The Agreement

It was the rust one smelled first when entering the shop, the age-worn and corroded stone that made the walls had long since worn away with time from whatever long forgotten purpose this underground catacomb had been built for. For now, it served as a place of commerce, a store for nick-knacks, tools, and guns as old as the men who bought them. The floor was wooden, naturally aged and smooth with the passing of a hundred foot steps marred only by a moth-eaten rug forgotten in the doorway. Across from the stone door was a counter where a man sat upon a stool, looking across the lantern lit room to the new comer. The strange customer was robed, masked, and looking to the rodentfolk as he stepped across the threshold, glancing about the random shelves and scattered racks filled with junk someone might some day buy.

“You with the faceless?” The shopkeeper asked the stranger, not really expecting an answer. “No, just looking around. This your shop?” The stranger replied, his voice was calm and sounded reasonable. The shopkeeper paused, unsure of the man before he nodded. “Yep, it’s apart of the Ravagers too, in case you planned on making trouble.” The stranger glanced his way at that and though his face was masked, the shopkeeper fought back the urge to glance away, something about that casual look set him on edge. “I’m Argo, by the way. Owner of this fine establishment and everything in it, you won’t find better prices anywhere because I’m the only shop left in the free zone.” The stranger was still looking around the store, meandering among the shelves and racks and always making sure to stay in sight. It wasn’t a big shop to begin with and the stranger wasn’t that tall, given his lack of obvious horns or tail, Argo wagered him a rather short human.

The stranger did not offer a reply so Argo merely watched him as he went through the shop’s wares. Yet past the short stranger, Argo could see out the dirty window where he watched a familiar stranger walk past. The shopkeeper gave a sudden start as recognition hit him. “By Baitaal, that’s Ash-Lord Tarkus!” He exclaimed, drawing the attention of the stranger who looked up from the worn pistol he was inspecting. He walked to the counter now, his voice sounding interested. “Who?” He inquired. “Tarkus.” Argo began, “I heard about him, he was a noble in the Onokrin, he fought on the front lines and was said to be a walking fire storm! How did he…" Argo paused, trying to piece out how a lord ended up here, especially one as respected as Tarkus. "The ravagers are going to kill him in his sleep, first chance they get." He added, sounding slightly dismal.

The stranger was at the counter now, his masked face revealing nothing and yet his curious tone made it easy to guess the expression beneath. “Tarkus – Tarkus, someone with some renown. Do you think the Ravagers can kill him? He sounds like a capable fighter.” The stranger mused before Argo flicked his gaze backed to the masked face. “He’s one man, warlord or not I doubt he could take on an entire gang alone with just his fists and a standard jumper. Besides, nobodies ever taken down the Ravagers ever since they destroyed the Stone Tooth and Howlers.” Argo returned his gaze to the window, perhaps hoping Tarkus would return and grace his shop with something interesting for once. When the renown warlord did not appear, he sighed, voicing his thoughts aloud now. “Bertra the Beast is just as big, maybe bigger than Tarkus. She comes by sometimes, usually to collect the ‘taxes’ they implemented. I wouldn’t want to mess with her, not without an army, ya know?”

He spared a glance to the stranger who had not moved from the counter, he was watching Argo, but the rodentfolk could not really sense a threat from him, only that he was being sized up. Just before he could ask the stranger if he was going to buy anything or just tell him to fuck off a new pair walked past the window. An unmistakable rodent figure followed by a much larger woman. “Holy shit...” He whispered, “That’s.. That is Bagman Herod and Boss Yaga!” He turned to the stranger, forgetting the unusual masked man’s strange nature in his excitement. “Herod is famous, he’s from the same warren I am! They say he controls nearly all the trade going in and out of federation burrows. And he has Yaga with him, by the gods, that woman is...” He blew air through his nose, a smile gracing his rodent features. “Phew, I’d sell this shop and everything in it for a minute with her. Let me tell ya. But.. What are they doing here?” He sounded more curious than questioning, a frown appearing before the stranger spoke up. “Tarkus, Herod, Yaga. Big names. You think their here together?”

