Rolaan's Note

This message, when brought to you, is the last you shall see of mine in some time. There are several things I have discovered. There will come a time and place where we will meet again. You, taking the short road, and me the long. Nonetheless, I remain, and will always remain, the same Rolaan you know.

In my search for truth, I found some startling facts. The first is this: When the time comes to face the last of the four nightmares, I will rejoin you. Before that, however, I fear I may not be prepared. I would try not to taunt you with riddles, but mystery is what we have sewn, and it's fruit weighs me heavily.

On the second, the message. The message of Arathtesia. You have it by now, no doubt. With it, this has sealed my fate. I am taking it with me - it is the only way to ensure the safety of your mission: The Eye of the Storm.

As for the fall of Arathatesia, know this: She fell at the hands of the Eighth Fleet, and it comes for the rest of Barsaive. It should serve as an excellent test of the Eye of the Storm, if anything - remember.  Concentrate and remember this: The stones of the Eighth fleet will try to contain the storm.

Even if you don't recall why, you will be doing the fallen a great justice.

"That built in the storm is the only thing that can bear it." they say. At least, I say it. They might start saying it soon.

I leave my dearest Ardrealla in your keeping - not a given one of you, but in the hands of all of you.

Urupa - The Summer of Dark Clouds, 1508

The Arrival:
The dockmasters are perturbed and try to push you to leave - but don't go so far as mobilizing the cities' Drakkars. Instead, their reluctance is overridden by a note delivered via message stone, and they allow the ship to dock.
They do note that in these trying times they will not be able to protect your ship - the crew would have to do that.

Overview:

• Just two weeks ago, the notable troubadour & mayor of the city of Urupa, Fellindra Jer, disappeared. 
• The Elder High Elect appears to have gone into hiding - and rumors abound
• The visitors have abandoned the city seeking refuge from a "Threat from the East"
• The acting Mayor, Thras Machus, has deployed the military forces to keep peace (police state)
• It's rumored that the Therans have put forward exclusive trade agreements that are "Too good to be ignored"
• The city was recently rocked by a large Earthquake and ensuing aftershocks - powerful enough to cause a massive cave-in to the East
• The looting of the Iron Tower has flooded the town in mysterious bits and pieces that come from the visitors

Fellindra Jer, Mayor of Urupa:
Fellindra's disappearance coincides within a few weeks of the Visitor's abandoning the great Iron Tower - so called for it's windowless exterior, the tower is the dominant feature of the "Visitor's quarter." Her vanishing has caused quite an upheaval, as her position as the Mayor of Urupa (not to be confused with the Elder High Elect, Erreg Cranstooth, the mage who rules the Urupan State) was a position she had held with fervor and zeal for the last 11 years. It was Fellindra herself who, with tremendous burden in her voice, bore the news of the Visitor's intent to withdraw. When she called a meeting with the businessmen of Urupa, her usual statesmanship was set aside, and while accounts vary, she barely was able to whisper the news, though all in the crowd heard the words.

Erreg Cranstooth, The Elder High Elect:
Since her disappearance, Erreg Cranstooth, Wizard / Nethermancer and Elder High Elect has not made any public appearances, but has instead communicated through his trusted spirit, Fadeshaw. Fadeshaw sits in his seat, and he communicates his wishes. Rumors abound, though the most pervasive claims that the Jester of Urupa is returning to reclaim his throne.

Urupan Trade:
With the departure of the Visitors when the departure of a major portion of Urupa's wealth. Investors fled the city within weeks, and even the Throalic Royal Bank brought in an Airship to cover the removal of an unknown (but obviously massive) withdrawal of Gold back to Throal. (At least, that is what people say was going on - the Throalic Bank will neither confirm nor deny it).

The Foreigners:
The state of Urupa now is one of turmoil. With the Visitors packed up and gone, a number of new traders have come forward, some from as far away as Cathay - these traders have established a very nuanced trade route that follows a number of villages along the coastline of the North edge of the Aras sea. These new foreigners have held back their trade until now - they formerly traded exclusively with the Visitors, but as the Visitors have fled, these merchants are looking to make a quick gold before the Threat from the East materializes.

The Therans:
The Therans have taken advantage of the situation, bringing several additional ships within spitting distance of the city, and making some very pronounced offers for trade contracts within Urupa. As the acting mayor, Thras Machus, notes "You can fault the Therans on many things, but not their word - or their Gold. Their pockets are deep and their word is absolute." It is likely that a large trade contract with Triumph will form - though the language will avoid the name. T'skrangs need not fear - the trade will occur mostly by air.

The Earthquakes:
Just days before the last of the visitor's ships sailing, an earthquake struck the city. Several buildings were crushed by debris falling from the massive cliffs. The dead Kaer, Sarmalta's Pocket, collapsed entirely within it’s mountainous enclosure, triggering an enormous cave-in/landslide, that sent a sizable chunk of the Eastern Thunder mountains rolling on into the Aras Sea. The ensuing wave sank several ships, and demolished the docks on the Eastern side of the port.

The Fall of the Iron Tower:
The tall, imposing, windowless tower that dominates the Visitor's quarter is known as the Iron Tower. Only a few respected outsiders were ever allowed within. After the Visitor's abandoned the place, they left the doors open that those left behind could repurpose the place. There were guardsmen there at first, but the overwhelming curiosity drove adventurers and brigands into the quarter to overturn every last stone, bit by bit. The ensuing chaos has only just begun to diminish. Almost every strange poisoning, spell or curse is being attributed to the Remnants of the Iron Tower and the bizarre effects that it's purloined contents must have had on those who are in possession of them.

