The World Restarts

It's been decades since the Storm that reshaped Aule. Entire mountains were leveled, coastlines redrawn, and floods swallowed lands once thought permanent. The maps of old are meaningless—the world has changed, and nothing can be trusted except what is seen with your own eyes.

The lands are wild and unpredictable. Rivers run differently, forests grow in unexpected places, and plains may hide dangers that did not exist before. Survivors have claimed what they can, built where possible, and adapted to the hazards of a world that has no memory of the past.

Every road can be treacherous, every border uncertain. Rivalries, alliances, and ambition drive the people of this new Aule and the choices of the bold will shape its future.

The forest was awake long before the sun touched its crown.

High above the earth, where branches wove like living bridges, the heart of the Mycend pulsed with quiet rhythm. The main settlement, Hearthspire, sat atop the towering elder-trees, a sprawling lattice of fungal platforms, cap-houses, and spore-towers blooming across the canopy.

At the center of Hearthspire stood the High Cantor’s Nest, a massive shelf fungus grown into a natural amphitheater. This morning it thrummed with activity. Three Prime Voices had gathered, each glowing faintly with the slow, internal light of their kind. Their thoughts rippled through the colony in soft waves.

The Cycle turns. The world stirs beyond the Loom. It is time.

Around them, the Sporewardens assembled. Lean, swift, their bodies built for speed across branches and windfall. Their sacs pulsed with faint pressure, spores swirling beneath their translucent skin in anticipation of release. They knelt as one.

North. South. East. West. Each direction carried questions. Rumors of two-legged shapes near the forest edge. The distant call of beasts not heard since the Storm. The faint scent of ash that did not belong.

With a single shared exhale from the Prime Voices, the mission was determined.

The Sporewardens rose, clicked their limbs against the bark in acknowledgment, and vanished into the canopy. Some sprinted across moss-covered boughs. Others dove through hanging fronds. A few simply leapt and trusted the forest to catch them.

Hearthspire watched them go, every Mycend linked in quiet unity.

Outside of Hearthspire, The Huskborn moved in slow patterns along the forest’s outer rings, each step going with a heavy thud. Their bodies radiated a low heat as the protective bacteria across their hides stirred in response to the open air. The Prime Voices had given the intent, and the hive-mind handled the rest. Fallen trunks were lifted and stacked into barrier lines. Stone boulders were rolled into choke points. Newly grown root-walls were coaxed into shape by Cantors perched high above, singing soft, resonant notes that guided the growth.

At the very edges of the Verdant Loom, huskborn formed living cordons around the forest. Silhouettes crouched between the trees, their bodies blending with the rest of the fungi that covered the whole forest. They stationed themselves at narrow paths, river crossings, and any place where something not of the forest might try to enter. Defenses had to be established if the Mycend was to explore the world outside.

The world beyond the Verdant Loom was moving again and the Mycend would meet it. Curious about who or what is waiting for them out there, outside the Verdant Loom forest.

---

“Bah, get me another ale!” Shouts out the King of the north. King of the Stone Dwarves of Stenrester, Dawi Lysterson. His stein slams harshly upon the stone table within their stone halls.

It was a rowdy affair, a dozen dozen short figures rumbling and drinking away the night in the feasting hall. The celebration? Well they hardly need a reason, but it was the birthday of their newly crowned king. His coronation being just a scant few months ago after the death of his father.

As such, it calls for a speech.

“My brethren of the mountain depths, hear me!” He steps onto the table, ale in hand and chest bare. “For too long have we stayed in our holds! Too long have we been locked in the north fighting beasties and each other!” A rumbling noise of agreement comes from the assembly.

“It is time for us to reexplore the world, reintroduce them to the cut of our gib and the beauty of our beards, ay?” A much louder sound of laughter and nodded heads comes.

“We bring them ale, we bring them stones, we bring them Fights!” His fist raises. “There is a good scrap and a good chance to prove ourselves to our ancestors! This is our chance to reassert our place into the world, for its foundations were built upon our sturdy back!” Loud cheers echo.

“We shall leave from our mountain homes, we shall retake once was lost, and we shall prove to whatever out there that the Stone Dwarf People of Sternester still exist as the power that once eclipsed the world! My father spent decades repairing our nation, prepping us for this moment. He was Lyster the Scholar, Lyster the Rebuilder, Lyster the Weak!” The King looks around with a stoney gaze.

“Call him what you will, he fixed our nation in ways no King since Drak had. And I, who am proud to be his son, I who look out to the distant horizon will be known as the Reclaimer. The Conqueror. The Diplomat. The one who led us out from the dark we hid within and back into the light.” Dawi steps off of the Grey table, his footsteps echoing in the reverent silence. His eyes meet every person. From smiths, to clan leaders, to bakers and warriors.

He walks, slowly, to the throne of his realm. One of the two last relics of the old empire, covered in cracks and scratches that show its age and prove it is as resilient as the Dwarven spirit. Above it rests an equally old axe. It is the second relic, the only recovered from Drak Gnorrisons skeleton in the far north, the last remnants of the great empire they once were.

Dawi grabs it, slowly lifting the heavy steel war tool from its resting place. A stunned gasp ripples through all the attendees as he turns and presents it.

“This axe is my promise, upon its runes and history do I solemnly swear.” It lights up, blowing out the flames in the room and leaving only the dying embers of runic glow. “Upon the last dregs of magic within it, upon the dying light of our ancestors that once held this and built and protected our empire, I SWEAR!” Another pulse lights up the room. “We shall prove that just cause the old has died does not mean the new are weak.”

The but of the weapon slams, and with it disputes the last marks of the old empire. But with it do the many torches of the room reignite into a blue flame, lighting the future that lays before them.

Even when the storm battered the ruins of Tacenie, its warriors risked the wrath of the skies themselves to dominate. It was their birthright, Tacenie was to enjoy the finer things in life and the world was to provide! The storm might have made the world forget this fact, but it would be made to remember.

The world might hope that with their numbers of fewer than 60.000, there would be a limit to the wants of the elves, but every victory only served to heighten their ambitions. More thralls were needed to make bigger palaces, to make more luxury goods and afford to throw more extravagant parties and celebrations about one's self and deeds. 'Every elf a tyrant!' they said.

All an elf needed to have a good life in this new age was the ambition to take from the world what it wished for.



"All the thralls are dead Varion, this is an abysmal failure!" One of the elves told the Tyrant. Varion clenched his teeth, resisting the urge to scream back at him 'don't you think I know that?!'. They stood atop what was a small hill of dead Huskborns after the tide of their numbers had finally subsided. It had started to go wrong the moment they had stepped in the forest and had become impossible to manage the moment they had found what one could call a 'settlement' of these mushroom people. The only saving grace the invaders had was that it had been a particularly hot and dry day, so when they decided to set everything on fire it caught on rapidly and dissuaded more enemy reinforcements to show up.

And so they had 'won'. But what had been the point? All the humans they had brought with them were dead, these things had no loot to speak of and Varion doubted they even understood the concept of being taken away from their wood to serve others. At this point however, he had to save face. "You." He said, pointing at one of the... mushroom man that stood in the middle a circle of armed Tacenians. Smaller than the 'warriors' they had faced, bigger than the child sized ones that formed the majority of the captives and they made noises, almost like... singing. They were smart enough to understand that trying to flee led them to be cut down, so, maybe...

Varion walked towards it, taking it by the 'throat' before looking down in disgust at his own hand at the feeling of touching this creature. "YOU! Do you understand me? Tell the others that I want tribute! Give to me, or I will return and I will burn down your disgusting forest!" He dragged it outside the circle and threw him away on the ground before returning to his Brotherhood. Before re entering the armed circle, he stared down every Tacenian survivors. The silent ultimatum was clear: Did anyone want to challenge him for the role of Tyrant here and now? One by one however they looked away. Not here, not now. Good. Maybe he'd keep his rank for a week more, but Varion needed to show some profit or he knew challengers would line up to face him.

With this, the small band left the forest with about two dozen Mycends of all shapes and sizes in tow, maybe they could teach them to farm or something.

tl;dr: A minor Tyrant tries his luck in the mushroom forest, it goes poorly. Gets some captives out of it but that was not good use of resources.



Ella watched with satisfaction the captive walk out from their burning town in their hundreds, walking in a long line with their heads bowed toward Tacenie. Her Kurgan thralls had performed amazingly, which had defied most of her companion's expectations. Kurgans were a battered people, beaten and enslaved by Ordun until they fled east only to meet the Tacenians and a fate that wasn't that much better. But the desire for vengeance was a powerful thing and when Ella called upon them to raise a warband to raid their previous oppressor, they did so with zeal. The Kurgans were like any other humans really, you could give them proper training and weapons, proper motivation however was more unique and made them special somewhat.

"You."

She said, pointing a gracious finger toward a giant of a Kurgan, his scruffy dark hair being the same color as her silky own. She signaled the man to come forward in front of her. "I hear that where others hesitated, you stormed the dragon temple and led the slaughter of the guards and the priests? Impressive." The human simply nodded, having understood that elves didn't like the sound of their rough voices. There were other things they liked however... Ella reached up to the man's face to move it around, look into his eyes, slide her thumb under his lips to examine his teeth like she would livestock. Finally, she smiled, liking what she was seeing.

"Good. Take your pic of the loot and two of the women you want, but do not breed them yet, I want you in my tent tonight." The human's eyes widened as he looked on his fellow thralls as grunts of approval, laughter and cheers erupted. Tonight he would lay with a demigod! "One last thing. You may be my Chosen, if you wish to seize the opportunity." This brought silence among the thralls as eyes turned from the new champion... to the old one. The older Kurgan chief screamed as he tried to pull out his sword, but the younger warrior that had just earned Ella's favor didn't bother and rushed his elder to begin a grapple, throwing him on the ground to he choked the life out of him as everyone around him cheered for a new Chosen.

Ella walked away from the scuffle with satisfaction, not caring the least about the looks of disgust that her Brotherhood gave her, judging her for lowering herself to 'beastiality' and sex with humans. They didn't speak up however, despite her 'quirks' Ella was a generous Tyrant who brought wealth and thralls to those under her. One of her lieutenants approached her.

"It went well, this time. It's been a while since I've seen humans fight like that. We had the drop on them this time, but if they knew we were coming..." Ella merely shrugged. "But they didn't! Come on, whoooo cares about their big bad armored temple guards? If I were you I'd be more annoyed about their fucking walls. I don't have time for walls! Especially not walls in a damn desert where we can't forage for supplies. Nuh uh. Nope. We're going home, I am not dealing with this." The lieutenant raised his eyebrows in surprise. A big victory like that and then just leave? She... did make good points about the logistics of taking walled cities in the desert however.

"...My Tyrant, what if Ordun retaliates?" To this, Ella had a cunning, predatory smile. "Then we won't have to walk through the desert to find new thralls, how kind of them it would be~"

tl;dr: A warband raided an Ordun town, enslaving its population. The warband however finds the idea of trying to siege another city to be daunting and decides to leave with their plunder.

