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Gods of Chaos: a Riot God Quest

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Photomajig said:
I wish I could say the same, but this was definitely not the first time I made this mistake and I'm pretty sure it won't be the last.

I could write up the update here in several smaller chunks - it was getting pretty bloated already and there's less chance of this happening again.
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You could write it up in a RTF document and then transfer (copy/paste) it into the SV text editor.
 
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Voidseer said:
You could write it up in a RTF document and then transfer (copy/paste) into SV text editor.
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I could write it in Word, OpenOffice, Docs, my phone's notes or anything else, that's not the problem. Eventually I'll be lured in by the ease of doing it in the forum text editor, though, and this will happen again. I am doomed to repeat the cycle.
 
Oof, tbf discussion in a discord could help you get your thoughts in order via more spitfire discussion. *cough cough*

You also could just set a timer on repeat and then copy your text into the word doc every time it rings. Kinda like an autosave but writing instead of a game.
 
Name: Voidseer
Highest Act: Create Trees (Grand Act), Create Grass (Grand Act), Create Myriad Sea Plants (Grand Act), Create Felines (Grand Act), Create the continent of Avoroth (Grand Act), Create Reptiles (Grand Act), Create Avorrite crystals (Lesser Act), Create Dandreble Fungus (Lesser Act)
Note: I included a few lesser acts that I feel are significant.
Demise: Left to another realm (may come back to check on things).

Young God Name: Vathys (Titles: The Maiden of Machines, Muse of Invention, Lady of Progress, Dragon of Technology, Supervisor of the Harvest, Maiden of Agriculture, Master of manufacturing and Craft, Lady of Alchemy, Lady of Knowledge and Wisdom, Lady of Industry)
Young God Spheres: Industry, Technology, Wisdom
Young God Description: Vathys often appears as ether a beautiful human woman with irises shaped like gears or as a majestic dragon with lustrous scales of black and silver. She is generally calm and kind, only getting really excited (happy excited) for innovations/advancements that help people or long anticipated progress. While she is kind she does not support inventions/innovations that are solely for unnecessary pain and/or death. Mind she will support weapons of war (as they can be used for defense and other purposes like leading to other discoveries/innovations) but she does not support things whose purpose is pain and death for the sake of those things. She also has a bit of a sadistic side when she is angry toward those she believes truely deserve punishment.

Final Act: Create Mice (Lesser Act)
 
I'm posting this separately because I think it might not get noticed if I put it in as an edit to my original post.

Final Act: The Path to the Void
When Ralakesh fled beyond the World, the flames of chaos bled from him, leaving a trail leading to the Void. For many years, that fire burned, feeding on the fabric of the universe. Then it died out and congealed into a cosmic path of enormous size. No one is foolish enough to travel along that way, however, for this cosmic path ends where the World does too.
The boundaries of the world are faint there. Many unusual, both dangerous and valuable, things emerged from the uncontrolled flame of chaos. Also, once in a while, something foreign comes from the Void.
 
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I am trying to get it done. Life has been a bit rough and busy. There's nothing stopping you from setting a Quest or game in the version of the world up to now in the meantime, but I understand if you'd rather wait for the finale. I hope I can make it happen soon.
 
Well, I got motivated and spent today writing the first part of the finale anyway, detailing the Draghai invasion of the Hot Lands. I kinda let it grow as long as it wanted for better or worse, lol. I'll start posting it in a little bit and then get to work on the second part: the End of Creation and the Passing of the Makers.

The detail map of the Hot Lands may help keep track of the invasion somewhat.
 
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Final Epoch: Part I, The Conquering Armada
  • Threadmarks
    • THE FINAL EPOCH
    THE AGE OF ENDING    ​

    Druyul sailing? Next you'll be telling me humans burrow, or Myridna fly!
    -Miraang, Baólian band-mother; shortly before the First Draghai Invasion

    PART I: The Conquering Armada​

    The jungle shakes. The great host marching out from the depths of the Draghai Empire gives even the Horror Birds pause. Tens of thousands of Druyul in bronze cuirass and high helms trample through the undergrowth in the sweltering heat. Mud has stained their fine garments black and brown; incessant bites from blood-flies and thimblebirds left them weary and itching. Yet they voice no complaints for their lot. They march for the Emperor – and His Chosen.

