Author Archives: Rules Director

June 2019 Epilogue

EpilogueNews and Rumors


The mood in the clearing that night was as bleak as the night sky above their heads. The camp fires crackled, but not a single person chosen for this deadly mission felt its warmth. Each group stood in its own quiet conversation and waited for the immortal Vallah to make his appearance. Only when he arrived would the strategy meeting begin.

They were vastly different, in garment and in skin color – some glittered with the moon, some red, some blue, and even some with the softest looking feathers. A large banner boasting a dragon and a shield hung at the far eastern portion of the camp and beside it were a few humans and an elf from the Chivalric Kingdom. A Priest among them spoke a prayer to their Seven Gods whilst they knelt and listened.

The Ishtari took the northern portion, the three silken banners of their three goddesses prominent among their people. Like the Ishtari, the Dammerungers were seated in prayer – they took the northeastern portion, grim and drab in garment and in temperament, each face ensigiled with the scythe and gavel of their faith save for one. He  stood watch over the prayerful, bearing shield and hammer.

The Labyrinthium were loud and boisterous, playing a strange game that involved cards and knives – they had no banner but each carried bloodstained black feathers upon their person. An older woman from the Golden Fleet watched them play and cackled at their injuries, liquor in hand. The other members of that Fleet were the Golden Scribe and wise Zorya– they were  with the two Dwarves from the Iron Kingdom. All four, plus a Dwarf from the Free Tribe, were fussing over several Runic Apparatuses — these runed, stone cubes were no bigger than a human head but they were integral to the mission.

The other Free Tribesfolk were by the camp fires, trying to get cold and nerves out of their shivering hands. They belonged to no Kingdom but this battle was no less their own.

The crowd went silent as Vallah made his appearance, followed by what seemed to be his own personal squad of black and white clad mercenaries known as The Brotherhood of the Sword and Cross. Trailing behind were a few green-clad Verdant Druids and a furtive looking Houndkin named Fiona – a few of his followers that Vallah had personally picked on this lethal expedition.

“You all know why we’re here.” Vallah addressed them all, his voice carrying with authority to every individual in the meeting. “You are the Blessed Forty – you all know the risks. We are here to strike at Fang-zhara in the heart of her Storm-cloud and take from her the Divine Focus. Let’s not waste time with meaningless niceties, and instead discuss strategy.”

They all moved as one, closing in the Immortal in a tight circle.


Over the night, the Brotherhood kept a tight hand on the meeting, making sure each group had its equal voice, but also cutting off snags or complicated monologues. At every step of the plan, Sister Bones of the Brotherhood would pause the proceedings and turn to the brotherhood’s rotund monk-like strategist Brother Ocho, for guidance. He would shake his head yes or no, and sometimes mumble a vague but inarguable idiom of guidance.

The fatality reports of the Immortals were touched down upon, as well as the odds of survival in this battle. Fang-zhara had more than a few advantages, including a knowledge of the Brotherhoods’ tactics and callsigns – it was believed that she had killed then forcibly converted at least one of their number to her golemic armies.

During a break in the discussion, Sister Bones quietly asked her colleague. “I know it’s not a cake walk, but how does it look? Our exit. ”

“Not good.” Brother Ocho replied grimly to the sudden quiet. He looked away from the eyes of the people around him and they sombered immediately at his words.

“THREE GROUPS!” Bolt Anvilsmith from the Iron Kingdom spoke at his normal tone of voice, jolting the rest of the Blessed Forty from their despair. Sister Bones barely contained her yelp of surprise, but inwardly thanked him for the guidance.

“Yes, there will be three specific groups in the battle,” Sister Bones confirmed, “Group one is the vanguard of the main attack. Group two will try to bring down the defenses Fang-zhara has built around the divine foci, mostly spell casters and artificers. And group three—”

“Is us!” A Labyrinthium Gnome at the edge of the inner circle piped up, drawing one of the dozen daggers from her person and twisting the blade between her palms. Her voice was shrill. “We’re gonna hit her so hard she’s gonna… uh… um…LINE?”

A looming Troll behind her placed his hand on her shoulder and spoke with a low rumbling bass. “Shiv will lead us in a whisper step attack. Hit the target with all the Banes we got. Might kill her but more’n likely it’ll just slow her down.”

