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[h3]The Republic of Keva[/h3][/center]
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[center][i]January, 1500[/i][/center]

It was a clear, spring day in the Timberlands of Keva, a vast region of rolling hills, oceans of determined bark, low shrubs and rushing rivers that surged through deep cut river valleys. Keva dominated the eastern marches of Albion, the developing powerhouse of the planets northern hemisphere; a timberland called by many people the Wilderness. Here many living things thrived in the tropical climate, both on the ground and in the air, the least of them not being Men, which made the great timberland their home.

With morning already well by and the sun climbing to his accustomed noonday seat high in the sky, a soft breeze blew out of the west to caress the thick treetops that dominated the landscape. Each gust and puff sent the thick stuff rippling like waves on a sea of fresh green, a lazy dance of motion and sound both hypnotic and soothing. Here and there small clusters of bushes swayed melodically in that strengthening wind, dancing with the breeze rushing through their tiny branches. And high over head small white clouds scudded across a deep blue sky and a beautiful green and blue, cloud-wreathed crescent floated lazily just above the horizon.

Denizens of the great wilderness, small animals rustling through the thick woodland they called home and birds winging through the heavens, marked by their soft and echoing cries over the coppice, both rejoiced in the soon to return of spring to Keva. For winter laid hard upon the woodlot and gentle swells of the timberland and every creature, going either a-wing, on four legs or on two, welcomed the renewed warmth that spring returned to the land. With the last frosts of a clinging winter but only a tenday distant, the chill of winter was still fresh in every memory.

Unheeding of that cold, as it was the heat of summer when it descended onto Keva was a massive spire of granite ranges that jutted from the earth near the very center of the great forest. It was a naked dragon’s tooth of earthen bone thrust unabashedly into the sky and across the timberland, weathered and worn by generations of storms. It’s raw form clawed a full twenty lengths into the heavens, challenging both the force of gravity which held it firmly to the ground, and the elements which sought to sweep it away with their tumult. Today it stood silent, ignoring the breeze that whistled about its worn feet, glowering at the sun as he climbed in the west.

All around those weathered feet, as far as one could see, the rolling hills of the west extended, painted new green by the brush of nature wielded by the Maker himself, the mark of the coming of the new season. High in the sky’s sapphire vaults, hunting birds hung almost motionless in the distance, held aloft by the strengthening westerly wind as their sharp eyes scanned the ground far below for an unwary mouse or vole, seeking to satisfy a long winter’s hunger on the new green of the wilderness.  Their wings were silent on the spring breeze as they effortlessly rode the thermals rising more strongly now, with the sun nearing its perihelion.

Easily seen, but ignored by the high-flying raptors was a herd of deer grazing hungrily on the new grass to the north. They too gladly filled their bellies with the tender and supple blades of new grass that pushed its way out of the hard ground and winter debris to gather in the sunlight. They had enough gnawing the bark of trees to fill hungry bellies during the deepest of winter’s cold embraces. They swiftly ate, knowing that this brief respite, this window of peace would soon close, as it often did in nature.

Neither deer nor raptor, however, foresaw how peace this day would come to an end. The herd’s lead buck, a broad shouldered male with spring velvet still covering his new season rack, gave a start when a low booming sound echoed through the wilderness.  With vigilance meaning survival to the deer, any unusual sound found its way quickly to their attention. As had this sound; head up and ears pricked forward, big brown eyes swept first in one direction, then another, searching out the low, almost inaudible sound’s source.

Was it thunder, announcing an approaching storm in the distance?  A look to the sky yielded only scattered clouds, white and without menace. As the sound grew louder and more insistent, the stag shifted nervously, pondering on whether to send his herd fleeing towards the nearest grove marking the steep banks of a nearby river valley or to hold his ground. If it were truly the echoes of an approaching storm, they risked losing a fine meal to a mere torrential downpour, a common occurrence in the Keva spring. But if it were something more menacing, . . .

Ears tuned to subtleties of sound that would escape creatures not so dependent on caution, the stag felt his body tense as he finally recognized the sound, now grown loud enough to be felt through the thick stuff of their hooves. It was the sound of horses’ hooves, heavy with the burden of riders; the sounds of Men, of hunters, come to reap a deadly harvest from the flesh of the stag’s charges. By the cadence and speed of the distant hoof beats, they were riding hard and fast, directly towards them out of the west.

