Back to the Deep

In the space between heartbeats, Hethir's view changed from the monster's toothy maw to gleaming armor. Struggling to haul himself upright, he saw Trace standing in front of him, shield held up as though he would fend off the massive monster with it. Strangely, it seemed to be working. Golden sparks fizzled and shot away from the shield, and Hethir realized that the knight was using the shield as a focus; blocking with magic and not mere steel. The teeth of the beast continued to grind and gnash on the barrier to no avail. Though as Hethir watched, he could see Trace shaking with exertion. The effort of holding the beast back was clearly taking its toll. "Trace, do you think you could kill that thing if I got you close enough?" Hethir regained his feet shakily, but his gaze was steady again.
"Maybe? It isn't of this world, Lumis will want it destroyed."
"Good enough, get ready."

From Deep Below

Hethir was barely managing to stay ahead of the tentacles and teeth that seemed to endlessly seek after him, but it seemed like he was getting better at avoiding them. It doesn't seem to be trying as hard...
Sparing a moment to glance behind him, he immediately saw why. Dozens of tentacles--and the blinded head--had become tangled up in the rigging, sails, and masts. This would be cause for celebration, except that it was now struggling to free itself, and would soon begin destroying the ship in its efforts.
Mary was casting again, though she was no longer dancing, and her spells were not having quite the obliterative effect of earlier, but the monster was clearly injured.  Garius and Michael had each grouped up a few sailors and set to keeping the tentacles away from the masts as much as possible.
Much as the man seemed like little better than a thug most of the time, Hethir had to admit that Garius had more than earned his pay on the voyage so far. Val had hidden herself in the cabin; a wise choice considering there was nothing she could do to assist in this fight. That left only Trace unaccounted for.

Wave Wreck

The Storm Hawk made progress towards the wreck slowly. Michael was approaching cautiously, letting the wind carry them well beside the wreck before closing on it. If they did need to leave, the wind would be full in their sails. As they got closer, Hethir and the others on the poop deck were able to get a clear look at the destruction which had been wreaked. The ship had once had three masts, but it had been nearly been broken in half by something, and the mast itself was missing completely, only the broken deck and lines indicated where it had once stood.

Stilled Seas

Days passed slowly for the group on board ship. While the nights were still fairly enjoyable for Hethir and Val, the gloom over the ship was nearly palpable. Ironically, the only one that knew exactly what they were sailing towards was almost painfully cheerful.
Nezys had taken to dancing around the  rigging of the ship, her projection gliding easily from one rope to the next. While it was not quite true to say she was singing--the sounds she made were too tuneless for that label--the joy expressed by the notes was unmistakable.

Storm Hawk's Flight

The information Nezys revealed raised many disturbing questions. She had been sent into the temple to seek out a store of gems that was locked in the temple vaults. While the majority of the gems were confirmed by the Archbishop to be ordinary stones, there were seventeen hidden amongst them that were considerably more.
They were part of a greater focus that had been used by the gods to create the barrier around the world in the ancient past. While Nezys had not been informed of too many specifics, she did know that D had already acquired several of the other necessary implements.

His centuries laid plan was coming to fruition, and they had only discovered it by sheer dumb luck.
Hethir was not confident of their odds anymore.


