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Catherine

Sailing to Kazan

She stood on the weathered wood, lookig to both sides, the normally tranquil harbour now bustled with the requisitioned boats from all along the coast. The banners of all of the coastal ports were evident, Oroya, Pucallpa, Salta and ofcourse Juaziero. Among them were some of the smuggler fleet, insinuating themselves at unexpected speed across the peninsula.

She had hoped to approach Kazan quietly, to catch the foul get of Obsidia in their whore houses and dens, but her fleet would be far too obvious for such a landing, and the greedy fat lords would force their vassals to fight for their unjust and undeserving masters.

There was a buzz of anticipation on the boat, her men, set about their weopons, tightening bow strings and checking the fletchers works on their arrows. She was the only woman amongst them, 100 all told, with the scouts and healers, and all following her orders. She had never found the company of soldiers difficult; she had journeyed now so long with many of them, she felt closer to them in some ways than to some of her family.

What would her family think of her. By her age her mother had already birthed her two eldest brothers. She had attended finishing school, she was bred to be a wife and mother. But now... now her body was so accustomed to the reassuring weight of her battle armour, she felt uncomfortable in her gowns, no matter how pretty her ladies might say she appeared. Her hands were not soft and smooth like her mothers, she had many small scars from bouts and from battle. Her sister-in-law thought her to be sapphic, however untrue, it did not change the musing for her as to what man would want a woman such as she who presumed to lead not only her own men, but those of the army to war.

The sun was setting over the bay, the sky blood red, the fleet would soon be embraced by the night, and tomorrow, tomorrow may be a defining point for the future of her homeland. But for now, surrounded by her family of men, with an entire army within less than half of a mile of where she stood, she had strangely, never felt so alone.

On Board Entertainment

They were basically untried, a worthy group of men, but one minor skirmish and now they were set to defend the soverignty of Nivemus at Kazan. There were still a few of her old hands, assisting the green horns to oil their leathers and tighten their bows for maximum efficacy and range. She heard the songs of war from the barges and ferries surrounding her, but could only think to herself how could she prepare them better, what training could she give archers at sea?

Looking to Lords Ketchum and Alumanni's ferry she smiled to herself.

"Dekmar, call the men starboard side, Lord Ketchum presents target for them!"

She smiled pulling back her own bow and loosing an arrow at the bobbing lane of barrels trailing the ferry.

Vessol's Injuries and the Lady of Ashforth

"I am sorry to trouble you at this time your Majesty." Catherine had spoken often with the Kronogos in her capacity as Marshal and Arithagan, but now, regarding him in his bed, broad bare chest, bandaged at the left shoulder, his modesty secured only by the clean white sheet pulled to his waist, she felt oddly embarassed. She bowed her head cheeks flushing red. The princess noted Catherine's pause with a snort of disdain.

Catherine had known Snowe for many years, indeed Kristina had attended finishing school with her. They had always shared a cordial relationship, but there was a gulf between them socially. The Mithridates' were an old family, and with 'old money'. Her own family had risen by marriage and alliegance from gamekeepers and squires to the modest holdings they now possessed. The age of money still had far reaching impacts in some areas of society.

Her eyes lingered on the bare chest of her King. Looking at her own bloodied leathers she wished she had changed.

"My father needs rest, what do you want Dame Catherine," the princess prompted, pointedly using the lowest of Catherine's titles. The Kronogos censured his daughter with the briefest change in his eyes and she crossed the room to the window, looking out over the village for which she was now overseer. Snowe's worry for her father was palpable, and Catherine silently thanked Ora, that she had never had to witness or share a battlefield with her own father.

"Yes, ah... yes," she bowed her head. "Nivemus did you proud today your Majesty, the men fought valiantly, and gifted our enemies with heavy losses, their own Emperor, licks his wounds in a tent but a league from here. Preparations have been made for the defence of our territories, but I fear we have a problem, a subtle blade. An infiltrator."

Snowe spun from the window looking to the heavy wooden doors, as if she could see the guardsmen on the other side. For his part the Kronogs eyes narrowed. He moved himself with difficulty, propping himself up on his elbows. As he moved the sheet slipped a little from his thigh. Blushing anew, Catherine raised her eyes to the cieling wishing silently that she had shared her fears with Barons' Ketchum or Wolf rather than be standing as she was now in the presence of her Kronogos.

"Go on," he bade her.

"Ah... I... yes..." she could feel Snowe's gaze burning into her. "I went from camp to camp, reviewing and congratulating the troops and their commanders. I came in time to the camp of Lord Alumaani, as you know his men were magnificent today," she viewed again with her internal eye, the young Baron fighting valiantly amongst his men. "When I reached Lord Alumaani, I was conftonted with the most offensive odour. His man Ingwald, reported him as unwell but I fear it is more serious than some simple malady. I spoke to his troops, and many stated that they feared he had been poisoned by some villainous female whose name I am yet to isolate, it seems though, she goes by the title of 'The Ashforth Lady'..."

The Art of War

War should be a simple affair. Many books had been written by the great tacticians, legendary heroes and captains had their lives relived in song, yet on its most basic level, your men with pointy sticks attacked their men with pointy sticks and whomever had the pointiest stick won the day. The battle in Kazan had once again been a tactical victory. But then they had won here before and then the nation with the pointiest stick of all had come and slaughtered her army almost to a man.

Catherine had a creeping sense of unease, the banner of Perdan stood once again alongside the tents of the Obsidian Isles. They had been beaten soundly, twice now, yet they remained, indeed she noted the return of Cornelia Li and her female batallion, she had not even refit her troops, simply crossed the sea and returned, why would she do that when the greater force still held the battlefield.

Their Emperor lay wounded at the hands of Baron Wolf, their Marshal pinnioned by a somewhat flamboyantly brocaded Baron Alumaani, (fortunately recovered from his malady). Yet here they were. She must be missing something, something crucial.

There were times in this war that she felt very young, she prayed to Ora her naivete would not cost Nivemus once again. A wounded snake could yet bite, and the roguish Sylvus was testimony to the venom that bite could bestow.

She pushed aside 'Dekion's Treatise' coming to a decision unassisted by the long dead generals. She needed to make sure her stick was as big and pointy as she could.

"Dekmar, summon the scribe, I need to send a message to Baron Wolf."

Instructions from a Friend

Pacing the cell, she looked for some weakness in the structure, some area that could be manipulated that she may escape. Tapping the walls produced the muffled thud that told her the walls were thick. The only light came from a tiny window high on the southern wall. She hauled her cot across to the wall, and from there reached up to the ledge of the window. She already knew it was too small to provide passage but she felt she owed it to herself to try.

She hooked her fingers onto the ledge and scrabbling with her feet against the wall drew herself, muscles burning, up into the window space. Her shoulders wedged uncomfortably in the light well. She noted dismally that the light from the window was channelled from a small opening at the end of an 8 foot shaft which narrowed as it reached toward the outside world. Suddenly aware of the noise she was making she eased herself back from the ledge and began to lower herself to the cot. As she was moving back down, she noted a rolled up piece of paper wedged into the wood of the ledge. Pulling it out with her teeth, she dropped back down onto the cot.

Settling back she unrolled the paper immediately recognising the penmanship, it read:

'No exit that way, dear'

Laughing to herself, she made a mental note to thank Lady Sandra for her helpful instructions...

Celebrations in Kazan

She could scarce remember feeling so proud.

The battle today was heated and magnificent resulting in the situation that all of the government of the Obsidian Islands was either in custody or injured by the hands of Nivemus, with Jai Mor Dundrave wounded by Baron Alumaani, Malius Songslayer injured by Baroness Jimenez and Keran Sedgwick injured by the Wolf's Guard. She made a note to herself to contact Baron Wolf to inform him of the magnificence of his old unit in what was to be their last battle, they fell to a man in the final flurries of the Islanders offence. The Islanders had brought a force of 8 of their nobles to the fray and in total 4 now lay wounded and 1 more languished in the prisons of Nivemus. Her pride redoubled to think that her own Captain Dekmar had led her own Ora's Hope to capture Laithe Songslayer and wound Drake Dragon Master.

She looked from the reports and maps to Lord Alumaani's invitation, she had answered in haste, agreeing to join the troop leaders in celebration. Now she paused. How was it she could lead armies to war and discuss policies with Kings, yet when it came to joining the firebrand of House Alumaani for recreation, she was nervous far beyond what was natural. She had answered him in haste, comitted to a course of action that now filled her with an excited sense of dread.

Captain Ewald pushed into her reverie. "M'Lady, the High Priestess approaches." He stated breathlessly. She was used to this, her sister was beautiful, enigmatic and detached. The life ecclesiastical, had only gone further to enhance her with an aura of serenity. She had her fathers colouring, rolling ebon hair, full lips and breasts, the palest alabaster skin and dancing green eyes. After she had been touched by Ora, with the golden rivers in her hair she was even more striking. At times she actually felt uncomfortable in her own sisters company. Her presence filled the tent as she breezed through the flaps.