Argo shrugged, still sounding shocked by what he saw. “Maybe, could be here to meet with Bertra, maybe join up. I bet they could use someone like Herod running this shop, or use someone like Yaga dealing with the monsters.” He shifted his gaze now to the masked stranger, suddenly growing a little suspicious. “Why exactly are you here?” He asked. The stranger merely shrugged, avoiding the question by not even addressing it. Argo snorted, a little annoyed but instead of pressing it he just shakes his head. “I’ve seen Herod before, they call him the bag man because they say everyone owes him something, that he ‘holds everyone else stuff in his bag of lies and tricks’ or so his enemies say. Money lending, loan sharking, plus his second Yaga is known as the lord of murder so it does not take much to figure out what she does for him. Wouldn’t surprise me if they fed into the rumors on purpose just to scare people. No shock he’s here, it was bound to catch up to him eventually.”

Argo reached under his side of the counter now, out of sight, the gesture done casually as he spoke to distract the masked stranger. He was reaching for the double barrel shotgun he kept below, a rusted antique that functioned as well as it looked. It did the job and he was one of the few people who kept slug ammo on hand. He only had three shells left but compared to everyone else he was practically swimming in bullets. Munitions were rare down here. “It’s gonna make waves, those three being here. Hopefully it isn’t gonna effect my shop but hey, maybe people will come in looking for a few weapons or some slap dash armor.” He chuckled, faking mirth with the guile of a salesmen that was cut short when the stranger spoke, “Seems pointless to carry so many guns when you barely have any ammo.” The masked man noted.

Argo scowled, “Do you see a factorum down here? This is a dungeon converted into a prison buried beneath a literal mountain, not like anyone can churn out gunpowder, brass, and lead.” Yet his scowl vanished as quickly as it came. “But, bullets are around, rare as they are you might get lucky if you look hard enough.” He shook his head now. “Berta has a few men who still have their rune lanterns, you want fire support try with a few elementalist or maybe that necromancer who keeps to himself. I remember seeing a lagus who was a pretty adept psion, if you want that. Not really what I se-”

He stopped short as another, towering figure trudged past the window in slow plodding. Huge, lumpy and loose clothing fitted over a bulk that was easier to recognize than one’s own reflection. “No, it can’t be! That’s Sad King Briareus! How?! He’s the most powerful mage in the kingdom! What could he have possibly done to end up… here.” He trailed off, thrice now names of renown have walked past his shop and now he felt a sinking feeling in his gut. “Sad King Briareus.” The stranger repeated, drawing Argo’s attention. “I think things are about to get quite interesting. Perhaps you should close up shop.” The masked stranger added, moving away from the counter now, towards the door. “And, word of advice, my friend. When Herod comes to buy, sell at whatever price he offers, lest you find yourself beneath Boss Yaga and get that minute alone you so desired.” He was laughing now, a hollow revolting chuckle that made Argo flinch in response. “Good luck.” The stranger said before disappearing through the doorway.

-

Sad King Briareus trudged on, his appearance was one that drew attention and yet it was only because he deigned it instead of making himself invisible. His finery he had been allowed to keep when he was cast into this prison, if only because it was already ragged enough to blend in. The fabric was worn, stained, and had several tears. From below it started at his overly large leather boots, died in yellow varnish and severely cracked from age. Above were his pantaloons consisting of mismatched vomit green and pus brown that stretched over his rather stubby and short legs rounded with layers of fat and muscle natural to ogres. Like most ogres his torso was broad but suffered from being just a little too long with a heavy pot belly to match. It was girded now in a dirty orange vest that was far too small and jiggled and bounced with his rolls of fat while his too long arms that gave him his ape-like appearance. Framing it was a rich blue cloak so overly large that it dragged along the dusty stone floors beneath him, collecting mildew and dirt as it went. It was stained, much like his vest, with various forgotten offal and drink that matched the now deposed kings morose expression. Puffy, pursed lips that fit a prominent jowl and unevenly spaced, overly large eyes with too thick lashes stuck in a perpetual expression of pouting curiosity. Atop his head remained his crown, a yellowing and tarnished ring of gold that sat within his curly red hair tied into a vague ponytail, strands of unruly locks around the dulled metal and uneven and too small ears. Every dull thud of his booted feet was accompanied by the dull thunk of his massive iron staff, the foci crystal at the top thrumming gently in tune with the implant in his chest.

