The Ashbury Times
January
– April 613
“All The News That Fits, We Print”
THE FALL OF ICENIA
The following bard stories have been
told around the kingdom recently. The
Ashbury Times can neither confirm nor deny the accuracy of these stories. Readers should be cautioned.
The Wake
“Colin Hendry is dead.”
The remaining Knights of Falkirk, covered in dirt and blood, grieved.
“Sheila Hendry is dead.”
The remaining Knights of Falkirk, covered in tears and bandages, drew
their swords. Once, not so long ago, the death of the Duke and Duchess would
merit polished steel and choreographed salutes. This salute was arrhythmic,
swords being lifted as high as its wielder had strength left to give.
Some swords did not rise and never would again.
“Their bodies are lost in the north of Ross. We cannot retrieve
them. Not yet.”
Dame Keegan lowered her blade. The assemblage followed suit, but no one
sheathed their weapon. She looked to the Barons, equally coated in the dark mud
and the misty rain. They had hidden in this rocky valley in south Ross to
receive good news from the Warlord of Falkirk.
She had none to deliver.
“You’re in command now, Warlord Keegan. What do we
do?” asked Dame Bonnie Bannock, Baroness of Stirling.
“We rally all Ducal forces and press
from keep to keep. How many are left?”
“Not enough, Keegan. Not enough at all. We don’t have the
riders and support to maintain the Ducal Army. It is now a fool’s errand and
you’ll be killed as surely as Colin was,” said Sir Gavin Ross,
Baron of this blood and rain soaked land.
Keegan glared at Ross, “We will maintain it. We will continue to
fight as we always have, Ross. We can find the soldiers and the arms.”
Ross did not agree and neither did his soldiers. A rustle of hands
filling with weapons issued forth from the Ross Guard.
“Now, Gavin?” Keegan did not flinch, “Of all times, you pick
now for rebellion?”
Malcolm Argyle, now Baron of Argyle after his father was butchered by
Ogres, lifted his hand. The Ross Guard lowered their weapons yet again.
“Dame Keegan, Ross is stupid, but he’s not wrong. The Ducal
Army is too rigid to fight against Ogres. The Ogres move in open formation and
have elemental support. They can be anywhere. Our lines continue to get smashed
from all sides. We need to be mobile, we need to be smaller.”
Ross lifted the iron-bound book he had been carrying since he arrived,
“Clan Rule, the way of
“I suppose you’ll be taking Ross and it’s warriors
for your own then,” asked Argyle.
“Boy, they have always been mine. They needed no king to tell
them so,” growled Ross. Murderous passion still hung in the air about his
men and the promise of bloodshed was a tempting one.
The Warlords of Ross
“Aye, now we have these bastards on the run!”
Gavin Ross climbed up onto his horse, where the battlefield seemed a
grotesque garden of carved corpses. The colors of Clan Tolmie
were stained brown in the mud and the blood, with only the occasional fallen
Ross Guard soldier among them.
Calum Tolmie, chained and beaten, was driven forward by armored
Ross warriors before the elated warlord.
“
Calum
fell to his knees, barely able to look up at his captor, much less stand. Ross
leaned forward in his saddle to sneer at him. After a moment of reflection,
Ross signaled to the Guard Captain. Without a moment’s hesitation, the
armored fist of the Captain slammed into Calum’s
face. Muddy water splashed where his head hit the ground.
“I have some very talented healers in my clan. I also have hot
water, clean clothing and warm tents. All of these things are available to you.
Conditionally, of course.”
The Captain pulled Calum back up to his feet.
Calum glared up at Ross through swollen eyes.
“I don’t care.”
Ross frowned. “
“All lands south of my arse.”
The Captain slugged his armored fist into Calum’s
stomach. Calum gasped in pain and dropped again. The
Captain hauled him back up. Ross dismounted his horse and drew his blade. He
pressed its worn edge against Calum’s face and
cut. The ragged sword opened a bleeding gash.
Calum
didn’t flinch.
“What do you want,
“You called in this storm, Gavin,” Calum
whispered. “You called for Clan Rule. This disorder is all on you. You
wanted the strong to survive and prosper. We are all nothing but petty warlords
and conquerors now.”
“We are
Ross took a step back and raised his blade in both hands. With a
contempt-filled snarl he brought the blade down.
There was a ring of steel on steel and Ross stumbled aside, disarmed.
The Captain of the Guard’s blade ran him through the torso.
The Captain’s helm dropped to the ground. Gabriela Tolmie, armored in Ross Guard colors, stepped forward to
retrieve her blade. Calum limped his way behind her.
“You still hit like a runaway carriage, Gabby,” Calum said, kneeling next to Gavin Ross. “Gav, you taught me to be a warlord, despite how many times
I asked you to teach me to be a knight. It seems like I learned something after
all.”
Gabriela pulled her sword from Gavin Ross’ sternum, “We’ll
be taking Clan Ross for ourselves. With Clan Tolmie
and Clan Ross joined Calum and I will be the true
warlords of Ross, Gavin. You called in this storm. Welcome to Clan Rule, fool.”
Pyres over Argyle
Piles of coarse firewood, made wet by the morning dew, lay in twin rows
alongside the Battlefield of Cairns. It seemed almost ironic to burns bodies in
a place named for its burial stones, but Malcolm Argyle was too tired to care.
Malcolm trudged wearily between the funereal mounds and he could smell
the aromatic pines dispersed into them. The scent stirred old memories of his
grandfather’s funeral, when he was just a boy. Some still called him
“boy,” but those people had not yet been put to the edge of his
blade or the edge of his mind.
The Arms of Argyle marched from victory to victory in the name of their
Lord Malcolm, but each battle bored him more and more. Death had not yet
challenged him.
At the end of the pyre rows stood a mound twice as large as the rest
and his father lay atop it. In death, Shylock Argyle looked nothing like the
passionate man Malcolm knew. His father’s spirit had truly gone. Perhaps,
the Registrar would issue the late Baron and his Knights a place of honor at
his table. Perhaps, they would feast for eternity as heroes of
Who cared? Who bloody cared? Perhaps, just perhaps, none of this
mattered, thought Malcolm.
While the Falkirks fought against everything
within sword’s reach the Marwolaeth claimed
more lives under their iron-shod boots. They were losing… and losing was
not supposed to be part of a
A rider galloped down the pyre rows and stopped a respectful distance
from the Baron’s body. As the rider dismounted, Malcolm spoke,
“Ashbury, Brittington, or Evorra?”