    At the head of the vast column is a palanquin of jade and gold. Its way is cleared by chameleon Druyul scouts going unclothed so as to blend in with their surroundings. Those who linger in its shadow find it miraculously cool and absent of stinging pests. The four within reject discomfort, and for their power and birthright, it leaves them be.

    They travel, for the most part, in silence – but not in peace. Each is mighty in their own right, but envy and fear gnaw at them when they look upon their peers. They are the four Children of Zainul-Jast, the Princes of the World-Empire. Each has been granted command of a great fleet and promised dominion of the lands beyond the Sea of Lights, but only one may succeed their divine Father. They have been groomed for power; an education which has left little room for trust.

    Their names are Manang-Jast, breaker of beasts and slaves alike; Kerong-Jast, of iron hide and dreaded strength; Seharaj-Jast, mistress of magics and purity of purpose; and Sangal-Jast, said to equal the Emperor himself in learning and intellect. Within each burns a faint ember of the Divine Fire, fueling their Legend, waiting for them to claim the Ziggurat and ascend to divinity in full.

    At the mouth of the Middle Sister, the great river that rushes from the heart of the Draghai lands, the Druyul have built a port. Or rather, it is their slaves who have built it. Thousands of Baólians, Humans, Sura and other captives of Draghai raids have toiled and perished to raise up the stone harbors of Petaang Sejanga, 'the Dwelling of the Heralds'. It is here that the Empire's ships gather and plot new courses to expand its reach – to herald its coming that shall encompass the World entire.

    And such ships they are! The waters of Sejang Bay swarm with vessels trailing the crimson banners of the Empire. Banks of oars descend from their sides, pulled in great heaves by ranks of slaves chained in place underneath the deck. Miles and miles of jungle have been leveled and hacked open to provide the wood for their hulls and masts. Knowledge plucked from the broken minds of Baólian captives has allowed these ships to be built, and it is those self-same slaves who now crew and work their decks.

    They are not graceful Baólian catamarans, however; the Draghai ships are heavy biremes and triremes with battlements raised on their sides, meant only for war, trusting more in the strength of rowing arms than the fickle power of the wind. In their heart lie four even greater ships – enormous arks with hundreds of rowers shackled to their posts and engines of war built into their decks. They fly the colors of the Princes, for they are the flagships of the Conquering Armada.

    Rumors of the gathering fleet and the marching hosts are common on foreign shores. Scouts and spies flit back and forth across the Sea of Lights with reports for their masters. Each one raises fresh concerns. Those who hear of the Imperial force pray that they are not its intended prey.

    It is a viciously hot summer when the Conquering Armada sets sail. Over eight hundred ships make for the open sea. From the distant Ziggurat, their God-Emperor raises a stiff wind to fill their sails and lend them speed.

    ***​

    Yet He is not the only power on Aebrirea. The fervent whispers and bitter prayers of the Baólian slaves carry down through the waters, and the Sea-Spirit stirs. The Druyul are invaders in her domain. They love not the waters, but chain and torment her beloved second children so they might sail upon them. The Baólians call upon her for vengeance, and the Spirit answers.

    The Armada is scarcely beyond the horizon from the shore when the storm strikes. It comes on without warning and rams into the divine wind sent by the Emperor with primordial fury. Two godlike forces meet, and the fleet is caught in between.

    The Druyul ships fall into the maelstrom. Savage tidal waves batter their hulls and smash smaller craft into splinters. Howling whirlwinds steal warriors off the decks and drive ramming prows into one another. A deluge of rain blinds the lookouts and floods holds. Those who fall are set upon by ravenous beasts of the seas driven to feast by the wrath of the Spirit.

    The Princes beseech their Father for aid. Zainul-Jast calls upon his power and drives off the Spirit in a vicious lash of divine power, but by then it is too late. Hundreds are dead, and the Armada is scattered.

    Manang-Jast finds herself to the east, driven far by hateful winds. Her battered fleet gathers up stragglers and tries to regain its formation. It takes them days to rally the ships and put down the slave mutinies. Manang-Jast curses her misfortune. They were bound for the southeastern coast of the Hot Lands, to strike in unison with her siblings – now who knows where her kin are and how much their plan has gone awry.