“Is he the one?” asked Shor-Khâr Arûn, lord of Elgahad. The gruff-looking Golden Guard commander standing by his side nodded. “Yes, lord. I brought him right away as you asked.” Arûn snapped his fingers and a slave girl brought a gold goblet filled with cool water flavored with rose extract to the young soldier kneeling before the Dragon Lord’s throne. He wore the dark red cloth and the bronze scales of the Dragon Legion, their shine dimmed by a layer of desert dust. The legionary grabbed the goblet with both hands and hurriedly brought it to his cracked lips, drinking to the last drop before handing the goblet back. “Tell the Shor-Khâr what you told me,” the commander’s voice imperiously snapped.

The soldier bowed his head, intimidated by Arûn’s piercing gaze. “Raiders, my lord. They burned Anta and took the people captive. They… burned the temple of Oran-Shor, killed the priests."

“Who were they?” Arûn’s tone was cold and promised naught but pain if the young legionary dared lie to him.

“I… do not know, my lord. Foreigners. Some of the people who fled the town before taking refuge in Bardast said they were Kurgan.”

“You were too busy running to take a good look, weren’t you?” The soldier shrunk at the Golden Guard’s accusation.

“Let him speak, Kursh.” The Shor-Khâr shifted his attention back to the legionary. “What of the garrison?”

“We were too few, they attacked without warning. I… My lord, there was nothing to be done, I swear-”

“Silence.” Arûn stroked his black-bearded chin. “Kurgan, hmm. You did well to come here, legionary. Give me your name.”

“Herush, my lord.” His head would have touched the marble floor had he bowed any lower.

“Take your horse to the stables and rest at the city barracks. You are with the Innas Shor-Mairan of Elgahad now.”

Kursh turned towards Arûn after the legionary thanked his lord for his life and swiftly departed from the throne room. “You let him go?” He knew better than to sound accusatory, but just barely.

Arûn had the hint of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Of all the places he could have gone, he rode through the desert from Anta all the way to my palace. He knows duty.”

Kursh snorted with disgust. “He remains a coward.”

Arûn stood up and left the room, Kursh following in his steps. “Yes, he is. I have more uses for dutiful cowards than I do for fearless fools. I will send word to the Shor-Kharai, have the Legion double garrisons from here to the border and make preparations for a levy in the meantime.”



“I will not let this insult go unpunished.” The High Dragon Lord, Shahaiar, silenced the gaggle of advisors before him. Nearly an hour of them arguing and dithering about the incursion had exhausted his patience.

“Likely the actions of a single one of their so-called Tyrants, your Majesty,” one of them spoke up.

“It matters not. Oran-Shor will have retribution.” The Shor-Kharai addressed one of his aides. “You will send the word to all Bikhaan tribes. Ördûn requires their riders.”

“A call to arms, your Majesty?”

“No. Volunteers only, with the promise that all slaves and plunder are theirs to keep.”

“Your Majesty, loot from the settlements of Tacenian slaves may be… sparse.” Another advisor said with pursed lips.

“Indeed,” Shahaiar replied. “Every warrior shall be awarded four silver drachma for every head they take beyond the border. Arûn of Elgahad will also be required to provide three hundred Innas Shor-Mairan for the army, with support from his Golden Guard and my own. How many lived in Anta?”

“More than six hundred, your Majesty.”

“Tell the men that they may return only after taking no less than two thousand heads. We shall give the elves and their slaves a taste of what it means to rouse the Dragon’s wrath.”

tl;dr: The Dragon Lords are not amused by the Tacenian raid and make preparations to retaliate.

Jariel was as always disappointed by the Kurgan 'warriors' he was training. Well, training probably wasn't the best word for the pummeling he was giving them, with the only advice he handed them, if you could call it that, being to get up and try again. He had demanded 20 of them fight him knowing full well at a certain point adding numbers was meaningless since they didn't even have the space to attack him, but that wasn't really the wait, was it? No, it simply felt good to pummel humans, to feel superior compared to these mayflies who could never hope to match his experience.~ But somehow, despite his horrible teaching style, they were getting a little bit better, taking in new moves and learning to parry by observation and trial and error.

This session however was interrupted by a rider coming in the village's training field at full speed before deftly jumping off his horse to then kowtow in front of the elf.

"My lord! I come from a stream east, Bikhaan riders-"

He caught his breath as Jariel smiled with satisfaction. That human fucker Ella had been right again! She had expected a retaliation from Ordun and instructed him and his riders to keep watch over the few watering holes of the dry region, knowing any substantial force would have to stop to one of them.

"Good! Get me my armor and prepare yourselves for battle."

He said with glee. Most of the Kurgans let out a cheer for battle and began to prepare, but some looked at each other with worry. One finally spoke.

"M-my lord, didn't Tyrant Ella command us to move the population to the castles once we caught sight of Ordun's reprisal forces?"

Jariel looked at the man with an annoyed expression before pulling out one of his swords from its sheath with lightning speed, placing it under his throat.

"Ella just wants to be part of the fight to have a share of the loot, but didn't want to wait in your ugly fucking muddy village for it. Send a messenger warning her of my upcoming victory and never question me again."

The man gulped and nodded, Jariel then removed his sword, but not without sliding it against the human's skin and drawing some blood.

"We ride, to victory!"

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And so to meet the Bikhaans Jariel and his riders went. From the start one might have expected the outcome: Jariel and his riders were outnumbered, something he expected to overcome with the sheer determination and skill of his Aspirants, something he might have been right to think, if only the Bikhaans had been so kind as to fight in melee, the way Jariel would have wanted them to fight. They did not.

The elf let out a scream of frustration! His horse had been shot from under him, same as those of all that was left of his Aspirants as they huddled in a circle to form a shield wall to block the arrows raining on them. From time to time they replied by chucking spears at the enemy riders but it was inferior in every way to their bows! With every moment, the circle of riders closed in on their position, their shots becoming more accurate.

Jariel stood proudly at the center, a dozen of arrows sticking out of his magically tempered armor while more clinked and clanked against it to fall harmlessly on the ground. Some had went through, but it would take much more to bring down a Tacenian! Even wounded he was, Jariel still had the energy and focus required to seize a spear being thrown at him mid flight before in a fluid motion twirling it around and throwing it back, sticking it in the chest of a Bikhaan who had dared to get too close to him.

He didn't care, he'd kill them all himself if he had to, he was Jariel Silorian and had lived for five centuries, the human who would kill him wasn't born yet!

But before he knew it, the number of his Aspirants had further dwindled and he saw the enemy lining up for a final melee charge to break up the last remaining stuborn survivors. Finally, glorious melee!

As the enemy charged, Jariel put all his strength and rage in his blade, ignoring the lance breaking against his chestplate as he swung and decapitated the horse in front of him, his blade continuing to then split its rider in half. For a moment, the battlefield seemed to stand still at this display of strength, but as the dust fell, it was clear that he was now alone.

More arrows hit his armor harmlessly, some being struck midair by his blade as brave men surrounded and charged him. Unlike his aspirants during their 'training' at the camp, these men were more afraid of what would happen if they failed to hit the elf than what would happen should they manage to hurt him! Something hit him behind the head and even with his helmet things started to become blurry.

Then, a lucky hit.

Jariel tried to scream as he raised a hand on his neck, but all that came out was a gurgle. He tried to charge the man who had struck him, but his legs refused to follow and he fell down to his knees, a look of... surprise on his face. He was going to die. How could this have happened? He was Jariel, he was Tacenian...

tl;dr: The man in charge of watching the Ordun border thinks he can face its forces and fails to do so.



"I do not understand. We are more numerous, we are the more skillful warriors- why not ride out and crush them?" The human asked to his Mistress. Ella pouted, annoyed that her boy-toy was being so chatty today. She guessed she could understand however; here they were, naked in her chambers after a session of lovemaking while an army camped outside the castle, having just burned down his village after he had been ordered to burn down his own crops to deny them from the invader.

She understood however. Cormak, unlike many of her previous Chosens, cared about his people. After his promotion during the raid on Ordun, he had came back with many ideas on how to improve things for his people, good ideas even, but now it was all gone and there was nothing he could do to protect his home.

"Because I'm telling you we're not doing that, isn't that enough?" She said from the bed to Cormak as he paced around the room, audibly annoyed that he'd question her. He turned to look at her and sighed before being silent for a moment.

"...Do not misunderstand me, my Tyrant. I am not questioning your order, I am just wondering why we do what we do. I want to understand so I can better serve you."

Ella raised an eyebrow and smiled, amused that Cormak actually had quite the way with words. He was still questioning her of course, but he did endear her to answer.

"Because you can't outskill an arrow." She said with a shrug. Cormak frowned, uncertain what this meant so she continued. "If we go out, they'll just get on their horses and leave, then when we turn our backs on them, they'll ride back in and pelt us with arrows. And I don't have anything against that. The only way to beat tactics like this is either get them to follow us in a forest, which we don't have any near and if they're smart, they don't follow us in, or to have more missile units than them, and it would take months for me to train you guys to use bows, years for you to actually be good with one."

She explained. Cormak looked at her for a moment, taking in what she said before sitting on the bend and leaning forward to rest his chin on his fist.

"...After this, I will have every man and child train archery for one day every week. I now understand that this is an area in which we are lacking."

Uh. No raging against how dishonorable this was? Just acceptance of the facts. Ella was pleasantly surprised. She moved from the bed to sit beside him and give him a pat on the back. Suddenly however, the door flung open, showing one of Ella's elven companion.

"Ella, you might want to come and see this."

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The first thing Ella noticed with great satisfaction when she reached the gatehouse overlooking the Ordun camp in front of the castle was how a lot of them were shitting themselves, literally. Looks like they had drank the water from the well she had 'spiced up' for them. The second thing was a very large man clad in a huge heavy bronze armor screaming at the Castle.

"Tyrant! Come and face me you craven knife eared witch! You attack peasants in the middle of the night and hide behind your walls when Oran-Shor's retribution comes for your head! See how you fare in combat against a true dragon hearted warrior!"

Ella's reaction was to have a half snort/half giggle of amusement at the challenge, though behind her Cormak stepped forward and placed a knee on the ground.

"My Tyrant, allow me to face this upstart in your name."

Around him, Ella's elven cohort frowned at the suggestion.

"Watch your mouth, thrall, you are unworthy of such an honor!"

Still amused, Ella winked at Cormak.

"Yeah thrall, don't think you can just rob me of my fun."

The elf nodded in agreement until his eyes widened in surprise as he turned toward Ella.

"W-wait, you can't mean-"

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The doors of the castle opened to show a single Tacenian walking out. Ella was barefooted and wearing luxurious silk gown probably worth more than the Legionary would ever make in a lifetime alongside a simple shortsword at her side. She raised her arms as she walked toward the man who had been taunting her.

"Here I am, manling! The knife eared bitch who enslaved your kinsmen, killed your priests and pissed on the altar of whatshisname your dragon god."

There was a moment of silence and... hesitation, at the sheer overconfidence displayed before them. The bronze clad warrior finally raised his hand to undo the brooch holding his cape to free himself from it and let the sun shine on his armor.

