



Outline

The primary mechanic of Almos is "fun with tokens!" with all colors being able to reflect war battles with armies of tokens. The battlefield will be more important. World enchantments known as "fields" will be an important mechanic. New Keywords/Abilities: Reverb, Replay, Ritual, and Foretell. Raid will be returning as a keyword. New Keyword Ability Concept: Hexes

New Keywords

Reverb - At the beginning of your next upkeep, if {card} came under your control during your last turn, pay {cost} or sacrifice it. If you pay this cost, {action}. Replay {cost} (You may an additional {cost} as you cast this spell. If you do, return it to your hand from your graveyard at the beginning of your next turn.) Ritual {cost} (You may cast this spell by sacrificing any number of creatures and paying the ritual cost reduced by those creatures’ total mana cost.)

Foretell - <optional condition>, if you have more cards in your hand than an opponent, <action>.

Help Me Out!

Almos, the Background





{Story: Welcome to Almos}

Welcome to Almos

You arrive on a windswept mountaintop ledge. Specifically, the Uajit Mountain range on the plane of Almos.



From this height you can see the glory of this world all around you. To the north, there are the rolling plains of Woufalem. Populated by a hard-working, industrious people, the nation of Woufalem has a kingdom-like structure, with a military hierarchy.



The denizens of Almos have a long-established system of matriarchy. While men are not considered any less important than women, social norms and customs dictate that most believe women make more natural leaders.



As such, Woufalem is headed by a Queen. But this Queen is not chosen by their blood. Rather, potential leaders for Woufalem rise through the ranks in the military. From their progress in that rigid environment, only a few emerge with potential. After that, only one of them is "Chosen" by their goddess, Eifa.



Eifa is the goddess of the Sun, and the matron deity of Woufalem. From her teachings, the citizens of Woufalem learn to use such magicks like light-weaving, and from her grace they are able to heal and guide others with life-giving energy.



Life in Woufalem isn't necessarily easy, but it is fair, it is ordered, and it is peaceful.



The other primary power in Almos is the nation of Frenhelm. To the west of where you stand now, one can see as the horizon grows darker. Shadow seems to fill the crevices and paths of the mountain edges in that direction. Beyond that are swamps, marshlands, and hilly country.



Though Frenhelm is also ruled by a woman, titled the Supreme General, their deity is regarded as a male. Dao, Father of the Night, stands in direct conflict with Eifa and the Sun.



Even though the citizens of Frenhelm worship the night, they must also suffer the day. Which makes the strange, fog-like shadow ensconced in the lower passes, curious.



Where Woufalem shows their devotion to Eifa by celebrating the Light, so those of Frenhelm show their devotion to Doa in their celebration of the Dark. Shadow-weavers, Necromancers, and Blood Magi are just some of the practitioners that the nation is home to.



Like Woufalem, Frenhelm is a very strict, militaristic society. But, where Woufalem's soldiers learn through strict regimen and discipline, Frenhelm's soldiers learn through pain, fear, and suffering.



Indeed, many of Frenhelm's soldiers endure suffering so great that their mortal bodies perish. But death is no barrier to service in the Dark Nation, and many of Frenhelm's fallen warriors end up bound to eternal servitude as one of the undead.



Woufalem and Frenhelm are the primary players in Almos. Their seemingly endless conflict, known as the Hundred Years war, has lasted far longer than a mere century. The state of affairs, such as they were, resulted in what is commonly known as a cold war. There were no battles, no violence, none of the horrors that war brings.



Instead, there were disruptions with trade, sanctions, and treaties declaring each nation as mutual enemies.



Three other factions remains: The Conclave, The Academy, and The Nomads. Each faction is caught up in the quiet tension, and they will undoubtedly be critical to determining the outcome.



Less is known about the Conclave and the Academy, for they guard their secrets as zealously as one might worship a god. The Nomads, however, are a transient population. With no single place to call home, they keep to wandering through the Mahji, the vast desert that spans from the eastern reach of the mountains, all the way to the sea.



They call themselves, the People. For community is everything to a nomad. Family, commune, there are dozens of links to relationships that form within the Nomad population.



Their wanderings also take them to the southern plains of Woufalem, through the Uajit Mountains to the swamps of Frenhelm, and occasionally into the Wilds which cover the southern reaches of Almos.



Due to the extreme temperatures they often face, the Nomads have developed a certain reverence for fire. Legend says that the Phoenix Goddess, Shjaka first gifted man with fire, and they continue to worship her today. Nights in a Nomad group are often punctuated by music, dancing, and storytelling around a large bonfire.



Though they have no formal military, the Nomads brave the less inhabital regions of the world, and so every Nomad, no matter who they are, learns how to defend themselves. Tales are often told of the swirling flame dervish dancers, who can entice the eye with scant clothing and hypnotic moves, and yet wield a sword at the same time and leave their entire audience dead.



Fire magic is prevalent among the Nomads, but they also have a fondness for song magic as well. The most famous bards in all of Almos always seem to have come from the Nomads. Their gifts for music, storytelling, and performance are peerless, for they spend so much of their time practicing the arts.



The Nomads are not afraid of darkness, for they believe firmly that they will always have fire to light their way. As such, they are often the only real population that interacts with Frenhelm on a regular basis. Nomad merchants take advantage of this and sell goods all across Almos from the various nations and factions.



Though most of their interactions with Frenhelm are as informal as could be considered possible, there is a small part of their loose alliance that has resulted in the creation of a guild: the Skull Dancers. Combining fire magic and warrior discipline with the dark magicks and fortitude, the Skull Dancers train the best assassins in the realm.



If Frenhelm has an ally in the Nomads, then Woufalem's closest ally is the Academy. Formally known as the Academic College for the Arcane in New Eteras, the Academy is more than just some group of buildings. New Eteras is the largest single city on Almos, and sports the most beautiful architecture, in addition to the practical services they provide.



The Academy first developed airships. This was, in part, because they needed to have a way for outsiders to visit, and New Eteras could not be found anywhere on the ground: it is a floating city.



Through lower lying clouds, New Eteras moves all across Almos as it floats up in the sky. Deep, powerful magicks help keep the city afloat, and also manage the atmosphere within the city, so that its residents do not suffer from the problems of altitude.



Beyond that, little else is known of the secretive city in the sky. A formal partnership between New Eteras magi and light-weavers from Woufalem has resulted in a guild known as the Sun Mages, sworn to defend New Eteras and Woufalem at all costs.



Finally, there is the Conclave. Very little is known about the Conclave to those outside of it. While they do have villages and cities after a fashion, the Conclave lives within the southern reaches of Almos in the vast forest called the Eld. Known colliqually as the Wilds, the Conclave's druids are quite literally hidden from the prying eyes of the rest of the world.



The Conclave's purpose has never been much of a secret, they aim to ensure that the peoples of Almos live upon it sustainably, with respect for nature, and to preserve the tenuous balance that exists between various factions. For nature is often the first to suffer casualties to war.



A hierarchy of archdruids "rules" the Conclave, which is more like a collective, democratic society than any other in Almos. Though humans make up the bulk of the population in every faction, the few remaining Elves are thought to make up the council exclusively, with even the best human druids deferring to their wisdom and their experience.



