These are troubling times indeed.
The priest and prophets wail of the coming of another century war. The great empire of Namburg raises an army in the far north, soldiers churning the earth of their ancestral farmlands as the regiments assemble, parade and drill. Lancers of Namburg ride abroad once more, recruiting where they can, intimidating where they can not, and destroying where they must. Some whisper the Judges move again, emerging from the history books to hunt down the enemies of Namthar and purge the lands of any who would move against him.
Meanwhile, Kossos trembles with the roars of the great behemoth, furious and powerless, chained to the Eastern capital by their Deity to feed, defend, and perhaps control the Federation. The chieftains and generals pour over wargames and battlemaps, as the Godbutchers continue their sacred and grizzly duties behind the blood drenched walls.
It has been almost 3000 years since the world shattering clash between the twin gods Namthar and Alastor, a conflict that left Vaul a broken and shattered world.
The battle left a magic-scared and desolate wasteland in its aftermath, the God-brothers fighting to a bloody stalemate with armies of primitive men, elves and orcs under their command. The “century war” created that ancient bleak and barren world, and it took the survivors hundreds of years to rebuild any semblance of civilisation.
Few records exist, and only scholars and poets speculate as to true cause of the war. Fewer still speculate as to who really won, or how.
And so…the Doomsayers bellow still louder. Rulers and peasants alike bristle and balk at the idea, but in the privacy of their own thoughts, many prepare for the coming conflict, extra mercenaries, a packed backpack by the door, and shadowy alliance in a smoky tavern backroom, or a lonely, whispered prayer in the dead of night. The tension grows, and the noose tightens around everybody’s neck, as the nations stare each other down. The fresh-faced young soldiers of Vaul stand shoulder to shoulder with its grizzled mercenaries dulled blades sharpened once more. If this is to be another century war, all are determined to emerge victorious, or the very least, emerge alive.
But our story begins somewhere much humbler
Our story begins, off the coast of the Silver Strands, aboard a cork-oak Caravel, the Walrus. From a distance, only the bright white sails can be seen, glowing brilliantly against the deep blue ocean breakers that bounce around her. The Walrus skims across the waves, hugging close to the coast, always keeping in sight of the towering grey cliff faces, the imposing wardens and watchers of the rolling meadows and vineyards beyond.
The Sun is now past its zenith and as it lowers itself across the western sky, the Walrus’ shadow grows, stretching languidly towards the beaches.
The days chores are being done, the hempen rope has been coated and tarred, and your arms ache from hours of Whipping, splicing, and reeving the running rigging. The brass fittings gleam, and the chipping hammer must surely be a few pounds lighter so often has it been swung these last few weeks.
Your watch has ended, and you sit in the darkness of the crew quarters with your fellow travellers, thankful for a little shade.
A motely crew, Ernodal, Throkk, Gritgoz, Tulip. Strange bedfellows, but then, these are strange times.
You’re due to make landfall tomorrow, and should arrive in Vicetina within the day, to what purpose, your captain Luca still has not revealed. Buy as he says –Coin is coin and orders are orders.
As you stretch out your stiff muscles, you listen to the slow creak of the wood and lapping of the waves only to have your thoughts interrupted by a high clear tolling of the main bell.
Time to assemble on deck
.