Jeddaven

Empire of the Dead

Thanks, I think! I've always been a fan of doing weird/unusual things when it comes to offensive uses of magic - I took some inspiration from Warhammer Fantasy's metal wizard, but, imho magic is way too interesting a concept (I mean, cmon, it's basically reality cheat codes) to limit oneself to slinging lightning and fireballs! Why do that when you can turn the armor of your enemy against them or shrivel their flesh to nothing with parasitic smoke?

Empire of the Dead

Had a late night flash of inspiration, so I added another block onto the post. In an effort to avoid moving too quickly, I can slow down if needed - my intend wasn't to rush things; I just got real excited.

Empire of the Dead

Just tossed up a post! I'm pretty happy with this - decided to show off the sort of magic Arane plays with. Let me know if it's too overt, though.

Empire of the Dead

The Whitestone Mountains

Jagged bolts of white-hot lightning stabbed down from the sky outside Arane's shelter, each flash punctuated by peals of deafening thunder and what seemed like an endless torrent of flesh-rotting rain. Excessive moisture, perhaps, was one of the most difficult things for someone like Arane to deal with, accelerating the inevitable rot of undead flesh that all of Eagoth's servants experienced. It was thus that she found herself and her companions huddled together deep inside a mountainside cave, shielding their bodies from the unwelcome downpour. They'd been waiting for hours, quietly conversing in Elvish - an unacceptable delay, if not for the hazards brought on by venturing outside. The chance for conversation, in its own way, was more than enough compensation for Arane - it reminded her of the days before she died; the celebrations she attended with her parents, the gossip and idle chit-chat she often engaged in with the daughters and sons of fellow Elven nobility... And, in these dark days, societal barriers were torn down, with she and her companions united in purpose and finding camaraderie in their shared experiences. She went on like that for hours laughing and telling jokes with her former bodyguards, her Captain - until, suddenly, the entire party went silent, elongated ears twitching practically in unison.

Outside, a sound broke through the din of the storm - or, more accurately, became distinct apart from the cacophony of Mother Nature's wrath. A look passed between Arane and Alaras, more than enough for her to confirm that her companion heard the same thing she did - the regimented beat of boots against rock and soil, the sort of lockstep only realistically possible amongst either the most impeccably well-trained mortals or the walking dead of Eagoth. These could be no average ghouls, though - over the sound of footsteps, Arane heard a faint marching tune, its sound too shifting to be borne of the insanity of a broken ghoul's mind. As it drew closer and closer, she wracked her brain for its origin, but she could scarcely recall anyone specific - a blessing, bringing with it less chance to be uncovered, if half-mortal eyes could even see through her arcane cloak.

Eventually, the sounds became so loud that even human ears would hear them over the noise of the storm - and it began echoing through the cave, though Arane made no effort to turn towards it. The less aware her party seemed, after all, the less suspicion they would draw.

"...It seems someone had the same thought we did, lads." Came the sound of a gruff, rattling male voice, so tinged with a lack of care that its experience was made immediately obvious.

"And who might ye' be, travelers?" He said. Arane didn't respond - not for several seconds, at least.

"T-tuh... Tuh....Travelers. We are... Travelers. Sheltering from the... The..." Arane sputtered, clutching her forehead as if wracked by migraines, turning to face her guest.

"...The storm. It's called a storm. The shite fallin' from the sky's rain." A figure - the same voice as before - spoke. He was clad in steel plate, of surprisingly quality for one of Eagoth's men, dented and scratched by combat as it was. His body, on the other hand, was in far worse condition - though lacking many of the signs of degeneration that came with simple rot, the wear and tear of a soldier was more than evident, ragged strips of discoloured muscle and skin stitched into places where it had otherwise been eroded away. His jaw, perhaps surprisingly, was quite intact, as was the man's face, aside from the hinging joints where his lower jawbone would move to speak - ancient scars on the man's countenance spoke to years spent on the battlefield prior to his undeath, a greathelm clasped tightly under one shoulder, sword in the other hand, and shield secured across his backs by straps of dried, rotting leather.

More than a dozen men, similarly dressed, waited behind him, in varying states of wear and disrepair - but without exception, they were all *active*, moving and shifting about much in the way men did when bored with themselves, as slightly off as their movements seemed. All, of course, were armed.

"Storm... Rain. Yes. I remember now. Do you remember, brother?" Arane said, tilting her head toward Carralon, a young, otherwise beautiful elven man that sat opposite Aralas.

"Yes, I... The... The memory is becoming clear now." He nodded, reaching up to cup his chin. "I saw a storm, once, I think... On a... An ocean."

The undead commander - a Revenant Minor, Arane assumed - shrugged, leading himself and his men deeper into the cave, now fully under shelter.

"Well, we'll be joinin' ye', then. Never marched through the damned rain 'less I absolutely feckin' had to, an' I don't intend ta start now!" The Revenant laughed, expelling a series of gasps of moist, foetid air from his lungs. Arane was thankful she could ignore the sheer pungency of the smell, though she couldn't help but long for being able to tell when something did smell unpleasant, nonetheless. Still, it was likely for the best in a land of rot, corpses, and endless death.

"You can... Join us." She said.

"Uhuh. Not much of a conversationalist, I can see, so we'll be leavin' you to your devices."

Arane nearly let out a sigh of relief, narrowly managing to suppress the urge. Her disguise worked! That was an incredible relief, but...

As minutes ground on into hours, the only sounds being the storm outside and the gambling and chatter of the undead men, she began to grow restless. Arane never particularly liked waiting, though she was easily capable of patience, but that simply wasn't what was bothering her.

