Chapter Vb - Into the Battlefield

<<Evening - Day 21 - Early Spring - Tower - Wilderness>>

Cithrel returns to the study - up the long staircase - to guide the transition of the Tower. Drace and Draern are lefts with the heap of gold and silver. Their investigation reveals that the goblin-folk had no advanced knowledge of coinage or numismatics. The little lumps are more like tiny ingots than coins, and they are terribly inconsistent at that. It takes no effort to realize that there is no consistence whatsoever in the metals. Similarly, the purity of the metals is in question and it's possible that they could involve significant quantities of lead. As such there's no good way to determine the value of the heap, at least not without some study.

In the study, Cithrel braces for the transition. The elf specifies 'north', wishing to push further into the mountains for their mapping project. When the time comes for the Tower to phase out of existence for a few moments, Cithrel slips into a short trance. In the trance, Cithrel feels like they have jumped up off the ground and into the clouds. From their perspective, Cithrel sees icy mountain tops, but there's a sensation of being deflected away to the west. Some force is prohibiting the Tower from landing within the mountains, so it is pushed west toward the ocean.

The western slopes of the mountains are covered with thick, dense forests. Cithrel only has a moment to react and guide the descent of the Tower. An instinct for a clear landing leads the elf - and thus the Tower - to a wide plain in the midst of the woods. The large, rectangular shape suggests that the land here was cleared intentionally at one point. When the Tower lands, Cithrel falls back into their body and is shaken out of the trance.

<<Sunset - Day 21 - Early Spring - The Battlefield - Wilderness>>

The doors fling open and the skeleton guards immediately raise their swords and shields! You've landed in the middle of an active battlefield!

Out the tower doors, Drace and Draern can hear the pounding of horse hooves and the clash of weapons and armor. There are chariots, cavalry, and men-at-arms exchanging blows beneath waving banners. This is objectively a surprise as it was not thought that the Wilderness was home to any state or entities which could field a force such as this, let alone two of them.

You seem to have landed in the heart of the struggle. The good news is that the two armies are too busy killing each other to concern themselves much with you. That doesn't mean your presence has gone unnoticed though.

"Wizards!" a cavalryman shouts to Draern and Drace, concluding - not unreasonably - that only a wizard's tower could appear unexpectedly in the middle of a battlefield. He has a lance in one hand and a banner of a red dragon or a red wyvern in the other hand. "Fight for the noble Earl against the wicked usurper! Fight for freed-!" He is cut off, literally, by a sword through his throat.

The cavalryman who slew him then shouts to you. "Wizards!" he yells. His banner is a white boar against a red-and-blue background. "Fight for the rightful King against the cruel rebels! They wish to topple the wise and just-!" His entreaty is stopped by a crushing hammerblow to his helmet, which knocks him off his horse. Helpless on the ground under the weight of his armor, a second blow to the face finishes him.

The mêlée continues. The battle is immediately around the Tower and it is not hard to imagine the fighting spilling through the doors and into your laps at any moment. The Tower doors cannot be closed and seem to be held open by a powerful magical force.

"Fall back, fall back! Up the stairs, I'll cover you!" Instincts, long thought lost, kick in and Draern pushes Drace back inside and up the stairs. Out of nowhere he has his bow in hand and covers the door. Cover your men from the foe... Who is the foe? Rebels? The Kings men? Draern hesitates, but then makes a quick decision. If they come for us, they are the foe.
He urges Drace up the stairs until he is again opposite of the entrance, kneels and aims his arrow at the door. Noone was invited in, who comes in must be prepared to take an arrow.

Cithrel's eyes snap open. They let out a long shaky breath, relieved at having found a landing spot when, for a moment, it seemed like they wouldn't. That feeling of satisfaction doesn't last long. They frown as their ears pick up the sound of the battle raging around the tower. They hear Draern's harsh shouts.

"Oh no..." the elf mutters. They close their eyes and try reaching back into the Tower, desperately looking for a way to close the doors and keep the fighting from spilling inside.

Draern has the kind of instincts that Drace is in the field to develop, and so the young assassin does not resist when he is herded up the steps, going so far as to bite his tongue when his colleague continues to urge him up the stairs. "Cithrel! Omirius! We are in the middle of a battle, and will soon be part of the battlefield!" Drace calls loudly without injecting any emotion into his words.

To Drearn, more quietly " Warning shot to anyone who tries to enter, and maiming shot to whoever ignores the warning, yes? " A knife appears in both of his hands. "gods... what a mess" He mutters to himself.

Draern's warning makes it's way up to Cithrel and Omirius.

"Oh, my!" Omirius says, holding a hand meekly over his heart. "How unfortunate!"

Cithrel tries to figure out what's holding the doors open. It doesn't take the elf long to determine that this is a feature not a flaw, that the Tower needs to breathe following a jump. The specifics are hazy, but the magical energies involved in the teleportation need to vent so that the Tower's manifold doesn't burst. Or something like that. Cithrel could override it in an emergency, but doing so would either risk the Tower crumbling to dust or the possibility of poisoning of everyone inside.

It doesn't take long for fighters to spill into the Tower. They don't do it intentionally; it seems to be the natural consequence of their fighting, the kinetic motion of tumbling bodies. Draern raises his bow to warn them, but to what effect? The combatants battle each other in a life-or-death struggle and a warning arrow is unlikely to be noticed, let alone heeded. Draern could shoot, yes, and easily hit the distracted target, but doing so would effectively choose a side of the conflict.

The skeleton guards of the Tower seem to be similarly conflicted, perhaps overwhelmed by stimuli. One skeleton manages to grab two combatants - one in each hand - and to deposit them roughly outside, but the effect is temporary. Soon another pair of fighters stumble inside, then another, then another. Presently there are a dozen combatant fighting in your foyer, with presumably more on the way.

Two of them, grappling, swing back and forth like angry dancers. Eventually one of them accidentally steps on your untidy heap of copper and silver and loses his footing. He drags the other fighter down too, both of them landing on the small hill of coins. They, for a moment, lose their focus on the fighting. The shine of the metal seems to have distracted them for an instant as they stare confused at fistfuls of precious metals. Their spell is broken by a skeleton that picks them up and hurls them outside. That skeleton, however, is soon crushed by a hammer-blow that was aimed at someone else. The skeleton crumbles to the ground, which quickly trips someone else, who has to defend himself from an attacker who now stands over him, and the crazed mêlée continues.

