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^Added the above under ''TIMELINE AND PASSAGE OF TIME'' at the bottom of the OOC mainpage.
Edukeshan Sea , the Gulf of Ouroborasia

Ostrob - 300 AWH

(Collab with Publius, whose hard work I shamelessly butchered.)

The spectre of night had long plunged the dawn far beneath the horizon, and the tumbling seas were shrouded in thick mists. The blinded Justinian captain came onto the deck of his ship, named The Watchman. His was accompanied by another ship and a smaller boat, tasked with navigating the eastern seas ahead for any sign of hostile elements, before the Justinian fleet of the Domain would enter the Gulf of Ouroborasia in full force. The sky and sea turned from the calm sunlit cerulean to sombre grey, sailing for the shores of night. Torch-lit, the vessel glided gently on the haunted waters; a vanguard of a small candle through the vast dark.

Clad in the ocean’s mists, hostile shadows are closing in on the crew. Dark motions. A boy-sailor alerts the Captain, Therus Faldrow -- a wizened grey man a couple scores of seasons past his day. Unknown vessels are upon them, their masts and heathen Red Pantheonist banners, though barely visible, wave in the eastern wind as omens for death. Therus gives the signal to retreat. And so his ship, named the Guardian, abruptly manouvres about to set course for the opposite direction again, and warn the main force. The Scout ship follows. What remains is a single vessel of Magna Excelsiorum, the smallest of the three, the Watchman, to buy the others time to get away and stand against the impending attack. Its captain understands he is tasked with a heavy burden. The unknown Red Pantheon fleet come ever nearer, and the Watchman manoeuvres sideways and prepares its sole cannon; all the while the captain prays that the Guardian will make it to safety, and their own sacrifice not be in vain. Though the captain also knows he needn’t worry, for the Guardian is a battle hardened ship and the agent of many a good ship's doom.
Meanwhile the Second Mate of the Watchman, a human woman, pointed a blunderbuss at the rows of silhouettes from the strange people awaiting her on the opposite deck, now only meters away from the bow of their ship. But ominously still silent as the grave, and the mist between them is so thick that it cannot even be said whether she is facing Humans. She fires with her blunderbuss, and the intense bright spark therefrom lifts the fog, if only for a second. A scream is heard, and it sounded human. At the very least, she now understands that what they’re up against are not the alien creatures the southern oceans are notorious for. Yet all the same, her effort to stave the enemy off is vain – their lone vessel is hopelessly outmatched. And having opened fire at them already, the Justinians can expect no quarter.

Then came their response.

A hellish blaring of castanets and the beating of drums rings through the dark fog and through the eardrums of each man and woman in vicinity. The Red Pantheonists came on steadily with a vicious clamouring of masculine roars and jeers towards the three Northern ships, rowing fast. The sound of beating drums and the braying of zornas spread across the nearby water as the first corsair ship cast hooks attached to rope at the scouting vessel, while untold numbers of other corsairs closed in. It was impossible to make out just how many of them there were, but as they were all chanting and screaming it sounded like a great many hundred bloodthirsty men, making noises as feral beasts to invoke the demon of war. Perhaps they were thousands.
As the clamouring and encroachment went on, they were blasting holes through the hull of the Watchman with their cannons, and water from the salty brine poured in through the holes.
‘’Don’t waste your powder. Go and warn the others before they take the ship!’’ The captain cried at her frantically. The Second mate looks to him and she soon agrees. The signal is lit, though it is far away enough that the bulk of the Northern Justinian fleet might not even perceive it in the ocean’s dark and misty veil. There is only the hope that the other two scouting ships will make it back safely.

Then a voice is heard in a language the northern Justinians did not understand. A cloaked man of swarthy complexion with a strange symbol on his garments, and armed with a curved blade, a pistol and clad in black lamellar mail, had boarded the ship. He looked at the Second Mate with a fickle glare, blood visible between the bleeding gums of his bare and grinding teeth. He was, without a doubt, one of the Axohar from Uudhin.
Kill you.’’

