This time Divine won out, with Administrative earning itself +2 bonus votes.
Chapter Nine: Fear
1576-1593
Royal Palace, occupied Gišhuram, Kingdom of Varamhar, 1581
The day's light was fading. The glow of Surael that played over the shelves of books, scrolls and parchments was shifting from a pleasant yellow into shades of orange and red that cast the library in a deathly glow. It reminded Kyruš of the rise of the Blood Moon, the light that had shone across the Kingdom to herald these dark times. It heralded dark times once again, and he prayed that he would be spared once more.
Though he had prayed the same prayer for the past six months, he knew that everyone else in the city was making the same prayer, and not all of them were answered. Soon the air would be filled with the sounds of destruction, the crackling of flames, and the screams of the unfortunate. But the city would still stand in the morning. It was a slow, excruciating, process. It was a calculated process, for certain.
Open flames were not allowed near the literature, and the only light filtered in through the windows. While he could continue to read, he did not want to be within arm's reach of outdoors.
"Young lord, we should return to your chambers," said his guard, a commoner by the name of Qidris.
The guard had been placed to watch over him by his father, even though Kyruš was now a man grown. Unlike the rest of the household, what was left of it, Qidris was operating on direct orders and would not listen to Kyruš' instructions. It was a chain around his ankle. One deliberately left.
"Just a moment," he replied. He gathered the scrolls he had been studying up into his arms, and took one more look out the window.
Gišhuram spread out before him, silent and expansive. Though it was the capital, it did not match the size of cities like Bulwar and Brasan, and in the distance he could see the place where the city bled into the surrounding countryside. Bled literally, as the outgoing roads were stained red and surrounded by stark wounds of shattered buildings that spilled their contents into the street. The scars were growing, night by night, raid by raid. In the distance, blocking each of the roads, were tents. Dark tents, without lights or fires. As soon as all light left, they would empty into the city.
Kyruš swallowed a lump in his throat, and then followed Qidris out of the library.
The halls of the palace were silent, the only sound being their echoing tread. Everyone else had fled to their chambers at the first sign of nightfall. Though the King and much of his court were departed to war, the palace had accepted hundreds of nobles and their families, as well as critical members of the household. Less important servants were forced to stay outside the palace, and the stories that they brought in were horrifying.
"If you would abide a question, young lord," Qidris said, "what are you studying?"
"I am looking for anything that might help us," Kyruš replied, "while our lords battle them directly, there must be other ways to oppose them."
"Your father commended your mind, before he left," Qidris said, "but he seemed convinced that to shed blood was the only way to face such monsters."
Kyruš did not answer that. He had ideas on why his father, Mithraš szal-Zarhan, had said that, but he did not want to think them in his thoughts let alone speak them out loud. That idea was exactly why they were in this situation. Exactly what had happened to the dwarves, to the Deepwoods, to Bahar. They were drawn into the impression that bloody battle was the only solution, a solution where the Butchers were at the strongest. To break their minds out of that paradigm would be the only way to save them.
They walked in a corridor bordering a large courtyard. Under the siege and now the occupation the water supply for the garden had been siphoned away, and the plants were dry and bare. A courtyard of stone and death, under a dark sky with no stars and yet a relentless red glow. It was how Kyruš imagined it must be in the depths of the Serpentreach.
He held his scrolls tightly and walked a little faster, his heart beating faster than his pace.
"Tomorrow, we leave the library an hour earlier," Qidris said, "your father would-"
A gust of warm wind swept across the courtyard and into the corridor, blowing out all the torches at once. The interior was swamped in a shaded red; visibility reduced to near nothing.
Kyruš froze, and ahead of him Qidris paused and placed his hand on his sword.
"It's just the wind," Qidris said, though that did not change his obvious tension.
Out of the corner of Kyruš' eyes, something moved on the rooftops above the courtyard. A shadow lit by two bright red pinpricks was all he could see before it vanished. Qidris, despite scanning all possible angles of approach, did not seem to have noticed it.
"Keep moving," Kyruš said.
Qidris took one step, his boots echoing in the dark corridor.
"I see you are keeping up with your studies," came a familiar voice.
The two of them spun back to face one of the windows looking out onto the courtyard. Peering into it was Vaceran, his fingers gripping the sill tightly. The old elf looked vibrant and healthy, a warm complexion beneath smooth skin. His smile was toothy and wide.
"Honoured Chosen," Qidris said, relaxing a fraction, "it is dangerous outside after dark. Please, come inside."
He stepped forward, but a terror gripped at the base of Kyruš' stomach. If this happened, it was all over. He stepped in front of Qidris.
"Young lord, please stand aside," Qidris said.
Ignoring him, Kyruš glared at Vaceran and said, "what brings you to the palace at this hour? I thought you were staying at the temple."
"I wanted to check on my favourite student," Vaceran said, "I wanted to find out what you've learned since you arrived."
"We can continue this conversation in safety, please, young lord," Qidris said. He placed a hand on Kyruš' shoulder, but he shrugged it off and rounded on the man. However he might treat him, they were close in age and close enough in strength.
