Epilogue
Thunder roared and boomed across the turbulent skies far above Zagranthos, highlighting the streaks of lightning that illuminated the chaotic battlefield below. The clash had been a bloody one indeed, with mangled bodies from both sides littering the mud-strewn field that was now forever marred by the harsh consequences of war. Unseen and hidden within her smoked-filled veil, Zaphria had witnessed the entirety of the battle from the very beginning, spectating with distant yet unwavering interest. By inhaling the arcane fumes of her ornate hookah, the Sorcerer of the Court of Air was able to transfer her consciousness, along with that of the ever-cautious Ezimdala, to the climactic battle between the forces of Lycaon and Acheron, observing with unwavering interest as the fruits of her long-winded and extensive machinations finally unfolded in their totality.
Initially, the forces of the two City States appeared to be evenly matched to an extent, with Acheron having a notable strategic advantage, in terms of numbers and supplies, but with Lycaon’s warriors being the better fighters overall. However, as the grinding wheels of war spun with each passing moment, attrition and exhaustion slowly gripped the minds and bodies of each standing warrior, eventually tipping the scale of bloodshed towards Acheron’s favor. Zaphria and Ezimdala, ever-present in their incorporeal forms, saw how the warriors of Aecos, wolf-god of Lycaon, became overwhelmed, with their lines warped beyond salvation when the call for retreat came from their warrior queen, Niki. Amidst the bloodshed, as his guided arcane vision weaved in-and-out of the thick of battle, Ezimdala caught sight of a kneeling warrior: Diogenes loomed over Anthea’s broken body, roaring with a sense of primal victory despite the horrific injuries his body had sustained.
In a whirl of mystical fumes, much in the same way the two observers had entered the scene, the Air Sorcerer and the W’adrhŭn were spirited away, fusing their disembodied consciousnesses with their physical forms once more. Ezimdala angrily waved away the smoke that still lingered near his face, while Zaphria placed the ornate stem of her hookah down by her side, offering a broad smile to the disgruntled captain. The both of them were located within a large tent, with the surrounding fabric enclosure fluttering through the constant lashing of unseen winds.
“And so, the battle is concluded. Acheron emerges as the victor while the wolf-spawn retreat back to their den to lick their wounds – but at what cost?” Zaphria covered her mouth as she spoke, giggling ever so slightly. With a flick of her wrist, a strong gust erupted from underneath her, raising her relaxed figure from the mound of silk pillows that had acted as her throne. “You should be proud of your work, honorable captain. The denizens of the City States remained unaware of this arrival – as was planned…” As she spoke, the Sorcerer motioned for the W’adrhŭn to follow her, raising the flap that was covering the tent’s exit with one arm.
Outside, they were greeted by a spacious and relatively barren landscape, with little in the way of natural vegetation and highlighted by the stifling heat radiating from the unobstructed sun above. The immediate site surrounding the tent was a sprawling well of construction and activity, with supply crates and other such materials being ferried through streams of unnatural wind from the nearby ships. The skeletal outline of a city was already visible, unnerving Ezimdala due to the rapid development of it all. Buildings, towers, walls, and other such infrastructure were forming before the W’adrhŭn’s very eyes – aided by preternatural means that complimented the considerable manpower of the newly arrived settlers.
“The plumeheads are not so easily defeated,” stated the captain flatly. “They fight amongst themselves, yes, but they will unite against a greater threat.”
A flash of concern creeped across Zaphria’s face, prompting the woman to scowl. “One step at a time, captain. Do not think for a moment that I have not planned for all possible scenarios and threats…” Exhaling, the Sorcerer turned her head, dragging her gaze across the city that was taking form around her. “For now, we celebrate our success. The great city of Havejaat, settlement of the Court of Air, has been finally birthed!”
* * *
The Warlord waited. He waited for days. He waited for months. And then, Iulios finally walked on bearing the news he had expected.
“They have landed, Warlord, and they are building their city.”
For the first time in months, the Warlord nodded – and the dozen guards outside his office stirred, a ripple of movement like a skin crawling in anticipation.
“Soon, then,” he said.
“Soon, sir?” Iulios remarked. “Should we not strike before the city is well established? Before more arrive?”
“No. I wish not to unite the living – and that is what our presence would accomplish. No, Iulios, we will wait. Wait for them to fight each other, wait for them to kill each other. And kill each other they will; over riches and food. The grain plains around their landing site, most likely, will be the start. Then, more will come to support their foothold on the continent and they too will fight with the children of Plato.”
He got up; a simple move, that living eyes would register as odd from one still so perfectly so far.
“But worry not. They will not finish each other off. We will deliver vengeance to the patricides ourselves.”
He paused, standing before the ruined window that overlooked his still army.
“Dismissed,” he added simply.
View on the Living World!
Prologue
Apollonia, the head handmaiden of the Twin Oracles, stared out from the main temple tower, looking down at the city, Pankratis, that was spread out before her very eyes. The temple itself, the Pantheon, high as it was upon the city’s central hill, had already attracted a twisting mass of crawling faithful, starting from Pankratis’ outer walls and reaching the Pantheon’s gates at the city’s very center. Apollonia saw them march towards the temple, closing her eyes momentarily as she imagined their prayers and sacred pleas – hundreds of them – that were being uttered at this very moment. Pilgrims to the City of Oracles, as was Pankratis’ unofficial title, would travel from all corners of the City States Peninsula in the hopes of being granted a morsel of divine wisdom from the blessed twin seers themselves – sisters, with the supposed gift of divine foresight, that had devoted their entire lives to speaking the will of the multitude of gods that were worshiped across all City States, both great and small. To arrive at the Pantheon and kneel before the Oracles, those religious travelers that came to Pankratis dropped to their knees before entering the city proper, marching on all fours from the city gates and reaching the temple in such a fashion.
Often enough, Apollonia would hear them outside the temple gates, worn down by exhaustion and calling for blessings and miracles alike; they sought to gaze upon the Oracles with their own eyes, wishing to bask in the presence of the divine. Apollonia would appease them from time to time, parading the forms of the hallowed seers before the masses and providing them with the gift of renewed faith. The head handmaiden knew well that these people had endured considerable hardship to reach the Pantheon – as was evident by their bloody knees and tattered garments – but had to be mindful of the Oracles’ precious time, nonetheless. The seers were to offer their true gifts only to those with the means to claim them: individuals of prestige and power that could support the Pantheon in return – such was the way of things.
