A/N: Okay, I'm pretty unreliable, guys. Oops. This is a fic I've been planning for a while and have probably draw tens of little strategy maps. Can I say, I'm no military strategist. That being said, my absolute favorite type of book to read is one with war and strategy. There are quite a few meshes of different strategies here. There's also one character from one of those book series in this fic, but we'll see if you can figure out who. It isn't all that hard, actually. Another note, a majority of the fic is written in another language from tribal-like warriors. This will all be in italics.

Also, ships are not my thing.

I'm going to try my hardest to update this every week because I really want to finish it. The chapters will probably be relatively short, though. I'm not that great at writing long chapters yet, heh.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything in this fic, really, other than the plot, their enemy, and a few characters. The plot itself and writing are mine, though, so no stealing!

Fog, Friction and Chance

Chapter I. Weccean Warriors and Washing Windows

The waves rocked gently on the ship, carefully rocking it this way and that. It was a calm night, stars shining brightly and moon sending slivers of white light over the sea's rising and falling waves. The ship was large, a carving of a dragon's head with its mouth open to reveal gaping wooden teeth was on the bowsprit. The sails were huge, as was the rest of it. It was a warship, obviously, and there was only a small crew that weren't warriors armed to the teeth. In one of the rooms stood the commander, a large, dark-skinned man with a beard and long, Krityian-like tipped ears that pointed faintly downwards. White paint drew a design on the right side of his face and almost appeared to illuminate his golden, bright eyes. His hair was black and held up in a short ponytail; if let down, it may only reach right below his shoulders and nothing more. He was not dressed lavishly in armor or anything, only what would be considered casual clothing for him. He was tall, he had to be over six and a half feet tall, and well-toned, a powerful even looking being. A sharp, curved sword was strapped to his belt, the edges obviously sharp and glinting in the oil lamp's light. Beside him, a large, wolf-like dog was curled on the floor. A leather harness was strapped around him, as well as a thick leather collar.

This man, hunched over a map that had small flags - all colored white - on it, as well as diagrams with small, wooden swords as examples, as well as tiny versions of warships made to scale with the map. He had them in their approximate position, and laying next to the wooden ships was a northseeker, its needle pointed firmly forward. He had run over his strategy time and time again. There were ways to counter it, yes. He had planned, though, to use these counterattacks, if any ever came, to his advantage.

Their strategy was rather simple. Start from the top, farthest from their capital, and work their way down. Split midway and cover all escape routes, destroy all means of help the capital might get within the continent, encircle the capital with reinforcements from the south, put it under siege for a moon, and then aim to destroy it. Any survivors would be taken prisoner, any that wouldn't be killed by the fires and the bright curved swords and foreign, powerful Krityian-like warriors from the south. The prisoners would be easily dealt with; the Weccean people were slave-holders, and the knights that lived in the city would be excellent ones, if not a bit hard to break. All royalty and high ranks - commanders, captains, emperors and empresses, and heirs to the throne - however, would be killed. With the Empire secured, Commander Nox was sure he would be able to easily overtake the other continents as well. Their race was powerful and stealthy. Such a war should be easily won.

"Commander Nox."

The man, whom bore the name of Ecthrois Nox, looked up. A captain was standing, dressed similarly to the hunched-over man, and raised his right hand to touch his right shoulder, then his left, followed by his heart and then a small bow, all produced in a seamless, swift motion. The action was mirrored by Nox, though the bow was left out; that was a part reserved only for those higher in rank. In his position, there was none higher than rank. At least, not on this mission. "Yes, Captain? Is there a problem I should be notified of?" The commander actually knew little about what went on in the ship. He, supervisors and captains, often were in this room studying their strategy and making sure there were no holes. It was, at least, their hidden race's specialty. They had secured the land many years ago; there used to be obvious life in Weccea. Now, the settlers on Weccea were in a series of underground tunnels and caves, but were expert shipbuilders. They lived right near the bottom of the huge, sandy cliffs, and often had to use ship to get to one place or another easily, and to visit the nearby Hypionia for supplies.

Not anymore, of course. Now, the rest of the world thought it abandoned. Oh how wrong, how wrong they were.