Since the druids worship nature, they pray to the many and varied gods that it comprises of. However, the one entity that they hold above all others is the Swoilib. A gargantuan "world-tree", the Swoilib is the most ancient living power known to reside on Almos, dating back to at least the time when the gods first walked the land.



It is said that the Swoilib is sentient, though the way its mind reasons and considers is too vast for any mere mortal to comprehend. Instead, the druids who commune with the tree try to do their best to receive and interpret visions.



The Swoilib's knowledge comes from the fact that its roots are spread beneath all of Almos. Over the millennia of its existence, the Swoilib has grown roots in the far north, in the swamps, and even underneath the Mahji. It sees and knows with something similar to, but not quite, omniscience.



But why are you here, Planeswalker? Though the land is beautiful, and the realm dangerous, it has been untouched by the steps of Planeswalkers for as long as can be remembered.



Every Walker is able to hear the whispers, if they listen. The whispers of the spirits that connect each and every plane and realm. Though these whispers are in kind to the Swoilib in their incomprehensibility, some Walkers have learned to listen to them with some success.



Conflict is brewing in the plane of Almos. The nations of Almos are ready to erupt, and the eruption is likely to be as violent and sudden as a long-dormant volcano might stir to life. The cold, Hundred Years War, is on the brink of igniting. And in that environment, no less than three souls on Almos were lit by individual sparks.



Planeswalkers will have an inevitable hand in shaping the conflict to come, and what its resolution will be. But these Planeswalkers, no matter how knowledgeable and old they might be, are mere babes among those with the spark. They need guidance, tutelage, and monitoring. Any new Planeswalker presents a threat to the multiverse.



So you stand on the windswept ledge, looking down at the rest of Almos. Every bone in your body tells you that it is coming. A sudden and terrible dread that would sink one in a bottomless depression if they let is. The time is now.



{Story: Nijirlinj Pass}

Nijirlinj Pass

The wind howled through the canyon walls, a natural wind tunnel, but the sound of the howl was nothing that felt natural at all. Boirin's skin crawled with the unpleasant sensation that so often proceeded horrible things. It was a sixth sense of sorts, and not one that he relished having.



"Something isn't right," he said at last, looking to his two companions.



A young woman glanced up at him, Oivra. She was one of Woufalem's finest magi-warriors, a member of the Elite Guard, just as Boirin was. However, she had trained in New Eteras, combining skill with steal with skill of magic. Beside her was Nef, a tall man, but slender, with far less musculature. That didn't matter, while he was also a warrior, his strengths came not from strength of body, but by strength of faith. An acolyte of the sun goddess, Eifa.



"We wouldn't be out scouting if everything was alright, would we?" Oivra quipped.



Nef smirked, but said nothing.



"No, we wouldn't." Boirin responded, "but all-the-same, it still doesn't feel right. There's something far more dangerous up ahead than any army."



Up ahead was Njirling Pass, which connected the Mahji Desert to the kingdom of Frenhelm. Every child in Woufalem was raised on the horror stories from Frenhelm. Of course, how much of those stories happened to be true was up for debate. While the two nations were at war, it was about as cold as the northern regions of the Five Nations. They called it the Hundred Years war, though it was named that after the first hundred years. More accurately it would be called the near-Five Hundred Years war, but that didn't roll off the tongue quite as well.



Boirin was going on twenty years with the Elite Guard, making him one of the most senior members. Nef and Oivra were younger, much younger. But, if the Hundred Years war ever heated up, they would need to be just as ready as he had always been. Jesting, poking fun, good humor, they were all needed to get through the terror of the night, but so was vigilance.



"You recall why we're out here, righ'?" Boirin did his best to mask his irritation, but he'd likely always be seen as a grumpy old fart.



Oivra rolled her eyes, "because a messenger didn't come back."



"And how often has that happened?"



This actually gave the young woman a moment's pause, "well... it's happened before, right?"



"It's... " Boirin had to search his memory as well, "...in twenty years? I can't think of one incident. Did they happen? Probably, but we always found them. There was always an explanation for why they were late or lost. We're near the end of Njirling Pass now, the Helm Gate. We haven't seen a body or even a single clue about why our messenger hasn't returned. We've been out here for a week and... nothing."



Nothing. That was what bothered Boirin so much. They should have seen signs of a fight, or a body, or... anything, but the Njirling Pass was deader than he had ever known it. No wildlife, no wind or weather, nothing. Twenty years in the Elite Guard and he had never had goosebumps like he had now. True, no units had ever come this far in the Pass, but that was part of the problem. They'd never needed to come this far before, the messengers were always alive, if a bit worse for the wear. It wasn't the most hospitable place to be.



Neither was the desert, for that matter. The Mahji wasn't an inviting place either. And it stood far outside the borders of Woufalem. Or, rather, it was the border, but Njirling Pass was a fortnight's travel to the middle of the desert. It wasn't the fastest way to Frenhelm, but it was the most accessible, and it was how Frenhelm did trade with the tribes of Nomads who wandered the Mahji and the Rowjirhen Plains.



Fort Braddard was at the entrance to the Pass in a network of natural and man-made caves. It was no secret that Woufalem had a fort there, and, in fact, what limited trade that they had with the Nomads and, rarely, Frenhelm, took place just outside the Fort.



Sending messengers wasn't a daily practice, but they were sent often enough, to deliver news and receive it, as well as, and this was much more rare, to deliver communications between the two feuding nations.



It was a communication delivery that had sent out the latest scout from the Fort. No one knew what the message was, save the messenger and Fort Braddard's commanding officer. But, by the grim-faced manner in which he'd handed Boirin the search and rescue operation suggested that whatever was to have been communicated was of grave importance. Likely, the sort of importance that could end a war, or spark a cold one alight.



"Sir." It was Nef and he'd meandered ahead of the others, but was now stopped around the corner of a twist in the canyon walls.



Boirin put a little hurry into his step, "...Private?"



Nef merely pointed around the corner, adding nothing to why he bothered to get Boirin's attention. However, as Boirin rounded the corner, he could see why. About half a mile down a straight stretch of canyon was Helm Gate.



A description of the gate was well-known to Boirin, but he had never before set eyes on it. Only messengers ever traveled this far, and the descriptions passing messengers had delivered still could not hold the horror of the truth at bay.



The skull of some behemoth giant formed something like a gate. At the moment, the gate was closed, the mouth was shut and solid steel backed the nose and eye sockets. Yet, it was still a formidable thing, and Boirin imagined the terrifying ordeal that one would endure trying to enter it, trying to enter the gullet of some long-dead thing.



The wall that the Skull stood in front of was equally as intimidating. It rose some seven or eight stories into the air, and appeared to be composed of smooth iron or steel, deeply ribbed such that it looked more like divots had been cut with perfect precision into the wall's face. The result was a wall that would be nearly impossible to climb, alongside cliffs that stood yet another ten stories high. If ladders were raised, they would have difficult time balancing due to the fact that, while there were no handholds, each section of the wall was so thin. Though not so thin as to render it useless against an assault.



Perhaps the most notable detail, however, was in the fact that the wall's iron had been dyed or painted so that it took on the off-white color of bone. Set against the Skull, it looked like rows upon rows of bone were formed behind it, creating a truly horrifying monster that even legend could not dare tell the story of.



"Eifa protect us," Boirin whispered before looking back to Nef and Oivra. Oivra had looked too, he could see the terror in both of their eyes.



