“Who has instilled such a…” Greybeard searched for the words to finish his thought, “such a treasonous uprising amongst my people?”

The servant, ever the bearer of bad news, shifted his feet uneasily on the floor, gritted with sand, and made a note to tend to the curtains at the arrow slit which served as a window into the Royal Audience Chamber. “Religion, milord.”

Clearly taken aback, Greybeard knuckled his forehead as he starred down, seemingly through the thick stone floor into the rooms below. “What do you mean? Piousness had become the downfall of my Kingdom?”

“Yes,” the servant responded, looking down at his feet. “And, and no, my King.”

“Which is it, man? I haven’t all day for your stuttering ignorance. If you’ve got the news, preach it,”

“Sir, the religions, in unison, it seems, have done something. It is unclear what it will turn into, though it seems war may be at hand. A war not in the name of one’s king, one’s homeland, one’s freedom: a war of belief. Each church has ordered that it’s followers swear allegiance to the Church: loyalty to their god, not their king.”

“What insolence,” Ole Greybeard began, before quieting his tone. “Treason? Blatant treason. What shall they provide their followers with, next? An excuse for regicide? I want my personal guard doubled from now until this pathetic uprising blows over.”

“But, milord,”

“What is it now, you fool?”

“Your guard, sire, they are all men of religion, as well.” The servant once more hung his head on the bad news.

“That is enough of this religious nonsense! As of this Holy Day, no Onocrosian shall tend to religious duties of any kind, lest they face the Headsman. If that does not deter them, then it is the gallows. If not that, lynching. I will have no treasonous groups in my Kingdom.”

“B-but,” the servant stuttered.

“But what? Have you something to add, fool?” Knowing he’d truly be one to go on, the servant silently bowed his head. “Good. Then be gone. And pass the word on to the print-makers. No religious acts of any kind.”

* * *

In one of the less savory of inns, on one of the less savory of streets in Iksamar, a man of the blade sat alone, his pointed chin near his chest, his face seemingly looking only at his cup. Behind him he could hear the clear sounds of drunken fools peddling away their coin on drink and dice. The ever-familiar sound of Crowns dice rattling in a wooden cup, like obscure music, brought a touch of home to the never-before visited establishment.

He had just arrived in the Onocrosian capitol, and, naturally, was unaware of any news the city may have produced in the few days it had taken him to reach the city. Rather than seek out news through some man who claims to receive his word from some ‘secret informant in the castle of Ole Greybeard himself’, he opted to let his own mind sort out the fact from the grolgass fodder, and found one of the least respectable bars he could. A drunk’s tongue, he had quickly learned, slipped more than an obese inn owner on wet cobble. The easiest way to learn something was through the smell of ale.

In the same unsavory inn, was a young performer girl, up on a slightly elevated platform at the front that, despite holding the name, looked nothing like a stage. She had just finished performing a musical number which had her singing and dancing in ways that may have been frowned upon in another inn, perhaps any other inn, though when working for an innkeep, it was always best to please the patrons of his establishment. If more stocking than entirely ladylike was required, so be it.

She had requested a stool be brought on stage, nearly giggling like a young girl with her dolls in the grass when she spoke the word aloud, so she could sit while telling a narrative to the patrons before moving upstairs to her free in room: a staple in her performing. The stool was brought, and she sat. As she started to speak the words to her own special version of ‘The Hunt of Phallius Grey’, she scanned the room, looking to see how many of the patrons were too drunk to listen, and then again to see how many were angry that the story telling in no way involved the inappropriate showing of calves and thighs.

She was not surprised in the least at how many of the patrons fit into one of those groups, many in both. What did come as a surprise, though, was that there was a man who didn’t fit into either of these groups. He was quiet, and sitting by himself, two things that no other patron could attest to, nor did he seem to have had too much ale to walk out of the common room alone. Curious, she gazed upon the surprisingly sober man slightly longer than any other, before continuing to scan the faces of the angered drunks.

* * *

In a sandy clearing, down a sandy path in the hilly grasslands a day’s travel to the west of the Onocrosian capitol of Iksamar, a man of the dead sat at a heavy wooden desk, feet raised, eyes closed. His nostrils flared at the smell of the bits of flesh still attached to the bone-servant who entered the room. They flared again at the scent his meal made. Thoughts of how his life had made a turn for the best, when through the many arrow slits around the room came the sound of war drums.

Bolting up from his relaxed position, he found himself pulling his meal-bearing servant to pieces in order to form his bone scythe. Rushing through the halls, he passed the barracks panting, and fell into the stream of skeletal remains he had already mentally commanded to head for the outside. The thoughts of this man of the dead quickly turned to battle and the blood lust which he had for the art of necromancy. All ideas which revolved around this blood lust stopped before fully developed when the two minions leading the pack of the dead down the hall opened the heavy doors which lead toward the sounds.

The man’s jaw dropped, partially with surprise, more likely with dismay, as he saw the source of the war drums. Expecting to see an assortment of townsfolk, angered over their loss of livestock and civilians, he was less-than-pleased when he looked out onto a full caravan of the Onocrosian Army. Unbeknownst to anyone at the time, the last action the unit would ever make was the three-day trip they made from the east.

A man of the elements took a break from an endless journey under a tree just off the side of the beaten path some days before. When his eyes opened, he found that the sun was now hidden behind trees. He was about to rise to once more continue the journey to find some unknown missing part of himself, when he heard the sound of a drum, pounding out the beat of a march.

The sun to his back, he ducked down, and strode off, deeper into the foliage, away from the path. Hidden by the thick undergrowth, he waited, keen eyes watching the path with great intensity.

By the time the drummers had made their way into his line of sight, the pounding feet of men marching and creaking wheels of artillery all but decimated the sound of the drums. Curious, the man held back in the foliage. It had been far too long a time since he had seen a military gathering of such number for this to not be of some importance. He fell in behind the group, keeping to the foliage. Though it was a hard trek to make through the thick undergrowth, the column of military men were not hard to follow, and the tracks of the grolgass they used, as well as the thin, sometimes splinter-ridden tracks the artillery made served for an easy trail marker.

The man of the elements followed the column of Onocrosian military men for two days, never stopping without their previous halt, never setting camp more than a mile away, until they came to a clearing. In the centre of the sand clearly, approximately two miles wide and circular, was a short, stone building.

Moments later, the drum beat picked up, and the column he’d be following from a distance began to roar. When the front door opened, a horde of the undead, with a man centralized within, rushed out the door. The man of the elements took a deep breath, and rose from his hiding spot behind some bushes. Between him and the necromancer was an entire fort’s worth of Onocrosian blades, and over a dozen cannons.

* * *

In the woods just north of the mountainous border between Onocros and Ramnia, a wolfen outcast lay still, squatting beside his wooly dog-like mount. Through the dense underbrush ahead of him, he could see his prey, a handful or rabbits sat just to the side of a well-used water trail, grazing. He gave a pat on his beast’s flank, and he was off, dodging trees at a speed usually reserved for retreat.

Due to the clear advantage that the wurang had over a mere rabbit, as he reached his prey, he leapt over top the small woodland mammal, and tossed it into the air with a giant paw. The dog waited only a few short moments for the creature to fall down before realizing that something was wrong. At the same time, too, did his outcast rider discover the cause. Man looking to the right, beast looking to the left, one found results, the other means.

Pegged to a tree by a long-shafted arrow lay the rabbit; through the woods and standing tall on an elevated platform of a log was a female elf, bow raised, a second arrow already knocked. The two elves made eye contact, and time seemed to slow to a stand-still.