The Axohar man spoke to the northern Justinian crew in Sancthiyin, with a very thick accent.
The boat was already sinking as more Uudhinites entered the deck to seize the northern sailors and any possible loot stashed away. Meanwhile the other corsair vessels were hot on pursuit of the two ships that had evaded capture, where they are led to an uncertain fate.
Artros the boy sailor, an elven migrant and ship's cleric, stashed and hid his Canonica in his satchel. With bowed heads, he and his comrades were dragged onto the Uudhinite flagship.

The following morning

The mist had partially cleared away, and the sun’s dimmed light graces the Edukeshan waters through the grey and sombre clouds. The Northerners from the scouting boat captured in yesterday’s skirmish, were tied up and gagged – sealed below deck with no clue as to where the Axohar will be taking them. Above deck, captain Yaldbaw of Daveithai stands atop the bow of the Uudhinite flagship as he narrows his eyes firmly at the western horizon. An island had appeared, and his lips curve once more into a vicious grin.
‘’The Island of Arban. These infidels have no right to the Islands of Edukesh.’’

The Uudhinite fleet navigates its course to remain out of sight of the watchtower flanked on Arban’s eastern coast, lest the fog is completely gone, for making use of it was essential to their strategy. At the south of Arban, the Uudhinites were well aware the area is barely populated, if at all, and an organized assault would cause any of the remaining Ouroborasian garrisons to succumb. Or so they thought.
Four lone carracks split off from the massive corsair fleet, heading south to take roughly 300 Uudhinites to the southcoast, while the other roughly eighty ships circumnavigates around the island towards the western coast armoured in fog, from whence the Ouroborasians would expect the relieving force from Magna Excelsiorum.

After several hours, a flare was seen coming from the island. The corsairs from the four carracks had seized one of the towers from overland, and lit the beacon. Through intel they gleaned from Axohar locals that had lived on that island since the time of Axohaan’s Second Rebellion, the Uudhinites learned how to communicate the arrival of allied ships to the Ouroborasian garrison. They would believe, falsely, that the fleet of Uudhin is the one from Magna Excelsiorum.
Now Yaldbaw knew the time had come to move in the remainder of the fleet. The corsairs lowered the sigils of the Salt Prince and hoisted up those they had captured in raids against the Justinians, now with the Watchman in addition. The banner of Magna Excelsiorum was depicted on the Flagship.
So far, everything is going according to plan.

The fleet rowed towards the north-eastern beaches towards a castle positioned there. The fog had mostly dispersed by then, and the ship’s Justinian banners flew proudly in the wind for the castle garrison and Arban’s other inhabitants to see.

Meanwhile on the Ouroborasian mainland’s coast,
the fishing village of Bajarë

‘’The Northerners... are far away foreigners in a strange and distant land. Our peoples might both be Justinians now, but they know nothing of us, our customs or our history. They have no knowledge of just what they are up against.. They have never seen them. The Demons of the Deep – the Ghouls of the Salt Prince.’’ An old fisherman spoke, smoking a pipe as he cast a gaze outside through his bushy eyebrows, and through the window of his old shack out over the sea. Pitch black clouds were drawing towards the land from the horizon, and the wildlife has migrated deeper inland. As the wind was setting up, dogs were barking anxiously at the cloud and the waters. Beyond that, it was eerily quiet. It is as though the seagulls had sensed the impending catastrophe and completely dispersed.
‘’Delin, tell the other children to get to the lighthouse on the hill...’’
‘’But, grandfather. How do you...
Alright, grandfather’’
Delin, the young grandson, rushes through the ramshackle door to reach his friends frolicking at the beach, where they gaze with wonderment towards the distant skies, and what is already happening there.
One of them speaks with enthusiasm, oblivious to the supposed dread that is about to befall their home.
‘’Da says that an evil phantom known as the Prince of Salt lives over the horizon there! The dark clouds appear because he is belching the seawater. And that he has an army of horned octopuses that eat sailors and drag kids into the waters... Prolly why every fisher here’s forbidden from drifting further from shore than about a mile, huh?‘’
‘’Horned octopuses? I want to see one!’’ A young village girl speaks up with a cheer. ‘’My uncle once reeled in a HUGE fish! But it wasn’t really a fish.. More like some.. monster-creature? It was covered in spikes and had at least 5 eyeballs and fins growing on places there shouldn’t be any... It was pretty freaky. But also pretty awesome.’’
‘’Bah. T’is all stupid lies I tell ya! Just tales to keep us kids away from the beaches.’’ A boy says.

