Hello everyone! This chapter will be slightly different then my usual ones, as it will focus mostly on what is going on in the other parts of the world. Since we had very little to go off on, I like the idea of making up my own to fit this story. I will be doing this for the other factions that I introduced, although our lovable despots will have their time. I am so sorry for the mix up with my other story being put in here, I didn't mean to confuse or annoy you guys.
I hope you enjoy.
New Horizons
….
"The dunes of Nephthys have known endless bloodshed; from the very birth of life on this blasted landscape, there has been violence. What drove men to such senseless carnage? Some say the heat, others the promise of untold riches buried within. I say it does not matter; for this life has but one purpose, to lead to paradise. We fight not for gold, not for land or glory; but for that goal. We would welcome all under the banner of Rebirth; for it does not matter who they are, the Cycle shall bring them into the fold." The commanding voice of Abd al Hakim carried across the army column that marched tirelessly through the desert sands; their chants of devotion seeming to reach the gates of heaven itself.
The colourful banners danced in the scorching wind as the Golden Host marched through their borders and into the border counties of the Brimirites; although they had been claimed in all but name by the Iron Prophet decades earlier during the Great Resurgence that his warriors had thrown themselves into. Their names were lost to time, the people themselves had no name for the squalid half counties they called home, something that made Abd al Hakim weep; for such an injustice was an affront to history itself. The only name that this particular forgotten outpost had was Khelon; a former Elven trading hub turned crumbling Brimite hamlet after it had been abandoned after the last Holy War; the blood of untold thousands of warriors staining the earth forever.
Gesturing with an encased hand, his servants gently dropped his palanquin onto the ancient cobblestone roads that had once been grand highways to the Brimirite Empire from centuries past; but the sands of Nepthys had been most unkind to the people of Halkeginia, quickly leaving only the mad or banished behind. The armoured form of the Iron Prophet moved out from his palanquin to stand out and meet the setting sun; and he certainly set an imposing figure. Wearing a grand set of awe inspiring armour forged from the metal of his namesake, it shone in the diming light, while his long greying beard was blowing ever so softly in the wind; his bright eyes burned with arcane might as he gazed at the castle town that was half sunken into the sands.
"This is all that remains of the Brimirite Remnants here; they are weary but have become even more entrenched in their defiance. Although we have had the heralds of Rebirth spread the words of truth to those that would listen, and many of the peasantry have thrown their lot in with us; including some of the infamous Tristianian Manticore Knights left to rot here after the last Holy War. The remaining warriors will never waver, their souls bought with blood stained gold, corrupted leaders and a lust for violence" The Iron Prophet muttered to himself as his honour guard marched around him, their various weapons at the ready as they gazed up at the singular Temple Citadel that towered over the crumbling hamlet; the flag of Brimir flying in the billowing wind.
As they walked closer, the formerly slouched guards began running around, their patchwork armour and shoddy crossbows showed the decline of the peasant troops within the Brimite Remnants. Broken Germanian and Albionise rang out from the walls, the scrambling of the soldiers being almost amusing if it wasn't so pitiful. The formerly grand gates groaned open as age and the lack of maintenance showed their might to the small group of grandly dressed warriors; with Hakim almost smirking at the sight. Minutes later, the thundering of cavalry heralded the arrival of a dozen Manticore Knights; the only ones remaining in the Brimite's control; the rest either dead or gone back home to wage war against their brothers in faith.
As one, the Knights saluted to the Iron Prophet; their leader dismounting and kneeling in the sand. "My lord, the peasant soldiers have sworn themselves to you; all that remains are the Priests of Brimir and the Nobles. The Grand Master of the Knights here has no idea of what is happening; the old man has been struck with illness of the mind and body for quite some time; some of the priests say that a Demon has claimed him." Nodding, the Prophet of Rebirth gestured for the rest of his honour guard to follow him, the Knights in tow. "Tell the peasants that they have now joined the glorious Rebirth of their people; that they serve no one save the Eternal One, I am merely the messenger of this Cycle. They shall march on the armouries and seize whatever resides there, and then we shall take the Citadel; if a Demon has truly claimed the Brimite leader, we shall either free him or send his spirit to start his next Cycle."