Taking her sisters hands she kissed her cheeks briefly: "Ora was with you today, sister, your army was magnificent." A look of mischief Catherine had not seen since their childhood crossed her sisters face. "I see you accepted Silvertongues invitation. I know you have nothing to wear."

Catherine looked with dread as 2 of the maunts her sister travelled with pulled a chest into her tent. Her sister deftly opened the lid revealing a pale blue gown. The maunts ushered Ewald from the tent and began to draw her a bath. Her sister talked incessantly and Catherines dread began to turn to horror, she stood numbly as the maunts unlaced her leather armour. In a daze she was washed , dressed, her face painted and her blonde hair taken down oiled and curled. Finished, Kristina ushered the Maunts from the tent. Finally drawing a mirror from the bottom of the chest, Kristina stood cheek to cheek with her sister looking in the glass. She had never seen herself look so like her sister.

Squeezing her hand briefly Kristina smiled warmly at her sister: "You work so hard Kate, enjoy your victories, you have earned them, and your men deserve to see your gratitude," and with that she left. Catherine felt thunderstruck.

Regarding herself in the mirror, she barely recognised the woman looking back at her. The gown was loose fitting and flattering, her hair, positively gleamed. She looked at the Chamberlain seal on the index finger of her right hand. Tonight she looked like her mothers daughter and like her sister. Tonight she looked like Kate of Dale, not Catherine of Oroya.

Looking down at Baron Alumaani's invitation again she smiled. Dekmar and Ewald would be here to escort her soon.

As Ewald and Dekmar arrived Catherine tightened the cuff of her leathers, her hair in its usual top-knot, her face clean and fresh.

Catherine of Oroya, would attend Baron Alumaani's invitation.

The Duchess' Banquet

Catherine sat at the table writing, 'Duchess Catherine of Kazakh', 'Catherine, Duchess of Kazakh', no still not right. She paused her quill settling back in the chair. Nivemus had always been an interesting place, in but a short time she had risen from a fairly questionable noble pedigree to lead armies into battle, to exchange words with Kings and Emperors, and now poised to sit on the Ducal throne of Kazakh, (all being well).

Last nights festivities had been a huge honor to her and to the realm as a whole. Seeing the great and good, of Nivemus nobility united in the banqueting hall; banners of the families laid upon tables, Jimenez, Alumaani, Ketchum, Wolf, Archblane, Pucker, Gotfried, Stormblade, Valoran. The empty seat at the head of the Kell's table, a reminder of the imprisoned lord, and the crown itself, Mithridates. Princess Snowe had seemed preoccupied most of the evening, drifting at the edges of the event. She was so different now to the girl she had met on those briefest of visits to her sister at the Ladies Academy of Dolmbar, there she had been an icon, the house leader and certainly the most gifted of the students. Now she seemed somewhat diminished, always alone. Perhaps her position as princess made her remove herself, perhaps it was something else.

She wished she could relax in these circumstances, simply enjoy the festivities. Instead she found herself boring her dearest friend Malakai with discussion of strategy, as always he good-naturedly nodded appropriately, though she knew he would rather be carousing with the others. How anyone could confuse Malakai with his brother was beyond her, the distinction between the two was as plainly apparent as the difference between china and porcelain.

The Kronogos looked fevered as he stood before them. She so admired his devotion to duty. This man barely from his sick bed, standing tall and proud before the nobility of the realm. She looked askance at Lord Sylvus dressed in cloth of gold, and accessorised with innumerable serving wenches. He was like belladonna, beautiful but deadly. His speech moved her, but as he reached for his goblet with a hand no longer there, her eyes filled with tears of pride and sorrow unbidden. He was a true leader, Nivemus would not be as it was without his management. The fever had spoken and he had announced abdication, clearly these were the words of illness, or were they.

She looked back at the page 'Catherine' that would do nicely.


Strange Luck

With her rapid movement amongst the lands, it had taken Lord Wolf's out-rider some time to reach her with the gift from her friend Lord Malakai.

Smiling she looked down at the small velvet bag and the gold Oran lying next to the note. She was touched that Lord Wolf had not only found the coin but had seen fit to send it to her. With all of the rogue incursions over the past weeks, she was yet to receive him following his trip to Caligus. At first she had thought the coin must be some gift from the south, perhaps from King Actron himself, but this was something much more special. The coin of destiny. The Oran that had decided the fate of the nation, for better or for worse. Strange luck indeed that she should be named the monarch of Nivemus on the flight of such a coin. There was nothing special about it, the crest of Uzamaki, opposite the imprint of the White Tree, so fairly old, but certainly not uncommon.

This was not the first coin that had been given to her. She remembered the night in the banqueting hall of Kazakh, when the great Silvertongue, had gifted her an old silver Oran. He had staggered drunkenly toward her, boasting of the maid he was set to deflower that very night. Catherine remembered vividly the ranks stench of the ale and how she had thought that the young Lord must be deeply inebriated to believe that the woman was a maid, and even more misguided to think that he had the capacity in his drunken state to pluck her flower. She had always been fond of Sylvus Alumaani, he was her polar opposite, carefree, brash and fanciful. She often found herself wondering what had become of the man. She, Lord Wolf and Lord Alumaani, had grown together through the penninsula war. The silver oran was Sylvus' gift to her at the end of the fighting. Like him, it was shiny and not quite what it seemed. The coin was old, there was no house crest, so it predated even Kronogos Talius. On the head side was the face of the Goddess, on the reverse was.... the face of the Goddess.

She took the coin from the folds of her bodice and placed it alongside the coin she had just received from Lord Wolf. Placing the silver Oran into the velvet bag she penned a brief note to Lord Wolf, it read:

"Next time make sure they use this one"


Silvertongue

The last of the monsters fell under the black hail of arrows. The plagues had been repeated and bloody over the past weeks but this crew had offered little resistance to the nobles of Nivemus. Returning to her tent Catherine sent her scribes to look for Captain Ewald.

Alone, she was so rarely alone, she enjoyed the moments, loosing the cuffs of her hauberk she splashed cool water on her face. Ewald would be with the troops, she knew she had a whiles before she would be disturbed. Removing her armour she settled herself in a simple shift and began to unbraid her hair. Her handmaid would be disgruntled to find she had cared for her own needs, but Catherine was used to being self-sufficient, it had taken much for her to accept the service of the retinue she now commanded as Kronagos. As her hair shook free she felt the tension ease in her face. She reached for an apple and guiltily began to look through the scrolls and reports the scribes had been asking her to review for the past day and a half.

"Catherine of Oroya in less than her battle armour, that's a sight I never thought to see."

She dropped the apple and snatched up a dagger, turning to the entrance of her tent she stood agape. Ewald and three of her body guards burst after the man and he was immediately on his knees with four blades at his neck. A flurry of thoughts went through her shocked brain, the man disarmed and surrounded by Nivemus steel, raised his shaggy head and smiled at her and winked. All thoughts abandoned she dropped the dagger and commanded the men back. For a moment she thought to go to him, to pull him into an embrace. Instead she turned and shouldered a house gown over her shift. Ewald and the body guards regarded her anxiously.

"Silvertongue..." she turned back to the men, "Where, by Ora have you been?"


Arrival in Oligarch

Her sister had suggested a litter, more regal she had argued, feminine. Her sister was ever the diplomat. Catherine sat sidesaddle on her bay mare. The groomsmen had oiled her coat and she bore the colours of Nivemus from a standard with the shield of the Chamberlain's beneath. She had conceded to a few of her sisters demands, she had removed her armor and wore a pale blue gown; the maunts had braided her hair and she wore the Oran diadem. She hadn't been to Oligarch since she had fought alongside Sirion to secure the city from the ill-fated city state of Fane. Now the huge ancient gates stood open before her. The wood was scarred from the many battles that had attempted unsuccessfully to breach this opening, and now as the Kronagos of Nivemus, she passed them unmolested. A small crowd of Oligarchians had collected, Nivemus had never been a terribly popular realm with this city and they greeted her with pensive intrigue. Even in the midst of war and dramatic change within the realm, they sought sight of a Queen. Perhaps she should have come in a litter after all.

Her own troops and those of the Gottfried's and Wolf's lined the street on both sides as she passed, looking to her left she noted the skirted troops of Lord Pucker and alongside them the men of Sir Rowland, Dame Lucienne and Lord Scorpio. She regarded each of the colours of the houses with pride as she passed. She noted that Lady Verita, still had not decided upon her colours, and her men yet flew only the banner of Nivemus. Perhaps the coming war would help her decide on something appropriate. The last time she had been amongst such a volume of men at arms she had been a marshal, at war with the Obsidian Isles. Now she was something else, a leader of a different type. How hard she had found it to allow others to lead in this war, but everyone had a role to play.