“I’m sorry, my lord, but what?” The rider shook the
mist off his cloak and approached the bleary-eyed Argyle.
“From whence is your news, rider?”
The rider looked at Malcolm suspiciously, “Not a one of those, my
lord. I have news from Dame Gabriela. Why would you expect news from the other
Duchies?”
“No reason, friend. Just guessing,” Malcolm slurred. A
gripping tiredness was overtaking him and the tranquility of the funereal site threatened
to calm his spirit to sleep.
“My lord, my news is to be kept confidential. May I humbly
request that you ask your healer to leave?”
Malcolm looked up at the rider as a sudden alarm filled him. He
followed the rider’s gaze to a black-robed, hooded figure standing just
to the side of his father’s pyre.
“That is not my healer. Summon my Knights. Hurry.”
The rider did not hesitate to mount his horse and thunder off to the
nearby encampment.
“Your father’s Knights will not be needed, boy.”
Malcolm drew his sword. He knew that voice.
“Gavin Ross, you are a murderer and a villain. How dare you stand
in the honored presence of the Baron of Argyle in disguise?”
Ross reached up slowly and lowered the hood. The appeared as sleepless
as Malcolm felt. His eyes were sunken his features sagged, but there was a
difference beyond age and over-exertion. Two black triangles, points down, were
marked under Ross’ eyes.
“You speak of disguises, boy, but I see a lad in his
father’s coronet pretending to be a Baron.”
“Why have you come here? Mockery could not be your only desire,
but I would not put it against you.”
Ross looked up to the dead form of Shylock Argyle, “I knew your
father very well, Malcolm. He was a fierce man. I fought by his aside several
times even before we were both Barons. I wish he were alive so that I may make
the offer to him, but you’ll do. Come with me.”
Malcolm’s confusion was apparent.
“Yes, boy, come with me. I have met the commander of the Marwolaeth and he is just. I have joined his army as a
Knight of Tranquility. He will happily accept you as well. None of this world
matters, Malcolm. Only death will give it meaning.”
Malcolm’s heart understood Ross’ words and he immediately
felt guilty for knowing. It’s true he didn’t believe that the world
deserved to live, but was this form of annihilation merited?
No. It wasn’t.
Death will give it meaning? No. The challenge of death will give it
meaning.
Malcolm felt a stubborn pride within, a pride born of countless brushes
with death only to emerge victorious again and again. If Death itself wished to
sue for peace, then Malcolm Argyle would dog the coward himself and stab it in
the night.
“No. My answer is no, Ross. Summon your master. Tell him that
Malcolm Argyle is waiting for him.”
Ross nodded, “I was wrong about you, boy… I mean, Malcolm.
You’ve got your father’s spirit after all.”
The sound of riders rumbled like
“My Lord Argyle, are you alright?” Sir Black asked,
dismounting his horse and drawing his sword.
“Yes, Timothy, I’m fine. The robed man is gone.”
“The messenger who alerted us passed on his news before he left
and implored that we deliver it to you personally,” Sir Black pulled a
letter from his belt pouch.
The seal was of Dame Gabriela Tolmie.
The message was that Sir Gavin Ross, Baron of Ross, Warlord of the
North, was permanently slain by her hand.
Malcolm looked up at Sir Black, and then turned to his father’s
pyre. He pulled a piece of flint from his pocket and struck it against his
blade. The pitch caught ablaze and after only a few minutes the entire pyre was
lit, pouring rich, pine smoke into the air.
“Strike the camp, Sir Black. Light the pyres. Send a messenger to
RomWing for aid. We ride north within the hour and
will need all the help we can muster.”
Yellow Fists, Blue Blood
“I was expecting the RomWing Elite. Not
the… what was your unit called?” asked Sir Timothy Black.
“The Brittington Irregulars,”
stated Squire Amaranthus Landcharmer.
“I mean no offense to your unit, but I was hoping for a far more
significant reinforcement, squire,” said Sir Black.
The road to the Brittington border had been a
hard one, especially alone. Timothy Black was a born survivalist and made use
of every wood line and rocky outcropping. Several Marwolaeth
warbands had passed within yards of him and not
noticed him. Yet, for all the talent he exercised in reaching Abbot he was too
late.
The Ashbans were already leaving.
Sonia Forthiatis, the new Duchess of Brittington had listened to his report from Malcolm Argyle
and had requested military aid, but Her Grace denied the dispatch of the RomWing Elite. She needed the best fighting force in Brittington to defend the borders of RomWing
itself as they had just suffered a Marwolaeth
incursion.
She had, however, cleared the requisition for a double handful of these
Brittington Irregulars.
Most of them were unshaven and unkempt, but all exuded the air of
brutal and violent efficiency. Sir Black did not judge too harshly, as he did
not look much better. Even his white belt now appeared as brown as a
commoner’s.
“Her Grace has a plan and is preparing for it, Sir Black. The
pillars that King Broomis left behind can
–“
“That’s enough, squire. I don’t need the boring
details of a dead wizard king’s baubles.”
Squire Landcharmer held his silence and kept
riding.
The Arms of Argyle were still on the move and by this point they would
be passing through Faulks or Keenan. The plan was to
intercept them at the north edge of Heffernan and then move on Higginson together. It was a sound enough plan.
Even now they moved through
Night fell in the Westwood of Lennox and with the moonlit shadows came
the eerie sounds of the highland inhabitants. Ross was dangerous country and
even Sir Black knew he must be careful, but it was not long into that first
hour of dusk that the yellow fists of the Marwolaeth
shed the blue blood of Timothy Black.
Sir Black slid through the muddy undergrowth and slammed back first
against a tree’s roots. His sword had been splintered by a magikinetic blast and now he had only his curved dagger.
His pouch of
“Sir Black!”
Squire Landcharmer slammed back first into
the other side of the tree. His scale mail crunched on the impact. Several
handfuls of scales were already missing and blood poured from the rents.
“Sir Black, we’re surrounded in three directions. We can
break to the south, but we have to move now.”
“And your men?” Sir Black gasped. An arrow had pierced his right
lung. He had not noticed in the melee.
“They know the signal and will provide cover. I’m getting
you out of here.”
The squire removed a large glass bottle from his bag and threw it up
into a nearby tree. It smashed and poured down a slimy substance that began to
glow a bright red. Several calls passed from Irregular to Irregular and the
rout began.
