[b][u]Untold Ages Ago The Vyrnul Archipelago The Island of Ssthrlihe Mt. Mandjet The Carmot Throne[/u][/b] The night was dark - there were no stars in the sky, and the moon had been occluded. Even the normally radiant lights of the surrounding den spires were but dim motes in the background. Here, at the peak of Mt. Mandjet, the very earth shone with alchemical providence - a star-like gem upon the world. No other light could compare - it drowned, saturated in the empyrean light cast by the throne by the Rashommai Matriarch. Yet the light of the mountain was dim, dusken in quality - as it enraptured and suffocated the natural light from the world around it, the air in its presence dimmed and darkened. It was 'twixt profane and hallowed at once, and so it would remain. Until the Matriarch anointed the throne. Lystunet - a Rashommai, one of the half-serpent, half-fair rulers of the Archpelago - swayed up the temporary, suspended ramp of ceramic. Nothing that had ever lived could make contact with Carmot without suffering transublimation, and so an elaborate network of ramps, catwalks, and suspended paths criss-crossed the peak, leading up the throne itself. Lystunet and her brood had been responsible for its assembly, which by necessity had occurred after the the peak of Mt. Mandjet had been transmuted. For her role in making the Matriarch's ascension possible, she was thus privileged to observe the ceremony as it took place. She was accompanied by her trail of slaves - pitiful and frail Humans, though not so wretched and stained as their ilk were wont to be. These specimens had been thoroughly sterilized in every sense of the word and clad in spotless ivory samite to render them tolerable merely to proceed in her wake and tend to her whims here, at the culmination of her efforts. Lystunet herself was a towering braid of scales, muscle, and arms. In the dark of Mandjet's peak her serpentine eyes were alight with pale, sickening light. Her visage, swathed in the dingy and oppressive light, was thankfully too unresolved in clarity to be discerned properly by her attendants. Winding her way onto the terrace beneath the throne's dais from where the anointing would be viewed, she found waiting her peer, the Naga Ructys, augur of the Iris, who would speak on its behalf. Her form was much the same as Lystunet's own - colossal and terrible, her frame wreathed in squirming uncertainty. They greeted each other silently in the way of the highpool, subtle gestures made with their off-limbs, a nuanced shift in the posture of their midriffs and their alignment of their spines. They speak in their pitiless language with vocal cords thicker than twine, longer than a finger and more plentiful than trees in a grove. [color=BDB76B][i]'Augur, does all proceed according to the design of our masters?'[/i][/color] Lystunet inquired. Her voice was gravel disturbed by rain, more defined by its volume than by its substance. Her inquiry is neither impatient nor rhetorical. She already knows the answer, but seeks confirmation. [color=BDB76B][i]'Yes. Our servants were wisely chosen. They render due seizen unto us in due time.'[/i][/color] The Augur answers, and her voice is embers, popping and hissing as a log is tossed to the flames. [color=BDB76B][i]'...Yet upon supplication to our master, they have deemed that all which is unnecessary shall be undone. The ceremony has room enough, certainly, for those of privilege, for those of need, for those who must witness, for the reagents. No other shall be worthy of the dignity of the Demiurge who is to come.'[/i][/color] [color=BDB76B][i]'I see. Is it yet certain as to all who are necessary?'[/i][/color] The augur's head tilts, ever so faintly in the dark. [color=BDB76B][i]'No. Yet soon. The chaff may yet subdominate those who presently serve our purposes. If they should fail to do so...'[/i][/color] She silently indicates the incandescent mountainscape, the flawless, smooth, rolling curvature of the transmuted peak. The Naga then both turn to look upon you. Your effort to evade the notice of your betters so as to evade their displeasure with your unworthy existence a failure. Their eyes are pale citrine flames. They do not move, but your skull is riven as their wills drive hooks, nails, and flensing rods into it. They do not ask of you. They determine of you. What you are is not enough. They turn away. You are not even worthy of their attention, now. When the time comes, you shall be cast to the mountainside with the rest of the worthless chattel, insensate failures that you are, useless as anything but ceremonial offerings for the sake of formality and traditional observance. Already the other darkened forms of the Nagas' attendants approach you - they lay their equally unworthy hands upon you, sink their fingers into your flesh. You skin shall burst! You shall be torn to pieces! You fall, screaming and flailing as they start to tear away your fingers and teeth, flailing and swiping blindly at the air. You choke on nothing and bite your tongue, your limbs feel weighted as though with lead, you cannot move...! You blink. You are in your chambers, on the floor, ensnared within your bedsheets as your writhe in panic. They are soaked through with your sweat and tears. You glance at the door. You hear nothing in the distance - your turbulent slumber went unnoticed. Your body seethes with heat, as though you were in fever, but a chill has seized upon your nape. You are running out of time. Your Adversaries tighten the noose around your