Unfortunately, the Archbishop seemed to think the best plan was to simply play along with D until they could actually track him down and end him. This meant Hethir was supposed to carry out the job that D had originally hired him for--at least on the surface. So it was that he found himself back on the Storm Hawk with a very particular magical chalice on board, and two sacks of gemstones. All the important gems had been carefully hidden inside a magic-proof safe deep inside the ship, and the Archbishop had laid minor enchantments on seventeen random stones to attract attention to them. Really he had done so masterfully, making it seem as though the enchantments were abjurations meant to shield the gems from detection that had faded over the years and become somewhat more obvious. It would take a detailed look for the enchantments to even be noticed, so it was likely the ruse might hold for a time.
Trace and his companions were also back on the ship, something Hethir couldn't actually decide how he felt about. On the one hand having more competent combatants was rarely a bad thing, and Trace especially would be incredibly useful due his newly acquired deific power. However, their presence seemed somewhat to undermine the ruse that they were attempting to build.
Hethir snarled at their wake as the ship left port. The whole situation was spiraling out of his depth far too rapidly, and he hated being dragged into conflicts that he didn't have a hand in starting.
"I understand why you don't like the Archbishop's plan... I'm not fond of it either... can't we just cut and run?"
Nezys' voice was soft in his mind, their connection allowing for a more subtle touch than most telepathy allowed for. It was much to Trace's consternation when Hethir insisted on taking Nezys with him, and in fact had taken to wearing the sentient sword openly. The Archbishop had been less upset, but wanted to refuse outright as well. The two holy men had not been silenced until Hethir had delivered the ultimatum that if they wanted his assistance, Nezys was part of his price.
"I know it isn't from any misplaced loyalty to that church..."
No, Nezys, it isn't. I will nto be running because no matter my thoughts or policy... no matter how much I don't want this, it is happening. D must be stopped, or this world and everything in it will be destroyed...
"You actually believe that?" Nezys's voice was skeptical.
Beyond a doubt. Hethir sighed and placed a hand on Nezys' pommel.
I felt the geas he laid on you Nezys... the mind that crafted it was not sane, it wants destruction. It desires pain. That kind of mind is not something that should exist, it shouldn't be able to exist, but it does... and it must be stopped.

Nezys was quiet for a moment, though Hethir could feel her thoughts swirling in the steel under his hand.
"Then what about me? What happens when he takes me away and ruins me again... turns me into a twisted thing like he is."
I won't let him... No matter what happens, Nezys, I'm not allowing him to destroy any more of my crew, or my friends. He looked at the sword with a wry grin, if I get lucky I'll also stop him from killing the 'holy men' but we will see just have to see how that goes.

The laugh they shared managed to lighten his mood considerably.

In a Mind of Steel

Consciousness swirled, eddied, and finally stabilized. Hethir could not see his surroundings, but he knew where his mind was.
Nezys...
"What? How are you in here?!"

Shapes, sights and sensations suddenly whirled in a frenzy, and Hethir found himself looking across and endless ghostly landscape. He looked down and was startled to see that he actually had a body. Of sorts, it was more akin to an astral projection than a solid form, but it was still not something he was used to.
"How have you entered like this? No one has ever managed it!"

Bladed Mind

The three of them--Trace, Hethir, and the Archbishop--were in a tiny room lit by a single torch. On a bare table before them rested the strange sword. They had run hard, hoping to get the sword out of influence of anyone else. The Archbishop had pulled them aside into a hidden passage, and finally into the cell they now occupied. Buried beneath at least ten feet of stone in each direction, Hethir figured it should block the sword from controlling anyone--at least that's what he hoped.

Bloodstains in the Temple

Hethir and the Archbishop sprinted right on the heels of Trace and a few other knights as they wound through the temple. "They're trying to break through to the vaults!" Shouted a knight ahead of them. He clutched at his sword arm, trying to staunch the blood that poured around his fingers. For a moment the Archbishop began to slow, reaching a hand out towards the man, but the knight gestured forward with his chin. "They need you more than me, I'll live! Go!"
Hethir wasn't sure he believed the knight--there was a good-sized pool of blood beneath him--but didn't feel like arguing, the man wouldn't be able to help them anyhow. Turning a corner, Hethir gets his first sight of the combatants. It was definitely not what he expected.

Circles in Circles

The Archbishop led Hethir to a small chamber, only the two of them were admitted in. Mary, Garius and Val were brought chairs--Hethir was honestly surprised to see that they were padded and looked rather comfortable; he had expected differently. Inside, the room was bare to a fault. The walls looked to be rough stone crudely scraped smooth, the floor only improved by thousands of footfalls having worn it smooth. There were no ornaments or furnishings; and the room's only other notable feature was a round stone table set in the exact center of the room.
That was merely the physical appearance of the chamber.