"W-we should g-go b-ba-back..." Oivra managed to stammer out. Nef looked too frightened to say anything.



Boirin nodded, but added, "we do, but first we need to watch this gate. To see what stirs about, perhaps we might even see the messenger."



He could tell by Oivra's and Nef's pale faces and stricken expressions that they didn't agree with his assessment, but Boirin was their superior and they would do whatever was ordered of them.



"We'll make camp here. It's out of sight from the wall, but close enough for us to monitor its activity." Boirin was already unloading his packs and bedroll, with Nef and Oivra nervously following suit.



Dinner that night consisted of hard cheese, hard biscuit, and salted, dried pork. It wasn't an awful meal by any means, but it would have been nice to have a fire. With how close they were to Helm Gate, it felt unwise to risk such.



When they drew watches, Boirin ended up with the unfortunate middle slot, and so prepared for sleep while Nef took first watch. His dreams were uneasy and fitful, at one point he woke up drenched in sweat, trying to remember what had jolted hi awake. One word weighed heavily on his hazy thoughts: Death.



Boirin went back to sleep almost immediately, but his new dreams were more vivid. He saw the Jo and Tiranton, the two moons. Jo, the smaller of the two moons, had disappeared into the shadow of Tiranton, which, in turn, blotted out their bright star, Vinous. Everything plunged into night, a night without end. When it was night time, the darkness was almost oppressive in the absence of the moons. In the daytime, a little light from Vinous would reach their world and offer a dim light best described as similar to moonlight.



While such visions were strange enough, they were not terrifying all on their own. Boirin also saw a vast army marching. An army composed of the living and the dead. Their armor was black, their weapons and shields were black. They bore the standard of Frenhelm, the red Eye of the Deceiver, the god of the night.



Before long, Nef was waking Boirin up, but he didn't feel even remotely rested. His dreams had been too terrible, too burdening, even the ones he couldn't remember. Nef took one look at him and offered to fill the second watch, but Boirin would have none of it. Instead, he ordered Nef to get some sleep and took up his post. Drowsy as he was, nothing terribly eventful happened for a good part of his shift.



Boirin was beginning to nod off when he was jolted awake suddenly. The reason for that was immediately apparent by the almost defeaning scream that filled the canyon. Nef and Oivra woke up too, but both were slower to react. Boirin had already been peering around the corner for near on five minutes since they'd been woken up. But the scream did not continue. It lasted for thirty seconds at best, followed by a deafening silence.



In silence, the three stood watching, waiting. Then, just as sudden as the scream, the Skull's mouth appeared to open, an awful grinding, grating noise. Nothing came out until the Skull's mouth at first, but, after a few minutes, one could make out white shapes of vaguely humanoid creatures, along with the black shapes of men in hooded robes. As they got closer, he noticed that not all of them were Necromancers. Nor were they all human.



The white shapes proved to be reanimated skeletons, and there were just as many knights and warriors in black armor among the robed acoyltes of the Deceiver. It took Boirin a few minutes to realize what he was seeing was real, and another minute to realize how vast the approaching host was.



He looked at Oivra and Nef. In Oivra's eyes he saw pure, unadulterated fear. In Nef's eyes he saw something wild, equal parts manic and terrified. They were, all three of them, rooted to their spots, it took Boirin's voice to snap them out of it.



"They- they will be here within the hour. I need the two of you to go. No, don't bother bringing anything save one pack each and some food, you will need to be swift in returning to the Fort." As he gave instructions, Boirin began to feel increasingly calmer.



Boirin may not have been a General, but he'd done his time and it was as if all of his survival instincts, skills, lessons, were kicking in all at once, replacing the fear in his heart with something he hoped could be described as courage.



The two younger scouts packed what they could as quickly as they could. But they lingered as soon as the packing was done, while Boirin kept watch around the bend.



"Get going. Now!" Boirin nearly hissed when he turned to glance back at the other two.



"Y-you're not co-coming with us?" Oivra managed to say, Boirin's calm had not transferred to her or to Nef.



"I'm going to... going to give you time." Boirin's veins felt a winter's chill as he realized what he was committing himself to, but in the calm that had come over him he was able to see clearly that it was the rational thing to do.



If Boirin had thought that Oivra and Nef remaining would also be helpful, he would have asked them to as well, but it was more important that the Fort be warned... prepared. They would have to evacuate. There were no more than four or five hundred soldiers there at a time, and the army that kept marching was at least three or four times that size, and continuing to grow as rows upon rows of infantry streamed from the Skull like a parade of ants.



Oivra and Nef didn't need to be told twice. By the time Boirin had glanced over his shoulder again, they were already hurrying on their way.



"Eifa, bless me. Let me die with honor." Boirin prayed, then set about the task of creating the traps that would slow the army's advance.



{Story: Adar City}

Adar City

"How much longer on the shift?" Wes glanced over his shoulder as he asked.



Ki'oin paused for a moment as he moved to take up watch at the other end of the tower, "maybe an hour."



The soldier pointed toward the center of the city, where the primary tower of the Citadel Keep featured a massive sun dial. It was a gorgeous feat of engineering, and something that Woufalem's citizens used every day.



They worshipped the goddess of the Sun, Eifa, and for good reason. It was the daylight of the sun that gave them life. Woufalem was primarily an agricultural kingdom. There were a few cities, with Adar being one of the major metropolises, but the vast majority of the kingdom was composed of plains, farmlands, and rolling hills.



Woufalem was the beacon of light shining for the rest of the world. Ki'oin had always taken pride in the fact that they represented order, law, civilization. Though they called the lands the Five Kingdoms, there was only one other kingdom in truth. Frenhelm, a place so steeped in darkness that even the light of Woufalem couldn't pierce it. They represented a sort-of order as well, but it was a more slavish one. Suffering and obedience. Those were the values of Frenhelm.



Wes leaned over the parapet and glanced over at Ki'oin, "Think you'll be coming to the tavern tonight? Haven't seen you there recently."



Ki'oin shrugged, continuing to hold his posture as he gazed out over the river that covered the west side of the city. To the east, he knew, were open plains. But the east had its own sentries, and was less likely to suffer attack. Over the west, the plains eventually transitioned to the Fanghorn Mountains and the Mahji Desert.



The nomads weren't much of a threat. Occasionally a couple of tribes would go rogue and cross through, or around, Yawning Pass, there were numerous mountain trails around the one low-lying area that cut through the mountains. So many that it wasn't practical to defend them all unless an invasion was suspected.



Frenhelm was the only nation which Woufalem had to worry about that from. Though the Hundred Year War was still technically a conflict, imminent invasion wasn't a worry yet. Even if it did happen, Frenhelm would have to go through Nijirlinj Pass and across the Mahji. They'd have ample warning if Frenhelm went that way.



The only other option was to march their army through Sky Pass, a difficult, narrow, mountainous trail that would take its toll on any army passing through it. And, of course, once an opposing army made it through the pass, they'd have to fight through the Skyfort, which had every conceivable defender's advantage possible, from a network of man-made caves, to the high walls and narrow pass, and a last bit of high-ground to fight from.



"Just haven't been feeling well lately," Ki'oin responded at length, "There's just some feeling... I don't know, some foreboding of the future."



"Really?" Wes turned to actually look at Ki'oin, after a moment, still leaning against the wall. "What do you think is going to happen? Is the sky going to fall?"