Nodding, the Knights began barking orders out to the peasant soldiers on the walls and inside the city streets; as twilight was beginning to claim the night's sky, the familiar faces of the militia could move about with little trouble. While that was starting, the Manticore Knights began to make their approach to the gargantuan Cathedral of Brimir; an utterly decadent den of corruption that housed the most fanatical of Priests and what remained of the Templars from Germania. Shouts of alarm were quickly spreading throughout the lavish holy place as their zealous defenders saw the golden flag of Ba'alrazim now flying over their walls.
"Damn the fools, a single word from the Prophet drives them to madness!" A Knight hissed to himself, now having to abandon stealth to charge the gates of the walled off section of the city. Mace Wand in hand, the winds howled their rage against the brutal occupiers and tore the gates from their hinges; allowing the Knights to quickly take the courtyard.
The sounds of the approaching Golden Host from outside the city only seemed to further embolden the now fanatical peasantry; charging straight past the still mounted Knights and into the now seemingly undefended Cathedral. A horrific belch of fire spilled out of the open gate; roasting the flesh of the glory mad commoners, their screams of agony being quickly cut off as another wave of flames cooked whatever was left. A Templar Knight stepped forwards, a massive tank of magical fire sloshing dangerously around on his back, while the white hot muzzle was pointed straight towards the stunned Knights.
The Templar was well known and hated even more by all inside the Citadel Fortress; the right hand of the long incognizant Grand Master, Richard Baret was a bear of a man. Towering over all others, the casual brutality of the Templar was one of the main reasons the peasant population of this Crusader State changed sides. Behind him, the remaining clergy and religious thugs had armed themselves with cruel looking blades and matchlocks; their prayers mixing with curses.
"Behold the snake, hissing lies and filth from forked tongues. It knows nothing but deceit; and should be crushed. So says Brimir, Amen." The litany that was used to justify the cruelty done here washed through the corridor, the Brimites cheering praise to their genocidal god while those that bowed their heads to Rebirth scowled. Baret smirked as he aimed his weapon towards the turncoat Knights; death dancing in his dark eyes, his right hand squeezed down-
Nothing, not a spark flew out of that cruel device; then came the screaming. The bloody stump of the man's right arm was pouring blood onto the stone floor, while the severed limb was sent flopping onto the ground with a disgusting wet squish. Seemingly out of nowhere, a cloaked figure with the grand symbol of the Golden Host on his arm stepped into view, a knife in his right hand while a baffling device was on the left arm. As shocked silence dominated the corridor, the man bowed to the equally stunned Knights; his heavily accented voice just barely speaking Albionise. "My lord has unearthed many treasures under the sands; all of which shall be used against the thralls of Brimir; rather ironic considering it was he who put them there. His love of genocide against the Elves shall damn his followers; now come, let us kill these priests. The rest of the hamlet has been captured; the Golden Host is even now surrounding this disgusting Temple."
Smirking, the man vanished from sight once more as the cries of rage boiled over, the priests and Templars charging blindly towards the Knights; oblivious to the magic the dozen mounted warriors had their disposal. The stones flew out to crush bone, wind tore the breath from men's lungs and fire boiled their flesh into so much charred meat. The vicious Manticores that were carrying their masters lunged forwards, teeth dripping with anticipation with their next meals being so close. The screaming of the wounded and dying were quickly replaced by the crunching of teeth snapping bone; but the Knights heard the war chants of their reinforcing troops from outside the Citadel.
Troops armed with light armour and spears were the first to march through the now clear gate, their tribal origins obvious from their war paint and simple weapons. They had been a recent addition to the Ba'alrazim Empire; but had proved invaluable in their scouting of the terrain, something that had always been a danger to any army forced to march through the scorching deserts. Their mystics led the way, their magics being wild and untamed, a very useful weapon in night raids; their chants to the Eternal One rising in intensity with every step they took. Behind them came the Elven archers and the Arquebusiers that won them many campaigns; the former being an easy ally against the Brimirites, as the long lived race held all the scars of Brimir's genocide. The latter being supplied by smugglers, and had proved effective when properly used, despite the high maintenance that the loud and cumbersome firearms needed.
