[M/R] Eternum: Blood of the Gods

[Death of Korzan]

Rated M/R for Blood, Gore, Strong Language and Sexual Themes

The Southern Wastes

The sky was grey, thick with snow and cold. The Gods of Winter bellowed down upon the Southern Mega-Continent with rage, covering the land in ice and crisp snow, turning rocky outcrops into dunes of the cold mix until the land looked like a beach, covering in grains of white sand. Whispers of wind caught upon the vegetation that clung to the rock, sparsely distributed across what soil and nutrients there was, it's tough leaves not being released, instead dancing in between it's proverbial fingers.

A man stood alone on a cliff. He was heavily armored; a helmet shaped like a Dragon's skull covered his face, forged from a long forgotten mineral, his armor shared the same design, with two metal draconic hands ornately forged into the pauldrons of the figure. Golden veins of metal ran along the shoulder pads in erratic formations, marking the plates in what appeared to be flowing metal.

The chest-plate that rested against his grey skin was made from the same material, with a spider web of pulsating spider-web of Gold, the same veins that covered his shoulder pieces. As the chest-plate became more central it 'grew' outwards, tipped off by a glowing piece of golden metal. The piece of armor was intimidating, yet not terrifying; though it reeked of darkness.

The figures armored hands pulled themselves tight around the hilt of his blade as he was joined by many others, less armored than he from atop the small cliff he stood upon. More figures continued to join him as they began to jump off of the wall of rock and ice.

"Branda khlor lath unaf kar. Gant lo hath sara oriour."

The figure spoke, his voice foreboding and melancholy, yet beautiful at the same time. He then took a leap of faith down the cliff, landing and facing a medium sized settlement around a mile away.

The assailants moved quick and quietly, and no alarm was rung as the small contingent slaughtered the inhabitants of the settlement.


Afragian Coast

The sound of horses snuffling and snorting had filled your ears all day, as the blackness of a cotton bag over your filled your nose and eyes. The weather was sweltering hot and you could feel your hands and uncovered body parts peeling under the boiling Afragian sun. Every few hours you'd have the bags over your heads lifted, with your eyes and face inspected by a man in the same bear-pelt hats as the other members of his party - his face sweating and looking as hot as yours did.

Eventually however the horses seemed to come to a stop, with the sound of their hooves sifting through the golden sand ceasing. The sound of guns clicking, people stepping off of their horses, and the sound of metal being hammered into place echoed around in your heads, where you now had headaches and dehydration. The bags were removed, with different soldiers grabbing your arms and pulling you off the horses.

Numiera fell, and was briskly yanked upwards. "Get the fuck up you tart!" Her escort spoke as he dragged the half-breed through the sand, leaving a temporary trail, soon to washed away by the sands of both time and the desert.

Ahead of the captured questing party and their friend sat a relatively large military town, looking newly built from sandstone and lumber - from which it came from would be the question of all the party. The buildings looked sturdy and all around it stood machinations and people. Huge ballistae that had oval tracks on them; thin cannons on wheels; machines with outstretched wings. To the distance there were multiple grey seafaring craft, one of them reading on it's body 'HMS Doncaster'.

Around the area sat various men playing cards or cleaning weaponry, talking to one another or eating food. They wore an assortment of clothes, some in berets and brightly colored uniforms, others in white jackets and trousers, with sailing hats; some sat in metal helmets shaped like bowls, with grey-green attire. All stared at you as you walked past them, being pushed by the men behind you.

Being dragged into a building, the man briskly pushed you into a cell and closed the door, locking it with a key. The one who had spoken so harshly to Numiera turned to you all and smirked.

"You can stay here until the Admiral returns. Welcome to Sharktooth Bay, maggots."

Dun Moriga-Afragia

Altius lay sword in hand as he stared into the abyssal maw that was the entrance to Dun Moriga from the consuming sands of Afragia. His eyes wept, sometimes tears, and sometimes blood; his body felt grim and foretold his imminent death. A slow, creeping and grating sound came from below in the passage which caused Altius to grip his sword, his already weak form expending much of it's remaining energy in the simple task.

The blackness continued to writhe up his chest, causing him to cough up globes of tar and phlegm. The creeping continued to get closer still, with what sounded like daggers scratching at the cobble, leaving a horrible sound behind. Still Altius waited to see what horror would befall him, fighting to give his friends more time, give Salvius more time.

"Gods damn it man, if you don't get to Tartarus, I'm gonna have a bone to pick with you in the underworld." Altius smiled to himself, a painful motion.

As time went by, the grating sounds came closer and closer, until from the darkness, the maw of a hound seemed to appear. Out of the black shadow came a monster coated in blood and gore, a formed of half man and half wolf. The creature looked down at Altius and in one swift moment, the monster scurried down and bite into him before refraining and coughing. Altius screamed with pain and from the shock his heart slowly but surely stopped leaving the man dead.

The Namorian's grip on his blade slowly ceased and the Wolf-man shook his head in half rage, half disgust, spitting wildly and scratching at its nose in order to get rid of the taste. It bounded away as quickly as it had appeared. Before long, a howl could be heard, being half cut off by the sound of a man screaming in pain.

As time went by, the body of Altius sat still upon the floor. The sun fell and cold intensity of the moon came with the night sky. The Legionnaire's body twitched once, twice, three times. It began to convulse extremely face, limbs sometimes coming off of the ground as underneath his armor the blackness spread over his body at intense speeds. They crawled up his neck and slithered all the way over his body until they covered every inch of it. Altius opened his eyes, and revealed the never-ending darkness that filled them.

He rose from where he stood shakily, before screaming as his back was torn apart by the curse that he now bore. His limbs stretched longer, his mouth become more Wolf-like and his legs took on a shape that looked more familiar on a Bloodhound. His teeth, black and flowing with darkness elongated, whilst the man's black eyes changed to fit the bestial skull he had transformed into.

Fur did not grow on the Namorian's body, instead darkness poured off of him and floated around him like a sick mist. The blackened creature roared into the air, a sound that was not a howl but felt like it belonged more to a Lion.

"Elu..."

[Azazeal849]

THE SOUTHERN OCEAN

The sky was clear, and the wind bitingly cold. It whipped the sea into small waves, and drove the Namorian fleet onwards towards the Southern Wastes. Rowers recruited from all over the Imperium rested at their oars as the wind billowed the sails, conserving their strength. Legionaries sat among them or huddled together in the decks and holds, working constantly against the damp, salty conditions to keep weapons, armour and food in good shape. The legionaries wore winter clothing in preparation for the harsh South - woollen socks and roughspun trousers, bound tight below the knee by strips of cloth; felt hats and thick indigo cloaks.

The wind gusted again, expanding the sails of the fat transports and of the sleek, dagger-shaped warships that sailed around them in protective V formations. The sails showed eagles, wolves, lightning bolts and other martial symbols. One was emblazoned with the goddess Victoria, depicted as a winged figure astride a golden chariot. The goddess' name was repeated in gold paint along either side of the bow, above a bellicose pair of painted eyes and the jutting chin of an iron ram. Like the other ships around her the Victoria had five banks of oars, collapsable fighting towers at the bow and stern, and rows of harpax ballistae studding her flanks. For now the towers were stored away, and the ballistae were covered with waterproofed canvas.

A man in a fur-lined cloak stood at the bow of the quinqereme, his fingers digging into the wooden rail as he frowned southwards. Quintus Maximus was praetor, dux meridiem, and the emperor's instrument in bringing the rebellious southerners to heel. He glowered at the horizon, as if seeking to catch the first sign of land or an enemy ship before even the fleet's scouting units. His grey eyes were like chips of flint beneath their heavy eyebrows. No signal flags went up from Vindica and the other agile triremes ranging ahead of the fleet, suggesting that all was well.

Admiral Cossinius had things well in hand, keeping the fleet together through both day and night with not a single straggler or collision thus far. No doubt he could conduct an efficient landing as well despite the treacherous southern coastline, but Maximus was still eager to reach the shore and deploy his legions. The Earthborn had promised their aid, and their strange flying machines were no doubt shadowing them even now, but Maximus knew how important it was for this to be first and foremost a Namorian victory. They dare not look weak. That was why the southern expedition had gone ahead, with more than half of the Imperium's legions, even as unknown enemies threatened the borders. The last news that had reached Maximus before the fleet set sail was that the gambit appeared to be paying off - legatus Marcius and the 18th legion had apparently won victories at the river Minerva and the city of Hercinia.

The next part would be up to Maximus, and to the fifteen legions sailing south with him. Admiral Cossinius estimated that they would reach the southern continent in three weeks. Three weeks, if the gods were good. Three weeks to the landing point on the Southern Wastes.

And then onwards to victory.

* * * * * *

NEW GIZA, THE AFRAGIAN DESERT

"Shhh!" Ovidius hissed playfully, once Suriyana's hips had finally stopped spasming.

Suriyana stifled a laugh as she flopped back against the pillows, her chest heaving and a sheen of sweat glistening on her dark skin. "You try being quiet when it's your turn."

Ovidius grinned as he disengaged his hands from around Suriyana's thighs and pulled himself up far enough to be able to rest his head on her stomach. He had a broad face and quintessentially Namorian features, his narrow nose and dark eyes topped by curly black hair.

The night air of the desert breezed in through the window of the high tower, and Suriyana closed her eyes as she enjoyed the cooling feeling against her skin. "We should probably be a bit more careful." she whispered, after taking a moment to get her breath back.

"I'm your bodyguard." Ovidius whispered back. "I'm supposed to follow you around, even in the temple."

"Yes," Suriyana admitted with a slightly lop-sided smile. "But you, unlike me, aren't consecrated to Ra." She pointed to the jackal amulet, normally exclusive to the assassin priests of Anubis, that hung around Ovidius' neck. It was currently the only thing that he was wearing. "Which means even you aren't supposed to be in the high solar."

Ovidius grinned again. Technicaly, Suriyana wasn't consecrated to Ra either, at least not formally. She might be taking lessons from the earthborn Anne, but the real reason they were here was to tip the current power struggle in the Egyptian camp towards the Namorian Empire's favour.

"And I," he said, "Unlike you, am a devious little shit. Getting into places unnoticed is my speciality, remember?"

Suriyana matched his grin, showing her pearl-white teeth. "True." She dug the heels of her hands into the mattress and pulled herself up into a sitting position, to re-tie the plait that was currently straggling in pieces down her back. The soft light of the candles set around her chamber in the temple solar danced across her delicate features. She paused as there was a soft chirp from behind the gold idol of Ra on her bedside table, and a small avian creature fluttered up from behind the idol's sun disc. It was plumed in blue and yellow, and had a long thin snout and an even longer tail.

"You know," Ovidius said conversationally as he drew up one knee and hooked an arm round it, "I never feel quite comfortable with your familiar watching us. Especially after Anne talked about him being her eyes and ears."

"He's probably telling us it's nearly dawn." Suriyana said, glancing at the window. The eastern sky was indeed beginning to lighten, with a streak of grey above the dark silhouettes of the city buildings and the dunes beyond. Dominating the skyline was the Egyptians' half-finished pyramid. Suriyana leaned over to kiss Ovidius, then gave him a shove to get him to his feet. "Go on, do one of your famous vanishing acts."

Ovidius sighed, and groped for his discarded tunic. "Better get ready to meet the three potential pharoahs, I guess."

It was time for the infiltrators to go to work.

* * * * * *

ECH ZILIDAR, LAST FREE CITY OF DUN MORIGA PROVINCE

The gateway to the dwarf city reeked of death. The smell of blood and shit was familiar to praetor Numerius Graccus - he had served in the Ferrata legion before achieving political office and governership of Dun Moriga province, but this smell was mixed with the sulphur of dwarven gunpowder and the unnatural scent of the demonoid orcs. They had broken through to the second gate with their last attack, and their tusked, grey-skinned corpses had piled up beneath the murder holes before they had finally retreated. Namorians and dwarfs in banded armour were struggling to shift the bodies so they could close and repair the second gate before the monsters came on again. Graccus saw one legionary yelp as a bloodstained arm with black claws instead of fingernails reached up from a pile of bodies to grab his leg. The legionary jerked his leg free and stabbed down with his gladius, swearing.

