As the followers of Oromis whispered plans of war in the black of night, other men were doing the same in the mighty and mystical citadel of Bucephal, capital of the Tolosi Empire. Around a circular stone table sat the five most important men and women in that glorious dominion, with only a few meager torches to chase the darkness. 

"Brothers," Adrea Karedac -High Priestess of the Isidon province- began, her voice marked by the authority she possessed as chief advisor of His Majesty. "I thank you for coming on such short notice. I would not have called for you if the need was not urgent."

Taking a moment's pause to let them consider that, she pushed on with the hard truth: "We are now certain that the man claiming to be Oromis returned is genuine."

A moment's silence ensued.

"Damn," Margrave Reinald said finally, echoing everyone's thoughts. They all knew what that meant; they were old, even by elven standards, and they remembered well the carnage and the horror that resulted from his war against the Empire.

Adrea nodded. "Indeed. I don't need to remind you that, the last time he came for us, he ripped away half the Empire in the process. In the next war, he will seek our utter destruction. Given the urgency of the situation, I took the liberty of eliminated the nest of rats who were spreading his insanity in our borders." She smiled, though it was in her usual way, utterly devoid of warmth. "I believe you've seen them already, in front of the gates; bandits, I've had it publicly known, though those in charge of them will know the warning for what it is."

"Perhaps the Etruscans will be obliging enough to kill him again," High Priest Serpend, youngest of the Emperor's advisers, suggested hopefully.

"Perhaps," Adrea said skeptically. "But it isn't wise to count on it. Remember, he was killed by treachery the last time. And while he has less men now, the League has also grown weak, overextended and divided. And whereas before he was the sole leader of his little rebellion, this time he has a cadre of promising generals at his command."

She paused for a moment, growing more serious, as if that were possible. "Furthermore, the Astra's Grey Winds have joined him."

"That treacherous bitch!" Margrave Reinald finally let out, his voice thick with fury. The others winced, understanding. As governor of the western Giriballi province, which extended up and down the length of the Nerwains, it was the duty of the Margrave to defend the Empire from Etruscan invasion. He had hired the prestigious Grey Wind company to bolster his forces for an attack on the Zantyric Order for a small fortune.

"Claes is a sellsword," Adrea pointed out coldly, with none of the sympathy of her peers. "They are loyal only to themselves. You knew that when you hired her. No doubt the Winds only agreed to the contract to mask their movements across the Empire."

"Are we certain of this? Where does the information come form?" Serpend interjected, cutting off Reinald's rebuke. 

"I've seen it," said a voice which had been silent until then in a hoarse voice.  Everyone turned to pay the speaker attention. 

Feridas was perhaps the oldest mortal alive, being almost a thousand years old. Of course, all elves lived long, but at around four hundred years of age they lost their youthful appearance, and their bodies deteriorated astonishingly quickly, in what is referred to as the Knell. By the age of 450, elves are as frail as the oldest humans, their bones becoming brittle, their flesh saggy. Even those who survive their newfound feableness fall prey to the effects of age, with senility taking its toll. 

That Feridas was not only alive, but lucid (somewhat, at least) was unique. Stranger still were his visions: He was known to see things in his dreams which foretold the future with eery accuracy, without any apparent need for magical items. Raising his head, his blind eyes staring into nothingness, his body that of a corpse, he explained:

"I've see the Great Enemy, Oromis, and those beside him. A Qaylu, his face scarred by hardship. A Jadisi cloaked in secrets. A westerner hidden in the shadow. An elf woman, dripping in blood from head to toe, her heart shriveled away. An armored woman with blazing crimson hair, her sword raised high, her face..."

His faint voice faltered. "Her gaze was terrible to behold. All those around the Foe were killers, one and all, yet somehow that woman was more terrifying than any of them." He went back to his silence.

"This is all rather frightening," the fat Margrave Qericus broke in, "but I've other news that I, ahem, felt this council should know of. As you know, as ordained by His Majesty, ahem, I govern the southern frontier province, keeping His-"

"Yes, yes," Margrave Reinold interrupted brusquely. "If you have something to say, say it, and spare us the damn formalities."

Qericus gave Reinold an annoyed look. The Margrave enjoyed nothing more than the formalities of his office. "What I'm saying is that the orcish barbarians have invaded the League as well, landing in the south last night."

