Under the Light of a Bleeding Moon - An EU4 Anbennar Masked Butcher AAR

[Sybot]

Starting this a day early as the top five seem fairly clear. There is a nice selection of options here. Goblins, orcs and ogres are all represented, and covering some very different topics, including magic, empire building, artificery, vassal-play, and unique mechanics.

Chapter Zero: Live Fast, Ride Hard, Stay Young, Eat Well, Put on a Happy Face

Clan Chaingrasper -> Dakaz Carzviya
Dak, Immortal and Indisputable

For millennia, the Hold of Ovdal-az-Ân, the Granite Hold, was cut off from the world. After the Aul-Dwarov fell and the eastern successor, the Jade Empire, joined it in destruction, the rulers of Ovdal-az-Ân decreed that it be forever sealed. The entrance was bricked up and an illusory wall was placed over the entrance so that none would ever find a way in. However, just as with so many of their brethren across the Serpentspine, their efforts turned out for naught.

The tunnels beyond the walls were swarming with goblin clans, a mixture of those pushed out by the three great Undergrowth Goblin clans in the Tree of Stone, and others fleeing the rise of the Command and its enslavement of the goblins of the Jade Mines. In this landscape of knives and feuds, a raiding party stumbled upon the hidden entrance to the hold, broke down the brickwork guarding it, and then called upon their brethren for an all-out invasion.

The Granite Dwarves were caught off guard, the upper levels of the hold falling in short order and all the population that failed to retreat deeper being killed or carted off in chains. Day by day, year by year, the surviving population was driven deeper and deeper into the depths, until no more sight or sound of dwarves was heard among the goblins who now ruled Ovdal-az-Ân. Confident that they had claimed the hold for themselves, they immediately returned to their previous work; fighting among themselves.

Among the countless clans who had swarmed into the hold, Clan Chaingrasper was small and weak, barely worth considering by their foes. They might have been extinguished in one of the countless petty squabbles that erupted among the squatters, if not for the rise of a brilliant new clanboss. Dak Chaingrasper was more than just a mere goblin, he was a mage of incredible potential, a once-in-a-millennia talent who wielded more magical power than every other goblin in the hold combined. Through a clever series of hexes and enchantments, he initiated the Week of Stabbings and caused the clanbosses of the other clans to fall upon one another's swords in a final fit of violence. In the aftermath, Clan Chaingrasper became the dominant force within Ovdal-az-Ân, and Dak its undisputed ruler

Now Dak is faced with a dilemma. He is but a single, mortal, goblin. The reforms he wishes to institute, to transform the barely-constrained froth of clans that he subjugated into a proper nation, will take decades if not centuries to accomplish. A knife in the back by a lucky traitor, a resurgence from the dwarves rumoured to still be lurking deep below, or mere old age could end it all in a single moment. If he wishes to see his ideals made reality, if he wishes to ensure his home and his clan are forever safe, and if he wishes to learn everything there is to know about this world and its magic, he has only one choice: to seek immortality, no matter the cost.

Gameplay Summary:
Wield necromancy to achieve immortality before it is too late, unleash an undead army to engage the Command, and forge a wide empire spanning ever-deepening goblin holds and the wealth of Haless.

Masked Butcher
Under the Light of a Bleeding Moon

The orcish race has a history bathed in blood. From their first emergence from Hul-Jorkad, they have committed endless atrocities in the destruction of the Aul-Dwarov, the endless warfare of the underground, and the Greentide. Not all orcs wished to make such mindless death into their legacy, but not all were opposed to it either.

In a distant corner of the Serpentreach, even orcs feared to tread. Rumour spread of a beast that lurked in the darkness, hunting any foolish enough to tread within its domain. It was a beast of deepest cunning and unlimited brutality, wearing the face of its victims to claim some piece of their power. It was a horror story spoken only of in hushed whispers by those who dwelt in the underground, be they monsters or civilized.

However, it was not a single monster but an entire clan. The Masked Butchers stalked the tunnels, seeking prey no matter whether they were weak or strong, young or old, warrior or scholar. Their sheer brutality isolated them from even the most violent of their orcish brethren and kept them confined to a small portion of the mountains. However, when Dookanson emptied the Serpentspine of orcs, they suddenly found the ancient halls and caverns open to them.

For too long have they subsisted on the same victims; orcs, goblins, the occasional dwarf or kobold, and the beasts of the underground. Now they have the potential to go further, to seek new prey, to shed the blood of races once unknown to them and to draw such power into their flesh. Those who dwell in the light will soon learn to fear what lurks in the darkness.

But that is not all. Something beckons. The light turns red and the dark closes in. We called, and it answered, oh god-begot, god-begot…

Gameplay Summary:
Build a hoard from treasure plundered across the Serpentspine and empower your dark rituals. Funnel blood and ichor to strengthen your monsters, reach out into the world to seek new masks to flense from their owners, and never step back from monstrousness.

Clan Railskulker -> Vez Udzenklan
National Velocity

Goblins have always been a fixture of the Serpentspine, from the earliest notes of recorded history through the rise and fall of the Aul-Dwarov, to the present day. Weak but crafty, they have settled in every nook and crevices of the caverns, surviving and eking out a short existence of violence and slavery. For millennia, this was all that they knew, regardless of whether their oppressors were dwarves or orcs.

Then Dookanson came, and under his rule the orcs unified enough to force the vast majority of goblins clans under his banner as slave warriors for his Greentide. The tunnels and caverns, once teeming with warring clans, emptied out and those who had the strength or cunning to escape Dookanson's slavers found themselves with an opportunity.

One such group of opportunists was Clan Railskulker, a wealthy and powerful clan that had found profit in running a tithing system for smaller clans and warbands that wished to make use of the flat and direct tunnels of the old dwarven rail system, rather than travelling the circuitous and dangerous caverns. Drawing many of the smaller indebted clans to themselves, they marched on and seized the abandoned hold of Er-Natvir, the Railyard, the command centre of the ancient rail network.

From the 'Heart of the Rails', they intend to take full advantage of their strategic location. For too long goblins have been cast aside by the rulers of the mountains, left to beg for scraps from the margins. This moment cannot be let to pass, where a true home for goblins can be forged from the ruins of a long-dead empire. Those who try to reclaim it will be cast back to exile, and those goblins and orcs that resist this new beginning will be crushed under the wheels of the oncoming locomotive.

Goblins are nothing if not ingenious, though others might call them mad, or destructive, or suicidally inquisitive. If anyone can restore the rail network to its full potential, then the Railskulkers can, and then take it another step further and deliver an even faster (if not safer) mode of transport for the mountain dwellers. The other clans will be brought under a single flag, and a true goblin nation will arise built on a spine of rails. Vez Udezenklan, the All Clan, is no longer just a dream but a rapidly approaching reality.

Gameplay Summary:
Fight the other claimants for the Serpentspine, unify the mountains under goblin leadership, upgrade the old dwarven rails to travel ever faster, and delve into artificery to reach new heights. Then form the All-Clan and watch true Pandemonium descend.

Maghargma Kingdom
Feast and be Merry, for We are Lords

In times primordial, before any of the mortal races achieved greatness, before even the rise of the Precursor Empire, Halann was divided between three great powers: the genies, the dragons and the giants. It was the giants who held claim to the greatest true empire in all the world, as unlike the individualist and squabbling dragons and genies, they unified under a single power that controlled territory from Cannor to Haless.

To manage their empire the True Giants created the Giantkin as their servants. The trolls were warriors, the cyclopes were craftsmen and managers, and the ogres were labourers and builders. For reasons now lost to time, the ogres were created with an insatiable Hunger, a desire to consume endlessly beyond their natural needs that could never be truly sated. While ruled by the giants they were fed by the plenty of a mighty empire, but that was to change.

The dragons struck down the giants' empire, and the Giantkin were scattered. The ogres, now bereft of their source of food, were cast back to barbarism as they devoured anything they could get their hands on, whether that be one another or even the last of the surviving giants. In devouring their old masters they found they gained new strength and wisdom, and so the Feast of the Gods was formed. It was a faith based upon managing their Hunger and only eating the strongest foes and most cunning rivals so that their skills might be passed down to the one consuming them.

In the Ogre Valley, an expansive and fertile land below the Serpentspine and sheltered from the desolation of the Forbidden Plains by forested hills, the largest single collection of Ogre Kingdoms still remains. For millennia they have feuded among themselves, never able to fully sate the Hunger that continues to gnaw at them and never able to rise and form a nation that can stand among the civilizations that arose in the wake of the giants' demise.

That changed when the centaurs, fey creatures that occupied the Forbidden Plains, rode over the hills in force and threatened to extinguish one of the last remaining vestiges of the Giantkin. The Ogre Kingdoms seemed on the brink of destruction, before unifying under Ziltagh Gravelhide, who rallied them to drive out the beasts. However, he wishes to go further than that. To see that the ogres learn to truly manage their Hunger, to forge a proper nation of science and industry, and to march out and reunify the scattered Giantkin under an empire worthy of the giants themselves.

Gameplay Summary:
Deal with the Hunger through religious reforms, then craft a wide empire with the aim of reunifying the Giantkin. Determine the path of the ogres as they encounter their brethren, come to understand the power of artifice, and begin to rule over a vast population of smallfolk.

Skewered Drake Clan - > Drakonshan Dominion
Riders Atop the World

The Segbandal, the Middle Dwarovar, survived the fall of the Aul-Dwarov better than their neighbours to the east and west. For centuries past the Day of Ashen Skies the holds remained in contact, forming an alliance capable of reacting to monstrous incursions and resupplying one another. Their downfall began with the Dragonwake in 472 AA, when a great purple dragon, known as the Hunter of the Deep, burst forth from beneath the Hold of Gor Vazumbrog.

For weeks the inhabitants fought with the beast, deploying armies of golems in an attempt to slay it. As it flailed in the tight confines of the hold it unleashed vast clouds of toxic miasma that caused madness, and broke open countless vaults holding cursed and deadly artefacts and beasts. Though it eventually clambered out of the Dragon's Wound that it had created, the spread of the miasma was too much and the hold had to be abandoned.

Gor Vazumbrog remained uninhabited for five hundred years, as orcs, goblins and attempted reclaimers all avoided the deadly poisons that lurked within. However, the desperate would always be willing to take risks. Retreating from a defeat in one of the many conflicts among orcish clans, the clan that would become the Skewered Drakes entered the hold to avoid their own destruction. Braving territory that no-one had dared entered, they found that the upper layers of the hold had become liveable and began to set up a new war camp within.

They quickly discovered that they were not alone, as from the polluted depths of the Dragon's Wound clambered vicious flightless reptiles, taller than an orc and with wicked claws that could shred all but the strongest armour and gave them the means to clamber up walls and ceilings with ease. Faced with such a beast, the orcs did the sensible thing and tamed them as their mounts. Daubed with bioluminescent fungus and wielding skewers as lances, drakons ridden by Skewered Drake warriors became feared across the Middle Dwarovar.

Now the hold bulges with warriors eager for conquest. The number of orcs and drakons has reached critical mass, and the chieftain has to be ready to take the reins of a war machine that rides, skewers and clambers across the underground. Once the Middle Dwarovar falls, they might decide to ride out into the sunlight and unveil the drakons for all the world to see, fear, and surrender to. Their dominion will be unending.

Gameplay Summary:
Assemble a horde of Mythical Cavalry and plunder the Middle Dwarovar for its treasure. Ride forth against the world and subjugate it to form a vassal-focused empire.

To be continued…

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[Sybot]

Masked Butcher has won a well-deserved victory, giving me an opportunity to show off one of the most narratively unique campaigns in the mod. In related news, the Zokka MT, written by the same contributor as MB, is now available on the development branch for those interested in more of this.

Chapter One: Seekers
1444-1457

A tunnel near the Nez Argrod, tribal territory, Serpentreach, 1444

Fires crackled and light flickered, long shadows reaching out from the rocks and corners of the tunnel. Simur kept his hand on the grip of his axe. Even surrounded by allies, he could feel the threat lurking just out of sight. He had lost two comrades already, and it had not even been a month since they had departed. Danger still lurked, that much was certain. This was dangerous ground.

Elderly Olin snapped his fingers, a spark of blue flickering between them, and another torch ignited. It lit up a warren that extended out from their camp site, giving a few dozen feet of visibility before the darkness consumed vision. He turned to Simur and ran his fingers through his long, grey beard.

"Keep an eye on that, boy," he said, "might need to collapse it if there's anything down there."

Simur nodded and blinked as the mage squeezed past him to continue his work lighting up the perimeter. As a warrior barely even forty years old, who had never left the hold until Her Majesty Ardeginn XXII had decreed that exploratory teams would be secreted out into the tunnels, he would have to fall upon the experience of those around him.

Their band comprised sixty dwarves, more or less, a large enough force to scare off all but the most vicious warbands that roamed the tunnels while remaining small enough to move quickly and quietly. Though it was hard to be stealthy in such tight confines where every step echoed through miles of hidden passageways, that the entire band could squeeze into tight confines as that had done at that moment meant that they could slip away from larger groups if needed.

The warmth and grumbling of dwarves in close confines offered some comfort. It would not do to relax though, as death could come from any direction. A goblin could slither from an unnoticed crack and knife you while you slept, a beast could see you as a meal if you were isolated from the band, or a strange plant could spew deadly poison when brushed against. Equipped in the finest steel that Arg-Ôrdstun had to offer, Simur was one of those delivering death to those who threatened death upon he and his kin.

"You look tense," came the smooth voice of Hjal as he slumped beside Simur.

"I need to watch this tunnel," Simur replied, his eyes focused forwards.

"Aye," said Hjal, "but you'll exhaust your mind doing so. That's when a gob' gets you."

"I can handle a goblin," Simur said, turning to look for just a moment.

Hjal had a thin beard and wore a smirk beneath it. His needling of his comrades was as much a nuisance as his knifing of monsters was useful.

"I saw. Your axe near split the greenskin in two in that ambush," Hjal said. He gave Simur a firm pat on the shoulder. "Good work"

Simur wasn't sure if he felt the same way. That had been their ambush, not the goblins. The creatures had been passing around a boulder that had blocked up the old rail line, where the dwarven band was waiting for them. None of them had their weapons in hand when they had fallen, which made Simur feel uncomfortable. His first real kills as a warrior, and his honour had already been strained.

A face, in the darkness. He raised his axe.

After a moment it was joined by the tightly braided hair and light armour of Naim, their lead scout. She squeezed through the narrow passageway, offering a wave to Simur and Hjal, before eventually popping herself out and into the tunnel. By Simur's reckoning, she was the last of the band unaccounted for.

"Where's the captain?" she asked, barely stopping to catch her breath in the slightly less tight confines.

Hjal motioned behind them, and she nodded, making her way though the tightly-packed dwarves. After she had left, Hjal pulled out a ration block and split it two, handing half to Simur.

"My advice," Hjal said, "don't focus on the darkness. You'll see things that aren't there. Your eyes look for faces and miss the blade they're holding. Focus on what you can see and keep your eyes moving between them. When something moves, you'll see it."

Simur grunted an affirmative as he ate. The food was tasteless and didn't fill his belly, but it would give him strength. They weren't in a secure enough position to break out the proper food and drink.

An hour of quiet conversation passed by as the band rested and ate, while Simur practised the advice he had been given. The respite was broken by the booming voice of Captain Bardur.

"We are moving out soon!" he said, his voice rolling over the quiet grouses of the rest of the band.

As everyone else got ready to move, Simur found the Captain approaching him. He looked as though he hadn't spent the past month living on cold stone and in dark corners, as neatly trimmed and kempt as his hair and beard were and as polished as spotless as his armour was. He held a sheaf of tablets in his hand, extensive message painstakingly carved into them.

"Simur," Bardur said, which made the younger dwarf's stomach fall. It was never a good thing to be singled out for a mission. The Captain continued, "we will be leaving the railroad tunnels to investigate a larger warband instead of heading towards Orlghelovar. I need the swiftest dwarf to deliver these reports back to the hold, and that is you."

Alone, in the tunnels, for days. Simur gripped his axe again. It would be faster than the march out, moving alone and with the route already charted by their efforts, but it would still be dangerous.

"Yes, sir," he said, taking the tablets and willing his hands to stop shaking.

He was loaded light. Just enough food and water to last him to the secret entrance to the hold, and otherwise the only things he carried were his weapon and armour and his cargo. The other dwarves he passed by as they departed in the opposite direction gave him their words of support and encouragement, as well as promises to tell him all about their adventures in the taverns once they too returned.

And just like that, he was alone. He departed through the entrance they had originally found, a gap about three dwarves wide in the side of the vast and echoing tunnels that made up the now-defunct rail network of the ancient Aul-Dwarov. Simur moved quickly, hopping over twisted and rusted rails and bypassing boulders and caved-in ceilings as he retraced the steps of the last month in a fraction of the time. He caught glimpses of things at the edges of the tunnel, but as fast as he was going they had little time to give chase before he had slipped through another opening.

Finally, after hours of movement, he took a break in a nook behind a collapsed wall that had fallen on to the tracks. Catching his breath as quietly as he could, he ate and sipped at his water. Sleep would need a more secure location. There were several he remembered from their travels, and several more that were not viable without the rest of the band at his back. So long as he kept moving, he was confident he could make it back.

The darkness before him shifted, and he twitched. There had been eyes out there, looking at him. He discarded the last of his food and gripped his axe, peering into the darkness.

It took a moment to remember Hjal's advice, and he focused his eyes on the rocks at the edges of the nook, darting his eyes from one to another as the darkness seemed to press in. If he could get a proper sense for what was out there, he could make a concrete decision to fight or run, and he was leaning very much on the side of running.

Eyes, again. He looked directly at it and caught a glimpse of a goblin's face disappearing behind a rock. Just goblins, and not very many of them or he would have heard them from a long ways off. Armoured as he was, he could take them. He stood up, axe in hand, and took a step forward. These ones had come to him. He would not hesitate, no matter their state of armament.

A glimpse of green slipped behind another rock, and he refused to take the bait. If the goblins wanted him they would have to strike against the steel of dwarven strength.

As he watched the corner the goblin had disappeared around, something else moved. Another goblin face emerged from the shadows.

Except, it was too tall to be a goblin, too broad. It held axes in hands with skin too black to be a goblin. Then, why did it have the face of a goblin? Simur shivered and stepped back, his mind beginning to comprehend what he was looking at. The other not-goblins stepped from where they had hidden, and they charged him as his determination gave way to debilitating dread.

Excerpts from the journal of Bardur Gemcraver, Ranger-Captain of Arg-Ôrdstun

We set out westwards, intending to scout the status of the outer holds. The rail tunnels were silent in a way that I have never heard before. In these mountains there is always something moving, a creature skittering or screeching, or a forge hammering. To see them so empty is strange, but bodes well for Her Majesty's intentions. After a month of slow travel, we traced a large tribe of Greenskins to a cavern some distance from Shazstundihr. Though we could not approach, the horrific sounds emerging from that cavern made clear they were still in the throes of religious devotion to their dark god, Dookan.

More on the religion later. Generally, Green Orcs in Escann follow Great Dookan while Black Orcs in the mountains follow Old Dookan. Given the narrative style of this campaign expect a lot more OOC interjections.

Though it has been centuries since we last delved beyond our walls, the records of our ancient wars with the foul beasts are clear on the matter. They are a vicious, warlike kind, who will happily dive into a tortoise formation in a blood frenzy with no care for their own lives. Discipline and firepower are the keys to their defeat.

Orcish nations are better at managing war, at a cost of various problems with peaceful or more subtle actions. The orcish military leans hard on shock damage and manpower, at the cost of being far worse at fire damage and incredibly bad at sieges, both on the offence and defence. Your war strategy as the orcs should be to focus on the enemy's armies, and only when they are dead can you start sieging.

These creatures have some intent in mind, as they are beginning to mass and move. We have been observing them for a long time now, while my couriers back to Arg-Ôrdstun have not yet returned with further instructions. As ranking ranger on this expedition, I have determined that we need to maintain a close eye on them at all times. We cannot allow such a large warband to slip into the darkness of the caverns.

You do not have much to go off of when you open up the Masked Butcher MT for the first time. As far as the missions tell you, you just need to travel and explore expedition targets.

They are beginning to move in numbers. If they have also observed how quiet the tunnels have become, they might be intending to stake their own claim to Orlghelovar and Shazstundihr. If our reclamation is to succeed, we will need to oppose them with everything that the Diamond Hold can muster.

As it has been a while (or never, depending on which site you are reading this on) since we were last here, I ought to go over the Serpentspine mechanics again as they appear. Most monster clans and dwarven reclaimers begin as migratory tribes who travel the mountains searching for a place to settle down. You get a significant buff in exchange for not being able to declare wars outside of the mountains.

We are only few in number but we have done well to intercept smaller tribes of orcs on their way to link up with the greater warband. Under Hjal's skilled knifework they are quick to talk, rambling in their broken language about promises of territory and plunder in exchange for the spilling of their blood and the blood of the warband's foes in battle. After granting them the mercy of a quick death, we convened and agreed that continued pursuit, tracking, and harassment of this warband is most value that we can offer our home.

As long as we are both tribal and monstrous we have just the two estates. We aren't colonising yet, but when we do a flat 10% chance will be very valuable.

They have paused in the abandoned mines within sight of Orlghelovar. I do not know what they are seeking, but they are placing a great deal of reverence upon it. The observers report ceremonies anointing thousands of warriors with blood and grisly trophies.

The little gold glowing icon (also visible on the trade map mode) indicates that there is an expedition in this province. So long as you occupy the province you can proceed with the expedition within. Migrating away will cost you all your progress. Expeditions are randomly distributed around the Serpentspine at the start of the game.

Whatever they seek must be incredibly valuable, for straying off the well-trod caverns and passageways is a recipe for disaster unless one is very well prepared. Before embarking on this mission, I led several forays into the caverns below Arg-Ôrdstun, each returning with invaluable treasures that we had thought lost to time, but also countless dead from the hazards that lurk in the dark.

Welcome to the expedition mini-game, a feature wherein your parties dwarves, or orcs, or goblins delve into the depths of the mountains in search of loot. There is a lot to cover here, so I'll go through it step by step.
- Danger Level roughly indicates the 'difficulty' of the events you will face. Higher danger level means you need to invest more in the expedition stats.
- Length determines how many 'floors the expedition has to go through to complete. Longer means you need more supplies and higher stats in general just to make up for attrition.
- Estimated loot gives an idea of what you should expect if you succeed, usually a factor of difficulty and length.

Even the most patriotic dwarf needs motivation to risk their lives against the horrors of the deep. Training and planning can only take a force so far before fear and hunger take their toll. If the brave warriors are not expecting any profit, or if they are worn down to the point of breaking, then no matter how many dwarves are sent into a hole they will never be able to reach the bottom.

Hopefully the tooltips give an overview of how expedition stats work, but if not here is a bit more of a breakdown:
- Loot share determines the baseline morale loss over time. It is best to set it to the minimum (not zero), unless you have a long + dangerous expedition, as what you set will be deducted from the loot you receive at the end.
- Manpower is your health bar. You might as well send the maximum possible (10k) unless you are really starved for manpower. You lose manpower at a faster rate the higher it is, so the buffer isn't as large as it seems.
- Supplies should be set based on the length of the expedition. In the early years when money is most precious, it is worth it to sped adm/mil power on supplies.
- Organisation is your biggest power sink in preparation, but is also invaluable, as better outcomes are locked behind higher org, especially in harder expeditions. It is expensive, but worth it.
- Morale should be kept high, as if it hits zero your expedition is as good as dead. You can spend money here, but the cost rises exponentially so usually the power cost is better.

It appears that these orcs understand this as well, with the religious consecration of those delver. I have sent Naim and two of our stealthiest rangers to report on the beasts' progress. If they find something dangerous, we have to be prepared to give our lives to destroy it and warn the Queen of what has transpired.

So, to sum up, I went for the minimum party share, 80% supplies as it is only a medium length, quite high morale and org because of the difficulty level, and 9k using up all of my infantry. Hit the start button and your expedition sets off. It can be tracked through a button in the decision menu.