Pankratis’ designation as an oracle city – one of the most prominent such locations within the entire peninsula, for there were several who claimed the gift of divine foresight – spawned from its unique origin, as it was originally founded as a place of worship, not a city proper. Long ago, a congregation of faithful made their way atop the hill the Pantheon was founded upon. These were men and women from different cities that worshiped different gods, yet they wished to merge their faith into something greater – something that would honor all deities that were venerated within the City States equally and without prejudice. Thus, through the need for unified worship, the temple known as the Pantheon was born, establishing sacred ground where all the gods of the City States would be revered with equal and unfettered fervor. As the temple grew in size and influence, attracting settlers from across the wider region and creating the city of Pankratis around it, two priestesses – twins – claimed to have gained the gift of divine foresight, with the legend stating that these two women were connected to all the divine entities venerated within the Pantheon and had gained their combined blessing as a result, becoming seers without equal. Since then, the mantle of the Twin Oracles has been donned by many sisters: twins, plucked away from their families from a young age and imbued with prophetic powers through a secretive ritual process.
The latest of these twins were seated behind Apollonia, groaning in unison as the head handmaiden turned to face them. They looked old, with wrinkly, sagging skin and wispy white hair that reached down to their ankles; however, Apollonia knew their true age, for they were barely older than her – around thirty years of age. The rituals required to forge an Oracle of Pankratis were severely draining on one’s body, for each twin was expected to regularly consume a potent narcotic mixture, so that they could better commune with the gods as a pair. As such, the Oracles aged rapidly, losing a noticeable part of their youth and sanities with each passing day; the deteriorating state of the Twin Oracles is why Apollonia’s position as the head handmaiden is so critical. The handmaidens of the Pantheon are tasked with maintaining the integrity and well-being of the Oracles, ensuring that they can conduct their miraculous readings frequently and without hindrances. Apollonia’s central duty, as the head handmaiden, is to interpret the prophetic ramblings of the Oracles as their sole representative, for the twins speak in a muddled fashion that only she is fit to understand and reshape into a clear message.
Apollonia turned around and away from the balcony opening that acted as her observation perch, facing the pair of haggard twins that looked at her with questioning gazes. The Oracles were seated on two hefty chair-like contraptions, carved from wood and supported by a pair of spoked wheels each; the twins’ figures were slumped and warped, with crooked spines and twisted limbs that radiated with an aura of constant, acute discomfort. Apollonia walked towards them with a smile, hugging a deep bowl, filled with what seemed to be plain porridge, with one hand and a wooden spoon with the other.
“Come now, my dears. It is time to eat. You have quite the big day ahead of you!” spoke the woman with a tone that appeared stern yet pulsed with near-paternal authority.
The twins mumbled in an incomprehensible fashion, crooning with child-like joy as a spoonful of steaming slop reached each of their mouths in turns; they had no teeth, sucking on the spoon with misshapen lips and barren gums.
“The warrior queen of Lycaon, Niki, has come to visit you,” carried on Apollonia. “You see, her god – Aecos the wolf god, you know him – has grown silent, hunting as a scavenger alone and away from his people. The poor queen needs her god’s assurance for what to do next. Rumor has it Lycaon has been fighting over some quarries to the west with Laurion: a simple conflict, not worthy of the City States. Not to mention that foolish rebellion that took place near Lycaon’s southern borders; Niki had to take care of that herself – poor thing…”
The Oracles gazed at their caretaker with instinctual adoration, reaching out with their frail arms to touch her ivory-hued visage.
Apollonia gently pushed away both of their gnarled hands, placing the bowl on a nearby table and reaching out to caress the twins’ heads. “Oh, my lovelies, I don’t think the wolf god would want his queen to occupy her forces with such unworthy tasks: neither does our new friend, the captain, who brought you all those beautiful foreign toys and trinkets. He said he can bring us more gifts; he has exotic friends, from far away, that have access to all sorts of marvelous presents – just for you!”
The twins clapped their hands, giggling with palpable excitement as the head handmaiden wiped streaks of drool from their mouths.
“I would imagine Aecos wants Niki to head up north; she has some unfinished business concerning Acheron that needs to be solved. Lycaon once wanted a city that lies near the mountains north from here, but Acheron got in their way. I don’t think Aecos would let such an insult persist for much longer. Neither does our new friend – and his friends. Neither does Niki.”
The twins looked at each other and nodded, muttering half formed gibberish under their breath. They then turned to look at Apollonia, their bulging eyes pulsating with child-like adoration.
They loved her; for that, the head handmaiden was certain – and with love also came the prospect of obedience. Such was the true currency of Pankratis: those seeking the blessing and services of the Oracles would come from far and wide, bringing with them a wealth of information. Such information, Apollonia knew, was more valuable than gold, for it could be sold and traded, creating streams of influence that now expand across the City States Peninsula. A favorable foretelling regarding a potential trade alliance, or an unfavorable prediction of a future war, could very well alter the flow of history; for such services, certain individuals were willing to trade everything in return. Pankratis was a weak city, lacking an army and expansive lands to supply it; it relied on favors and a constant influx of influence and information. That undeniable truth never left the head handmaiden’s mind: her role was one of balance, balancing the realm of the divine alongside that of diplomatic equilibrium.
Pulling Apollonia out of her thoughts, another handmaiden entered the Oracles’ abode, exclaiming with fear in her voice. “My lady, the queen Niki of Lycaon has arrived!”
The descent to the Pantheon’s central chamber took several minutes, with Apollonia feeling her heart thump with each downward step. Her destination was a gigantic circular room, surrounded at all sides by the statues of numerous deities: some were well-known and commanded considerable respect, while others were obscure and had a more modest following – it mattered not, all were worshiped here. At the center of the room was a great bronze brazier, flanked by an elevated platform that housed two unoccupied golden thrones; Apollonia darted between them, exhaling with flushed cheeks as she greeted the gathering of warriors before her. “Great Niki of Lycaon. Chosen queen of Aecos. Pankratis and the Twin Oracles welcome you within this sacred place of worship!”
Niki took a step forward, separating herself from her armor-clad honor guard. The queen’s voice was harsh, booming out like the clang of two weapons clashing. “I am to speak with the Oracles. You are not them.”
