"Mono/Dialogue"
'Inner thoughts'
Narration
[Message/communication apparatus]
Date: Winter 1919 NWC or 646 AU.
Location: Somewhere in Helicar
POV: Narration
Truly a pity how the world yearning for sunlight suffered the most. Unfortunately, sunlight had grown scarce these past years; worldly activities and life came to a halt mercilessly, and thus, the whisper of terror born out of war persists.
The yearning for dawn that will never come for some of them. Either by the foolishness of men or the war happening yonder, either through natural causes or Nature’s pitiless resolve to keep the world in bance. Many things are happening across these nds and seas, known or otherwise.
The forest slumbers on as spring is nowhere near, and for the promise of bounty that will entice its many hibernating dwellers to welcome the coming of the sun. Farmnd left to freeze, vineyards long abandoned, and livestock huddling for all bits of warmth. Birds and fish had long since dug and drowned deeper into their choices.
Deer, stags, and wolves long ago lost their position on the pyramid that had been sustaining the cycle of life. Each to their own, and more to be preserved for spring to thaw these loathsome ice. Trees shed their many leaves, turning verily useless, for there’s nothing to take and absorb. The very air had taken on a more unwelcoming touch.
For those who wish and yearn for the simple coming and going of seasons, understand the sheer predicament they are in. There’s not enough food, and there will never be enough food to save everyone when frostbite comes biting and chomping at those most unfortunate few. To persevere is to make hard choices borne of worse possible alternatives.
Smaller vilges were forced to be pragmatic in this time of great scarcity. Those of weaker constitution or old were sent out into exile to preserve those of greater value. A grandfather of several extended families trudged on cold and hungry into the night. Those with no prospect of inheritance had long gone to serve a doomed cause.
Worse still, these sufferings were not meant to be the norm, for there should have been a way to avoid such cruelty. Yet they cannot, and could not be provided with better alternatives. All civility long gone through mortal’s cruelest and basest form of equalizer that is, in fact, not truly an equalizer.
War.
At first, Arganea had managed well; the frontline held by the blood of these people with little prospect. Yet that same winter had caressed them all like pgue. While nobles and those of wealthy means could shelter much better, these much weaker people suffered. They wished for nothing but peace. They yearned for this sunlight to banish the war against both fate and the mundane.
Yet that is never meant to be. Ionie’s ascension had done little than preserve a quarter of her kingdom. A witch or whore who committed regicide and kinsyings as stories foretold, or a visionary who had seen the futility of extended bloodshed serving no one. This is not even a bancing act, not when specific kinds of people are being hunted down worse than dogs.
Her action had preserved what she could, yes, but it had also thrown the rest into the roaring furnace. The North remains virtually uncontested and free; the bedrock of her rule and wish for a new, better world. Ionie’s motives aside, the borders around her preserved nd are watched by a series of fortifications.
The West's incorporation meant it was the strongest point to remind her of what would happen should she back down. Tension shimmered down south, the ravaged southnd garrisoned and plundered to pieces. A nd that had once been the stronghold of republics had been torn and remade with fme and blood.
It is not unusual for the newly modernized, to an extent, Arganean Protectorate Army to be coming into limited conflicts with the Imperial. It is nothing lethal for now, usually regarding boundary stones and reports of missing people from either camp, but much more from Arganean’s side.
Rides between patrols are often accompanied by the usual gritted teeth and eyes glinting with distrust and desire to enact justice or put the lesser people to heel. Arganean Dragoons with their cumbersome handgonne and scarce few matchlock against their opposite, Imperial Dragoons handling their lighter carbine and pistol.
These are the cornerstones of peace, no matter how tenuous. A peace that will not st long, not after the many mishaps and tragedies caused by the fog of war. News of Arganean and Imperial butchering each other to the East had reached their ears, further throwing veritable dry leaves to be heated up beneath the scorching sun.
Thus, set the stage for those who lost too much and had a very real desire for vengeance. Whispers of intensified ambushes, silence of patrols going missing, and many who harbor much different and votile ideas on what or who should lead anew, for peace coming at st or piling up corpses.
These people are many. Whether it be loyal turncoats or bastard loyalists, this forgotten bulk of her people is deemed negligible in the grand scheme, pying over a vast table with an unknown number of hands moving their pawns.
News of shifting battle lines poured over as these simple folks were forced to adapt. Powers that be did not take their suffering into account, only the many pieces… and one where a domino might fall. Chaos and order. Unseen or otherwise.