The stag didn’t hesitate from that point; swinging his magnificent head around, he bounded for the grove, his herd hard in his shadow. The deer of Keva and their fellow forest fauna had learned swiftly to seek shelter when Men were about. Especially in these days of turmoil amongst the two-legged dwellers in the great cities and towns that dotted the rolling hills like artificial mountains.

With his back to the west, the stag’s sharp eyes didn’t see the dark shadows flitting through a large grove nearby. Even if he had though, even his vision would’ve been hard pressed to make out the forms behind the shadows.  Then the nearest passed through a column of sunshine that had managed to penetrate the new growth forming the grove’s canopy and, for the briefest of moments, it was revealed.

It was a man, bent low over the back of a horse.  His face was hardened and chiseled by long turns exposed to the elements and by days of trial and travail spent striving against his enemies.  Even harder still were his eyes; chips of stone as they stared ahead, fixed on a distant goal, his battle-hardened body draped about with a cloak and clothing of dull and plain colors: browns, grays and blacks.  That clothing showed the signs of heavy wear and travel, the woolen cloak still damp from the last downpour the man had ridden through, the horse beneath him covered with both rainwater and her own lather. She had been ridden hard for many days and her rib cage now heaved in silent protest.

In an eyeblink the man was joined by a score of others; silent as ghosts, dangerous as a pack of wolves, they raced through the tree trunks at breakneck speed, the branches around them greening with spring’s first touch. Bent low over the necks of their animals, the dark company pressed for the edge of the grove, marked by a splash of sunlight in front of them.

Then, with an explosion of sound and motion they burst out of the grove to pound recklessly across the ground, clods of sod flying in their wake, their heads pointed towards the rocky spur in the distance.  Revealed in the light, the company numbered twenty souls and the smell of death lay close to them, both man and mount.  Heads still low over the necks of their horses, they rode on.

These men sought not the rich hunting of the Wilderness, as the stag had surmised. Though hunters of a sort themselves, hunters of Men, this day they were the hunted. For they were a bare handful of spans from the grove’s edge when a second group of riders burst roughly forth like wolves in relentless pursuit of their prey, eyes intent on the dark men racing away from them. With horses lathered from being ridden as hard as those of the company before them, these men made to continue their chase, clothed as darkly and plainly as the men that had gone before.

But where there was only grim purpose in the dress and mannerisms of the dark riders that now fled across the plain away from them, this second group of men showed flashes of color as they moved.  Brilliant hues of orange, blue and green on black were only partially hidden by rain-damp cloaks and well-used tunics.  It marked them as, . . . . different.  Seeing their prey only a heartbeat in front of them, to the man they grimly smiled, their company numbering nearly four times the count of the group that had gone before them.  When they caught them, it would be a furious, but short battle!

Before the second company could re-launch themselves in pursuit, however, a curt word from a leader amongst them stayed their hands and, impatiently they waited. Thankfully they didn’t have to wait long.

Only a turn of the small glass had gone by before another rider exited the grove. This one, however, was significantly different from both the company he now joined, and the tight knot of men racing away from them.  Be-robed in black velvet, his shaved head etched with dark blue tattooed symbols of the Church, this one with eyes sunk deep into a cadaverous face stared imperiously first at the men he joined, then at the ones fleeing from them. Then, after a moment’s brief study, he threw back the robe and shouted out loud in a deep voice, his words strange and powerful. At the same time, he made a hard gesture with his right hand, followed by a second one with his left.

The tingle of magic in use swept over the company surrounding the strange man, and then over the timberland. And, with the sharp report of heavy static discharge, lightning bolts dropped out of the clear blue sky to hammer into the ground all around the dark company racing away to the east.

As soon as the last bolt dropped, the leader of the second company hissed a tight command and, with hooves churning into the dry soil, the company charged back into pursuit.

Oaths hot on his lips, the leader of the dark company, a powerfully muscular man that sat nearly a head taller than any of his companions, sawed back on his reins in time to avoid getting speared by one of the lightning bolts.  Instead it slashed into the dark soil of Keva, kicking up a gout of dirt and seared grass mere hand spans from where his horse jerked to a stop in a spray of sod fragments.

As the dirt and dust washed over him, he twisted in the saddle to stare back along the path they had come, his face tight with fatigue, as the company jerked their mounts to a halt all around him in smaller sprays of sod and dust. Yet the man’s eyes burned with intent purpose, firebrands in the midst of the sun-darkened and weathered features. Mouth tightening at the sight of the be-robed magic user that had called lightning down onto them and the men on horses charging after them, he looked over at the slender man that had come to a halt beside him.