Naim's report is very thorough, in much contrast to her present state. The orcs found a large cavern of edible mushrooms and harvested it down to the last spore, killing an entire ecosystem in a matter of days. It is typical behaviour for such monsters, and something that the Queen will see ended once the Serpentreach is reclaimed.

An example of an event in an expedition. Eating the mushrooms could also have had a negative outcome, based on difficulty and organisation.

A tribe of bugbears barred the orcs' path deeper, and for their resistance they were slaughtered. Naim reports that the battlefield was a bloodbath, not just for the slaughter but the apparent orgy of mutilation that occurred after it was over. The bugbears were stripped of their fur and skin, and emptied of blood. While bugbear parts are valuable, there is no sign that they were being taken for any reason than sheer viciousness. Even for orcs, this is depraved.

Combat events are common as well, the outcome usually heavily dependent on your organisation.

At the end of a massive cavern the orc expedition came upon an ancient mining settlement, which they proceeded to strip bare of its equipment and carvings. The buildings were razed and anything that could not be carried was demolished. A tragedy, but one we cannot prevent until we have the assembled the strength to march against the monsters.

This will pop up as each level of the expedition is cleared.

Only Naim returned from the delve. It was a lot to ask of even such a small party to avoid the notice of so many monsters for so long. She is shaken, but confirms that the orcs did not find anything at the base of the tunnel network they were descending. Her spirit is broken, and she has become prone to rambling about blood and faces, so I have decided to send her back to Arg-Ôrdstun with the next courier. Even though they did not find what they were looking for, the orcs are enjoying the spoils of their success. They have taken the bugbear furs as clothes, which still appear to drip with ichor in spite of how long since the beasts perished, and they have distributed the loot from the mining settlement to the rest of the warband.

Surviving members of the expedition return can be deployed straight into your manpower pool or back out onto the field. Dwarven knowledge is a massive boost to our reform progress, otherwise we'd be stuck slowly crawling up through the tribal reforms. Note that one-province migrators get much faster progress on expeditions than settled nations, so you aren't held up too much by pausing migration to focus on this.

They are marching east again, passing through Orlghelovar with barely a moment's rest. Many of orcs who infest the hold scattered into the deeper levels when the warband passed through, but even more joined them. Their numbers are swelling, and they are heading in the direction of Arg-Ôrdstun. I can only hope that Her Majesty has heard the words of our couriers and kept the gates firmly shut.

One day, the light shifted. The skylights that occasionally peer into the old railway tunnels cast a deep red shade into the underground. We hid from it, as the light set the warband into a frenzy. They tore apart a group of their own goblin slaves within a few feet of our hiding place, and I could not tell whether their skin was coated in blood or merely the light that was shining down on them. We are so few now, helpless to stop them as they advance towards the hold, and only the hope that they will break against the gates keeps us moving.

I get two of these events over the course of this update. Luck is not on my side! Underground dwellers get double stab loss for Comet Sighted because the sky shouldn't even be visible!

The gates were open! I do not know if this was a mistake or folly, or if they never received our warnings. The couriers should have gotten through, the tunnels were so quiet and empty behind us, and the greater body of the warband was too busy delving to catch notice of us. But no, settlements had been established in the railroad tunnel just beyond the gates, and while they were fortified against the tribes lurking in the area they were not ready for the tide that was rolling in upon them.

Monstrous nations get this CB by default on their civilized neighbours. Also, you can see that Began's Expedition has spawned in directly on top of Shazstundihr. You don't see that happening often. The RNG seems against me so far.

A horde in black flesh and iron crashed against the gates as they were in the process of closing and wrenched them from their hinges. What forces rallied against them fought to the last in the great diamond plaza in the heart of the top layer of the hold. Hjal and half of the remaining rangers charged in, aiming to find their chieftain and slay him. They caught him and began to flay him alive with his own knives, right before my eyes as I watched from my perch overlooking the ruined gates.

The war itself is barely worth covering. The dwarven remnant holds do not get the buffs that the reclaimers do, so they are easy prey in the early game. That we start with 10% inf combat ability on top of that gives us an edge over other reclaimers as well.

We held for thousands of years, and a single warband has ended our dreams in a matter of days. The upper levels of the hold have already been ravaged, and now the beasts descend further to slaughter those who have tried to flee. I can only hope that Her Majesty escaped into the tunnels that I painstakingly mapped beneath the hold. So long as some of us survive, hope remains. I wish I could join them, but the ravening horde still bars my entrance to the hold.

Orcs get buffs for holding onto holds, though they lose it again when they lose control of the province.

I tried to watch, tried to observe every moment of their repulsive celebration of victory, but the others dragged me away. There are only five of us left now. Some had lost all hope and wandered into the tunnels to die fighting. Others pledged to find a way beneath the hold, but I do not rate their chance of making through the remaining scavengers. As we collapse, the beasts get more organised. I caught a glimpse of their chieftain, bathed in blood and draped in flesh, receiving his share of the spoils from the lesser chieftains as though he was a real lord and not a beast.

If you're playing a monstrous race in the Serpentspine, don't forget to grab Feudalism from dwarves before extinguishing them. This decision only depopulates one province, but the second was only a colony so we can just abandon that to get back to migratory status.

Despite their brutality, or perhaps because of it, this warband has drawn countless lesser tribes into their number. Even their expeditions deeper into the caverns are returning with more orcs than they started with, as though they multiply in the darkness. I do not know why I am still tracking and documenting their actions. They must have noticed us, there are too many of them for us to have such luck as to avoid notice, and yet we still live.

Not useful right now, but the other options all relate to demonsterization, which we will not be doing.

Their celebrations continue as the warband moves west again. I am tempted to turn and try to salvage what remains of the hold, to try and seek survivors, but this duty calls to me. Olin claims to have translated that their shamans have called for an era of peace in the afterglow of their victory, but there is still so much blood spilled in their revelries that the thought of peace rots in my mind.

Both Old Dookan and Great Dookan have access to various religious actions. With this one you can ask for war or peace for 200 religious power. Calling for peace will save a chunk of admin in repairing the effect of those Comet Sighted, and we have some time before the next war.

We have returned to where we started, a vast chamber centered upon a slab of rock in the form of an altar, stained permanently with the blood of thousands of sacrifices. Olin and one of the others got too close, and their blood joined the others. They are watching me write this, I can feel it. Why have they not let their blades descend? What are they searching for? Do they want me to behold it?

This time their frenzy has reached even higher pitch. They don armour stolen from the hold, wield weapons pillaged from our foundries, and even imitate the tactics that I pioneered in my earliest expeditions. Whatever they seek lies somewhere beneath this altar, and they will pay any cost to see it through. I will follow them, and my last two remaining rangers will join me in my descent. We might be the last three surviving Diamond Dwarves, but if we can give our lives to understand what threat the underground faces and get the word out, it will be worth it.

They are led by the tallest orc I have seen, a giant of a warrior that drapes the skins of orcs and dwarves over himself alike as though they are a cloak. He watches me with knowing eyes from behind Olin's face whenever I dare peek from my hiding place, and he leads his expedition with unrelenting discipline deeper into the darkness. The light grows brighter, but it is not the light of the surface. It is a crimson light.

This action gives a random omen, which can be positive or negative. This is one of the better positive outcomes.

So deep, the monsters grow larger and deadlier, and yet the orcs cut through them as though they are merely cattle. They throw themselves into battle with no concern for their lives, and those who survive take the trophies of their victory with no concern for the fallen. Passing through the aftermath of both the battle and the celebration, I can see what caused Naim to break. We three have the courage of dead dwarves, so we will not be so easily dissuaded.

I cannot explain it. I cannot understand it. I cannot forget it. We were able to pursue the tall orc into a chamber deep below the altar, intending to ambush and slay him while he was isolated with only a few warriors. Instead, what we came upon was a scene of a bloodbath. Something raged, the air was filled with light filtered through a crimson mist, and when it was all done the orcs turned towards us. The tall orc turned to me, eyes burning red and dripping in gore, but he was not just wearing Olin's face, he was wearing Olin's face. Run. It was my only thought, my only hope. The screams of the friends that I left behind echoed as they were torn to pieces.

You get this event upon completing the Bloodied Altar expedition.

Alone now, I write. I pray to the ancestors that these notes will reach someone before I perish. I myself have no courage remaining. They are stalking me, their faces moving in the darkness. I look, and I can see Olin, and Naim, and Hjal, and Simur; all looking back at me. What have they found? What have they done? What dark god has been unleashed? They march on the reclaimers in Shazstundihr, who have no idea what awaits them in the dark. The night marches, and it is a red night.

To be continued…

As you can tell, there will be quite a different narrative approach for this campaign. Please let me know what you think!

Vote

I am the last one the left, the only one who can warn the reclaimers, the only one who can warn the world. They are watching me, staring at me through sloughing skin and drooping eye-sockets. If I pause for a moment I will be lost, so I have to keep moving. They must be warned of the Butchers, they must be warned of their…

…devotion to their dark god. (Religious)
…lust for loot and plunder. (Economic)
…devious cunning. (Espionage)
…loyalty to their chieftain. (Court)
…relentless ferocity. (Offensive)
…unending numbers. (Quantity)

Vote for up to two options by clicking on the below image. The second-place result will get bonus votes in the next idea group poll



Voting will remain open for 72 hours

 

[Sybot]

Offensive won a clear victory, while Religious came a very strong second, earning a likely-insurmountable +12 bonus votes for the next idea group vote.

I will be on holiday for most of two weeks from next Tuesday. I will likely be able to get out chapter three during that time but otherwise this campaign will be on break until the second week of June. Apologies for the timing coming right at the start of a new campaign!

Chapter Two: Listless
1457-1483

The Marble Galleries, caverns near Shazstundihr, Serpentreach, 1459

Bardur took a deep breath, then jogged forward and hopped across the gaping pit. The stone pathways that zigzagged up the cavern wall were ancient and pitted with thousands of years of footfall from beasts and monsters. In place they had collapsed completely, the raw marble tumbling to the cavern floor hundreds of feet below. The ancient inhabitants of Shazstundihr had stripped away countless tons of material, enough that the other side of the cavern was invisible in the darkness, but there was still so much more that could be mined.

As he landed, his equipment and baggage rattled with an echo that rebounded off of the marble walls a half dozen times before it fell silent. He held his breath by reflex, even if he knew it was pointless. They knew where he was, and it was only for their pleasure that that he still lived. He had to accept that, and hope that the ancestors had not abandoned him. To escape would be a victory.

If the ancient maps were correct, the eastern passageways out of the galleries would take him to the Marble Hold. His long years of exile and terror would be over.

"If any still live," he muttered.

That he had not seen any of the beasts in the past few days worried him. He doubted that he had lost them, as the echoing sounds of their interactions with the local goblin tribes followed him no matter where he was. Always a few steps behind him were the screams and sounds of torn flesh. They were waiting for something, waiting to torment him.

"They will not shatter the last gem of Arg-Ôrdstun," he said. An axiom of confidence, even if it felt hollow.

He kept moving, only pausing to chew on a flavourless mouthful of Serpentbloom. This close the outer walls there was light filtering in from distant and ancient skylights, just barely enough to see but not enough to ward off the dark in truth. If he were to delve into a tunnel he would need to start expending his resources, but there was no need until that moment came.

"Main concourse of the galleries should be just ahead," he muttered, peering into the darkness, trying to focus his eyes on a point where the path flattened out and merged onto the cavern floor. A flicker of light from a hole in the wall almost caught his attention, but he drove ahead with renewed determination. No distractions.

Marble cracked under his boots and his instincts flared. A crumbling rattle rose up from below his feet and he barely kept his grip as a full half of the path fell off into the blackness below. It was fortunate that it had, as the road ahead had given way entirely forming a gap that was too far to jump. He would need to abseil down, a risky prospect when he did not know what lurked down there.

Footfalls sprung up behind him, popping into existence as though they had been had just started following him from a point twenty feet back. He spun around immediately, his ranger's handaxe going to his hand. If they were going to strike when he had no way forward, he was going to make a fight of it.

Even so, his axe would not stop shaking in his grip.

A dwarven face peered from the edge of the darkness. A long grey beard tumbled down from its chin, longer somehow than the last time Bardur had seen Olin alive. Long enough that it touched the ground and covered the body that lay below that wrinkled and wise face that had taught him so much. For a hesitating moment Bardur was filled with the urge to run forward and embrace his old friend, even if at the back of his mind he understood it was all deceit.

Maybe it was for the best. Join Olin. Die quickly. His grip loosened on his axe.

Then light spilled out into the cavern from the same hole that had caught his eye before. The creature before his was lit up in silhouette, two hulking arms in red and black reaching out for him from either side of the long grey beard. The spell was broken and Bardur roared in defiance, his body shaking and frozen from rage and terror both.

A blessed sight stepped into the light from the same hole, a dwarf wrapped in a cloak and clad in armour, a greataxe held in their hands. The beast wearing Olin's face turned to rush into the light to fight the newcomer, and their shadows played out a deadly battle as Bardur watched transfixed. Great arms settled upon the dwarf's shoulders, teeth were bared as Olin's mouth opened wide, but the hilt of the axe was wedged between them. In a vicious circle the greataxe spun and both arms were lopped from their body in shower of red. Olin, the beast, stumbled backwards, his beard dyed crimson, and the dwarf stumbled forward on unsure legs, knocking the unbalanced monster off the cliff and sending it tumbling into the darkness.

"I know the way," the dwarf said, as he stared down into the dark.

Bardur did not dwell on the strange quip and approached his rescuer, who had taken a moment to gather up the torch he had thrown out of the hole. He was even more covered up by his clothes than Bardur had expected, with a helm that drooped so low it covered his eyes and a strange hunch to his back that was not what he expected from a warrior. He seemed unperturbed by the blood soaking into his clothes and rolling down the skin of his face. The heraldry on his armour was unfamiliar, but there was one emblem he recognised from his lessons on the ancient hold – the white marble heptagon of Shazstundihr

"Hold," the dwarf said, pointing his greataxe at Bardur, "state your name."

"Bardur, of Arg-Ôrdstun," Bardur replied, offering a bow, "thank you for rescuing me. Please, if you have come from Shazstundihr, I bring dire tidings from deeper within the mountains."

The dwarf grunted and stared at him from beneath his helm.

"Thror Blackaxe," he said, after a moment, "I know the way. Entrance is sealed. Whoever approaches must answer with the password."

"I don't know any password, but you can surely help me," Bardur pleaded.

Thror grunted again, and squeezed back into the hole he had crawled out of. With the path broken and no further to go, Bardur followed him.

Sometime later, they approached a great boulder that had been placed into a passageway. From a tiny gap, small enough that not even an arrow could fly through, a pair of beady eyes peaked and voice rumbled.

"Thror Blackaxe, is that you?" another dwarven voice demanded, "it's been days since you were supposed to report back. Do you even know the way?"

Thror did not seem interested in arguing with this guard, so Bardur stepped forward, so glad to confirm there were more dwarves than just the quiet and brutal warrior behind him.

"Please, I have vital information about what is happening in the caverns," he said.

"The entrance to the hold is sealed. Whoever approaches must answer with the password," the guard replied, "and Thror and the other scouts are under orders to not let anyone beyond the walls know it."

"What will it take to convince you that I am no threat?" Bardur asked.

"First, state your name," the guard demanded.

What followed was a tense negotiation that would determine the fate of Shazstundihr Hold. For if he was not allowed in, they would never know of the monsters that lurked in the darkness, plotting carnage and stealing the skin of the fallen.

Excerpts from the journal of Bardur Gemcraver, former Ranger-Captain of Arg-Ôrdstun

I move as the light dies, never letting the darkness touch my body. They enjoy taunting me, teasing me with the faces of friends long fallen, but they do not descend me. When my torch casts a light upon the vast open caverns of the Marble Galleries, I see a glimpse of them assembling for a great venture into the darkness. They mass in organised ranks before being anointed with blade and blood, and yet those who pursue me move in fits and starts, as if barely higher than beasts. Shazstundihr seems safe for the moment, so I must take this moment to warn them.

Your baseline morale and org are affected by your army stats, so always best to raise them up before going into an expedition.

Screams echo from far below, and I cannot tell whether it is the Butchers or their victims. I do not believe they care either way. The bloodshed is all that matters to them.

Sometimes expedition events can go badly wrong, as seen here. That is why it always good to have leeway in an expedition. Failure leads to everything you put into it being wasted, a loss in prestige and a chance at loss in stability.

Ores and gems are hauled up from the depths by the handful by slaves, who are then sacrificed upon the very treasures that they carried. In the flickering darkness and mounds of corpses, I cannot even tell if there are any of my kin amongst those slain. Dwarven voices whisper in the darkness, but I know them to be false. How could such power fall to beasts of such bloody pedigree?

Often if you get an event that promises great loot, you have to exchange or risk manpower or morale to get it. Contrary to the text, 100 manpower and a bit of morale for 150 loot is very worth it.

Roars and cheers fill the passageways behind me, as sign that they are preparing to march to war. I have slipped the net of taunting hunters and met with a scout of the dwarven expedition that is settling Shazstundihr. He is very taciturn and standoffish, perhaps suspecting me of being an orcish thrall. He is leading me to one of the sealed entrances to negotiate passage. At last, a warm bed and fresh beer are in sight. There

I cannot explain what happened. After a tough negotiation, where I had no choice but to leave the rest of my armour and weapons behind, the scout and I passed through the entrance. I had very little time to marvel at the reconstruction of the Marble Hold, as within an hour the alarm was sounded that the entrance had been breached. Chaos ensued as thousands of blood-soaked monsters poured into the hold unleashing the same wrath that destroyed countless holds in ancient times. I fled for the only place that I could imagine safety: the light of the surface, the open sky, something that I had never seen with own eyes until that moment of terror drove me to such lengths. Looking back upon it, I wonder if I was not the orcish thrall that they had to fear.

The mountain is engulfed with red smoke, lighting the sunset a deep crimson that unsettles me to my very core. I have fled my home, left it all behind, left those monsters behind, and yet I cannot stop shaking. A village of humans, tallfolk who seem decent enough, has taken me in, and when they told me that this was a land ruled by goblins I could only laugh. There are far worse things in the world than scrawny Greenskins.

Smoke no longer pours from the ruins of the hold. Either they have departed to conduct more dark pilgrimages in the heart of the mountains, or the entrances of been demolished so that not even the effects of ruination can escape. I do not know if any of my kin from the expedition were able to escape, but I have no desire to meet with them after failing them so greatly. The humans treat me well and have offered to let me live with them indefinitely and even shelter me when the Marblehead tax collectors come by. I do not know if I can settle down. Even though the light, which the humans worship as a god, is guaranteed to come every morning, the fall of night sets my blood rushing in terror every evening.

This is the most expeditions I've ever seen in one place. We don't have time to go grab them all, but we will loop around the back of Arg-Ôrdstun to pick up a couple more as we move to settle down. We can wander as long as we want, but we need to start building a proper economy as our reclaimer buff and the colonisation buff from the mission will not last forever.

I have taken up as a hunter to earn my keep among my new friends. The beasts of the surface need different means of tracking than those of the underground, but the task of hunting and killing ultimately remains the same. Something is out there killing livestock, and I can only trust in the ancestors that it is less of a monster than those I have already seen.

Burning a ton of admin in stab boosts to get this…

They are here. They are outside. They are here. I tracked the monster through the trail of gore it had tracked through the forest and first set my eyes upon it through my crossbow sights. It was unmistakable. The stench of blood, the piercing red eyes, and the face of a human. No, the flesh of a human. No, the stolen face of a human draped over its head. My eyes could not focus, its shape was mutable but for the gleam of red in the night, and in my stupor I merely winged it with a bolt as it fled into the dark of the forest. I did not have the nerve to follow it.

Stories that I have been hearing from nearby villages over the past few years are starting to rattle inside my skull. Missing people, howls in the night, a red cloud over the moon. The power of whatever lurked beneath the altar has reached out onto the surface and the Butchers are loose in the darkest nights. I ought to be glad that so few have been sighted, and yet I cannot help but fear that this is just the beginning.

Masked Butcher gets a unique vampire estate. At the moment we can't do much with it.

For it leaves the question, what is happening within the tunnels and caverns and ruins? That horde, ruled by its lust and thirst, will march and burn until nothing is left. Will they then launch their offensive outside of the mountains? Do I have to go to the goblins clans and warn them? I still know so little of the surface. Is there anyone who can stop them?

As I guard my friends from the night, my dreams are filled with thoughts of the destruction inflicted upon the realm of the old empire. So much knowledge lost, so many libraries filled with scrolls and tablets that will not be read, so many voices and names erased from history. For a beast that cares only for plunder, what use is literature and knowledge?

Some expeditions end with the discovery of a Great Project. These lead into a series of narrative expeditions that are required to upgrade it to its full strength. Another time, though.

What wonders and mysteries will they bypass? My career before Her Majesty's folly was in delving deep below the hold. The things that I saw down there defy all explanation. Vast caverns lit by glowing crystals. Chasms that touch the base of the world, lit only by a dim light from below. So many beasts and plants never seen in the higher tunnels. Can a beast look upon those wonders and feel anything but hate?

Two right next to each other? After the bad luck with the comets, the game is making it up to us. Both these are in the caverns immediately east of Arg-Ôrdstun.

Dwarven traders passed through the village recently. After my relief at seeing that more of my kin survived, I treated them to a feast with my friends. They were returning from Shazstundihr, having confirmed the annihilation of the expedition. They claimed that the hold was now abandoned, with only a few roaming monsters that harassed them at night still dwelling within. However, they also claimed that their rangers reported on a mass migration of orcs moving deeper into the mountain. Where they were assembling, they did not know.

Having chosen Arg-Ôrdstun to be the capital, as it is the most developed hold, I send out our sole colonist to start expanding in every direction. Our bank of expedition money will keep us afloat even as we overextend our colonial capacity.

The scattered tribes and clans were being corralled into ever tighter confines as they unified. The proximity and orcish penchant for violence led into a cycle of bloodshed, orc upon orc, culling those without the aggression and willingness to wade through blood to unify. The rangers were unable to get any closer, as the tunnels were soon slick with the blood of those who had been purged. Slickness that the Butchers happily clambered through to pick off the traders and their guards until they had no choice to flee from their camp in the ruined hold.

Rushing reforms by making use of Ancient Dwarven Knowledge for government reform progress is the most useful idea because…

Those orcs who were captured on their way to join the power that lurked in the heart of the tunnels had two words on their lips. 'Abyss' and 'Otar'. They knew they were throwing themselves into the deepest darkness, and they did so at the behest of this 'Otar'. Whether this is a ruler or the name of being that grants them their crimson power I do not know, but the name is beginning to take hold as news of the monster attacks and the fate of Began's Expedition spread around the region.

We get switched over to Theocracy for free upon hitting the fourth tier of reforms, and get to take three free reforms.

Somehow the Butchers have convinced the myriad minor tribes of the underground to join them. Everything that I saw in those first few months in tunnels suggested they were fiercely independent, only unifying if outright defeated in battle. To put out a call and have thousands upon thousands flocking to the fleshy banner, I can only imagine that they have touched a nerve of devotion among the orcish population.

Anything that helps with colonization is valuable.

Through their victories and their relentless push forward, they have become a dark tide that draws in followers in the same way as Dookanson. This 'Otar' has codified the once disparate beliefs in Dookan into something far worse, something bloodier. I do not know what they are actually worshipping, but it is not the orcish god that that once bled for. Now they are bleeding themselves and the world in service of something worse.

Even if they are losing half or more of those who mean to join them, it will mean that the tunnels and caverns are open for their exploitation. The orcs have knowledge and experience of the sources of food and other resources, and numbers beget numbers. I do not know what they will do with the goblins and other denizens, but it will not be pleasant. Exploitation and slavery, until they too are bled upon the altars.

This is a must-get for the Serpentspine. It's equivalent to somewhere in the region of 70-90 development depending on how much we colonise for ourselves.

I wonder if there is any true intelligence behind them, if they will squat within the ruins of my home or seek to rebuild it in their own image. What will that look like? Will our monuments stand? Will the taverns and temples be desecrated? Will the memory of millennia be washed out with blood?