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Twenty Halciadonish men walked through the foliage, their steps muffled despite the heavy armor they wear. Snow once again becomes the unsung colborator, regardless of who benefits from its lethal softness.
Faces left unseen and hidden, leaving only narrow slits for them. Their equipment is well-maintained, and the formation remains intact to showcase their drills. A half carries a standard Halciadonish arquebus; another carries swords and shields. One of them is in the lead, distinguished by his plumed helm and ornate sword and pistol.
Banner was raised by one of the swordsmen, his shield slung behind his back as he walked beside the more ornately dressed man. They also wear warm cowls and cloaks of fur and thick linen, granting them enough insution against the cold air. Although the man seemingly wore nothing more than a tabard, his pauldrons bear an intricate skull pattern with enameled words of his world.
They soon passed the foliage onto a clearing, the clear divide on it made one of the twenty kneel. He dug through the snow using his gauntleted hand, soon uncovering the cobble path. He looked back to his officer and nodded, the man reforms into four neat columns, continuing their marching steps in perfected ceremony.
A parade march that left amusing sunken tracks that will soon be swept by winter. None uttered a word, shivering kept to a minimum, and their arquebus bore protection against the snow that might disrupt the match to fire their arquebus.
It doesn’t take long before they arrive in a well-off-looking settlement. The sentries on watchtowers are visibly nervous, torches were lit, and yet the palisade’s gate was left open. About three dozen militias armed with spears and old gambesons stood near the nervous vilge elder.
“W-Welcome! Good sirs, my name is Croftern, and welcome to our humble vilge.” He spoke with cheery horror; the breaking of his voice made the men tense. Although he too noticed the militias' growing displeasure.
The marching columns stop just shy of a few steps from the gate, allowing them to see an ornately armored man walk forth. “I thank you for the generous welcome!” His sword and pistol remain in their sheath and holsters, his arms spread wide. Croftern had discerned that the man was very tall, his bearing impeccable, and his accent weird, but that might be just how different regional noblemen speak.
“To what do I owe you this pleasure?” The man cpped the elder’s shoulders. “Nothing much at all, I am merely here to check on… interesting folks. There are rumors, you see, of how we received… a spirited welcome.” The man chuckled, but his subordinates minutely shifted, their hands on the swords and arquebuses.
The old man certainly tore his gaze away from the distinctive skull-patterned pauldrons. There’s a bunch of words inscribed onto them, and he could still smell the faint scent of smoky burns.
Croftern tried his best to stay neutral. “W-We have no idea… good sirs… If there’s such a personage, we would have had informed the nearest garrison-” The grip on his shoulder tightened, the militias around him and on the battlement clenched their spears and crossbows.
“… You are, as of now, part of our glorious empire. As a citizen of those carrying blood so pure and exalted, you must do your part… You would wish for the continued prosperity of your vilge, are you not?”
“Well… I… certainly wished not to trouble His Imperial Majesty’s most devout…” Croftern parsed through the many people from the south who crossed the border for help. They were their southern brethren, and they do empathize with them. Sadly, the old man was forced to surrender those not… quite fitting to the Imperial Edict.
He can still hear their screaming and begging for help, or the looks of profound shame from their own fellow refugee who sports none of their defects. Thus, he parsed through what else he had forgotten. The leader of this small group waited patiently; his visored helm failed to showcase any signs of displeasure.
Croftern then remembered one hale man, who is helpful but also very… withdrawn. He is a hunter and takes care of the rookery for Pigeons. Pigeons are a miraculous bird that is a symbol of interconnectedness granted by the fabled Otherworlder who brought them with them. They are very useful, and aren’t a flesh-eating and corpse-scavenging flying beast that was used for sending letters.
“I may have one in mind, my good sir… although I swear I know not much about him. He was kind, gentle, and helpful…”
“Indeed, you don’t, now, be a good man and lead me to this personage, I will be most honored to be led by an exempry citizen such as you.” With a few awkward nods, he led them inside. The vilge is immediately deserted, vilgers and such peering through their doors or windows as men in pristine uniform suddenly made the winter even colder.
They are heading to one of the vilge cottages, all made of wood, and the thatched roof is full of snow, and perhaps find these… interesting folks. One st bend on the road, and they see it. The cottage is as silent as a grave, but damningly, there are traces of recent activities, the gss-tended garden is one.