Yet, he walked with purpose, moving towards the appointed meeting place through the abandoned halls and various safe rooms of the free zone, so called for being the only place the prisoners could rest without worry of something terrible finding them. At least, something more terrible than the murderers and cut throats that made up this prison’s inmates. Sad King Briareus almost felt at home, his surroundings matching his mood, the lanterns and torches aligning the walls barely offering much light for his beady eyes, revealing just enough for him to see the down trodden and despairing prisoners milling about the free zone bored out of their mind or resting between excursions further below to the more dangerous areas. He could tell the innocent one’s among the ranks of prisoners, the ones who ended up here because of facts beyond their control. Enemy combatants, prisoners of war, failed revolutionaries, political dissidents, heretical priests, mages or psions who delved too deep into the forbidden arts. They had an air about them, just as the would be adventurers and treasure hunters did, those mad few who came here willingly in search of fortune and finding only death and despair. He saw them all and yet few saw him, even as large and towering as he was he was short for an ogre, barely coming in at a scant seven feet. Those who looked his way barely spared him a long glance, something that suited the depressed monarch.

Still, on he trudged, his staff clicking against the floor with every step until he finally reached his destination. An old store room, emptied for but a few crates and tables with chairs likely older than himself. His large knuckles rapped the door once, paused, hit it three more times and then he kicked the base. After a moment the door opened to the face of Boss Yaga. Sad King Briareus was forced to look upwards, the towering lagomorphic face of Yaga looked down at him imperiously. Neither spoke, but words passed between the two with little more than facial expressions and body language. Yaga was wearing the armor and weapons she had dived into this realm with, looking much like the adventurers who came here willingly and were robbed and murdered by the more ruthless individuals for their equipment, it made Briareus muse how many would be muggers she had already butchered. He was almost bemused by her hulking forms and curves, a mirror of beauty compared to his own ugly oafish body. She would almost be attractive to the deposed king, not for her feminine figure but for the reclusive expression he saw within her. Her eyes were solid black, the fur of her rabbit-like face a faded brown that drew contrast to her onyx nose and lips. What truly impressed the downtrodden king about her was the depth of her mind, the knowledge he had of her unique and dangerous psionic ability, the myriad of observations she must have had next to the gregarious Herod. Something about that insight, that strange almost alien perception always made him so very fond of her. Yet the hulking lagus stood aside, allowing Sad King Briareus to enter as he took stock of the others.