Landcharmer
poured a sour-smelling liquid onto Sir Black’s arrow wound and snapped
off the arrow’s head. He pulled the shaft back out the way it went in.
Sir Black grinned weakly, “I didn’t have you pegged for a
healer.”
“I used to dabble.”
Amaranthus
aided the knight to his feet and the two of them made with haste to the south.
A rank of ogres charged out of the brush in their direction. Sir Black hurled
his dagger at one and caught it square in the thigh, but it charged on still.
Amaranthus
stepped forward to parry an axe covered in black smoke, then maneuvered a
second death-soaked axe back into its wielder. The ogre choked ungracefully as
its spirit left its body. With a few more strokes Squire Landcharmer
severed heads from shoulders and torsos from legs. Thick ogre blood coated
everything.
He turned back to the
He fell to his knees next to the fallen knight.
“Squire, well fought. I will be proud to resurrect in the same
circle.”
Amaranthus
shook his head, “No, Sir. I don’t believe I’ll be coming back
this time. I’ve died too many times.”
“In
“Please, Sir Black,” Squire Amaranthus
Landcharmer said as he removed his red belt.
“Give this to Duchess Sonia Forthiatis when you
see her. Tell her that I’m sorry for whatever I did. Ask her to please
not hate me anymore…”
The squire’s eyes closed and he fell unconscious. Sir Black took
the red belt and made the solemn vow to the very dirt of
“I, Sir Timothy Black, swear upon whatever shred of honor being a
Knight of Argyle still holds that I will tell your deeds to your liege lord. I
will see you remembered.”
Only then, did Sir Timothy Black, Knight of Argyle, rest his bloody
face in the wet mud of Ross and die.
Icenian Vengeance
Malcolm Argyle prided himself on
never losing a fight, but pride only takes you so far. His chainmail
was falling apart in large clumps of twisted steel. His sword was dulled from
the effort of cutting bone and ogre hide. His body was holding together only by
the caustic efforts of the alchemical slime the apothecaries were distributing.
Thick black smoke hung low on the
battlefield. It was the cold essence of Death itself, given form into Fortannis
through the massive planar gate that loomed over the clashing armies from its
place at the top of Higginson Keep.
The Arms of Argyle rallied in the
ruined tower to the south of the Keep. Warriors restocked weapons and armor,
sharpened edges and fletched arrows. Mages circled around heavy tomes to
discuss spell preparation and healers tended to the wounded. Malcolm had
cleared a table in the center of the tower’s ground level for a map
table. His lieutenants looked upon the dirtied parchment with grim faces.
“Lord Argyle,” said
Captain Rasmus Edinger.
“This assault would have been a difficult prospect even if our opponents
were simply human. Ogres and deathmen are beyond our
ability to defeat.”
“We’ve barely
scratched the outer wall,” said Argyle.
“With our current standing
forces we could hit the wall hard and break through. We could likely even make
the inner cloister before we were all slain to a man.”
Argyle considered the decision. He
had already lost over half the Arms in the initial assault. It was already the
greatest military loss in Argyle history, but if he fell back the gate would
remain. The Plane of Death would keep its grip in northern
The gate had to fall. The Keep had
to fall.
“Gather the mages and the alchemists. Gather all who are able. We assault the Keep at dusk.” \
* * *
The Arms of Argyle gathered their
remaining numbers into battlelines before the wall of
Higginson Keep. Malcolm Argyle had explained the
strategy shortly after summoning the alchemists together. He had asked all
those not willing to gamble with the Registrar to leave. He would not try them
for desertion. He told them they could run to RomWing
and no one would think any less of them. This mission was suicide.
Every warrior who could still
stand had joined the effort. Even the wounded helped with preparations before
being given horses for the ride to RomWing. Every
soldier had pledged their lives to this moment.
Pledged their
lives to defeat death.
The wall was their most serious
obstacle. The portcullis was indestructible, but the masonry itself was just
stone and mortar. The ogres manned the ramparts, but they were not talented
archers in any sense. They itched for the melee that followed siege ladders. Figures
clad in black armor joined them. They had black hoods and black smoke drifted
from armored joints.
Archons of
Death. The cosmic energy of Death given sentience and
weaponry. If the ogres were nerve-wracking, the Death elementals were
outright terrifying.
Still, every
The alchemists and mages were
gathered at the front with Lord Argyle himself. The best runners had also been
gathered along with the remaining horses. Each horse was strapped down with
heavy barrels and each runner had a barrel strapped to their back.
Each mage had a bag of relics and
was handing them out to the elite warriors. Whatever the reliquary of Argyle
had when Clan Rule was declared was dumped, unceremoniously, into burlap sacks
by the wizards of the guild. They were to be saved for the right battle.
This was most assuredly it.
Warriors coerced the magic from
the jewels and the charms to form protective magical shielding upon themselves
and their nearby comrades. The mages put the lesser charms into the barrels on
the runners.
Some were tin sigils, some were
cheap glass beads, some were fool’s gold rings, and one was a rock.
“Where did we get this
one?” Wizard Seace Marlowe asked the Guildmaster. The rock was round and covered in blue, inlaid
spirals.
The Guildmaster
shrugged and tossed it into the barrel with another cheap item.
“Guildmaster,
are we ready?”
Malcolm Argyle had donned his
father’s armor. The regalia of the Baron of Argyle seemed to fit him now.
The coronet of Argyle sat on his brow. He was too lean and too haggard to be
the young man he was once. He was every bit the
“Yes, my lord. The horses
are ready and the runners are sworn to the moment. We are ready
immediately,” the Guildmaster said. He nodded
to the riders and runners. They prepared for Lord Argyle’s command.
“Arms of Argyle,”
Malcolm addressed the ragged army.
“Yesterday was a loss. That
is loss is upon me. I gambled upon receiving Britting
assistance. In doing so, I have sold short the spirit and prowess of the
“Tonight, we break this
wall. Tonight, we break Higginson Keep. We fight
death itself inside these walls, by giving our lives.
“I already asked those who
did not wish to make that sacrifice to leave. They have. Every warrior
remaining is sworn to this moment. Be prepared to fight until your last breath.
Some of you I will see in a distant resurrection circle, some of you will
receive the black stone from the Registrar. In either case, you are true heroes
of
“I’ve talked too long
already. Let’s show the Marwolaeth how we send
off our heroes to the gates of death.
“With
fire.”