The sarcasm dripping in that remark actually caused Ki'oin to break composure and throw an eyeroll to Wes, "Yes. Precisely that."



Wes stared, then shrugged and turned his back on the parapet to look out at Adar City. A sea of red-topped buildings surrounding an island of white. Red clay bricks created the tiling on the rooftops of most of the buildings, short or tall, creating the uniform color from above. But, at the center of it all was Citadel Keep. White marble was expertly worked into seamless tiers of buildings sticking out like spokes on a ship's wheel.



At the very center a tower rose high above the rest of the city, dwarfing the next highest buildings, the four guard towers by twice their height. The guard towers themselves were four or five times as high as any of the other buildings, and were connected to the keep by long, white marble arch bridges which served as a means of quickly moving guards from the keep to the city's walls and guard towers.



There were only two walls, the outer wall, which linked each of the guard towers, though it stood a level lower than the arch bridges connected to Citadel Keep. The inner wall hemmed in the keep, with enough room for small courtyards, barracks, and other buildings necessary to maintain it.



Each of the towers was topped by a dome of a red-gold in color. In truth, the metal was known as galadium, with the beauty of gold, and the strength of cold-forged steel.



In short, the city was glorious. It was grand, magnificent, and lovely. Adar wasn't the largest city in Woufalem, that honor was given to Rackja, a sprawling mass that had slowly knitted itself together from four or five smaller villages over time. It was big, but couldn't match the splendor of Adar, which was, naturally, Woufalem's capital.



But it wasn't their job to watch the city, that was the purview of the City Watch. They were the Tower Guard, responsible for protecting Adar from outside threats. There was a certain sentiment in the city that the Tower Guard was a fluff position. It grated on Ki'oin's nerves, but all he could do was channel that anger into a focus, a focus on his duty.



"You stare out there long enough, you'll go blind." Wes' voice was drenched with sarcasm again, but Ki'oin ignored it.



"We have a job to do."



"Ah yes, the prestigious Tower Guard. Tell me, do you see untold hordes descending upon our fair city?" Wes edged closer, though perhaps only so he could see if his comments were getting to Ki'oin, if the smirk on his lips were an indicator of anything.



" ...no." Ki'oin turned to Wes, his partner wasn't going to stop until he got some sort of reaction. "I hope I grow old only known as a joke, the useless life of a Tower Guard. But I just have this... feeling. I can't shake it."



Wes seemed to sober up at that, "No joke?"



Ki'oin didn't know what to say to that. Instead, he just nodded. "Sorry to throw thunderclouds over your sunny day."



Wes shook his head and then looked out toward the west. It was the narrowing of his partner's eyes that caused Ki'oin to follow his gaze. "Speaking of thunderclouds... does that look like a storm coming on to you?"



Ki'oin looked. Sure enough, where the sky met the horizon there was a slowly spreading darkness, the sort of dark grey that meant coming rain. Heavy rain. It would arrive more quickly than most would think, but he couldn't tell whether or not if it would be on them by the end of the hour. The last thing they needed was to end their shift drenched.



"Great," Ki'oin muttered. "My favorite shift surprise."



His partner snorted, "Now who's the one not taking things seriously?" Nevertheless, Wes' expression was grim.



Though it sat along a river and lake, Adar was well-protected for storms. A massive subterranian system of pipes and reservoires ensured that the city was difficult to flood. A good portion of the water was channeled underground to another lake just five miles outside of Adar. This water was used for local farms and also provided an emergency water-supply for the city during times of drought.



The problem with Adar during the rain was that there simply was not enough space. On any normal day, as much as half or more of the people in the city, those who lived there and those who were simply on business, were strolling through the wide, well-paved streets. However, when it stormed, the streets emptied and filled seemingly every establishment, and even many a home, to capacity and, oft times, more.



"It's fine," Wes continued, "It won't show up until after our shift ends."



Which was likely true, but Ki'oin knew there was no way that Wes could be sure.



"All the same, though, I think I might skip out on the tavern. There'll be too many people." Wes continued.



That made Ki'oin smile. His partner wasn't a shy man, but he seemed to hate crowds as much as Ki'oin did. Though likely for different reasons. Ki'oin was shy and reserved. Gatherings with parties larger than four or five, and without people he knew, were not things that brought him enjoyment. If anything, they only reminded him of how different he was. But Wes had served guard duty at some of the more active forts along the mountain range.



Though no formal attacks had been made in the Hundred Year War, there were still occasionally skirmishes between scouting parties. It was one such excursion during which, at least how Wes told it, he and his fellow scouts found themselves surrounded by at least a score of Frenhelm soldiers, doing their own patrol.



Wes and his team managed to win out, but he'd developed an intense fear of being surrounded. The development was so injurious that he left that assignment and returned home, where he was discharged into the Tower Guard.



There was little they could do except stand there and watch as what appeared to be a massive storm approached them. Conversation seemed to have died with that realization, and the two soldiers watched the coming rain in vigilant silence.



In that silence, Ki'oin grew introspective once again. He had been a member of the Tower Guard for four years, and he still wasn't certain whether or not it would be his lifelong career. It wasn't that career mobility was a common thing in Woufalem, but if there was a profession from which one would transfer, it was soldiering. Some moves were lateral, like Wes' transfer from the Scouts to the Tower Guard. However, many soldiers would retire from their uniformed positions to either become sell-swords or to work in other menial trades.



Ki'oin had been considering apprenticing as a blacksmith. It was one of the more training intense professions, but it was something he felt he could enjoy doing. However, at the moment, Ki'oin still wasn't entirely ready to give up on the Tower Watch. Still, the lack of a promotion in four years was disheartening. Ki'oin took his duties as seriously as anyone, he trained and practiced his archery, sword, spear, and observation skills even when he wasn't on-duty.



Yet the officer positions in the Tower Guard seemed only to be filled by the sons and daughters of nobles and wealthy merchant families. Many of them were commissioned without even having served in any other capacity in the Tower Guard prior. The blatant nepotism was beyond frustrating, it was downright infuriating, but anger wouldn't change how the system worked. Ki'oin simply needed to find a way to thrive under the reality of the situation.



While Ki'oin was lost in his thoughts, the approaching darkness had nearly taken over the sky, its arrival in the city itself almost imminent. However, the tell-tale gray screen of rain was absent. As he looked up at the sky, he realized that what he and Wes had mistaken for storm clouds was actually just a blanket of darkness like a starless night. A faint illumination from the sun was let through, but it served only as much as moonlight did for a normal night.



"Wes?" Ki'oin hoped the creeping fear that had begun to wrap its slimey fingers around his heart wasn't betrayed in his voice. "What IS that?"



But Wes seemed enthralled by the strange sight before them as well. Surely they were not far off from beginning anyways. Darkness fell within an hour or two of the end of their shift, but this wasn't an hour or two after. They were still on shift, though. The bright light of the two suns should have been enough to bathe the city and the lands around it in daylight.



Eventually it occurred to Ki'oin that, whatever it was, wasn't natural. It wasn't an invading army, but who knew what would approach the city under the blanket of a supernatural night. He turned from his station and hurried over to one of the signal lights built into the wall. He stumbled slightly in his haste to get there, but caught himself on the lip of the pillar which held up the large steel bowl. A torch was lit within its sconce, Ki'oin stared at it for several moments, wondering when he had last lit the signal, had he ever lit it?