Ewald and Dekmar rode at her side, her shadows, ever vigilant even among such a volume of her countrymen. As she neared the end of the rows of troops, Sir Rowland stepped forward and took the reigns of her horse, guiding her forward to the gates of the ducal palace. His armor was a little more dented than when she had first seen it, he had shaved his head and in these few short months, already she noted his physique hardening from the young man who had emerged from the academy to a leader of men. Dame Lucienne stepped forward and assisted her from her horse. She was glad to see the slight noblewoman had acceded to her wishes and was dressed in a green gown not unlike her own. Lucienne had been sent to be a handmaid but was quickly proving herself as a warrior. Dame Ariadne was nowhere to be seen, Catherine had hoped she would join with Lucienne and herself, but it seemed it was not to be the case. Passing into the grounds of the ducal palace, she was joined by the military council. The men, in their full dress armor fell in an arc about her. She took Lord Ketchums arm and allowed him to guide her toward the delegation of Eponllyn's nobles.

She had never seen so many of the southern nobles before. In fact she reflected sadly, she had never visited the true homelands of Eponllyn, and with the advance of the ice, it was unlikely she ever would. Lord Ketchum quietly informed her of the names of those whom he knew, and speculated as to those he did not. They were largely dark in coloring, with striking features so unlike the paler folk of Nivemus. Her own blonde hair and pale skin, made her stand out somewhat among these nobles.

A heavily accented voice drew the room to an immediate silence:

"Catherine of Nivemus. Eponllyn bids you welcome."

Turning abruptly to her right, she saw the man, slightly shorter than she had expected, though he was seated, swarthy with a well kept beard. He wore no crown but the command his voice held over the room immediately identified him. Offering her hand she bowed her head, dipping a brief curtsey.

"King Garin, at last we meet."


Braelin and Padraig

So the old squire McManus had finally died. Catherine remembered well how the man had visited the Marshes when her despised uncle Jared had still been in tenure. The pair had drank together, gambled and whored together. She had little recollection of his wife, though as she pondered the situation, she was unsure whether to feel pity or happiness for the woman that the foul man was dead. She did remember the children a little. The eldest daughter had been friends with Kristina. That was until the father lost her in a bet and she was married off at her flowering. Strange, she couldn't even remember the girls name now... She often wondered if it was the daughters fate that had drawn Kristina to take holy orders. There was no oath of chastity in Ora's service, many of the maunts had families but Kristina wore her chastity as a shield.

And now here were the other two. Braelin McManus had always been a slightly unnerving girl, Catherine remembered her quietly on the fringes. Big eyed and watchful. She must only have been 6 or 7 at the time. She remembered her Aunt Isabel had arranged for a governess for the girl but it had been many years since she had seen or heard from her. And now she was mistress of her own estate, she would watch her progress carefully.

Padraig McManus had been the girls polar opposite. A beautiful boy, not handsome, truly beautiful. He went amongst all of the Chamberlain children entrancing them with his merry ways and his lively eyes. He had been fast friends with her half-sister Lorelai, allowing himself to be subject to numerous mock marriages at her behest. Even at 5 she remembered vividly how nobody could bear to say no to him. She and her brothers would take him everywhere with them. She even remembered taking him on her horse as they went hunting. Why he had turned up in Oberndorf rather than at the estate in Oroya was a little bewildering to her. As Dame of Oroya in what seemed a long distant life, she remembered hearing word of the squire McManus and his continued debauchery, but she heard nothing of Braelin and only fleeting wisps of Padraig, but nothing to suggest a divide in the family.

And now they were of age and would take their blades for Nivemus.

Interesting.

Aunt Isabel's Parlor

Catherine sat in her great aunts parlor. The ancient woman had been brought up in virtual captivity with Catherine's great grandmother, but had remained of pleasant humor and her generosity had done much to ensure the maintenance of some level of comfort for her father when Jared had bastardised his line.

"The maunts say your sister has rid the continent of King Atanamir"

"The maunts say a lot of things Aunt Isabel, I could drive all of my forces at Atanamir and he would find some way to prevail. Anyway he's not the King, he is only the regent now." Catherine had been hearing rumours spreading throughout the city over the past days and a sense of nervous and pervasive energy was evident.

Isabel shrugged her bony shoulder: "There are greater powers than the armies of men, Kate, you should not be so dismissive." Her aunt looked sagely across the parlor table.

"She is a priestess. Atanamir is a warrior of some note. Just how would she..."

"She is Ora's priestess Catherine, don't disregard what cannot be explained by power of steel and rending of flesh. This is Ora's land." The old woman pushed away from the table. "Catherine, a queen or Kronagos you may be, but always remember there are powers far beyond you and in the end everyone is called to answer for their sins."

She swept from the room in a turn of speed and dignity Catherine was surprised the old woman could still muster. Her cheeks reddening Catherine fingered the edge of her glass, 'queen or Kronagos' right now she felt more of a frightened child.

Kristina

Night Terrors

She had done as the dreams and nightmares had bade her, stumbling along the roads like some peasant woman she had left her men in their homeland, it was not fair that she should pull them so far from their families.

She was ill-prepared for life alone, hunger pangs made her feel light headed , her shoes chaffed at her feet. She could scarce braid her own hair. But the nightmares had been vivid. A golden haired woman with silver skin, besieged and beleaguered by lascivious dark skinned men. The woman was crying out as they hacked at her body, but no sound was emergent.

Then there was the dream of the tree, aflame with blood red glow, and always her sisters voice calling her. If she did not respond she knew Catherine was to die a meaningless death. It was this that had called her first, but now the nightmares of the ravaged woman, this was something else. Her father had always despaired at the passions of his youngest daughter. The family had thought her flighty and prone to the fanciful. She had left on a gilded litter almost entirely to prove them wrong. Now as she stumbled into the shack and was greeted by the woman in her dreams, she knew she had left for a very different reason.

The woman looked at her, a playful expression in her eyes, not even as tall as Kristina she stood before her completely naked and unashamed. Far from being abashed when the woman opened her arms, Kristina fell into them, fell into an embrace that was almost overwhelming in its intensity. The woman kissed her forehead and whispered into her ear:

"You are mine."

The Mother of Dale

An elderly maunt was cradling her head and stroking her hair as she awoke, the morning sunrise was hazy but even this made the silver white bark of the tree glow in an almost iridescent hue. There was no sign of the woman from her dreams anymore. The maunt seemed to sense her awakening and looked down at her with milky blind eyes. She smiled:

"It has been a while child, but I knew I'd find you here, she called me to watch over you in the night."

Ironic that a blind woman should watch over anyone. Kristina pushed herself up onto her elbows:

"You have been here all night?" she touched the older womans face, "why?"

The woman chuckled, a warm sound that somehow reminded Kristina of her mother. "Had I not your flower would have been plucked." Kristina's blood ran cold as she noted the 3 large figures slumped at the far side of the shack, their throats cut. Startled she lurched from the woman, noting for the first time the bloodied blade at her side. With an iron grip the maunt seized her arm as if she could see her: "This was her first gift to you child, use it wisely."

The strength in the womans hands belied her apparent frailty. She continued: "And these are my gifts to you," the maunt placed a hooded cloak on her shoulders, and offered a pair of sandals that would lace up her legs. As Kristina put them on, her mind raced, she couldn't bring herself to look again at the three men, worse still she noted with a sinking sensation, the bloodied blade was her own. She gingerly wiped i on the dew soaked grass at the base of the tree and re-sheathed it in her belt.

"How can I repay you, mother?" she asked.

The woman smiled, the benign smile of a grandmother to her grand children. "You cannot," she said wistfully, "Not yet at least." Her blind eyes swept the room and she cocked her head as if listening to some unheard voice. The maunt stood and handed Kristina a small package of food. "It is time for you to travel on, dear heart. I would come with you, but I have three sons to bury."

Bewildered Kristina backed out of the shack. Shocked and silent tears poured freely as she ran stumblingly on the road to Obando.

The Temple of Sermbar

She had been chewing the bark of the white tree steadily on the long journey from Nivemus to Sermbar. Now she took the pulped wood and laid it in the copper cradle on a bed of moss. Striking a tinder she set fire to the moss and soon the pulp was smoking a purple blue haze filling the small shack that was serving as the temple of Sermbar. She closed her eyes praying that Ora should cleanse the land and the air, that this would become a truly holy place worthy of worship. As she opened them she could see the construct. White stone walls and a roof of intertwined vines twisting around the central light well where the tree would be planted. With her bare hands she moved the soil from the spot that would be the centre of the temple. She poured the still smoking contents of the copper cradle into the hole.