Malcolm waved to the riders. Each
of them began a hard gallop toward the walls. Then he waved to the Arms of Argyle
and they began to run at the walls themselves.
The riders proved too evasive to
be hit by ogre archers and the death elementals watched impassively from the
wall’s second rank. Not a one of them could have predicted the
riders’ cargo.
As each rider reached the
wall’s base they lit fuses to the barrels with flint and steel.
In the moment before the fuses
reached the barrels the riders dove to the ground and called forth pulsating,
eldritch energy.
Then all was fire.
* * *
Concussive shockwaves rippled
through the Arms of Argyle. Warriors dove to the ground or were thrown down.
Fire and stone blossomed into the air above the wall.
Ogres and deathmen
were thrown from the explosions or were immolated instantly, leaving nothing
but burning scraps of flesh and wispy smoke trails. Blue motes of light were
barely visible from the smoke at the base of the tower where the mages had
trapped themselves within bubbles of eldritch energy.
Malcolm Argyle picked himself up
off the ground where the wave of force had knocked him. Several of his wounds
had reopened and a new pain from his ribs burst forth with every step. The
gamble had worked.
The wall was breached.
He signaled to the Arms and began
the charge once more. Ranks shattered and the
The Arms of Argyle drove their way
across the inner courtyard and the Keep seemed perfectly within reach. Black
smoke poured forth from the planar gate and pooled around the Keep. Figures in
black armor stepped out from the smoke and drew black swords.
“Into
them! Get the runners to the Keep!” Malcolm shouted. The front
rank of Arms hit the deathmen at full sprint. Black
swords hewed through flesh, bone and spirit before any warrior could land a
blow. Malcolm dove into the melee, his own ensorcelled blade providing the only
offense against the deathmen’s hardened armor.
Runners made for the Keep’s
foundations, but deathmen coalesced from the smoke to
hew them into pieces. Barrels splintered and deposited forth their contents onto
the ground, unexploded.
Malcolm saw his plan coming to
pieces only yards from their goal, he knew that all these lives would be for
nothing if the Keep didn’t fall. He grabbed a still-intact barrel from a
slain runner and made for the keep himself.
As he hoisted the barrel to his
back a figure stepped forth from the smoke.
“STOP.”
Malcolm glanced up at the massive deathman. It was much bigger than the others that were
killing his warriors in the courtyard. Confusion struck him. He has not heard
any of them talk before.
“YOUR EFFORTS HERE ARE FOR
NOTHING.”
“Who are you? Why have you
brought war to
“ICENIA WAS GIVEN A CHOICE.
THEY CHOSE POORLY.”
Malcolm set the barrel back onto
the ground.
“My father was not consulted
on any sort of choice. Not from deathmen.”
“ASHBURY MADE THE CHOICE FOR
YOU.”
Malcolm frowned. Ashbury
mysteriously appears in Icenia fifteen years ago and now they make decisions
that bring death to every else around them. Did the rest of Icenia just exist
as a buffer zone for Ashbury?
“It doesn’t matter
what choice Ashbury has made. This is
“I AM TRANQUIS.”
“Whatever.”
Malcolm Argyle set flint to his
sword’s edge and lit the fuse on the barrel. Tranquis
lifted his blade to bring down upon Malcolm as the barrel ignited.
A wash of flame erupted from the
barrel and the shockwave blasted nearby combatant to the ground. Ogre and human
alike were destroyed in the explosion. The magical trinkets hidden in the
barrel could not take the strain of the explosive force and detonated
themselves, their magical force being released in colorful blasts of light and
energy.
The magical energy tore through
the deathmen with ferocity. Black smoke trails marked
their instant dissipations.
Tranquis
and Malcolm Argyle were nowhere to be seen in the smoking crater. All that
remained was a single glowing, blue-spiraled rock.
Picking themselves up for the
second time that night, the Arms of Argyle wasted no time in rejoining the
fight.
Captain Rasmus
Edinger stumbled through the smoke and fire to pick
up the glowing stone.
“My lord…” he
managed to choke out through smoke-filled lungs.
A blue aura pushed away the black
smoke from the crater and his hair stood on end. Stinging magical force
enveloped his body as lightning coursed over his armor.
In a flash that even the previous
explosion couldn’t match, glowing figures surrounded the Captain.
The light died down as one spoke,
“I am Sonia Forthiatis, Duchess of Brittington. Report.”
Captain Edinger
fell to his knees. These last two days had been finally too much on his mind.
Death, ogres, loss, fire and magic had become all too much.
“Your Grace,” he
began. “The death gate…”
Duchess Sonia looked up to the top
of the Keep. The warriors clad in red and black around her had already begun
slaying ogres that had attempted to take the crater.
“Consider it already
destroyed.”
The Duchess signaled her retinue
to the Keep and in military precision they hit the iron-barred door. An elf
made of stone stepped out from their number, but not clad in their colors. With
prodigious strength the elf pulled the door off of its hinges and hurled it to
the ground.
Captain Edinger
could see the elf draw a bone-bladed sword before dashing into the open door.
Fire, steel, and battlecries could be heard inside the Keep even above the
tumult of battle in the courtyard. Atop the Keep the foreign warriors threw
ogres, flailing, into the death gate.
The warrior who tore the gate from
its hinges stepped just inside the gate opening, the black smoke coursing over
his form and not finding purchase. He grasped the stone pillars holding the
portal aloft and pulled, straining.
As the pillars collapsed, the
soldiers in red and black pulled him back, narrowly escaping being lost into
the darkness.
Black smoke thinned and
disappeared on the battlefield and the deathmen
became susceptible to the blades of the Arms of Argyle. One by one they were
slain into the black smoke from whence they came.
The Duchess placed a hand on
Captain Edinger’s shoulder and he stood up.
“Warrior, tell me what has
happened in
“Clan Rule, your Grace. Better still, I can tell you where to find the person that declared it.”
Harsh Hospitality
The sound of swords echoed from
the inner cloister just outside the throne room of
“Captain Rasmus
Edinger, just why have you drawn steel in my
castle?”
Keegan’s thanes dragged the
bloodied soldier into chamber by his arms. They had already stripped him of two
swords, five daggers, a truncheon, and a rock. Yet, for all the bruising and
blood he still looked just as dangerous unarmed.
“My lady, I consider it an
honor to be presented before you.”
“Shut up, Edinger. What do you want?”
Edinger
spit some blood onto the ragged rug of the throne room.