"You may answer to my father, but he is not here," Kyruš snapped, "either we leave Vaceran to the night, or I step outside there myself to speak to him in the darkness."
Those options gave Qidris pause, and his eyes flickered between the two of them with concern. Protecting his charge against protecting one of Surael's Chosen. Kyruš knew what he would chose. Qidris was one of his father's men, through and through.
"Forgive me, but I must escort the young lord to his chambers," Qidris finally said, offering an apologetic bow to Vaceran.
"Do not worry," Vaceran replied. His eyes locked onto Kyruš, who shuddered at the attention. "I'll be waiting. There's so much we can discuss, face-to-face."
As Kyruš departed, escorted by Qidris, his heart continued to thump in his chest. Outside in the city, drumbeats began and with them another night of terror and blood. They would not come for him this night, he realised this now. They were seeking something more from him. He was on the right path. As other bore the burden of their proclivities, he would bear the burden of their sacrifice. For it was the only way to save them all.
Excerpts from the writings of Kyruš szal-Zarhan, Wishbearer
It is shameful to distrust my own father, but I cannot help but be shaken by how his demeanour has changed since his return from abroad. While he counsels with the king on matters of the coming war, I have started tapping into his networks so that I can learn what he has. From them I have learned that the orcs to the north are rapidly fortifying their territory, making use of earth-shaking magics and endless brutal slave labour. I fear a direct assault on the mountains is impossible.
Stranger still is the near-complete lack of refugees fleeing the onslaught. Despite the brutality we are all now aware of, the population seems to have been cowed. Those few merchants who travel in and out of the lands of the Butchers speak of a quiet reverence of hopelessness among the people, while the Butchers themselves are seen as beacons of Darkness, like paladins of malevolence. It is unsettling. I can see how father was changed by proximity to such things.
I am not a warrior, just as my father was not. Should still be not. And yet he is now. Regardless, I have delved into my studies of orcish military history. The tales from Seghdihr of defeating the drakon-riders, the stories of the Greentide, and yet I find myself at an impasse. These orcs do not wield the same weapons as those of the past, but neither have they adopted the tactics of modern gunpowder warfare. Their strength is fuelled by something else entirely.
The other option gives us a nice combat bonus, but with an idea group open and an important tech coming up, I'd much rather have the mil.
They march. The King Kalindil has stayed his hand from participating while King Vulzin has been drawn into a war to liberate the few free people still remaining in Bahar. I am still too young, too powerless to have any say over his war cabinet, but I was written to father imploring him to intervene before it is too late.
Keeping these doomed minors around has done wonders for opening up opportunities to break up the hugbox.
The tales from the battles on the coast further reinforce my studies. They are adapting, but in their own way. Instead of squares of pikes and muskets, they form large blocks of axe throwers with far shorter range but enough stopping power to devastate a line if they get close enough. And I fear they will get close enough, as no matter how much blood spills from their stolen skin they do not fall.
Timing the war with this critical tech will also be a massive boost to our efforts.
Their war effort is funded by endless mountains of fey silver. Locals, when they are not being terrorized, are flooded with bribes in exchange for their supplies. Bribes which fade away as the Butchers depart for their next battle. I do not know how their economy functions with such an influx of precious metals, if they have a true economy behind their rage and bloodlust.
A great deal of celebration has bene made of an elite force being sent to support Elizna by marching through Firanyalen into the Deepwoods to cut off the supply of silver to the orcs. It seems like a distraction, as with the rate the orcs are advancing they will in Brasan long before the disruption to their supply chain affects them. Those forests are dangerous, and I also fear that they are walking into a trap that will only weaken our own ability to fight.
Medurubar is burning. I can see the smoke from the estate. Such senseless violence; what can one such as I, near powerless in all regards, do about it? What can the common man or elf of these lands accomplish as their armies are shattered by ten thousand axes?
With the Lower Suran set alight they are now marching upriver to the heart of Bulwar itself. I and the servants have already abandoned the estate and fled to the capital. However, King Kalindil and my father are nowhere to be found.
With the other war still ongoing, we can attack without bringing in Elizna.
I forced my way into the war room, to find it near-deserted. Interrogating some of the officers left behind revealed the truth. My father had convinced the King that cutting off the orcs from their Deepwoods resources was the key to winning, and that they only need to send in a larger army to ensure victory. I have come to terms with it now. My father is either a fool or a traitor. Or perhaps he was already long dead. All I can now do is take charge of my household and do what I can to survive.
The city fell, but it was a strange fall. The walls gave way, that same terrible rumbling that I could feel in my memories, and the orcs marched through snatching whatever and whomever they could, but they did not conduct a total sack of the city. The palace still stands. We still live. They are moving with haste to their next objective. I am left to wonder, have they revealed their weakness? They rely so greatly on the shock of their offensive that it is far more fragile than it first appears.
