[CENTER][U][B]Christendom Under Siege[/b][/u][/center] Pope Honorius III swayed in his chair, heavy not just with age, but also pain. “What news of Poland?” Hans Greitel, Cardinal of the Holy Roman Empire, bowed his head. ““Mieska III the Old perished along with the last fighting force in Poland, as he held the walls of Warsaw against the demonic tide.” Honorius III’s wrinkled face creased in anguish, “what of his people?” Jacque Monrowe, the Cardinal of France made the cross on his chest. “Your Holy ears should not bear the descriptions of our enemy’s twisted spoils, most Holy Father.” “If God has seen fit for me to walk into the bounds of Hell, then so be it. Come, tell me,” demanded Honorius III impatiently. Spittle had started to run visibly down one side of his mouth. “Reports tell of mass death, and of rape. Women and children are not spared from our foe, it seems. If what Cardinal Greitel’s countrymen say is true – the hulks of Poland feast on the flesh of mankind,” Jaques paused to form another cross, “those who would resist are shown a fate worse than death.” The Pope was visibly shaking at this point, but as John Fletcher, Cardinal of England, attempted to adjourn the meeting, the old man stood from his chair. Aloud he cursed, arms thrusted up towards Heaven, and soon practiced Latin poured from his cracked lips in tirades of heresy. “Why have you abandoned us, Oh Lord?” he screamed; eyes welling in dismay. Cardinal Greitel stepped over to the Pope, and embraced him as a father would a frightened child. “Fear not, Holy Father, all is not lost, and if these truly are the End Times, then Our Lord will be watching us with eager eyes – to see the extent of our resolve. Despair not, Holy Father, for these demons can be killed – as we saw in Rome-“ “Rome is lost!” Hissed the Pope, breaking the embrace with clawed fingers. “Don’t you see? Swords are of no match for that which cannot be killed. Satan has sent forth his legions, the Kingdom will fall.” “My Earthly sovereign, Emperior Otto IV, is assembling his army as we speak. He intends to rid Poland of the demons, and to save its people. Have faith, Holy Father, for we all need you now more than ever,” begged Cardinal Greitel, kneeling on one knee. “What of the horde of giants that have laid waste to half of Spain? What of those flat-faced demons dwelling in the marshes of Flanders, and of Burgundy? So much loss. The war comes to Man on many fronts, it would seem,” said the Pope, irremovably lost in the depths of depression. The French Cardinal raised his hand. The Pope turned an ear to him. “My sire, the King of France, is mustering to assist the Spaniards. Even now, he calls the entirety of his army to rally at Paris. From there, he will march on Spain to repel Hell’s legions. Then he will turn northward, to liberate Normandy, Burgundy and Fl-“ “The English defeated the evil ranks in Normandy, before the walls of Caen! How now have we lost it? Has a second coming made good of the English army, as they did of us in Rome?” Interrupted the Pope, shouting in an untenable rage. “We didn’t lose it, Holy Father, or rather we did,” said Cardinal Fletcher. “But not through force of arms. It simply ceases to exist.” “What?” came the collective response of the Cardinal Council. John nodded. “I heard word yesterday from a group of my countrymen fleeing the north. Apparently, all roads leading to Normandy turn on themselves. The nearer you draw to the coast, the further away it stretches. It is… most strange.” “Strange? Is that your best word for it? Strange!?” The Pope was now a thing of lunacy. “Though sweet melodies can be heard bouncing around the countryside, as if thousands had joined in communion to sing praise,” continued Cardinal Fletcher; unlike the Pope, the Englishman seemed to be rather fascinated by the situation than fearful of it. “Praise to whom?” Asked Cardinal Monrowe, his face twisting in curiosity. “The Devil?” “I am not sure. It was not of French, English or German tongue,” replied the English Cardinal. Stopping to consider his thoughts, he continued, “though I cannot confirm what the refugees have said as truth. They are probably mad with grief and terror, as many others are the world over. Allow me to take a retinue there, to investigate, and I will solve the mystery.” The Pope waved a hand. “Granted,” he sobbed. Visibly exhausted from his ordeals, the aging Patriarch of the Catholic Church left the Cardinal Council. His guards followed after him, as did his physicians. “He is a madman,” said Cardinal Monrow. “We’d be best served to have him stand down.” “Watch your heresy,” hissed Cardinal Greitel. [CENTER][U][B]The High Elves of Nillanor[/b][/u][/center] High King Falrir Maelstrom circled the naked humans. They had been brought before him on his orders, and were divided into two lines of ten. One line were males, and he studied them curiously. Some were weak, wrought with age or disease. Others were strong, with broad shoulders and princely faces. All however were united in their universal fear, and they quivered under his gaze. Falrir was above arousal, but he admitted to himself there was a slight tingle of excitement in him that he had not felt in an Age. The human females varied wildly in their qualities – and ugliness – much unlike those of his kin. High Elves looked almost identical, no matter their lineage, and though they were a beautiful people to look upon, Falrir tired of bedding the same perfect forms of High Elf maidens. He had been doing so for twenty thousand years, after all. One of the women shrieked and recoiled as he brushed his fingers across her hair. “Do you fear me?” He asked in response; his face a stone slab of emotion. The woman was too terror-struck to reply. His quick mastery of Italian, French and German in the brief weeks he had been on Earth had obviously startled the poor thing. “You needn’t,” he said. His eyes bore into the woman, almost menacingly, though in truth there was no malice. The murder of his son had already been avenged, and he wished for no more bloodshed. “We are very much alike, and this fear and violence are an abomination.” Turning, Falrir clasped his hands behind his back and walked back to his throne. He was a being of beauty; immaculate white robes draped his body, his flesh was smooth and glowing and his ivory hair ran down his back in a straightened throw. He looked skywards, towards the magnificent arched ceiling of St. Peter’’s Catherdral. It was a poor feat when compared to the master works for the High Elves, but it was nonetheless noteworthy of human potential. In Rome, as the natives called it, Falrir could sense great magical potential streaming from the ground beneath him. It was of little wonder then, that the humans had chosen to sit their spiritual patriarch here. “Send them back to the city,” he commanded, turning as he approached his throne. “Send them with whatever they hold of worth in this world.” Looking at the humans, he said ‘Let it be known that we are not occupiers, but your friends.’ As the humans were led out by a dozen or so High Elven pikemen, the High King was approached from the flank by his chief advisor and son: Prince Therandir. “Any word from the other refugees, my son?” asked Falrir, not bothering to turn his head. “None sire. The Halflings and our Lesser Kin have not made it through,” replied Therandir, looking sad despite the stony expression. “How?” “The portals were interrupted on Gorika; a great chasm opened beneath Tarnia I believe, disrupting the works of our Arch Mages and their assistants. They may yet make it through, or they may have been lost forever.” “It was a risk we had to take. Ironic how the Gods would choose to save the Isarimer and the Lorenvolk, but send the kinder races to their doom. Perhaps this is a message meant for us.” “And what message could that possibly be father?” “Our time is coming to an end. We, the High Elves, whom have long fought for peace and prosperity on Gorika, are a dying race. The Gods may well be underlining this point, withdrawing our friends to the shadow, so that we stand alone against our Doom.”