“It’s not about what I
want, Keegan. I wanted to pass through your thanes unharmed. As you can see,
that worked out well.”
“Then, what is it
about?”
“It’s about what she
wants,” Edinger gestured to the thane that held
his gear.
The rock, inlaid with blue
spirals, began to glow. The air grew heavy with magical weight and corposant
lightning crackled from metallic surfaces. A ghostly humming filled the stone
chamber until everyone covered their ears with their hands.
Dame Keegan kept looking, kept listening.
A single bright point of blue
light flashed into being. As the light and the hum subsided a single person now
stood before Dame Keegan.
“Sonia.”
Dame Sonia Forthiatis,
Duchess of Brittington, formed out of the magical
glow. She was clad in her battle regalia, but it was not pristine. Black grit
etched the lines of her face and had settled into the recesses on her armor.
Her eyes hung heavy with sleeplessness and concern. Her eyes were narrowed with
anger.
“Keegan.”
A thorned
moment passed between them. A history of nobility, camaraderie, and friendship
dissolved in their glares.
“I take it you’re here
to discuss Clan Rule,” said Keegan, breaking the hard silence.
“If that’s what you
call breaking your vows to the Crown of Icenia.”
“Last I
checked, the king was dead.”
The contained anger in the Duchess
was barely contained by her Britting composure.
“Did you believe that Icenia
would just hold itself together? Icenia needs the strength and support of its
Duchies if it’s going to survive this war.”
“This war?
Have you looked around you?
“You dissolved the Duchy!
You seceded! You have broken Icenia!”
Keegan’s own anger was not
contained. She seethed in her throne. Her hand twitching towards her blade,
held back only by the vestigial respect she had for Sonia.
“Icenia broke Icenia, Sonia.
The Marwolaeth just pushed the pieces apart. One day,
you will be forced to choose between this idiot notion of Icenia and your own
people. Then you will know my pain. You will see just how easy it was for me to
loose the arrow of Clan Rule. Now get out of my castle.”
The Duchess glared at Dame Keegan
for the final time, her eyes already glowing blue.
In an instant, she was gone.
“Some lass
that Duchess is, eh? She didn’t look too happy at all,” Edinger chuckled.
Keegan regarded him with
stone-hard eyes. Her anger still burned like a newly forged blade in need of
water. She knew just the remedy.
“Thanes, kill this man. Throw his rock into the lake.”
The Banner of Crescent Moons
It was almost one whole month, one
whole month on rationed water, salt meat, and moldy bread.
Bonnie Bannock, once Baroness of Stirling and now Warlady of Clan
Bannock took personal stock of the resources left in Castle Stirling.
The siege may have been unexpected, but the men and women of southern
She wasn’t, however,
expecting the flood of northern refugees escaping the Marwolaeth
onslaught.
Hundreds of people had run to
Castle Stirling in those opening weeks and that
number seemed so small compared to how many people lived in
“Excellency, the Argyle
farmers say they’ve found some underground variety of vegetable along the
north end of the outer wall. They’d like to have permission to dig them
up and take them to their camp.”
Bonnie, bleary-eyed, looked up
from her ledger book. She knew the voice well enough, but Vacht
Silverfang always had a way of naturally commanding
one’s attention.
She was Gorbe from the
jungle-coast lands far to the south. Places of legend to northern folk like
Bonnie Bannock. Vacht was just as much a reminder of
the world outside these walls as she was a defender of them. She wore a white
leather belt of knighthood, but did not talk about it. Bonnie had the good
sense not to ask.
“Grant them permission. Ask
them if they would work that patch of ground as well. The winter will be harsh
and we’ll need to get some sort of planting in before the ground
freezes.”
Vacht
nodded and left. Bonnie made a few more changes in her ledger before she heard
urgent yelling from the courtyard. It sounded as if the raiding party that she
sent Gabriel with had returned, but something was wrong. She slammed the book
shut and ran out into the courtyard.
Someone kept shouting “Warlady!” over and over again, but she could not tell
who. All she could see was the lifeless body of Sir Gabriel Kane on the wagon
the patrol used. She rushed to him as patrolmen were shouting something at her.
His face was pale as death and his throat still glistened with arterial blood.
Bonnie held him for what felt like hours, tears falling from her eyes, before
his body drifted into mist.
“Warlady,
this is the thief that killed Sir Kane!”
The Warlady
was already drawing her dagger and holding to the throat of the bound man in
the burlap hood.
“Simple questions, murderer.
One, who are you? Two, which Clan Lord sent you? Three, how did you get through
the ogre siege camps?”
She tore the hood off of the
bandit’s head. He was younger than she expected, probably just as old as
her own thirty years. It was hard to tell from the mud caked into his short
brown hair and the blood that ran over his face. His breathing seemed
difficult.
“I didn’t kill him. I
tried to help him.”
Bonnie slapped him hard with her
empty hand and the bound man stumbled and fell. A patrolman hefted him back up.
“That wasn’t one of my
questions. Who are you?”
She rested the tip of her dagger
against his throat.
“K-,” he began, but he
coughed and began again. “Kestrin Kadaern.”
“Very good,
thief. What clan sent you?”
The man looked at her, but did not understand.
“Your
clan.”
“I don’t have a
clan.”
Bonnie’s
eyes narrowed and she pressed the dagger into his throat harder, blood began to
trickle.
“Then you are a clanless bandit. I sentence you to die.”
“Wait, my lady.”
Bonnie stopped for a moment, not
happy that she had to wait to avenge Gabriel’s death.
“Don’t you want to
know how I slipped past the ogres?”
“How did you do so,
knave?”
The thief managed a wry smile.
“The ogres were distracted
by something shiny.”
The sharp cry of a brasshorn split the air in the distance. The sudden blast
cause Bonnie to jump in surprise, but just as quickly she ordered archers to
their posts. The packed courtyard burst into a flurry of people swarming to the
walls to see the origin of the signal.
There in the distance, perched in
the mists of a southern hill, was an army clad in blue and white. They were
arrayed in perfect rank and file and at their vanguard was a rider in a
Baron’s coronet, two warriors with storm-frescoed shields, and an elven herald bearing a banner of crescent moons.
The Warlady
knew those colors.
“Archers, kill anything that
isn’t wearing those colors. Stirling Guard prepare to defend this courtyard. Everyone else…
prepare the halls to receive the most welcome guests we have ever had.”