The soldier hadn't seen through her disguise, but he seemed experienced, by his haphazard manner - and judging by the number of well-armed, fully mindful ghouls at his apparent command, he must surely have been competent. He was perhaps friendly, even, but that did not mean he would fail to do his duty - by making note of a strange party of lonesome, half-present ghouls wandering through the mountains, apparently able to do so despite their lack of memories. Would he report their presence? Tail them himself? That was a risk Arane wasn't sure she could afford to take.

Eventually, though, she was forced into action. The rain began to let up, slowing to trickle, and Elven whispers passed between Arane and her companions. Theirs was a strange language, pronounceable by the human tongue but just as difficult to learn as any of the least-spoken tongues of mankind, effectively usable as a coded tongue among her kith and kin.

"The storm will end soon. We cannot risk allowing them to leave." Arane said. Her companions each nodded, though not in perfect unison. Hands wandered beneath cloaks, reaching for wickedly curved, sharpened elven blades - others for the long poles on their backs, the tips of polearms hidden beneath bundles of cloth. The undead men moved, too, though only to stand and leave - and the elves were upon them. Aralas was first to make contact, the singing blade of her metallic blue poleaxe shearing through the spine of one of the soldiers entirely, only to shatter his exposed shin-bone with a mule's kick to his leg mere moments afterwards, then shattering another's ribcage with a return swing from the weapon's hammer-tip. In those few moments where none of Arane's victims understood what was happening, confusion reigned - Carrolon's backsword sheared a soldier's wrist from his arm, deflecting his counterblow with a parrying blade. Elara, the party's archer, pinned one of the risen dead to a wall of rock with a careful shot from her reflexed bow.

Haleth, a veritable wall of elven muscle, charged headlong into battle, bowling over a pair of the soldiers with her sheer might, while Arodin kept another two at bay with his partisan.

Arane, for her part, busied herself with her commander - the Revenant Minor, a veritable beast of a man. Her familiar cackled as her fingers danced through the air, weaving magic through the air as the Revenant charged toward her. A sabre, curved toward the end, appeared in Arane's grasp, glowing with golden light - and Arane smiled, muttering an Elvish battle-prayer under her breath.

Though she managed to parry the Revenant's first blow, he struck with incredible force, unbefitting of a corpse. No words were spoken - this man was a soldier, after all, and he had scarcely little time for words in the midst of battle. His focus was hard as steel, unbreakable by most means - that much was immediately obvious to Arane as she danced out of the way of another blow. His swordsmanship, too, was impressive. He moved too quickly for Arane to easily bring her blade under his guard, especially with a shield at hand, despite her incredible dexterity.

No matter, she thought, sucking in a sharp breath.

She stumbled, blessed blade briefly soaring out of her grasp. The soldier, seeing an opportunity, permitted Arane's fall, her hand briefly brushing against his plate. He brought up his arm, ready to skewer her with a stabbing blow...

Then he froze with an abrupt, awkward jerk, metal screeching as his armor turned inward, spines punching through his muscles like an improperly sized iron maiden. What once protected him was now a nest of spikes, punching through his body in so many places that he was totally unable to engage in any movement but pathetic shaking. The battle was far from over, though - Arane had only managed to defeat the Revenant thanks to the element of total surprise, and many of his men yet remained. Noblewoman or not - she was no longer sure - Arane was no layabout, charging in to join her guards in battle, summoning her arcane blade back to her hand.

Thankfully, the veterans, skilled as they were, lacked the sheer physical ability of their commander. It was a simple enough matter to send one smashing against the rock walls of the cave with a powerful blast of force, arcane blade passing through another's armor to sever his spine like a hot knife through butter. Clutching the skull of said veteran in her hand, Arane cast yes another spell - and his flesh evaporated, transforming into a storm of reddish smoke that swarmed over any of the soldiers it touched, sapping the moisture from their flesh so intensely that it dried up into thin strips and began to flake away with every motion. To cast so many spells in quick succession was difficult, to be sure, even tiring - but Arane was a potent spellcaster, and mental exhaustion was something she was more than willing to accept for the sake of ensuring the safety of herself and her comrades.

Soon enough, though, the cave went silent - relatively so. Half-corpses crawled about the ground, attempting to claw and bite, but they were of little threat.

Arane finally allowed herself that sigh of relief, watching as the number of foes before them rapidly dwindled. Even her familiar was enjoying itself, its foul made dissipating to reveal a glowing, golden countenance, clawing strips of flesh away from its foes and buzzing around as an incredibly bright, annoying distraction, carried on glimmering, dragonfly wings.

Rising back to her feet, Arane looked the soldier in the eyes. His helmet was removed at the time she cast her spells, thankfully - he could speak, but little else.

"Lady Tiedriel!" He gasped.

"Yes, Lady Tiedriel... You heard of Eagoth's attempts to dispose of me, then?"

Seeing no point in being obstinate, the Revenant spoke freely, unafraid despite his predicament. "What the hell are you doing here, in these mountains? You should've been killed by the mortal navies!"

"I never met them." Arane explained, offering the Revenant an entirely nonchalant, uncaring shrug. "You understand that I can't alow you to leave her alive, yes? Or... Would it be un-alove?" She chuckled. The man, surprisingly, chuckled in turn.

"Aye... Thought as much."

No longer worried by the rigours of combat, Arane worked her spellcraft, flicking her wrist - the spines shifted, just enough to shatter the man's bones into hundreds of pieces, ripping his flesh - and the spines vanished, leaving his armour as it once was.