Orcs can restore holds, but that is all they can do with them…

Whatever the case, I know for certain that they will not leave a legacy of art and industry. These creatures exist only to plunder and loot; they are incapable of civilization. Whatever they build will by definition be taken from others, and the world will be worse off for it. I must cease my musing on this, before I slip into further despondence. Night is approaching, and that is when the monsters crawl from the crevices of the mountain.

As a non-subterranean race, we can't make full use of the province, and on top of that Black Orcs base their economies entirely on plunder. We can't develop holds at all. It is worth it to restore your capital, but not other holds that you seize.

An army of humans led by elven officers marched through, announcing that Aqatbar had been liberated and the Marbleheads were fleeing. I met with one of the officers and implored him that they recruit the goblins. In the years since I settled in this village the attacks are only increasing in number. The wound festering in the mountains is only growing. We have no time to be fighting amongst ourselves. The elf dismissed it as a problem for adventurers and his army left to drive off more potential allies.

The monstrous inhabitants of the Serpentspine can get bonus colonial population by beating up the local tribes.

I have made a decision. If the local powers will not take the threat seriously, I will set out and see that they do. Ovdal Tûngr has claimed a port somewhere south of the village. They sponsored Began's failed expedition and are sure to understand the threat. We need the mightiest warriors and mages willing to step into the dark. They must be prepared for the Butchers to bite at the flanks relentlessly until there is no-one left to brave the dark. I have seen it happen before, to the poor souls of my own expedition. I will avenge them, even if it takes me the rest of my life.

There is a lot of flavour text in this campaign, but the NIs are the only place the Butchers themselves get a voice.

After saying my goodbyes and offering prayers to the ancestors to my friends' safety, I departed to village. As I left, I saw smoke rising from the ruined gates and vents of Shazstundihr. The heart of dwarven architecture was burning again. Was that a random blaze in the ruins, or have the beasts claimed it once again? I do not have time to contemplate it, or I will be tempted to see it for myself. I have seen too much horror for any one life.

A decade passed in the background as we've slowly colonized our way back here. Once you've secured your hold (regardless of playing as monster or reclaimer) there's a quiet period of expansion.

After making it to Agšelum I was quick to secure a boat to Ovdal Tûngr. The ocean would have frightened me, but an endless expanse of blue is nothing compared to an endless expanse of red. To be in a hold, even one as strange as the Copper Hold, is a relief, but I know I cannot stay long. I have implored their support, given detailed accounts of the cruelties that the Butchers inflicted not just on civilization but upon each other. That they are the sort of creatures who would climb over one another until the strongest among them stands triumphant. That they will unite behind this Otar blessed by the blood of thousands and grow even stronger.

That there is something below the mountains that has become an object of worship, something with power, something that must be destroyed. I wonder if the cave below the altar is still coated in red, if the Butchers make their pilgrimages down there to offer up their own blood to feed it. Many of the Lord Mayor's advisors consider me mad, but the man himself is wise enough to heed my warnings.

I have learned that I am not the only one who has seen these beasts. Tales are spreading from across Bahar and Ourdia of attacks in the night and mutilated corpses, and those desperate few who escaped the clutches of the Butchers. The call has gone out for adventurers, to Bulwar and to distant Anbennar. A bounty has been set on orcish heads, and there is already word of adventurer parties assembling to strike into the mountains and secure a foothold. Though I wish it were an entire army, I hope that this is enough to bring calamity upon them.

There is still a 10% chance of getting a negative omen even after taking the government reform. You can also pay 100 of each power type to get rid of it.

Our only chance is to strike while they are still weak, still listless. If they reach too great a mass then even their own infighting will not slow them down. My life has been defined by these foes, so I have decided that I will not step back. My skills as a ranger and as someone with knowledge of the underground are in demand among those assembled adventurers.

This keeps popping up repeatedly as a result of the omen. I'm regretting not paying it off now.

I took a few days to climb the Tûngr Mountains, taking a well-trodden passageway leading up from the highest point of the hold. The peaks of the Serpentreach are barely visible from the summit, seeming almost tranquil in the light of the full moon. Yet I know that beneath those peaks is the crucible of the future. Will civilization or barbarism emerge triumphant in those red halls?

This unique modifier ties into Black Orc mechanics, which we will get into in the next chapter.

To be continued…

Vote

While I have slain orcs in the past, simple violence is their domain and will not guarantee us victory. If we are to break them, we need to strike at their most critical point. We need to…

...slay or banish the thing that has earned their devotion. (Religious, +12 votes)
...tear down their mountains of plunder. (Economic)
...seal off the tunnels from their growth. (Expansion)
...undermine their loyalty to their Otar. (Court)
...guard ourselves against their trickery and mimicry. (Espionage)
...build a wider coalition against them. (Diplomatic)

Vote for up to two options by clicking on the below image. The second-place result will get bonus votes in the next idea group poll



Voting will remain open for 48 hours

 

[Sybot]

As expected, Religious comes out on top, while Espionage earns +5 votes for the next idea group.

The next chapter will be in the second week of June, after I have returned from holiday.

Chapter Three: Plunderers
1483-1501

Camp of the Blades of Glass, Mason's Halls, Shazstundihr, 1495

Dirkan's head throbbed, a relentless beat that echoed regardless of whether he slept or woke, occupying an ever-increasing slice of his thoughts. How long had it been since he had seen the Light? He and Blades had been in these cursed halls of endless marble for months, following tales of the dwarves steadily pushing back the swell of the Malevolent Dark that had been leaking from the mountains for years now.

The tales had been fanciful, with promises of glory and a share of the loot retrieved from the hoards of the monsters. It was a good story to imagine; in the space of a single campaign earning enough money to live on for the rest of his life, rather than breaking his body in manual labour or fighting for the hotly contested apprenticeships in Aqatbar.

In truth, it was a nightmare. No matter how many of their foes were slain, more emerged from the darkness. Whether that was from deeper within the hold, from the tunnels heading further into the mountain, or from a once-empty chamber as if they had come into being by the sheer will of the Darkness. Surakel's Light did not reach this low. What light did filter in was akin to moonlight, casting the interior of the hold in an unearthly glow. A red glow.

"We've found something!" Bared called from the doorway of the hall. Dirkan sat up from his bedcloth and peered at the man, wondering if this would distract him from his head.

The rest of the Blades, sentries aside, were halfway between sleep and wakefulness, sprawled in their dozens across the long white chamber. At one time it had been a throughfare of some sort, with countless doors leading off into what had once been workshops or homes. Those were all empty, long since stripped down to the bare walls. Whatever ornamentation there had been was defaced or removed and carted away as well, though Dirkan really didn't feel like carrying some kind of ornate but incredibly heavy marble plaque back home to try and sell off.

"Is it actually worth something?" he asked back, keeping his voice down to spare the others.

Bared came inside and weaved through the sluggish adventurers to speak to him directly.

"Untouched, we think," he said, "we need a couple more men to break in."

A twinkling pair of eyes popped up behind Bared.

"I'm in!" Akami squeaked. The youngest of the band by some distance, he had remained chirpy despite the blood and death that had surrounded them for months.

Dirkan nodded, and the three of them departed without rousing the others. This opportunity to have the pick of the treasures might be exactly what he needed to pay his way out this disaster. As they stepped out of the main hall and into a side corridor, the throbbing in his head redoubled; a tune of thumping and thrumming that would not end.

Bared led them to a workshop that had long since been abandoned. It was little more than a bare cube of scratched and pocked marble, with no visible sign of anything more to be liberated. Besides the three of them, Saed stood with his hand pressed against the far wall. As the band's mage he spent far more time roaming the empty and secured halls than mingling with the group. In spite of the Akal's proclamation of the resurrection of human magic, Dirkan and many other of his new subjects still bore the suspicion that such power ought to only be wielded by the Chosen, the elves.

"There is an inconsistency," Saed said. He adjusted his position. "Based on the maps we have shared with the dwarves, there should be a window here."

"So, you think there's a secret passage here?" Dirkan asked.

"I know there is," Saed replied, "I can feel its workings. But they are not responding to my magic correctly. I need some muscle, if you would not mind."

Dirkan rolled his eyes, though he had no intention of backing down from the promise of rewards. The mage pointed out various grooves and indentations in the wall that the three warriors could use to grip it, then he reached out with open palms and words in rough dwarven tongue. The otherwise nondescript section of wall began to glow, runes igniting and the wall beginning to creak with motion. However, it failed to move more than an inch before falling back down and reforming its seamless connection with the rest of the wall

"This time, we lift," he said. Saed repeated the spell, and the three of them heaved hard.

The runes grew brighter and brighter until they fizzled with energy and burned themselves black against the surface of the wall. The wall suddenly lost all resistance to its motion, and slid straight up into the ceiling, locking against some mechanism deep within the marble.

Eager eyes looked up at the secret room, but the sight and sound within gave them pause.

"That light's no good," Bared said.

Crimson light rolled out from the chamber, shining through a window at the back and beginning to illuminate the bare room they were standing in. The rest of the chamber was stacked tall with marble ornaments and equipment, including some tools that glittered with a silvery-blue colour even through the suffocating red. Mithril. Actual mithril left behind by a mason who had thought to hide it along with his masterworks.

Alongside the light came another redoubling of the thundering beat in Dirkan's head. It was clear now; it was not just a headache but a drumbeat echoing through the halls. With each step of this search it had gotten louder and faster, and now the acoustics of this chamber were making it even worse.

"What a haul!" Akami said, oblivious to the portentous mood of the secret chamber. He stepped across the threshold, his body bathing in the red light, and began rooting through the piles of equipment.

The drumbeat was relentless. Dirkan had to see what the source of it was. He stepped across the edge, letting the light and sound consume him, and stumbled towards the window. Grasping the edges of the narrow window, he peered through and into the scene of a nightmare.

It was the main hall of Shazstundihr, a vast vaulted room that extended towards the exterior gates, and was bathed in light so deep red that he could not distinguish the dead from the living. Down there, marched a mass of black forms dotted with the pink of flesh holding tattered banners high of their heads. They came in their thousands, swarming through the hall and washing away any adventurers who had believed they could make a stand in this place. Some crawled over walls, hooks and blades stabbing footholds into the marble, while others tried to scale the great pillars in the centre of the hall. Their footfalls were the source of the beat, a unified sound in spite of the chaos of their motion.

"We need to warn the others," Dirkan said, "we need to withdraw."

He backed away from the window and turned to see the other three still loading up their sacks with the equipment of a dwarf long dead.

"I'm serious," he said, "it's all over."

"We've got time!" Akami said, "if they're there, that's a long way away from the way out."

"And I'm not leaving without getting paid," Bared said.

"Then Surakel guide you to safety," Dirkan replied. He looked at Saed, who had gone as pale as a sheet.

The pounding sound reached its crescendo, and in time with the beat a tip of steel burst through the marble wall behind him, beside the window. Frozen, the drumbeat so loud he could not even think, he turned his head to see a face cast in red peer up through the window, the black flesh beneath twisting into a grin of triumph.

Excerpts from the journal of Bardur Gemcraver, Ranger of the Tarnished Plate

Our party has assembled, the Band of the Tarnished Plate. We have decided that a small but elite force will serve better than an army of thousands, as with my knowledge of the underground we can take advantage of the confines to limit the enemies we face. A larger force will have a longer supply train to be plundered by the foes and will be harder to manage. We must also be able to move quickly and adapt, so that we can strike before the beasts complete their dark goals within the mountains.

To finish the first phase of the MB tree you need most of the provinces around these three holds. That it takes so long to accomplish is the big block on early progression, so it is worth it to burn your stockpiled money on going over the colony cap or to temporarily take Expansion.

For all my interactions with them, I have only fled from them and driven off those listless few that ventured beyond the mountains. We have no information on what is happening within. While I would like to trust the reports that they were falling upon one another in endless cycles of violence, I fear they are far more organised than that. If the violence is used to eliminate the insubordinate and incompetent, if there is a mind behind the mayhem, then we may all be doomed.

I have witnessed their faith in action, seen them sacrifice captives and stain themselves with blood, and seen the celebrations that follow. For all of its violence, it promises something more; a future where they will be triumphant and prosperous, however that might look for their barbaric society.

I was not aware that you get this for making through the mini-disaster of the Omen of Calamity. I might pick it again in future, assuming we're not in the middle of a war or at risk of a coalition attacking.

We approach Shazstundihr, our band thirty-strong, equipped with the latest equipment purchased from Cannor. I cannot help but think back all those years to our expedition beyond the walls of Arg-Ôrdstun, but this time we have some understanding of the threat that we face. That much is obvious as the walls of the hold come into view. The outer cliffs have been daubed in red, and shimmer with a light that reminds me of the depths below the altar, of that chamber of divine evil. Crimson moonlight. Their power grows, but it will not halt our infiltration of the hold.

Orcs do not get any unique military reforms, and of the generic ones doing something about our poor defensive stats is a good choice.

There are many hidden ways into the hold, far too small to fit an army but large enough for a group of skilled dwarves led by an experienced ranger. After setting up camp just ahead of one such entrance we captured some goblins fleeing from it. They were far too distraught to answer our questions, so they were disposed of rather than allowed to grow the strength of the surface goblin clans.

If there is one piece of good news, it is that the monsters that did so much damage to Bahar are being driven back. A human Akalate has overcome their elven rivals and moved on to strike at the remaining goblin territory. I care little for the politics between humans, elves, and the Sun God they worship, but that we have civilization at our backs is a relief.

Dartaxes is on a rampage in Bahar. He even took out Thieving Arrow when they got too close to one of the mountain entrances.

Our infiltration of the hold has been successful, and we have slain dozens of the monsters as we clear out a defensible space for our camp. We will not make the same mistake as Began's Expedition and assume that by sealing the entrances we will be safe. Every dwarf will carry a weapon, and we will not start to reclaim the hold itself until every last monster is dead. That said, there are fewer within the hold than I expected, and most of them are preoccupied with their rituals. Their shamans, garbed in the skins of dozens, conduct regular rituals to anoint new warriors who then begin harassing us. For all of the savagery, it is highly organised.

A larger force of orcs has assembled in the hold in the past few months, and these ones seem different. They are well aware of our presence, but seem to care little for it beyond regular bloody raids against our camp. We hold an entire layer of the hold now, conducting regular sweeps to keep it clear, but they continue to try and occupy it. I wonder what they seek within the ruined halls?

Black Orcs have a unique interaction with holds. Instead of building them up, they plunder them for their resources. These early, unsettled, forts don't have much going for them, but once we start moving against the settled holds to our east then we can really start raking in the plunder.

Some of the new arrivals have been working to fortify the entrances. The marble gates have been caved in, and many of the passageways to the surface have been found and sealed. We can count the ancestor's favour that our retreat path and supply line has been yet to be discovered. Worst of all, they anoint their new defences with the blood of countless sacrifices brought from deeper in the tunnels, mostly goblins and other orcs. Much like the outside markings, I do not know if the power radiates out here, but if it does then it will mean a direct assault will be even more difficult.

For the standard cost you can add a fort to your plunder camps. Probably worth it for any hold facing the surface, but less so for one where you won't expect enemies to tread.

We discovered a group of the squatters tearing out an ancient forgeworks that had been in the process of restoration by Began's Expedition before their untimely demise. While this one was secured and used to restore the state of our weapons and armour, it leads me to wonder whether this is their intention, to strip this once beautiful hold of literally everything before departing once again into the darkness.

Plundering holds transfers development directly from the hold to your capital, with some loss. It also grants institution support, which is critical considering we can't dev-push it.

More and more tools, tablets, and precious treasures are being dragged out of the hold. Are they being used to restore one of the other holds, or are they simply being added to a vast hoard of treasure? Either way, the power of such plunder feeds the power of the crimson being. The walls, daubed with the blood of thousands, reflect the moonlight and filtering in through the skylights and bathe the marble in crimson. They howl at it, and their attacks against us grow more frenzied. Fresh adventurers are continuing to enter through the tunnel, but attrition is beginning to take its toll.

Your capital earns escalating bonuses as the treasure you plunder from across the Serpentspine makes its way back there. For Masked Butcher, we also get upgrades to our altar. There is a lot of incidental flavour text for this campaign, even on small things like modifiers, and I will do my best to capture all of it.

Some of our newly arrived allies have told us that Orlghelovar has shown the same signs of occupation as Shazstundihr. The famous glass hold. We passed through it briefly while pursuing their warband, but now they have settled there. There is no chance of the majesty of the cobalt glass surviving the tender grasp of the Butchers.

Since the arrival of the plundering group we have been significantly slowed in our plans. We still hope cleanse the hold and then move on towards the altar, travelling quickly and lightly, to launch a decapitation strike against the whatever lies there. Whether that means killing it or burying under a vast cavern collapse remains to be seen. Instead, we have to deal with constant raids stealing away our food, killing our allies, or as in one case wandering off all of our old documents including some of my old journals.

Outside of the levels we control, the destruction has reached a fever pitch. Nothing remains, not a piece of furniture nor ancient machine. Anything that cannot be carried has been destroyed. I have begun to wonder if Shazstundihr can be restored, even if we do eventually wipe away the filth and the bloodstains.

News from the surface is sparse, and even then I only pay heed to that which concerns the reclamation efforts elsewhere. In the far north there has been some success, while Seghdihr continues to hold out in the east and there are murmuring the Ovdal Lodhum still stands elsewhere in the Serpentreach. For the sake of their futures efforts, we must stop the Butchers here and now.

Some useful things to note. Shattered Crown has survived, so will likely be our main orcish ally and/or rival in future (depending on when they demonsterize). With Thieving Arrow gone and the Blackbeard Cartel missing, Ovdal Lodhum has free run of the eastern Serpentreach, so we will need to slow them down.

We made a push for the main gates, to unblock them and send out a call of the human armies to aid us. What was waiting for us was scene of horror. A parade of warriors wearing the skins of dwarves and carrying tattered banners bearing the Garnet Heart; the symbol of Ovdal Lodhum. Had the hold fallen while we had been fighting. Was this not even a fraction of their true military strength?

Luckily they are a valid rival, so we can go and mess with them. We also lose our reclaimer buffs at this point, but our economy has built up enough that it can keep up our army strength without them.

Rumour was the Ovdal Lodhum had been ruled by a human with a fearsome reputation for slaying orcs, and that the throne now fell to his adopted son. Whether Balgar Orcrend had lived up to his father's title or not, he had clearly failed to stop his home from facing the same fate as the western holds. I cannot help but feel in my bones that the darkness has settled upon the mountains and we will never see the light again, no matter how hard we struggle.

Someone was able to partially translate the guttural howls and taunts thrown at us as we watched them parade their trophies. They claimed the treasures of the hold and the flesh of its warriors, but there was no hint that they had seized the hold in full. A small spark of hope remains that Ovdal Lodhum still stands, even if sacked. We are a hardy people. They will not end us so easily.

Even though we can't take any of their territory, emptying their treasury and damaging their hold is a big win.

Reports of fighting in Orlghelovar have reached us through new arrivals, and not as a result of assaulting adventurers and defending Butchers. The orcs are fighting amongst themselves, though this is most likely another case of the same winnowing that the tribes reportedly suffered. Whoever still lives in the ruined hold are Butchers now, regardless of their affiliation before.

Some holds are 'infested' and need to be cleansed before you can do anything with them, regardless of who you are playing as. Orcs have another way of doing, issuing a challenge to the local tribal leaders, but as a theocracy we don't have access to it.

Another hold is now suffering the same fate as this one. There is close to nothing left to fight for, their numbers seem unending, and their tactics improve with every month. There is only one way forward. To give our lives to return to the altar and do what we can to stem the flow of their power. Anything less is fighting against the inevitable without doing anything against the source of their strength. We have explosives. I will ensure that our faces are not seen beyond these mountain walls ever again.

We left not a moment too soon. A panicking group of human adventurers followed us, reporting that after we left a vast horde of beasts arrived in the hold and set up camp. They found the entrance that had used was sealed, blood dripping from the boulder used to block it. They are walking corpses as we are. They too have a chance to save the world.

After a hold has been reduced to 1/1/1, the plunder camp is replaced with a war camp.

The drums, they echo. No matter how far we walk they do not sound any more distant. Are they pursuing us, or have these tunnels been filled with an endless supply of warriors ready to ravage the world in the name of their dark god?

The other side of Dookan's Guidance is excellent, especially as orcs aren't as big on developing their lands in the first place. Some army tradition up front lets you hire better leaders, even more AT from battles to keep it up, while the morale and shock damage further bolster our strong early-game army. Obviously, this falls off a lot in the late game.

We are here. The crimson light awaits, beaming down upon the altar. The halls around us are empty, yet the drums still sound as if we are surrounded. I leave this journal at our final camp so that, if we succeed and the mountains are reclaimed, our actions are remembered. Whatever strange entity that their god has begot, we will face it now.

Words are hard, yet my hands know them. These fingers have written them before. These eyes have witnessed them. These lips have spoken them. This journal is mine, and the blood spilled in the light of the moon will not be forgotten.

I think that Dartaxes has overextended himself, and we can take advantage of that. That is a small army for someone who's made so many enemies so quickly.

Heading into the light, heading into battle. We pass through a village, and when the inhabitants look upon my skin they wail in despair. Their homes were ravaged and their blood joins that of those who stand against the coming of the night.

The blessing of the ancestors reach from beyond and guide my axe to victory. I am a ranger seeking out the enemy in the lands of the light. I move unseen, strike from the undergrowth, and claim my prize. The moment of confusion on their face whets the appetite for the horror that follows.

Now that I know even the bad omen has a good outcome I'm happy to slam the button on cooldown. This one gives us the mil power outcome.

A new light gleams from the heights of Shazstundihr. A shadow is cast on the lands that sprawl below. Those who live have learned to hide. Their blood betrays them. When night falls, I will visit them. They will recognise my face. Their hope will die before they do.

The mission tree does not call for expansion on the surface at present, but I thought I'd take the opportunity to start burning off the inevitable AE we'll be earning.

Darkness embraces me. The scent of home fills my nose. My trophies hang from my body as I enter the ruins of the hold. I look upon the scattered trophies of the Tarnished Plate and ponder on their defeat. My journal holds the secret of their fear, their arrogance, and their failure. One day, I will visit Ovdal Tungr again.

If you're looking for endgame spoilers in the MT, you won't find them. It is very much a slow unveiling. The next unlock only adds a few missions.

Whispers have spoken of new interlopers in the mountains. Beasts of steel and faith, a false faith. They have stormed the Glass Hold, claiming it for themselves. These holds belong to us, those who have dwelled in them for thousands of years. We will draw them in, as I was drawn in, and they will learn what it means to stand against the divine. Oh, god-begot, god-begot.

To be continued…

Vote

Blood boils. The underground trembles. The light shifts. Does it shine left or right?

Left – The interlopers must be slain with all haste
Right – Their blood will run sooner or later. The Garnets shall bleed sooner.

Vote for an option by clicking on the below image



Voting will remain open until I am back

 

[Sybot]

The poll I left open while I was gone was a surprising tie, though I wonder if that was intentional on the part of voters. In that case, we will give equal focus to both advancing the MT by facing the Dauntless Six and keeping the unruly dwarves in their place.

Chapter Four: Purpose
1501-1513

Somewhere on the Nez Argrod, Serpentreach, 1505

The red haze had dimmed, and Royan let out a long and high-pitched whistle of achievement. The hulking foes that had been bearing down on him were slumped forward, their skulls and chests shattered by a dozen bolts each. In spite of his stature he was the one stood tall in victory, another triumph for the Dauntless Six. He had chosen his perch due to its sightlines down the old rail line, killing zones formed by the impassable barrier of the remains of a near-unrecognizable locomotive.

He had tried to explain the fascinating ancient contraption to the others, but was interrupted by attacking beasts. As Arianne and Eledas held them at the front and Kalas moved swiftly to finish off any who tried to flank, he and Reinia unleashed a rain of arrows and bolts. It had nearly fallen apart when they had found a way to slither through the cracks in the ruined machine as though they were somehow the size of goblins and not seven-feet tall slabs of meat.

That was when his pride and joy, his auto crossbow, had done its work. Accuracy – irrelevant. Ammunition – plentiful. Enemies – cut down.

"Help me with this, would you?" he asked, using his little gnomish arms to try and tip over one of the corpses.

Reinia carefully stowed away her bow and gave him a look.

