The black mist advanced steadily across the continent of Midgard and crossed overhead its many and majestic cities of steel and industry.

These settlements, with no exception, adorned a small sun in their centres, a ring formed of clocktowers created the home for that to dwell within.

Chains bound these stars, each set emerald green and holding fast.

There were Four major territories that spanned the Kingdom of Olympus, and many had come to call them The Four Rings in these later years.

The black mist progressed further into the Olympian Kingdom’s lands, by mid day’s fall the mist it had progressed from this place, from the Border Ring as it had become known, towards the Outer Ring where Industry was made to bud and grow.

The observant mortal might guess that at this pace it would reach the Inner Ring, where the affluent gathered, by the onset of afternoon.

Perhaps if it kept this course it might even cover the Central Ring by the fall of the daily eclipse.

The further in it got, the larger the stars and the cities built about them.

The larger the cities, the more advanced, they turned from rural farms to vast contraptions of steel and steam.

Great tracks linked the cities, and the further in one got the more excessive their number.

Crimson red Zeppelins flew overhead to bear witness as steam spewing engines roared across those great pathways, the whole thing must have looked splendid from the heavens so high.

There were many marvels to take in, truly more than can be put to paper, indeed by now it should be quite evident to even an idiot that the Olympian Kingdom was more advanced technologically, by the standards of this primitive world, than any other nation.

Yet the observer did not pay much heed to those miraculous constructs, nay, for he had seen it all before.

The darkness blanketed the heavens above the last and innermost domain, The Central Ring where the Six Platinum Class Cities that housed the Six Duke Houses had now resided since the long olden times.

The black vortex advanced beyond even these vast metropolises, for it bid to arrive at their heart.

All six cities shared a network of tracks with this place, the small but hallowed Capital of the Kingdom, which was ever characterised by its pitch dark tower, tallest in the land and home to both the throne and any who had ever sat upon it.

This small city, which could barely be called such really, was quite ironically named Chronos, it was the place where Alfrick of Chronos and his six brides had resided since time immemorial.

Sadly his was a face that was seldom seen, the masses now considered the Six Dukes as their rulers, and they believed the hallowed monarch to be nothing more than a decorative piece.

The fact that the dukes never went to war nor strived for any gain over one another, minor or meagre, was not something the unconcerned folk cared enough to ponder over.

Should they have such care then even the dull witted officials in charge of collecting annual taxes might perhaps be able to cobble together enough thought to realise their error:

Such peace and balance could not exist without the long dismissed existence of an unquestionable, absolute and unifying leader.

This establishment was with purpose, of course, for it worked to conceal the undying nature of the kingdom's true monarch, as well as his brides who were mothers to each of the Dukes far distant ancestor.

The hurricane seemed to reach this place over the span of a single day. That might perhaps make it sound like the mass was slow to some, especially to those who behold its sheer size and scale, naturally, this was far from the truth, indeed it was in actuality moving very, very fast.

Muspelheim, for example, was a tiny continent compared to this vast Midgard, and yet it still took half a year for the land's superhuman inhabitants to get from the northern tip to the southern centre.

This truth then served only to make the sudden slow and eventual halt of the advancing storm all the more unnatural to the unlearned man's eye.

Yes, indeed it was that the storm had stopped just at it had reached the gates of the hallowed Capital.

The vortex then seemed to shrink as it loomed overhead, the vague figure of a man began to emerge standing within its eye.

Time passed, it all seemed slow and yet, once again, it was terribly not so.

The figure burst free, it scattered the remnant gusts to the wind and stepped forward ever descending towards the gates of the mighty city.

His body was clad in black, his face was slightly unshaven but hardly unkempt.

He dressed like a gentleman from head to toe, complete with a cane in hand.

He marched down from heaven to earth as if an invisible set of stairs conjoined them, then raised his head to look upon the burning spheres that adorned the sky above the capital.

That brilliant sun blazed with an energy far beyond what these people ever could’ve achieved on their own, an energy that was familiar to him.

Indeed, it should have been, for that sphere of light bound in emerald chains was a Vanir, a God, no different from himself.

Those chains then, though one had to admit they were oddly shaped, were a part of his wife's, the goddess of this kingdom’s, vast and shapeless true form.

They, who were Gods, were massive things by nature, and it was not so uncommon that they would appear as more than mere men or women.

Make no mistake, their true forms would always be somewhere, and they’d be massive. Even the smallest of their number was a titan eclipsing all but the greatest of cities the world over.

With a loud sound then the gates pried open, the small and cosy little capital was laid bare before his eyes.

The men behind the gates bowed down. They numbered a thousand strong and each one bore a most powerful air, yet all of them were nothing short of lacking in the shadow of this godly being before them.

He paused in his steps and peered forward. The black Vanir caught the silhouette of a familiar face stepping forward to greet him.

She wore a plated vest, pitch black and tight to her chest, together with an all too familiar military standard uniform.

Frankly spoken, for a woman in this world it was a sight as rare as a falling star to see them dressed for war.

That did not mean they lacked the skill to defend their homes and their children from invasion. Indeed the mere existence of the Nidhogg Empire and the way they treated their foes made the women of the world think: “I better know how to use a weapon, just in case”.