Better all of you die by the sword than risk losing this Tower. It is a treasure worth thousands of lives, a voice says in Cithrel's mind.

The elf frowns. They would reincarnate if they died, but the others would not. However, there was no telling what closing the doors would do. Most likely, it would kill them all anyway. They needed more information before making a choice.

Cithrel jumps to their feet and run to the library's door. They peek through the arch, seeing the Ds rushing back up the stairs as the melee rages downstairs. More and more of the pile of copper was speckled with blood.

First things first, Cithrel had to help their companions. They focus on Drace and Drearn, raising their arms. They clasp their ring and little fingers with their thumbs, leaving their index and middle fingers free. Pointing those down, they start to wriggle them like little running legs. "Asendage end ebakindla kiirusega!" they cry out as they turn their wrists until the fingers are pointing up, still moving.

Drace and Draern feel their legs push them faster. Suddenly, they can move twice as fast and instinctly know that they could briefly run up the walls if they had to. Cithrel has extended the enchantment to themselves and Omirius as well, just in case.

"Get up here!" they call out to their companions. "We can barricade the library!"

Draern answers to Drace, without moving his sight away from the battle below "It's too many. I will shoot anyone starting to climb the stairs. Or that tries to steal our coin." With a quick thought he commands Rima to run up the stairs past him, so he is between her and any potential intruder. Then, aiming towards the foot of the stairs, he backs up the stairs.

Drace has experienced this spell a number of times before, and everytime he marvels at its practicality. Battlefield medicine and assassinations alike would benefit from this gift. He makes quick work of the stairs and gives Cithrel a curt nod of thanks for the magicks.

"We need to be able to assess what is happening outside; thoughts?" He did not want the library to end up being a death trap.

From the top of the stairs, Cithrel and Omirius have a view straight down the center channel of the Tower to the entryway. While the stairs circling the perimeter of the interior block a bit of the view, Cithrel can still see Draern and Drace to cast Velocitous Imbuement upon them.

Omirius' mood evolves as the moments pass. At first, he is seemingly indifferent to the combat below. Then he becomes mildly curious. But when the skeleton guards are cut down in the lobby, his attitude shifts suddenly and completely.

"MY SKELLIES!" he bellows to nobody in particular. Cithrel looks over to find a dark look hardening his face.

"Mr. Vackle, stay here and protect the library!" he commands to his majordomo. Mr. Vackle raises its skeletal hand in a salute that seems to acknowledge the order.

While the intent of Velocitous Imbuement was to facilitate retreat, Omirius uses it to race down the stairs in double speed. As he sprints down the stairs at inhuman velocities, he reaches out his right hand in a grasping motion, except that his fingers are twisted at odd angles to make it look more like a demonic claw. "Confusulus Feleom!" he growls in a guttural tone.

There's a purple shimmer to the air, and the solider who felled one of the skeleton guards is yanked upright as if he were suspended on puppet strings. He is marched outside forcefully, his flesh writhing and twisting. Outside, he unceremoniously drops his sword and shield, then yanks his helmet off in a particularly odd motion that makes it look like he has no idea how to actually remove a helmet. Then the soldier bends over and presents the back of his neck to an opponent, who dutifully chops the man's head off with a battle axe. The man's corpse collapses into a heap.

Omirius turns back to to scene in the entryway of the Tower with a scowl.

"Incremuno Elementulso," he sneers, and then something very strange happens: the motion of all the combatants slows down until it freezes. Outside, all action has stopped. A sharp eye might see a bird in mid-flight, suspended in midair seemingly free of gravity's grip. Your party and Omirius are not affected. Cithrel recognizes the effect as the Abdication of Temporal Presence, a tremendously powerful spell known only to the most dedicated scholars.

"Suggestions?" Omirius says to you, more as a directive than as a request. "Speak quickly."

Draern first looks at the unusual scene incredulously, but woken by Omirius' urgent voice he focuses again. "How long will the time stop? We should find the leaders of both armies, slay them and assert control of both armies. That will end the conflict with minimal cost of life and we can take over their territories. From there we can spread our peace to more regions, using our armies and the tower." It all spills out of him, all the thoughts he tried so hard to keep secret. But he feels relieved once it is out there. And why shouldn't it be? Spreading peace is a noble cause. Right?

"Ten breaths," Omirius answers curtly, not spending any more time on a longer response. He's huffing and puffing a bit from his sprint down the Tower, so it's unclear if he means normal breaths or rapid ones in the midst of exertion.

A keen eye would see the edge of the world start to shake, vibrating as it struggles to resume its normal flow of time.

Cithrel watches in horror as Omirius races down the stairs towards the battle. "Wait!" they cry out uselessly. Their horror turns to wonder as the other mage freezes time around them. The Abdication of Temporal Presence? It was a very difficult spell. To be able to call upon such magics could have earned Omirius tenure at at the Library of Cykii.

Cithrel's daze is broken by the exchange between Draern and Omirius. "That won't work! These aren't wolves, they won't just follow the strongest!" Besides, if this was The Abdication of Temporal Presence, they couldn't affect anyone still subjected to the normal passage of time, but time was of the essence. Explaining complicated magic to Draern would have to wait.

"Get up here and let's bar the door!"

I am glad to not have Omirius as a rival, Drace muses wryly. One could get a lot of work done within 10 breaths. Only, that work would be most impactful in a more intimate setting. He takes the time that Omirius has bought them to get the best assessment possible of the situation before yet again making quick work of ascending the stairs.

"Barricading ourselves is the most acceptable option for the time being. Either we will have to defend our position, or things will continue as is and we can reassess come nightfall."

Before the spell ends, Omirius snaps and points to Draern.

"There is truth in what you say," he agrees, but that's all the time he has before the spell breaks and the battle recommences.