Anger of the Archbishop

The Archbishop of Santure was not a physically imposing figure. He was not quite six feet tall; and skinny enough to border on emaciated. But if anyone was foolish enough to judge the man based on that, it wasn't Hethir. They had met before, and engaged in a mental duel that would have had bards fighting each other for the honor of composing a ballad--had anyone but them known it. Besides being among the most capable spellcasters in the world--power amplified even further by the temple--the Archbishop was a very powerful psychic. Their duel had ended in something of a draw the last time, and if he was honest with himself, Hethir would have to admit he wasn't certain of winning even if he fought dirty. Also that duel had been out in the city of Santure, not inside the temple. And the Archbishop had been delivering a speech to a gathered throng and at least somewhat distracted. Now he was in the seat of his power, entirely focused, and had no illusions to maintain. Hethir was still trying to get his mind functional, had no useful allies around, and had apparently lost his connection to Michael back on the ship.
This could go very badly for him.

Avatar Knight

It had been a long time since Hethir's mind had been this silent. Even when knocked out he was generally lucid in mind, even if his body couldn't really act.

This was different. A white void suffused his mind, leaving him little besides his identity. It was impossible to tell how long he had been like that, but slowly he became aware of a changing landscape. Shadows had begun to appear in the blank space he inhabited. The world began to filter back into consciousness, and

his eyes opened.

Holy Hellfire

Hethir's group managed to reach the temple without drawing too much unwanted attention. Trace was doing his best, but he was still unmistakably gawking at the temple as they drew closer. For a few minutes Hethir had given Trace the mental equivalent of a shoulder-jostle to snap him out of it, but he soon gave up. Trace's jerky attempts to act casual drew nearly as much attention, and he looked like he was hiding something, so he just sighed and let the knight gawk.
As they neared the front entrance, Hethir's heart began to beat faster. The last time he had been here... had not been a pleasant experience. He suppressed a grimace; hopefully this time would go better. They crossed the massive threshold and entered the cavernous front room, and Trace checked out of even attempting to restrain himself. His eyes fairly bugged out of his head and his mouth hung slack as he looked up towards the vaulted ceilings. Hethir had to admit that he couldn't entirely blame him. He imagined that even after seeing it a hundred times it was still a stunning sight. Every surface of the walls and ceilings was covered with elaborate and intricate carvings and murals all interwoven with each other. In one place carvings were made to support and frame images from history; while other places had carvings spewing forth from them. No two were alike, it must have been the work of thousands of artisans working for years to create them all. Of course these were not the Temple's most impressive feature. Weaving through the carved pillars that supported the distant ceiling was a massive flying serpent. Its scales glowed with the brilliance of a forge-fire, and its eyes were brighter still. It wove through the room in complex and seemingly random patterns, but watching its sinuous length sliding through the air was hypnotic. Hethir knew that it was an illusion, but that did little to reduce the awe that the sight inspired.
It was a constant reminder for those who visited the temple that Lumis would not abandon his followers.

Dustworld: Radia

Radia is very different from either Astoria or Dredge. A very strict theocracy, the country is ruled by a council of five clerics known as the Tetrarchs that are elected by their peers from each of the five districts of the nation. Their religion is carefully cultivated, and while many of the low-ranking clerics are true servants of the gods they serve, most of those in the upper echelons of the church have been seduced and influenced by the power they hold. The religion of the Tetrarchs is officially known as The Radiant Pantheon, most simply call their followers Radiants. The Radiant Pantheon consists of five deities, each of which holds sway over specific areas of life, and who are believed to be equals. In reality the deities are in near-constant states of minor conflict with each other, each vying with the others to attract more worshipers and thus gain further power.
Even though most radiants are unaware of the conflict among their deities, it spills over into their lives in the form of intense competitiveness and constant minor strife in their society. Unlike Dredge--where skill at arms makes a master--the competition within Radia can be found in nearly any form. From boxing to baking, every radiant seeks to be better than their peers, and in turn gain further distinction from their gods. It is a natural outflow of this competitive nature that Radia's borders are nearly always encroaching on Astoria's.
The clerics of the Radiant Pantheon are not exempt from this competition, in fact they have it somewhat worse. Nearly all radiant clerics are trained for battle, and all are more than willing to subdue an audience for their sermons by brute force, declaring all the while that it proves the truth of their gods' power.
While many outside of Radia find the radiants to be odd and more than a little terrifying, there are followers of the Radiant Pantheon to be found outside its borders. Because of their constant strife, the gods of the Pantheon tend to be a bit more attached to their followers than most deities, and they are quick to bestow blessing on their most devoted followers.
Radia itself is largely agricultural; with only one major city, and dozens of smaller towns. Even these towns are frequently little more than a market and houses for farmhands. Despite this lack of urban centers, Radia has a massive population. Bearing healthy children and having a large household are simply two more things to compete on for the radiants. The massive amount of agriculture in Radia is mostly out of necessity; there are a lot of mouths to feed.
The massive population of Radia means constant trouble to its neighbor Astoria. Despite the skill and mastery of its legions, Astoria's military can field but a fraction of Radia's power. When the Tetrarchs call for a march to war, most of the country picks up whatever weapons they have and march. While casualties in battle are often heavy, the clerics are usually able to save most from death's clutches. There is little in the way of tactics for Radia's military; most battle orders begin and end with a bellowed, "Charge!" from the clerics in the front line.

