said bitterly. "We either starve, or we fight them." "A slow death or a quick one," Farald muttered. There was little hope it would be anything but a death at this stage. As Farald saw it, they had been lucky to survive against the Trolls for this long. Most fights had been against no more than half a dozen, and they had always had walls to hide behind. This time, they were attacking the Troll's defensive position in the ruins, and reports from Ser Cedric's scouting expedition glanced the Trolls well over twenty, if not thirty. Like I said, he thought as he exhaled misty breath. Suicide. Wordlessly, the two of them hunched over and began pushing the cannon again. Are we really doing this? Farald asked himself. Despite how assured he was that any assault on Krusev would be doomed, he was eerily calm. He did not understand why he was not shaking, what he was not puking his guts out, or why he was not panicking. He did not understand why anyone was not panicking. Dead men walking. That's what it is. We're all just dead men walking. Finally, they brought the cannon to a stop in a gap between the stakewalls where it had a perfect view of Krusev, and they fastened it into place before they straightened up. "Listen, Lyssa ..." Farald began slowly as he stared at the ruins once more. If I'm going to die ... if this is really going to be the end ... I might as well tell her. He thought if he could just do that much - if he could tell her how he really feels after their years of service in the HRA side by side .... he might be alright. He make be able to make his peace, and give his life for what little it was worth. She turned to stare at him, her usually-stern eyes wide with the same subtle fear that had gripped the entire Army. Her eyes were so blue, like the frost on Krusev's walls. "I, ah ... I just ..." Farald began. "Before this siege, I just wanted to say -" "HEY, YOU TWO!" came a sudden bellow from a sergeant nearby who was overseeing a knot of younger soldiers trying to hold up a log-watchtower that had not been secured properly. "COME HELP!" "Rot," Farald cursed, his short-lived courage seeping out of him. "What ... was it you wanted to say?" Lyssa asked softly, but a second later there came another impatient yell from the sergeant. "I'll, um, I'll just tell you later," Farald said dismissively. Lyssa seemed to give him a sad frown, before the two of them took off towards the watchtower. As they moved, Farald spared one last glance towards Krusev. Even from here, he could make out the gargantuan shapes of Trolls waiting to squash them. Then, he looked up at the pale sky, marred only be a few streaky clouds. You had better let me live, he prayed. He doubted God was listening, though. If he was, then he would never have let things grow this bad.

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE THE ENDLESS WINTER Spring had come, but the winter took no note. Where the spruce and pine forests of Haense should have been sprouting budding leaves, instead their branches were just spindly, bare limbs. Where farmers should have been well into planting season and tubers and stalks pushing through fertile soil, most farms had been reduced to an abandoned span of weeds and churned mud at best, and a graveyard at worst. And where the cutting chill of the wind should have been easing, it instead grew even more bitter. "This does not bode well," Farald remarked as he stood atop the crimson walls of Karosgrad as his black cloak stirred in the wind. He nervously fingered the sword sheathed at his waist, and the pale, lifeless light glimmered on the gold-striped gambeson that proclaimed him a member of the Haeseni Royal Army. "They've already been told there's nothing for them here," came Lyssa's exasperated grunt beside him. She was his watch partner for the day, and she kept one hand glued to her beret to keep it from blowing away in the chilling gusts. Both of them stared below the walls with concern where a mass of refugees thronged. They were all clad in drab, travel-stained woolens with cloaks and hoods pulled tight not only to ward off the oppressive cold, but to hide their despair. They had all come from the hinterlands, as far as Farald could tell, and they all told the same tale: whether they were a farmhand or woodsmen, the Rimetrolls had forced them to seek the safety of the Haeseni capital. There were no farms left to feed them out in the midlands, and the Rimetrolls were enough of a physical danger to make any man or woman flee. Despite the crowd, they made eerily little noise besides the crying of hungry children and a depressed tide of murmurs. As Farald looked up towards the road winding towards Monstadt and Vasiland, he could see a steady trickle of more peasants making their way to the city. "If this keeps up," Farald said through grit teeth, "We're all going to starve. The Rimetrolls have already taken harvests from here ... there's just not enough for any more." "The King needs to shoo them." Lyssa's words were firm, but her gaunt face was stark with the same fear that rattled Farald. It was not the kind of fear that made a man run in battle, but the kind of growing fear that accompanied knowing a disaster was surely afoot. "We should chase them off with bows!" "We can't just send them away," Farald growled back. His teeth had begun to chatter from the cold as the gulp of hot whiskey he had downed before his watch wore off. "The Trolls will just end up killing them all." "What are we supposed to do, then?" Lyssa shot back, blue eyes narrowed into a glare. "We can't feed them all, we don't have the resources! What are we supposed to do, Farald?!" As he watched the crowd of refugees grow, Farald said nothing. ____________ Shog emptied two barrels out onto the frosted ground, adding a few stunted cabbages to the pile of vegetables that already lay there. "Last of 'em," Shog proclaimed matter-of-factly, and the white-furred Rimetroll stepped away from their remaining rations and back into the crowd of eleven to thirteen-foot tall Rimetrolls that stood gathered in the middle of the ruins of Krusev. Little Runk - though he was not little anymore - watched the pile with a hard stare, and then glanced around him. The palisades of Krusev had been glazed in frost and gleamed a pale grey as they reflected the morning's dreary light, and the farms that had once cloaked the valley had long been turned to frosted mud under the heavy steps of dozens of Rimetrolls. Little Runk stifled a sigh when he looked back to the food pile -- they had feasted on the harvests of Krusev for a long time now, but that pile was all that was left, and it was not very much at all. The gathered Rimetrolls stood in awkward silence as they all stared at the dwindling food with concerned, beady eyes, but the unspoken fear hung loudly in the air: what now? None of the Rimetrolls wanted to go back raiding - it was against their nature - but if they delayed any longer, the starvation that had already killed so many of their kind would set in once again. Even now as he looked around the crowd, he saw the faces of his fellow Trolls painted with stark fear at the notion that they would have to kill and be killed again, but no one had another answer. No one had any kind of solution except to take food the people that had taken their food and started this whole war. "No choice!" Little Runk surprised himself by speaking suddenly, but the fiery words came unbidden. All eyes turned to him as he shuffled forward. "We has no choice but to smash warmies again!" He paused, his breath quickening into misty plumes as he breathed, but he did not stop. "So many of us dead! Troll Village gone, destroyed by warmies, Farm gone, destroyed by warmies, and our Trollwives n' cubs smushed and burnied by the warmies! We has to, or we all dies! We has to, or we goes ... uh .." he trailed off, his vigour fading as he failed to make this tongue produce the intended word. "Ex ... extiiii ..." "Extinct?" offered another Troll helpfully. "Ya, extii ... that thing, ya!" Little Runk finished. Slowly, the Trolls around him nodded. They had all been thinking the same thing, and they now they accepted what had to be done with grim resolve. Little Runk was one of few who did not pity the warmies and the onslaught that was about to befall them; turning, he stared off in the direction of the nearby warmie castle with hard eyes. He had heard the tale of how his father - Big Runk - had tried to make friends with the warmies. He had come in peace, seeking only a little bit of food to feed his family. He had heard how the warmies had said they would accept Big Runk's friendship, that they would give him the food he so desperately needed ... and then they had burnt him alive. Little Runk clenched a fist. ____________ "I'm telling you - we should strike while we still have the strength!" Valja eyed the group around her impassively. The six of them were gathered inside a makeshift tent made from old bedsheets and hides just outside Karosgrad with the rest of the refugees. Valja had said nothing as the other men and women spoke in urgent, hushed voices, and quietly ran an oiled cloth along her skinning knife while she tried to ignore the hungry pangs in her stomach. She had been hungry for weeks now, though, and had long since gotten used to the sensation to the point where it no longer really bothered her. At least she did not have to worry about her feeding her children any more. The Rimetrolls had already made sure her children would never need to be fed again. "What are we supposed to do?" hissed Borm - a stocky charcoal-burner who still made an effort to shave, albeit not a good effort - at the man who had spoken first. "Storm the city, take on the HRA?! You're mad, Yugen!" "Mad?!" Yugen, a farmer whose face had been gaunt long before the famine, glared at Borm beneath his hood. "You're mad if you think anything is going to be solved by just sitting out here and waiting! We'll all be starved to husks before long, and that's if the rotting Trolls don't kill us first!" "We shouldn't be so quick to jump to violence," added Tiesa, the youngest of the group. Though the red-haired woman was just shy of twenty-six, she had taught most of the other refugees how to fight a Troll using hoes and axes. It was a far cry than HRA cannons, but it was better than being defenseless. Valja admired the girl for her leadership, and for her sense. "We should wait to see what happens next," agreed Borm. "For all we know, there might be enough food to keep us all alive until the King retakes Krusev, and that could be happening any day now!" "You're all fools," hissed Yorrik, the tanner who kept his entire face hidden by his hood. "You've seen the way the city folk are looking at us, how they don't want us anywhere near the gate. They're scared! They're worried we're going to put too much of a strain on their food supplies, because they don't have enough food to feed us either!" "Finally, some sense!" Yugen rumbled. "Before we're all too weak to stand, we should storm the granaries! The city folk and nobles plan to just grow fat off them while we die!" Yugen spat on the ground. "We'll be sacrifices while they sit nice and safe behind the walls!" The group broke off into heated hisses as they argued about whether they ought to bide their time or whether they act to strike now for their own sakes, about whether the HRA and the Aulic Council had already condemned the refugees as not worth saving. Valja sighed softly as she eyed her grey-haired reflection in the polished knife. "Enough." She spoke softly, but the others ceased their arguing and looked to her expectantly. Valja had no desire to be any kind of leader - especially of a mob of hungry peasants - but it had not exactly been her choice. She had taken it upon herself to lead the evacuation of several villages near Krusev right as the Rimetrolls were bearing down on them, and she had even managed to kill one of the Iblees-spawn beasts herself. Ever since, the rest of the refugees had looked to her for guidance. She did not want the burden by any means, but if she could keep some of them from being killed like her children, then she would do what she could. "Well, Valja? What's it going to be?" demanded Yorrik. Casually, Valja slid the knife back into its sheath at her waist. "It is simple," she began wearily. "We will see how far the city will go to protect us first." ____________ The rats squeaked weakly in the sewers beneath Karosgrad. The Ratiki known as Don - self-appointed King of the Rats - whisked his tail, and fidgeted nervously with his fingers as he eyed the pile of Troll bones in front of him. The body was the latest delivery from the HRA as promised per their treaty, but it was still not enough. Don's people - the rats - were still too hungry. A fat rat in a tinfoil helmet approached Don as he sat on his cauldron, and tilted his head before he squeaked apprehensively. "I know, Sir Fuzzleton," Don whickered softly. "I know. Not enough, not enough, not enough ..." Absent-mindedly, he reached out to give Fuzzleton a gentle scratch beneath his tinfoil helmet. "Perhaps ... yes, perhaps, perhaps ..." his eyes drifted upwards to the ceiling of his chamber, and his whiskers twitched nervously. "Perhaps it is time to renegotiate. Yes, renegotiate." ____________ Karosgrad seemed to hold its breath as a cold wind rolled over it, echoing like a soft wail in the streets. As the rats, Rimetrolls, and peasants were forced to make their moves, it seemed like this winter would have no end. And if it did, nobody might be left alive to see it.