    There is land to the east, however, and some of the officers recognize it as the Isle of Ouroboros. A Draghai outpost occupies the northern end of the island. There they might stop for swift repairs. Manang-Jast feels the weight of her Father's displeasure upon her and hopes she can still make good time.

    Manang-Jast orders the fleet to make sail. A great wailing begins to be heard all over the fleet as soon as their course is announced; it is the Baólian slaves, who weep and cry out in fear until they are silenced by their guards. Manang-Jast cannot understand it. They are passing through some curious structure, but what of it? It is merely some strange city of coral. She eyes the ancient spires rising high from the waters with interest. Such a place may well hold power she could use to win her Father's favor.

    The fleet of Manang-Jast slips into the shadowed waters of the City of the First Children as night falls. Strange lights are reported within the towers and underneath, where vast cavernous pits can be seen. More and more appear the deeper they sail, as if responding to their presence. Captivated, Manang-Jast orders some of her warriors into the towers to fetch her whatever is responsible for the luminous displays.

    The Bãsn-Shaal-Khlomet do not take kindly to trespassers. The Draghai fleet does not know it is under attack until ships begin to crack and sink underneath the waves. The Ardent Algals attack with purity of will and mastery of Ardency, and they attack without mercy. War-formed colonies swarm out of the City to breach hulls and snap up unwary sailors and soldiers into the depths.

    To their credit, the Draghai soldiers respond quickly. They form shield walls and beach their ships in the shallows, out of the deeper waters. Bronze spears and the fire of war-mages repel the first onslaught. Manang-Jast, furious at this new trickery, opens up the prison-holds of her flagship and releases her beasts of war. Wyverns, Horror Birds and other monstrosities break out to defend their mistress. Soldiers are ordered to invade the spires and slaughter the Algals where they have the advantage.

    It is a bloody, miserable battle. The advantage of the Algals is great, but Manang-Jast is the Prince of the Empire and her host armed in ways the Algals have never seen. Elemental magics and axioms of Refutation counter their Ardency; the Legend of the Draghai Prince makes mockery of their efforts to slay her. The Grandmasters of Ardency attack her again and again, and she matches them blow for blow.

    For a moment, it seems as if the Draghai might hold, repelling the Ardent Algals in the heart of their home – but then Manang-Jast looks to the rear of her formation, and sees dozens of ships beating out back to sea in disarray. Some are captained by Druyul overcome by their fear, but most have changed hands, seized by their Baólian slaves with their captors so weakened.

    The fear spreads, and even Manang-Jast feels a bite of despair. She swallows her pride and orders a general retreat. The hundreds of Draghai warriors sent out to fight inside the spires are abandoned without a second thought; left to fight a doomed battle as the Algals swarm them in the darkened corridors and coral halls and drag them into the nutrition pits deep below.

    Mere dozens of Manang-Jast's ships survive the Battle of the Coral City, out of a fleet of over a hundred. They limp in disgrace for the Draghai outpost on the Isle, and Manang-Jast knows there will be no invasion of the Hot Lands for her. The certainty of her Father's judgement is like a sword pressing on her neck; she knows nothing will await her in the homeland save for humiliation and an end to her dreams of the Flame.

    ***​

    The fleet of Kerong-Jast is, perhaps, more fortunate. The terrible winds hammer his ships, but losses are relatively light. The true trouble is that they have been brought far off-course to the west. His navigators explain that they have shot past the Kelpwild Gap and lie now west of the Hot Lands, where they were expected to make landfall in the northern lands of the lowland Myridna on the eastern side.

    Kerong-Jast dwells upon this matter and decides he is, if anything, in great luck. White sails on the horizon speak of bountiful trade and thriving peoples out there – fine prey for the hunt. Rowing through the summer easterlies, the fleet of Kerong-Jast forces its way into the Bay of Sails.

    It becomes known as the Summer of Burning Sails. Kerong-Jast's fleet spreads out and begins to attack any ship they sight, sometimes raiding for captives and loot, other times simply sinking and torching them for the sake of sending a message. Their foes are trading vessels and fishing boats of the Coastal Myridna, Humans and Baólians of these parts, often entirely unarmed. They don't stand a chance. When the butchery of the high seas ends, Kerong-Jast has his forces make landfall along the coast.