Omirius is now standing outside of the Tower and is in danger of being caught in the crossfire. To that end, a knight on horseback comes charging at Omirius with a raised mace, ready to smite the mysterious magician. Omirius gives a little jut of his chin, almost like he's shaking his head "no", and makes a buzzing noise that sounds like "XXZT". A magical shield instantly snaps into place around him. The mounted knight, either unable to see it or unable to avoid it, collides with it and is knocked to the side by the force of running into it at a full gallop. The horse bellows in pain while the knight struggles to rise under the weight of his armor. The situation is resolved when a lightly-armed man with a dirk comes by and stabs the knight several times through the eye-slit in his helmet.

The Invocation of the Invincible Citadel! Cithrel thinks to themselves, a spell less dramatic but no less potent than the Abdication of Temporal Presence.

Several arrows ping hopelessly off Omirius' protective bubble. He uses the opportunity to survey the field, assessing the combatants.

"Ah, there," he says, although it's difficult to hear him over the din of the battle.

Draern's savage senses have no trouble following Omirius' line of sight. No more than 300 feet away is a man so ornately armed and armored, and is surrounding by such a thick throng of bodyguards, that he certainly must be one of the Earl. A red dragon/wyvern banner billows above him.

Charging at the Earl is another man on horseback, no less ornately armed and armored. He too is surrounded by a retinue of knights who fight under the banner of a white boar against a red-and-blue background. This must be the King. It seems that the two leaders will cross swords.

Omirius shouts shouts "HAR MEGIDDO!" and claps his hands together with a deafening percussive force. The sky is torn open and from the rift emerges a hellstorm of consuming destruction. A torrent of eldritch ruin rains down from the heavens on everything within 200 feet around the two leaders, including both of their retinues. The combatants are smashed to bits, and those who somehow escape the descending death are quickly immolated by the subsequent firestorm. Dozens of men and horses die instant. Even from a hundred feat away, Draern can feel the wave of heat and smell the rolling brimstone.

The Deluge of Hell! Cithrel thinks with either wonder or horror, or both, or neither.

The effect is so dramatic that the fighting ceases almost instantly across the entire battlefield.

"The Earl is dead!" someone close to the smoldering crater cries out. The call is repeated and echoes out through the battlefield.

"The King is dead!" someone bellows for much the same reason. The cry is repeated and echoed in the same way.

The combatants lower their shields and weapons, genuinely uncertain about what to do next. They turn toward Omirius with a mixture of fear and curiosity, uncertain whether to cower before him or venerate him, or both, or neither.

Omirius nods, satisfied at the outcome. He steps out of the bubble, which evaporates, and approaches Draern at the Tower. The magician claps a hand on the woodsman's shoulder. "Thank you for the suggestion, my friend," he says, genuinely appreciative. "I am somewhat removed from the ways of men. There was wisdom in your words. I look to you for guidance."

He turns back toward the staring combatants. "You may exert control as you wish," he invites Draern.

Drace stares at Omirius in stunned incredulity; the breadth of the mage's power seems impossible to the young man.  The arcanist's influenceability was likewise unfathomable. Of all the daft... But then, it has worked.

"A falling knife has no handle," Drace says softly to no one in particular.

Tecumseh wrote:

He turns back toward the staring combatants. "You may exert control as you wish," he invites Draern.

"You might as well," he quipped, resigned to the new and very different kind of chaos that awaited them. "The chain of command will eventually try to restore order, and it might as well be under you rather than futilely against us."

Cithrel looks at the scene as it unfolds, completely baffled. It shouldn't have worked, but it had. Maybe in this backwater, armies were more reliant on their direct commanders and didn't have redundancies in their chain of command? Or perhaps Omirius' display of power had been so sublime, it had cut through the combatants' capacity to reason and rendered them so lost that they truly had no idea what to do.

To be fair, neither did Cithrel. They look at Draern and shrug. "Now's your chance," they say without much conviction.

Draern closes his mouth, opens it again and closes it once more after a few seconds. What in the world just happened? Half in terror, half in awe, he watches Omirius return to the tower. Once he reaches the gates, Draern looks around and realises all the eyes staring at him. Why him? What did he do? He clears his throat and starts "Erm..." Missing words, he turns to his companions, but noone knows either, what to say. "Erm,..." hesitantly, but then steadier, he continues "Behold the Emperor! The mightiest wizard under the sun. He came to bring you peace and end your fighting. Bend your knees to him and you shall be welcomed to his realm. Those that want to join the Emperors guard and help spread his peace, may report to me tomorrow at sunrise at the gate of the Emperors tower. Now return to your camps and spread the good news! "
He turns around, knees trembling and walks, what he hopes looks like self-confidently, back to the tower.

The soldiers look at Draern, then look at each other, then at the smoldering crater in the ground, then back to you.

They kneel. Some look uncertain, others look glad to have direction. Enough kneel that the motion catches on and spreads like a wave through the surrounding armies.

The men stand and dismiss themselves to their respective camps. They take time to tend to the wounded. The dead are left for the moment, but not looted.

Draern's elevated senses can hear them talking as they walk away. "If the Earl is dead, there's no point in fighting." "If the King is dead, there's no point in fighting." As best he can tell, there is no deep-seeded animosity between the two armies, no ethnic hatred nor other intractable barriers. Their arms and armor appear similar, and there is no meaningful difference in the composition of their forces. As best he can tell, they were fighting because their reagents commanded them to do so.

(He also picks up a few comments about how rich the new Emperor must be if he just keeps a pile of copper and silver laying around in his entryway like that.)

Omirius waves off Drace with a jovial laugh. "I have no interest in armies," he says. "I have my books to keep me company."

But Omirius was leaping forward to search for a time and place where his kind might be welcome, yes?

"Mm, yes, that is true," he allows thoughtfully. "But acceptance grows from the roots, does it not? Can an Emperor command acceptance?" He waves his hand airily.

It's unclear if this is a rhetorical question or if he's legitimately wonders if, in this day and age, an Emperor might actually be able to order such a thing.

Cithrel is surprised by how quickly the combatants abandon their fight. A not so insignificant number of them were dead or injured. Such things tended to lead to grudges and hatred, even if they were only initially fighting at the behest of their lords. It was possible that the shock of Omirius' display of power. If so, Cithrel hoped the effect would last... At the very least, it should buy them enough time for the Tower to recharge and for them to escape.