"I'm not looting them," he said, "I just want my bolts back."

Ammunition was plentiful but there were a lot of caves out there. Anything salvageable should be recycled. As an archer herself, she surely understood.

"Are you injured at all?" Reinia asked. She stepped down from the rock she had been firing from and crouched down beside him. "Take a moment to catch your breath."

"You know me," Royan said with a grin, "always thinking, always moving."

After looking for a moment to check whether the rest of the party needed any help from her, Reinia relented and added her tallfolk strength to his own. The orc corpse still took a great deal of strength to lift, and the two of them heaved for a solid twenty seconds before tipping it onto its back.

Reinia's hand went to her mouth, no doubt distracted by the array of grisly ornaments and 'clothing' the orc was garbed in. On the other hand, Royan had his eye drawn by what really mattered. A chestplate of shining bluish-silver metal strapped so tightly against the beast's chest that it drew rivulets of thick blood at the edges. It hadn't protected against the rest of the bolts, but the ones that had impacted the chestplate were bent out of recognition in spite of being the finest steel tips that the Vanburian foundries could produce.

"Mithril," Royan said with an excited breath. He drew a knife from his belt and began to saw away at the leather straps.

Reinia reached down and stroked the leather, offering a prayer to one or another of the Regent Court for whoever it had once been. That was futile, as it might have been a goblin for all they knew, there was so little evidence left on the tanned and wrinkled skin.

With another heave, Royan extracted the metal armour piece and held it up. It was nearly half his size, but incredibly light and almost completely undamaged apart from the places where clearly days of work had gone into gouging out places for the straps to attach.

"Fascinating," he said, his eyes glittering.

"They aren't mindless, right?" Reinia said. She sat besides him. "They know how to make use of that metal. So, what is going through their minds when they throw themselves on our swords?"

"Darkness," called Eledas from across the battlefield, working with Arianne and Kalas to clean up their own kills, "their souls are dark, and their minds are turned to that end."

"I'm not one for matters of the soul," Royan said, setting the mithril chestplate down among his gear, "but it's clear there's something different in their thoughts. Call it darkness, or fanaticism, or simple mental conditioning; it turns them into things for us to slaughter."

"We have to kill them, I know that," Reinia said, "but if we can understand their minds we can understand their purpose, and maybe stop them."

Royan had gotten to collecting the rest of his bolts, his thoughts turning more towards how to optimise his weapon to try and pierce mithril. Far too large for him to wear and without the tools on hand to work it, the chestplate was only good for target practice. Maybe there were more orcs with smaller pieces he could make use of. He'd have to keep his eyes out in future battles.

"That's what I'm here for!" came the chipper voice of Dominic.

The halfling, weighed down not by weapons and armour but by a heavy robe and endless satchels of paper, clambered out of the hole he had settled into for the duration of the battle. He, like the rest of them, had been hardened against the sight and stench of violence over the time spent in the underground, even if he wasn't one to partake it in. He shuffled through his notes to pull out something and show it to Royan and Reinia. It was a sketch of one of the many disgusting shrines that the orcs had placed throughout their territory, as loose a term as that was for this place.

"Now, that all their religious symbols are anointed with blood is an important sign," he said, "combined with their strange abilities that almost seem like self-transmutation, it implies that there is a degree of blood magic at work. It could be through a form of vampirism worshipping a 'head vampire', perhaps this 'Otar', or more infernal in nature drawing power from a pact with the realms below, or maybe even a fey of the Unseelie Court. There is an object of their worship, something that they are willing to bleed for. Though note that they only bleed themselves in battle. The blood and skin of others is used-"

"Sure, sure," Royan said, interrupting Dominic and ignoring Reinia's scowl, "how does that help us kill them?"

"I'm not a warrior," Dominic said, folding away his sketch, "that's why we're a team, isn't it?"

"Yes, we're a team," Reinia said, before Royan could interject. She placed her hands on the shoulders of the two smaller folk and then stood up. "Let us regroup and discuss this point when we are not in the middle of so much death."

She waved at Arianne, who was approaching them. The Vernman knight was stained with blood, her armour and weapons almost dyed as red as her cloak. There was a red haze in the air. Perhaps it had not been the rush of battle, but something else? Royan didn't have time to consider it, as he had a lot of work to do to ensure his weapon was ready for the next battle. With each clash he learned more, with each victory the Dauntless Six endured, and with each step they took deeper into the mountain the closer they drew to silencing the Butchers' dark purpose.

Excerpts from the notes of Royan Roypecker, member of the Dauntless Six

If Dominic is going to start taking notes on these creatures out of scientific curiosity, then so will I. Not to understand them, but to kill them. Everything dies; that's a scientific fact. Since we arrived we have been killing them, but there is no sign of the hordes reported by past attempts to drive them back. Perhaps they are assembling elsewhere. If so, we will track down their nests and exterminate them.

The right-hand branch of the tree is focused on dealing with the interlopers.

It's alarming that some of them are equipped with mithril weapons, but I consider it unlikely they could have forged them. Most likely these are scavenged from the remains of dwarven civilization that they've plundered. I've taken what I can for my own machines. The metal is perfect for armouring my weapons without making them prohibitively heavy.

Leaving Orlghelovar puts us out of reach of resupply, but there's plenty we can plunder from camps that we ransack. Whatever we can't take with us is destroyed, which is a shame considering the mounds of despoiled treasures that they're sitting on. Arianne's optimistic that we'll find the Otar if we follow these roads. I can't wait to fill him full of bolts.

The Dauntless Six will move through your nation, tearing it up, so long as they go unaddressed. It is a real problem if they end up in your capital considering how centralized Black Orc development is.

They are adept at using a variety of looted weapons and armour, in spite of their savagery. It's the contradiction that's the problem. For all that they're beasts who don't have the infrastructure of proper civilization, they are very adaptable. Several warbands we defeated were armed with Bulwari equipment, marking a distinct change from the dwarven leftovers they've been using up to now.

I'm still spending time hitting easy targets on the surface to earn money and burn AE for the future

There's a method to their madness. Anyone who faces them just once on the battlefield would mistake them for a horde of mindless savages, but careful observation over a longer period makes it clear that there are dark thoughts behind the blood and steel. There are clear leaders, clad so heavily in flesh that at a glance you would mistake them for an injured slave if not for the pattern of orders that they give their armed and armoured hordes through roar and gesture. My crossbow has found the throats of many such creatures, giving us the advantage and allowing us to press on.

Their fanaticism is the source of their unending morale. I don't think they'll be broken unless we mount the Otar's head on a pike, but despite all signs pointing towards him he remains out of sight. The preponderance of evidence is that he is out there, ruling over the Butchers with an iron fist, and yet I cannot help but feel uneasy that we are following a false trail.

These caves are filled with fascinating sights. Dominic asked that we spend a week in an isolated cavern so he could observe and sketch the lumimoth migration, and the others were happy to oblige and take a week out from carving through the monsters. The light is good for shooting, but otherwise these insects don't really help us. Reinia sat besides me as I stripped and cleaned my auto-crossbow, her eyes sparkling with reflected light. I appreciated that she didn't try to drag me into marvelling at the natural phenomenon, and simply enjoyed watching while I enjoyed my work.

We aren't the only ones fighting the beasts. We have seen signs of other bands of orcs moving in the peripheral passageways, and walked upon the bloody aftermath of battles between them. In some cases, it even appeared that the other orcs won out. We cannot ally ourselves, but we can avoid becoming enemies.

Random warbands spawning in your territory are an eternal risk in the Serpentspine. Underestimate them at your peril, as you can see my first attempt at driving them off failed and let them wreck the province.

Was that the Otar? A dwarf wearing a circlet with an enormous blue sapphire embedded within it stood atop a parapet on the outer walls of Arg-Ôrdstun. Reinia called out to him and tried to clamber up to meet the dwarf, but I knew better and buried a bolt in his shoulder before she reached him. The skin bunched up around the wound, his face pulled into a lopsided frown, and he retreated into the hold. Nothing down here can be trusted.

I'm colonizing directly towards Ovdal Lodhum, but until we touch borders I can't do much more than raid them. An important sidequest in the Serpentspine is reforging the Dwarovkron by reclaiming all of its components. The dwarves obviously consider a key symbol of the reclamation, but it is a worthy prize for orcs and goblins too, while anyone can make use of the fragments for their smaller bonuses.

The lack of civilians is strange. We've found slaves, sure, but with their bloody sacrifices there's no chance they have enough to run their mines, forges, and serpentbloom farms. They can't possibly all be warriors. Dominic thinks that their society has a level of organisation and trust that lets them seamlessly shift from labour to warfare as our presence approaches, but are such beasts capable of that?

There are more and more Green Orcs from the surface passing through. The goblins territory that we traversed on the way in was full of orcish slaves, but do they really think that this is a better life? Are they being compelled somehow?

We pursued rumours of mithril mines beyond Arg-Ôrdstun, carving our way through an increasing number of beasts equipped with shoddily forged plates of the stuff. Then, suddenly, there were no more. The orcs dispersed and we entered a vast cavern of fungi in what was once a mining operation. I took a closer look at the equipment covered in sprouting mushrooms, but it was clearly thousands of years old. In that case, where did they get that mithril from?

There are some neat provinces that you can find throughout the Serpentspine via expedition. Shame about the mithril though.

At an impasse, we will return towards Arg-Ôrdstun. Our last efforts to breach the hold were pushed back, necessitating us bypassing it through the side passages, but with bundles of cooked mushroom to sustain us we should have a chance. These caverns are eerily quiet, as through we are no longer worthy of attention. In that case, I'll make them notice us again. Through analysing captured dwarven technology, as ruined as it is, I've got ideas on how to make sure the Otar does not slip away again.

A Kronium expedition is a 'story' expedition required to unlock the great project that was discovered in an earlier expedition. The first couple of stages are usually easy enough that you don't need to put too much into it.

The walls crawl when they think I'm not looking. My bolts are too slow to reach them. Even if I shoot the moment I see them, the bolt cracks off of empty rock. The others think I'm seeing things. Reinia asked me to take a break. They don't understand. When I'm done, I'll make sure we're safe.

The events are fixed, and generally in the early stages the option that costs supplies gives you better chances of the good outcome.

I think back to that vast fungal cavern. We only spent enough time to harvest what we could carry. If we had dug a little deeper would we find the mithril treasures hidden there? If we outfitted the entire party with mithril mail we'd be unstoppable.

Water is common in the caverns. Clean, safe, water less so. Is there a way to find out which water supplies they use and poison them? I doubt it. They move so frequently and easily that there is no way to pin that down. Watching water tumble into an endless abyss, I can hear sounds from below that I would rather not spend time theorising on. Our enemies are here, in front of us.

Where are they? Even the normal raids have tapered off. Arianne says that this is a sign that we have eliminated most of their numbers, but I can't trust that. I have to see the Otar's body, verify that he is dead. These tunnels are endless. They are out there, preparing.

While not strictly negative, Omen of Peace is not that great. Tax income and stab cost are fairly weak modifiers.

We found something. In the entrance levels of Arg- Ôrdstun there is a shrine. It is coated in skin, fresh and bleeding, but it has been stitched together to the point that neither Dominic or I can even begin to tell where one victim ends and the next begins. How does one try to understand this? Dominic thinks he can, and has deciphered the location of their central altar and implored us to investigate. If there is anywhere that the Otar is hiding, that will be it.

Down there, in the depths. They found something in the caverns, this much is clear from the rumours we heard from those few dwarves who escaped. There are dark things lurking down there, but we can defeat them with the power of science. I have finished the designs for my new weapon, now I need only find the time to build it. A rumbling roar is pursuing us as we move towards the altar

When you successfully complete a stage of this expedition, it unlocks a level of the Great Project. We cannot start the next stage until the upgrade is complete.

They caught up to us. I couldn't kill fast enough. They knew to strike down Reinia first. I couldn't save her. Now Arianne is covering our retreat, shining like Corin. Even her light is muted down here. I will build my weapon. I will save the others.

Kalas has been running us in circles for days. We're lost in these caverns, but in spite of that we're always just in range of the sounds of battle. Arianne can't possibly have been fighting alone for so long, but she has somehow done so. Eledas and Kalas are tiring, and Dominic can't fight. All he does is continue to scribble his notes and theories about these creatures instead of aiding my work.

Something's in the air. The scent of blood is rising out of the rocks and the light is turning a deep red. They've done something, they've called upon that power again. Arianne is still fighting but now they are coming for her.

As you can only have one estate spell running at a time you should keep the slot clear as soon the Dauntless Six spawn, otherwise you'll have to pay out the nose for a lvl 3 advisor to finish this mission. Completing it then pops the following event.

It's all over. The sounds of battle were replaced by silence. I have to get to work. I can't think any more about what is happening, or I'll lose my mind the same way Dominic has.

They're celebrating. Their drums are beating in a rhythm that I haven't heard before. It's not discordant any more, it's aligned like the thrumming of a mechanism, like it has a purpose. Well, I'm not the scholar. I'm just here to kill them. Once my False Dragon's Fang is built, I'm going to end this.

And so it begins.

To be continued…

Vote

Arianne looks upon the forces arrayed against her and knows that she is doomed, but does not know what form it will take. The power that will bring an end to her long stand will be…

…their equipment, as good as any you can buy from a surface blacksmith (Economic)
…their tactics, showing that their base cunning has developed into something more (Innovative)
…their stealth, blending in with the darkness and wearing the faces of the fallen (Espionage (+5))
…their unity, giving their lives in service of the Otar so that he can achieve victory (Court)
…their devotion, the crimson light shining upon the caverns a sign of the will of their patron (Divine)
…their numbers, pouring from the endless caverns and from every direction (Quantity)

Vote for up to two options by clicking on the below image. The second-place result will get bonus votes in the next idea group poll



Voting will remain open for 72 hours

 

[Sybot]

Espionage won a clear victory, while Divine earned an impressive +9 bonus votes for the next poll.

Chapter Five: Masks
1513-1528

Somewhere in the caverns east of Arg-Ôrdstun, Serpentreach, 1524

A crack of energy, the sound of splitting flesh and splitting rock, and light brighter than daylight illuminating the tunnels for a fraction of second. Royan's goggles shielded his eyes, while the beasts surrounding him recoiled at the devastating assault of light. Before his first kill had hit the floor, Royan had spun on his heel while adjusting the dial on his Fang. A wave of flames burst out all around him, setting the disorientated monsters alight. He adjusted another dial and fired shrapnel into the roaring and burning mass, before retreating through a side passage.

Not all of them would be dead, but their numbers were thinned enough

"Must be getting close to something," he said to himself.

He moved as fast as he could to put some space between himself and the monsters, letting the darkness swallow him up. So long underground he'd gotten used to it, but his nerves never completely settled.

With a gentle motion he unstrapped the Fang and set it down. The hulking contraption couldn't possibly be recognised as a weapon by anyone else, except perhaps another gnome. It was a miracle that he could carry it at all, but for that he could thank all the mithril he had rescued from orcish misuse. Made almost entirely out of the lightweight metal, the Fang probably cost more than an average army regiment. That was before taking into account the Damestear core that let him scrape so many different functions into a single weapon.

It was a marvel, and completely impractical except in this exact situation where loot was plentiful.

"I'll get made High Tinker if I make it through this," Royan muttered.

He unpacked his meagre possessions. Two other machines of his own design. One that compressed the ever-present serpentbloom and edible fungi of the caverns into ration bars, and one that took any assembly of scrap metal and forged it into shrapnel pellets for the Fang. Both began to whir as he fed them handfuls of their materials from his pack. He was running low, but he'd lived for long enough off the scraps of orcish plunder, so he'd manage.

As he munched on a ration bar, he began to scrawl in his notebook. The orcs were on the move after some big events in the east and he was at the very edge of their forces. He wasn't even close to the heart of the beast, and already their numbers were getting close to overwhelming even for the Fang. He needed a different approach.

His heartbeat took another tune.

No, it was the drums. They were unending, and Royan sometimes wondered if he had been driven mad by the rhythm, to be able to ignore it.

He quickly packed his gear back up and secured the Fang's straps. Something changing meant opportunity. A chance for him to do what he came here to do.

With swift and silent feet, he moved through the passageways in the direction that the volume of the drums increased. Rock and moss did little to hinder him as he likely had more experience than any gnome alive of spelunking in the darkness.

"Come on, where are you?" he whispered through gritted teeth as the passage continued for an interminable distance.

He could hear the clanking of metal, the pounding of boots, and the pungent smell of blood rising up from the rocks beneath his feet. Had he somehow ended up above a group of the monsters? If only he had a way to peer through solid stone, but alas he had nowhere near enough resources to begin experimenting with the many ideas that ran through his head at the thought.

Holding the thrumming Fang against his body knocked him out of the distracting line of thought, and he continued tracing a route through the passageway. The beat was still getting louder, so he suspected he could still find a way through.

"Otar!"

The roar reverberated through the stone, thousands shouting in unison with a single voice. It caught Royan off guard and he froze up, his foot slipping into between two rocks and sending him tumbling. Immediately before him the tunnel gave way to a downward slope, and Royan was faced with no choice but to ride that slope all the way down. He wrapped himself around the Fang, praying to his own expertise that it was sturdy enough to hold together, even as rolling down the slope he alternately hit his own body against the rocks.

Light engulfed him, and the Fang hit the floor with a crunch, shortly before Royan hit the Fang with a crunch. He groaned and righted himself, ready to check the weapon for damage. Then he looked up.

For a moment he thought he had landed among dwarves, with pale skin, thick beards and weapons and armour emblazoned with the emblems of the holds of the Serpentspine. Then he looked again, and before his eyes their height grew and loomed high, their beards frayed and their eyes sunk deep beneath their skin, and he could see the thick blood coating their damaged equipment. He was among monsters once again, caught completely off guard.

But then, as if they did not care for him at all, they turned their backs to him.

"Otar!"

The roar repeated, and it was then that Royan realized that he wasn't in a cavern with just a dozen of the creatures, but with thousands. He kept the Fang raised at them and slowly backed away, checking for an instant over his shoulder to try and find an exit, and when he looked back he saw a pair of crimson eyes peering out from beneath a twisted and leathery face. Those eyes judged him with malice and hunger, but were drawn back in the direction that the rest of the crowd was facing.

As he made it up a small slope, he finally gained a vista on the larger cavern that he and the orcs were in. There was no way out that did not go through the body of thousands of ravening beasts, any of them capable of tearing him apart if he slipped up for a moment. Though their chant of 'Otar' continued, Royan could not pick out any particular orc that they were referring to.

Then, something caught out his eye. One orc, wearing a cloak of leather that leaked blood from its interior that ran down its body, stepped up onto a flat rock. An altar.

"Got you," Royan whispered, raising the Fang.

He hesitated, and realised that it wasn't his target. Another two orcs with the same outfit joined it, hoisting a dwarf, an actual dwarf, up between them. It was just a shaman of some sort. But now he was trapped, and as he watched the strange ritual begin to progress, Royan's heartbeat quickened until it outpaced the very drums that surrounded him. He would not forget it for the rest of whatever life he had left.

Excerpts from the notes of Royan Roypecker, former member of the Dauntless Six

We're a sorry sight. Two halflings, an elf and a gnome wandering in these dark tunnels. I sometimes curse that Arianne didn't hire a dwarf to join, but from the last we heard of their effort in Shazstundihr it wouldn't have made a difference. The other reclamation efforts are far from this disaster, so perhaps they have the room to breathe and survive.

It looks like the northern dwarven reclaimers are doing well. This is good for us, as it means more developed holds to plunder.

There've been a whole bunch of goblins in with the last few raids we've driven off. They didn't seem like slaves, so have they joined in with the blood frenzy of the Butchers? Or were they even goblins at all? I can't imagine that any goblins that sign up to the bloody and brutal ways of these beasts will last very long with their skins still attached.

We're fleeing deeper, not outwards. It's like we're being herded through an endless parade of war camps and slave pits, all of them abandoned and yet with signs of recent habitation. They move out of our way and fill in behind us. Do all of these tunnels now belong to them?

Both of our available missions need us to finish the colonisation of the western end of the Serpentreach.

Kalas insists we're going in the right direction, but I'm beginning to disagree. Eledas is doing his best to keep us alive but he's faltering. They're only weighing me down. As harsh a conclusion as it is, the only way out might be to leave the others behind.

Ever since we left Arianne they've been celebrating. We're finding their befouled altars in greater numbers the further we travel, and I feel like I've seen her face looming in the darkness several times over, as if they've summoned her up as a spectre against us. I well know that ghosts aren't so easily raised, that's scientific fact, but my companions are getting increasingly fearful.

We had to flee from a great ogre-like beast that has driven us off the railways entirely. Dominic noted with some interest that the monster was not given the right to wear the skins of others as the Butchers themselves are, as if it was some sort of lower caste. I couldn't care less, as I was far more interested in finding the gaps in its armour.

Eledas is dead. He gave his life for us to survive, raging until his last moments against the suffocating Malevolent Dark. Faith won't save you down here, only a devotion to the devastating power of science and knowledge. Dominic isn't a fighter, and Kalas cannot face these beasts head-on, so it falls to me to be a warrior of enlightenment in this darkness.

I have to score a victory, or else fight my way back to the light. These creatures are an unstoppable tide, and if they are given the chance to roll forward unhindered then no one will survive to tell the tale on how to beat them. That is why I am preparing the False Dragon's Fang. The Otar, that foul creature of divine purpose, is the centre of all this. If I can slay him, then their unity will collapse around them.

It is ready. The ultimate weapon, a fusion of every last scrap of ancient dwarven technology that I've gotten my hands on in. I won't hide anymore. Dominic and Kalas pleaded with me to stay with them, but I turned and marched back towards the drumbeats. Their fate is in their hands, but perhaps if I make enough noise then their way out will be clear.

Dominic was insisting on head deeper into the caverns, claiming that he'd seen a pattern in the religious icons we'd seen. Maybe he believes he can learn something or do something about the power that backs the Butcher's disgusting abilities. I have far more faith in firepower.

This is a pretty painful mission with how expensive caverns are to develop.

Though it's clear that something's animating the beasts. I doubt I can shoot an unearthly power in the face, but I can shoot the Otar in the face, so that is what I'm going off of. Eledas had a strange respect for them their devotion that I can't say I share, but what else do you expect from a Sun Cultist.

If the mages weren't loyal this would have cost 200 adm/2 stab so it's worthwhile to push up their loyalty. The flavour text here is a reference to the Karashar MT, where a clan of Black Orcs take up the Old Sun Cult. It has the honour of being one of three officially non-canon MTs (the other two being Shattered Crown and Skurkokli)

I can see how their faith and hierarchy bleed into each other. Even as I kill I can see the lines of their organisation, where those with the most flesh draped over their bodies are lauded but also competed against by the younger and more ambitious whelps. They all die just the same to a hail of shrapnel. If I can tear off the head of the snake, will the whole thing unravel?

A huge convoy of goblin slaves passed through the rail tunnel recently. I launched my assault on its guards and the greenskins scattered as my crossbow and fang cut down orcs in their dozens. I might have shot them down at an earlier point, but now I'm finding myself wishing them luck in the tunnels. Anyone who fights against these beasts is worth of respect, even if they failed.

Goblin military is trash early game, so beating nearly twice our numbers is no bother at all even against a war wizard.

Seeing the convoys coming with increasing frequency with goblins and huge quantities of lumber has left me to wonder whether the beasts have breached the Deepwoods. That strange, fey place defies any rational explanation, but even then I would not wish the Butchers upon it. Who knows what the unworldly lords of the forest will make of the beasts descending from the mountains into their domain.

The inhabitants, whether they are goblins, or elves, or even the Green Orcs, don't deserve this. I've fought such monsters before, and now I can't even say that they were really monsters. Not compared to what is lurking beneath these mountains. If I had to ally with Dookanson to slay the Otar, I might do it.

I'm not sure I've ever seen the goblins win in the Deepwoods before, that's neat.

As I carve down these faux-dwarves and faux-goblins I'm stuck wondering. At a glance they can fool even me, seven feet or more of muscle condensed into a body half that size merely with the application of a covering of skin. If none of us live to warn the rest of the world, will they find a way to fool the rulers of the surface? Are they capable of such subterfuge? If they find a way to wield their words like a subtle knife, while still wielding their axes like savage bludgeons, the world could be fooled even as it bleeds out.