    The independent communities and tribes of the north-western Hot Lands fall one by one. Many surrender outright into Druyul slavery rather than die in vain to the Draghai legions. Some seek strength in unity, but the makeshift army they gather is destroyed in the Battle of Lake Mehopake in the autumn. Warriors of Legend and disciples of myriad magics face the Iron Prince and fall to his impossible strength.

    Kerong-Jast only stops at the border of the Mountain Kingdom. The Highland Myridna with their arms of iron and strong mountain keeps are not a foe to be taken unprepared. The Mountain King, Samo III, sees little cause for concern from the invaders. Indeed, he sees a chance – should they weaken the Federation of Horns, it could provide an opportunity for him to strike while they are weak and extend his dominion over the lowlanders.

    So Kerong-Jast is allowed to run free and take root. The Draghai Prince enslaves the peoples of the coast from the Ashen Sound to Riddler's Point, carving the foundations of his own empire. The Federation hears of the attack, of course – but they have no forces to spare to the west's aid, for the enemy is soon upon them as well.

    ***​

    The Federation of Horns has not sat idle in the years preceding the attack. Rumors and reports of the growing armada and the Druyul Emperor's plans have filled the halls of Takohane, the Federation capital. The Mihoza have called upon their subjects for new warriors for the defense. They are not short of numbers. The Years of Growth have left thousands and thousands of young braves looking for a chance of glory on the battlefield. In truth, the more pragmatic of the elders say, it is good war is coming; there will be less mouths to feed by the end of it all.

    When the fleets of Seharaj-Jast and Sangal-Jast are struck by the Sea-Spirit's Storm, they work together. Seharaj-Jast calls upon her magics to calm the seas around them, while Sangal-Jast plots the safest and swiftest course out of the chaos. As a result, they suffer far less than either of their siblings. They stay on their course and make for the eastern coast of the Hot Lands, intending to make landfall as an united force and march for the Federation capital.

    They have just passed in sight of land when the lookouts cry out of strange sails on the horizon. Their numbers grow quickly from a handful to hundreds, and the two Princes realize they are being challenged. A great many different kinds of ships make sail towards them, flying banners and symbols of not only the Federation, but of Baólian, Human and Coastal Myridna tribes of the continent. Countless sailors fill their decks, having armed themselves and their ships in defense of their homeland.

    The Battle of Temehake, 'Sunder-Reef', is the first true act of naval warfare in the annals of Creation, and the Historian's pen is said to quiver in excitement for the chance to inscribe it into their books. The Federation fleet has an advantage in the number of ships, but few of them are vessels of war. The Baólian catamarans prove far swifter and more agile than the Draghai galleys, but such grace brings fragility as well. The lesser ships – armed traders and fat troop-barges – are at an even greater disadvanatge.

    For sure, the free Baólians are more skilled and eager to fight than the enslaved crews of their opponents; when given room to maneuver, they triumph in every contest. But Sangal-Jast knows this as well. He dictates a tight fighting formation and calls upon his sister to slow their foes with her magics.

    For hours, the Federation fleet nips at the edges of the Draghai line. A dozen ships are sunk or taken by Myridna boarders to the great pleasure of the vengeful Baólians. Yet they cannot stop the enemy's progress – not without committing to a head-on clash. The Baólians council against such a move, but command of the fleet is with Soma, a young scion of the Mihoza. She is not foolish, but she has strict orders not to allow the enemy to make landfall. When a momentary weakness in the enemy line – a confusion of orders, it seems – is sighted, she takes the chance and orders an assault.

    In doing so, she takes Sangal-Jast's bait. The Federation ships surge forward with breathtaking speed and make for the gap left by the apparent confusion among the enemy – only for the Draghai fleet to recover and reform in a well-prepared strategem as soon as they are in range. The Federation ships are too committed to turn back. The Battle begins in earnest, ships pairing off to rain arrows and magic against their foes, or ramming with their armored prows to take the fight onto their decks. Baólian raiders swim unseen under the waves to climb aboard Draghai ships and cause chaos, only for Draghai war-mages to catch on and begin boiling the waters around their vessels in defense.