The Overland Trading Company:
The overland trading company has pulled up roots from Urupa, leaving it's future unknown.
A large note was scribed and placed outside every door of every single one of the Overland Trade Company warehouses throughout Urupa. It read: 
"To all petitioners, borrowers, and tradesmen: The Overland Trading Company has closed it's doors. Consider all your debts in Urupa to be paid - consider it a parting gift from the company. Without the steady trade from the Visitors, the company has lost one of it's most reliable sources of income. With them goes the spirit of the Overland Company, and with that, I fear the very will to remain in Urupa. Wish us luck as we prepare for important business to the North, as we return to our Throalic roots.

---James Garlthik (no relation, obviously)"

The Order of Heavenherds

Late in the evening, a lone T'skrang stood before a massive statue, the pale blue flickering light illuminating him against the warm evening breeze. The low din of activity echoed from the city streets beyond. No one came to the gardens in the night, save for one type.

An elven figure approached shrouded in heavy brown and red embroidered robes. While they might not have appeared as much to the casual observer, the blue light revealed the telltale scintillation of orichalcum bound amidst the fibers.

The elf glanced around briefly, glowing eyes beneath the a dark hood darting about, and then fading. The figure strode up to the T'skrang swiftly, and pulled back it's hood, revealing a stark featured female face. It had a beauty that was not beauty, a calm that seemed as though frozen in the moment before an explosion of rage. The T'skrang opened his mouth to speak, but found himself unable. He gazed into her eyes for a moment, but could not maintain contact for too long… they were like an abyss.

The elf began speaking after a moment of silence.

"Eryss'kus, you summoned me here, speak."

The Tskrang bowed deeply,
"My apologies, First Speaker, I did not expect you to come personally - I carry a message for the order, and expected only Terilius, or Marvincus."

The lady replied instantly.
"Do not treat me like your overgovernor. Speak, or do yourself and your master an injustice."

Eryss'kus gathered himself quickly. His demeanor took a stern and formal tone - despite the legendary power of the elf he spoke with.
"My lady, the overgovernor has given me several messages for the order. The first is to commend your order for it's work in the Scarlet Sea. Without the aid of the Heavenherds, the eradication of Great Dragon Aban would have been considerably more costly."

The elf bowed slightly.
"It is our duty and purpose, my lord." she replied, as though speaking with the overgovernor himself.

"When do you intend to make known to the Overgovernor the cause and effects of the ritual performed?"

The elf's stoicism betrayed her, and her eye twitched slightly.
"There will be no special report. The ritual was designed solely with the intent to eliminate Aban, and succeeded."

The Tskrang seemed to reply with the same impatience and irritation that his master is known for.
"Why, then, did my guard describe Aban's power flowing into the ritual? Why then, did the highest chosen of the order kill three shipmen? Why did he require restraint magically, and more interestingly, physically, in order to be withheld? What of the dome shrouded in mists?"

"In time we shall have a full report for his lordship. That is all I will say of the matter at this time. Our finest are researching the dome at this time. Ancient power from deep within the ruins. Most likely compelled into form by Aban in her final moments before death."

The T'skrang nodded.
"My apologies, First Speaker. You surely understand the concern of his lordship. The houses have placed great investment in the new routes."

The First Speaker opened her mouth to reply, but seemed to stop short.
"What are you implying?" she asked after a moment of thought.

Eryss'kus smiled.
"The overgovernor has implied nothing. He has overtly requested you bring him evidence of the totality of Aban's destruction."

The elf stood aback for a moment, to the T'skrang, she seemed to grow in size.
"You call me… a liar?" her voice seemed even more calm than before. Frighteningly calm.

Eryss'kus stood before her, generations of messenger rising up to meet her inimitable threat."The overgovernor has made the request. He is deeply concerned about what lay in Yrns Morgath. He feels that there is great interest to Thera there. That is all."

The first speaker clenched her fist.
"Very well then, tell him he shall have the proof in a short time, and as for what lay in within the city, well, I will bring it to him personally. Let us just say, that this trophy will exceed all others."

The T'skrang bowed deeply.
"I shall carry your words to him, my master."

The elf, impatient, tapped her foot.
"What was the other message?"

Eryss'kus stood once again, and adjusted his elaborate garb slightly, and looked calmly into her infinite eyes.
"The second matter pertains to Triumph and Lake Ban. The overgovernor has expressed the deepest interest in this matter."

. . .

The First Speaker returned to her chambers. Her attendant slaves leapt up at her appearance, and prepared her dinner. She ate quickly and dismissed them, following a long hall down to a large office.

Tables covered in writings, priceless and ancient artifacts, and thousands of pages of books made the large room appear small. The ceiling of the office was covered in elemental air, and looked out into an infinite starry night.

She approached a cloth-covered bronze mirror and pulled off the fabric. The reflection was of no place. A swirling black abyss. She waved her hand over it and the mist seemed to blow away, revealing an ancient face, shrouded, walking through the jungle.

The namegiver within the mirror made some words and motions, and waited a moment, before looking over towards the Speaker and bowing.

"First Speaker." he said calmly, his gravelly voice rang through the office.

