(Written by
@Revlid with my approval)
"What are you gonna do, dunk me in the river?"
-Marius Flussmann, Kemperbad wool merchant
"Alright, Jaug, pull him up. We don't want a drowning on our hands, and I'm sure Herr Flussmann is willing to consider our reasonable offer with fresh eyes."
-Misericord Fleetfinger, Duly Appointed Commercial Ambassador of the New Imperial Wool Board
"Ya. Now he's cooled his head."
-Jaug Kneebreaker, Duly Appointed Commercial Ambassador of the New Imperial Wool Board (Assistant)
Woolly Thinking
As Nachexen rolled over into Jahrdrung, a new proposal was being pushed through the trade boards and quangos of Marienburg, its passage greased by more than the usual coin and blackmail-is-such-a-crude-word. Carefully copied (and, where necessary, edited) accounts and graphs showed how effectively the New Moot Wool Board had stabilized the wool prices of the haffengilde against the fluctuations of the last two years. To some, that was enough justification in itself to expand the idea. Others needed a little nudge - a whisper that surely they couldn't just let the halflings gang up without any
proper oversight, a rumour that wool prices were set to plummet as Natternland plunged into the market, a tallied sheet showing just how badly they could put the boots to Kemperbad - but by month's end, the Imperial Wool Board was well underway.
From an unassuming yet well-furnished Marienburg guildhouse, the future of the Empire's wool trade was unilaterally charted and decided upon. The decisions made here would flow down the River Reik like blood through the Empire's veins - or more accurately, like a fleet of heavily-provisioned wool-inspection sloops manned by Norscans and ogres and helmed by halfling wool-merchants with an eye for a bargain and a talent for aggressive negotiation.
On a local scale, this bold new regime saw few immediately visible changes. Shepherds and weaving communities along the Reik simply found that their usual buyers wore new badges or had been firmly replaced - and though many were sceptical of the Wool Board's claims, years of market fluctuation made the idea of a fixed income a welcome one. It was liberation, the Wool Board's agents trumpeted, from the tyranny of chance and the blood-sucking of local merchants. Those who were less enthusiastic (or more entrepreneurial) found themselves isolated and outbid, their cargo "compulsorily purchased" at a discount.
The Wool Board's reception was doubtless helped by the fact that it was able to set a reasonably attractive rate. In any other year, the political complexities rapidly and violently engulfing Stirland and Averland would have wool prices higher than the haffengilde could afford to monopolize, but the Board's own reserves of wool, stockpiled in the glut years of Stirland flooding the market, kept the wider market stable and its own offer competitive. More pressingly, it was saving a sizeable sum of money by cutting out the middlemen between Marienburg and the Empire's traditional Wool Country.
"Isn't this a beauty? A fellow like me, I couldn't use a gun like this. Too long, you see, too hefty for a halfling. Why, I'd wager that just pulling the trigger on this sort of rifle would knock me over like a Helmsbaum sapling in a storm! You, on the other hand, seem like exactly the sort of man who could put this fine Nulner craftsmanship to good use. Just look at those arms! Forget these rifles, I think you could carry around a proper cannon! Yes indeed, we do have a few in the hold. Me, I think I'll stick with this little Hochland darling. Exquisite craft, isn't it? That's what you get with Morgwache, after all. Reliable, elegant, precise as Brettonian embroidery. Doesn't have the sheer stopping power you'll get from Nulnworks, but take it from me - it's not always size that counts! No, no, mister, I'll hear no talk of coin, here. This is a token of the Imperial Wool Board's esteem. We're each fighting for the rights of the common man, in our own way. Aren't we?"
Levelling the Market
Many of the smaller merchants disenfranchised by the Wool Board could continue their livelihood in its service, as buyers and graders, a choice that was greatly simplified by the presence of ogre muscle when such offers were made. Other middlemen were less fortunate, as landlords and Kemperbad trade guilds found themselves wholly cut out of the formula.
