Difference between revisions of "Dubhaine Family/Brigdha/Roleplays/2017/September"

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==== Godric Tórrarin ka Habb ====
 
==== Godric Tórrarin ka Habb ====
 
Godric snorts, "I have seen your grace in far worse condition." He arches an eyebrow as his thoughts swirl, "And for a lich you have far too much skin. Them I recall quite thin, like a bundle of reeds." He speaks to his men a moment then turns back to Selenia, "We do not know where a bathhouse is, but we will search by the Great Library." He draws his spear threateningly and rides into the crowd, clearing them as his men form an escort around Selenia.
 
Godric snorts, "I have seen your grace in far worse condition." He arches an eyebrow as his thoughts swirl, "And for a lich you have far too much skin. Them I recall quite thin, like a bundle of reeds." He speaks to his men a moment then turns back to Selenia, "We do not know where a bathhouse is, but we will search by the Great Library." He draws his spear threateningly and rides into the crowd, clearing them as his men form an escort around Selenia.
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==== Brigdha ====
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For days Brigdha had tended to the steadily increasing casualty toll as the pent-up rage of the city's Elven conquerors boiled through it's wide boulevards and narrow allies with equal fury. Some thousands of refugees, many - but not all - members of the city's substantial Shadowist congregation, now dwelt under the protection of the Crimson Saltire. Just feeding such numbers was a substantial undertaking, let alone finding the medicines and other supplies necessary to tend to the wounded.
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The considerable resources of House Dubhaine were currently focused on projects elsewhere, building works in the Colonies and the great crusades of Beluaterra and Dwilight, but still Brigdha was able to trade on a number of old family and business connections to acquire the supplies she needed. And where those sources failed her the stealthy veterans of the Ghost Watch had a way of acquiring things. Thus the vital task of saving lives had grown from a perilous pipe-dream to a well-organised endeavour affording her the time for other, equally pressing concerns.
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The Great Library of Oligarch had always been an impressive building, its ancient vaults and scriptoria among the few constructions to survive the ravages of time and successive conquests, and an equally impressive repository of ancient lore. People naturally assumed the Library was founded during the first Elven occupation, the long-extinct Orcs being mostly remembered for their savagery. But those alleged savages were indeed it's original architects. And is it really so surprising that amongst a people capable of founding such a mighty city there might be some whose minds dwelt on the collation and preservation of knowledge?
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Admittedly few of the remaining works from that period - largely contained in the restricted archive - were easy reading, nor necessarily good for the sanity of the reader. Even an adept of Brigdha's stature had to be careful which tomes and codices she lingered over, rigorously holding to certain rotes of memoization and disciplines of inner sight to press the undiluted knowledge into strict semiotic containment. Still, preserved here were secrets of great value to the Senior Fellows of the Grey University in Karbala and as its sometime Rector the Countess was determined to salvage what she could. If in the process she found clues concerning The Dragon and a certain sword, then all the better.
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Nor was it only Orcish texts which drew her interest. The great Lord Doc had squirrelled away many fascinating tomes and grimoires during his long regency, shelf upon shelf of parchment, papyrus and vellum inscribed in the elegant calligraphy known as Elven secretary hand. Brigdha recalled the long hours spent mastering the finer nuances of the Elven tongue during her time as a Senator, building on the basic familiarity acquired organising black market shipments and leading raids during the Great War. Her grasp of the language was now fluent but there were still habits of thought in elder Elven literature which surprised and occasionally unsettled her - and probably there always would be. Habits of thought every bit as alien and invidious as those of the Orcish writers, but cloaked in much fairer guise.
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Only once before had Brigdha enjoyed such free reign to explore the Library's darker corners, and that had been hampered by her own ignorance. At that time the Kinseys had only recently been expelled from Fontan and Brigdha's ascension to the ranks of balancewalkers still weighed heavily on her, steeped in The Flow but still innocent and unseasoned.
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Thinking of the Kinseys for the first time in several years revived painful memories, a wry smile creasing her lips, her eyes unconsciously speed-reading the documents in front of her even as her mind's eye drifted back to the last act of the Civil War. The bloody years-long conflict was entering its final months, Avamar fallen and its landings lost, the great haven of Karbala besieged, and the road to Krimml wide open.
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Knife ears Gabriella named them, the then fair Lords of Elfland recast as inhuman monsters, repeating the libels her counterparts in the Church of Humanity had long peddled. The path of hate is a dangerous emotion - the unchecked tide of anger and rage a boiling cauldron of facies, not just feasting on the rawest emotions but cultivating them, teasing them from their hidden places, and in the process consuming those who release them. Gabriella drank deep of its poisoned waters and with the aid of her brother Andrew raised the coastal provinces in a tragically doomed rebellion.
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The reaction when it came was equally bloody and whole families perished in Elven reprisals, just as they were perishing today in Oligarch, the improvised arms of farmers and herdsmen no match for the professional warcraft of Sirion's warrior aristocracy. And whilst the eastern provinces burned the Assembly debated... and debated... and debated... If reason couldn't tame the violence, what could?
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Sorcery is more than fire and thunder and grinding ice. Sorcery is will. Sorcery is words writ in matter with unyielding conviction. The slow dripped of poison in trusting ears. The fragile scroll consumed in utterance. The subtle confluence of thought and deed. The warping, sheering, tortured High Firmament shaping flesh and spirit in its roiling image. Sorcery sat at the root of problem, so only sorcery could unroot it.
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In the battle between Brigdha and the Kinseys, it was the will of the Kinseys that faltered, their sorcery which was undone, their turbulence subsumed in the Great Ocean... and Brigdha had taken her first faltering steps on the path of the balancewalker.

Revision as of 02:04, 23 September 2017

5th September

Letter from Brigdha Dubhaine to Garas Gabanus

Prime Minister Garas,

Seeing you defy the might of the north I wonder at how tightly wyrd has wrapped you in its skein.

Brigdha Dubhaine

Countess of Aureus

Priestess of The Shadows

Letter from Garas Gabanus

Priestess Brigdha,

Perhaps customs in Shadowdale have changed you milady, but I do not have an idea of what you just asked of me. I do wonder why you left Sirion however and perhaps my mind plays tricks on me further, but were you not once a priest of the Flow of Balance?

Signed,

Garas Gabanus

Prime Minister of First Oligarch

Royal of First Oligarch

Request from Brigdha Dubhaine to Garas Gabanus

Prime Minister Garas,

Forgive me, the question was rhetorical. You appear to my horologist's eye a singular instrument of fate - or perhaps Oligarch herself sets forth her desire to stand unbowed. Her history lends a certain weight to such a notion...

My service to Shadowdale may appear at first glance accidental, a consequence of Negev being apportioned to the realm when it was birthed. However accident is but a cloak beneath which the hand holding the Balance conceals Her purpose, much as The Shadows give form to The Flow. Had I not been a Lady of Shadowdale I probably should not have been able to bring your wife relief during her confinement, though I must confess that wasn't entirely without cost.

I would visit with you if you will and tend to the spiritual needs of those of your people who still hold to the old ways of the Balancewalkers.

Brigdha Dubhaine

Countess of Aureus

Priestess of The Shadows

Letter from Garas Gabanus

Lady Bridgha,

We shall indeed never simply bow and remain strong in our conviction of doing what is right. You may call it fate, we call it determination and honor.

I remain most grateful for what you have done for my wife and shall not forget it. You shall always be welcome in Oligarch City as long as it is under our control. I fear however that my wife has now been taken and I do not know by whom. My daughter is all that remains, she reminds me much of her mother, although she's more the scholarly type. She even dug into our family history through my mother's journals and it seems my grandmother was a Moira Dubhaine, although it was kept a secret as she and my grandfather were political enemies within a realm called Fontan or so. I must confess, my daugther knows more of these things than do I, but I could not help laugh at the irony.