"Oran-Shor blesses me this day for his light has blinded you to your own hubris and I will be his tool to teach your kind humility."

Saying this, he took out his sword and readied his shield. Meanwhile, Ella pouted.

"Hmmmm... I think I will kill you with... a thumb. The left one. The right one's too powerful for you."

She said clearly while raising her thumb, provoking a bout of laughter from the assembled elves and men on the wall behind her. With this, she began walking toward the would be champion of Ordun as he did the same toward her.

He wasn't mediocre, but Ella could tell from his swings that he had the vibe of 'best student at the academy'. With a certain natural talent and a few tricks since he was left handed but lacking real experience. She simply dodged and weaved, strategically placing herself with the sun at her back as she seemed to move with supernatural speed, starting to dodge his next move before he had even began making it. Until all of a sudden there was a flash of light that blinded the human as Ella stepped to face the sun and drew her short sword at the perfect angle to aim the light at his eyes. In the same swift motion, she sliced at his sword hand, Tacenie alloy effortlessly slicing through his leather gloves and his fingers.

As he reeled and screamed in agony, Ella was a blur of movement as she struck at his heel and the inner elbow of his shield arm to make him fall to his knees with his tendons sliced. The Bikhaan tribesmen watched in silent horror as the Tyrant reached down and took one of the Champion's fingers from the dirt.

"...I never said I'd use MY thumb."

Ella declared loudly with a sadistic smile on her face as she brandished her new 'weapon' and placed a hand on the man's helmet to steady it for the final blow through its eyehole.

tl;dr: Ella explains why she decided to just wait out the riders before facing a champion in a duel.

The light in the nest dimmed to a low amber as three Prime Voices gathered. Their bodies vibrated with resonance but their tones carried individual edges, like different pitches in the same chord.

Prime Voice Lethan pulsed first, anger clear in their pulse.

“They came as feeders. Four-limbed. Rigid shells. Fire in their hands.” His glow flickered with restrained anger. “They breached Hatchery Six. Twenty-three juveniles lost. Eight taken.”

Prime Voice Sileth, smaller but sharper, answered with a chittering tremor.

“They did not feed. They cut. They burned. They shouted noises at the captured ones. They behaved like beasts that think they are more. They injured the Huskborns.”

A soft ripple passed through the chamber. The Collective pressed close, listening.

Prime Voice Vaelor, oldest among them and one of the first Prime Voices to evolve, spoke last. His light dimmed to a deep blue, the color of wisdom.

“We knew the world would move again. Not like this. They did not act from fear or hunger. They acted from want. Killing for the sake of killing. Lower than the beasts that wander in the Loom.”

Lethan’s glow sharpened, the bioluminescence on his shell making different colors, erratically. Sign of deep anger.

“They touched the young. They took kin. They burned the Loom!”

Sileth’s voice hung between the voice.

“They are not beasts. They are something else. They have intent without understanding. Purpose without harmony.”

Vaelor echoed the final decision through Collective.

“Save our kin. Mobilize Huskborn and Sporewardens. Prime Lethan. Lead them. Bring their dead kin with you. Show them our strength. Don't attack. Unless, they do first. Demand our kin. Back. Gather a few. Reclaimers.”

The chamber vibrated with agreement, a silent chord of resolve.




At the forest’s edge, the Huskborn gathered with slow, deliberate weight. One by one they stepped into formation, bodies steaming faintly as the heat-resistant bacteria along their hides awakened. Their limbs tensed, bracing for movement beyond the safety of the Loom. Cantors perched above guided fungal growth to reinforce armor plates, singing low notes that made filaments thicken across Huskborn shoulders and chests.

A Sporewarden waited atop a broad branch, quivering with contained speed. Its sacs swirled with spores ready to burst if needed. It crouched as Prime Voice Lethan climbed onto its back, gripping the hardened fronds that made up its harness.

The Prime Voice cast one last look toward the direction the intruders had fled. The hive-mind pulsed through him with cold purpose.

“Follow their heat. Follow their noise. Follow the trail of broken bark.”

The Huskborn moved first, shaking the ground in a slow rhythm. Some carried the bodies of the fallen humans. They were part of the Cycle but also the ones that attacked the Loom and destroyed a hatchery.

Above them, the Sporewarden sprinted along the canopy, leaping from branch to branch with Lethan holding firm. Spores trailed faintly behind like a green mist.

The Mycend Collective were not chasing out of rage.

They were retrieving their own.

They were answering an intrusion.

They were learning the shape of their new neighbors.

As the war-band followed the Tacenians, the connection of the taken Mycend became stronger and stronger up until...Prime Lethan was able to connect to them.

The Huskborn line marched below, slow and relentless. But the Prime Voice’s attention was elsewhere. He dimmed his outer glow, focused inward, and pushed his awareness through the network.

A thin thread of consciousness reached across the miles, brushing the minds of the captured Mycend.

For a moment, there was only pain, confusion, and the buzzing noise of unfamiliar throats shouting in harsh rhythms.

Then vision.

Lethan saw through them.

Dragged across dirt paths toward a human settlement, rammed through crude gates into a disorderly sprawl of huts and sagging wooden structures. Smoke, sweat, unwashed bodies. Everywhere, humans moving with the jittering urgency of creatures constantly worried they might be prey.

Above the chaos, a stone castle rose on a hill. Elves in armor stood watch from the higher points, detached and silent. Tacenians, their movements sharp and predatory.

The captured Mycend saw people living in mud, hunger etched into their faces. A rigid divide was clear. A warrior class that barked orders. A slave caste that kept their eyes down. Squalor, desperation, fear.

Then the humans turned to the Mycend. They tried gestures, words, tools shoved into spore-covered hands. Frustration when nothing made sense. A blow. Another. Push, strike, shout, shove.

But once the Mycend began doing tasks, the pattern changed. Humans hovered protectively nearby, guiding them like confused livestock. A strange logic. Work equaled safety. Work well and they were fed. Work more and they were guarded.

To the Mycend, it was all meaningless noise.
To Lethan, it was an insult layered atop injury.

He severed the connection and reopened his eyes. His body brightened with a harsh green that tinted the bark around him.

“These creatures bruise what they do not understand,” he pulsed aloud. “They capture. They hit. They use. They treat our young as tools. This won't do.”

Lethan’s tone settled into something sharp and decisive.

“We will teach them what cannot be shouted into our ears.”

When the Mycend arrived in view of the settlement, the Huskborn moved at once. No forest. No roots to call upon. Just muscle, weight, and purpose. They ripped thick branches from nearby trees, sharpened them with hard bark, and hit them into the earth with heavy blows. Each impact sent dirt scattering.

60 human corpses were lifted and impaled. Bodies hung at angles meant to be seen from the hilltop castle.

Two bodies remained untouched behind the line.

Lethan turned to the Reclaimers waiting nearby. Small and pale, their minds alien even to the rest of the Mycend.

“You two. Take them,” he ordered.

They stepped forward, pressed their hands to the cooling flesh, and let their own bodies collapse as they pushed their consciousness outward. The dead humans jerked, twitched, then slowly rose with unsteady, puppet-like motions. One had a face of sheer terror etched on their face while the other's face kept twitching uncontrollably.

Lethan did not bother to hide his contempt.

“Walk to their settlement. Demand our kin back. Use their voices.”

The two animated human bodies turned toward the village gate and began a staggered march.

Lethan remained mounted on the Sporewarden with a thought he ordered the Huskborn to be ready for battle as they waited for the humans and the elves to decide what they wanted their next lesson to be.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~




The Sporewarden ran non stop since the order was given. Fungi leaving a trail behind it as it ran. At times, it would adopt a low posture whenever a beast would be sensed. The forest had ended days ago, replaced by rolling grass, soft soil, and strange stone ridges that cut the land like scars. It followed the Prime Voice’s directive to scout outward, though the link grew thinner the farther it traveled. Still present, but faint, like a half-remembered song.

Eventually, it stumbled upon something. A village. Houses shaped from stone and wood but most were small. Smoke drifting lazily from chimneys. Tiny figures walked between the buildings barely the height of an adolescent Mycend.

The Sporewarden did not know what they were, only the shape. Something it seen before but never something like this. A hatchery, maybe, it thought.

It crouched behind a low wall of bramble, its translucent spore-sacs flattening as it stilled its breathing. It listened. It watched. Trying to understand what they were. Their purpose and if they pose a threat to the Collective.

The small Ördûni force that forayed into Tacenie had begun its task in high spirits; the Bikhaan horsemen had spread out and ranged ahead of the Dragon Legion and Golden Guard cavalry reserves, falling upon Kurgan villages. Kursh had observed with satisfaction the havoc caused by the nomad warriors, leaving burning homes and streets littered with the bodies of men, women and children in their wake, a pile of decapitated heads at the center of each village with their right ears cut off as proof. Hovels were reduced to cinders, orchards uprooted, stone constructions ripped down. Yet, as days passed they found more and more empty settlements and burned fields. Kursh had hoped that the elves would attempt to preserve some of their slaves’ labor, but it seemed to him that they intended instead to wait things out in the shelter of the local Tyrant’s castle.

Even riding all the way to their lair had not provoked a response, but just as Kursh was about to order the men to get back on their saddles, a nervous-looking junior officer approached.

“Lord Kursh. Ulan has issued a challenge to the elf Tyrant.”

Kursh’s eyes narrowed. “Well that is strange. I do not remember giving such an order.”

“N-no, my lord. He decided on his own.” He paused awkwardly. “He is dead.”

The seasoned commander scoffed with contempt. “Of course.” He had pegged the Legion officer and self-proclaimed champion as vainglorious from the first day he laid eyes on him. “Had he succeeded, I would have had him executed. Legionaries do not fight duels. Make sure to tell the men.” The Dragon Legion’s strength was not in the individual fighting skills of its soldiers, but in the iron discipline that allowed them to fight and be commanded as one. Perhaps the troops would take their mission more seriously from now on, he mused. “Staying here is futile. We depart immediately.”

Had Kursh’s small army been more substantial and supported by a supply train, the region’s population taking refuge in the castle would have been beneficial, exhausting their food stores faster as the Ördûni would siege them out. But all he had was a raiding force, grain fields reduced to ash, and the army’s spartan diet of dried meat and horse blood could only last them for so long. Leaving Ulan’s body to rot in front of the Tacenian castle, the Ördûni packed what little they had brought with them and left as quickly as they came, seeking other prey to sack and burn.

The throne room of the Supreme Tyrant of all of Nur Tacenie was very much an alegory for the entire country. An obviously once beautiful room with its supernatural craftmanship still visible, but that laid broken and irreparable, the whole structure even listing slightly to the left. Most of the 'seats' in the room were broken columns and loose stones that had fallen from the ceiling since it somehow felt wrong to bring in non-Tacenian craftmanship inside this place. They wanted to keep this just the way it was, as if to remember that their ancient glory hadn't been all a dream.