The clanking of heavy armoured heralded the arrival of the Crusaders; drawn from conscripted Brimites from various defeated crusades, the heavily armoured and well trained soldiers found that large sums of gold more than made up for any moral questions of loyalty. Some had even converted to the worship of the Eternal One, furthering their loyalty to zealous heights. They were the armoured core of the Ba'alrazim Empire; hard to replace, expensive to maintain, yet worth every gold coin; as the shock of fighting their supposed comrades was an excellent weapon against the minds of the Brimites.
Finally, the Mystics and the Iron Prophet himself marched behind their armoured guard; their spells at the ready in case the zealots tried anything. The blessed doors to the innermost chambers were barred from the inside and guarded by only a few remaining Templars, their defiant roars being silenced by the vicious spears of the Tribal Infantry alongside a rattling barrage of arquebus fire. As the stench of black powder and blood filled the air, the various Mystics used their myriad of spells to begin breaking down the door.
Fire, Earth and ancient Voodoo was used against those blessed gates, little by little beginning to crack and splinter apart; the infantry hacking what was left to pieces with swords and axes. Those once grand and opulent doors were trampled under countless feet, curses in many dialects being spat down upon the ruins; the decadence all around them only increasing the anger that many of the warriors held in their hearts for the servants of Brimir. The chamber was grand beyond anything the formerly nomadic desertfolk had ever dreamed of seeing; grand paintings covered the walls, jewels and gold simply laid around in piles as their clerical counters cowered behind them.
Waiting inside the chamber was the withered form of an extremely old man; his once proud features strained and skeletal. Milky white eyes stared into nothing as he muttered to nothing; arguing with invisible people about what to do. As the Ba'alrazim troops spread out around the grand chambers, a scream was ripped out of an archer as he was sent flying through the air and breaking his neck on the wall nearby. An unseen form barrelled through more of the archers, invisible weapons leaving their all too visible marks on the now dead bodies; insane laughter echoing throughout the room. For the briefest of moments, as the Arquebusiers fired blindly into the laughing phantom; a monstrous creature was seen by all in the room. It was massive, looming over the men who stared up at in fear; its blue skin rippling with unnaturally large muscles and holding a rusted chunk of metal that was the size of a small horse.
"Time to die!" It roared with a guttural voice that dripped with venom and madness in equal measure, its thick skin being peppered by the primitive firearms and arrows alike. With their prey marked, the Infantry moved in, spears thrusting towards their prey, often breaking their weapons on the rock hard flesh, the mad laughter of still unnamed monster being deafening. A harsh crack suddenly sent the form stumbling backwards, shimmering into full view for all to see; and one of the Iron Prophet's bodyguards smirked from his unseen perch, a very well used rifle in his hands. Unlike the primitive firearms of the time period, this weapon would have been found in the hands of a NCR Veteran Ranger; known to the people of the Mojave as an Anti-Material Rifle. Ammo was almost non-existent, but against a creature such as this, one bullet was enough to weaken the beast.
As their foe was now visible, archers and Arquebusiers fired again, followed by several Mystics beginning to chant the first verses of spells; Crusaders charged forwards, their heavy armour and shields being capable to deflect the rusted chunk of metal; even as their eyes were wide with horror at the laughing monster before them. An order from the very back of the line made the troops scatter, the Nightkin charging through the gap made by the seemingly broken warriors; his insane tittering being heard over the cacophony. A column of black fire was sent roaring into the Nightkin, his screams of agony being heard by even those outside the Citadel.
