[center][h2][color=aba000]IOANNES[/color][/h2][/center]

Day turned to night turned to day as the grand army of Acharnae marched through the Atlantean heartlands. The rocky, uneven landscape along the coast made for slow marching, but it was a preferable alternative to being exposed to bands of raiders and mutants in the foothills. The slow advance of his men gave plentiful time for Ioannes' messenger birds to return. Even so, very few did. A scant five returned, carrying noncommittal messages from poleis such as Thagaste and Obrimos. Some claimed to have their hands full with their own struggles, others doubted the legitimacy of Ioannes' claim to the throne. Even so, the prevailing response was silence. Ioannes had kept correspondence with most of these cities as recently as a month prior; what had befallen them in such a short span of time?

Questions continued to mount as Aquilonia drew near. Despite the late summer month, days grew shorter as the ancient Atlantean capital grew closer. Strange weather gathered overhead, unnatural cloudforms and distorted stormfronts. Animals grew scarce, and then disappeared altogether, forcing Ioannes' men to rely on their salted rations for sustenance. After some short weeks of travel, the land no longer resembled the Atlantis that the would-be emperor had learned of in his boyhood. It was a twisted and ruined land, corruption seeping into the earth itself.

At last, Ioannes crested a blackened peak with his cavalrymen, and Aquilonia was in view. Rather than the marvel of gold and marble that it had been merely fifty years ago, there now stood a blackened citadel of iron and death. The great Polis had not been abandoned for these many years, but had come under a dark new master. Great spires of twisted metal rose up into the sky, and the walls had been rebuilt at twice their height with that strange, black iron. At this distance, few details could be made out, but black riders roamed the city perimeter and manned the tower, and human slaves bound in heavy, thorned chains labored under the heavy whips of their unholy masters. Hell had come to the Iron Kingdoms, and its capital was Aquilonia.

[center][h2][color=aba000]THE OVER-TYRANT[/color][/h2][/center]

Harlwarn trudged through the mountain pass, cloak whipping against the sharp, cold wind. He muttered to himself idly, this and that about the Deathkissed bitch and the great, fat bitch, merely trying to keep himself awake. It was death for a man to let himself fall lethargic in the cold and snow. His men marched behind him, keeping their distance as they talked among themselves. The wind was too harsh and his nears too numb for Harlwarn to hear their words, but he paid them little mind. The pass was quite clear, but he was still uneasy. He had passed half a dozen animal carcasses in the snow, all half-eaten, but hadn't seen hide nor hair of a single wolf along the pass. Somehow the lack of beastly predators in the mountains unnerved him more than their presence.

His ruminations were broken when his foot caught against something in the snow. He kicked the top layer of snowdrift off, and found a simple, metal helmet. It had not been there long, as it was scarcely frozen. Stranger still, it was of the make that the queen's scouts usually wore. His men were drawing closer now that he had stopped, and he lifted the helmet up to have them look at it and give their thoughts on the matter. Or, he would have, had a piercing scream not broken out over the howl of the wind.

Harlwarn dropped the helmet and whipped about to face his men. Four now stood where there had been five before. Their weapons were already drawn, their panicked faces visible in brief glimpses in the torchlight. The senior frostreader pushed them aside to search for the tracks of whatever had just carried off one of their men. Likely a bear, possibly a mutant, he'd soon find out. However, there were none. Only the deep ruts in the snow where his subordinate had been dragged away, and a splatter of blood in the ice and slurry.

Harlwarn scowled, and barked at his men, "Keep yer bloody wits about ye! Ain't nothin but a beastman or somesuch. Stick close, ye've done this before."

The tribesmen looked to their leader and then to each other with uneasy expressions. They put up their weapons and followed behind Harlwarn in a close formation, each looking out into the surrounding shadows wide-eyed and jittery. A lone beast was an issue to men that trailed behind, but as long as they stayed within arm's reach of each other, it likely wouldn't be an issue. So they thought.

Whatever monstrosity had claimed the previous man struck again, even bolder than before. It swept in from behind, carrying away two men and knocking the rest, Harlwarn included, into the snow. One torch went out, and they were left with a solitary flame to light the way. The screams of dying men echoed in the crags and depths of the mountain pass, and Harlwarn's two remaining men cried openly. He screamed at them to shut up, his own voice shaking nervously. He was about to issue the order to turn around, when the monster struck once more. This time, it attacked them head-on, and as it tore one of his tribesmen limb from limb, Harlwarn was able to look upon it in all of its terrible glory.

The next thing he knew, he was running. He dashed madly through the ice and snow, tripping over himself every few steps. He made no effort to draw his weapon, only desperately keeping his torch ahead of him and out of the snow. His throat bled raw from the icy air as he sprinted through the pass. The cry of his final underling dying horribly sounded some distance behind him, but Harlwarn paid that no mind. It meant only that he had a few more seconds to get away.

Some time later, as the Mourslev camp slumbered among quiet tents and the the soft glow of fires reduced to coals, the silence was broken by the desperate cries of a madman. "DEMON," screamed Harlwarn as he tore through the camp, flailing his axe carelessly, "DEMON IN THE MOUNTAINS! GODS HELP US, A DEMON!"

He crashed recklessly into the tent of the Over-Tyrant, falling onto his knees in the warm, fire-lit depths of her pavillion. His torch was gone, as was his left arm. Frost and snow covered his body as he frothed at the mouth, quivering from cold and fear. Human blood dripped from the blade of his axe, but marks of claws and teeth that no earthly beast could cause were torn through his flesh and clothes.