Those who attempted to flout the Imperial Wool Board's new mandate found reasonable success in local sales, for the Wool Board had little ability to interfere in town-to-town business. On the major waters of Empire, however, it was a force to be reckoned with. The Imperial Wool Board Customs Fleet scoured the Rivers Reik, Aver, and Stir alongside the Marienburg 2nd Fleet, ensuring compliance with all the subtlety of the ogre marines stomping across its decks. Seemingly overnight, wool became risky contraband, hotter than black lotus or wyrdstone for a fraction of the profit.
In Averland and Stirland, the Wool Board's representatives bought wool directly from the countryside, further reducing their costs and bypassing the hefty dues imposed by local landlords. The word spread quickly among the Red Doves of Averland, delighted by a peaceful means of seizing the means of profit - they had no need for these scheming leeches, not with a market ready to buy straight from them! In turn, terrified rumour gripped the hearts of empty-fisted landowners along the River Aver - the halflings were stealing their damned wool!
Unable and unwilling to compete with the security of a guaranteed income, many local landlords resorted to more forceful means of revenue collection. This was
their land, these were
their workers, and that was
their wool, and damn any Wasteland half-pint who thought otherwise. The first major attempt to extort "wool dues" took place in a weaving community on the outskirts of Lengenfeld - and was decisively scattered by Markus Engel's Kinship of the Hammer, festooned with firearms that far outclassed the Averland enforcers' own weaponry. The New Moot made no secret of the source of these guns - in these anarchic times, why would they
not arm the noble shepherds who supplied the Empire with wool? How else would they keep themselves safe from the brigands, beasts, and other… unscrupulous sorts rampaging across the countryside?
As Stirland's civil war dragged on and the headless Averland dived into a power struggle of its own, many outside of Wool Country privately conceded that they had a point. By the end of the year, faced with the horrors unfolding in the Black League, the consensus was clear. What safety could be found in such lands, beyond the barrel of a Nuln handgun? The Levellers themselves, already suspicious of authority and now flush with coin, guns, and vindication, took a slightly different perspective: a gun was the only difference between a free man, and a slave.
Dear ma
I am okay! I know you will be worried, so I want to assure you that I am alive and I still have all my toes. Bessie and Belle are alive too, and all the other sheep - except for Belinda, who was eaten on the voyage. I am quite afraid, I admit, and it is very cold here in Norsca, but I am trying to think of this as an opportunity, like Uncle Brandyport always says. After all, if I keep my spirits up, I may be the very first halfling shepherd to graze the fields of the Bjornlings! That would be a real coup for our family business, I am sure of it.
This piece of paper is very small, but Mr. Skjel has promised to bring back your reply from Marienburg if I raise these sheep properly. They are very big on oaths here, and also very big in general, which is probably why they need so much wool. Please respond with the largest sheets of paper possible, and I will use the back of your reply to give more details of life in Norsca, though I will warn you now that marriage prospects seem low.
Let me know if Botho is alright. He was minding the field when the ships arrived, but I have not seen him in Norsca.
Forever your loving child
Mindo Longsocks
Aggressive Human Resources Acquisition Strategy
The ambitions of this new trading bloc could not be confined to internal regulation and trade. Marienburg's mercantile network stretched the length and breadth of the Old World, and even touched upon more exotic locales beyond its commonly-acknowledged borders. As the Imperial Wool Board began to throw around its considerable newfound weight, gifts of high-grade Imperial wool found their way to Bretonnian damsels, Norscan jarls, and even the royal carpet-weavers of Araby's princes and sultans.
The Wool Board pushed the Empire into foreign markets, trumpeting both quality and quantity while leveraging its tightening stranglehold on exports and grading. Unsurprisingly, the New Moot's wool-sellers found themselves advantaged in these negotiations, receiving a modest but noticeable mark-up in grading and prices compared to their competitors.
Teething difficulties were to be expected in any changing market, and first among these were the growing numbers of Norscan traders who frequented Marienburg's ports. Wool was a desireable luxury for many of these charm-strung merchants, and a borderline necessity for those sailing further North, and while the wealthier among them could take advantage of the new varieties and grades on offer, the Imperial Wool Board's strong bargaining position clashed with the pfennig-pinching culture of Norscan traders.