"I should have guessed that there would be more beasts out of the legends of old; I care not how you came here, only that I will kill you." The deep voice of the Iron Prophet boomed through the chamber, his hands burning with black fire, the Void in his eyes. Removing his helmet, the old man continued to march forwards, allowing all to see his face; an entirely bald head save his beard, religious runes and verses carved into the flesh. His eyes were black as the night sky, with points of light acting as pupils that shone like the brightest stars; and all around him, the world seemed to darken as if night was falling. He drew an ornately carved knife that glowed with the same magic as its master; and with the other hand, he gestured for his warriors to begin stabbing at the half dead Nightkin; its screams of pain only incensing the enraged warriors.
As spears and swords stabbed and punctured, axes and clubs crushed; and magic warped flesh with unnatural power; Abd al Hakim gripped the head of his enemy and removed the head from his shoulders. The decapitated head seemed to glow with unholy light as the soul was tethered to the fleshy vessel; the dark eyes shining brightly before fading into nothing. The Honour Guard surrounded their Prophet, various odd weapons in their hands, the ancient instruments of war being as alien as they were deadly. Silence had dominated the room as the soldiers of Ba'alrazim knelt down and prayed to the Eternal One in gratitude for the defeat of such a hideous Demon. They left the chamber as per the orders of the Honour Guard, leaving only them alone with the almost comatose Grand Master; the Iron Prophet looking at the old man, staring into those blank eyes.
"He has been taking the Forbidden Potions; far too much to be his choice. Someone has been turning this once proud warrior into a drooling husk; most likely those disgusting Templars we killed on the way here." As he spoke, his encased fist began to clench until his arm was shaking with rage. "Those cowardly vultures couldn't bring themselves to kill him in the open, so they resorted to this…pusillanimity! If any of the Brimirite Priests are still drawing breath; have them be drawn and quartered with the remains being dragged through the streets. These cowards would do this to their own leader; I will enjoy tearing out this poisoned weed by the roots!" The normally introspective haruspex's face was twisted into a murderous rage; clutching his knife as he stalked back outside, his Honour Guard bringing the near senile Grand Master with them.
Looking up at the towering cathedral of marble and gold, Abd al Hakim called the Mystics of his army to him, and ordered them to sink the symbol of cowardice and greed into the deepest pits of Hell. As chanting filled the air, he heard the thundering of hooves that heralded the arrival of a messenger; he and his horse looking haggard and worn. Dismounting and kneeling in the sand, the cloaked man presented Hakim his package; a Holodisk that many in the Wasteland and Mojave would have used to store information for hundreds of years. The Iron Prophet ordered that none was to disturb him before removing his heavy armour; revealing yet another technological marvel from another world entirely; a Pipboy.
The device had been passed down from each leader of what would become the Ba'alrazim Empire for centuries; protected and maintained obsessively, for within it held the secrets to things the theocratic society could only dream of. Weapons that fired metal and screamed thunder, armour that was impenetrable save for the will of Heaven; and medicine that rivaled magic in its effects. Like his mentors before him, Abd al Hakim has been slowly unlocking the text held within the device, and with each passing year, they advance leaps ahead of their neighbors. Knowledge and medicine were the first to be passed down, and it was these pillars that held up the Ba'alrazim Empire ever since its rise sixty years ago.
The Iron Prophet smiled down at the ancient machine before loading the message into the Pip Boy; a soft crackle being heard before the message began, the proud voice of Bartu Nakh, the leader of a Mystic Sect in Tristian began to fill the old man's ears. "Most Holy One; we have news for your ears only. A Void Mage has been found; a young girl named Louise Valliere, a Mage with next to no control of her abilities. Her family has all but abandoned her save the infamous Heavy Wind, her hands are stained red with the blood of my brothers; if she was not related to the Incarnation, I would kill her myself." Bartu's voice was hardened as the memory of the last Holy War was still fresh to him, but he quickly returned to a calmer tone as he continued.
