[center][h2][color=lime]The Emerald Empire[/color][/h2] The Frozen Cliffs[/center] Oscar awoke, much to his own surprise. Everything was numb. His vision, looking out at the peaceful snow covered village surrounding him, was hazy, as if seen through a thick wall of glass. When he tried to move that turned out to almost be the case. There was an almighty cracking sound as the haze shattered around him, shards of ice spilling across the now clear landscape. Oscar dropped to his knees atop the now decapitated stalagmite of ice he had been imprisoned in and despaired at what he now saw. The village was at peace, for so where its people. Broken bodies surrounded him, his friends and comrades who had made a last stand in a hopeless attempt to stop the wooden abominations that had attacked their home without warning. Many lay where they had fallen, bones shattered by the blunt instruments of the treekin, while others were frozen in lower parts of the prison that had so recently held him as well. The ice prison itself had the stalagmight at its center with a frozen blast radius surrounding its base, a low wave of frost that had consumed flesh and bark alike before crashing against the walls of the two homes on either side of the villages main entrance, spilling forth to where his enemies had once stood. While those of flesh remains entombed in ice there was clear indication of areas where something had been broken out of the ice with hammers. Either the treekin had freed their comrades before they succumbed to the cold, or they had removed their bodies for whatever it was they did with their dead. Oscar wasn't sure what that was. He didn't really care, for they deserved to rot where they fell. His friends however, they deserved a proper burial. [color=LightBlue][sub]but the heart of the mountains called to him[/sub][/color] But he couldn't stay here. The dead should not take president over the living and perhaps there were survivors in the village. Leaving the battlefield behind him Oscar slid down from his frozen perch and entered the place that was, [color=LightBlue]that had once been,[/color] his home. It was, remarkably, intact, but was also a ghost town. Everything of value was gone, either stolen by the Treekin or taken by fleeing villagers who had hauled off anything they could carry as they headed for safety. Here and there a few people lay dead, crude axes and burnt out torches at their sides. The Treekin had simply ignored anyone who hasn't been armed, for what was soft flesh against hardened bark? Nothing but a futility. Those that had lived, those that the treekin had ignored, must surely have fled, for an undefended village was easy pickings for the monsters and marauders that roamed the surrounding snowscape. As if to drive that fact home a howl pierced the graveyard quiet that had followed Oscar as he searched through the homes of his neighbours, both hoping and fearing that he would find someone still here. It came from the south, from higher up the mountain. He should knew he should run. Flee north down the mountain before the scavengers arrived. [color=LightBlue]but the heart of the mountains called to him[/color] But down there was nothing but the Forest’s Empire. So instead he found himself marching upwards towards the danger, rather than running away from it, following the trampled path the Treekin had taken. There he found the source of the howl. Dyvolfs, two headed wolf like brutes who roamed the mountains in small packs/tribes, hunting and raiding. Here to loot anything that remains in the village no doubt. Well he wouldn't let them. The pack of twelve or so that had been marching down towards the village stopped at the sight of him emerging. There was growling and barks in a language Oscar did not understand. Most sounded scared. Nonetheless one of the Dyvolfs charged him, the great gray furred warrior seeing an opportunity for glory and status where its fellow faltered and feared. In response Oscar reached inside himself and drew forth his magic. He raised a gloved hand towards the Dyvolf and the cold ripped forwards from his palm, resulting in a blast of concentrated entropy striking the beast in the chest. It blossomed like a crystalline flower, ice spreading out across it to cover a quarter of its body. The Dyvolf crashed to the earth, its heart flash frozen. The Ice Witch opened his mouth to shout at the others, to demand they leave this place, but all that came out was a cracked, dry scream of rage. It had the desired effect however, the other raiders turning tail and fleeing as fast as they could. Oscar marvelled at his own power. It had come easily, more easily than he ever could remember. Even in the battle where he had pushed himself to his limits he hadn't had this much strength at his command. With it he could get revenge, he could crush the Treekin against the walls of the holy sumit, for shuly that was where they were headed now that the Queen had pulled most of her forces north on a fools reconquest of the long lost lowlands. [color=LightBlue][h3]but the heart of the mountains called to him[/h3][/color] But the heart of the mountains called to him. Oscar turned, without really understanding why, away from the path to the holy sumit and marched towards an even higher, inaccessible peak. As he vanished into the falling