[color=MistyRose]“Esper,”[/color] he curtly said and the second man, instantly understanding, nodded.

The second man then twisted in his saddle to flash a tight series of barely visible hand gestures at the dark men thronging all around him, gestures that were quickly passed throughout the company.  And, as soon as the last man was reached, three of the dark company pulled short hunting bows of horn and lacquer from their saddles with a grace that seemed as instinctual as it was smooth and economical. They strung them in the time it took one to draw breath, nocking arrows and letting fly all in the same motion, as if by silent command, the whip-cord lean men sending their gray-fletched missiles flying as one at the onrushing riders.

Two went down before they could react to the imminent danger, the arrows buried deep in their throats, their faces twisting in pain and surprise before they fell from their saddles to slam into the ground, rolling limply to a stop as their rider-less horses raced on. Their comrades surged forward, unheeding of the fallen, intent on the dark company.

The third arrow, however, was meant for a different target.  Darting past the riders, it streaked towards the unmoving sorcerer sitting just outside the grove he had exited but a moment ago.  With eyesight magically enhanced to make it as keen as the stag who had led his herd to safety before the Men’s arrival, the magic user saw the arrow coming towards him long before it was actually dangerous.  Lips curling in derision that he would be attacked in such a mundane manner, the sorcerer waved his hand and the arrow dropped lifeless onto the ground, its speed and strength stolen by runic magic a handful of spans away from him.

Undaunted by their failure to slay the magic user, the three archers continued to fire into the onrushing warriors, knowing their deadly missiles to have effect on them. In an eyeblink three more were unsaddled, then yet another three. Then they were forced to holster their bows in favor of weapons more suited to close-at-hand work as their pursuers fell amongst them. Swords were yanked from worn leather scabbards, hard-quenched lengths of silvery Kevan steel, notched and nicked from heavy use.

“For Keva!” a dark colored man in dun brown roared and, as one, they plunged into the colored ranks, swords already swinging.

The soldiers with their bright flashes of nearly hidden color had barely enough time to clear their own weapons before the dark ones were upon them. Metal rang against metal and horses squealed as they jockeyed for position, the battle now joined. It wasn’t long before its first victim was claimed: with a wet ‘crunch’ a northern blade cut through a grim iron helm and one of the pursuers was swept from his saddle.  Beside him another took a long dirk in the chest, the dark wielder of the dagger not pausing to watch the lifeless body topple to the ground, throwing himself instead back into the fray.

There another fell to clean northern steel and another after him, bright blood staining their travel-worn clothing, the men in the dark cloaks working hard to stay alive against a force that outnumbered them four to one. And none worked harder than the tall, thickset man who had led the dark company out of the forest, towering over them all. Determination hardening his face, he laid about him with his long and heavy sword, wielding it as if it were nothing more than a straw of grass instead of a length of hard steel, cutting through opponents with barely a pause. He was a grim reaper of men, the notched and worn blade scything through living flesh to gather in a deadly harvest.

With the battle quickly wearing on, the big man’s sharp eyes caught sight of one of the enemy’s officers as he knocked aside a thrust meant to skewer him like a piece of meat. A flash of silver marked the man at his tunic collar; a shirt of mail, or a breastplate perhaps, hidden beneath the bulky garment.  In that same instant the officer caught sight of him as well and, with a grim smile turning up the corner’s of his thin mouth, the man began to bear down on him, sword ready. While the big man didn’t recognize the enemy officer, he apparently recognized the big man, and clearly meant to cut him down.

Grimly the big man ducked beneath a wild swing from the attacker that had tried to stab him, before using a backhand cut to unhorse him, all the while keeping his eyes on the officer. And then the man was upon him; the officer’s cuts and slashes were measured and methodical as he began to hammer away at the big man’s careful defense, speaking of a man well versed in the arts of swordplay.

But the officer wasn’t the only student of the grim arts; with a nearly impenetrable defense, the dark man was able to take several slashes directly on his blade without harm as he took a brief moment to study the other man’s offense. Seeing an opening after a moment of loud and clear ringing of steel against steel, he swiftly and without hesitation, attacked.

Battering the officer’s sword back and away, the big man cut hard at the man’s armored body with his return cut. Desperately the officer tried to parry the heavy blow, but was too slow and weak.  With a bright flare of sparks, the big man’s blade slide down the officer’s to skip over the guard and bite deeply into the man’s ribcage, slicing through leather strap, metal plate and flesh with equal speed.  Screaming hoarsely the officer was knocked off his horse to drop with a sodden thump onto the churned up ground where he lay moaning the last of his life away.

