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."

The Silent Serpent

At the edge of the serpent river, somewhere southwest of Lake Ban…

"Backtracking!" the scarred and flamboyant Tskrang let out a forced laugh.

"I would have us doing no such -" he was cut off by the Aropgima, Hiskala.

"Enough. The evidence is clear. We travel upriver once again." Hiskala spoke with tremendous force and authority.

Cam let out a snort.

"Clear?" he said, continuing his mocking tone. "This pile of shit is not evidence of Theran activity in Shysval - it is evidence only that even a scorax gets diarrhea from time to time."

"Then go your own way - you do nothing to further our goals with your actions or words."

Cam stood appalled, the thought of leaving might have been his end goal, but this insult could not go by unnoticed, even if his freedom was on the line.

"NOTHING!" He bellowed, "NOTHING? What about the hulking mass? Who saved you from that horrific monstrosity?"

"You brought it upon us with your insistence on song and dance in the middle of the Serevos." Hiskala said quietly.

"And who killed it? Me!" Cam shouted, puffing up his chest, and bringing his frills out across his face in pride. "Then what of the shadowmants? You would have died in your sleep if it weren't for me, you know that as a fact."

"They were attracted to your roasting fish. I specifically told you not to cook anything using the darkfire."

"And yet again, who killed them? Me. Only taking one casualty from…" Cam counted on his fingers "More than ten shadowmants is something to be proud of."

"I am not proud that we lost a scout in training." Hiskala snapped.

"No, I wouldn't be either, but I would be proud of making the decision to bring me along on the trip - because without me…"

"SILENCE!" Hiskala's whisper may as well have been a roar, and even Cam was swayed by it.

A snap from the woods brought everyone's attention towards the darkened forest's edge. A small ball of light appeared within, dancing for a moment, before rising into the air.

"GET DOWN!" Hiskala yelled, as the light reached it's apex, and began to drop towards the ground in front of them.

Cam drew his heartblade, whipping his body towards the light and lunging, snapping the end of his blade against the tiny orb with a grunt, and sending it soaring back into the woods from whence it came.

"What in the name of the passions was…" Cam was blown to the ground as a deafening explosion blasted through the woods, flames spilling out from every open spot. Whole trees were flung into the air like toys.

Cam stood up with a cheer, turning towards the rest of the scouting party.

"AGAIN, I SAVE YOU, YOU SEE?" Cam erupted like a volcano, throwing his blades into the air. "I AM THE FASTEST, I AM THE BEST, IN FACT, I AM THE CORE OF THIS WHOLE EXPEDITION!" he caught his blades with a spin, laughing heartily.

The rest of the camp looked in horror and began to scramble away.

Cam turned slowly, still laughing, in time to see 7 more orbs in the air, making their way towards the ground in front of him.

"Oh Horse Cocks!" The explosions silhouetted him, and he seemed to vaporize, his blades flying into the air and into the river beyond.

"Therans! Dead or alive!" shouted Hiskala, racing into the smoke and cinders, along with the rest of the scouting party.

…….

The Theran commander stepped over the corpses, kicking one to check for the sign of their house.

"Disgusting. Nevilheim, I would ask you avoid using skin shift, it makes this job very difficult."

The windling jumped down.

"If…" the windling croaked "if you are having trouble relating, I could easily do the same to you."
The Theran commander considered this, and kept silent, digging into the folded piles of tskrang hide for the bracelet. As he pulled it out, he gagged.

The sound of the windling laughing was like the sound of the signal to an execution. A mirthless facsimile of an emotion.

"All Vistremon sir. 6 count." said one of the soldiers nearby.

"There were Seven of them. Egrin?"

The elementalist stepped forward. "The Seventh? That is probably what you are tasting right about now. Now, if you will excuse us, we have no more time to guard our guardsmen. We have to reach Serpentwatch soon, or we can expect they will have already failed to avoid detection as dramatically as you seemed to."

