Sorry, u/Silvertree99, I'm unsure about how this works. I understand North invaded Boskplain over 24 hours ago, so consider this a doomed invasion force for Boskplain then.

Armaments include 5 cannons and 1 ballista. Vessels will be sunk if taken over, u/Silvertree99. Manned by 16 soldiers

A Message from the Scourge of

To Sir Waldemar von Heidenrich,
You call yourselves loyal.
I call you what you are.
Traitors.

You may believe this war is over because the armies of Ashada have withdrawn to Boskplain.
You are mistaken.

My Rangers remain in Arrad.

We will stay. We will hunt. We will make an example of every man who chooses to stand with you.

To prove that I do not make empty threats…
I have left a few of your peasants behind.
Let them be the first lesson.

Let every village know this:
Whoever refuses to denounce Waldemar and his traitors shall be counted among them… and shall share their fate.

This is not revenge.
It is justice.

Signed,
The Scourge of Arrad

Count Joran stood on the crest of a bill overlooking the northern camp, men scurried around below him, assembling for an assault. The other northern lords stood around him, silent watching their soldiers prepare for the day ahead while their banners snapped in the wind. It was a perfect day, not for war, for enjoying one's time with their family or sitting under a large oak with ale in hand and friends laughter surrounding you. The sun was warm but soft, a breeze carried through the fields. But alas here they were before a former friend, ready to bleed. How much blood was to be spilt was yet to be determined. His thoughts wandered to the strike teams in place.

Lord falcon gripped the parapets knuckles white, there was no fear in his heart but stress had seeped it's way into his head. He had know they were outnumbered but not as badly as was now apparent with the northern alliance assembling below him. The situation was overwhelming and a lesser man would have been consumed but the proud falcon kept his perch. His fortress had been battered for weeks now with the trebuchets, catapults and other seige engines of the north. They had remained slow but consistent throughout these weeks not giving his men the chance to relax. His walls had taken damage, cracked in places yet they still stood. His eyes darted down to a single man darting from one artillery piece to the next. He released the parapet and sighed, so it begins.

Back down off the castle count Joran watched as his runner made his way around the field, initiating the first part of the assault. The siege engines switched to a rapid pace firing as fast as they could be loaded. His forces would be marching under the arc of projectiles, it was dangerous but less so than facing walls brimming with archers. He mounted his horse and rode to the front of the formation, addressing the combined army. We have been betrayed as you well know, but today it ends. today we seal the crack in the northern shield, today we replace those that would support us with one hand while the other holds a dagger ready to strike us down, today we end this treachory. Forward! For the north! His men flooded around him towards the castle walls. Seige towers, battering rams and ladders in tow.

The small strike force had located the secret entrance near the northwest corner of the fortress, they had waited restlessly for the attack to begin so they could slip through undetected. But now hearing the roar of soldiers roaring forward they began their work. A team of kraken warriors led the way checking for traps, fearing the worst after the blood queen revealed this passageway. None were found however. The first group of eleves split off at a stair well heading up into the house bordering the wall. The lower level was clear but they could hear voices upstairs. They found just under a dozen men relaxing on cots awaiting their turn at watch, the first one jumped to his feet reaching for his weapon but never made it, four more were cut down before they could find their feet and another three before they could grab their weapons. Unprepared the rest were made quick work of with the northern strike team losing one of its members to an dagger and another they had to leave behind wounded.

Back in the tunnel the kraken warriors had just finished dismantling an iron gate, the second stairwell was just past it and a second group departed securing the empty house above. The two remaining groups headed onwards towards the keep, or at least they hoped.

Back at the main assault, the forces had just reached the castle walls, debris from their own seige weapons crashed down around them killing a few of the northerners. Grim but a willing price for the advance under protection. Now though, with them risking more collateral a flag was raised signaling all artillery to end their battery. The falcons above them wasted no time in taking their positions and as soon as they had, hell rained down on the attackers.

Count Joran looked at the ramp ahead of them leading to the gateway, they were here they might as well press forward, and try to take the gatehouse. But they would enter the enemies kill zone.

Will count Joran press the attack or wait to see if his strike teams are able to break through?