“Their Holinesses are preparing as we speak, great queen. I merely took the opportunity, while the final arrangements for the sacred ritual are taking place, to discuss the matter of your donation—”
“My donation?! Speak plainly. You want payment.”
Apollonia swallowed, feeling Niki’s bluntness punch through her like a winter gale. “Your highness, such are the ways of the Pantheon. For the Oracles’ services – for their divine wisdom and god-given foresight – you must offer something of value in return.”
Niki ground her teeth angrily, glaring at the head handmaiden with fury in her eyes. “Will the Oracles speak of Aecos and his will? Will their words lead me to new conquest? Will their blessing allow me to reclaim Lycaon’s past honor?!”
Apollonia paused, yet again stunned by the warrior queen’s blasphemous directness: there are rules to such transactions – unspoken rules – and Niki was stepping on centuries-worth of established decorum. “Great queen… I cannot say with certainty what the hallowed Oracles will see in their visions; foresight is their divine gift, not mine. However, I know that a suitable offering, from a leader as pious as you, will please their spirits: it will please the gods that are worshiped here and allow them to convey their will with clarity.”
“I only care for one god, my god, and he has grown silent,” snarled Niki. “Very well. What do the Oracles want from me?”
“Customarily, an offering of three thousand gold coins is expected from leaders of state such as yourself,” stated Apollonia with a bow, “but another arrangement could be made in your case…”
“Which is?!”
“Lycaon is known for its great warriors, and I am told your personal guard contains some of the best combatants throughout the known world. Grant us your best warrior to serve as the Oracles’ bodyguard and lifelong protector, so that they may know peace and security while conducting their sacred duties – that would be a truly honorable offering.” As she spoke, Apollonia pointed at a towering figure within Niki’s honor-guard, the legendary warrior Akakios. The man was immense in stature and heavily muscled, covered in impossibly thick armor and brandishing a battleaxe that was nearly as tall as Niki herself: to lose him was to lose an invaluable battlefield asset – Akakios was an army of one. On the other hand, Lycaon had been starved of resources and supplies over the past few months, leaving its forces with precious few funds to support them; Niki knew she had a potentially arduous campaign ahead of her, and she needed every coin she could spare to supply her troops.
“So, you want gold or my best warrior, yes?” snarled Niki once more.
“Either of these gifts would make for a proper donation, indeed…”
Niki turned around to look at Akakios, who responded with a single dip of his granite-carved chin: he had no hesitation in his eyes, for he was willing to sacrifice everything for his queen. Niki, on the other hand, was struggling to make a choice – yet she had to make one now. Aecos had gone silent for far too long, and the queen of Lycaon needed divine reassurance in order to make her next move.
WHICH OFFERING WILL NIKI PRESENT TO THE TWIN ORACLES OF PANKRATIS?
Choice
- NIKI OFFERS AKAKIOS, HER MOST CAPABLE WARRIOR.
- NIKI OFFERS THREE THOUSAND GOLD COINS
Chapter 1
With a low, guttural growl, exhaling through her nostrils with evident annoyance, Niki motioned towards Akakios, who, without hesitation, went by his queen’s side. Niki reached for the man’s forearm and gripped it, the man doing the same in return. “Know that your sacrifice here honors Lycaon – it honors us all!” stated the queen, never breaking eye-contact with the warrior. “For Lycaon!” barked Akakios, showing no emotion, no weakness. “For Lycaon!” barked back Niki, letting go of the man as he made his way towards Apollonia.
With a smile, Apollonia nodded at the man and signaled towards one of the other, lower-ranking, handmaidens. “Please show the great Akakios to his new guard-captain’s quarters. Also, prepare the Oracles for the grand ritual; we are ready to begin!” The woman bowed and left with Akakios’ heavy steps trailing behind her. The twin seers arrived not too long after, positioned upon a great wooden palanquin that was laden with fine silk pillows and other such opulent garments; the two haggard women appeared confused, muttering incoherently amongst themselves and occasionally glancing towards Niki’s general direction with pale, almost vacant eyes. To them, the warrior queen of Lycaon was another blurry countenance amongst a roiling sea of shifting faces and features; only Apollonia’s form glowed with perceived serenity amongst the chaos that was their reality, urging them to extend their frail arms towards her as she approached.
Grasping a hand from each Oracle in a motherly fashion, the head hand maiden spoke with a renewed air of authority, addressing Niki directly. “Now that the matter of your offering has been settled, oh great queen, the Oracles are ready to proceed with their most sacred ritual. Brace yourself, for the divine is about to make itself known within the sacred walls of the Pantheon!”
Niki said nothing in response, her sharp features remaining unchanging and brimming with the persistent harshness that was central to her temperament. She was there to observe the will of Aecos, not to partake in pompous ceremonies and pointless speeches – such was not the way of Lycaon.
The Oracles were removed from their joint palanquin and placed upon their respective thrones, with Apollonia standing between the two like a silent guardian. The head handmaiden was brandishing a large golden censer, which spat out tufts of thick, purple-hued smoke from its metallic orifices. At the center of it all, the great temple brazier roared with vibrant flames, crackling in anticipation of the flesh-bound offering that was expected to burn during such hallowed occasions. A minotaur entered the room, hauling alongside him a sizable mountain goat through a length of rope and wielding a semi-circular scythe with a firm grip. The terrified animal brayed and bucked at the sight of the roaring inferno before it, pulling against its leash with near-feral desperation. The minotaur huffed angrily, yanking at the rope with a powerful arm and propelling the terrified animal across the air; the goat landed against the brazier’s brass shell with a loud clang, releasing an almost human-like scream as its skull was cracked open. Without wasting a single moment, the minotaur grabbed the sacrifice by the neck and lifted it above the fire, slicing it open from head to rear and letting its sopping innards tumble into the hissing inferno below. As the unfortunate mountain goat died out, the minotaur flung its disemboweled corpse into the hungering flames – releasing a burst of fragrant smoke as the animal was scorched into nothingness.
“Oh, Aecos!” exclaimed Apollonia, raising both slender arms above her head. “Accept this offering of life and flesh; feast upon the rich smoke that rises into your heavenly domain and share with us your wisdom. Your loyal subject, Niki, wishes to know of your will, so that she may better guide Lycaon under your divine banner. What prey shall your troops pursue, oh wolf god?! Towards which direction should your earthly fangs aim their fury?”
