[center][h1] March of the Shadowwald [/h1][/center]

The March Goren took his newfound troop one was not one that was destined to be an easy trek. Though their home was the forest, word of what would become known as the Shadowwald Exile traveled like a wildfire through brush. Creatures of all sorts heckled and attacked them, though their means of such was largely non-lethal. It was mostly comprised of piss and dung, sticks and stones, and words of malice. The Elf Queen had ruled the forest through a united kindness that had enamored her to those who resided within and around the lush forest. Even those who followed other Gods were compelled to come to her defense, loudly asking why the Warmaster had abandoned their protector. 

Still, Goren had chosen to remain silent, unmoving in the face of unknown adversity. Seldom did he draw his blade, doing so only to convey that he intended to continue his march, to a place he had never been, but felt like home. The same could not be said for his followers, whom had designs on protecting their leader, even if it meant coming to blows with those they once considered under their protection. Their chants did nothing to sway Goren, but his resolve did temper them. Some would say that this discipline would prepare them for the March ahead. What roads lay before them would serve to challenge them to their very core, yet they had no way of knowing that. 

What led his flock to instill in themselves such unwavering faith within the future King of the Shadowwald, none would ever tell, but whispered among them, when night fell and the world around them only came to life with the sounds of nocturnal creatures, that there was something otherworldly about him. At times, tales would be told that he seemed to walk with a purpose that seemed Godly, like a God strode alongside him. Each race would attribute it to their own God, but none could confirm it. 

[Right]--- Shadowwald
Gundwain Sahfal[/right]

[H2][center]Moving Camp - Alehouse[/center][/H2]

As the group departed, Szazah similarly quit his tent; he had yet to forget about the dead body left inside, which would provide a heinous smell but one he had become uncomfortably accustomed to in these times. His drinking was evident, his gait had become something of a barely controlled stumble, the gazes of those who called the Moving home were accompanied by hushed murmurs of his depressing state. He paid them little attention, he knew what he had become and this mission he was about to embark on would be the catalyst to bring him back to glory. Though he was still respected, largely, he could barely say the same for how he felt about himself. His esteem was in the bottom of a bottle, or held up in the alehouses of the Moving. 

On his trip to the alehouse, he stopped two of the guard, and informed them of the deceased in the tent. His words slurred, but they were used to that out of the inhabitants. They affirmed their new task and stepped aside to allow him out pass, the strong smell of booze wafting along behind him in the rain. 

It was not long before he reached the alehouses, and shortly thereafter he heard a familiar voice beckoning him over. Drapood Rripp was seated on a bench, and waving him over, stopping only to slap himself to restore his health. Chatter continued as drunken members continued to merrily chat, ignoring the entrance of the Warlord Szazah. He preferred it that way, this was not a place where decorum was shared or expected. The tents were for relaxation after a hard Day's work, though some seemed to frequent them with alarming regularity. 

Szazah accepted the invitation, in part because of the large jug of ale that was off center in the table, just to the left of the priest. He knew Drapood was a drinker, though not of the heavy kind. 

[B]Szazah, my friend. Glad to see you here, have you met with the group yet?[/b] The beady eyes of the fish watched Szazah as he talked, saying nothing of the man and his generous helping to his alcohol. It mattered little to him, the drink would take the edge off what was to come. 

[B]Aye, I have. We head out in just a couple turns of the glass, to the Frozen North to a glory that would benefit Allaria.[/b] Through his drunkeness his excitement shined, brighter than his eyes had been in a long time. He took a sip from his mug, before placing it down. [b]I want to talk about earlier, Drapood. About what happened in the council meeting. But first, I want to congratulate you on your rise.[/b] He lifted his mug again and it was met with a raised tap. Both men took a drink and set them down with a smile.