There are steady reports filtering through the occupation of great victories in the Deepwoods, each signed by the hand of my father. I do not trust the reports. I do no know the fate of King Kalindil. The orcs are seizing all of our fortresses and daubing them with blood, while the streets of the city are haunted by dark shapes that steal away any unfortunate enough to be outdoors when the sun sets.
Trapped indoors, with red eyes watching from the rooftops for us to dare step out of the palace, I have taken to reading the King's vast library. One tale in particular caught my eye. An ancient temple, lost to the Salahad but uncovered by the shifting sands, caught the attention of eager and zealous adventurers.
While the war is happening, I am continuing one of the narrative expeditions.
The adventurers made their way to the temple, only to find that whatever ancient civilization had raised it had turned it into a fortress themselves. A winding path through narrow passageways, covered by countless murder holes and balconies where death might rain down from above. Whoever had built it either meant to confuse attackers, or possibly even their own congregation, making reaching the heart of the temple a test of faith in itself.
However, there was nothing in the endless halls except for silence and spirits. Whatever danger or test lay within the labyrinth had long since faded, or had perhaps never existed in the first place. It was a hollow threat, one that the determined could march into without fear.
At the heart of the temple the adventurers found a great hoard of treasure, an unlikely sight but a welcome one. Whatever power once rested there had accumulated wealth onto themselves for purposes unknown, and now it was theirs to seize.
However, it was a trap. They were set upon by beasts that had been waiting for an eternity to strike down those who would threaten the hoard. They fought valiantly, and though many lives were lost they achieved victory. They strode forward into the great central sanctum of the temple, expecting the ultimate mountain of gold to await them.
At the heart of the temple was the ultimate trap. All the treasure was just to lure the adventurers in to achieve the real task, the freeing of the spirit that lay within. Some primordial being of great power seized the treasure and mocked them as it fled. There was nothing else in the temple, no power remaining once the creature departed. Perhaps it was a djinn, seeking freedom from its bonds. Such power can warp the fabric of the world. I am left with a mountain of information on ancient history, and endless time in which to read it. I should consider more of these tales.
This allows us to complete the second stage of the great project in the province.
Rumour has it that the western war has ended, with the only outcome being the seizure and demolition of a coastal fortress. It makes it clear that it was all a ruse to draw attention before striking at their real target – us.
King Kalindil has returned, miraculously alive but pale and emaciated. He has conceded nearly all of the Šad Našratu to the Butchers, including many of our key northern forts. We are alive, but doomed if we do not change course. I tried to tell the King as much, but when he looked upon me he flew into a rage and demanded that I leave for the family estate and never return. As the household left the palace at last, one of his officers handed me a satchel containing the remains of my father and confirmed that I had inherited.
I did not dare open the satchel, and had it burned on one of the pyres the orcs had constructed during their occupation.
The Blood Frenzy CB gives 70% cost for taking provinces, even better than Holy War.
As I rode home I could hear the distant hills echoing with the drums of celebration and guttural songs. All I feel is fear. Terrible, rotting fear. Fear that I will live to suffer the same as those who are currently under their rule. Fear that I will see Bulwar burning as though a Xhazobine had torn it down. Fear that I will do whatever it takes and sacrifice whoever it takes to see their advance halted.
Cannor is caught in its own follies. In holding true to their pantheon of dead gods, they have fallen upon one another in a whirlwind of violence over which of them has claimed the silent throne. They will not care to open up another front against the Butchers, so long as the orcs do not intervene in their own bloodletting. We are alone.
This has the side-effect of collapsing the Cannorian coalition.
What remains of my father's networks – my networks now – have delivered strange news of large numbers of halflings fleeing the war in Cannor for the mountains, out of some strange misunderstanding that there will be a warm and welcoming hearth for them. Nothing was able to dissuade them from their quest, but those who saw them did cast their suspicion that the leaders of the migrants were being influenced in some way, for they behaved very unusually. As impossible as it might seem, my fears as to the true capabilities of the Butchers are beginning to become reality.
While we rebuild and Cannor tears itself apart, the monsters march on the remaining holdouts in Bahar. It is good that they are not true seafarers, as their total victory was prevented by a fleet of vessels travelling up and down the coast protecting key islands and evacuating whoever they can.
However, their trickery knows no bounds. By drawing the fleet up to the north to chase a smaller sacrificial flotilla, they launched a forced march over the causeway to the island of Yamatšes and seized it, ending the last holdout of dwarven resistance. It proves that nowhere within reach of the march is safe. Only Aelantir is truly safe, and I am not even certain of that.
The last remnants of the Bahari are spared for the moment, but their doom will come, as they no longer have anywhere to retreat. It only hardens my heart further, for if I am to spare this land from immolation, I cannot rely on having the space to retreat. Bulwar will stand, or it will shatter.
I wasn't able to annex them in a single war, so best to take just the one province that would be a nightmare to get if we actually had to land troops there, bringing them below 100% WSC while also reducing the likelihood of a coalition.