"No, sir," the captain replied, and the commander nodded. It must be something about their arrival. "We are planned to dock within the hour. Our attack will commence soon after."

"Good. Wake up the troops and prepare them for our attack. Warm them up and check all weapon and armor stability," Commander Nox ordered. "Raise the silver flag." This silver flag was a reminder to prepare the large amounts of troops aboard the huge battleships to ready themselves. "Tell the gunmen to ready themselves. We'll give this city a nasty reminder not to be so relaxed." There was a nod and the captain turned to go give out the orders and do as told. Ecthrois stood, walking to the corner of his room where his suit of armor lay. It was a light piece, as he relied more on speed than defense, and it did not take him long to slip it on. The body itself was a leather harness fitted with iron and decorative bronze, and he wore chain mail underneath. The boots were also made of a thick iron, but he was trained to it and thus walking in them was no problem. It, like the harness, had bronze decorations, carefully crafted. The gauntlets were similar, with leather gloves followed by a layer of iron and bronze that connected with armor that would connect his underarm, arm, and shoulder. Finally, there was the helmet, set with a leather strap around his chin snapped tight. The iron piece covered his entire head except his face and it curled around his ears. There were antlers set in this, similar to a deer's, made of silver and shining with bronze and gold coverings. The piece was expensive, beautiful, and it protected him enough that he needed. He also had a small iron hand shield of thick ash wood that had been secured from the nearby Hypionia.

He whistled and the dog raised his head, then stood and padded over to his master. The dog was a war-dog, something commonly owned by his race, and was trained to carry messages, save wounded soldiers on their side, intercept and injure messengers from the other side, guard prisoners, and scout out ambushes. The dog's training was almost legendary; Nox's own, Adler, was six years old and had been training ever since he was a pup, like all of the war-dogs. This one, like others, wore armor, which the commander carefully fitted on. It was especially made to not be easily removed, so a dog couldn't have a buckle slip or a snap fall open mid-battle. Soon, both master and dog stood clad in battle armor, and both were ready. The commander stepped out of the room, climbing the stairs to get to the stern of the ship where he would stay to command. The troops were filing onto the deck in every ship, each clad in leather armor and wearing round, ash-and-iron shields. These would be merely the shields for this mission; afterwards, they would carry these on their backs and use a...different method.

Each soldier stood around six feet or more, and all were similarly dark-skinned and had black hair and beards, the former often reaching their shoulders or lower, mostly being pulled back. Their ears were tipped like Commander Nox's, and they all had the insignia of a hawk on their shields. They were uniform and precise, and were on every ship. There were three fleets of ships, twenty-four in all, and each could carry a crew of around ten that served both the ship and the gunning, two captains - on this particular one, two captains and a commander - and up to about one to two hundred troops each. At minimum, twenty-four hundred. At maximum, forty-eight hundred; a powerful number, no doubt, but not as strong as Nox might have liked. That's why they had another two fleets due to arrive in Southern Ilyccia two new moons after their departure. It had taken them three-fourths of a moon to get there, so they had a moon and a quarter left. Which could be spent at leisure, as long as he reached the end point in time for the second commander and his direct partner to land in the newly-built Zaphian port.

He straightened, looking down at his troops as the two captains joined him on either side. "Soldiers!" he called, and the two hundred-odd warriors stood at attention, the uniform chant of metal hitting wood as they brought their feet together sounding. "What do we fight for?"

"Pride! Prosperity! Power!" came the army. It was echoed throughout the fleet.

Louder, the commander repeated, "What do we fight for!?" He stomped his foot against the ground.

"Pride! Prosperity! Power!" the army replied, raising its volume and, similar to their commander, stopped their right iron boots against the ship's wooden deck. The thousands of men chanted, and Commander Nox smirked as he saw lights flicker on on the port town. He repeated the question one more time, shouting and reaching for his sword. "What do we fight for!?"

"Pride! Prosperity! Power!" came the forceful answer, and the commander drew his sword and opened his mouth, yelling out. His war cry was echoed among the captains and then the soldiers, and even the crew below at the cannons. The commotion was waking the city up, which was surprisingly just what Nox intended. Scare the weak ones away, and only have a few powerful to fight. This city was going down in flames, he would be sure of that. Any who did not surrender would be killed, and even giving up would not guarantee their safety.