Such clashes never escalated under the watchful eye of Eyebiter enforcers, but getting one over the Wool Board became a mark of pride for any Norscan merchant. Across Marienburg, hard bargains were backed with cold steel, and Norscan coin greased palms outside of Wool Board warehouses. Skraeling elders waxed lyrical in dockside drinking dens about the days when they'd take whatever sheep they wanted, not waste good coin buying nothing but their shavings. Perhaps unsurprisingly, some listened.
Knarr Saudahus, a young and ambitious follower of Godscoin himself, departed Marienburg in the depths of Brauzeit with an empty hold. A week later, a hysterical halfing mother was telling anyone who'd listen that there were goblins in the marshes, for she'd gone to visit her dim-wit of a son and found everything had been taken: the sheep, the shepherds, and even the shears.
And in a world where the shadow of the Vampire Wars had fallen across the East, there were few who'd listen indeed.
Was you ever in Eilenhaam, fightin' waves until they're calm
Where you'll break your bleeding arm, swinging down a hammer?
Way hey and away we go hammer swingin' hammer swingin'
Way hey and away we go swinging down a hammer!
Was you ever in Carroburg, where boys and girls can cut the rug?
They waggle their arse and offer a hug, so swing down with your hammer!
Way hey and away we go hammer swingin' hammer swingin'
Way hey and away we go swinging down a hammer!
Was you ever in Wurtbad's port, where the rich man's queen runs awful short?
She'll pay her debts when Gerreon's caught, swinging down a hammer!
Way hey and away we go hammer swingin' hammer swingin'
Way hey and away we go swinging down a hammer!
Was you ever in Hargendorf, where the wolf howls out that he's runnin' North?
Where Sigmar's law is goin' forth, swinging down a hammer!
Way hey and away we go hammer swingin' hammer swingin'
Way hey and away we go swinging down a hammer!
The Marienburg Reformation
In the spring of 2206, holiness was in the air at Marienburg. Not the blessed salt of Manann, so entrenched in the city's very atmosphere, but a new and fiery flavour that sat ashen on the tongue. Sigmarite priests, stern and shaven graduates from Ostland seminaries, had made their way to the Westerlands on Astrid's command and Ysjbraant's invitation, bringing with them the word of the iron hammer. Young, well-educated, and fiercely devout, many of these priests were the younger children of Ostland nobility, quick to impress their faith upon Marienburg's own highborn houses, quick to draw on coastal links not shared by Wissenland's own Sigmarite factions.
The war-priests among the Ostlanders' ranks were assigned to De Marinierregiment, reinforcing Westerland's defenders as a sign of the freshly forged friendship between the two states. These chaplains offered a welcoming ear to any soldier with a grievance to share, but encountered difficulties almost immediately. The first clash came with the merchant officers, who disliked the idea of their subordinates having a private place to complain about executive decisions. If there was anything such indolent loafers wished to say, they could say it to their faces! And, subsequently, receive a good keel-hauling.
In another force, such conflicts of interest likely would have settled down over the coming year. Unfortunately, tensions were stoked by the presence of Manannite war-priests already attached to De Marinierregiment. What claim, they wished to know, did Sigmar place on the soldiers of the sea? What business did his priests have with Marienburg's marines? Had they come all this way just to hammer in ship's nails? Perhaps these "priests" were simply Ostlander spies - a charge that the Sigmarites condemned as all too rich, given the Manannites' own reputation for double-dealing.
As priest jockeyed with priest, the forces of De Marinierregiment became noticeably divided - first down religious lines, and again down political ones set by the relative attitudes of officers and troops. It was a tension of transfers and exchanges, of brawls and mealtimes, of sermons and sneers - and while the army's discipline and the relative restraint of its priestly contingents made outright eruptions few and far between, it was a tension that seemed unlikely to evaporate any time soon.
"I am called here, from all the way across the Tilean Sea, to cursed Magritta and savage Bibali, to fair Brionne and chilly L'Anguille, I complete my long journey to this swamp-stuck city of Marienburg, and what does this Hog-man tell me? Austere, he tells me. Stoic. Severe. Bare. Modest! Very well! I shall give him precisely what he asks for, and let no man say that Lorenzo Giandinini is not a man of his word! It is the mark of a great artist to transcend such limitations, to draw creativity from adversity. Modest? As Myrmidia is my witness, by the time I am done here, Marienburg shall be the most modest city in the world!"