Graccus unlaced his plumed helmet and wiped the sweat from his brow. This was how the greyskins had overrun Azulfa and the other underground cities - a brutal, relentless meat grinder. And, unless they could think of something soon, Ech Zilidar would suffer the same fate. As if on cue, there was a blare of warhorns from outside the walls, and the guttural snarling of the orcs rose to a thunderous roar. It filled the vast cavern into which Ech Zilidar had been carved, from the smooth floors to the cunningly-wrought skylights in the domed roof high above. First ten voices, then a hundred, then a thousand, all roared an unintelligable warcry from twisted throats.

"MIRDAUTAS VRAS!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" Graccus yelled back, giving vent to his helpless frustration as his legionaries scampered back to the still intact third gate and dwarfs began to swarm up to the parapets, shouting at their comrades below for more ammunition. Amidst the organised chaos, a single dwarf in the golden armour of the royal guard battered his way towards Graccus.

"Praetor!" the dwarf shouted, "Praetor! I need ta speak with ye!"

Glancing back at the battlements and cursing, Graccus turned on his heel and pushed forward to meet the dwarf.

"What is it?" he snarled.

"Praetor," the dwarf began. The craggy-faced humanoid was hesitant, Graccus could tell, but something told him it was not because of the praetor's angry tone. "Praetor...king Vagrund is dead."

It took several seconds for Graccus to process what he had just heard. And then his stomach lurched so violently that he nearly staggered.

"How?" he managed to spit out at last.

"A beast in the catacombs."

"What, a greyskin? One of their giants?"

The dwarf shook his head. "Something else."

Graccus cursed again. "Centurion! Take over!" He turned back to the royal guard as he began striding back up the main street that had been hewn out of the mountain rock. "Take me to the palace. And gods help us if word of this gets out!"

* * * * * *

EMOR, THE IMPERIAL CAPITAL

Night had fallen over the marble city of Emor, but beyond its limewashed walls, a precession of torches still flickered. The road that led from the city's western gate, parallel to the coast, was lined with the mausoleums of Emor's noble families, with the more modest communal crypts of the plebian class spaced between them. One mausoleum in particular was ringed with light, torches and candles held by deathmasked actors all dressed in sombre black. It was a warm, still night, but the occasional breath of wind caused the candles to gutter. Citizens, slaves and hired funeral functionaries stood within the twinkling circle, their faces turned towards the four raised daises that had been set up in front of the mausoleum's primary arch.

Chiselled, curly-haired and dressed in a black toga, Gaius Octavius watched as the fathers of Lycinia and Decius Marcius stood as equals to deliver the eulogy. Gaius had to admire them - their voices never wavered. At Gaius' side was his wife Seppia, a pretty young woman tanned by the Namorian sun, though with a slight gap between her front teeth that made her shy with her smile. She was not smiling now - her lips were pressed hard together to stop them from trembling as she looked up at their cousin lying in state on the first dais. Lycinia had been dressed in an ornate purple gown, with a silk scarf arranged to hide the ugly wound at her throat.

Between Gaius and his wife stood their young son, Titus. Still recovering from his ordeal at the mages' guild, which had seen the masters and most of his fellow pupils slaughtered by the demon Hothian, he was pale and underweight, and kept his balance only by holding onto his mother's hand. Titus was looking not at his aunt Lycinia, but at the smaller pyre raised next to her. Marcus Marcius had been the same age as Titus, with his mother's curly hair and his father's intense eyes. The two boys had often played together in the family villas. Beside Marcus lay Diana, a perfect replica of Lycinia in miniature, and Aurelia who had been only four years old.

As members of the Marcius clan lowered the four bodies into their cremating sarcophagi and Galius Marcius put a torch to the wood stacked inside, his head turned respectfully away, Seppia burst into tears. Gaius himself, almost to his own surprise, felt no tears in his eyes at all. All he felt was a burning sense of rage.

I'll find out who did this to you, cousin. And I will make them scream.

"Are you going to send your owl to Decius?" Seppia ventured, her voice cracked and hollow. As an alumnus of the now-destroyed mages' guild, Gaius was the owner of one of their rare messenger birds, which could deliver a letter faster than any horseman. The royal court of Afragia were the only others who knew the secrets of training such birds.

"No." said Gaius, putting his arm around his wife but not taking his eyes off the flames as they danced higher. A procession of mourners were approaching the sarcophagi, throwing tokens and vials of scented oil onto the fire.

"He'll find out eventually." Seppia reasoned. "Best he hear it from us."

"When I tell him," Gaius said, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, "It'll be with the news that I brought the murderers to justice."

* * * * * *

WEST OF DUN MORIGA

The legion marched, with a rhythmic chinking of leather and metal, and the steady trudge of hob-nailed sandals against the stone road. Decius Marcius, commander of the 18th Fulminata legion and general of the Imperium's new eastern task force, rode at their head as the ground sloped steadily upwards. The seal of his rank hung around his neck, a golden disc showing the Namorian eagle clutching the hammer of Dun Moriga and the sun of Afragia in its claws. It felt much heavier than the Fulminata lightning bolt that pinned back his cloak. Around him marched a river of blue cloaks and segmented lorica. Flanking the column were legion outriders and maniples of reptilian crocolykes, while behind them came the Greeks with their long spears and the red-crested Romans. Septim's Roman legions were almost identically equipped to Marcius' own Namorians, although their livery was scarlet instead of blue. The difference was just subtle enough to make it all the more jarring, like the painted statues in Plaza Primus that Marcius' daughter Aurelia had always been scared of.

General Marcius was a striking man even though he wasn't a particularly tall one, with a stern aquiline face matched by piercing blue eyes. The premature lines around his mouth and across his forehead spoke of a man who smiled and frowned in equal measure, but he had been doing more of the latter of late. His armour and scarf hid several scars, more than one of which had been inflicted during the most recent campaign. Another wound was more obvious. Marcius looked down at his wrist, still bandaged to immobilise the slowly-healing tendons. He flexed his arm muscles experimentally and was rewarded with a knife of pain up and down his arm, and only the slightest twitch from his rigid fingers. Marcius cursed under his breath, and pulled his indigo cloak over the bandaged arm.

He felt vulnerable. The bodyguard at his side - a bellicose looking man called Varrius – did not ease the feeling, deadly fighter though he was. Marcius' true bodyguard, centurion Salvius, had been dispatched on a secret mission that was even more vital than the march to relieve Dun Moriga. If the Hunter still watched over Salvius as he had claimed, the centurion would be deep in the Afragian desert by now, a good two hundred miles east of where Marcius currently stood.

Salvius' original replacement had been Lucius Calvus, 1st cohort's best swordsman, but Calvus had been killed by a man that Marcius now called ally. The gods had favoured Marcius, after a fashion, but every victory and new ally came at a price. The 18th legion only stood at full strength now by virtue of 3 cohorts from the battered Combrogia legion. The capital of Hercine province was half ruined, the remnants of its garrison no doubt struggling to restore law and order at that very moment. The Druada had returned to reclaim their ancient protectorate of Combrogia, but the Combrogi people themselves were still refugees from Beowulf's savage attack.

All physical signs of the gods favour were now gone too. Zar Stormwraith, the son of Diana who had helped to defeat Achilles, had vanished after their triumphal return to Emor. Silverwick, who had been a potent talisman for the legion ever since bringing down that dragon, had fallen at the battle of Hercine. Even the sword Hate - which had been an asset to the legion's morale, albeit nearly lethal to Marcius himself - had been reclaimed.

Marcius had to believe that Mars, Diana and the Hunter were still watching over his men, but his list of true allies was growing thin, and instead he was left with friends who he did not trust; crocolyke barbarians and immortals who had until recently been his enemies. His tribune Cassius and his wife Lycinia had been inspired to be able to turn the Greeks and the Romans respectively to their cause, but Marcius still found himself thinking of the long-term outcome. Again, it rested with Salvius; gods willing, the Alcamor Stones would enable them to not only drive back the demons, but to return the resurrected immortals to the underworld where they belonged. Maybe even to give pause to the Earthborn, who were the Imperium's original and most dangerous "allies". There was precisely one Earthborn who Marcius trusted - Anne von Bayern - and she had detached from his legion for a secret mission to Afragia.

Marcius reined in his horse with his good hand, and fixed his gaze ahead. One thing at a time. First, Dun Moriga. And although the legion had marched hard through the day, the wind from the mountains was turning cool and they were running out of daylight with which to pitch camp.

"Praefectus!" Marcius called as he brought his horse to a stop.

"Sir?" came the rough-voiced reply from Tiberius Lucullus, the legion's third in command and master of the camp.

"Call the halt. We'll pitch camp on the hill north of the highway."

"Very good, sir." Prefect Luccullus saluted, and paused to raise his voice. "Legion! Halt!"

A trumpeter relayed the signal, and Marcius watched as the blue-clad soldiers around him took one more step before snapping to a coordinated stop. They were now only a couple of miles from the mountain pass. This would be their last camp west of the mountains.

[CrumpetCannon]

The Afragian Waters

The problem with these new-fangled navy battleships was that they were too good at what they did. It's all well and good to outfit your new vessel with the most advanced long range weaponry the world has ever known, and it may very well be a bonus to come equipped with a veritable flock of state-of-the-art aircraft ready to take off at a moment's notice, and frankly, air conditioning was a godsend. However, whoever had designed these floating fortresses of steel had clearly not known when to stop, the desire to militarise the vessel had spread to the very interior aesthetics, the walls were grey, the floors were grey, the ceilings were grey... Would it kill them to put a few wooden chairs about?

The achromatism was slowly and surely getting to Admiral Clement, so used to the mottled brown of his ship's hull and the colourful flag that adorned her in the name of the Britons, that he found himself barely ever leaving the comfort of his own pride and joy. Duties are duties, however, and right now Clemente had a meeting to attend, one that included his direct subordinates, the wordlessly appointed generals of his will and, by extension, the entire might of all the assembled navies to ever sail under the British command, individuals he trusted above all others to keep watchful -and above all, fair- charge over the masses of sailors, pilots, and foot-soldiers that were, as of resurrection, under his complete command.
Flanked by two rifle-bearing guards, the Admiral of the Fleet rounded the last claustrophobic, inevitably grey corridor and arrived at a matching grey door, one of those heavy, watertight bulkhead ones with the curious wheel-operated unlocking structure, Clemente had seen a lot of these on his way here. The door itself was guarded by two sailers, Clemente noticed, of different uniforms, he smiled genuinely, glad to see two individuals quite possibly centuries apart from one another working together without fault, upholding order for King and Country, regardless of which King the other was referring to, or indeed, which Queen.

The sailors saluted, one of them turning to open the pressurised barrier for the Admiral and his escorts, his uniform was predominately white, with some sort of blue kerchief or collar, and a matching white hat. His companion wore a much more modern outfit (although 'modern' was a very loose term these days) consisting of a dark blue working shirt and thick black trousers, complete with beret, most interestingly, this individual had chocolate skin. Two sailors, whether ten or a hundred years apart, Clemente was happy to see such contrast aboard the vessels under his command, it made the whole fleet look a great deal more diverse, why, in his day, he'd have been dismissed for bringing a black crew member aboard.

He gave the two a nod before continuing into the room, an expansive war room of some kind, with mercifully wood panelled walls, perhaps to make the place look a bit more comely to the officers that would have sat around to discuss matters of conflict and politics.
Now, it was occupied by the various Generals, Admirals, and other assorted sailors of high rank that Clemente had found himself in command over since his and their awakening upon the planet Eternum, when it had first happened, the oceans were in abject disarray, shots had even been fired, for no one was quite sure which mighty steel ships of war they had awoken beside, it wasn't until the various commanders got together that they all realised the truth of their situation, and agreed to band together in the name of the British Royal Navy, united under the most superior officer present.