The First speaker nodded a brief but formal nod.
"Grim Rock, forgive my disturbance. I perform the duties called upon me by the Overgovernor. What progress have you made?"

The Obsidiman on the other side of the glass seemed to smile.
"Apology accepted. Our progress goes well. We may just catch more than a fly with this trap."

The elf had talked with enough obsidiman to know when to be direct. Her cocked head did nothing to invite an explanation.
"Can you please explain the use of metaphor, Grim Rock."

Grim Rock's smile faded.
"That The Great Beast is dying is certain, but there have been several that have passed through the area, and potentially into the dome itself."

The First Speaker stamped her foot.
"Several? As I have said, entry into the dome is impossible while she yet lives - what thinking has led you to believe that 'several' others have gotten inside? Why not follow them?"

The Obsidiman shrugged.
"The plan laid out as such is without flaw, aside from maddening Ghestalt. I have total confidence that he as well as she is vulnerable to it's power, however."

The elf sighed.
"Then…" she looked shocked "Then you mean to say one of them was Ghestalt?"

The Obsidiman nodded calmly.
"It is the only logical conclusion. He has broken through the ritual shackles, and slaughtered his way towards the dome. We are lucky he didn't damage the ritual. He must have been able to get within, or our scouts would have found him - or not returned."

"Lucky indeed. Ensure no news of this makes its way to the overgovernors ears. I have had enough of his 'well-wishing' on this expedition."

Grim Rock cocked his head to one side, and waited.

"Is something wrong, Grim Rock?" the first speaker asked.

He straightened his neck.
"Can you explain this, 'well-wishing' - it has been my understanding that he has been keeping an all-too-watchful eye on the proceedings. I thought this implied his distrust or concern for the established path. Am I incorrect to have assumed such?"

The first speaker had been nodding and waiting to speak since the first word from his mouth.
"It is sarcasm, Grim Rock. I have drawn emphasis to the fact that he is not simply 'well-wishing' by stating it thusly."

Grim Rock looked annoyed. "I understand sarcasm perfectly, my lady."

The First Speaker stared at the glass for a moment, vexed. She shrugged.
"Well, hurry up with it then. We will need to be more cautious with the ritual than before."

Grim Rock nodded.
"I had so wished to study Ghestalt more. He had begun to sprout the most unusual growths along his underbelly... but, alas, the spell leaves me little time for such trivialities."

The First Speaker shuddered."Indeed. I bid you to your work, then. By the glory of Thera." She said, bowing again before the image.

"By the duties of her chosen, my Speaker." Grim Rock said, his image fading into swirling blackness.

The first speaker lifted the curtain over the mirror, and slumped into her chair.

She picked up the grimoire that they now called "The Book of Ascension," thumbing through its pages as though it were common pulp. She set it down upon the first page of the Aura Eye. The runes and magic were dense and complicated. Perhaps too complicated for this late hour. She leaned back in her chair, balancing it on two legs.
"Hefera, in death, what troubles you have wrought my old friend?" she asked, staring upwards into space.

The book slammed shut with a loud clap.

She snapped upright, staring at it intently.

It was definitely too complicated for this late hour.

Unsurprising revelations

The dark caverns spun before Tesarrius as he rode the warm air down into the reaches of the mountain. With a practiced grace he spun to avoid stalactites and sudden narrowings of the cavern while clutching a small satchel in his claws below. He flung himself through the twising maze of blind corners and sudden drops until he reached a massive rift within the mountain. Below him was the blood of the earth, pulsing in a great river. He rode the heat upwards, pounding his wings as he rose almost straight up to land silently on a wide ledge perched on the far side of the rift. A massive opening in the mountain yawned before him, and he strode into the darkness without concern. The darkness overtook all other light before suddenly being washed away. Before him lay a broken palace, seemingly endless heaps of gold, gems and art, meticulously crafted and cared for, and in the midst of it, a Great Dragon, his blue scales fluorescing in the light.

As he stepped out, he bowed his head before his master in reverence.
"My lord." He said.

The great dragon was appropriately called thus - he would easily be 60 yards long from tooth to tail, and almost as wide were his wings spread out. He was adorned all over with gems and jewelry, medallions and charms hung from his great horns and frills at such a scale as they would crush a normal man were they to fall upon him. Over his snout perched a miniscule pair of spectacles - too large for even a troll, but small upon the face of such a mighty creature. He was curled in a common resting position for a dragon, his paws raised as a namegiver might have them if resting on his elbows. In one paw he held aloft a dusty tome, sized to a common namegiver, and with his other paw he delicately turned the tiny, fragile pages with unimaginable precision.

He finished what he was reading, and with precise movement, placed the book onto a small table near the edge of a broken wall, careful to save his place. Removing the spectacles, he turned to the Tesarrius .

"Tesarrius, welcome home. Your journeys see you no worse for the wear. What have you come bearing?"

Tesarrius opened the satchel, and produced a ledger, bringing it forward and handing it towards the mighty creature. He was like the Great Dragon in almost every proportion, but minute by comparison - barely 7 yards from head to the end of his tail.

The mighty paw snatched up the small book, and flipped the pages.

After a few moments there was a snort.

"Several names of interest… study them in detail. Find out their connections, and who they serve." the great beast said.

Tesarrius whipped his tail. "Yes, my master - much of this has been done - most were independent collectors with private interest, one clearly had ties to Iopos, but was a lackey operating independently, and not part of the corrupted brood."