They are not the only ones with treasures. The King and his forebears spent vast resources on artefacts in an effort to advance their studies for their mysterious project. More mysteries have been swallowed the desert than can possibly exist in those mountains. Even if it bankrupts my house, I will search and scour every corner of the Kingdom, the lands of the Jaddari, and the deepest depths of the Salahad. These old tales were based on some ancient truth, and I will find it.
I cannot wait a moment longer, as they are clearly preparing for their decisive blow. Those caught behind their frontier are already forfeit, a necessary bump in the road to slow the rolling war machine. I will take on whatever Darkness this puts upon my soul, and place myself before Surael's cleansing Light when it comes time for my judgement.
We're at the point where we need to start mopping up the leftovers in western Bulwar for a future mission.
The same halflings who led their people into the Darkness now come down from the mountains seeking trade. I have ordered my informants to see them expelled from the Kingdom, before it is too late. We can no longer take any chances with those who have seen the touch of the bloody moon.
I didn't realise we'd get more halflings from the MT, so I grabbed the upgraded mask. It's good for colonisation, but we're almost done with that and I don't think the level 3 offers enough on top to be worth aiming for. In the end we only have limited slots for level 3 masks.
In an unexpected result, unity has prevailed in Anbennar. The Emperor has declared an armistice between the supporters of Adean and Corin, and is now rallying his supporters for further reform. Perhaps I was mistaken, and they will be able to oppose the rising Darkness. However, I fear their aid will come too late as the monsters will have already razed Bulwar to the ground.
The EoA is in a very good place at the moment. All the starting electors are alive, they are gaining imperial authority despite still being divided on religion, and Lorent and Gawed seem to be struggling. That they are doing so well has been a big problem for our efforts to push into Cannor. As a further aside, in the next update there will be new reform paths added to the Empire, so that even the AI has a good chance of unifying it.
Tales from within the Šad Našratu are terrifying. The temples to Surael are desecrated, clouds cover the skies, and the masses are turning to something else in their fear and desperation. They are turning towards the Malevolent Dark. I can imagine no other force could produce something as beastly as what has poured from those mountains.
I arrived in Azka-Sur, seeking an audience with our supposed dwarven allies to see what artefacts they might have access to, only to find the ways into the mountains barred. As I stood before the gates of the hold, I could feel beneath my feet those same drums beating in earth. I wish I could that I stood until night fell and sleep took me, but in truth my fear got the better of me and I departed.
Highlighting this battle as it shows how we are really stacking morale and reduced morale damage. Our troops are incredibly durable, even when outnumbered nearly two-to-one by a dwarven military that is starting to ramp up itself.
The gates did not open after that. All effort to communicate with our allies have faltered. There are reports that the interior gates were deliberately collapsed specifically to end the long alliance between our two kingdoms. The mountains are silent. Have been made silent. Their hour is drawing closer.
The Serpentreach is also silent. Entirely silent, except for those moments the drums begin to beat and the red moon rises. Even as recently as last year there were still a few dwarves who braved the narrow and impossible pathways just south of Ovdal Lodhum, but even those few sources of information have dried up. The Darkness has taken the underground.
After months of silence, harpy flights over the lowlands of the Suran have resumed. I ought to be heartened to see that they still live but I am not. I see how their wings carry them. Their wings are too rigid. Their bodies are too bulky. There is no way they could fly without some other power animating them. To think that a century ago my ancestors would have joyed to see our northern neighbours suffer so, but now I can only think about how we are both victims of the same monsters.
It has become clear what is happening now. Infiltration, destruction, and rebuilding entire societies in their image. This god-begot, god-begot, this thing of the deepest depths of the Malevolent Dark, whatever it is it has been empowered by the oceans of spilled blood that the orcs have fed it, and its tendrils now creep into the minds of those who ought to wish to escape. I have made my decision, I must accumulate the power that I need and strike back, for mortal means no longer have a hope of success.
To be continued…
Vote
The orcs of the woods, once enthralled by the fey, now serve us. The drake-riders have taken their skewers to their own mounts. The birthplace of our people has fallen into our hands. Nothing will stop our ascent to the bloody mountain peak, as the nation of true orcish dominance. Some voices, hoarse from the roar of battle and bloodletting, call to the Otar to declare our triumph, to rule all of Tarakar, the Land of Darkness. Others wish to remain the Butchers, an identity we have carved for ourselves from the very flesh of the world.
This choice will only affect our name, colour and national ideas.
We are Butchers, now and forever. (Remain Masked Butcher)
Masked Butcher NI highlights include infantry combat ability, army tradition from battles, development cost, reduced morale damage, and reduced years of separatism.
We shall lay claim to the Darkness, and all clans shall become as Butchers. (Become Tarakar, keep MB NIs)
We are more than a clan. We are Darkness itself. All orcs shall kneel before the Otar. (Become Tarakar, change NIs)
Tarakar NI highlights include infantry combat ability, discipline, reduced AE gain, reduced unrest, increased effectiveness of absolutism (a very rare modifier that lets you go above 100 absolutism).