And the worst thing is, I can see them doing that. There's so much strife out there already, from imperial politics, to Corinite zealots, to the different branches of the Sun Cult. All illogical and incapable of seeing the real threat. Even if I make it out there, are they even going to listen to me?

I thought I caught sight of a group of dwarves marching east through the tunnels, flying the Copper Gate. I have no idea how they made it down here, but I wasn't able to catch up with them as the beasts were quick to get in my way. It's a trap, it has to be. They're luring them in to slaughter them like cattle. If there are any dwarves left in the Eastern Serpentreach, they're already beyond help.

According to the records there are three holds down that way. No idea if they are still populated or not, but everything I've calculated over these past weeks of battle indicate the Otar has moved eastwards. If there's anything down there that he's after, it'll be those holds.

Picking up both holds means that the Serpentreach is effectively ours, and grabbing a coastal fort on the outside is a nice bonus. There's no-one in Gor Bûrad, and I have no idea what happened to the Blackbeard Cartel in this campaign.

There're tales told of a mighty human hero who killed thousands of orcs and was made King of Ovdal Lodhum. Probably just a fairy tale, but if he was still alive I wouldn't mind teaming up with him and comparing kill counts. I'd like see if his blade can match up against my Fang. Those tales are so old he has probably already dead, and the Otar is laughing on the ruins of his throne.

Another possibility is Otar fleeing into the Deepwoods via Verkal Skomdihr, but I doubt he's so much of a coward. If he's braving the woods, it to slay a fey and wear their skin, or something equally insane and disgusting. I must be ready for whatever they retrieve from that hold and the forest beyond it.

I wonder if Dominic found what he was looking for. As I've moved away from those caverns I've found fewer and fewer of those strange religious carvings. Whatever's in there's clearly at the centre of their faith, but I don't know of Kalas' talents will be enough to keep two little halflings safe in the darkness. I've decided I'm leaving the minute I've completed my mission. They're still on their own.

Weeks, months, it all blends together. I can't track the time at all except by the ebb and flow of that strange crimson light. All I know is I've got my Fang, I've got my mind, and I've got my mission. Whether I am the last survivor or not, they will not take me so easily.

The next mission requires us to start making use of our unique religious actions. It's time to pull out the knife and get to cutting.

They're returning from the east in greater numbers, with thousands of dwarven prisoners. These are too heavily guarded for me to even have a hope of touching. Their drums are beating and their shamans are coming to the fore. It's strange, I wouldn't have been able to recognise their religious leaders from the average warrior in a fight, and yet when they stand before the altar with a knife I can feel the ichor radiating from them.

Crafting/upgrading masks makes use of unique Old Dookan religious actions, so if you convert to a different religion then you will break the Masked Butcher MT. I will cover upgrading later, and for now just show off creating a mask.

They're letting me watch. They're making me watch. They know that I know that I if I strike during this ceremony even my Fang won't be able to take them all down. They've got a singular obsession for these dwarves at this moment. If I knew where the Otar was I could move and eliminate him even if it killed me, but there is so much blood and flesh that my eyes glaze over and all I can see are their wicked and warped grins.

To create a mask you just need one province with a majority/minority of a race, and then set that race as your focus using the racial UI. We've just so happened to recently acquire some dwarven provinces, so I select them.

It's done. They brought a dwarf onto the altar. Their chants and adulations were incomprehensible, until I picked up words that sounded all-too familiar: 'Balgar Orcrend', a good dwarven name, and the name of the one being offered up. Whoever he was, he had clearly lost all hope, not even resisting as they set him down and drew their knives and countless other blades. The light deepened even redder, and the ceremony began.

The first event gives you the choice to continue or go back.

Then, it just came off. It happened so fast I had to look again to make sure I had seen it right. There's some dark power at work here, I am certain of it now. Nothing so horrific could be so simple unless it had a will of evil behind it. No mundane science can explain the swiftness of those blades. And worst, he is still alive. I saw him trembling on the altar, not in the throes of death but awake and lucid. His eyes, set in flesh and bone, were fixed upon the mask as they carried it away. They ignored me and paraded away with it held high, leaving me alone with Balgar. I could not bear it anymore, so I put him out of his misery and departed to continue my mission.

The second event gives you your level 1 mask based on which racial focus you have set, and you can then assign it as an estate privilege. Note that we have a limited number of masks we can equip at once, as we start off with very limited privilege slots, so I'll need to switch this out for the halfling one when we get it.

I can't let this happen to anyone else. Now that I'm free from that haze my determination has redoubled. For Arianne, for Reinia, for Eledas, and for Dominic and Kalas whether they still live or not, the Otar will die.

And here it is. We get the mask for free from the MT, and can now switch it in.

Their blood's been riled up, and their viciousness has redoubled. My Fang still cuts them down, but they're coming at me so often that I fear I'm not going to make it. But I am. I've seen him. It has to be him. Arianne's face in a crowd. Slipping into the darkness just out of reach. No one else would dare touch the skin of such a paragon. My mission is at hand.

Our next unique religious action gives us the means to really start reaching out and touching our friends on the surface. More on that next chapter.

It's done. I can't note much before I have to move again. But it's done. The Otar is dead by my hand. It can die just like anything else. Just like I said.

They're falling into chaos around me. Every surface is coated with their blood. I've done it. I've really done it, haven't I?

I'm free and I'm safe. The garrison of Bal Ouord welcomed me, though none even remember us passing through on our way to the mountains. I can scarcely believe I'm alive, and yet I can't shake a gnawing sensation at the base of my chin, around my eyes, beneath my nose. Worse still, I've seen their foul altars out here on the surface, placed in the ruins of goblin settlements. They're no longer contained. I have to return to Giberd. I have to make them listen. But whatever happens, I'm not going back there. No matter how it calls to me…

To be continued...

The gnome has fled, but he will one day face his fate. They will all face their fate, face the future, face the god-begot, god-begot. But who will first face the knife?

(Choose which masks will be the priority for creating and upgrading. This is not exhaustive but only includes masks that are currently in reach)

The Steadfast Human
The Industrious Dwarf
The Cunning Goblin
The Disciplined Elf
The Vicious Gnoll
The Abducting Harpy
The Hoarding Kobold

Choose the priority by clicking on the below image. This vote will reoccur at a later point when more masks are in reach.



Voting will remain open until more new masks are within reach. You can edit your vote.

 

[Sybot]

As of playing out this chapter, Human and Elf have the highest priority so I will focus on those and then move down the list. Remember that you can edit your votes.

Chapter Six: Surge
1528-1542

Atop the walls of Bal Ouord, Ourdia, 1540

Sunset cast the land in an orange glow, the farms and woodland that extended down the hills from the fortress glowing with the last light of day. They also glowed with the flickering of flames ignited by the invaders in the ruins of the villages that had once stood out beyond the walls. It was unlikely that anyone was still in the villages, and they had no doubt been plundered of anything worth having in the months of the siege so far, so the fires seemed to be lit for nothing but the sake of destruction.

"Do you think they'll try the walls tonight?" asked Evin, commander of the fort's scout regiment. Like most of his men and the rest of the garrison, he had been locked up inside for the duration of the siege.

Ottron glanced out to sea. The light set unease in his thoughts. There were no clouds in the sky, and yet the sunlight was shifting from brilliant purity to something muddier. Something redder. Still, it would be a bright night. Attacking when the defenders had enough light to shoot by would be foolish.

"It is unlikely," Ottron said, "how goes the harbour."

"Still secure," Evin said, "I checked personally. The cliffs are far too steep to climb without being spotted by our guards."

"So, they could make it?" Ottron asked.

Bal Ouord was built above the Gulf of Ouord on a hill where Castan I was said to have battled a Xhazobine. On the site of the legendary battle a massive tower had been constructed, with layers of stone fortifications sprawling out around it hosting the fortress town supporting those who dwelled in the tower. Tunnels dug beneath the fortress reached down into a natural sea cave that had been expanded harbour. It was both their lifeline and their greatest weakness. If the enemy had a way to assault from below, they would be cut off and face an attack from two fronts. However, reaching the water was not an easy task.

Evin looked contemplative. His eyes were glinting with something as he held his chin in his fingers. Ottron found his eyes drawn to the way the man's skin bunched up at his touch, but looked away when he realized he was staring.

"To do so they would need to time it to avoid the patrols," he said, "which, considering that we alter them every day would mean getting lucky or having a spy in the fort."

It wasn't impossible that was the case. There had been several murders in the past few weeks. Bodies were found mutilated, but the victims had been all sorts, not just the defenders of the fortress, and they happened at random rather than hitting any important parts of the defences. It could be Infernal Cultists or Corinite zealots taking advantage of the situation, or it could be something far worse. Ottron resolved to put additional men on the case.

"I do not see what these beasts could offer to someone to betray their people to them," Ottron said.

The camps that lay scattered down the hillside among the ruins of the farms were a terrible sight, one that he was glad the civilians in the fortress were not able to set eyes upon. Shoddy tents were most of what was out there, made of leather that he had no desire to know the provenance of. Their inhabitants only left them under cover of darkness, an unsettling sight in the gloom. Worse were the profane altars that had sprung up all around the landscape. Stone structures had been raised then laden with plunder.

Farming tools, machinery taken from mills and workshops, relics from temples, and treasures looted from the wealthier estates, all sat atop the altars. Every single item he could see had been broken into uselessness, and then coated in blood. He had never seen how they had spilt so much blood over their plunder, or whose blood it was. All he could tell was that the stains ran so deep that even from atop the tower he could see the mounds cast in red.

"Freedom from the norms of Cannorian society," Evin said, drawing Ottron's thoughts back to his original point.

"More like death," Ottron said, "these monsters kill and enslave and sacrifice. That is no freedom."

"But they don't know that," Evin said, smiling an inappropriate grin that stretched a little too wide.

"Do not make light of it!" Ottron snapped back.

Evin's lips returned to a neutral expression, and he gave a small bow to the Commander.

"I'll take my leave then," he said, "I need to do another sweep of the harbour approach."

Ottron watched the scout commander descend the stairs into the tower and then turned to look out over the enemy encampments again. Evin had gotten more vicious in the past few years, likely as a result of having had to range out into the disputed lands and deal with beasts on their own turf. It was welcome in battle, but put his thoughts on darker tracks. He might need to be reassigned once the siege was lifted, or otherwise sent out to pursue the retreating orcs and burn off whatever was eat at him.

The colour of the sunlight deepened again, turning from orange to red, and Ottron's throat caught. This wasn't the first time it had been like this. This wasn't natural in the slightest. He glanced at the horizon, and realized the sun had already set. It had set a long time ago, and yet the light was still red.

Down on the hillside, the tents began to empty. Dark shapes that flickered through the trees and grasses, disappearing from sight for a moment and reappearing where they were not expected. They spread out and encircled the outer walls of the fortress town, staying in sheltered positions and watching carefully. Ottron was certain that even from so high up he could see the pinpricks of their glowing red eyes.

He did not need to yell out an alarm, as his watchmen were diligent. The bells began to ring, and archers and mages made their way to the walls to repel this assault. This was not the first such assault, and would not be the last, but each time the outer walls had held. As the beasts charged, arrows and bolts of magic reached out and found their marks.

"Commander!" a soldier yelled through gasped breaths from the top of the stairs.

"Report!" Ottron snapped at him, his hand resting on his sword.

"The harbour," the soldier panted, "they're in the harbour!"

Ottron's blood ran cold. Before he could muster up an order to march down and repel the invaders, the sounds of battle from the outer walls reached a new volume. He turned his head, a new kind of fear percolating in his mind.

The gates were open. They had been opened, and they were already inside. The defenders were fighting for their lives, and in such close quarters they were failing. Assailing all the outer walls at once had been a ploy. They had always planned to go through the gates.

"We hold the tower and secure the harbour," Ottron said. He was not about to give in at such base treachery. Bal Ouord was one of the greatest fortresses of Castanor. It would not fall so easily.

As he marched down the stairs, he missed the soldier's ever-widening grin, the skin pulling tighter and wider until it nearly tore.

Excerpts from the official documents of Ottron of Ravenhill, Garrison Commander of Bal Ouord

Royan Roypecker has been dispatched on a ship bound for Esmaria. His requests for materials to rebuild a contraption of his were denied, as the expense was determined to be too great to be offered as mere charity. His tales of what he suffered were fanciful, but not out of line with what our scouts have reported from the goblin territories. The plight of one against thousands would make any enemy seem insurmountable, however. These walls held against the Goblin Exodus, and will hold against whatever dark rituals or infiltration the beasts of the mountains attempt.

The Dauntless Six are officially marked as missing in action, with the gnome as the only survivor. There are no longer any confirmed adventuring parties within the Serpentreach, so our ability to extract any more resources from the old dwarven ruins has declined. However, this is not a great impact as it was clear that the orcs had already stripped Orlghelovar bare, and it is likely they are doing the same to the rest of the ruins.

Some much-needed institution progress. Ideally once Colonialism and Printing Press are out of the way we should be able to get the rest naturally. You need to keep moving as a Black Orc to keep from falling behind.

It has been suggested that a raid against their throne would net us a vast amount of treasure reclaimed from beasts who have no use for it, but I have categorically denied such requests. The Dauntless Six sought to strike at the beast's heart, and they failed. This is not an enemy we want to engage on their terms.

The Bloodied Altar flavour text covers what happened after Dominic/Kalas were separated from Royan. You can see the Trophy Pile in the capital starting to ramp up military bonuses. There are 15 levels in total, so look forward to it.

We are on alert after word of new raids in Bulwar. The Dartaxâgerdi cultists have lost control of their northern territories for a while now, so it is not clear if this is further rebellion or some kind of invasion. The king has tightened our ties to Wexkeep and Ovdal Tûngr, so we are in a far sturdier position.

Dartax is actually a bad choice for this. You can find humans pretty much anywhere. It is far more useful to use it on a less widespread race to get the necessary provinces for mask upgrades, but for now I'm using it for demonstration.

In spite of the reports of horrific butchery in goblin territory, the lands shielded by Bal Ouord remain quiet. With the situation quiet, we have given permits for adventurers to act within the goblin territories bordering the mountains and Deepwoods. While few return, it is better to attrit the enemy with the most foolish among us instead of our trained guardsmen.

We've been expanding outside the mountain for a while, but these are the first missions to actually give us claims out there.

The reports from Dartaxâgerdim are troubling, but clearly embellished. At no point have there been confirmed to be so many orcs in the mountains that they could darken entire mountainsides. Their infernal prowess has been noted, so this is most likely to be a trick or illusion. When forced onto open fields before our walls, we will see the truth of the matter.

A group of halflings passed through, claiming to have been called to settle in the mountain foothills by a distant relative of theirs, one of the Dauntless Six. We have no evidence of such a communique, and despite my best efforts to see them deported back to the Small Country, they eventually departed into contested goblin territory. We will not send a rescue party.

Getting these events as Masked Butcher is hilarious. Sadly one province isn't enough let us upgrade the mask.

The war in Bulwar is over and all authority the line of Dartaxes had over their lands has collapsed. Rumour has it that the cities were emptied with thousands being marched towards the mountains in chains. The King of Varamhar has pledged to restore order and our king has welcomed it. Together we can contain these beasts behind our walls and their magic.

When the Dame rose over the mountains last night, she was cast in bleeding red. My men are steadfast and did not panic, but the commonfolk of the fort town were driven into a near-frenzy and had to be held back from the walls. Though I am not affected, I am still concerned what foul magic this represents. My penstrokes are drawing blood from the page. I am requesting the Empire's finest mages be dispatched to investigate

The blood moon is fun, and a good reason to keep a bunch of countries alive around you. We earned 125 of each power type from this activation, meaning five countries got the stability hit. The two options in the event either replace a provincial majority (of whatever race you have focused) with your primary culture, or reduce the size of a provincial minority. The former is always better, though for level 3 masks for less populous races you might have to take the second option. In either case you gain the Ichor needed for your upgrade.

In the aftermath of the blood moon, strange groups were observed by the lookouts around the fortress' perimeter. They were identified as human, but melted away into the contested goblin lands when confronted. Scouting efforts are to be redoubled. I do not want the fort to be caught out by an attack from an unexpected foe altogether.

The level 2 mask doubles the initial bonus, but we are locked from getting level 3 until later missions so this is as far as we can go.

The scouts have reported further efforts by the orcs to assert control over the contested goblin lands. At night their bands of 'administrators' hold bloody rituals in cowed goblin settlements. The line between administration and religion seems incredibly thin. For their part, the goblins have been fleeing such depravity, but there is equally no place for them in the lands of Ourdia.

From what we have been able to determine, most other races are never truly considered to be Butchers, no matter how much blood they coat themselves in. We have seen an increase in smaller and paler orcs among their night raids, with those perhaps being half-orcs. Far from the supposed noble types in Escann like Lothane and Rogier, the survivors tell of slaughter inflicted with even greater ferocity by these pale orcs. They have been designated a priority target for elimination.

The mountains echoed with a rumbling that we could hear even from the coast. I do not know what they are doing in there, but whatever it was could be felt the length of the Serpentreach.

When night fell, the lookouts swore that they could see the light shifting atop the mountain peaks. My theory is that there was an avalanche that revealed something reflective at the peaks. There is no way that the beasts that dwell within have a way to affect something as great as the mountains themselves. I have ordered them to stop observing the peaks, as it seems to lead to vivid nightmares.

As the trophy pile/moonlight increases, we can start adding more masks simultaneously.

The number of goblins fleeing the Deepwoods, crossing the disputed regions, and trying to get into Bahar or Dostanor, has increased. Something is happening in the Deepwoods. If there is one thing that I fault Corin for, it is opening those fey-cursed woods and giving me and my predecessors in this fortress a new set of problems to deal with.

Expanding into the Deepwoods for our claims

Those that have been interrogated have babbled about hunters spreading through the woods, slaying elf and goblin and fey with no distinction. I do not know what stock to put into such tales, so to my limited knowledge of the fey this might be an upswing of their Unseelie Court. Still dangerous, but so long as the forest does not extend any tendrils, the fortress is safe.

The treasurer has complained that significant amounts of the money being spent in the fortress town has vanished or transmuted into something strange. It appears to be made of cursed fey silver, so initial investigations were focused on goblins and elves fleeing from the Deepwoods. However, reports have indicated that all those paying with the false coins were human. Who these people are, and where they found fey silver, are not yet answered.

The fortress guards caught an elf paying with fey silver and conducted an interrogation. His words were cryptic nonsense and tinged with something that made my skin itch, so he was determined to be a fey-touched madman and locked away. The following morning, his cell was discovered with the bars bent open and coated with blood, further cementing that he is fey-touched by something Unseelie. There has been no further sign of him, and the fey silver has since dried up.

The Elf Mask gives us discipline. Very tasty.

Orcish authority has settled in the disputed lands. When they are not taking slaves from the local goblin tribes, they are establishing systems of extraction for goods that they presumably cannot produce or manufacture beneath the mountains. Cutting off such goods might prove useful should the word come to strike at them. They are also feuding with the bands of refugees pouring out of the Deepwoods, giving us a picture of the tactics the beasts use in open battle.

It is a picture of butchery. I am no stranger to war, and have seen men fall with their guts leaving their bodies and blood soaking the soil, but the tales of these Butchers turn even my stomach. Their weapons are ragged, leaving devastating gouges. They carry flensing tools on their person, and will single out a foe in battle to hunt and skin. Despite their size and appearance, they move with surprising stealth and so long as the battle is not on a flat plain any commander must deal with being flanked by their hunters.

The guards have reported strange movements and undocumented arrivals in and around the fort. With the volatile situation in the Deepwoods and in Bulwar this is not a surprise. Far more concerning is that orcs have been caught slipping in through our defences among these arrivals. Whether they disguised themselves or used these groups as a distraction is not yet clear. So far none have been interrogated. All have slipped away or fought to the death.

Dartaxâgerdim has fallen to elven rule, which should put an end to bestial raids deeper into Bulward. They have also reportedly marched to Lake Jorkad and driven a clan of orcs out of the dwarven hold that overlooks the region. I feel confident in reporting that the southern flank of the Serpentreach is secure.

Our missions take us both deeper into Bulwar and to Hul-Jorkad, so we'll be taking on Varamhar sooner or later.

We have been caught in the outer edge of what the Escanni and Anbennarians are calling the Crimson Deluge. Damage to the fortress is minimal, and the Corinite zealots have been repelled. More concerning are sightings of orcs bathing in the streams and rivers near the fort, coating themselves in the runoff of the Deluge and then defacing temples and shrines with their bodies.

We still get the Crimson Deluge events, thanks to the territory we hold near Ourdia.

They are getting closer, probing our defences. Our patrols chase them away, but there is something off about them when they return. Some have deserted, and others have grown prone to undisciplined anger. It is as though they return as different people, even though their mission in driving off the small bands of orcs was a trivial success.

As expected from their increased activity, they are moving in force. Cooperation with Crathánor and Ovdal Tûngr has been established to ensure the safety of Bahar, and messages imploring support from the Emperor have been dispatched. Bal Ouord will hold against whatever force attempts to break it.

So, a strange complication has emerged. Ourdia has managed to join the Empire of Anbennar, so attacking them directly for our claims will bring Wex and Lorent and their allies down on our head. Luckily for us they're reachable via Ovdal Tûngr, but this will also hurt us with the additional AE cost of taking EoA provinces on top of them being a non-cobelligerent.

It's fallen. We did not hold six months. They were inside already, eating away at our garrison. Hunting us from inside our own walls. They opened the gates, and the flood poured in. And yet, they have left alive those of us who surrendered. The fortress is theirs, and yet I am still in command of the garrison. I do not understand.

They rounded up all the elves in the fortress and carried them away to the mountains, do to who knows what. I think I saw that elf that was interrogated about fey silver, but he was not riding with the other captives. He was marching among the orcs. And he turned to me. And his grin grew too wide and too dark. And then the Dame shone above, her eyes glowing red.

We are regaled with tales of death and despair every night. Their guards are signing in our language of battles fought hundreds of miles away, on the far side of the mountains. We are not going to be rescued, and so my only goal now is to ensure the smooth running of this fort so that they do not see me evacuating the commonfolk from under their noses.

Our lords have abandoned us. I have been left alone to protect the people of Bal Ouord from the monsters that dwell here, but there is nothing I can do. They take as they please. They come in the night. They cannot be stopped.

My only prayer is that the fall of our venerable fortress has opened the eyes of the world to the truth. That the darkness is seeping from those mountains like a poison, one that will rot the world from within if it is not excised. But who am I to pray to? Our gods are at war in the heavens. Theirs is reaching out and touching us. Their god-begot, god-begot.

This is manageable but paints a clear picture that I'll need to be very careful if I don't want the world coming down on me like a sack of bricks. We don't exactly have any friends.

I was mistaken. The Deepwoods. Bulwar. Now Ourdia too. These are not mere raids or fey plots. They are striking out in every direction. It is not just those who delve into the mountains who are at risk. We are all at risk. I will do what I can for my people, but I fear that I am next. I see them peer through my window while I try to sleep, with eyes as red as the Dame's on that fateful midnight.

Our assaults on the goblins have given Marrhold the chance to sweep in and mop them up. A sad end to the Goblin Deepwoods.

To be continued…

 

[Sybot]

Goblin and Dwarf are next to focus on, as of this chapter being written.

Chapter Seven: Pact
1542-1558

A gladeway near the River Grove, the Deepwoods, 1556

"Blasted bloody bastards!" Odar yelled, his rifle roaring and wood splintering.

A cry rose from the dense and dark treeline, but it wasn't the cry he was hoping for. The wounded tree bent over the wound that the shot had gouged out of it and it cracked open like a mouth, a keening wail starting to arise from it.

"You can shut right up!" he yelled, levelling his weapon again.

"There's no time for fey bullshit," Flondi said, grabbing Odar by the arm and pulling him further along the narrow and overgrown pathway.

As they rounded a corner and the tree disappeared from sight, Odar was certain he saw the undergrowth shift as mass of black and red latched onto the fey tree. He hadn't been aiming for the tree, but if drawing the attention of their pursuers to work out their beastly urges on some kind of fey plant instead, he was okay with that.