Which just so happened to be Admiral of the Fleet Isaac Donning Clemente, 18th century seaman and literally old-fashioned, highly decorated member of the Royal Navy, with service in most Earthly oceans and experience in all variations of naval exploration and combat.

Despite the hefty obstacle of the Navy now consisting of about three dozen different commands across all iterations of its timeline, Clemente had settled into the role rather snugly for a fish about thirteen-hundred years too long out of the water. It now fell to him to oversee hundreds upon thousands of ships and aircraft, as well as the countless men and women that made up their crews, as such, these meetings were of utmost importance to the upkeep and management of the entire fleet.

Clemente took his spot around the circular table -thank God, mahogany- after exchanging salutes with the other sailors from across history, settling into his assigned chair and fighting the urge to reach for the bottles of liquor that resided in the centre of the table, it would be rude to partake of drink so early into their discussions, he did however accept the offer of a cigar, which came from one Captain Fenchurch, trusted friend to Clemente and current Captain of the HMS Belfast, the ship in which they were currently holding their meeting. Fenchurch had told him all about how the Belfast, one of the most famous British Battleships to ever see the ocean, was taken out of retirement in 2031 in response to North Korean military activity, given massive alterations to its battery and firepower capabilities, as well as augmentations in the hull to make it the first dual battleship and aircraft-carrier vessel in the world, which of course made it the biggest ship in Clemente's entire fleet. It was undoubtedly a force to be reckoned with, and he often found himself gazing at it from the deck of his own ship, entertaining the morbid thought of the battleship, so many times bigger than any other vessel in the waters, suddenly turning on the rest of the fleet.

"Pleasure to see you today, Sir. Shall we be underway?"

That was Fenchurch, ever persistent, always eager to get things going, one of the many reasons Clemente liked him.
The Admiral inclined his head, careful not to displace the hated white wig upon his scalp.

"Yes, I think that would be preferable to sitting around a table smoking and drinking the waters out from under us." His friendly jibe disguised as a stern caution earned him a few smiles and a concealed chuckle from those around the table's circumference. "We have much to discuss..."

* * * * * *

The Admiral stepped above deck, coming to stand upon the steel bow of the HMS Belfast, breathing in the salty sea air and enjoying the warmth of the open air, gazing out across his fleet and smiling at the order and collective unity before him.

Stretching into the distance was a veritable island of naval ships: galleons, sloops, battleships, men-o'-war, frigates, corvettes, destroyers and super carriers, all fully crewed and prepped for both long distance exploration and all out combat, long ranged and short ranged, heavy artillery and fast attack vessels, different ships for different tasks, all of them perfect at their jobs. As if that were not satisfying enough, Clemente looked skyward and spotted dozens of planes aloft in the cerulean blue sky, on scouting missions and routine flights, Hurricanes, Spitfires, Typhoons, Chinook helicopters and more, hundreds more upon the flight decks of various aircraft carriers.
Underneath the surface of the ocean dwelt yet more naval vehicles, nuclear submarines and amphibious sea to land vehicles that could turn the tide of any battle, the thought of such immense machinations of war floating beneath his feet both chilled and excited Clemente, he had spent many years learning of these machines, the ones that had come about after his death on Earth, and now his knowledge was almost up to par with the modern Admirals.

The sea itself was a calm blue, carrying the fleet on a gentle current and caressingly cool wind, illuminated by a beautiful midday sun, which bled into the water's surface and created a most lovely amber liquid, the kind of unforgettable scene that made Clemente praise his decision to enlist in the Navy all those years ago.

The Admiral turned to one of his rifle-armed, red-coated escorts and issued his orders.

"Send word to the Aptitude by signal, and the modern battleships by radio. We head for port."

Within two hours, the fleet was mobile, all of the ships from across the history of naval warfare moving as one, heading lazily for the Afragian shore and the makeshift port that lay there.

[Minkasha]

The Afragian Waters – HMS Aptitude (This character has been edited it out of the story)

She was a good ship, Tommy thought to himself. He was scrubbing the wooden surface of the layered cannon ship. Privet Thomas Glen felt at home on her 18th century craftsmanship. But the sounds of the helicopters and the ‘engines’ of the other ships made him both angry and excited at the same time.

But this was Admiral Clemente’s personal ship; it was the ship that belonged to the only man whose command he would follow. So much has been learned since he was brought back to life…the first thing being that there is a way to come back to life!

The young man bit his lower lip, and with blue, doe eyes scanned the ships around him. So strange and metallic, some of them didn’t have the same…pride as the HMS Aptitude. His fellow shipmates of the skeleton crew were doing the usual to maintain its combat ability and maneuverability, though Tommy knew the guys of the ‘newer’ ships laughed at their ship. Tommy did honestly question if the cannons could even pierce the metal ships’ armour…

Of course they had the best Admiral. Tommy always knew Admiral Clement was fantastic at what he did, and now all these strange hunks of metal and beautiful wooden ships were under his command.

And then there were ships UNDER the water, submarines they were called. It was all so different, but Tommy kept it simple for himself…the same ol’ rag and bucket of water. He liked it, scrubbing away the boot marks of the ‘newer’ guys’ fancy shoes.

But they all served God and Country, so they were allies…yet why did he feel so alien then? Tommy saw a few coloreds, in fact, he saw a bunch of new ethnicities serving and he tried to be friendly…but he’d received many angry glares…

Were they not colored? They were not pale like him, colored! Wasn’t the N word the bad one? Also, why did the coloreds call him a ‘cracker’? Tommy never understood that, he’d have to ask later.

He’d forgotten he was cleaning. He sighed, breathed in deeply…enjoyed the waves of the alien waters and continued his daily chore.

Branjaskr, The Free South – Odinsen Castle

“Lady Jarl, the village Hurtugs have gathered in the hall” The words came from the pale house slave, Åge.

“Thank you” she said dismissively, her deep sea blue gaze lost in her own reflection that came up beyond the snowy tundra of the outside world. Her gaze turned to the crown on her head. They called her Lady Jarl, the humor of the title, the first time ever used in Eternum history.

Though such a title wouldn’t have existed if her husband, Korzan, Son of Odin, not been ruthlessly assassinated by The Imperium. She stepped on the long, decorated carpets that kept the cold stone separated from her. Each step showed her grace and power, yet also brought the bitter memory of Korzan’s ever missing presence.

His might helped build this castle, this was only one part of his legacy. Beyond the nation that he himself had founded, his six beautiful children existed elsewhere within its halls.

Though into her 40s she had aged wondrously, and in the grand hall she stuck out comparatively to the old, husky and hairy men of the other villages. The guards and hurtugs bowed. Her eye was sharp and she could see this discontent in many of their eyes. To follow a mere mortal. Her blood lacked the ancestry of their great patron god. They deemed her unfit to rule, but this was furthest from the truth. With all her heart she loved her son, all her children, but, Jóhan, the next in line to rule, was not ready. And with his affliction, she questioned if he ever would be.

“Lady Jarl” the hurtugs said in harmony before sitting after her.

“To business” she quipped before turning her body, and attention to Mikkel of House Engh, Hurtug of the Akershus village “Have your people detected any sighting of the Imperium?”

“No Lady Jarl, we have been increasing our defenses. The wall around our village is almost done” She nodded, Hurtug Mikkel’s village rested north, near the Pass of Neptune, an oceanic location that existed between the Northern and Southern half of the Eternum. In other words, the division between the two warring parties.

“Though I doubt they will attack the Pass of Neptune” On the table before them was a map of their lands, Hurtug Ole of Rogaland village pointed to the waters near Branjaskr, their current location and capital. Three hours distance further south the salt water moved about. “They will clearly come from here; they have foolishly tried through our lands too many times. Why go through it when they can swim about?”

“Or fly. The sky men” Hurtug Lars of Norland village grumbled. There was a silence in the air and Else cut through the air with her hand, the letter left by assassin burned in her mind.

“The sky men will fail, or have you lost faith in Odin?” she was hypocrite to ask, but she was a leader first, the mask needed to be put on. “His very blood runs in the ruling family”

“Yet they do not rule, Lady Jarl. That crown should be sitting on the head of your whoremongering son ” she raised a sharp brow at him. The tension of the room built, deadly silence. Her smaller hands slammed onto the table and she leaned forward, exotic earrings shaking with her force. Proudly her coiled, pleated hair held the gemmed crown.

“Say one, more, thing, hurtug” she dared, royal guards looked at him with a glare past their thick metal helmets. The overweight, older man crumbled under the pressure and grumbled again. Silk, and fur moved with her now standing body. “They have their gods and technology” she admitted “But we have, not only the pride of a people who do not back down to tyrants, but the god Odin himself with us!” though in truth Else was much more trusting of other sources of aid before her godly father-in-law. Her jeweled choker gleamed by the light of the fire pit. “We have already made preparations for their sea based attack” Else spoke of the lookout towers, patrolling ships, and stone walls to block outside trespassing. “What I need established from all of you is the passion, and capability of our warriors and magicians” The Imperium had their advantages, but the Free South was not without its own.

The Hurtug nodded and her hand pointed back to the map before they spoke once more of possible weaknesses in their defense.

---

The session ended and Lady Jarl Else left with the decorated door slammed behind her. She made her way to the more intimate, dining hall that her family always gathered at for supper. It was a family tradition, as was the fact that she was their first.

Sitting at the end, facing the doors, she waited her six children to enter. First came Karla, her fourth child, and in her arms was Nea, her sixth and final. The blonde girls walked to the long dining table, though the young woman carried herself timidly. Else scanned Karla, did she too share the same affliction as the rest of her children?

Karla placed down Nea at the corner chair next to Else and sat at the second char on the right. Maxwell and Kalle came in next, her two youngest boys, Maxwell was only starting to become a man and Kalle was her most estranged child. Kalle was also the only one of her children who did not have blond hair, black locks decorated his equally beautiful face, and he shared in the same blue eyes.

Else was thankful for her children, regardless of the strife they had to suffer. As the two boys sat on the left side, it was once again the two end chairs that were empty. Her eldest children, Jóhann and Hella, the most afflicted of them all.

The family sat in silence for a moment, knowing what the two of them were up to, once more.

“Karla, kjære, what did you and Nea do today?” Else engaged her two, present, daughters.

“We, um, sewed today” Karla’s constant hesitation was not fitting of someone her grace and stature; she would need to have to find a way to help Karla come into her womanhood. Nea’s fluffy golden hair danced about as she laughed at what Karla said. House slaves began to set down food, the family politely thanked them.

Else hated the food being served in front of the empty chairs.

“I’ll have to see what you two have done!” A large smile moved across the fair mother’s face. “Tonight!” a small, tentative smile showed on Karla’s face while little Nea continued her jovial laughing.

“I’d like to see it too” Kalle smiled, Maxwell nodded. “We trained more today, mother” Kalle looked to her and she, in response, looked to her platinum haired teenaged son. Training was something Korzan used to do with his boys.

“And how did you do?”

“Kalle is a much better fighter than me” Maxwell was brooding.

“His skill with the axe is greatly improving” Kalle chimed. Else grabbed Maxwell’s hand and looked at him.

“You will be as strong as Kalle one day, and Jóhann too, they are just older, skatten min” he gave her a small, toothless smile.

Then her two eldest entered, she could tell by the giggles that didn’t belong to her children. Slipping off Jóhann’s body were the concubines he had around him constantly. Such a…habit didn’t form until after his father was murdered. It was as if with Korzan’s death Jóhann no longer cared to keep his truest passions discrete.

Hella, her well-developed daughter, often shared his…concubine company. Else couldn’t help but shake her head, it at least kept the…affliction to a set few rather than the entire general public. She knew her children to be a danger.