    The fighting lasts long into the night, but in such close quarters and confined space, the outcome is not in doubt. The warships of the Draghai outlast and overwhelm their opponents. In the morning, over half of the Federation fleet lies on the seafloor – and in time gives birth to a coral reef of its own - and the fleets of Sangal-Jast and Seharaj-Jast are left free to make their next move. The demoralized defenders sail for refuge in the south.

    Three days later, the Draghai arrive on the shores of the Federation of Horns, and the true invasion begins.

    ***​
     
  • Threadmarks
    • Final Epoch, Part II: The First Invasion
  • Threadmarks
    • THE FINAL EPOCH
    THE AGE OF ENDING    ​

    This is not a field of honor.
    No heroic dead lie here.
    Pass swiftly, traveler,
    And speak not of gods.

    -Inscription found on the grave of a warrior of the Siege of Takohane

    PART II: The First Invasion​

    The Federation's armies have swollen, with forges working overtime to arm them and farms and herds spreading far and wide to feed them. For centuries, however, the Federation's greatest threat has been in the interior. Even now, the most experienced of their soldiers, the Dawn Guard, watch the border and the mountain passes, wary of highlander treachery. The army mustering at Takohane is an army of new recruits and peasant levies. It is not that the Mihoza wish to keep their greatest strength in the west – but all efforts to negotiate an alliance with the Mountain King have failed, and they know what any sign of weakness may invite.

    Talks with Emblatha are more fruitful. When news of the Federation fleet's defeat reaches the walled city, a host of Emblatha's finest marches out and joins the Federation army at Takohane. Allies and auxiliaries from the peoples of the southern coast come as well, bolstering the ranks.

    For a time, the Draghai hosts on the coast march unopposed. The disciplined Draghai legions triumph with ease in the skirmishes and raids they face. The Myridna prefer to fight in the dark of night, away from the sun's irritating light, but Sangal-Jast rarely offers battle after nightfall to keep the advantage. When that fails, Seharaj-Jast and her mages fill the skies with baleful orbs of false-light to unnerve the enemy.

    So burns the northern coast of the Federation. Towns and farms are devastated and picked clean of food; the losses in heads of Hrududu, Nym-Haggis and ungulate cattle are said to make the tax-collectors in the capital faint. Columns of refugees choke the roads to the south. Thousands are taken as slaves into the Druyul camps.

    The sheer size of the Federation army gathered at the capital makes it a double-edged sword. With more and more mouths to feed flocking into Takohane's perceived safety every week, sustaining their great army becomes less and less possible. Like an endless maw, it chews down countless herds and entire regions' harvests. The grave-wage of three copper lako paid to each man keeps the mint working non-stop, and each day the soldiers complain it buys them less and less.

    The levies need more training – but the army has to be used, or it ceases to be an army. With this in mind, the Mihoza give the order to march. They shall meet the Draghai hosts and drive them back into the sea.

    The Draghai scouts report the approach of a massive army – and begin an immediate retreat, burning the land as they march. Sangal-Jast and Fehu, the Mihoza general, make a curious dance of it, the former always slipping out of the latter's grasp. The Draghai refuse to give battle, and the frustrated and inexperienced forces of the Federation army begin to break formation and race ahead of their fellows in an effort to catch them.

    One cannot run forever. The wearied Draghai stop in the foothills of the Kahelawe Mountains and prepare to make a stand. The first cohorts of the Myridna force, having outrun their comrades, are decimated with ease, but they are mere morsels before the feast. When the full force of the Federation arrives, it blackens out the horizon.

    For some time, the two armies merely wait, observing one another. An escaped Myridna captive brings a tale of the Draghai camp to Fehu of the Mihoza. In a scene heard by many, Seharaj-Jast exploded in fury at her brother – he has put their backs to the mountains, and left them with nowhere to run. Sangal-Jast, ever calm, merely told her she is free to leave if she wishes. A loud and heated dispute followed, with the Princes parting in anger. Discord in the enemy ranks – the Federation commanders dare to hope.