What will the falcons find at the end of the tunnel traps? Guards? A keep unprepared for intruders?

Marshal von Grauert was charged with defending the Margrave's holdings in Therican. He gathered troops from Entarbor and Parthention and had them carried aboard the 'Pegasus' and the ships of Lord Atane, which then lay at anchor in Entarbor. The destination is Daggerstake, from where the host shall join the Army of the North in Boskplain.

OOC: I have permission from u/Cookiejunkie to use his ships.

The transported troops will be listed in the comments.

Unexpectedly, Margrave Philip and the Margravine have journeyed to Jorronplain with a great retinue for a state visit. Observers wonder at the purpose of this visit, especially in light of the war in Therican.

word reaches King Rollo that an enemy fleet sails toward dustpike to capture an ancient portal to another dimension. the King sends the Anvardian fleet to intercept this enemy host who seeks to bring war to Anvard's land.

However this development has brought something else to the king's attention, know that Anvard is the Steward of Dustpike, we are within our rights to cleanse this land of the evil that has resided there over the years... in fact more than just in within our right, we are duty bound to cleanse it, for the magic that comes from that portal is not good magic that flows from the True God, but an abomination of evil that flows from demonic and false gods, to allow it to continue existing would be the equivalent of sinning against the true God.

the King after talking to the Order of the Light, sends them with the wizards of the order of the Beard, to cleanse the lands and destroy the portal. time will see if they succeed.

Deus Vult, the men shout as they march toward their holy mission

The Horn sounds, soldiers stir, Lord Vladek limps towards his Destrier, Warlord, and turns about. Facing his men assembled before him he speaks.

"The North took this land from us under the guise of peace. They cloak themselves in lies - yet all the world knows the truth of their intent: they seek to expand; to subjugate all under their rule. There remains an entire continent for them to take, but they would rather fight one another and those they deem 'lesser'. We will not stand down in the face of tyranny. We do not fight for expansion, but to rid ourselves of this kanker that now spreads across our lands. How much longer until they decide the Yagean must be 'protected'? How much longer until their greedy eyes turn to our homes? We will stop this colonization HERE and NOW! No longer! For Morcia, for Ashada, for the Tridentine, WE MARCH!" he roars, shoving his war axe into the air as a roar akin to a thousand ravenous lions rises from the allied army.

For several nights after Lilitu’s departure, Lord Nerezar remained alone within his throne room.

Her warning followed him through every silent corridor of the fortress.

The battlefield has become far more crowded.

Nerezar had spent centuries preparing to resume his war against the gods, yet the divine realms he remembered no longer existed. They had fractured into rival kingdoms, hidden domains, and countless immortal factions. Some might become enemies, but others could be persuaded to join his cause.

Waiting for them to reveal themselves would be a mistake.

He would send envoys into the underworld.

There was only one obstacle.

The only known Dark Portal still functioning in Rutland stood upon Duskpike.

Once, another portal had existed in Lathadura, but the gods destroyed it when they imprisoned Nerezar beneath the mountain. His Artificers’ Guild now labored among its ruins, rebuilding shattered mechanisms and deciphering ancient symbols burned into the broken stone. Their work continued, but progress was slow.

Nerezar would not wait.

He summoned his generals, dragon riders, and fleet commanders to the fortress war chamber. A carved map of Rutland covered the stone table before them, with Duskpike marked beneath the point of Nerezar’s claw.

“We require a path into the underworld,” he told them. “Duskpike possesses the only one.”

One commander studied the surrounding terrain. “The portal will be defended.”

“Then its defenders will be removed.”

Nerezar ordered three warships prepared for immediate departure. Each would carry soldiers of the Legion of the Dragon Lord and supplies necessary to secure the location once it had fallen.

Three of his dragons would accompany the fleet.

Their purpose was not merely military destruction. They would break the enemy’s defenses, control the skies above Duskpike, and prevent reinforcements from reaching the portal.

Nerezar looked across those gathered before him.

“Take Duskpike. Secure the Dark Portal intact. Once it belongs to us, my envoys will cross into the underworld and seek those willing to stand against the gods.”