At the table they all greeted each other and then looked to their mother. Before each meal they had a moment of silence for their fallen father.

Karla held Nea’s and Halla’s hands while keeping her eyes shut. There was a hole in this family now that he was taken, he made all the bad things of the family seem to not matter. Though he never knew.

And that was when she heard crying, she looked up, shocked.

“Mother” her hands covered her face. Mother had been through so much, she was in so much pain. Her siblings all shared worried glances. Nea began to cry now.

“Daddy” her little voice cried and Karla pulled her to her chest.

“Yes” she nodded and found herself struggling to hold back into the same sadness. She could see the same struggle in the eyes of her brothers and eldest sister.

“Mother” Maxwell was trying to sooth her. Thirty minutes passed and finally mother was in a calm state again, as was Nea…though their meat and soup had become cold. They began eating in the same silence, each thinking of their heroic father.

Else’s tearstained eyes found focus again while she began eating. Karla kept her focus tonight, as she had for the past two months on a specific house slave boy. Maxwell admitted to her that he shared the affliction of his siblings, yet he was younger than Karla. Had Zenita’s blood not found its way into her veins?

She noticed her daughter had recently begun to often lay her eyes on one of the house slaves each meal. At first she was only giving glances, but with her recent meals she now looked with less discretion. Perhaps her second daughter thought herself craftier than she actually was?

Else was seeking signs of the affliction: it always came with a hunger in their eye as if seeking to feed. Other times a squirming of the body or heavy breathing and sweating, they were captivated with something.

Else had tried asking if Karla had ever felt…overwhelming feelings but she admitted to nothing.

Near the end of their meal she gestured over the very young man, Karla now looked away.

“Yes Lady Jarl?” Else stood.

“Come with me” the two walked while other house slaves began collecting the plates. “Karla has recently grown…unhappy with the service of her personal caretaker and I planned on assigning her to other tasks”

“Um, yes, of course Lady Jarl” he gave paused response, confusion.

“But I also had another plan” they stepped out of the family dining hall. “I thought you could take her place as Karla’s caretaker” she looked into the boy’s eyes, he looked shocked.

“Uh, Lady Jarl, isn’t that a woman’s job? I’m afraid I’m not…adequate” the last words came out hesitantly.

“Speak to Selma. She will teach you, tell her it is my wish” the boy was now looking at the floor and he bowed.

“Yes Lady Jarl, may I assist in any other way?”

“No you are dismissed; I suggest you start learning, now”

“Yes Lady Jarl” with another tentative bow, he left down the decorated stone hall. Else had a secret hope that nothing would become of the boy. But if so, she would be grateful his sacrifice would help the betterment of Karla.

Returning the dining hall she finger gestured to Jóhann, and Hella. In moments everyone else exited the smaller, lavish, room. If Karla did have the affliction, she was not going to send her to her eldest children to help.

“Yes mother?” Jóhann asked, there was always a smug look on his face.

Else slapped it off.

“Mother!” she slapped her face too. Though Jóhann was a large and strong man, he stood before his mother with the most respect and kept himself passive. Hella carried a face of shock.

“You two” she pointed at both of them sternly. “Are unraveling everything we spent YEARS concealing. Jóhann, you have whores all over you in PUBLIC! How do you think that reflects us?” she shook her head furiously. “I remained quiet because I thought you were going through a phase since your father died…but it’s been a year and while I try to work with your…affliction, there must be a line!” Her children had a somber look. “Whatever you are doing, keep it in your bedchambers. You are children of Korzan, second generation descendants of Odin. Not only do we have a responsibility to our people, but what do you think will happen when the people start asking questions?” The two of them remained silent.

“They, would burn us” fear rippled through her voice and it made her eldest children show a more grim face. “If they knew what blood…taint, swirled in you, and the skeletons we had, they would kill all of us. Even Nea, do you want Nea to be harmed?”

“No” Hella said, upset.

“Then keep your personal life, personal. I don’t need to hear from the Hurtug again that my eldest son is whoremonger.” Jóhann shrugged and kept quiet. Else glared them down before kissing both on the forehead and walking to her personal chambers.

---

Maxwell hid in his own room now, catering to himself he was now in silk and furs to keep himself comfortable for the night. He kept himself distracted with the snow until he heard footsteps. Excited and curious he peaked outside his door. As he hopped it was Åge, yet when he looked at him he tried to look away. Maxwell stepped into the hallway and grabbed his wrist.

“Master Maxwell!” He exclaimed, his wrist was now pinned up against the wall, next the gold border that belong to a portrait. The late Korzan watched the events unfold in his canvas. The young royalty put his face into the side of Åge’s neck.

“You used to like this” he smirked, and bit his lower lip…the desire burning in his blood. Åge helped keep it…focused. Kalle always preached about the use of deep breathing exercises and finding clarity, but that rarely helped.

“Yes Master Maxwell” his voice cold and professional “But I must get to Karla’s chambers and serve her, as th-”

“Karla?” Maxwell pulled him into his room and slammed the door. “You're mine, remember?” the taller, lankier boy nodded as his lips pursed. “I-I-am afraid your mother had” he breathed in deeply, sensation getting to him “other plans” He tried getting to the door and Maxwell grew angry.

“I SAID NO!” he pushed him on the bed. “I’ll make sure you won’t get in trouble” he smiled before working to unfasten the man’s doublet.

---

Else could see the shadowy figure of the four bat winged, horned woman at her wide window. The Lady Jarl closed her door quickly and stood beside her tall succubus minion.

“I often wonder what Korzan would have thought had he knew of his children” she admitted to the always quiet mocha skinned demon woman. “And with a Queendom to rule, I can’t always watch over them. I grow more and more afraid they won’t be able to control themselves” she put a hand up to the window, the cold biting at her supple palm.

Zahneri, the succubus, remained steadfast in her silence.

“How do you not get cold in such weather?” Else scanned the strange rock formations that swirled on the woman’s skin and lose black silk that hung from her arms, it was poor excuse for clothing.

The demon looked down and over into Else’s eyes.

“I simply do not feel hot or cold”

“What do you feel then, Zahneri?”

“The Seas of Lust coursing through me and contentment in my eternal servitude, my mistress”

The Lady Jarl looked to her, trying to find some clue as how to help her children through her. She could only give an amused ‘hmph’ before looking back to the snowy tundra outside her castle.

[Aureyon]

Branjaskr, The Free South – Slave Quarters

Kalle closed the book and the small children laughed and cheered. Kalle was amongst his people, within the long wooden and stone structures outside his family castle. There was a greater serenity outside the walls and away from the stress of his siblings. He handed one curious child the book and with them gathered he helped them read the sentences out loud. His father was a noble man who treated everyone with respect, slave or not. Korzan’s philosophy passed down to him and he prayed he could even be half the man his father was.

But he already had innocent blood on his hands, even if the throats were cut by his mother’s dagger.

The adults had grown used to his constant visits, and as they walked by, gave him warm smiles. Among the help he could give contribution. He worried if his youngest siblings would get swallowed into the blackness of their blood like Jóhann and Hella had.

“And…he…” the little girl struggled with the next word, Kalle put a finger to it.

“United” she repeated “the tribes to make the Free South” he read slowly to her part of his father’s deeds.

“He was a hero” said a slave boy and Kalle rubbed his head with a small smile.

“He really was” There was peace here.

“Master Kalle?” he looked to the woman’s voice and swallowed hard, blood began to boil. “We were grateful for your visits” a few other adults of various ages accompanied her. “And wished to present to you something we-”

“Don’t me so modest Beata! You sewed it together!” the others laughed and Beata, the young brunette, blushed.

“I..we..wanted to say thank you Master Kalle!” she bowed greatly at the hip and Kalle blinked a few times, her slender figure visible though the simple dress she wore. The children looked between the two with surprised eyes. Pulled from behind the group was a folded blanket and Beata displayed it.

Upon its duller colors was stitched a beautiful replica of the Crown. Kalle couldn’t see Beata behind the blanket but he did shift uncomfortable, his heart beat rising.

“Master Kalle? I hope this…” she lowered it, she still had red cheeks “is to your liking?” he started to grip his thigh, leg bouncing.

“It is wonderful” he stood straight up, the furs he wore keeping him modest. “I’ll be back for it” he nodded and quickly left into the snowy lands. The grateful slaves had looks of confusion, Beata frowned.

Just keep breathing, that's what he taught Maxwell and Karla.

Branjaskr, The Free South – Woodlands

The prince's eyes were sealed shut, the opposing wind was weakened by the fur cloak covering his bare backside. His mind elsewhere.

In his fantasies Beata was bent over the table of the grand hall, knocking over the decorative ornaments. He imagined the feeling of her body and the sounds she would make, clinging on to her voice in his mind. His pants hung at the ankle, surrounded by snow. Kalle’s blade hand didn’t stop till his screaming release and a moment’s silence from his body. A small peace, the yearning of his blood quieted.

Panting, he leaned forward onto the thinner tree he was resting on and snow fell on his head from the branches above.

“Ack!” he fumbled backwards and he pulled up his fur leggings and began to fasten them.

---

For so long it had been nothing but the darkness, and the torture and the pain that was offered to her in her imprisonment in the realm of the dead, and now here she was amidst the snow-caked landscape that she did not recognize, her pale hair blowing wildly in the wind as it whipped around her skin sending stinging sensations across her exposed body.

Her stormy grey eyes scanned the area around her, and she noted a large castle in the distance. She eyed the walls and marveled at the architecture that the castle was made from; though something told her that it was rather primitive at its best, she could eye the walls and spot the weak points in a matter of seconds.

As the wind blew again, she heard the sound of a man screaming and followed in the direction from which it came. As she trudged through the snow she shivered and her skin began to try to heat itself up, and while the cold wasn't unbearable, she wasn't used to it. She nimbly walked through the frozen wastes eyeing the castle that seemed to be growing larger in the distance. As she got closer her eyes could see the cracks and holes in the wall, and she shook her head in disbelief; For some reason this angered her and she felt the driving urge to tear down the wall and rebuild it to be a stronger and more effective defense.

As she crested the hill, she saw a young, and rather attractive, man in the snow. She made her way down the hill and into the woodlands below where the man had fallen. As she approached, she slowed her footsteps to where they were barely above a tip-toe and called out softly, letting the wind carry her bell-like voice to the stranger...

"Hello, I am Syf, Can you tell me where I am?" Her voice made him jump and a hand instinctively went to the hilt of his axe while he turned himself to face her. Lively black locks whipped about until they fell back into place and his ice blue eyes stared at her baffled. He was glad he had redressed himself before she arrived.

The woman before her was …exotic to put it lightly. Her considerable height caught him first, being at near equal eye level helped him see the mysticism of her eyes. The gray and the hue of them almost seemed inhumanly distinct.

But he stilled his mind and realized that she had spoken to him, and the fact she was wearing only a worn toga in the tundra. The middle child relaxed into a neutral state and began to walk to her, he didn’t think her intentions impure. Though the fact she was so ignorant of her location, and under dressed had him concerned. A light wave of sexual interest hit him again, though luck was on his side with the random woman in the wilderness: he was already spent for now.

“Branjaskr” he informed her quickly. “You must be freezing, my lady, please wear this” he began to unfasten the furs of his cloak and layers of upper garments. “Let me lead you to the castle, you must not be out here dressed like that. You’ll catch sickness, Syf” the last part was muffled as he began to pull the garments over his head, the cold hitting him hard.

Syf eyed the man strangely as his accent was one that she had not yet heard before, and she spoke questioningly, "Branjaskr? What is that?" her tone reflected her ignorance to everything around her and again her eyes flashed over the wall of the city in the distance. The prince tilted his head lightly in confusion to her.

She seemed horribly naïve, how did she survive in the snow?