As the blackened fumes that rose from the brazier increased in intensity, eating away at the animal sacrifice until only fine ash and cracked bones remained, Apollonia took hold of her censer once more, stepping towards the Oracles as religious intent pulsated across her features. She raised the device before each of the twins, blowing into it with pursed lips and sending a torrent of mind-altering smoke into their wrinkled faces. The Oracles breathed deep of the airborne narcotics, though not by choice, almost immediately going into a state of violent convulsions. Both women trembled and foamed at the mouth, tensing their frail bodies to the point where they appeared as if they would snap. Eventually, the Oracles began to relax, only to lash out and grip each of Apollonia’s arms, erecting themselves with unnatural strength and bringing their misshapen lips close to her ears – their words were mostly incomprehensible, yet a few fragments of meaning soon arose to the surface.
“A great wind comes from faraway lands…” spoke the first Oracle.
“It howls! Can you not hear it?! It whirls around the domain of he-who-judges-the-dead – it seeks purchase… Do not let it become a tempest!” spoke the second Oracle.
Apollonia smiled at the words, attempting to distance herself from the twins, as she thought their prophesying to have concluded. The Oracles gripped her with unnatural strength in response, weaving one last word-bound enigma before fainting from exhaustion, slumping back in their thrones.
“A fire flickers in the west; it lashes at the bull’s temper…”
“More may follow – more will follow…”
The head handmaiden blinked, finally pulling herself away from the twins and turning around to face Niki and her entourage. Clearing her throat, she spoke once more, presenting her official interpretation of the prophecy with uncontested finality.
“Great Queen! The Oracles have spoken, and their words carry the wisdom of the divine! A great tempest brews around the domain of Acheron; it is a threat in the making that should not be allowed to materialize. Your duty, the task given to you by Aecos, is to cut down this anomaly before it becomes too strong—”
“Am I to head towards Zagranthos then?!” barked the warrior queen, her voice cutting through Apollonia’s own. “Am I to reach the city and claim it for Lycaon?! It has remained within the treacherous clutches of Acheron for far too long!”
Apollonia said nothing, simply dipping her chin in suggested agreement.
Niki offered a curt nod in return, signaling her men to follow her and turning around to leave the Pantheon. “So be it!” exclaimed the queen one last time, exiting the temple.
A few hours later, Niki had gathered her entire army outside the walls of Pankratis: her warriors were prepared and ready to follow her every command, showing nothing but drive and perseverance within their unflinching gazes. Before such an impressive gathering, consisting of combatants of elite stature and skill, the queen of Lycaon addressed Anthea – her scoutmaster and one of the more capable and tactically minded warriors under her command.
“Anthea, you are to take a splinter-force and march ahead of the main army towards Zagranthos. Force their hand and draw them out in the open; weaken them before we deliver the final strike,” spoke Niki, donning her helmet.
“Which route am I to take, my queen?” responded Anthea dryly, facing Niki with determined eyes. “The mountains to the north will assure we travel undetected, but they hold many dangers – the biting cold being the least of them. The flatlands to the northeast are tamer, but they will make us visible and notify Acheron of our presence.”
Niki hummed for a moment, weighing both options within her mind before gesturing to Anthea to follow her. “Join me within the command tent. We will consult the maps and make a choice today!”
Back inside the Pantheon, Apollonia stood before the Oracles, staring at them with a warm smile dangling from her lips – they were still passed out, plummeting within the reaches of a deep and all-encompassing slumber. Poor things, she thought, they are exhausted; their burden is truly immense. Before she could complete her thought-process, a lower ranking handmaiden entered the Oracles’ abode, speaking with a curtsy. “The captain you requested has arrived, lady.”
“Good. Let him in.”
Keklofas entered the room and offered a half-hearted bow, smiling at the head handmaiden as he spoke. “Has it been done?”
“Yes,” responded Apollonia with a hint of displeasure. “Lycaon has its bone to pick with Acheron as you requested – your masters will be pleased.”
“They are professional partners, if anything; I have no master…” hissed Keklofas, trying to mask his annoyance with yet another half-bow.
“I care not what you call them. You got what you asked for. I expect the offerings to arrive in Pankratis as agreed – plentiful and at regular intervals! Now, leave us…”
“And so they will. I assure you my acquaintances are most generous with their allies!” With that, Keklofas made to leave, only to be halted by Apollonia once more.
“Are there more of them?” inquired the head handmaiden. “Are there others like your allies – reaching for our shores?”
“Not that I know of,” responded Keklofas, evidently caught off guard, confusion seeping out from his features.
“Very well,” concluded Apollonia, turning around to hide her concern. “You may leave.”
Which route will Anthea and the Lycaon splinter-force take to reach Zagranthos?
Choice
- They will travel through the mountains to the north.
- They will travel through the flatlands to the north-east.
Chapter 2
Agis the Bloodyhanded, leader of the mountain-bandits known as the Pelt Takers – for members of the band were infamous for hunting down the local wolves and draping themselves with their skinned furs – stared into the craggy ravine that stretched on before him. The mountains were engulfed with thick fog, melding with the snow-covered backdrop to form a near-singular, hard-to-navigate mass. Agis tugged on the layer of furs that was draped over his shoulders, shivering ever so slightly at the intense cold – not to mention the howling. The mountain trails and passages frequented by the Pelt Takers were prone to wolf infestations, but nothing had prepared the bandit-leader for the endless, unexplained dirge that reverberated through his snowy domain that very day. This is a bad omen, thought Agis, instinctively reaching for the sword hilt at his waist. The man winced, thinking that the wolves seemed to get closer with each passing moment; they never got this close, for they had learned to fear the bandits’ blades over the years. Agis waved the thought away with a flick of his gloved hand – his newest victims were approaching, and he could not risk losing his focus over such childish fears.
Anthea appeared from within the ravine, followed by numerous warriors that trailed behind her in a long, winding line. The stone-carved passage traversed by Lycaon’s forces was narrow, flanked by harsh cliff-faces on both sides and leveling-off at the point where the bandit leader and his gathered forces were standing. The elevated sides of the mountain pass were covered with thick foliage, with the alpine forest extending to the very edge of the cliffs and almost spilling into the gorge below; gnarled and bent trees extended into mid-air and loomed over those that traveled below, appearing as misshapen, ghoulish limbs for those that passed under them. Niki’s scoutmaster stopped as she spotted Agis through the wavering mist, raising her fist as she gave the wordless command for her warriors to do the same. In the distance, the howling inched ever closer – the men and women of Lycaon did not seem to mind.