Tarkus was here, sitting on his chair with his legendary hammer laid upon the table before him. Even the most novice of magi could see it was a true artifact, a weapon that would pass through the ages and leave blood and bodies in its wake. It was forged by Tarkus himself, so it is said, the same hammer he used to forge the iconic armor that made him a fixture of the battlefield in the ongoing war. The ogre looked at it curiously, as if wondering what it was like when Tarkus activated the rune on the hilt and brought the head to the flames that gave the warlord is name sake. Tarkus himself was large for a salamander, with black scales and ebony skin meeting where natural armor became (supposedly) softer flesh. His prisoner’s clothes were encased in makeshift armor he likely put together himself to offer some protection, but Sad King Briareus wondered if it was to offer comfort as well as protection. The rusted plates nailed together in crude welds and tied to his uniform was little more than scrap armor at best, but it would serve. Yet, despite it, Tarkus still cut an impressive figure no matter his seemingly poor state. His eyes drew attention first, red hot pits that burned with an ambition that made it difficult to stare into, a battle scarred and aged face that had seen a hundred campaigns and lived to fight another day. A face that, the king privately thought, was perfectly designed to inspire men because his cropped short cut red hair and paternal beard gave him the appearance of a wise leader as well as warlord and Sad King Briareus did not doubt for a moment that Tarkus had already attracted a few new soldiers to follow him, even in this lawless hell pit. Yet it was Herod who broke the silence now that everyone was gathered, the wily rodentfolk with dull brown fur, black eyes, and chipped buck teeth always in a clever smirk. Herod had taken off his prisoner’s jacket and tied it around his waist, the black undershirt fitting loosely over his thin chest that danced back and forth with his excitement.

“Yaga, my buxom bitch, how dare you do not announce the arrival of His Majesty. Sad King Briareus, the master of magic from the frozen northlands. The last true king of the ogres, the most powerful wizard to ever grace the Onokrin Empire. Herald of the ethereal vigil, lantern bearer of the solarium order and patron of mages and psions alike. It is ever a pleasure, your majesty, to have audience with you.” Herod bounded to his footpaws, bowing so deeply that his rodent nose skirted the floor while Tarkus and Yaga rolled their eyes. Sad King Briareus however, smiled in return, offering a small bow before loosing a rumbling chuckle. “Ever the showman, young Herod.” The ogre replied as he took his seat at the table, the largest chair set aside for his bulk. “I do enjoy a performance, however, and it is much appreciated.” The sad king spoke with a quiet, reserved tone, as if pondering over the meaning of his own words. “But, now that we are all here, Tarkus?” The ogre said questioningly, looking towards the salamander with a raised eyebrow.

Tarkus glanced at everyone before he spoke, his gaze shifting between them slowly and deliberately. All met his gaze, the warlord speaking respectfully in return. “Do we trust each other?” He asked, his voice a far deeper rumble than even the hulking ogre. “For this to work, we have to ask ourselves. Do we trust each other?” His gaze was still shifting from face to face, meeting each in turn and looking like a savage creature seeking any sign of weakness. “You know of me, you know who I was. I know each of you, each of your pasts. But what we were brought here for...” He looked to Herod now. “You arranged this meeting, Bagman. Explain.” The salamander said, making a vague continue gesture with his hand. Herod nodded, “No doubt you're wondering what he’s going on about, Your Majesty, and you too babe.” He said with a smile towards Yaga, who merely looked back at him indifferently. “We all ended up here because we either want to be here or we fucked up. Or maybe that was the plan? Can never tell with mages and bitches right?” He was still grinning as he glanced between the king and Yaga, the former merely nodding while the latter finally loosed her own amused snort.

The rodent was still standing, his short form climbing back into his chair as he continued, “Now, we’re all movers and shakers. Whether that be leaders of men and soldiers.” He nods to Tarkus. “Teachers and advisers to important figures.” He gestured to Sad King Briareus. “Or economic and criminal kingpins like myself and our dear silent Yaga here. My point is, this shit pit is filled with all sorts, from scum to madmen to the fuckin’ downtrodden, waiting to die venturing below trying to chase their death or escape. We, on the other hand, are cut from a finer cloth. We, my friends, can make this hole in the ground a… home in the ground. You get me?” Herod was losing his showmanship now as the brass tacks were metaphorically being laid out on the table, his cheerful candid tone giving way to a more serious voice. “Nobody has ever escaped this mountain, if I were to wager they don’t even know who built it and its precisely for that reason they turned these fucking dungeons into a prison where they dumped those too useful to hang and be done with. They ‘say’ we can be pardoned if we manage to escape, but this place is an utter labyrinth.”