On the throne sat Cassandalur Elandril, Supreme Tyrant over all elves, tired, pinching the bridge of his nose in exasperation as he wondered why he even tried.

He knew Ella well, the deviant who had gone native. She had been one of his greatest tools at times, but now she was one of his greatest headache. All around him elves argued about the news of Ordun's raid within their territories. The discussion wasn't about what to do, everyone agreed this meant war and an invasion or Ordun, no, they argued about who should get the loot and rule over Ordun once they had won, as if victory was a sure thing.

"Its a desert. They have walls. Do you imbeciles really think this will be that easy? Does no one remember Ul-Krazel?"

Cassandalur said, his voice prompting a silence in the room. Ul-Krazel, it had been the capital of the Krazel Kingdom, the most developed polity Tacenie had faced before, that is until now. Its walls had given them trouble and it had been in a perfect area to lay siege, the Supreme Tyrant could already see the logistical nightmare that the invasion of Ordun would be.

"Sometimes I wonder why I'm even sitting on this throne."

"Yeah, sometimes a lot of us wonder that to."

All eyes turned toward the elf who had said this, Solandil. Solandil, also known as 'Tacenie's Champion' was one of the rare elves that could claim to be undefeated in combat and one who even had been Supreme Tyrant for a while.

Cassandalur's annoyance became anger as he rose from his throne.

"Oh really?! Do you Solandil?! Well if you're wondering, how about we resolve that right now!"

He drew his sword, to which Solandil only rolled his eyes. Cassandalur however would not let go.

"Ohhh no, you don't get to ignore me! Say it, say why it is ME who is Tyrant and not YOU!"

Indeed, in Tacenie where might made right, Solandil should be the one to rule, shouldn't he? The champion gave the Tyrant an annoyed glare but finally relented.

"Fine! You rule Cassandalur, because you have an inkling of what you're doing! And I don't! We trust you to lead us through this ordeal so please!"

The Tyrant sheathed his blade and slowly sat back down, satisfied. Solandil was right and everyone knew it. All the elves were ancient by the world's standard, but even by elven standard Cassandalur was old, so old he remembered a time before Tacenie even took off the ground, back when elves involved themselves in worldly politics during the previous age and what it took to build an empire. Solandil had tried to rule the world at the edge of a blade, but it had almost led to disaster, civil war even! Cassandalur brought stability and most could now not even conceive of another being supreme Tyrant. He may not be the strongest warrior, but none dared to challenge him.

"That's right... And as I have committed to do so, I will protect life and property of all elves, but I will decide how we will win, and what the spoils will be."

tl;dr: Supreme Tyrant explains why he is in charge and commits to strike back against Ordun



Cormak rode with Ella and her warband to meet with the legendary supreme Tyrant. He had been surprised when Ella told her she knew him personally, calling him a practical man, but she then explained that most elves knew each other, or at least of each other. It came with living such a long life. The sight of his warband was... out of this world. He personally knew what one of these warriors equipped with Tacenian Steel could do and had never seen more than 100 assembled together, but here there must have been 5000! Plus a countless number of thralls... though to his surprise, a lot of them didn't seem equiped for war, instead they looked like builders. It made sense then how quickly the army of the Supreme Tyrant established camp and even fortified it, leaving nothing to chance even in friendly territories.

When the fated meeting finally happened in the luxurious silk tent of the Supreme Tyrant, another thing that surprised Cormak was to see among those close to Cassandalur were some humans and other non elves. Ella opened her arms as if greeting an old friend.

"Cassy! You old rascal, how have you been?"

Cassandalur's eye twitched, as if the mere presence of Ella was starting to give him a headache.

"I'm coming personally to get you out of your own mess, as I am certain you have planned that I would, so do me the favor of not 'Cassy'ing me, Ella!"

In response, the lesser Tyrant smiled and bent the knee, doing so with far more respect Cormak had ever seen Ella do in his entire life! He and the rest of her entourage did the same.

"I apologise, Cassandalur, and I thank you for lending your helping hand in these difficult times. I will repay you tricefold, this I swear."

This at least appeared to soothe the Supreme Tyrant who sighed before looking down on Ella.

"Good. You wish to repay me? Then how are the roads I commanded you to build. Did your thralls begin crop rotation the way I instructed?"

"Errr, it's uh, it's getting there, my Tyrant?"

Cormak looked at Ella with narrowed eyes. Roads? Crop rotation? Cassandalur rolled his eyes, understanding perfectly that Ella had ignored his orders. There was no anger however, unfortunately he had come to expect his own kind to never lift a finger to do anything that didn't immediately benefit them.

"You damned fool. Well you wanted me here so now I expect things to change. I expect you burned your crops to deny them to the enemy? I brought grain so your thralls don't starve and can plant new crops, which they will ROTATE with the seasons from now on! Get your people to work with mine, we'll need to build roads for the supply lines while we march into Ordun."

Ella nodded meekly to the command, simply happy to avoid punishment. Cormak however dared to rise his head to look at the Supreme Tyrant, curious about a person that obviously was a lot different from most of the elves he knew. Cassandalur spoke one final time.

"Ella. Take some of your companions, SOME of them. You will be my peace envoy to Ordun. Demand our tribute so they may not say we didn't warn them."

Ella sighed but didn't protest. She knew they would refuse, hell Cassandalur surely knew it too, but the Supreme Tyrant insisted on consistency in diplomacy.

tl;dr: The Supreme Tyrant arrives and is unhappy with Ella, preparations are made to invade Ordun and send a peace envoy.

The sound of a horn was heard echoing through the caves, deep underground, the echo of voices and the bustling of a city hidden beneath soil, rock and stone. Laid Niksa the holy capital of the Aris alk Shasot. The city was dug from stone, carved and sculpted in many layers over its cave system and great pillars turned into the equivalent of Skyscrapers for the Dugar and some Oaajai that call the capital home, the city was a form of spiral heading ever downwards following a chasm where bridges connecting the many parts of the chasm from isolated pillars to large districts at the central pillar carved into it was the council at its top where the representatives of the many members came to oversee the leader under the Komunal and in one of the apartments was Taine, a man who rose with the sound of the horn who awoke the city marking for a meeting beside him was the two women he slept with last night. As he rose up and walked towards a window he could see the Komunal in the distance he was a representative of his home of Na’el to the west;

After getting readied he headed to the chambers of the Komunal the bridge connecting both was a large one carved and well made as the citadel had many civilians and even soldier patrols around it to keep security. Entering the Komunal many other leaders were called, Taine soon heard his name be called turning his head he could see a familiar face from the city of Iea’le he was a man taller than him strong too with white hair and a scar he wore silk spider clothes dyed purple Taine smiled at him saying. “Hello brother.” “Goddess you look well, why are you here?” He asked with his brother pondering for a moment, soon saying. “Oh you know, just representing our older sibling.” His voice was less enthusiastic with his brother chuckling soon replying. “Well from the inheritance of our father you took the minority role. But don’t worry I am sure things will be fine with your sister.” Taine felt still a bit bitter but he let out a shrug saying. “Well shall we go inside?”“Ah no… i have other business in the capital; Nevertheless good luck with your work” His brother said with Taine giving a nod waving him off.

The komunal had many meetings over different reasons and this one was no different for him. It was another dull day discussion about military reform, political reform or simply a debate over resource rights. The most interesting so far was a request to approve surface explorations which was passed. The second thing was colonisation further movements west by the crowns… and etc… and etc… for him it was another dull day.



Dulojav had more surface fortresses allowing contact towards the nations of the surface but also to police trade amongst passages through the mountains. One of these fortresses was not a toll fort but rather a volcanic fort. The volcano of Blazing peaks was the site of one of the biggest cities of the region of Dulojav, its land being rich in metals of many kinds.

Within the fortress a series of Dugar and Oajai readied for a mission head towards the capital of Ordun to talk with their leaders for trade treaties and passage treaties. Not only that but the steel forges of the Blazing Peaks may have a great chance of selling more weapons towards them the forges had increased in production as of recently. Ika a Oajai was the one leading the expedition as the group left the gates of the fortress and began walking through the hills and south towards the plains.



In the northlands an expedition meanwhile set forth through the underground cave systems they went on to see the lands of the north. The expedition was composed of fifth individuals and only one Oajai the northern caves were not much explored. The tunnels were more disconnected but the newest one happened to prove a problem as it connected to the lands of Stenrester.



With approval from the Komunal the people of Na’el began to pack their things. It was a new colony expedition towards the ring of mountains called Rieve Akute it was the furthest west the colonisation west had gone albeit it was now heading south. With families and adventurers heading south to the ring of mountains in search of wealth, adventure or a new life.

The rain fell hard enough to blur the jungle into streaks of green and shadow; in the stagnant heat, the clinging touch of water was the only semblance of respite. Colossal fronds and dripping roots trembled the bright crests of small cassowary steeds as they slinked through the forest like haunted spirits. The jungle fowl and their small gnomish riders appeared from many paths like streams into a freshet. Their number was hard to count, perhaps two score. Among their saddled packs hung the bright fronds of tropical fruits, the ruffled masses of small monkeys, thick bladders of fresh saps. They were returning. Arriving. A feast was nigh.

Amidst their flow, Jeenuk Splitbeak joined: his face patterned in yellow-mud sigils, his hair tangled with feathers and stones, his arms tattooed from old shamanic rites. Even now, in the storm-dark, his eyes gleamed with visions no one else could see. As his name betrayed, his jaw had been cut by an orc axe seasons ago, sealing back in a jagged weld. He spoke rarely, and never loudly, yet every gnome leaned toward him when he whispered. Jeenuk carried the air of one who walked with ancestors, but in this hunt he was weighted with something heavier.

Like his kin, Jeenuk had set out for the harvest. The Whispering Moon was rising in the night sky, and likely with it a funeral. Big Chtuk had grown old. His once strong arms had become so knotted with trichinella that his hard, dark bark looked knotted and twisted like that of the trees he so loved. Jeenuk had sought to find his chieftain's favorite meal, okapi, to gain his favor, and in hopes to gain Chtuk’s last song; to become the next Big Man of the tribe. He had traveled deep into the northern wood. The cursed place.

There he had heard it. A sound—felt more than heard—trembled through the roots under his feet.

Amongst the theatre of still trees it was a deep, rhythmic tone that made the water ripple in the puddles around him. A sound that resonated in bone and stomach, a sound that felt like the pulse of the earth itself grinding awake.

He had seen nothing, to be seen in this forest was to be dead. But the woods were awake with sounds and signs of giants stirring. Streams were dammed, stones were laid. Yet no fires. No refuse. No scents of prepared meats. These were not the loud invaders of the southlands who defiled the forest with their metal and ash. It was the forest. Moving, building, singing.

—
For days the band slinked through the dense jungle. The shadows and brambles were becoming familiar again. Armies of ants scurried into their mounds where luminous gemstones cast moongaldes on leaves from beneath. Jeenuk knew that news of what he had heard –had felt– would arrive before them. As the band traveled they sang songs that twinkled through the forest. Like firetowers these songs found distant ears who fed distant ears. It was a story, on this night especially, that traveled fast.