MEMOIRS OF A SILENT KNIGHT VOLUME IV: TRIALS Source These Memoirs are not public knowledge until Aleksandr's death, or shared in roleplay. Volume I: Vow of Silence Volume II: I Did Not Love Her Volume III: Flight of the Princess Music Is this why, father? That was the question I found myself asking this spring past, when I fought a battle at Luciensburg. Undead had infiltrated the palace, and the city's defense was woefully undermanned. I had come only to visit my apprentice Elaine -- the city was a strange one, and its inhabitants all strangers, but I fought beside them to retake their castle nonetheless. It was not because of the Knight's Code, nor any obligation to help people in need. Instead, I lay my life on the line for strangers for no other reason that I thought that I would not mind dying. It was only by some miracle that I escaped the battle relatively unscathed, when everyone else had taken some gruesome wound. As the last of the Iblees-spawn fell, bone dust coating my sword, I stood atop one of the towers, stared across the skyline of Luciensburg, and asked myself; is this why you killed yourself, father? I am no longer a young man. I have seen much of the world and its cruelty. I have seen people ordered to death on a whim, and I have seen hundreds die in a war started by the folly of one. I have seen good men and women turn to cowards, and I have seen honour desecrated by greed and stupidity. I once swore to be a true Knight, to embody the change I knew the world needed, but my burden has grown so heavy now that I have come to see the world for what it truly is. It is a dark place, home to dark people, nearly all of whom are glutton to perpetuate its injustices. My royal nephew is a tyrant, and his court is brimming with sinful sycophants; my fellow Knights are little more than mindless brutes; and I have become indifferent to those I once cared for. Is this why, father? The truth of this world has turned me into a creature of hate. Where once I vowed to champion honour and virtue, I now find myself capable only of contempt for nearly everyone else. The truth is that I am cannot decide whether to kill everyone around me, or kill myself and end it all. Often, I find myself laughing mirthlessly at that notion. I have come to theorize that Godan tests us on this world by seeing how long we can endure the despair before we are corrupted ourselves, and become instruments of the evil that plagues every corner of this land. If this is truly the case, then I do not think my endurance will last much longer. How can it? If my own father, a King, could not hope to do anything to fight against this evil world, then how can I possibly hope to change anything? Each day, I feel this hatred gradually grow stronger; I feel it curl around my limbs, like loose puppet strings slowly tightening before I will become corrupted myself - if I am not already - and dance to its tune. Surely, then, it would be a mercy to end my own life before it gets to that stage. Is that why you did it, father? If this is Godan's test for us, then what is the point? Why make us endure these hardships, why twist our souls so? Is it all for some great reward at the end? Is the price of your embrace truly so high? If so, I think you have it wrong, Godan. You are mistaken. Who could watch as his sister was ordered to the pyre by a mad boy-king? Who could stand by as their family and students are abused and murdered? Who could stand by as their dream, naive as it might have been, is drenched in dishonor? As infant-minded Trolls roll over our farms, killing hundreds in battle and through famine? As nations ran by bloodthirsty fools clamber to kill one another for no reason other than pride? Who, Godan? Who could possibly endure these trials? I thought I could, once. I had conquered much in my youth in becoming a Knight who had earned his place through hard work alone and without an ounce of natural talent. Even when I realized there are no true paragons of virtue in this world, when I discovered that Knights were not the heroes I had once thought them to be, I thought I could be that paragon, that hero. I embodied honor, and helped those in need, even when it betrayed the Code of Chivalry I once held so sacred. But for what? I helped Katerina flee the Kongzem, only for her to return to her abusive brother and for me to be arrested at the great cost of my own honor. I did everything in my power to help Mariya, but she was still bloodily murdered in the end. I thought I might love Marcella, but she left and died. I did all I could to support Nataliya when none else did, but for all our bond, she can never return to Haense. I did everything right, didn't I? I was a good man, a good Knight - I was honorable. But despite all that, I am left with nearly nothing. I have watched my friends die, my loved ones scatter, and I could nothing to help any of them. So what then is the point? Why must we struggle so hopelessly? Why must we always strive to do what is right at such great expense when it yields nothing? Your trials are impossible, Godan. Salvation is impossible. At the end, there is only two choices; to succumb to the evil of the world, to let it twist me to become one of the sinful thralls I so loathe, or to slay myself and end these trials ... just as my father did. Yes, I begrudged him once. I wished to ask him why -- why he would leave his Kongzem, his throne, his family behind. I sought to ask him that question for the longest time, but now there is no need to. I understand now, father. I know why you did it.