Discomforting Dillemma

The Storm Hawk made port in Santure a few days after the prisoners' failed attempt to escape. The knight had gotten himself into a righteous fury over Hethir's treatment of the prisoner, until Hethir informed him that if he was so worried about it, he should either heal the man or give him a mercy-killing, because anything else was just hot breath. Trace did not respond after that, but had spent the past few days in silence and looking troubled.
Hethir preferred it that way.

Dustworld: Astoria

Astoria controls the southern half of Verdence. Astoria and Radia vary frequently from shaky allies, to skirmishing at their borders, to open combat, to mutual invasion, and then back to allies. The reasons for such engagements are rarely the same, but the roots of them frequently are. The Royal family of Astoria is proud and haughty, and looks down upon the religious sentiment of the Tetrarchs. Astoria is a bed of many small religions, some will grow and wither in under a year, while some have persisted through recorded history. Astoria is strictly ruled, but its people generally look favorably upon the royal family. Although their haughty nature cannot be denied, the royalty may look for husbands and brides wherever they will, and not an inconsiderable number of pretty peasant damsels have been turned into Princesses. Between this intermarriage and the ancient pride the Royalty have in their nation, as a rule they see it as their utmost duty to ensure their people thrive in safety.
The armies of Astoria are the best-trained in the world. However it is also the smallest standing army. The royal army consists of three legions of elite troops. Even in peacetime they are never given a chance to get bored. At least one legion is always on active duty, and if the other two are not needed for duty as well, they are set to wargames against each other. Masters of tactics, the legionnaires of Astoria train in everything from single combat and skirmishing, to small unit tactics, up to mass formations with the entire legion. While the heavy infantry of Astoria can match up against any other army in the world, they are invariably at their strongest when working together. Those that meet the Astorian legions in battle are often amazed and disheartened by the uncanny precision and unity with which their formations move. In this, they are aided by more than simple training.
It is a secret well-guarded by the royal family that part of the final initiation rites to the legions involves an ancient relic of Astoria. Called the world-mind, only the royal family and those who hold firmest loyalty to them can use it. It allows for telepathic communication between those attuned to it anywhere on Dustworld. This communication allows for commanders in the field to near-perfectly coordinate their troops, and have no need for messengers or missives that might be tracked or interrupted. Any messages that are delivered by voice or letter are either as a formality, or misdirection to hide the true communication. Radian leaders have sought for years to uncover Astoria's secret, but so far to no avail.

Bloody Wake

Adrift in dreams, Hethir's mind wandered. He had always been lucid during his dreams, for as long as he could remember at least, but tonight at least he wasn't bothering to exert much control.
He and Val had finally collapsed--satisfied and exhausted--some hours after their tryst had begun. After ensuring that she was not actually hiding daggers in her underskirts, Hethir had joined her in sleep gratefully.
Now he was simply allowing his dreams to play through the events of the last few days. He watched idly for the most part. Occasionally nudging something a different way just to watch; but even that was more idle curiosity than anything else. He frequently used his dreams to plan and train, it had saved his life a number of times. He practiced odd patterns of thought that would confuse anyone else with powers like his; and even more frequently ran through combat scenarios. The dreamscape turned into a great wargame, and it made him far faster in tactical situations than most opponents were prepared for.
He was mulling over the thought of doing just such a thing when something in the waking world began to disrupt his thoughts. A voice. Screams actually, words maybe?
"Brig! Brig! All hands to arms!"

