For two days, I journeyed east. The sand followed, dancing in concert with twisting winds, and I stumbled through the dunes like a drunk at a feast. Oh, I hated the desert. I would take snow and mud any day.
But it did have a life to it, one that most mortals wouldn't see. It breathed. The winds pushed and pulled the sand, and with it, the dunes fell and rose. Air was something I no longer needed after I first ascended to the realm of the Gods, but here on the mortal plane breathing still served a purpose.
There is no way for me to describe exactly what I am doing to those of mortal minds. The best analogy is that I "breathed" in the desert. I drew it into my very being, not to consume or dominate, but to borrow and give shape. I walked and drew it in those first two days, holding it inside as one holds air in their lungs.
At the end of the second day, I exhaled. Power burst from my lips and collided against the winds around me. As the two opposing forces met, clouds of sand detonated and swirled in the air, some of it clumping together on the ground in hulking shapes. When it finally dissipated, fourteen pale men stood in a squared formation.
"Hail, Death," they spoke in an old tongue, lost to the ages. Their stone weapons were raised above their heads in a salute. Shields of wood and stone were slung over their cloth-covered backs.
Without saying a word, four of them immediately turned and ran off. They stayed side-by-side for a time but then veered off in slightly different directions. I wasn't envious at all as I watched them bound over the dunes as if they were no obstacle. Nope. Not envious at all. They could have easily run from my sight, but they never let themselves get far enough where I couldn't make them out from a distance. The other ten matched my sluggish pace, settling around me in a distant, moving perimeter, though the largest took a position near my back.
"Hail, Death," the man greeted again, "I am Alaric, warchief of the Gothana". He was as pale as the rest of the tribe with the same muscular body honed from war and the mountains they called home. He kept his head completely shaved, an oddity concerning the groomed ringlets of hair covering the heads and faces of the others. It brought attention to the pointed tips of his ears, the only hint that he was anything other than a large man. That and the effortless way he carried a spiked club that was as large as his torso.
"Do not call me that," I said. "And when we reach our destination, do not call me god, or lord, or prince, or anything that would draw attention to us. You will address me as Egon."
He frowned, "Your godly title would draw many warriors into your tribe. Why hide it?"
"Because that name comes with expectations, and I am not yet ready for their disappointment."
He nodded, though the frown remained on his face. "We go the sneak-thief way then."
We walked in silence for a few more hours before a series of whistles came from one of the forward tribesmen from atop a nearby dune.
"He is warning us of a village" Alaric translated, "One of stone and iron like those of my tribe's enemies."
"All of you will obey me when we enter," I said. It was not a question.
"Yes, life for service. And a chance to roam our hills once more."
"You and your men will cause no trouble that will draw undue attention. We will feign as a band of sellswords from Essos. Our ship was sunk and.. " My voice trailed off as I saw the look on Alaric's face. I felt a fool. His people probably came from a place where there weren't ships or sellswords, and there definitely wasn't an Essos. He had no idea what I was talking about.
"Just.. let me do all the talking," I said, and with a nod, the pale warchief relaxed.
I couldn't pass us off as a merchant and his guards, as I clearly had no goods to sell. I could claim bandits robbed us but the look of my men made that equally dubious. Sellswords would be the..
My train of thought came to a halt as we reached the top of a dune and I saw the "village" we had been warned about. The tribe must not have the word in their language because that was definitely not a village. Even miles away, the city looked large and I knew it would be larger when we actually stood in front of its gates. Multiple sets of walls enveloped each other, each layer built a little higher the farther one got to the center. Two pointed towers loomed within, their tips grasping past the horizon towards the sun.
A desert? A city of that size and one old enough to emit a magical echo? This was Sunspear. We were in Dornish territory.
I turned to Alaric, "Tell your men not to eat or drink anything they're given for free. And if another man offers to share a bed, they may not intend it for sleeping."
I grinned at the confused look on his face.
-------
Interlude
A Loyal Agent
If I had known then what I know now, I would have slipped my knife into the man's side without hesitation. My life would be forfeit, but it would have prevented the madness in the years to come.
I had been ordered by my master to follow a group of sellswords that entered Sunspear. Such men were common in the city, as its harbor made it an essential resupply point for ships going to either side of the continent. The crew and passengers could often be found in the taverns most nights, telling tales of escalating implausibility and partaking in the delights of Dorne. But this group was different in both looks and behavior.
They were foreign, that was obvious. Their leader was a man with the Valyrian coloring, slender and of average height, with pale skin and white, silvery hair that went past his neck. But it was his eyes that one was drawn to first. Color so dark they almost seemed black, and the way they contrasted with the white of his eyes invoked something primal. He knew that many of Sunspear would seek to entice him into their bed.
Egon, he had called himself. Not Aegon. No surname or title. Beauty and danger in the form of a man. For I was not entirely sure it was a man at all. It was a subtle thing, so much that anyone inexperienced in intrigue or court might miss it. It was his breath. His chest movements did not always follow it. The disconnect was sporadic, and if I had not been following the man for as long as I had I may not have noticed. There were a few other irregularities, like the lack of sweat when the sun was at its highest or the way his skin remained pale while others bronzed, but those could be explained away by the strength of his Valyrian ancestry.
If their leader could be considered exotic then his men were simply monstrous. Paler than the Valyrian, they were all built like the most hated Mountain-That-Rides was said to be. All had white scars covering their bodies, with corded muscles on display that would make any maiden swoon. Their lack of armor seemed foolish until I watched one snatch a bird out of the air, snapped its neck, and then tied it to his belt in one smooth motion, far faster than any man that size had any right to be. I assumed they could wield their impossibly large weapons with equal ease.
There were tales of albino men in Yi-Ti, though the words of drunken sailors were worth little. Perhaps they were from some place in the North where they saw less of the sun? Skagos, or the like. It would remain a mystery as the men spoke in a tongue that none I asked could understand, though the Valyrian knew their language well.
The group did not frequent the taverns or markets at all, giving credence to Egon's claim that they lacked coin and sought work. And they were disciplined, none responding to the many flirtatious invitations from passing Dornishmen, though there was a curious display from the tallest of them when an innkeeper informed them of a vacancy.
Mysterious, disciplined, and desperate. My master would be very interested in hiring these "Ghosts".
Rumors/Sensing:
There was power being shaped somewhere north, but seeing as you're in the lowest point of the continent, it's impossible to narrow down where. Whoever it is, they would have sensed your own summoning of the Deftblade Elite.
Summary:
- Summoned Deftblade Elite
- Mana Pool Net Gains: 1 White
Author's Note:
Still finishing up the setup of the quest, hopefully we'll get to some action next turn. No votes this turn but we'll start the next with a draft pick.
Rules Errata:
Reduced Mana Pool Limit to 20 from unlimited. Mana generated over this limit is lost at the end of a campaign turn, or an opponent's turn if in combat.
Hopefully, this will prevent any game-ending card combos. Because all packs are randomly generated this was already unlikely, but I think this change will make campaign turns and drafts more strategic.