"That can't be a coincidence," Serpend pointed out. Again, silence, as those present considered the implications of that.

"You think the Foe knew of the coming invasion when he crowned himself?" Reinald asked, horrified at the prospect. "But... how?"

"He defies the natural order of this world," Adrea cut in. "'How' is a pointless question. A better one is 'why'. A full orcish invasion is a curious time to launch his latest crusade."

"Or an opportune one," Serpend said thoughtfully, stroking his golden beard. Several others, understanding his meaning, bobbed their heads in assent. For the rest, he explained: "With the orcs of Rusadir in full war against the League, the Etruscan fleet is pinned in the Timerian Sea; They can't leave without defeating the orcs at sea first. And no doubt the Foe thinks he can smash the orcs in battle, preferably after they ravage half the continent. If he succeeds, he will be acclaimed as the rightful defender of humanity, and his cause given a great deal of legitimacy."

He grimaced. "And no doubt he'd immediately start a war of 'liberation' against our Empire."

"What's the tactical situation in the south?" Margrave Reinald asked, pragmatic as always. "Surely the orcs will be repelled in short order."

"The orcs of Rusadir are reputed to be mighty warriors, and their King Rusadir is famous for his cunning and skill at war," Adrea said, her brow furrowed in thought, "But the Timerian coast is guarded by the Cadean city-states and the powerful kingdom of Merida. As to who will win in that struggle..."

"The orcs will win," old Feridas rasped again. Everyone looked at him in surprise. He almost never spoke in these meetings; now he had done so twice. "I have seen the twin snakes of the Meridan King tattered and fallen on a mound of hewn corpses. The visions granted to me by the Gods are generally vague, yet this... This is clear. Merida will fall, and soon."

Serpend sighed and rubbed his eyes, fatigued by the long night. "All right, then, the orcs will rampage through the south of the League, and the Foe through the north. What do we do? Take advantage of all this chaos to invade the east?"

Adrea considered that for a moment. "No," she decided finally. "We simply can't afford that, in coin, supplies, or men. The Empire was feeble before our disastrous war against Coromis last year, and now..." She closed her eyes. The Empire was already dead, in truth. A war would only serve to show everyone that the grand illusion- that it still stood- for the great lie it was, and then it would collapse utterly. 

She opened her eyes again. "We'll simply have to speed up the project."

Margrave Qericus blanched at the prospect. "We've already picked the Empire clean of the stones. I can't imagine how we'll get more without, ahem, attracting attention. And that isn't even talking about the, ahem, other cost. We're not as numerous as we used to be, and now-"

"I don't want excuses," Adrea cut him off. "The fate of our entire race hangs in the balance. Find a way." She looked at the others. "I must attend matters of state, and you your duties. For now, this meeting is over. We'll meet again soon. By the Emperor's grace."
[u]                                                                                                                                                                                                                     [/u]

[b]Hours later, in the Keep of Tarannidorn[/b]

Joshen Perinhold, Duke of Pellia, trudged along in the gloomy, frozen stone hallways of the keep that until recently had been his quiet home. As he passed windows, he could see the faint light of dawn eking through them. Another night without sleep, then. He honestly couldn't remember the last time he had rested; It certainly had to be before his god had knocked on his door and politely asked for his lands.

An old, proud man, he came from a long line of old, proud men. For centuries, the Perinholds had been, as the dukes of the wealthy and puissant duchy of Pellia, one of the most influential forces in the League. And then his great grandfather- also named Joshen, as it turned out- declared for Oromis when he appeared in 3534, marching off for war, leaving behind his two year old son and his beloved wife. 

Needless to say, he wasted no time to find himself on the wrong end of a pike. When his army was crushed by the Rozarrians, he was butchered along with the rest of his men. With their family declared enemies of humanity and their lands given to the Rozarrian king, it fell to his widow to salvage what she could of the situation, gathering the routed remnants of the Mardochian army and fleeing to the Hamrock Isles.

The highest ranking Mardochian noble with his head intact, his grandfather became the leader of the movement as he grew. He was by all accounts a valiant warrior and a general blessed with genius. Though this did not save him from the grave, his death, leading the mardochian forces against the great Etruscan invasion of 3570, was certainly more heroic than his father. He died sword in hand, still hewing through foes and shouting commands as his flagship sunk beneath him. Then there was his father, who had the good luck to reign in a period of relative peace, save the occasional Etruscan raid. He died of old age, a feat Joshen hoped to emulate.