Since the garments were of the same height, they shouldn't be too baggy or hamper her movement, though he knew this was only a temporary arrangement. He’d need to clothe her and figure what this white haired maiden’s predicament was. He extended out the garments, his skin getting goose bumps. She eyed the castle and then the man who was of equal height as her as she placed his offered garments over her. They smelled of sweat and grime, though it was bearable considering the stench of the underworld.

"Forgive my naivety; this is the first time I have seen light in many years, Branjaskr must be the name of the city in the distance there..." A black brow was raised by this comment. Where had she been?

"Yes, my lady"

She pointed in the direction of the city before continuing... "And you must be a Nobleman judging by the air of authority that layers your voice like the ice on the mountains here." Syf smiled kindly her eyes twinkling in the little light that reached them through the snow and ice. Finding her eccentricities to pile, he only gave her a nod to her, she seemed unwell.

“You are barefoot, allow me to carry you. You must not be well” he said concerned.

She eyed the man analytically, as if she were calculating his existence. He appeared to be of decent strength and his muscles were quite defined, so that meant that he was used to labor and activity. Good, that would be useful in the coming days. Under her gaze Kalle moved his eyes uncomfortably, fighting his own inner demons.

Syf had already begun to plan the reconstruction of those walls in her head, not even taking into account the fact that they did not belong to her, nor did she know these people. She found her stare lingering again on the walls, her eyes unable to keep away from faults in it. She wanted to voice her opinion and tell this man about the defenses that could make it all the stronger, but it was not yet the right time to do so. The time would be soon, but as of yet, it was not appropriate of her to speak on such matters. In truth, she didn't even really know why this fault in the architecture was bothering her so much.

"It is in your blood child." Syf flinched internally as the voice echoed through her mind...

She was distracted and shivering. He took the initiative to carry her, her judgment seemingly impaired. In her arms he looked down to her. She looked up at the man from in his arms and felt her cheeks grow slightly warm, this man was holding her and she had no idea who he really was. And, yet this fact didn't seem to cause her any concern.

“I’m going to take you inside the castle” he told her with confidence. As he walked with her he had a worried look. “I am Kalle, second prins of the Odinsen throne” it was a long winded title, but true nonetheless. They began to head to the outer gates of the larger village. Syf was taken by surprise when, the one known as Kalle, picked her up in his arms without giving her much room to respond before doing so, and began carrying her towards the castle in the distance

Guards stood post outside, next to fire pits to help them keep warm. From the distance, the watchmen looked at them curiously.

Branjaskr, The Free South – Village

As they approached the fortress gates, she eyed them in disbelief and then spoke in a tone reflecting a slight annoyance, "Your wall will easily fall should an army come to assault it. There are weak spots all over the wall”, and as if to emphasize her point she slid from the man’s arms.

“My lady!” Kalle cried out, the guards tensed seeing the under dressed, tall woman running about in the snow. Syf walked to the outer rim on the right side of the gate and picked up a rather large boulder. “Please, let us get you inside” he implored while still making his way to her.

"Here", she stated as she effortlessly threw the boulder. Kalle could only wander how much the cold had made her mad, he reached an arm out to stop her, but it was too late. It hit one of the weak points in the wall. The wall shuddered and a larger crack appeared and spread in all directions revealing the weak points all over the wall itself, interwoven like a spider web. Both prince and guard looked at the wall agape. Kalle then walked to her and gently grabbed her arm. “P-please don’t pick up any more boulders, my lady” and he proceeded to hold her once more.

"This wall needs to be repaired, and enhanced. You should just tear it down and rebuild it anew. Judging by the sounds of the village within the walls, you have plenty of laborers, and it could be done in a timely manner and this fortress would be all the safer for it.", she finished her lecture and Kalle nodded as if to dispel a child’s ramblings.

“Thank you Syf…I’ll remember this” he said nervously. Walking through the thick, blocky wooden gates they were then greeted by pale skinned people walking about in furs to keep them warm. Kalle quickly pushed through the stone streets and elongated homes. People stared before bowing in respect of Kalle’s presence. In ten minutes they passed the gate of the castle where Kalle asked her to not throw boulders at.

After having walked through the village with Kalle, she saw much that could be improved, and much that needed improvement. The sheer architecture and structure of this 'castle' was primitive to what she had been witness to in the underworld. But, that was understandable considering that she had been subject to the tortures of demons and Gods.

Branjaskr, The Free South – Odinsen Castle

The castle was brown in color, stood with many floors, windows, and pillars built into it. The tops of the pillars were windowed archery posts with spike so high they were trying to reach Odin himself. The grounds themselves were layered with permeate snow but also had many large and old evergreen trees. The large engraved doors were opened by the guards while the two headed in. Welcoming heat waved over them, lavish, carpeted halls were visible from each direction.

Lady Jarl Else was speaking to a village hurtug whose name escaped him, and when she saw the duo, gave a dramatic raised brow to Kalle. She excused herself from the hurtug's presence and began to walk to them, wearing elaborate blue robes and gemmed accessories.

“It’s not like that, mother. She was outside in the snow. Her name is Syf, and she seems…” he took an uncomfortable pause, the crowned mother looked up to him expecting “confused on many things” He then nodded his head to his mother and looked down to Syf. “This is my mother, Lady Jarl Else Odinsen” Else blinked a few times, she too was baffled while looking at the woman. Else stared into Syf’s eyes, lost for a moment’s time. Looking back up she spoke to Kalle.

“Selma will be helpful, she may sleep in guest quarters” she glanced at Syf before she left back to the curious hurtug.

“Thank you mother” he smiled as she walked away. Eyes went back to Syf “We will be tending to you now” he informed her, her grasp on the world seemed…bewildered.

“Thank you mother” he smiled as she walked away. Eyes went back to Syf “We will be tending to you now” he informed her, her grasp on the world seemed…bewildered. Syf bowed her head choosing to be silent in the correspondence between the young prince and his mother.She may not have known too much about the current state of the world, but she did know when to not speak, and now was most certainly not the time to voice her opinion; even at the pitiful condition in which the throne room itself was held.

"I need to bathe, I smell like death and demons.", she said rather pointedly to Kalle. He, in shock, accidently grasped her tightly.

“I’m sorry, my lady?” trying to make sure he heard what he thought he did. Walking with her still, he got to the quarters of the House Slaves. It was a separate section of the castle, with small individual rooms and still was just as lavish as the rest of the castle. It was clear they were well taken care of. “Selma” he called out while near the kitchen. A plump woman came out; she was wearing simple feminine garb and an apron.

“Marster Kalle” she looked between the two of them with the same confused look.

“Lady Syf is in need of domestic care, will you tend to her?” Selma nodded.

“Of course Master Kalle, and where is she to stay?”

“She is to have her own bed chambers, guest room” she nodded.

“I’ll have someone take her to the room and we’ll begin to heat her up! The poor woman looks cold!” Kalle shook his head.

“I will carry her, I wish to ensure her safety”

“As you wish Master Kalle” she curtsied “If you’ll follow me” Still cradled in his arms, she was taken to the second floor. The door was opened by Selma, and with the sheets and quilts pulled back, Kalle placed her on the bed. He protectively tucked her in with the feather pillows arranged for her to sit. The heat was pleasurable.

The room had one of the many fireplaces of the castle. Paintings of Korzan, and Nordic people conquering the snowy lands, it was carpeted by the hide of a great bear. There was an off shoot room that Syf could tell was a personal bathing quarter.

“Make sure she is well taken care of” Kalle said, still eyeing her. His skin and hair reflecting the light of the fire.

“Yes Master Kalle” the larger, but smiling woman blocked Syf’s view of the second prince. “Are you hungry dear?” Even Selma stared into her eyes for a moment “You are most interesting Lady Syf” an innocent smile on her lightly wrinkled face.

Syf could hear heavy footsteps and a shutting of the door. Unable to see him still, it was assume he stepped out of the room.

[Azazeal849]

<OOC - Gold text is mine, white text is Minkasha's.>

THE AFRAGIAN COAST

"You can stay here until the Admiral returns. Welcome to Sharktooth Bay, maggots."

One of the prisoners coughed and struggled to his feet, still dizzy from dehydration. Of the four prisoners he was the heaviest armoured, clad in overlapping scale and steel greaves beneath his plain cloak, and he had also carried a plumed steel helmet before the guards had taken it off him. The armour fitted over a muscular frame optimised for fast and brutal violence, an ethos supported by the shield and heavy cavalry sword that he had been wearing before the capture. His face was broad and had the slightly asymmetrical look that came from healing over repeated blunt-force impacts. A shadow around his jaw showed that it had been several days since he had had the luxury of a razor, and the recent march showed in the dryness of his olive skin. His short dark hair was plastered to his forehead, and his lips were dry and cracked, but he still managed to summon the defiance to scowl at the jailer.

"You speak good Namorian." he rasped. "Which is lucky, because it means I can ask you what the bloody hell you think you're doing."

The jailer raised an eyebrow and laughed derisively. "What I'm doing?" He did indeed speak fluent Namorian, though with an odd accent - every vowel rhotic.

"You're clearly not from around here." the blocky-faced prisoner said as he helped the horned girl to her feet. His voice was regaining strength as he moistened his dry mouth. "Which means you're an Earthborn. Which means you're supposed to be our allies."

"And who does that make you?" the jailer inquired, twirling his keys as he looked through the door.

"I'm centurion Varro Salvius, of the Namor Imperium." growled the prisoner. "Who the fuck are you?"

* * * * * *

FOOTHILLS OF DUN MORIGA

Tribune Caeso Cassius shaded his eyes against the sunlight that was reflecting off Dun Moriga's western foothills and turning the snow-capped peaks behind them pink. His arm was healing well – he still couldn't heft both shield and sword, but he could grip his spatha in his off hand and control his horse with his knees, and that was enough. Battles were not won by hiding behind a shield, after all.

Zhnegra's crocolyke scouts were already ranging ahead through the craggy mountain paths, but Cassius had wanted to see the terrain ahead for himself. The brash young cavalry commander was still assessing the way ahead, picking out a route for the following infantry and wondering just how his horses would be of any use in the dwarfs' underground cities, when the centurion at his side gestured for his attention and pointed.

Cassius followed the centurion's outstretched finger, squinting into the scrubland south of the paved highway. It occurred to him that perhaps he should buy a dwarven telescope like the one dux Marcius so prized, when he eventually picked out movement against the grass and saw what his sharper-eyed companion had spotted. It was a woman, clothed in a simple white tunic, and with pleated blonde hair – a rarity north of Combrogia. She was completely alone, and stranger still she was carrying what looked like a sword and a round shield.

“What in the twelve hells...?” Cassius muttered under his breath, and then clicked his fingers at the men flanking him. “You two, with me.”

He gave his mount a quick kick with his heels, and the horse cantered forward to intercept the lone traveller.

* * * * * *

It was a different world, her Goddess warned her.

She ran, seemingly non-stop, it was her duty. Her blue gemmed gladiators had kicked away snow, grass and dirt. Her very soul desired to recreate the legend of Pheidippides, for she too was a messenger. Though she wouldn’t be able to deliver the words of victory, nor did she have the pleasure of death after giving her bitter words.

Elisavet, of Sacred Flesh, could not dwell on the words. She was the Goddess’ champion, she needed to focus on the task at hand. Her ears could hear nothing more than her heavy panting, the slapping of her sheathed sword’s loose, leather carrier hitting her back, and the jingles of her exotic earrings. Olive leaves designs decorated the various gemmed bracelets, and arm bracelets that reflected the sun’s light, her appearance was that of Aphrodite’s design. The shield that was buckled to her left arm had the symbol of woman on it. It was for womankind and Aphrodite that she needed to be strong for, and protect. She was donned in the armour blessed by Aphrodite, though it accentuated the Goddess’ realm of beauty and sexuality, its magics helped Elisavet fight the cold. It was all a matter of willpower, she had been running for days straight, a feat attributed by her enhanced physical capabilities…but even that had a limit.