-Lorenzo Giandinini, famed sculptor
A City for the Gods
While the strict sermons and harsh moralizing of the Austere dogma had little theological appeal for those who held Marienburg's pursestrings, the aesthetic of austerity took the city's fashions by storm. Young ladies in severe and unadorned dresses which cost more than an entire village's yearly income turned heads at every ball, rival families smugly condemned each others' obvious extravagances while loudly trumpeting their own restraint, and Ysjbraant himself stirred up support for a grand campaign of rebuilding Marienburg to match its newly Austere sensibilities. In the style of ancient Tilea, naturally, for that chic stark facade.
As the year rolled forth, gold flowed into the pockets of work crews as they tore down buildings and raised pillars of white marble, temples of smooth stone and bleached wood, even a vast acropolis that devoured the old Guilderveld. Statues sprung up like saplings, streets were relaid and widened, and the Great Pyramid of Thumis entered the last stages of reconstruction, a new capstone prepared for the ancient stones that had been shipped from Nehekhara and carefully reassembled piece-by-piece. Nowhere, the city seemed to declare, would there be room for Wissenland's uncultured decadence - no, theirs was a more cultured decadence by far.
Most prominent among these monuments was a set of statues, personally raised by the famed artist and architect Lorenzo Giandinini. Dubbed the Four Gods, these five grand constructs loomed over the streets where they stood. Sigmar the Austere and Manann the Sea-King crossed hammer with trident over those ships who passed into Marienburg from Rijker's Isle, while Manann Wavebreaker and Haendryk Coinriver clasped hands in a silent bargain over the Kruiersmurr.
Of particular interest was the last of the Four Gods: the grand statue of Myrmidia, a colossus of marble and bronze plate which straddled her Marienburg temple. The goddess' upper body remained shrouded in white construction sheets well after all work ceased, at Yjsbraant's command - for he wished her grand unveiling to be a moment to remember, held on her holy day after his triumphant return from icy Ostland.
Lord Manann, King of the Seas, Master of the Tides,
I bathe this mortal child in your waters,
that you may hear our prayer.
I join his blood with your blood, with the salt of the Great Sea,
that bottomless vault from whence all things came
and shall return.
Grant him your favour, oh Summoner of Storms, as he honours you in turn,
and let him stand forever at the eye of your wrath.
I wash this mortal child again, Manann.
Let your waters take from him the dirt of his unworthy life,
and polish for him the gold of his valour and virtue.
I drown this mortal child, Manann,
and in this drowning, he dies, and in this death, he is reborn
from the waters of your mother.
Let him be as a brother and a son to you, o Maker of Maelstroms,
And ride forever upon the waves of your will.
A Much-Needed Vacation
As summer ripened on the branch, ripe to bursting and ready to fall, Prince Konstantin journeyed to the West. It was a modest procession, a riverborne entourage of a mere hundred greatswords and several dozen suspiciously well-armed butlers, secretaries, food tasters, and assorted staff, sailing down the River Reik toward the Westerlands, each opulent barge draped in wolf-pelts and carved with the snarling lupine figureheads of defeated Middenland. This was to be a honeymoon
without the bride, an arrangement that suited all parties concerned.
Some might have said that Konstantin departed Talabecland with indecent haste, fleeing his marital obligations to seek comfort in Marienburg's foetid dens, but such gossipers could not countermand the Prince's holy purpose. The Elector of Reikland had set out for the Grand Cathedral of Manann, that most mercurial of divinities, to commemorate his newfound faith. A noble son of Sigmar he was and would remain, but the waxing cult of the Sea-King had won a place in his soul, and Konstantin meant to honour his god in person. And should his schedule include a number of other, more entertaining pitstops, well, it was the duty of any visiting dignitary to grace the locals with their presence.
The news of Ostland's fall arrived as Konstantin's convoy sailed through Marienburg's gates. Panic and disbelief trickled from the docks like water held in cupped hands, rushed through the riverine streets like rain running downhill, soaked from the ground-up into every guildhall and counting house. As the Prince admired the looming visage of Haendryk, a footman leaned forward and whispered into his ear. Konstantin stormed to his cabin, and was not seen for an hour.