The pulp glowed red as the damp wood tried to burn, but still only managed to channel purple smoke around the room. She took the sapling from her pack. It looked simply like a silver twig, budded, but so small and frail. With unseeing eyes she pushed the small roots of the tree into the smouldering pulp. There was a loud pop and a hiss as the wood met the flame, but she held her resolve and gently patted soil around the base of the tree. Placing her forehead to the soil she waited.

The maunts became restless as she remained prone and static for so long, but after three hours they gazed in wonder as first one, then a second and third golden leaves unfurled on the tree. Afine dusting of new grass surrounded the base of the tree where before had been smoking soil.

Dusting the soil from her head she stood and looked to the maunts.

"Bring me the gold."

The coffermaster, brought a small wooden chest from within the shack. She smiled at the elderly man: "Now walk with me."

She walked the boundary as she had seen it in the vision from the smoke. Dropping golden coins on the ground as she walked around what would be the temple walls. The maunts looked uneasily at the gold on the ground. So much money, thrown to the dirt. A small crowd of the faithful had gathered bearing witness to what many thought was the abject madness of the High Priestess of Nivemus. The maunts and the woman long passed, an elderly man ventured forward, one coin would not be missed.

"Is your faith so frail Jebediah Munroe." Kristina called to him, not turning or wavering from her task. The man froze fingers outstretched, then fell to his knees sobbing in embarrassment. The crowd shuffled uneasily distancing themselves from the man. She moved back to the man and looked contemplatively from him to the crowd. Their rising anger at his actions was evident. Bending down she whispered: "Ora forgives what your neighbors may not," straightening she bade him: "Go in Ora's peace, I do not think we shall meet again, Jebediah."

The man stumbled from her wishing only to go home. The crowd parted and he left shunned, even his own wife declining to look at him.

She knelt once more in what would be the entry way to the temple, eyes unseeing as she invoked the Goddess. A steely wind blew from the north west bringing with it billowing black clouds. The sky darkened as the cloud coalesced, lightening started to play among the edges of the brewing storm and the deep rumble seemed to shake the very ground. The faithful looked to the priestess and then fell to their knees in supplication to Ora. The maunts lay prostrate even the coffermaster had his face to the soil. Kristina's voice raised in the sing song strains of ancient elvish, so old the sounds were barely recognisable to the Sirionites.

The first fork of lightening hit the ground near the priestess, the smell of rising ozone clear and harsh in the air. Invoking the Goddess by all her names Kristina stood in the doorway and waited. The pressure in the air dropped and the land was enveloped in an expectant silence. A rumble like a thousand horse hooves penetrated through the ground and the static in the air made Kristinas ebon hair float upwards. The ground trembled with the volume of the thunder then lightening forked touching the ground in 100 places.

Then the storm was gone, Kristina swayed with the effort, where the coins had been were now white stone walls, gold melted into the cracks between the stones making the walls strong, already small vines clung to the base of the walls, and over time these would become the roof. The maunts remained on their knees, trembling in devotion. Kristina touched their shoulders. "Sisters we are not finished." Together they planted the staves into the ground, intertwining the ends to make the central well where the tree would grow. They placed woven hessian in the roof space to offer shelter, though Kristina knew they would soon be covered by the vines as the temple established itself in the landscape.

Exhausted she stood in the doorway, the maunts at her elbows their hands steadying her. Briefly distracted, she noted a streak of gold in her black hair, Ora was pleased and she felt a warmth beyond the sun within her soul. She looked to the awestruck faithful:

"People of Sermbar, beloved of Ora. Your temple is anointed through lightening and flame," she staggered a little catching herself on the door frame that had not been there just a few hours before. "To the glory and mercy of Ora!" She raised her hands in supplication, falling to her knees, the sun glinting from the new golden strand within her ebon hair.

The maunts ushered her quickly to the tree, she lay at its base and drifted to sleep hearing the maunts lead the faithful in songs of Ora's glory.

The Knight of Sermbar

Kristina readied herself to leave Sermbar, her few days had shown her much, but had been physically draining.

The faithful had looked to her and she had felt the mystic surges, the ebb and the flow of the faith as she channelled natures fury into the growth of the house of Ora in Sermbar. The tree had grown at an exponential rate allowing the temple to grow with it. The vine roof already blossomed. As the days had passed more of her hair had changed with streaks of gold. She had not expected to find such peaceful mysticism in Sirion after the ongoing tumult and restructuring in Nivemus that came with the war.

Her meetings with Markus had been more frequent, his hospitality had been a welcome diversion from the exhaustion she had experienced from channeling the flow. She had seen the golden seed growing within him and at night dreamt of him, his head surrounded by golden leaves.

The sapling, so recently the length of her palm, now stood 3 feet tall, a healthy crop of golden leaves. She had taken 9 leaves to represent the 9 temples and twined them within strands of the golden hair that now grew from her. When Markus announced that he wished to enter the orders she had known why she had woven this crown that she had now rested upon his head as he was annointed.

The call of Ora was now growing in Sirion, this could only be good. And so she packed her belonings and prayed one last time at the tree. She left Sermbar without fuss or show, secure in the knowledge that Ora's knight sat in the keep of Sermbar and so her people would be served all the better.

The Song of Tabost

Barefoot she walked on the circle of gold coins chanting the song of Ora as she went. The preaching had been amazing, more than 200 of the lost came to her light and now watched in awe as the ozone gathered and the pressure of the air dropped. Her ceremonial robes shone with a silver glow like the very bark of the tree. Her hair raised floating on the currents of the air, small shards of lightening playing along her strands of hair.

Raising her arms above her head lightening arced to the coins and the ground shook raising white stones from the earth in a circle. The soil fell away leaving the stones white and polished, the golden coins melted and streaked over the stones.

The maunts were ready with the staves and vines and planted them around the circumfrence. It had been so long since the power of Ora had been displayed so openly, but Kristina knew that she stalked the lands reclaiming them for her own and what had happened at the temples of Sermbar and Tabost were nothing compared to what was to come.

Kristinas voice changed and the song became ancient elvish again. Her floating hair glinted more gold as it floated around her head like a crown. Pulling her hands down the air pulled inwards swirling around her robes. The staves bent and crossed leaving the central well a star to the heavens. The vines grew readily in creeping up the staves and beginning to knit across the roof.

The song rose from her lips to a crescendo and was gone. with it the wind died and was replaced by birdsong. Falling to her knees, the maunts raised her up and laid her on a litter by the tree. Spent she slept a dreamless sleep.

The Shame of the Grey Wolf

She had been praying for many days. The Wolfs had been close friends of her family for some time, Malakor had been her knight, but twice now he had crossed the pale of what could ever have been seen as acceptable. She still remembered the martyrs of Pucallpa, the nine men and women hanged by Malakor and Maria Whale. She was yet a young priestess at the time, and allowed Malakor to make his own penance. Ora was a forgiving deity, and Kristina had been more than happy with how things had worked out. This second transgression went too far. Kristina yet remembered the Mother of Dale, how she had killed her own sons at Ora's behest to protect her chastity.

Malakor's actions had seen the death of the Mother of Gadlock.

The elderly maunt had been the first to raise hand in defence of Kristina as the soldiers had come for her. She was a simple woman, she tended the shrine and saw to the needs of the faithful. She had become grandmother to so many of the followers of Ora who had sought her advice or guidance. And now she lay beneath a patch of white flowers to the left of the shrine. Three of the junior maunts had died that day, as well as many of the townsfolk. In a way Kristina wished that Malakor had simply been allowed to take her, there would have been no loss of life, though she supposed the act may well have caused much strife amongst the faithful. No cardinal sin against the protection of the faithful could be left unpunished.

Here kneels Malakor, at the scene of his crime, stripped of his armor too ashamed to look upon Kristina. Malakai stands to the right, dressed in a simple white robe, his arms and armor left with the captain of his guard, a look of great sadness on his war scarred face. Malakors unit kneel behind him, unarmed, their arrows once blessed by Kristina's hand in Ora's name, burning in the two braziers on either side of the shrine. They had been there over an hour and Kristina was yet to speak. She did not trust her words, such was her confusion anger and sadness, furthermore this was not her justice but Ora's.

She knelt at the graveside of the Mother of Gadlock, passing her hand through the white flowers, she noted that there was dampness in the leaves, she stood raising her hand: water ran, blue white down her palm dripping from her wrist. "Behold, Ora's tears." the trickle of water poured continuously as she walked toward Malakor. Placing two fingers at her eyes, she tracked the water down her cheeks. Her hair began to float lightly from her shoulders and sparks of blue lightning played between her fingers. Kristina was gone.