His eyes momentarily caught following the stricken officer off of his horse and to the ground, the big man barely caught the movement out of the corner of his eye that spoke of yet another foe closing, and fast. Leaning back just in time to avoid a hard stab moving swiftly in from his right, the big man twisted with a grace belied by his size to bring his equally massive sword around in a tight, back-handed cut that caught his newest attacker leaning in too close.

Honed to a razor’s edge, the heavy blade effortlessly separated the attacker’s head from his neck, leaving the errant head spinning in the air as the enemy soldier’s horse charged by, blood and fluids reluctantly spurting from the neck’s sudden truncation. Ignoring the head’s fall to the ground, the big man turned back to the battle. Just in time to hear a sharp static ‘crunch’ of discharge just to his left, followed by a brief, harsh flash of light. In that same instant he caught sight of another attacker going down, a smoking hole where his chest used to be, as the warmth of magic use washed over him.

But before he could rejoin the battle proper, the short, furious skirmish was over and the horses of the dark company were left jostling the rider-less ones of their enemies as they danced over their crushed bodies on the ground.  Pushing a blood-matted dun mare away from his own horse with a shove of his boot, the big man glanced up at the esper, still sitting just outside the grove, perhaps half a league away.

So far the magic user had been satisfied just to attack the once, not bothering to lend the soldiers that escorted him any aide during the battle with his men. Which was fine by the big man; he had more than enough magic in the last few days!  But something he could never have enough of were answers to his questions.

With a final look up at the silent and unmoving sorcerer, he slid from his saddle and stepped to where the enemy officer was still moaning out the last moments of his life.  His massive sword went into the ground with a low ‘crunch’ as it bit through the soil and he knelt between it and the fallen officer.

[color=MistyRose]“How many of you still fight two decades after your greatest failure?”[/color] he growled his question, his eyes shards of ice as they bore into the officer’s face. [color=MistyRose]"How many more Silvermare will we hunt before you realize this Rebellion is over?”[/color]

Somehow, though the man was lost in his pain as his life leaked away, the low tone of command in the big man’s voice was enough to pull him back from the brink. His eyes fluttered before he turned his head slightly to focus on the big man’s face.

“More than enough, general.” the officer rasped, his voice weakening with every word as blood appeared on his lips. “We will not rest until Silvermane is restored.”

“Then fight until you drop dead,” the slender man, who had commanded the archers to fire, hissed tightly as he too knelt nearby. “It’ll take more than a few lonely heretics to stop a company of the praetorian legion, esper or no!”

As if in answer to him being named, the dark company became aware of a low chanting audible from a distance, quickly accompanied by the warming rush of magic gathering. And, as he felt the warmth wash over him, the fallen officer smiled and closed his eyes.

“Yes, captain,” he said, his voice now nearly a whisper. Yet it clearly carried to every member of the dark company. 

“Yes, we shall fight till the death.” And then his death’s rattle was slipping past his lips and the big man, who the officer had called ‘general’, leaned back from him, a frown on his chiseled face as he watched the officer relax into morbidity.

“Irrumabo!” the slender man snarled, throwing a hard look up at the esper, who now made strange and fluid gestures with his arms as he stared into the heavens. Heavens that, suddenly, were filling with dark and seething clouds.

“More magic!” He looked at the big man, still kneeling on the ground, a thoughtful expression replacing his frown. “I like it not, general. The heretic is summoning some sort of storm. I suggest we leave this place immediately and request for an ordained esper!”

[color=MistyRose]You’ll get no argument from me, centurion,”[/color] the big man rumbled, coming to his feet in a surge of strength and motion, taking hold of his sword hilt before jerking it free with a yank of powerful arm and shoulder muscles.  What blood and gore the dirt hadn’t scraped off, he wiped clean with a piece of cloth he tore from the fallen officer’s cloak.  He went on as he slipped the clean blade back into its worn scabbard.

[color=MistyRose]“See to your wounded. As soon as the last body is policed and properly buried, we’ll be on our way.”[/color]

The slender man nodded.

“And the rebels, sir?”

The big man grimaced as his eyes raked over the ragged battleground and the broken bodies of their enemies that strew it liberally.

[color=MistyRose]“Leave them to the crows. They’ll serve as a sign to any that come across them that even the thought of rebellion against the rightful way of Keva will be met with the swiftest justice!”[/color]

It took half a turn of hourglass to bury the four legionnaires that had fallen in the brief but devastating clash. And, all the while that the soldiers worked to care for their slain comrades, the esper continued to gather the storm above the grove.  Until, as the dark company returned to their saddles, the first fat drops of the growing tempest began to pelt them.