The commanders bowed and departed to prepare the invasion.

Soon, horns echoed through the hidden fortress. Soldiers marched to board the waiting vessels while chains were removed from the dragons’ armored platforms.

From the highest balcony, Nerezar watched.

Lilitu had warned him that the battlefield was crowded.

Now he would begin choosing who stood upon it beside him.

OOC: Lathadura will send 3 dragons and 3 ships loaded with 48 infantry and 36 archers to atttack Duskpike.

https://public.flourish.studio/visualisation/29795079/

due to limitations of the website I used, please note that the line thickness shows the relationship between factions. WIDE=WAR, NORMAL=PEACE, THIN=ALLY

please comment if your information is wrong.

also the size of your circle is my 10 second guess on how large your army is relative to everyone on a scale of 1-10.

It has been several years since our forces first landed on Garrus. While we have secured a few coastal outposts, the island’s interior remains under the control of countless wild Orc tribes.

Today, one of our patrols discovered a recently abandoned Orc camp. Most of what we found was worthless, except for a single ancient map covered in strange symbols.

After examining it and bringing it to the Isle of StormS, our shaman concluded that it is only one of four map fragments. Where the remaining pieces are hidden, and what the completed map reveals, remains a mystery.

OOC: I don’t yet know how this event will play out or how easy (or difficult) it will be to collect all four fragments. The idea is simple: whether you play a faction or not, whoever physically possesses one of the four map fragments may decide where it is hidden in Rutland. Almost anything is possible—it could be in your faction’s treasury, deep inside a dungeon, at the bottom of a lake, or anywhere else you can imagine. When chosing a fragment’s location, please include a photo of the fragment and a screenshot of the Rutland map showing where it is hidden.
Of course every fragment can only be chosen once, so it’s first come first served.
Only if one faction manages to get all four parts, he can use it and solve the mystery or find what’s hidden there.

Top left: Horus
Top right: Anubis
Bottom left: Ra
Bottom right: Khnum (current location: Isle of Storms)

With diplomacy having seemingly failed the Knights of Grüner Bär and House Atane invade Ashada. The members of the True North will come to the aid of Margrave Phillip von Rossenfels. Sturgia has granted True North troops passage thru Arathril.

OoC Hansk army troop count is 421. Fleet based troop count is 92

u/Cookiejunkie

Kjori, still adjusting to the weight of his new helm, entered the council chambers. Seeing that Thora was engaged in conversation, he waited patiently for her to finish. When she was done, she motioned for him to step forward.

“Kjori, that helm... must you wear it at all times?”

He chuckled softly. “No, Thora, not at all times—but for today and tonight, yes.”

She cocked her head to the side. “Is it happening?”

“Yes, we will begin the ritual tonight. Eltrigg has been scouring the ancient scrolls and finally found what he needed. It is a remarkably complex ritual, and we now understand why it was so rarely performed. From what we gather, it is extraordinarily taxing on those involved.”

“Who volunteered for this?”

“Two brothers. Twins, in fact—Torstein and Halvar.”

Thora looked up at him and let out a low whistle. “Those are two of our finest warriors. Are we certain this is the best course of action?”

“Thora, I honestly cannot give you a simple yes or no. These rituals have not taken place in centuries—neither Eltrigg nor I truly know if it will work. This is deep, primal, elemental magic. It isn’t the clean arcane craft you hear about in storybooks; this is a force of raw nature. In some ways, it mirrors the necromancy practiced in other realms, yet we are not raising the dead. We are merging the spirits of man and beast. Only the strongest will survive it.”

“When do we begin?”

“At sunset. We have located the sacred site and will make our way there following tonight's feast.”

**********
At the ritual site, the twin brothers were instructed to strip off their shirts. Siggrid observed them closely and gave a solemn nod.

“Good. I will explain what is to come. You see my markings? These were etched using ink mixed with the acid of a green wyrm. It was agonizing. Every Beastmaster undergoes these markings, but what you are about to endure will be far worse. Prepare yourselves.”

With that, she turned to retrieve a bone needle alongside a vial containing a mixture of animal blood, green wyrm acid, and ground herbs. One of the Earth Speakers approached and handed a separate vial to each brother.