[B]Earlier, yes..[/b], the fish beastkin stopped, and looked at his human companion. Inwardly, he was excited to reveal the forthcoming news. A change was coming and Szazah's expedition would be the perfect setting for his own plans. [b]I do apologize for my stalwart defense against your mission. I was coming from a place of protection, of the Camp, we are an important part of the Rebellion and at the current, I cannot fathom risking the camp. In the end, however, the Old Codger managed to convince us.[/b] Drapood was positive that the Warlord would understand, though it matter relatively little if he did. 

Szazah nodded his understanding, as he harbored no ill will towards the Priest of Andomanderis. The Moving was a vital component in many of the small achievements that the Resistance had, so much so that there had been preliminary discussion on instating another one on the other side of the continent. Szazah, himself, had been a name that was pitched to be on the Council for it, but his abysmal state now might have changed that. 

For a long moment, the two old friends sat and enjoyed a drink together, an enjoyable silence that both seemed unwilling to drink. Before long, the rain outside had come to an end, and the still drunk Szazah moved to remove himself from the bench. 

[B]Before you go, old friend, there is some unfortunate news that I have been tasked to relay to you.[/b] Szazah, standing, looked down towards Drapood with an inquisitive look, ignoring a gesture for him to regain his seat. 

[B]There is no easy way to say this, but your excursion will have to go without your presence to guide them.[/b] Drapood noted the sullen look that fell upon the face of the Warlord, a look he would commit to memory to view over and over again in coming times. [b]The reason being is that your current state would only serve to hinder an already dangerous undertaking, and further still, another Warlord is on the way. Warlord Zennok, the Tengu,[/b] he said with a manner of disgust on his tongue. Tales of both the Warlord Tengu and his Warlord human companion, Kieran, were legendary. They were a formidable pair on the battlefield, combining Zennok's mastery of transfiguration and Keiran's unnatural charisma, their campaigns were often tales of when success would happen, not if. However, there was another side to them. They were notorious jokesters, from their early days of living in the hidden temples of the Tengu, to their time as mercenaries, to even now. Keiran and Zennok seemed to hold little respect for the traditions of various tribes, races, religions, and anything of the sort. Many questioned whether or not they even believed in the God's, and if so, which one. This was the reason for Drapood's disgust - he felt the Tengu was an affront to the God of the Beastkin - Andomanderis. Still, this was something he played close to heart and would never let be uttered in present company. 

[B] Drapood, you cannot do this....,[/b] Szazah managed to eek out after several long moments of wrenching silence. Had any looked around the anguish on his face would have been apparent. 

[B]Believe me, Warlord, I wish nothing more than for you to be successful and that is why this chance meeting plagues me.[/b] A well concealed lie. [b]In truth, I would have wished for another to tell you, but as it were I happened upon you first. Do not fear, I trust that you assembled a most capable team of warriors and the like to undertake this quest. For instance that guard that once plied his craft in the great kingdom of Bhornbadim, or Tarnbadir, or whatever fangled name the dwarves scrounged up. He is a steadfast ally, one you should be proud to have. And that Reed fellow, strong, yes?[/b] He could barely contain his excitement. Szazah was far to drunk to notice. 

Before more words were uttered, Szazah clumsily drug himself to his feet and gave a small wave to Drapood, indicating his exit. Unlike when he entered, he left with his hands empty, but his mind heavy. The world continued around him as he slowly placed one foot in front of the other, and began his trek to the North Gate. 

As he approached, he saw some of those he gathered for his excursion, yet they were confronted by the Son's of Blood, a dangerous outfit of robbers and killers, perhaps even mercenaries plying their trade with the Moving. Was there to be conflict, Szazah hazily wondered, stopping many a yard away and watching what unfolded. 

[H2][center]Apotheoses[/center][/H2]

No one quite knew why the Hellequin, Falden, was smiling while the rest of them held sour looks of fear and disappointment. He was locked in the prisons by the Minotaur, Bathamir, with the rest of the rabble that had escaped. The prisoners, those who had chosen to find freedom on their own instead of in the hands of the Moving, had took to hiding in a cave - robbing those who passed by for weapons​, food, and coin. Curiously, the Hellequin had chosen a rapier for his protection and worried more about the procurement of a deck of playing cards. It was almost time to move, when. The increasingly annoying sound of shuffled cards broke the uneasy silence between the group of ten. 