snow the scavengers fell upon his old home, the laughter of snow hyenas echoing across the mountainside, delighting in the frozen bounty that war had gifted them. [hr] The climb was long, [color=LightBlue]yet the heart of the mountains called to him[/color] and so he did not tire. It was treacherous, [color=LightBlue]yet the heart of the mountains called to him[/color] and so he did not falter. It took him to the depths of the frozen cliff range, where the cold was so intense even the hardiest would freeze solid in the white out conditions, [color=LightBlue]yet the heart of the mountains called to him[/color] and so he marched on, drawn by the sirens call that echoed in his mind. After what might have been many days or mere hours Oscar emerged from the white into the light of the sun. Above the constant snowfall. Above the clouds. It was a paradox of blinding light and glacial cold, though Oscar hardly felt it. He hadn’t felt the cold since he awoke. Or had he only felt the cold. He couldn’t say. He didn't need to think about it. Above him, higher than the Holy Summit by a significant margin, standing alone in a sea of cloud, was a peak of raw stone crowned in ice. Surrounded by walls of crystal clear frost it was hidden from the world below by the perpetual snow storm that made accessing it normally imposible. As Oscar approached the wall, a wall 20 meters in height, he saw that attop it stood status of ice. They all gazed downwards as they stood guard, frozen facimalies of races predominantly from the mountain itself, with a scant few from further afield. As he drew close to the wall it warped before his eyes, forming a gateway where before there had been naught but sheer ice moments before. Within the ring of ice was the peak itself, clear stone into which thousands of depictions of primordials had been carved. Most common were depictions of a four winged being bearing the mark of the sun sealed within a diamond lattice, who was often joined by a six armed woman who had a serpent's tail in place of her legs who bore the mark of a radiant moon. The gateway of ice sealed behind him as quickly as it had opened, trapping him within the walls and leaving only one way forwards; a tunnel, carved into the mountain for a being far greater than he, leading downwards. The carvings flowed down into this passageway, from which [color=LightBlue]the heart of the mountains called to him[/color], and so Oscar soon followed them. The tunnel had steps carved into it, spiraling downwards, each half the size of Oscar himself. Into these steps a smaller stairway had been carved, seemingly later than the first set and it was down this he walked, reading the carvings that were illuminated by a pale blue light that followed him as he descended. Towards the heart of the mountain. The carvings told the tale of a Primordial with four wings, who had ruled from this peak in the time of legends, who had done many remarkable things including overthrowing Great Beasts of Lynn-Naraksh for their tyranny over mortals. However, as one by one her kin vanished from the world she and her serpentine sisters had sought ways to escape the endless string of tragedies that seemed to consuming all their kin. They had made servent, pale reflections of their own image and with their help had built two great temples within which they would rest til the end of days, when the sun’s rays froze cold and the moonlight burned. With preparations made they sealed themselves away from the world and left their servants to guard them while they slumbered. For generations they had done this, but while the Burning Moon’s aquatic children remain faithful, the Frozen Sun’s yearned to spread their wings. One by one they abandon their posts, flocking to other peaks where they would be free from obligation. In the end only the most faithful few remained. They struggled on, but their numbers faltered, each generation growing more sickly than the last even as their magical power grew. In the end only five remained, and these five turned to desperate measures to ensure their mother would remain safe till she awoke. They had turned to the beacon, a mirror of the one that glowed in the sea of lights, and twisted its design. At the end of the stairway Oscar found the end results of their tampering. At the heart of the mountain was a great door, the entrance to the Frozen Sun’s resting camber, sealed behind a wall of ice polished to a mirror sheen. On an archway around this entrance where five thrones, upon which sat five frozen harpies, each blessed with a second pair of wings. It was not they who had Oscar’s attention, nor was it the culmination of the tale carved in the chamber walls: The two beacons, one in the oceans depths and one in the heavens, where both bright reminders of the primordials legacy and wells of power for their followers. Wells the Five’s wayward sisters still drew from and gave too without knowing it. For the sorcery used by ice witches involved a pact, a pact with the beacon sealed in blood that allowed them to draw from it when they needed to, in exchange for it passively drawing a little of their own power for the rest of their lives. The five’s tampering with the beacon damaged its light in the process, creating the eternal frigid storm that raged across the mountain, but they did manage