Around her lay dozens of corpses, and Arane joined her bodyguards in ensuring that each and every one was pulverized into dust. They were soaked to the bone, unfortunately - too wet to burn.

Deep within the Whitecap Mountains

Arane could scarcely remember travelling to the Whitestone mountains - the name brought to mind the very same peaks that she now ascended, but she struggled to discern whether the images brought to mind were derived from her own experiences or merely the study of paintings and books. That, perhaps, was the greatest curse of undeath - doubt in oneself, and the faint pull towards obedience of one’s creator. Arane lacked the knowledge of necromancy to know why this was; whether it was Eagoth or her own mind that was to blame - but as she clambered up one stone step, she supposed that, after all, it didn’t really matter. Her mind had been made up years ago - Eagoth and his empire would be destroyed, or she would achieve her final death trying.

The massive stone fortress that towered before her, its greyish-white face barely visible against the mountain face, reminded her of her own mission in some ways - like her, it had survived for decades beyond its ‘death’, persevering in the face of constant, punishing assault that it could do scarcely little about. Like her, it refused to collapse despite the overwhelming odds she faced. And like her, Arane thought, it might prove to be the salvation of the living despite its half-death. Arane hoped for as much, at least.

The further her party travelled up the mountains, the more Arane began to question her choices - her goal, the destruction of Eagoth, was of the utmost importance, but how would she reach it? Could any of the other Revenants be trusted to not betray her to Eagoth? The mortals across the sea, perhaps, could, but what reason would they have to trust a supposedly rebellious Revenant Major?

Sighing, the noblewoman let her dainty, silken fingertips brush against a nearby tree branch, the cold of gathered snow utterly imperceptible through her deadened hide. So far up, the mountains seemed practically dead - truly empty, unlike the foul parody of existence that dominated the places below. Perhaps the castle’s inhabitants used magecraft to feed themselves - or perhaps the fortress was abandoned due to a shortage of food in the wake of Eagoth’s conquest. Learned as she was, Arane simply didn’t have the answers - and the only way to find out was to enter the castle itself.

All it took was a quick, gentle turn to the right - toward the looming fortress - and the environment around Arane suddenly seemed to change. She could practically feel how her Captain’s mood shifted, a hand wandering to the haft of her poleaxe as they found themselves trodding upon matte, runecarved stone, a stark contrast to the broken steps - if even that - that dotted the rest of the mountain range. Had she not known the hour of the culmination of Eagoth’s conquest, Arane and her companions might have even assumed someone had been here recently, clearing away snow and debris, grinding away imperfections in the stone that would’ve proven dangerous to anyone walking upon them. Still, it would’ve been outright idiocy to call the pathway welcoming. Despite the decoration that studded it, whether runes or wintry flora, it was clearly designed for defense, only just wide enough to fit a wagon through, perhaps a handful of men abreast. It was difficult, even, to tell where the mountain ended and the fortress began - Arane swore she could see arrowslits carved into some of the smaller outcropping peaks nearby, but even Elara’s keen perception could give little but a shrug in response to her inquiries. The snow, of course, played havoc with their vision - but, even so, she wondered what could possibly be at play here.

More foreboding, perhaps, were the stone figures standing sentry closer toward what appeared to be the fortress’s gates. Each of the dozen was an elven warrior, three abreast on each side, three male and three female, though all carried unique armaments and suits of armour. Arane, however, was far more concerned with how their eyes seemed to follow her every move, though she knew such artistic feats were well within the capabilities of the most elite sculptors. Why such attention was paid to an ostensibly hidden fortress, however, was another question entirely, but it was a question for another time. For the time being, she and her fellows remained preoccupied with the grueling climb up towards the keep, difficult even for the untiring bodies of the risen dead. As of yet, though, natural difficulty and issues of morale aside, she had yet to meet any threats along the climb.

For that reason, she wasn’t entirely surprised when she arrived at the top, nor were her bodyguards, judging by a brief glance forward and back. Alaras, of course, led the way - even if danger was not expected, it could always strike at a moment’s notice, even in a land of rot and hopelessness.

Perhaps, though, Leria was not a hopeless land. Before Arane's very eyes, in fact, stood a spark of that which was so rare as to be valued more highly than the finest diamond - she knew not what, but as her hand reached up to brush against the cold metal of the fortress's gates, she hoped she would find it within

Except the steel wasn't cold; it was warm to the touch, as if heated by a nearby hearth. Anywhere else, it would've been insignificant, but here among these frigid peaks, it seemed to burn hotter than the sun itself. Arane's eyes widened, but before she could even turn to inform Alaras of the possible danger, the doors swung inward, unbarred. There was space for a portcullis above, she noticed, and for a second deeper inside - why, then were they left open?

Alaras, faithful as always, pushed her way ahead of Arane before she was able to push further on her own. The rest of her bodyguards followed closely behind, hands wandering close to their weapons - but they had no need to speak, communicating simple, clipped messages in Elven battle-sign. Deeper inside was a massive, empty chamber, surrounded on all sides by yet more defensive measures from arrowslits in the walls to murder holes in the ceilings high above - a killing zone designed to allow the easy slaughter of anyone that managed to break through the gates. In such darkness, it was difficult to see what the chamber was made of, but the way the floor squeaked with every step she took instantly told her it was made of some kind of finely polished stone, scuffed as it'd become thanks to the ravages of time. However, curious as she might have been about the room, Arane was well aware that she wouldn't find what she was looking for by dawdling, silently ordering Alaras to lead them through the gate looming ahead.

In the next handful of hours, Arane's party passed through many more such rooms - killing zones, trapped halls, stairways, and empty living quarters caked in dust alike. None seemed poorly maintained aside from dust accumulated over decades of disuse, shielded from the outdoors as they were.