This world did not possess her home, Greece. The Greece she knew was conquered and gone, thousands of years in the past. Aphrodite’s truths ran through her mind. While the Goddess loved and was joyous of Elisavet’s resurrection, she herself could not help but feel the lingering feeling of failure.

For thousands of years, Aphrodite was without champion. Had she not died in Roman conquest, she could have remained by her side.

Guilt, worry, and purpose continued to fight in Elisavet’s heart, yet her jade eyes saw something she’d never witnessed before: blue Romans.

They were Namorian, not Roman. She could remember the Goddess’ embracing her, the Goddess jest that so much has changed. But it was true, and these blue men who shadowed a distant past were now going to be her allies. They were heading to her, and she slowed her pace, the fist of her shielded arm squeezed for a moment. She would serve her Goddess with endless devotion, and not fail.

Three of the Namorians were cantering towards her - a young man in ornate armour flanked by two others. They pulled back on their reins and slowed their horses to a walk as they approached.

"Is she a Southerner?" Elisavet heard one of the flanking soldiers say. Her blonde hair marked her out as a foreigner; as the goddess had warned her, in the north of this world such colouration was rare outside of Combrogia, and it was considered by many in the Imperium to be a trademark of the vicious Southern barbarians.

"This far north?" the other escort scoffed in response, squinting down at Elisavet's curious attire. His gaze instinctively lingered on her short tunic and the deep V of her neckline.

"Well she's too short for a Combrogi." the first man countered. He was more focused than his companion, and although he had not yet drawn his sword his hand rested meaningfully on the leather-wrapped hilt.

The central figure, the young man in impressive silvered armour, cut them both off with a gentle raising of his hand.

"Let her speak." he said reasonably, nudging his horse forward another step until the tall chestnut mare was a few paces short of Elisavet. He looked down at her with sharp eyes. "This isn't safe country for anyone to be travelling alone. What are you doing here?" A slight frown creased the Namorian's pointed features. "Common travellers don't carry shields, but a real soldier would wear armour. And neither would travel without packs."

Elisavet stood there before the three men on horseback. Her body trembled, though she tried to conceal it.

“I, am Elisavet, of Sacred Flesh” she raised her shield for display to them proudly, the female mark upon it, a circle with a cross joined to its lowest point. “Champion of Aphrodite”

"Champion of A-" the first soldier laughed skeptically, then caught himself. "Aphrodite? Venus?"

The two soldiers exchanged glances, Elisavet's incongruous appearance suddenly making sense to them. The young man leading them wore an expression somewhere between awe and confusion. As well he might; Aphrodite was a pacifist goddess, and seldom had anything to do with the Namorian legions who generally drew their patronage from the more warlike god Mars. He must have been wondering what her intervention heralded, or if she was even there for them at all. A man could easily damn himself by obstructing a messenger of the gods.

"And what does Venus will?" he asked, his tone diplomatic. Like the other soldier, he used the goddess' Latin name.

Elisavet closed her eyes for a moment, she trembled again. Dropping the shield she looked to each on in the eye, her feminine accessories moving with her “I must speak to Decius Marcius. It is dire.” there was a weakness in her voice, it was ill of her to stop running. It felt impossible to start again. “I must speak to him, Aphrodite has willed it so” she reaffirmed and tried to take step closer but fell to knee with a groan. Her mind swirled around her mission, but her body could only ask how many sun and moon cycles had it been running without falter. Days? Weeks? It was indistinguishable under the exhaustion that claimed her.

Elisavet pushed herself to rise but failed and this time fell to her hands and knees, her long golden hair flaring over her shoulder. ‘Aphrodite give me strength’ she prayed.

“It is necessary that I get through” she was winded, sweat made her body glisten “let me pass” Her eyes stuck looking at the hooves of the horses before her. It shamed her to be seen as so weak. It seemed to unnerve the soldiers too - they exchanged glances until the young leader swung himself decisively out of the saddle and landed with a chink of armour next to Elisavet.

"We've been waiting for another sign of the gods, my lady. Take my horse." He snapped a commanding gesture towards his two companions. "See her straight to the commander, and quickly."

"Aye tribune." the soldiers replied tersely. The young man clasped the bracelet around Elisavet's wrist to help her up, then laced his hands into a step to help her into the saddle.

The Goddess figure had no choice but to accept man’s help. Shameful was her need of their aid, but the task needed to be done.

“Thank you, Aphrodite bless you,” she said as she worked her way onto the horse.

The two soldiers wheeled their mounts round and all three horses started west at a brisk canter.

The two men rode with Elisavet in relative silence. Not only were they focused on riding, they didn't seem to know what to say to a messenger of the gods. During the ride she struggled to wake, yet though all her exhaustion and weariness her charm never failed to shine through her body. Though she was haggard and worn she only appeared mildly tired and most of it was shown through her body language. Often she leaned forward on the horse, for a moment passing out only to violently wake again. Elisavet kept putting a hand to her forehead and eyes, she needed to remain awake.

Soon the fortified camp hove into view atop a nearby hill, its half finished palisade silhouetted against the setting sun. The soldiers drove their horses down into a shallow dip and then hard up the other side of the hill towards a gap in the wall, guarded by a contubernium of 8 legionaries until the gate could be erected.

"What have you got there?" one of the blue-cloaked soldiers whistled jovially after they had exchanged passwords. "Someone's escaped slave?"

The solder whistled at her, and past her parting and flipped bangs she looked to him. “How dare you speak of me in such a way.”

Had she possessed the strength she would have drawn her sword, but all she could do was glare, her hands caressed the horse below her lovingly. While she may had been weak she still gave him divine judgment through her long lashes. But again, her quest was too important, retribution could come later.

"A messenger from Venus." the more aggressive of her attendant horsemen said curtly, "Here to see dux Marcius. Step aside if you know what's good for you."

“I must speak to Decius Marcius, now” while she was the only woman, she gave her command. Another hand moved over the side of her face, pushing the bangs out of the way until gravity pulled them back. The Champion knew that once her message had been delivered and she served any immediate needs of him, she could then rest.

* * * * * *

The Namorian fort was taking shape on the hill north of the highway, with the followers' camp at the foot of the slope. Not far away was the more ramshackle camp of the crocolykes, while the Greeks had elected to pitch camp further west, on a second hill that looked back towards the distant Combrogian forests. Septim and his Romans were methodically erecting their own fort south of the highway, an amplified mirror image of the Namorian marching fort; laid out in the same regimented style, but big enough to house four legions rather than just one.

In the centre of the Namorian camp the command tent had already been erected, and general Marcius was busy in council with his senior officers. With his armour and weapons laid in a corner, ready for cleaning, Marcius stood in his tunic and cloak, armed only with his sword belt. Notably absent were prefect Lucullis, who was tirelessly organising the camp and its supplies, and tribune Cassius who was still scouting with the legion cavalry. The rest of Marcius' tribunes surrounded him in their single-striped tunics, along with one or two senior centurions and scribes to take down the orders from the meeting. The only man wearing armour was Varrius, who stood like an ominous shadow behind Marcius' shoulder.

"If the scouts report that the passes are clear, we'll start towards the tunnels immediately." Marcius said, running his good hand over a faded map of Dun Moriga that lay on the table in front of him. "We'll deploy as if we have to fight our way through the tunnels, which we may have to. Once we reach Ech we can redeploy for the wider caverns. Needless to say our cavalry and artillery will be next to useless until then."

"So we keep using the crocolykes for scouts?" one of the assembled officers asked.

Marcius bit the inside of his cheek. He had a well-known dislike for the crocolyke race, having spent much of his early career putting down their bloody and violent rebellions. The crocolykes had arguably shown more good faith than the immortals; on the orders of their elders they had declared themselves as allies from the start, when they could have just as easily crushed Marcius' legion outside Hercinia. For Marcius, old suspicions died hard, but many of his subordinates had begun to warm to their reptilian auxiliaries, and even Marcius could not deny that they were suited to the task at hand.

"They'll be our screen." he nodded at length. "Until we reach the larger caverns and can use our own cavalry again."

"And who will follow up? The Greeks?"

"They'll do well in the tunnels with their long spears." growled Varinius. Titus Varinius was Marcius' oldest tribune, a silver-haired, blunt faced man who. He also had a particularly acerbic sense of humour, and he proved it by almost immediately amending his previous statement with a disparaging remark. "Until they come to a corner, which the dwarfs made plenty of for exactly that reason. Then they'll be worth exactly fuck all. Heavy infantry will do best."

"So do we lead with Septim's men or our own?"

"Let the immortal bastards lead the charge." Varinius grunted. "They don't have to worry about dying."

Marcius smiled for the first time that day, softening his stern features. It wasn't that the idea wasn't slightly tempting, but not treating their allies as equals would jeapordise the already fragile coalition. There was another reason too.

"It should be Namorian troops that liberate Ech." he said. "We'll fight alongside the Romans."

He didn't entirely trust legate Septim, but he trusted his wife, who had said that the Roman leader was a man of honour who had defied the legions of hell in his past life and might be willing to do it again.

The murmur of discussion died off as a pair of legionaries ducked through the tent flap, still dressed in light cavalry armour. Both saluted, touching their right fists to their left shoulders before extending their palms towards the assembled senior officers.

"Yes?" Marcius prompted them.

"Apologies, general." one of the cavalrymen said. "Someone here to see you."

Marcius looked up as his staff exchanged glances. "One of Septim's men? Or is it the Greeks?"

"No sir." the soldier replied. "A messenger...er, from the goddess Venus."

All eyes turned towards the tent flap, an even mix of shock, wariness and expectant awe as Elisavet stepped inside.

[The Bartender]

AFRAGIAN COAST

"You can stay here until the Admiral returns. Welcome to Sharktooth Bay, maggots."
Numiera was just laying on the ground next to Salvius and Gabrielle. It was too bright and "cold" there, it felt so cold to be laying in the bright sunshine and she tried to search for cover under Salvius shadow. She was feeling uneasy after she had realized they weren't in Dun Moriga anymore, as if she had something strange inside herself. Not only that, her broken horn had be hurting for a while but she wasn't sure what she should do about that.
As they waited, she decided to start building a sand castle and as the time went by it grew larger and larger under Salvius's shadow...

NEW GIZA, THE AFRAGIAN DESERT

Ann was awake hours before the sunrise. She had bathed and dressed in her ceremonial dress, put on some make-up (even though she hated make-up) and then walked out toward the dune she had chosen to hold the morning prayers for the Egyptians. As she walked there, Ann looked at the pyramid rising from the sand which was almost ready. As she walked, she closed her eyes and in an instant the sight changed, suddenly everything looked much larger and also she was in a dark room, looking at a bed where she saw Suriyana and Odivius were, seemed they had enjoyed the night. Ann smiled and opened her eyes, switching away from the sight of her familiar it was time to greet Ra back into the world of the living...

[Minasm]

Dun Moriga~Dwarven Penitentiary~12:00 a.m.

Drip. Drip. Drip

A single shaft of pale moonlight illuminated the dank and near-empty cell. Worn cobblestone walls, and slate bricks covered in a thick haze of moist mildew made for a poor bed, and Vardren was never much of a sleeper either, what with being a vampire and all. It the loneliness, the mildew, or even the occasional beatings that annoyed him. The room was stark and cramped, but he was used to discomfort--more than anything else, it was the damn noises. The rythmic dripping sounds just outside of his window had been incessant since he had arrived, not to mention very loud considering the tunnel-like structure of his cell's vent.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

Silently, he lifted himself off the ground with both of his pale, weathered hands. They had tried to remove his mask thrice before locking him up, and although they had taken everything else--his poisons, parasites, and weapons--the mask held firm. As his thoughts drifted to the last fool who had touched it, a ravenous hunger took hold of him: he hadn't fed in weeks. The dried droplets of past victim's blood stained the floor in large black blotches--apparently beating their victims was a staple activity for the ignorant guards in the penitentiary. Vardren wondered if anyone had died in his cell before--it certainly didn't reek of death, but that being said the hinterlands were not exactly sprawling with bandits and murderers; Perhaps that was why the guards knew so little about containing a hostage.