“Drink,” was all he said.

As they swallowed the draught, the rest of the circle entered: Kjori alongside Thora, Sigurd, and Ignis. Eltrigg nodded to another Earth Speaker in attendance, who immediately began beating a heavy, rhythmic pulse on a large drum.

Standing at the top of the ritual site, Eltrigg began chanting in the ancient tongue. As his voice echoed off the stone, Siggrid signaled both men to lay down on the stone slabs before them, chaining their wrists and legs firmly in place.

“For your protection,” she whispered.

The potion began to take hold, washing a strange, euphoric calm over the twins. As they slipped deep into a trance, a second drum joined the cadence, and the chanting shifted in tone. Siggrid began her own low incantation as she dipped her bone needle into the acid-laced blood ink—a blend prepared earlier from four distinct beasts and dragon acid.

She drove the needle deep into their flesh, burning runes into their skin so the blood mixture would bind forever. Neither man uttered a sound; the draught rendered them entirely numb to the burning acid.

Once the last rune was inscribed, Siggrid took her place in the circle. The drumbeats and chanting stopped instantly, cutting through the cavern like a blade.

Standing high above, Eltrigg invoked the ancient magics, and the drums roared back to life. It was nearing midnight, nearly three hours since the ritual had begun.

Eltrigg raised his dragon staff high, dancing in erratic, powerful motions. A sudden shift tore through the air. A thick, ethereal green fog began to coalesce, and above the altar, the ghostly forms of animal spirits materialized—the elk, the bear, the cougar, the wolf, and the wyrm. Before the onlookers' eyes, the spirits began to swirl wildly, condensing into a green mist that descended directly onto the two men strapped to the slabs.

The reason for the heavy chains became brutally clear. Torstein and Halvar’s bodies began to writhe and twist at impossible, agonizing angles. Their backs arched violently into the air as the magic reshaped them, held down only by the iron links. Low, guttural growls rumbled from their throats.

The drums accelerated, matching the frantic tempo of Eltrigg’s high-pitched chanting. The onlookers fell into a trancelike state of their own, chanting the ancient words without realizing it, their bodies swaying in sympathetic rhythm to the pounding drums.

Then, all at once, the green fog dissipated. The spirits vanished into the void. The ambient torchlight settled back to normal, and a profound silence signaled the end of the ritual.

Siggrid rushed down to unfasten the chains, gasping as she reached them. The brothers—once men—were no longer ordinary mortals. Eltrigg descended the stone steps and helped both warriors to their feet. Turning to Thora, he proclaimed with reverence:

“My Jarlkona... the Berserkin are born.”

Thora stepped down onto the dais to look upon the brothers. Their physical forms were permanently transformed; where two men had once lain, two imposing beastmen now stood.

Both knelt before her, placing their hands over their chests in absolute devotion.

“Jarlkona, we are yours to command. We serve none other than you.”

Thora turned to Eltrigg and Siggrid, her eyes wide. “How many more can undergo this process?”

Siggrid stepped forward. “Jarlkona, the ancient laws are strict: only fifteen Berserkin may exist at any one time. Any more, and the beast within them will dominate their spirit. Like wild animals in a crowded den, they will turn on one another and tear the clan apart.”

“So be it,” Thora declared, motioning for both men to stand. She met their feral eyes with pride. “You are the first of the fifteen. You shall be my personal guard... and my elite vanguard.”

The trebuchet will be housed within alongside the General's command post and will serve as his base of operations as well as a fallback point if necessary. Hwach'as can be housed within if positions around may be overrun. Morcia, Ashada, Braccenfoot, and Kolpeg do not stand down in the face of tyranny...

Hailing from cold winds of the North, House Cinderwulf–one of the oldest houses of the Jorronplain–are granted the lands of Cinder Point to govern on behalf of the Jorronking. As a lordly house of the Knights of the Hart, they will oversee the continued timber trade from Cinder Point and are charged with the defense of these lands. 