The great dragon brandished his teeth in a smile.
"Good, good. Still, not enough, however." he said calmly, "Move the operation to Urupa - I want the Theran connections. Presumably the Dwarven kingdom is in too much turmoil for the message to be clearly heard."

The great dragon handed the ledger back to Tesarrius, who replaced it into the pack.

Tesarrius bowed deeply, his long neck wrapping backwards.

"Then, oh great and mighty Far-"

The great dragon cut him off.
"You would leave without finishing your explanation?" he asked, his words terse.

Tesarrius appeared startled, his tail nervously twitching.
"No, my master, I - "

He was cut off again by the mighty beast. "If no is your answer, then enlighten me on your workings with Seven. Somehow this group earned barely a mention in your notes."

Tesarrius bowed again, speaking carefully.
"They came with little intent to purchase, and very little backing. They were interested, though I doubt they served the Theran order."

The Great Dragon looked down towards Tesarrius, his eyes narrowing.

"What gave you this impression?"

Tesarrius shifted nervously. "To be honest, master, they seemed to be aware of the ploy - though I was not discovered overtly, they asked a great many questions, taking little interest in me - thought I have heard of their encounters in Iopos, and know they fear no Drake."

The great dragon snorted. "You are no mere shambling Iopian rat. Do not compare my work to that. You say they asked many questions - then what were your answers?"

"I first told them of the named prices in silver - lacking the ability to pay, I offered them information on how to reach Yrns Morgath - which they hungrily took to."

The mighty dragon snorted loudly.
"So you suspect they would have been less interested were they already in possession of such knowledge?" he asked.

Tesarrius whipped his tail again. "Yes, master - this was the first time this information reached their ears - I am sure of it."

The Great Dragon looked curious, and fell silent. After a moment he spoke.
"Nothing else remains of that circumstance, then? They simply left with knowledge and what - did they toss you a coin for your trouble?"

"Indeed they did, eight silver, to be precise." Tesarrius whipped his tail around nervously.

Tesarrius could feel his mind being observed like a book. The Great Dragon's wings ruffled angrily, flaring out and creating enough wind that Tesarrius dug his claws into the ground to stay put.

"You conceal knowledge from me yet, fool! SPEAK!" The voice was so thunderous that loose rocks tumbled from the walls. A painted clay vase from the second age shattered in place atop a shelf.

"I may have suggested they enter Yrns Morgath and return with whatever they could spare from the ancient libraries. I gifted them six of the Keys of the Council, should they manage to reach the library."

"YOU MAY HAVE?" The great dragon roared, "AND FOR WHAT REASON?"

Tesarrius, his head bowed so low his chin touched the rocky ground, barely answered. To hear a draconic voice crack with fear is a delight available only to those that created them.

"As a gift, for you, my master - the knowledge they return with was to be surprise."

The great dragon stared silently at the tiny, cowering drake for several seconds, before bellowing in a mighty series of undulating growls.

Tesarrius looked up for a moment.
"Your servant, Tesarrius, humbly apologizes for his foolishness, mighty Far Scholar."

The great blue dragon looked down upon him.
"Oh, Tesarrius, the last drake to make me laugh so was destroyed before I discovered his folly - count yourself among the lucky."

"I do, my master, I do."

"Stand to your height, my creation." the Great Dragon's voice was filled power.

Tesarrius rose to his height, and spread his wings. The mighty dragon observed him closely.

"You have become, perhaps, my finest work. Had I brood, I might confuse you amongst them, if only momentarily."

Tesarrius seemed shocked. The "Far Scholar" reached out to him, and scooped him up into one of his massive paws.

"You have done well, Tesarrius, but I fear they will be too late to escape the city of their own power. You were wise to share the amulets with them. Lock the remainder away, and let no other touch them. Those trinkets are all that will keep those heroes in our world."

"Yes, master, I will not make such a mistake again."

"The mistake was not in what you set them out to do." The great dragon spoke in a calm, rumbling voice, "Aban's secrets are of great interest to me, and this was an opportunity of fortuitous coincidence with the return of Seven. You chose well for the task. I know well of their heroism, both in Barsaive and beyond - every fruit of Great Thera they touch withers, many times the vine with it."
The mighty dragon patted Tesarrius on the head like a namegiver might stroke a kitten.
"Your mistake was only in not speaking the truth - you must learn to better conceal your thoughts so your lies are not so easily betrayed… It would have been a pleasant surprise."

"With your guidance, my master." Tesarrius whispered.

The Far Scholar nodded, petting Tesarrius gently. The room grew mostly silent; the only audible sound was a warm purring, exactly like that of a kitten.

Longing for emptiness

2 Years ago, in the majestic halls of Sytris...

The grand halls of Sytris stretched out for a hundred yards in every direction. Workers quietly scampered across the ceiling, around the marble pillars of the seers hall, faced with the continuous task of repainting the sprawling frescos that adorned every inch of the massive cavern.

The female servants of the Shivilahala greeted the tall blood-elf guest with the same respect and authority that they greet all guests with, ushering him to the preparation area, and taking his travelling equipment and weapons from him. He looked at them with some curiosity as they moved swiftly and gracefully. One of the two pricked her finger while washing his feet, immediately placing it behind her back, and using only her uninjured hand for the rest of the preparation.

"My being a blood elf… it doesn't put you at unease?" he asked.