Either way, it didn't matter. Ki'oin pulled the torch from its snug steel-looped home and tossed it into the large bowl of alchemical oil. Immediately it ignited and, as Ki'oin looked around Adar, he waited, expectant, and was rewarded for his efforts when, moments later, signals began to light up along the walls in the entire city.



Adar was ready.



{Story: The Swoilib}

The Swoilib

The smells were llke a melody of a beautiful song. There were a complex array of notes: musky like sandalwood, spicy like cinnamon, and sweet like lavender. Ansa breathed them in as if they sustained her. Of course, she was still a mortal, even if she was an Elf, and scents, however pleasant, did not sustain forever. However, her kind sustained off of far less than the humans, and consumed less. Not that humans were necessarily awful, plenty of them had devoted their lives to the Conclave, to the preservation of the natural. They learned how to live off of less, but even then they still consumed more than Elven-kind.



Still, they would never be able to experience the world as she did. Ansa placed her hand on the bark of the massive tree right next to her. Massive was a bit of an understatement. Smiling, Ansa tilted her head back to look up, but she could continue to tilt her head, while walking backwards, and only just barely see the top through its leafy foliage.



It was the Swoilib Tree, taller than any tower, and its trunk was thicker as well. The branches reached out like massive constrictor snakes. Beneath its foliage, the world could almost be dark. However, the blessed light of the suns were able to penetrate even the thickest foliage. At night, the darkness of the tree's shade was more pronounced, but the leaves were sprinkled with delicate white flowers. The flowers drank in the energy from the suns and glowed at night, casting an eerie light that felt much like the light of the moons and stars in Almos's night sky.



Everything about the Swoilib was beautiful. Some of the Elders had nicknamed Ansa as the "Dreamer," her head was stuck too far in the clouds and she'd get lost there one day. Or so they warned her.



Ansa laughed with them, smiling and forgiving them. For they couldn't know how wrong their assumptions were. They'd never had the connection with the Swoilib that she had. To them it was just an ancient tree. A valuable tree, a powerful force of nature, but just a tree. Only Ansa seemed to know that the Swoilib was far more than that. Its consciousness was so vast that even she struggled to understand it, to understand... him.



The Swoilib was not a him in truth, nor was it a her, but its fluid nature allowed her to indulge in her "dreams" and she pictured a strong, tall, Elven warrior. Older, a few battle scars here and there, but still easy to look upon. However, older was a relative term that had less meaning for Elves than it did for other mortals. An Elf fading due to old age still bore much of their youth in their more mature countenance.



Still, by all accounts, Ansa was quite young. While she was twice the age of maturity for a human, that meant that she was still just shy of the age of maturity for her people. Maturity was different for Elves than men too. For humans, it meant that their children had reached a point where they could be saddled with the same responsibilities and burdens as other humans, they could reproduce, work similar to that of someone much older, and make the right choices, though the latter bit was debatable.



Elves actually matured much faster than humans by those reasonings. By ten, most Elves were capable of making the right choices, they could do work similar to that of someone much older. They could even reproduce, though, strictly speaking, the traditions and rituals involved in Elven mating meant that Elven children were rarely fit to rear offspring.



Rather than define adulthood by capability, Elves observed certain stages in the lifespan, which, unlike humans, were not defined so much by physical, mental, and emotional capabilities, but, rather, specific points of learning.



Most Elves had the physical, mental, and emotional capabilities of an adult by the time they'd been through their twelfth year. From there, they needed to display cultural awareness and basic skills such as arithmetic, logical arguments, and basic survival. At that point, they became young adults, what humans often referred to as teenagers.



From young adulthood, Elves began to focus their studies. However, given the time afforded to them, not every Elf specialized as quickly as others. There was a whole world of knowledge to learn and many Elves spent years exploring what they liked to do and what they didn't like to do. Others chose to specialize in multiple areas simultaneously.



When a particular skill or knowledge-base had been mastered, Elves performed demonstrations of their mastery before the whole of whatever tribe they belonged to. It was in these communal events that Elves were determined to be true adults, displaying all of the qualities that one would expect from a mature Elf, as well as the skills or knowledge to contribute to Elvish society as a whole. If an Elf succeeded, they were given a name reflecting who they were. Prior to the naming, they simply bore a family name with a simple designation of a single or double syllable identifying name.



Ansa hadn't been given a name yet, though she imagined that when she did, it would be something related to dreams. Her name was Shafil'ias Ti'jii-Ansa, marking her as part of the Shafil'ias family, belonging to the Ti'jii tribe, and known to those who knew her as Ansa. But Ansa was in no hurry to acquire a name. She pursued the druidic arts, but her loves and passions were many and varied.



In fact, she had been debating whether or not she would continue her druidic studies up until recently, when something happened that changed her entire course of destiny.



Nature was glorious, and Ansa would have revered it regardless of taking the druidic path. More and more, however, she began to explore the performing arts, and found that she not only had a talent for them, she was more interested in mastering singing, acting, and dancing than anything else.



Then the Swoilib spoke to her.



That had changed everything. It wasn't much, at first, the tree was so vast, so connected, it spoke in all languages, but it didn't speak in a way that initially made much sense to her. The words made sense, but everything it said was cryptic, guarded, closed. The tree spoke of ruin and perilous omen, even though things in Almos were as good as they ever were.



At first it terrified her. After a few attempts at trying to commune with the Swoilib, Ansa stayed away, she threw herself in other studies. There were no reasons for alarm, for the terror that the tree would place in her heart. Elves didn't need to sleep like humans did, but they still had waking dreams, a period in time when they were only half conscious, while their minds rested and digested everything they'd taken in.



The nightmares didn't go away, however. They even bled from her waking dreams into her waking moments, sudden, disorienting visions of the doom that Almos faced.



That was when Ansa decided to confront the Swoilib. It wasn't her burden to bear its worries, but when she yelled at it, it merely responded with another vision. Ansa saw herself, perhaps slightly more mature, older, at the base of the Swoilib, she seemed to have collapsed into a puddle of sheer misery. The tears she saw seemed so real that she could feel tears forming in her own eyes.



Before her, the vision showed a forest burnt and smoldering, piles of ashes where trees should have been. The Swoilib stood alone in a sea of destruction, but it hadn't weathered the storm any better, in truth. As she looked up at the tree, Ansa noticed that, in the vision, it had lost all of its foliage. The Swoilib was little more than a husk of what it had been in its glory.



It occurred to her then that the Swoilib wasn't just sharing its fears, it was sharing a prophetic vision of a future that it foresaw. How the tree had predicted the future was a bit more vague, but, as Ansa attempted to commune with it, she realized that it was the likely result of how connected it was with the world, and the vast consciousness it held, able to calculate and disseminate information on a scale well beyond any mortal.



The visions were more than a mere warning, they were premonitions of a sort, predictions of a future that was more likely to happen than not, if things continued unchanged.



Everything had changed for Ansa with the realization. She found herself constantly around the Swoilib, learning to communicate with it, learning to read into its puzzle-like phrasing and messages, as well as sharing intimate information about herself. The Swoilib may have been aware of nearly every living being in Almos, but that didn't mean it knew everything about them and, like a man starved for water, it seemed to flourish in the close contact it had with Ansa. The Swoilib was just as interested in her as she was in it.