‘’Guys! Guys!’’ Delin catches up to the quarrelling children.
‘’My grandpa says we need to get off the beaches! It’s not safe out here!’’
A boy replies. ‘’What are you talking about? -- the seas are mostly cleared of vessels! No corsairs or other of them pirates will raid us when the weather’s THIS bad! They’d be insane! Just look at the thunderstorm that’s brewing over there!’’
‘’Yea, this happens at least once a month remember? We’ll definitely survive some rain, that ain’t never bothered us!’’

The black clouds drew closer. The scent and vapour of the wild salty brine entering their nostrils.

‘’That’s not what my grandfather .. I mean.. it’s not the weather or pirates we should be afraid off. This isn’t natural weather.. this is.. I think he meant to say the Salt Prince is angry that our families haven’t been bringing him sacrifices anymore. And now he’s going to flood the land, and the only place we’re safe is the Lighthouse!’’
‘’Come on, there aren’t any windows in that damp old lighthouse. I don’t want to miss out on the action…
Alright, alright. I’ll come.
’’ Sighs the boy, ultimately caving in to what is sensible.

Inside the lighthouse, it appears the grandfather for his part had busied himself gathering and evacuating his fellow fishermen, together with all their wives and families, and most other folks that lived in their coastal community. It was cold, damp and dark inside, and certainly not meant for this number of people. Many of them huddled in corners or climbed to the small balcony on the second floor from whence they could look out over the forested hills and the ocean. The dark clouds were now directly upon them, and from above was heard the distant murmuring of slithery and baneful words. Strange new birds were flying overhead, high and far enough that none of the Ouroborasian villagers could recognise what they actually were, but strange sounds were coming from them -- some of them resembling words of actual speech that, to some of them, might’ve been faintly familiar.
The lighthouse was outwardly a square-shaped stone building, sturdy built to withstand many a storm or hurricane. Above the entrance hangs a wooden ornament, depicting a sigil of sorts. At the centre of the domed roof a small tower, narrow enough that stairs wouldn’t fit in its interior and so it can only be scaled by a rusty iron ladder from the outside, from the balcony earlier mentioned. Since only one person can fit on the tower (and because the lighthouse is incredibly crowded), the children weren’t allowed upstairs lest they be seen by the birds. The grandfather watched in the tower, with a look of concern on his face. Yet not one of fear or surprise. He looked at the waves of the Edukeshan sea, who have gotten greyer.
‘’Hey! There are still some people at the beaches! Someone needs to warn them to get out of there, and fast!’’ Cried a village senior watching from the balcony.
‘’No. Don’t!’’ Responded the grandfather to the man below him. ‘’Those aren’t people.’’
‘’Come on Gencian, you know better than to say that of others.’’
‘’No you fool.’’ The grandfather sighed with a hoarse and monotone voice. ‘’Take a better look at their proportions.’’
‘’By Justinian… They’re coming out of the water.’’

On the beaches were indeed crowds appearing, seemingly washed ashore and grasping onto the white sands, as they pulled more and more of their fellows onto land. And they weren’t gathering in one place, either. Looking from the top of the lighthouse Gencian saw new people appearing on the Ouroborasian shores for as far they stretched, and as far his failing eyes could still see.