The gangplanks were ready, much longer and used for when getting on any shore, port or not, and they were placed quickly by the four crew members, then those ran down for the guns as well. There were three consecutive shouts that rattled through the ships, and one after another, cannons stormed the low-lying area. The ships were especially made to do this, and the cannonballs rammed into buildings and homes. No doubt casualties were caused. The commander called his troops to begin their march into the city, and grinned coldly to himself as he watched the soldiers turn and march uniformly for the gangplanks, filing in line with drawn swords and spears and axes.

Once on land, the army turned terrifying. It was a rectangle of tall, athletic men - and a few women - carrying fearsome weapons. Paint marked their rank, white and blue and red and every other color imaginable. The cannon fire had stopped now and the first ranks were carrying oily rags and torches, setting wooden houses and buildings on fire. There were terrified screams and shouts of displeasure and anger as the soldiers marched on, the lick of flames against the air heating up the place. The army was shouting a cadence, their march a chant of voices and iron. Several war-dogs walked alongside their masters, standing proud and strong.

"Pride! Prosperity! Power! Pride! Prosperity! Power! Pride! Prosperity! Power!"

Even the dogs lended their voices into the chillingly uniform cadence, howling and this call spread eerily throughout the ranks, the shouts of human and wolf mingling together, a terrifying power that was wrecking havoc on the Empire-controlled port town. Very few stood against them, but they were cut down easily. The cadence marched on, stepping over bodies that littered the ground.

"Pride! Prosperity! Power!"

This was their endless war cry, and they terrorized the city. The first rank broke off to begin forcing stragglers and fighters to captivity and, in a few cases, death. Their conquest had just begun, and it was off to a beautiful, horrifying start. Just how Commander Nox, riding quietta-back against a majestic black beast, grinned and raised his sword in victory.

That night, Capua Nor went up in flames.

Flynn had a bucket of water next to him, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and standing on a chair. Soap ran down with water on his arms and hands, and he had a bright yellow sponge in his hand. Dipping it occasionally in the water-and-soap filled bucket, he was scrubbing the already clear window over and over again, as if making sure there wasn't the slightest bit of grime on it. Some of his shirt and sleeves were wet and he'd managed to get soap in his eyes once, but he didn't really care. He'd been at this for a while and had lost track of the time, and an annoying part of his brain nagged at him to quit and do something productive. He heard a knock on the door and expecting it to be just another knight with some random piece of information, he called back. "Come in!"

The door opened and he did not turn around, but he didn't need to. He felt the glare in his back and his shoulders jumped a little. He knew who's presence this was and he didn't even have to get the slightest sensation.

"Sir," Sodia said in a reprimanding tone, and the young commandant turned with a sheepish grin on his face, another drop of water falling down and following a small liquid trail down into his shirt, the strange feeling making him want to squirm but he stayed completely still. "Why are you washing the windows, again? It's the third time this week."

Flynn lowered his hand and dropped the sponge into the water, and it splashed a little out of the bucket and he hopped off the chair, which Sodia had scowled even more at. He might be cleaning the windows, but he sure wasn't keeping the wet floor or dirty chair seat clean. Does he always feel the need to procrastinate? Her eyes flickered to the rather thick stack of files, folders and paperwork, and then to the ones she held in her hands. She'd come back to get the ones she'd given earlier; surely, Flynn would have something done. He was a procrastinator in a completely bad way and she was eighty percent sure he was practically nocturnal. He would procrastinate with something all day; mop, teach younger knights, wash the windows, organize random things, anything that would seem productive but really wasn't. Then, when he seemed to think he'd spent long enough organizing the books on the thirty-second bookshelf in the library and mopping the floors of about three rooms, he would decide that he should probably get to work and would spend so long into the night working on the work it wasn't unlikely she'd go to check on him at three or so in the morning and find him either completely wide awake and working normally, or passed out in an almost death-like state of sleep, and these seemed to happen one after another in a pattern. Then, afterwards, he would either sleep in and wake up in a rush for a meeting or to do the work he really wasn't going to do, and then turn in the files complete with his chickenscratch handwriting. Many times, she would go through them because occasionally she'd find whole sections ignored, or very obvious mistakes. Once, when Flynn had passed out, his hand had flinched in his sleep and managed to knock over his still-heated and melted ink bottle, causing him a major loss in about three folders worth of work.