Oligarch has always been open to all religions, however the Shadows were banned as her priests used the faith and religion to fight the political war that is brewing. Before I would allow any to preach again, I must have insurances that faith holds itself to faith and does not interfere with politics. I would not so simply even suggest this, had it not been for you and if such promise is made, it shall be done so on your word, which I trust and respect.

Signed,

Garas Gabanus

Prime Minister of First Oligarch

Royal of First Oligarch

Letter from Brigdha Dubhaine to Garas Gabanus

Prime Minister Gabanus,

This is most intiguing news and I will be interested to discuss the matter with your daughter during my visit to Oligarch. My sister Moira was - indeed still is - a woman of many secrets, and she birthed a number of fine, strong daughters who've earned a name in their own right. If this is not some misunderstanding or confusion then your House is indeed lucky to share her blood.

It's unusual for a Dubhaine daughter to be given up to the father as our House practices matrilineal succession but it's not unprecedented in times as violent and confused as those of Fontan's Civil War - especially with a younger daughter.

Brigdha Dubhaine

Countess of Aureus

Priestess of The Shadows

Letter from Garas Gabanus

Lady Brigdha,

You are most welcome to come to the royal palace and discuss it with her. I hope you will excuse me if I do not join such a discussion, perhaps at another time, but I have a lot of things to arrange and not much time as we speak.

If you are interested I can also share with you the letters of Kronogos Brock, so you can see the deterioration of the mental abilities of your allies.

I'm afraid my mother never spoke much about my grandfather and never really mentioned my grandmother. I always thought my family originated from Dwilight and was rather surprised to learn that this is not entirely true. Perhaps if I do have time my daugther can tell me more also, but now I have the survival of a nation to attend to.

Signed,

Garas Gabanus

Prime Minister of First Oligarch

Royal of First Oligarch

6th September

Morning -- Oligarch

The guards at the ruins of the Great Gate of Oligarch were sheltering from the noonday sun, content that the few remaining pickets of the Northern Host could do nothing to threaten their day. Their battered wargear and bruised bodies told the tale of recent battle, the desperate defence of these once imposing walls as the war engines of Elves and Men wrenched ancient stoneworks from their moorings. The work of long-vanished Orcs, haughty Elven Lords and the mighty men of Fontan's glory crumbled to ruin.

It was here amidst the rubble and detritus that Garas had mounted his desperate defence, calling all able-bodied burghers to the defence of their homes. A host at once glorious in its might as it was ludicrous in its juxtaposition: old soldiers in ill-fitting cuirasses; young boys in the hand-me-down hauberks of their grandsires; bureaucrats in their ostentatious but impractical dress armour; peasants armed with billhooks and reaping knives; hoydens and gentlewomen with their skirts trailing and a motley of umbrellas, cooking implements, pokers and brooms, for one brief moment united in their hatred.

Such a host could never be wielded in open battle, but here in the moraine of fallen masonry, littered with the scree of burnt houses and broken war machines, even the haughtiest warlord could meet an undignified end.

The nobility were want to dismiss such militias as final acts of desperation and perhaps they were right to do so, but Brigdha new the truth. She'd seen that fear in the eyes of battle-hardened veterans, the gorge choking their throats as they realised the true power arrayed against them. A Citizen Militia was not an unthinking mob. It was the raw expressed power of the termite mound when a small boy foolishly thrusts a burning branch into its midst. There for but a brief moment the desire to build so common to all social creatures becomes the incandescent will to kill.

And why should not the people of a great city such as Oligarch feel that rage when foreign princes destroy so much that they'd striven to build? When their brave soldiers had given their all what other outlet for their rage could there be?

Such thoughts were not comfortable for those who drew lines on maps and moved their armies like chess pieces, and Brigdha had known more than her fair share of those in her long career. The martial popinjays who thumbed their nose at Fontan's Assembly were a fine example of that breed, all glory and honour but little humanity or soul. She'd noted an old KDF banner as she passed a company of guardsmen in the colours of Nivemus on the long road from Commonyr, her dark robe wrapped around her frail frame as she leaned heavily on her staff for comfort. Few of their eyes registered the itinerant old woman and those that did had little in the way of kindness to them. A defeated Lion still craves its meat.

Had the watchers at the gate been less mauled, had their relief at surviving so dreadful a siege been less, had the long days of fighting not tired them beyond endurance, perhaps they would have seen Brigdha's approach. Perhaps.

Etain

"Grandmother," Etain whispered into the dark interior as she perched precariously against the window sill, left arm and leg wrapped in coils of the silk-wrapped hemp rope descending from the crenellations far above. This was the third window she'd checked since losing the toss to her brother Leopald, the former Ghost Watch captain slapping her on the shoulder with great mirth as he'd lowered her over the embrasure.

What did the mad old bat think she was doing, wandering into the heart of the enemy's camp even as the armies of the North sped away with their tails between their legs? So much for all those long lectures on duty and caution...

Etain kicked back from the wall and slipped down to the next storey, cursing the lunatic who planned the high eyries of Oligarch's rambling palace complex. The cunning stonework and near-ethereal flying buttresses demonstrated the annoyingly flawless craftsmanship she associated with the Elven Republic and she wondered if this part of the complex had been commissioned by the enigmatic Doc.

"Grandmother?" a glimmer of light broke through the thick brocade curtain as Lady Brigdha drew it aside, revealing a well-appointed sitting room.

"Etain!? What on earth are you doing dangling outside my window at this hour?"

"Isn't it obvious Grandmother! I'm here to rescue you!" her voice sounded considerably more confident than she felt.

"Oh, a rescue. You think I need rescuing? Who do you think I am? Some frail crone at the mercy of any damn fall with a blade?" the force of personality caused her to inadvertently jerk backwards.

"Are you okay down there sis?" Leopald leaned over the embrasure with his bow half-knocked.

"I might have known," Lady Brigdha crossed her arms, "Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber."

"Please Grandmother, keep your voice down," Etain shifted uncomfortably as she scanned the night for signs of danger.

"Keep my voice down? I'm not the one hanging from a rope shouting my head off for all and sundry to hear."

"That's hardly fair!"

"Oh, do come in. You're making the place look untidy. And you Leopald," Brigdha stretched her hand out of the window and snapped her fingers thrice in quick succession.

A few minutes later they were sat around a roaring hearth drinking tea as a maid served delicate pastries. It wasn't exactly the circumstances Etain and Leopald had expected to find their grandmother enduring and they were still somewhat on edge.

"Oh alright, I apologise for calling you Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber. I know your hearts are in the right place, and I apologise for worrying you. But I know what I'm doing," she handed them the letter from Prime Minister Garas and they sipped their tea in silence, mulling its contents.

"Is it true?" Etain elegantly placed her cup and saucer on the occasional table next to her chair.

"I don't know for sure," Brigdha sipped her tea, "but it's true that your great aunt has always kept her private life very private indeed. I still don't know who the fathers of any of her children are Rhidhana was three before Moira even told me about her. So yes, it's possible Garas may indeed be my grand nephew and your second cousin. I have to examine the journals he refers to and compare their dates with our family archives."

"So should we stay and help?" Leopald popped a particularly sweet pastry into his mouth, causing him to mumble his words slightly.

"There precious little to kill in an archive," Brigdha's brow creased in amusement.

Garas Gabanus

Glory had left the old lady in the tower to read the journals she left her and went to get a few more books from the library. "This one, oh this one for sure... Where is the book on Fontanese history?" she asked to one of the servants who had joined her "I have it here milady," he replied but Glory shook her head "No the one about the schism and the creation of the Sultanate," she said as she paced away, "I've got it!" she yelled and placed it on top of the pile of books the man was carrying when she returned. "Perfect, I'm sure we've got everything now, follow me" she continued as she walked back to Brigdha.