"She has fulfilled a prophecy; the Flesh Eater is under her thrall, the One Eyed Demon has appeared in the world of men. He cares for her inside his castle, tending to her wounds alongside the Crimson Witch; for the enemies of God have begun their plots. I pray that you may send further aid soon your Holiness; for I fear that our troubles have just begun." With a final crackle, the message ended, stored within the Pipboy for all time; leaving the Iron Prophet with a sense of purpose that he had not felt for many years. He marched over to his commanders, a plan already beginning to form in his mind.
…
The ports of Khelon had once been a grand sight to behold; Furs from as far away as Nordia to the silks of the unknown Orient had all sailed through these ports, the arrogant Elves allowing humans to make them richer in exchange for tariffs. The Brimirite Genocide changed this; Humanity almost succeeding in wiping out the Elven race, leaving only half crumbling buildings behind and bitter remnants of once mighty kingdoms. What had once been mighty airships that would surpass anything made by human hands for thousands of years were little more than large islands of floating driftwood being cannibalized for supplies to maintain the Templar Fleet. Said fleet was a small armada of airships, each being a relic of days gone by, with large slots for archers and decks for slave gunners. They were quite large, while being dwarfed by the Elvish wrecks all around them, they were far bigger than most ships in the Brimirite Kingdoms; with forty cannons on each ship and enough black powder to last several weeks of constant warfare.
The ships themselves were not a problem, the Crusaders under the employ of the Iron Prophet knew how to work them; it was the numbers of, or lack of, ships. There was around ten warships, each able to safely fit one hundred men each; meaning only the best could take the ships and the rest of the army would have to make the long, hostile and dangerous trek by land towards Tristian. The Mystics, Crusaders and Elves would be taken in their entirety to board the ships, with the cavalry and the Arquebusiers filling the spots where they could.
The remainder of the army would be led a group of tribal warlords, minor mystics and the leaders of the Crusader forces. They hoped to heal the Grand Master and conscript him to their efforts; gratitude would hopefully do what vengeance could not. The turncoat peasants from Khelon had sworn to protect their Grand Master, and would continue to do so even as they marched against those that they had sworn themselves to. Many amongst them believed that the Crown and the Pope had betrayed them and left them to rot; so why not pick up arms against them, men and women now marched under the flag of the Ba'alrazim, eager to do something important with their lives. The last orders of the Iron Prophet were to unearth their collection of weapons; let the world see what the Ba'alrazim has at its disposal. As the ships began the pull away, the Iron Prophet began to smile, destiny was calling, and its herald shall answer.
…
Present Day
Among the many mundane dangerous that the oceans of Halkegenia hold within it, such as pirates and privateers, there lies a host of unnatural and magical horrors inside those hellish depths. From Sea Serpents to Sirens, the Ebony Coast was almost entirely devoid of any other vessels on these stormy seas. Despite being by far the quickest way to reach the coasts of the Brimirite Empires, the sheer dangers that the relatively small ocean possessed made all but the bravest or insane risk it, and the Ba'alrazim held the former in spades with the latter mixed in. The Templar Warships were many things, cramped, large and old to be sure; but they were not made for the almost unnatural storms that plagued the area.
Inside the captain's cabin, the Iron Prophet stared down at the tattered map of the Brimirite Kingdoms; from the frozen north of Nordia to the northern most tip of Germania. His spies and cults were only able to tell him so much, as those loyal to Brimir fought violently against anything different to them; their so called Noble Class would crack down on anything threatening their position. As the Incarnate was in Tristian, it would normally take around two years for a normal boat travel to travel there; the ancient airships would take half that time to simply reach the southernmost coast of Germania. From there, they would have to go on foot to Tristian, hiring mercenaries along the way; and while the Ba'alrazim Empire was not technically at war with Tristian, they would most certainly be unwelcome at best. The stores of food however, were not able to get this many troops to Tristian; Khelon was many things, but well stocked was not one of them. The foodstuffs inside the hulls of the ships were already being rationed, and unless they found a way to restock; it would only get worse.