Once things have settled down in and around the Tower, the elf approaches the necromancer. "Omirius, I was wondering. How many undead can you raise in a day? With the loss of your skeletons, it might be wise to... recruit... new guards for the Tower."

Omirius contemplates the question for a moment.

"I can manage a handful of castings each day. I have recent expended some of my energies" - he politely gestures toward the smoldering crater of hellfire, in case you had forgotten about it - "but I am sure I could find the breath for a couple more."

He pauses to consider the battlefield.

"I might raise some replacements, yes, although I have been considering your previous suggestion for, mm, volunteers shall we say.

"This poses the obvious complication of acquiring consent from those who are in a challenging position to grant it. I see two possibilities:

"First, it is happily within my power to communicate with the recently deceased. However, doing so requires more of my energies and thus limits how many might actually be raised each day. Especially since the corpse in question might say 'no'.

"Second, we could triage the wounded. Perhaps there are some mortally wounded souls who are not quite ready to meet the afterlife and who may be willing to agree to a pact regarding their continued existence within my service.

"But this would be taking advantage of their situation, would it not? Would it be ethical to make an agreement under these conditions, in extremis? I would not wish for my actions to undermine your plans for the battlefield participations, in case they should react negatively toward their fallen comrades rising again."

He appears very thoughtful about this matter, and looks to the three of your for your opinions. He seems to want guidance regarding modern sensibilities.

Tecumseh wrote:

"But acceptance grows from the roots, does it not? Can an Emperor command acceptance?" He waves his hand airily.

"If Emperors could command acceptance, the world would have no need for assassins," clearing his throat, he is quick to add "Or armies.  Anathema for one might be blessed orthodoxy for another. Compliance? For a time, but acceptance is hard fought for."

Drace listens to Omirius and Cithrel's exchange, his muscles tensing at the former's question regarding ethics. In his own way, he's just as bad as those wee villagers,  a reflection that gives him an idea as to their current predicament.

"To date we have been well served by trying to understand the local context, getting what resources we can - fairly, imparting advice or instructions, and then leaving. We should continue in that vein."

Cithrel feels the sting of guilt as Omirius reminds them of the concerns they'd expressed regarding consent. Oh, how quickly moral grandstanding disappears when fear takes root in one's heart... a voice says mockingly in the elf's mind.

Those moral concerns were meaningless to begin with. Once someone has perished, what remains is nothing more than meat and bones. People's superstitions and traditional rites are interesting from an anthropological viewpoint, but that is all. Do not let this handwringing waste any more of your time.

Cithrel frowns. Were all their past incarnations immoral jerks? What did that say about them? Were they doomed to follow the same moral decay?

Perhaps that is why we weren't made to be truly immortal. We die and are reborn to free us of the wear and tear of life. The world is harsh and can easily lead one to cynicism. Our rebirth allows us to reclaim the hope and exuberance of youth. Do not be so quick to compromise them.

Cithrel sighs. That one was nice. Nice? I would call it naive. Or patronizing... See what I mean?

"Enough!" the elf exclaims out loud. They shake their head to clear away the stray thoughts.

They turn to face Omirius. "You're right. Just raising who we'd like would be wrong and selfish." They look down and take a moment to think. "What about the horses? Or war hounds, if they have them. Could you use those to defend the tower?"

Omirius considers Cithrel's suggestion thoughtfully.

"Yes, I suppose that I might!" he concludes. "In the past I have favored men for their ability to bear arms and armor. But I suppose some of the fallen beasts here might be just as adequately armored. I daresay the equines won't be able to pick up a halberd, but their mass alone should help compensate for that."

It does not take long to identify some suitable candidates. While some horses have been cleaved in two by mighty war axes, others have been brought down by spears. Omirius locates a couple with handsome barding - one from each army - that are sufficiently intact.

He swings his hands up in the air, as if he is pulling the corpses off the ground or summoning hidden energies of the Latter Earth. "Vioeaerate Viayation!" he commands, purple light swirling up in tornadoes of mist. "Ecruguin Quesfictum Centaoaiasis!" His hands are shaped like claws; the tips of his fingers look bent 90 degrees in the wrong direction. "Wererun Asole Caelyme!"

And with that the horses rise. To Draern's trained eye they no longer act like horses. They do not shimmy or neigh or do other horsey things. Instead they stand rigidly, almost at attention, as they wait for commands. They have a light in their eyes that indicates an advanced understanding of the situation, beyond what a horse might readily comprehend.

"Guard the Tower," Omirius orders them. "Stand by the doors."

They dutifully follow his instructions. They walk off, more like automatons than actual horses, with a rigid gait.

A thought occurs belated to Omirius. He rubs the bridge of his nose. "I used to have the other guards open and close the Tower doors as necessary. We might need a new procedure for that. Maybe some rope they can pull?" He shrugs, resolving to figure it out later.

Overwhelmed by the experiences of the day, Draern feels the raising of the undead horses to shock him more than he expected. The undead animals make him feel more uneasy than the undead humans used to. Wordless he walks off, away from the tower and away from the battle field, as much as that is possible. Rima follows him. Once they find a secluded spot, he kneels and pets Rimas head. "How did we get here, old girl? Undead horses, a magician that seems like he has lost touch with our world and tomorrow we will lead an army. What if not all return? What if some return to confront or fight us? What if they do return, what do we do with them? We need to know where we are, what is around us. "

He gets up and followed by Rima starts running further away and then in a wide arch around the tower, to scout the surrounding area.

Draern and Rima find that the Tower has landed in the middle of a large field. The mountains that had been your intended destination are to the east. Their outline is visible in the fading light of the day, but there's no obvious indication of what might be preventing the Tower from landing there. Perhaps in the daylight you will see better.

(Should Cithrel use Sense Magic, they will see a large purple dome or bubble sitting up in the mountains. It is opaque and it is not clear what is causing it, but it is large enough to cover a town or a castle.)