    And indeed, in the morning, half of the Draghai host has disappeared. Only Sangal-Jast's banner flies above the camp now. Gone into the mountains, the scouts suggest, and though no sign of them can be found, Fehu of the Mihoza knows they cannot waste time pondering. He orders the attack to begin at nightfall.

    The Draghai lines make a spectacle of their own – uniform ranks of gleaming bronze and fluttering crimson banners in their thousands. They beat upon their shields with the pommels of their curving blades and howl in their strange bestial voices at their foes. As the day progresses, lone warriors come to march out with gory trophies of dead and mutilated Myridna warriors and leave them on the field to be seen by the Federation soldiers.

    The recruits are, unsurprisingly, unnerved. Fehu, hearing of these displays, merely laughs. 'Let them taste fear in turn,' he orders, and summons his kinsmen. In the evening dark, they begin their work.

    The power of the Mihoza is control over beasts, and those the Federation has in plenty. The Draghai wait as thunderous noise and a cloud of dust rises on the horizon, preparing for the assault. It is not mortals soldiers who rush to fight them, however, but a great horde of armored Hrududu, Nym-Haggis and horned cattle, with lines of chain and barbed rope set between them to tear into flesh and bone. Their Mihoza handlers drive them into a frenzy and set them loose; like a living avalanche, the stampeding herd thunders forward and crashes into the Draghai lines.

    A force without the discipline and fanaticism of the Draghai could not withstand such an onslaught. Countless Draghai soldiers are trampled and cut apart; the lines are broken apart and hundreds of wounded left crying in agony on the ground. The formation reacts quickly, however; the back ranks open up to let the animals pass them as much as possible, and the injured are dragged to safety. Sangal-Jast has spear-armed warriors and mages drive the animals through their camp and into the hills beyond, though it leaves the place in chaos and the supply carts scattered into pieces.

    The Myridna are not experienced in war; a better commander than Fehu might order an assault right on the trail of this rampage, but instead the Mihoza general waits and waits for the dust to clear. The Draghai are given ample time to reform. When he at last orders the attack, the enemy line is seemingly untouched – though the cries of countless wounded soldiers from the rear reveals the illusion.

    The Myridna and their allies cross the field and charge their enemy. Thousands of bold young braves with everything to prove launch themselves into the Draghai ranks with their axes and spears and swords swinging wildly. Arrows rain down into the enemy formation in the hopes of slipping through the gaps of shield and armor.

    Legends are born that day, on both sides. The sheer weight of numbers presses the Draghai lines hard. They exact a dismal price for each of their number felled. Ranks fall and are replaced by their comrades in the rear, but with each assault, there are fewer Draghai to step forward. Fehu, smelling the blood on the air, commits more and more forces into the attack.

    It is long past midnight when his one of his scouts rushes into the tent to report bodies of lookouts found dead in their rear. Before he can answer, the man is cut down by a Druyul appearing as if out of nowhere. Fehu can only watch in horror as thousands of unclothed Druyul in their natural chameleon state appear all over his camp, falling upon his retinue with just their Vigor-enhanced fangs and claws.

    These warriors are only the harbinger. In the rear of the Federation army, Seharaj-Jast's host reveals itself; weary after a careful and arduous movement unclothed and unarmed to circle around to the rear of the Myridna forces and to the weapons buried in the earth days before, but well eager to fall upon their foes. A storm of magical fury precedes the assault and a false dawn breaks out over the battlefiefld. The Draghai warriors rush howling through the command camp and into the rear of the Federation army.

    An attack from behind and such spectacular displays of magic throws the almost-triumphant Federation force into a panic. The rear ranks break first and run for their lives, discarding their weapons, with their cries unnerving those in the front. Though reduced to a fraction of its strength, Sangal-Jast's host now charges forward as well – knowing that his sister's forces, unarmored as they are, would fall all too easily if the enemy was allowed to turn and face them. Under attack from both sides, their opponents break. They are cut down by their thousands when they turn their backs to the foe.

    The Federation army routs, leaving tens of thousands slain and trampled on the field. Only the fighting retreat of the host of Emblatha at its heart denies the Draghai the chance to pen it up and slaughter it in full, and they pay a heavy price for it. Nevertheless, the battle is lost, and if the Draghai have suffered grave casualties, they have broken the enemy doing so.