to insert a trap that would bring their sisters back into the fold. They changed the deal, creating a trap for those who drew to greedily, or desprely, from the wells power, As the harpies magic tradition spread to other races, the trap had ensnared them as well. It had ensnared Oscar. In the mirror he saw himself. Saw a monster. A statue of ice given life. Deep beneath that ice there was still a man, a man who breathed air that came out colder than it went in. Whose heart still beat, yet what icy blood ran through his veins now he could not fathom. Oscar remembered how he had been trapped in that ice. He remembered the battle, being desperate, horrified, by the Treekin who simply would not die. He had pushed everything into his magic, more than he ever should have. He had broken through some barrier, and for a moment mana flowed so easily. Too easily. Had lost control. He had been overwhelmed. And then everything went white. Embedded in a frozen chrysalis he had been remade to serve for all eternity. His wrenched his gaze up and away from the reflection in confusion and horror, only to find the harpies gazing down at him. “What. What am I? Where am I?” His words were ragged, brearley understandable, yet the Harpies responded nonetheless. [color=LightBlue]“You are frost forged, guardian of the Frozen Sun, and you are where you are needed.”[/color] He was Frost Forged, and he was where he was meant to be. [hr] [center]The Sem Hills, south of Fenreforst 4 days after the battle of Cher Fort[/center] Selzona had traveled through the night across the provinces to get to the low hills overlooking Lake Sem. There an unusual discovery had been made by a supply convoy heading from Fenreforst to ships docked against the northern shore of the lake. In an ancient abandoned quarry an entire legion of statues had been found, only discovered due to the high amount of traffic now using the region to get to the southern marshes. Slezona had come to take command of the the investigation both because she had dealt with strange occurrences like this in the past (notably the undead hydra and the strange staff now being used in the experiments) and ,because as author of the Empire’s notes on Ice Witchery, she had experience deciphering foreign magics. Cresting the ridge line that had hidden the quarry and its contents from view Selzona and her small party of ents and dryads could see the army far below the, all made from the same stone as the quarry. As they descend down the long spiraling ramp up which stone and ore had been dragged in the time of legends Selzona conversed with one of the Dryads who had found the statues the previous evening, but who had halted his investigation after nightfall so that news of the discovery could be brought back to the Dreaming Forest. With their focus primarily on the war the Forest had decided that few could be spared to involve themselves in this anomaly and as a result all but the one dryad with them now had already set forth to the front. In a similar circumstances most Selzona had asked to come with her had declined to join the expedition and as a result only the most inquisitive and studious of Treekin had come with her from the site of the experiments in the west. All present then where distinctly aware that their presence here detracted from the war effort as a whole After several minutes of walking down the party finally arrived at the base of the quarry, a rugged expanse of bedrock that its original carvers had not been able to peirce and into which no life had sprung after it was abandoned. Many years ago this place had been briefly surveyed by Dryad scouts during one of the last true wars with Shenra and their notes, and the memories of the Trees of those notes, indicated that these statues had not been here before. The nature and shear size of them made it highly unlikely that they had simply been missed. The majority of the statues were of dryads, decked out in platemail made in a Shenran style and holding rune engraved greatswords in both hands, the tips of which where planted in the stone between their feet as the silicon soldiers stood to attention. Among the Dryads where a small number of colossal ents which nonetheless made up the majority of the stonework in the canyon due to their shear bulk. More beautifully masoned towers than statues the colossal ents were hidden from view by the depth of the quarry, but only just. They were equipped with the exact same equipment as colossal ents, down to material. A castle wall wielded as a shield, a great pillar of sharpened stone as a sword and armor featuring battlements for archers. It boggles the minds of the present dryads as to who would do this, and why. It could not be old, for the treekin as a subspecies were less than 200 years old and the colossal ent’s style of armament had only been made in the last years of the Sherna-Emerald wars. Perhaps stranger than the peristeen statues’ existence itself was the faces carved on them. Somewhere blank, most featured the faces of what were probably dryads, but among them were faces from species the Dryads did not imitate, such as sun elves or the genetically warped Warbreeds of Matathrana. Others noticeably showed signs of aging or disease, the most egregious of which was one of the colossal ents sporting a face that looked