Time had hardly seemed to pass for the two of them, each long-lived beings, before she noticed that the Swoilib wasn't just relaying information of omens to Ansa, but that it actually had a sort of affection for her. The Swoilib was likely eternal, at least it had always been around throughout the history of the Elves. Still, Ansa's lifespan wasn't entirely insignificant, which seemed to be something that the tree valued.



For those druids who regularly communed with the tree, there was a notable change as well. The most revered of druids spent their lives trying to interpret the messages from the Swoilib, and the relationships they developed with the tree were more akin to acquaintances at best. The clarity with which Ansa communicated with the Swoilib was unprecedented, and the druids had taken her into their inner-circle almost immediately. The whole process had taken some years, but in a relative sense, it still felt like just yesterday when Ansa remembered speaking to the Swoilib for the first time.



The other druids had taken to calling her the Voice, which was specifically in reference to the Swoilib, but the Swoilib's Voice didn't roll off the tongue quite as well, in Elvish as well as the common-tongue. In fact, in Elvish it was clumsy enough that the name they used for her came from a more ancient form of the language, no longer spoken, so that it could be distinguished from all else. Ansa was i'Rua, a distinguished title that would likely become her adult name when she was finally ready to request her coming of age. When that happened, she would be Shafil'ias Ti'jii-Ansa i'Rua, or i'Rua-Ansa for short.



The formal name was rarely, if ever, used in its full length. A proper introduction would be something along the lines of, "My name is i'Rua-Ansa, of the Ti'jii family from Shafil'ias."



However, that was somewhere in the future. How far ahead it lay wasn't something Ansa dwelled on. More likely than not, it would be sooner rather than later, very soon by human reckoning, but she was far more concerned with conveying the Swoilib's warnings to the Conclave, as they had grown ever more dire, until they could no longer be brushed off as prophecies.



The world was in peril. From the Swoilib, Ansa had learned that Frenhelm was casting a ritual which would blanket the realm in an endless night. Worse than that, they had been experimenting with necromancy for dozens of years, and had finally begun to achieve some successes.



Given Woufalem's position in the world, and its following of Eisha, goddess of the sun, it was almost certain that the Hundred Year War would escalate into something far more active and catastrophic. The Rajihim were summoning their eponymous ancient guardians, though which side they would stand on was unclear. And then there were the wizards of New Eteras. The Conclave and New Eteras had long has a turbulent relationship.



New Eteras was an academy of arcane arts, and, while they did teach natural magic, there were many forms of sorcery that the Conclave deemed unnatural. Necromancy was an obvious one, and while it wasn't a heavily taught speciality, the wizards had created a foul abomination of a race in their own quest for immortality, vampires. The mana fiends were a special sort of undead to be sure, but that, if anything, only made them more monstrous. They were not simply automatons, like the golems that natural magic would allow. They retained the memories and semblance of their host's former self, but without the emotional feeling and attachment that was an instrumental part of sentience.



It was true that not every conscious being had a lot of emotional attachment. In fact, the Elves, who were the undisputed leaders of the Conclave, were known for being more aloof and dispassionate when compared to their human brethren. But there was a difference in a teaspoonful of emotional attachment and having none whatsoever.



There was no telling who New Eteras would side with. Would the vampires among them force an alliance with Frenhelm? Would they remain completely neutral, watching the rest of the realm fight, or would they side with Woufalem and, inevitably, the Conclave, to ensure that the balance of the world did not shift?



These were the questions that preoccupied the Swoilib, they were the nightmares that kept Ansa awake for the present.



{Story: The Rajihim}

The Rajihim

The sound of drums rolled across the cool desert air. Fire flashed and men and women danced, scantily clad as though the heat of the day were still upon them. Every step, every movement was carefully choreographed, the result of hundreds of years of tradition and rigorous practice.



The People, known by others as the Nomads, didn't need a reason to celebrate. Theirs was a transient people, and every day was another chance for them to perfect their art. Of course there were the hunters, as well as the raiders, desert resources were scant. The Mahji was kind to no one, so they took what they needed from their "neighbors" to the south in Woufalem.



There was no love lost between the People and Woufalem. Three hundred years prior, Woufalem had pushed the People out of their ancesteral lands on the plains, and into the desert. They offered what they thought was a generous choice: join Woufalem and settle down, bend the knee, worship Eifa, and they would be able to remain on the lands that Woufalem had claimed, though they had no right to them.



However, strong as the People were, they did not spend their lives training for battle. Small skirmishes, where they knew the terrain, they could make a fight out of that, but then it came down to numbers, and the fact of the matter was that Woufalem easily outnumbered them three to one.



Their choice was to retreat to the Mahji and mountains, and so they had. There, at least, they had natural terrain advantages to equalize their footing if battle came. And now, the People had become experts at fighting in mountain passes and during desert sandstorms. Woufalem relied on THEM if they wanted safe passage through the inhospitable Maihj. For that matter, so did Frenhelm, New Eteras, and the Conclave.



But New Eteras could float their city up above the desert, protected with their magic. Frenhelm seemed content to remain where they were, they did trade, of course, but only at trading posts near to their lands. They were an odd sort, but the People had no reason to wish them ill. The Conclave similarly stuck to their forests. The People only occasionally encountered them when tribes would cross over the desert and through the Umahg Mountains. The Great Forest, which contained the Elder Tree, the Swoilib as the druids called it, their relationship was tenuous at best.



The druids saw the People as reckless and dangerous, but they weren't outright hostile. Nor did they seem to sneer, holding up their chins like Woufalem did. To Woufalem, they were barbarians, even when on the best of terms.



Things were about to change, however. Their prophets had predicted it, and they had seen visions of the rebirth of their goddess, the Flame, the Phoenix, the One. It was from fire that they survived the cold nights and the unfriendly mountain weather. It was only during the day, in the desert, when fire wasn't a part of their lives. It was only then that fire caused them to suffer. Eifa, goddess of the sun, goddess of Woufalem, seemed to sneer down at them just like her followers, burying them underneath her oppressive, relentless heat.



They would be just as happy to see all of that go away, and that was precisely what the prophets had seen. A time was coming, a time of endless night, a time when all would be forced to cling to the flame. And, in that time, the People would thrive. Their fire magic, blessings from their goddess, would reign supreme, and all would need their aid: the druids, who regarded them with such wariness; Even the wizards of New Eteras, for light they could create, but fire magic they shunned; and Woufalem, the proud kingdom would be forced to recognize they were no better than anyone else.



Frenhelm seemed to thrive in the night. The People were unsure what their role in the coming future would be, but it was assumed that Frenhelm would bring the night. If so, there was no reason they couldn't be friendly to one another. Frenhelm was so mysterious, so curious, only rumors and legend leaked out of that kingdom, and though many of the stories were horrifying, if true, it was not as though the People would be forced to share in their practices. Nor would they need to be hostile, so long as Frenhelm left them alone.



Vry watched the celebrations, waiting for his own part for them to happen. He watched one dancer in particular, Ciala. The gorgeous red-head was a rare beauty, which was to say that, among so many beautiful woman, she stood out with very particular features. The red hair was one such feature. Most of the People had brown, dark brown, or black hair. Red hair wasn't some familial trait, it was a one in a ten thousand, perhaps a one in a million trait.