It was a much-composed Elector that emerged to face the people of Marienburg in his procession toward the Grand Cathedral of Manann, an unconcerned mask that, it was hoped, would reassure the shaken crowds who had gathered to watch. He was met with great ceremony by a conclave of the Stormcaller's highest priests, though Matriach van Moddenjonge herself was not in attendance - Konstantin evinced no surprise, greeting the priests as though all was proceeding as expected. He emerged some time later, a new man. And if a few loose-lipped altar-youths had any intention of spreading malicious rumours about, say, a near-hysterical shouting match that employed language so foul it tarnished the ceremonial silver, such plans were doused with a quiet word and a bag of coin from one of Konstantin's cold-eyed attendants.
Many expected his journey to be cut short, but Konstantin made no immediate departure. Instead, he enquired after the expected arrival of Yjsbraant and van Moddenjonge, had his staff reshuffle his itinerary to fit, and sallied forth into a city on the brink of panic. In a gold-encrusted carriage that stood out like a gauche beetle in the newly "Austere" streets of Marienburg, Konstantin observed each of the Four Gods, quietly admired the Tilean lines of the Guildercropolis, and even visited the newest Temple of Sigmar to be raised in the city. As the day progressed, his staff noted that his mood seemed to approve, his behaviour normalizing. He demanded without success to be given an early peek at Myrmidia's face, asked after several houses of ill-repute that had been relocated by ongoing building works, and needed to be politely, insistently, physically dragged away from his diplomatic meeting with the reptilian Aztlani priests who dwelt in isolation within the Meyer compound.
Yes, the situation in Ostland was a shock, but Konstantin, it seemed, was living proof that the Empire could recover. All it needed was a moment to catch its breath, a moment to square its jaw against the undead scourge to the North.
Then, the skeletons attacked.
"This is a remarkable example of what we refer to as the Fourth Dynasty artistry. You see the way the nose has been sculpted, here? That's very characteristic of this era. Now, you might think it unlikely that such impressive architecture could have been achieved by a gathering of simple desert tribes, and you'd be right! Some of our finest minds are hard at work on just that very problem, and we've come to believe that most of these pyramids were actually built by ancient elven colonies, possibly for the same purpose as their mysterious "waystones", but far larger. When those colonies were abandoned, the primitive Nehekharans would have built their own cities around the- what? What the hell was that noise?"
Lost and Found
Still tending to repairs from their inland clashes the previous year, the Marienburg 2nd had been relegated to guard duty, patrolling the Westerlands coast against reavers, foreign Norscans, and other unwelcome-but-familiar faces. The fleet that drifted through Manannspoort Sea responded to no hails, and matched no ships known to the captains of the 2nd. It moved forward heedless of tide or wind, steady as a metronome, long ranks of oars striking the waves in perfect time.
No voices cried out across those decks, no feet stamped across their decks. There was only the hammer of the oar-drums, a heartbeat of monstrous proportions echoed across half a dozen great ships and their many attendant vessels, each slamming the drums in perfect unity until it seemed the waters themselves must ripple at the sound.
As the fleet moved to intercept, they cast eyes directly upon the grandest of these barques. Perhaps 300 cubits long, the ship bore not one but five figureheads, spaced along its prow and gunwale. They were so large as to loom over the vessel itself, each a grand muscled giant of shining white wood, armed with gleaming blades and elegant bows that must dwarf the ship's crew. The watchers marvelled at the craft of the barque's hull, scrimshawed in gold and ivory and lapis, and relaxed for a moment. Marienburg was no stranger to absurd displays of wealth. Marius Hsalnaugt, merchant captain of the 2nd, commanded his ship closer, squinting for a glimpse of the great vessel's crew as he shaded his eyes against the sun.
Then the sun came to him.
