LancerDancer

The New Empires

I'd just be happy to see people post some stuff in the IC, rather than spend their time criticising nonsense.

That's right byiatches, I went there. BOOM.

The New Empires

Adjutor Insula

Blind Justice

Marcus emerged from the Three Tails with feigned humbleness. He bowed deeply, but somewhat unsteadily, to the squadron of mounted warriors before him.

"How can I help you, brothers?" he asked, stifling a laugh.

One of the riders, marked as a captain by his burnished helm and red plume, bowed in his saddle. "Forgive me, Lord Defender, but I have orders to secure your arrest."

Marcus gasped, surprised, or so he made it seem. "Arrest? But my brother captain, what on earth for?"

The captain shook his head. "I do not agree with it, Lord Defender, because to me you are a hero - the saviour of Love. When all else fled and fell, you stood against the tide... and somehow lived. You are Faran's chosen."

Marcus smiled warmly; inwardly he savoured the captain's admiration, even if it was based on lies. "Come, tell me, what offence have I committed to my beloved peoples?"

"Warmongering and disruption of the peace," the captain replied with a heavy sigh. "By order of Matron Scribe Mercella. Her motion was backed by the other branch members. I am sorry, Lord Defender, but I have no choice in this matter."

Now it was Marcus' time to sigh. "If it is what the Adjutor Order wishes, then I shall obey. I am under your command, my brother."

And with that, Marcus was led away from the Three Tails under an armed guard, and a swelling surge of open-mouthed spectators.

He With No Name, No Past, No Future

Urek stalked the streets of Hope with a single minded dedication to his goal: redemption.

Ten years a warrior, five years a general, six months a coward.

He had failed his master at the Battle of Bloodspire Pass. When the Scorched King's lines held against his beserkers, he had fled with the remainder of his men, rather than die in a haze of glory. That was not the Karkarthian way, and the rightful King Ragnak the Fanged had stripped Urek of his wealth, possessions and name. Though he did not take his life.

Ragnak did not take his life, because men with no futures, such as Urek, had their uses. And he was about to fullfill his final duty.

A dozen Sword Brothers crossed a narrow street; in their midst, a fragile feminine figure of white robes and greying hair. She had on herself a kind face, and she had made it her custom to stop every few paces to give praise to the commoners that paid her heed. It was a stupid idea, especially for someone who held the reigns of a Kingdom, to mingle with the mob in such a fashion. Urek made his move.

"My lady," he croaked through cracked fangs and a forked tongue.

Marcella Colias, Matron Scribe of the Noble Way, and no doubt soon to be Guide of Adjutor Insula, turned to face him. So did her bodyguards, but they did not draw their swords in anger. Even from a distance, Urek could see a form of kindness in their eyes - weakness, truth be told. They were not warriors, just wonderful men with armour.

"I wanted to apologise, my lady," Urek lied. "For the destruction my people have wrought upon your lands. I do not stand with them."

Marcella pulled back her floral veil and smiled at him. "Nor do I suspect that you do, brother. Your kind is not to be judged by the actions of a misguided king and his lackies. You have my blessing, Draconian, may Faran be with you."

"And with you," Urek replied, as he reached the first of her bodyguards.

A few seconds passed, and neither he nor Mercella moved. Her kind eyes kept his curiously. "Is there something else brother?"

Lonan Brill had been a Sword Brother since his thirteenth year. A full decade in the drill yard had taught him many things, mostly about how important it is to not kill prisoners, or not to strike a man on the ground. Some things in a man however, cannot be taught, and he sensed something. A danger. This Draconian was not a friend, no, he was an assassin.

Brill's shout of warning ended in a gurgled scream, and he fell back with a pierced throat. The other eleven bodyguards reacted slowly; shocked almost into inaction. Urek made good the opportunity and surged between them.

Marcella did not move. She did not cower or scream. She only smiled, and as Urek's venom laced dagger penetrated her chest, she held no ill will against him. War was a vicious circle, and she reasoned in those last moments, that she would have no part in propelling the senseless hatred. A noble ideology, but ultimately flawed in the face of reality.

"For the Scorched King of Karkarth!" Urek screamed, and then he turned on the hapless bodyguards; some of whom had collapsed to their knees in disbelief.