"Our Shivilahala, the blessed one, looks upon all with equality - you are as welcome here as any." Replied the two priestesses, simultaneously.

The blood elf chuckled. "Surely she doesn't believe that - treating namegivers equally is one thing, but there are many kinds, and they are far from equal."

The priestesses did not respond, instead handing him a simple black robe, which he placed over the multitudes of thorns protruding from his body with a practiced ease. They gathered up his things and cleaned the area around him carefully. He watched with interest.

After a moment, a voice, young and melodic, spoke up from within the halls.

"Eiriendal of the Queen's House, if all namegivers were not equal, then who would judge which was the best?"

Eiriendal bowed deeply, and the two priestesses faded back into the recesses of the hall, their faces towards the ground.

"Shivilahala," he said, proudly, " I thank you for your respects. You know my name, and my purpose, therefore, as you are a great seer of fate, I assume that you know what I am here to ask?"

As though concealing smoke was being blown away, the Shivilahala Sytris drifted into vision. She wore a simple piece of golden cloth draped from shoulder to tail, and was adorned with inscriptions in various colors of inks all over her small body. She walked towards the elf, but did not look him in the eye.

"Why lift a seed in the air, when time will do it for you?" she said, a strange, forgotten T'skrang melody in her words.

Eiriendal looked uncomfortable for a brief moment.

"I see." he said, clearing his throat in preparation, "I have come with a question burning in the hearts of many of the great wood. Will you hear it?"

The Shivilahla wandered away, coyly reaching out to a pillar, and running her hand around it's adornments as she went. As she re-emerged from the other side, moving like a cat. She scrambled up the edge of the pillar, as far as a young girl might, perching several feet from the ground.

"Hearts of the wood? This should be good. Ask." she said playfully.

Eiriendal took an uncomfortable look around, but no one was near.

"The Therans come soon," he said, his voice filled with gravity, "this I know from my own sources. What will the great slayers of dragons and dethroners of kings do to my people when they arrive?"

The Shivilahala leapt from her perch, her countenance changing. Filling her short height to it's fullest with grandeur and ladyhood, she strode upon him angrily, her beak just a hair's breadth from his nose.

"You know surely what lays in store. The great queen will never be dethroned, she who has so many favors owed, and calls so many at her fingers. You will all die - or be enslaved, I suppose, before she sees her throne emptied at the hands of the any outside her will. This much is so obvious that I assume you will rephrase your inquiry."

The elf seemed shocked, and slowly parsed her terse response. Meanwhile, the Shivilahala seemed to revert to her catlike playing, and skirted around the column again.

Though she wasn't visible, he spoke again.

"What must I do to ensure what is best for my people?"
The quiet words echoed through the halls, repeating the question time and time again.

The Shivilahala's voice seemed to float into the room.

"I see… counsel sought will always be repaid for those who walk the path." the words were almost sung.

From around each of the pillars an image of the Shivilahala appeared, each various in some way. They chanted in unison, some voices coursing in pain and agony, some seemingly in pleasure.

"You chose to burn the heart of the wood down so that no evil would nest in it's bough, or take shade beneath it's leaves - in so doing, the heat of the fire burned from you what happiness and joy there was to be found in living."

The images of the Shivilahala lunged at the elf, who froze in a panicked fear. They grasped at his clothes and hair from all directions, almost climbing onto him as they each continued.

"To travel without a guide is folly, and for my heart is without a path, what hope is there for my soul?" she said in perfectly pronounced elven.

Eiriendal's eyes went wide.

"These were your words, weren't they. Yes… as a young man your heart was still new, and the pain so great. You sought release through words, the words you destroyed in a dwindling campfire before anyone might read them, and have you cast out alone. Perhaps this should have been your question, not some feigned and fading altruism for the Mighty Bloodwood."

Around Eiriendal the images vanished, and he fell to the floor, his face contorted in pain. Years of hiding his suffering from the Ritual of Thorns seemed to be undone with just a simple verse, long forgotten. The voice of the young T'skrang was heard again, seemingly echoing from afar.

"Despair? Now? Despair is meaningless while there is hope. And hope yet lives. A new wood is born, from the ashes of the great tree of life. You will usher it and welcome it, for it will be the undoing of all the wrongs you have dealt. You will see the fruits of the elven nation, but touch them not - for your thorns and your blood will taint them. You will see the joy, peace, and strength in the hearts of those who taste them, but you cannot share it - for you have nothing to compare them to."

Eiriendal desperately drew breath.
"How?" was all he could get out, his voice cracking.

The shivilahala's response was so faint as to almost be unheard, but the words found Eiriendal's ears above his sobbing breaths.

"Ply the land until you find a place as empty as your heart. From the ashes a new wood will rise to destroy the old. There and then the only hope will be in your hands." the words were infitely close to silence, but for Eirendal, as loud as thunder.



Moments later the only sound audible in the mighty chamber was that of tears striking the marble floor.

Sacrifice: Travar-style

In a darkened alleyway buried within Travar…

Two T'skrang stand over seven bodies scattered around a bloody ritual circle, poking and prodding the remains with short sticks. Several of the bodies were stacked one atop the other, blood pooling and running down the alley to the street. A pile of bloody, discarded robes and other clothing protruded halfway out of a tipped-over barrel in the rat-filled alleyway.

"They must have been adepts from around here." Said the taller of the two T'skrang.

The other just nodded, taking a loud sip from his squidichino.