    In the aftermath, the two Princes confer. Sangal-Jast knows them to be severely weakened and calls upon them to consolidate and wait for reinforcement from the two other Princes. Seharaj-Jast looks upon the pitiful state of her brother's remaining force and is filled with a burning ambition. If she seized her chance now, she could win all credit for this campaign, and without doubt follow her father to the Flame Eternal.

    'We will march for Takohane, my dear brother,' she says, 'and put an end to these wretches. If you seek to stop me, I shall bind you in chains of air and drag you there myself.'

    With his host now so much smaller than his sister's, and thinking of what the future may hold, Sangal-Jast chooses to comply. The tired and bloodied Draghai forces begin their march the next day, seeking to take the Federation capital left undefended by this victory.

    ***​

    Horror takes the Mihoza elders in the capital when the dregs of their once-mighty army begin to trickle to the city. Some dare whisper of surrender, but more determined heads prevail. The orders go out to the Dawn Guard at the border – they must march for the capital and leave the west unguarded, whatever the price for that may come to be. The very existence of the Federation is at stake.

    Soon, the Draghai are at the gates. There are no forces to give battle, but modest walls guard the city, an imitation of Emblatha's famous bastions. The remains of the army are hemmed in inside the walls, and Takohane prepares for siege. Overcrowded and beset by panic, riots soon become almost daily, and plagues – some say the Great Plague of the last age, resurgent – begin to afflict the population.

    At his sister's behest, Sangal-Jast orchestrates a skillful siege. The cordon is near impenetrable. The city will fall soon enough or starve itself to death, he explains to his sister, but Seharaj-Jast remains impatient. When news reach them of Federation forces on the move from the western border, she grows even more restless. Time is not on their side.

    Soon enough, she has had enough of waiting. The Draghai are mustered for an assault. The war-mages, led by the Prince, are to breach the walls with their power. The legionnaries shall charge through the gap and take the city from the inside. No trickery or strategems shall be needed this time, she says, only the power she has gathered.

    As she commands, so it shall be done. The war-mages are tired, but they strain themselves to do her bidding. Led by their Prince, they bombard the city wall with magic until it begins to crack and crumble. Counter-craft from magic-wielding defenders of the city kills many of their number in the process; most of those who survive die anyway, burnt out and consumed by powers they grow too weary to wield safely.

    Yet the walls break, and so Seharaj-Jast deems their sacrifice worth it. She cannot turn from the path. To a mind so honed in will and focus, hesitation means failure. The Draghai assault begins.

    The defenders have nowhere left to run, and so they must hold. They fight with the stubborness of a cornered animal. The first attack is repelled, then the second, even the third. Eventually, Sangal-Jast calls for the Draghai to halt the attack, ignoring his sister's wrath.

    'Tomorrow, then,' she says. 'We shall renew the attack, and this time you and I shall be there to lead it.'

    'You, perhaps,' Sangal-Jast says, 'but I do not court my death so eagerly.'

    When the attack on the second day of the assault comes, Seharaj-Jast is there to lead it. Burning fiercely with magical power, nearing divinity, she cuts through the defenders as if they were not there at all. Under this onslaught the defense breaks at last. Seharaj-Jast's forces pursue them through every alley and every square, spreading out to hunt an ever-fragmenting enemy; a hundred different battles are fought inside the city, making heroes and Legend of ordinary people just the same as warriors.

    The battles have reached the Hall of Miho in the center of the city, the seat of the Federation's power, when horns are heard blowing in the south-west. The Dawn Guard arrives. The sight of the burning and breached city fills their hearts with despair – have they come too late? - but they join the fray nevertheless. These reinforcements attack Sangal-Jast's reduced force outside the city. Many of the Dawn Guard carry weapons of iron – the secret of the Highland Myridna, won from their warriors in border skirmishes – and bear scars from years of fighting. They have no fear of the enemy, and soon enough Sangal-Jast is forced to order retreat.

    Seharaj-Jast, hearing of this, goes into a rage. To be robbed of her triumph by the cowardice of her brother at this hour! She climbs the city wall and begins to fling lightning and flame upon the Federation elites, drawing deeper and deeper of her cultivated magical power.