As they neared, other songs met their ears. The gathering at home was large. Blue oiled smokes laced the canopy of trees as the fats of the night's meal simmered. Above the small domed huts and wet smudgy fires arced a colossal baobab tree. It was out of place in these woods. But that was because it was a time long before the storm. When Glimmerdeep had fallen, the great mountain to their south, little of the old world was spared. But the baobab trees, holding the gnomes of these woods deep beneath their roots, had kept their people alive. They had survived off her sap as the world above them shattered away the magic that had ravished it, enslaved it.

Tonight, when the moon was high, Big Chtuk would rise to the baobab tree’s crown branches and ask the sky to never bring magic again. What Jeenuk also knew, what the tribe knew, was that Big Chtuk would be buried under its roots –like his ancestors before him– by sunrise.

Jeenuk crested the camp's border hill, their hunting band in a bubbling ethereal song. It was an encroaching baseline, expectant of melody from homebound women and elders to match.

Jeenuk longed to see the darting, laughing figures of gnomish children; the strong arms of the reedweavers; the old wrinkled faces sitting in low roots, eyes opalescent but with grins that followed cherished sounds.

Instead, his weary eyes saw the creature.

Towering. Meters away. Noise cut from the air.

It hunched, watching, like a hungry mapinguari, but it did not appear to look at the small folk below as prey. It perhaps did not look at all, as its fungoid features only hinted at form and function of life. Yet it was alive. Like Jeenuk had heard the woods become. And here it was. In front of him. Caught in a trap the gnomes had never hoped to lay.

Atop his cassowary steed, Jeenuk raised both palms to the sky. He began to sing. A different song. An old song.

Summary:
- The northern indigenous tribes of Glimmerdeep (gnomes) hear the Verdant Loom awakening.
- Their people resent magic and the industries reforming post-Storm. Reverent of the woods.
- Tribesmen stumble upon a peeping-tom Sporewarden. @Timemaster

A meeting between Mushroom and Elf

People began to mass at the walls and towers of the town and of the castle. When the gruesome display began, wailing echoed on the wind as mothers, wives and daughters saw their sons, husbands and fathers hoisted and impaled while fathers, brothers and sons raged with anger, spitting curses at the ‘invader’ and swearing bloody revenge on all their kind. Meanwhile, the elves of the castle stood silent, disinterested. Amused?

Inside, one of the Mycend youth was brought up on the wall, hateful shouts echoing in his path as they rose him on the battlement, their intent obvious. However the eyes of the giant human brandishing his axe crossed that of an elf who had arrived at the gate and a single look was all it took to persuade him to lower the juvenile and bring him back to the others.

The doors opened to the emissaries.

This single elf led the walking cadavers through the town while warriors surrounded them. On their path mothers ushered their children inside while some looked at the two dead-but-walking and made religious signs, supplicating gods to deliver them from this evil.

Through the village and through the gate of the castle, the scenery suddenly changed dramatically. Inside the walls, a paved road led them to a central marble building which was under construction. All around, beds of flowers and young trees planted in an orderly but asymmetric fashion. A deliberate design that would see its vision accomplished in many years, decades even.

And a gentle singing.

The mycends hadn’t yet absorbed a Tacenian corpse into their collective and so the words were lost to them, but it was undeniably a calming and soothing sound. They arrived at its origin, a large throne room with at its center sitting in an oversized throne the elf they ‘remembered’ as Varion. The dead humans had feared him, he was harsh and uncaring. Sitting alongside him was another elf, the one who was singing.Loriel, the dead didn’t see her often but they appreciated her, if only because when she was around Varion seemed more calm, less volatile.

This whole place… the Mycends would easily notice that its polygon shaped structure was made with acoustics in mind, giving Loriel’s singing an even more otherworldly tone. Finally as the envoys were brought forward, she stopped, giving them a disinterested look.

Varion did not waste a single second.

“Did you bring me my tribute? Can you even understand me or is you parading the dead in front of us just a joke of some kind?”

The two Reclaimers walked with an uneven sway that came from trying to pilot flesh built nothing like their own. Every step felt imperfect. Still, they followed the humans without resistance.
They kept turning their heads, studying every face and gesture they passed. They watched how the thralls moved through fear, anger, reverence. They noted the barricaded doors, the trembling hands, the way children hid behind adults. All of it was fed back through the link to Prime Lethan.

When the castle gates opened and the stonework shifted into something cleaner, brighter, Prime Lethan connected. His awareness slid into them instantly. He saw through their mismatched eyes, absorbing the sight of a place shaped not by desperation, but by design. Flowers, young trees, a building rising in marble. Intent. Patience. Ownership. These were the leaders. The people who ordered the attack.
Music drifted across the air. Wordless or not, it softened the edges of thought. Lethan lingered on it, surprised by the simple pleasure of sound shaped so carefully. He did not understand the meaning, but he appreciated the feeling all the same.

By the time the Reclaimers reached the throne room, both were fully under Lethan’s connection. He watched the elves. He watched their stillness. He watched the one called Varion speak.

The first body tried to speak, but its throat was a ruined channel. Only a wet churn came out, a grinding of air through blood. Each attempt pushed more dark red down its chin. No shape, no word, just a pulsing gargle that made the humans around them recoil.
The second body held together better, though its voice was still wrong. Hollow.. As if the sound came from behind the ribs instead of the mouth. The jaw worked a second too late, like the words were chasing the movement rather than causing it. Every syllable dragged, scraped. Alien.

“Give. Back. Our. Kin. No. Attack. Us. You. Attack. We. Brought. Back. Dead. Cycle. Reclaim. Them. No. Kin. Back. More. Dead. More. Join. Cycle.”

Varion had an annoyed look as he raised his hand toward his ‘guests’ as if asking ‘what the hell is this?’. It looked like his answer would be dismissive, but Loriel’s touch of his arm caused him to pause for a moment as he moved his own hand on her shoulder.

“There is no negotiating about this, just like there is no negotiating with fire. When fire burns, you either accept its destruction or you quench its thirst with water. When a Tacenian commands you, you either accept your own destruction or you give them the tribute. They. Ask!”

He rose from his throne with anger in his eyes.

“Your disgusting forest will provide something useful to me, or I will have it burned! I will uproot every tree and I will salt the earth itself so nothing remains, nothing ever regrows after I am through!”

With an imperious movement, Varion turned to the side exit and stormed off the room. There was a moment of silence as the elves present looked at each other and began moving to escort their ‘guests’ out. Before they could however, Loriel raised a hand to interrupt them as she moved to sit upright on the throne.She gave the mycends a saddened smile.

“...My people are unfortunately not mindful of death. They are especially not mindful to send others to it. Enemies or thrall. Our pride will not allow it. But this needn’t be difficult for either of our people. To return your kin can be done, yes, but for me to convince my kin to do so, we require something of you.”

“You… are not like us. I am sure we do not have the same needs or wants. Perhaps in your forest there is something that is abundant and of little use to you but that Tacenie would desire?”

Prime Lethan’s focus narrowed, threads of awareness knitting through the two reclaimed forms. His presence pressed outward, assessing the marble chamber, the elves, the strange acoustics that made their music ripple through the air like warm light.

Lethan followed the logic the Tacenians demanded, weighing the request with patience. Their “tribute,” their hunger for something useful, something pleasing. Something they could take without stepping into the Cycle.

The speaking reclaimer’s head tilted, the voice grinding out through torn vocal cords.

“Offer. We. Have.”

A pause. The dead lungs strained, catching on dried blood, but the words came.

“In. Forest. Grow. Fungi. Make. Calm. Make. Dream. Make. Sound. Sweet. To. You.”

The gurgling one twitched, a wet hiss leaking from its ruined throat.

“Spore. Drift. Soft. Cold. Mind. Still. Music… Loud. Bright.”

The second stepped forward a half pace, jerking like a puppet pulled too fast.

“Give. You. This. Fungi. Abundant. To. Us. No. Loss.”

A beat. Prime Lethan let the bodies speak the final line in perfect unison, glitching in two different tones.

“You. Want. Beauty. We. Give. You. Beauty. Give. Us. Kin.”
“But”

The reclaimer lifted its head with a bird-like jerk, empty eyes fixed on the elves. The other body beside it twitched, still leaking that thin line of blood from its throat.

“No. Tacenian. Step. In. Forest. No. Thrall.” Its voice was calm.

“You. Enter. Again.” A hand shot out with sudden precision, gripping the other corpse by the jaw and crown. The movement was fluid and casual. “Cycle. Take. You.” The reclaimer twisted.

A clean, sharp crack filled the throne room.

The second host collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, limbs folding in on themselves. The speaking reclaimer let the corpse drop, then turned its gaze back to Loriel and the silent elves.

“We. Return. All. Who. Trespass.”

Another pause.

“Dead. Join. Cycle.”

Then it went still again, waiting for their answer.

Loriel watched in silence but her general displeasure was not hard to discern, toward the threats, the form of those she was talking to and… their offer. It’s not like they could know of course, but at the height of Tacenie, nothing could have prevented them to use their magic to simply… have pleasure. In its purest, most corruptive form. There were spells to alter the mind of people after all, but it was seen as taboo, cowardly. To fight, that should be one’s pleasure in life!

Loriel had never quite enjoyed that, but she had enjoyed other pleasures. Even for her however… but. There could be uses for what the Mycends offered, if not for them, for their neighbors in exchange of coin, for their thralls, as long as it didn’t affect their work.

“...Perhaps. I do not know much about spores and fungi. I do know you use them to animate the dead however, so I will admit I am skeptical on if this is a trick, but, perhaps… Actually, I also have a… suggestion in mind.”

She rested her head on her hand with a raised eyebrow.

“I have heard of a type of tree… one who’s core dies at it grows older, and so it doesn’t rot, the tree floods its dead flesh with sap. This… amber-wood thus becomes highly resilient to insects and fire. Tell me, is there something similar in your forest?”

It might be a long shot, but, maybe…

The Reclaimer’s borrowed lungs hitched, the words scraping out in that disjointed rhythm as the Mycend mind behind them weighed Loriel’s request. The concept of carving into a living tree was already a denial forming in the Collective before the thought even finished.

Heartwood was not lumber to them. It was the still-beating memory of elders, the slow pulse of those that passed to the next stage of the Cycle. To carve it while it lived would be maiming the Cycle itself, tearing open what must remain whole. The Reclaimer’s head twisted with a stiff, unnatural creak as if listening to something far away, then the voice answered, warped and halting, yet firm in meaning.

“Core. Trees. Needed. For. Cycle. Living. No. Cut. Harm. Forest. Harm. Kin. We. Not. Trade. That.”

But there were fallen giants, trees claimed by storms or age, their inner cores hardened into dense resinous amber through the forest’s mourning. Those were already part of the Cycle’s return, their spirits gone, their bodies waiting for purpose.

This the Mycend could spare, and only this. The Reclaimer’s host shifted its stance, bones popping, dark fluid leaking from its unmended wounds as it clarified the thought. Taken only from what the Cycle had already relinquished, never from what still breathed. A trade was possible under that truth.