A squat, Dwarven figure walked into the light at the end of the alleyway, and began to approach the scene.

"Hassala - we have company." said the tall T'skrang, motioning towards the figure.

"Hey," shouted Hassala, "this is business for the guard - make your way out, now." he motioned away with his free hand.

The squat figure stopped for a moment, peering into the darkness, before continuing his leisurely stroll towards them.

"I said -" Hassala started again, but was interrupted by the voice of yet another T'skrang.

"What you said was 'I am honored' to our guest, Hassala, and you too, Mak'kara." the decorated captain of the guard, Viras, stepped out from around the corner behind the Dwarven figure.

"Captain Viras, sir!" both the T'skrang saluted.

The Dwarf removed his glasses, folding them neatly, and tucking them into a pocket on his coat. He stepped forward over the bodies, right into the bloody runic circle. He reached down and picked up a small blade with a simple wooden hilt.

"Hey! Be careful not to disturb the evidence!" Shouted Mak'kara

"I could not do more damage than has already been done were I to be leading cattle through here. I suppose I have you to thank for that?"

The T'skrang hissed in response, retreating to near the captain.

"Captain Viras, I apologize, but who is this?"

"A specialist, and he is leading this investigation."

Before the two T'skrang could even fully become outraged, the captain put a finger to his beak.

"He is a representative of Mynbruje - and out honored guest. He specializes in matters revolving around cults and cultists - Help him where you can."

The two were literally crestfallen, and made their way back to the edge of the circle.

The Dwarf shoved a Trollic body off of the stack. It landed with a wet thud. "Help me with this, hold up his arm."

Hassala and Mak'kara did a quick rock, paper and scissors. Mak'kara lost.

He approached the Dwarf. "You want me to do what?"

"Hold this." said the Dwarf, shoving the arm of the bloodied troll into his hands. It was cold and somewhat stiff. Mak'kara gagged.

"And...Lift." said the Dwarf, rolling back his sleeve.

Without warning, he plunged his arm into the large gash-wound in the Troll's underarm. The squelching sounds were loud and disgusting.

Mak'kara looked on in abject horror.

"Lungs...intact… heart…" the Dwarf grunted, reaching shoulder-deep into the troll's upper torso. "intact."

He pulled his arm from the cavity and gave it a whip, sending blood all over.
"You can drop it - fetch the a towel from my bag."

Mak'kara stumbled away from the troll, and over to the Dwarf's bag, opening it to reveal dozens of serrated saws, measuring instruments, and a small cloth. He grabbed it and handed it to the Dwarf.

The Dwarf, looking the other way, absent-mindedly fumbled his blood-soaked hand all over Mak'kara before finding the towel and whipping it up. He brushed his arm off with it, squeezed it out, and tucked it into his pocket.

"So, this was a sacrifice?" asked the Dwarf casually.

Mak'kara, too busy losing a 3 silver breakfast, couldn't respond. Hassala stepped forward.

"Yes, obvious, you can see all the runes." he said, gesturing all around them at the various and sundry runes all over the walls and floor of the alley.

The Dwarf looked around at them.

"You don't say. What else leads you to believe this?"

Hassala looked confused for a moment. "Well, that is really all it takes, isn't it?"

The Dwarf smiled slowly, and then proceeded poking through the bodies.

"Tell you what," said the Dwarf, "make yourself useful and get me a glass of cold water with lemon."

Hassala looked as though he was about to explode in his skin. Captain Viras stepped up behind him, her voice calm, but clearly entertained.
"He made a request, Hassala - do it."

Moments later Hassala returned, glass in hand, and moneypouch lighter.

"Enjoy." he said angrily, shoving the drink towards the Dwarf.

"I doubt that very much." said the Dwarf as he pulled the lemon from the water, and squeezed it over the center of the runes. The runes turned from red to dark green, and then started washing away.

Hassala looked on in confusion as Mak'kara returned, still breathing heavily.

"What does that mean?" Hassala asked.

The Dwarf turned around glancing at them briefly.
"It means… that this runic circle was painted with dead blood. This and the lack of significance of the runes means this was no sacrifice at all, but just made to look like one."

"No significance? It classic example of a death cult ritual!" said Mak'kara

"Indeed it is. Too classic - this is the same ritual circle that was described in the Throalic Library and posted publicly after the Death Rebellion."

Mak'kara gestured a T'skrang-specific gesture of complete exasperation. It looked like he had tied his fingers in knots.

"Exactly!" Hassala said.

"Exactly indeed," the Dwarf continued, "What fools would Throal be to reprint and display the exact ritual circles used by the Death Cultists, and potentially risk spreading hundreds of their runic circles around? This is an exact copy of the fake runic circle presented by Throal as an example of what to look out for."

Both Hassala and Mak'kara looked awed. "So someone murders seven adepts and leaves em lying around to make it look like a cult - but who would have the numbers to kill seven at once in the same place at the same time?" Mak'kara pondered aloud.

"Brimstone Gang, Taylor's Chosen, maybe that Nix Cult we heard about - they all have enemies."

"Wrong. This wasn't done by locals. This is the work of out-of-towners." the Dwarf said promptly.

"Explain that one, then." demanded Mak'kara.

"Simple. These bloody robes and shoes in the corner, they are new, and barely used for the amount of time it would take to do the crime."

"So?"