“That don’t sound right, Sharky. Why would I tawlk in the third person like that? I’m not a Drak.” A  blue-clad knight from the Pendrakken contingent muttered in protest but he was immediately quieted by a red-garbed woman beside him.

“It seems,” Vallah interjected, parting the group with a wave. “That everyone is well aware of their roles in this upcoming battle. We will make our attack in the morning. Now is the time for rest.”



As Brother Ocho predicted, the battle would not go as silkily as the Blessed Forty hoped.

Within the storm-cloud was a floating island covered in glyphed trees and runed boulders, as they expected. It was heavily warded with magic and guarded by golemic monstrosities, also as they expected. But their every step and stratagem was waylaid with devilish acuity by the Eternal Architect or her constructions.

Their Artificers moved to disarm traps with their Runic Apparatuses, yet doing so triggered more traps. Their Defenders stood fast against the waves of her minions, only to find themselves outflanked. The Blessed Forty’s healers rushed to mend those that fell to steel and spell, but even the bodies of their comrades were trapped with an insidious magic that punished any aid that would be given.

The forested island was inundated by smoke, the crank of spinning gears and the clangour of battle — utter chaos, one wrought by Fang-zhara’s fiendish machinations. But the Blessed Forty pushed on to their target, bloodied but unbowed.

Fang-zhara herself appeared only once during this time, a gigantic crossbow in one hand. She fired a single, vorpal shot from it and vanished amidst the fray.


They were a dozen and a half, Blessed and wounded, when they retrieved the Divine Focus – a pyramid of glass and stone, it seemed so tiny in Vallah’s bloodsoaked hands. Dragging the Immortal along, the remaining survivors grouped up around a chipped Runic Apparatus, bereft of defenders and runes barely visible in the afternoon light. This particular Apparatus weakened Fang-zhara’s Dimension Locking magics and could even allow them short jaunts. If properly prepared, it would allow them egress.

The sounds of Fang-zhara’s maniacal laughter and the screams of her would-be assassins could be heard through the wooded expanse of the floating island – the Labyrinthium’s ambush had failed but at least it gave them a few more minutes.

“She won’t let us leave.” Fiona’s eyes brimmed with tears. “There’s no way she’ll let us leave, and Vallah can’t… He can’t…” Her words were lost to a sob as she reached out to the wounded Immortal and snapped her hands back.

The ballista bolt had speared right through Vallah’s torso. It had sought him and him alone with devilish intent after Fang-zhara launched it forth. Those who attempted to remove it were struck down by vile magics. Meanwhile, it drained him of energy and color with alarming alacrity.

“She’s right…if any of us hope to escape…”

“We’ll have to attack.” Adrianna Pendrakken, clad in the crimson of her house and the blood of her allies, had a voice both somber and firm. She shrugged off her cracked shield and readied her blade. “A single decisive strike will distract her and cover the retreat -”

“No, Knight-General.” Pelavir Vard, the blue-garbed Knight shook his head and the survivors from his Kingdom stood beside him in agreement. “This is our charge, but you have to go – our Kingdom will need you. Remember: Honor, Duty, Valor–”

“…and Vengeance…” Grimacing with reluctance and knowing the meaning of his words, Adrianna took his offered shield and stepped away from the pained Vallah.

The three Ishtari women nodded, though their sentiment was different. They spoke to the only man in their contingent, Shikshak Dalik who wore white masks upon his mantle. “It will take the Goddess’ Grace to help us now. It must be that a Sinner sees the Divine Focus safe  — prepare the Runic Apparatus for exodus, the device must be ready as soon as we engage the enemy and not a moment after.”

One of them grinned grimly as she drew her praying knives. “Let our Deaths please the Goddess and give you the time that you need.”

The two of the four Gotterdammerung were alive, but barely in one piece. They were dour and silent, saying nothing except with their actions: they moved to stand alongside Vallah. The remaining Brotherhood mercenaries followed suit, having made their decision before the mission even began.

The old woman from the Golden Fleet, Boss Karasu, laughed a crow’s laugh. It was harsh with decades of spite and smoke. “Well, I’m not staying here to die! I survived Portia and I’ll surely survive this one!  The rest of you need to stop crying and moaning. You most of all, Vallah. Are you gonna be a little sissy and let a scratch like that stop you? Do what must be done, shaman!”