She lifted her dagger to the
thief’s bonds and cut them. The man rubbed the soreness out of his
wrists. Another horn signal blared. The cavalry had started its charge. The
footmen began their hard march. The banner advanced like a long-awaited dawn.
The Baron and his court struck the
first blows against the yellow tide. The Marwolaeth
scattered like roaches in the light. This fight would not take long.
“My lady, I was telling the
truth about your knight. He was wounded by an ogre and I was trying to heal
him. He bled too fast. His men found me with him and apprehended me. I am truly
sorry.”
Bonnie nodded silently. Tears
began to fall from her eyes anew.
Two horns blasts sounded.
“That signal was mine, my
lady. I must go.”
A healer ran past Bonnie towards
the inner cloister, yelling that she could sense a spirit in the circle of
resurrection. Bonnie moved to run after her, but the man caught her arm.
“I lied to you. Forgive me.
My name is Khorwyn Brey.”
He let her arm go and ran through
the Stirling Guard’s shield wall out into the
melee…
…and was gone.
The Prince of Glass and Silver
“The shaft of the Stormbow’s bolt is two feet long and made of the
purest iron. Its bolt head is formed from beaten platinum that has been
magically rendered unbreakable. Copper thread is wound tightly around the iron
bolt so that when I draw the ballista it holds the charge from the starcrystals. This is a very expensive process. It,
essentially, costs me thirty gold every time I fire
this weapon.”
High Lord Valdorian
Thantellin was unlike anything Duchess Sonia Forthiatis had ever seen. He had a body of liquid silver
and bones of steel. Armor plating of unbreakable porcelain overlaid the
constantly flowing quicksilver form. His face was a mask of pure white
porcelain cut to have so face, but only eyeholes that led to no eyes. Two
points extended off of the mask in seeming representation of his elven nature. His voice sounded not only far away, but
echoed as if he were talking into a teacup.
“Fortunately, I have never
had to fire it twice.”
Valdorian
was the youngest brother of Queen Celwen the First of
Imladar and when he extended an invitation to Sonia
to bear witness to the new Imladari flagship, she
expected something regal and beautiful, but this ship was like something out of
her most wondrous nightmares. He had spent over two hours showing her every
amazing detail about this vessel and it still impressed her with every step.
“This ship is five millennia
old. When Ancient Imladar ruled all of Tar’Navaria they had fleets of them. We like to
imagine what their flagship was like. When we first excavated this ship from
the depths under Alacondras we decided that it would
be named for it. A ship named for our capital, representing Imladar
reborn. The Alacondras.”
The ship was huge, easily the size
of an Evorran Double Galleon. The hull of the ship
itself was made from giant scales of the same white, unbreakable porcelain that
Valdorian’s construct body was comprised of and
the upper scales could move and swivel on steel and quicksilver joints. The
backsides of the scales were mirrored perfectly, reflecting the image of the
sky around it, rendering the ship camouflaged.
“With the death of one of Celwen’s beloved, she changed the name of this ship
in memoriam. She is now the Daralassia.”
The ship had no sails, just a large,
blossom-like apparatus sweeping out across its stern. Valdorian
had already had his archmages demonstrate its
purpose. When charged with pure flame energy it would flare to life and propel
the ship forward. The keel had slender blades that could be charged with ice
energy, which would flash freeze the water ahead of the ship. The speed at
which the behemoth could travel was frightening.
“The Daralassia’s
mirror trick works so well that Vaccaran Corsairs
have been reported to abandon ship upon seeing a heat shimmer on the horizon,
thinking it is her. Coincidently enough, they are usually correct.”
Golden crystals grew all over the
deck of the ship and it took vigilance to not trip on them. An archmage had explained in confusing terms the magical science
of how they worked. They collected the light of the stars themselves and that
power fueled the ship itself. The ship contained so much raw, celestial force
that biata within a mile fall unconscious.
“Of
course, the menial crew, have been replaced with constructs that are enchanted
to know their tasks perfectly. We only need me as captain and my circle
of archmages to handle the more intricate parts of
its operation.”
The entire ship was fitted with several
arcane field that functioned like Sonia’s own
personal mystical field, but on a much grander scale. The air itself felt full
of magic, as if several rituals were being performed all around her.
“So, I believe I have bored
you to tears with my new toy. I suppose you would like to know why I asked you
here,” Valdorian asked, at last.
“I know why, High Lord. It
didn’t take all three hours of your threat to understand that
you’re trying to scare me into alliance. Or assimilation.”
“I have not threatened
you.”
“Stop.
I know how High Elves threaten. They do so by showing off. They hold the golden
sword over your head. So that you are too entranced by the
spectacle to not notice the danger.”
“You call us High
Elves,” Valdorian laughed. “I suppose we
are reclaiming that title once again, but let me explain something to you,
little human noble. I was born in a muddy hut over three hundred years ago in R’Kura. My mother died in childbirth and my father
was eaten by a howlbear. My sister and my brother
raised me. A hungry existence eked out on the edge of the Plains of Rage. Do
you know why Tar’Navaria has no single enclave
of elves, human?”
Sonia swallowed and glared at his
porcelain face, “No, I don’t.”
“Five thousand years ago,
the Ancient Imladari Empire fractured. It splintered
into hundreds of squabbling factions that annihilated each other piecemeal.
They fell back into savagery and tyranny. The slaver elves of the far north,
the wood elves of R’Kura, the desert elves of
the far south, and far more elven cultures lost
forever. Empires…kingdoms…these do not last forever, Duchess.
Things fall apart. Each culture must fight for its own survival. Either drift on the tides of power until you drown or hoist your
sails to the winds of fate. The choice is yours.”
Sonia knew what Valdorian was saying. It hurt her very spirit to understand
so completely. The dread feeling of hypocrisy stung her. She had not long ago
rebuked Keegan for something she was now facing.
Standing on the
“My proposal is this,
Duchess. Secede from Icenia. Form Brittington into
its own kingdom, of which you will be Queen. You have a birthright to a throne.
Use it. Imladar will not treat with Icenia, the
tyranny it has become, but we will treat with you. If you do so, we will send
you ten thousand quicksilver soldiers and the archmages
to command them. They are proof against the deathsmoke
of the Marwolaeth and they will never stop
fighting.”
Sonia hung her head, “I will
need time to think on this offer.”
“Take all the time your
people can afford. I think you will find that this decision is as easy as
loosing an arrow, Duchess.”
High Lord Valdorian
Thantellin drew the massive bow back, electricity
crackled from the bow to the string to the metallic bolt. A flick of his wrist
sent the bolt free.