Review of the Aulic Court: ELIGIBILITY OF REGENTS TO RUN IN ELECTIONS KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the AULIC COURT On this 9th day of Msitza and Dargund of 371 ES VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG EDLERVIK, On the 10th of Jula and Piov of 371 ES, the Aulic Court was petitioned by the then-Lord-Handler Fionn Castaway on whether Aldrik Baruch, while acting as Regent of House Amador, was eligible to run for election as Alderman. The issue presented was that, if successful in his campaign, Fir Baruch would wield two votes on the Royal Duma -- one on behalf of House Amador, and one as elected Alderman. After close deliberation, the Aulic Court now seeks to deliver legal clarification on the matter. Ruling A Regent cannot run for office as Alderman. Majority Jovenaar Reza Gynsburg Erika Kortrevich Lauritz Jensen Annika Vyronov Dissenting Jovenaar Lukas Rakoczy Eleanora Mannox Konstantin Wick OPINION OF THE COURT Delivered by Jovenaar Jensen, joined by Jovenaars Vyronov & Kortrevich I must admit that it is a shame that the eligibility criteria to run for election are not actually properly defined in the Haurul Caezk; this is something I suppose is a relic from the time when the Haurul Caezk was nonexistent, dating back to the period before Haeseni independence. Nevertheless, Section 7 of the eligibility would imply that a man may only hold one seat in the Duma: “7. Candidates may only nominate themselves to run for one office.” In this instance, I perceive that ‘office’ in this case also translates to Duma seat as per Section 210.02 of the Haurul Caezk. I infer for this that is the intent of the law that only one seat should be held by the same person. However, I do also bid we take note of Section 210.07 of the Haurul Caezk, which states: “Any seat of the Royal Duma left vacant for three consecutive sittings of the Royal Duma without proper reasoning shall be suspended until deemed fit by the Crown.” Aldrik Baruch’s prospective election while also being the man entitled to the Amador seat as current Regent poses the danger of the Amador seat being revoked due to his inability to attend as both Amador and elected Alderman. As he is the Regent, and thus, as per Section 604.03 of the Haurul Caezk providing “the Regent shall be obliged to fulfill the duties of the nobility in their entirety”, which include, per Section 602.01, “a Haeseni Peer shall sit on the Royal Duma and appoint a representative when unable to do so”. This clearly says that it is the responsibility of Aldrik Baruch to sit on the Royal Duma, as the representative of House Amador, if he were to sit there as a Royal Alderman, he would not be fulfilling the duties of the nobility in its entirety for he would clearly be unable to sit on the Royal Duma at the time. To conclude, I believe that Aldrik Baruch’s decision to run for Royal Alderman is most negligent of his duties as Regent of House Amador, as his election will most likely result in the suspension of the House’s seat. It would not only be in the best interest of the Royal Duma, but the House of Amador, that Aldrik Baruch be stopped from running before this negligent damage can be done to the House. We are Jovenaar -- we must, like all others, help uphold the dignity of this Kongzem and its subjects. ______________________________ Concurring Chief Jovenaar Gynsburg The Aulic Court of the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska declares a legal moratorium on the General Elections of Haense, 371 E.S., on the following grounds of contested candidate eligibility. On the question of whether an individual can occupy two seats based upon the assumption of office in two conflicted obligations, the Court shall settle the dispute. Lord Aldrik Baruch’s candidacy as Alderman of the Royal Duma brings before the Aulic Court a point of legal contention on whether his presumed responsibilities as a regent of House Amador prohibits his campaign for elected office. It is clear that the institutional structure of the Royal Duma is organized such that it retains clear boundaries of office for Aldermen and ex officio the several Peers of the Kingdom who retain a seat by noble birthright. The question, then, is the issue concerning the protection of nobility and the sacred obligation duly charged by those entrusted with its powers and privileges. Since Lord Aldrik Baruch has been duly charged by the House of Amador to serve as a custodian of the noble affairs on behalf of the underaged peer, Lord Baruch assumes all responsibility to that of a Peer or patriarch. Therefore, his station is equal to that of Peer, thus granting him a seat in the Royal Duma (HC 604.03). We must assume that any individual who serves as Regent is equivalent to a titled peer, or else he disqualifies himself from having legitimate authority over the noble family. In assuming the regency of a noble house, Lord Baruch is entitled to all privileges retained to his station, one being his obligation of representing House Amador in the Royal Duma. His duty in this office is incumbent upon him, and therefore his decision to run for Alderman should be negated. Years of precedent regarding the administration of elections have called for one seat, one vote. Reforms have been enshrined to broaden eligibility and confine peers, commoners, and gentry from serving across various offices. Furthermore,the law specifically provides that “a Regent must (emphasis added) be appointed to manage their affairs until their fourteenth birthday (HC 604.01),” thus requiring Lord Baruch to sit in the Royal Duma equivalent to that of a titled Peer until the appointed time. Consciously understanding this role is both a sacred contract with the Crown to discharge the authority of a peer and cannot thus be conflicted in other temporal matters. ______________________________ Dissenting Jovenaar Wick, joined by Jovenaar Mannox My own reading of the law lends to the conclusion that the Royal Duma is intended not to facilitate one man or woman holding more than one vote. I would be inclined to imply from the law that no elected officer may be a Peer, but the fact that Section 211.044 specifically excludes Peers from the office of Grand Maer and not that of Alderman must be observed here, as it lends the wording of the law here intent that only one elected office is excluded from being held by Peers. While I cannot fathom why this provision was not extended to include Aldermen and I am of the staunch opinion that no man should hold two votes on the Duma, I am unprepared to imply something from the law that legislators clearly contemplated but did not include. It seems most fitting to me that the Crown issue an Edict to remedy this if it sees fit to. Otherwise, I must conclude that the law as it currently stands seems too deliberate to allow such an implication here. ______________________________ Dissenting Jovenaar Rakoczy It is my opinion that Lord Aldrik has not broken any laws that would prevent him from running for office. The rules of the nominations state that no candidate can be a titled Peer, and a Regent is not considered a title Peer under the law but instead a temporary manager of an estate. Per Section 210 of the Haurul Caezk, the only legal requirement for a candidate to run for elected office is that they are at least fourteen years of age. While I disagree with the notion that a titled Peer can run for the office of Alderman, it is not our right to legislate from the bench, but instead to interpret the law as written. From what I can see, the law is clear, and no law has been branched here. If there are holes in the law, then it is up to the Duma or the Crown to see them filled, not us. If it is a matter of one man temporarily holding influence over two seats, then it should be left to the electorate to decide whether they wish to grant any man that power. I will oppose any attempt to muffle the voice of the voters. ______________________________ IT SO ORDERED. IV KOENGZ MAAN, Chief Jovenaar Reza Gynsburg Jovenaar Lukas Rackozy Jovenaar Erika Kortrevich Jovenaar Lauritz Jensen Jovenaar Annika Vyronov Jovenaar Eleanora Mannox Jovenaar Konstantin Wick

"Thank ... you ..." the words were strained and scarce, produced by a tongue not meant for speech. " ... for ... helping my ... brother ..." Those had been the words Ser Aleksandr Hieromar whispered to the body of Isabel. There was precious few the Whisper Knight had loved, and Isabel of Valwyck was not one of them. On the contrary, a part of him blamed her for producing the monster that was King Henrik, and he had come to loathe her for her part in his madness, even if it was just acceptance. But she had eased the burdens of his brother. For as much as he had dedicated himself to a reign, no matter the cost to his person, Isabel had been the one part of Josef's life that might have been joyous. He was grateful for that.