She shook her head. Sometimes, she wondered how she could follow such an absolute idiot, but he wasn't really - he was actually intelligent and caring, and he was hardworking too, she just supposed he got frustrated with being couped up in an office all day and it'd led to the growing procrastination skills she knew him well by today.

"Actually, it's only the second," the blond matter-of-factly corrected her, and her expression flattened a little. He noticed it and didn't bother anymore, pulling up his chair. "And, actually, I have finished some paperwork." He almost expected surprise on her face, because it was rare anything was turned in before night or after dawn that wasn't old, and he proudly handed her a surprisingly heavy stack, taking hers. "I don't procrastinate all day, you know."

Usually.

Sodia's look, if at all possible, flattened further, and he gave another small grin, but this one was a little less carefree, a bit more reserved, than the last. She sighed and rolled her eyes, turning. "Also, sir, this I'm giving you is due by tomorrow at noon." It probably really wasn't, but maybe this would help his procrastination. She practically heard him frown a little, glancing down at the half-an-inch thick amount of paper. He could do it within a couple of hours, actually, but that meant sitting put and doing all this writing for...that long a time. Sodia was walking out by now, and closed the door behind her, and his azure eyes flickered back towards the bucket, but ultimately he decided against it. Turning back, he reached for his quill and put the ink pot over the specially made candle that lit on top of his desk - safely away from the papers - waiting for the ink inside to melt enough for use. He had just pulled it down and put it on the desk and dipped in the quill, when the door abruptly opened again. His head raised and his thin brows furrowed, then one arched slightly. It was the man in charge of one of the archer squads of knights, a man soon to be in his fifties, and his name was Halt O'Carrick. His name had originally been 'Hal Carrick', but it it had been changed per the man's own choice. He did not wear the regular uniform, instead opting for a grey tunic with a green shoulder cape. He wore quiet, leather soft-soled boots that went to his mid-calf, and his hair was a black with faint markings of a saltish grey.

"Commandant Flynn," he greeted swiftly, but there was no salute. Flynn did not mind, though, as Halt was more a part of his side organization in the knights, and Flynn wasn't the one to give Halt orders, only rarely doing so. Flynn knew only enough about the bow to be an okay shot, as it was standard knight training to learn, but it definitely wasn't his forte. Halt, on the other hand, was fantastic, an almost legendary figure. Flynn nodded his greeting and waved his hand for Halt to continue.

"Communication and trade to Capua Nor has been suddenly silenced. We sent two messenger when a trade ship didn't arrive a week late, and that was four days ago. On quietta-back, the youths should have been back. However, neither of them have returned and we have not gotten the slightest word. The Zaphian port is requesting to send a small ship armed with a minimal amount of knights for a brief investigation. Ten armed knights at most."

Flynn's eyes narrowed. This was a troubling bit of news and he nodded. Who knows what could have happened? He hesitated, though, after nodding, and as if sensing it, Halt remained. If communication had been lost, that could mean something very bad. It would be even worse if the scouts - known for their quickness, ease of being on horseback, and stealthiness - were captured by whatever was stopping them from receiving anything. He spoke again.

"Arrange a small group of twenty knights. Strong and quick ones," the blond told the short dark-haired man. "Tell them to investigate. Tell them at the first sight of serious trouble to run for their lives, and not pick any fights. If possible, go undercover, but retain all weapons. We can't have them dying." He grimaced, hoping he could at least get some information this way. He couldn't imagine sending some thirty-odd men to their deaths for uselessness - or for usefulness. "Tell all thirty to be extremely careful. I don't want any more casualties, if causalities have been involved." There was no doubt they had, though. Scouts suddenly going missing? Trade ships from an Empire-controlled port suddenly not responding? There had to be something wrong. It could not just be anything.

Halt nodded and turned, then frowned and glanced back at the commandant.

"Flynn," he said. Again, the lack of professionalism was mainly overlooked by the blond. "What are you going to do if it is something serious?"

The blond frowned at this and his azure eyes lowered to his paperwork.

"...I don't know."