He seems to be looking at it very curiously, not with wonder, just wonder from the looks of it. Regardless, he raised his hand, and the Imperials surged onto the cottage, kicking doors and prying the windows open. Soon, they barged in from three different directions, searching for their target. Croftern was forced to follow him, and his sweats are no longer mistaken.
Curiously, the man doesn’t seem to care about his obvious distress. “You might be wondering why we bother being so… slow and methodical… and all those fancy things.” Even hidden by his visor, the man could be described as visibly amused with one of his hands resting on his sword–a rapier of fine make–and continues. “I prefer something less messy… besides…”
As if he said so, there’s a gunshot in the distance, and sounds of dogs coming from the woodnd he had been in. “We are not mere brute, we know how to hunt… unlike ordinary commoners given pikes and told to die, we have our own honor to think about.” He turns to Croftern, who is busy being frozen on his feet, and now he slung his arm over his shoulder.
“You have none to fear as long as you show… willingness to follow the Imperial Edicts, rats are still very useful, so… we shouldn’t be killing each other. That’s just foolish.” Men soon steps out carrying Pigeons, ravens, a magical contraption, and even some scrolls. This diligence intrigues people who were used to common brutality and unequal treatment.
Many bore resentment, but once there was news, whispers even, of Halciadonish detachment gone missing towards their st destination? That’s exactly the sort of outcome the weary old man tried to prevent.
After everything was accounted for, he let go of his shoulder, already stepping away. “I am not that kind of man, but do carefully with others… they have ill tempers, to my shame.” He left the old man, leading his men out of the walled vilge with discipline and poise, leaving the vilge stunned in awe and befuddlement. His men followed wordlessly, and the snow felt less cold for the people left behind them.
The banner leaned forward, whispering some words to his ornately dressed superior, who nodded back. Thus, they melt back into the forest, winter erasing their footsteps each step of the way.
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No one truly had a clear picture of what had happened, other than rumors of angry and bitter survivors, rumors of demons from the depths, and whispers of Zorphal’s spine to stand his ground. His heroism aside, these people were thus used as examples to vent rage and to expel hatred from this prolonged war.
These unclear minds damaged the looks of people who cared, of people who could see past the short-term bloodshed, but that is just how it goes. It will be truly miraculous should one be capable of keeping a complete grip of one’s own many paws.
Reprisal, looting, raids, and abusive mistreatment from their so-called betters had left these too weak to the elements to forge a path forward. A path that is already marred with horror and tragedy, aplenty during winter. They had no walls, no great building to huddle as one when weapons of war could smash through stone, and the upcoming atrocities fractured the minds.
Reprisal by means deeper than hurting, but that of complete change championed by the Imperial had reached a new height; they are targeting not just those with obvious traits of beasts, but those they accused of having one. The Arganean are merely forced to watch as many more of their brethren are colred, chained, and carted to a nd beyond their reach in this harsh weather.
The state had forsaken its charge to weather the coming packs of wolves. Wolves that shared the skin of human, but far monstrous beyond comparison because they do have their humanity. Humanity, they had mostly ignored as contempt, and fools being promised too much get out of control.
“… How long would our storage st?” That voice belongs to Baron Elmer. The winter chill had been taking more and more toll on the people. Beside him would be his advisors, men and women who bore the same weariness of command and dread. The imperial army that had been marching to quell resistance at Fallfiore returned with burning vengeance and shearing hatred, besieging and sacking Arganean settlements that had surrendered.
With each destroyed settlement, the ravaging Imperials slow down their campaign beneath the deadly winter. Supplies were replenished from a steady flow of looted food for the people’s incoming winter. As disparate groups of raging, humiliated coalesced, they became an army capable of operating under interpretable guidelines id down by the Emperor.
“…At this rate? I can’t say with confidence we will st…” Replied a man to his left, his expression severe, and made the scar more pronounced. “We grappled with the loss of our information networks, which had been… that loss reduced our means substantially.” His eyes briefly gazed outside, to the fields of dead corbeaks and pigeons. “The Imperial Inquisitors had been awfully diligent as of te… they uncovered our spies and informants…”
“Including the underground network, was I wrong?” His words were linked by a woman sitting in front of him. Her legs are now stumps, ears made round, and tails long gone. “No, Viscountess. The Imperial is intent to completely colpse the Eastern resistance after that whispered debacle.”
“Fine work for them, dooming us with their glory.” She spat, bitter resentment to the strongest encve of resistance for Prince, or King, Zorphal. “While they sit there in a disconnected world, eating and feasting, we are stuck here with false promises and deader than the Twins!”