[color=MistyRose]“We ride! Back to the castrum.”[/color] Putting spur to flank, he sent his horse surging away from the makeshift battlefield, making word into action. Faces tightening with determination, the rest of the dark company quickly joined him, the wind flapping their travel-worn clothing about their lean, battle-hardened bodies as they charged into the gray wall of rain to the east. 

If he was aware of his sworn men’s plight out in the wilderness, Marcellus, the Dignitas of the Republic and Master of the Star of Keva showed no sign as he stared out over the city. To his eyes it’s hard edges and shapes were fading as the heavy spring shower that had descended onto the city a few hours ago, turned into a full downpour, hiding the great place behind a silvery curtain. Watching the rain grow heavy, he sighed before speaking.

[color=Sienna]“Bring me a map, will you, Fidelis?”[/color]

Behind him a young page in soft leather breeches in blue, soft leather boots of black, and a light tunic with a crisp linen tabard stitched with the crest of Keva over top, started from where he had been sitting quietly in the corner of the small meeting room.  Dark, short cut hair was brushed out of large blue eyes and the young lad looked earnestly at the lean young man who had spoken to him.

“At once, your Majesty,” he piped, his voice still not broken with adolescence.  “Which one may I retrieve?”

But it wasn’t Marcellus who replied;

“The Eastern Sea, lad,” a second man answered from where he sat at a beautifully hand carved table, stained a golden brown and polished to a high gloss in the light of the handful of lamps that lit the medium sized room.

Fidelis, the page, looked to this second man as he spoke, his expression of earnestness not wavering one whit at hearing this one answer his question, instead of his emperor.  For while the equally lean and muscular man, when compared to Marcellus, wore no crown, he wielded power in Keva equaled by few. With skin the color of soft chocolate, he was dressed casually in a light linen shirt in bronze, a sleeveless tunic in scarlet, tan breeches and heavy black riding boots of leather. He smiled as he caught the page’s eye.

“Yes, sir, Master Claudius, your Majesty.” The boy bobbed a quick bow to first Marcellus then to Claudius before scampering out an open door in the near wall, closing it behind him.

As the page slipped out of sight, the lean legate let his dark brown eyes scan over the rigid and tense form of his dignitas. Marcellus was a handsome man, slender yet wiry, with the legendary strength of Festus Silvermane rushing in his blood. He too had the intensity that allowed the old war emperor Jerald to hold out against the greater powers of the Silvermare, throwing attack after attack back with characteristic Kevan courage, cunning and resolve. Quick of wit, intelligent, determined and honorable, both Jerald and Marcellus were a marked contrast to the brutality of the Silvermane, the family Jerald had deposed to establish the Republic of Keva, now in hands of Marcellus.

But, unlike Jerald Vulso, founder of the Republic, Marcellus had a deep thoughtful edge to him.  A dark and brooding leader, he spent hours walking the halls of his fortified palace, or in the gardens that surrounded it, pondering his rule and the destiny of humanity’s strongest kingdom. This afternoon was no different. Even as he watched, he saw Marcellus turn back to his study of the city, just visible through the rain and beyond the high walls surrounding the palatial complex, which sat on the crest of Caer Aslan, the Hill of the Lion.
 
Ki'vara, the capital of Keva itself sat on a series of hills, which rose out of the heart of the great Wilderness of Keva, called the Foundation Hills.  Here, in the heart of Keva called the Teke Awade by the locals, the first of the Silvermane Family constructed a great city to serve as their regional capital, a center point that connected East Keva to the West. And so that city itself was great, powerful and fortified, and a mainstay in the defense of the Central Keva. Yet it had fallen to Jerald Vulso, a warrior with skill and tenacity unrivaled, where greater armies had dashed themselves to pieces against her gleaming white walls.

The view that Marcellus now availed himself of showed that same powerful city. Short turrets, thick walls, square, massive buildings; she looked not so much like a city, but a great beast of prey, brooding in the rain as she crouched on the crowns of the Foundation Hills, waiting for an unwary creature to wander close enough to pounce upon. Beware the traveler and the fool that come close enough to feel her claws!