Select an options by clicking on the below image.
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Chapter Nine: Fear
1576-1593
Royal Palace, occupied Gišhuram, Kingdom of Varamhar, 1581
The day's light was fading. The glow of Surael that played over the shelves of books, scrolls and parchments was shifting from a pleasant yellow into shades of orange and red that cast the library in a deathly glow. It reminded Kyruš of the rise of the Blood Moon, the light that had shone across the Kingdom to herald these dark times. It heralded dark times once again, and he prayed that he would be spared once more.
Though he had prayed the same prayer for the past six months, he knew that everyone else in the city was making the same prayer, and not all of them were answered. Soon the air would be filled with the sounds of destruction, the crackling of flames, and the screams of the unfortunate. But the city would still stand in the morning. It was a slow, excruciating, process. It was a calculated process, for certain.
Open flames were not allowed near the literature, and the only light filtered in through the windows. While he could continue to read, he did not want to be within arm's reach of outdoors.
"Young lord, we should return to your chambers," said his guard, a commoner by the name of Qidris.
The guard had been placed to watch over him by his father, even though Kyruš was now a man grown. Unlike the rest of the household, what was left of it, Qidris was operating on direct orders and would not listen to Kyruš' instructions. It was a chain around his ankle. One deliberately left.
"Just a moment," he replied. He gathered the scrolls he had been studying up into his arms, and took one more look out the window.
Gišhuram spread out before him, silent and expansive. Though it was the capital, it did not match the size of cities like Bulwar and Brasan, and in the distance he could see the place where the city bled into the surrounding countryside. Bled literally, as the outgoing roads were stained red and surrounded by stark wounds of shattered buildings that spilled their contents into the street. The scars were growing, night by night, raid by raid. In the distance, blocking each of the roads, were tents. Dark tents, without lights or fires. As soon as all light left, they would empty into the city.
Kyruš swallowed a lump in his throat, and then followed Qidris out of the library.
The halls of the palace were silent, the only sound being their echoing tread. Everyone else had fled to their chambers at the first sign of nightfall. Though the King and much of his court were departed to war, the palace had accepted hundreds of nobles and their families, as well as critical members of the household. Less important servants were forced to stay outside the palace, and the stories that they brought in were horrifying.
"If you would abide a question, young lord," Qidris said, "what are you studying?"
"I am looking for anything that might help us," Kyruš replied, "while our lords battle them directly, there must be other ways to oppose them."
"Your father commended your mind, before he left," Qidris said, "but he seemed convinced that to shed blood was the only way to face such monsters."
Kyruš did not answer that. He had ideas on why his father, Mithraš szal-Zarhan, had said that, but he did not want to think them in his thoughts let alone speak them out loud. That idea was exactly why they were in this situation. Exactly what had happened to the dwarves, to the Deepwoods, to Bahar. They were drawn into the impression that bloody battle was the only solution, a solution where the Butchers were at the strongest. To break their minds out of that paradigm would be the only way to save them.
They walked in a corridor bordering a large courtyard. Under the siege and now the occupation the water supply for the garden had been siphoned away, and the plants were dry and bare. A courtyard of stone and death, under a dark sky with no stars and yet a relentless red glow. It was how Kyruš imagined it must be in the depths of the Serpentreach.
He held his scrolls tightly and walked a little faster, his heart beating faster than his pace.
"Tomorrow, we leave the library an hour earlier," Qidris said, "your father would-"
A gust of warm wind swept across the courtyard and into the corridor, blowing out all the torches at once. The interior was swamped in a shaded red; visibility reduced to near nothing.
Kyruš froze, and ahead of him Qidris paused and placed his hand on his sword.
"It's just the wind," Qidris said, though that did not change his obvious tension.
Out of the corner of Kyruš' eyes, something moved on the rooftops above the courtyard. A shadow lit by two bright red pinpricks was all he could see before it vanished. Qidris, despite scanning all possible angles of approach, did not seem to have noticed it.
"Keep moving," Kyruš said.
Qidris took one step, his boots echoing in the dark corridor.
"I see you are keeping up with your studies," came a familiar voice.
The two of them spun back to face one of the windows looking out onto the courtyard. Peering into it was Vaceran, his fingers gripping the sill tightly. The old elf looked vibrant and healthy, a warm complexion beneath smooth skin. His smile was toothy and wide.
"Honoured Chosen," Qidris said, relaxing a fraction, "it is dangerous outside after dark. Please, come inside."
He stepped forward, but a terror gripped at the base of Kyruš' stomach. If this happened, it was all over. He stepped in front of Qidris.
"Young lord, please stand aside," Qidris said.
Ignoring him, Kyruš glared at Vaceran and said, "what brings you to the palace at this hour? I thought you were staying at the temple."
"I wanted to check on my favourite student," Vaceran said, "I wanted to find out what you've learned since you arrived."
"We can continue this conversation in safety, please, young lord," Qidris said. He placed a hand on Kyruš' shoulder, but he shrugged it off and rounded on the man. However he might treat him, they were close in age and close enough in strength.