Finally, though, their wandering was brought to a brief end - ahead of Arane and her companions was a large, wooden platform, held aloft above a dark pit by ropes and windlasses - an elevator, it seemed. Again, silent messages passed between the group - and Elara, the most lithe among them, slipped a hand past the metal bars protecting it, deftly unlocking the elevator from within. Haleth stepped forward, testing its weight, then placed her hand on the crank inside with a nod, gesturing for Lady Tiedriel to follow - and so she did, stepping inside as the contraption descended into near-total darkness.

Arane felt her heart drop into her stomach, anticipation growing so overwhelming that she swore it was about to kill her. From what little she knew of the fortress, this elevator was likely to lead to its temple, the innermost part of the entire complex, the point which would be most difficult to reach or damage. If she was going to find what she needed, this was where it would be. This was where the structure seemed warmest, insulated completely from the outdoors, and heated by some as-of-yet unseen source.

As the elevator came closer to the bottom, however, darkness began to flee in the face of bright, golden-blue light that poured into the shaft. The presence was faint, but Arane immediately recognized the source - something toward the bottom of the shaft was lit by arcane lanterns, much akin to the small lights conjured into being by the mages hailing from her lost home. Nervousness, with that realization, boiled over into sheer excitement, so much so that Arane couldn't help but practically charge out of the elevator, into the towering hall that awaited beyond, its grand, arched ceiling supported by thick columns of stone. Had she paid more attention, she might have noticed the intricate statues huddled into alcoves along either wall, or perhaps the paintings of grand scenes from Elvish religious faiths that adorned the ceilings. She was far too focused, after all, on what she thought was her prize, her companions vainly urging her to caution.

Opposite the place where Arane entered the cathedral was a shrine, flanked on each side by pristine suits of white-gold Elven armor, positioned at permanent guard, their hands resting atop the hilts of their swords. The shrine itself was just as intricate, perhaps more so - every surface was carved in relief, polished to an impeccable shine. Overtop the shrine towered the shapely form of a simply robed woman, a statue of the Elven mother-goddess, Minuvaia, her hands outstretched in imitation of a welcoming, motherly embrace. Of course, gorgeous as the display was, it was not Arane's goal.

Walking up the last few steps before the shrine, Arane's gaze fell upon a sparkling, starry black opal, its mere presence enough to suffuse her body with otherwise unknowable warmth. Unthinking, one hand rested on her stomach where her unborn daughter rested in magickal stasis, while the other reached out to touch the gem before her.

Her vision swam with burning light, searing pain shooting through every deadened nerve as if they were still alive. In the distance, nearly invisible beneath a cloak of blinding rays, she saw something that left her utterly breathless.

Dozens upon dozens of suits animate armor, charging into battle against teeming hordes of the risen dead, hundreds of voices crying out for the chance at righteous victory.

By the time sight returned to her, Arane realized that Alaras's hand was on her shoulder, worriedly bracing her - but she was more concerned with the sudden realization of what she held in - no, what was now embedded into her hand, protruding from the center of her palm. It was a focus - a lens through which magic could be focused to great artifice, if only she possessed the fuel, the lives of those who last inhabited the fortress reforged into an instrument with which they might see Eagoth torn down from his throne.

"*Rixis*." Arane growled, much to the confusion of her bodyguards. "...Tomorrow, we depart for Nergthron. My familiar will inform the fleet to relocate more closely to this fortress."

"Rixis, milady? Are you certain? The danger he poses is... Incredible, to say the least, especially consider the Locus, and-" Elara began, only to be suddenly cut off by a wave of Arane's hand.

"I know. He's a bastard and a coward, but he's the only other Revenant I can reach that is... Sufficiently capable. Besides, the craven has one thing right - I've heard tell he has no love for Eagoth. The... Steeds. We will need steeds, if we are to travel so far. Perhaps a peace offering, too - and plenty of wards." She chuckled.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Warsaw, PUL - 1955

Katarzyna was never one for grandstanding and speeches. They were necessary, in many nations - but they stunk of dictators and oligarchs; tools for whipping the people up into mindless, often violent frenzies. She preferred a lighter, more casual touch.

And so, every Monday, the Polish president sat down in a simple chair, relaxing in front of a spartan tea table, in an apartment not much bigger than those that nearly every person in Warsaw lived in. Cameras arrayed about her, artificial light shining down from above, she cleared her throat - and as the camera began rolling, offering a warm, comforting smile.

“Good evening, workers, comrades, and friends - whoever happens to be joining us tonight.” She said, shifting her stance forward as her palms, clasped together, came to rest in the center of her lap. “I hope you’ve all had a restful weekend - and for those who chose to work, let’s hope you didn’t get [i]too[\i] exhausted, eh?” She chuckled quietly, once again clearing her throat. “The month of January’s already nearly gone by, and we already have plenty to discuss! First and foremost...” She said, biting her lip. “You’ve all heard the news about Albert Einstein, I’m sure. His contributions to workers’ rights, his economic reforms in Germany - I hope you’ve heard of him, at least. In an effort to abide but what I think would be his wishes, I won’t bother you with a thirty minute speech, a sob story - instead, if you happen to be listening, I only have one thing to say: thank you for everything we’ve done. You’ll be remembered for decades to come, I’m sure.” She nodded, swinging one leg over the other. Outside, she could faintly hear the sound of children playing, but, quickly pushing the noise to the edge of her thoughts, continued as she idly poured herself a small glass of Spotykach, the sweet scent of vodka and blackcurrant wafting its way into her nostrils.