It had been hours since the lines had broken. Unyielding Pepper-and-Tortorise formations filled with the finest rifles had yielded under the weight of meat and metal. It had happened so quickly that Odar had been stunned. In the tornado of death and destruction, flowing blood and billowing skin, he stood untouched by sheer chance. When he regained his senses and blasted his way to safety, there had only been four other dwarves who had taken the chance to follow them.

And now there were only the three of them left. Ragund was at the head of their party. The artillerydwarf, armed only with a pistol, an axe, and a shovel, was charged with clearing a path with them through the forest. With their rifles, Flondi and Odar would cover their retreat.

"Any clue where we're running to, anyway?" he asked, working the clockwork mechanism on his weapon to reset and reload it.

"I've got a good idea," Ragund replied, in between heaving breaths as he hacked away at reaching and creeping plant life all around them. "Make it to the river, find that goblin settlement we razed on the way through, take their gladeway back to the Flower Glade."

"If the fey'll let us," Flondi said, spitting into the undergrowth.

"Careful," Ragund said, "don't want to annoy them anymore than we already have."

"I'll show them annoyance!" Flondi shouted.

He pointed his rifle into the shaded greens that surrounded them. The bullets weren't likely to do much, but they'd been given cold iron bayonets that the priests said would ward off fey influence. Odar didn't put too much stock into it, whether for or against the weird things that lived in the forest, but right now that wasn't the concern.

"Hey, I'm sure hate these things as much as we do," Odar said, "if they want to help, I'll give toss a coin their way."

"Not what they care about," Ragund said. He let out a grunt resembling surprise, and stumbled to a halt. Odar and Flondi almost walked into him.

"Hey!" Flondi snapped. He turned, and was struck with silence as well.

When Ogar turned, he was not sure what he was looking at. The gladeway had given way to an open passage, about a hundred feet long and barely wide enough for the three of them abreast. The light of a red sunset filtered through the trees, the sun nowhere in sight through the barely open canopy. And at the opposite end stood an emaciated and hunched elven woman, the pack on her back larger than she was. She watched them with beady eyes, unmoving.

It didn't need to be said that she was some sort of fey.

"Let's just walk past," Ragund said, "don't talk to it, but give it a small bow as you go past."

"How 'bout I just shoot her," Flondi said.

Odar grabbed him by the shoulder and gripped it as hard as he could until Flondi let out a grunt of complaint.

"We don't need more enemies," he said, "cover the rear. I'll cover the front."

Flondi glared at Odar through bushy eyebrows, but relented and turned the barrel of his rifle towards the gladeway they had come from. They remained in a line, Ragund taking the lead and Odar covering the edges of the clearing. It was still narrow enough and surrounded by thick enough vegetation that there'd be little warning if something leapt at them.

"It has been a while since your kind has walked these ways," the fey said, it's voice clear and flat, "tell me about yourselves."

Before Odar could even think about answering the question, the crack of Flondi's rifle set his thoughts alight. Odar's finger rested on the trigger, and his vision narrowed until there were only the plants around him.

A sudden movement. A shuffling in the trees. A single shot.

The beast let out a screech and spray of blood coated the leaves just a few feet away from him, but Odar had not caught sight of what was in there. Behind him, Flondi continued to let off shots.

"Little help!" Flondi shouted, a distinctive ping marking the end of his magazine and the clockwork mechanism ringing as its parts ground against itself.

Odar lifted his rifle and spun around, but that moment of inaction, that moment where one was reloading and the other was moving, was the exact moment the beasts had been waiting for. When he had faced the rear, he was just in time to see an enormous shape barrel out of the undergrowth and into Flondi. Nearly twice the size of him and just as bulky, the dwarf stood no chance as the two of them tumbled into the greenery with only screams following them.

"Go!" Odar shouted. He turned to run, only to nearly trip over Ragund, who was hacking at an arm that he'd managed to sever from its owner. It dangled from a tree branch, its owner clearly rustling through the trees as though they bore no such wound and beginning to circle around them.

Odar panicked at that moment, and lost all hope in saving his comrades. He dashed for the exit, past the fey. It was only when he raised his head to look at the thing that he realized it had changed. In the moments of combat that had just occurred, it was no longer an elven woman, but instead a dwarf clad in finer silks than he had ever seen. So shocked he was, that he stumbled and fell, his rifle and its cold iron bayonet skidding to a stop beside the edge of the passageway.

"An old tale," the fey said, cocking its head and speaking as though the roars and screams were nothing at all, "from a lost empire, a noble heart who sought a different face to enact his revenge. He succeeded, but never reclaimed his title."

The fey reached back, with arms that twisted and bent in ways that dwarven arms ought not to. From its pack it pulled a wooden mask that was daubed in green. A goblin face was painted on it.

"For a dwarf of the present," the fey said, "a renowed trickster who knows these ways well. You, he, can escape."

Odar's eyes bulged as the meaning of the fey's offer ran through his head. Become a goblin? Of all things, one of the damned Greenskins that his father had chased from the halls of Er-Natvir? He'd sooner die!

"Very well," the fey said, unmoved.

A snarl drew Odar's attention and he looked in the direction his rifle just to see it snatched from the ground by a hand dripping red with fresh blood. When he looked back towards the fey, already reconsidering the offer, he only saw a goblin slipping into the trees wearing a pack several times larger that it was.

Something sat on him, the weight to heavy for him to even move, and he felt the prick of cold iron as his own bayonet slipped into his cheek.

Notes in the ledger of the Trader of Masks and Faces, Archfey of the Unseelie Court

These new kind were born in the caverns, and unlike the godson's legions they chose to remain there. It is there they still find their home and their multiplicity. Yet they have entered the forest to hunt. Fascinating.

This the province that got the big fungus bump, so for a cavern it's not bad for development.

They defy study. Mortals who seek to understand them are drawn into the hunting grounds of a wild beast and given lessons in humility. Too many are too attached to their faces. Only sacrifice and devotion reward true knowledge.

As the servants of the dead gods rally against them, the servants of the sun bare the burden of the hunt. Their faces have been too far divided to unite against such a threat, and only the would-be nascent god now stands against them in the south. In their cunning, they will not face that power until they are ready to wear it.

I saw a bunch of easy takes that would consolidate our territory in Bulwar, and for pretty low AE as they were a mix of OSC/NSC /Jadd.

Mortals are easily diverted by honeyed words and empty promises. I have upheld every deal I have ever made with a mortal. In every case where it has failed, it has been because they have not been willing to wear the role I have granted them. The new kind wear their roles with a zealous determination, such that they can even dress up a feast of blood and flesh and feed it to the unwitting lords beyond the woods.

Masked Butcher isn't a magic tag per se, but our mages will always have high influence so our mage estate spells are at max strength. The feast is one of the most generally useful ones when you're being aggressive.

I trade, but they hunt. Violence it not their only means. Their fingers dig into the membrane of the lands all around, easing fearful thoughts and granting access ever-deeper. Those on the edges now hunt with words for civilized prey. The knife is still needed in the final moment, however.

Those who understand what they face choose to flee if they can. There are many places to hide in the darkest depths, but that is where their hunt is at its greatest. It is only in the dark that the true nature of a mortal comes to light.

Some seek to bargain with them, but such power is not to be bargained with. I am patient, but they are not. Their lust for blood and for masks will see them strike at anyone who believes them their equal. Strength and weakness and equality does not matter to me. Perhaps there is a bargain that I can strike, from one who bears the same purpose.

The other Old Dookan orcs really want to ally with us, but none of them are worth it except possibly Shattered Crown.

My Seelie kin offer no resistance to their intrusion. They know the power that dwells here, and so their magics have begun their work. The power of our realm leaks out, and feeds the maw of desire. The Ashentree see them as mere beasts, while they focus on the northern mortal intrusion. It will be the end of them.

We need mage towers in the Deepwoods for the next mission, so it's worth putting down a few on some good provinces.

Their altars are fascinating. I have not determined what they worship, for all that they present are icons of plunder and fresh blood piled high. It is raw. It is unknowable. It is something that I wish to trade with. Their god-begot, god-begot.

Ah, the days when elf and goblin and orc travelled in small bands and fought desperately amongst one another. So desperate to offer everything they had for the smallest gain. Now the humans of the peaks and the new kind divide the woods between them, neither offering the proper oblations. The royal fey will not suffer it. And yet, their power wanes as blood rains.

The wise hunter knows to not drive their prey to the edge. To cultivate one's quarry without falling the trappings of mortal civilization is a feat worth noting. Such reserves also offer many opportunities for trades, for those who truly understand their situation and would seek any bargain for power to escape.

One day the forests may be as they were, with the quarrels of elves and goblins and orcs. They may take a different form. The eyes behind their faces may be different. But to become what you appear to be is the essence of a mask. If they wish to be an elf or a goblin, then they will be. Thoughts and bodies will twist under the light that spills from within the mountains.

The Goblin Mask is decent if you're in the middle of working through an idea group, and the level 3 bonus can be really good for building up an army for late game hellwars. I'll keep it on until the current idea groups are finished, and then take it off until we get another idea group.

They spill blood in the name of the Otar and the power that animates them. They brook no deviance from their ways. Their determination will make them worthy partners. For it is those who have the strength of will to stay themselves while wearing the lives of others that truly thrive in my debt.

We don't have many heretics to convert considering the poor state of the Great Dookan orcs in Escann, while the religious unity boost on the other hand will keep us generally maxed out. Deus Vult itself isn't that useful to us as we have the monster and frenzy CBs.

Not even their own kind are spared. They kneel and blood spills. Those who rise and become blooded join the ranks of the new kind, while those who still kneel wear not faces but chains. Their hoards are emptied to serve a single purpose, the elevation of the Otar towards that hot red eye.

Skewered Drake had just gotten hit by Seghdihr before I attacked, so the war itself was not worth noting. Normally capturing another Black Orc trophy pile transfers some of its value over to yours (for non-orcs the dev just gets downgraded) but Skewered Drake were in a bad enough situation that they didn't even have the baseline level 1 trophy pile, so we didn't get anything.

A fascinating artefact. Just peering into it reveals a kaleidoscope of facets like the twisting pathways of the forest. However, it holds no will, no story of its own. Mortals may consider it a worth prize, but I hold no desire for such a thing. There is only one thing that I yearn for.

The big thing I've been focusing on while waiting for our AE with Cannor to burn off is all the expeditions we've had hanging around in our territory. Some expeditions can find pieces of the Dwarovkron if they haven't already been discovered.

More than the finest elven ranger, more than the noblest rider of the Wild Hunt, more than beasts of base instinct, they hunt. It is everything to them. Nothing is safe nor sacred. I have not escaped their notice, but I can take many faces. They will not catch me unless I will it. Yet I still feel the net tightening. They learn, they grow, they remain undaunted. I will present my offer soon, or else let my masks fall away and cease this observation.

Espionage and the Masked Butcher NIs are complete

Dwarves. Stubborn. Too stubborn to bargain with me. Their entrance into the forest was their downfall. Through these gladeways, the new kind have their way to infiltrate the heart of the mountains. Soon they shall pluck it out.

When their blood is riled. When the red eye glares. When they march. It is unlike anything I have seen in my eternity. A nation of hunters. A nation, hunting a nation. For what they seek, they will soak the mountains and the forest in blood.

It was foolish to enter these woods. In their element, the dwarves might have had a chance. In our realm, in the realm of the hunters, their army was lost. Those who were not butchered on the battlefield scattered into the pathways. They were not so lucky as to be spirited away by my kin. The remainder of their lives were drawn out with terror, as the hunt continued long after the battle ended.

The dwarven military doesn't really pick up until later in the game. With our ludicrously good leaders (look at that AT gain!), they don't a stand a chance.

When the dwarves entered the forests, they came to chop and burn. Now they are marched to be chopped and burned. What fascinating irony, though not the first nor the last I have experienced. Will the new kind return their focus into the mountains, or use this chance to consolidate in the Deepwoods. Perhaps their answer to me will reveal the future.

We only care about the holds and the population. Everything else is superfluous for the moment.

The powers that lie within the depths of the mountain are dismissed by the dwarves, though they sit upon the work of millennia of millennia. They built their holds. They dug deep. They do not know what rises up from below. The new kind do not understand either, but they recognise such power and hoard it unto themselves.

Industry. A sign of decline from the path of life. Yet, its power cannot be denied. The underground will begin to move at their hands, and no corner of the world that touches the mountains will be safe from their hunters.

The great divide. Those orcs who dwell within the bounds of the trees were divided between those who served the fey and those who resisted the fey. This conflict I held no part in, only wishing to learn more through fair trade and bargain. However, this only led to both sides' scorn. Now all the orcs join the new kind, dyeing their skin with enough blood that no one can tell the difference between black and green.

I have found the Otar, returning from the campaign in the mountains. I will make my approach, and I will make my offer. For the fascinating story told by his face, and the many faces that rest over it, in return I will offer a face that I have worn a great many times. A face that will grant them the names and knowledge of those fey who still reside in these woods. The face of an Archfey.

To be continued

Coming up, a State of the Known World update

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The Otar stands before a fey of many faces. After years of pursuing it, after years of it slipping on a new mask and disappearing into the woods, it has decided to face us. Now it reveals its desires. It is not so different from us. As bloodlight filters through the encompassing canopy, we must make a decision. Will we accept their pact and become the new masters of the Deepwoods at the cost of giving away a piece of ourselves, or shall we end this hunt and resume our prowling of the forest?

Fey are prey like any other. The Deepwoods will be our hunting grounds. Reject the Pact.
This fey understands us. With fey knowledge, the wealth of the Deepwoods will be ours. Accept the Pact.

Select the option by clicking on the below image.



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[Sybot]

Interlude: State of the Known World 1558

From the treatise On the Ascent of the Light and the Darkness, by Goshar of the Crouching Shadow, Minister of Praxis for the Raj

These are changing times. The great Raj stands at the centre of the enlightened world, ready to guide it on the Long Path to Purtara now that it has been enlightened by Suran's wisdom. It is only natural that the Primordial Darkness would rise against us. Such a great shift in Visvatma is inevitable, and something that we must account for, or we risk undoing everything that Suran accomplished. I plead to the great Raja Ganjara and my dear aunt Tatala, the Grand Vizier, to heed my words and plan for the future.

The Chimera is the greatest foe that the Raj has faced since the days of the Phoenix, and though our good friends in Dahui have borne the burden of war with the beast it continues to grow unabated. If it continues its devouring of Yanshen, then it might grow out of control. We can be thankful that their demonic allies were defeated and thus the spread of Korashi and its deleterious effects on the magic of the High Gods has been curtailed. Coastal Yanshen, as petty and divided as it is, will not hold if the Chimera is permitted to break through the Dahui lines.

To the south, we face a less monstrous but no less dangerous foe. The lords of Baihon Xinh are followers of the Ascendant Soul, a school which is little more than a placebo for those who claim to follow the Long Path while still adhering to the superstitions of old. Their cooperation with Kudet Kai, who fully embrace the old ways, is a further example of this. Our efforts to educate them in Suran's Praxis ought to be redoubled, and every effort to see them join the fight against the Chimera instead of falling into the delusion that cultivating their Svayatma while imagining monsters in the shadows is the way forward on the Long Path.

Baihon Xinh has rivalled us. It's a bit of an odd choice.

To our west, a greater light shines. Our honoured allies in the Jaddari have found their own Long Path, one that leads them on the same path as us even if they do not believe in the High Gods themselves. Much debate has been had on the nature and possibility of Purtara with Surael, which I will not cover here, but any who seek enlightenment and live good lives can be considered allies of the Praxis.

Their foes are many, both the forces of the Primordial Darkness the bubble up from the swamps of Sarhal, and the kingdoms of old that still cling to the caste system of the west. Varamhar seeks to elevate its king to the mantle of godhood through magic and faith, as if they can bypass the Long Path through application of power. Elizna stands as the defender of the Cult of Jaher, opposed to the new and righteous philosophy of Jaddar, and its king has claimed the title of Steward of the Sorrow. Both only seek to aggrandize themselves, as though such acts will aid in their spiritual journeys.

Distant Cannor, a wartorn land by all account, has seen a new power arise from the ashes of a great invasion. Facing and destroying a foe much like the Chimera, the adherents of Corin have arisen much like Suhan arose to bring a way of enlightenment more suitable to such a savage land. Rumour has that a great war is brewing between the adherents of the old way and the way of Corin. We can only wish that debate triumphs over desolation, and invite scholars of the Corinite path to discuss their philosophy with us.

However, lying between Cannor and us is one of the greater stains left by the Primordial Darkness. Oozing from the mountains dividing Bulwar and Cannor, something casts a shadow upon the realms of the region. It is hard to gather information, as few escape the bounds of land that has been infected as such, and none who strike out into the twilight have been able to return. If the Chimera is our greatest physical enemy, then perhaps this darkness is our greatest spiritual enemy. It is a force of pure primordial violence, a sign of everything that we wish to avoid as we advance along the Long Path. One day, we may face it directly, and I pray we will be ready.

Though I may sound like a scholar of the Silk Turban to say so, the accumulation of wealth that marks many of these forces of darkness as far from enlightenment is also the means by which they exert their power over the world. The Raj, if united towards a single, will shine like gold among these stars and grant to us the prosperity needed to resist and surpass them.

The orcish economy is not great. Being a conquest-based economy, we aren't even on the first page despite being the #3 GP. I really need more adm to state more provinces on top of what we're conquering, and to get a better trade node.

Suhan has shown us the way, has shown that the petty squabble of the schools of the High Philosophy are nothing compared to the true Long Path. So to must the adherents of light and knowledge come together, for the power of the Primodial Darkness is undoubtedly growing, and we must be ready for the challenges that will place before as it attempts to obscure the Path once more.

To be continued…

 

[Sybot]

It seems as though support has fallen behind the decision to accept the pact. We will work together with the Unseelie Fey to gather ever more faces for one another.

Chapter Eight: Wealth
1558-1576

The szal-Zarhan Estate, near Bulwar City, Kingdom of Varamhar, 1575

"If I had a Wish, it would be for father's safety," Kyruš said.

He tapped the open book against his knee as he reclined in his study, bopping it to the thrum of his heartbeat. The wooden binding thonked pleasantly. It was something the tutor did not like, but there was little he could do to really punish a growing lordling who was old enough to have the run of the estate.

"That is a both a small Wish, and one that is dear to you," Vaceran said.

The elven tutor was sat up straight, presenting the ever-perfect image of one of the Chosen of Surael. It was something that Kyruš had long since accepted, that he and his family would never match up to the power of those who lived so long they might as well be immortal. Instead, he got simple pleasures out of petty disobedience in places where he was the one with the authority.

"Is that a problem?" he asked, "aren't we told to honour our parents?"

"True, but one must also understand the pragmatism of a ruler," Vaceran said, "to spend a djinn Wish, something so precious that countless lives are spent for the chance to make even one, on something so small, is a dereliction of your demesne. On the other side, because it is something dear to your heart you are more likely to make it in haste and without consideration of how it could be twisted. The most likely outcome is your father is arrested and imprisoned for the rest of his life somewhere in Cannor. He is safe, but you never see him again."

Kyruš frowned. Reading on Bulwari history had led to so many discussions on these annoying dilemmas, where doing the sensible thing was immediately punished by forces beyond comprehension. Make a Wish, see it twisted. Build an empire, watch it get swallowed by the monsters from the sea. Conquer entire continents, see it carved up by incompetent heirs and ambitious generals. He knew these were the decisions rulers had to contend with, but did he really need to know these.

The szal-Zarhan family were powerful and wealthy, but nothing compared to the Phoenix Estates. Assuming that Kalindil V ascended to the Phoenix Throne in truth, prosperity would reign and there would be no way that a human line would ever find the opportunity to grow. Maybe his tutor was right. Something as drastic as a Wish was needed.

He did not have time to consider it further, as a commotion erupted in another corner of the estate. From the open window of his study, looking out over the central garden plaza that the main building was built around, he could see the servants scurrying back and forth. Guards were assembling in their ceremonial armour, and the chefs were directing labourers to retrieve mounds of ingredients from the storehouses.

It could only mean one thing.

His heartbeat quickened with excitement.

"Let's do more tomorrow," Kyruš said, hopping to his feet. The book clattered to the tiles, and he marched out of the study at a decorous but quick pace, ignoring the stern words of his tutor.

As he descended to the ground floor, the servants he passed took a moment to bow but quickly returned to their duties. The situation was urgent enough that even their deference to him was deferred. As the eldest son and at fifteen old enough to inherit if need be, there was only one person who was more important in the estate than he was.

"When is Lord szal-Zarhan returning?" he asked the first servant he could get to pause for more than a moment.

"His entourage has been sighted on the western approach," the servant said, "he'll be here within the hour."

Kyruš did not need to hear a word more, and rushed to his chambers to have his personal servants dress him more appropriate robes for greeting the family patriarch. It had been years since he had last seen him, as his father had been on an extended diplomatic mission on behalf of the king. In those years, Kyruš had grown into his role as the man of the estate. The servants listened to him now, he only listened to his tutor when he wanted to, and he had gained plans and ambitions of his own as the successor of everything his ancestors had built.

The formal robes were constricting and colourful, exactly the sort of thing that he was certain he would ban from the estate the moment he took over in truth. However, they also straightened his posture, covered up the areas where his youthful gangliness was too obvious, and added a couple of years to his apparent age. He was still aware that image was everything for a noble, and he would do his best to present his best to his father.

By the time he was ready, his robes wrapped, his hair combed, and the appropriate level of scent applied, he marched down to the entrance hall where the other servants were arranged. The seneschal, an old man with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue, the only one that Kyruš had not managed to cow, was already there.

"You were almost too late, young lord," he said.

"Then I am exactly on time," Kyruš replied, with a smirk.

"Presenting Mithraš szal-Zarhan, lord of the estate, at last returned!" announced the doorman.

He turned to open the towered front doors, but was almost knocked off his feet as they swung open and Kyruš' father marched in. There was a grin on his face and a spring in his step. He looked far healthier than Kyruš remembered. Taller too. His father had never been much of a warrior. He was far more studious, and relied on his network of informants and debtors to accumulate power onto the family.

Now Mithraš towered over Kyruš, even though he was certain that he'd grown a good foot in the time his father had been gone, and ought to be similar in height. Perhaps he had misremembered.

"It has been too long, my son!" Mithraš said, stepping forward and giving his son a firm hug.

Kyruš' heart beat quickened again. He could feel his father's heart underneath his skin beating loud and heavy. It thrummed with a beat that Kyruš remembered, just on the cusp of life. Years ago, he had heard it before. A rumbling, dark and endless. It had terrified him then. And now dredging up such memories put him so on edge that he failed to respond to his father's greeting.

"You look very healthy, my lord," the seneschal said.

Mithraš broke the hug and planted a firm hand on his servant's shoulder.

"Spending time abroad has done wonders for my skin," he said, "I feel like a whole new person."

Kyruš glanced to the side and his eyes met the seneschal's. Neither of them were fools. Something was not right.

Excerpts from letters sent by Mithraš szal-Zarhan, a Bulwari noble, to Kalindil V, King of Varamhar.

To my highest and wisest lord, descendant of Surael Incarnate and rightful heir to the Phoenix Empire, I bring you dark tidings from my network of loyal agents. In my concern for the future of the realm, I have taken an interest in the rise of the orcish forces occupying Bahar, and have come to realise the situation is far worse than we had ever anticipated. In the Deepwoods, the fey themselves now bow to the Otar. Their true names have been revealed, and thus they have been charged with producing materiel for the orcish war effort.

The other option also unlocks the Mines of Yfelorr, doesn't kill our ruler, and sets up hunting reserves in the Deepwoods. More on what those are later.

There had been reports that the forest ran red with blood for seven days and seven nights, but that the Otar stood tall once again. We have seen the red moon shining over us from the mountains, we should recognise that for all their savagery these beasts know what they are doing with this short, sharp and devastating violence.

Ports like Aqatbar have been under their control for decades now, and galleys daubed with blood have been sighted rolling out of the shipyards. It is only by Surael's providence that they are devoting more of their resources inland, for if they took to the sea in great enough numbers they could present a threat to all the trade of Bulwar.