Draern sees that the field was likely selected as the place of battle because of its open terrain. There are trees surrounding the field on each side, but they are at least a kilometer out. The carnage of the battle seems to fill the area, although it occurs to Draern that the carnage may have been much, much worse had Omirius not brought it to a sudden halt.

Draern's heightened sense of smell detects the scent of fresh water. There's likely a stream or a creek running through the battlefield. It's not clear why there are no trees in this area. Given the density of the forests surrounding the battlefield, it seems like the area should be covered in trees.

Draern hears the cries of the wounded. Many are being tended to - again, they are receiving more treatment (and sooner) because the fighting stopped - but some wounds are beyond the hope of mundane treatment. The critically injured call for their fathers and mothers, pray to their gods, and plead with their companions to watch over the families they left behind.

Cithrel spends the rest of the day immersed in the Tower, trying to figure out how to modify its interior. Their close brush with death and made apparent the need for some physical defenses. The addition of a portcullis to the entrance was at the top of their list, followed by modifications to the stairs to add fortified landings where they could hide and pelt invaders with arrows, spells, thrown knives...

After several hours of work, they decide to take a break. They risk venturing outside the tower if things look safe. It is at this point that they notice the purple dome in the mountains. "Interesting... a Work, perhaps?" They squint and focus their attention on it, trying to discern its purpose.

Draern makes his way back to the tower across the battlefield. He has been in enough battles to know how to ignore the pleading cries of the wounded. Nothing he could do would help them. The women and men schooled in healing would pass over the killing field and help where help could be given and give mercy where no hope was left.

He can sense Rimas discomfort, though, and a glance back confirms the feeling when he sees her neck hair raised and her teeth half fletched. He turns around, kneels and whispers calming words into her ears. She would have to get through this this one time. Draern hopes not to see many more battlefields.
Our army must be big enough, that it does not have to fight. He turns around and the two hurry back to the tower.

Drace considers the carnage of the battlefield with disdain. Wars were such brutal, stupid things - very little finesse was required if any.

He locates field medics on either side of the conflict, and asks whether there are any empowered healers that they could send for - a gauge of the level of commitment of each army to the wellbeing of their soldiers and a good barometer as to whether magical healing would be well received at all.  He also tests for the acceptability of ending the lives of those that were beyond saving.  

As with any war, there were far too many critically wounded for any one healer to tend to, and more often than not there was far more dignity in a swift, painless end, than in languishing for hours if not days before the inevitable.

But then, they were not actually in the midst of a war, were they? They were in a situation that Drace had never heard of, let alone witnessed: a complete and instantaneous armistice.  He instructs the medics to arrange to have all of the wounded brought to [a narratively reasonable location].  Right before they can start coordinating the work, Drace specifies that if there is any fighting over who gets healed first "at any point" he would stop healing the wounded, as he would not risk having his time and efforts wasted.

"We could trade this healing for a subset of their dead," he suggests to Cithrel and Draern with characteristic dispassion.

Cithrel squints at the purple bubble in the distance. Given that it's dusk, the squinting doesn't help much. The magical bubble's shape and form - its undulating smoothness and relative symmetry - suggest that it is an intentional creation rather than any sort of natural phenomenon. It looks like a mystical shield that's specifically there to either protect and/or conceal whatever is within. Cithrel guesses that is what the Tower "bounced" off of during its recent landing process.

~

Looking around, Draern can tell that there used to be trees here in this now-empty field. Studying the terrain, he gets the sense that the trees were specifically removed and that the ground was mostly leveled. It's not quite a ball field or a playing field but it's close. To a trained outdoorsman, it looks very deliberate. However, all of that was done many years ago. Decades at least, maybe centuries. It wasn't anything recent.

~

Drace's reception by the armies is somewhat stiff. They do exactly as he says, although he's uncertain if that's because they actually want his help or because they're afraid that he'll rain hellfire down upon them if they refuse. He selects a narratively convenient location, which turns out to be the Tower. The Tower - as luck or fate or GM decree would have it - is centrally located between the two armies. Perhaps that is why the fighting was so thick around the Tower's landing location. It means that the Tower is centrally located to the wounded.

The armies approach from each side with their wounded. They are solemn and respectful. They do not squabble nor jostle for position. Drace rolls up his sleeves, turning one way to lay on hands, then turning the other to heal a member of the opposite army. While one person is being healed, the other person is shuffled away.

With his tireless vigor, Drace is indefatigable. The biggest struggles are the chilly spring evening and the psychological horror of so many horrific injuries. There is a psychological boost that comes from making everyone at least a little bit better. There are missing limbs that he cannot replace, but he can mend bones and soothe cauterization burns and otherwise get the folks back on their feet again. Some are good as new, but many will retain scars. They bow to Drace and express their thanks in grunts and m'lords. They are not as obsequious as many patients are around healers, but perhaps the trials of the day and their accumulated fatigue have robbed them of manners.

The procession continues for many hours, with perhaps a thousand or more healed. There are no fights nor outbreaks of violence, either because they are too tired or because there wasn't much animosity in the first place. Or perhaps they are taking Drace's threat seriously.

<<Sunrise - Day 22 - Early Spring - Tower - Wilderness>>

The night passes. Drace is able to spend several hours healing folks. Draern and Rima make camp in the Tower. Cithrel does as they please.

It's a quiet night. There are no outbreaks of violence - or, if there are, they are very discrete - and nobody approaches the Tower in the night. The armies seem to be giving your Armageddon mage his space.

Sunrise is relatively early at this time of year in this part of the world. If it were not for the large mountains to the east, the sun would peek over the horizon a few minutes after what the civilized world would call 6am. But since the mountains are quite tall - Cithrel sees many between 6,000' and 8,000' - the sky doesn't lighten quite so quickly.

Thus you're still in the relative dark when two delegations humbly approach the Tower, their eyes downcast. Each delegation is led by old wise (?) men with long beards and rich clothing befitting of their station. Behind them there are generals in their prize armor, which has been polished for the occasion. The generals hold their helmets under their arms; their swords remain sheathed. Everyone looks very tired, like they have been awake all night contemplating an unknown fate.

"We present ourselves per your instructions, sires," one delegate says with a bow.

"We humbly beg your mercy, and ask your instructions," the other delegate says, bowing deeply.

There's a minor jostling between the two delegates as they each try to bow lower than the other. But they are old men and not so flexible, so one concedes the point before he tips over on his face.

Draern sleeps poorly that night, wondering what the morning will bring. When it is finally there, he does not feel ready.
When the two delegations line up Draern wonders what to do next, what to say. He resorts to buying time. "Tell us, why were you fighting?"

The two lead delegates are bowing obsequiously, but when Draern asks his question they twist and exchange a short look between themselves before returning to their fully bent-over postures.

"The Earl wishes... wished to be King," one says.

"The King does not want... did not want... the Earl to be King," the other adds helpfully.

"The Earl considered the King to be a wicked tyrant," the first one continues.

"The King considered the Earl to be a cruel rebel," the second one explains.

"So we met here" "on this field" "to decide the matter" "once and for all" "until your esteemed eminences" "decided it for us."

They start to wobble a little. They are old men and are evidently not accustomed to holding a deep bow for an extended period of time.

Cithrel winces as they see the two delegates bow and maintain it. There culture appeared to be highly hierarchical. "You may rise," the elf says, hoping to provide the two elderly gentlemen some relief.

"Tell us about this kingdom. What are it's boundaries? How many vassals did the King have? How many villages and towns? How many people live in it? What resources do you produce?" Between each question, they wait for the envoys to answer, rather than bombard them with inquiries. There was something odd about this whole situation. It seemed manufactured beyond the ambitions of two tyrants.

Their eyes drift to the bubble in the mountains and they finally get to what they're most interested in. "What's in the mountains over there?"

The delegates straighted up, but still keep their eyes respectfully diverted.

As before, they take turn answering Cithrel's questions. Their responses don't really dispute each other:

• The kingdom's boundaries are the ocean to the north and west, the mountains to the east, and a river to the south. It is more tall than wide. Maybe 20 miles wide (from ocean to mountains), perhaps 80 miles tall (from river to ocean).
  
• They don't have population figures for the kingdom, nor a specific count of villages and towns. The two armies combined had perhaps 20,000 soldiers between them prior to the fighting.
  
• The land is blessed with abundant seafood of all sorts. There is river fishing, jetty fishing, surf fishing, crabbing off piers and docks, clamming along the beaches, etc.
  
• The land also receives a great deal of rain which blows in from the ocean to the west and is stopped by the mountains to the east. Trees grow tall, and the land is known for its forestry products. The mountains provide quarries and mines for stone and metal.
  

Finally, their eyes follow Cithrel's pointing to the mountains.

"That is the King's castle," one says.

"We mean, it is your castle," the other one quickly corrects, bowing lowly to apologize for the gaffe.

Cithrel nods sagely. "Of course, the new seat of the Empire of Omirius, first of his name."

"I realize we have not done proper introductions, forgive my impropriety. We are the Emperor's council of advisors. I am Cithrel the Wise." How original... *snickers* "His court scholar."

"This is Doctor Drace Kassemi, his court physician and Minister of Health, as you must have gleaned from his efforts today." Particularly skilled at end of life care...

"And this is Baron Draerngromlaes Hundathrim, Master of Hunt and General of His Highness' Armies." Let us hope this kingdom doesn't have many enemies.

Cithrel clenches their teeth, trying to ignore their past lives' annoying commentary. The elf retrieves a piece of parchment and his quill. "May I have your names for the Imperial Registry?"

Cithrel makes a show of recording the envoys' names. "Excellent. Thank you for your cooperation, Sirs. Tonight, we will move this Tower closer to the castle to inspect our Lord's new estate. You will accompany us to ensure nothing goes awry. Please let us know if there are others who should accompany us. An Honor Guard, perhaps?"

The elf looks at their companions, looking for their input.

The first delegate, the envoy of the Earl's army, bows and says, "I am Neville..." It seems like he's about to say something else then pulls himself up. "Sir Neville," he concludes, but the way he says 'sir' seems a little out-of-place. It earns him a glance from the other delegate.

"And I am Sir Hogg," says the the delegate from the King's army, also with a bow.

"All hail Emperor Omirius, first of his name!" shouts Sir (?) Neville with obsequious enthusiasm.

"An honor guard shall be yours," Sir Hogg agrees. "Our finest generals will wait upon you as you survey your new domain."

The generals don't look thrilled about this but they bow their heads dutifully. They still look tired, perhaps fatigued from their exertions yesterday combined with the uncertainties of the new world order today.

Omirius named me general and a baron? With excited disbelief he announces "Well," Draern has trouble hiding the smile spreading on his face. "Shall we go then? Check out our new palace? It will make it easier to make decisions about the next steps, announce officials and the like." and turning to the delegations he adds "And you, please assemble an overview of the remaining strengths of the armies and heavy weapons. Then we can see how we restructure our force. Also, I would need a map of the kingdom."

Court physician and Minister of Health? Staring - rather than throwing - daggers at Cithrel, Drace nods curtly at the envoys. Draern's enthusiasm is infectious however, and Drace has to admit that the role did provide an incomparable cover for his work as an assassin. Besides, if things got out of hand, they could always move the tower and leave these fools to go back to murdering one another.

Noting his companion's focus on martial concerns, Drace interjects.
"We will want to know the state of infrastructures and civil society; roads and bridges, research and education," he gestures to Cithrel, "Hospitals, and the like. This will take some time - act accordingly."

He nods at Draern, indicating his readiness to follow him to the castle, and then at Cithrel, as if to say "maybe this won't be so bad after all".

"Yes, Baron," one delegate bows to Draern.

"Yes, General," the other delegate bows to Draern. Evidently there's a lack of consensus of which title to use.

"You may review the troops at your pleasure, Baron General," the first says.

"We will send a runner to assemble them, General Baron," says the second. He waves to a young lad in the back of the procession, who takes off running toward the armies.

"We may leave for the castle as soon as you have finished your review," the first continues.

"On horseback, we could be to the castle by noon," the other adds.

"The finest maps are there, at the castle," says the first.

"In the field, we do not require them," the other clarifies.

They bow to Drace's demands.