Ciala's skin was like milk. Again, a rare quality, for the People were often known for their tanned and bronze skin, yet Ciala never tanned, nor did she ever burn. Her body was slender, flexible, moving smoothly to the music like the other dancers, and yet his eyes were only for her. She wore orange chiffon, her skirt riding her hips and falling past her knees. The semi-transparent material allowed the shape of her dancer's legs to stand out, while still keeping modest. It swayed and swished along with her hips.



The top she wore was made of the same material, but there was very little of it. There was enough to cover her chest and wrap around her torso, but her shoulders, arms, and waist were left bare. A thin sheen of sweat caused her skin to glow, the perspiration giving her a certain glossiness.



The dancers turned in place in a circle, and then they took steps to the right and to the left as they slowly swung forward. Vry could see Ciala's light brown eyes, they danced like she did, like the massive bonfire behind her.



The celebration was not just for entertainment. It was also a ritual. Vry found it difficult to concentrate on that fact when watching Ciala's hips sway in rhythm to the drum beat, but his own role was important, even if it was a minor one, and he had to focus. With difficulty, he managed to break his gaze away and up into the night sky.



If everything went correctly, they would be summoning the Rajihim.



Unlike the defensive structures of other nations, the Rajihim were an army of golems. Formed from the sand of the Maihj, the Rajihim predated the People's exile into the desert, but, in ancient times, they had wandered freely across Almos, dessert included. It was the desert where they felt closest to the Phoenix goddess, and it was there that she had gifted them with the immortal army.



The Rajihim had the rudest sense of sentience. They could take information in about a situation and adapt to it, but they did not act on their own, they had to be wielded by a spellcaster of immense strength and power. While Ciala was probably the most talented individual of the People, it was Vry who was recognized as the Fire-Shaper, the highest place of honor outside of the ruling council.



Vry couldn't lie to himself, he could feel his hands shaking and the way that his heart quivered in his chest. It had been hundreds of years since the last time the Rajihim had been called. It was as much a legend as it was a part of history. Vry had to trust that the oral tales that had been told were accurate enough.



The stars above were his audience, not the crowd around the bonfire. That was what he told himself to calm his body and bring his mind into focus. Unlike the rest of the People, the stars had seen a summoning before, all of the times before.



Summoning the Rajihim was a different sort of task than Vry was used to. He wasn't manipulating or conjuring flame. Instead, he let his tendrils of consciousness reach out to the ground below. Deep he dove, feeling the strength and majesty of the earth beneath him. It was a heady feeling, a sudden rush of consciousness flowed through Vry's entire body. Even as he stared up at the stars, he could see the outlines of humanish figures in his mind's eye.



"It is time for you to awaken and defend the People once more!" Vry shouted. It felt as though the ground beneath his feet was moving now, but he remained steady.



Vry could hear the shouts and exclamations from his tribe-mates, yet he remained focused on the stars, concentrating on the ritual.



"The world is changing, and we adapt. The People are the longest-lived nation for a reason. We came before civilization, and we will be here after. Help us!"



The shaking earth could not be ignored now. Vry finally looked away from the stars to those around him. Most of the People were alarmed, but calm, but others seemed to show signs of fleeting panic. Vry noted that Ciala appeared as composed as he did. In fact, she was looking at him and smiling.



Around the outer edges of their camp, dark shapes rose from the ground. Sand poured off of the shapes like scattered display of of waterfalls. From beneath the sand emerged something humanoid in shape, but scaled to a much larger degree. The giant figures were dressed in traditional attire for the People when in the desert, a mix of thawbs and khaleeji dresses. All of them wore keffiyehs, which were tucked down to cover most of their face except their glowing eyes.



Yellow orbs peered out from shadowed faces and all of them were staring right at him. That gave Vry a certain creeping sensation as goosebumps swept down his back, but he held their gaze imperiously.



Each figure stood a full seventeen feet in height, or at least three men standing on each other's shoulders. Even though Vry knew he was in control of these golems, it was impossible not to be intimidated by their impressive height. Yet he had to remain firm. There were no stories on the potential sentience of the Rajihim, but there were stories of summoners who failed to control them, and the terrible fates that befell them.



But what was next? How was Vry going to control them? Did he simply speak in a firm, authoritative voice such as he had used for the summoning ritual?



"Rajihim, come to me!" As terrifying as the golems were, if they followed his command, then Vry could be certain that no ill would befall him.



They didn't move at all.



Something much more forceful than the crawling sensation down his back gripped him now. For a moment, Vry forgot to breathe, his heart seemed indecisive on whether it should continue beating as it were, or if it should start racing.



However, that moment was fleeting, and quickly changed to confusion. If he were truly in danger, wouldn't their actions be more hostile? If anything, the only thing he need fear was whether or not he had any sort of control over the golems. Had they become statues over time, unable to be commanded and used?



Vry looked over to Ciala, he couldn't say why, other than that she was a fetching, interesting woman. She was still smiling and she was giving him a certain sense of a knowing look.



"Ciala?" Vry was curious, what did she know that he did not.



"Mmm?" The redhead gave him a wry smile, the sort of smile that said she knew precisely what he was thinking, but she was withholding the answer just because she could.



"What is it?"



Ciala shook her head and continued smiling as she walked up to Vry. "You may be the most talented fireshaper we've seen in a generation, but perhaps you should have listened more to the stories of our ancestors.



"The Rajihim are a power unlike any other in Almos. Their power rivals even that of the gods. Though the Phoenix goddess is the one who brought them to heel and gave them to us. They can only be controlled by two or more Nomads, each of them touched by a power of the gods.



"I am the Phoenix touched, but you are touched by Roul'hiem, her husband, the god of war. This responsibility falls to both of us. Only together can we command the Rajihim in defense of the People."



As she spoke, Ciala had slowly drawn closer and closer to Vry until she was so close he could lean forward and kiss her if he dared. Of course, even though they'd flirted in the past, they were not together, nor could he assume she wanted him. The gravity of the moment was enough to keep his senses grounded. Ciala was beautiful, but she was more than that. She was the wisdom that tempered the blade, so that it didn't shatter.



Vry turned to look up at the Rajihim once more. He felt a smaller, softer hand slide into his own, and he knew that it was Ciala. She smelled of cinnamon and cardamom, and when he glanced over, he saw that her eyes were on the Rajihim too.



"Defend the People!" They said, together. "Enemies come from all sides, serve us as you served our ancestors before us."



The latter words came to Vry's mind as naturally as a thought, but as soon as he said them, he wasn't sure where they'd come from. Still, he'd known to say it just as Ciala said it, and the effect was momentous.



Every single golem of the Rajihim kneeled before Vry and Ciala, as though they were Knights offering fealty to a king and queen. The People didn't have royalty, though they did take note of bloodlines, but those with the power that Vry had, like Ciala had, tended to naturally rise to the top of social status. The People followed natural leaders, those born to lead, not simply born from leaders.



Even as the night deepened around them, Vry was certain of the People's future. The Rajihim would ensure it.



{Story: New Eteras}

New Eteras

Cynna was running late.



She couldn't afford to be late to class, not again. It seemed that she was always late to class, though, in truth, she was only late half the time. Nevertheless, that was enough for Professor Bunbi to threaten to kick her out of the course.