neck. [center][h3][b][s]888888888888[/s][/b][/h3][/center] [b][u]Present Day The Caelrumoste Archipelago The Island of Apocea Mannet's Bastion, Depot 4[/u][/b] Iikka Guiomar, newly appointed broker and ambassador for the Caelrumoste Regency, hurried through the forlorn cobbled streets of the small, desolate township that had once grace the Eastern shore of Apocea. He was perhaps 1.78 meters in height, with a slim build and lanky arms. His face was tall and thin with paunch and pale cheeks accentuating feline cheekbones and amber-colored eyes. His hair was dark, his skin an ashen bronze, and he wore the faded azure and violet robes of his newly appointed station. The surrounding dwellings were decayed and barren, and if not reclaimed soon would likely be condemned. Iikka was accompanied only by a single guardsman. Although he was now counted as one of the highest ranking political officials in all of Caelrumoste, there simply were not enough men or resources to go around to afford him a larger guard - or even so much as a carriage. He had set forth out from Old Yearning the better part of a week and a half ago with his guard, on foot, and made his way hurriedly to the coast. The roads had been crowded with haggard trains of refugees, seeking the nearest ports so they could beg and ply for passage back to their native ancestral islands, where hopefully the famine would be less severe. Thankfully, few bodies lined those same roads - otherwise unemployable mages and wrights, wearing starkly colored yellow armbands to identify them as magic-users and accompanied by haggard but wary militia watchmen, traversed the roads and cleared them of bodies, moving them to consecrated - if improvised and roughshod - burial sites a bare step above mass graves. The foot traffic had died down as Iikka and his man had come to what remained of Mannet's Stead. There was nothing here but ruin, unless one counted the bastion. Since the township surrounding it was abandoned, at the first sign of trouble the whole lot of it could be burnt and razed to the ground, depriving potential attackers of easily fortified terrain. The Bastion itself - a six-walled fort with a renovated keep and dungeon serving as a warehouse now - was still, its wall crowded with stern and watchful sentinels manning siege engines. They would not have been able to beat off a determined and disciplined assault, but there was hardly enough of anyone or any order in all of Caelrumoste left for an actual attacking force to be either of those things. Iikka and his guard were stopped at the portcullis leading into the interior, and the both of them were subjected to the standard battery of tests. They were stripped naked, thoroughly frisked, and dowsed. Their blood was drawn, a lock of hair cut off, and fingernails clipped away for examination. They sat in awkward, naked indignity in the middle of the road while a mage carefully examined each sample before determining that, yes, these two people were, in fact, human, and were not carrying nor recently exposed to refined Ammacre. "You are clear. For now." The sergeant said flatly as the two of them struggled back into their clothes. "You [i]will[/i] be reexamined every time you leave, and every time you return. So don't be doing that unless you have a fancy needs ticklin'." "I must speak with your cohort commander immediately, under orders from the Regent." Iikka indicated glumly as he shrugged his undershirt back on. "I have a letter-" "Found it when we searched your pack, its been verified already. You're expected." The sergeant supplied. "Corporal Raish here will be accompanying the both of you for the duration of your stay. You are not to leave his sight for any reason, or else he shall raise the alarm and we'll use you both to repaint the insides of the latrines." The sergeant smiled faintly at the thought. Absolutely nobody commented upon the indignity or unusual nature of the conditions by which a formally appointed ambassador would visit the Bastion. Anything less during the Cursed Days could have led to the entire fort being compromised from within. The Cursed Days were over, at least in theory, but what remained of the Royal Army of Caelrumoste remained vigilant. Too many loyal soldiers, comrades-in-arms, and blood brothers had died to treachery and subterfuge. A lifetime of caution and wariness had been bred into the survivors that remained. Death waited behind each soldier's eyelids. Few of them would ever let their guard down again. Iikka, his guard were both guided by the corporal into the keep, and down a level, where the proverbial serpent's hoard was lain under the earth. Long pallets, each stacked high with thirty-six sealed bronze coffers and secured with repurposed cords of halyard. Faint iridescent light shone betwist the seams. The supports for the roof had been very selectively sabotaged and supplemented with supports connected to switch-blocks, overseen by swarthy men with hammers. At the first sign of trouble, the whole ceiling could be brought down on the Ammacre reserves here, burying them. It was merely a token measure - any Adversary who penetrated this far in would hardly be deterred by a few hundred tons of rock and stone. The commander for the Cohort garrisoned at the bastion awaited Iikka below, at a wooden table already prepared, graced by a map of the known world, with upholstered (if dusty) chairs already set out and a small cask of wine with goblets lain out for them. The Commander himself was on the young sign, but already hardened - and plagued. A chunk of flesh was missing from the left side of his neck, and his eyes were habitually wide and attentive. He stared right through Iikka as they clasped arms and exchanged their greetings. "You will be sent directly to the Ivory Palace in Sanghara." He stated. "As a reminder, you are [i]not[/i] to sell off any of the allotments to individual delegates, senators, princes, or families, at least at first. You are selling them directly to the collective assembly of the Senate. You are a representative of the sovereign authority of Caelrumoste, not a guild merchant. If you get tangled up in trying to dispose of all of...