Normally boosting the army is a no-brainer, but with the economy in the state it is getting some dip power to boost production (especially gold) in our new and improved Deepwoods is the better choice.

Even with only a few vessels their piracy has begun. Ships from Re'Uyel to Brasan have been reported missing, and when their wrecks drift ashore there is no sign of their crews, their cargo, or worst of all their charts and navigational aids.

We have a lot of spare diplomats that we're not currently using, so why not send out a boat to neighbour regions and steal maps that would otherwise take an age to unlock for us.

Fey gold and silver are incredibly common in the regions bordering orcish territory. I have no doubt that they have worked out some pact with the Dark creatures so that the true nature of the metal is not revealed so long it is in their bloodstained hands. All too often our merchants have been swindled, their money disappearing when it leaves their sight after selling to what appear to be ordinary traders. When these traders are pursued, their corpses are all that have been found. Why these traders will buy on behalf of such monsters, I still do not understand.

We'll fix our economy by pumping a pile of fey silver into the economy. Surely there wouldn't be any problems with this?

Our ability to reach into the Deepwoods is fading fast. We had relied upon those Chosen who dwelled below the trees, as well as any pliant and avaricious goblin who might accept our payment, to tell us tales of what the beasts and the fey were plotting. Now, their numbers are dwindling fast and their settlements are turning into sites of blood and leather.

As the Deepwoods are going to be our economic engine and not our hunting grounds for mask upgrades, I will start culture converting the provinces here. MB is very good at doing that.

I call for decisive wisdom, as the monsters march from their lairs to assault the remaining free peoples of Bahar. Whether dwarf, elf, or human, they do not deserve to suffer as so many have done so far. We have to find cause to intervene, regardless of whether Jaddar's spawn masses his armies upon our border. Petty doctrinal disputes are nothing compared to the rise of the Malevolent Darkness.

Their devastating magics can be felt as far away as my estate outside Bulwar city. My poor boy Kyruš was frightened near to death at the sensation. That was the moment that I felt that these are foes that might accomplish what the Darkness has spent millennia attempting to do. I know in my bones that if they are not stopped, then they will not stop. Not until Surael Himself bleeds.

This Dookan religious action is very useful in the early game for overcoming orcish problems with sieging. The boost only three months but timed well it can cut years off a siege.

Their rage is palpable. The scent of hot blood rolls off the mountains in waves, as described by those who are unfortunate enough to live in its shadow. If the mountains were to detonate, if ash and smoke were to eclipse the land, if fire were to pour from the hills, there would be little different from how this presently feels.

To put aside poetic thoughts for a moment. All accounts by the survivors fleeing from Ovdal Tungr and the other cities of Bahar are that this foe is one that is not drained by warfare, but sustained by it. Our strategy ought to be to break their momentum, to strip bare the lands bounding their domain before they can take it for themselves, and to draw them into the open where can inflict true bleeding defeats upon them.

This reform and orcish admin give us free war taxes, which is another boost to our economy,

Bahar has not yet completely fallen, so hope still remains. Call upon whoever you must, but if we can reclaim and refortify Ovdal Tungr before all its wealth is pillaged and carried away to the mountains, then their momentum will crumble and halt.

Once again, I must tell you of what my agents have seen. The devastation wrought on Bahar is self-evident, as one need only watch the smoke rising from a boat safely offshore. I have seen this with my own eyes when receiving reports in person. The damage does not merely extend to the wealth of the land, but to its people as well. They have talked of settlements left in terror as the streets are stalked by night. The creatures no longer hunt by surprise, as all those under their dominion know that a percentage of their number will be stolen away in the night, but they still treat it as a hunt.

Previously it cost 50 dip a pop to switch our racial focus.

The artefacts of civilization are treated as little more than trinkets. The Copper Hold has stood for thousands of years, longer than any civilization in our history, and now that same history is being torn out from it stone by stone and carried away into the mountains.

I can only imagine what treasures now reside in the grip of a bloodied claw, lost in the realm of the Darkness. If we will not march for the safety of ourselves and our children, then we should march to locate everything that has been lost and reclaim it in the name of the Phoenix.

The real bonuses are starting to appear. CCR and liberty desire start to stack up, granting bonuses to both direct conquest and vassal play, though as we are staying monstrous we won't be doing the latter.

There has been a noted decrease in the amount of fey metal leaving the orc's territory. We ought to take advantage of this to issue a currency reform that will transform our coinage into something that is impossible to replicate by Dark means. If and when they begin their economic warfare once again, we will need to be ready for them.

Welp. It's only at the higher levels of the great project that it really starts getting resistant to this happening.

Very troubling news from Ovdal Tûngr. Thousands of dwarves have arrived in the region, a mixture of dwarves from across the Serpentspine. There has been some titanic shift in the mountains, a further destruction of whatever society still dwells there. These are not refugees. They have been brought here against their will.

The human and goblin settlements that populated the lands around the Tûngr Mountains have been emptied and instead filled with dwarves. They are quietly rebuilding, quietly smouldering with a desire for freedom, but their blood is spilled on a regular basis by both the hunt of the creatures that are their masters and depredations of slavery far worse than any tale we have heard of Escann and Aelantir.

So, as we skipped the chance in the Deepwoods to get elven and goblin reserves, our first official racial reserve is in Ovdal Tûngr. These serve as permanent repositories for their races, so no matter what happens you will always have enough of them to get to at least a level 2 mask. Losing out on the same for goblins/elves isn't too bad, as there are still plenty of them to be found.

A great war has erupted in the Deepwoods. The griffon riders of Marrhold hold most of what the orcs had not already despoiled, and now they have gone to war. Any kind of monetary or military aid that we could spare for them, even if they are heathens who worship a false goddess over Surael, would do much to protect us from the baleful gaze of the beasts.

There's nothing we need from Marrhold MT-wise, but the Deepwoods are now our turf, and taking the chance to knock the strongest single nation in Cannor down a peg is worth the effort.

I have arrived in Marrhold to serve as your representative, offering my own aid and understanding of the monsters to the petty king. I once again implore you to grant them aid, for the griffon riders are mighty warriors and will surely drive them back in open battle, but the ways of the Deepwoods and the Butchers are dangerous and may yet offer them a path to victory.

They have begun to raid the southern reaches of Escann, while the Marrodic armies are diverted by their own war against the dwarves. These petty kings are far too caught up in their own petty conflicts for leadership of this devastated land, that they risk it being overrun by a tide anew. A Bloodtide.

I summoned the Dagrite Dwarf ambassador to Marrhold to negotiate a ceasefire so that they might cooperate on. A combative fellow, he insisted that his people would fight until the humans were driven from their rightful land beneath the canopy of the mountains. I insisted that he take me to their commander in the field. They needed to engage the orcs, or they would be the next to fall.

The dwarf mask is decent economically at level 2, but with how we are now adding a lot of gold to our economy getting the level 3 would be incredibly good, if it didn't have some fierce competition for the slot.

Something strange occurred when we were approaching the Dagrite army. A second dwarven army appeared, marching from the south, and passed by on their way north. Speaking with the dwarven general, he was just as confused about whose army that was, but the ambassador claimed to know more about it. He promised to give me a face-to-face negotiation with the other commander. I will write again once I have made progress in this matter.

Excellent news, my liege of lieges. The orcs have withdrawn back into the Deepwoods, and Marrhold itself is no longer under threat of being sacked and plundered and stripped of all its wonderful wealth. Negotiations are underway to end the war with the dwarves, and so peace will once again reign on the northern flank of the Otardom.

A Cannorian coalition starts to form after this, so we'll be looking in other directions. AE management is critical for this campaign, or you'll quickly find yourself overwhelmed. Make sure to balance between attacking Cannorians, attacking in the Serpentspine, and attacking Bulwar.

On my return, I have perused the literature that is spreading across the Folly, the expanse of marshland now being reclaimed by the Cannorians. The parchment they use is very sturdy and pliant, and the text written upon it is printed with almost as much clarity as the finest books we have imported. As for the message, it is clear; the only salvation lies in the Darkness. It is a heretical work, to be sure, but I have collected as many copies as I can so that the priests know what they face.

The rage of the volcano, and the dwarf hold buried deep beneath it seems to have cleared. The skies of Bulwar are clear as my vessel approaches. I hope that is signal enough that the moment of the greatest danger has now passed us, as Surael will have this moment to shine His Light upon us again. Let us not waste this moment, for who knows what Darkness the future holds.

As we sailed passed Ovdal Tungr, I was pleased to see that it no longer burned with the flames of pillage. The old harbour and all the shipbuilding had been completely dismantled, but they had been replaced with thousands of new homes for its inhabitants. The rule of the Otardom has brought them peace and a greater purpose, something that we will have to contend with as we prepare for a future where the Otar wishes for the same for us.

Dwarven holds can be upgraded to specialize in various ways, depending on their trade goods. Naturally we care little for that.

I do wonder what occurred beneath the mountains following my departure. Rumour was that there would be an attack against Er-Natvir. From their dwarven brethren, of course. They are very stubborn creatures, willing to fight to the last in pointless internecine conflict even as their blood is spilled in futile defence. We do not need to deal with such obstinacy. We have our own allies we can stand alongside, though I will ask you to remind me of their military strength and disposition, for I have been long away from the capital.

The wealth and power of the Deepwoods have been corralled by the orcs. Merchants travel back and forth into their territory, in spite of the danger, simply because of the sheer volume of materials being produced. Their dedicated civilized reserves feed significant taxes into their coffers. The fey silver grows ever-greater in volume. I do not know what they intend to do with so much money, but it surely matters little so long as we are prepared to face them as the tide of mindless monsters that they will unleash.

This update has been focused on fixing our economy. There's a lot you can accomplish when you really put your mind to it, without having to slow down our conquests too much.

If I were to estimate where they will strike, it will likely be along the coast. Hul-Jorkad and Firanyalen are too heavily fortified for them to consider. We can divert our armies to open terrain and meet them where we are strongest. There, we will determine once and for all whether Surael is stronger than their divine power, than their god-begot, god-begot.

We've put it off long enough. It's time to take on the Bulwar hugbox.

To be continued

Vote

My sovereign, my light shining upon these plains and hills, so bright that the shadow cast at my back is ever darker. If I were to suggest what the weakness of the Otardom is, and where it would need to improve itself if it were to face us, then I would suggest…

…it should administrate even more territory. (Administrative)
…it should extract the wealth and prosperity of its domain. (Economic)
…it should build a resplendent court around the Otar. (Court)
…it should learn to extract ever-greater tribute from its defeated foes. (Diplomatic)
…it should call upon the power of its god-begot in battle. (Divine (+9))
…it should unleash the true potential of endless tunnels of the Serpentspine. (Quantity)

Vote for up to two options by clicking on the below image. The second-place result will get bonus votes in the next idea group poll



Voting will remain open for 48 hours

 

[Sybot]

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.



Voting will remain open for 72 hours

 

[Sybot]

I'm still not sure what the god-begot is? or What exactly they are doing with the mask, but I think this aar is awesome all the same.

What is the god-begot? Is it some ancient primordial divine power that the Butchers have accidentally unleashed? Is it a divine power created by the sheer quantity of blood sacrifice they have conducted? Is it an idol that they attribute their transmutative powers to? Is it all a lie to fool and drive their victims to madness? The interpretation is left up to the reader.

The overwhelming decision is for us to stick to our sticky red roots and remain as Masked Butcher. There will be no further votes on changing nation or ideas.

Chapter Ten: Wish
1593-1611

The szal-Zarhan Estate, near Bulwar City, Kingdom of Varamhar, 1604

"If I had a Wish, it'd be for myself," Andar said, stepping back and keeping his opponent at the very edge of his reach.

"Bold," Alvarion said, "you wouldn't use it for the sake of someone else?"

The elf was a veteran of a dozen battles against the Butchers, against the living and bleeding agents of the Malevolent Dark. In each one the armies of Surael had faltered, but those who survived had demonstrated a cunning and strength that gave them the skill to train the next generation of warriors. He stepped forward and kept Andar from retreating out of reach, a toothy grin on his face

"And not against my enemies," Andar said, "I'd enhance my own strength, or the strength of my armies. I'd take the throne. I'd reconcile with the Jaddari. Father's ideas are foolish."

Recognising that he wasn't getting anywhere, Andar planted his feet in the dirt of the training yard and struck back, his dull training blade catching Alvarion's own and pushing it aside for a moment

"And why is that?" Alvarion asked. He spun his own dull sword in a ragged motion that caused a tooth-aching screech as the two rough blades ground against each other. With next to no effort, he was within Andar's guard.

"They'll find a way around it. There's so many of them, there's a single wish won't beat them," Andar said, "we need to make ourselves able to beat them."

Instead of trying to block Alvarion's sword with his own, Andar took the aggressive approach and shoulder charged his teacher. He rushed past the blade, knocking it aside, and collided with Alvarion. It was like running into a wall, and his head rang like a bell at the impact, but he'd hit with enough force to make that wall take a step back.

"Very bold," Alvarion said. He seemed barely perturbed, and offered the same grin as he lowered his sword. "But that won't beat a Butcher."

Andar winced. It wasn't just his head, but there was a throbbing ache in his arm as well. He reached over and shivered with pain as his fingers felt a small patch of scoured skin where Alvarion's sword had hit him during his charge. Despite being blunt, it had still cut through his clothes and drawn blood, a steady ooze from exposed flesh.

"That's why I need to get stronger," Andar said, "Arianne of the Dauntless Six slew thousands of them personally."

"I know," Alvarion said, "and now she dwells among them. Do you want the same?"

"I'll dwell among their corpses," Andar said, standing up straight in a demonstration that he was still ready.

Alvarion didn't reply, and instead focused on his blade, wiping off the miniscule bloodstain with a finger.

"Training is over for today," the elf said, after a few more moments, "you aren't strong enough. You will die if you face the Butchers in combat."

Andar took that as a challenge. He was an adult now, older than his father had been during the first war against the Butchers, and blessed by Surael with the experiences of those who had fought them before. If anyone could stand against them, it would be his generation. He would grow stronger, seek whatever source of power he could use to enhance himself and his men-at-arms, press the King to call upon all the world, then see the full weight of the Light fall upon the Dark.

It was a bold dream, but one that did not rely on the foolish dreams of ancient magics.

He bowed to Alvarion and departed the training ground, handing over his equipment to a grinning servant.

The family estate had been ravaged by the Butchers twice over in past wars, though not extensively. All the household servants and treasures had already been evacuated, so there was little for them to steal. It had still left its mark, and since his father's childhood had turned into more of a miniature fortress. The gardens within the walls were gone, as the water was diverted to long-term storage in event of a siege. The stone was bare but functional, built to withstand damage rather than be beautified with inscriptions and mosaics. The corridors were turned into chokepoints that could be sealed to divert the enemy into more favourable battlefields.

It was hard to not feel the oppression when walking through such structure. And yet despite the dire atmosphere, the servants continued to smile. They scurried around, their eyes following him as he marched through the central courtyard.

"Young lord, your father has returned," one servant said, bowing to him as he passed.

He didn't pay any attention. His father wouldn't acknowledge him. The old man remained obsessed with his one simple solution to the intractable problem. Andar wasn't going to call his father a fool to his face, but it was what he felt deep in his heart.

Despite that, he still found himself passing by the procession as it entered the house. His father, with hairs grey from stress and wrapped up in the robes of a scholar, looked nothing like the noble he ought to be and carried himself as though he was twenty years older than he actually was. The servants attended to him with wide smiles, carrying in boxes of magical equipment and goods for his latest experiments.

However, Andar noticed that there was one item that his father refused to part with, no matter how much the servants tried to suggest they carry it for him

It was a box with glass sides and a frame made of precious metals, which had to be more expensive than any of the other treasures in the house. The glass glittered blue, magical inscriptions laced with sahabaš covering the surface. Within the box sat a single item, an intricately decorated golden oil lamp. An artefact of some kind, but Andar was no scholar.

"Welcome back, father," he said, offering a bow to him as he passed.

His own father's gaze passed over him as continued down the corridor to his laboratory, in the most heavily fortified part of the estate. How much of the family's wealth, or the royal treasury, had been spent on this. And would it even work? To rely on something so mystical was a mistake.

"I will get stronger, and the Butchers will perish by my sword," he said, still bowing, "I swear it on Surael, and our line. They will not set foot in Bulwar Proper."

When he raised his head, his father had already moved on. Though, he noticed with some confusion that all the servants were looking at him, the same strange smile on their faces. He blinked, and when his eyes opened again they had returned to their duties.

Deciding he had rattled his head more than he expected, Andar decided to have a hearty meal prepared, take a few hours to rest, and then resume training when the cooler evening began to set in. Strength had faltered in the past, but strength could grow. That would be his Wish, if he could manage it, to have such strength in his hands.

Excerpts from the writings of Kyruš szal-Zarhan, Wishbearer

The coffers are running bare. It does not matter if I am left destitute, so long as I contribute something to saving these lands from the oncoming tide. It is of some relief that crucial equipment for adventurers is now far cheaper than it used to be. The mithril mines of the northern Serpentspine remain out of the hands of the Butchers.

If you over-develop your mithril provinces you're liable to end up tanking the price and therefore your profit. That doesn't mean you shouldn't, as the money is still useful in the early game.

In the Šad Našratu, the lands are being stripped bare. The mineral wealth is being extracted by slaves and transported into the mountains, a horrific waste of life for materials that ought to be in even greater abundance beneath the peaks. Farms are razed, livestock are slaughtered, and the victims are left to subsist on what little they can grow for themselves. This is the fate that awaits us all if I fail.

The presence of the Butchers among the population is a terrifying possibility. So many of my father's old contacts have gone silent, or their tone has changed so much that I can only imagine that they no longer live. It is no longer possible for them to identify if those they gather information are actually setting a trap. Worse, I have heard tale of a Butcher with mottled skin who can imitate the appearance of others without even a scrap of flesh. If this is a new form, we must be even more wary.

Bungus is always a fun guy to have in your cabinet. Just be wary of your spouses, he has a reputation for seduction.

Vessels from Aelantir have spotted arriving in Aqatbar, carrying 'migrants'. Supposedly they seek freedom from the oppression of the Cannorian colonies, but I do not know what lies they have been sold to make such a journey palatable. Is the situation for the Ruinborn Elves really so terrible?

Unusual, but I'll take it.

One of the tasks appointed to me by the King is to identify and root out the Butchers wherever they try to infiltrate our fortresses and cities. It is difficult work, not just because of the creatures themselves who are fervent and fight to the last, but because there are countless humans, elves and harpies who have been so broken that they are willing to infiltrate on behalf of their overlords. They praise Surael by day, but by night they can be found weeping and praying that their ends will be quick, clean and painless. Praying to their god-begot, god-begot.

The supplies of mithril have been cut off. I feat that as we watch our own border with the keen eyes of a hawk, the underground is suffering what we are not.

More and more orcs have been sighted wearing mithril plate. Though it is clearly sized for dwarves, it still fits their frames with no issues. Whatever foul transformation lies beneath that armour I do not wish to know, and yet I must if I am to ready our armies to face them on the field.

The King's personal hunting grounds, out beyond the mountains, have been cut off by a swathe of Butcher territory. Now there is evidence they are massing a force to cross into the steppes. I do not know if they have the ability to fight on endless open terrain, or if the centaurs will finally get the better of them. I fear that they will find a way.

Progress down the right-hand side of the tree is blocked by needing to throw a bunch of development and buildings at these provinces bordering the centaurs. One of which we haven't even managed to colonize out to yet.

They have returned, marching against our outpost in the Deepwoods, where thousands of our soldiers remained trapped after the previous war. If their hordes are forced to spend time away from our lands, we might yet have a chance, but I remain pessimistic on the ability of military strength to defeat them.

No matter how far we push them back, how many of their forts fall, how many victims we liberate and evacuate from the ruins of what was once civilization…

…when their hammer falls against our armies, when their axes carve through lines of pikes and muskets as though they were air, and when their relentless drums tear down the walls of our homes, we are left with nothing but ash. The war was already over, even when it seemed we were winning.

And just like that, everything outside Bulwar Proper was gone, swept up in their tide of blood and ruin. This was enough to convince the King of our need to seek out a different approach, nad he has granted me unlimited funding to scour the Salahad for what we need to survive. Every adventurer in Bulwar will be hired, if needs be. The Desert Legion will be paid off with the royal treasury. We are fighting for our existence. No stone will be left unturned. No grain of sand will stay in place.

In spite of this, Cannor continues to ignore our plight. So long as the Butchers remain in the mountains or in the northern hills, they can pretend as though there is little threat. My calls for aid from the Emperor of Anbennar and the Magisterium have fallen on deaf ears, even though we have evidence that they are rapidly spreading north through the Serpentspine interior.

With the fall of Azka-Evran, the last bastion of civilization in the north is gone. I can only pray for those left behind. Meanwhile, they have continued their advance almost to the holy Suran itself. When the river runs red with blood, will the Cannorians finally see what was before their eyes all along?

Some pledged their aid to Crathánor, the last bastion of Cannorian hopes beyond Bal Ouord, but not nearly enough nor fast enough. There is no way for them to prevent the last of Bahar being consumed by the Butchers. All I can do is sit behind the walls, watching and waiting and praying that Surael will deliver salvation in the form of whatever ancient powers were once lost.

Crathánor joined the forming coalition, so I hopped on it immediately. A new coalition continued forming after this, but none of them are blocking our missions.

It has been so long since anyone besides the Butchers themselves have stepped into the mountains, that I have had to take drastic action to try and learn more about the situation. The Citrine Dwarves may have sealed their doors, but I have contacts in Azka-Sure who know about old smuggling routes into the mountains, who have been trading at great expense for information. The news is troubling. A team of engineers working on repairing the rail lines in the Middle Dwarovar were faced with another team of dwarves repairing the rail lines ahead of them. In Butcher territory. Can they steal knowledge as easily as flesh? If so, we may be in even more danger than my pessimism could imagine.

The old rails of the Dwarovar can be rebuilt by any nation with its capital in the Serpentspine, granting various bonuses (primarily movement speed) to the rail provinces. It was mentioned by a commenter that we can only spread rails from our capital hold, but it turns out that holds that are still in the process of getting looted count for spawning rails so we aren't forced to go one province at a time. Also, automated management has been added recently so there are far less button clicks.

Trade continues to flow in spite of the Butcher's presence. I do not know whether it is the merchants' desire for gold, some trickery perpetrated by their masks, or some deeper and more hypnotic magic. Though northern Bulwar is a ruin, goods emerge from the mountains, carved from the earth and hammered into shape by the bleeding hands of their victims. They find sales all across the Divenhal, in spite of the ongoing blockade by Crathánor's allies. How do they slip through? It is one of many questions that I do not have the capacity to answer.

As I said, only the early institutions are a problem. With how developed our capital is, and that we only need a CoT/manufactory/university, we have no problem spawning the later ones. Arg-Ôrdstun is also a coal province, so industrialization is covered too.

All this trade disappears into a black hole. A mountain that consumes and consumes and gives out nothing in return but death. What could the Butchers possibly gain from living within such grandeur and squalor simultaneously?

I have received excellent news from one of the adventurer teams. Following the tale I read about in the library of the royal palace, they were able to trace the ancient ruin, which had since shifted to be buried deep beneath the sands. They found an entrance when the stretch of desert their party was travelling over collapsed and dropped them deep into the structure. Landing atop the labyrinth, they were immediately presented with the sight of the djinn fleeing and taunting them, and they began to pursue.

Their pursuit led them through the depths of the temple, filled as it was with paths that had long since collapsed and new paths that had opened up through the ruins. This was key to their success, as they took advantage of the shattered and sand-filled structure to gain on the fleeing creature.

As well as new opportunity, time had brought new danger. Many lives were lost when old infrastructure collapsed, or tunnels that seemed stable suddenly caved in, or opening doors led to the unfortunate and unwary being buried in sand. However, for all their sacrifice they were making progress towards catching the djinn.

Faced with every chance to ascend, the took it. The only way to survive and keep the djinn from breaching the wider world to wreak havoc was to find the entrance and trap it there. Their diligence was rewarded, as they caught up to it as daylight spilled into the depths of the temple from an entrance, shining on a great plinth.