RIMETROLL RAIDS REPORT II In northern Almaris, the struggle against the Rimetrolls continues. The strong, but stupid, denizens of the Rimeveld venture south in search of food in the Descendant realms of Norland and Haense after Descendants destroyed their sole food source. As the passive and vegetarian Rimetrolls try to take from Descendant farms which in turn push those nations towards famine and starvation. Troll Strength Genocide of Troll Village: A party of mages under Corbin Wick, assisted by unwary Haeseni volunteers, made their way north through the blizzards of the Rimeveld until they reached the cavern called Troll Village, home of the Rimetrolls. Despite the ongoing raids, the Trolls welcomed the Descendants as honoured guests, and when the Descendants offered up gifts of food the Trolls threw a small celebration in their honour. While the Haeseni ventured into the cave, Corbin Wick's mages remained behind and charged up a massive fire spell. As the Haeseni celebrated with the Rimetrolls below, the mages launched their fireball at the roof of the cavern, causing it to collapse on Troll and Haeseni alike, inflicting massive casualties on both and wiping out most of Troll Village. Troll Population: Largely due to the Genocide of Troll Village and aided by Troll deaths on raids across Haense, the population of Rimetrolls has plummeted drastically to 40% (down from 90%), contributing to the end of the war through extinction of the Rimetrolls. Rock Trolls: The Rock Trolls, a cousin-species to the Rimetrolls, have joined the Rimetrolls in their struggle against the Descendants. Though Rock Trolls themselves eat only rocks to survive, they were convinced to help the Rimetrolls following the genocide of Troll Village, fearing that they would be next. As those who have since encountered the Rock Trolls can attest to, their rock-skin armor renders them a walking bulwark and extremely difficult to damage. As a silver-lining, there are far fewer Rock Trolls than Rimetrolls. Norland Relations: The Rimetrolls currently consider the Norlandic people as allies -- this means they are unlikely to resort to violence unless provoked. Events: Norland stands in stark contrast with their Haeseni neighbours in peacefully working with the hungry Trolls that have set their eyes on the Elysium farms. They have made more than one pact with various groups of Trolls, going so far as to teach them to farm and to give them a mammoth for them to milk. Despite this, the impacts of the Genocide of Troll Village are yet to reach Norland. Many of the surviving Trolls may actually seek shelter in the sole people that have shown them kindness, while other Trolls may be driven to irrational hatred of Descendants for the Genocide. On Svensday, the Trolls and Norlanders even got high together, further increasing their friendship. Famine: Norland's gifts of food to the Rimetrolls have greatly reduced their food production - given how much the Rimetrolls eat - but they are not yet struggling from famine. Haense Relations: The Rimetrolls currently consider the Haeseni people as enemies -- this means they are likely to fear for their lives and attack first, rendering diplomacy especially difficult. Events: The Rimetrolls have attempted multiple raids on Haense. >Thog's Trip to Karosgrad: A sole Rock Troll arrived at Karosgrad, and was reluctantly allowed by the HRA to harvest one farming field before leaving, sapping from the Kingdom's already-low food supplies. >The Battle of the Blizzard: Amidst a snowstorm, Rimetrolls crossed with the HRA north of Karosgrad. Many losses with incurred on both sides, leading Rimetrolls to infest the nearby countryside. >The Astfield Raid: Immediately after the Battle of the Blizzard, Rimetrolls arrived at Astfield to feed on the crops. A small group at the Barony fired cannons on the Trolls and set fire to the fields while the Trolls were feasting. While this slaughtered the Trolls, it burnt Astfield's harvest completely, greatly sapping Haense's food supply. >The Reinmar Raid: A massive Troll raid was launched on Reinmar by both Rock Trolls and Rimetrolls, in which Haense witnessed the strength of the Rock Trolls firsthand. After slaying the Rimetroll Bido, Haense very narrowly managed to turn back the viscous onslaught. >The Krusev Delivery: Pending a raid from the Trolls, the HRA escorted several carts of food back from the Haeseni breadbasket of Krusev. On the way, there were pursued by an enormous Rock Troll named Igga, beset by a pack of ravenous Troll cubs, and were faced by a peasant mob who tried to extort one of the food carts from then, though the HRA successfully talked them down. Famine: Between loss of food to the Trolls, Haense has entered a state of mild famine, meaning the Kingdom is faced with: >Pestilence: Rodents and pests plague Karosgrad. Packs of starving rats hunt openly on the streets, and at all hours of the day the townsfolk can hear the scurrying of a rodent army beneath them in the sewers... >Low Peasant Morale: As their families starve and their farms are destroyed, peasant morale in Haense dips low. Peaceful protests in the city compel the King to take action, while trust in the government and Army is low, meaning that the Kingdom's peasantry are just as likely to help them as they are to hinder and steal food to feed themselves. Restoration Efforts Despite the plummeting Troll population pushing them closer towards genocide, several groups hasten their efforts to find a peaceful solution for the Rimetrolls. The Fellowship of Umba: After delving into the flooded ruins of Lost Balian and contending with the ruin's mysterious defender, this rag-tag team of Elves and Highlanders learned that the lost realm of Balian were the ones who first gave the Rimetroll their enchanted totem that allowed them to farm in the north to end their long history of war with the Trolls. They retrieved an ancient book on the totem ... in another language. If they can find a way to translate it, they may well be able to build another totem for the Rimetrolls and give them back their own source of food. The Alchemists' Alliance: Recently, a group of alchemists have reached out to the Trolls and given them a gift of Land's Nurture potions as a sample of what they could offer to restore the Troll farm. However, the Trolls unwittingly drank the potions rather than use them on their farm. The Alliance is preparing a larger batch, and to teach the Rimetrolls how to use it. The Spiritwalkers: Seeking to create a new fertility totem for the Rimetrolls, a group prepares to embark on a spirit-walk to do so.

From atop the red walls of Karosgrad, Ser Aleksandr Barbanov sighed as the brisk wind tossed his hair and stirred his cloak. He watched as H.R.A soldiers, their faces pale and sooty, their uniforms torn and bloodied, trudge back through the gates after their brutal clash with the Rimetrolls at Reinmar. His eyes fell on a stretcher carrying the body of Ser Brandt Barclay, but it quickly disappeared from his view beneath the gate. First Rimetrolls, the silent Knight thought grimly, now fighting within the Iron Accord. He had only met a High Elf a few times in his life; he suppose he might come to know their people much more if Haense was called to fight alongside them in the coming weeks. He did not pray much anymore, but he certainly prayed it did not come to that.

Konstantin Wick remembered Brandt from the very first meeting of the Knight's Table, where the then-squire had sat with eyes shining, all full of piss and vinegar. It was an all-too familiar feeling for him, reading of the death of a man he had known as a boy. Not an entirely bad feeling, but a bittersweet one. He was glad Brandt had gone so far. He was a good man, Konstantin decided; one of the precious few left.

Konstantin Wick flees the jurisdiction.