“Further away from home, I have a message for our Indonesian comrades in the PKI. We wish you well in your struggle, just like we do every last comrade worldwide. Whether you’re in Surabaya, Jakarta, Batam, or Pekanbaru - good luck, and know that the people of the People's Republic of United Workers/Popolrespubliko de Unuiĝintaj Laboristoj are with you! In fact, that’s the topic I’d like to focus on for today’s chat - the worldwide struggle of the working class. Our country might be one that truly works for its people, but it’s important to remember that most people still live under the pall of authoritarianism. Whether they be on the shores of the Americas or the coasts of spain, people everywhere are oppressed - and I want to make sure you all remember that. Our fight isn’t over until every man woman and child is well and truly free. We’re in this together, comrades!” She announced, briefly dipping her head in quiet remembrance of those the cause had lost. "Most importantly, remember this - you aren't alone, no matter where you come from or what you believe in."

Raising her glass to her lips, Katarzyna smiled as she took a sip. "Until next time, comrades - I'll talk to you soon."

Cameras off, Katarzyna let out a brief groan, leaning her head back with her eyes closed. She was no demagogue, at least - though she couldn't help but think she was delivering little more than platitudes, spewing non-committal words in an effort to avoid angering the enemies of the people too directly.

Soon, she told herself. Soon, she'd be able to make a real difference, she thought, downing the rest of her glass.

---

Surabaya, Indonesia - 1955

Jerzy hated Indonesia. Not the people, of course, but the place - the series of islands that comprised it - they were a nightmare, far too hot and muggy for his liking. Even at its coldest, temperatures soared beyond Polish springs, and sometimes even summers - worse than the weather, though, was the strangling presence of Japanese soldiers on what seemed like every street corner, barking orders in everything from Japanese to butchered Javanese.

He rubbed his eyes as the box truck he was driving trundled along down the road ahead of him, lit by little more than the faint headlights of the vehicle itself. Not far ahead was a small, wooden guardpost, the road blocked by a boom barrier. Two men - Japanese soldiers, by the looks of it - stood just to the side of the street, their eyes pulled away from an idle game of cards by Jerzy's approach. Scratching his shaven chin, adjusting his dark blonde hair, Jerzy slowed to a stop a few meters ahead of the checkpoint, his gaze idly darting between the silenced pistol strapped to the inside of his door and the rapidly approaching guard, hands resting on his steering wheel. Taking advantage of the brief time he was offered before the soldier reached his window, he cleared his throat, silently mulling over the complicated ins and outs of putting on a Dutch accent while speaking Japanese.

Finally, the soldier reached his window, brusquely greeting him in Javanese - or perhaps it was more accurate to say the words came out sounding like a bored, half-hearted demand, the sound of someone who hated what they were doing and simply wanted some rest.

"Ah... Ambroos De Vries!" He said. "Good evening, sirs." He continued, greeting the soldier in his native language. At first glance, he looked a handful of years older than the kind gentleman loitering around the wooden post - a bit more, a bit less, but it was hard to tell at this hour. His greeting, however, seemed to draw the tiniest amount of relief out of the soldier, even if his tone still seemed perpetually angry.

"You speak Japanese, Mr. Ambroos? I don't know many Dutchmen that speak Japanese." He grunted. 'Ambroos chuckled genially, rubbing the back of his neck with a smile.

"Ah, well..." He laughed, shrugging his shoulders. "I started learning a long time ago - in school, yes? My father, he went on these business trips in Japan, so he thought I should learn."

Noticing that the soldier wasn't speaking, waiting for him to continue, Jerzy cleared his throat. "Financier. Investor. I never had the stomach for arithmetic, so I ended up interested in brewing, eh? Right now, I'm moving some, eh? Old friend of mine, he owns a liquor store, and-"

"Where is it being transported to?"

"Gendagan - not too far from here. Old friend of mine." The soldier nodded back at 'Ambroos', glancing sidelong at his comrade.

"I'll be taking a look at your cargo." She said, gesturing for 'Ambroos' to exit the car. He complied, of course - but only after surreptitiously grabbing the pistol strapped to the inside of his door, sticking into an inconspicuous spot in his pocket and leading the soldier toward the back of his truck, quietly cursing himself under his breath for his idiotic cover story. It was believable, sure - but he knew he should've been able to come up with something better. Now, the soldier was sticking his nose into his business - and he'd have to think of something better. Fast. Letting out a grunt, he tossed open the rear doors - and revealed piles of planks and lumber, stacked high to the compartment's roof. He stepped aside, allowing the soldier to draw closer for inspection - then lunged at him, tightly squeezing the unfortunate man's windpipe as he helplessly scrabbled at the agent's arm, fingernails digging into his skin. Before long, though, the soldier dropped to the ground like a sack of potatoes, leaving Ambroos alone with his fellow officer.

He dropped to the ground, quietly crawling along in the muck beneath the truck, slowly moving toward the front of the vehicle. Down here, he couldn't see much - except for the impatient foot-tapping of the other Japanese soldier. Then, the man called put - and Jerzy swore under his breath. "Gakuto!" The young man barked, adjusting his rifle on its sling, hanging over his shoulder. "What's taking you so long? I don't want to stand out here in the mud all damn night!"

Come on! Go investigate, you useless bastard! Jerzy thought to himself, thumping his fist against the underside of the truck. If the soldier was too lazy to move himself, Jerzy'd have to make him.