He tore into them, knocking swords out of the way, and stabbing anywhere his blade could find a weakness. With venom, you didn't need to cause serious injury, you just needed to cut the skin, and this he did to great effect. Eight men were fitting on the ground, coughing red foam, by the time Urek was finally brought down by a lucky sword blow to the shoulder.

Before the remaining guard could subdue him, he was able to plunge the dagger deep into his heart. His lips formed a smile as he embraced his redemption.

The New Empires

Well I'm glad that's resolved.

Now someone post, come on, do it. I'll give you cookies. Cookies and murder.

The New Empires

This is all great and all, but someone get a post up so I can murder more people. :)

@Lunamaria: You could always move down south, Adjutor Insula is a Europeanesque Crusader State, and Karkarth, from what I could gather, is some kind of Mordor inhabited by dragon-humanoids.

The cultures of the south are diverse, owing to the Pagan War from yesteryear that I never really elaborated on because I didn't want to mess with anyone's plans. However, it would stand to reason that things would be a dandy blend of European, Slavic and even African cultures, due to the post-Crusade nature of things. You know, if I stick with my Pagan War set up, I imagine that following the successful crusade some centuries earlier, then several states akin to Adjutor rose and fell, giving everything a nice smattering of colours.

The New Empires

Adjutor Insula

The Bastard of Karren

Marcus shoved open the door to one of the Insula's few houses dedicated to social drinking. Alien faces glanced up at him from ale soiled tables, and smokey pipe haze. Dwarves, Elves, Gryphs and foreign humans occupied the Three Tails Inn, and few of them were in good standing with any God. It was ironic, to Marcus, that a nation built with the sole purpose of bringing out the best in people, would also harbour exiled murderers, thieves, rapists and of course, usurpers.

"You're late," muttered a tall figure, clad in tattered brown robes. There was a slight hiss to its voice. "Remind me, Lord Defender, why it is I have so much faith in you, when you cannot keep a deadline."

Marcus ignored the figure, and strolled up to the bar. A rough looking Gryph, with his golden skin tinted a slight red from whatever substance abuse occupied his interests, grunted at him.

"Cured water, if you would please," Marcus said, flashing a warm smile, and half a silver coin. The Gryph jumped into action.

The figure stalked Marcus, and placed a scaled hand onto his plated shoulder. The Lord Defender's friendly smile vanished, and a scorn quickly replaced it. He turned, and grabbed hold of the figure's wrist.

"You'd do well to remember what it is you owe me, Bastard," Marcus said angrily. "The Council overran, as I thought it might. I need a favour from you."

The figure snatched back its hand, and used it to throw back its hood. From the shadow of the robes, came forth the ridgid, pointed face of a Draconian with a delicate pattern of green and red scales. Yellow eyes, with vertical pupils looked out from that majestic face, and thick saliva gathered around exposed fangs. Draconians looked angry by nature, and so it was sometimes hard for a human to judge their emotions, but it appeared Ragnak of Karren was in an obvious rage. Such was his nature, most of the time.

"More blood?" Ragnak snarled, shaking his head bitterly. "How many old monks, women an children must I slay before you come good on your favour to me!?"

Marcus drunk his cured water in one solid gulp. And then grimaced. He quickly returned the half silver to his purse, and gave the Gryph a full copper. The Lord Defender's almost regal position saved him from the bar keeper's revenge.

"Just one more, my King," Marcus said, smiling. "And if you wouldn't mind keeping your voice down, then that would splendid."

Ragnak grabbed Marcus again, this time by the front of his armour. Marcus did not fight back, only smiled his customary grin. "One more. One more or I'll kill you myself, and flay yo-"

"Yes, yes, you'll flay me alive. Or kill me first, then flay me, which I think is what you were getting at," Marcus interjected, pushing the lizard from him. "I'd like to see you try, my King. Your armies in the north of Karkarth are a long way from the Insula, and last I heard, the Scorched King had you on the run after he smashed your troops at the Battle of Bloodspire Pass. A battle he should have lost."

"I was outnumbered, you swine," Ragnak spat. His forked tongue slithered throguh his teeth, and his eyes narrowed. "No one could have wo-"

"You had him pinned in a valley. If you'd of held your ground, you would have starved him into a suicidal attack. Karkarth would be yours, but no, you had to play hero didn't you."

Ragnak's hand fell to a blade hidden in his robes. Marcus didn't flinch. "Interrupt me one more time, human, and see what happens."