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE: BRING OUT THE ROCK An artist's rendition of a Rimetroll Every time Bido closed his eyes, he saw it. He saw Troll Village, the humble little cavern in the heart of the Rimeveld where the Trolls had lived in blissful peace for generations, buried under piles and piles of rubble. He saw dozens upon dozens of Trolls, Trolls with families, younger Trolls he was supposed to outlive by decades, staring up at the Rimeveld sky with blank, death-glazed eyes. He saw his home gone. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his people dead. Massacred. Genocided. "UUUUUH ...?" The grunt brought Bido back to reality. He stood in a wide, open cave, the flat ground and sloped walls blued with ice, and he was not alone. Beside him, a more hunched Troll, his once greyish-brown fur faded to a pale silver, marched with the aid of a thick, carven stick that the Chief of the Rimetrolls always carried. Beneath the silver Troll's gnarled horns, beady eyes were wide with thought and unblinking as they stared at something distant and unseen. It was clear to Bido that his companion - Chief Oxx - was suffering the same trauma that he was. He was trying not to blink so he did not have to face those horrors again. Slowly, Bido turned his eyes ahead of him towards the front of the cave. There, a row of a dozen shapes sat. To the untrained eye, they appeared as mere boulders, some of them with icy stalactites hanging off them, some of them with sparse mossy growth. Upon closer inspection, though, Bido could make out vague faces sticking out from the 'boulders'; a long, toothless mouth below two tiny, beady eyes. They were not boulders, but Rock Trolls, and fitting to their name their bodies were more rocky mineral than actual flesh. They were a cousin breed to the Rimetrolls, and though their people were considered close, they had little interaction, for they stuck to the tunnels and caves deep under the Rimeveld. "Sorry," Bido muttered groggily. He dipped his head apologetically to the Rock Troll at the front of the group, who stood out for the studs of glittering crystals that grew from her rocky back. She was Igga, their elder. "What you say?" With the rumble of shifting stone, Igga raised a rock-skinned hand, and tapped her stony head. "WHYYY ....HUUUUULP?" Her words were clipped, and her voice was coarse, like the sound of a rock being grinded to gravel. The Rock Trolls were supposedly smarter than their Rimetroll cousins, but their vocal abilities were extremely poor. Bido wasn't sure what he believed -- the Rock Trolls had always lived in such seclusion that he had never had a real opportunity to tell how intelligent they really were. Must not be so stupid, Bido thought sadly to himself. They avoid war for so long. Bido glanced to Oxx; he hoped his fellow Rimetroll would answer, for Bido could certainly not bring himself to give voice to the horror that had befallen Troll Village. Oxx only gave him a slow nod before he repeated the tale for the Rock Trolls in his droning, sad voice. "The warmies ... they come to Troll Village while me and Bido gone. They saw they bring food, so Trolls celebrate ... They sing for warmies, give them fire, but then warmies, they ... they make the Village go boom..." Bido's hands clenched into fists as Oxx spoke. From the scant survivors of the massacre of Troll Village, he had heard varying accounts of what happened. Some of the survivors claimed that the warmies had brought one of their Boomies - the devastating, fiery weapons they used to defend their cities - and turned it on the Village. Others say they started a fire that consumed the Village and melted the icy cave in which it was built. Others still claimed that they had taken up their weapons and stormed the Village, slaughtering all in their path. Bido wasn't sure which was true, but it didn't matter -- the only truth that did matter was that the Descendants had attacked Troll Village itself. They had killed countless Rimetrolls, children included. They had tried to kill them all. " ... gone. All gone," Oxx finished in a broken voice as Bido tuned back in, and both Rimetrolls turned their eyes back to Igga and the Rock Trolls. Bido had never wanted to come to the Rock Trolls for help. The war with the warmies was an affair for the Rimetrolls, but asides from that, he very much doubted the Rock Trolls would be inclined to help. Though they were their cousins, the Rock Trolls numbered much fewer than Rimetrolls - who already numbered few enough as a species - and they looked out only for themselves. Rock Trolls did not share the Rimetroll's desperate need for food -- instead, they were blessed with the ability to survive by eating rocks. But now that Troll Village had been destroyed ... now that so many Rimetrolls had been murdered ... Bido did not have a choice. They needed their help if they had any chance of beating the warmies now. "SUUUUUH?" came Igga's rasp. "WHUUUT... YOUUUUU ... EXPUUUUUHCT?" Bido frowned. It was true that when he had led the first raids against the warmies in the south, he had known there would be casualties. Trolls would inevitably die in the desperate struggle to survive, to feed their families. But he had thought it would be a handful of his brave kinsmen in each raid, martyrs who were a tragic but necessary blood cost to the survival of their species who would eventually be avenged. He had been prepared to pay that price. But the slaughter of Troll Village ... "They kill everyone," Bido snarled suddenly. "They kill cubs, they kill innocents who no hurt them, not ever. They kill everyone." At his answer, Igga's body made that unsettling rumbling sound as she spared a look at her fellow Rock Trolls - who numbered no more than two or three dozen - though none of them gave any kind of response. They just blinked their tiny eyes at Bido as Igga turned back to him. " ... STUUUUUUL ... WHUUUUT ... UUUUN ... FUUUUUR ... UUUUUUS?" Bido's jaw tightened. He knew this question was coming. After all, why would the Rock Trolls get involved in a war in which they had no stake? Why would they risk themselves so needlessly? In truth, as angry as it made him that they even asked such, Bido understood it. He was glad when Oxx spoke up beside him with the answer they had prepared. "Because they no stop at us. You Trolls too, Igga," Oxx said, drawing up his shoulders as if to embolden himself. "The warmies no stop until they kill all Trolls, which mean you too!" "They no see difference between us," Bido added. "They no care if you no hurt them. The cubs in Troll Village no hurt them, but warmies kill them." Even with so few facial features, Bido could see the point rang true with Igga. The elder Rock Troll let out a sigh, exhaling loose pebbles. "EVUUUUN ... UUUUF .... WE ... STRUUUUNG..." "You are strong," Bido agreed hastily, and he did not lie; the Rock Troll name was not just for show. The boulders that covered their skin were nigh indestructible -- they were practically walking fortresses. "But you not many. You, what ... thirty, forty Troll? Warmies are many. Hundreds, and hundreds! Only if we work together, like one clan, can we beat warmies! Can we save all Trolls!" He finished with a triumphant fist in the air, but he knew nerves permeated through his voice. This really was a desperate plea for one last weapon in their fight against the warmies -- their fight against extinction. Igga didn't answer. Not immediately, anyway. Instead, her broad, uneven fingers plucked a loose rock off the floor, and flicked it into her toothless maw. Her stony jaw closed around it slowly, and crushed the rock instantly. She chewed it for a long moment, her beady eyes fixed on Oxx and Bido, before she finally swallowed with a sound like a pebble dropping into a cavern. "FUUUUUR .... UUUULL ... TRUUUULL?" "For all Troll," Bido repeated. Igga locked eyes with him one last time, and then she nodded.