It was power incarnate. It hit its
target as assuredly as the sun rises…
As night falls…
As lightning
strikes.
Evorran Sunrise
James Logan, Duke of Evorra, removed his white leather belt of knighthood.
“This belt represents my
devotion to the ideals of chivalry. Simply by being trusted with it I am sworn
to defend the weak and never lie. There are eight points to the Code, not that
I expect a beast like you to understand honor.”
“The Empire understands
loyalty far better than your damn kingdom, bloodsack.”
James folded the belt in half and
cracked it against the back of the chained vampire. The vampire hissed and
writhed against the mast of the Evorran Sunrise. The
Duke’s personal ship has set sail at midnight from Dockside in Ashbury
with black sails and a special guest on board. The man in the
black coat that had entrusted James with the captured vampire for interrogation
purposes. The Imperial Cities of
Duke James Logan had simply said, “I’ll
get him to talk, Nevin.”
James struck the vampire again for
measure.
The beast was stripped to the
waist and chained to the massive wooden mast with chains of silver. Bloody
welts striped its back, but the blood that ran from it was brown and rotten.
“You may notice how badly
that hurts. I have enough pure magic of the earth enchanted into this belt to
qualify it as a kingdom relic. Now, questions. First,
how can you exist? The vampires of Galanthia are
supposed to be twisted by the merging of Lochaber’s
bloodline to the bitch Empress.”
“Watch your tongue. May she
rest in peace.”
James whipped the belt repeatedly
into the vampire until it cried tears of rotting blood. Several people watching
the display on the deck looked away.
“Your
Grace…” began Arabella Fisher, Baroness
of Eeviron.
The Duke held up a hand to silence
her. A large dwarf in a golden belt placed a hand on her shoulder.
“
“Without cessation,”
James snarled. “Do I need to recite Code to a Paladin?”
The dwarf gritted his teeth,
“I am only here to invite you to the Ordo, not
to watch you torture something that should be destroyed immediately.”
“Your predecessor trusted me
with this task, Paladin. I will see it done.”
The dwarf was silent, but for
grinding teeth.
“Nevin
does not know what he wants. He has not yet declared himself Duke of Ashbury.
Yet, he has also not made claim to the Icenian
throne.”
“Perhaps he cares about the
people left to his care more than the dusty halls of Cil
Cilurion.”
“Either way, the Paladins
have closed the gates of Cil Cilurion.
Only Paladins or those that have been trusted to our training are allowed in.
We will not allow Nevin or Sonia to claim the throne
by force and begin a civil war.”
“I have had enough of this
conversation. I have a task to complete,” James stated, monotone.
The broken, undead monster had
collapsed to the deck and was weeping.
“Beast, why are there still
vampires in Galanthia?”
“There have always been
vampires in Galanthia, human. Matros
was not even the elder of his line, just the most ambitious. There are more of
us than you could ever know. The humans need us. They want to be us.”
“Who is leading you?”
“The Imperial Assembly still
rules. When Galanthia Major fell to the plague, the
Assembly went north. They took the ruins of Starkenstein.”
“What is
“I don’t know. All I
know is that the military fort to the west of the Contested Lands is a
full-scale fortress city. It is called
James signaled to Arabella. She approached with a pile of parchment and a
quill.
“Start talking and do not
stop, monster.”
Duke James Logan wiped the
disgusting blood from his belt and wrapped it once again around his waist. He
looked to the eastern sky.
“And talk quickly. A beautiful Evorran sunrise will soon be upon us.”
Birthright
Once upon a time, Rose Brewer was
a Knight of Icenia. She was confident and charismatic and well-loved by all in
the magnificent city of
Then Sidraste
Deannan died.
The city was chaos in the days
that followed. Royal knights gathered throngs of fanatical followers that
clubbed each other in the streets arguing over secession and superiority. The
Code itself was strained by the very people sworn to uphold it. In these days,
Rose Brewer took her belt off. She would only put it back on when she felt that
the kingdom was worthy once again.
Then
The kingdom was coming apart at
the seams. The Code was in danger.
Rose Brewer picked her belt back
up and put it on.
Now, she sat in front of
Icenia’s empty throne at the massive table she had placed in the throne
room. Around the table sat the other Royal Knights, Beatrice Windham, Tyler Balloch, Lamont Graham, and Nevis Honorium.
Each had also removed their belts with Brewer, but now they had returned.
Now, they wore golden belts.
“I convene this council of the
Aurum Ordo,” Brewer stated.
“I have secured the stone
you asked for, Grand Paladin,” said Paladin Honorium.
“I sent the summons you
requested, Grand Paladin,” said Paladin Balloch.
Paladin Honorium
placed the blue-spiraled stone in the center of the table. Leylines
of blue energy ran through the floor and walls of the throne room, the magical
architecture that marked the legacy of Wizard King Broomis
Bouchard.
The light built to a painful
blue-white as static lightning coursed over every surface and frost coalesced
on walls and flooring.
Then the room darkened. Torches
resumed sputtering their yellow glow.
Two figures stepped approached the
Paladins’ table.
“Greetings, Nevin. Greetings, Sonia,” stated Brewer, her voice
monotone.
“Rose,” nodded Nevin Kendrick, Lord Regent of Ashbury.
“Dame Brewer, what is going
on here?” demanded Sonia Forthiatis, Duchess of
Brittington.
The Grand Paladin stood up from
her massive chair. Her polished brass chain mail clinked against itself as she
did so. Her age hid behind a youthful face that seemed all too innocent to
speak the harsh words that followed.
“Heirs of Bouchard, being as
such the
“Rose,” Nevin interrupted.
“My title is Grand Paladin,
Lord Regent. You will use it.”
“What exactly is this order
supposed to be, Grand Paladin?” Sonia asked, distrust heavy in her words.
“This is the Aurum Ordo. The Paladins of Icenia have formed this council to
maintain the Code even as the Kingdom may go dormant. From this seed of
chivalry we may grow, stronger than before. We demand that you send your
squires to us for training by our standards. Only then will we consider your
knights valid.”
“Grand Paladin, this is bullshit,”
Nevin interjected.
“Lord Regent, if you
interrupt one more time—”
“Stop, Rose. What are you
trying to achieve here?The
land will heal and we must allow it time to do so, forcing this issue will not
help anything,” Nevin snarled.