When Glory knocked and subsequently opened the door, she was only holding a single blade, and was followed by two servants who carried the books for her. When she opened the door however she saw Etain and Leopold in the room and did not recognize them. Leopold and Etain only saw the blade in her hands and jumped up from their seats, while Brigdha remained seated calmly. "Sit down you two," the old lady said, "This is Princess Glory Gabanus, we are her guests. My Princess, these are my grandchildren, they came to 'rescue' me."

Glory quickly settled her surprise and responded with a smile "Well it is a pleasure to meet you both." She excitedly turned back to Brigdha and placed the blade on the table. "This was a present given to me by my mother, she had received it from my father at their wedding, who in turn had received it from my mother who had only said it was an important family heirloom. While reading to her journals however, I found the blade mentioned as well. Apparently it was a gift from Moira Dubhaine to my grandfather, Aeneas Archirium. Here you can see the wolf head beautifully carved at the handle," she said as she gave the blade to Brigdha. "I believe the wolf refers to the Sultanate of Asena," she continued as she ordered the servant to hand her the book on the Fontanese civil war. "This book details the internal conflict within Fontan at that time period, showing how the military council had created a plan to form a new realm from Kazakh, even before it was captured, but did not inform the Fontan Assembly which was their governing body. When the news leaked from the military council, a civil war of sorts broke out. It seems Lady Moira was one of the major spokespersons of the Fontan Assembly while my grandfather spoke mostly for the Military Council."

Glory paused for a moment and then started smiling even more, the kind of smile only a young girl can get when she dreams of princess and fairytales. "It makes this all the sweeter," she said as she took her mother's journal "look here, my mother describes a story of how my grandfather and Lady Moira grew together in this time of conflict and a mutual respect grew into much more...ooooh it's so romantic!"

12th September

Evening -- Oligarch

Brigdha examined the journal, speed-reading the soft flowing hand with its elegant flourishes. It reminded her of another journal, long since set aside, and the tales of the Idyll of Cagil before the death of her beloved but unacknowledged father. Being a Dubhaine was a heavy burden, much of import left unsaid to satisfy honour and duty.

"I cannot vouch for the tale," she said, trying to reconcile the tenderness revealed with the sister she knew and loved, "but it's true that Moira seemed to mellow for a time. Her correspondence had generally been focused on the great debates in Fontan and the heroic battles against Sirion, but for a little while there was a lightness to their tone which frankly was most out of character. That was before the Civil War. Before the rape of Oporto. Before the betrayals."

"So do you think...?" Glory's face shone with excitement.

"Let me see that blade girl," Brigdha accepted it, raising the wolf's head to her forehead, following the thread which had led it to this place and time. Back through the generations of heirloom her mind's eye stared, to a pavilion, one amongst many, and a field of chivalry. Thence to a forge high above volcanic scree, and a headland gazing towards the glassy cliffs. The blade was hot in her hands as she watched its forging, charms of warding and grace woven into its tempered steel.

The young noblewoman could barely contain her excitement as she watched.

"I know this blade by its twin," Brigdha released the blade and it fell perfectly straight, biting cleanly into the wooden floorboards and humming sweetly, swaying like a sapling in the summer's breeze, "though I know not its name it is undoubtedly the brother to Lannceann MacTiré."


In the thickest of the fighting pressed Aednadh's dame,

Rhidhana of the gold-spun mane.

As the sun fled westerly she cast aside her Lion helm

Her blonde locks burning a vivid flame.


The wolf's head blade drank deep and fell,

Sharp Lannceann MacTiré of the slakeless thirst.

Oh woe to thee servants of Jor,

Your doom is sealed!

May thy flesh perish before that blade is once more drawn,

The day when Rhidhana's vengeance is due!


"That blade passed to my niece Aednadh and after her tragic death I returned it to my sister. One day Lannceann MacTiré will return to feast deep and long on those who have sated themselves on Fontan's carcass," for a moment the cloak of age fell away from the priestess, offering the merest glimpse of the young warrior she had once been. Few now were the band who'd stalked the woods of elfland, feathered death on ashen stalks. Fewer still those who knew the secret war which had raged beneath that conflict, to thwart the plans of the dragon.


13th September

Evening -- Oligarch

Garas Gabanus

Glory could not hide her smile, especially not when she was told that the blade had a twin "Lannceann MacTiré" she repeated, "But if it has a twin, and that belongs to your family, then surely it must mean..." she was interrupted by Brigdha "It could be, but I am not convinced yet." When the old lady spoke of Fontan however, Glory became more and more convinced that the old lady knew more than she was saying. "So you have never met my greatgrandfather, or seen him together with Moira? Two of such great names, surely something?"

She kept asking question after question to the old lady, who could barely hide her amusement of the enthousiasm of the young princess. Perhaps it reminded her of her own when she was little, or perhaps she thought it to be foolish, but in either cases Glory did not notice the expressions on Brigdha's face. She was so focused on learning more of her heritage, of solving the mystery of her greatgrandmother.

But then Bridgha spoke with fire and fury herself, almost as if the years had not halted her passion for a mere second "One day Lannceann MacTiré will return to feast deep and long on those who have sated themselves on Fontan's carcass," and Glory just stared at her for a while and let her speak. She was intrigued with Fontan's history ever since she found her grandmother's journals. "It was supposed to have been the greatest democracy in existence" she said, "Larger than Vix is now to our south west, and stronger than any single nation in the world. Its assembly said to contain over a hundred members. How glorious must that have been to behold."

She looked at Brigdha's face, now perhaps for the first time and saw a combination of fire and love in the old lady's eyes. "It was my dear, it most certainly was. Upon the gleaming towers of Krimml two hundred banners and more fluttered in the summer breeze, and when the horns blared for war a separate company marched beneath each banner. Thus was Fontan in the noontime of her might. And yet all fell in a single night..." her voice trailed off, the fire in her eyes turned to hoarfrost.

Glory was stunned, jaw uncharacteristically slack as her quick mind tried to reconcile this revelation from one who had lived through it with the well-known histories of Fontan's long, slow, painful self-evisceration. She could not help but ask: "I do not understand. How did a single night cause Fontan City to fall to the Caligans, Westmoor to Perdan, Krimml and Oligarch and Karbala to the Elves? Were there not long and bloody wars fought over each."

Glory had become so certain of the truth on the matter of heritage that in her mind this new mystery was worth investigating further, almost as if she had forgotten the original conversation so quickly did she fire these new questions at the old lady.

Brigdha Dubhaine

"Oh there were my dear, long and bloody wars in which I and my sister and our children all fought. Wars of men, and wars of faith. Wars not just for the cities you name but for Akesh Temple and Ashforth, for the towns of the Caligan plain, for Kazakh and Avamar. Wars which merged with those of Ibladesh and Itorunt and Tuchanon. But these were the symptoms, not the fatal cause, and that my dear is a tale I have never told for rightly it is not mine to tell. Only my sister Moira knows the full truth of it though my old friend Meristenzio gave me reason to believe it. A tale of betrayal and necromancy."

The room fell silent, the air still with the warmth of summer even as sounds of distant thunder spoke of a storm breaking against the city's fallen walls. On days such as this women of Glory's rank and station should know fear, for fear would keep them alive.

"To the unlearned, wars are born from the frailties of our kind. Never do they ask probing questions such as might be asked in a court of law. Questions such as why three firm friends should tear at each other with unbridled violence until two cease to be and the third falls to endless dreaming? Why Fontan and Sirion and Old Rancagua fought with such vehemence? Why indeed Sirion should forge common purpose with her oldest and most ancient enemy, a realm literally committed to the murder of every elf and elf-friend."