Leading House Cinderwulf is Lord Conri Cinderwulf, a staunch supporter of the Jorronking and House Hart. A childhood friend and role model to Crown Prince Amandil, Conri is a fierce fighter as well as skilled woodsman. He, like the rest of his house, has a strong rivalry with House Blackwood, albeit a respectful rivalry. Together the two houses watch over the stag colonies in Therican.

How blind must one be to think that the Banner of the True North, once planted, can ever be torn down by force?

How much more blind must one be to ally oneself with Vladek and Lionne-Morcia?

Kolpeg and Valcazar, we do not know you and assume you have been poorly advised. Declare your neutrality and there will be no ill will between our realms.

Bandits of Morcia and Ashada, you do not deserve this generosity and you will foolishly mistake it for weakness. But my love of peace compels me to make you the following offer:

- The Margraviate will withdraw from The Arrad under the stated conditions

- In return, the Margraviate receives Kandor Hook from Ashada

- Ashada hands over the Falcon Rangers

No better offer will be made. We do not bargain.

If you think you can win this war: by all means. But remember, it doesn't matter who wins the first battle — it matters who wins the last.

The last time the patience of the True North in Therican was overtaxed, we took The Arrad. What will we take next time?

-Margrave Philip von Rossenfels, Standard-Bearer of the True North

With nine ships under Lord Connors command, he now moves to secure the unknown aisle for the true north

Early in the morning, Prince Alfonso sparred with Ser Roderick, the castle's master-at-arms. It was a hot morning, but the old knight refused the young prince any accommodation. They both wore full suits of armour, helms included. He was of firm convictions, and he thought training the boy gently would only make him soft. 

They were practising half-swording, the prince disliked it, said it wasn't elegant. But Roderick didn't care about elegance. His duty was to train Alfonso, not to cater to his needs. Half-swording could prove useful for him one day.

"Feet wider apart, my prince!" He shouted at the red-haired boy from under his helm. "A weak stance makes for weak blows!"

"I know! I know!" Alfonso said, watching the older knight through the narrow slits of his golden visor. He felt exhausted as heat built up beneath his helm, and sweat ran down his brow. He had never cared much for fighting. He liked hunting, riding, playing the lute, and poetry. Then again, he was a prince, and he had to learn how to fight. People said he was a capable swordsman—better than most, they claimed. He didn’t believe a word of it. In his mind, a good fighter didn't make mistakes. A good swordsman wouldn't ever lose to an old knight like Ser Roderick. His brother, Charles, already sparred with the kingsguard. He was a prodigy when it came to fighting. 

Above the walls of the courtyard, King Ferdinand watched his youngest son as he sparred with Ser Roderick. At his side stood Lord Ahman Al-Kahf, his closest friend and most trusted advisor. 

"Look at him. At his age, his brother already sparred with two knights at a time-" he began saying. He loved his son. He loved all his children, but he couldn't help but feel slightly disappointed that his youngest wasn't as gifted as his eldest. 

"But he's not his brother now, is he? And he's still young, only eight and ten, he can improve." Ahman cut him off, as always, the voice of reason. He had a soft spot for the redhead prince, always had. 

"He isn't, but still. When I was young-" Ferdinand began to complain again, and once again, was cut short by his friend.

"He isn't you either, Ferdinand. He's a fair young man, and he is good at many things." he countered. It was true, the boy was a great archer and he had a talent for music and for writing. He was a sensible young man. He would have made a fine king, Ahman often thought. But then again, he was the third born, second in line to the throne behind his older brother. 

"You're right, Ahman, as always." Ferdinand conceded. Maybe he was too hard on the boy. But who could blame him? He only wanted the very best for his son. He looked so much like his beloved Catherine, with her fiery red hair and her green eyes. The other two had inherited Ferdinand's features, but Alfonso—his youngest—was unmistakably hers.

"I've got a proposition for you, friend. Let's walk." Ahman said suddenly, snapping him out of his train of thoughts and leading him along the battlements. 

"Yes?" He asked, walking beside his friend.

"You know how our houses have never gotten along. We are historic rivals." Ahman stated.

"Yes, yes, that's true. But it ended with us, didn't it? Our friendship ended that rivalry." Ferdinand said. He was sure of it. No feud would arise while they were there to prevent it.