"You may answer to my father, but he is not here," Kyruš snapped, "either we leave Vaceran to the night, or I step outside there myself to speak to him in the darkness."
Those options gave Qidris pause, and his eyes flickered between the two of them with concern. Protecting his charge against protecting one of Surael's Chosen. Kyruš knew what he would chose. Qidris was one of his father's men, through and through.
"Forgive me, but I must escort the young lord to his chambers," Qidris finally said, offering an apologetic bow to Vaceran.
"Do not worry," Vaceran replied. His eyes locked onto Kyruš, who shuddered at the attention. "I'll be waiting. There's so much we can discuss, face-to-face."
As Kyruš departed, escorted by Qidris, his heart continued to thump in his chest. Outside in the city, drumbeats began and with them another night of terror and blood. They would not come for him this night, he realised this now. They were seeking something more from him. He was on the right path. As other bore the burden of their proclivities, he would bear the burden of their sacrifice. For it was the only way to save them all.
Excerpts from the writings of Kyruš szal-Zarhan, Wishbearer
It is shameful to distrust my own father, but I cannot help but be shaken by how his demeanour has changed since his return from abroad. While he counsels with the king on matters of the coming war, I have started tapping into his networks so that I can learn what he has. From them I have learned that the orcs to the north are rapidly fortifying their territory, making use of earth-shaking magics and endless brutal slave labour. I fear a direct assault on the mountains is impossible.
Stranger still is the near-complete lack of refugees fleeing the onslaught. Despite the brutality we are all now aware of, the population seems to have been cowed. Those few merchants who travel in and out of the lands of the Butchers speak of a quiet reverence of hopelessness among the people, while the Butchers themselves are seen as beacons of Darkness, like paladins of malevolence. It is unsettling. I can see how father was changed by proximity to such things.
I am not a warrior, just as my father was not. Should still be not. And yet he is now. Regardless, I have delved into my studies of orcish military history. The tales from Seghdihr of defeating the drakon-riders, the stories of the Greentide, and yet I find myself at an impasse. These orcs do not wield the same weapons as those of the past, but neither have they adopted the tactics of modern gunpowder warfare. Their strength is fuelled by something else entirely.
The other option gives us a nice combat bonus, but with an idea group open and an important tech coming up, I'd much rather have the mil.
They march. The King Kalindil has stayed his hand from participating while King Vulzin has been drawn into a war to liberate the few free people still remaining in Bahar. I am still too young, too powerless to have any say over his war cabinet, but I was written to father imploring him to intervene before it is too late.
Keeping these doomed minors around has done wonders for opening up opportunities to break up the hugbox.
The tales from the battles on the coast further reinforce my studies. They are adapting, but in their own way. Instead of squares of pikes and muskets, they form large blocks of axe throwers with far shorter range but enough stopping power to devastate a line if they get close enough. And I fear they will get close enough, as no matter how much blood spills from their stolen skin they do not fall.
Timing the war with this critical tech will also be a massive boost to our efforts.
Their war effort is funded by endless mountains of fey silver. Locals, when they are not being terrorized, are flooded with bribes in exchange for their supplies. Bribes which fade away as the Butchers depart for their next battle. I do not know how their economy functions with such an influx of precious metals, if they have a true economy behind their rage and bloodlust.
A great deal of celebration has bene made of an elite force being sent to support Elizna by marching through Firanyalen into the Deepwoods to cut off the supply of silver to the orcs. It seems like a distraction, as with the rate the orcs are advancing they will in Brasan long before the disruption to their supply chain affects them. Those forests are dangerous, and I also fear that they are walking into a trap that will only weaken our own ability to fight.
Medurubar is burning. I can see the smoke from the estate. Such senseless violence; what can one such as I, near powerless in all regards, do about it? What can the common man or elf of these lands accomplish as their armies are shattered by ten thousand axes?
With the Lower Suran set alight they are now marching upriver to the heart of Bulwar itself. I and the servants have already abandoned the estate and fled to the capital. However, King Kalindil and my father are nowhere to be found.
With the other war still ongoing, we can attack without bringing in Elizna.
I forced my way into the war room, to find it near-deserted. Interrogating some of the officers left behind revealed the truth. My father had convinced the King that cutting off the orcs from their Deepwoods resources was the key to winning, and that they only need to send in a larger army to ensure victory. I have come to terms with it now. My father is either a fool or a traitor. Or perhaps he was already long dead. All I can now do is take charge of my household and do what I can to survive.
The city fell, but it was a strange fall. The walls gave way, that same terrible rumbling that I could feel in my memories, and the orcs marched through snatching whatever and whomever they could, but they did not conduct a total sack of the city. The palace still stands. We still live. They are moving with haste to their next objective. I am left to wonder, have they revealed their weakness? They rely so greatly on the shock of their offensive that it is far more fragile than it first appears.