"Behind this surface skein, these facies which beguile us, there are hidden hands - personalities if you will in that great immaterial ocean of which scholars write - hands for whom Kings and Princes and Chancellors are amusements. Diversions. Stringed instruments to be plucked as the mood strikes them, one moment harmonious, the next shrill discord. And unremarked amongst these hidden hands is an ancient foe, implacable as he is patient. The Dragon he's named in ancient Elven lore, the dark counterpart to The Lilith."

"In Fontan we held The Lilith in high regard and we forgot The Dragon. That was our mistake. We were so proud of our reason, of our faith in Darton and the other saints, that we forgot the Balance holds opposites in check. The more we embraced The Lilith, the more we empowered The Dragon. Our hubris became our nemesis."

The priestess's words were delivered with the same matter-of-fact tone she might use to report the annual stock breeder's show, and as Glory considered them her eyes moved from Brigdha's face to those of Etain and Leopold, then back again. Living in Oligarch she knew of many strange tales, often linked to the dark rites of the Maunts, but there was no hint of their fervour in this Lady of the Shadows. Indeed religion itself seemed to be a veil thrown about Brigdha's reason as one might conceal a lantern beneath their cloak in foggy weather.

"Grandmother, is there really time for this?" Etain eyed the doorway with ear cocked as if expecting armed men to burst in at any moment.

"Aye," Leopald stood up and shrugged his shoulders, moving to the window and the rope beyond, "we're in a hostile city and it seems our countrymen and their allies are battering at what remains of its gates. We should be gone whilst the going's good."

A wry smile crossed Brigdha's lips and a breath of fresh air filled the room, "Is that your way of suggesting we leave Leo? That your addled old grandmother is about to get us all killed by outstaying her welcome?"

"Oh please, no, please don't think that!" Glory's face by turns showed shock, embarrassment, and conviction, "My father gave his word that you'd be unmolested."

"It's not your father my brother's worried about m'lady," Etain stood and moved to the door, brutally efficient stabbing sword in one hand, hooked knife in the other, "A palace is no place to be found when the city it commands has fallen."

"We won't be disturbed," Brigdha spoke with finality.

"I'd still rather have my sword to hand, just to be on the safe side," Etain shot back, "sorry grandmother, I didn't mean that to sound the way it did."

"As you prefer dear," Brigdha poured a fresh cup of tea and sat back in her chair, "Now where was I? Oh yes, your grandmother's journals begin some years after the events in question, when the March of Negev had ceased to be a safe place and my niece Rhidhana was fostering in Ashforth with Duke Elberan Carnes. It seems your grandmother's childhood in Asena was a more peaceful one."

"But where was Lady Moira? What happened to her?" Glory was perched on the edge of her chair.

"Civil wars are anything but civil my dear and Fontan's was no exception. Riven from within, assailed from without, paranoia poisons all counsels," she paused to take a sip of her tea, "and smoothes the way for evil. There was a certain young nobleman by the name of Jon Paul Ogren. Jon Paul burned so bright, bright as stars upon the moonspun roads. And his tongue was silver and honey and the promises of power. All adored him, from Chancellor Katalynfae to the lowliest knave, from Master Sullivan Koga to the humblest soldier. And the concerns of those who didn't adore him were simply ignored."

"Jon Paul was a priest of the Church of Ibladesh, a controversial authoritarian faith, the anti-thesis of everything Fontan stood for. Yet this priest was acclaimed General and defence of the Constitution fell to his hands, for those who trusted only their own somehow trusted him as well. When Master Sullivan realised his mistake he sought to rectify it, and that's when The Dragon bared his claws."

The sounds of battle were growing nearer, perhaps as close as the hurriedly erected barricades patching the once mighty walls, and tension was building.

"Jon Paul was no crude hedge wizard dabbling in scrolls and potions and talismans. He was a sorcerer of the first rank," Brigdha paused for a moment, considering her words carefully, "perhaps the most powerful sorcerer of this age. In a single night he compassed what no army could and broke the Lions, slaying Master Sulliven and more than a dozen of his knights in their sleep. Their loss was a mortal wound - one the victim would suffer for long, agonising years. And all this he achieved without revealing his hand."

The barricades had fallen, the brave men and women of the Citizens' Militia proving little impediment to Elven veterans and their human allies, warriors tempered in the crucible of perpetual war.

Glory shuddered, remembering the tense hours at her father's bedside as black sorceries wracked his flesh, "How can anyone do such things?"

"You're young my dear and your eyes have yet to suffer what seemingly decent men - gentlemen - will do to achieve their ends. I pray that innocence lasts past today," Brigdha reached across the table and gently squeezed Glory's hand, "but if it's much comfort, sorcery on such a scale comes at a terrible cost and is never perfect. Great though Jon Paul's power was, a handful of his intended victims were untouched, and drained he resorted to more traditional, mundane methods. The hidden assassin. The poisoned blade. The silent kill. Patience and murder."

"But as the Balance swings it widens its gyre, and what is cast forth upon the Ocean in anticipation will at times return multiplied. In the slow gathering of agents to do his deeds, Jon Paul step out of his carefully controlled world and entered that of my sister, the webs of spy and counterspy Moira controlled from the Bureau of Irregular Warfare. I don't know the details, Moira never shared them with me, but Jon Paul was unmasked and his own trap turned against him."

"We all thought that the end of the matter, but some months later someone bearing a striking resemblance to Jon Paul was sited at his former estate in An Najaf and a party of knights led by Armstrong Ironsides went to investigate. Days later they returned with a terrifying tale of necromancy and a fearsome battle, the spirit of Jon Paul transforming into a dragon. They claimed to have defeated the spirit with the manor consumed in the ensuing firestorm. Armstrong would later lose his mind, seizing this very city for himself and dying a sad and lonely death."

"Not long after the events in An Najaf my sister took her leave, sending Rhidhana to Ashforth and swearing me to secrecy. Where she now is I cannot reveal, but there too is Lannceann MacTiré, in the common tongue The Wolfshead Blade or more poetically They Spear'd The Wolf. The gift of Aeneas as this blade of yours was the gift of Moira."

The din of battle could now be heard from the courtyards below and Leopald reached for his bow, "I see Ecthelion's banners, they've breached the palace gates and it doesn't look like he's taking prisoners."

Glory rushed from her chair to the window, a look of dawning horror on her face.

Brock Ketchum

Oligarch city. How many fallen realms he has witnessed around this great city. Westmoor, Fane to name a few. It seems to be a curse whoever hold the city will fall eventually.

Taking a deep breath, Kronogos Brock meditates inside a room with only his Captain guarding the inside room while the rest of his men tend to their injuries and some healthy ones are patrolling around the city.

    • Sometime later after his meditation

Walking alongside his Captain Valeria atop Oligarch city wall which appear much broken after the siege.

Looking at the south east direction where Krimml city is, Kronogos Brock feels a sense of nostalgia overcome him. It was there where his career first took off, from his humble beginning roots as adventurer. It is where he learnt the realm financial managements as well. How time has passed in a blink of an eye.

He continues his walk. And not long, he sees a familiar face: Lady Brigdha.

Brigdha Dubhaine

Three storeys below in the crowded palace the distinctive forms of Ecthelion's bodyguard were cutting their way through what remained of the city garrison, proud hawkish faces contorted with rage as their blades fell again and again and again like forks of cold lightning within the primal maelstrom of the Great Ocean.

As Brigdha joined Glory at the window and cast a soldier's eye across the bloody slaughter below she was reminded of Durion Eyolf Serpentis, dressed in the flayed flesh of her countrymen as he and his soldiers...? warriors...? demons...? literally ran up the walls of Krimml and fell upon the defenders with that same savage blood-hunger which even today poisoned the firmament around the former Imperial Capital.