Atop the plinth sat a golden lamp, the source of this djinn's power. It had not been truly free, and perhaps had some mad plan to trick the adventurers into freeing it in truth. They were not fooled by its designs, and their priests and mages worked to redo the bindings on the creature while the combatants fought against its elemental powers. The battle was hard, but they retrieved the resealed lamp and countless other treasures besides. The rest of the treasure will be theirs to keep, for the lamp is all I desire.

The great project is complete. It isn't the most useful for us, we have plenty of missionary strength from elsewhere. There are two other great projects within our borders that need expeditions and upgrades. I may or may not give them the full narrative treatment.

It is not a moment too soon, as with the fall of Crathánor any hope of northern resistance is ended. Next time, they will take Bulwar Proper, and all of Surael's Garden will be burned to ash. I was once asked what I would Wish for. Now I understand, and fear, the gravity of such a question.

The lamp is in my hands now. I have to carefully consider my words. For all the haste in its retrieval, the shadow has loomed over this land for nearly my entire life, so it can wait a few days while I consider my Wish. The djinn were once masters of Bulwar and Sarhal, wielding their Wish magic to enslave humanity. Now that same power is in my hands. I have to slow them down, but what Wish will accomplish that?

I will wish to put a halt on their advance. To shut down their movement. To, very literally, slow them down until they are motionless. They will be curtailed, while that stolen time will be imparted to the people of Bulwar. With such a Wish, we will sweep past their lethargic camps and liberate all of the north in a lightning campaign. That has to work. It has to. No sacrifice will be too great to end this threat once and for all.

The Wish destroys Bulwar city for a century, while only giving us an irritating modifier in all of our Bulwari provinces for a relatively short time. I don't think Kyruš quite knew what he was dealing with, in the end.

Excerpts from the writings of Andar szal-Zarhan, Son of the Wishbearer

Fools. All of them are fools. Father left me at the estate while he was conducting his ritual, while the King granted him permission to do whatever it took to stop them. And what do I witness? The city collapsing before my very eyes. I saw the tower he had requisitioned crumple in upon itself. There is no way he could have survived such a foolish Wish. And when I looked at the household around me, I saw them all grinning wide, their skin pulled taut. I took my blade and hacked at every last one of the fools. The beasts are already among us. Their imitation has become flawless. This land has been lost, and I must seek Surael's guidance elsewhere.

After completing that mission we finally have the ability to craft level 3 masks. We only get one slot for now, and the human one is a shoe-in right now, as CCR is always highly valuable. With this, the (temporary) mission reward from The Old Heart, and our trophy pile, we have 70% CCR on provinces with permaclaims.

I don't know if I will be able to muster a force capable of fighting them, but I have to try. I we aren't capable of accomplishing that, we will fall. They do not care about race or faith. Their own kind are equally slaughtered and forced to either become the Butchers that they are, or become their sacrifices. I will gladly ally with any orc, or gnoll, or harpy who seeks to defeat them.

The capital of the old dwarven empire is being squatted by another powerful clan of orcs, who have converted to worship the woman who slew Dookanson. Surael forgive me, but I would gladly follow Corin if she descended from the skies. Though He shines down upon us, we have to fight these battles ourselves, and each defeat takes us one step closer to breaking.

There are already rumours the Amldihr has fallen, and with it the gates to the remainder of the mountains have been broken down. I have travelled into the desert, paying the pilgrimage taxes to the Desert Legion, seeking any kind of revelation that could save us. The Jaddari are rallying and communicating with Cannor regarding the new threat, but their weapons are outdated. I don't believe they'll survive a war fought with the ferocity that I've seen.

I camped in the desert, letting Surael bake my thoughts in my head, and collapsed. When I awoke, night had fallen. It was a red night, with the moon shining with such crimson intensity that it was bright as day and yet still so murky that I could not see a hundred feet away from me. They are getting stronger. I have to rally the fools into a decisive strike, even if it takes me the rest of my life.

Conquering another Black Orc trophy pile adds most of its development to your own. As a result we shoot up a whole three levels in our own trophy pile. The maximum is 15, so we are very close to completing our quest for all the loot. Meanwhile, Dominic is (was) not having a good time.

It has to be clear now. There can't be any more denying it. This is an age of darkness, brought on by powers beyond the ken of even the gods. We have no choice but to fight against it, or the tide of blood will wash away all our history.

To be continued…

Vote

The worlds knows us. The world recognises us. The world fears. And we will look back. We will look back and smile. Smile as we know their faces. Faces that will soon be our own, oh god-begot, god-begot.

(Choose which masks will be the priority for creating and upgrading. Some will take longer than others to achieve.)

The Vicious Gnoll
The Hoarding Kobold
The Resilient Ruinborn
The Regenerating Troll
The Ravenous Ogre
The Martial Hobgoblin
The Philosophical Harimari
The Nautical Lizardfolk
The Galloping Centaur

The…Cowardly Gnome…eludes us…

Choose the priority by clicking on the below image.



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[Sybot]

Ogres and Trolls were leading when I played through this chapter, so I'll be focusing us towards the cold north.

The newest release of the mod has just come out on Steam, so now is a better time than ever to get into the mod! Highlights include a rework of the Empire of Anbennar, various MTs in Cannor being revamped, the 333^rd Lizardfolk Empire and Gnollish Kheterata getting MTs, and most relevantly the writer of the Masked Butcher MT putting out another really good story in the Zokka Devourer-of-Suns MT.

Chapter Eleven: Pursuit
1611-1627

Somewhere on the Forbidden Plains, Ikögshaantusi-claimed territory, 1618

Jasrur gripped the reins pulled until his horse came to a stop. It had gotten far too quiet. The moonlight spilled across the endless sea of grass that had been his home for the past few years, and the wind blew across it and yet there wasn't even the rustling of stems and stalks to fill his ears. He looked up at the stars, seeing them whirling above his head, then forced his eyes back to the steppe. You learned quickly on long nighttime patrols that staring at the stars was a good way to lose your mind.

In the distant east, the silvery light sparkled. It was the Lakes, outlined by the same glow and the lights of the cities dotting their shores. Neither Jasrur, nor his parents, had been alive when the Lake Federation had fallen apart, so he had no idea what it had been like in a time of unity. Now it was starkly divided between the staunch republicans, who had the steel to stand up for their ideals in the face of everything else falling apart, and the monarchist states that did away with what had made the whole rotten structure so weak.

Not that they were enemies, not necessarily. That was why he was in republican territory right now, fighting on their behalf.

As the world turned above his head, the stars drawing lines across the sky, the moon began to approach the stark and jagged line of mountains on the western horizon.

It was a little confusing. Was there really a place out on the steppes where he could see both mountains and seas?

That thought lingering, he watched the peaks. Between the darkness and the shifting moonlight they seemed to march along the horizon, the light playing across their snowcaps and glaciers. An endless parade of figures slipping northwards on a relentless march.

The moon descended over them, and touched those sharp and towering summits. They pierced it, and blood spilled in its millions of gallons. The mountains were stained in red, and the blood ran backwards up across the moon's surface, dyeing it and the entire landscape in a shade of deep red.

It was then that Jasrur felt a tingle on the back of his neck. The sensation of a knife parting flesh. The cold of steel.

He spurred his horse, and with a curdling whinny it took off across the steppe. The land flickered past across leagues of endless grass, the blood flowing as fast a river towards the Lakes. He had to get away. He had to warn them of what was coming. He had to escape.

Eyes watched from the grass. Pinpricks of red peered up from beneath his horse's hooves, unaffected by its stampede. The grass shifted, and for the first time he could hear them. The rustle of stalks, the dark shapes moving through the underbrush, even though it was short enough that nothing short of one of those gnomes from Cannor would be able to hide. They kept up even at full gallop, moving so gracefully that only the slightest rustle gave them away.

Jasrur found himself panting, exhausted, even though his horse was the one moving. They wouldn't let up. They would chase him to the ends of the Halann. They'd catch him, and then they'd-

His thoughts stuttered and his mouth filled with dirt. His horse was gone. There was nothing but the grass, the endless sky, and the blood pouring from the moon.

He felt that feeling on the back of his neck against. The quick cut, the cool air on raw flesh. The end of it all. He choked, and gasped and-

Shot upright, his clothes soaked through with sweat and his breath ragged. It was dark, but dark was good. There was no moon shining, no crimson spill, and no pursuers. He was sat on his bedroll in a tent with a dozen other men, all sleeping as best they could. It had been a dream. Just a dream.

Yet it was all to reminiscent of life. They had been run ragged over the last few weeks, with an entire horde of the abominations pursuing them across the steppe. Even though his people had centuries of experience in this place and enough horses to get moving at a decent clip, the enemy were still gaining on them.

Not wanting to lie back down on his sweat-drenched bedroll, he quietly stood up and slipped past the other snoring men and took a step outside.

"'s cold," someone said as he opened the tent flap. Daltur probably. He mumbled in his sleep.

It was cold outside, and Jasrur's breath fogged as he paced around the edge of the tent. The guards on watch gave a look of annoyance for distracting them but didn't pay him much mind besides. The stars were far less clear, with a thin layer of nighttime cloud high above, and the moon was nowhere to be seen. The grass around him was a ruin, trampled to nothing by the passing of an entire army. Still, he found it valuable to centre himself after a nightmare such as that.

Taking a deep breath of the refreshing chill, he stepped back inside the tent.

"So cold," Daltur said, even though Jasrur made sure to slip inside without letting in the chill.

"Wrap up tighter or something, just let us sleep," someone else complained.

"It's so cold!" Daltur said, his voice sharper and higher.

He shuffled on his bedroll, a shape moving in the darkness of the tent. Jasrur sighed, and grabbed his own blanket. He wasn't likely to get back to sleep anyway, might as well give the man some extra comfort.

There was a squelch as he stepped besides Daltur. Mud? It couldn't be. The floor of the tent was enchanted to keep out the elements, as demanded by the Second Insight, to alleviate the worst of attrition by weather and disease. There shouldn't be any mud. He reached down and touched the fabric, feeling his fingers come away sticky.

A lump formed at the back of his throat, and he backed away. He nearly stumbled over someone else's sleeping form, then leapt for the magelight lantern at the entrance to the tent. He flicked it on, and a cool blue light filled the tent, forcing him to shield his eyes for a moment.

"It's too cold! It's gone!" Daltur wailed, thrashing where he lay.

When Jasrur opened his eyes, he froze.

Daltur was there. He was alive. He was staring at the ceiling.

But his face was gone. Nothing but raw and red flesh, still fresh and leaking fluids onto the bedroll and the enchanted fabric beneath it.

And he was alive. And his eyes, rolling with no eyelids turned to Jasrur.

And Jasrur ran.

Excerpts from the after-action reports of Freush Saqyrev, Mage-General of Qorondulyuz

Another bloody moon rose over the western mountains. Patrols reported the sounds of violence echoing from hundreds of miles away, as if amplified by dark magic that dwells within those peaks. I have dispatched scouts to navigate the Northern Pass and secure insights into the status of the nations of the distant west.

Those numbers might look bad, but I have a plan. Our target, Mountainshark, is barely visible. They are an OPM with almost the same colour as us. They are directly within our sights, and the weakest link in the coalition.

By all reports they are engaged in vicious combat with the monsters of the mountains. Neither we nor our Ikögshaantusi compatriots have seen much of the monsters, but the accounts that have reached our ears speak of a devastating brutality inflicted against both armies and populations. I recommend divination resources be applied to the mountain entrances so that we can confirm if they spill eastwards.

The war ended inconclusively. Emissaries from the goblin tribe that was a centre of the war arrived at each of their allies and insisted that they had come to an accord with the monsters. This caused enough confusion, along with a cessation of attacks by the monsters, that the entire war effort petered out. We must remember to hold to our insights, that we must be relentless if we are to annihilate such foes, or we might fall to similar trickery, whether it be magical or something far darker.

This is the simplest way to deal with a powerful coalition. White peace their weakest member while holding them off as best you can. We don't get anything but now we're free to hit anyone else who might have been in the coalition in five years. In the meantime, we have other targets.

Intercepted a caravan loaded with herbs and alchemical concoctions, bound for the lakes. Our company alchemists confirmed that many of the plants and substances were completely unknown to them, so we attempted to question the traders. They broke free of their bonds with unexpected strength and scattered into the steppe, evading pursuit in spite of being unmounted. I believe that they are testing us and beginning to lay the groundwork to push eastwards.

In light of the monstrous threat, I have communicated with the Bulwari and the Corinite orcs who have had contact with them. In both cases, there is a dearth of information on how their society functions. Even the orcs, who as recently as fifty years ago were considered just as much monsters, consider the 'Butchers' to be completely alien to them. All they could say is that the monsters are completely devoted to their Otar, a devotion that they pass on to the victims of their occupation through religious terror.

With only three estates (one of which is basically only there to manage masks) and plenty of sources of absolutism, we will have an easy time hitting 100. Tarakar could take it to 115, but the decision was made.

We caught one of the escaped smugglers. Looking at the layers of skin draped over it, I cannot imagine how we ever mistook it for a human, and yet here it is. Its tongue was savage and flecked with blood-spittle, but we able to discern enough to find it unusually articulate in its taunts. Its duty was to fight us, infiltrate us, and obtain knowledge of us. We must be aware that while they seem like ferocious beasts they are still highly cunning.

Another narrative expedition, this time in an ancient library, though I'll only show the climactic events. It's been a while since we last saw dwarven knowledge. It doesn't pop up in regular expeditions anymore, but in this one it is appropriate.

War has resumed in Bulwar. Our scouts are having trouble making it through the Invader's Pass, where an enormous war camp has been raised, but from what few insights we have gained it is clear that they are being overwhelmed in a lightning campaign.

From the information we have gleaned, there are two key locations with the monster's territory. Their throne, which is adorned with the plunder they have accumulated over the centuries they have been fighting, and a religious centre where, according to the frantic stories of the few survivors of their attention, they gain the power of self-transmutation from some divine or infernal entity. In both cases, the locations are far too deep within the mountains for us to have a hope of reaching, so we must be ready to wear them down through our own means.

Further investigation of the fortress in Invader's Pass has confirmed that it is the location of a vast amassing of forces for an invasion of the Forbidden Plains. The centaurs are restless and refuse to approach it, claiming a sense of being watched and pursued. We have not been able to verify if there is some kind of magical compulsion involved, but will continue observation.

The war in Bulwar has concluded, with the enemy spilling out onto the southern Plains and, according to our guests, having taken the heart of Bulwar, as ruined as it was by magical folly. Our guests are a number of Bulwari nobles led by one Andar szal-Zarhan, who seeks an audience with the king to discuss the rising threat. I have sent him along with this report, for I fully agree that we must be ready to face this threat.

The monsters do not seem to care for the same pattern of sedentarization that both we and Ikögshaantus have been pursuing. They leave the Plains wild, and the centaur inhabitants are forced to remain on the move constantly as through they are being pursued night and day. If we can coordinate with the tribal leaders and ensure that no infrastructure is established, perhaps we can make the Plains a millstone around the monsters' necks.

This is a new mechanic added to make it harder to just sweep over the Forbidden Plains and integrate them with the press of a button. I won't go into it in this campaign, as we aren't exactly here to settle.

They have broken onto the Plains proper and swept aside one of the frontier tribes that still held to its independence. We are already rallying and preparing for war. The plan will be to have them trudge across endless steppe, besieging our frontier forts, and then pick them apart with our cavalry.

For all that we are observing their movements in the lands of what was once Blazing Sky, it is clear that they are observing us back. More of their war camps are being established, cutting off many of the key routes across the steppe and blinding our mundane ours to the information that lies beyond. It is a war of insight, soon to be a war in reality.

In the event an expedition returns without enough loot to cover the promised share for the party, you have to cover the excess. It rarely happens unless you over-promise in the setup, or get really unlucky in a narrative expedition as we did with the final event here.

We are ready for war. Ikögshaantus has reported bands of monsters crossing into their territory, though they do not appear to be making for the Lakes but instead into the Ogre Valley. While our settlements in the region will suffer, it is a sign that our homeland will be under less threat and the enemy will be bled further before they can become a significant threat.

Ikög is one of the Lake Federation splinter formables, which means it collapsed and we won't be seeing Kalsyto this campaign. Incidentally our narrator for this chapter is from another splinter, Qorondulyuz, focused on magical absolutism. Mages are banned in the Federation unless/until it splinters.

Their means of transportation across the vast distances of the Plains is just as monstrous as they are. Each mount is a horrifying hulk of stitched together flesh, held together by the skin of a troll that I cannot be certain actually belonged to any of the flesh underneath. It is unsettling to see in combat. The horses are spooked by such a creature, so I recommend that cavalry ride into position and dismount before engaging, even if it does not provide the means to escape a charge of these creatures.

Moving to take back one of our forts, a vast force emerged to our east and annihilated the Ikögshaantusi force that was meant to be screening us. How they moved in such numbers so far east without us noticing has risen countless concerns about our scouting efforts. Are the compromised, or are the monsters finding a way to slip past us undetected. I have ordered the army to split in half, so that the enemy is forced to pursue us in separate directions and thus split and tire their forces even further.

The Triunic cities are often many in number, but poor in army quality. We can brush them aside without too much trouble, the real issue is breaking through the endless forts in their homelands.

Though it does not explain their mobility, the enemy has a clear advantage in scouting due to the integration of ariel observers into their army. I have never seen a harpy before, but I do not believe that they could possibly fly with such stiff and ungainly wings. These are not real flying folk, but instead must be some created or summoned abomination of the monsters.

I pick up the level 3 harpy mask as it's one that'll be worthwhile if we get a slot as the movement speed buff is valuable. We can't wear it at the moment as we still have the level 3 human mask, and attempting to do so only puts on the level 2 version.

I understand the centaurs' fear now. For months they have hunted us, chased us across the length of the steppe. We barely have a moment to rest, or they will gain on us. But when they do, they only steal away a few soldiers at a time. Barely enough for us to notice, but also without any obvious violence. They vanished from their tents. When they caught us, it was annihilation. Relentless. As though they had learned from our own insights. I escaped only by casting an illusion that myself and my command staff were already dead. And yet as we slipped away I saw their eyes following us even as they carved into the illusionary bodies.

They have shattered all armies still on deployment in the Plains and now stand ready for an invasion of our cities, which are already suffering from the ongoing conflict with the Jaddari. It is clear that they are only targeting the territories of Ikögshaantus, so I recommend withdrawing and guarding what we can while encouraging your opposite number to surrender. We have fought them, we can learn and prepare. We only need to survive to pass on that knowledge.

As I surmised from the beginning motions of the war, their interested lay in the Ogre Valley. Let them have it, and let the ogres feast on the monsters just as they have tried to hunt us. Strategically this puts us even further from being able to affect their core territory within the mountains, but that was already a forlorn hope. As your Bulwari advisor recommends, we should collaborate with the westerners to strike at their heart.

Your will be done, as per the first insight. We are cataloguing signs that people are not who they claim to be. Strange behaviours, a rise in viciousness, skin that stretches unnaturally, and curiosity about state and military matters are all now cause for elimination. It is harsh, but it is clear that the monsters are reaching out in every direction to accumulate knowledge for their inevitable attempt to burn our peoples.

Their campaign against more of the frontier tribes has continued and remaining isolate ogre kingdoms has continued. We have skirmished with them where the borders are fuzzier, but they have not presented an interested in advancing any closer to the Lakes. I believe that we were merely a stepping-stone to their true goal, which lies to the north. This is not to be taken as a sign that we are safe, but from a military perspective I do not expect another war for a generation or more.

Our continued analysis of their society reveals countless contradictions. Those we have captured and interrogated speak of nothing but blood and violence reigning within the mountains, but then others say that the Otar is guided by rules and ritual to be devoted to the cause, and might be overthrown if he does not pay the appropriate tithe to the shamans and mages. It is strange that they have not invested absolute power in the leader that they consider divinely chosen, and yet the Otar still seems to wield absolute power anyway. The contradictions abound, and yet I cannot see how to exploit them.

Years of separatism is nice to have, especially as we have some in our ideas. We have other ways to stack it even higher and make separatists a thing of the past.

Word has spread from a distant dwarven hold that they believe their crowning prize, an enormous gem, has been located. I do not know how they know that, or why they believe that we could seek it, but I do not wish myself or my soldiers to set foot in those mountains. We are soldiers of the Plains, we are made to go to war in the caverns.

I should probably be making more of an effort to grab the rest of the crown, but we have a lot of land to conquer and the peace option is expensive.

Ogres have been sighted leading bloody consumption rituals alongside the monsters. They devour, they grow in size, their skin stretching and splitting, and the blood moon rises once more. This leaves me to question, are they really ogres? What atrocities are happening in the Ogre Valley? We must be ready for anything. We have to be.

The Ogre Mask is one of the best. The +3 faith power is before multipliers, so that's actually +6 per month for us, allowing us to throw out even more blood moons and blood frenzies. If we can get level 3 the +15% goods produced is also excellent.

Our efforts at divination against their territory are regularly thwarted. These is something that draws in the eyes and ears of seers. Whenever they seek knowledge, all they see is a vast and endless library over which a blood moon is hanging and whose shelves are coated in dust and blood. A dome stands high, and an ethereal figure with an empty space where it's face out to be seizes control of their scrying and screams into their mind. We have lost three seers to madness so far, and will need a more coordinated effort to break through whatever they have devised.

The library is nice, especially as it is in the same area as our capital. Institutions will spawn even faster.

War is raging inside the mountains again. Their control over the entry to the Northern Pass is limited, so our scouts have managed to break through and have limited communication with the dwarves and orcs. From there we have determined that the monsters are fighting almost all the northern Serpentspine powers at once. It is clear that even if we master the Plains we cannot fight them on even terms. We need the power of Cannor. Of the Jaddari. Of the Raj. Even the Command. I never want to feel as I did during that pursuit. I never want to see if they actually pulled anything from my illusory corpse.

The speed of their advance is terrifying. I cannot imagine us being able to stop them from breaching the cities if they turn their full attention to us. We have to seek allies. We have too. I will make the attempt to breach the Northern Pass and contact the Emperor of Anbennar. He has unified the divided faith of the west and wields a combined army that can surely match these monsters. I will report on my success.

We've almost cleared out the entire north-eastern branch of the Serpentspine, but I missed one province. Well, we'll be back for their capital sooner or later anyway.

We have breached their territory and entered the Tanning Valley. Large areas of this forest were clearcut by the dwarves aiming to build roads between the Giant's Anvil and the rest of the Serpentspine, but now those roads are overgrown and empty. Large herds of feral rams wander the open stretches, but the land is otherwise silent. It is unsettling, especially when we find one slaughtered in their midst with no concern shown by their cousins.

Passing the peak of Dûr-Vazhatun, the silence was broken as the dome built atop the mountain caved in on itself, triggering an avalanche that blanketed the mountain and obscured it from sight. They're up there, far more concerned with tearing down old structures than chasing us. And yet I cannot help but feel that sensation of pursuit. Some of the rams have followed us. They graze where our horses have broken up the snow, their eyes fixed on us.

They were always following us. The rams. Their eyes. One was staring at me, so I dismounted and stepped up to it. Its face fell to the snow, and beneath that mask was my own face, still ethereal with magic. I panicked. I set it alight, and it laughed as it burned. My other riders were set upon by the herd, and then ogres and trolls emerged from the treeline, roaring with eyes glowing red. I think I am the only one left. This report will never reach another's eyes, but I have to write anyway. They can look like anything. They can be anything. Blood, skin, life, it is only theirs to play with.

To be continued…

Vote

Plans are being made. Leaders are conferring. It will be the work of decades, but they are preparing their efforts to end the rising threat. They recognise that there are weaknesses in the Masked Butchers, but they do not know that their analysis has already been witnessed. One of these weaknesses will be closed. No longer will we…

…have territory that we cannot maintain control over. (Administrative (+2))
…be unable to support an army capable of defeating the coming coalition. (Economic)
…begin to stagnate in growing the resplendence of our trophies and our altar (Court)
…be unable to manipulate the minds and policy of our foes. (Diplomatic)
…have an army limited by merely the number of our warriors. (Quantity)
…fall behind in the advancement of tactics and armament. (Quality)

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