[B]Not today, Jester. We aim to move and none of us have issue with leaving you to your own devices.[/b] They had written him off as a useless fool, and considered his obsession with cards to be both a coping mechanism and  byproduct of his trade. 

The Hellequin simply smiled, a toothy grin that betrayed no solace or happiness, but dark thoughts. The cards danced in his hands, practiced for decades prior. Though it was a new deck to him, they seemed familiar in his hands with the way he controlled and manipulated them. Finally, the rest had enough. In the dimming candlelight, he could see the group rise to their feet and move to encircle him. The dancing flame betrayed murderous scowls. 

He had been ostracized by the group and they had discussed removing him just days ago, once they had gathered enough supplies. The time to put into action their brutal plan was now, right before they were set to continue south west. One raised a mighty blade and swung it down with intense power, aiming to cleave the jester in two. Yet, there was no resulting fountain of blood or the satisfying crunch of bone on steel, instead there was a weak gargle of defeat. The large weapon hung in the air for a moment before clattering to the rocky floor, followed by the once owner. 

In the dark no one would be for sure what happened, but the flickering flame revealed a thin, sharp blade dancing through the air, entering and exiting bodies, cutting across throats and slicing wrists, with almost absurd speed. It was no longer than half a minute, before nine bodies lay on the floor - writhing in pitiful agony. 

[B]Willing participants should be more respectful of the ringmaster, for he holds the key to a successful performance.[/b] His words fell on the ears of the dying and dead, as his foot steps led him towards the exit. Outside, he was greeted by a familiar pair of faces. 

One was that was an aged man, who long gray hair and steel eyes held nothing but intelligence. His name was Ivan, a top member of the Apotheoses, second only to the one known as Alchiviem Falden. The other was a whimpering man, whose body was human and whose skin was a a combination of dragon and flesh. Jean, the member of the leadership in the Apothesos, had infiltrated a group going to find the Emperor Dragon and took it as his own. His skin was such because he had taken a bite out of the dragon, itself as he subjugated it for the Apotheoses. He and Ivan, along with Bathamir, Illyria, and Eclava, were members of the army of the Apotheoses, ranked just below their leader. In fact, they too were considered to be the Powers of the Apotheoses. 

[B]The Moving camp is deploying a party to seek out and request the aide of the elusive Shaddowald Elves. Jean, you are tasked with ensuring this does not happen. We've no need for them, so feel free to take an army and dispose of them.[/b] The Hellequin ordered, before heading past the pair. 

What many would not know is that the Hellequin was purposely placed in the prison, using the knowledge that many did not know the true face of Falden, and those that did had not lived to reveal it - unless they were in his circle. 

A pair of footsteps found their way to his side and words found his ears. [b]Clever, Falden.[/b] Was all that was said. Ivan, the Black Healer, second in command of the Apotheoses walked with his leader back towards the east. The pair were as close of friends either of them would ever have, but Falden knew that he was not needed. 

Falden, days after his escape, had received word from the Gods, Lloth and Ouroboros, that the portal to the Realm of Heaven was nearing completion, now that Mobius has been found. The Earthbound God, chained for eternity, was marked with runes that could open the Allaria side of the portal but it would take some time. They also told him that Michael had not stirred from his depressed stupor and that his plan was going to be a success. Foolish God's, his plan did not need them past the opening, and like the Resistance of Allaria, they would all fall before he took his place as the only God of Allaria. 

[b]Summary:[/b] More on the history of the Shadowwald. Drapood reveals that Szazah will not be accompanying his party. Falden murders escaped prisoners and sends Jean to kill the Shadowwald.