"The people of the Brimirite Kingdoms will never accept our presence; that much is certain, their dogma blinds them to the reality of their situation; their leaders are corrupt mongrels and should be put down. Their child of a Pope has blood dripping from his hands, his grand cathedrals stained with the countless acts of murder and depravity that I cannot-no, will not stand for!" His deep voice echoed inside the formerly grand room, his fingertips bursting into flames as he gripped the desk, his gaze searching the map for any sign of divine aid. All at once, it came to him as his eyes stared down at a simple landmark; one that would certainly be very well stocked and defensible. A grin began to slowly grow onto his face as a chuckle escaped his lips; the Eternal One must have a good sense of humor, for this joke was going to leave many people rolling on the floor.
…
Religion has done many things in history; from building bridges to burning them down, bringing people together or driving them apart. Faith in the Founder, the mighty Brimir has forged a mighty empire; one of blood, magic and ancient tradition. As time has gone on, the humble began proud, the peaceful turned bloodthirsty; and the hopeful into cynics. This sad state is nowhere more obvious than the Papal States of the Brimirite Church; it is more there that the current Pope, one Vittorio Serevare rules with ruthlessness alongside cloak and dagger politics. Despite the less than honest means of his work, the two decade old youth is not a man with malign intentions; or that is what he has to tell himself.
The Papal States were once a shining light of faith to ward off the godless hordes outside the borders of the so called civilized nations; from where the will of God would be ordained and enacted upon by His humble servants. What it has slowly become is a shadowy world of lies and murder done under the guise of godly deeds; only kept in check by the fear of being discovered by someone who could do something about it. This corruption has been hidden from the commoners, who looked to the Church of Brimir for guidance and protection; and as such the Papal State was always flooded with pilgrims of all kinds; despite the fact that it was quite late at night, many pilgrims were still mulling about and priests were walking to one temple or shrine to complete their duties.
The ten airships shuddering to a halt inside the docks that spat out an armoured column of battered crusaders returning from a century in the Holy Lands certainly drew attention from clerics and commoner alike; their helmed faces seeming grim and determined as they were led by oddly dressed preachers. The leader of the Crusaders was around fifty years old, although his heavily scarred face made him appear much older; a large claymore over his shoulder and a flintlock pistol in a holster. His name was Conn MacCaog, a former minor Noble from Albion before his family had been stripped of their title and forced into a Crusade in penance for some long forgotten sin. He held no love for his former equals and was all too happy to follow his orders; although the large inhuman severed head in his bag was slightly unnerving, he followed his orders.
The large bear of a man sneered as a portly cleric by the name of Dionigi Miniati scurried into sight, a small group of militia baring expensive halberds that appeared to have never been used before this very evening. As the priest got closer, his eyes got wider as the sheer number of the Crusader host that stood in perfect formation; their silent armoured forms taking up most of the docks, their hard eyes glaring at the now stammering cleric. "W-what is the meaning of this interruption? You dare dock without his Holiness approving, and stain this sacred ground with your filth!" His jowls were plastered with a particularly ugly mixture of smugness and bladder loosening fear towards the veterans of countless bloody battle in front of him; his guards staring at Conn with awe and terror in equal measure. Unseen to any prying eyes, a group of silent figures stalked off the ship and into the dark back streets of the Papal States; their mission clear and their resolve is unwavering.
Without moving a step forwards, the giant of a man seemed to loom over the dozen men, his voice as deep and rough as his claymore was large. "My men and I have travelled a very long way to get here; we demand food and shelter for the night and I need to speak with his Holiness; I have urgent business with him." For a moment, the cleric almost refused before he stared into the pitiless eyes that glared out from behind the iron helmet of Conn MacCaog; as black as the void, they burned into his soul. One hand was on the hilt of his claymore while the other traced the handle of his flintlock, an unnerving smile on his face. "Right now, if you would be so kind."