Sonia looked at the ground, before
looking back up to Nevin. Nevin
looked into her eyes and saw her sorrow.
“Sonia…”
The Grand Paladin slammed her warhammer onto the tabletop. The crash snapped Nevin and Sonia back to her attention. Nevin’s
eyes narrowed at the Grand Paladin.
“No. There is no time left
to heal, Lord Regent. Now is a time to preserve. Duchess, we know about your
meeting with High Lord Valdorian Thantellin.
Make your choice.”
Sonia rested her hands on the
table. Blue spiraled light emanated from them on its surface.
“This has not been an easy
topic to think about, much less to decide on. There is no tradition in the Brittington histories that can aid me now. I… am Icenian, yes, but I am a Britting.
I cannot allow Brittington to die. Cil Cilurion is in no place to
help me. Ashbury is in no place to help me. Evorra is
in no place to help me.
“Imladar
is.”
Sonia fought back tears as she
built the strength to say what she must.
“I, Sonia Forthiatis, Duchess of Brittington…hereby
secedes from Icenia and declares our status as the
Nevin’s
jaw slacked in pure incredulity. Shock pervaded all.
Pervaded all but
the Grand Paladin.
“Your decision is heard by
the Aurum Ordo, Sonia. The city of
Sonia gave one last look toward Nevin, but all apologies were gone from her eyes. Only
hardness remained. In a blue flash, she was gone.
“What…” began Nevin.
“Nevin
Kendrick, by the power invested in me by the Code of Chivalry and the late
Queen Sidraste Deannan I
declare you Duke of Ashbury. Go do your job.”
Nevin
frowned one last time at the Grand Paladin. In a blue flash, he, too, was gone.
Once upon a time, Rose Brewer was
a Knight of Icenia.
Then Icenia died.
Rise Once More
Nevin
Kendrick walked the through the
“So… Duke,
then?”
The soft voice seemed to come from
right behind him, but when Nevin turned there was no
one there.
“Icenia falls apart. I wish
I could say I didn’t see it coming,” said the voice. In the morning
mists a figure took shape. A human man dressed in green finery stepped forward.
His face was smiling, but green ivy markings were etched into his face. They
formed the design of a skull.
“But, as you may notice, I
am a Prophet,” he said.
Nevin’s
blade was out of its sheath before the words issued forth from the man’s
mouth.
“My name is Imagos Pyatt. I foresaw the fall
of Icenia many years ago. I have been preparing an army of orphans, survivors,
and cast-offs for the last two years. I take responsibility for the fires that
destroyed homes in
“Then die,” snarled Nevin. The Duke’s ensorcelled blade cut towards the
man in green, but it passed right through, like the mist around it.
“I am also bonded to the
land. The shattered pieces left by the simultaneous deaths of Matros Lochaber and Broomis Bouchard have left the land torn at a metaphysical
level, Your Grace. I am the Jade Skeleton and I am against everything you
value, but before this year is out, I will prove to you why you need me.”
Nevin
began to conjure fire to hurl at the Jade Skeleton, but the man drifted apart
into the mist around him.
“Know our words, your Grace.
Know them well,” he said, his voice drifting with the rising of the sun.
Nevin
called back his flame and turned on his heel to make for his horse, but there,
written on the side of Dragon Cabin in fresh human blood were the Jade
Skeleton’s words:
RISE ONCE MORE.
Obituary
Amaranthus Landcharmer
I regret to inform the good people of Ashbury
that Amaranthus Landcharmer,
Squire of Brittington, has been slain behind enemy
lines in northern
Dame Sonia Forthiatis, Queen of Brittington
Letters and
Missives
This winter has been the hardest season I
have ever known. I imagine for the people of these lands it has been even worse
than that. Terrible things have happened in this bleak winter.
As of this point I am still willing to send
aid to various points in
Brittington has declared itself a
sovereign nation unto itself and Sonia Forthiatis has
declared herself Queen, by virtue of being King Broomis
Bouchard’s daughter.
The royal city of
Evorra has not exercised any
greater plan than carrying on in the face of adversity.
We are what are left of Icenia. That is all.
Sir Nevin
Kendrick, Duke of Ashbury
People of Fairdale,
Please forgive my abrupt departure from these
lands last summer. I was called away to the defense of my people, and I was
obliged to travel to the far South. It has been difficult to get a message
through, as I did not wish to risk revealing the location of our unit. If this
message reaches Fairdale, know that Luka and I are
alive and well, but we may not be able to travel back for some time.
In the meantime, I leave the Celestial circle
under the care of Landiara, the only invested member
of the Guild in Fairdale at this time. I trust that he will watch over it with
diligence and serve the people of Fairedale well.
As for the rumors that the position of Mages'
Guildmaster is jinxed, I assure you that they have no
basis in discernible fact.
Peace and long life be
yours.
Soren Suzume of Clan Romani
Former Master of the
To the Wild Folk and Children of Autumn in Icenia,
I write to warn you of a new threat. An
alchemist named Samuel has taken to kidnapping all kinds of wylderkin
and Children of Autumn. He does this with the intention of experimentation. He
has discovered that with the use of components from living creatures that he
can make stronger alchemical gasses. So far he has completed two of these:
Drunk Gas Poison (the combination of an intoxicate and vertigo
) and Nightmare Gas Poison (the combination of fear and hallucinate).
Both of these have devastating effects on those subject to them.
Worse yet, Samuel completes the kidnapping of
people through the use of Enslavements. From information gathered by
Adventurers, he has modeled many of his exploits after the Galanthians
known as Narcos, the scientist that created the Green
Madness, as well as the elven kidnapper the Puritan
in his use of Enslavement methods. All information gathered he deems his
experiments his art and believes he is doing nothing wrong. He holds no empathy
towards those he tortures through his experimentation nor
those who have come to their aid. He is highly intelligent and has escaped
authorities before.
All races should be on the look out: he is a
human alchemist with dark hair, dark eyes and fairly tall (about six feet
tall). He is wanted, in Brittington, for Obliteration
as a slaver. He has also been seen in Ashbury so he could be anywhere
throughout Icenia. If encountered proceed warily, not only does he have his
developed gasses but if he has any kidnap victims he will use them as his
soldiers. Please to all people we need to stop this madman before he destroys
more people or becomes far too powerful to stop in his schemes.
Stay safe,
A witness
Public Notices
BIATA
ADVENTURERS: Please seek me out at your
earliest convenience. We have something
important to discuss. Zatarina