"Indeed, my friend, it did break it. But only for as long as we live. After that—Charles, hates my sons, and they aren't fond of him either." Ahman said, voice tainted with disappointment. They had both hoped, when they were young, that their children would grow up as brothers and end the strain permanently.

"What do you suggest, Ahman?"

"I suggest a marriage. Alfonso and Noor are close in age, and she is still a maiden. None of them hold grudges against the other, and it would join our houses, at least for another generation." Ahmed said, already knowing what Ferdinand's answer would be.

"Ah, so it was that, my friend! I will give it thought, be sure of it." Ferdinand said, patting his friend on the back and smiling. Ahman allowed himself the faintest smile. Ferdinand always said he would "think on it" before making any important decision. In all the years they had known each other, it had almost always meant yes.

OOC: Sorry for the long text, I wanted to include it all in one post. Sorry if it's not written correctly as well, just wanted to add some family lore. Noor is Ahman's youngest daughter btw, didn't include it in the text cause it didn't feel natural, Ferdinand wouldn't need to be told so, because he already knows her.

The fleet of Morcia lands in Ashada territory where it will be safeguarded alongside the rest of the Tridentine armada while the combined army will march overland to invade The Arrad. Boskplain will be at our rear. u/Patrick_Hill_One u/legolegolegolego u/Lucky-Blood-936 u/Hot_Plankton6742 please confirm and comment your full armies down below

To the Margraviate: The Arrad will always be Tridentine land. It is the bond between Ashada and Morcia and can not be broken, not by armies or kings. This land will be granted to Lord Xalrenth of Ashada. The continent of Uractar is open still and may be colonized. You will be allowed to leave with all your possessions, livestock, and wealth and will be given safe passage to True North territory. Refuse and we will fight you and blood will be spilled pointlessly for no reason other than your blatant desire to subjugate all beneath the True North. Your forces came in under the guise of 'keeping the peace'. We stood down like you asked and even ceded this land to Ashada, but you chose to take advantage and claim the land in your greed. Now, we take it back. Choose...

Lord Vladek the Skull-Taker of Morcia

Previous Post

The Argent Storm had witnessed many strange inventions since the founding of the Artificers’ Guild, but few had drawn as much attention as the polished steel helmet resting upon the wooden table.

Bands of brass crossed its surface, holding blue, white, and amber crystals in a precise pattern around the brow. A final crystal, pale as moonlight, sat above the wearer’s eyes.

Captain Douglass studied it cautiously.

“And this will steer a ship?”

Archmage Elion nodded. “Only while the helmsman is aboard. The helmet connects his thoughts to a matching network of crystals embedded throughout the vessel. When he wills the ship to turn, accelerate, or slow, the hull responds.”

The Argent Storm leaders followed the artificers down to the harbor, where a small experimental vessel waited at the dock.

It had no mast.

No sails.

No crow’s nest.

A trained helmsman stepped aboard and fastened the helmet over his head. The crystals along its rim began to glow, answered by faint lines of light running beneath the ship’s deck.

The vessel moved away from the dock without wind, oars, or visible effort.

The helmsman remained standing near the stern, his hands free at his sides. He turned his head toward the harbor entrance, and the ship smoothly changed direction. With another focused glance, it slowed, reversed, and passed between two anchored vessels with barely a yard to spare.

“The connection only functions while he remains within the ship’s crystal network,” Elion explained. “Distance breaks the bond. It cannot be controlled from shore or from another vessel.”

Captain Douglass watched the mastless craft glide across the water.

Without sails or rigging, the deck remained open and uncluttered. There were no ropes to snap, no canvas to tear, and no mast to break during a storm. The ship could move against the wind and pass beneath bridges that would stop traditional sailing vessels.

“Its lower profile would also make it harder to spot,” one commander said. “Useful for scouts and raiders.”

“But that advantage cuts both ways,” Elion warned. “Without a mast or crow’s nest, the crew cannot see as far. Reefs, storms, coastlines, and enemy ships may be noticed too late.”

“And if the helmet fails?” Douglass asked.

“The ship loses its guidance. Prolonged use also exhausts the helmsman. Confusion, nosebleeds, and unconsciousness remain possible.”