The commander flicked the gore from his hands, and shouted to his men who were rummaging through the corpses for valuables.

"Wrap it up, there is more where this came from in Lake Ban."

As they moved back into the woods, the windling paused, looking back over the decimated bowl burned out of the forest at the river's edge.

The elementalist approached him. "What has you alarmed?"

The windling spoke slowly. "Something here yet lives…"

The elementalist looked about.

"A lot here yet lives. Pay it no mind. These Vistremon traitors are beneath us."

"Right. True enough... but... even so.... have the men come back and clean up once we arrive."

The elementalist nodded.

……..

A few moments later a reed popped up out of the water. A gurgling Cam spat it out of his mouth.

"Beneath you!? That filthy little dredged-up wet-winged reject from Thera thinks I am beneath him? NO ONE IS BENEATH CAM DARKBLADE!"

Cam thought about this for a second, before ensuring that no one was around, and tore off into the woods.

The Stone Graveyard

"Dis will bless those who sloth, but Garland will have those who work. Put your backs into it. We are behind schedule, the Elementalists will be here in the day, and I will brand you all with the fires of hell if this area isn't cleared."

The slaves returned to work, not looking at where they were taking the mouthy ork. The sound of steel being drawn and a gurgle told them what they had to look forward to if they disobeyed.

One of the slaves, a middle aged woman, approached a large collapsed building, maybe an estate, perhaps something larger. She looked around, some of it seemed to be intact, the front of the remaining portions of the structure were crushed by a huge against a slab of marble. She started pulling on one end, barely even managing to budge it. Another slave approached and put his back into it, and soon several slaves were pulling on the stone, eventually it gave way, and they leapt away as the 20 foot tall chunk of stone came smashing down over the road nearby. Immediately another team of slaves set upon it with chisels and hammers, reducing it to rubble and placing it on carts.

The slavemaster shouted a loud cheer "Now THAT is more like it! Good work, Niras, you will make yourself useful yet." he approached the sliver-like crack in the wall and lookked into the interior of the building. He froze, fear creeping over his eyes. Just inside of the wall there was an arcane rune written in blood.

He spun around, addressing the slaves.

"Take a rest, slaves. You have 3 minutes for food and water."

The slavemaster backed away from the structure slowly, and summoned a messenger from the street, warily eyeing the dilapidated building behind him in the field of rubble.

All the slaves, exhausted and beaten, sat, save one. The woman motioned to a young man. "Arras, come here." the young boy emerged from hiding in the distance and ran to her. "Mama?" he asked in a common under-aged-sounding response.

She grabbed him by the shoulders and looked him in the eye."Arras," She said "Go in that building. Find something that mama needs."The boy nodded, and ran over the building, squeezing himself through the seam in the wall with little effort.

Dust and debris dropped around the boy as he scooted into the room on all fours. He stood up, looking around. The blackened walls and floor seemed scorched, papers were scattered around. At the far end of the room a small glint caught his eye. He half-slid, half stumbled down to the corner of the room. A tiny glinting piece of metal was poking out of the debris. He reached down and grabbed it. As he touched it, he recoiled - it was warm, and felt moist, like blood. He looked to his hand, but there was nothing wrong with it, so he made a more pronounced effort to extract it.

Tugging on the edges, he managed to pull it up from the mess. It was a cube, about 4 inches on each side, and seemed to be made from a strange, almost mirror-like metal. Each side of the cube was cut into the shape of a circle, like a window into the interior, which possessed yet another cube of the same shape and design, but with smaller proportions. The subdivision continued within, and it was impossible to see where exactly it stopped.

"Arras, hurry!" the voice seemed distant, and rocketed the young boy out of his trance.

"Yes mama!" he replied.

Making his way up the angled, broken floor towards the door, he stepped on something that crunched underfoot. A distant, barely audible roar seemed to echo through the room. He looked down at the broken piece of brittle stone beneath his foot. It was white and flakey, and seemed to have a strange shape - a hand, as though it was part of a statue. It might be valuable, so he reached down and grabbed it, hiding it with the cube in the folds of his tunic.

