As the sun rose in the sky, the dreary morning mist faded from the harbor of Tarannidorn, and though it was still chilly, the sun's touch was a great comfort to the masses laboring to achieve their master's commands, though it didn't little to alleviate the frenzy of activity.

The town's dockside was shaped in a great 'U', its bay protected by elongated tendrils of land, which had played no small part in the ports many successful repulsions of Etruscans in the past. The small entrance into it was currently filled with a dozen great ships of war, mighty things, standing proudly in contrast to the ragged fisherfolk dwellings on the coast. 

In contrast, the rest of the harbor was filled with a motley assortment of ships of every kind. These were mostly conscripted by the God-King's forces, boats of fishermen and merchants, now being loaded to the brim with men, horses, and supplies. They were not all islander, either; many were noticeably Cadean, or Qaylu, or even Jadisi in design. 

Those last ships had caused some difficulty on their seizure. Fine ships with vast cargo and excellently maintained, they belonged to the obscenely wealthy Gold Cartell of Jadis. This alone was enough to cause disquiet among the Mardochians; it was well known that those who threatened the trade of the Gold Cartell would not live to do so again. When the Jadisi merchants complained to Oromis in person, and threatened him with the wrath of their principality, he shocked his followers further by throwing them in the dungeon. One does not provoke the Cartell in that manner; But Oromis had made it clear that he had no fear for the coin counters. Now, these ships were docked along with the rest, comandeered by the invasion force. 

Oromis himself watched the chaos from the deck of the [i]Pheonix[/i], the largest warship he commanded, able to see from this vantage point all the going-ons in the harbor. He could see that the larger ships, the ones used by the main army, were beginning to draw out of port, clearly ready to depart, while the smaller, sleeker ones of the second army were still loading up. The soldiers of that force were relatively lucky; since they would depart only later, at sundown, they would have more time to pack supplies, and wouldn't have to rely on forage and defections like his army would.

"We'll land somewhere in upper Grandell," he had told  general Astra before he had left. "We can exchange communications by ship once you've revealed yourself and taken Tolos."

The plan was that the main army would set sail first, making no secret of their departure. Let the rats race across the Gap and squeal to the Prophet on his false throne of the oncoming storm. Once they'd left, however, Duke Perinhold would seal off communication between the Isles and the outside world. Not a hard task, truth be told, considering how they'd conscripted nearly every vessel in the isles which could float to transport the army. At any rate, the secondary force would continue to prepare until nightfall, at which point they would also set sail, this time under cover of darkness and secrecy. 

"We're making history, here," he had continued. "Make sure we're the ones who will write it."

"Of course, your grace. If you say my Grey Winds must take Tolos, then we will take it."

"Keep an eye on General Astra," he later told Selana Jalek (the leader of the Night Hunters, whom he had placed under Astra's command) in private.

"I... What, sire?" the Islander had asked, surprised. "But you-"

"Put her in command of a quarter of my army, yes. She's a capable leader, and she hasn't given me reason to distrust her. But still, watch her."

That Astra hadn't given him reason to distrust only made him more suspicious. He had no idea what she wanted, and that made him suspicious. Common wisdom would say that she and her company were after gold, but they had abandoned lucrative contracts in the Empire to come serve him. Perhaps she was fighting for his ideals... But somehow, he doubted there was such a thing as an altruistic mercenary.

And yet now he was entrusting the very success of his war to her. It was a roll of the dice; he could only hope she wouldn't decide she liked the Prophets gold more. Even now, as the last preparations for departure were being done, being dependent on another like this irked him.

"Sire, the last of the army has embarked," Wolong told him. Oromis had arranged for the Qaylu to travel on the [i]Pheonix[/i] as well, so that he was available for consultation should a landing port prove difficult to find.

"Good. Then let's not waste any more time."

Wolong hesitated. "If we would just delay our departure by an hour, we could avoid major supply problems down the line..."

"There will be no delay, Wolong," Oromis said, a smile on his lips. "I'm not staying in these wet, frigid, and miserable isles one minute longer." He gave a nod to the Pheonix's captain, who went to the edge of the forecaslte, leaning on its railing.

"To home!" the captain barked, the old war cry of the Mardochians sailing off to war.

"To home!" came answers from his lieutenants, who set themselves to work raising anchor and lowering the sails. 

Oromis drew Reingunger for the first time in a century, admiring the beauty of the blade. It was a massive sword, as large as a man, yet it was light as a feather. To him, at least- Those who didn't have his curse were consistently incapable of lifting the thing higher than a few feet. On its blade, etched in gold, were the words:

[center][i]Never a memory.[/i][/center]

Satisfied by his blade once again, he raised it high in the air, and it burst into a plume of flame which continued high a hundred feet. The sword itself could only set itself on fire, but Oromis could shape the natural laws of the world nearly at will. It was a  signal to the other captains of the main army, who similarly raised anchor. He supposed a mundane flag signal would have worked just as well, but it wouldn't have had the dramatic impact he so enjoyed. He had of course made sure that the sky was clear when he had done so; It wouldn't do to burn down his own sails.

As smoke still drifted from the fire's scar, he felt the ship lurch forward, as the great sails came rolling down, emblazoned by the flaming sword on a green field that was his personal sigil. All over the harbor, ships followed suit, and as they sailed out of the harbor, he felt a cheeriness he hadn't known in a century, the faint shrieking of silence barely audible at all. [i]This time, Etruscan, I will be the victor[/i].

"Now," he told the Qaylu general, "The real fun begins."