"So, this means that they were recently purchased, from a source probably nearby. The shoes have the distinct soles of Serevos wood, meaning they were made locally, and the robes are dyed with Fire-pitch coal, meaning they are local as well. What local would buy new clothes just before a murder and leave them at the scene? We could just ask the nearby shopkeepers their identities and be done with it, couldn't we?"

"Ha! You really are something, Dwarf! Let's get on it, Hassala!" Mak'kara said, turning to go.

The Dwarf held his hand to his face. "No, it is no use, as I said."

The T'skrang stopped in their tracks, turning slowly. Commander Viras watched with interest, seemingly ignoring them.

"No local smart enough to reproduce the runes in such a fashion would have done so. Not to mention, there are 4 robes here, all new, and 8 shoes. No 4 people together, who were experienced Nethermancers or gifted cultists would have made such a childish mistake."

Hassala and Mak'kara both shrugged. "What now, then?"

"Now." Said the Dwarf, "we identify the bodies."

Mak'kara practically jumped "Already done!" he said, whipping out a small parchment.

"The troll is Gurntok, local smith's assistant, ex-convict, wanted for… arson. The T'skrang was a swordmaster drunkard who went by Fishtail, the human there was a ex-tavernkeeper named Gerard, and that human there was an apothecary by the name of Dravis, the other 2 humans and Dwarf are unknown."

The Dwarf frowned. "I would hardly call that done, but at least you were more than halfway there. Now, how are they linked?"

Mak'kara started to open his beak, but Hassala started saying something. They looked at each other for a while, "Maybe they were all unlucky?"

The Dwarf nodded, seemingly pondering this for a while.

"Yes, they were weren't they? An ex-con who scrapes by on low wages, a drunk ne'er-do-well, and a tavern-keeper who could barely afford the clothes on his back. Unlucky, and most likely, unmissed. These other four, however, were well-to-do. Let's have a look…"

The Dwarf pushed one of the bodies off the pile, and a small shiny object rolled away from it.

Hassala flicked it into the air with his tail and caught it, handing it to the Dwarf.

It was a small charm made of glass. Suspended in the center of it was a single, living drop of blood. It had nethermantic runes carved around it, and the image of a chalice on one side.

"Knights of Nix, I should have known. These three, they were unlucky - these four here, these were the targets." said the Dwarf, gesturing to the unidentified bodies, and that of the apothecary.

The Dwarf suddenly stopped, reaching into his pocket and pulling out several items, as well as a pipe. He filled it and lit it carefully, puffing several times to get the tobacco to burn steady.

"Say…" said the Dwarf "do any of you have any blood charms?"

Both the T'skrang's shook their heads, and the captain as well.

The Dwarf looked them in the eye, and then wandered to the other side of the crime scene.

"Each one of these four was killed sooner, and more slowly than the others. They were being questioned - questioned, no doubt, about the Knights of Nix. If this was not a questioning based on a crime, then it was surely related to the cult. All four were gathered here in their everyday garb - they were not here for a ritual. The questioner obviously didn't provide the answers being sought - as they each died slowly and painfully. Had he gotten his answers, the remaining ones would have been given swift deaths."

The T'skrangs feverishly scribbled notes.

After a few puffs from his pipe, the dwarf continued.

"They were being questioned about the cult, in some regard that they could not speak of - but what about the cult would they want to hide this much? Any follower of Death would be happy to share everything he knew about Death, even if being forced… but there is something else here. The force behind the cult - the magic behind the cult. I know something about these so-called "knights" - I have met the man who founded the order. He was a powerful, intimidating and vindictive figure in his infancy, and grew more so with age and power. If knowledge of him was at the end of this questioning, then surely it would be worth death to avoid being on his bad side."

The Dwarf turned his back to the alley, and faced the T'skrang, holding up the small charm.

"This charm, however, will enable me to find their killer, beyond a shadow of a doubt. With it, I can communicate with their spirit easily. Obviously the killer didn't know this fact."

Out of the shadows of the alleyway a thin tendril whipped out and latched the tiny necklace, ripping it from the Dwarf's hands, and hurling back into the shadows.

"Thanks to youuu - Investigator Jurolisss." a voice hissed, "You have done for mee what I, regretably, could not… now, however, you will tell me all you know of Archon Kaylu of the Seven!"

The Captain, Mak'kara and Hassala all reached for their shortswords, but binding lashes whipped around their arms and legs as they did so.

Investigator Jurolis simply puffed on his pipe.
"You had better not have been lying." he said, glancing back at the struggling T'skrang.

The shadow burst forth, death's head itself on the shoulders of a man, seemingly 10 feet tall. His cloak billowed forth, and reached through the shadows up behind the 4 of them, threatening to envelope the entire alleyway and everyone in it.

"Fractomos!" Jurolis shouted, clapped his hands together around a small piece of living crystal he had produced from his pocket earlier. A shockwave blasted out from him, passing through everything and everyone nearby, the terrifying shadow included.

There was a sudden muffled crack, and an instant later, a black, shrouded body hit the ground face-first in front of him. The countenance of the alleyway immediately returned to normal, and the bindings on the T'skrang slipped away.

The body struggled in the throes of death for a moment, before becoming still. Jurolis calmly returned the stone to his pocket, and pushed it over. Shards of living crystal protruded from it's chest, blood gushing from several holes produced by the same. It's head lolled sickly to one side, facing Jurolis. Still-living eyes with a reptilian pupil seemed to dart back and forth, fixing on him, before fading away.