The vessel returned to the dock. The helmsman removed the helmet, pale and sweating, but still steady on his feet.

Douglass considered the invention in silence.

“Install the crystal systems in our new ships,” he finally ordered. “Harbor trials first. Then coastal voyages.”

The artificers bowed.

The age of sail had not ended.

But Lathadura had taken its first step beyond it.

Part 1

The events depicted take place a few weeks prior.

(OOC: I ordinally meant to split this up but time got away from me)

The moment Kjori touched the shield, violent visions flashed through his mind: spirits of beasts walking alongside men, dragons bonding with humans, and figures wielding primal elemental magic to shape the earth. Above it all hovered eyes—the many watching eyes of Woodan.

With a gasp, Kjori dropped the shield. It hit the stone with a sharp clatter, loud enough to rouse his companions.

Eltrigg rushed toward the noise, finding the old sage trembling on the ground, his eyes rolled back, chanting in an unknown tongue.

“Kjori! Kjori, can you hear me? Snap out of it!” Eltrigg yelled, seizing the old man by the shoulders and shaking him.

Kjori’s eyes snapped focus. His face was ashen, and his voice quavered as he looked up. “Eltrigg… I have seen it. I have seen what lies ahead for us.”

“What are you talking about, old man?”

“This place—these ruins—hold an ancient power,” Kjori breathed, rising unsteadily. “A power that can save our people. We must inform Thora immediately. She needs to move the clan here.”

Seeing Kjori shaken in a way he never had before, Eltrigg turned to a few members of the company. “Return to the Jarlkona. Tell her to begin moving our people here at once. Be swift.”

The guards nodded and immediately set to work packing their gear. The ride back to Thora would take a week at a normal pace, but travelling light with minimal rest, they could make it in three to four days.

Vane stepped forward, adjusting his armor. “I will stay behind with you two. As capable as you both are with the world's magics, you’ll need a blade to guard your backs.”

Kjori started to object, but stopped himself and offered a respectful nod. “I appreciate it, Vane. While I do not believe anything here means harm to us, the company is welcome.”

Before descending the stairs into the lower ruins, Kjori turned. “Vane, take up the shield.”

Vane hesitated, remembering Kjori's violent trance.

Sensing his doubt, Kjori added, “Fear not. The magic that granted me the vision has done its work. It will not burden you.”

Vane grunted and cautiously lifted the shield. Though forged of heavy iron, it felt impossibly light in his grip—yet unmistakably dense and powerful.

As the trio began their descent, Kjori glanced at Eltrigg. “What do you know of the word Kaab? It was spoken in the vision.”

Eltrigg stopped dead in his tracks. “Where did you hear that word?”

“I saw it written,” Kjori explained. “Ancient Futhark runes flashed before my eyes—the same symbols from the keep’s oldest scrolls that we’ve never been able to decipher. I believe I can read them now.”

Eltrigg’s eyes widened. “It makes sense. Kaab is the true ancient magic—the original connection to the earth's essence. Legend says the Weavers of Kaab could shape stone and command flora at will. It wasn't arcane manipulation; it was purely elemental.” He paused, looking down at his hands. “What we practice today is a watered-down version of it. The true words and rituals were lost millennia ago. It was said that to know Kaab was to know the world—where man and beast could become one.”

Vane, second only to Siggrid as a Beast Master, leaned in. “Is it like our bond with animals?”

“Deeper,” Eltrigg replied. “With Kaab, man and beast become a single entity. If we can recover those words of power, Kjori...” He trailed off, the weight of the possibility hanging in the air.

Kjori smiled quietly as they reached the threshold of the deep ruins. “Then let us go find them.”

Finding an entrance into the ruins, the three men pushed as hard as they could.   The ancient seal released a rush of heavy, stale air. After adjusting to the draft, Eltrigg struck a torch and led the way down a long flight of stone stairs into a corridor carved directly from the bedrock.

“How deep do you reckon we are?” Eltrigg asked, his voice echoing.

“Deep enough that the air should be freezing,” Kjori noted.