"But of course, Doctor," the first says, rising from his bow.

"Would you prefer a written summary or an oral description as we travel, Minister?" asks the second, rising from his bow.

"Perhaps at the castle, as we review the maps?" the first suggests politely.

"There the inventory will be put into its proper context," agrees the second.

<<Morning - Day 23 - Early Spring - Army Camp - Wilderness>>

The dignitaries and your honor guard lead you across the battlefield to where the armies have been assembled for review. The battlefield is slightly more orderly than it was yesterday, but there is still plenty of chaos present. Not all of the dead have been cleared away yet. You pass by some workers removing armor and valuables from corpses, then stacking bodies up in wagons. It appears they intend to bury them elsewhere.

The armies have been assembled at the edge of the battlefield, near the treeline of the surrounding forest. It's easy to smell the fires that were lit earlier in the morning. There are also scents of cooking. It smells like fish, which may or may not be pleasant based on your dietary preferences.

The armies stand at attention, waiting to be reviewed. There are noble knights on horseback, but most of the men appear to be foot soldiers. As a trained soldier with excellent powers of perception, some things jump out at Draern:

• There are relatively few archers. Not zero, but the vast majority of soldiers on both sides appear to be men-at-arms. There are no large weapons, like ballistae or catapults or hurlants. Similarly, Cithrel detects no magic among either camp.

• Generally speaking, the armor and weapons of both armies are very fine. In large armies like this, it's common for the poorer soldiers to be in simple armor like linothorax or war robes. Here, it seems like every soldier is adorned in metal. Even the most humble soldiers are in a cuirass and greaves at a minimum, while the knights are adorned in handsome suits of plate armor.

The two armies stand at attention, waiting for the review of your inspection. They won't go until you dismiss them, at which point you will be expected to give them orders of some sort (e.g. to return home, to accompany you on your march, to start fighting again, etc.).

The armies are impressive. Draern notices the excellent armor situation and the discipline at which the soldiers wait patiently. After having looked at every regiment, he says "You are very fine soldiers and I am glad you didn't slaughter each other senselessly. With the conflict resolved so eleg... erm... efficiently by the almighty Emperor we are no longer at war." To the men at arms he says "You may disband and return any weapons and armor that was lent to you. Every tenth of you will remain and help clean up the battle field, the rest go home to your families and your work." turning to the soldiers from standing regiments he continues "I would ask you to return to your barracks and continue your regular tasks. But remain ready, we might call on you again shortly."
He smiles to himself, satisfied with his speach. He reminds himself of generals that he has served under and can't help but smile with pride.

The men look a little confused at the notion of weapons and armor that were "lent" to them, but they don't say anything. The delegates look to explain things privately.

"Baron General, the arms and armor are the men's own," says Sir (?) Neville.

"They are treasured possessions, General Baron, passed down from father to son, or granted by their lord," adds Sir Hogg.

"They would sooner give up their manhood than their arms," the first continues.

"Efforts will be made to return the arms and armor of the fallen to their next-of-kin," the second concludes.

The majority of the army, at least 80%, appears to be common conscripts who will disband and return to their home communities. The remaining 20% are either a standing force or otherwise attached to the household of their lord. Which, for now, is Emperor Omirius, first of his name.

The generals deliver their (literal) war chests to Draern, one from each army. Inside are piles of silver.

"Will you authorize payment of the soldiers' salaries, General?" the general of the Earl's army inquires.

"We would recommend it, General," the general of the King's army concurs.

Once that is concluded, Draern and Drace prepare for the walk to the castle. Cithrel returns to the Tower in order to move it at sunset. Draern can ride Wolf. A horse is provided for Drace if he does not wish to tap into his tireless vigor.

<<Day - Day 23 - Early Spring - The Forest - Wilderness>>

The walk toward the castle goes through thick forests. In fact, Draern is reasonably confident he has never seen a forest so thick and lush as this one.

"We call it a 'rainforest', General," the general of the Earl's says, seeming to acknowledge that the a closed and continuous tree canopy is unusual.

On cue, it begins to rain. It is a steady spring rain, although the canopy intercepts much of it. There is so much moss that the whole world looks like a green pillow. Despite the number of troops accompanying you, the sounds of marching are swallowed by the vegetation all around.

"Trees go tall, and quickly, General," the general of the King's army concurs. "Forestry is a cornerstone of the kingdom. I mean, the empire. The empire of Emperor Omirius, first of his name."

Drace walks on foot for long stretches to converse with the rank-and-file men. They are not used to the attention and many of them shy away from his authority. However, he finds a few whom he had healed personally, or perhaps friends of those who had healed. They are more willing to talk.

The men generally have simple lives. Many of them are lumberjacks working in the thick forests or miners working in the mountains. Those professions promote the brute strength that is useful when bearing arms and wearing heavy armor. Relatively few of the men are fishermen. Those men are often spared service in the army in order to continue providing food for the kingdom. The social standing of the fisherman, however, suffers from their lack of military service.

But in general it seems to be a land of plenty. There is abundant food and few go hungry. The area is blessed with natural resources. There is much to recommend it. Possible downsides include the weather, which is usually very wet. The summer dry season is short, and the winter rains are torrential. The local rivers often flood, starting in the late autumn and lasting all the way through the winter.

<<Day - Day 23 - Early Spring - Tower - Wilderness>>

Back at the Tower, Cithrel rejoins Omirius, Mr. Vackle, and the new undead horses which have yet to be named. There is still an unruly pile of silver and copper ingots in the entryway.

"How did it go?" Omirius asks pleasantly. "Are you enjoying your new armies?"

He is in his library, reading his books. Very little of what transpired outside seems to have affected him or changed any of his behaviors.

"Just so we are clear, I have little desire of being an Emperor," he tells Cithrel. "...unless I may decree a land of tolerance for all creatures..." by which he means Mr. Vackle and his other undead minions.

"Failing that, I am eager to resume my forward journey through time to find a more enlightened age.

"But, enough about me! What are your intentions in the present?" he asks curiously. He sets aside his book to give Cithrel his full attention.