Ancient Eteras History wasn't a force she could afford to fail, not if she wanted to be an Ruins Explorer like the famous Avara. It was everything she had wanted to be since she was little, growing up in a village ruled by the Floating City of New Eteras. At that time, even Avara hadn't yet become a Ruin Explorer, she was still just starting out her novice studies.



However, the task of seeking out lost secrets from ancient places had recently taken hold. A Archmaster of Ruin Exploration was added to the Academy, which meant one could now specialize in that specific branch and use of magic.



Many of the first Ruin Explorers hadn't fared well after graduating and receiving their adept roles. This scared a fair number of people away from the field, but not Cynna. If anything, it only pushed her further. To become one of the first successful Ruin Explorers... not only would she bring back valued knowledge, spells, and artifacts, she would forever be seen as a pioneer.



Avara had been the first to achieve true success and had been raised to the title of Expert Ruin Explorer, which was third in the hierarchy, with Master and then, following that, Archmaster, of which there was only one.



But none of that would be available to Cynna if she was late again.



Sleep was too addicting, a sweet and powerful drug that she seemed particularly susceptible to. She could wake up refreshed and ready to go, then decide to lie down for a few minutes and wake up with an hour having passed by.



This time she had simply stayed up too late, reading, "The Differential Theories on Elemental Energy" with the same enthusiasm and attention that one might give to a beloved novel. The text was dense, filled with spellcaster jargon, but she read it greedily, examining the theories presented and comparing them to her own understanding of spellwork.



There were those that said magic was an art, while others maintained it was a science. Cynna believed it was a little bit of both.



It was clear that following objective methods in spellwork created reliable, predictable responses in the magic, and whatever it was manipulating. Magical research was a core part of any academy program, and this was especially true at the Academy, as it was colloquially known. The true name was the New Eteras Academy of the Magical Arts. In spite of the name, however, the focus of the school emphasized the scientific approach to magic. Afterall, it certainly made sense, it was easier to teach well-researched spells with reliable predictability. It was much harder to teach the intuition that made magic a form of art.



Cynna loved the art of it. It wasn't difficult to argue for why the artistic component of magic was important to the exploration of ruins. Ruins, especially those with a history steeped in magic, often exhibited dangerous, unpredictable behavior, which required a certain creative intuition in order to solve puzzles and create solutions on the spot.



Even from a young age, Cynna had known that she had been chosen for magic. Energy seemed to fluctuate around her often, and filled her days with bright, dancing lights, and bestowing unusual behaviors, such as random floating. In spite of how dangerous magic was, however, she had never felt unsafe with it growing up.



Breathing heavily, Cynna leaned against the door to her Ancient Ruins class. It took her a moment to catch up, for her to calm her pounding heart, to maintain composure, to appear with the dignity of a student of the Academy, and not the immature, tardy student she felt like she was.



It was difficult to focus throughout the class. Cynna's mind often wandered, but this was different. Her thoughts were preoccupied on a conversation she'd overheard at breakfast. It wasn't a conversation she was supposed to hear, but she'd always had exceptional hearing, and not using it seemed like a waste.



"I'm telling you, we're going to have to take a side eventually." The voice was clearly a woman's, though Cynna couldn't quite pin the voice on a specific student or teacher. She didn't dare look behind her.



"And what will they do if we don't? New Eteras is a fortress." This voice was clearly a man's, though its pitch was a bit higher than most men. Cynna felt like she knew this voice, but the name was hovering just beyond her reach.



"We're not the only magical power in Sevalle." The woman responded.



"No. Just the most powerful." The male voice snickered, "let them try to assault us."



"They will. That's inevitable."



"Then we show them our full strength. They're not the only ones hiding secret powers." The man answered.



This was something that Cynna knew a bit about. New Eteras had spies everywhere, they were THE intelligence operation in the Five Kingdoms. They knew that Frenhelm had discovered a spell that could engulf the world in an endless night. That Woufalem had just discovered a new energy source that could be used for fighting, defense, and other practical applications that would put them, technologically, on similar footing to New Eteras. The Nomads had been blessed with a mortal imbued with the spirit of the famed phoenix goddess, Tiwara. All of them thought their secrets were safe and, as far as New Eteras was aware, none of them knew of the power that New Eteras had awoken over a hundred years ago.



It was not well-known even among those in New Eteras, and Cynna had stumbled on the secret by a matter of chance. The magi had managed to create a new sort of creature, a vampire that fed off of magical energy. These vampires were hyper-intelligent, had supernatural strength, and lived indefinitely, even shrugging off wounds that would kill a mortal. But they were able to hide in plain sight, and that was what had allowed New Eteras to keep its secret for so long.



The only secret hidden from the magi of New Eteras were the druids of the Conclave. Colloquially known as the Swolib, after the tree that was their most sacred holy ground. The Swolib and New Eteras were not formally enemies. In fact, magi were often allowed to study nature magics at the edge of the Kjirin Forest. However, the druids denied them deeper entry into it.



The Swolib seemed uninterested in arcane magic, but it was formally the policy that they could not enter the floating city to learn. Of all the peoples in the Five Kingdom, the druids were the only ones capable of sensing out vampires. The discovery of vampires in New Eteras would certainly provoke the Swolib druids to war. Undeath was unnatural and the druids were committed to cleansing the world of the unnatural.



It was this truth, in fact, that created the situation that New Eteras found itself in. The Swolib had so thoroughly cleansed the world of their kind that vampires neared the edge of extinction. The magi had allowed them shelter, and, through various rituals, managed to change how the vampires of New Eteras fed, to ensure that they could remain hidden, drawing no attention to themselves as would happen if they were sucking blood from academy students.



"Lesson is done. Remember to review Chapter 3, your test on the material will be on the first class of the next week."



Cynna's attention snapped back to the professor. She was continuing to give directions to the rest of the class, but even looking at the professor wasn't helping her to pay attention to what she was saying.



New Eteras had a secret, a secret which put the fate of the entire floating city, the academy, at risk. Which meant that she was at risk, far greater risk than she'd realized. When she first discovered the vampires, she thought it was merely an interesting bit of knowledge. She didn't realize the connection with the Conclave of the Swolib until she'd had time to dwell on it. Did the professors and other academy staff know the same thing? They must have, surely they'd have made the connection just as she had?



Just as Cynna was resting on that thought, a sudden jolt rocked through the room, likely the whole academy. Cynna wasn't the only one who felt it. There were exclamations all throughout the classroom. There was a moment's hesitation, and then another jolt, and everyone seemed to realize themselves all at once and there was a rush for the door.



The panic was at least controlled. Cynna had to admire that, no one was being trampled, and though the door bottleknecked, the crowd of people was still filtering out. Cynna chose a different route, however, and walked over to one of the tall picture windows that let light into the classroom. At first, all she could see was what she normally saw. Trees, other windows, the stone from which the academy was built. Then... clouds. There weren't always clouds below, that only happened when the clouds were low enough, if the floating city was much higher up, it wouldn't be habitable. As it was, a strong ritual of protective magic provided New Eteras with a climate that made living so high up a bit easier, and protected them from the storms they often passed through.



But there was something else... thrust up through the clouds was some finger or tendril that seemed quite out-of-place as it reached for the bedrock. Then, with a surprising suddenness, Cynna realized what it was: a root. A root from a tree and just as she made that connection the tendril made it to its target and there was yet another jolt throughout the room.



New Eteras was under attack.



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