The further they moved onto dry land, the more they resembled an endless array of angry and swollen, bloated people. And each new one to rise from the water is less human than the next. And just when one thinks a creature couldn’t appear more horrifying, the following one is worse. From closeby one can tell there is not a shred of conventionality to them -- creatures completely alienated from Materia’s mortal races, all resembling grotesque animals. Horrible. Ugly. Angry. And each was different; no two looked alike…
When they came out of the water, they were raging and smashing and stomping around, including at each other, and hissing and gnashing and screeching. Yet strangely, they completely bypassed the homes of the local villagers and touching close to nothing of their property. Their soggy feet only sauntering through the narrow streets and alleys.
At the sight of them, words as ‘’unbelievable’’, ‘’horrifying’’ and ‘’ungodly’’ were oft repeated by those humans in the lighthouse.

‘’Hey Delin, how come they aren’t coming this direction? What does your grandfather know? Who IS your grandfather, anyway?’’
‘’I... I’m not sure I know.’’

The Ghoul Invasion of Ouroborasia

The villagers of Bajarë dared not leave the lighthouse; all they could do was wait out until the Ghouls had left. It took hours, soon a whole day. The sun went and came. The grandfather stood watch from the tower and saw it all. Even deep into the night; their unholy clamouring was heard, resounding in the cool night air. There was no end to them. Yet they came not to destroy or ransack their homes, nor did they even notice the buildings comprising their village. They did not ravage the crops, or nibble the fish hung outside to dry. They cared for none of it but rather moved straight forward, bypassing the lighthouse, further inland where they disappeared into the hills. Screams were heard in the distance.
The Ouroborasian villagers were confused, and only few, such as Gencian, dared guess what is happening, or going to happen in coming days. The warriors of the Salt Prince returned to renew their ancient war in Ouroborasia. And this time; they are there to stay.
In the days that follow, they would spread out quickly and suddenly across the countryside, rallying outside every city’s outter walls across the southern vicinity, where they raise the Salt Prince’s sigil on their tattered banners as a direct challenge to the Ouroborasians, and their right to inhabit these lands. It was the same sigil that hung above the entrance of the lighthouse. The creatures form ranks to something resembling armies; that now there could be no mistake as to their intent.
''I mean, its sad
I actually kinda liked Myst''-Serpentine

Myst, O Myst. Wherefore dost thou forget us for ever, and forsake us so long time?
Merchant-City of Göl Kasabi

Capital of the Uudhinite Humans
Sciroccon - 300 AWH

Kasabi Island, just off the coast of mainland Uudhin. Though similarly bleak as the Uudhinite mainland, the Island is considerably habitable and compared to wartorn Ouroborasia a safe haven for life. The place’s sharp rise to power in the past few centuries has been a cause for concern in the southern ocean, with piracy and vicious oceanic monstrosities having beset the ocean as an unholy plague. But the city itself looks unassuming – there are few impossibly high buildings, and certainly none of the splendour and décor that graces the Exaltarchy or Lamash. The most significant of the large buildings with some grandeur to them would be the Daveithai Manor, which is the family home of the Metropolitan. But the majority of the city consists of slums and new-built suburbs to house the steady growth of refugees from dispossessed Red Pantheonists of the mainland, particularly at the hands of the Justinians. And the skies above are perpetually grey and windy, locked in an overcast tempest -- the city couldn’t look any more sombre. Yet for all its soberness, this day the city is aflame with festivity and celebration, the domes of the towers are lit with brilliant fires and flowers imported from Gushawar dress the window, the lanterns and the roofs.
The cause for the celebration is this; the leader of Kasabi Island, the Despot from the Daveithai family, has successfully arranged a marriage to link his bloodkin to the Ouroborasian imperial caste.