Those who knew the Elven people by their fine crafts, their cool reason, their magnificent pomp and circumstance, knew only half the measure of their kind. The dark rites of the servants of Ora were a child's immitation, half-wrought and filled with naïveté, against the alien dreams of the ancient fey, for whom life and death were as subtle as the shifting slumber of The Dragon in the vaults of eternity.

That Ecthelion had given himself over to those atavistic instincts was all too apparent from the carnage below, and for the first time Brigdha understood why Meristenzio had placed The Sword in her safe-keeping, far from the halls of Sirion and those who might use it to fulfil ancient prophecies of Elven ascendency. All those years sitting across from him in council, debating with him in the Heru Mellen, sharing bread and wine, they'd lulled her into a false sense of amicus.

The thought carried her back to that night here in Oligarch, the wedding feast when Ecthelion was poisoned. Instinct had warned her that The Sword must be moved from its sanctuary beneath the Temple of the Flow - or was it instinct? She would have to consider this new insight later, back in the safety of her Manse - or better yet, in the restricted scriptoria of the Grey University where until recently she'd served as Rector.

Whatever Garas had done to merit what Ecthelion had unleashed in vengeance would be made clear in due course. Right now she had a promise to keep. Two in fact. One to Glory, and another given long ago to Glory's mother. Resting her slender hand gently on the shoulder of the young princess, Brigdha turned her from the horror below and infused a portion of her own phlegmatism into the girl's horrified thoughts.

"I told you we shall be unmolested, but you must trust me" there was a mischievous gleam in her eyes as she shared the details of a plan long-prepared.


Leopald scrambled up the chimney flue with practiced speed, barely encumbered by his heavy knapsack with its precious cargo of journals and heirlooms. As he approached the top floor fireplace his hands searched the wall for a steel lever, and with cunning born of repeated necessity, they triggered the entrance to his escape route.

During the long centuries Oligarch's palace complex had been destroyed and rebuilt many times, sometimes to suit changing tastes amongst its Orcish and later Elven and Human rulers, other times of necessity following one of the many sieges the city had been subject to, in the process accruing a labyrinthine network of passageways. These architectural phantoms were largely forgotten but during Fontan's occupation Minister of Defence Rhidhana had made the control of the city the lynchpin of her plans, and as any wise commander does had appointed army surveyors to map its defences with the exacting thoroughness the Dubhaines were known for.

Whilst the resulting maps were now dated, much having changed following the fall of Armstrong Ironsides, they were still a reasonable guide to this hidden world as Leopald's previous visit to Oligarch before the current war had confirmed. The route he now followed would lead him to a water cistern deep in the underpalace and from there via a deep-delving culvert to a small copse of woods beyond the city walls. Once there he would make good his escape and rendezvous in three days in Karbala, the unglamorous work of the rat-runner being central to Brigdha's greater purpose.

Etain Dubhaine

Etain's task was to reach Garas and inform him that his daughter was safe - or at least as safe as she could be in a city subject to the random violence playing out all around them. Under normal circumstances meeting with the Prime Minister would be a simple matter of presenting her bona fides to a court official and joining the long queue of petitioners awaiting their turn in the daily court proceedings.

The rape and pillaging of a great city were not normal circumstances. Not even for much-conquered Oligarch.

Garas would be in the field with his Royal Guards, leading the city's garrison in its tenacious last-ditch battles. She'd read highly romanticised accounts of such endeavours, several in the stirring ballads her grandmother's liegemen used to sing on dark winter nights with mead in their cups, the wolves crying in the deep snows and the thoughts of the old veterans turned to the fall of their much-lamented homeland.

Some had never forgiven Brigdha for deserting Fontan and bringing Negev into the Republic, but she tolerated their gruff belligerence for the sake of her niece and her dear friend Basilius. Usually when realms fell their leaders fled like rats, looking for safety wherever they could find it, and to the grizzled greybeards it was a mark of honour that compassing Fontan's fall had taken the death of two great heroes.

Etain wasn't so sure. In her experience heroes died unremarked every day, the courage of their humble births denying them even a footnote in the august histories. But still, there was no denying that her first cousin (once removed) and Chancellor Basilius had both shown a rare willingness to face death sorely lacking amongst the wider nobility.

Would Garas be willing to risk so much? That was unclear even to those with deeper sight than hers. However one thing was certain - that he wouldn't let the city and his determined independence slip from his grasp without the bloodiest fight, no matter the forces facing him. So far his people were of like temper and if he could rally them again who knew which way the Balance would tilt?

Idly she wondered if the people of Karbala would stand as firmly behind the Shadow King if he were ever brought to this test, warily padding through the palace complex with her blades drawn, keeping to the servants' passages, her destination the old armoury by the northern wall.


Few amongst the nobility evinced an interest in sorcery. Outside the borders of Shadowdale it wasn't considered a fit topic for dinner conversation, and even there the Shadow King relied more on the reputation inherited from the realms founder than on the actuality. However in recent weeks many sorceries had been unleashed on Oligarch. Some of these were obvious, direct attacks on Garas and his ministers, others much more covert.

There would be no accounting for the unholy rites performed in hidden fanes, the fell powers bargained with and sated according to their unearthly desires, all to bring Garas to nought. Fell powers who now hovered over the city, slavering for their choice sweetmeats.

Etain was crossing the sombre charnel house of one of the palace's many reception chambers, the scene of a bloody slaughter as fleeing servants found themselves caught between Ecthelion's killers and a handful of half-petrified courtiers compelled by pride to hold their ground. None of them had slowed the Elven reavers, rune-wrought steel cutting through flesh, bone and ceremonial armour with equal indignity.

The turmoil in the High Firmament was a conflagration of such proportions that even a novice such as herself couldn't help but sense the pervasive actinic tang, the hairs on her neck catching stiffly in the rough silk padding of her jerkin. Etain tugged at the collar and wrapped her scarf around her lower face and neck, partly to ease the itch and partly to block out the sweet cloying stench of death.

As she did so she felt, as much as heard, a deep base thrumming, it's speed increasing as she moved further into the room. Months hunting in the haunted vaults and sepulchres of Krimml and Karbala had tuned her instincts to the danger which now surrounded her and she burst into a sprint as she made to cross the chamber as swiftly as possible, but alas to no avail.

The gruesome hulks of courtiers and servants, men and women, young and old, snapped to their feet like marionettes on tautened strings. Though for the most part unarmed there were a good two dozen of them or more and the eyes of each burned with the same cruel intelligence as broken limbs cracked into place and bloodless hearts beat a deathly uniform tattoo, each cadaver but one appendage of a superlatively subtle hand bent to her destruction.

It beggared belief that such dread and unquenchable malevolences could exist, and yet to the unremarked night rangers such as Etain - men and women held in contempt despite their tireless battle to hold such chthonic madness at bay - such encounters were a.. routine? yes, a routine occurrence. A routine occurrence in the crypts, the sewers, the unholy fanes of backwoods cults and ancient barrows... but not fresh and vital, dead flesh rising from the wreckage of a battle still being fought.

Bloodied hands scratched at her, pleading faces mocking the fear building within her breast as the press threatened to overwhelm her. Drawing on every fount of discipline and courage she stilled her rushing pulse and stared deep into the eyes of the corpse pressing closest to her, a girl of no more than eight or nine years, her hair a dirty thicket of honey-blonde tangles, caked with blood from the head-wound that had stolen her life. Despite her slight frame she had the strength of several men and Etain struggled to bring her knife to bear as the girl crushed her arms in a powerful embrace.