WHO WANTS TO BE A MINANAIRE? Wheel of Fortune Tired of working the fields? Tired of hoisting a spear? Tired of being POOR? Fear ye not, for Godani himself hears your plights, and he sends you this Haeseni Gameshow Spectacular to earn your fortune. [FRIDAY APRIL 9TH 5:30PM EST/10:30PM GMT] [SIGN UP HERE] How Does it Work? Teams of two or three can sign up to compete in this five-round gameshow, with only one person from each team competing in each round. Each round will be based around certain topics, and each round will have its own unique twist to it, all of which is explained below. The gameshow runs off a point-based system, and the team that finishes with the highest point total wins! What are the Topics? Each of the gameshow's five rounds will have their own topic [the contestant that rolls highest at the start of each round will get to pick the topic]. The possible topics include: Haeseni History World History Karosgrad Trivia International Trivia Haeseni Figures Haeseni Culture International Culture Economics ROUND ONE: Preliminary Questions Round One is a straight and easy preliminary question stage where contestants will be quizzed on the chosen topic with a choice of four possible answers. Each contestant will get asked a handful of questions, and the overall goal of the round is to build yourself a nice point total, because you stand to lose points in the subsequent rounds ... ROUND TWO: Pass the Bomb In this Round, contestants are still given individual questions to answer around the relevant topic with a choice of four possible answers. However, this time, they'll be holding a "Bomb"** while answering their question, which will "explode"** after a fixed amount of time [two minutes] and DEDUCT points from the contestant it explodes on, and you can't pass the Bomb off until you answer a question right! There'll be several "Bombs"** during the round, so contestants have to answer quick to prevent them from losing points. **By participating you waive all rights to litigate against 'Who Wants to be a Minanaire Plc Ltd' for injuries sustained during Pass the Bomb. ROUND THREE: roight, i'll be havin that Round Three is even more cutthroat. Here, contestants are no longer asked individual questions -- instead, one question will be posed to all contestants (again with four possible answers), and contestants have to ring their bell first in order to answer. If a contestant answers correctly, they can STEAL a certain amount of points from another player! ROUND FOUR: Place Your Bets The stakes climb higher in Round Four. Again, contestants will be posed with one question, but this time there's no need to scramble to answer it. Instead, contestants can BET some of their points on what they think the right answer is (out of a choice of four). If they're confident, they can bet high with the chance to win, or lose, big, while if they haven't a clue, they can only bet a small amount. ROUND FIVE: The Finale In the final round, contestants will again be asked individual straight-forward questions. However, this the topic for the first question is random. If the contestant answers correctly, they can pick the topic for the next question, though if incorrect it will remain the same topic for the next question. This will be the home stretch and the last opportunity for teams to rack up points before the finish line. THE PRIZE POOL If you place in the gameshow, YOU have a chance to win... 1st Place: 300 Mina & a Trophy! 2nd Place: 100 Mina & a Trophy! 3rd Place: The feeling of a job well done. [FRIDAY APRIL 9TH 5:30PM EST/10:30PM GMT] [SIGN UP HERE]

shellfish?

"That won't save you," Ser Aleksandr Hieromar whispered coldly to himself as he prepared a bouquet of tulips for his beloved sister, whose execution Heinrik had ordered. "Nothing will save you."

EYES OF THE DEAD Konstantin Wick watching his niece's execution. Music "You know, Maric," Konstantin Wick sighed, exhaling a stream of pipesmoke. "You see things a little differently when you're older." Konstantin stood outside the tavern with his successor - Lord Palatine Maric var Ruthern. The two spoke in hushed voices as they stared out across Karosgrad's square, where the charred pyre from the other day's execution had taken place. Maric, having just confided his own fears in Konstantin, spoke with a troubled frown, while Konstantin only kept his gaze steady and unflinching on the pyre. He could still smell the smoke in the air, and the grim edge to the air was palpable. "Just living, just surviving, isn't quite as important as it once was," he explained coldly as he toked on his pipe. "You become nearly obsessed with what you've done with your life, and what you'll leave behind." There came a heavy thud from the front of the Nikirala Palace, and it was followed a moment later by a short whistle. The cloaked figures inside the throneroom exchanged curt nods -- that was the signal. The Earth Atronach had conjured and placed his boulder to guard the entrance, and now the clock was ticking. Beneath rims of the hoods of their cloaks, the figures exchanged reassuring smiles, and then they set about their work. In unison, they lifted the busts of the Kings of Old down from their pedestals, and began to drag them across the floor to the top of the eerily empty throneroom. Koeng Sigismund II. Koeng Andrik IV. Koeng Petyr I. Their stony faces were placed at the foot of the throne, their dead eyes staring down the hallway towards the blocked door. "For me, Maric ... Well, it was all of this, I suppose," Konstantin said, gesturing broadly to the city around them with his smouldering pipe. "I understand your fears for your own family. I ... I watched my own kin walk out, get exiled, or even killed a long time ago. I stayed because I hoped, because I believed, that I might help in building a world that might actually be fertile soil for justice. It didn't matter who was right or wrong at the time. I ... I just couldn't let go of the belief." He exhaled on his pipe once more as he spoke to the Palatine. "When I retired, I was ... happy with what we had built, me and all the others. It wasn't perfect, mind you - far from it - but it was a starting point. Good foundations for the possibility of a good future. Yes. I was happy. Content. I had done my part. More than anything, I could die and rest easily, known I'd done the duty of any man cursed to be born into this world to do everything in his feeble power to make it a little better." His eyes remained on the pyre. "Then I saw what happened here. I saw the execution of my niece Nataliya." The cloaked figures began to empty out their phials and bottles, pouring oil and alcohol alike across the throneroom. At the foot of the throne, facing the three busts of the Kings, one of the figures pulled out a waterskin filled with blood. They gave it a shake, stirring the congealed blood, before they unscrewed the cap and dipped their gloved fingers inside to bloody them. Then, like warpaint, they drew on the faces of the old Kings. By the time the figure was done, the face's of the Kings had been turned into bloody, demonic faces. Faces of wrath. "I watched my niece die." Konstantin had stopped smoking as he spoke, and, as the wind briefly picked up, the wind robbed motes of burnt tobacco from its burning stem. "I watched some toddler drunk on power waddle up to the square, and declare the life of his own kin be taken without rhyme nor reason." He paused. His eyes left the pyre for the first time in a sidelong glance to the Palatine. "Do you know what was worse, though, Maric? I watched good men and women turn into blubbering fuckin' cowards at his commands. Jovenaar Kortrevich, a woman I appointed myself, took a big ol'e **** on every meaning of the word 'justice' as she participated in that circus. The Knight Orders I raised myself twisted the meaning of 'loyalty' until they justified it as a reason to go merrily along with it, and excuse themselves of every bit of chivalry and responsibility they were meant to uphold. When I stepped up myself to try argue for my niece to be given a trial as the law demands, I was arrested. The former Lord Palatine was held at sword-point by bloodthirsty excuses for soldiers that would have made Erwin Barclay roll in his grave." "When I saw what happened here, Maric, I saw more than my niece burn." "I saw this Kongzem burn." Fingers drenched in blood, the cloaked figure bent down, and began to leave a message in the dais with crimson smears. They stepped back once they had it written, and screwed the cap back onto the empty waterskin as they admired their handiwork. Then, they calmly turned and joined the other cloaked figure in calmly walking out out of the throneroom. Their boots squelched as they walked across the oil-drenched carpet. They joined in the vestibule once more, and looked back down the hall at the bloody faces of the Kings of Yore, the blood painted to give their expressions a fiery rage. They leisurely ascended the stairs onto the gallery above, and they stared down the bannisters at the soaked carpets, the slickened stones, and the message in blood. One cloaked figure took a lantern down from the wall, and passed it to the next. Under their hoods, they locked resolute eyes, and tossed the torch down into the oiled throneroom below. "Ahh. I suppose that's just like kids." Konstantin smiled, then, of all things as he looked back to the pyre. "They pump themselves all full of piss and vinegar, and once you go along with it, they think they can do no wrong. It's one thing when your own tot pisses the bed, but it's quite another with this tot pisses on the entire Kingdom and people start to drown." "Tsch." His hand tightened on his pipe. "I should tell you, then, Maric." "They're watching." "The men and women of Elba and the hosts of King Marius II who gave themselves up in the Great Northern War ..." The cloaked figures lingered only for a moment, watching as the oil caught and spread across the throneroom below. For a moment, one of the figures could only stare in awe at the power of fire, at the pure heat it radiated, and the sheer capabilities of human destruction. ____________ "... The brave soldiers who perished on the ends of Pertinaxi lances as they fought a hopeless war against Renatus. A war they knew was hopeless, but fought nonetheless for their home ..." ____________ The heat singing their backs, the cloaked figures calmly set off into the Palace's twisting labyrinth of corridors, and made their way to their planned escape route. ____________ "... The Haeseni warriors who breathed their last breath, their sacrifice fuelled on the false hope of Rodenburg ..." ____________ As they reached their escape route in the Palace, the cloaked figures heard distant shouts echo from the vestibule. Someone had finally noticed the boulder blocking the door. ____________ "... those who surrendered everything for the survival of this Kingdom against Bralt the Boar and his Scyflings, who gave up their lives without ever knowing if it was for nothing, or for everything..." ____________ "PUUUUUSH!" Under their collective might, the responding soldiers pushed aside the boulder, only to be met by a pillar of smoke that spewed from the now-exposed doorway. ____________ Konstantin narrowed his eyes into a glare. "They're watching, Maric. They're watching each and every one of us right now. They're watching what became of the lives they gave for this Kongzem." ____________ The soldiers filed into the burning Palace, buckets in hand, stark fear painted on their faces, and froze at the vestibule as they stared down the hallway to be met by the faces of the bloodied, fiery Kings and the message painted before them. "Never forget that they're watching," he hissed. "Because I promise you -- they will never forget what became of their sacrifice."