‘’Principe Synogchouta Daveithai! Congratulations on your wedding. Ouroborasian women are quite beautiful. But one from the Imperial lineage? Many patricians will envy you for sure!’’
Synogchouta replies surly to his visitor with a short: ‘’Thank you.’’ Already looking to the next guest to have gathered, in rows, to meet him. Each come from wealthy Patrician families in Uudhin’s largest (and some would say ‘sole’) great City, and Synogchouta is the host of his family Manor to receive each on behalf of his uncle... His uncle that did not have the decency to make an appearance himself. And each of the visitors come with gifts for Synogchouta to present to his bride-to-be. Chouta sits behind a long refectory table on a high upholstered and elaborate seat, with only his retainers as company.
The young heir of Kasabi is slender built, dark haired and olive hued as descendants of Edukesh generally are. Their menfolk come generally with beards, long goatees and moustaches, though Chouta and his uncle are an exception to the norm as they seems to have established a lasting grudge against facial hair and thus always shave. As such Chouta normally has a youthful boyish look to his face, despite being well in his twenties. He wears a richly embellished wine-red cloak and a black tunic, and a silver bejewelled ring on each of his fingers as though he himself were royal, for Synogchouta certainly has the prim imposing attitude, and grace, of one.

Another young man about Chouta’s age came before him, a Patrician and sailor from the Miamai family, and he presented the Principe with expensive Gushawari spices.
‘’It’s sad your noble uncle couldn’t attend. The Despot Metropolitan is the one that set up this diplomatic escapade! And it bore fruit in the end, full and ripe. Just how I like my women. I’ve travelled to Ouroborasia a lot on behalf of my father, and by the Salten God, the women there have some buxom teats. The Kasabioi floozies we have? Or anywhere in Uudhin that isn’t a Ghoul-infested hellscape? Eh. They lack substance. Anyway, you lucky devil. -- this is a cause of celebration!’’
Synogchouta feigns a polite smile.
‘’Thank you for attending.

You goatfondling primate.’’ He angrily mutters as follow-up, inwardly enough that none would overhear. The Miamai man had just left, and is already replaced by a series of three women from the Ormaoth family. It is a name associated with depravity and hedonism, and their distinguished ties to Gushawar are not entirely unrelated as to why. The Principe is already bracing for yet another debauched conversation.
‘’Oh my Salt! I am so, so, so happy for you, Chouta-boy! I just love Ouroborasian lady's fashion. It’s the best in the world I say! No disrespect to Kasabi, but honestly us being linked to Azagôde only causes people to regard us as freaks and cultists or whatever.’’
The second woman speaks up.
‘’So what is the lucky lady’s name, Chouty-booty?’’
‘’Princess Cassiopeia, and please don’t call me Chouty-booty.’’ The Principe retorts with a solemn grunt.

This would go on for the better part of the day, and the Principe grows weary and frustrated by it all. Not only because he despises these people, but because for no reason is he being married off voluntarily. Synogchouta was already engaged to another woman, someone he loved dearly, but with the death of his cousin – the Metropolitan’s son – Chouta was a year ago anointed by his uncle as Principe of Göl Kasabi. The heir.
Synogchouta was never an ambitious person, and his elevation in status has only been a source for ire. Now to be married off with some Ouroborasian slut, the very people who were so recently the enemies of Göl Kasabi. Who had killed his father, and his father’s father. And now his uncle gets to call the shots and decrees he is to marry one. As if that wasn’t enough, the Ouroborasians also expect the Principe to come to Ouroborasia and pick her up too, as they themselves don’t have ships to spare for transportation across the strait of Uudhin.