“Welcome, travelers, to the realm of the Pelt Takers. I am the great warlord Agis the Bloodyhanded; I am sure you are familiar with—”
“Enough!” barked Anthea with anger bubbling within her voice, her words leaving a slight echo as they reached the ears of the gathered bandits. “State your purpose or remove yourself from our way. You stand before warriors of Lycaon, not a frightened merchant caravan!”
Agis swallowed dryly: the followers of Aecos had a truly fearsome reputation, producing some of the most capable warriors throughout the City States Peninsula. However, Anthea’s band was spread-out and confined within the ravine, and the bandits were more numerous in their totality. The warlord of the Pelt Takers had planted several of his men within the forested areas that overlooked the mountain passage, equipping them with bows, rocks, and other such death-dealing means with which they could decimate those that stood below.
“I would reconsider your tone, cur. You and your men are caught in a trap of my making. You are to surrender your weapons and supplies before me, or my warriors – many of whom are unseen to you – will make this here passage your grave!” called out Agis, unsheathing his sword and pointing at Anthea with its sharpened tip.
The mist-veiled howling grew ever closer, spilling through the nearby woods in jagged waves of sound.
Anthea laughed, raising her spear and aiming it towards the bandit-leader in response. “You want our weapons?! Come and get them!”
Agis scoffed at the remark, pulling a war-horn from underneath his pelts and blowing into it: this was meant to act as a signal for his forest-veiled troops, urging them to unleash their hidden wrath upon their uncooperative victims below. The bandit-lord waited, smiling broadly at what was about to come – yet the result was not what he expected. He first mistook them for small boulders, seeing their uneven spherical forms tumble into the ravine in the dozens; they were not flung onto Anthea and her warriors as expected, but landed near Agis and his throng instead. It was only when one rolled near the arch-bandit that Agis realized what he was looking at…
They were severed heads. They were the heads of his men.
The howling from within the fog began to intensify as Anthea charged ahead alongside her men, rushing straight for the fear-stunned bandits and their leader. Agis felt his heart pound as he braced himself for combat; behind him, the voice of one of his followers dug into his soul like a scalpel. “We are surrounded! There are more of them!” From within the fog, now filled with constant howling that emanated from a truly dangerous proximity, Agis, warlord of the Pelt Takers, saw the truth for the first time – recognizing the shapes that emerged from within the haunting mist.
“Gods! Those are not wolves… Those are men!”
The forces of Lycaon have surrounded the mountain-bandits and are guaranteed victory! How will Anthea deal with the captured survivors?
Choice
- Keep them alive and force them to serve Lycaon – they might prove useful in the future.
- Kill them all – the mountain-bandits are weak and of no use to Lycaon.
Chapter 3
Euandros gave the messenger from Zagranthos his full and undivided attention, forming a triangle with both hands and pressing it against his lips; the commander of the fortress city of Petrapolis was no stranger to dire news, yet he had not expected any unsavory tidings to arrive from Zagranthos of all places. Petrapolis was no regular settlement: it was a fortified bastion, housing a permanent garrison and being well equipped with supplies and military equipment. The purpose of such a shield city was to maintain the influence and enforce the will of Radamanthos – Acheron’s divine patron, and the protector of the City States Peninsula from the many dangers that lurked beyond its eastern borders. Specifically, Petrapolis was built alongside a great dam that controlled the water reserves of the city’s attached lake, with the barrier capable of flooding the entire region if the situation ever called for it.
Essentially, and Euandros was fully aware of said reality, Petrapolis was never meant to grow and prosper as a regular city: it was there as a meticulously designed failsafe, primed to unleash a flash-flood that would hinder any and all enemies that would encroach upon Acheron through that position. However, the admittedly extreme measure of cracking open the city’s dam and flooding the surrounding lands in an aquatic deluge was just that, a desperate last measure; Petrapolis’ garrison had repelled most major threats that had endangered Acheron thus far, with the city protecting its assigned borders with unmatched diligence. While there was some civilian life within the city, the majority of Petrapolis’ denizens were soldiers and military personnel, all tasked with keeping the fortified settlement and the surrounding regions protected and firmly under Acheron’s grasp.
Turning back to the matter at hand – as Euandros’ thoughts tended to wander from time to time, as his position as commander called for frequent introspection and a sizeable amount of quiet thinking – the military leader of Petrapolis never had any major threats or issues emerge from Zagranthos, which made the messenger’s report all that stranger to hear.
“So, let me get this straight. You’re saying that Zagranthos is under attack, correct?” spoke Euandros calmly.
“Correct, lord. By a terrible, terrible enemy that is! Our warriors can’t hope to fight such monsters…” answered the messenger from Zagranthos, wiping a nerve-induced bead of sweat from his brow.
“But, and correct me if I’m wrong, you have no idea who this enemy is, yes? As in, you’ve never actually seen who in Radamanthos’ good grace has been attacking you – am I getting this right?”
“Yes, lord! We haven’t been able to lay a single eye on these monsters. They come at night, burning buildings and attacking those that dare find themselves outside the city walls! They have yet to attack Zagranthos herself, aye, but our mayor fears that it is a matter of time until that happens too! None dare leave the city walls now; we can’t hunt or gather crops, and we’re running low on supplies… We’ve tried sending out warriors to find the enemy, but none of them have returned – the mayor believes them to be dead! Please, lord, you have to help us… Send us your warriors or Zagranthos will perish!”
Euandros fell into momentary silence once more, staring deeply into the messenger’s eyes: the man before him did not appear to be a liar – Petrapolis’ commander fancied himself a good judge of character – yet his tale seemed wild and highly unlikely. Euandros did not doubt that Zagranthos was under some sort of threat, though he was inclined to consider that the accounts given to him were blown out of proportion. Zagranthos was ever only frequented by trading caravans, some coming from deep within the Wasteland and manned by the W’adrhŭn, but no hostilities have arisen from such interactions thus far. Could be mountain-bandits, thought Euandros, for the mountain passages leading to the city have been reported to host wandering raider warbands at times – though such deviants never came close to Zagranthos and steered clear from any trading caravans going through it, lest they attract Acheron’s wrath. No, no – considered Euandros in his thoughts. This enemy is different. They are using fear – either because they lack manpower and are weak, or because they want to draw us out in the open. Finally, Euandros spoke once more, giving the messenger his answer and issuing the command for the troops that would be sent out to aid Zagranthos.