Growling, the soldier began to move though not with any expediency. Jerzy briefly wondered if he'd ever seen a man that hated his job so much. The poor boy probably expected the chance to go out and serve his glorious Empire, killing in the name of its territorial expansion - and yet, here he was, on thankless garrison duty in endlessly muggy occupied Indonesia. Still, Jerzy thought, at least the idiot was moving, now alongside the truck.

Leaping into action, Jerzy rolled out from beneath the truck, but before the soldier had a chance to turn around, his pistol was drawn. All it took was a squeeze of a trigger to end the boy's life, his corpse dropping to the wet ground with a pathetic thud.

Letting out a frustrated grunt, Jerzy brushed the mud from his face, hauling the soldier's limp body over to the rear before placing another bullet between the first man's head. He was still breathing, after all - that needed to change. Disposing of the bodies would be an altogether different issue, but out here, he had options - dholes fed in specific ways, and that was perhaps something he could take advantage of. First, though he had to get rid of their heads.

---

Jerzy hated Indonesia. The Japanese soldiers were far too nosy for his taste, feeling the need to stick their faces into everyone's business like they owned the damned place. He did appreciate, however, how many locals shared his sentiment - judging by the enthusiasm with which the PKI guerillas were helping him unload his cargo, at least. Stack after stack of lumber was lifted and pulled aside, one after the other, until they finally reached the back.

A treasure trove of rifles, ammunition, and explosives awaited them, stacked high to the roof of the truck, each in an unmarked crate. The men and women excitedly discussed their bounty even as they began to unload it, a few briefly stopping to thank their comrade in arms - the guns were made in Poland, of course, but they were reproductions of local weapons, built to use the ammunition already available to the guerillas in spades.

It was the first of many shipments of arms, no doubt - the instruments with which they'd overthrow their oppressors. And as much as he wasn't the greatest fan of the tropics, Jerzy had to admit that, at the least, he felt like he was doing something that mattered. That was worth something, at least.

Precipice Of War: The Reboot of a Reboot

Nation: People's Republic of United Workers/Popolrespubliko de Unuiĝintaj Laboristoj (PUL)

Map:

History

The Poland of the end of the Great War was a nation divided, ravaged by both conflict fought by foreign powers over its land and the recent struggles of revolutionaries seeking independence. In an attempt to further turn the war in their favour, the Central powers of Austria-Hungary and Germany formed a regency council in the ailing territory desperate for independence, hoping to institute a friendly Polish monarchy.

The Regency Council, however, was easily seen through by the vast majority of people, sparking sporadic incidences of revolutionary fervour in the country throughout 1919, culminating in the abrupt dissolution of the Regency Council in early 1920. Defying demands made by the stretched-thin Central Powers, the Sejm transformed itself into a more traditional parliament, naming renowned socialist Ignacy Ewaryst Daszyński as its head of government. Already a popular figure on the left that maintained de-facto control over much of Galicia, Ignacy's appointment was seen as a great victory by leftists, though he was thoroughly reviled by the right. Gabriel Narutowicz, renowned expert on hydroelectric engineering and brother of former Lithuanian parliamentarian Stanisław, was promptly made the nation's Minister of Public Works. Even early on, Poland saw mass immigration of Russian socialists, seeking refuge with the relatively left-leaning government.

Ignacy only maintained a short tenure until 1922, however, when socialist Artur Śliwiński replaced him as head of government. Rosa Luxemburg and Leo Jogiches, having fled Germany two years prior, were both elected to the Sejm in the same year, and began campaigning fervently for socialist causes in the upcoming presidential elections.

Rosa proved too extreme to win the Presidency, however, in a country that was largely still in the process of deciding where its political allegiances lied. Narutowicz, more moderate and well-liked by both the Centre and the Left, won the presidency in a landslide. A landslide, however, did not mean a peaceful presidency - soon after his election, Narutowicz was being frequently threatened by far-right groups, and was thus assigned a security detail on the advice of his cabinet. A mere few days after his election, in fact, Eligiusz Niewiadomski attempted to assassinate the freshly nominated President while he was visiting an art gallery, only to be slain by his recently formed, ragtag security detail. Though wounded, Narutowicz was able to recover - but Eligiusz was quickly martyred by numerous far-right groups in the country, seen as a man who attempted to save them from the secular Narutowicz, already loved by many of Poland's minorities. Dissent, however, remained largely underground. In Lithuania, meanwhile, the Lithuanian Popular Peasants' Union, a socialist party formed by merger, won a majority of seats in the parliament, securing control of the government. Poland and Lithuania both saw large influxes of immigrants from the east in the aftermath, largely made up of oppressed minorities and socialists fleeing the Imperial Russian authorities.

By 1927, Narutowicz was ousted in a second round of elections, replaced by the increasingly popular Rosa Luxemburg. Rosa's presidency, however, was immediately met with far more violence that Narutowicz's, quickly erupting into civil war. By this point, however, most of Poland's officer corps was made up of socialists - including Marshal Edward Rydz-Śmigły and Minister of Military Affairs Władysław Sikorski - with Piłudski still held in Magdeburg prison, most of the Polish military, therefore, sided with the socialist government, alongside socialist militias and veterans from Russia. The civil war was thus not bloodless - however, the conflict lasted no more than half a year, with sporadic low-level insurgency continuing until 1928. What the civil war did mean for Poland, however, was the end of organized opposition to an increasingly socialist government - which paved the way for sweeping changes headed by Luxemburg. In particular, seeking to avoid the pitfalls of reliance upon capitalist economies that she feared, Luxemburg sought to make Poland more economically independent from the rest of the world. Nonetheless, she appointed Narutowicz as Foreign Minister, seeking a closer relationship with the smaller Lithuania, already friendly to the current socialist government.