Marcus sighed. "Do not forget, my King, who has funded your campaign. Do you think it was easy for me to send that gold into your coffers, without the Order noticing? I've killed a century of men in the last three months, just to keep everything hush-hush. People are talking of a curse, which is fortunate, but sooner or later they'll start pointing fingers. I need you to win, Faran be damned."

"I will win. As soon as I return, I will win. The Scorched King is a mighty warrior, but he is not a smart king. Every day, he pushes more of his subjects into my hands with his acts of dishonourable slaughter and his bloody-minded tactics," Ragnak spat on the floor; the bar keeper muttered something distasteful.

"Yes," Marcus agreed, "you will win. Kill the Matron Scribe for me, and fifteen thousand of the world's best infantry will land on your shores, with five thousand of the world's heaviest horse. You will win, because I will make it so."

Ragnak's anger ceased suddenly, and he lent in to Marcus. "You can do that?"

Marcus nodded. "Yes. Kill the Matron Scribe, but be sure it is one of your people to do it, and be sure that he or she does not escape."

Ragnak's anger returned as quickly as it had gone. "You want me to kill one of my own?"

Marcus nodded again. "You're a smart King, Ragnak. My people have to know beyond doubt that the Insula is facing its End Times. In me they will see a hero who can stop the wheel from turning, and once I have achieved control, the Sighing Hand will no longer be fixed to home defence."

Ragnak paused for some time. The other patrons hadn't paid the conversation much heed, and if they had, then they didn't care. The Three Tails Inn was Adjutor Insula's epicentre of organised crime after all, though the trade was a minor one. No doubt someone would have seen the Lord Defender enter, and no doubt he'd have to answer for his reasons for visiting a notorious establishment, but Marcus had an answer for everything. He had always said that in his times of personal trial, he would visit those with less grace than he, and bless them.

"Very well," Ragnak snorted. "She dies."

"By today," Marcus added.

"Why so soon?" Ragnak asked, curiously.

Marcus glanced through the pipe smoke, and saw a squadron of Heavy Horse arriving outside of the Three Tails.

"Because from now, until you do your job, I'll be under arrest. No freedom for me, no help for you. Killing her will fix all this, especially if a Draconian is seen doing it."

The New Empires

The Insula isn't attending any party, m'fraid, owing to civil strife and a nationwide emergency. Maybe next time?

The New Empires

Adjutor Insula

Triumph

The fires that had raged in Love were still smouldering in the city's innermost districts, despite the lavish attempt by the desperate members of the Hero's Road to quell them. The Palace of Truth, where the Lord Defender had heroically stood to the last man against the tide of Karkarth was nothing but a hollow shell, owing the damage it sustained in the fighting.

Six thousand people had died, many of them trapped by the flames set by the Karkarthian raiders. It had been a black day for Adjutor Insula, culminating in the greatest attrocity ever comitted on home soil.

Furthermore, it would have appeared that some of the Sighing Hand's highest ranking officers had been slaughtered in the fighting; including Horse Master Jacbos of the Sighing Hand's cavalry wing, and First Captain Henrick, the Sighing Hand's infantry commander. Over seven hundred Sword Brothers were also killed, and were it not for a ten-thousand strong detachment returning to the city after performing mock manoeuvres, it is unclear whether or not Love would have fallen.

The greatest tragedy of all, perhaps, is the unlawful and cowardly murder of Guide Charity IX. The Adjutor Order, the nation's provisional governing body, has declared a month of mourning, and has placed Adjutor Insula under a military lock down. The island's fleets have been recalled from their various missions, and will be docking at harbour for the duration of the crisis.

The Adjutor Order has called for a Council of Sorrow, an emergency meeting between branch members, to discuss the situation and to proclaim a new Guide.

Council of Sorrow

"Karkarth would never invade us, not with their civil war broiling in the North Lands, it makes no sense," said Matron Scribe Marcella Colias, showing grave irritation.

Marcus did not relent however; he had the high ground. Fear sweltered around him, he could feel it. The entire chamber was thick with the stuff, and he wasn't about to let one woman snatch away his chance. "The Scorched King is a war monger, this is well known, Sister," he said. "We are, as we have always been, a humble land with humble intent. That this has not happened sooner, is nothing short of a surprise."

Murmurs of agreement erupted from the many rows of wooden benches, as men and women threw their lot behind the Lord Defender. Adding to his brovado, was the gleaming suit of full plate he was wearing, despite the established dress code of robes and cotton. This was not wasted on Mercella.