What are Euandros’ orders?
Choice
- Euandros sends out a token force to investigate the situation outside Zagranthos – their enemy is likely not a serious threat.
- Euandros sends out a well-armed and skilled force to deal with the hostilities outside Zagranthos – Petrapolis’ warriors are ordered to proceed with caution and take no unnecessary risks, for the enemy is likely more powerful than they suspect.
Chapter 4
Ezimdala stomped across the ship’s deck, his heavy footfalls thumping against the sleek wooden boards beneath him as he marched forward. It mattered not how many times he had been aboard this vessel – or any of the other ships that made up the modest fleet of his newfound allies – he found it impossible to get used to it. The vessel, much like its brothers and sisters that sailed alongside it, was smooth and elegant to behold, having an almost flowing appearance that was highlighted by soft, elongated curves. Such construction wasn’t just for show, Ezimdala had learned as much swiftly since they had begun their journey back to the mainland: these ships were aerodynamic, sailing alongside powerful winds as if they were materialized gales themselves.
The wind, thought the W’adrhŭn captain as he took another heavy step, the howling hasn’t ceased since we set sail – not once… The ships of the Court of Air and their piratic allies had experienced exceptionally fair winds since their departure from the lands of the Sorcerer Kings, making an otherwise long and arduous journey notably smooth and swift. Under regular circumstances, the Grey Scourge would have been grateful for such seafaring conditions – yet this was no normal occasion, and Ezimdala was growing progressively weary of the arcane trickery that was unfolding before his very eyes. This stinks like seagull shit, thought the captain as he almost fell backwards from an unexpected burst of wind. You twiddle your fingers, and your sails plump up like a waterlogged carcass underneath the summer sun – dishonest this is, and the sea has little patience for dishonest sailing.
Ezimdala swayed ever so slightly as the powerful gusts that caressed the entire vessel attempted to throw him off balance. Passing by the mainmast, which carried large ornate sails that roared and billowed with ever-flowing wind, the Grey Scourge froze momentarily, glimpsing the ethereal form of a specter flying above him with maddening speed. The sorcerous crew of the ship called them Djinn, Ezimdala had become familiar with the name, seeing such apparitions as allies – the W’adrhŭn captain, try as he did, could not get used to such aberrations, for their mystical presence unnerved him to his very core.
Reaching the high deck, located at the very back of the vessel, Ezimdala was greeted by two guards; the men stepped to the side, showing a degree of wordless familiarity as the W’adrhŭn’s musclebound figure passed between them. Behind the two warriors, occupying the ship’s pinnacle of command, stood a woman: garbed in airy ivory garments that fluttered in unison with the mystical winds that guided the vessels of the fleet under her command, the title Windtamer suited Zaphria remarkably well. The Sorcerer, brandishing the pointed stem of a massive, ornate hookah, gave the captain a nod of acknowledgement, beckoning him to join her with an extended arm. Tufts of fragrant smoke playfully coiled around Ezimdala as he approached the woman, smelling strongly of flowers and a plethora of fragrant herbs.
Zaphria smiled at the captain, offering a broad, toothy smile as she spoke. “Lateness does not suit you, honorable Ezimdala…”
“I came as soon as I could; I still have my own ship to manage, and hopping between vessels is not an easy task with such winds,” responded the W’adrhŭn with a grunt, narrowing his eyes considerably.
The Windtamer laughed, dismissing any perceived tension entirely. “Your subordinate, Keklofas, has succeeded wonderfully thus far. Acheron’s vigilance is beginning to falter, for the wolves of Lycaon have shown their bloodthirsty fangs. The way we are heading, the City States will be entirely unaware of our arrival – just as planned…”
“How can you speak of his success? He has yet to return,” stated Ezimdala, though he was certain that some sort of magical explanation was lying in wait.
“Ah! I forget your kind are limited in the ways of sorcery!” exclaimed Zaphria with a polite giggle, patting the Grey Scourge’s broad shoulder as she did so. The Windtamer poked the W’adrhŭn’s chest with the tip of her hookah’s smoking stem, urging him to taste its mystical vapors. “Come now, Ezimdala. See what I see. Observe the fruits of our collective labor in their fullest!”
Ezimdala looked down at the woman, giving a solitary nod of approval as he responded. “Very well. Show me.”
Zaphria placed the stem of the hookah onto her lips and inhaled, releasing a thick burst of arcane fumes onto the Grey Scourge’s face. Ezimdala had expected for the vapor to be warm – like regular smoke – yet it felt light and breezy against his skin, almost indistinguishable from the salty sea wind that had accompanied him for so long. In an instant, his surroundings slipped away into nothingness, replaced instead by the ethereal outline of an entirely new environment. The W’adrhŭn’s vision in this new world was blurry, obscured as if looking through foggy glass: there was no color in this world – the objects and figures witnessed by the captain radiated with the same mystical vapors that had transported him here to begin with. Around him, Ezimdala observed a violent clash that was just beginning to unfold, ducking reflexively to avoid a spear that was thrown his way. Immediately after, a warrior of the City States charged right through him, as if the Grey Scourge’s body wasn’t there.
“Worry not – they cannot see you. Though, I trust, you can see them…” came Zaphria’s voice like a soft breeze, echoing within Ezimdala’s overtaxed mind – though she was nowhere to be found.
“Yes,” hissed the W’adrhŭn, feeling his head pulsate with strain. “My vision is blurred, yet I still see. We are in a battle—”
“Indeed! A battle between Acheron and Lycaon. We are near the city of Zagranthos, far away from here, where warriors from the two City States are locked in a rather violent skirmish…”
Ezimdala heard the banging of shields and the clashing of weapons, seeing warriors lunge at each other with murderous intent. Coming from further away, the captain picked up the galloping of horses, seeing armored riders charge into the fray from the side.
“Lycaon’s warriors were hoping to ambush the forces sent by Acheron, but they were unsuccessful: Acheron’s troops proved well prepared and had planned for such a scenario. The clash now unfolds on equal footing, and its outcome remains undetermined…” Zaphria’s voice seemed amused, alluding to the presence of a pleased smile upon the Windtamer’s unseen features.