“I empathize with your outburst, my dy, but…”
“Empathize?! Look at these!” She tapped over her stumps. “This is what empathy got me. Allowing myself to be captured like some sordid piece of meat! Raegova was an honorless cur like the rest of his bloodkin!”
“Raegova had done what he was ordered to. He is His Majesty’s most trusted advisor.” He hardened his stance; it is one thing to be aggrieved, but he is still a man who lords over this settlement. “Forgive me for this, but your outburst added nothing. If pain is all that is left of you, then it will serve us better if you rest.” Elmer’s voice brooked no further argument other than a bitter gre.
“I… won’t surrender… It’s one thing to be a good man, and a vengeful one… I am succumbing to the tter. This will be my st winter, and the inquisitions are on our doorstep soon enough. I implore that you all escape while the window exists.”
“Do you truly believe Dzargo’s dogs won’t be uncovering them by now?”
“I fear that is the bleakest possibility, yes, but the alternative will be all of us dead, huddled together in starvation. We have no more moves.”
“I will not grovel to him and his demon! I would rather be dead with my bde gutting them and an arrow down their throats and bathe myself with the Queen Whore’s blood!” Her arcane prowess began leaking through her control, a wild and untamed patch of disorderly energy. Elmer raised a hand, and her energy was restrained.
She snarled, preparing to hurl torrents of verbal abuse; unfortunately for her, Elmer's expertise includes stealing her voice. “… I am truly sorry, Lady Viscountess, but you are not providing much in this conversation.” He nodded at the guards who firmly but gently carried the Viscountess, she trashed on until her angry gibberish and filing were reduced to silence.
“… How many can we save?” The Lord pointed his question to his subordinates. “We might be able to save five thousand…” His expression darkened, mirrored by others. “Only five thousand… I take it we cannot; must not, travel in one singur group.”
“That goes without saying… it is risky either way, and we are running out of options. Perhaps if the Crown still functioned…” He cast his gaze outside the window.
Across this Motte and Bailey is the very encampment that had become the nucleus of their suffering, bearing the fg and banners of Her Majesty the Queen and the Imperials, dogs and bastards, they are all in his mind. His loyal soldiers could only watch as just three leagues away, a group of their own was being worked to the bone. Some start praying as these sves, their people, cry out in pain or curse out in defiance.
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A rge bastion of wooden palisade with earthen works keeping it upright. Warmth and firepces alongside braziers are becoming a venue to withstand winter. A marvel that left many puzzled, for winter camp's notorious’ reputation as hell on earth should winter of this level arrive. Yet they are not at all disturbed.
Contravaltion and circumvaltion kept the besieged settlement trapped and isoted, with occasional cannon fire to demoralize or perhaps maim some unlucky fellow. The settlement wouldn’t have been besieged this way if they had more manpower, time, assets, and if they were pressed for time. None of which are there.
This pointed to a foregone conclusion of a slow and grinding death by winter chill. Regardless, this is a marvel of engineering, a certain Dictator Lady might notice. Three encampments became the center for this besieging army. Each could perhaps comfortably provide safety for one or two thousand.
Orderly tents with wools and heat insution material, providing the lowest soldiers with a modicum of respite and rest amidst the cascading snow outside. Scent of sizzling meat and soft bread from officers’ social gathering in the commanding tent, a feast to challenge the world that mankind’s ingenuity is what makes them right.
This is a picture of orderly civilization, and not just a band of brigands. One would be forgiven for completely focusing on its inner marvel, for the series of sentries moving about the wooden battlements kept them safe amidst revelry.
Yet this sense of domestic order and civilized life was tainted by the grunting, pained noises coming from those digging up moats and trenches or other camp facilities. Sves or unfortunate folks are being whipped as they shoveled ice out of the moat, a pointless cruelty that means little more than amusement at best, perhaps.
It is standard procedure to always be ready, but reviled treatment such as this has no pce outside of the most wasteful mental framework there is. Men and women worked endlessly upon the many fortifications that might become their tombs, tombs left unknown to their families.
People bearing beastlike qualities have that heritage rooted out of their bodies through hot brand, sharpened edge, or even simple breaking and shattering with what is avaible on hand. These are the material of the Imperial Propaganda machine, utilizing suffering as a rallying point and the idea that one is always better than the other.
So, in their own common sense of order, these abnormalities are trimmed.