Ever so slowly, Vardren paced across the floors of his cell, brushing his hands over the weather-worn walls and taking in the dimensions of an otherwise drab cage. He had expected Cassandra hours ago, but apparently she was far less useful than she appeared to be. Impatiently, he tapped his leather boots against the stone, almost mocking the monotony outside his cage. A slight breeze rolled in through his window, and he relished it's cold touch. For the first time in a while, he felt actual discomfort being there.

If you want something done right...

Vardren sighed inwardly before loosening one of the crumbling stones along his wall. With a flick of the wrist, he sent it clattering across the floor and into the rusting bars. As it bounced off the gate, the sound resonated with the other empty cells in the hall, drawing the attention of the guards upstairs. As their hurried footsteps and alarmed voices gave clue to their imminent arrival, Vardren stood at attention with both hands in the copper cuffs he had freed himself from hours ago. Sure enough, three dwarves came hustling into his room.

"More trouble, eh? We'll 'ave to teach you another lesson." Two dwarves pulled him to the ground, while the third reared back to take a swing at his face.

Crack

His head snapped back with the brunt of the punch, but he felt nearly nothing. A vampire's hard skin had many benefits, and a couple of flabby fists carried very little threat to someone like him.

"Going to try again, are we? Didn't I already tell you--"

"You're tough, yeah we know!" The dwarf fired off a couple more hard thrusts to his face, while the two cronies who supposedly had Vardren pinned stood stalwart in their outdated chest guards, and over-sized chain mail shirts. It was almost pathetic how easily it would be to tear them apart, but it was always more fun to take victims alive. That being said, he was getting restless from days of isolation, and he needed to flex his muscles. Cassandra or not, his experiment was over.

"How'dya like those, ya rocky little shit!" The warden looked pleased with himself, and as Vardren sunk to the floor apparently defeated, he stalked back to the jail cell's door. Whipping his keys from his pockets, the fat little dwarf left his protection in the hands of two other overweight fools. With blinding speed, Vardren lurched forward, tearing the first dwarf's tender neck open with his fangs. The opening beneath his mask was limiting however, and he doubted the bite had been an instant kill. As if to reaffirm this, the guard fell backwards, scuttling into the corner with what little energy he had left. The second had it's sword drawn, and was half-way through a sweeping arc when Vardren caught the blade with both hands and wrenched it from his grip.

"Gods be damned! I-" His voice was cut short as the vampire ran the the guard through wit his own blade. The terrified dwarf gurgled bubbles of blood before exhaling for the last time. Unimpressed, the vampire turned to face what he planned to make his midnight snack, but found the door locked with no warden to be seen. More footsteps above him meant that his morsel had escaped and was most likely gathering a team before trying to reenter his cell.

Damn. I had hoped to be out of here by now...

Just as he suspected they would come bursting down the hall, their voices and footsteps began to fade until he couldn't hear them at all.

"What the..."

Cassandra

***

The tall, jagged hill was no easy climb, but for Cassandra it was nothing out of the ordinary--her homeland of Dun Moriga was very predictable in its geography, and an undead warrior such as herself had little time to do much else than learn to conquer it. Toting her ring-blade on her shoulder, the graceful young woman elegantly trotted up the long-forgotten road to where she presumed the half-men were holding her brother. There was a certain sense of urgency that she didn't wholly understand; after all, her brother was perfectly capable of leaving on his own accord, but catching test subjects had been difficult of late: they had culled far too many in so small an area that people were beginning to avoid their stretch of the woods entirely. It was so... boring.

A small group of swallows dashed across the path in front of her, and for a moment, she stopped to admire their sheer speed. The animals of the world were always so enthralling to her: their mastery of hunting, flying, and swimming made even the most talented mortals look like a bunch of clumsy oafs. That's what they were to her, anyway.

Absentmindedly, she began to ramble to herself as the bend in the road gave way to an immense valley. A crumbling spire and half-shattered battlement stood out from the hill's slope--it was the prison she had been trying to find for days. Her brother's maps, although intricately detailed, often missed even the most simple elements, such as the cardinal directions one had to walk in order to find the desired location.

"We're all so busy these days. You know that birdies?" As if she were a babe, the woman reached out, grasping at the air in the direction of the passing birds. "So pretty..." Walking was boring work, and Cassandra was well tired of it. Instead, her face lit up as a shocking revelation dawned on her: she could just run instead! Delighted with herself, the vampire went sprinting down the road, jumping every now and again to perform elaborate spins and somersaults wither her ring-blade. The invisible audience must have been impressed to, for as she reached the front gate, she took an exaggerated bow. The wooden doors were reinforced with dwarvern iron, but with several strong slashes of her blade, the rusted iron bars began to split.

Apparently breaking in wasn't allowed, for as she pushed open the door, revealing a dank and dimly-lit hallway, four half-men came sprinting at her with blades drawn. She had never felt so under-appreciated in her life: There she was, dancing and leaping for the entertainment of others, and her only payment was a sword pointed at her face. It was very off-putting of them, if nothing else.

The long-sword shot towards her face, but with a simple turn of the head, and a single sweeping kick, she had the dwarf on the ground and unarmed. Startled, he had little time to react as she twirled her wrist, sending the hoop spinning vertically. Blood splattered not only her, but the other guards, as the blade caught the dwarf's exposed midriff. Stringy chunks of his colon and muscle sinew remained dangling from her blade, which only served to irritate Cassandra some more.

"You damn half-lings! A Woman can't even go see her brother without getting your filthy guts all over herself? Pathetic. You all need to go night-night now, otherwise it simply won't be fair." The guards ceased their advance--one even turning tail to run into another one of many hallways. The other two stood their ground but didn't advance. Smiling, Cassandra skipped towards them, twirling the blade above her head.

"You can't-" The dwarf never finished his sentence; the blade whipped forward tearing his neck to shreds and sending a half-severed head in the direction of his comrade. The final dwarf charged her as well, taking a swipe which cut through her scarlet dress and raked her rock-hard skin. He didn't speak--a defeated whimper escaped him, as Cassandra's rage escalated to new heights.

"My..my dress. You tore the damn dress! This was my MOTHER'S" A fit of tears and sobs took hold of her then as she prowled ever-closer to a guard that was beginning to look more and more like a frightened child. Wiping the salt from her puffy, red eyes, Cassandra's mouth contorted into a wicked grin.

"Well, it looks like I'll just repay the favor then. Hmm?" Rushing the dwarf, she grabbed him by the plate with both hands. He had tried to flee, but only succeeded in making it easier for her to grab hold of him. With her brute strength, she snapped the leather straps and sent his plate skidding across the floor tiles. In a fit of fear, he swung wildly, scratching and tearing more of Cassandra before she caught his sword arm in one hand. With a seductive wink, she sent her other hand straight into his chest, grabbing as many ribs and guts as she could before crushing them in her hands.

A wail of sheer pain escaped him as she pulled her findings free from the cavity in his chest. Still alive, the dwarf howled in pain, before passing out. The blood loss would do the rest. Cassandra was about to drop the pile of collected gore, but instead chose to lick it--after all, what did dwarf taste like?

She was in the process of sucking the blood from his shattered rib fragments when more soldiers arrived. Terrified, they dropped their weapons. The leader--the warden she presumed--stepped forward tentatively. Clearly, he had never seen a vampire like her before, and from the tears welling about his eyes she deduced one of the dead soldiers might've been related to him.

"Please... Go! We have..have no quarrel with you! I-I" The dwarf stammered as she approached; her eyes were empty with disinterest. She had heard a hundred pleas before, and none ever seemed very interesting. The other guards ran to his defense, but that only excited her. It was the last time they would ever make that mistake, though.

"You all wanna play with me? FINE. Let's dance!"

***

Vardren waltzed through the empty halls, wondering where his little sister had taken all of his prey. The offices were empty, and so were the other cells. In one storeroom, he found his confiscated items--most were unperturbed, which pleased him. Had they meddled with his jars, it would've been an even worse day for all of the fools that ran the place.
It was a petty, low-level jail block that had been built hundreds of years ago to house minor criminals out of the villages. It certainly wasn't anything for a couple of vampires.

"Cassandra?" His voice drifted down bare halls and echoed back to him as his frustration grew. Even after tearing out of the cell, he still was utterly alone. Disappointed, he headed straight for the main foyer, heading for the exit. This was where he found them. Half-ling bodies and chunks of unidentifiable flesh adorned the walls like fresh paint. Several corpses dangled from the torch-holders by their innards, while others simply twitched and jerked as a slow death took them.

It was all very impressive--especially the ceiling ornaments. When he found her, sitting atop a pile of corpses, he almost laughed. She had found a daisy somewhere (perhaps in the pockets on one of the stubby guards) and was perfectly content to sit there staring at it. Enthralled by the crisp, white petals, she took a finger-full of bloody droplets and wiped them on one half of the flower. Smeared with bright red streaks, it was beautiful in it's own right: Cassandra's anger melted away at the sight of it, and her brother simply looked on; he was only partially intrigued by her passing fancies.

"Cassy, we should probably go. You took far too long to get here, you know. I suspect you were sidetracked again?"

Cassandra's face fell as she sensed his disappointment.

"No! Well, yes maybe, but I swear I came as fast as I could!" Vardren gave her a look of doubt, to which she only tried to justify herself yet again. "I just wanted to see what the flower looked like--I mean, I put the mongrels down for you! Please don't be mad!"

"I'm never mad with you. You can just be so fickle sometimes--this was supposed to be a farming run. Do you see any living subjects left to test? Honestly, I don't even know why I bother bringing you..." Cassandra was about to point to a still-twitching body, but as she did, it ceased to move. She had butchered them all without even thinking of her brother.

How inconsiderate of me!

"Alright... I'm sorry." Wiping away tears, the girl slid down the heap of corpses, and followed her brother back outside the prison.

"You'll do better next time, won't you?" Vardren's hoarse voice carried a strong commanding tone to it, his eerie beak mask a reminder of the creature he had become. No matter what, she would please him--even if it meant her life. Cassandra smiled, wiping the tears out of her eyes.

"I'll capture a hundred of 'em. Then you can poke and prod as much as you like!" Cassandra grasped his cloaked arm with both hands, leaning on her fabulous big brother as if there was no tomorrow. "Oh, I'm sure you'll love it!" She leapt forward, spinning and cartwheeling in joy as the many possibilities for potential hunting grounds flooded her mind. She would catch all the dwarves if he wanted to, but she never felt more alive while helping him.

"I'm sure too, Cass. I'm sure too."

[Epostle]

Gabrielle

Gabrielle could feel weird presences within his mind. Many of them gave out strange vibes and disconnected him from the real world from time to time. He could hear the outsiders talking, then it would slowly drift away, and eventually, Gabrielle slipped into his subconscious. “Everything you have done… will be brought to justice, Gabrielle.” A faint voice began to say as he began to envision different scenes.

“The light never ceases to fade, no matter how hard you try to put it out.” The voice grew stronger, more into a masculine voice that was scorning a person. Gabrielle began to see blood and slaughter once again, only instead of Shacorai being the antagonist, it was Gabrielle. “Did you think that we have simply forgotten what you have done ancient one? Or have you denied it so much that you don’t call it possible?” Gabrielle heard the voice leave as he was brought back into reality for a spare moment to be tossed off a horse. Gabrielle was then punched, but for some reason, he couldn’t feel it… another visions was taking place.

Gabrielle’s father’s voice began to take over as he said “the light will burn you Gabrielle… Your cycle of vengeance is coming to an end, and with you gone and out of the way, will people finally know peace. Your soul is shattered, your body torn, and your mind is slipping into insanity. You’re a dead man walking, Gabrielle.” The voices stopped again and he regained some of his consciousness.