“Dead. Fallen. Heart. Wood. Yes. Cycle. Already. Taken. We. Give. Fallen. Only. If. Kin. Returned. No. One. Walks. Forest. As. Well.”
Loriel showed a polite smile. She didn’t understand why the Mycends did what they did, but she could grasp the concept behind it. Plus, it didn’t matter to her if the tree where she got her hardwood were alive or dead. In either case it would be a precious commodity, elves were obsessed with the longevity of their craft and this kind of wood didn’t rot and was insect proof.

“As you wish. As a show of good faith, I will allow you to walk away with one of your kin today. If you bring us… core wood, and these spores you spoke about, we will free the rest.”

“From there, for every time the moon in the sky becomes full, we will expect more. Do this for us, and we will set stones at the edge of your wood and insure that no one ever steps foot in it, until the end of times.”

The speaking Reclaimer swayed again, the ruined throat clicking as Prime Lethan pushed the host’s voice as far as it could go. The other corpse lay limp at his feet. For a moment the body’s cloudy eyes fixed on Loriel, then shifted upward, studying the slanted light that fell through the high windows.

“…We. Accept.” Each word landed slow, like the body resented forming them. “Core. Wood. Spores. We. Bring. When. Sky. Light. Full.” The human jaw twitched, struggling to talk.

“We. Not. Know. Time. Like. You. But. We. Watch. We. Learn.” The corpse leaned forward slightly, unsteadily. “You. Give. Kin. Whole. No. Empty. No. Take. Or. Cycle. Send. More. Many. More. All. Of. You.” A wet rattle escaped the throat as blood traced thin ribbons down the chest. “No. Trick. No. Hurt. No. Missing. Or. Forest. Take. All. We. Will. Know.” The Reclaimer’s head cocked to the side, birdlike, as if listening to something far away.

“Stone. Stay. No. Foot. Crosses. You. Keep. Word. We. Keep. Ours.” The body shuddered as the Prime withdrew his focus. “…Trade. Balance. Cycle. Continue.” and as it uttered these last words it fell on the ground, the Reclaimer spent.

…Trade? Loriel supposed so, security for physical goods. She made a map in her mind, figuring this meant a supply of hardwood… for now. It’s not like she thought these mycends, these children blind to the ways of the world, would try to fleece them, but while there must be some dead wood pilling up now, eventually the supply would be restrained to what died this year. How annoying.

And next time, no doubt the Mycends would be a lot less childish in their perception of the world. Oh well. For now, they had what they wanted.

“... Deliver them one of their young. For the rest, make sure to keep them isolated from the other thralls so no ‘accidents’ happen. When they deliver, if they deliver, we will free the rest and set boundary stones on the edge of the forest.”

The elves around her looked at each other with uncertainty, she wasn’t Varion, should they really obey her?

“...The thralls rely on the forest for firewood, they won’t like it.”

Loriel glanced at the one who had spoken, silently asking if it really mattered what the thralls did or didn’t like? The elf merely bowed in response before leaving to deliver the orders and find servants to remove the disgusting corpses from the room.
With one of the captive juveniles brought back, Prime Lethan nodded towards the castle. These elves thought they had the upper hand but in truth, the goods they would deliver meant nothing to the Collective but a lot to the elves.

Weeks passed and on the night of the first full moon, a rustling came at the edge of the settlement. The Mycend arrived carrying bundles of hardwood, carefully stacked and tied with thin vines. Small clusters of hallucinogenic spores glimmered faintly in the moonlight, drifting a subtle scent through the air. The elves kept their word and all the prisoners were brought back, in good condition as they eagerly returned to the Collective.

Meanwhile, while waiting for the full moon, the captive Cantor moved quietly among the thrall settlement, in the places where it was allowed to roam. Its limbs brushed against the damp earth, leaving spores glimmering faintly in depressions.
It paused at small clearings, pressing spores into the soil. Then it began to sing to them. The song of Growth. A symphony of sounds that one couldn’t name if they tried.

“Grow deep. Feed your roots. Spread slowly. Remember and watch,” it sang.

It sang and whispered, encouraging the land beneath the thralls’ feet without disturbing it noticeably. Some thralls stirred at first with idle curiosity. Few understood, but all felt the rhythm of the song seep into the ground. Tiny tendrils sprouted here and there, nothing large, nothing immediate, but the seeds of subtle growth began to take root.

The grasslands of the west were once more lit ablaze as pluming towers of dark smoke filled the grey skies, the sounds of clashing steel, screams and bellowing roars filling the air, the very ground itself heavily stained with blood. It was a sign of the continued struggle between the Grogar Clans, in this instance, a myriad of smaller, weaker clans had united with the goal of challenging the most powerful clan in the region, Mazoga's Iron Legion.

---

Mazoga cleaved through his lessers with his broad sword, blood and viscera splattering in the air from the sheer brute force, Grogar lying dead and bisected, Mazoga briefly looking down with contempt as he rushed towards his next prey, a trio of hulking, malformed Stormborn were tearing through his troops. For even with all their strength and numbers, even the martialed warriors of the Iron Legion were no match for the unpredictable and abominable Stormborn. In a berserk rampage, the Stormborn stomped, crushed, and swept away all in their path, the Iron Legionaries standing against losing heart and broke formation as they scattered, running past their Warlord as he charged towards the beasts.

Before the beasts took notice, Mazoga had leapt up high, his blade piercing the heart of one of the Stormborn as it let out an ear shattering roar. He turned to face his scattered warriors, even under his Steelhelm, they can feel his fury. "Cowards! All of you! You break before these abominations? You let such mistakes and their lesser masters get the better of you?!?" His pauses. "You are Iron Legion! Act like it! Crush these weaklings and show them your worth!!!" Without hesitation, Mazoga continued the charge, as he cleaved through the heels of one of the Stormborn, the monster falling to its knees, allowing an opening for the legionaries to dispatch their foe, for which they swiftly did as they swarmed the mutant, stabbing it repeatedly.

The last beast was slain as a volley of arrows befell upon it, falling back first unto the ground. "Pathetic!" Mazoga roared out, as he left a trail of bodies in his wake. "Is this all you offer?!? Utterly Pathetic!!!!" Mazoga carried his own the carnage, the battle slowly dying down as the invading alliance had broken heart and fled. By the end of the day, the Iron Legion had secured another victory, keeping its place among the more powerful Clans of Western Aule.

STENRESTER SPEAKS

---

Deep in the bowels of the earth did a Song ring, deep did the echoes of picks echo. The mines of Min Sten never rest, and hadn’t stopped its work since it first opened many decades before. For Min Sten was not some simple quarry or mine, but a place that revealed near endless bounties of earth with every swing of a tool.

So on do the Dwarves work in ever expanding shafts that range miles long and deep. But, this focus is not on the entirety of the ranges claimed underneath the Mountain that holds Min Sten. Merely on its most southern tunnel.

“Come on greenbeards, we got a quota to meet and things to kill!” So yells the eldest dwarf in a Party of four. One named Karl, the most prolific miner of the Sten Clans. On another expedition to show some younger Dwarves with more color then sense in their beards how to extract from the dangerous depths they delve into.

What makes them so dangerous? Bugs mostly. The native Dum bugs come in many variations, all of which love to eat minerals and stone to create carapaces that need a unique trick to crack. That being hitting it. Really, really hard.

At these depths the mission is more to kill a bunch of Dum Bugs and collect spoils off of their bodies than to actually mine. A perfectly violent way to retrieve the materials that the Stenester Kingdom needs to thrive.

Today had been a great day for Karl and his motley crew. They woke up hungover, drank a pint, had breakfast, drank a pint, drank their daily pint followed by a pint, cleaned up with having their shower pint, then got out of bed. Pint in hand. Truly, ale and fighting would make anyone's day, but this day was especially because Karl got to hunt some particularly big and ornery bastards that started to raid the actual mines.

So he got a new thing to mount in the tavern and win that contest to get a free pint. Truly, life was sweet.

That is until he started hearing yelling of a particularly undwarven nature. Not that they didn't, just that they didn't have such high pitched screams of terror unless an engineer was about to bring the mountain down again.

Still, just in case one of his lads got hit in the stones too hard he started rushing over till he got through a much smaller tunnel then they usually dug. Finding…

“Ah bugger, what are surface Skagglos doing in me mines!” Karl gives a hefty swing, putting down a Dum Bug with a resounding Crack that alerts the group of adventurers. None of them are clearly armed for dealing with the local wildlife.

“Uh,” One of the onyx skinned, and much taller and thinner beings starts. “Hi?”

---

---

“So you are saying there are…underground elves?” The words of High King Dawi are spat out.

“Aye sir. Black as night but not black as sin. Some of ‘im even ‘ave buggos for legs.” So reports the scoutmaster Spana, stein in hand and feet popped up.

The King just tosses his hands in disbelief. “Those uppity leaf loving knife-” His tirade is quickly interrupted.

“Diffirent elves King. Further south them soft ones from Tacenie still exist.” Spana chuckles, seeing his king slump over in a chair.

“Record after record, story after story told by our forefathers one and all! How did they LIVE?! These dirt ones least had the sensibility to go to ground, how did they survive up in those fragile air cities?” He sputters, hands grinding onto the table.

“Hey now, I am a messenger and a scout. Not a historian. I wouldn't go within a stones throw of them anyways, they got really…slavey.” Another quaff of ale is had, followed by Dawi gulping a full cup down in one go and slamming it down.

“Bah, degenerates one and all. Move on before my temper gets the better of me.” He huffs.

“And what?” Spana taunts, “Gonna try and wrestle me again? What's the score, like-” He was silenced by an angry King throwing himself across the table looking to settle an old score. Or, bring it up to a tie.

After a productive… break, both return to their seats. Spana takes a slow sip of his ale. “Still have two up on ya Dawi.”

“Just get on with your damn report.”

Another deep laughter, like boulders being juggled. “Well, Ordun is around. But it's much different from the records, as everything has been. There's some clans near them as well, so that's new.”

The High Kings hums in thought. “Did the elves expand out further? Or is the western continent gone?”

“I already said I am not going within a stone's throw of them Tacenie Elves. And where I do not go, neither do my scouts. I can say land exists over there, but unless you want to organize a few ships to sail round, foot will be rather dangerous. Then again,” He gives a hearty chuckle. “Maybe we should remind those knife-ears to not get so uppity, hmm?”

Dawi sits in silence, gazing at the incomplete and sparsely marked map. Thoughts rumbling in his head as distant earthquakes shake foundations. “Send them an envoy.”

It was Spanas turn to be silent now, if for a moment. “Diplomacy? With who?”

Like the scrape of tectonic plates are the words ground out. “Those…those…Dirt Elves.”

One would not be surprised if Spana had died on the spot, how motionless he was.

“Just do it. Find some level headed stens and make sure they aren't going to gravely insult them. If they have issues you can't beat out, send them to me.” His eyes were steely, unyielding. Maybe it was that, maybe it was the shock that removed the jolly nature of the king's old friend.