Doubled Deception

The sun continued its inexorable march forward, and the ship continued its journey. Hethir spent most of the day near the helm. Occasionally he corrected course, but mostly he just didn’t want to look at the knight, Trace. The mercenaries had been given run of the ship, all except the rest of the quarters and the poop deck. The man Garius had made brief attempts to convince the crew to gamble with the cards he had, but Hethir had made clear to his crew that the mercs were to be ignored as much as possible, and they followed orders well.

A Conversation over Steel

Hethir got below deck as an argument seemed to be boiling over in the quarters the mercs had been given.
"Just for once Trace, would you relax, everything isn't about your holy crusade!"
"For me, it is! I don't know how many times I've explained this to you Garius, I cannot simply lay down my mantle when it is inconvenient for me, or for you! My 'holy crusade' as you so put it is what I am!"
A woman's voice broke in, "Gentlemen, please, you are giving me a headache. Garius, stop antagonizing Sir Trace, you know you will never convince him of anything, you aren't clever enough for it."
"Why you little..."
"Enough Garius! I know you do not share my faith, nor understand why I hold it, but I will not betray my god for the sake of your pocketbook and that is final."
"Yeah? And what about our lives? Huh? Does that matter to you! If we really did get drug in with pirates then you're either going to have to play along or end up in a quick trip to the bottom in all that fancy knight's armor you're so proud of."
"Garius, we don't know that they are pirates, in fact you have no proof of that at all, and Trace, please just promise me that you will not do anything rash before all three of us are willing to act? I for one do not wish to repeat what happened in Trahern."
The second voice--the knight--sighed with resignation, "very well Mary, I will wait for your lead, though my heart is troubled about this situation."
"As well you have reason to," Hethir muttered to himself. Michael must have spoken to only a few of the mercs, he would never have hired a knight knowingly. Well, the damage was now done, he would just have to do his best to contain it.
Without bothering to knock, Hethir toggled the clasp and thrust the door open. The three mercs jumped to their feet at his entrance. The one in patched leather and chain armor he guessed was Garius, and he held a notched but lethal-looking axe in his hand, already in position for a quick strike. The knight was almost painfully obvious--no, Michael definitely didn't see him. His hair was brown, and tied back behind his head in an intricate braid, and his plate armor gleamed even in the dim ship lights. He had been sitting with his back to the door, and had only managed a half turn, but he had dropped into a defensive stance, clearly ready to use his better armor to defend himself and his two companions. The woman, Mary, had reacted the least. She had only straightened in her chair rather than standing, but one hand had dropped to a pouch at her belt, and the other had been lifted in the first of a series of gestures. An arcanist, well that made things a little better, provided they could keep the knight from wanting to kill him.