"Perhaps the Lord Defender's mind is clouded by his recent heroics," Marcella sneered. "Why does he wear the plate of war? Does he expect the Scorched King to march through the doors at any given moment?"

Markus nodded grimly, "if he does, then I'm the last man left on this island capable of defending you."

The murmurs exploded into heated debate, and calls of outrage. Marcus bowed his head as the storm of words swirled around him. To a keen eyed observer, they may have noticed a wide grin appear momentarily on his lips.

Mercella shook her head in disgust. "Lord Defender, it is obvious to me," she shouted above the growing commotion, "that your mind is set to conflict, and not to diplomacy. That is not our way, it is not Adjutor Insula's way, and despite your undeniable bravery, I move to have you suspended from your position."

Now the Lord Defender was angry. Who was this stupid, middle-yeared bitch to suggest his suspension? He was a hero! The people called his name. It was time to play his hand, to throw down all the cards.

"War is coming, whether you want it or not, Matron Scribe," he snarled, standing from his chair. He waved a dismissive hand at her, and turned to the benches of the Order members. "Those of you who still have the will to save this land, to prevent a mass genocide of our people, and to extend the legacy of Adjutor Insula, come with me." Then he turned to leave, but before he left - and over the 90 decibel clamour - he clasped his hands over his mouth and shouted, "the rest of you, hide behind those that follow."

As he descended the many steps from the Council Chamber of Promise, in the city of Hope, he found himself excited. No doubt, he reasoned, Matron Scribe would rally many to her cause - enough to split the army. Adjutor Insula would plunge into civil war in short order, and it would be a battle that even if he won, the army would be too diminished to carry out his plans in his preferred time frame.

The middle-yeared bitch was going to have to die, and the Lord Defender had found himself a natural in arranging untimely ends to untimely people.

With this in mind, he journeyed to Hope's Diversity District, home to a large portion of Hope's non-human population. There was someone he needed a favour from, before he could consider doing a favour for them.

The New Empires

Adjutor Insula

The Hero of Helper's Island

Marcus Aticus lent back against the stone rim of the large bath. Usually at this time of night, it would be throbbing with decaying bodies of old men; not tonight though, because they had all been put to sleep permanently. Closing his eyes, he tried to instill himself with a sense of calm, but he found the excitement too overwhelming. The steaming waters reddened around his soiled body, but this did not trouble him. Knife work was a bloody business, and business was booming.

So what now? The Guide was dead. The Capital City was burning down all around him, as five hundred enraged Karkarthians ran through the streets unleashing bloody murder onto the thousands of defenceless innocents. His soldiers lay in wait, listening out for the signal that he would give in short order. A Scorched King sat across the stretch of ocean, painfully oblivious that his little peace-loving neighbour was about to stake a claim for global dominion.

It was in times such as these, when he thought about where his future would take him, that he liked to recall the Heroes of Old. Lost to the world now, these legendary warriors, they were the very stuff of fantasy - almost. Many of them had lived, Marcus had no doubt, but he often wondered how many of the tales were free from elaboration. Did Hulgar the Red really strangle ten men with his giant hands at the Battle of Highcastle? Did Saint Aquiline really lead his heavy horse across the ocean and smite the Fallen Angels of Nak'radol? Probably not, to all of them.

"Mine will be so fantastical," he sneered, "that the bards will not have to make up words to fill in the intervals; they will not have to brighten the image as I bring the world crashing down around me."

The doors to the bath house suddenly burst open, and in marched a sixty-strong troop of Sword Brothers. All in glittering mail, carrying swords sodden in the blood of their assigned victims. They weren't real Sword Brothers, of course, the Lord Defender knew it was suicide to try and bribe a real soldier of Adjutor Insula. Sure, the odd one or two might be swayed by coin and promise of grandeur, but the third? He'd report you for so much as mentioning the M-word.

The sixty Sword Brothers were prisoners; all murderers, rapists and mentally insane. The Lord Defender had bought their freedom with kind words, but in secret, he employed them with generous wages. Keeping the arrangement hushed was only a matter of pushing a few old monks down some stairs when no one was looking.

One of the soldiers lifted his full helm, revealing an ugly scarred face. "The lizard scum will be on us soon, Sire," he said with a grizzled tone.

"Of course," Marcus replied, taking a moment to appreciate his new title. "Sire, does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it Captain Alworth?"