Over his rule, some eight years long now, Marcellus had become that beast, that great predator, brooding from his perch high atop Caer Aslan.  Waiting and watching; watching the embers of the Silver Rebellion die out in Keva. Watching the uneasy stirrings of the Confederation as they continued to jockey for supremacy while throwing hungry looks at the resource-rich islands to the far east. Watching the sparks of civil war ignite into fire in the Kingdom of Cenaria to the south and the maneuverings of Torious' political landscape thanks to the proclamations of godhood by Torvald O Egeng. Watching, ever watching. Now, however, that beast was preparing to strike, both on the homefront and the world stage.

First, Keva's very security was of concern. Brought to his' attention at the start the election year and the platform upon which he ran, Marcellus spent the first year of his initial campaign touring the republic and advocating for the construction of forts, towers, and walls all across the edges of the republic. Solidifying Keva's borders by fortifying it's different strategic positions with a series of fortifications and established lines of defense on a strategic scale Marcellus dubbed the Limes Ratio Terminus or Limes Border Fortification System. A system in which he established using his [i]imperium maius[/i] at the start of his initial reign.

These fortification systems primarily consisted of fortresses and messengers posts for legions and vexillations as well as a system of roads for the rapid transit of troops and improvement of national infrastructure and communication.

It was heavy handed policies like these that separated Marcellus from Jerald Vulso. The 1st Dignitas of Keva saw fit to implement a mutual assistance policy. Such a treaty disavowed the militarization of national borders, but instead relied on a series of treaties tieing together neighboring states to defend the homefront. These series of treaties gave way to the formation of the early Albion League, the brain child of Jerald Vulso. However, Marcellus was in no way discrediting his predecessors stroke of genius. He instead disagreed with the stance taken and the position in which it left Keva and her people in. Nevertheless the Albion League remained a powerhouse of economic and defensive propositions.

Next came the progress made on the Quinque Anno Propositum or the 5 Year Plan. Marcellus' proposal to establish fundamental facilities and systems primarily requiring the extensive re-organisation of Keva's economy for the purpose of manufacturing. Such a plan required a shift from rural work to industrial labor which meant extensive training programs, financial investments in new industrial structures, dozens of government contracts, and time, plenty of time. 

Unfortunately, Keva didn't have time. Marcellus' sole goal lay in making Keva the powerhouse of Albion, and that power lay in manufacturing and industrializing. With the demand of blackpowder weapons on the rise, someone other than Commonwealth and it's Albion influenced would have to meet the supply.

Adaptation and innovation where the doctrines upon which nations hay survival upon. And with only three years left until the the Quinque Anno Propositum could finally claim completion, Keva could confidently say it was at it's forefront.

Finally came Keva's response to the Confederation assault on the Islands of Nova Albion to the east. Already his Magister Militum expressed outrage at the undertaking and employed Keva to act and do so quickly. Marcellus could see clearly the danger in the Confederation's rash and useless attempt at imperialism. Within weeks Commonwealth would shudder and shake off the dust of stagnation produced by peace and flex is mighty muscles of war in retaliation. With defeat clearly on the horizon, the Confederation would be forced to pull back vital elements from its frontier with Nova Albion. It would be an opening that Commonwealth wouldn’t ignore. In addition, Confederation control of Nova Albion would disrupt it's commercial interests not only in the area, but farther south. Keva would not stand back and accept this intrusion of peace and prosperity.

Pondering the moves his emperor was considering on making, or had already made, Claudius suddenly grinned. It was all like a game of chess, an exercise in military and political strategy that required tactically moving the pieces until the opposing side had no choice but to either surrender, die in bloody combat, or suffer complete and utter defeat. A game the young leader already had both too much experience and skill in, gained in the few cycles he had spent fighting against the Silvermare during the rebellion. That was proven by the next move the young emperor considered. For the deceleration of sovereign over the Nova Albion Islands would be like moving the Queen, one of the most powerful pieces in chess, right into the checkmate position; a devastating, and calculating move that would create chaos amongst the Confederate states.

Claudius' grin broadened; move after move after move, Marcellus sought to maneuver the power of Keva throughout Albion. Aye, the beast no longer brooded; it was striking!

From a village based far north in the Aesica Province, which had fought beside Jerald Vulso during the Last and Sliver Rebellion, Claudius Nerva had been taken at an early age into Jerald's household. There, as a page, he had begun his long education in the powerful traditions of one of Keva's strongest houses. And, amongst the dour and grim members of that house, he had gained his almost legendary humor, a survival trait for the young Kevan. Now he could see it in almost anything, including war and politics, as dark and dreary as it was.