The Grey Scourge winced as a sword was thrusted through him, spilling the guts of the ethereal warrior that was standing in the W’adrhŭn’s place. “Both forces fight well. I see no clear victor,” responded Ezimdala, navigating the active scene with careful and calculated steps.
“Patience, honorable Ezimdala. The end of this chapter will reveal itself soon. We shall see it here. Together…”
Which City State will win the skirmish near Zagranthos?
Choice
- Lycaon is victorious.
- Acheron is victorious.
Chapter 5
“You cannot be serious!” cried out Diogenes, slamming the large wooden table that separated him from Zagranthos’ archon and the representative from Lycaon. Diogenes had arrived at Zagranthos as an official emissary from Acheron, expecting to find a grateful city that would shower him with praise and gratitude over the recent victory against Lycaon. Instead, Diogenes was met with Anthea, scoutmaster to queen Niki of Lycaon and leader of the wolf-god’s expedition in the area, who had bombarded the city’s archon with outrageous falsehoods.
“Archon Elektra,” spoke the man again, coughing slightly before regaining his composure to a degree. “Acheron’s forces – the forces your city requested – have dealt with the wolves at your doorstep. Lycaon’s warriors are scattered and fleeing as we speak; our men have shattered their battle-resolve and are committed to hunting down every last one of them!”
“You attacked us. That is true!” responded Anthea without allowing for a single moment of silence. “You attacked us without cause and without warning. You attacked while we were trying to help Zagranthos – your ally – against a threat you were incapable of dealing with!” The scoutmaster turned towards Elektra, nailing her gaze into the archon’s own as she continued. “Archon Elektra. As I said before, we were in the process of hunting down a group of dangerous bandits known as the Pelt Takers. We captured the warband’s leader – one Agis the Bloodyhanded – not too long ago at a nearby mountain-pass, but the bulk of the bandits managed to evade us. We learned that they were planning to raid Zagranthos’ territories, so we decided to follow their tracks! My men were in the process of searching for the bandits’ hideout when Acheron’s soldiers attacked us and destroyed all the progress we had made—”
“Archon! PLEASE! This is beyond idiotic!” barked out Diogenes, clenching both fists in an attempt not to strike the table again. “There are no bandits. Lycaon’s warriors were the ones that attacked your lands, and the force sent by Acheron put an end to them. For the love of Radamanthos: I suggest you put this lying cur to the sword and silence her venomous tongue once and for all!”
“The pikes at my camp attest otherwise,” argued Anthea. “They carry the corpses and heraldry of dead Pelt Takers: a warning to those that would threaten Zagranthos’ lands. I believe your own scouts can confirm that what I say is true!” Anthea never moved her gaze away from the archon’s eyes, showing absolute confidence in what she was saying.
Elektra responded with a restrained nod, her expression remaining neutral and emotionless. “My scouts have seen your camp, yes.”
“Lycaon was the first to send protection to Zagranthos – acting in silence, for we were committed to the hunt. We wish to become allies of this city in earnest; Lycaon only asks that you dismiss the warmongers from Acheron once and for—”
“Are you drunk?!” blared out Diogenes while turning to face Anthea, laughing as if to prove a point. “Do you think the archon will believe such poorly constructed lies?!” The emissary from Acheron turned to face Elektra yet another time. “Acheron, as always, prioritized Zagranthos’ wellbeing and prosperity. To think that—”
“Yet you did not rush to send aid. If it were not for my warriors, the damage to Zagranthos’ lands would have been much greater while you stalled inside your fortress!” interrupted Anthea, leading to a greater verbal escalation between herself and Diogenes.
Elektra stayed mostly silent as the two representatives quarreled for a good while longer. Arguments and supposed evidence came in from both sides like a deluge, flooding the archon’s head to the point where it felt like it was about to explode. In the end, Elektra had to make a decision as Zagranthos’ leader, and the wellbeing of her city was her primary concern.
How will Elektra, archon of Zagranthos, deal with the representatives from Acheron and Lycaon?
Choice
- Elektra dismisses Diogenes. – Zagranthos will cut all diplomatic ties with Acheron and become an ally of Lycaon instead.
- Elektra dismisses Anthea. – Zagranthos will maintain its alliance with Acheron and officially recognize Lycaon as its enemy.
- Elektra dismisses both representatives. – Zagranthos will distance itself from both Lycaon and Acheron, declaring diplomatic neutrality.
Chapter 6
Euandros, commander of the fortress city of Petrapolis under Acheron, stared at Diogenes for a truly unusually long stretch of time. The diplomatic envoy had been sent to the city of Zagranthos, along with a sizeable military detachment, seeking to aid the isolated settlement against an unseen enemy that was using terror tactics against the poorly defended populace. The enemy in question, as it turned out, was a group of warriors from Lycaon, who were – with immense effort and considerable casualties – defeated by Acheron’s force. All such information, as Diogenes gave his report to Petrapolis’ highest authority, made sense to Euandros: yet what had followed after that made no sense to him at all.
“Let me go over everything for the sake of clarity…” spoke Euandros, forming a triangle with both hands and leaning back into his throne.
“Yes, commander,” confirmed Diogenes, looking like the very definition of the word “resigned.”
“Zagranthos was under attack by an enemy they did not know the identity of and could not hope to deter in any way, yes?”
“Correct.”
“Petrapolis, through the grace of Acheron, sent out military aid, found the enemy, claimed to have identified it as Lycaon, and defeated said enemy, correct?”
“Indeed, commander.”
“And, after all was said and done, you stood before Zagranthos’ archon, Elektra, and found that an envoy from Lycaon was already there, claiming that we attacked them without cause, while… What were they supposed to be doing again?”
“The cur from Lycaon claimed we attacked them while they were chasing bandits in the nearby lands, claiming that those were the bandits that had attacked Zagranthos in the first place…”
“Are you sure they weren’t? Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? And Elektra expelled you both?”
“Not… directly. She said she would welcome any who help her people against raiders, but Zagranthos would play no part in this conflict between two great cities; she cannot be an ant trapped between bears. She was careful not to insult either, but her message was clear; leave, settle this but don’t play games, using her people’s lives as bets,” hissed Diogenes, barely containing the anger stirred from the memory.
Euandros chuckled bitterly. “But we don’t. The people are the cards; the pile of coins in the middle of the table is her city and its location. Strong, naïve Elektra refuses to acknowledge it; but Niki knows this all too well.” He reached into his tunic and pulled out a bound scroll, waving it with one arm above his head. “Two days ago, I received this; have you any clue what it is about?!”