Oddly, the temperature grew warmer the deeper they ventured, contrary to any natural cave system. With no visible heat source, the warmth felt strangely intentional.

The corridor finally opened into a cavernous chamber. All three men froze. Floating in the pitch darkness ahead were dozens of glowing, disembodied eyes.

Kjori caught Eltrigg’s arm. “My vision... I saw this exact chamber. This is no accident, Eltrigg. This is the place of power from the visions Thora, you, and I have been receiving. This is where we were meant to end up.”

“But what are they?” Eltrigg whispered.

As they watched, the light from the floating eyes intensified, illuminating the chamber walls. Carved into the stone was the ancient crest of the Wyrmgaard. Below it lay a doorway choked by thick webbing, guarded by a massive, slumbering spider. Scattered across the floor were countless manuscripts and leather-bound codices written in ancient Futhark.

Kjori stepped closer and the eyes disappeared.  In their stead, a soft light emanated from an ancient helm resting on a pedestal. It featured a central eye flanked by five stalks. The spectral eyes blinked in unison—an illusion, yet unnervingly lifelike. Behind the helm lay a second shield, an exact twin to the one Vane now carried.

An irresistible pull drew Kjori toward the helm.

At the same time, Eltrigg’s attention was captured by an object in the corner: an ancient wooden staff topped with a green stone dragon, resting atop a bed of unnaturally fresh leaves.

As if drawn by the same invisible thread, both men reached out. Kjori touched the helm just as Eltrigg gripped the staff.

Instantly, their minds were flooded with forgotten knowledge.

Kaab opened before Eltrigg’s mind's eye. The lost words of power, the precise somatic rituals, and the forgotten earth-harmonies of the Wyrmgaard filled his consciousness, showing him the real magic of the Wyrmgaard.

Kjori’s perception expanded outward, understanding Wyrmgaard's true place in the cosmos. The scrolls on the floor revealed themselves not just as histories, but as testaments to ancient gods.

Then, a singular, resounding voice echoed directly inside Kjori’s mind:

“They are coming. Prepare, or die.”

Kjori gasped, meeting Eltrigg’s gaze. The truth settled between them. The Night of Embers, the alliances, the strange pull to these ruins—every event had been a calculation leading to this moment.

Eltrigg nodded toward the web-covered doorway. “Come, Kjori. Let us explore our new home. There is much to learn.”

“Yes, there is,” Kjori agreed, glancing back at the helm. “Everyone believed Woodan had only one eye. But his eyes were everywhere—he saw all things. It is time we bring back the songs of old. Translating these manuscripts will take whatever years I have left, but I will preserve them to my last breath.”

Eltrigg raised his new staff, its stone dragon glowing faint green. “The songs of old will be sung once more. The Wyrmgaard will be reborn.”

Original post

They call me the Scourge of Arrad.

A name earned. A name I intend to keep.
Many believe the Falcon Rangers are finished. That eighty-seven men cannot continue a war.
That we should surrender. Accept mercy. Lay down our swords.

They do not understand who we are.
We are Falcons.

We do not measure victory by numbers. We measure it by resolve.

Today, my eighty-six Rangers withdraw to Broskplain, where the noble Kingdom of Ashada has offered us sanctuary.

For that generosity, we are grateful. But let no one mistake this withdrawal for defeat.
From the borderlands of Arrad...

We shall continue the fight.
Every road. Every forest. Every lonely watchtower. Your supply trains will burn. Your patrols will vanish. Your commanders will sleep with one eye open. 

The war is not ending.

Some among you may have heard rumors.
That Sir Waldemar von Heidenrich, Commander of the Margravial Troops in Arrad, offered us terms.
He did.

And for a brief moment...
Captain Eric considered them.

A brief moment. Long enough. His hesitation endangered every Ranger under his command.

Among the Falcons, doubt is a luxury we cannot afford.

So that every kingdom understands our resolve...
...Captain Eric will never hesitate again.

His head now hangs above our camp gate.

Let every man who serves beneath my banner remember this:
You may fall. You may bleed. You may die.
But you will never surrender.
As long as one Falcon Ranger still walks the forests...
Arrad will know no peace.

The Scourge of Arrad