    Even the child of a god has their limit. She does not feel the strain growing and the pain in her veins as she demands too much and too quickly. She knows only that greatness and divinity await.

    In a shocking, painful gasp, Seharaj-Jast finds that limit. Her powers leave her. She staggers in place, unable to comprehend what has happened, suddenly tired beyond words. She slumps to her knees, and feels a shadow fall upon her.

    Many tales are told of Seharaj-Jast's slayer in later times, ascribing the fact to many great heroes and names of Legend. It is Ingra the Slave, however, who strikes the blow. Having escaped from the Draghai and made a new life here, hiding from the invaders on the wall, she now comes face to face once more with her oppressor. Ingra does not hesitate. She cuts the Draghai's throat with a dead friend's sickle as if she was cutting wheat. It is a simple act, and she never seeks fame or credit for it. It is a simple death, and some part of Seharaj-Jast knows to wail in impotent fury for that.

    But it is not the end of the Siege. It is, by many accounts, the first moment of the beginning of the end of all things.

    Zainul-Jast, God-Emperor of the Draghai Druyul, Ascendant God of the Flame, feels his daughter die. He perceives the turning of the tide and the imminent collapse of the invasion. Though it leavess the Ziggurat and the Flame undefended, he knows he must act. Tearing open reality itself, Zainul-Jast shapes a bridge of divine fire in the image of the cosmic Paths between the Ziggurat and the Myridna city across the sea.

    So it is that the Celestial Fire Emperor takes to the field, and in his wake comes the dreaded Tyrant's Legion, now devoted to the Draghai conqueror.

    Zainul-Jast kills without emotion. His task is one given to him by the Architect, and those before him are mere obstacles to be cleared. Where his gaze falls, the warriors of the Myridna turn to ash inside their armor. Where his voice carries, men and women fall to the ground weeping in horror. Faced with a living god, the Myridna force is brought to the verge of breaking completely.

    And so it would break, but not for the return of the Usurper. Sensing his rival's presence, Sang-Pa, the Thief of Fire, descends over the battlefield. Healed of his wounds with the blessing of a Maker, the Umbral goes to stand between Zainul-Jast and his victory.

    The two lesser gods watch each other in silence for a long moment. They do not need words to communicate what they think. For Zainul-Jast, it is a chance to finish off an usurper he failed to vanquish last time. For Sang-Pa, it is a chance for revenge.

    The battlefield below falls silent as the gods go to war. The skies scar and crack in that contest. The Unseen twists and shakes from the reflected ruin of its twin. For the gods, it lasts an aeon; for the mortals watching, it is a matter of moments. The end is the same, regardless. The Usurper, Sang-Pa, lances the Emperor with a bolt of crackling flame and smites his broken form across the battlefield. A canyon five hundred paces deep is gouged into the earth where he falls, and wild bursts of the Flame of Chaos warp and tear the land around him.

    Zainul-Jast is dead. The Draghai, for all their discipline, cannot withstand the sight. They break, Sangal-Jast foremost among them. As they run, they cry out mindlessly to the one power that stands even above their master.

    And the Architect hears them.

    ***​

    PART III: THE TWILIGHT OF THE GODS WILL FOLLOW.
     
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    • Man, so glad that you're finally back to one last hurrah of this quest. I'm going to miss this and hope that someone does pick up the setting. These two updates were amazing.
     
    Photomajig said:
    Zainul-Jast is dead. The Draghai, for all their discipline, cannot withstand the sight. They break, Sangal-Jast foremost among them. As they run, they cry out mindlessly to the one power that stands even above their master.

    And the Architect hears them.
    Click to expand...
    Click to shrink...

    Dies iræ, dies illa,
    Solvet sæclum in favilla:
    Teste David cum Sibylla.    ​

    That's right, it was ME all along! Ignore the Outer Gods or that one giant bird, I was the true main villain of the quest!

    Jokes aside it's genuinely amazing how we've all come together to form this chaotic planet that's descending into war. I really, really hope that someone sets a story in this setting by the end of it. Great work, Photo!
     
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    The fact that nothing was mentioned of the Claíomh (that orb the Druyul emperor wore) scares me lol. It's probably floating somewhere in that canyon that contains the Emperor's body.

    Also, First Draghai Invasion? Oh boy
     
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