“Aye my lord, I will have a selection ready and prepped by nightfall.” His arm snaps to the chest in salute.

Dawi stares him down, relaxing slightly when he does not flinch. “Good. Things must be done differently, done in ways my father would do and our greatest ancestors did.” He stands, fully. “You are dismissed my friend. May our forefathers watch over us.”

“And may we break the ground for our descendents.” With a martial turn, Spana swiftly walks out of the hall. Leaving the High King to his thoughts.

---

“You’re not going to ask why we’re doing this Cormak?”

Ella and Cormak were riding toward the Ordun camp with one of Cassandalur’s banner, that of the supreme Tyrant which they came to represent. The human barbarian (well, maybe that wasn’t fair, he was becoming more civilized every day) hadn’t really spoken during the journey.

“Hm? No. Isn’t it obvious?”

He replied, actually giving to Ella something to think about since the reason she knew Cassandalur had to send them made very little sense to her. Well, they had the fastest horses available so, if Ordun decided to be impolite they could hope to run away.

“Here is fine.”

She declared, choosing to stop on a hill overlooking their enemy’s camp. No doubt their scouts had spotted them already, but hopefully standing so obviously in the open would indicate they were there to talk, not to spy.

“Do it.”

Cormak nodded and cleared his throat.

“Forces of Ordun! The Supreme Tyrant of Tacenie has sent us to talk to your leader! Come out!”

He roared. Khurgan like himself were very common slaves and their language wasn’t very far from the Bikhaan one, hopefully there would be a Khurgan slave with them or a Bikhaan tribesman who could translate for them. This wasn’t ideal, but Ella barely spoke any Khurgan and nothing close to Orduni.

A couple of minutes passed before three riders emerged from the camp and galloped towards the hilltop. One was a legionary of the Innas Shor-Mairan, bronze helmet shaped like a dragon’s head shining in the sun, his face covered by red cloth below the eyes to hide his human features, and a banner embroidered with the image of the Sun Dragon clutched in his right hand. The second one was one of the Bikhaan nobles who joined the army, sons of tribal chieftains seeking glory and riches. Five ears hung from a string passed around his neck and over his steel lamellar armor.

Between them rode Kursh, looking grim as ever in his black robes worn over his armor. The three Ördûni stopped a few paces away from Ella and Cormak. Kursh looked over them both for a brief moment before uttering a single word in the Bikhaan tongue. “Speak.”

The translation process began as Ella spoke and Cormak translated in Kurgan. “Manling, I have come in the name of Cassandalur, supreme Tyrant of all Tacenians, to congratulate you on your victory against our kin Jariel. Since you have shown cunning and bravery on the battlefield, we have deemed you worthy to continue existing as more than thralls.”

“The Supreme Tyrant is willing to accept two thousand thralls, two thousands heads of cattle and two hundred pounds of gold every year as tribute to show your respect towards the masters of the world. He of course understands if honor prevents you from accepting his generous offer without being defeated and he is willing to personally face any champion in single combat or face any army on a battlefield of your choice.”

Kursh took a moment to process the elf’s demands. Asking for tribute from those currently engaged in pillaging their lands was either the height of hubris, or deliberate insult. Her mention of honor and a proposal to choose a battlefield was equally puzzling, and the grizzled warrior surmised that the elves of Tacenie must have been unaware of Ördûn’s way of war. Still, perhaps this could be of benefit.

“We are not here to pay tribute. We came to exact retribution in blood. Since your master is here, you can tell him that if he has any serious proposals instead of foolish delusions, he can bring them to me in person. Until then, steel will talk.” He spared no glance for Cormak, instead keeping his gaze fixed on Ella. There was no anger or hatred in his eyes, only focused attention as he studied the Tyrant’s expression.

“Anything else? Or were you only sent here as a glorified messenger?”

Kursh’s stoicism was met with glee from Ella who didn’t even try to hide her satisfaction at his answer. She responded with crude Bikhaan of her own.

“Thank you. For everything you will give me.”

She returned to her elvish and Cormak’s translation. “All this effort to put the Khurgans who despise you under my yoke and train them into killers, to stage a little show that would convince you to get here, I would have been disappointed if you had just surrendered. I’ve been so hungry since I feasted on Ul-Krazol. Know that I will enjoy hearing the lamentation of your women and children when I set my Khurgans loose on your towns and cities.”

Cormak’s voice wavered for a moment as he translated, unsure how much of this was true and how much was Ella obviously trying to bait Kursh into doing something stupid.

Kursh’s eyes narrowed slightly. He was too experienced a commander to interpret the repeated insults as anything other than provocation. He deliberately showed some suppressed rage, a twitch of his lips visible on his full black and silver beard.

“Cheap talk from one who waited behind her walls to be rescued by her master. It is a good thing your kind lives long. You will live to regret these words.”

With that, Kursh and his men turned to ride back to their camp, the Bikhaan noble shooting Ella and Cormak a predatory grin before following his commander.

Ella didn’t shy in smiling and even waving back to the Bikhaan noble. Cormak however, sighed.

“Think your provocation worked?”

Ella looked in the Orduni riding back to camp, her smile twisting itself into something wicked.

“Lets just say that if I were them, I’d try my luck. It’s obvious we’re arrogant to the extreme… A feint attack as we march toward their camp, then a retreat. As we enter their camp, they’ll expect us to disperse and pillage it, so they wheel back and set everything on fire.”

“...Only it wouldn’t quite go like that, would it?”

Ella only continued to smile before turning her horse around and riding away.

tl;dr: Tacenie offers peace in bad faith, it is refused in equally bad faith.



Belshanar took a step back to observe his work. It was coming in nicely, but he wasn't sure it was his exact vision... though to be fair, it had been so long he wasn't sure what his exact vision even was. He was doing wood carving, a grand display of wood carving displaying the ancient history of the elves, back when they lived in the trees, were one with nature, an age before even the one before they lived their lives in their flying city. Back during the age of magic, he remembered partying at the house of an elf named Solaris who had such a display in his grand hall, it had impressed a bored Belshanar so much it had given him a love for crafting.

Back then there was of course magic, but while it maybe trivialized technique, it didn't give people vision! With the lost of magic his depression returned as he was left with no way to express his art. He took up his sword and fought as had to do but with no real conviction behind it. When the storm abated and they went out in the world however, he watched with fascination as thralls did the same as he once did, though crudely with basic tools. It was so imprecise, complex and time consuming... but he would have forever to get better at it after all.

Now, he dared to say it was all coming together!

"You've really outdone yourself. This is breath taking..." A female elf wearing a colorful and extravagant robe with red, orange and yellow hues like fire hugged him from behind as she looked at his work over his shoulder. Narwen was a kindred soul who had always found swordplay boring, she herself was much more into carnal pleasures as her choice of distraction however and liked to watch one of her lovers exert his strong arms with a chisel.

"You said it is wood, but doesn't it look like stone?" She asked as she tilted her head to take in the sight. The wood itself was dark as night but was also streaked with golden yellow, forming a unique pattern she had never even seen in the previous age.

"Core wood imported from the western Mushroom forest." He explained before pointing at the yellow streaks. "The core of the tree itself dies as the tree ages and grows, but to prevent itself from rotting, it floods the dead wood with resin, which in times hardens and becomes amber. Wood that won't decay or be eaten away by insects." Back in the previous age, wood had practically be left on earth, deemed as useless, too impermanent, like dwarves, they had embraced the eternal beauty of stone. But now they were rediscovering their roots.

"Think you could do something like that for my new manor?" She asked with a smirk. Belshanar smiled back with a shrug. "I mean, maybe? You know I don't have farmland to sustain my lifestyle. I had to exchange a fair few of my good craftsmen thralls to get this expensive wood, I'd love to give some to you, but..."

Narwen simply laughed it off. "I'll buy it silly! And I'll pay for your time too~"

The craftsman raised his eyebrow. "I didn't know you were so wealthy..."

The lady let go of him and stuck out her tongue mockingly. "For now, buuut, once our Tyrant comes back with thralls and gold from a long campaign, what do you think he and all his warriors, and the thralls too, will spent it all on? I've already prepared a dozen new outfits and reserved all the wine Clarion's vineyard can produce! New glassware too, from Thulieth.~"

All elven names, which was surprising. Elves usually were not so productive, they were too busy with martial training, competitions and never ending feasts and parties you were expected to attend to maintain social standing. It seemed however that now that the Tyrant and all of the diehard warriors, those with passions other than fighting were free to pursue other activities without judgement.

Hopefully the war would take a long time.

"Eh. I think I could make something for you then, I have a design in mind I think you might like actually..."

tl;dr: While the martial elite of Tacenie is gone, craftsmen thrive.

The shack was never meant for diplomacy.

It clung to the gray-white sand like a barnacle, its driftwood beams creaking with every sigh of the tide. Yet tonight, the gnomes of Glimmerdeep had transformed the ramshackle structure into the stage for one of the most delicate negotiations in recent memory—talks with their unpredictable neighbors, the Grogar.

Inside, two gnome merchants worked with frantic energy. Tibble Reedknot, the eldest, wrinkled his nose as he stirred a cauldron of grog—genuinely foul grog—with a ladle far too large for him. The gnomish pair were adorned in ceremonial armor. Lamellar shark hides were accented with flamboyant jungle fowl feathers and twinkling gemstones. Sharp oranges, iridescent greens; they were more likely to bedazzle a foe than defend against them. They stood shy of a meter, with Tiddle well under the mark, a glancing Grogar blow would shatter them with the same effort as the Potoo birds echoing outside. The armor was for show, to present a strong face to the Grogar, appeal to their warrior spirit as they had been instructed. In practice, a true warrior might think they were a prank.

“Needs more sea water,” Tibble muttered.
“No it doesn’t,” grumbled Perrit Nettlemane, already massaging his temples.
“…the orcs will taste the difference,” Tibble insisted, splashing in another ladleful of brine despite the horrified squeaks of the others.

On the table lay the rest of their “orc-appropriate” feast: a tower of smoked fish, arranged as tastefully as possible for something that smelled like it died twice; loaves of stale, green-speckled bread, which Tibble prayed the orcs would assume was intentional; and worst of all, a massive bowl of lightly seared monster guts, glistening with oils and stray bits of bone, still steaming faintly. None of the gnomes could look at it for long without gagging.

In the center of the cramped room stood their ambassador, Lyrasha Tidewhisper, a merfolk woman with gentle sea-glass eyes and a presence at once calming and oddly rough-edged. Her beauty was simple, natural—unadorned save for the tide-etched tattoos curling down her arms. She carried herself with an unrefined but earnest charisma, the kind that softened tempers and made warriors hesitate. Her more fishlike features lurked half-submerged in brine. A small slit in the shack’s floor had made passage for their amphibious friend. She would not last long exposed to the dry air– even without the fumes that curled within.

She checked the table with a thoughtful hum.
“They’ll respect the effort,” she assured them. “Orcs admire honesty—and bravery. This meal suggests both.”

“Or they’ll think we’re mocking them,” Perrit whispered.