Jurolis stared for a moment.

"Iopos" he said. "And it seems like they are looking for one of the Seven."

Captain Viras spoke up for the first time. "The Seven? They are planning a journey into the badlands - they have been gathering resources and namegivers to their cause. Archon is not among them, though."

"Exactly why he makes an excellent target - they won't be able to aid him. Through him, they have all of them." said Jurolis.

The Tskrang nodded. "What now?" asked Mak'kara.

"I didn't think it was possible..." Jurolis said as he tapped out his pipe, and turned towards the street.

"What? Wait, where are you going?" asked Hassala

"We've got to find the Seven first."

"Why?" the T'skrang stammered.

"It sounds like things in the Badlands..."

Jurolis paused, lifting his glasses to his head, fixing them securely on his nose.

"...have gone from bad to worse."

Fruit of Vengeance

Chants echoed through the dark halls of the temple.

An Ork with no name walked towards the chamber slowly. His eyes seemed to be exploding in fear, but his movements were calm and precise. His black robe flowed gracefully as he came to rest with each step.

As he neared, the words of the chant flowed through him. He felt compelled by them, so much so that the collar about his neck, and bound to the hand of the High Priest was full of slack in front of him.

"Brothers in blood. Sisters in blood. The blood of the brood is black. The blood of the brood is blue." they chanted.
He drew closer to the chamber, sweat trickling down his brow.

As he stepped to the door, the chanting ceased.

The High Priest bowed low to the ground with practiced grace.

"I present you the nameless one, who has made his choice of his own will, out of true adoration for his master." he said with speed, as though the words were spoken often.

In the chamber there were five figures around an altar, with long channels leading from the center into a lowered ring around the edge, about 10 inches in breadth. At the far end of the room sat a statue-like figure, towering in height above a common namegiver, whose face was obscured by a solid silver metallic mask. It stopped below the nose, or where a nose should be, and his haggard, red lips, protruded beneath it.

The seated figure spoke, but has he did, his mouth did not move with the words, save to lick his lips with a dry tongue.
The voice was powerful, but calm.
"COME FORWARD, NAMELESS ONE."

The Ork moved forward slowly.
As he reached the edge of the altar the voice spoke again.

"STOP."
The Ork obeyed

"YOU HAVE CHOSEN THIS FATE, NAMEGIVER. YOU RELINQUISH YOUR LIFE FOR THE ALMIGHTY DENIASTARES."
The Ork nodded, as though in a trance."YOU ARE NAMELESS, AND SO I GIVE YOU A NAME. YOU ARE KNOWN AS TOR CINDERFLESH, OF LAKE BAN"
As he finished speaking, the figure lifted up his hand, and in so doing, the Ork was lifted into the air. He motioned with his hand in such a fashion as to bring the Ork to rest on the altar.

"DENIASTARES, THIS OFFERING IS BENEATH YOU, AS ARE THOSE THAT MAKE IT. WE ASK THAT YOU ACCEPT THIS BLOOD, AND SHOULD IT BE WORTHY, GIVE US THE SIGHT OF THAT WHICH WE SEEK."

As he finished speaking, the five shrouded figures grabbed the sacrifice, holding him down to the altar by each of his limbs. Once they were in position, the seated figure stood, towering over the scene, and lifted his hands into the air. He slowly turned over his palms to face downward, and pushed them towards the ground. As he did, a grisly crunching cracking noise and a muffled whimper emerged from the Ork, whose blood seemed to diffuse from his body entirely. Within seconds the altar overflowed with blood, filling the shallow channels and pouring into the pool around the edge of the ritual table.

At once, the five voices shouted in unison, and the dried body ignighted, instantly being reduced to cinders. Smoke billowed forth, and seemed to immediately begin to swirl and churn. The blood below seemed to seep into the very rock of the altar itself.

In the smoke, an image started to form. It seemed to dance between terror beyond reason and joy. A barren plain filled with nightmares and bleached bones and a lush forest of powerful oaks protecting it's people. The smoke swirled, seemingly drawing away, as the great trees drew back into the earth, and the boundaries of the wood shrank, until there was just a handful of namegivers at the edge of a blackened, barren landscape.

One of the shrouded figures cursed, and the image of the smoke seemed to shatter momentarily.

Seconds later, the calm restored, the image seemed to narrow, the namegivers became clear, Seven, or what remained of them, stood on the edge of the badlands. Ready to journey into them, it seemed. Their many allies and compatriots surrounded them, but were less sure than they were.

At the center of the image was Tor.

The smoke faded as the last drop of blood disappeared into the ground.

"MY CHILDREN." the voice spoke again, this time the mouth bared it's teeth - multiple rows of inhuman fangs.

"YOU HAVE CHOSEN THIS TASK. BE REWARDED FOR ACHIEVING THIS GOAL. BE REWARDED WITH DEATH FOR FAILURE."

The robed figures bowed low.

"KILL TOR CINDERFLESH, AND RETURN WITH HIS BODY AS AN OFFERING. TAKE HIS SOUL AS A TROPHY. IT WHICH BRINGS HIM BACK WILL BE THE MOST FAVORED OF MY BROOD."The five figures all looked upon him.

"SEVEN HAVE SOWN THE SEEDS OF VENGEANCE, AND NOW WE HARVEST THE FRUITS OF THEIR LABORS. GO NOW, AND BRING ME THE FIRST OF SEVEN SOULS."