Fiona growled at her but Vallah answered with choking laughter instead.  He waved his hand, as if to ward away any doubt, and rose to his feet, ragged and wracked. Fiona moved away from him at his gesture, though the Houndkin remained stricken by the very sight of his pain.

Vallah painstakingly channeled energy to himself and to those around him, careful to not let anyone else suffer from the bolt that impaled him. As he did so, Pelavir stood side to side with Brother Ocho and the rest of those that would remain. They were quiet as they readied weapons and channeled spells of their own. They were mercenaries and champions. They were saints and killers. They were faithful and unholy.

One of the Dammerungers gave Pelavir his shield and the knight nodded with thanks before strapping it to his arm. He looked to the serene mercenary beside him. “What do you think, Brother Ocho? Is today the day we die heroes?”

The Brotherhood mercenary shared a slight nod and a smile before Vallah Jaunted them to their final stand against Fang-zhara. They left behind nothing, not even their regrets — there would be time enough for those and for remembering the sacrifices of tens of thousands when Midworld was saved.

For the remainder of the Blessed Forty, there was still the last stretch before they managed an exodus from this accursed Storm-cloud.

— Written by Kori Ciminera, with assistance by Jobert Aquino and Catherine Rachfalski

The Blessed Forty (posted in Annie’s Inn and the Brotherhood Chapterhouse)
Rumor (anyone may read this)
Callas Selvarion or Rumormonger skill only
Fir’bolg or Rumormonger skill only
Gotterdammerung or Rumormonger skill only
Grellken Clans or Rumormonger skill only
Ixia or Rumormonger skill only
Jotunbrud or Rumormonger skill only
Kali-Ishtar or Rumormonger skill only
Labyrinthium or Rumormonger skill only
Malak Travak or Rumormonger skill only
Pendrakken or Rumormonger skill only
Riverfolk or Rumormonger skill only
Stone Clans or Rumormonger skill only

June 2019 Prologue

PrologueNews and Rumors


The ritual room was windowless and made hazy by dozens of lit candles. Flickering softly with the opened door, they lined the three-foot wide circle drawn in the middle of the chamber. The hall outside was equally dim, the sconced torches along the walls burning low. Thus, the ingress of the Brotherhood mercenaries and their guests was greeted only by a slight brightening and the echoing sounds of booted feet scuffing the stone floors.

Clad in black garb and white crosses, Brothers Mars and Grim flanked the door after they entered. The former had to bow slightly to prevent the sheathed swords at his back from hitting the doorway while the latter did so anyway from his height — he only bore the Tome hanging from his belt. They watched their Solari visitors take their places at the far corners of the circle, with one Sun Elf standing in the center. Wearing red and gold and the Solari Sun, the Commander, the Purifier, and the Hierophant were guarded, yet peered curiously at every rune, candle, and device they had passed.

In particular, Hierophant Luthaniel abandoned decorum for curiosity. “So many wards and in such primitive forms!” They whispered in awe. “How did they ever resist the might of the Emperor?”

Purifier Azrael grinned. “Resilience and persistence. You could not cut it from them if you tried. I, however –”

“Purifier.” Commander Malphas’ rebuke was softly spoken, yet there was enough power in it to quiet his subordinates.

Sister Iris, veiled and armored, and Brother Jagentuefel filed in behind them, standing at the corners nearest the door to face the Sun Elves. Jagenteufel doffed his wide-brimmed hat immediately after entering.

Their brethren beside the door closed it and approached the circle. They halted at its edge, but not before Brother Mars placed a chest at the center and opened it. He exchanged a hateful stare at the Elf that had ordered the destruction of so many of his brethren — but he was mindful enough not to break the circle with a misstep as he took his place.

Commander Malphas gazed upon the soft green light of the chest’s contents with equal measures of awe and vigilance. “Purified Vashalla. I had scarcely thought I would see it given to us by the Kingdoms after the Summit.”

“They’re not giving you the ore,” Mars sneered at them. “We’re giving you some of our Mercurium (which is what it’s actually called, idiot).”

“Then we are both renegades in our own way,” the Commander nodded serenely. “The Emperor does not approve of our actions as well, but Midworld is far more important than the lives and freedoms of a few Solari outlaws.”

“Nein nein, do not bother commiserating,” Jagenteufel stiffened his stance. “And do not mistake cooperation for forgiveness.”