like it belonged on someone’s kindly old grandma, carved in immaculate detail, which stood in stark contrast to the utilitarian features that ents generally sported. The varios Treekin investigators fanned out slightly once they arrived at the bottom of the quarry, thought they stuck within Dreaming range of the few Ents on the mission. Some began examining the make of the statues or the runes upon their blades, cross referencing them with manuscripts they had brought. One beastmaster unloaded a cage full of collared rats and then sat down to meditate as the tiny beasts made a complete survey of the quarry, counting the statues, looking for anomalies and sniffing for smells that might give the some clue as to the artisans of the work. Selzona herself walked among the statues, simply absorbing the place as she thought until she came across one that made her stop in her tracks. She had found one carved in the image of Saberath the Mad, the Empires only fire mage, who had perished in the final failed assault on the entrenched Matathran position during the battle for Fort Cher. The sight of the familiar face struck her out of her contemplation. Time was precious, she reminded herself, and they needed to work out what this strange occurrence was and how it might either be used or stopped as soon as possible. Placing her hand against the statue of Saberath she chanted a few simple Ice Witch evocations to activate a small spell. Where her hand touched the stone frost began to form as she unknowingly channeled the entropy of the Frozen Sun, drawing power in to see if there was more energy inside the statue than would have been expected from simple dull stone. It was a crude way of detecting magic, easily confused by the simple presence of unexpected heat, but it had worked before. Yet instead the bizarre happened. As the magical frost formed, it also disappeared. The cold seemed to seep into the statue, and the magic seemed to follow, the stone absorbing the magical effects like a sponge. She stopped as soon as she felt the tug, feeling like a hunter who’s pray had show itself to be far hungrier than her. After overcoming the surprise she called for Marketh the Blunt to come over to her. He was one of the original discoverer of the statues and one of the few among them who actually needed to be armed in order to be dangerous. Selzona then repeated the test on a number of other statues as she waited for him, ensuring that Saberath’s statue was not unique in its hunger. The armored Dryad arrived when she was on the fourth test, his warhammer resting nonchalauntly against his shoulder. “What ya need me for?” he asked as Selzona withdrew her hand form the magic devouring statue. “Break that one for me please.” she instructed, gesturing to the statue of Saberath. “I guess I can do that. But it doesn't sit right. Hurting one of our own.” The warrior replied as he passed Selzona. “It’s just stone. A reflection.” she glanced up at the wrinkled face adorning one of the colossal ents. “A mockery” “I guess.” Marketh rolled his shoulders and took a breath, psyching himself up “So. How you want this done?” “Just break it, there's plenty more where it came from. Once we have a better idea of what we are looking at we can do some more delicate dismantling” Selzona concluded, stepping back to get clear of the Dryad’s upcoming swing. He nodded and then, grasping his hammer in both hands and winding it back for a big hit, made a crushing horizontal strike against the statue’s chest with the flat side of the hammer. The hammer collapsed a portion of the chest in with a loud crack. A sweet aroma filled the air as a honey like liquid dripped out from the stoney wound. The Statue staggered backwards, maintaining its stance, pulling the tip of it’s broadsword from the earth and brandishing it in a single hand while it reaching out to try and grasp the hammer with the other. As the drips of honey hit the bedrock floor, the entire quarry filled with the sounds of the face bearing statues unrooting themselves. They held their weapons defensively over the unfaced statues and others came to the aid of the wounded one, surrounding the scene and staring at Marketh with lifeless eyes. Marketh’s hammer thudded to the ground, dropping it as he backed away from the suddenly animated statue. “I’m so sorry” He backed away from the dropped blunt instrument with his arms raised to either side of his head, genuinely appalled by what he had done, only to have one of those arms garabed by the wrist. Selzona and the other researchers where all old enough to have learned to spot a bad situation when they saw one, and they all broadcast the same advice through the Dreaming. “[i]Run! Regroup![/i]” Selzona then more or less dragged the younger dryad after her as she made of at a dead sprint for the ramp leading up and out of the Quarry. As she did she channeled mana into her free hand, ready to unleash it to repel any of the statues that tried to stop her, though she doubted it would be very effective against the magic devouring golems. While they had all stayed near the entrance, near each other, Selzona and Marketh had waded some way into the ranks of the stone warriors and as a result had the furthest to go out of all their kin to reach the presumed rally point. As Selzon and Marketh attempted to