Luxemburg's diplomatic initiative bore fruit not long afterward in late 1928 as the Lithuanian military attempted to overthrow the socialist government. Though by no means the most modern armed force at the time, Poland's military was much larger and better equipped than its Lithuanian counterpart, including a small air force made up of older aircraft headed by General Ludomił Rayski and a small, experimental armored force under Colonel Stanisław Maczek

The Poles were able to achieve victory by mid-1929, incorporating an extremely friendly Lithuania into a new, socialist state.

By 1930, however, the Republic's army saw its first real baptism by fire, intervening in the German Civil War. Maczek's armored force and Rayski's air force, though armed with mostly old, upgraded equipment, proved highly effective in the conflict, leading Sikorski to place modernization of the Republic's military (including an expanded air force and a general push for wider mechanization) as a top priority, largely made possible thanks to continued industrialization inspired by Narutowicz's policy history and industrial assistance from a now-friendly Germany.

The next decade saw extensive industrialization of the country and a push for energy independence, an already socialist nation having seen relatively few ill effects from the worldwide economic crisis. New farms increasingly dotted the countryside, both to feed its rapidly growing population and to supply an increased need for vegetable oils and ethanol, seen as a necessity to avoid depending on capitalists for fuel. Large spaces of land were also being given over to experimental wind farms, parts of the landscape reshaped by Narutowicz's hydroelectric dams. The largest example of Poland's industrialization, however, was easily the Central Industrial Region, a project to transform Warsaw and the region around it into an industrial powerhouse.

Though only part of his career was under Luxemburg, Gabriel Narutowicz remained one of the most popular Polish politicians for decades to come, even after leaving office in 1938 with the end of the Luxemburg presidency, which saw the increased democratization of the country.

Nonetheless, the trend of increased economic independence and industrialization started by the two continued well into the 1940s, bolstered by a robust, freely available education system.

Serving a second term as president until 1943, Narutowicz was followed by Władysław Sikorski, further expanding and modernizing the Republic's armed forces, including expanding Lithuanian ports. Sikorski's most notable action, however, was easily his leading a military intervention in Belarus against an already divided Russian Empire, again on the behalf of friendly socialists. Though the Republic's army wasn't as large as its Russian counterpart at nearly two million men and women strong, its highly mechanized nature made it able to take care of an increasingly divided Russia and force the country into a peace settlement that surrendered Belarus.

Sikorski's presidency was followed by another former military officer, Brigadier General Katarzyna Balchunas, a fervent socialist who saw combat in the German civil war and commanded an armored division in the war against Russia. Even more extreme than most of her predecessors, Balchunas has adopted an unofficial policy of interfering in the favour of socialist and communist revolts across the world, supplying arms and intelligence through her country's increasingly extensive intelligence agencies, whether in the nearby Ukraine or the distant Pacific. Her strategy, however profitable it may prove to be, comes with great risk - though populous and well-equipped to fight a long war, the Republic's navy, though advanced, is small, lacking the ability to project power at great distance and effectively combat what Starosta privately views as the greatest enemy of socialism today - the United States of America.

Nonetheless, Balchunas knows what she must do - she will not rest until every last enemy of the working people rots in their graves, whether at the tip of Polish rockets or by the hands of their own, even if that means she must spend every moment of her life with a pistol and a knife by her side.

Empire of the Dead

Second post! This one's still a bit short, but with the 'setup' finished, my post length should increase. I probably could've gotten more done, but I felt it was a better option to focus on ending at a nice cliffhanger than to make 'progress'. This is collaborative storytelling, after all!

Empire of the Dead

Lazily discarding her robes, Arane's shimmering, alabaster skin was laid bare, so unnaturally flawless that it seemed to glisten faintly in the dim light of the moon. Much of the deck of her vessel was drenched in shadow, shielded by the massive, rocky outcroppings that formed the sheltered cove it was moored in - but glimmering beams of moonlight seemed drawn toward her, bent by arcane might. None else among the Silverwind's crew were afforded such luxury, though few needed it - most were by now busying themselves playing quiet games under the dim light of shrouded lanterns, or simply lacked the will to do anything but stand statue-still belowdecks, awaiting further command.

Her eyes closed, Arane broke the silence with her honeyed voice, feeling the careful hands of her Captain dusting her deadened skin with arcane reagents. "Captain," she said, briefly distracted by the faint pressure of a blade pushing through the surface of her skin. "What do you remember of our homeland?"

For the briefest of moments, the blade froze, embedded in Arane's skin.

"... Somewhat." The Revenant minor sighed, a puff of dry, salty air. Arane could not see the woman, but she could sense the hesitation in her voice, nonetheless. For a moment, it seemed as if she intended to brush the question away, opting to bury her discomfort in her careful work. But, still, the blade moved.

"The memories are... Clouded. Unclear. I find myself wondering which are true and which are simply figments conjured up by my own mind to fill the gaps in my thoughts." She explained frankly, squeezing Lady Tiedriel's shoulder. Arane reached up and back, gently squeezing her fingers in a rare gesture of compassion - again, she could feel little but a faint pressure, but it was present nonetheless.

"We know that it exists, do we not, Alaras? We cannot return there, perhaps, but..." Arane chuckled, quietly shaking her head. "At least we can make that bastard necromancer pay along the way." She shrugged. Alaras's hand abruptly slipped from her grasp. By now, Arane thought, she would be busy drawing the requisite ritual circle around her Lady, a formation of arcane runes painted with powdered metals Arane's own fluids, bone, and crushed gemstones. The Captain had gone completely silent, choosing to separate herself from the conversation - all for the best, Arane supposed, rather than make some grave error in the creation of the ritual circle and risk something truly catastrophic. Perhaps she was avoiding the conversation, perhaps not... Either way, Arane possessed the wisdom needed to avoid forcing an answer out of an experienced Elven mage-knight. Dogged loyalty aside, there was no reason to risk angering one of the few people she could truly trust.