Xarkly The Whisper Knight

MEMOIRS OF A SILENT KNIGHT VOLUME III: FLIGHT OF THE PRINCESS Source These Memoirs are not public knowledge until Aleksandr's death, or shared in roleplay. Volume I: Vow of Silence Volume II: I Did Not Love Her Music Today, I betrayed the Knight's Code of Chivalry. I helped my niece Katerina - King Josef's daughter - flee from Haense. She and the Queen approach me, with Katerina as pale as a ghost, her hands trembling, and, most importantly, her face bruised. Her brother - King Heinrik - had beaten her, it turned out, over some disagreement about marriage, and both Katerina and Queen Mariya asked me to take her somewhere safe from harm, and so I took the frightened girl across the river to stay with a ... friend. I do not know why I did it. If Godan himself asked, I would not be able to answer. I am a Knight - to hold the title of Ser has been my lifelong ambition - and the Ninth Tenet of Chivalry of our Order decrees that I shall be loyal to the King, my own nephew, but surely Heinrik would not have wanted this. No - honour dictates that I should have refused Katerina's request, and reported it straight to the King. A Princess of her station, fleeing Haense like a fugitive ... it would not do, not at all, not for the honour of my King nor my country. So then why? Why did I agree to it without a second thought? By the time I had even stopped to consider it, I had rowed the girl across the river and the sun had risen to make the disturbed water gleam. That question plagued my mind as I walked the girl to the safe hideaway I'd managed to find her, and it haunted me for every footstep as I made the return journey back to Karosgrad that night. Why? At first, I concluded with melancholy that I am a poor Knight. My life's work to become a warrior of irrefutable honour, to become a soldier worthy of my House and my father, only to betray one of the core Tenets of Chivalry - serve the King. It is not only that -- earlier this year, when my squire Marie told me she might very well die on her final trial, I very nearly stopped her. I had no place to do so; my duty is to help train her to succeed at such trials and become a Knight, not to fret over her safety, and earlier this very week when she approached me with concerns that a fellow Knight may be an adulterer, I dissauded her of the notion of doing anything about. Not because I thought she would be wrong to do so, but for the selfish reason that I feared she would be discharged as a squire. Indeed, I thought myself a poor Knight, one who broke the Code of Chivalry and let such fickle emotions rule him. But only at first. By the time I reached Karosgrad's walls, my lungs and muscles aching from travelling all day, I had reached a different conclusion -- a revelation, really. The Ninth Tenet might command loyalty to the King, but had I really done so, had I betrayed the trust of Katerina and Queen Mariya, I would have broken the the Fourth Tenet - to protect the weak and defenseless. For as long as I lived, through all those long years of lonely, vigorous training I subjected myself to all so that I could call myself a Ser, the Knighthood had been a colourful dream in my head. Knights were heroes, men and women who lived purely for the betterment of this world, and I so desperately wanted to be among those heroes. But now that I am here, I can see that there are no heroes. Draped beneath bright heraldry and shining platemail, they are mortal men and women, the same as peasants in the fields, and mortal men and woman are flawed. The Knight's Code of Chivalry reminds me now of my younger self - the younger self that believed Knights really were paragons of virtue. The Code foolishly presumes that all of its Tenets are at all time compatible - it asks Knights to protect the weak from evil, and to serve the King, but what if the King is the evil? What if he becomes a tyrant, harming innocents wilfully? The Code commands to champion the Church and teachings of God, and to help the Kingdom grow strong, but what is a Knight to do when the Kingdom allies with pagans? It was as I stopped at the gates of Karosgrad, the moon dipping towards the horizon and sweat beading on my brow, that the truth struck me. The Code, honour, chivalry ... it does not really mean anything. All these were notions of someone, a long time ago, of how others should live. That is not to say the Code is wrong, that we should not strive to hold ourselves as honourable, but since the blade of Gaius Marius touched my shoulder to dub me the Whisper Knight, I have gradually come to realize the real world is far too complicated for one written Code to cover. It is not the truth I once thought. The real truth, I have come to think, is both much more simple, and at the same time much more complicated. When the weak are threatened by the same people I am sworn to protect, the Code does not work. When I realized that helping Katerina, and that protecting Marie, was a breach of the Code ... I did not regret. Even when I thought it made me a false Knight, in the depths of my soul, I could not bring myself to feel regret. Irrespective of what is written in some book by an old fool centuries ago, I know what I did was right. This morality, this honour, it's not something that can be learned, or taught. It's something someone is born with - it is a part of them, and it is an instinct. A reaction to something without thought, like when I agreed to help Katerina as soon as I was asked. Even though these pages are for my eyes alone, writing that seems arrogant. But even now, I know it to be true. A real Knight - if such a person can ever really exist - will never be forged through some written Code, because a written Code can never really work. After all, if a Knight needs mere words to tell them how to act, then I very much doubt they could ever really be a Knight. All the same, I fear I have landed myself in a mire. Queen Mariya remains in Haense, but she made no secret of her discomfort, and only time will tell what impact Katerina's flight will have. The reaction may be a drizzle, or a rainstorm. Even if it is the latter, though, I know I will not regret my decision then either. For I follow a new Code now.