“Welcome to…” Gabrielle was beginning to drift off again. “You know what you have become… the question is, what destiny will unfold… will you ever truly learn humility, Gabrielle?” Gabrielle could hear the voice shift once again. It started to sound like his blind master. “How did it feel killing me… did it make you feel good knowing you killed a man that helped you? Or was it even better when you slaughtered those who were coming to innocence?” The voice then stopped again and turned into a semi-demonic growl “Or did it do you justice… with all of those souls… your creation…” The voice stopped again and Gabrielle came into full consciousness.

He knew what he had done. He knew what he had. The question is, who else knew other than the gods and his former band? He sensed the room out, but no one out of the ordinary was there. He was near Salvius, the soldier boy, and Numiera, the gifted Dark Elf child. It was an odd predicament he was in, but Gabrielle had to say something to break the silence. “Salvius… my big mouth got us thrown in a kings jail… your idiocy got us within the hands of something far worse than you could ever imagine… how does this make you feel?” He said sarcastically, gesturing his head towards Salvius.

[Minkasha]

Combrogia - In a field of Hyacinth flowers

She sat among the grass and flowers, her nude body shivered. Clinging to herself tightly she looked at the ...thing that had just birthed her, a large magical bulbous shaped. It was strangely beautiful as it was held together by the same flowers that surrounded her. Wet, black hair, clung to her body and she was without a guide.

She didn't have a name, a memory or even a full understanding of herself. All she could tell was that she was, a she and intrinsically she knew that this beautiful, strange thing deviled her onto the surface of the planet.

Pulling out a hand she looked at it, she had somewhat tan skin, grabbing at her dripping hair she could see its black color. A part of her wished she could see her appearance...but even that was a mystery to her.

Looking up to the sky, she felt...unsure. Her lungs still hurt, with each new born breath and her eyes squinted at the light of the sky.

The trees around her groaned and shook in the midnight breeze. The night was cold and the stars shining. Every few moments an owl would make a call or something more sinister would growl in the darkness, a while away from the newborn.

A cracking of branches heralded the arriving of a single Druada, it's body prying itself out of the dirt it had covered itself in. The creature looked upon the woman and the bulbous plant that sat in the middle of Hyacinths. She sat in silence, only surrounded by the chirps and sounds of nature. This state of confused peace was tickled by the sounds of digging.

"What...are you..." It asked in lazy terms, as if it sounded more tired than shocked and curious.

Turning her head she saw a man covered in dirt. Quickly she got to her feet and faced him.

"I...am me...I don't know" she admitted, pushing black hair that was staring to dry under the sun. She took a few steps forward "Can you please help me? I don't know where I am, I don't even know my own name" she began to plead. The giant tree-man pondered for a moment, his twigged hand resting on his chin as he hummed to himself.

"I suppose I could help you...though I do not know your name young one, all I see is the birth that you come from." His arm stretches out with the sound of a mighty oak tree collapsing. "Such a curious way to join this world..." Her sight continued to hold on the dirt man. With nerves, she took a step forward.

“Please” her hands reached out pleadingly “I don’t even know what this means” she gestured to her flowery womb. “Everything…” she sighed “I just don’t know” Eyes looked to him, seeing the wisdom that radiated from him.

"Child. Neither do I, come." The Sepplengais held his hand out, large enough to carry the woman on his palm. "Let me take you to see the Elders..." She gasped, to leave her birthplace?

She turned to it again and looked at it a moment, putting in the back of her mind forever. With a small nod she said goodbye and she worriedly stepped onto the exotic tree man's palm. She felt she could trust him and even in his size, was comforted in his presence. The towering Sepplengais man stood and stretched out his back, giving off the noise of bark shifting and cracking.

"I will take you to the Elders...if they do not know of your birth...then no one will...."

---

West of Dun Moriga - Decius Marcius' tent

Elisavet was before them, her body felt broken and torn. Her legs threatened to give way without warning. Yet, in the divine vessel of Aphrodite was a grace that seemed impossible to chip away. And it was with this silent grace that she walked forward, her eyes locked onto Decius Marcius. All of the divine feminine channeled thorough her form and when she was before him, she did not falter. The assembled officers instinctively stepped back; they knew a godly aura when they saw one.

"Aphrodite wills me to you Decius." Elisavet said. She then looked at the other men around him. "This needs to be..." she closed her eyes, faced away, and exhaled deeply through her nose, the struggle apparent. Jade connected to the dux's piercing blue. "Private." Aphrodite's messenger held sorrow in her eyes.

Varinius and the other tribunes looked to Marcius, discomfited by the cryptic message, the messenger's apparent frailty, and her unconventional use of the commander's first name. Marcius frowned for a long moment, then nodded. His staff filed silently out of the tent. The bodyguard Varrius hesitated, glancing at his commander, but followed when Marcius gave him a second curt nod. When he and Elisavet were alone, Marcius pulled a folding chair from the back of the tent and set it down at one end of the table, gesturing for her to sit.

"You look tired, my lady." he explained.

Marcius produced a second seat for himself and sat down at the opposite side of the table, regarding Elisavet over the hide map laid atop it and the candles weighing down its corners.

"Now," he said after a moment, resting his bandaged right arm on the table. "What does Venus ask of us?"

The obvious unspoken question was written plainly across his face. What could the goddess of love want with a soldier on the eve of a battle?

She remained silent, she felt the distance. Her heart feared that she would be unable to soften the message that she must deliver. Or tend to his heart after.

She unbuckled her shield off her arm and gently placed it on the table face up. The Goddess had told her that he must know, that was her first tasked assigned. Fists tensed on the table, legs crossed. Decius was already a wounded man, and his heart already held fear. Could she steer him from his fall from grace when he knows of his greatest loss?

“She asks nothing” she shook her head in affirmation. “The Goddess cherishes your heart and its purity Decius, and wishes to protect it. You are changing history and in the rise of your power, and conquest, she worries you will…fall.”

Marcius evidently thought that she was talking about his near domination by the possessed sword Hate. He looked down at his bandaged hand, and his jaw tensing slightly as he attempted to flex the damaged fingers.

"There's little chance of that now." he said wryly. "Shacorai is...no longer my problem. Though I pity whoever holds him now."

"That is not why I was sent." Elisavet said hesitantly.

"Then why?" Marcius asked, his face studiously neutral. He hid it well, but Elisavet could tell that he now thought she was questioning his devotion to the Imperium, and the notion angered him slightly.

She dare not touch him, though she wished to breach the gap between them…it could be this distance that made him feel safe. Her maternal nature and intimate expression trying to reach out to him, his heart. Her eyes remained steadfast on him, watered.

“Because you have been wronged.” the tears fell now, her face showing pain. “In a way of such hatred, malice and pain that even the Goddess cannot understand” Elisavet was saying goodbye to man she saw before her. The warrior priestess could see the dark transformations he would take. But healing must happen, and that only came with the pain first.

"Wronged." Marcius repeated carefully, pushing down on the table with his good hand to rise slowly to his feet. As Elisavet continued to weep, his expression changed from confusion to one of foreboding. "How?"

Elisavet, of Sacred Flesh, stood. The tears fell from her face and gently landed upon her chest, a sparkle gained from the candlelight. Her heart raced, she craved to shield him from the pain. But she had nothing to lose anymore, all that she held dear buried in the thousands of years of history, on Earth. She could not placate to this detachment. Aphrodite’s love flowed through her, the Goddess of intimacy. She kneeled before Decius, that very same love moving through her to him. Her warm, nurturing hands, clasped around his unharmed one, and once more locked eyes with him.

"How?" Marcius pressed her. His voice was more urgent now, the obvious pain on Elisavet's face turning his expression of foreboding into one of mounting dread.

“Unknown Southerners crept into Emor.” Elisavet squeezed the hand firmly. “And...” Goodbye. More tears dropped upon her. “Felled your family.”

The pain rushed, the shock, and anger. Aphrodite’s second task was to love Decius, to protect him from the sweeping darkness. Elisavet’s touch radiated with the warmth of a wife, the stability of a mother’s, and the passion of a lover’s. Her heart could sense that he often craved isolation for emotional release…but with Aphrodite’s energy in her she hoped that he could find comfort in its embrace.

For a moment, Marcius didn't seem to understand what she had said. He just stared at her blankly.

"My..." he said at last. "Southerners? How?"

"The Goddess only knows it was under darkness." Elisavet said. "It was shrouded."

She could see a maelstrom of emotions warring behind Marcius' eyes. For a brief moment, he looked as if he was about to strike her. Then he jerked his left hand out of her grip and stumbled back a step, before turning away to steady himself against the table, his back to her.

"All of them?" he asked quietly.

He asked the painful question. Elisavet wobbled on her feet for a moment before steadying herself by leaning on the table. Weakness continued to wave through her. However she gave her heart and focus to Decius. The both of them were weary.

“Yes.”

Marcius was silent for another long moment. The muscles in his throat were working visibly, the tendons standing out sharp.

"Lycinia worked harder than anyone else to keep us safe." he said at last. His voice was still low and thick. "She investigated the Guild, she came up with the plan for Afragia, and when I could only slow the Romans down she made them into an ally. She saved Emor. She's my wife, and the mother of my children. She deserves better!"

He turned suddenly to face Elisavet, the hand he had been leaning against the table curling into a trembling fist.

"And my children? No-one has the right to butcher children. No father should have to...and I'm not even there to bury them!"

His voice had turned hollow as he looked back at the table, and at the map that showed the vast distance between Dun Moriga and Emor. The general's eyes scrunched shut, his head bowed.

The two stood in silence, only Elisvatet’s weeping could be heard. The Champion listened to Decius with intent. Her soul pained for Decius. When he went silent she remained still, to respect his distance, a dreadful dance. But her legs gave way and soon she found herself leaning on the table with her upper body. The travel had cost her so much, she craved rest. The Goddess figure moved herself to face him, her long pleated tail of golden hair moving the front of her body to her lap. Why now of all times must she be lame? Her vision was getting white spots, she shook her head. Her body was without food or sleep.

“Decius…” her eyes couldn't remain open, all they could do was cry. Her breathing grew heavier, arms hugged her ribs. Her consciousness was becoming foggy. “The Goddess is…vigilant on finding the truth” she shook. “She sides with you, and all she knows…” her voice was growing even quieter by the word. “You will know…I-”

With a heavy sigh she fell to her side and fell unconscious, the ground being stained with her sorrow. The sword in its leathery sheath rattled when it hit the ground.

Marcius opened his eyes as he heard the thud. Realizing what had happened, he coughed to clear his throat and make sure that his voice wouldn't waver.

"Guards!"

"Sir?" Varrius said gruffly as he pushed back through the tent flap. Several of his staff officers appeared behind him.

Marcius pointed to Elisavet. "See her to the medici, and then find her a place to rest. Somewhere she won't be disturbed."

"I'll take care of it." tribune Varinius grunted, and gestured curt commands to two legionaries hovering behind him. They stepped forward and gently lifted Elisavet off the floor, carrying her out of the tent. Varinius cocked an eyebrow at Marcius, silently questioning what the messenger had said to him. Marcius gave the tiniest shake of his head in response, and his old friend understood.

"Come on, you bastards." he growled to his fellow tribunes as he turned to leave. "We've got tomorrow's march to organize, and I don't want our allies using not knowing the plan as an excuse for sleeping in!"

The staff officers followed Varinius as he stalked out, although once again Varrius hesitated, conscious of his role as bodyguard.

"Guard the door, Varrius." Marcius said. He stood very straight, and his face was carefully neutral. "I need to be alone for a moment."

Varrius was too good a soldier to question, or even to frown in confusion. He just saluted and turned on his heel to leave. Marcius remained standing until the bodyguard had ducked back outside, the canvas flap of the door falling back into place behind him. Only when he was alone did Marcius drop to his knees, his face contorted as his forehead sank slowly down to touch the earthen floor.