"A bloody... demon... in the mountains..." He muttered to the startled and awakened trade queen, before finally succumbing to the cold and his wounds.

[center][h2][color=aba000]THE HUNTER[/color][/h2][/center]

Emily found her camp just where she had left it, unmolested by whatever other monstrosities lurked in the forest. She checked her traps, skinned the rabbit she had caught, and roasted it for dinner. There was a settlement not far from here, and she would begin her hunt anew there. The sun sank below the trees, and the forest went quiet with the dusk. Few creatures dared wander the forests of Borea at night, as strange things emerged when the sun fell. The heavy silence of the dark was broken only by the occasional cries of that which had not walked the earth in years untold. Sleep came uneasily to Emily, as always, with thoughts of revenge and dreams of hunts to come.

Dawn rose as it always had, and with it, Emily packed up her camp and set out on the road. It was safer to travel through the forest, fewer bandits, but she couldn't force her horse to ride though the bush and bramble. Regardless, she arely was harassed by highwaymen; the sight of her gun was usually enough to keep them at bay. The closest enclave of civilization was just a morning's ride away, and Emily came across it as the sun was just shy of its apex in the sky. More a village but not quite a town, she was relieved to find that this was not yet another ruined and abandoned settlement to scratch off of her maps.

Though she heard people, and there were obvious signs of habitation in the shops and houses, it took some time before Emily saw anyone. She eventually walked her horse near the center of the dwellings, finally finding a well from which to refill her waterskin. Here it seemed that the folk had gathered in what appeared to be some sort of impromptu court. A man whose tunics were slightly less dirtied than the majority of the crowd stood by a girl no older than twelve, who had been gagged and bound to a stake. Kindling was gathered at her feet, and the man at her side waved a lit torch imperiously. Emily corrected herself, this was an execution.

"...And so, as is my duty as governor, I commit this mutant to the flames, lest its taint corrupt us all." He announced with zeal, gesturing melodramatically to the terrified young girl beside him. "If you have any confessions before Ignis Divine, you may give them now; when the noon hour strikes, you shall burn, and He shall judge you in the realms above."

He lowered the gag for the girl to speak, and she immediately began to scream between her tear-choked sobs. "Please! I didn't mean to hurt her! You must believe me, I... I didn't mean to! I can't control it, please, please don't!" Her voice was hoarse, her face pale and bruised, and her matted red hair stuck against her face. An unlucky girl, touched by the North.

The crowd did not react well to this, calling out "Witch," and "Mutant;" some even throwing rocks or sticks. However, under their rage there was clearly fear. They all had the same hollow face, the same tired eyes. They had suffered much in these years, and the world became a far less forgiving place. This was another misfortune to befall them. Another tragedy to add to many.

The governor restored her gag, and resumed his proclamations, "The hour is nearly at hand. Are there any present that protest the proper end to this corruption? Speak now, before the mutant burns."

[center][h2][color=aba000]THE LORD OF BLADES[/color][/h2][/center]

The contract was relatively simple on the surface; the petty lordlings that laid claim to the lands not far from Castle Blackmont were embroiled in a territorial dispute. It seemed that as greater Thule fell, the grudges held by its many vassals were finally resurfacing, and with them came great bloodshed. The Crimson Company was tasked by this self-proclaimed Lord Ashewoode to act as a raiding force in the lands occupied by the armies of the Duke of Farsil. Once his armies were lured out, Ashewoode's men would form a vice with the Company to crush him once and for all. However, this was complicated by a separate correspondence by none other than this Duke, who requested that the Company act as a protective vanguard in upcoming diplomatic negotiations.

Their promised compensation (or lack thereof) was another matter entirely. Ashewoode made no mention of payment, but also made several vague references to the neighboring territories of Castle Blackmont, which were at the time of writing nominally under the control of his rival. Farsil was far more forthcoming; gold, and the promise of future employment upon the resolution of their conflict. This was a black web of politics and deception, and if Damion was to reap the benefits of his potential windfall, he would have to keep his blade sharp, and his wits sharper.

[center][h2][color=aba000]ARCHRANGER[/color][/h2][/center]

Smoke. Flint recognized the smell immediately; the harsh smell of burning thatch, and the sickly smell of charred flesh. Not far away there was a fire, and people were burning in it. A village fire no doubt, but if a wheat field caught fire, the embers could be scattered for miles around, and start countless smaller fires in the forest. This would not do. With the most haste that he could manage while still preserving his strength, Flint dashed in the direction of the smoke. He made no effort to alert any other rangers in the area; they would be attracted to the fire just as he was.

The village was thankfully close, and indeed it seemed that half the buildings were aflame. There was no life in the narrow dirt roads and pathways, as it seemed that the inhabitants had quickly fled when the blaze began. Curious, though, were the blackened corpses scattered about outside of the burning buildings. Had they caught fire and lept to their deaths? It seemed unnatural to say the least. Flint pushed the thought from his mind as he began to set counter fires to consume the burning buildings before they could spread. That was when he heard a roar, and a plume of fire barreled up into the sky.

Flint broke away from his fire-fighting to investigate the source of this anomaly. Other rangers had arrived by now; he would leave the fire to them for the time being. He rounded the corner about a large inn, which had only just set aflame despite being quite far from the other fires, when he saw it. Walking on two legs and a pair of folded wings like a massive bat, was a monster out of the tales of old grandmothers and nursery rhymes. A serpentine, reptilian thing the height of a horse and twice as long. Called Salamander by the Atlaneans, and Wurm by the native peoples of Thule. Regardless of language, any could look upon it and know it to be a dragon.