Had it not been for the unexpected arrival of guardsmen in the livery of Chief Justice Maximus, Etain would have joined that dreadful danse macabre, instead a furious melee ensued as swords and feet and hooked knife slashed and stabbed and stomped, repeating the butcher's work of Ecthelion's killers with adrenal-fueled desperation - tragedy turned to mocking farce.

Standing half-exhausted amidst the bloody ruins Etain cleaned her blades and held them hilt-first to the sole surviving guardsmn, letting the scarf fall from her features, "I'm Etain, bodyguard of Lady Brigdha Dubaine, and I'm your prisoner."

Brigdha Dubhaine

As her grandchildren set about their appointed tasks Brigdha turned to Glory and drew herself to her full if still modest height, the glamour of age fading like winter snows with the springtime thaw to reveal a more noble countenance beneath. This aspect of her plan was the boldest, the most dangerous, perhaps even the most foolhardy - and there was the risk it could cost her dearly.

"I know not if you are my sister's blood dear, and frankly at this juncture it matters little. Long ago your mother made me promise to see you safe and today I plan to fulfil that promise. In at most an hour - and probably much less - Elven troops will have seized control of the palace as the base for their provisional administration. If it were Prime Minister Ivo's lads down there at the gates you could expect civilised and honourable treatment, but it's not. It's Ecthelion's Killers and they won't stop until their rage is sated. We have to get you out of here safely."

Brigdha drew a bundle of clothes from her travelling pack, dark rough-spun quilted silk and straps of leather armour, similar to the clothes Etain wore. The uniform of the Toxophilites.

"These should be about the right size," she handed them to the princess, "now get changed as quick as you can."

"I'm sure to be recognised!" Glory was hesitant, uncertain if she should place her trust in Brigdha, and also desperate to see her father. But she couldn't forget the look on the faces of the Elven soldiers below. Escape felt like a betrayal and she was nothing if not a loyal daughter, but to stay was surely death...

"Look in the mirror," Brigdha had slipped the wolfshead blade into a scabbard with the Dubhaine armorial, an upthrust armoured forearm atop a crimson saltire.

Glory picked up a hand mirror and held it before her face. Unable to believe her eyes she touched her cheek, her lips, the curve of her brow. In every particular she looked different, although quite how was difficult to describe. None of the proportions had changed, and yet somehow it was a different face.

"How?"

"The forces unleashed by your father's enemies are not the only magic in this world. Now, let's take a proper look at you."

Brigdha studied Glory from head to toe, adjusting a seam here, tugging a crease of material there, and as she did so the self-conscious smartness of a noblewoman was replaced by the easy comfort of a professional sell-sword. Content with her work, she buckled the wolfshead blade about Glory's waist.

"Yes, that's the look we're after. The blade is a little ostentatious, but not so much as to arouse suspicion. After all, you're travelling companion to a Countess and I have my standards to maintain. A little ostentation is de rigeur. And for a finishing touch, a broach to match the scabbard."


"Captain," Brigdha held her hands outstretched to the Elven officer, casting an easy eye over the half-dozen killers arrayed behind him. Her calm demeanour stood in stark contrast to the raging storm all about her. The cobble stones of Oligarch, sticky with the drying blood of her citizens, screamed for justice and bloody vengeance. The priestess blocked the all-consuming rage of the recently dead with a series of meditative disciplines practiced over long decades and a smile warmed her lips.

The Elven warriors blazed and fumed, their anger at the wounding of their master in the assault on the city redoubled by their battle to secure the lower levels of the palace. They were Killers who in war knew no other purpose, and now they stood leashed by their Captain's will, waiting the command to continue their bloody work.

"I know you," he studied Brigdha's face, his keen Elven eyes looking for some hint of otherness to confirm his suspicions that he was being deceived. He found none and his inherent superiority made his examination of her companion cursory at best, a curl of his lip the only hint that her sourness had been taken at face value.

"It would be strange if you didn't, given that your Master and I long maintained the most cordial of disagreements in the Heru Mellen," Brigdha resisted the urge to smirk as she saw the recognition in his eyes.

"Lord Speaker Dubhaine!" the Captain's eyes warmed, "What are you doing here?"

"That's Countess Dubhaine these days Captain, and I'm sure my reputation is sufficient answer to that question."


Navigating the streets of a city during a brutal takeover is much easier when it's your army dishing out the brutality. The Elven Captain had offered to accompany the Countess but she'd assured him that her bodyguard, a brooding, taciturn shieldmaiden as like to Glory as sour is to sweet, was more than sufficient. Just as well. She had to get Glory to safety and in the vast camp being erected around the city's ruined wall there was only one man who could be trusted to help.

They'd not gone more than two ruined streets from the palace compound before the battle standard of Kronogos Brock came into view, the Lord of Nivemus having established his headquarters nearby in one of the battered watchtowers south of the shattered gatehouse. Once silent guardian of the road to Krimml it was now a busy hive of activity as messengers ran too and fro.

"There my dear is our salvation. Kronogos Brock is one of my oldest and dearest friends, and even when war separated them he always held your mother in the highest esteem. In his camp you'll have sanctuary, and after that it's up to you where you choose to go. I for my part have other business here in the city which doesn't concern you, and when that's taken care of I'll return to Karbala. Leopald will be waiting there with his precious cargo and the archives of the Grey University should be sufficient to authenticate their contents."

Reaching the wall unmolested, they climbed the ragged stair to the battlements and as they did the sourness fell away from Glory's demeanour and she was once more herself.

Garas Gabanus

The siege was about to begin and Garas had given orders to his captain to rally the men and as she did he had his most trusted advisor called to him. Reinhart had been his captain since about halfway of the last great war and he had served him ever since. These recent years Reinhart however had served Garas in many different capacities and led his royal guard and secret service and performed much of his work behind the scenes. It was now that Garas called upon him however "Reinhart, you will not lead the temple guards today." A look of confusement came upon Reinhart's face, but Garas quickly explained his choice "You will not lead the royal guards, you will not fight in this battle, you will not protect the city! In stead you will protect that which matters most and I don't care what you do to achieve it, you hear me. Glory leaves this city if it falls, get her to a safe location and do not look back. Come to me when the time is right, but get her out first now, that is all I ask of you my old friend."

As Garas prepared his armor, Reinhart left to take the princess. "No, no, get the old armor for today," he said to the servants dressing him "The old Gabanus armor, the arm pads with the wolf heads, and the two long blades I had made in reference to my grandfather's dagger," and his servants rushed to get it, while putting away the newer armor, with the Oligarchian swords on the breastplate. As they arrived however, Garas refused to wear much of the undergarment, which resulting in much of his skin still showing beneath the arm and shoulder plates and he refused the wolven head helmet as well. Now dressed in an armor showing off quite some of his skin, burned and mamed. His face had not healed much and remained to show burned scars allover. He looked more like some of the undead one would face after the necromancy than he did human, more so when one would look into his now fiery red eyes, but he wanted them to see, to see him.

He marched out followed by a hundred of his men, they took their place just outside of the walls and as the battle raged they shot arrow after arrow into the enemy ranks. Garas knew well that it would not be enough and when he saw banner after banner raise up onto the walls and some elvish flags raised on the Eastern Gates he ordered his men to move back into the streets and from there they would fire into multiple directions. Taking out one soldier after the other, but there were simply too many. One after the other Oligarchian banner fell and the streets were flooding with soldiers who cut down through the population. Thousands of deaths throughout the city, women and children hiding and the streets filled with blood, excrement of dead men and panic.

Then suddenly Garas stood face to face with two distinct units, both banners he recognized and both still had many men left, while Garas commanded only 13 men. It were the banners of house Foxglove and the house Ketchum. He knew this could mean only one thing, Duke Thomas and Kronogos Brock had come for him. He refused to surrender however, especially to these traitors as he saw them.