Alworth shrugged. "S'pose so, 'Lord."

"Are my men ready?" Marcus asked, taking a moment to hang his head under a large tap at the edge of the bath.

Alworth shrugged. He was known for shrugging, this one, and it was an irritation not lost on Marcus. "Some are, some lost to their conscience though. They're busy dying out in the courtyard as we speak."

Marcus sighed. "Odd, isn't it? That a sense of duty, such as dying for strangers, would propel the soldiers of the Sighing Hand into suicide."

Alworth shrugged.

"Righty'o," Marcus said cheerfully; he gripped the edge of the bath, and heaved himself onto the flat. Water ran in rivulets down his chiselled form, and for but a moment, as he caught his reflection in the wavering waters, he swore he saw a God. "Let's go and save the city."

"Or what's left of it, Sire," Alworth said. With a shrug.

The Courtyard of Progress

The names given to Adjutor Insula's various settlements and landmarks were enough to make the Lord Defender cringe when ever he thought of them. They were soft, womanly names with pretentious overtones. It was as if the island's long list of Guides had contended with their peers, past and future, over who could bludgeon the populace to death with the most shameless names for things.

The Draconians, dozens in a ragged line, surged into the Palace's "Courtyard of Progress" as the last of Marcus' wayward soldiers fell in a spiral of blood and vanishing honour; they were good men, they had spurned gold and orders to save who they could. Now they were all dead.

Marcus' band of criminals however, were very much alive, and most had been waiting for this moment with intense anxiety for weeks. They surged from the Palace entrance, with the Lord Defender at their front. They screamed bloody murder; sung songs of the coming anguish and sorrow. The Draconians replied in kind, and the two forces met in a thunder of arms.

The Karkarthians had the numbers, but Marcus had surprised them; as his men collided with theirs, he outnumbered their spearhead three to one. It was a matter of minutes before the last of the ragged Draconian line succumbed to an axe. The second and third waves of the Draconians came in short order, but the Lord Defender was ready and broke them in a chaotic melee of ungodly genocide.

As the last of the lizards dispersed into the network of tightly woven streets, Marcus nodded to Alworth, and the former child-murderer took to setting the front of the Palace ablaze. It was a large building, made mostly of stone, and it would take very long to burn. No matter, Marcus reasoned, it wasn't like anyone would be bringing a river up there any time soon.

And as the fires cleaned away the evidence of Marcus' betrayal, the first detachment of the Sighing Hand arrived in droves to defeat an enemy that was already beaten.

"Time to be hailed a hero, Alworth," Marcus said to his Captain, flashing a teethy grin.

Alworth shrugged, when he should have held his guard, for Marcus' longsword pierced him through the stomach half a second later. He slid off the blade, choking and moaning. Marcus turned to the others, who looked on indifferently.

"Child murderers have no home in my new world," he said, "but that's about all I wont allow. The city is yours gentlemen, have at her."

The bloodied score or so of his remaining men cheered, and started the long descent into the city proper.

Legions: Rise of Rome

AmongHeroes said
Though I'm doubting it matters at this point, I'm going to go ahead and formally withdraw from this RP. It was a great concept, and had a lot of potential. Great stuff, LancerDancer. I'd be happy to write with you again.

Thankyou. I'm sorry this ground to a halt, the RP had some crucial flaws that I probably should have addressed, but meh. Should Legions: Fall of Rome ever reach the light of day, I'll fire you over a message.

As for the rest of you (that still remain), I appreciate your loyalty, and apologise for any disappointment, but I'm closing this down. The stop/start nature of things has ruined the mood somewhat, and all I want to do is go away and build a bigger, better RP of a similar format. Thanks for joining me on this experiment, it has been fun, and has provided me with the vital experience I'll need in forging any nation-related RP in the future.

I apologise if this seems like a sloppy way to end things, but I'm confident that a short and sweet notice of closure is the best way to proceed.

See you all around.

The New Empires

Adjutor Insula

A Plotter's End

"Many will die," First Captain Henrick muttered, breaking the silence.

Horse Master Jacobs had grown increasingly inpatient with his so-called partner in crime, to perhaps a homicidal extent. Now was not the time for self-doubt, and the First Captain was smothering himself in the stuff.

"Yes, but much must be sacrificed in times of war," he said, not bothering to match Henrick's guilty gaze.