Soon another guest enters the receiving hall of the Daveithai manor. A man in windswept and frayed garments laced with white fur. The Principe did not recognise him at first, but it’s Yaldbaw Daveithai, another of Synogchouta’s adventuring cousins, and from the looks of it he just arrived in Göl Kasabi from overseas to meet with his cousin. Unlike the other generally clean-shaved Daveithai, Yaldbaw dons a full and elaborate beard and stache, though understandably so to keep his face warm in the cold climates he is exposed to, down in the icy deep-south of Materia.
‘’Chouta! My own cousin the Principe! You look stronger since last time we met. Why so dour, my friend?’’ He exclaims with a voice loud and stentorian with arms outstretched.
‘’Ah, Yaldbaw. A welcome sight to see a family member. A sign of civilization, despite you being dressed up like a swashbuckling barbarian.’’
‘’Ha-ha! Well, I have become sort of a swashbuckling barbarian in recent years, to be frank. In my station it is an inevitable change. Erimachaf holds no place for the weak... The things I’ve lived through, well, princely greenhorns as yourself couldn’t imagine.
But my own heroics aside, I am not here to patronize you this time. I have a gift for you, and I think you’ll appreciate it!
‘’Hrmpf. Judging by what I’ve been presented so far, I am skeptical of that.’’
‘’Trust me -- It’s from Hypernotei.’’ And Yaldbaw presents the Principe with what appears to be a curved sword of a shotel format, nothing out of the ordinary. Chouta accepts the thing reluctantly and observes it for a moment, unamused.
‘’Remove the scabbard.’’ Yaldbaw adds.
And Chouta does as instructed, and the sword reveals its metal. He now understood why his cousin spoke of the sword so reverently. Its blade is pure white and gleaming with mystifying sparkles. In matter of fact; it’s not even made of metal. Chouta places his finger on it, and immediately retracts. It’s bitingly cold to the touch. It’s ICE.
‘’Unbelievable… how is this… Is this – is this from the Kasabioi outpost our family helped finance 2 years ago? Erimachaf? I had heard rumours of progress, but were always skeptical. For what is there to find in Hypernotei beyond cursed ice, frostbite and certain death... But it seems I was proven wrong once more.’’
‘’You are correct though. Hypernotei indeed offers those things, but there are untapped riches there that only the bold – such as myself – dare lay claim to. We call it Eternal Ice, harvested from the abominals at the edge of the world. Immeasurably rare, only few in Materia have had a blade forged of the material. You are now a proud owner of one of the few Ice Swords.’’
‘’So what am I to do with it? Present it to the Ouroborasian dynasty? It’ll be bound to impress them I suppose. No way they’ve ever seen anything like it, even with all their newfound witchcraft.’’
‘’You misunderstand. This isn’t a gift for the Ouroborasian royals. May the Salt Prince damn them to His deepest abyss. This is a gift I am giving to you, YOU and none other.’’
For a moment Chouta’s spirit is lifted. He looks his cousin in the eye with gratitude.
‘’Thank you, Brother Yaldbaw.’’
‘’The pleasure is all mine. I was certain you’d like it.
Now, if I may take that seat to your left.. I see it is unoccupied, and my legs have gotten stiff from the journey.
‘’Don’t let me stop you.’’

For the remainder of the day, the still-melancholy heir sits quietly at the head of the table of the merry feast, passing most of his time inspecting the mystifying Ice Sword while he obliges to receive further guests. Some came all the way from Eudaz and even Yuwanist nations. Synogchouta, his retainers, family and guests are served plates of exquisite dishes imported from as far away as Lamash, and spices from Gushawar, yet none of it can lift him of his own deep shadow -- more than Yaldbaw's gift did, anyway.
And when the doors to the manor finally have shut, and the Principe was certain there’d be no more guests – he was proven wrong once more.

The door flung open and an eerie chill enters the large hall. A gaunt old man in rags and a very long grey beard going down all the way to his waist, steps in.
A sentry cries at him: ‘’Hold it. No beggars are welcome into these premises. Who let you through the courtyard?’’
But the guardsman soon recognizes the idol and elaborate insignia of the Salt Prince that emblazons his robe, and did not speak or act further. A group of Axohar clergy with horned masks and pitch-black robes followed him into the Manor, not uttering a single word and more-or-less doing nothing beyond look intimidating. Which is something Axohar are very good at, actually.