"Brock, behold what you have done. Look at me you coward! You side with these necromancers who bring dark magic and fire to those who oppose them and you bent the knee. Come and get it!"

The melee combat quickly ensued after those words, but in the mids of battle few could see what really happened. Garas was hit left and right, cutting through his open armor, but just as Garas lost conciousness he was taken by two of his own men and dragged into one of the nearby homes. Through there they moved him from house to house untill they finally reached one of the underground tunnels of Oligarch. When the chaos of the streetbattle cleared, it became obvious that somehow Garas had disappeared, most likely escaped.

Achmed-al-Tasim-bi-Tolla Adul-Laffha

I am guessing this is the yellow colored page?

Brigdha Dubhaine

Oligarch was a Great City by every measure of the term, in peaceful times the glittering jewel of the northern plains, exalted with every craft and science, its temples and fleshpots competing for the souls and coins of its teeming masses. Now the fleshpots were abandoned, the unctuous panderers and silken whores fled, rooms ransacked for their rich furnishings and decadent artworks, whilst the temples were crammed with the injured and the dying.

For days to come the Elven host would sweep through the dense tangles of rubble-strewn streets, killing with casual impunity as the final pockets of popular resistance were brutally crushed. There would be no compromise, no compassion, no mercy for the brave burghers who twice now had risen up in defence of their homes, the memory of their courage to be excised cut by painful, bloody cut.

It was the will of First Oligarch's conquerors that her honour be held eternally cheap, her memory contemptible, her sons and daughters expendable. A pointed lesson in the unbreakable will of the Elven people. What remained of her nobility would be driven into anguished exile, their lives spared to serve as a living reminder of the fate awaiting those who defied the Empire.

Brigdha had lived through such scenes only once before in her long life. The day Krimml fell. And she had hoped never to live through barbarity ever again - whether as conqueror or conquered. It was the bloodshed that day which led her to seek out the priesthood.

The Great Northern War had raged for years, somehow spawning a Civil War upon the smouldering embers of Old Rancagua's death, as some who claimed to love democracy more than others made common cause with foreign powers who despised it. Brother turned on brother in futile rage, tearing apart everything their sires and grandsires had worked to build, until one day Elven armies stood at the gates of the Imperial Citadel, a choice morsel sacrificed to secure more strategic holds in the ravening maw of the self-aggrandising Serpentis.

Krimml was never a large city, not like Oligarch, and its dignity and prominence were the curse of circumstance (or divine providence, depending who told the tale). That so small a head be graced with the crown of so large an empire was a bafflement to the fool and a delight to the sage. And yet it's fall had been no less spiteful, no less cruel, no less uncouth, than the events she witnessed playing out all around her as she walked purposefully from Brock's headquarters to the small shrine of The Shadows in the Street of Shroud-Makers.

There was nothing she could do to prevent this madness, no counsel of hers which carried the weight to sheath swords, no command to withdraw armies. Whatever currency her voice had once carried in Sirion had long since been devalued. But she was not powerless, though the power of compassion and steadfastness was less obvious than that of steel.

Her voice brought hope, her hands brought healing. She could help these traumatised people understand the true nature of this painful life and reconcile them with the vicissitudes of fortune. She could show them that their suffering was not unremarked and that spirits could be healed as surely as broken flesh.

As her boots crunched in the strewn wreckage of everyday life she passed many a silent dwelling, door bolted and windows shuttered, it's occupants likely praying against all hope to whichever gods they worshipped for safety or a swift death, without the slow defilements armed men demand of their victims. But here and there a face - braver perhaps than its peers - would peek from its bolthole, and some recognising the priestess from her many visits to the city would emerge to beg and plead for her protection.

To each she said the same thing, "Follow me, I will be your shield."

And follow her they did, the able-bodied encumbered with the bloodied and the old, orphans clutching keepsakes of their wrecked families, beggars and urchins who'd been too much trouble to kill, distraught burghers in their tattered finery, a handful of soldiers with the hollow trauma of defeat in their eyes, and even a couple of deserters from the Elven army, warriors of good heart unable to kill for the sake of killing.

At one of the many market squares they found trestles and barrows to bear the wounded and a bottle of clear spirits to clean their wounds, at another stale loaves and wheels of hard-rinded cheeses. But for the most part the city had been picked clean.

Thrice Elven patrols stopped her procession, tired eyes checking her diplomatic credentials and eyeing the crowd at her heel with undisguised contempt. Thrice they stopped her and thrice they let her pass, as much out of amazement as respect for her station or allegiance. And each time as her convoy passed they heard anguished screams from nearby buildings as the Elven companies pursued their bloody exterminatus with lusty efficiency, the knowledge that to intervene would be the death no comfort.

By the time the convoy reached the shrine some three hundred souls and perhaps half as many again accompanied her, far too many to fit within the narrow backstreet let alone the cramped chapel with it's single table and half-dozen chairs. As the nearby buildings were largely deserted Brigdha set about quartering the refugees within, organising the entire neighbourhood into an improvised hospital, far more chaotic than those associated with the larger temples but sufficient to the needs of the moment.

To ensure they would remain unmolested she had white sheets marked with the crimson saltire of her family armorial prominently displayed at each of the approaches. All who came upon the banners with violence in their hearts felt remorse and with nightfall word spread throughout the city that the Street of Shroud-Makers was a place of sanctuary.

21st September

Morning -- Oligarch

Selenia JeVondair

Oligarch was burning.

Bannermen from half a dozen kingdoms had cordoned off the city while those invaders within went about the brutal business of a siege. The besiegers, however, were focused on keeping people from getting out, not from getting in. And so it was that a lone, hooded traveler astride a southern mount made her way all the way to the shattered city gates without being challenged. A bored-looking elvish gate guard reached for the horses reigns. His hand never touched the leather; one of his more observant comrades grabbed his wrist and bade him use his eyes. The horse had been ridden hard, but was a product of one of the finest lines the South had produced, made obvious by her powerful, compact build and fine chocolate-brown coat. The tack matched the mare's high standard and the Redwing of Xavax was tooled boldly into the leather revealed the traveler's likely origin. The gate guard could have spent an entire day looting freely and would not begin to have enough gold to afford its like. Next to the exotic mount, the rider was almost an afterthought. She was slender of build and frame and probably barely matched the mare's shoulder in height. Her garb was well made, but in need of a stitch here and a patch there. Her boots were muddy, her cloak was tattered at the hem, and stains that appeared all too much like old blood blotched her apparel here and there. Dual kukris were sheathed and tied to her saddle and a cavalry saber hung at her hip. As she approached, enduring their scrutiny, she tossed back her hood, letting her long blonde braids flow freely as her cool blue eyes challenged them to stop her. Duty aside, the guards silently, but correctly, surmised that whoever she was, they were not being paid enough to risk upsetting her.

Since the soldiers did not move to arrest her, she did not slow and was soon cantering passed into the city itself. In her wake, a Sironite captain blustered up to his gate guards, demanding why a rider had been allowed through unchallenged. Upon hearing her description, she cursed them both for fools and hurried to dispatch runners ahead to inform all commands in and around the city.

The Phoenix Queen had come.

Once passed the gate, Selenia relaxed despite being in a city torn by war. War was nothing new to her, the place almost felt like home. Thoughts of her defeat in Xavax always seemed to trigger a pain in her chest from an old wound, so she redirected her thoughts to relief that she hadn't been stopped. She despised paperwork and was not the biggest fan of pomp and ceremony to begin with. There was time enough for that later.

Since horses were of little use during a siege, there were precious few people mounted, most of whom were nobles or couriers from one house or another. So soldiers and brutalized townfolk alike hastened to make way for her. Selenia had never been this far north before, but she knew well how sieges worked, she was confident she'd be able to find her own when she pleased. For now, she roamed.