As he climbed out of the room, his mother and the others hid his progress back towards his place in their slave-camp a short ways away.

The slavemaster returned with a messenger, and several robe-clad individuals, who glided across the ground effortlessly. One whose face completely shrouded a strangely shaped head turned his attention to the building.

"Leave us." he said quietly.

The slavemaster nodded.

"Alright, we are done here. Gather your tools and move. Now! Now!" He said, cracking his whip in the air. The sound sent shivers down the spine of the slaves, who leapt into action.

The robed figures approached the building slowly, talking amongst themselves as the slaves made their way away from the demolished structure.

...

Meanwhile, the young boy, Arras, furiously trying to scramble into his hiding place in the camp, didn't notice the fingers of the hand slowly releasing their crushed stone contents.

Barsaive: Throal

The City of Throal:

The city has grown substantially, though mostly swallowing up nearby outlying communities that are too fearful to risk being slaved by Thera at a moment's notice. Walls have been constructed around Bartertown, and Bartertown has been declared a part of Throal, though the Renaming of the city is something of an impossibility, and "Throal Proper" as it is often called, remains the Crème-de-la-crème of the true Dwarven culture.

Neden led the Battle of Prajor's field approximately 4 months ago, after an ill-fated attempt to gather forces from around Barsaive. In so doing, his enemy spent time reinforcing their position, and before the armies of Throal could arrive at the edge of Triumph, Theran forces had already set into them. Stories tell that the first throalite to die was Gendle Dorgrin, a young dwarf who was a standard bearer, he was struck in the chest with a spear hurled by the armored trolls of the enemies front-line.

The Daybreak fell quickly under the direction of the Admiral of the theran fleet, Firehammer was forced off the ship by his men. Total Theran losses numbered in the hundreds, though Thera has placed the number at 480, rumor has that it was actually less, through healing and magic.

Throalic losses counted to 3,675, with nearly 120 more unaccounted for after the battle's end. Thera returned the bodies from the battlefield to Throal, to demonstrate the defeat to the people. The date is the first day of the Summer Festival of Earth, Ghamil the 30th, now known as the Night of the Pyres. A long, but hope-filled tale documenting the event was written by VL, and published under 6 psuedonyms.

Throal is in recovery, and her people are unhappy. The loss of so many military men and able-bodied young dwarves has left the very young, elderly and infirm to have run of the place (as well as those wealthy enough to avoid participation). This has given way to some traders referring to it as the "Old Hole." (a play on the smugglers term "Big Hole" as a destination for goods bound for Throal). This has, however, had a few upsides, many of the un- or under employed have been arranged to work in family businesses that are no more. A special Academy was established to train the poor and jobless - which got a laugh out of the magical-types, as it teaches no skills that a well raised dwarf wouldn't know.

In addition, soldier pay was increased, thanks to taking advantage of the Soverign Right, the House of Throal laid claim to all land whose proprietors died in the battle, and re-sold it to the wealthy with new taxation laws, netting them a much-needed boost to the royal coffers.

This has led to the construction of new ships, new armies, and a solid attempt to rebuild both the armies and the spirit of Throal.

Lucritive and open trade agreements with other city-states have expanded Throal's wealth, but not it's influence. Also, Throal has "privatized" the Royal Bank of Throal, which is now operating in most places in Barsaive, though without much trust - many common folk still feel that Throal is teetering, and cannot be trusted with significant wealth.

In a final economic-related note, Throal has opened up it's vast stores of Orichalcum, trading the priceless metal with particular partners for a price. This has greatly improved relations with Bloodwood, who held Throal's mighty stores as a mark against them since ages before the Scourge.

Merrix:
Merrix is the former head of the Throalic Library, and currently the High-Chancellor Elect (elect being "elected by Neden") of Throal. He, in the absence of Neden, maintains all the power of the King, and uses it wisely, though many find fault with his lack of Royal Blood. His distaste for the assignment does no benefit to his credibility either, giving those who oppose him more steam in their fight against him.

While Throal has improved overall, the loss at Prajor's Field, and the "Great Fleeing" of Neden, has damaged the spirit of a normally excited and spirited place.

While Merrix is leading throal in Neden's absence, he has proven himself a wise and capable leader, but a rift is forming in throal. The common folk are growing restless, knowing their true king lay elsewhere, somewhere in the Throalic mountains, and they are losing faith in the Royal house and the leadership, even while it leads them to a brighter tomorrow.

The Military commanders do not respect his command, as he is not of the royal families, and this is making the organization of Throal's armies difficult. They act on the behalf of Throal, but not under his command.

The wealthy families of great lineage are pleased with his ascention, and treat him as they would have the king - as long as he sees their point of view. They are making money and gaining power, but the common folk are against him.

The rift between the wealthy and the meek has been growing since he made a ruling over a case in which a royal son had slain a commoner during a duel with another royal house. There were many witnesses that saw him intentionally kill the man, but the laws of a duel between two royal houses clearly state that "The royal houses are responsible for any and all damage to a property during a publicly declared duel, individuals that are present are responsible for damages they cause, or for any personal harm that comes to them as a result of their presence in the appointed area."

When he ruled that the Royal could not be imprisoned for murder, or accidental murder, there was a 2 day riot which was suppressed by the guardsmen and house Ueraven of all people.

All of the difficulties have worn Merrix down, as he is not accustomed to being anything but the most esteemed and knowledgeable Barsaivian.

Rumors abound!
These are a few unrelated to the Seven specifically...

The Storm in the Mountain:
Postings around the city undermine Merrix's authority, and suggest that Neden has ceded the Throne. Calls for the Royal houses to put forth a Vote of Confidence in a new leader are being heard throughout Throal. As Merrix has presented a secret line of succession, the individuals themselves not knowing their position, he is safe from Assassination - but a weaker leader might allow the houses to have a vote, which could be as bad as the Death Rebellion of 25 years ago.

The Head of Death:
A cult of Death worshippers are discovered in Throal after the Rise of the Passion, Death. A council of the Questors is called, and in a tied vote, law allows them to establish a shrine in the Hall of the Passions. It is under construction now, and has created a rift between the questors of Throal, and the citizens.

The Spear of Five Tribes:
Many rumors abound about what Neden is up to, though most think that he searches for the Spear of Five Tribes, a legendary artifact that supposedly slew the last giant in Barsaive. Though scholars now agree that the "giants" of the Throal mountains were more than likely trolls of the dead throalic moots, the legend is steeped in the very fabric of Throal's history, and such a find could greatly inspire the people of Throal, who believe themselves to be the descended from the one, truly great dwarven tribe.

Shadows throughout Barsaive:
A salvage trader named Hurvel Knoxley has been advertising underground that he has recently come into possession of, or the knowledge of the location of, the bones of Adan, the Great Dragon of the Mist Swamps - slain as her sire was by Therans. Rumor has it that the spirit of her sire, the mighty warrior Cloudtamer, is bound into her bones. His spirit remains there, until the bones are completely reassembled. This is supposedly the key to gaining access to Yrns Morgath, where her powerful protections still thwart the greatest of the Theran spellcasters.

Sudden but Inevitable:
The Tskrang under the banner of House T'kambras have made attacks against Throalic ships of late, pirating and sinking the ships, and often putting the crews to death - but sparing the captains. This has dampened the newfound trade in throal. There have been 11 attacks in the past 5 months, though dozens of ships ply the waters. It is not unheard of, but the most recent oddity involved a ship flying T'kambras colors passing several laden merchant vessels to single-out a faster-moving Throalic trading ship from Ueraven. Witnesses say that no good-mannered throalite shed a tear over Ueraven's misfortune, but flee when they got a look at the crew of the T'kambras ship, which were ghostly, pale spirits.