There are steady reports filtering through the occupation of great victories in the Deepwoods, each signed by the hand of my father. I do not trust the reports. I do no know the fate of King Kalindil. The orcs are seizing all of our fortresses and daubing them with blood, while the streets of the city are haunted by dark shapes that steal away any unfortunate enough to be outdoors when the sun sets.
Trapped indoors, with red eyes watching from the rooftops for us to dare step out of the palace, I have taken to reading the King's vast library. One tale in particular caught my eye. An ancient temple, lost to the Salahad but uncovered by the shifting sands, caught the attention of eager and zealous adventurers.
While the war is happening, I am continuing one of the narrative expeditions.
The adventurers made their way to the temple, only to find that whatever ancient civilization had raised it had turned it into a fortress themselves. A winding path through narrow passageways, covered by countless murder holes and balconies where death might rain down from above. Whoever had built it either meant to confuse attackers, or possibly even their own congregation, making reaching the heart of the temple a test of faith in itself.
However, there was nothing in the endless halls except for silence and spirits. Whatever danger or test lay within the labyrinth had long since faded, or had perhaps never existed in the first place. It was a hollow threat, one that the determined could march into without fear.
At the heart of the temple the adventurers found a great hoard of treasure, an unlikely sight but a welcome one. Whatever power once rested there had accumulated wealth onto themselves for purposes unknown, and now it was theirs to seize.
However, it was a trap. They were set upon by beasts that had been waiting for an eternity to strike down those who would threaten the hoard. They fought valiantly, and though many lives were lost they achieved victory. They strode forward into the great central sanctum of the temple, expecting the ultimate mountain of gold to await them.
At the heart of the temple was the ultimate trap. All the treasure was just to lure the adventurers in to achieve the real task, the freeing of the spirit that lay within. Some primordial being of great power seized the treasure and mocked them as it fled. There was nothing else in the temple, no power remaining once the creature departed. Perhaps it was a djinn, seeking freedom from its bonds. Such power can warp the fabric of the world. I am left with a mountain of information on ancient history, and endless time in which to read it. I should consider more of these tales.
This allows us to complete the second stage of the great project in the province.
Rumour has it that the western war has ended, with the only outcome being the seizure and demolition of a coastal fortress. It makes it clear that it was all a ruse to draw attention before striking at their real target – us.
King Kalindil has returned, miraculously alive but pale and emaciated. He has conceded nearly all of the Šad Našratu to the Butchers, including many of our key northern forts. We are alive, but doomed if we do not change course. I tried to tell the King as much, but when he looked upon me he flew into a rage and demanded that I leave for the family estate and never return. As the household left the palace at last, one of his officers handed me a satchel containing the remains of my father and confirmed that I had inherited.
I did not dare open the satchel, and had it burned on one of the pyres the orcs had constructed during their occupation.
The Blood Frenzy CB gives 70% cost for taking provinces, even better than Holy War.
As I rode home I could hear the distant hills echoing with the drums of celebration and guttural songs. All I feel is fear. Terrible, rotting fear. Fear that I will live to suffer the same as those who are currently under their rule. Fear that I will see Bulwar burning as though a Xhazobine had torn it down. Fear that I will do whatever it takes and sacrifice whoever it takes to see their advance halted.
Cannor is caught in its own follies. In holding true to their pantheon of dead gods, they have fallen upon one another in a whirlwind of violence over which of them has claimed the silent throne. They will not care to open up another front against the Butchers, so long as the orcs do not intervene in their own bloodletting. We are alone.
This has the side-effect of collapsing the Cannorian coalition.
What remains of my father's networks – my networks now – have delivered strange news of large numbers of halflings fleeing the war in Cannor for the mountains, out of some strange misunderstanding that there will be a warm and welcoming hearth for them. Nothing was able to dissuade them from their quest, but those who saw them did cast their suspicion that the leaders of the migrants were being influenced in some way, for they behaved very unusually. As impossible as it might seem, my fears as to the true capabilities of the Butchers are beginning to become reality.
While we rebuild and Cannor tears itself apart, the monsters march on the remaining holdouts in Bahar. It is good that they are not true seafarers, as their total victory was prevented by a fleet of vessels travelling up and down the coast protecting key islands and evacuating whoever they can.
However, their trickery knows no bounds. By drawing the fleet up to the north to chase a smaller sacrificial flotilla, they launched a forced march over the causeway to the island of Yamatšes and seized it, ending the last holdout of dwarven resistance. It proves that nowhere within reach of the march is safe. Only Aelantir is truly safe, and I am not even certain of that.
The last remnants of the Bahari are spared for the moment, but their doom will come, as they no longer have anywhere to retreat. It only hardens my heart further, for if I am to spare this land from immolation, I cannot rely on having the space to retreat. Bulwar will stand, or it will shatter.
I wasn't able to annex them in a single war, so best to take just the one province that would be a nightmare to get if we actually had to land troops there, bringing them below 100% WSC while also reducing the likelihood of a coalition.