…
The hour was late, and his Holiness Vittorio Serevare was rudely woken up by loud knocking at his bed chamber door. The attractive young man quickly donned his robes and stumbled up, half coherent grumbling escaping his lips; his sleep crusted eyes widened upon seeing the Crusader wearing dented and pitted armour that covered a soiled kilt and tattered shirt. Without a word, the man pushed his way into the room, his presence keeping the normally fanatically guards unsure of themselves, their grips on their spears tightening with every passing second. Quickly waking up, the young Pope gestured for the door to be shut and simply stared at the veteran, one set of cold eyes staring into another; the battle of wills drawing out in the silence until Conn spoke. "Your Holiness, my troops and I have escaped from the fall of Khelon with grave news. The Templars have all been wiped out, the Cathedral toppled to the ground and the Ba'alrazim on the move. I care little for your pointless politics and power mongering so I will be frank." The false respect quickly draining from his voice as he continued. "Your predecessor and later those who spoke for you left us to die; giving us vague or pointless orders, left us at the mercy of those that would kill us all. The fanatics robbed, raped and killed anyone who spoke against them, forcing us to throw ourselves against the enemy again and again for no reason other so that the priests could escape." The calm face of the Pope cracked a ghost of a smile and almost chuckled as he interrupted.
"I know all about these things, why else would I have sent all of you out into some Brimir forsaken desert to be skewered by the godless savages? You were the rabble rousers, the fanatics and the heathens within the Church; why else would I send you the Templar Order of Germania, known fanatics and madmen? I CHOSE you Cogg MacCaog, as I chose your father and brothers before you to die in the burning sands; and I would do it again if I was given a chance. In a way, I'm glad that you crawled back here; I'm sure that the Inquisition would love any excuse to get the "truth" out of you." As the Pope was ranting with the fire of any religious leader, the young man failed the notice the far older solider smirk as the faintest sounds of muffled fists hitting startled guards outside the closed door. With a surprising amount of care, the large man reached into his bag and slowly drew out the large blue head; and whispered under his breath into its ear, smirking as the Pope had turned away from him and continued to rant wildly. Unseen from the eyes of his Holiness, dark clouds swirled and thunder crashed over the cathedral, and outside in the city streets, certain strings had begun to be plucked.
…
Passing between the citizens and alleys, small conclaves of hooded figures passed into shadow, leaving markings upon the walls. Outside the city, the ancient airships slowly slid out from the port under the shadows of now turbulent weather, their guns lined and ready, powder, shot and shell stored close at hand. Primers and lights are shaded and covered, leaving little light to be revealed but quick access when required. In the lower decks the warriors stand ready, with weapons sharpened and cleaned, and their arqubuses cleaned and ready, their blades at their hips and their pouches stuffed with cartridges. Tabash glared out from the many small gunnery holes, his dark eyes staring at the silent city that lay out before him. The tribal leader had gone from a nomadic existence to seeing these symbols of wealth and piety; the Brimirites had done nothing but show off their decadence and greed to world, being blind to the enemies now inside their city. He grinned as he saw a small light flash from a single rooftop before quickly winking out, followed by two more singular flashes of light on other rooftops nearby.
The signal was received; time to close the jaws around the blind animal. The cannons were ranged and ready, all Navin had to say was "fire". With haste the men snatched off the covers to their primers and set light to the powder. In seconds, flames burst from the cannonades and a mix of explosive shell and hardened round shot fell upon the walled city, crashing through the streets, plowing through buildings and people, and in their wake fear spread and the streets became panicked and the infiltrators slipped silently back into the shadows, a shared unseen grin on their faces.
The Iron Prophet smiled at the destruction wrought upon the city, the ship cannonades firing indiscriminately as quickly as their crews could load them, sending more ragged shells and shot into the city. But his ship did not stay still, for it moved faster and quicker now towards the now cleared docks, the other nine continuing to circle the walled city, drawing many of the other defenders away from his arrival. The flagship moored itself on the dock and the Arquebusiers were the first into the city proper, dropping into a ranked firing line that unloaded into anything that moved, be it civilian or solider; the sounds of pain of death were quickly followed the stench of blood. Following close behind the gun line was the Elvish regiment that had sworn themselves to Abd al Hakim personally before the campaign had begun so many years ago. Anything that the hail of crude shot didn't outright kill, an Elven arrow finished the job.