But even more legendary that his sense of humor was Claudius' skill in battle, quickly learned at the hands of the most powerful warriors in the Legions of Keva. He had marched with Jerald on the Trail of Fire that led to the capitol's ivory gates. And before that he had risen through the ranks to become one of Jerald's Mailed Fist, the five generals that led Keva’s great rebel army into battle against the Silvermane. Now he was Marcellus' premier general, heading up a command staff of puissant Kevan warriors that strove to hold the vastness of Keva together against marauding raiders, rebels and enemy states. Only Claudius could find humor in that.

“Perhaps you’d like to let us in on what you’re thinking, Marcellus.” Came a soft voice from the opposite side of the table. Eyebrow raised, Claudius looked over at the only other occupant of the relatively large room, who was bold enough to ask the question he himself was pondering beneath his smile.

Titus was a study in contradictions. Cloaked in the flowing gray robes of a priest, the spiritual leaders of Keva who normally avoiding entangling themselves in the more mundane affairs of the republic, the handsome, blonde man was nevertheless one of Marcellus' most ardent political supporters. Not to mention, one of his closest friends. The lean esper had even suggested the shacking up of defense in the Nova Albion in the hopes of gaining a tactical advantage over the Confederation.

Titus, looking more like a young Senator than a priest, was also the third most powerful esper in all of Keva, only behind the Archbishop, and his associate, Cardinal Augustus. With that power he operated to diffuse and deflect much of the political intrigue that constantly swirled about the Senate. There, with sharp eyed senators ready to take advantage of even the smallest weakness, an aging Senator Julius Septum was a tepid ally at best. And Marcellus counted the old Senator amongst his only real support within the Senate.

Marcellus frowned before glancing over his shoulder at the blonde cleric, who seemed to manage to divine his thoughts, no matter how deeply they run.  It would be easier to hide shadow from the sun, than what he was thinking from his friend.

[color=Sienna]"War, Titus,”[/color] he answered finally in a low, tired-sounding voice. [color=Sienna]“What else would the disciple of Jerald dwell upon?”[/color] The lean emperor turned back to staring out the window. [color=Sienna]“It consumes my thoughts upon waking until the very turn that my head hits the pillow,”[/color] he continued, his usually vibrant voice a low rumble.

Abruptly he turned from the window to stalk to the table, his face dark with thought. He, like Claudius, was dressed casually in a light shirt of linen, a sleeveless leather tunic dyed crimson Kevan red, breeches of silky woven wool in the same color and black calf boots of leather.

[color=Sienna]“But enough thought,”[/color] he said as he leaned over the table, bracing against his hands, to look over at Claudius, who sobered at the approach of the emperor. [color=Sienna]“What information do you have out of the Nova Albion on Confederation fleet movements and positions?”[/color]

Claudius tapped his chin thoughtfully as he considered the information that suddenly leapt to the forefront of his mind at the question.

“Well, your Majesty, I have the most recent intelligence from your brother’s spies as well as my own scouting reports,” he began carefully, tugging on his lower lip when he paused to gather his thoughts. “And they both tell me that, as you suspected, Aeresk isn't positioning ships to account for a potential falling back of his frontier forces. I would say their homeward defenses are lessened but nonetheless formidable. In addition, there's rumor that this fleet of Aeresk's is largely comprised of privateer ships playing mercenary." 

[color=Sienna]“Intriguing,”[/color] Marcellus abruptly announced, his dark eyes keen. [color=Sienna]“Admiral Vledni and the Classis Aquilae are preparing to move out of Maximus Tridens in a tenday, his holds filled with Kevan marines bound for the northern most seas of the Islands of Nova Albion. In addition, I have ordered the Ministry of Diplomacy to send diplomats to the Nova Albion islands this next night.”

Claudius' eyebrow slowly rose as he pondered this latest piece of information and how it affected the strategic placement of both Kevan and Confederate forces across the Eastern Sea.

“Vledni, eh? You’re not looking to drive a military wedge into Aeresk's plan are you? Or are you looking for political motivation?”

[color=Sienna]“No, not exactly,”[/color] the dark emperor admitted with a frown, his eyes narrowing as he glanced over at a bemused Titus. [color=Sienna]“Such brazenness wouldn't bode well politically. But convincing Nova Albion to lay claim to Keva as their sovereign wouldn't.”[/color]

“Must one waste time on politics? Send in the troops anyway,” Claudius replied with a grin and flourish of his hand. “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

Marcellus allowed himself a tight smile at his general’s impertinence towards Keva's most powerful ruling body and the rest of the watching world, a force that had thwarted his own plans more often than he’d care to remember.