Lyrasha smiled. “Then I’ll tell them the truth: that we prepared it with all the reverence we could muster without fainting.”

Outside, two towering lizard-kin sentries stood on either side of the shack’s entrance. Their obsidian scales shimmered with salt crystals; strange, erratic mambele blades shimmered crudely in the orange dappled dusk. The gnomes exchanged nervous glances every time they heard the guards low-growl at one another. The clack of fishing shoebills in the distance seemed to jag them with angst.

Given the long, thorny history between lizard-kin and orc tribes, a fight breaking out before negotiations even began was not only possible—it was likely.

Tibble peeked out the window.
“They’d better behave tonight,” he whispered. “If either of them starts a brawl, the orcs will take it as challenge-for-territory and we’ll be eating our own teeth by moonrise.” But the guards were not the only source of unease.

Jinch Humithand, a gnome dressed in muted robes and a fine ambered necklace– clearly not receiving the same instructions as his compatriots– parched lazily through a tuft of old faded papers. The binds of their booking were well worn, nearly rotted; her spine crackling with each delicate turn. Its text was strange, old, brutish, yet beautiful. It was orc writing. Memoirs of a great philosopher of their people. Brutish though the Grogar were, they had refinement in their midst. Great minds, art, wisdom. They were like gemstones hidden beneath the crusted opal surface. If only they could be polished. Or cut.

Scattered amongst the pages of prose were spreadsheets. Crop yields, trade margins, mineral production reports, all the data that the gnomes had been able to gather on their Grogar neighbor’s economics. They were surely incomplete, but they were data, and to Jinch that was a beautiful as lacey worded classics abounding. But with this beauty came fear. Numbers that reflected the Grogar were hungry. Satiated, growing, fierce as ever; but Jinch knew they were hungry for more.

It was the more that he, his people, this jungle could not provide. At least not yet. The once great halls of Glimmerdeep, the endless jewel rooms, the wealth beyond analytics was gone. Or at least it was still buried. The gnomes needed time, they needed safety from the baiting axes of their brutal neighbors, they needed investors. At the very least, they needed their neighbors occupied with the spoils of fertile lands elsewhere. Free passage elsewhere, or perhaps paid passage. For now, the northern wood was untamed. The gnomes that inhabited it were mystics and fools, their minds tortured by the Storm and their subsequent capture by the dense jungle prison which had erupted overnight. The only gems they cared for gleamed on the oily napes of their cassowaries. The mutants were a cancer; the same and yet different, spreading their ideas and obstructions with each pulsing generation. They needed to be removed, with force. And yet a delicate force. One that could preserve the jewels in their midst and understand their value. Glimmerdeep needed a scalpel that was both. Glimmerdeep hoped their scalpel was hungry.

On top of Mount Kedu in the ruins of an ancient forgotten temple, Narawen the Prophet had many years ago made her camp, her 'Cestir' in elvish. Since then the camp had grown into a massive monastery, a refuge for the few elves that during the Storm had found solace in religion and in the rediscovery of the elven gods and how they were all aspects of the All-God, supreme creator of everything.

Converts trickled in from time to time, but they usually were never a great many of them. Recently however, this trickle had become a steady stream mostly coming from Varionmar and areas around the Mycend wood. One of these convert was Elowen the Vain, one of the most superficial elf Narawen ever had the displeasure of meeting. Yet... his new faith seemed genuine.

"I have found it very hard to change the minds of our kinsmen, I am simply curious what it is that caused your change of heart."

The elf smiled before looking away at the mountains that surrounded them. "I... had an experience. A vision. I don't know how to describe it."

If this intrigued Narawen, she didn't show it in any way, remaining neutral and intensely focused on Elowen who then continued.

"Varion -or maybe rather Loriel- negotiated a tribute arrangement with the Mycends of the wood. The main object was core wood, beautiful black ebony streaked with golden amber... but there was another thing. A powder... spores of some kind? Loriel instructed us to use it to 'reward' the more difficult thralls, to drug them into a more peaceful state. I... decided to indulge. When I breathed in the spores I saw..."

He blinked, his lips quivering as he tried to find the words, raising his hands to mimic something, a 'whole' of sort.

"I saw everything! How we're all interconnected in this... vast cosmic web! I could- I could feel the others, their love, their anguish! I initially thought it was just a bad trip or something, but I couldn't get this out of my mind!"

He looked back into Narawen's eyes. "A-and I remembered what you were saying back then, during the storm, and all of a sudden it all made sense! Like I had mist pulled from my eyes for the first time!"

Elowen declared, speaking with the conviction and certitude of a true believer. Narawen continued to look at him and got closer, taking his hand into her own.

"...This powder. Could you get more of it to us?"

tl;dr: Elves experiment with Mycend spores and it seems to cause them to have profound religious visions.

The Green Tide

The first signs were dismissed as coincidence.

Seeds sprouted where none had fallen. Vines split stone that had stood unbroken since before memory. Fields greened overnight, crops rising far too fast, their stalks thick and dark, their leaves veined with an unfamiliar richness. Farmers spoke in uneasy tones of harvests that should not exist yet. Hunters found paths swallowed in moss between one sunrise and the next

In the deserts, where sand had ruled unchallenged, green bled through the dunes. Tough shoots pierced the crusted earth, drinking from nothing anyone could name. Cacti swelled and twisted into new forms, their shadows stretching unnaturally long. Dry riverbeds cracked open as creeping roots forced their way through ancient stone. Those that lived that swore the ground pulsed beneath their feet at night, warm and faintly alive.

In the far north, ice groaned and split as pale growths spread across frozen plains. Lichen bloomed in sheets where only death had endured. Dark needles pushed up through snow, steaming gently in the cold air, refusing to freeze. Even the glaciers showed veins of green threading through their fractured faces, as if something deep beneath the ice had finally exhaled.

Forests became something else entirely. Trees thickened, bark swelling and knitting over old scars. Canopies closed so tightly that daylight dimmed at noon. Roots rose from the soil like grasping limbs, breaking roads, walls and graves alike. Animals fled or vanished, unsettled by the way the woods no longer waited to grow but pressed outward, claiming space with quiet urgency.

And everywhere, in every land, those who listened too closely felt it. A pressure behind the eyes. A warmth under the skin. The sense that the world was remembering something it had been forced to forget.

Everywhere, in the same instant, something flared. The raw sensation of power itself. It washed over the world. Those sensitive to it felt their breath catch. Those who were not paused, struck by a sudden pressure in the air, like the moment before a storm breaks. It was magic. Not shaped, not restrained, not diluted. Magic as it had existed before the Storm tore it apart, before even the rules of magic existed in the first place.

It vanished almost immediately. No more than a blink. A fraction of a second. Too brief to grasp, too sudden to stop. Yet it was long enough. Long enough for old wards to tremble and fail. Long enough for dormant runes to crack and go dark. Across the world, relics turned warm, springs boiled for a breath and shadows bent the wrong way before snapping back into place.

Those who had lived before the Storm would know the truth. This was not a resurgence. This was not a return. It was the last exhale of something dying at last or perhaps the first gasp of something awakening. No one could say which. But every nation, every people, every living thing now knew the same certainty. Magic caused the destruction that will follow.

Herush coughed and spat out the bile in his mouth. His blood pounding in his head and making his ears ring only worsened his nausea. His hands trembled, still gripping his horse’s reins and his spear so tightly that his knuckles whitened. All around him, many of the other legionaries were in a similar state among the screams of the wounded who managed to stay in their saddle.

The battle had begun well. Kursh knew that his small force could not hope to defeat a field army, but he still intended to bleed the enemy before withdrawing. With the mocking sound of their howling war cries, the Bikhaan horse archers harried the elven army with close range arrow volleys before galloping out of reach again and again, goading the Tacenians to pursue them towards a hill. The Dragon Legion and Golden Guard cavalry reserves had been lying in wait out of view, just beyond the crest of the hill, and charged down the slope at the opportune time. Any enemy would have been at least unnerved by the sight, and shaken by the impact. Instead, the elves closed ranks and broke the charge upon them like a wave on a rock.

Even as Kursh quickly ordered an orderly withdrawal, the short melee had left too many legionaries and Golden Guards dead, and precious few enemies casualties. The clash was over as suddenly as it began.

“You!”

The familiar, imperious voice had Herush straighten up in his saddle before he could see his commander approaching him. The young legionary almost choked as he squeaked out a reply.

“My lord?”

“Take this and ride ahead of us to Elgahad as quickly as you can. Bring it to Shor-Khâr Arûn.” Kursh handed a hastily-written sealed letter to Herush. “This is the perfect job for a coward like you, isn’t it?” The grizzled veteran threw him a full waterskin before the legionary could answer. “I trust that you know what will happen to you if you should fail, don’t you?”

“Y-yes, my lord. I won’t.”

“Well what are you waiting for? Go!”

For a second time, Herush found himself riding hard and away from a battlefield, and the fact that he had been ordered to do so this time was a small comfort for the long journey ahead.



Arûn leaned on a balcony of his palace’s highest tower overlooking his city, rivaled only by the foreboding spire of Oran-Shor’s temple, the brazier at the very top of it burning bright in the evening sky. Even as the sun kissed the horizon, the city’s three gates were still packed full of refugees and soldiers. Preparations for a mass levy had been underway for weeks and the order had been given as soon as Kursh’s messenger reached the city, warning of the coming attack. A labor force conscripted from the city’s populace had been raised, the outskirts of Elgahad outside the curtain walls were razed to deny the enemy cover, heavy stones gathered in piles along the ramparts, cauldrons filled with sand and placed over firepits, timber collected for constructing barricades in the streets.

“We have done all we can. It won’t be long now,” Arûn mused as he looked towards the great port of Elgahad as the last of the merchant vessels were setting sail towards the east.

“The soldiers are ready.” Kursh stood behind the Dragon Lord, dour as ever. “We will triumph or die by your side.”

“Not you.” Arûn turned around to see the confusion on his guard commander’s face as he expected.

“My lord?”

“Tomorrow, my galley leaves for Unar with my household. I want you to be on it.”

“You expect the battle to go ill. Then I should be fighting here, not on a ship guarding women and slaves!” Kursh’s beard trembled with indignation.

“No. You have more experience fighting the elves than anyone else in Ördûn. Your skills will be precious in the days to come.”

“And what of you? You are Shor-Khâr, your life is more important than mine. Let me command the city’s defense and save yourself from a futile death!”

“This is my city, Kursh. I will not leave. Do not make me repeat my orders.”

“I have been at your side since you were a boy holding a sword for the first time. I watched as you grew to be a strong and wise lord like your father before you. Don’t do this.” In all these years, Arûn had never heard Kursh so pleading. Almost begging.

The lord of Elgahad sighed. “I know that I ask a lot of you. To live as I die, for a greater purpose and the good of Ördûn. It is the final service that I require of you.” His eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, stared into Kursh’s own. “Can you do it?”

tl;dr: The Ördûni raiding force retreats after clashing with the elves, and Elgahad prepares for the Tacenian attack.