This woman, however, looked like the uniform befit her to a T, and it was no surprise. After all, she was his scion, she was The Black Matriarch, fourth in number amongst the Emerald Emperor’s Brides.

Her name now was Durer of Ares but he remembered her title in times long past.

Back then she had been known by the moniker, Durer of Ogre, and she was Matriarch of the Immortal Clan's Fourteenth, final, and if one would heed her own hubris, it's greatest, branch.

She had led one of the greatest powerhouses the continent of Svartalfheim had to offer before the strife with her fellows had forced her to flee for better pastures.

Yet although centuries had passed and she was now wed to the Emerald Emperor who served the Goddess Feng, she did not bow her head to him nor heed the will of his patron deity.

Her God was another, it was ever Svartalfheim's God: indeed it was him, it was Rognir, the Black Vanir, husband to Feng, who was standing now before her, he was her one true and only master.

“It has been too long, Lord Rognir,” Durer said as she greeted her god.

He approached her, beheld her and her people, they who represented a remnant of The Immortal Clan he had once created.

The clan now was but a shadow of its former glory, its fourteen branches lay scattered and divided.

The gates slammed shut behind them as they walked forward, their steady steps echoed through the waiting capital.

Black buildings, gold paved road, men and women adorned in white priestly robe, they walked amid this silent scenery like a pair of uninterested outsiders.

They approached the towering temple near the heart of the city.

People gathered here, they numbered in the thousands and all of them were kneeling before an altar made from stone.

There, with her long golden hair swept back, a woman faced the crowd.

Her black lashes blinked shut. Her crimson lips did part. She led them in prayer, prayer to goddess Feng.

Rognir paused at the sight, Durer dared not lead him further. She locked her eyes upon the woman, the Golden Priestess, herald the title Gwendoline of Zeus.

Rognir stepped forth, he need not make a sound but he bid to invite the priestess' notice.

He did not care what mortal bodies barred his way, just stepped through them as fog until he pressed down upon the alter.

The Priestess noticed, and it was quite the eerie sight.

Distancing the ghostly impression for a brief moment, her faith called Rognir something equal to the devil, this was so even though he was husband to their goddess.

The faith did not preach that he was “evil” however, only that he was its source. He only had himself to blame for that.

The tale told by mothers to their children was that when the White Queen of eight centuries ago went mad with power and weakened their nation to the point of collapse, the Black Matriarch invaded to seize all that they owned.

His ghoulish image was owed to this tale, but so too was the argument that he was a force of balance, a force of punishment for the wicked and corrupted rulers of old times.

That age of chaos only came to an end then when the Golden Priestess allied herself with a powerful pair of outsiders to raise an army of peasants that came to subdue both the tyrant queen and the invading matriarch.

Those outsiders had been the Emerald Emperor and his sole companion, the Violet Princess.

That story, and the memory she'd lived through, seemed to clash with force as Rognir stepped upon the altar.

“Greetings to the Father God,” She said as she bowed to him. All who heard her, all who witnessed her gesture, raised their heads to see him standing in their hall.

The Black God, Ancestor of the Immortal Clan, Husband to Feng, Father God, Devil, Chaos Bringer, Vanir, Rognir, he was known by all these names, and with both awe and fear, they all greeted him.

“Greetings to the Father God,” They said, clasping their hands together in prayer, yet Rognir ignored them.

From the beginning to the end the wizened deity had no interest in any of these mortals.

He offered Gwendoline alone an acknowledging eye, and then she received the very height of his courtesy, it was just the act of hearing him speak her name in greeting, but this was enough.

“Open the path,” He said after that, and Gwendoline dared not stand on ceremony.

Usually she was an arrogant sort, her pride would lose not even to that cursed Queen, but though daring she may be she wasn't stupid. There was no surer death than to put on airs in front of this being.

“Understood,” The Priestess said, and then, with a powerful shout, she gave the command, “Open the path!”

The men standing high above heard her command, they reached out to seize the chains jutting down from the side walls of the chamber.

They pulled, hard, chanting as they did so, and with all their might they worked to lift the back wall and open the path hidden away behind the altar.

The Golden Priestess began to lead the masses in prayer as the whole temple shook. She wanted to collect herself, calm her frightful nerves.

The back wall soon completely vanished into the second floor and with a resounding crack it settled there.

What was revealed in its place then was a stairway leading down into a glittering catacomb; a bottomless darkness waited beyond.

Without a care however, Rognir advanced into the waiting depths, he left both Durer and Gwendoline behind in the silence.

The Priestess breathed a sigh of relief, and then she turned to face her contemptible compatriot with clear blame in her gaze.

“Does His Majesty know of this?” She asked in a tone of accusation.

Durer said nothing, she only stared on silently into the tunnel. She mused upon the stairway leading to those deepest depths, and then she shook her head.

Gwendoline’s frown only deepened with the sight of that gesture.

“I’ll do it then...he should be informed, and swiftly at that.”

Durer said nothing, but now at least she bid to face her ancient foe. She shrugged her shoulders in an indifferent manner, almost mockingly, and then she turned on her heels to take leave of those holy pastures.

The Priestess paused but once to glance over her shoulder, and then she ran to the Emerald Emperor’s domain, the tallest clocktower that lay in the heart of their small but significant city.

The crown jewel of the country, known as the Obelisk, The Throne, The Black Tower, Home of the Emerald Emperor.