Still, the sorceress couldn't help but let her mind wander back to her question - to home. To rolling green hills, towering snow-capped mountains beneath which whole cities were built, great ivory towers that reached fearlessly up toward the heavens, capped in bright, eye-catching domes... She remembered the salty air of the docks, the foul smell of butchered fish around the markets, even the feeling of cobbled stones against the soles of her feet and the biting insects that infested the spaces near local swamps and lakes. Her home was distant, to be sure, but especially so in time - how much had changed in those intervening decades, Arane wondered? Was her home still ruled by the same Queen? How fared her cousins? Her friends? Did they even remember her?

A pinprick suddenly broke Arane from her reverie, followed by the sound of her Captain's gruff voice. "I've finished, milady."

Opening her eyes, Arane nodded, gesturing for Alaras to step back. She did as bidden, of course, watching as Arane knelt in the center of the ritual diagram, completely nude. Eldritch sounds began to pour out from between her lips, suffusing the moonlight with a secondary bluish glow that was drawn to the diagram like moths to a flame, glimmering just brightly enough for anyone else on the vessel's deck to see. The reagents abruptly launched into the air with a great gust, flowing toward Arane and into her mouth, her skin briefly glimmering as it was suffused with the strength of steel. Then, she rose, the magic completed just as quickly as it came. She was a fragile sort compared to many of Eagoth's monstrosities, and with stealth being so necessary, Arane could hardly afford to wear anything more than filthy rags which she quickly began dressing herself in.

"We depart immediately." She said, tossing a brown cloak over her shoulders. "Leria awaits."
__________________________________

The Southern Lerian Foothills

"There," Arane said, gesturing to a far-off mountain peak. Behind her were four, perhaps five people, all dressed in plainclothes in various states of filth and disrepair. Each was an elf, a rarity on Leria in themselves - but they'd gone to great lengths to hide their unusual bodies, whether hunching over to mask their height or hiding pointed ears beneath thick cloth hoods. To an onlooker, they looked like little more than a band of ghouls - mindful ones, but simple human ghouls, nonetheless.

"*That* is the mountain we seek. Somewhere, hidden amongst the peeks, is an old Elven fortress. Isolated. Safe from Eagoth. If luck is with us, the Necromancer has yet to plunder its holds." She explained, taking a step forward. The cloaked heads behind her glanced between one another, then back toward the snow-capped peaks towering ahead of them. Then, one step after another, the ghouls followed their Lady, obediently plodding along an ancient stone path so scarcely used that it was nearly overrun by weeds and moss. The stone was still usable, nonetheless, if slippery and treacherous - but its faint presence was the party's only guide, wooden signposts long since rotted away to nothing beneath the pall of undeath. High above the foothills, closer to the mountains, Arane could see the hints of untainted flora - but those places were incredibly distant, and Arane would need to pass through much more of Eagoth's land before she could reach her destination, visible as it was.

Briefly casting a glance back at her followers, Arane wondered how many of them would survive the fight against Eagoth, only to quickly dismiss the wandering thought, a hand resting gently upon her belly as feet squashed rotten detritus beneath.

It didn't matter, not really - not compared to the joyous thought of becoming the spark that saw all of Eagoth's works burn to ash before his soulless eyes.

All she needed was an army that could neither live nor die.

Empire of the Dead

@TerminalPulling him away from a new project is probably going to be the more difficult of the options, I'd imagine - Arane intends to travel in secret on her journey, but she thinks Rixis can be of use to her (I won't reveal too much about exactly why, but I'm sure you have a few guesses), and she has an interest in the Locus, too. My initial thought was that he might have interest in her attempts to reverse undeath, even if his rather unusual form renders him personally unable to take advantage of it. I can tell you a bit more in detail about what Arane's planning in PMs, if you like, but, in basic, she needs powerful, disgruntled allies like Rixis, and the Locus is a rather potent source of magickal power, if one that's extremely difficult to harness. More importantly, it's a thorn on ol' Eagoth's side. She intends to make her way up toward Rixis's territory once she finds a hidden place to moor her feet along the way and, hopefully, acquire an item of arcane importance along the way.

Empire of the Dead

<Snipped quote by Jeddaven>

The jewel plot is entirely open-ended at its conception, so you're welcome in on it if you'd like.

@Oraculum

@Jeddaven

Right -- as of the end of his latest post, Faustus is on the road with Razzak and they are currently about to be engaged by Bloodhammer. After that's done with, Faustus is supposed to be moving up to Necron, and with Comirion next door it's likely that Faustus will then be able to get the gemstone from Ghural in short order. So on this current trajectory that's probably at least two posts, maybe even three, before Faustus would be in possession of the gemstone and in a position to do something with it, just so you know where we stand with that.

Afterward Faustus could indeed encounter Arane and perhaps she could come into possession of it, but you may want to consider seeing Rixis first because I imagine you could get that ball rolling a little bit faster.

@Cyclone

That might be the best option at this stage, yeah - I left Arane's exact destination a bit vague on purpose, but if y'all already have plans there, I'm happy to wait. Arane can't exactly go near Necron at the moment, anyways - she'd be putting herself at rather enormous risk of getting caught.

@Terminal would you be interested in setting up a meeting with Arane?