Those with horns sport a head wound that barely recovered. Those with tails lost their anchor, causing them to tumble and ugh while being helpless to the ceaseless whipping. Those with ‘unnatural’ ears seem to have lost a part of themselves. There are many more atrocities, such as eyes more than two suffering gouging, limbs broken and torn, while they hobbled with pain and a sense of greater mental disturbance.
They cannot rise in revolt for the ever-present eyes of the Imperials upon battlements and roads. Pitiless or amused men, relegated to duty many would find appalling or stimuting.
Imperial arquebusiers bordering on the Arganean protectorate are armed with an even more sophisticated version of their brethren. Their arquebus are longer; it has a steadying stick to keep their lethal shot true. The other soldiers noticeably wear little steel other than a breastpte, a backpte, a morion helm (curiously), and steel tassets.
Cuirassiers patrol the perimeter like peacocks strutting above human suffering. Their plumed helms and ornate armor above their destriers showcase wealth, power, and status unlike lesser men around. An officer looked upon one of the barely alive sves who colpsed on the road, and he didn’t even deign to pivot his horse’s trot sideways.
Sickening crunching and cries for help or deliverance made other sves shiver more, as if the cold wasn’t punishing enough. Some cried, but were soon silenced by a cracking of the whip and cruelly amused faces of men who cimed superiority.
Those most unfortunate aren’t the ones being put to sleep with a small bullet to the back of the head, a throat slit open to drench and paint the white canvas below, or a small accident here and there. No, these are the fortunate people, for war always has a habit of making monsters out of men.
Raucous ughter interspersed with shadow too animatedly to show the dancing of viotion. Those cursed with greater beauty often find themselves treated far worse than cheap bor, and many argue that being alive is better than being dead. It is truly disheartening that such a cim was not at all acceptable, one of many simpler truths.
It was never about justification; it was always about results. Results that would appall those in-the-know, or earn them a grudging acceptance, or even worse still. As this rabid group made a mockery of a quiet night by burying men under the cold touch of ice, the shadowy operatives at st made it onto their objectives.
Others just toil, the whip barely registers as cold settles in. Symptoms of frostbite had produced fking off skin, flesh, and a fresh point of bleeding where the blood wasn’t rapid enough to vacate. These are the realities of a war lost by a weaker nation against an immoral foe; this is the promise of war that is to come.
Premise for chaos always exists, and thus a shadowy group with clothes colored the same, with frozen and snowy vegetation stalks through the forest. One of them is close to the forefront with a rocket unching ptform, and the ammunition is duly curious, for it is tinted with red and yellow. He carries a rge backpack with a simir-looking warhead and munitions.
The equipment he carries shows subtle signs of further sophistication. Aside from this unnamed fellow, four other such personages created a zig-zagging formation as they crossed on through. Their rifles were put into rest position, one of them even had the ironic luck to wield a heavier machine gun, clearly at odds with the other three more reserved choices of armaments.
Passing through yet another frozen shallow, the group avoids stopping. They evaded patrolling sentries as if guided by instinct; the darkness of the night made them a specter in the dark. Their objectives are yet to be cleared, but it doesn’t take a genius to understand the broad stroke.
The darkness masked their movement from view, creeping ever closer and closer towards what should be a highly protected point.
Shame, they infiltrated from the rear and evaded the haphazard arrangement of sentries, not really taking their duties seriously. They crawled through the snowy field if need be, hiding from mounted patrol, cursing their luck aloud. They keep close to the hibernating foliage, a stretch of white covered figures, each of which is but a part of the vegetation.
This luxury of movement keeps on moving slowly but never stops. Never content, never waver, never taking a look back until the job is done. This group of five soon reached underneath the sleeping pine tree bereft of its leaves, keeping themselves low just behind a small mound made of snow.
One of them brought their binocurs, careful not to reflect the lights from the sparse moonlight above.
“Barracks spotted in all cardinal directions. Full capacity, possibly a whole cohort.” Their spotter uttered coldly, he moved his binocur further east, passing by an ornate tent that didn’t interest him one bit. It goes on for a few more seconds until the cleverly disguised wagons of supplies are spotted.
“Bingo. Bearing 0-9-8, on a defide near the wall, these imperials are a bit smarter. Several hidden supply wagons, as intel suggests.” He looked back at his comrade to move forward. Another operative calcutes the range using a range finder, picking the most suitable point to let the firework begin as ordered.
It might be strange that they are not using the range finder from the get-go, but supplies are also a constraint. When one is fighting a war with limited resources, some corners need to be cut. It doesn’t take long before the range is calcuted.