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE YEAR 1 REPORT The first year of enhanced Rimetrolls Raids in northern Almaris had ended. With their farm and sole food source destroyed by Descendants, starvation has driven the inherently-peaceful Trolls south to the farmlands of Haense and Norland, bringing with them death and ruin through their immense strength, their powerful frost-breath, and other hidden abilities. This report will document the status of the Raids from this first year, and the effect they have wrought on the targetted nations. YEAR ONE RAIDS The Hibernation Raid: After waking from their winter hibernation, a stampede of Rimetrolls flooded through the outskirts of the Haeseni capital - Karosgrad - and reaped their entire harvest. Though many Trolls were slain, they succeeded in retreating with Haeseni food supplies. Two Haeseni Knights were killed in the raid. The Road to Astfield: Non-aggressive Trolls attempted to pass through the north into the Haeseni territory of Asfield with a view to reaping vassal farms. The Haeseni Army met the Trolls on the road, and successfully repelled them. The Elysium Pact: Rimetrolls arrived at the Norlandic breadbasket of Elysium seeking food, and the populace instead struck a deal with the Trolls, even going so far as to draw up a treaty. FAMINE STATUS Haense: After losing the entirety of their capital harvest, Haense teeters on the edge of famine. One more lost raid will begin to trigger famine events. Norland: In their deal with the Trolls, Norland exchanged a sizable harvest of crops with them, drastically cutting their own food supply in the first year, though not enough to yet bring them into famine. TROLL STATUS Population: The Rimetroll population has suffered heavy losses during their incursions in Haense, reducing their population to 90% of what it was pre-raids. Food: Despite the losses, the Rimetrolls have managed to steal or trade enough food from Haense and Norland to sustain their population and keep their strength up. NATION RELATIONS Haense: The vast majority of the Rimetrolls are extremely hostile towards Haense after the numerous violent encounters. The chance of passive dialogue with the Trolls grows thin. Norland: Most Trolls are currently passive towards Norland, primarily due to many Trolls returning from Elysium alive and with food. Some Trolls have even signed an agreement with Norland, but the effect of formal alliances on the entire Troll population is dubious, and may not have a real effect on most Trolls besides those who actually signed it. RESTORATION ATTEMPTS Certain groups have begun making efforts to restore the Rimetroll's farm, thereby giving them back their source of food and ending the war. The Fellowship of Umba: A rag-tag group of Highlanders, Elves, and a Heartlander joined forces after they were brought together in the Rimeveld through unlikely circumstances. Working with the Rimetroll Chief Oxx and the demented elder Troll Umba - who remembers the origins of the Rimetroll farm - the Fellowship has traced the farm's magic to the flooded city of Balian in central Almaris. Contending with a strange figure who seems to have deadly control of the seaweed covering every inch of the city, they are currently making their way into the depths of the ruins in search of answers. SIGNS FROM THE NORTH As the Raids enter their second year, wayward rumours and panicked reports from shepherds and lumberjacks make their way down from the borders of the Rimeveld of what the Trolls seem to be doing next. The Northern Frontier: As Haense puts up resistance against the Rimetroll incursions and bodies begin to mount, a slew of Rimetrolls appear to be preparing to push through the northern frontier on multiple fields to spread the Haeseni defenders thin and break into their mainland. The Elysium Breadbasket: After Trolls carry back word of bountiful food at Elysium, the rest of the ravenous Rimetroll population seems likely to try get some of the food for themselves, and there surely won't be enough for all of them.

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE: GREEN NIGHT Green Night had finally arrived. For as long as the Rimetrolls could remember, they had celebrated Green Night - the night on which the northern lights shone over the Rimeveld for the first time after the summer snows. They shone beautifully tonight, with the pale emerald folds rippling through the star-dappled sky. The weather was clear, and the air blissfully cold - for Trolls, at least - and the massive ice spikes that cloaked the Rimeveld gleamed as they reflected the shine of the northern lights above, bathing much of the Rimeveld's valleys in a teal light. For centuries, the Rimetrolls had gathered in the Rimeveld's central valley, which the ice spikes lit up like beacons, to feast and celebrate. There would be rolling competitions down the slope, Muma would famously play the ice chimes, and all the families would have a snowball tournament. But now as Oxx - Chief of the Rimetrolls - stared across the valley, what he saw curdled his blood. A bare handful of Trolls had crawled out of their caves for the occasion, and whereas before slabs of ice and stone were laden with the finest dishes that the Trollwives could cook up, now they were starkly empty. It had been some time now since the Descendants in the south had destroyed the Rimetroll farm - or, more accurately, destroyed the enchantment allowing food to grow in the Rimeveld's inhospitable cold - and the Rimetrolls had gradually been starving every since. No one had yet died from starvation, but the situation was growing more dire by the day. The only solution was for Trolls to venture south and steal food from the same Descendants who had destroyed the Rimetroll's farm. At first, Oxx adamantly opposed the raids: a very long time ago, before most of today's Rimetrolls were even born, they had committed to living a life of peace after they had been gifted their farm. They had sworn to leave behind their violent past of raiding and killing, and instead lived peacefully in the Rimeveld, forgotten by the greater world, living their days in blissful peace with not a care in the world besides rearing their family. But now that their farm - their sole source of food that had fed them for centuries - Oxx was horrified that they were forced back to the old ways. Once again, the Rimetrolls were forced to take up weapons and venture south. "So close," he grunted sadly to himself as he stared up at the northern lights. "So close." For the longest time, the Rimetrolls had been monsters - they had been beasts, an evil to the Descendants, that were feared for their past raids. But then, once they had been gifted their very own farm as a peace offering, they had left behind their identity as monsters. They had their own families, their own loved ones, and no wish to hurt or kill others. They had been so close to forgetting what war, what violence, even meant. But now it seemed to be their only means of survival. Their farm and its enchantment had been a gift from a civilization of humans long ago as a peace offering to end their raids, and now that civilization was long dead, and the Trolls themselves had no idea how to rebuild it. So the Trolls raided once more; the elder Trolls, the precious few old enough to remember their old way of life, taught the younger generation how to steal from farms, and how to kill Descendants. Even as he lay back on the snowdrift he was sat on, Oxx's belly rumbled violently, but he himself did not care to raid like the others. It might have helped his people survive a little longer, but that was it; a little longer. Without a permanent food source, it was only a matter of time until their people died out, whether through starvation or through war against the Descendants. Already, the Rimetroll population had dangerously dipped from so many falling during the raids." "This is the end," he realized. The Rimetrolls would slowly - but surely - die out, now. There was nothing he could. Sighing, he pushed off the snowdrift and found himself meandering up through the valley, past the ice spikes glowing under the northern lights, and ignoring the desperate gazes of the hungry Trolls he passed. Digging his long arms into the slopes of the mountains, he flung himself up the slopes, ascending to the top of the valley. He paused on the ridge once he reached it, where the Rimeveld's harsh wind swept over it. The wind disturbed the surface snow of the mountain all around him, constantly hazing it like white smoke. From the ridge, he stared out to the south, where he could see a sea of dark pine trees in the distance and, deep in that sea, the faint lights of the Descendant cities. It was there that so many of their number had died trying to feed themselves, and it was those Descendants that had destroyed the Rimetroll farm and started this war. With a start, Oxx realized that he was not alone on the Ridge, and turned his head to find a rotund Troll cub - barely five or six years old, by the looks of his size - curled up in the snow, staring out towards the Red City. "Runk," Oxx muttered in greeting as he recognized the Troll cub. "Wot you doin' out here?" The cub didn't take his beady eyes off the distant skyline. "Waitin'. Pappy back soon." Oxx's heart sank in his chest as he turned back towards the city. Runk's father had gone out in one of the raiding parties to the Red City, but that had been weeks ago. He had not returned, and Oxx very much doubted he was going to. He could have offered the child some reassurance, some false hope that his father might yet return, or instil him with some sentiment of revenge. Instead, though, Oxx just sat down on the ground next to him. He knew there was nothing he could say to make anything better. There was nothing he could do to save Runk's father, or any of the other Trolls. Slowly, he narrowed his eyes into a glare at the human cities in the distance. The only thing he could do, he decided in that moment, was to make them pay.

"Lucky there's such marvelous roads for this circuit," Konstantin mused as he eyed the newly-paved roads longingly from his balcony. He was not being dramatic when he concluded that the new Haense roads were quite literally the best thing that had ever happened to the Kongzem.