As for the current Duke of Pellia, he had none of the martial zeal of his forefathers. He was a fretful and anxious man by nature, and the arrival of Oromis had only stressed him more. He now had to single-handedly prepare the logistics of an entire invasion. 
[i]Where will we find the food? The ships? Or even the sailors? Perhaps mercenaries... But with what coin? Perhaps the traders... No, we can't risk scaring them away at this critical point. But how-?[/i]

He was mercifully interrupted in his thoughts by reaching his destination, the solar that used to be his, but was now occupied by his god. Though the guards straightened themselves, they did not bother asking questions; After all, only a week ago, he had been their sole lord. As they opened the door, he fidgeted and hesitated, worrying about what he should say and how he should say it, and how would Oromis react, and do you refer to your god as Your Grace, Your Majesty, My Lord, or maybe something else...

"Milord," one of the guardsmen coughed, embarrassed. "Are you gonna to enter?"

"Hm?" Joshen asked, startled. "Oh, yes, right. Of course." He hurried into the office, finding Oromis awake and staring distantly out of the high window that loomed behind the desk. At least I'm not the only one awake at this dismal hour, the Duke reflected. He coughed and mumbled an incoherent greeting.

"Ah, my lord, welcome," Oromis said, his expression unreadable. "What news from the preparations?"

"Well, respectfully, that's not why I'm here, Your Grace. It's, ah, it's news from afar. A courier arrived just now, having sailed as fast he could from the Timerian." The duke hesitated. "The orcish king Rusadir has crossed the sea and invaded the kingdom of Merida."

"I see," Oromis said simply, without any sign of surprise.

"You... You knew, Your Grace?"

Oromis again looked outside, watching the courtyard below with a weary expression. "I guessed. But so soon... This has set the hourglass back. We must set sail before nightfall today, if we have any hope of winning this war."

Joshen blanched, speechless for a moment. "Today?" he asked incredulous. "My lord, we can't. The supplies alone-"

"Most of the supplies can be left here, to be sent after we've already made landfall. The force that will make for Tolos will have ample opportunity to forage, while the main army will have to hope for charitable sympathizers."

"Your Grace, this is foolish, to rush into a war like this. We should take our time, prepare, consolidate-"

"Every moment we spend equipping a single soldier, our enemies spend equipping ten," Oromis interrupted. "You have your command, Perinhold. Follow it."

[i]I am in hell[/i], Joshen thought, despairing at the magnitude of what his god was asking. "I... Yes, of course. At once, your Grace."
[u]                                                                                                                                                                                                                     [/u]

As the Duke left, Oromis breathed a sigh of relief. He couldn't maintain this facade for much longer. As the doors shut loudly, he burrowed his face in his hands, his head ready to explode. He saw corpses, mountains of corpses; a strange, beautiful pool of golden water; and above all, he heard the screams of children. Always the screaming. 

It was not always this debilitating. Most of the time, it was merely in the background, a faint reminder of the horror of his existence, of the abomination that he was. But other times, like then, it felt like his head was going to explode. 

As the sun in force, the shrieking faded away, and the pain eased. He went back to his work, arranging the conquest of the entire world.  Rusadir's early move had changed the face of the game. With any luck, they'd win a quick victory in the north, and be able to push back the orcs before they caused too much damage. But what will the Empire do in the meantime? 

Unbidden his thoughts turned to Havendall, the pinnacle of his great war against the Empire. He remembered meeting Bucephalus on that field. Though the Tolosi was a human serving elven masters, Oromis couldn't help but be in awe of Bucephalus; there was an otherworldly quality to the young general, as if everything he did affected the entire world. The Empire had only survived through his sheer force of will, after all. Oromis remembered impaling him on Reingunger, as well. That it had come to that saddened him. Why? Why all this death, all this destruction? Instantly, he remembered, that refrain which nagged him night and day:

[center][i]I must annihilate Tolos.[/i]

[i]I must annihilate Tolos.[/i]

[i]I must annihilate Tolos.[/i]
[u]                                                                                                                                                                                                                     [/u]

[b]Morning of April 5th[/b][/center]