Iris’ eyes narrowed above her veil. “We know that the Sun Empire is still a threat after the Immortals have been defeated. We’re not fool enough to be blind to the battles to come, Elf.”

Grim held up his hands. “Umm… Guys?”

Purifier Azrael’s grin turned into a knife-sharp smile. “Everything I have done, I did without remorse… and for the Glory of the Emperor.”

“Glory to His Name, Ilthari*!” From their corner, the Hierophant brought their hands together, gathering powerful energies with a single thought.

Mars reached up for the swords slung behind his back. “I’m not sure what that means. But you said it weir–”

“Enough.” The Commander’s voice cut through the din once more, a ray of light burning through a rolling mist. “We have common foes and they have the upper hand. To bicker now is to allow them victory. We have a task before us — let us see it through.”

A thousand ages seemed to pass as his words hung in the air. He glanced at the Elves behind him and they dropped their arms. The mercenaries in front of him did the same, Grim letting his arms down with a sigh.

When he was satisfied that the situation was de-escalated, he waved the Hierophant over and took their place at the corner. The Hierophant spared a few disdainful glances at the Brotherhood in front of them for a moment before they began to chant and to channel.

As one, the room joined Hierophant Luthaniel.

When they finished the ritual, hours later — the candles were spent, the Mercurium was gone and they could not speak for several days afterward. However, the intangible dome around Freehold was visible and silvery for only a minute before it shimmered into invisibility. The true proof of their success could only be guessed at, even by themselves.

*Glory to His Name: The usual response to the Solari rhetoric: “Glory to the Emperor”
*ILTHARI: “the unburned”, a term Solari use for non-Solari. Sometimes used as a derogatory term.

Rumor (anyone may read this)
Rumormonger skill only
Envoys and Hands only

May 2019 Prologue

PrologueRumors and News

A Drowning Dream

OOG Clarify:

It is a dream, you know this for sure.

Your companions didn’t hear you fall into the icy sea waters. By the time you get your head above water, the boat is gone, swallowed by the inky blackness. A waning moon illuminates the frigid ocean, and in the distance, there is a lifeless tower scraping skyward through the silver.

The freezing cold brings shivers immediately. Waters roil and toss around you in all directions. Your muscles are locking up, making it hard to keep treading water, and an icy tendril of fear grasps your heart as you fight to get your bearings.

You start to swim in a direction – any direction – when you see them leering, inches beneath the surface. The glint of the moon reveals a face, brackish-green with death and bloated with water – a drowned corpse.

A rotting hand extends above the surface toward you as you react to its clammy touch. A second hand grabs your ankle, another grasps at your shoulder. Rising silently from of the abyssal depths, dozens of faces surround you. Some are old and rotting, skeletal fragments poking through moldering flesh. Others are fresher, their intact hair and limbs tangled with seaweed.

Your heartbeat is deafening in your ears as you try to find a path through the fleet of living dead.

But is it even your own?

As more hands wrap around your legs and torso, you notice a creature floating motionlessly above the glassy surface of the water. A three-faced being stares down indifferently as you struggle, each mask-like visage criss-crossed with cracks.

You are already a part of them. And they, a part of you.

It reaches a hand down towards you and, for a moment, you think it’s going to pull you from the waves.

Its fingers cup your temples and, in a flash, you see the whole world laid beneath you like a moving tapestry. Small streams, brooks, and creeks wind their way through the land, feeding into larger rivers that split into deltas, fanning across deserts and meadows and hills before culminating into a wide ocean. The tumbling waters reach every part of the land, from the deepest valleys to the highest mountains, and you see yourself at the center of this great sea. The rivers fatten as they flow, new streams branching out in different directions. The sea rises, swallowing shorelines and threatening to overtake the land entirely.

Fear pervades people as water pervades land. We lie within your dread, within your terror, within each of you. 

As your vision returns, you see the ocean choked with the dead. A multitude of pleading, desperate hands drag you beneath the tides.

A rush of briny water fills your lungs and chokes off your words, obscuring your vision. The grim, uncaring masks, tinged with the silver of a disappearing moon are the last image you see before blackness overtakes you.

You claw your way to wakefulness, drenched with sweat and gasping for breath. The dream has ended but you suspect that this new nightmare is far from over.

— Written by Catherine Rachfalski

Rumors (anyone may read this):
Rumormonger skill only:
Lorekeeper skill only: