In his study, [King] Enderan sits behind his desk upon a comfy, cushioned chair. He sorts reports both foul and fair. Truly, the kingdom of Kurzix, his kingdom, had struck gold (figuratively this time). His kingdom’s central city, of the same name as the kingdom, is a mining city. Through good fortune, they had uncovered a long-dead dungeon, one supposedly predating the historical demon wars that had ravaged the world.

This dungeon was, if he is correct, an old Adamantium mining complex that had been abandoned and forgotten when the dungeon stone was destroyed. Adamantium is extremely expensive, and until recently, only the dwarven kingdom could produce and work the heavy metal. But now, Camelot’s smithing guild has developed a way to work with the nearly indestructible ore.

A good thing for Kurzix, considering how much it would cost to ship the rare and heavy metal all the way north.

Unfortunately, the windfall came at the worst possible time. The western Aesir kingdoms, many of which are his allies of necessity, are at war. Kurzix is small, a single city that produces iron in large quantities. Weapons of war he has, but he lacks enough hands to use them. So, he sells iron and steel to the Aesir at bargain prices in return for protection.

But now, the Aesir have no armies to send to his defense, and the nearby kingdoms are realizing this. They have already sent [Rogues] and [Assassins] after his life, which were thankfully stopped by his [Royal Ironskin Guards].

Enderan licks his dry lips and glances at the entrance to his study. Two [Royal Ironskin Guards] stand ready and vigilant. Two of five, where there once was twenty. If they send another attack like the last one, he doubts he or his daughters will survive.

“[Mercenaries],” he mumbles to himself, remembering his faint hope. He rifles through his papers and finds the one listing the expensive hires and the information his [Spy] was able to obtain.

“Merry Marrows and Bladed thorns,” he reads their names. Then he reads his spy’s notes.

Bladed Thorns:

-silver-5 ranked mercenary team.

-Thirty combatants, 0 non-combatants

-All female

-Team Leader is an Amazon named Trinity

-41/41 missions successful

 

Notes:

-Average rank of individual members is mid to upper Iron.

-The leader has shown skill commensurate to upper steel rank.

-All thirty members have martial classes.

Enderan smiles, impressed with the team on paper. A group like that would have probably fared much better against the assassins than his [Royal ironskin Guards]. With a grunt, he flips the page and raises an eyebrow at the second team sent.

 

Merry Marrows:

-Silver-1 ranked team

-Team size: two people

-0 completed missions

 

Notes:

-Both individuals wear masks hiding their classes and levels.

-Both individuals accorded Mithril-1 rank by guild

-Both individuals have magic-based classes

He frowns at the synopsis. He expected a team with [Mages] to shore up the martial team’s weaknesses, but just two people seem inadequate… Masked and hiding their classes seems iniquitous. If he wasn’t desperate for time, he would have already rejected their application.

Enderan slowly strokes his beard. He paid good money to the mercenary guild to send protection. They wouldn't send only two people, even if both of them are Mithril-1 rank.

After staring at the paper a few minutes, the [King] sighs and leans back. He still has a week before their scheduled arrival.

“Maybe I should allow the guilds into my city,” he muses before quickly shaking his head. “No, that will just cause problems. My people are happy, no need to make such a risky move.”

Shuffling his papers, he looks out the window of his study. The hazy night sky is beautiful, not even a cloud in sight. He yawns and then glances back at the large stack of papers.

He wants to sleep, but the work keeps piling up. He closes his eyes and wills the papers to vanish, but they stubbornly refuse to disappear.

And so, the [King] returns to his duties.

 

_________________________________________________________

 

The [Grand Chancellor] muses over his war table. An excruciatingly detailed map of Orbis lays in front of him. Mountains stand in relief, forests dress the land like shag carpets, icebergs calve on the northern and southern seas, cities lift their tiny spires in pale mimicry of true creation, rivers flow, so lifelike he’d expected them to feel wet -- but they don’t. He checked -- and armies crawl across the land like ants.

He studies three [General]s’ positions, poised to defend against a demonic invasion in the north. He smiles when he notices the Jarl’s armies of the Far North falling upon the East. He chuckles as his main army continues to rampage eastward. His Valkyries make short work of the Emporer's [Slave] defenders. So far, the war is going mostly as he planned. The Olympians do not have high-level units in position to stop him. Two of their [Heroes] are with the amazons, who are currently stuck on their island, their ships lying burnt and destroyed by his [Spies] at the start of the war.

He grunts, annoyed. Even with such a lead in this war, there are too many unknown variables. Two Olympian [Heroes] should have arrived to combat his army, but they remain hidden, allowing his [Generals] to destroy the swarms of [Slave Soldiers] with ease.

The Chancellor leans back. His vision drifts south.

Camelot, a city made as a monument to a mortal. He sneers. Camelot is one more city he wishes to destroy, but he refuses to move against it. There are too many unknowns in the city shrouded from his vision. A ward against long-range scrying covers the city in its entirety. The infrastructure and mana cost truly boggles his mind.

Regardless, they stay mostly neutral, more than happy to sell their products to the highest bidder.

Which, unfortunately, is the East. [Emperor] Flavion’s coffers run deeper than all the Western nations combined.

His gaze shifts west of Camelot, to a city named Kurzix, known for producing and refining large quantities of steel; steel that is badly needed for his war effort.

But, the city struck a vein of Adamantine. This rare metal is now being funneled to Camelot, molded into weapons, and then sold to Flavion for enormous profits.

Unfortunately, those weapons empower his enemy.

He considers his next move before arriving at the inevitable conclusion. More blood in the great war. With a flick of his wrist and burst of mana, he mentally contacts a subordinate.

“Suggest to the [King] of Shival that he should attack Kurzix. Send him an entire [War-Priest] contingent to show our support for the endeavor,” he orders.