[i]this[/i]..." He waved to the contents of the vault. "To individual parties, the biddings will get cluttered up with the dredging of all of their pissant movers trying to one-up each other. Establish a formal line of bidding between the Regency and the Republic first, and when and if you finally cave to individual offers, all sales [i]must[/i] be finalized and notarized through the proceedings of the senate itself." The instructions sounded almost rehearsed - which they might have been. Iikka was hardly the only ambassador being sent out abroad to manage the bulk exportation of Caelrumoste's native ammacre. It was possible the commander had recited this segue before. "Am I already expected at the Ivory Palace itself?" Iikka inquired. "Oh yes. At least formally. We officially sent notice and were given a receipt." The Commander said, somewhat absently. "Now whether or not that means anybody has actually [i]seen[/i] that notice is another matter. But there is an established chain of communication. You'll have all the proper documentation and references to prior correspondence you'll need to get into the halls the proper way, although depending on how obstructive they are feeling it may take a few weeks. Or months. But if they're smart, they will lay out the Amaranth carpet for you." He paused for a moment to take a sip from his goblet, grimacing faintly at some unvoiced and unpleasant thought. "You have broad discretion otherwise to act as you see fit - but please, no bribes and graft. You do not have much of an operational budget for your stay over there. You'll barely be able to stay in laundered robes, let alone grease any palms." "It might help if I have samples to showcase. I understand I am being sent with..." Iikka began. "Your carrack is sailing out with a full two allotments of [i]assorted[/i] bulk cuts." The Commander cut him off. "Varied-up shipments rather than uniform, so you have more of it to show off." He gestured to three nearby footmen, who hauled up a number of bronze coffers onto the table and began undoing their metal clasps before throwing open the lid. Stacks of multicolored, crystalline gemstones alight with power shone from within. Shimmering gold-and-orange octahedral suns, opalescent cubes that glittered darkly with twilight, icosahedrons of blinding white brilliance, tetrahedral emeralds, rubies, and saphires the size of pebbles sparkling in heaps - all offset by a single tray of carefully wax-set and leaden-textured dodecahedrons, stark and harrowing in the absence of any internal light. "Are those..." Iikka squinted. "...are those pieces in the wax warmage cuts?" "Not as such. As I understand it, those are...volatile ritual cuts." "Volatile...As in depth and density." Iikka licked at his thumb and pressed it against one of the dodecahedron's flat tops. He immediately pulled the digit back with a hiss, shaking his hand as though it had been caught in a snare, faint wisps of steam rising from the tip of his thumb as his saliva was flash-vaporized. "[i]Very[/i] deep. [i]Very[/i] dense." The Commander agreed, though if he was concerned it did not show. "I believe one of the craftmages who was running deliveries said one of those could, perhaps, keep an open flame burning for twelve kalpa using one of those. Or animate something big for twelve minutes." "Is it wise to be selling...[i]weapons[/i] of this nature?" Iikka asked, giving the commander a look. "Perhaps not. But perhaps wiser than keeping it [i]here[/i]." The commander retorted. Iikka nodded somewhat sullenly in response. "And also, I have something special for you here..." The Commander opened a smaller lockbox set near the corner of the table - within were held perhaps three-dozen or so pyramid-cut, amethyst-colored stones. Their internal light was dull. "These are our gestalt stones for this endeavor." The commander supplied, carefully picking one of the stones out carefully with a pair of calipers. "Touch one with your bare hand, and the knowledge of every leading bid per-allotment enters your mind. We'll be giving you six of these, to distribute amongst the Senate and Assembly and one or two for yourself. However, you are advised that you should not distribute any of them until such time as you receive an initial [i]leading[/i] bid for the allotments." "What, so we keep our buyers in the dark until they actually put forward actual value? That's a little discourteous." Iikka commented. "'Discourteous' would be wasting our and their time fretting about statistics they don't yet have a stake in." The commander retorted. "It's all the same either way, but the way forward is clear." He turned in his seat to look back at the vast rows and columns of the assembled pallets and the bronze coffers stacked on them. "The [i]sooner[/i] we can rid Caelrumoste of every scrap of Ammacre there is, the sooner we can stop looking over our shoulders, jumping at every shadow and waiting for somebody to plunge the knife."