A few moments passed, and the First Captain finally broke - as the Lord Defender imagined he would. Still, it was something the Horse Master was hoping would never come to pass; murder was an ugly business. He stifled a smile, as he thought about his journey from Guardian of the Weak, to Lord of War in a few short weeks.

"I'm calling it off, Jacobs, Lord Defender be damned. I'm not going to have a thousand names curse me from the underworld," Henrick said, and he turned to leave. "If you follow me, then I will not report any of this. Let us be done with this evil."

Jacobs nodded, his crow-like features twitching as if in thought. "Alas, my friend," he replied at last, "you're right."

Henrick did not see the dagger, but he felt it. He fell gurgling with a sliced throat; a dozen Sword Brothers looked on, unaffected by the slaughter of their second highest Commander. All men had a price, even Holy men, and the Horse Master had paid generously.

Wiping Henrick's blood from his blade, Jacobs nodded at the large cage, where within five hundred Karkarthian prisoners stood cramped together. Half-starved, horribly beaten and defeated, they watched him with dull eyes. Their scaled hides had been broken in places, and their tails had been cut. It was a sickening affair, to torture so many in such a way, but the Horse Master needed them angry; he needed them willing enough to save his country from their King.

"My people took you from your ships, though they denied it," Jacobs yelled at the prisoners; their expressions did not change, though they knew the language well enough. "Your King thinks you dead, yet here you are, shackled like whores. It does not have to remain this way."

A few growls, but no eyes left the Horse Master.

"I believe the Lord Defender has promised your freedom, once you have completed your task," Jacobs nodded at one of his attending Sword Brothers, and the man loosened the latch on the cage door. "Go now, and earn your way back into this bastard of a world."

Horse Master Jacobs was not a smart man in this instance, for three reasons. The first and undeniable one was that he was releasing five hundred or so tortured victims, and each of them held him responsible for both their captivity and treatment. The second reason, was that he had chosen to surround himself with ten warriors - though they were plated and well trained, they could not protect him against a tide of hundreds. The third reason, was that he believed the Lord Commander when he had told him that he and the Draconians had reached an agreement, and their interest was not in revenge. No, Horse Master Jacobs was not a smart man all over, it would be fair to say.

A brief stampede, and a clatter of steel.

Horse Master Jacob's head swiftly decorated a makeshift Karkarthian banner, and his men were flayed alive in an hour of savage gratification. Then, the lizards turned their gaze towards the beacon of lights high up above them. The City was undefended; this they had been told. Any other race may have fled, retreated to theri King to report the strange happenings on Adjutor Insula. These lizards however, were the Draconians of Karkarth, and their lust for revenge was tempered by their need to commit to conquest and glory.

Each one reasoned that it was within them to claim this fragile island; to storm the Citadel, and put the inhabitants to the sword. They could get word out of their achievements to their King, and sit tight as the legions of Karkarth broke across the sea. Yes, they could turn the pitiful human Lord's plan against him, and dine on his flesh that same evening.

Peace and War

"Long live, Guide Charity IX, the last of a long and stupid line," Lord Defender Marcus Aticus said cheerfully.

The Guide's mangled form lay sprawled across the Council Chamber; the six corpses of the Order Guard were nearby. Above the crackling of the hundred or so candles that were littering the place, Marcus could hear the feint sound of bells. He knew why they tolled, and he knew who they tolled for. Without a further pause, he dropped the Karkarthian blade - a thing of jagged obsidian - onto the Guide's corpse, and departed.

He was caked in gore from head to toe; his blonde hair matted in the stuff. He doubted anyone would recognise him - but there wouldn't be anyone around to do so. A hundred monks and scribes lay dead or dying elsewhere in the Palace, courtesy of his men. He chuckled aloud, as he realised how easy it had been to twist the minds of men devoted wholly to defence and protection of the innocent and the helpless.

"Throw a few seeds here and there," he sneered, as he walked down the corridor from the Council Chamber to the Bath House. "Let them grow. Add some gold, and praise the Gods of Old, we're away with it."

He paused briefly, to look through the stained glass window - one of many lining the corridor - and smiled broadly as he saw flames erupting from the dwellings just inside the walls. The Draconians had wasted no time, and they sure were determined; he knew they were looking for him, and more importantly, looking to win a war they couldn't hope to understand.

Still, no Saviour of the City could play their part clad in the blood of the Guide. He let his robes drop to the floor, scooped them up, and chucked them into a brazier.