‘’…With unholy impatience. To vanquish the anti-cosmos and drive them anew into the crypt of creation. The shadowmoths move us about as pieces of chatrang for their own leisure -- and stratagem. To mar them one can only set course for the God of the Northern Wind.’’

Synogchouta rises up from his high seat, intrigued as he looks at the ancient man. He was about to speak up, but his crude cousin Yaldbaw spoke first.
‘’God of the Northern Wind? This is not how an Antimagi would typically refer to Axohaan. This is unbecoming of a Hierophant, even one as inane as Soghba.
Finally left your ramshackle cottage, old fool?
Synogchouta speaks up. ‘’Quiet Yaldbaw. A Daveithai is obliged to receive his guests with hospitality, whether he likes it or not.’’
The air of festivity was smothered in a layer of darkness invoked by the mere presence of this ancient Prophet and his followers. And now everyone in the building, the hundreds of them, looked at Principe Synogchouta and Hierophant Soghba both as they converse. A deathly silence fell. The prophet spoke, his voice ringing through the stone foundations of the manor.
‘’Blood of Baltaogliac. I bestow to you my boon.’’ The man approached the table where Chouta sits, and stretches out his arm to him.
In reaction the Principe reaches out to receive that which the old man clutches in his hand.
‘’What gift do you wish me to present to the Ouroborasians, Hierophant?’’
‘’..Trail the rivers under the frozen sky. Swallow the ghost of the lucid dream… and Silent will be the mournful beast.’’ And he opens his hand. An amulet, a charm in the shape of a bell with a white gleaming crystal at the top.
‘’Harness it to resist the weary eye.’’
‘’Wait, do I give it to the Ouroborasian princess? Pray tell me. Soghba!’’
But the old man turned around as abruptly he had entered, and so did those men who slavishly tread in his footsteps. Leaving Synogchouta and his fellows in bewilderment.
Yaldbaw mutters under his breath.‘’Is it such a part of their dogma to be as cryptic as possible? ...Religious nutjobs tend to be like that -- worthless. Just accept his little trinket as another gift for your bride.’’ The celebration continued, though the spirit of merriness had left the manor for the rest of the day. Many of the guests that had come to the Daveithai manor were Axohar themselves, and Soghba’s appearance and ‘gift’ could only be an omen...

The blackspot is a chasm leading underground where an underground Red Pantheon faction resides.
If you wish to brainstorm, join our discord!
Oh excellent. The player of the Teal nation in the north dropped out. Do you want to take over that territory? It was meant as the Justinian frontier nation. Gateway for Justinian expansion further eastwards.
That's not possible. You cannot usurp red gods since Redgods don't actually have a 'seat' to usurp -- they are categorized as seatless deities. And Red Gods don't have celestial servants of their own, only mortal ones. But mortal ones can't interact directly with Redgods seeing those are in the Celestial Plane, and mortals in the Material Plane. At best your mortal could have lured the Redgod to enter Materia in an avatar form, and then kill the Avatar. But that doesn't guarantee a god's death. Perhaps the Avatar was lured to the world to BE the Sacrifice? Because if that's the case, there'd be some possibility for your mortal to being a Redgod himself.

Also I do insist you do take a spot on the map as to where your army is currently settled. It doesn't have to be a nation but merely a geographic region, only home to nomads.
There is a leeway. If your character were to acquire an artifact that belonged to a dead god (probably one slain by Justinian) and that artifact contains the dead god's magic, your mortal could inherit that magic. After this, he would have to perform a ritual of self-sacrifice. (To become a god, he will have to die by default.) And once dead, if his soul is bound to the artifact he could become a Red God. Not a powerful one, though. He'd have to play it safe all the way, because Justinian is a tremendous and very active foe.
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