Herod leans back in his chair, propping himself up on the table’s edge with a foot paw. His demeanor was calm but his expression was almost sullen as he rattled off a list of woes, “For starters, the maze always changes. Every... six to eight hours the whole place reshuffles the further you get below. They call this the safe zone not because it actually is safe but because its constant. This floor and about four floors below it never seem to really change all that much, at least the lay out doesn’t.” He held up a clawed hand, counting off on his fingers now, “Except in the areas where it shuffles you have in no particular order the faceless, world shapers, havockers, a seemingly endless fucking tide of grave walkers and to top it all off you have the devouring court or so Yaga tells me.”

The rodentfolk nodded to Sad King Briareus, “You’re the scholar, why not regale Yaga and Tarkus here on those first four, Your Majesty?” Said king merely frowned, pursing his puffy lips at being put on the spot so suddenly, yet much like Herod he was a bit of a showman himself in a more artistic sense and he began as he planned to go on. The ogre laid his staff on the table, looking at it pensively before a hand slowly rose to his vest, coming to his chest where his rune lantern was fused to his skin and the rib cage below. He pressed his fat fingers on the stained and cracked leather, letting it reshape to outline the source of his magical power for all to see before he finally spoke, his voice soft and thoughtful. “The faceless, so called for the featureless masks they wear. What they are, who they are. An enigma, because the shared mind of their ancient magic is as old as resonance itself. A fallen ideal, a hope to unify under a single ideal and a singular goal that would usher in an age of peace.”

He lifted his hand from his chest now, bringing it to the head of his staff where the gears rotated and whirred, keeping track of some unseen force before the deposed king prodded the thrumming crystal inlaid between the cogs. “Yet those that saw the featureless mask, the loss of self determination, they brought blade, magic, and gunpowder. They brought violence to the olive branch of peace and with it forged a new mask, a death mask, the faceless became legion and marched upon men. Forcing their mask upon the unwilling and their ranks swelling with enslaved soldiers.” The ogre’s heavily lidded eyes lifted from his staff, looking to the trio before him before he merely shook his crowned head. “I have no sympathy for them, yet they at least stood for something long ago. The world shapers never did. A mistake of our elven enemies.”

The giant tapped the crystal adorning his staff once more. “A weapon to slowly destroy our kingdoms, the world shapers, a terraforming vegetation that rapidly grows, fights, and spreads without the need for oversight, support, or even supplies. Naturally, as nature is want, releasing an apex predator such as this was a double-edged sword. The world shapers are named because their growth and lichen overtake any environment they reside, killing and composting any creature of flesh. A wildly effective weapon of terror, merely plant a seed and simply wait, even when an infestation is burned, the spores might just find a new place to take root. The only saving grace for us is the one feature the elves could not remove. When it grows too big, too powerful, the mass of creatures slowly hit a peak and can grow no longer. A shame we are not elves or elven kin, only they and the fey are not attacked by the green beasts.”

Sad King Briareus shifted his gaze between the three, more morose than ever as each one kept their thoughts private on the dangers revealed so far. He loosed a deep sigh before he continued, “Of the havockers and grave walkers, that is a more complex topic. Like a cult or force of nature, the two represent the opposite ends of life and death. The first call upon demons and devils, bringing in outside creatures eager to drink the blood and devour the souls of mortals while the latter brings back those who have passed beyond the veil. These pale shadows of humanity thirst for the warmth of the living, bringing claws and teeth to split the bellies and warm themselves within the gore of the soon to be cold who, in a blasphemy of nature’s cycle, are doomed to rise and repeat the same fate.”

The ogre’s frown deepened, “Warlocks and necromancers, the saner ones reside here even in the safe zone, calling bestial demons and making use of old bones like mindless golems. An almost fitting, if macabre, twist on those who create automatons.” The downtrodden king looked to Tarkus now, heavily lidded eyes falling upon the failed warlord. “You know death, do you not Ash-Lord? It is well known that you quit the empire's ranks because of the use of necromancy in its defense.” All eyes now turned to Tarkus, the salamander meeting the king’s almost accusatory frown without so much as raising an eyebrow.