Malakai stared in awe as he noted the light points developing on the priestess' ears, it seemed each time the Goddess took her, more changed she became. She turned unseeing eyes to Malakai:

"You will atone for your brother and pay your people. The vessel called you White Knight, faithful and elder. You are also an elder blood to you kin. So you share his crime. You will build a house to my name in Gadlock that the faithful can pray in peace. You shall place guards, that no man shall lay hands upon the vessel again within the lands that I entrust to your patronage. For if she is unchaste she is undone. Your brother was not of himself, he would have laid more than hands upon my vessel, I know the hearts of men and I know this is so." The voice was Kristina's, though her lips never moved and the tone seemed to echo in the heads of all who listened. "Until this is done you are elder no more. A Lord serves and protects his people, a noble of the White Tree is the branch upon which leaves flourish. Malakors actions leave you tainted and diseased. For this you will atone."

Thrusting her hand within the brazier, she pulled a charred arrow from the flames. She traced lines of ash from his eyes: "And so you shed tears of dust for your people." Malakai fell to his knees, placing his forehead to the earth.

"Malakor Wolf." His name spoken as a command, Malakor felt his head drawn up: "You would have ripened the vessel with your seed." Kristina's hand reached for his groin: "your seed will never quicken a son." In shock and embarrassment Malakor tried to pull back from the woman, but he found himself rooted in place, unable to act.

"Your words have caused the death of my faithful." Horrified Malakor felt his mouth open and his tongue slide out between his lips. Kristina pressed the charred arrow onto his tongue. Immediately it felt like it was not there. "You shall speak no words, until they be praise to My Name. You will leave your men and travel alone. You caused the death of the Mother of Gadlock and so you must become the Father of Gadlock and learn to serve without arrogance. This is my will and so it must be."

She turned from him, seeming to glide back to the braziers. Tipping the baraziers over she summoned the maunts:

"Paint him in ashes and dress him in rags that all may see the shame of the grey wolf."

The Warrior Maunt

The grey wolf knelt in silence at her approach, head bowed, face still muddied by the ashes of Gadlock. Kneeling before him she wrapped her arms around her old friend and whispered in his ear:

"Your penance is served, Ora needs swords as well as saints..."

His tongue loose, he stammered "Th-th-thankyou..." tears rising unbidden to his eyes and streaking the grey ash on his face.

Summoning the maunts she bade them bathe him and restore him.

He allowed them to pull at his clothing numbly accepting their care. Kristina turned to him: "There is something else," she tugged a silk cover revealing a glowing set of armour: "The Goddess is merciful."

Black Arts and the White Tree

The maunts shuffled uncomfortabley daring not meet her eyes.

Kristina was exhausted, her hair clung to her face and her clothing dripped with sweat.

"Tell me the words again..." she breathed, almost inaudible.

The young Mother of Gadlock pulled at her hand: "Mi'Lady, no... it is the blackest of arts... please..."

She turned unseeing eyes and pallid damp flesh to stare at the maunt: " Tell me the Dagda Witch's words... it is Ora's will..." And it was Ora's will, no matter how it weakened her with the speaking, the words must be said and said again until Ora's will was done.

The Damnation of Atanamir of Umber

The young Mother of Gadlock had found the book amongst possessions left by Solaria the Dagda witch of Obsidia. It was an Ora'n text but ancient to be sure. Handwritten in a scrawling script and a language that the maunt did not understand. Kristina had been apprehensive when she had given it to her. With her own sight the words had crawled on the page, unintelligible, but now as she looked with eyes that no longer saw the things around her the words stood clearly, glowing softly raised by a golden glow from the papyrus.

Three nights she had chanted the phrases and now the maunts whispered the words in her ears to strengthen her resolve. Gadlock had been raped repeatedly both physically and spiritually by the devourer. She could not let it happen again. Ora would show that it could not happen again.

The young Mother of Dale recited the bloodline once again and Kristina poured herself into the phrases from the book. Fatigue and hunger meant nothing, the pains within her tortured body merely strengthened her resolve. When her voice failed her it became other worldly and sang with the voices of the Great Mother and the Daughters of the Woods, the maunts would later swear that they heard a cacophony not simply the words of the priestess.

At first curious and faithful supplicants had come to see the priestess but as the days and nights merged into one it was as if a growing barrier had developed around the temple. Animals would not cross the line and the people would find themselves kneeling in the grass looking too but daring not to venture to the white stone walls.

On the fourth night there had been a blood moon, dripping red in the sky like the wounds to the land of Gadlock. On the fifth there was no moon at all, and it happened, the names began to fade from the bloodline so that they would be no more. Kristina had not been herself for some time now but as the names on the page began to burn, she herself began to shake with fatigue, her burning skin cooling rapidly and the slick sweat making her palor almost deathly. At once with the faintest wisp of smoke from the pages, the words in the book were gone. The cacophony stopped and the whole of Gadlock it seemed became silent. Her eyes rolling forward again Kristina looked up and around beginning to recognise her surroundings. Her body was gnawing at itself in pain and hunger. Taking a feverish gulp of water she looked at the young Mother of Gadlock. The girl silently nodded her head.

It was done, Atanamir and his kin could hurt them no more.

A New Sister

Catherine might be her sister and the Queen, but Ora was her liege.

She knew Catherine had treat it as some personal favor when she gifted the Oran relics to the scions of McManus, and as always the Goddess hand proved to have come to bear. Braelin had returned the ring as she knew she would, while avaricious Padraig had kept the mail. The maunts had questioned how Ora's champion was not even a worshiper of the Goddess, but Kristina knew, all of the Sons and Daughters of the Tribes were Ora's, whether they knew it or not. Then in battle Padraig had taken a King of Perdan. Between them they now counted for three of the crowns of Perdan. Ora was good.

Now she felt drawn as things were changing again. Two sisters, driving blights from the land, one with a burgeoning enlightenment. The maunts had brought tales of the Veldiaes as they had been called by the people, young women of virtue who seemed to have genuine care for the people. Now one of the sisters appeared to her in her dreams, she felt herself kneeling beside the girl before a great white throne, feeling the pain and joy of a warm sun on their necks. She was the right hand of the Goddess, the voice of the Trees, and now she turned to look at the spirit figure of Katlaina and it became like a mirror, the face of Ora looking from within their eyes seeing only the same. Had the right hand finally found the left?

The Omsk Remember

The Omsk had been the tribe to remember Ora long after the others had failed, feasting on the selfishness of humanity and its frailties. Yet now Kazakh, the city where the descendents of the Omsk continued to bear witness, was largely under the sway of the teachings of the Church of Humanity. The Church of Humanity, the most vain of vanities to preach that men should worship and give praise to themselves.

The area Lord Ketchum had chosen was what had remained of a vinyard next to the old magistrates court, the statuary indicated that the building had been Aseanian in origins, but the tumbled walls had perhaps nnever been repaired following one of the many sackings Kazakh had bourne witness too.

The shack, now tended by a young pair of maunts from Gadlock, was the most basic of temples, over time she knew it would grow with the swelling of belief within the region. For now though she turned her attention to the small twisted sapling Brock had mentioned being drawn too. It was stunted and weathered, yet had managed to persevere and grow through the cracked earth in the old vinyard. Plucking two leaves from the branches she took them to the brazier. A small crowd had gathered for the dedication of the temple. As she led them in prayer, she dropped the leaves into the flames and watched them spark a brief red flame.

Regarding the tree again, the trunk had straightened and the bark fell away as a fine dust to reveal a white barked sapling with golden leaves. Krisitina smiled and gave thanks to the Goddess.

Duty and Faith - Catherine and Kristina

Roleplay from Catherine Chamberlain

Although the progress was slow, Catherine was enjoying being outside of the city walls once again and in the company of her soldiers. As they stopped to break fast in the outskirts of Bruck, she counted more than 20 camp fires that cooked the salted meats brought from Ashforth on this journey. Her banners formed a perimeter and some of the more technically minded of her men were adjusting the yokes and gears on the forbidding bulk of the seige engines.

This was the company she truly understood, the men in the field. The sounds of carousing and boastful exploits drifting from the various fires, of blades being sharpened and training bouts between the green horns as they attempted to prove their skills. Her thoughts were interrupted by Ekhart. The old man was capable enough but she did not find herself warming to him so readily as she had Ewald and Dekmar.

"Your sister approaches." He announced bluntly. "She and her maunts have been spotted three miles to the west. Would you have me send an escort to bring her into the camp?" Catherine's stomach dropped. There were so many rumours currently about her sister and what she had or had not done to the bloodline of Atanamir of Umber, she didn't really want her in the camp amongst her men. Really she wasn't ready to see her, but what she wanted and what she needed were two very different things.

At first Catherine had ignored the rumours of her sister's exploits, but only that very morning she had received word from a new king of Perdan, Atanamir and his Queen were indeed gone, and there seemed no explanation as to why. Belief in such a mystical reasoning was a step on the road to theocratic governance, the rule of faith and of fear. It was a road that Catherine could not conscionably allow to happen. She pulled herself into the saddle quickly. Dekmar and Ewald dropped their food and moved to join her.

"No, friends, stay and finish your meal."