escape the surrounding circle of statues, the lively ones followed shortly behind them, forming a tight defensive line. Others were seen attempting to secure the perimeter the quarry, threatening any stragglers. Unfortunately for Selzona and Marketh, they were those stranglers and where rapidly penned in by the perimeter of stone warriors, with others hot on their heels. The statues quickly surrounded the escaping pair, eyes fixated on Marketh. One stoney dryad reached forward with their arm, and extended their index finger as to point at Marketh. None paid much mind to Selzona, and even seem disinterested in her. “I didn’t know.” Marketh tried to explain a Sleszona dragged him closer to herself in an attempt to shield him. She raised her other hand towards the statues, cold frost forming upon it as she channeled magic. As she did so she demanded that they “Stay back! If you understand me then come no closer. We can talk about this, we can come to an accord, or you can force me to act.” It was dawning on Selzona that she herself was the end product of a similar situation, that she now stood in the shoes of the woodsmen, and she could either attempt to understand her mistake or commit to it with ignorant fury. The group surrounding them all extended one arm, their index fingers pointing at Marketh. Slowly one end of the circle opened, and the statue the bore the face of Saberath hobbled through, one hand on the still leaking wound, although the stream had turned to a trickle, three dimensional hexagons of stone revealed past the crumbling exterior, similar to that of a honeycomb. The statues took no step further as they pointed, and behind them the grinding sound of the perimeter being enclosed by the rest of the stone army halted, signaling a complete enclosure of the faceless. When the soldiers did in fact stay where they were Selzona slowly lowered her frost covered hand to her side in acknowledgment of their cooperation. Though if they had actually listened and obeyed, or had simply continued with what they would have done already, was unclear to her. She suspected the latter. As the statue of Saberath approached them Marketh regained some of his composure, the swirling mess in his mind settling down as he became transfixed upon the possibility of redemption. He stepped away from Selzona and walked, slowly, towards the person he had so grievously wounded. With little other option Selzona prepared to follow him, only for a mighty sword to fall between her and Marketh, the owner being one of the stone statues. It slowly shook its head in an almost scolding fashion at Selzona, eager to only let Marketh approach Saberath. She had been relegated to mere spectator. Ahead of her Marketh halted his advance a meter from the wounded golem, his arms spread to either side to show his unarmed state. Unsure of what was expected he simply asked “how can I make this right? How can I fix this?” Saberath leaned forward, and without movement of its mouth, a haunting voice echoed from the statue, partly Saberath's, partly a tone Marketh's ears could barely fathom as alive, "bring faces for the soldiers of stone." “I, I don't understand. Who put faces on you before, why didn't the finish their masonry?” Marketh asked while he pushed what he had just heard into the dreaming. There Selzona’s mind reeled as she heard the memory of a half familiar voice. She had met him once before he died and back then they had talked of foreign magics and their study. She reached out with her mind to find his, but there was nothing. If the statue truly was Saberath then it was a marval of magic that had allowed him to escape death, yet he had lost the dreaming in the process and to many of her kind that was a fate worse than death. "Bring sacrifices," Saberath explained. “Oh.” there was a long silence as this sank in. A silence Selzona interrupted before Marketh could respond “You should know that won't be necessary.” she shouted from her hemmed in place “Death draws closer every minute, the same death that consumed you Saberath. Or do you not remember the man whose face you wear, whose voice you speak with. Do any of you?” Saberath kept its eyes on Marketh, "you have your task." "Now-" A figure erupted from the statue of Saberath. The eye barely caught it as it fluttered translucently, a simple ethereal form of glowing white. It almost looked like a young dead woman dressed in many robes, but the eyes could not fixate on any particular detail as it left the corporeal shell of the statue. It opened its mouth and the sentence was finished with a horrifying scream that excited the deepest reaching fears of all creatures that heard it, "LEAVE." Yet Treekin had no brains to process it, no blood to pump adrenaline through, no real way of feeling fear. The memory of fire haunted them all, but that was knowledge chiseled into them all through the dreaming, not true, instinctive, terror. The banshee's cry rammed into their minds and then faltered as it ran into something truly alien and, with no chains to grasp and rattle, the power behind her cry failed. The only things in the quarry effected where the rats, who’s squeeks of fright could be heard as they scurried away, heedless of their master’s commands. Despite being unaffected Marketh felt the need to take several steps back from the specter