As bells rang and men screamed, the fleet of dead Thumis advanced across the waves like a ghost through a crowded ballroom. As sails burned in arcs of blinding light and great mouldering wings took to the sky from mast-bound perches, the fleet of dead Thumis stalked toward Marienburg, a vulture settling upon a lion sweet with rot. As arrows speckled the red-slick decks and the first cannons roared their reply, the fleet of dead Thumis sailed beneath the stern hammer-and-trident of Sigmar and Manann, sailed toward the Great Pyramid that sat on the shoreline, strung up in scaffolding like a poached pheasant left to dangle in view of its lord.
Cannonballs ripped through bleached wood, to reveal ivory oarsmen who rowed on like the exposed guts of a grim clockwork toy. Carrion birds plucked men screaming from their ships, giant beaks tearing off gobbets of flesh that fell from their hollow bellies to the decks below. Men and women marshalled at walls and towers that shook under the bombardment of burning stones, longships were launched from harbours with a Norscan warcry, and a lone, wizened soul stood tall aboard that grand barque, stretching limbs that ached with the labour of aeons, and raised his staff.
It was an earthquake. It was a firestorm. It was a break in the clouds of reality, a shaft of light that illuminated the Great Pyramid's golden capstone, a divine finger reaching out to touch the world. And as all of Marienburg screamed that Van Hel had come for the city, that van Hoogmans-Palutano was dead in a foreign land and the Vampire Wars were upon them already, the Great Pyramid began to move. It ground forward like a serpent of stone, uncoiling across the acropolis and leaving broken earth and crimson smears in its wake. It slithered through the air and over the waves, onto the empty deck of the grand barque, assembling like a battalion before its commander.
And then the dead fleet of Thumis departed, heedless of the damage in its wake, the statues shattered at the heels, the screaming fires still consuming piers, the sinking barques and the eternal crews who would claw their way out of the waterfront in the coming days. Its ships broke off in eerie concert, conducted by a drumbeat that would haunt the dreams of Marienburg children for years to come, harried over the horizon by the rallying elements of the 2nd Fleet. And then it was gone, like a thief in the night.
All that was left, in its wake, was to ask questions. Where had the fleet come from? Why had it left? What were the city's losses? Who was in charge? Who was at fault? Where was Prince Konstantin? Some scoffed that the so-called war hero had clearly fled at the first sign of trouble, but hours turned to days, and worry became outright panic. Agents rifled through known Kaiserjaeger safehouses and stormed houses of ill-repute, desperate for some sign of Reikland's ruler. Eventually, some organized soul on His Illustrious Majesty's secretarial staff thought to dig out the Prince's itinerary for his visit to Marienburg, and the mystery was solved.
It was little wonder that no-one had been able to find Konstantin. The very next item on his schedule had been a guided tour of the Great Pyramid of Thumis… and its interior.
---------------
The sun is bright, and hell is hot.
A cup is raised, blue lacquer and polished silver clasped in careful hands. Wine pours between dry lips, a river as rich and gold as a sunset. A drop trickles from one corner of an open mouth, tracing its path down leathery brown skin. White cloth daubs the golden bead away, quick and delicate as a painter's brush. Not a muscle moves in the bark-dry throat. A hand gestures "stop", parchment stretched across twigs, and the cup is set down on the table before you. The cloth darts out once more, to dry those paper-thin lips, and then is gone.
As you watch, the oiled serving boy before you shifts to the other side of his lord's golden seat, dark muscles gleaming under this foreign sun. He retrieves a second vessel before lowering himself to one knee, and deftly tucks a tube of varnished reed into the depths of his master's robes, feeding it deeper and deeper with quick, deferential motions. Within moments, a thin stream of date-wine starts to leak back into the cup. His lord ignores the procedure in its entirety, staring at you down the length of the table. You try not to take offense. After all, the thought floats through your mind on a gust of hysteria, it's not as though he can blink, and at least your host is
always smiling.
When the stone doors slammed shut, you had thought this was some manner of prank. An extremely ill-judged jape by Luccinanto, to impart the authentic atmosphere of this vast tomb. Several moments of shouting by your bodyguards failed to yield a response, and as you took in the wide-eyed incredulity of your guide, another thought settled into your gut, to burn with disbelieving fury. You'd been had. It wasn't the White Wolves, or Todbringer, or Carroburg, or your own bloody engineers or any of the circling vultures you'd dodged for years, no,
this was how they got you. Somehow, that rat-weasel Norscan-loving motherless Wasteland
vögelnjunge had decided he needed to be rid of you, now of all times, and thought sealing you away like a pile of Von Carstein ashes would do the trick.