The tense moment released after only a moment as Hethir spoke. "Excellent reactions, Michael seems to have chosen well--as usual."
Garius responded first, "You the cap' then?"
"I am Captain Hethir, Michael is my first mate."
The knight Trace had finished turning to look at Hethir, and Hethir swore he could feel the man's holy heckles rising.
"Sir Trace was it? Before you go and declare me an unholy beast that should be slain let me inform you that I am not in fact a demon; neither have I ever had dealings with them. Believe me, I've seen that look in your eyes more often than I care to recount, and we can do without the next step."
The knight blinked once in response, but that was the only answer he gave.
Hethir sighed, "I didn't hire you for piracy, or to muscle someone, I hired you because I'm going to need help protecting my ship and my own skin."
"Protect you from what?" Mary spoke up, "You seem to have a substantial crew, and unless I greatly miss my guess your first mate is no slouch."
"I honestly don't know yet." Hethir admitted, "I have been contacted by an underground criminal organization, they want me to fetch something for them. Frequently this is how I make my money, but this time it's different."
Hethir looked straight at the Knight, "they want a set of chalices from the church, specifically the Archbishop of Santure."
Trace looked like he was about to make an outburst of some kind, but Hethir cut him off, "I have no idea why they want these chalices, or what they are capable of that would make the church want to lock them away, but quite frankly I don't care."
"You would ask me to defend you from my own brethren while you make off with holy relics?! You dare..."
"No, holy man, I do not, and I am not. Whatever these relics are, I've no doubt they're better off locked in the church's vaults than in the hands of criminals, especially ones with access to magic of the sort we have seen them display."
Trace closed his mouth, but still eyed Hethir venomously. "No, I need your help because I have no intention whatsoever of following these criminals' demands, and that will not sit well with them."
Hethir paused for a moment and met their eyes, "What I need the three of you for, is to keep me alive long enough for me to figure out why 'D' wants these chalices. Because if they are as powerful as I'm beginning to suspect, I think the church--and everyone else--would want to know what he is up to."
Garius shrugged, "told you we weren't dealing with pirates." Trace sighed and relaxed back into his chair, "you were the one who suggested it in the first place, Garius, stop being tiresome."
Mary just shook her head.
"I can see that the three of you have been around each other a while," Hethir remarked with a smirk. Mary looked at him and shrugged, "sometimes we all wonder how that is."
"Captain."
The Knight stood and turned to face him. Hethir was surprised to find himself looking up at the man--it wasn't common to find someone taller than him.
"Yes, Sir Trace?"
"What are you? You say you are not a demon, but you carry their stench. Explain yourself."
"Most call us tieflings. Our heritage is certainly of the lower planes, but it is long removed. The fiendish powers leave enough of a mark on humans to reoccur many generations later. I was born this way. For a while I was cared for by the church. A priest in a tiny hamlet decided that I was not evil and worth caring for. A Knight came by when I was 12 and decided otherwise, killed the priest for association with me and then came for me next. I left and never looked back."
Hethir matched the knight's steely glance with a molten one of his own, "while you may doubt me by appearance, knight, I doubt you on actions taken against innocents by your entire order, innocents whose only crime was proximity to one whom the knights disliked. Fortunately for you, I refuse to lower myself to their standards, I will judge you personally, not for your association."
Hethir's long-buried anger suddenly surfaced in a boiling flash, "but make no mistake, Knight, attempt to harm me or my crew..." The chair he had been sitting on suddenly smashed into the deck, and shattered to splinters,"...and I will be very happy to see your corpse grace my deck."
Trace glanced from the ruined chair back to Hethir, but he had already walked away, unwilling to spend any more time in the knight's presence.
"Well Trace, you managed to restrain yourself, but barely it seems."
"I checked him Mary, he didn't seem to be an evil man, but I still do not trust him."
"And you're sure giving him plenty of reasons to trust you, I thought you knights were supposed to be diplomatic." Garius shook his head and stuck his axe back through his belt. "If even half what the Cap' said is true, he has equal reason to hate you as you have him; maybe even more."
Trace scowled, "such obvious lies should sway no one, a knight would never harm an innocent! Nor a child."
Mary looked up from her seat and met his eyes, "Trace, not all knights are as dedicated as you, and not all of them are immune to the corruption of power." He glared back at her for a moment, then his face softened. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, "I know, Mary, but I don't want to believe it. I don't believe so much could be changed."
Garius let out a heavy sigh and looked at Trace with something that almost resembled pity, "you're in for a lot of hard lessons lad, and I don't envy you their swallowing."

Dustworld: The country of Dredge

Dustworld is a contradictory world, as much of its surface is covered with water, but as a whole it has a very arid and dry climate. Much of the world is unexplored. Only two main continents are well-populated--Durim and Verdence--with many islands and small atolls between them.

Three nations rule in Dustworld: Dredge, Radia, and Astora.