"We are not in Nivemus territory Kronagos," Ekhart stated. "I won't be the captain that allowed the Queen to ride off into who knows what danger."

"When I fear my sister and her maunts, I should not be Kronagos." She spurred her faithful mare past the man and set off at a steady pace through the camp.

But she did fear her sister now. She feared the stories and the influence those stories could have on the people of Nivemus. If she had truly removed Atanamir, what else was she capable of. Already her sister had presided over a spread in the faith of Ora that had seen Her worship double and more, and although this could only be seen as a good thing, she acted outside of the conventions of nobility. The priesthood had changed her and there were no garuantees to her fealty beyond that to Ora herself.

Roleplay from Kristina Chamberlain

She had slept for two days in the temple of Gadlock. The maunts had cleansed her and nourished her with sips of broth as she slept a dreamless sleep. Still weak from her exertions she had not expected Catherine to call her from Gadlock. Still she knew the call would come some time and she left as bidden. As she and her maunts had travelled from the temple the peasants had lined the roads kneeling for benediction. Kristina smiled. Ora had delivered Gadlock from the devourer, not Nivemus, or Sirion or any of the Kingdoms of men, Ora had achieved what none of them could ever have hoped. All would know that faith and true devotion were more powerful than the mightiest blade and all of the armies of the world.

She had dressed herself in the Chainmail of Ashforth, for now she was truly Ora's knight and champion, so much more than a priestess, the grey wolf had said she would know the right place for the mail to rest and he was right, it was her shoulders. The silver had shone in the sunlight with an almost otherworldly glow.

After a few hours travel she left Gadlock altogether. Crossing the border into Bruck she could already see her sisters host some miles off. She had seen the out-riders depart in the direction of the camp, no doubt announcing her arrival. She was not entirely sure how she would greet Catherine. She imagined there would be some formal welcome where Catherine would offer the thanks of the nation for her actions against the devourer. Perhaps it was the time that Catherine would finally swear fealty to her. One of the maunts interjected on her thoughts:

"There's a rider coming this way M'Lady."

"Just one?" Kristina was puzzled, she had expected an escort of stature to take her to her sister's camp. "Colours?" she asked.

"Your sisters," the maunt replied, it was most likely one of her bodyguards, Ewald or Dekmar.

Roleplay from Catherine Chamberlain

Catherine pushed back the hood of her cloak. Her sister looked surprised, but quickly made to disguise her shock with a smile of expectation. Dismounting she handed the reigns of her horse to one of the maunts. After a moment of unsure hesitation she moved to embrace Kristina.

"It is good to see you well, sister, I have heard such tales." But she did not look well, she remained pallid and thin. Her green eyes slightly feverish. And she was armoured, she had not seen Kristina in armour for years. She continued: "you are wearing mail sis... wait, is that the Brilliant Chainmail of Ashforth.." She pushed back Kristina's cloak to reveal the softly glowing blessed mail. "You can't... that is the Grey Wolfs armour, the Knight of Ora."

Kristina pushed her sister back from her: "I am Ora's Champion, I have bested the devourer, I have achieved more than you and your army without raising any more than my voice." She shrugged back her cloak placing her hands on her hips: "I have earned the right to wear this armour and all who see me shall know that I am a warrior of faith."

Her sister looked ill beyond words, Catherine feared more than ever before for her very sanity. As she was, she looked neither beautiful or young, she looked tired, exhausted in fact, haunted and haughty. Taking her by the hands as she had so often as a child she pulled her toward a felled tree and sat down: "Can we talk?"

Kristina's eyes filled with unbidden tears and she slumped on the tree trunk in exhaustion. The words began to tumble from her mouth: "It was awful Kate, I felt it happen. I felt them... felt them.. I don't know, unbeing. It was worse than death, it was simply nothing... Seeeing you today makes me think what if the Dagda witch had done it to you, what if you were unmade..."

She realised in that moment it mattered little whether she believed her sister had caused the disappearance of Atanamir and his kin, it was enough that Kristina believed it herself. Catherine cupped her sisters cheek: "The Dagda witch was misguided, she had no real power or the words in that book would have been read years ago... You are Ora's vessel. It must be hard for you..."

Kristina pulled back: "It's an honor... I am blessed." Catherine could cry to see her sister so forlorn and alone in the world. She had always been a little jealous of Kristina's easy charm and grace; only in this very second did she realise how both of them were sitting atop lonely thrones, almost isolated from one another let alone the rest of the world by the duties and lives they had crafted. Hugging her closely she realised how seldom she experienced true human comfort, and how few people with whom she could share moments like this. Perhaps one day she would be allowed to give herself to her Wolf, but the throne had room for only one and who knew how long she would sit alone.

"You are Ora's vessel," she repeated, stroking her sister's hair. "I have 1000 swords that would be Her Champion." She sat back from her sister: "You are not here to fight the wars of men, you are a guide, you fight for the spirits, the souls... and this..." she tugged lightly at the sleeve of the chainmail: "this is not yours to wear. You make yourself a target in such garb. Faith is your shield, not Ora'n silver." Kristina looked down at herself doubtfully.

Catherine continued: "Do you remember the McManus brood?" Kristina looked up a little bewildered.

"I loved Marin... but I must say that is a name I had not thought to hear again... why?"

Catherine realised how distant Kristina had become from the day to day life in Nivemus, Braelin had made efforts to secure the seat in Gadlock while Kristina tarried at the temple: "Squire McManus has died and the children have taken their places..."

Kristina immediately lightened with a hopeful look in her eyes: "Marin...?"

Catherine shook her head: "Braelin and Padraig" she answered, "they are in Bruck. I would have your help in something... Something that will tell me much..."

Roleplay from Kristina Chamberlain

Bruck was in chaos. Soldiers ransacked the buildings and the peasantry sported all types of injuries as they were pulled from homes nad businesses. Kristina and her maunts had managed to arrive unheralded in the settlement and had made their way to the tavern. The old building seemed to be one of the few places able to retain its function amidst the chaos that surrounded it. Settling in a booth, she and the maunts seemed to be given an essentially wide berth by the nobles, perhaps because of the rumours that had spread so quickly following her actions against Atanamir. She kept her counsel and her hood pulled close so as not to draw unwanted attention.

The nobles of Nivemus seemed to be using the hostelry as a base camp from which they co-ordinated what seemed largely random and violent activities in the streets. Baron Ketchum looked tired to her eyes, having seen him often on the battlefield, she could tell that this was not the way he would choose to fight a war. She did not need to wait long to see Padraig McManus. the beautiful boy she had remembered had grown into a rather beautiful man. he was very like his sister Marin in colouring. Unlike the General, Padraig seemed to be thriving on his activities in Bruck. The young man entered the tavern with some of his men, joking loudly about what he had just done. Taking his blade he wiped the blood onto the skirts of one of the serving girls.

Braelin had enetered much later with Lady Lucienne. She seemed altogether more businesslike in her demeanor as her eyes scanned the room. Kristina remembered the watchful child Braelin had been and noted that where others had avoided looking to the maunts, Braelin appraised them briefly before turning back to Lady Lucienne.

Once they had left Kristina took the two chests to the serving girl. "Be sure that these chests reach their intended" She wrote a quick note: To the Scions of McManus,

May these gifts help to show others your true nature as the champions of Ora and defenders of the faith. May they bow before you in realisation that you carry the favour of the Goddess in all of your affairs. If you have need of me you will find me at the shrine of Bruck. This is the Brilliant Chainmail of Ashforth, once worn by the Gray Wolf of Pucallpa, it is the mail of Ora's Champion. And this ring is Ucduah's Ring of Command. Crafted in Oroya with a stone of Amber from the Great White tree itself.

May Ora's blessings shine upon you.

She pressed a silver Oran into the girls hand and left.

Hadrian

The Library of Chateau Saffalore

He sat in the vaulted antechamber of the once great library of Chateau Saffalore. Even here the books, chronicling the rise and fall of the empires of Dwilight, and scrolls of the many letters and notes sent between nobles over the years. The battles to establish the republic and its systematic failures and ruin. The book keeping slowly diminished following the reign of Maloudi, his cramped notes the last of Terran's times. Where were they all now he wondered. Duke Pablo, Lady Aurea, black LaPointe and brave Lord Lux, he even found himself thinking of that strange rat featured woman, Kwa Comacho.

The librarian had called upon him as the roof had failed and a veritable deluge had washed through the archives obliterating the histories. It didn't matter. Terran's memory was just that, a memory. He knew he was spending too much time alone with only his own thoughts and the occasional missive from Harim Belios to divert him. He thought more of the past and less of the future than had ever been the case before. he lingered on Terran with less and less thought of Phantaria. His mother had always chastened him for spending too long with his own thoughts. "Life is for the living, not regrets and reflections on things that cannot be changed" - She had had much to contend with herself, yet she had managed her own fate and lived a comfortable life back in Dale.