What must have been days later, as your greatswords watched the sweating tour guide with speculative eyes, you'd come to suspect that he might have been right. Then the doors had ground open, yawning wide to reveal a silk-blue sky, sunlight gleaming on serried rows of ivory like polished dragon's teeth, and you knew that you'd already entered the halls of Morr.
Your host opens eyes he doesn't have. Two midnight hollows stare out at you, empty as the night sky. Sweat trickles down your brow. You can't look away from something that isn't there. In those withered sockets writhe invisible flames, like silent worms dancing in the depths of the ocean's abyss.His mouth creaks open once more, slow and deliberate, with a rattling wheeze. It's a noise you've heard on the battlefield, gurgled through blood and muffled by steel. A sound that echoed through the temples of Shallya when last you visited to donate, a handkerchief clasped over your mouth. A hiss like the one that shivered into your skull in that Carroburg hall, when you stared into the eyes of death himself.
The serving-boy pauses, nods, rises. His voice is delicate, heavily accented Estalian, spoken with a curious rhythm.
"His majesty, my liege, the mighty King Khabarakh, Third in the Fourth Dynasty of Thumis, bids you welcome to his glorious home, which in its immortal wonder may blind the barbarian eye. That your own sight remains clear is a credit to your noble breeding, mongrel though it may be, for the gaze of lesser men cannot withstand the solar beauty of the Shimmering Spire."
There's a quiet noise from a little way behind your chair, where Helmrich trembles in helpless fury. His greatsword is gone, but the man is still your bodyguard, and your hosts allowed his presence. You don't look to see what's wrong. You can't look away from those mad serpents of nothing, squirming in the naked depths of your captor's brain. Even if you could, you don't need to turn your head, don't need to see his face to know what they did to his
eyes...
"His majesty wishes to assure you that no harm will come to the royal personage of another land", the boy chimes in again. He's smiling pleasantly, his eyes like frosted gold chips, and your fingers grip the table so furiously that the varnish cracks under nails long with growth. "The savagery to which you are accustomed has no place here, in the heart of civilization. He bids you rejoice for your many blessings in this matter. It is his command that you offer ten oxen to Basth on your return, in thanks for your good fortune, and a further twenty oxen to Phakth, for the guiding hand of justice that has kept you from harm."
There is a pause. After a moment, the pleasant smile fades, and you realize this child actually expects a response. The silence drags on. You nod, slowly, painfully, like a deer bowing its antlers. You don't trust your voice, not after days in the tomb. You don't trust your temper, either. The smile reappears in an instant, as though painted onto his lips. Then the withered, gold-encrusted
thing opposite you wheezes again, and the boy raises his perfectly-plucked eyebrows.
"It is my king's wish that you understand your innocence in this matter. As it is written, a man may befriend a thief and yet steal nothing. Your trespass was made in ignorance, as we have heard, and it would be unworthy to condemn a dignitary for his poor education. My king feels no need to extract further recompense or exact further retribution from your crude fiefdoms. You shall be delivered to the Southern lands, and take with you the gift that is the memory of my king's holy personage. Be at ease, for he is content to end this inglorious matter here and today, under the sun. What was so blasphemously taken has been returned", and the boy's eyes flicker upward, to a point far above your head, "as our Arabyan friends might say, with 'interest'."
More servants glide forward, bearing plates of sticky fruits, glistening fish, and dark bread, but you wrench your head away to follow the boy's gaze. Standing high above you all, just as they once stood watch over Marienburg, are the colossal statues of Sigmar, Manann, and even Myrmidia herself - unveiled at last, in circumstances her creator had doubtless never dreamed. Your heart stops in your chest as the goddess of victory turns her pale marble head toward your table, her seamless neck grinding like a quarry at work. Bile rises in your throat. Of course.
Staring down at you, vast and impassive in cold marble, is the face of Jana von Moltke.
