CW: Mention of Child Marriage, Mob Violence/Murder, Fantasy Racism/Imperialism, Mutilation/Body Horror, Dated Emeraldite Jokes Disclaimer: 3rd Person Narration is intended to be flavored similar to the perspective of the characters contained within the stories and not (at all) an objective relation of the world, or of the author, to the events therein.   114 B.D., Great Wall of Ptomoel, Zweithold of the Eastern Reserve "Legate Arcturus! Another band comes from the North!" Tch. When in Planu's name will those reinforcements arrive? They ought've been here yester- KABOOM. Another firebomb sends flame cascading up the western tower of the forward wall. A figure clad in fire falls three stories down to the ground below. Men shout to one another, orders and disputes, sense and chaos trading blows amidst the battle. The enemy is the same one they've faced since the colonials in the far south first took up arms--provincials from the peat bogs and the mines, armed and armored by southern interests to be a thorn in the side of the Empire. Their siege of the massive wall which separates civilization from the realms of barbarians has already stretched on for weeks. It was entirely unexpected, by Legate Arcturus or by any of his advisors. Up til then, the provincials--a hitherto timid and wordless people called Testificates by the anthropologists of Kilvaro--had waged a coward's war. Their dishonorable bands roved the countryside, striking at supply lines, capturing civilians for hostage and ransom, and even trying at the assassination of the officers of the Emperor's Legions. It was an annoyance, but a firm one, and over the past decade had driven the Legate to withdraw substantially from the hinterland. Most significant than the direct losses to those brigands, whether those mutes realize it or not, is that our production of peat and coal has dropped precipitously since their campaign began, and it hasn't recovered since. That is precisely why Arcturus has been relegated to this backwater post, halting an advancement that had, by all indications, been heading to high places back home in Kilvaro. The blaze has taken hold on the gate and the central tower, now. What kind of ungodly flame burns away stone? With a great THUD, the great gate of the outer wall collapses, and the enemy streams into the next field of battle. They ride horseback, wielding wicked, curved swords and small bows of the provincial style. Arrows are loosed into the chests of panicked soldiers. Blades cut across eyes and throats. More firebombs litter the ground. The carnage is swift and particularly brutal. Arcturus, peering through the smoke and heavy air, is shocked. Some of the horses are Setlian breeds in stripped-down Imperial armor. They are decorated with bits of leather... no... skin... noses, ears, and fingers. My reinforcements... As he processes the fate of his misfortuned allies, an arrow catches the Legate in the shoulder. He reels back behind cover, shouting through the din for a medic. All hell continues to break loose as he's carried away, and his second assumes command of the wall. Planu... preserve us.   113 B.D., Gleaming Emerald Tavern, Shoth Provincial Capital "A'right lads, wot's the buzz 'ese days? I got complaints comin' out my ears 'bout delayed shipments an' the like, so jus' be straight 'bout e'rythin' an' I'll buy a round." A cheer rises up from the ten or so men, heads of household and Emeraldite citizens in the Old Province. Hegrit is usually good for a round, but he's been less consistent these days, and there's plenty of news abound. "Right! So I 'eard that 'is 'Ighness is sailin' right 'bout now. 'Eading south ta some fairy land to find a golden egg, an'-" "An egg?!" "Right, right, an egg, I swear ta tha Great God 'Imself, I swear I heard it- an egg!" "Oh, shut yer trap right up now Trav, that's right nonsense and you know it!" "I know it sounds off, but I 'eard it true!" "Well you 'eard it, but yer ears are nearly gone as it is." "Hear hear! Trav's ears ain't clear" The usual chorus, an in-joke with the regulars, drowns out poor Travis' protests until he's silenced with embarassment. Another voice chimes in. "I don't know about the Emperor, nor 'bout no egg, but I do hear from my cousin who sails southerly." "And?" the group leans in, eager to hear news from the south. The callers have been suspiciously silent for months, when but a year before they were hopeful of the war effort there. "-and... it's all a wash. We lost. No port 'at still exists will dock a ship sailing under Imperial colors 'ese days. "An' how tha 'ell do ye explain 'at, Marv? We had them long-noses and those halvsies on their 'eals last I 'eard?" "That's just it Hegrit, you can't trust the heralds. The Empire pulled the Legions north months ago and haven't reported nothing. The baronies and the swamps are all native now. I swear it!" "Hogwash!" "An' butterscotch!" Once again, the group--and the rest of the bar--erupts into a chorus of laughter at their time-honored jibe. Marv takes it in stride, shrugs, and settles back into his seat with an ale in hand. Hegrit continues. "I jes' don' un'erstant all 'ese stories flyin' aroun'. It's tough to make any sense at'all. Don't anybody 'ave a true word?" One short fellow in the corner, an itinerant--not a citizen--and a half-dwarf, by the name of Odric chimes in. "I'll tell yous the truths of et all, if you'll listen Hegrit. I'll tell yous so long as yous don't box on me ears like 'ast time." The bar goes silent--Hegrit and his crowd don't take kindly to folk like Odric, and the two have a history extending long before the mere ear-boxing of yesterweek. "I'll box yer ears if yer ears need boxin', half-an-acre Odd-A-Rick. Speak up or I'll box em right now." Odric spits, but continues, "I'll speak true an' you won't box em, old boy. There ain't no egg. There ain't no army. There ain't no empire." "OI!" the bar erupts in curses, but Odric hops off his stool and wields it in front of him like a targe of the old country. He shouts over them all. "Oi, yourselves, yous bunch a pigs! Those nose-nobbers an' beasts an' barons din't jest run the soldiers north, they ran 'em groundwise, about six feet or so--" he waves his stool heavily at the bar patrons now encircling him. Hegrit, not among them, sits dumbfounded at the Dwarf's uncharacteristic bravado. "-an' get this! Word in the slums is 'at the capital back West is a'ready in the pisser! 'an the Emperor is turning tail and sailin' south to git away!" The whole building rushes against Odric in a fervor. "I don't care wot yous do to me--in a week, or days even, we'll all be dead. It's the end of the worl-" While the most furious men catch the strike of Odric's stool, the next most furious catch Odric. The reprisal for his loose words is quick, but hardly painless. That night, the dwarf's body is left outside of his mother's house in the slums, beaten beyond recognition. The image of it all sits on Hegrit's consciousness uncharacteristically long, even until the day--some week or so later--when the Governor declares martial law and all trade beyond the realm of Shoth comes to a grinding halt. For as long as the Gleaming Emerald still operates, the regulars have a new jibe they like to throw around as bad news comes through town... "Odric called it!"   112 B.D., Office of the 53rd Viceroy of the Empire, Ersthold of the Orcish Reserve Countless papers litter the imperious, oaken desk of the final subordinate of the Governor-General of the Orcish Reserve. Some written, others yet unfinished, they are notices, missives, epistles, reports, and decrees from myriad competing political figures of the Empire  None of them bear any meaning in a world on fire. The Vicereign herself sits in the window, her gaze diffuse across the carnage below. She had been rumored amongst the common folk to be a Divian Sibyl from across the sea, promised to the late Viceroy by act of treaty. The streets and markets in which those rumors had found their way, by not-so-subtle whispers, to her elvish ears were now taken by flame and fervor. Of course, the rumors were as sturdy as the markets at the end of the day--the Vicereign came from much humbler origins. An urchin plucked from one of the grand orphanages of Kilvaro and bedecked in silk and finery sat as the ruling Lady of the Ersthold of the West--can you imagine what they would say? She turns fifteen on this day. WHOOSH--Another tenement goes up in flames, closer now to the gates of the viceroyal estate. The girl taps her heel impatiently against the hardwood floor below her. It's beginning to stain. Minutes earlier, faced with the fury and spittle of the drunk that 'plucked her out of poverty,' she'd taken matters into her own hands. Just as easily, she poked and prodded and plucked out of a few things of her own with the nearest implement at hand. A splendid, engraved fire iron that they'd accepted from the local blacksmith as a wedding gift now rested squarely in the Viceroy's stomach. He is still, ugly, and ungainly on the floor. She can see them now, in the square below. Provincials. Great, big, green things standing one or two heads taller. Their bodies are painted and their tusks are bared. She doesn't blame them, not really. Life under Emeraldite Rule was especially harsh for the peoples designated for labor. Still, the girl can't bring herself to like the creatures down below. She's more an Emeraldite than she is an Orc at the end of the day. They know this too. They don't spare her when they break their way past the barricade into the Viceroy's Office. She is not lauded for felling the demon who'd starved one hundred thousand clans. No, the Vicereign is hefted high by an Orc liberator. She is carried into the square below. Her body disappears in the hands and mouths of one hundred hungry people. So goes the remains of the Greatest Empire out of Setlis.

