Welcome to Survival

Sapphire Peak… Perhaps?

Silence….fey lords sit about an oaken table, maps and plans litter the surface, slender be-ringed fingers point and trace routes into their lands…from…. The Wasteland. Flaxen heads nod, sable heads are shaken in disbelief…a larger more powerful figure strides into the magic lit hall…stern grey eyes look upon the “half-souls”… and sneers. Upon her back is a wargrown spear…venomous leaves writhe about its haft, coating the blade in dark viscous sap. Others of her ilk step from shadows and confront the lesser fey. The Mourn come to council their tainted brethren.


A tall lios stands. Silk and gold adorn his slight frame, a scholars pallid skin and ink stained fingers denote his calling, ritual scars, red robes, fire in his eyes. “Do not be-little us because of the past!”


The she-mourn looks askance at him through ruby tresses and holds up a gloved hand. “Peace Envorian, we come not to be-little of chastise. The past actions of our people will remain in the past, now the threat of the wrath is gone. But lios patience and d’rough impatience have no place in these times. The unnatural kin of the humans are seeking dominance in the shadow of recent events. They and their d’vergish pets, will come east. The wilds and more natural forests will feel the tread of golemic feet, the bite of toothed axes, the hungry belly of the machine lords will need feeding, and their furnaces and engines of war will strip our lands of produce to feed their war against the Empire.”


A wiry hollow eyed d’rough blademaster stands now. Dark, his garb and demeanour. His voice a sibilant hiss, from wounds inflicted by human torturers long dead, his name carved in their flesh. “Why not let them tear eachother apart. Church sunders augmented, golem slays angel…..all others profit from such a war.”


The mourn…. her eyes become slits. “All others V’ruaga? Jotun? Gretch? …..Demons?”


The d’rough drops his hand to a crimson knife. Two bows a spear and three swords are raised to counter this threat.


“Oh yes V’rauga. We know of the treaties brokered by your house, by the funding of an aid package to Dunston…..for tuition in certain magics who’s origin is many rungs below!”


The d’rough sits. Blade sheathed. “We do what we must to survive…..dont judge me mourn! Not all folk hide from the troubles of the world!”


The mourn nods. “But…nor do we add to its woes. The augmented are a threat that requires united effort. As with the Voura……I will not say that name in this sacred hall….as with other similar threats to the world. We need to be seen to be strong in our ability to aid in what must be done. Not all of us feel the same. But we owe the elder races enough weregild. They need never know the truth. But tis upon our conscience all the same.”


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