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.

Early Charassa

Within a crag of a tall cliff positioned impossibly in the middle of an endless desert stood just short of a dozen unlikely figures outside of several dark, hovering ships.

Harzgar shifted from side to side uncomfortably.

Grelada heard his voice in her head.
"What kind of things are these anyway?"

"Chitons, if I am not mistaken... they are from Crenea." She replied, beaming a smile across the table.

"They look like contructs... it is making me want to kill em."

"Calm your nerves, Harzgar... we have to work with these things - for now."

A resonant voice filled the air as the lead of the creatures spoke.
"So, you are certain that this thief of theirs did this?"

They stood before the slaughtered remnants of the camp, the ground covered in dead Therans and Naga.

Richala spoke to the four man sized insects together. "Well, we tracked him this far, but he couldn't have acted alone."

Grelada spoke up "Why don't you just ask their spirits?"

The creature emitted a chatter from it's mandibles.
"They are corrupted, such would be a fool's errand. This you should have already known."

Grelada spoke to her group "So I guess they are just as afraid of horrors as anyone else."

The Chitons murmered to eachother in an unknown tongue.

Thill stomped his foot on the ground angrily. "Why in the passion's name would you bring us all the way back out here if you knew there was nothing to be gained from it?"

The leader figure turned again, a strange cacophony of sound emitting from its various rings and jeweled pendants that peirced through his angular flesh.

"Well, little one, you make a good point. You would not have come back at all were the shadow lord still here."

Grelada took pause. "The Shadow Lord? Nulth? Master of Mole'heim?"

The leader "nodded."

Grelada seemed shocked "So the legend is true? The Jinari of the Shades not only exists but resides in some simple cave? I find that hard to beleive of an entity that has existed since the dawn of the dragons."

One of the other creatures spoke this time.
"The legends of Marac are very clear about the subject. These are the harsh masters, nothing like the pharons, or your passions or dragons. These jinari spawned from Ao, the Immortal. Torn apart by All-Wings, they all returned to the land of their creation."

Richala laughed. "That is ridiculous, how would they have survived the scourge? How would they not be well known in power throughout unified Thera?"

The leader spoke again this time.
"They were split into 6 aspects. So goes the knowledge that the Therans were the first to discover. The bones of Ao were rent, and became earth, the blood of Ao was spilled, and became sea, the strength of Ao was torn and became fire, and the last breath of ao became the air."

Grelada noted "Six?"

The creature paused before continuing.
"Yes, supposedly. The last two were less well understood. The fear that All-Wings held for Ao became the night, and the conviction of All-Wings became the day."

Richala spoke "They sounded reasonable until this - perhaps by sun they mean life and death, as in Vasgothian druidic principles?"

Harzgar spoke up "No, the night belongs to the creatures of deception, and the sun to those of thought. It is not so simple as you say it."

"They are just legends." The leader said quickly.
"They have value in so far as they give us clues to the reality of the situation at hand. The jinari who resided here has gone. This represents a great degree of unrest. If the balance between these ancients is disturbed, it could be damaging for those of all of Thera."

Ruglor snorted "Maybe for Marac, but who cares?"

The chitinous creature shook its angular head back and forth.
"No, my Orcish friend. This affects far more than Marac. Look around you, do you see more than emptiness? Where are the great mountains of Vasgothia? Where are the tall trees of Shoshara? This place is trapped in the void of absence."

Richala nodded "He is right, there is little of any elemental strength here, save for, perhaps, the heat. Are you saying that the 'stength' is the only aspect here?"

The creature cocked it's head at an impossible angle, "Far from it, what do you think burns within the Death Sea?"

Veltom the 30th

"Klagar, you did what you could. On such a short notice, and without my direct intervention, I am pleased with the results. The rest of them can cause havok as they see fit. It will be a welcome distraction. With two of Seven dead, you exceeded my expectations. Take an extra two weeks pay and spend the time alone, I have several books to study."


Morgraine patted the stack of books with his gloved hand.


His bodyguard bowed deeply and exited his office, leaving him alone. Morgraine picked up the first book and examined the cover and spine. Definitely the work of a master, but older than he expected. He scribbled notes about its appearance on a parchment. His peace was broken by a hurried knocking on the door.


He placed the book hurriedly in his desk along with the others and spoke up "Who disturbs my chambers?" he said loudly.


A woman's voice replied "I have a message for you, open the door!"


Morgraine cocked his head to one side. This was so out of place it piqued his curiosity. He walked to a large reflective table and waved his hand over it. An image appeared of a woman with almost shorn cropped hair and dowdy clothing nervously waiting before a door, and repeatedly checking over her shoulder. She wrung her hands nervously, and then knocked again. Morgraine waved the image away and started returning to his seat.


"Begone" he said, "I have no time for games, go before I have you removed."


"Your life is in danger, the brotherhood is on to you."


Morgraine's smug expression sank. He strode across the grand chamber and flung open the door. The woman almost fell into him.
"Enter, and speak well. These might be your last words."


She stepped in a few paces, looking down the whole while. He slammed the doors shut behind her and walked around to face her.


"Well?" He said, his impatience palpable.


She stammered for moment trying to collect her words.


He reached out with lightning speed and grabbed her throat.


"Tell me what you know of the brotherhood while you still live, or I will take it from your soul." He squeezed.


She instinctively tried to pry him away. "Vur-eel" she choked.


"The name means nothing to me, is that all you came here to say?"


"He... nightwing... seven... books ..." Her face was red.


Morgraine held for a couple more seconds and dropped her to the floor gasping.


"I am curious..." he began conversationally, "just what you think you know. The depth of your wild fantasies is vast enough that I will consider granting you another minutes time. Sit, and tell me all you know, or I will make it quite difficult for you."


She crawled away from him until her back was against a wall. After a few moments she started regaining her composure as best she could, and stood for a moment and sat in the farthest of several chairs facing Morgraine's desk.


"Your 'group' - one went missing, and the Seven had something to do with it right?" She began slowly.


Morgraine stared at her from his seat across the massive desk, his face like stone.


She adjusted uncomfortably before continuing. "They killed one of the order of messias who had some important information? There are more people after that information than just your brotherhood."


Morgraine spoke quickly "Your yapping is producing nothing new."


"The Iopians - they tricked your man, Vureel, or whatever his real name was... he was working for them in secret! They gave him the charm, they call it, and he was theirs. He tried to get me killed, and tried to give them one of the Seven as a bargaining peice for something."


Morgraine laughed a cruel laugh.


"Oh pity you silly creature. I don't know how you found me, but it was a mistake. All that you might have stumbled into has happened according to my desires. I know full well the Iopians want what I now have."


She tried to stammer out a defense, Morgraine lifted his hand, and the spell was quick and efficient. She clutched her chest and simply stopped moving, and slumped forward, a confused look on her face.


Morgraine sighed. How could this much have gotten in the hands of a madwoman. Considering the levels of secrecy and magic being used to keep the brotherhood unknown, that some sort of simple slave might know something of them was deeply concerning.


He moved the body into his workshop. Perhaps another time he might study it to gain insight into the true name of her spirit. It would certainly be easier than asking her what she knew while she was alive.


As he carried her into the next room he caught a wiff of her. She smelled like rot, like old flesh, something dead. He didn't notice the singed hair and burns on her shoulders and head. He turned back after heaping her body into the workshop and returned to his books.


He shook off the strangeness of the visit. He would focus on this later. For now, he must memorize and destroy the books. There was too much risk that whoever this odd one was might know something and seek them.


He pulled out the tomes, and foregoing the notes, cracked open the oldest of the three and began reading.


A sound rang across his mind. Like someone snapping their fingers. It was a triggered spell. He felt a wave of magic surge from inside of him, forming a bubble around his mind. He felt washed with sudden confusion as he gazed down on the page. Simple runes, and simple drawings. Not even any words. He felt himself grow closer and closer to it. He gritted his teeth against an unknown force, gazing down with a cold stare into the very fibers of the lines themselves... there was something within them... he forced his way towards it, as he felt his mental block faltering... down, down, down until...


*pop*!


-------------------------------------------


The council watched as the blood sprayed from Morgraines head. Vureel let go of the magic, and the illusionary vision faded.


The eleven cloaked figures on the opposite side of the table stood.


They spoke in one voice. "After reviewing your work in this matter, we forgive your failure in Barsaive. Your additional riddance of a traitor to our cause shows us your superior capacity as a caster. We will lift your block on knowledge and memory, and reinstate you as a member of the Ancient Order of Messias. Your efforts to this end has been impressive, and you will be the first honored so."


Vureel gave a casual nod.


"That would be helpful, I couldn't quite jostle it all free. I am honored, my brothers."


The group took their seats again.


An obsidiman pulled the hood from his head. "Impressive work nonetheless, I have never had one of my subjects remember so much in this manner. I would like to share your technique when you have the time."


Vureel took one of the two empty seats calmly, and replied politely.
"Thank you, Grim Rock."


The figure at the head of the table stood and pulled back his hood. He had dark, scarred skin and a very guant and thin face for an Ork. He spoke in a resonating and deep tone.


"The scar placed upon the Denairastas must now be sealed with fire. Should we pressure the leaders, we will pressure Denairastas himself, and bring him out of hiding. Once free of the protections within his citadel, he will be easily dealt with, and his meddlings undone."


As the Ork sat back down, a human stood.
"I concur, Ghestalt. What of Musaf Sharif? Seven are loyal if anything else. From what Vureel has brought us, we know they seek him in Marac. Should he rise again, he could threaten Fashiir and his rulership in that provice. With the overgoverner calling for the expansion of our borders past Espana, he will not tolerate unrest on the southern coast."


The human resumed his seat, the Ork stood again.


"We must not let this come to pass. All attention must be on Iopos and Throal. If we release the pressure on these two kingdoms, we allow the Dragons to know our minds. Send a few observers, Vureel, as you will now control both the Keys and Mason's Blight, I suggest you use them."
Vureel smiled politely, and nodded.


"If the snake is rising from the basket, then we shall secure VN and see to it that the head is properly removed before it threatens the overgoverner."


The Ork then paused, looking around the room.


"For now, however, let us focus on understanding our next target, Denairastas. We have to complete the ritual Hefera has led us to. Such an opportunity is not missed."


-------------------------------------------------------


"Two gifts, for my dark lord."
The Orkish servant held forth a silk cloth folded over and bowed on the stoney surface of the great chamber.


Two burning red slashes appeared in the darkness, and focused on him.


A voice spoke from behind the Ork. Calm and smooth. "Three gifts, my lord." he said, motioning towards the cloth.


"Place them before you, creature of low blood." boomed a thunderous voice.


The Ork did so without hesitation. Almost as quickly, the two eyes darted through the darkness, the massive head of the great dragon moving a quickly as any namegiver might. Glinting grey fangs appeared for a moment, and the mouth consumed the entire Ork before he had time to know what was happening.


The Great Dragon only parted his lips to chew once, a screaming crunching sound briefly emitting out.


The other figure present, walked forward to the cloth, and gently removed it. Beneath it was a glinting golden sword and a book.


"Your weapon, my lord, and a book."


The eyes squinted at the items.


The room seemed to echo before the creature even began speaking.
"You have done well, my child. I see in your mind that these have come from many efforts, and much swift thinking. Take your sisters staff, Falseroot, and give it as a gift to your benefactor in Thera. They will make a powerful ally."


The figure adjusted.
"Master of all, I have given him the stone, so there is no need to return a gift to him. He serves us unconditionally."


The Great Dragon heaved a growl at being questioned.
"YOU FOOL, DO YOU NOT SEE YOUR OWN SCAR?"
The dragon's hand flung out and pinned the elf to the ground with the force of a boulder. The gigantic claws ripped off the entirity of his over-garments, revealing his bare chest. He looked down desperately, and there, below his ribs on his left side there was a nearly 3 inch scar. Definitely a heart-stone, and definitely applied with some force... he was lucky to have survived it.


The Great Dragon continued.
"The success of your efforts is tainted by the embarassment of your pathetic failures. Dare not question me again and live. Do and face death. Clean yourself of that. I will not have my children bring me shame in their existance alone."