The connection flickers out and the Chancellor looks back at his map. He sees Umbra moving quickly and with haste. So far, the Suffocating Shadow has done a phenomenal job in the far north, and now the Chancellor debates on changing his order to assist with the war effort instead of heading far south.

But he shakes his head. Odin warned him of a change in the south.

“Mimir, what are you doing?” he rubs his chin, staring at the far south where his reach fails him. Not that it matters, the south is weak and poor. No dungeons or powerful monsters abide, no resources to be gained. A waste.

So far, the war has gone well. His army survives and levels while enemies die. Of course, the east will eventually regroup, but by that time, he expects them to be severely weakened.

Come

The Chancellor's eyes widen as he feels a mental pull and his right eye burn.

One moment, he is staring at the war-table, the next, he is kneeling before his god.

“Allfather!” he exclaims slowly and fervently.

Odin stares down from his throne, appraising his champion, the mortal imbued with most of his power.

“Frode,” Odin speaks and the Chancellor looks up, “a shift in power has begun. My daughter Eir has escaped. I fear she will join the olympians.”

Odin's one eye gazes down, practically glowing with anger and disappointment. “Destroy her followers,“ he commands, “and her champion. He is somewhere deep south.”

“Yes, Allfather.”

As soon as Frode speaks, he blinks and finds himself once again staring at the war-table.

Frode releases a breath he did not even know he was holding. He then frowns at the experience. Odin is very rarely angry. The Allfather almost always has his emotions in check.

With a grunt, he glances at the map, his eyes widen. The three [Generals] are engaging an army.

 

____________________________________________________________

 

In a mansion covered by the Eternal Night, a party is in full swing, one so large that the building had to be expanded beforehand so to fit all the guests.

Over five hundred [Vampire Lords] and [Vampire Ladies] have arrived. As these things tend to do, it began with talk and hor’s d’oeuvres, pleasantries given, gossip exchanged, and the fools ridiculed. All of this accompanied with glasses of crimson blood.

Chatting turned to dancing. Merriment, laughter. Amusement. Shadowed movements, twisting in the dim candlelight to a [Slave] orchestra who pray to the gods that they might survive the night.

They would not.

With the dancing done and everyone suitably excited, the final act of the evening began. The dancers grew closer and closer. Arms circled backs, chests pressed together, thighs… bare skin rubbed as clothing was cut away with razor-sharp nails. Soft, cold skin beneath fingers. Ears gently nibbled until they’re ripped away. Limbs torn apart as the bloody orgy commenced.

To the sane, it was madness. Everyone brutally raping one another. However, to the vampires, it was the only non-boring way to fuck. If someone’s hole is occupied or stick is in use, merely make a new one and keep going. Every hole’s a goal, and what better goal to attain than the one you made yourself?

Heedless of the party, five individuals absconded from the fun. The eldest vampires, the [Coven Heads] sit around a table, eyeing each other with contempt. Two women and three men glower one another, but the air of hostility feels fragile and incomplete. Where once six sat two years ago, now sit five.

“Thank you all for coming,” Kieran begins with a smile, looking at each one present. They glare at him, as they do each other. Understandably; the Covens have fought each other for the past two years over the new land which became available. So, tensions are rather high.

“I’m sure you all have heard the Seal was broken recently.”

They nod. Damien crosses his arms. “Yes; just get to the point Kieran.”

Kieran sighs. “It has come to my attention that none of you have lifted a finger to raise an army or even attempt to combat the growing threat-”

“Ha!” Lenora barks. “You haven't done anything either. Only that [Vampire Lady] Ambrosia is raising an army on her own. You never ordered her, so don't act like you planned this.”

Kieran’s eyes turn black, as do Lenora’s. They stare at each other, each practically taunting the other to do something.

“Kieran, Lenora, your squabbles can wait.” Damien announces. He glances at Victoria and Serafino, both quietly listening.

The two [Coven heads] glare for a moment more before their scleras turn back to normal.

“Now,” he looks to Kieran, “we have disdained to grow an army because Ambrosia is already doing so. All of us have sent our strongest lycans to support her. Has the situation changed?”

Kieran nods. “As of this moment, Ambrosia has taken her army and abandoned us. Currently, she is engaging an army on the land bridge of the island. It will not take long for her to leave our grasp.”

Everyone’s eyes instantly turn dark black except for Kierans. They say nothing for long moments before the eyes return to normal.

“It is too late now,” Lenora says, “we cannot stop her anymore.”

“So we’ll need another army,” Damien comments, “otherwise we will be overwhelmed by the demons.”

Kieran frowns. The task is easier said than done. The demons, upon the seal's destruction, started summoning an army, one with an abnormally large number of [Photomancers]. Almost as though they were planning to fight an enemy sensitive to light…

Vampires are already low in number. A [Coven Head] perished only two years ago. Everyone is now very aware of their transience. The difference between immortal and invincible has never felt less subtle.

“We may not have enough high-level Lycans, or enough time to create an army,” Kieran says.

“Then what?” Lenora asks as she creases her eyebrows. “Are we to fight ourselves? Have you any idea how many of us will die?” she seethes. “We can no longer increase the number of our kind. We are at the brink of extinction already.”

“Actually, this might be an opportunity,” Victoria interrupts, “Our kind was created by the Demon Alucard. Perhaps, if we ally with the demons, they will have a way to make us fertile once more.”

“I agree with that,” Serafino adds. “This is an opportunity. I think we should take it.”

Kieran rubs his chin. It's a possibility. The idea that they should ally with the demons never crossed his mind. After all, the contract they have with the outside world is that they get to live in peace for as long as they protect the seal from tampering.

He leans forward and crosses his hands. “Let us speak of our options a bit more.”