Dale, it was the place he had always struggled to leave, even his beloved twin sister was not incentive enough for him to stay. Catherine had stayed of course, and had done well for herself it would seem distinguishing herself in war as the Marshal of the army. Kristina, his youngest sister, a woman who he barely claimed to know, was a Countess and a High Priestess to boot. His mother wrote to him of them both with great pride. They fought for his homeland. Terran had been his choice, his adopted home, Phantaria had been the continuation of a set of ideals that now seemed consigned to a nobler time. He was Margrave of a ruin, refugees sheltered in broken buildings, the great bazaar was now a group of street hawkers. He remembered vividly the first days he had set foot in this city, the pride and wonder he had felt as he walked down the promenades of the central square. Colonnades and statues of the great leaders were adorned in the parks.

Now it was a city of shadows and squalor, his initial efforts to restore the city had been met with cautious approval by the natives, but they knew as well as he that it would take many years and a much larger coffer than he possessed to see the restoration of even a quarter of the land mass and structures. The few merchant ships came and went as ghostly giants in the bay of the city. He remembered as a youth working the shipping lines, trying to make money to support his family. It was then that he had first gazed in wonder at the minarets of the chateau and seen the bustle of the city. It was those images and that memory he wanted to have, the grand days of Old Terran not the degradation of the city as she now stooped under the weight of cloudy skies.

Through the broken wall of the library he could see the sea, the white sails of the merchant vessels full of promise as they approached the bay. Perhaps today he would set out again, look to the horizons. Perhaps he would go home for a time.

He rolled the scroll before him and gave it to the librarian:

"It is complete Aaron," he pressed a gold coin into the hand of the librarian and left.

Aaron looked at the scroll, 'Reflections on Phantaria by Hadrian Chamberlain'.

The Margrave had been working on this opus for many weeks, unscrewing the cap, Aaron removed it from its case, unfurling a single crisp sheet of paper with but two words:

'We tried'

Angus

Four Rooms

The house was very grand, Charlotte ran from room to room looking through windows of real glass. Dorath, the old woman he had paid to care for his daughter, placed their meager possessions in the room with the bed. How Angus would have loved to show Myrna this place. She had been dead 6 years, but still he missed her. It was she who had driven him to become a sell sword and to work to better himself. Now it all seemed worthwhile.

Dorath busied herself lighting a fire: "These are good rooms Angus. The Earl must think well of you." The fire crackled merrily to life. "Four whole rooms for just the three of us, we might not see each other from one end of the day to the other." She grinned her toothless smile and settled into a seat by the fire, tucking foul smelling tobacco into a bone pipe. "An Charlotte could go to be schooled like a lady now."

His daughter was wild, she was brave like her mother, but had the colouring of the East Island where he had been born and raised. Since beginning his life as a sell sword, he had seen less and less of the girl, and it had been almost six months since he had last been home. Now aged 8 she had adopted many of Dorath's less endearing habits, smoking a bone pipe and even wearing trousers at times when foraging for roots. She had been mistaken for a boy at times. A lady's education could only be a good thing.

The house had its own small garden and Charlotte had been foraging for roots. Angus placed the cooking pot on the fire. "I speared a coney, a coney on my own land Dorath, can you imagine such a thing." He set to skinning the creature.

"Grand indeed, Angus, grand indeed," the old woman muttered between puffs on her pipe.

Their reverie was interrupted by a sharp rap at the door, he knew it had all been too good to be true. He opened it to find a man in arms with his daughter struggling to pull away from him.

"Are you the gatekeeper?" the man began "I caught this urchin stealing from your patch."

"You are mistaken, sir, this is my daughter, and this is now our home. I am Angus Chamberlain." Wiping the rabbit blood from his hands he extended his hand to the man at arms. The soldier looked aghast.

"Sir Angus, my apologies." He dropped to one knee. "I did not think to find you in the gatekeepers cottage, Sir, the household have been awaiting your arrival at the manse for many hours."

Dorath's mouth dropped open and the bone pipe clattered to the floor.

The Garderobe

"No, no... I don't follow." Angus muttered perplexed, he looked to Dorath.

The old woman nodded sagely. "In my room, I use it as my smoking closet. Have a smoke empty the pipe down the hole. Gets a bit cold mind you. Young Miss Charlotte uses it for spittin' the black, most unsavory and wasteful when we has so many nice bowls in the house she could use if I would be so bold Sir."

"Just Angus, Dorath." He eyed the hole suspiciously. It was stone, round and deep, but too narrow to crawl through. "It drops straight down to the ground, a small man, perhaps a pygmy or gnome could climb through such a hole in the night and attack us all in our beds."

"Gods protect us! Think of Imps weezlebugs and snazzledragons, Sir Angus, my poor dear Granny was had by one of them snazzledragons, bit her on the ladies particulars, and she was never quite the same." Dorath looked wistfully into the distance. Angus shuddered at the thought. He had seen many monsters in his life as a sell-sword but was yet to come across Dorath's fabled snazzledragons, he would question their existence, but Dorath's great-uncle had been a sage, so her knowledge of such things went without question. "Perhaps we could have a light in the hole, then I could do some knittin' while I has a smoke. And we all know that weezlebugs won't come through a hole when they sees a light." She gummed at the bone pipe thoughtfully.

Angus ushered her from the closet closed the door and placed a chair against it. "I just don't understand why you would build such a vulnerable thing into so many of the rooms. It just isn't safe. I need to speak to Vargas about it."

Vargas had been the head of the household guard at the manse for many years. Before Sir Angus it had lain unoccupied, but Vargas had taken pride in preservation of the house. He had hoped that the arrival of someone highborn would have elevated both himself and the Manse. He was sadly disappointed by Sir Angus. Dorath ushered him into the room. Angus was perched on the seat he had placed against the closet door, sword in hand, ready. Dorath bobbed her version of a curtsey as she returned: "I brung Mr Vargas, Sir" She laughed coquettishly as she looked at the older man then went to stand beside Angus.

He tapped the door of the closet with his sword: "What's this about then Mr Vargas. It seems most unsatisfying to me have a hole a pygmy assassin..."

"Or an imp!" Dorath interjected.

"Yes or an imp could climb through in my bedroom. If I want fresh air I could leave the door open." Angus finished.

"The garderobe, Sir?" the older man asked.

Angus rolled his eyes in disbelief: "You wouldn't need a guard on that closet if it weren't for that ruddy great hole."

"No, no Sir, you misunderstand." With a sigh Vargas explained the purpose of the garderobe to his Lord. When he finished:

"And I pays someone to shovel it up?" Angus asked incredulously. Looking down at the small trowel he had looped to his belt, as all well brought up men had he shook his head. "That's just not natural."


Why Nobles Have Fat Arses

Angus sat using his blade to furrow the dirt from behind his nails. Was this why he had worked so hard to improve himself? - To sit idly in a region, governing a group of men who sat equally idly. No wonder so many men of breeding were fat.

Perhaps he would get a dog, something he could walk or train when he had so little to do - Would that he could go back to his old ways, he would be hunting the region, fighting the monsters who disturbed the peoples sleep at night. Angus had known solitude, he had known hardship, he had known what it was to be battered bloody by a group of monsters, know he was learning what it was to be bored witless. - But at least he had clean nails.


In Tolhuar

Angus unrolled the parchment and studied it's blankness for several ponderous minutes. Finally dipping pen in ink, he painstakingly began to write:

Dear Dorath,

Many thanks for the socks you knitted for me and the boys, we are all wearing them in most regular fashion, it being so bloody cold up here. Young Tom says he hasn't never seen such a lovely pair of socks since his old mum got the pocks and stopped seeing so well. It is good also to hear that the Lady Charlotte has finally given up the chewing tobacco and will be going to school as a true young lady should. I am sending with this letter a hat what I found in a great market in Azzal. It is a most fine hat and has feathers upon it from some bird or other. I am also sending you a bottle of fine scent what Tom says the ladies he met by the docks wears. I know how you likes the sea...

The nib of the quill split sending dark splodges of ink across the page. Angus dabbed at them with his blotter and found a new quill.

Things has been changing somewhat a lot nower-days Dorath. Happens that we has lots of new nobles in the lands what are fond of being quite rude to one another. Even the ladies can be a bit forward which as your nan always said is not the croquettish way to behave if you wants to get a good highborn husband. It seems Sir Miskel Sir, don't get on over well as like with a lots of these new people and there is more argy bargy than at the 'Fat Cock' on a payday. And some of the language can be pretty choice too.

He chewed the feather thoughtfully:

"You a'right down there boy?" He asked the scribe.

"Sir, if you wanted to write a letter I would happily take notes from you." The boy replied straightening stiffly.