“800 meters, wind is stable at 4 knots. Adjust your aim.” Launcher filled with incendiary payload awaited command, arms steady and sights secured, along with the correction to take the wind into consideration. Others keep their rear and fnks secured, eyes never stop scanning the slumbering forest and differentiating between the chirping of brave birds and something else.
Ahead of this ad hoc fireteam, several specters of simirly equipped men approached their own vector, silently and methodically, as the walls’ protection remains dubious. These men are equipped with the rocket unching ptform, and they also bring grenade unchers. Three such people had once again slipped past OpFor’s outer parameters while being accompanied by two men. Looking at the patterns, it is not hard to imagine what sort of payloads were loaded.
They stood about 1.000 meters away from the battlements, a very, very precarious range if one is trying to make accurate strikes, but… Perhaps, if heaven above allows, colteral of swift nature could be avoided.
The lead operative of that side leveled their grenade unchers on the more obvious target, their sights pointed towards the granaries. Buildings made of stone and mortar, and sticking out like a sore thumb in the city of canvas and leather.
As the range finder was lowered and range calibrated and thus informed… the munitions left their confines. In fact, it was not a rocket uncher, but a shoulder-mounted recoilless rifle. It left little noise in the thundering blizzard, and the puffs of snow helped hide the backbst.
The munitions arched over the wooden battlements in a zig-zag pattern. The wind proved problematic… but it struck. Bright fme shattered around the wagons, creating fresh pockets of fmes that alerted the camp. The sentries on the battlements were armed, and so bells began tolling.
Another payload of incendiary goodness struck the point again, now better aimed. Chaos and confusion began to erupt as the grenadiers rained hail on the granary building. While the wall is made of stone… the roof isn’t. Soon, fme rages on into a hellfire to clean the earth before succumbing to nature, yet until then, it will be sowing confusion wholesale.
Tents nearby became colteral damage as the grenadiers took a rather liberal spread. Many often forget that a grenade uncher is essentially a mortar, and a mortar makes an arc. Sure, it won’t give as much punch as 81mm, but the noise is doing its job. Any damage is a bonus.
Outbound, horse riding patrols noticed the disturbance and made a beeline back, their scanning the horizon to find nothing as torches aren’t the same as fshlights. Their frantic search was further interrupted as explosions rocked different sections of the walls, leaving gaping wounds and arming developments.
The other two primary encampments were struck in the confusion; cries of men are more profound here, but there was no shouting of fire or fme. Only a haze of smoke that swept through the camp as an unseen scythe to reap and kill, spreading as an unstoppable pgue.
The operatives quietly make their way out of the chaos; it is only a small tomfoolery… that caused granaries and precious winter supplies to be severely damaged. While the other two reeled from assassins that cannot be killed, the first camp began to burn brilliantly. The neatness becomes a match to spread further chaos.
While the fme going after huddled tents will be extinguished, if they can regain calm and chain of command, those other tents unfortunate enough to be the epicenter of the fme for napalm gel are just done for. Men running like headless chickens, trying in vain to extinguish this persistent source of heat.
Most, however, they tried their best to save the supplies. Noble officers barking orders for their men to dive into the building, many become hesitant, but the threat of guns to their backs shows these soldiers are less important. They reluctantly run in and out of the burning granary; some eventually suffered burns that will disfigure them for life; a healing spell isn’t cheap.
The supply wagons are a lost cause. They are entirely made of wood, and wood has a penchant to catch on fire too quickly. Their proximity to the wooden palisade results in a nasty little bonus devastation that becomes a hellfire mess.
Arganean, on the other side, is also panicking, unable to comprehend what had just happened so quickly. It is definitely a sabotage, but that easy? Perhaps, paranoia is what the groups truly wanted to sow.
Sadly, these agents orchestrated and then exfiltrated off the site, with their victim none the wiser. Some people will lose their jobs, and the nobles will need a scapegoat. There’s plenty, and some already retaliated by killing the sves, a highly illogical move, but rage made men blind.
[END OF CHAPTER]
Author’s Note:
Yo there, this is me, myself, and I, the author who is entering a new stage of depression.
I messed up in numbering the chapter for the st one, lmao, should be fixed now… a whole two weeks te.
From this point on, brace for more actual conflicts. Times for pnning and setting up the pieces are up, next few chapters will be wars and suffering.
Update is when I can actually finish it.
Ciao