Cithrel smiles weakly. "They're more Draerngromlaes' armies than mine. To be honest, I wouldn't quite know what to do with them. I understand the need for them, but the selfishness inherent to declarations of war has always seemed... alien to me. For people with only one life, humans are rather reckless with it."

"As an Emperor, you could make whatever decree you desire. Getting people to accept it will be another matter. The problem with the undead is that it reminds people of their own mortality. There's nothing quite like looking a corpse in the eyes to make one uncomfortable. I think we would need to highlight their benefits. 'Horses that work the fields tirelessly!' and other such promotional messaging."

Cithrel considers Omirius' question carefully. "There's something strange going on in this kingdom. The two sides fighting each other seem like reflections of each other. Their envoys alternate speaking in a most peculiar way. Everything is call and response, almost like an echo. Then, there's the concealed castle in the mountain. Whatever Work is keeping it hidden is worth investigating. I plan on starting there."

<<Day - Day 23 - Early Spring - Tower - Wilderness>>

Omirius nods along with Cithrel's comments.

"Yes, yes, quite right," he says, standing from his desk. "A Working of that nature must be most educational.

"In the meantime," he adds, going over to his library, "we must figure out why these buggers were so antagonized with one another that they were willing to split each other's skulls open on the battlefield.  I confess that I have not spent as much time with the books of histories as I have with the others. I was always more forward-looking, you see, but I skimmed them in hopes of finding hints about some society where I might find welcome."

He begins to peruse the books, as if looking for a specific one.

"But what might inspire a man to commit an atrocity against his fellow man? Differences in religion, certainly, or competition for resources. Ethnic violence is prevalent. Really, any difference wherein groups may be separated between 'us' and 'them' is subject to malice."

If he was looking for a specific book, he gives up. He turns back to Cithrel.

"Do let me know when we are at the castle. Seeing the Working in person will be most diverting."

After speaking with the soldiers, Drace seeks out Draern. "Let us remain vigilant. A people who are this well fed and treated to be in the midst of a civil war, is odd. On top of which, these men are not actually loyal to us, they were cowed into submission."

He looks at the other man, hoping to see his vigilance and wariness understood and well received

<<Afternoon - Day 23 - Early Spring - Tower - Wilderness>>

Cithrel spends a quiet afternoon at the Tower, getting ready for the leap at sunset. Cithrel notes how the arms and armor are reclaimed from the fallen soldiers, presumably to be repatriated to the soldiers' families. There's even an attempt made at digging things out of the giant pit where Omirius' hellfire annihilated the Earl and the King. However, the metal in the pit was largely melted into slag. The only weapons that emerge are malformed lumps of metal. In many cases it is impossible to identify what the weapon even was, let alone who it belonged to. The men responsible for the salvage seem to take this hard, as if it is a deep disappointment.

<<Afternoon - Day 23 - Early Spring - Rainforest - Wilderness>>

Draern and Drace have a long march through the rainforest on the way to the foothills to the east. Their surroundings are intensely green, with thick beds of moss covering the tree trunks and a dense layer of ferns carpeting the forest floor. There's a path that's been carved through the forest that's wide enough for five men to walk abreast. The ground is soft and often very muddy in patches.

Drace, leaning on the trust he developed as a healer to the injured, is able to tease a little more out of the marching men. In general, they bear little animosity toward their opponents. So why were they fighting?

"We were told to fight," one replies. "The Earl commanded it."

He gets a similar answer from the King's men.

"The King called, we answered."

They don't seem to think much of it. It was their duty, so they did it.

Well, okay, so why were the Earl and the King fighting?

"The Earl wanted to be king."

"The King did not want the Earl to be king."

They seem to accept both positions as natural. Among the foot soldiers, there's a certain lack of introspection beyond the obvious causes of the conflict. Perhaps the generals or the delegates would be better informed on the policy differences between the prior rulers, but Drace doesn't have the same level of trust established with them yet.

Drace asks the Earl's men what they thought of the King's rule, and whether they believed the former would have been a better ruler. Likewise, to the King's soldiers he asks whether there were any reasons why one might support the Earl over the King or vice versa.

"Beyond being told to fight, beyond a disagreement over who gets to wear a shiny hat - what is your opinion as to whether this is worth dying over?" Despite his inflectionless delivery, the young man is growing exasperated with the soldiers' seemingly total lack of interest in having any agency.

The men look confused by Drace's question.

"Worth dying for?" one of the Earl's men asks as if the question surprises him. "Or worth killing for?"

"You killed a whole lot of them yourselves, did you not?" one of the bolder King's men adds. "When Emperor Omirius - the first of his name, blessed be his reign - called down fire and brimstone from the heavens."

"Emperor Omirius, glory to him in the highest, wants to wear 'the shiny hat', does he not?" the Earl's man agrees. This is said with a tone like it's obvious and accepted.

"This what Kings - and Emperors - do. They kill others who also wish to be King or Emperor." Again, the tone is as this is plain as day.

There's a pause as they contemplate things.

"We are simple folk. Fishermen, lumberjacks."

"Miners, blacksmiths."

"We know nothing of the private feuds, intimidation, land-hunger, and litigiousness that occupy the aristocracy."

"The lambs do not contemplate the plight of the lions any more than the lions contemplate the plight of the lambs."

Yes, yes, but what of the relative quality of their (previous) respective rulers?

"The Earl said the King is - was - a tyrant, that he wasn't fit to be king. The King couldn't stand up straight, see? Not a handsome fellow, walked with a limp. Earl said it was the outward sign of his wicked nature."

"The King fell off his horse as a lad," the King's man says without animosity. "I rather thought it made him braver, to be at the front of the fighting even malformed as he was."

And the King's policies? Both men shrug.

"Albeit he lived wickedly, he made good laws."

"A good lawmaker for the ease and solace of the common people."

"Perhaps he did evil."

"Yet in his time were many good acts made."

"And what of the Earl?" He was curious to know what the upstart's bannermen thought kindly of him (and the King's for that matter), but was braced for more layered speech from the men.

There was something discomfiting about the entire experience, and that was even if he discounted the newly christened Emperor Omirius first of the name, who the men had correctly assessed as having effectively maimed or murdered so many of their fellows and was the titular bearer of the shiny hat.