Dredge rules the smaller continent of Durim. A martial society, the first rule in Dredge is that the strong rule. Now that is not to say that Dredge is a lawless society. Indiscriminate murder is punished perhaps even more harshly in Dredge than anywhere else--and theft is almost not to be countenanced. The reason for this however is very specific. The strongest in the land is known as the Warlord--or sometimes Warlady--and by ancient law, basically everything in Dredge belongs directly to them. Most Warlords don’t exercise this power too often--recognizing that it is in their best interest to keep their subjects pleased with them. For every year at the height of the new moon, at the darkest time of year, a challenge is held. The reigning Warlord enters a ring, and for the space of one hour, challenges all comers to single combat. The reason it is so important for the warlord to be well-liked, is that any subjects may bring him weapons, armor, spells, healing, or whatever other assistance they wish, provided they do not directly interfere with the duels. Challengers may choose to fight to the death, or they may accept offers of quarter levelled by the warlord. The Warlord has no such option, he fights against his death in every duel. Those challenging the warlord in the duels must overcome him with no assistance at all. Should they do so, they prove to all that they are more worthy of the mantle, and take it up. However, they must finish their time in the ring, the warlord must take all challengers for an hour.

Once the hour of challenge is over, the second challenge of the night comes for the warlord. To even be present at the Warlord’s challenge, one must be armed and ready to fight, and it is because of this second challenge. The warlord plants his banner upon a crag of rock worn smooth by countless feet over countless years. All who support him gather round him on the crag, while any who would challenge him plant their own banners in the field. After half an hour, a horn is blown, and the gathered forces clash. The challengers must topple the warlord’s standard in one hour, and the warlord must defend it. The challengers in this combat are not limited in their actions in any way, and neither are those that fight them directly. For all others in the trial however, the combat is more ritualistic. Very few deaths or even injuries tend to occur because of the trial, as it is seen as wasteful of the Warlord’s armies. However, the challengers are free to be fought blood for blood and steel for steel. Should a challenger be felled, any he rallied to his standard must depart the field in dishonor. Each challenger must strive to claim the banner for himself before the hour is up. At the end of the hour, if the warlord still stands with his banner, he has held his mantle. If a challenger has taken it, then they are the new Warlord.

The warlord may enact almost any law he wishes, or strike down any law that has been enacted before.
There is however a stone tablet of laws which may not be revoked or altered. These laws describe the purpose of the warlord, the trials, and the extent of his powers. The Laws of Stone, as they are called, dictate several things which the Warlord may not do, or else he dies.
This is no idle threat, as the tablet itself is an artifact of great power, and ever warlord swears in his own blood to uphold them. Failure to live up to that oath, in even the smallest respect, causes the tablet to burst out in angry fire and consume the erring warlord. If such a thing happens, the trial is held as normal, and the Warlord’s appointed second begins the hour trial. The second is under no restriction to fight to the death, and may surrender to the first challenger if he so wished, though it has never happened so easily.

Nearly the entire population of Dredge could be considered the Warlord’s army, which has caused the nations of Radia and Astora no small amount of worry. There are several reasons that Dredge rarely bothers its neighbors. The first is that Dredge has a very small number of vessels at its disposal, and not enough woodlands to make more. The second is that much of Dredge’s landmass is little better than desert. Most of the population scrapes by on living, and the Warlord frequently must go to great lengths to ensure all his people are simply fed and clothed, much less fit to march to war. And lastly, even though the warlord really does rule with an iron fist, there is a hard limit to how much he can exert that power before challengers arise and begin to usurp his dominance. Any who publicly announce their intention to challenge the warlord in the next Trial are protected from his interference by the stone law until the trial has been transgressed. And the more enemies a warlord makes, the harder it will be to hold onto his life for more than a year. For that reason alone, most warlords shy away from starting anything with their wealthier neighbors.

Dangerous Dance

Despite Valeras' implicit threat, Hethir managed to get both of them back to the Storm Hawk without anyone's skin being punctured. Their feet had hardly touched the deck before the sails were unfurled and the ship pulled away from the dock.
How do we fare Michael?
Captain, four men attempted to infiltrate the crew, one shortly after our arrival, the others after we had reached the inn.
And now?
Three are in the brig, two of them are still unconscious. Two came at the same time earlier, one of them tried to flee, I shot him down, his body will be thrown overboard later, one crewman died as well.
Unfortunate. Very well, I will attend to our unwanted guests shortly. Keep the helm, get us well out to sea, I want to be out of easy range to be tracked.
Aye sir.
Where have you situated the mercenaries?
In the rear quarters, I informed them to stay there until you came to speak with them.
Excellent, thank you Michael.