Tarkus answered without hesitation, his gaze never wavering while he replied, “I left the war front because Magnus is a monster and I would not see life desecrated, if I had stayed I would have turned those necromancers and their minions to ash. For it, the emperor gave me a fiefdom, a way for me to retire from my service but still be useful to the empire. My domain was along the norther border, just before the arctic tundras that marked the edges of the empire’s territory. The areas I controlled and the serfs I owned languished under terrible conditions when I arrived, the ground was infertile and improper for farming, food had to be imported or traded with caravans using the many ore-rich mines filling the hills. Dangerous, life shortening work, mining under ground and then to top it off they traded bricks of gold for food long since withered or molded on its journey north. A man has to eat and he’ll pay a deep price once he begins to starve, so my people paid ridiculous tithes to merchants and caravans, bartering months worth of metal and ore for scraps.” It was evident to everyone that Tarkus still felt a bit of rage, even now, at the state of the people beneath him. The pale glow of magic in his eyes, the resonance natural to his dragon-blooded kin, grew in intensity as he spoke. It stoked the flames that made his deep, rumbling voice grow more imperious with each word. “I was sworn to protect my fiefdom and when the caravans were killed by my men in a dispute I seized what remained of their food and gave it to the starving.”

Tarkus finally broke his gaze now, shaking his head and looking longingly to his hammer. “Your people are devious ones, Herod.” He said quietly, not looking at the rodentfolk but instead his own hand, the tips of his black claws lighting up into a small flame. He let it dance across his finger tips, drawing out a small silence before finally breaking it. “Even now I do not know who started the fight between my enforcers and the caravan but I have reason to suspect it was done through bribe, a reason for casus-belli to be declared against me by those who wanted my fiefdom.” It was his turn to sigh now, letting the flame that danced on his finger tips go out. “ A fight over the price of food became a diplomatic incident that devolved into a border dispute. I was challenged and my fight approved by the emperor. In the end I lost, killing Linebreaker Toragg but being defeated by Wolf King Rannick.” He was leaving out something, some specific detail, everyone sensed it but nobody pressed him on it.

The salamander shrugged now, laying the matter to rest. “I am a man of battle, I was never suited for the politicking of nobles and court and for that I ended up here. I can only hope those I had been sworn to protect are prospering under Rannick now.” He raked his knuckles on the head of his hammer, his make-shift plate armor clanking, “Did you ever plan to tell me or anyone that it was your caravans and syndicate behind it all?” He suddenly asked, shifting the focus back to the rodentfolk. “Figured that out did ya?” Herod replied, "I knew the men running the racket but it was not one of mine, it just paid its tax to my syndicate out of fear of Yaga here if they did not report the sudden income." He used his prehensile rat tail to gently slap Yaga’s thigh affectionately. She frowned down at him while he returned a grin upwards before he continued. “Ironically it was your actions that lead to the meeting that became my downfall, but I do not blame you as you should not blame me. Someone would have done it, it would have happened, and in either case neither of us were truly directly involved. Cards fell how they did, sadly.”

“But we get back to what Tarkus said from the start. Can we trust each other? I know I can trust Yaga and maybe even you Tarkus, been working with alot of war lords in my day. But for this to work we need everyone on board, no secret plots or betrayals, else we're not going to get out of this hell hole.” Herod was looking at Sad King Braireus now, sizing the ogre up as he was the only one besides Yaga who must have come here willingly. “Me and Yaga got a long history and I knew Tarkus' father. But you, your Majesty? Don’t know ya, don’t even know why you are locked up here. So why not enlighten us?” The ugly ogre looked back at Herod, his gaze was difficult to read, his lidded eyes blinking slowly. Yet both Herod and Tarkus got the impression that the ogre knew something they didn’t. “Necromancy.” The ogre stated blunted, turning what could have been a tale to mirror the other two into something more like an informal report. “I created a magical artifact that could bring the dead back to life, true life, and for it I was charged with necromancy.”