Angus chuckled to himself: "Don't be silly boy, if you was taking the notes what would I have to lean on? Now bend over so's I can finish making my writing." The scribe crouched before Sir Angus and the knight spread the parchment once more across the boys back, this was not what he had expected when he had been trained at the monastery to be a scribe.

Me an the Brothers is now in a place called Tolhuar. I didn't visit Darka so much in the past on account of their judge shipping me back to Talerium and threatening me person if I returned. It is a nice enough place but ruddy cold on account of the great big wall of ice that can be seen to the north. I must say as I have never seen so much ice before, it must be 50 feet high and has moved over the lands of the North and basically squashed 'em. Worse again is the plagues of Ice trolls and demons that comes off the wall. They are nasty great buggers, (pardon my language) looking to cause mischief. Sir Miskel Sir, led us as what is in Tolhuar into battle and the Brothers did well felling many of the beasts. But now I am in my tent and planning to stay here as it seems there is some custom of pouring drinks on men who perform well in battle. As you well know I took a bath last month and such an act against my person would be most unwelcome.

Tomorrow I has decided to use my second best weapons so's that they don't feel the need to throw their drinks at me.

Anyways, I must be off as I need the privy and in the battle I lost my best trowel, so I shall have to find another one quick smart.

Give Charlotte a kiss from her Dad and say 'Hello' to Vargas and the other servants for me.

Angus.


He rolled the parchment and the scribe stood achingly. Angus passed the gifts and the letter to the boy.

"Now if you'd just lend me your trowel, I would like some time to myself."

From the Tourney

He summoned Tom to his tent.

"Bend over lad" the boy groaned at his masters request.

"Please, Sir Angus, that's not what you pay me for... I had my training in the monasteries of Massilon... please allow me to..."

"I pays you to do as your told, lad, now bend over whilst I prepares myself."

Tom reluctantly bent over placing his hands around his shins: "But you aren't using my skills... I'm developing kyphosis, and I'm only 14..."

"Can't say I rightly know what that is but it sounds nasty... I'll give you a penny and you can go see about that."

Tom huffed in irritation: "Sir, you don't need a scribe you just need a table"

"Now lad, I think well more of you than a table. A table can't help me make my spellings or help me with fine words like kyphosis, whatever that is. All gentlemen have a scribe to help them make their writing. And a better scribe I could not wish for. Now bend over while I make this letter to Dorath."

Dear Dorath,

Just thought I would say hello. "Hello". And let you know I has reached the tournament grounds safe and well. It is most grand and I have been invited by many of the high born to join them for drinks. Now Dorath you and I both knows that I am happy to be drinking a small beer at the end of a good days rabbiting or such the like, but these lot is drinking from dusk till dawn then back again. I have even seen some women drinking to excesses and I don't mean a small port and radish.

Anyways when they arentn't drinking many of these fine and good try to show off their skills. It is most amusing at times and I have had occasion to laugh at the way they dally like Aunt Daisy with a sword. Of course I may be proved very wrong but a lots of these high borners seems to think fancy dancy with their swords makes em great with them. Now I am not one to criticises as you well know Dorath as many a time I have heard you say: "Angus you are not one to criticise" and I know I agreee that I am not. But I would worry greatly for them should they come on a horned weeve-rat or some undead harpy or other as I do not think their sword play would save their skins. As like as not those who is truly the best with their blades does not show such displays before the true fighting of the tournament begins. No doubt I shall be forced to eat my words when I am knocked on my unmentionable by one of these dandys.

Anyways I digresses from my point. I has done something a wee little bit silly and entered the jousting tournament as well as the sword-fighting. Seems as like as not that I should need to ride upon a horse for this jousting, while wearing my armour and trying to knock another man, (or woman!) off their horse with a great long stick. I remembers hearing about such things when I lived with my Aunt Mayim, but I can't says I have seen such a display. And as you knows I am not one for horses. I would prefer a donkey but happens I will need to use a horse on the day. I am going to practice my riding by getting Tom to carry me on his back while I try to balance a ruddy great stick on his head. I know all gentlemen have scribes, but I pays him 3 pennies a week so's I can write on his back and he can carry my letters. To be perfectly honest I was always happy carrying my own letters in the past, and a table would not wriggle quite as much as Tom when I am trying to make my writing. But I supposes this is the highborn way.

How is everything going with the move, I bets Mr Vargas was pleased as punch when I managed to convince Sir Frosty Sir to allows him to come with us to Ixcan. I am quite sure he has a soft spot for you Dorath, he was certainly making eyes at you when you wore that lovely new dress you had made with all those fancy birds, farm animals and fruit on it, and that straw hat with the vegetables - that was indeed a fine hat. Not much in the way of gifts to be found round here Dorath, but I have managed to find you this nice dancing lady playing a lute, with a skirt all made of green grass. The peddler says you puts it on your cart and whiles you is driving along the lady dances and looks like she is actually playing the lute. I am sure many would pay to see such an item. How is the Lady Charlotte? Has you managed to convince her that it would not be altogether seemly as like as not to takes her pet goat with her to the young ladies academy. Miss Pryatt was quite insistent about it. As like as not the other ladies would be jealous to see her riding on her very own goat.

Anyways I must get to me jousting practicing, though I fully expect to be knocked on me unmentionable, it is best to try and make the bests of a situation.

Give Charlotte a kiss from her dad, and tell Mr Vargas hello from me.

All the best,

Angus

He leaned back folding the paper and sealing it with wax. Tom straightened painfully: "I'll take your letter and the... gift, now then sir?" the boy made move to leave: "Unless there is anything else sir?"

Angus took a broom from the bucket at the side of his tent. "Actually boy there is one more thing you could do... if you'd just bend over"

Redheads

Angus had developped a deep black stain in the right hand corner of his mouth. Young Tom had left some weeks ago, having developed such a curve in his spine he was well able to see his own fat behind and had joined a speciality circus... whatever that meant. Angus hadn't bothered with another scribe. Tom had complained so much in the last weeks of his job Angus heartily resented paying 3 pennies to such an ingrate. He'd decided to get his squire to help make his writing, but the scale armour on his hauberk made his words all bumpy so he'd soon given that up too. Instead he would sit at table and make his own words as was intended for a man.

Spelling was a problem, he had chewed through many an inked quill while trying to find the rights or wrongs of a word and so the stain at his mouth became almost indelible.

He carefully rolled out the parchment and placed stones on the corners. Dipping his quill he began to write:

Dear Dorath,

I hope you are keeping well and that your wedding plans are proceeding as is proper. I am still most surprised that Mr Vargas treated you as he did and that he managed to give a woman of your vintage a bun in the oven. My Aunt always tol' me that most women stops their blossoming in her 40's and heres you notching your seventieth and Mr Vargas has made you ripe. Tis a good thing that the man has agreed to make honest on his debauchery. I am only pleased the Lady Charlotte doesn't know of these happeningses as she would like as not have gelded him most severely.

How is my little sweet Lady, I hears that Miss Pryatt was not overly impressed as like that she had gone rattin in the young ladies academy grounds. I wroted to Miss Pryatt and saids to her that should she find it more ladylike, she should have given Lady Charlotte a crossbow rather than her having to use a sling. Myrna was always good with a sling, she could hit a rat at 40 paces even when she'd had a small beer or two. And theres was noone could roast a rat like Myrna neither. Miss Pryatts cook seems as like as not been unable to cook up the rats an I was wonderin would you sends her some recipes from Myrna's old books so's not to waste young Charlotte's efforts in the future.

Anyways, I digresses again. I'm at another tournament don't you know. There's near enough 90 of the great and goods this time, though currently most of em seem to be preferring the drinking to the training. The young ladies makes me feel quite the old man. They is forward and approaching men flicking their curly wot-nots and showing their unecessaries. One such woman spent many a merry hour tossing about her bright red hair, (a colour most un-natural if you was arsking me) and laughing too loudly at the words of any man who seems to look at her, even good Sir Sven seems to has been sharing space with her if you gets my meanings. I have done my best not to look at her too long as it may cause me to meet some mischief or flame haired beguileyness.

I am yet to face a woman at these tournaments, and to be honest I am not sure what I would do if I dids. I never raised a hand to Myrna, and appart from the odd clip I has never beaten Lady Charlotte neithers. I has decided to pretends they are all men with make ups and such, a bit like your cousin Albert. It would not do to not fight them, but it just seems wrong as like as not that I will.

Anyways we'll see what comes in the morning.

I am sending you this rather marvelous thing what I found in the marketplaces here. It is a fantastic orb with a pottery snow demon insides it. When you shakes it it looks like what its snowing, just like it does in the North. Anyways I thought you'd like it.

Give Charlotte a kiss from her Dad and say "Hello" to Mr Vargas.

Angus


He carefully folded the letter and sealed the papers with wax. Looking up he saw the red haired woman laughing loudly with another man. He quickly turned his eyes to his glass in case she saw him.