[color=Sienna]"To tell you the truth, I thought about it.”[/color]  The smile disappeared. [color=Sienna]"I could’ve rolled deep into Nova Albion territory and taken the northern most island in a tenday, leaving only a few weeks sail from the north island to the southern most islands.”[/color] The emperor frowned again. [color=Sienna]"But Commonwealth wouldn't take that well. Military action without real reason is imperialism, and imperializing a possible Commonwealth ally is pretence for war. Notwithstanding, I will not allow a warmongering such as the Confederation any closer to Keva than I have too. Not without challenge."[/color]

“The Confederation went as far as to hire privateers and pirates to contribute troops to there general force,” Titus breathed with a wry twist of his mouth, his usually smooth and unhurried voice tight with frustration. “They must’ve thought their positions strong to make such a move.”

“I would say so,” Claudius agreed, his own smile vanishing. “Although that doesn’t sound like a loyal following to me.” He looked over at Marcellus, his eyes hard. “We could easily crush any opposition by sending in the Classis Ignis as well. And with a little maneuvering and good money, get those pirates to preform a few acts of treason.

[color=Sienna]"Pirates!”[/color]Marcellus muttered with a grimace. [color=Sienna]“How I despise them. At least they now have the courage to face a fight directly. It was more frustrating when they were sneaking around our seas.”[/color]

“Aye, but you have to remember, my liege, that you won’t be able to fight these particular enemies with sword and spear just yet” Titus pointed out as he noticed the fires beginning to burn high in Marcellus' eyes, never a good sign. “They are clever men; predators that are dangerous when faced on their home ground. We'd rather play the political game first and gain ally support. As I assume that is your plan.

Marcellus sighed at his friend’s words and nodded slowly.

[color=Sienna]“This I know, my friend, and that it is.”[/color] he said with a resigned look, the soft slur of Keva marking his words more strongly now that his emotions were surging hot through his veins. 

[color=Sienna]“Neither confederate nor general will suspect the order for the Ministry of Diplomacy to send diplomats to Nova Albion this following night. Nor will they suspect the declaration I am sure they will make in the tenday afterwards. If they value their lives.”[/color]

Claudius nodded slowly in agreement, a smile returning finally to his full lips.

“Indeed, your Majesty. A neat move, worthy of your lineage. You should halt most of Aeresk's advance in a month or two's time, with Nova Albion in your hands!”

Marcellus inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement, his smile growing minutely at the praise. Then, just as quickly, he was sober once more.

[color=Sienna]“Now all I have to do is make sure I follow up on this move.”[/color]

Just as he spoke those words, the page returned, a tightly furled parchment map clutched in young hands. As he slipped through the door, Marcellus looked up and over at him.

[color=Sienna]“Ah, good work, Fidelis. You’ve brought the map. Now before you find your seat once more I need you to run and fetch me my squire. I need to get my generals and diplomats here as soon as possible!”[/color]

[hider=Summary]
The peace and quiet of pre-spring wilderness is interrupted by a bloody engagement between two companies, one dark and uniform, the other wild and unorganized. After a brief engagement, the wild company is completely decimated for but one. A traitors esper. While the dark company surveys the damage and prepares for their next operation, the esper performs a miracle and summons a rainstorm. Opting to retreat and request for an esper to hunt help down the rogue, the dark company fades out of context and the emperor of Keva makes his debut. Marcellus broods over the policies that affect his domain: the progress made on both the Limes Ratio Terminus and the Quinque Anno Propositum, infrastructure installations established for the betterment of Keva's national defense and production value. He also responds to news of the Confederation of the Herater's mobilization of naval ships towards the Nova Albion island. And makes Keva's challenge towards it.

[center][b]Actions[/b][/center]
[list]
[*]The Limes Ratio Terminus or the Limes Border Fortification System is a strategic fortification of the Kevan borders involving a system of roads, forts, and messenger posts.
[*]The Quinque Anno Propositum or 5 Year Plan is the nationwide effort to industrialize Kevan manufacturing and infrastructure. The first two years were primarily spent researching industrialization techniques, training workers, and gathering resources.
[*]Keva challenges the Confederations claim to Nova Albion, both out of fear of war with Commonwealth and out fear that its economy may be effected by advantage gained after claiming the seas around the Nova Albion islands. Opting to take political measures to insert Keva into the war, Marcellus orders diplomats to leave for the Nova Albion islands the following night and advise them to claim protectorate under Keva. In preparation, Marcellus orders the Classis Aquilae to mobilize and ready for war.
[/list]
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