Godric Tórrarin ka Habb

There was little word of Toren terrorizing Oligarch as they were meticulous in their work: none survived. Like men possessed by some hateful diety of blood they wrought pain. Godric is no sadist, the killing of Smallfolk brings him no joy. Nor does he care. It is simply so, the way of the world, another thing that occurs. All men die.

Not all women apparently. His eyes narrow as he hears the runner. A whispered phrase to one of his men and then the grinding of the Toren language. The men cheer as Godric barks orders, the bannerman hoisting up a tattered and bloodied, but still recognizable, Redwing. He rides alongside Godric as the men make haste to her last known location.

The mark of royalty is undeniable. She rides confidently forward, knowing her ferocity in single combat and noting that it is highly unlikely any foe or peasant is mounted. As he draws in closer Godric removes his helm and speaks, "Godric Warbornsson approaches. Hail to the Lady Xerarch." As he makes out those familiar blue eyes, a smile almost threatens to crack his notorious grimace. "I believe I am obliged to ride as your guard, being your hirdman. If your grace accepts, I will give my life in your defence, as will my own men as if the oath was their own." He nods solemnly.

Selenia JeVondair

She should have known that the old Toren would be among the first to seek her out. Selenia sat still astride her mare as Godric Godric removed his helm and spoke, "Godric Warbornsson approaches. Hail to the Lady Xerarch." A smile almost threatens to crack his notorious grimace. "I believe I am obliged to ride as your guard, being your hirdman. If your grace accepts, I will give my life in your defence, as will my own men as if the oath was their own." He nodded solemnly.

Godric was a large, fierce looking man, made doubly so when atop his well-bred southern charger. Next to the Xerarch, he seemed positively enormous. Next to even the soldiers he lead, he seemed all the more ferocious. He drew attention, and fear, wherever he went and for very good reason. Even now, peasants parted for him and his men, some in awe, some in terror. To Selenia, however, he was an old, very dear friend. Smiling freely, she eased her horse forward through the increasingly crowded street until they were side by side, reaching out her hand for a warriors grip across the forearms. "I accept you, Godric Warbornsson, as you knew I surely would. And to think," She said as she embraced him, "you were almost free of me forever."

As she pulled away, she looked behind him, jutting out her chin to indicate the Mounted Toren that followed him. "Send riders. Rally the Redwings to me. Our heroes, our High commanders, all of them. I wish to see my people." Before Godric could make the order, however, Selenia caught her reflection in a pane of glass. "On second thought, perhaps there is a bathhouse in this great city? After weeks spent on the road, I'm a little surprised you did not mistake me for a litch!"

Godric Tórrarin ka Habb

Godric snorts, "I have seen your grace in far worse condition." He arches an eyebrow as his thoughts swirl, "And for a lich you have far too much skin. Them I recall quite thin, like a bundle of reeds." He speaks to his men a moment then turns back to Selenia, "We do not know where a bathhouse is, but we will search by the Great Library." He draws his spear threateningly and rides into the crowd, clearing them as his men form an escort around Selenia.

Brigdha

For days Brigdha had tended to the steadily increasing casualty toll as the pent-up rage of the city's Elven conquerors boiled through it's wide boulevards and narrow allies with equal fury. Some thousands of refugees, many - but not all - members of the city's substantial Shadowist congregation, now dwelt under the protection of the Crimson Saltire. Just feeding such numbers was a substantial undertaking, let alone finding the medicines and other supplies necessary to tend to the wounded.

The considerable resources of House Dubhaine were currently focused on projects elsewhere, building works in the Colonies and the great crusades of Beluaterra and Dwilight, but still Brigdha was able to trade on a number of old family and business connections to acquire the supplies she needed. And where those sources failed her the stealthy veterans of the Ghost Watch had a way of acquiring things. Thus the vital task of saving lives had grown from a perilous pipe-dream to a well-organised endeavour affording her the time for other, equally pressing concerns.

The Great Library of Oligarch had always been an impressive building, its ancient vaults and scriptoria among the few constructions to survive the ravages of time and successive conquests, and an equally impressive repository of ancient lore. People naturally assumed the Library was founded during the first Elven occupation, the long-extinct Orcs being mostly remembered for their savagery. But those alleged savages were indeed it's original architects. And is it really so surprising that amongst a people capable of founding such a mighty city there might be some whose minds dwelt on the collation and preservation of knowledge?

Admittedly few of the remaining works from that period - largely contained in the restricted archive - were easy reading, nor necessarily good for the sanity of the reader. Even an adept of Brigdha's stature had to be careful which tomes and codices she lingered over, rigorously holding to certain rotes of memoization and disciplines of inner sight to press the undiluted knowledge into strict semiotic containment. Still, preserved here were secrets of great value to the Senior Fellows of the Grey University in Karbala and as its sometime Rector the Countess was determined to salvage what she could. If in the process she found clues concerning The Dragon and a certain sword, then all the better.

Nor was it only Orcish texts which drew her interest. The great Lord Doc had squirrelled away many fascinating tomes and grimoires during his long regency, shelf upon shelf of parchment, papyrus and vellum inscribed in the elegant calligraphy known as Elven secretary hand. Brigdha recalled the long hours spent mastering the finer nuances of the Elven tongue during her time as a Senator, building on the basic familiarity acquired organising black market shipments and leading raids during the Great War. Her grasp of the language was now fluent but there were still habits of thought in elder Elven literature which surprised and occasionally unsettled her - and probably there always would be. Habits of thought every bit as alien and invidious as those of the Orcish writers, but cloaked in much fairer guise.

Only once before had Brigdha enjoyed such free reign to explore the Library's darker corners, and that had been hampered by her own ignorance. At that time the Kinseys had only recently been expelled from Fontan and Brigdha's ascension to the ranks of balancewalkers still weighed heavily on her, steeped in The Flow but still innocent and unseasoned.

Thinking of the Kinseys for the first time in several years revived painful memories, a wry smile creasing her lips, her eyes unconsciously speed-reading the documents in front of her even as her mind's eye drifted back to the last act of the Civil War. The bloody years-long conflict was entering its final months, Avamar fallen and its landings lost, the great haven of Karbala besieged, and the road to Krimml wide open.

Knife ears Gabriella named them, the then fair Lords of Elfland recast as inhuman monsters, repeating the libels her counterparts in the Church of Humanity had long peddled. The path of hate is a dangerous emotion - the unchecked tide of anger and rage a boiling cauldron of facies, not just feasting on the rawest emotions but cultivating them, teasing them from their hidden places, and in the process consuming those who release them. Gabriella drank deep of its poisoned waters and with the aid of her brother Andrew raised the coastal provinces in a tragically doomed rebellion.

The reaction when it came was equally bloody and whole families perished in Elven reprisals, just as they were perishing today in Oligarch, the improvised arms of farmers and herdsmen no match for the professional warcraft of Sirion's warrior aristocracy. And whilst the eastern provinces burned the Assembly debated... and debated... and debated... If reason couldn't tame the violence, what could?

Sorcery is more than fire and thunder and grinding ice. Sorcery is will. Sorcery is words writ in matter with unyielding conviction. The slow dripped of poison in trusting ears. The fragile scroll consumed in utterance. The subtle confluence of thought and deed. The warping, sheering, tortured High Firmament shaping flesh and spirit in its roiling image. Sorcery sat at the root of problem, so only sorcery could unroot it.

In the battle between Brigdha and the Kinseys, it was the will of the Kinseys that faltered, their sorcery which was undone, their turbulence subsumed in the Great Ocean... and Brigdha had taken her first faltering steps on the path of the balancewalker.