Nooooooooooooooooooooooo; however am I to drive up demand and corner the market when you do this Omi !!??!?I don't have any free-to-use ones to put up yet, but I encourage folks to make their own limited release ones for themselves or to give to others (that's the more fun way to acquire them, I think)

Wish granted. This man https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jeff_Suppan is ground into a find paste and presented to you in a very large bowl.I wish that I had a firmer sense of my self and my goals.

Hellooooo everyone. I am so excited to be foruming with all of you again :)Syrene Kren, Warden of Hellwell Chartre, is self interested, wounded, and weighed down by the violence of her own past as well as the violent structure she's taken charge of with the Chartre. She aspires to protect herself and her own- often to the detriment of others- but also seeks to repair the harm she's endured in the past through her ongoing relationships with others. Here are a few songs that remind me of her: King Geedorah - I Wonder: https://open.spotify.com/track/4GP5iTBe9vFezR7ZCNGQ3N?si=fa02f8c1a14347ccCayetana - Am I Dead Yet?: https://open.spotify.com/track/4ZEIXVfmrp9PrAKMCFRI4f?si=568859dcbbb14e67Team Dresch - Remember Who You Are: https://open.spotify.com/track/6HjGwxVgAzyCuQXDNt69R2?si=04c3630846e54b16Weakened Friends - Planes: https://open.spotify.com/track/1WYYecbxTJq8CVBYAokWzq?si=2fec889029e840b4Against Me! - Dead Friend: https://open.spotify.com/track/4NVN2Rso4HumjGbIOcAo2S?si=890da0cab11842baHappyhappy - Now I'm Fighting Violence with Violence: https://open.spotify.com/track/1UtnkxqPFcd0Pg02n1K8Qs?si=cc5360a180e44378ANOHNI - Execution: https://open.spotify.com/track/5QGw3Yyit4ga8gO2BPkbz6?si=2110fa80fd0941d9Screaming Females - Criminal Image: https://open.spotify.com/track/2MVsZRwEfWHyhdwtdslS5T?si=275adfa6602246c8