for his own safty. Selzona merely grinned, an entirely deliberately decision, at the ghost. “Thank you for your answer. Let’s go Marketh, we have a task to complete.” She turned to leave and, after one last glance back at the face of Saberath, the warrior hurried after her. They rejoin their comrades who had been waiting on the ramp without incident, the statues forming a perimeter behind them. Rather than returning to a static state it seemed that this was a genie that would not be going back in the bottle: the statues began actively securing their nest now that it had been kicked, patrolling the perimeter of the quarry. The Treekin expedition left as soon as the panicked rats had been re-collected, ascending the ramp more or less silently. Once they were out of sight the various researchers and scholars all erupted into mostly philosophical debate on what this meant about the existence of souls, to what extent the statues might absorb the person the seemingly stole life from and so on. Selzona however fixated upon what they could mean militarily (where they a threat like the hydra or a tool like the staff?) and could they, or the magic of the specter, be used by them in any way. Marketh meanwhile was concerned about the fact that his fellows had so easily thrown aside the possible plight of their kin trapped in stone simply because they weren't connected to the dreaming anymore. He managed, more or less without notice from his preoccupied kin, to roll a satchel bag of paper and writing materials, that they had been intending to use for documentation during an extend stay, safely down the quarry before they left. If they were inside and ever free from their ghostly master perhaps they could use it to communicate with one another. A poor substitute for the dreaming, and one that would run out at that, but it was something. On the journey back he managed to get ahold of Selzona in between her discussions of the arcane. “We aren't giving them sacrifices? Right?” he had asked what he needed to do to be forgiven, but their deplorable request hadn't been worth their forgiveness “No. the task we need to complete is the one we came here to do, to report back to our kin on the possible dangers here.” “and if they come looking for sacrifice” “the war should feed them well enough will we find a solution.” “we would be committing our kin to stone prisons” “better that than risk total annihilation by Matathran fire. Still, it is not our decision to make, it is the Forests.” Marketh nodded in agreement,and spent most of the remaining march back to the south Fenreforst grove ruminating on what should be done. [hr] The Forest initially decided to do nothing and the statues were added to the growing list of strange events taking place in the world. However, with the subsequent reports from the north embassy to Clan Barkor of the angel’s words of floating beings building armies of stone soldiers and the muddled rumors coalesce from refugees about warriors of stone, spirit and flesh fighting against the angels let them draw a link between the undead hydra being unleashed upon their lands and the statues having the same creator. A creator that most likely meant them harm. The rumors of the angels fighting them also destroying Utyre where considered too unreliable to be worked with in any capacity. Unwilling to make the same mistake that Shenra made with them however, they decided to endevor to understand these two forces rather than attempt immediate retaliation and discussion about how to acquire additional data was put just behind the war with Matathran in terms of priority for discussion. As debates swirled among the Trees the Agrarian faith was brought up, as their belief in a threat from the east arriving around this time was remarkably accurate if the rumors were true. The Forest had never put much stock in any religion but had studied that practiced by their enemies regardless, but if they were to get a proper understanding, unfiltered through scripture and priest, they would need to go to the home of that faith. And so an expedition was organised, one that included Selzona and Marketh, that would cross the inhospitable wastes between them and the knights to the east. There they would endeavor to find out all there was to know from the prophetess faithful and, perhaps, get some remote scouting on the war in Utyre. Suggestions that the war with Matathran be halted were dismissed. The Matathrans could not be allowed a port so close to the Ever Green Isles. The chaos for the east would hit them first regardless if it continued to spread west and ocne it did they would be in a much better negotiating situation. [hider=event response] “Specters are haunting Askor…” Olira, Freishann, Lynn-Naraksh and the Brakor Clan have all received a report via the cuttings of Yaval currently in their capitals. This report compiles the encounter with the hydra, the statues and appends the rumors about the angel, the reports from the refuges and a few red herrings such as a frost forged vessel being mistakenly identified as some kind of ghost ship. An expedition has beens sent east, passing through the blighted the crossroads, headed by Selzona the cold bearing a cutting of Yaval, to meet with the inheritors of the silver legion The war for the glacial marshes goes on. [/hider]