Herod spoke first, quick to a question. “No way that didn’t have a price. Come on, my king, what went wrong with it?” He asked almost teasingly, yet the ogre responded as if the question was serious, “It had limits on who could be brought back, certain conditions needing to be met. Repeated use caused a slow degradation...” He trailed off, looking thoughtful while a vague frown creased his mismatched features. “And they imprisoned you for that? Most nobles would pay entire fiefs for a device to return them from the dead intact and necromancy is hardly illegal with the likes of Magnus around.” Tarkus said, his turn to speak up now. Sad King Briareus looked at him, looking confused for a moment. “I am not Magnus, nor as useful in my old age, the device was just relatively safe and highly effective way to make the dead living instead of unliving but that did not make it legal.” He replied casually, his confusion giving way to brief amusement. His humor was over the way everyone responded, offering a moment of grim silence to so casually admitting to using such dangerous and reviled magic. "Necromancy is not technically illegal, thanks to Magnus, but I was not as important as the lord of Crullfield. Thus, here I am."

“But, of my trust, you need only ask dear Yaga here if I may be trusted. I will lay such a choice and my fate in her skilled hands.” The sad king giving the so far silent woman a deep bow of his crowned head, his hand rising to stop it from sliding off his bulbous brow. Yaga had been standing next to Herod, interposed between him and the door, her paw-like hands folded behind her back. She was the largest one there, towering at nearly nine feet in height, yet easily and readily forgotten when attention was not drawn to her by another. All eyes turned towards her and Yaga looked as if she was not going to answer, as if being prompted made her spiteful enough to simply refuse and let the three men sort or fight it out. Yet to everyone's surprise she did speak, her voice a calm and velvet tone that, if the men hadn’t known her history, would have guessed her from a more regal background. “We can trust him.” She began, bringing up palms from behind her back to reveal the dagger she had been concealing. “He gave me this when he entered.” The tall woman twirling the blade in her hand while Herod spoke up, “Fucking bullshit he did, I was looking when he came in. You’re so fulla shit.” He lifted a footpaw from the table, his leaning chair coming down to clack against the stone floor. “But, if Yaga says he can be trusted I got no reason to doubt her. Tarkus?” He asked the salamander, the rodentfolk rolling her shoulders as if the matter was already settled.

The warlord glanced between the ogre and the lagus, perhaps wanting to ask something before he merely nodded. “Good enough. If we can trust each other then we have only one last problem. Herod here assures me he can get an economy and factory up and running. With your magical power and skills Briareus you can no doubt begin training and making new mages.” Tarkus said, not using the same honorific most others did when addressed the sad king. “I am lead to believe that all forms of teleportation only work inside here and we are effectively cut off from the outside, that true?” He asked the ogre before the giant returned a nod of affirmation. “Alright then, we’ll be going with Herod’s plan then. We’re going to take the scattered remnants here and form it into something proper, not these scattered gangs and loners. Between his skills, your magic, Yaga’s talents, and my forging ability we can make something, as long as we can trust each other. To do that, we have to take care of our first problem.”

The salamander rose now and for a moment everyone in the room understood why he was known as the Ash Lord. Tarkus cut an imposing figure, tall, strong, and confident. The air about him was one of authority, one that said clearly without words that he would have his way or he would have violence. His daring plan of action came with ease, spoken like a veteran of the many conflicts and battles that he was. The conspiring four sought to build a haven in this realm, but to do it the salamander explained, they would first need to kill Bertra the Beast and her gang known as the Ravagers. These thugs and despots had ruled the safe zone for a great many years and soon, they all agreed, they would unseat them.

So it began.