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Avenge yourself against yourself. Meet inner turmoil with outward calm.
- B'zuri aphorism
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[b]Nyssos, the Rainlands of the Salished Empire...[/b]

Lord Vissaban stood with hands clasped behind his back and a frown hovering above his jutting chin. His eyes traced the breathtaking and terrifying mosaics adorning the high dome over the throne room. In the scene directly above him, Dimaza, ancestor of the Salizi, was wielding the First Blade against the Gorelord Incarnate and his abhuman hordes. The legends said it was Dimaza who first allied with the Servants of the Forge.

Vissaban silently cursed his memory, if truly he was to blame for these ubiquitous priests, always worming themselves into affairs of state and war. They were currently in the process of delaying his invasion of the Broken Lands.

A Forge Priest- an immensely fat man with a twitching eye- was going on at some length about augurs and what the shapes in the forge-smoke had foretold this morning. The fleet must stay at anchor another week, the gods had -apparently- indicated. They had not yet had their fill of flesh from the last war. Only once glutted fully would they bless a new offensive.

Lord Vissaban noted sourly that His Dread Immanence the Shashul of All Azoth, Lord of the Rainlands, Shadow of the Gods on the Realms of Men, was nodding sagely along to the prognostications of the bloated and bloviating half-wit in clerical attire, who was seated just to the left of the Imperial Throne.

Vissaban was without question the second-most powerful man in the Empire, perhaps in all of Azoth, and was quite unused to waiting patiently for instructions. It took some effort of will not to erupt in a shower of profanities at this newest excuse for delay.

"Majesty," he said, as the priest paused to take a breath. His voice rang throughout the immense throne room, and the crowd of courtiers and sycophants arrayed around the throne looked at him with alarm. Few dared to interrupt here. The Shashul turned his head languidly to face his general, "with all due respect to the oracles of the Sacred Forges, may I remind His Immanence that he is running out of summer, and that an assault on the Broken Lands in fall or winter would be...enormously more difficult, if not a guaranteed disaster. And that's to say nothing of what happens if the northmen do not collapse into civil war. If they elect a new king."

"The gods do not care for trivial matters-" began the priest, but Lord Vissaban lunged forward, up the steps to the Imperial dais, his usually olive skin turned scarlet, the scales of his gilded armor gleaming in the candle and torch light. He grabbed the cleric by the folds of his crimson robes and lifted him bodily out of his chair. The Shashul's Guard drew swords and rushed to intervene, and His Majesty looked dazed, like he was witnessing something fundamentally beyond his ability for comprehension.

"[i]LISTEN TO ME YOU FAT LICKSPITTLE[/i]," Vissaban shouted, face to face with the cleric, "The gods want blood, I'll give them blood! If I stay here because of your be-shitted omens I'll feed the Forges myself with their own priests, starting with you."

The first of the Shashul's Guard reached Vissaban, and grabbed his shoulder. Vissaban threw the priest to the ground and shoved the guard away, knocking him off balance, before spinning on his heel to face the Shashul, whose mouth was still hanging open.

"Majesty," he spat, "it's time to choose. Shall we invade the Broken Lands or not? If we invade, we can have no more delays, not if you still honor me with this command."

His Dread Immanence closed his mouth, and his face regained its regal hauteur. He looked from Vissaban to the priest, struggling to his feet, spluttering and shocked, and back again. 

"We shall risks the gods' displeasure," he said, "And make it up to them with sacrifices innumerable. The Broken Lands will be ours. Begin the invasion, Vissaban."