They are not the only ones with treasures. The King and his forebears spent vast resources on artefacts in an effort to advance their studies for their mysterious project. More mysteries have been swallowed the desert than can possibly exist in those mountains. Even if it bankrupts my house, I will search and scour every corner of the Kingdom, the lands of the Jaddari, and the deepest depths of the Salahad. These old tales were based on some ancient truth, and I will find it.
I cannot wait a moment longer, as they are clearly preparing for their decisive blow. Those caught behind their frontier are already forfeit, a necessary bump in the road to slow the rolling war machine. I will take on whatever Darkness this puts upon my soul, and place myself before Surael's cleansing Light when it comes time for my judgement.
We're at the point where we need to start mopping up the leftovers in western Bulwar for a future mission.
The same halflings who led their people into the Darkness now come down from the mountains seeking trade. I have ordered my informants to see them expelled from the Kingdom, before it is too late. We can no longer take any chances with those who have seen the touch of the bloody moon.
I didn't realise we'd get more halflings from the MT, so I grabbed the upgraded mask. It's good for colonisation, but we're almost done with that and I don't think the level 3 offers enough on top to be worth aiming for. In the end we only have limited slots for level 3 masks.
In an unexpected result, unity has prevailed in Anbennar. The Emperor has declared an armistice between the supporters of Adean and Corin, and is now rallying his supporters for further reform. Perhaps I was mistaken, and they will be able to oppose the rising Darkness. However, I fear their aid will come too late as the monsters will have already razed Bulwar to the ground.
The EoA is in a very good place at the moment. All the starting electors are alive, they are gaining imperial authority despite still being divided on religion, and Lorent and Gawed seem to be struggling. That they are doing so well has been a big problem for our efforts to push into Cannor. As a further aside, in the next update there will be new reform paths added to the Empire, so that even the AI has a good chance of unifying it.
Tales from within the Šad Našratu are terrifying. The temples to Surael are desecrated, clouds cover the skies, and the masses are turning to something else in their fear and desperation. They are turning towards the Malevolent Dark. I can imagine no other force could produce something as beastly as what has poured from those mountains.
I arrived in Azka-Sur, seeking an audience with our supposed dwarven allies to see what artefacts they might have access to, only to find the ways into the mountains barred. As I stood before the gates of the hold, I could feel beneath my feet those same drums beating in earth. I wish I could that I stood until night fell and sleep took me, but in truth my fear got the better of me and I departed.
Highlighting this battle as it shows how we are really stacking morale and reduced morale damage. Our troops are incredibly durable, even when outnumbered nearly two-to-one by a dwarven military that is starting to ramp up itself.
The gates did not open after that. All effort to communicate with our allies have faltered. There are reports that the interior gates were deliberately collapsed specifically to end the long alliance between our two kingdoms. The mountains are silent. Have been made silent. Their hour is drawing closer.
The Serpentreach is also silent. Entirely silent, except for those moments the drums begin to beat and the red moon rises. Even as recently as last year there were still a few dwarves who braved the narrow and impossible pathways just south of Ovdal Lodhum, but even those few sources of information have dried up. The Darkness has taken the underground.
After months of silence, harpy flights over the lowlands of the Suran have resumed. I ought to be heartened to see that they still live but I am not. I see how their wings carry them. Their wings are too rigid. Their bodies are too bulky. There is no way they could fly without some other power animating them. To think that a century ago my ancestors would have joyed to see our northern neighbours suffer so, but now I can only think about how we are both victims of the same monsters.
It has become clear what is happening now. Infiltration, destruction, and rebuilding entire societies in their image. This god-begot, god-begot, this thing of the deepest depths of the Malevolent Dark, whatever it is it has been empowered by the oceans of spilled blood that the orcs have fed it, and its tendrils now creep into the minds of those who ought to wish to escape. I have made my decision, I must accumulate the power that I need and strike back, for mortal means no longer have a hope of success.
To be continued…
Vote
The orcs of the woods, once enthralled by the fey, now serve us. The drake-riders have taken their skewers to their own mounts. The birthplace of our people has fallen into our hands. Nothing will stop our ascent to the bloody mountain peak, as the nation of true orcish dominance. Some voices, hoarse from the roar of battle and bloodletting, call to the Otar to declare our triumph, to rule all of Tarakar, the Land of Darkness. Others wish to remain the Butchers, an identity we have carved for ourselves from the very flesh of the world.
This choice will only affect our name, colour and national ideas.
We are Butchers, now and forever. (Remain Masked Butcher)
Masked Butcher NI highlights include infantry combat ability, army tradition from battles, development cost, reduced morale damage, and reduced years of separatism.
We shall lay claim to the Darkness, and all clans shall become as Butchers. (Become Tarakar, keep MB NIs)
We are more than a clan. We are Darkness itself. All orcs shall kneel before the Otar. (Become Tarakar, change NIs)
Tarakar NI highlights include infantry combat ability, discipline, reduced AE gain, reduced unrest, increased effectiveness of absolutism (a very rare modifier that lets you go above 100 absolutism).
Select an options by clicking on the below image.
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