“Can’t say I do, com—”
“Niki herself has been spotted traversing the flatlands to the west with a proper army in tow. Those wolf worshipping barbarians are heading straight for Zagranthos with a bloody occupying force.”
Diogenes gulped audibly before he spoke, feeling cold sweat drip down from his forehead. “The city won’t stand a chance against Niki. How do you plan to stop them?”
“I’m not stopping them,” stated Euandros, taking a step back and sitting on his throne. “After Elektra’s decision, she can just march right in for all I care. Niki has a head start, Zagranthos offers no strong defenses to speak of and I’ll be the first to admit the wolf-queen is the superior warrior between us. But not the superior strategist, I think. I’ve sent word to Acheron for reinforcements. We will wait to overwhelm her. In the meantime…”
He paused, stroking his chin, thoughtfully. “Yes,” he muttered in the end. “Perhaps Elektra’s decision might work to our benefit. For now, we will disrupt their supply lines and bar any further reinforcements from reaching the wolf queen. That will pressure her and, in turn, will press Zagranthos, as she will rely on their storages for feeding her army.”
“Commander, Zagranthos can’t feed an army and Lycaon is not known for its gentle touch; the city and its people will suffer immensely.”
“Yes, that is the point,” said Euandros. “Remember the cards, Diogenes. Niki will need supplies for her army and if her supply lines are disrupted, she will have to take them from Zagranthos. We would do the same if we had to defend it. But now, let Niki be the one that drains their storages. When our army comes, we will be the saviors and, in the long run, the cards will play in our favor.”
“If there’s any cards left…”
Euandros exhaled audibly. “Eyes on the coins, Diogenes. People endure. No matter how few remain, they will keep Zagranthos alive in the end. Not even Lycaon would remove Zagranthos or its people from the map; because they want them there and Zagranthos up and running as much as we do. The location is what’s important, the supply station for those controlling the trade routes north; and the artifacts and riches the barbarian tribes bring from the east is what’s important to Acheron.”
“Commander, do we really need to base our victory on the misery of Zagranthos?”
“I do not take the decision lightly, Diogenes.”
“We could just not disrupt their supply lines, gather strength then strike. We risk further reinforcements reaching Niki but…”
Choice
- “No. We cannot afford sentimentality.” – This will offer Acheron a slight advantage in the battles ahead.
- “As you wish. Perhaps some better sleep at night can be gained this way.” – This will offer Lycaon a slight advantage in the battles ahead.
Chapter 7
The wind howled as the two armies made their way towards each other, the husk that was once Zagranthos looming over them both from atop a nearby hill. Niki had bled the city dry, Diogenes had gathered that much from the trickle of refugees they had encountered on their way here, pressing its citizens for supplies and sustenance, though they had none to spare. He saw Lycaon’s main army gather ahead of Acheron’s battle lines, marching with their spears aloft and their shields at the ready. Diogenes expected his enemies to be tired, for Acheron had denied them of their precious supply-lines for long enough, in the meantime calling for reinforcements that now gave the army from Petrapolis a sizeable numerical advantage. Tired, exhausted even, but Diogenes was not foolish enough to consider his enemy weak: the warriors from Lycaon were the better fighters, individually speaking, and a cornered wolf was a ravenous and unpredictable foe. Acheron had an advantage, but the battle was far from won.
Above them, the heavens had assumed an ominous grey color, with what little sunlight remained being slowly obscured by the gathering storm-clouds. Rain, thought Diogenes. Great. Freakish, unnatural winds had emerged from the south not too long ago, bringing with them storms and erratic rainfall; they had now reached further inland, disrupting the natural way of things. Diogenes looked up, beholding the largest of the clouds through the opening of his helmet. For a single moment, the cloud appeared as the head of a large wolf, snarling at those below; the very next second, it assumed the shape of a man’s head, bearded and gaunt as it hovered far above the earth. Then Diogenes blinked, and the cloud appeared in its natural state once more, roaring with thunder as droplets of rain began to fall from the heavens.
The two armies stopped in the middle of a muddy, uneven field, standing still amidst a momentary stretch of tense silence. Diogenes could hear only the pitter-patter of the falling raindrops as they struck the armor of himself and those around him, taking in a big gulp of air as he braced for what would inevitably follow. Lycaon’s charge was a terrifying sight, filled with the roars and howling of some of the best warriors in the City States. Aecos’ followers advanced like beasts trapped within the bodies of mortal men, showing no fear or hesitation as they barreled towards Acheron’s lines – only pure, unadulterated lethal intent. As the two opposing armies were about to collide, gaps across Acheron’s shield-wall opened without warning: from within emerged armored Minotaurs, wielding great weapons of war that dripped with moisture. The monstrous Bred swung with all their might, momentarily dulling the might of Lycaon’s charge and turning the pooling water underneath their hooves a deep crimson. Immediately after their shock troops had completed their gory deed, the rest of Acheron’s troops joined the fray, commencing the battle in earnest. As the chaos of battle came into full effect, with steel clashing against steel, the heavens reached their storm-bound crescendo, intensifying the harsh rainfall into a proper deluge that washed over the violence below.
Initially, Diogenes held the line with Acheron’s main bulk, only for it to eventually collapse, forcing the two armies to intermingle with each other. The dirge of bloodshed was deafening, with soldiers battling and falling from both sides. Much like the curves of a river change their shape and flow over the years, the stream of battle also altered its course, leading to separated pockets of violence as time passed. Amidst this gory display, with the dead, lifeless figures of fallen warriors pressing against the soft mud below, Diogenes saw a familiar figure move towards him – Anthea. The scoutmaster’s left arm was limp, hanging onto a shattered shield that thumped against her armor.
“You’re injured!” called out Diogenes, raising his shield and scraping his sword against its blood-smeared surface.
With a jerk of her shoulder, Anthea threw her damaged shield to the ground, pointing the tip of her spear towards Diogenes with the other. “I’m still more than a match for you, weakling!” hissed the scoutmaster, baring her teeth.
In a flash of lightning, the two warriors charged at each other – yet there could only be one victor…
The forces of Queen Niki of Lycaon and Commander Euandros of Acheron are currently clashing. Which City State will emerge as the final victor?
Choice
- Acheron
- Lycaon