The warriors of Ba'alrazim marched through the streets of the Papal State, being almost unnoticed by the defenders as the far louder naval invasion had driven them into a panic, running around the city in a desperate attempt to be everywhere at once. "The Pope has no standing army? I suppose with the corrupt Nobles having the final vote, they would all agree on crushing anything that could challenge them." The old man thought to himself as his Honour Guard kept him safe from anything that tried to get close and all that remained as the Pope's chambers; a grin already growing on his face as he saw that the doors had been kicked down from the inside and a single robed figure bowed deeply when he approached, the symbol of the Golden Host on his arm and a seemingly alien device on his arm.
Cogg MacCaog kneeled as his Prophet entered the room, dead guards being scattered all around the once grand bedchamber; the being responsible looming over all that entered the room, the Pope being held in one spectral fist. A shadow with burning eyes held the stunned grand cleric in one hand and a large crude blade in the other. While the creature would have been unknown in its current state, the Iron Prophet knew what it was immediately; the Charm of Binding was a simple spell, but quite potent. Able to hold all but the most resilient of souls to the mortal plane, the Iron Prophet had guessed that it would be more than capable to hold an insane beast under his thrall for a time. The former Nightkin did nothing save standing in the corner of the room with his prey before Abd al Hakim waved his hand and muttered out a prayer to the Eternal One, smirking as the young man fell to the ground with a thud.
With his warriors surrounding the Pope, the messenger of the Eternal One stood over the stunned man and removed his helmet before speaking. "I had hoped that we could have met under less… tense circumstances; but fate forces my hand; your city is all but conquered, so give up. Your familiar is away, your so called allies will bicker until the world ends and is born anew; so your only choice is me. I don't want to kill you child, I'm not some mindless fanatic despite what you've been told all your life; I am a messenger of the divine, and through me the Eternal One would forgive you if you bow. I know that the Void runs in your blood my son, do not make me spill it." The deep voice of Abd al Hakim rang in the Void Mage's ears, his eyes wide as he was thrust onto the balcony where he could clearly hear the sounds of devastation and see the destruction of his once grand city. "Your city burns and its people die for no reason other than your continued defiance; I would prefer that the population is not killed to mewling babe in her mother's arms, but if that is what it takes to break you, so be it."
Vittorio Serevare remained silent as the wailing of children reached his ears alongside the thundering of cannons; his grand home being mercilessly torn to pieces by an enemy that would have no qualms in killing innocents. "Is this my legacy? To be the final leader of the Holy See, to have been considered the man who led to the downfall of all that is scared and good in this world? My death would achieve nothing as the nobles care little about my life, merely my position. To remain alive will give my familiar time to come back with an army to free me; and with a little bit luck, this Iron Prophet will be broken under the weight of his ambition. I am the voice of Brimir, and I will NOT allow some godless heretic stain this city, in time he will die by my hand; but patience is a virtue I need now more than ever. I will watch, wait and ready myself for the right moment."
"Very well, I surrender the city to you, as long as you promise to leave the citizens alone." The young man's form seemed to sag with the strain of his decision, while the Iron Prophet grinned to himself as he gave the order to capture the city; and within the hour, the golden flag of the Ba'alrazim flew proudly over a battle torn city. As the Pope was led into the dungeons, the ancient Void Mage stared across his prize, new plans already being made even as the last of the defenders were being butchered alongside anyone who refuses to bow to their new masters; their screams most likely reaching the Pope's ears, a reminder of the consequences of rebellion. The future will be most interesting indeed, with fate still a murky lake, but with enough bloodshed, the destiny of the Ba'alrazim shall be clear as day. For Destiny called, and as its Prophet; he must answer.
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I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I hope that this new format will be pleasing. I personally can't wait to flesh out these new countries and see how you as the audience receive them. As always, love, hate, questions? Leave a review or PM personally and I will get back to you as soon as I can. And always; stay classy, stay awesome and have a lovely day.