The Lamsmeet (I)

Paroussi. Paroussi. Paroussi. They say if you say that name quickly, it becomes “Prissy.” It was the namesake of the son of Parasson of Wentlane, Marshall of the Northern Road, and the senior commander of the Eastern theatre against the hellish Salah from the vile Witchwoods. It was in that shadow - and absence - that Paroussi came to be; a man of insurmountable confidence, a lion-maned pretty boy with hands the size of dinner plates and muscles that (reportedly) could shatter blades. He was a living specimen whose physical features and stature were so grand that rumours abound suggested it was he who was the subject of the indomitable statues of Ardalsalam! “How I shudder!” Folks would hear him saying at the thought, shaking his head profusely. “I am but a mere man, no greater than any other!”

But to Prissy, even if he believed himself to be no greater than any man, he absolutely believed himself to be greater than any woman. The townsfolk of tiny Wentlane always jested that it was lucky that Parasson was celebrated since so many women left the castle walls. Any spy could walk in any direction and find no less than several women who would know the insides of Arch of the Lane, the fortress of inexhaustible Ardalian farmlands. That was what they'd say, "The Arch, the Arch! Prissy's going to sell the Arch for the right flaxen hair one day!" From these tall battlements (taller than even the College of Medicalers), Arch of the Lane kept a sober and watchful eye on patches of corn and wheat, stretching from horizon to horizon.

Therefore, it was lucky that even in the tallest towers, curious ears could hardly hear the noise beyond its walls; screams of young women - and they were getting younger - could be heard satiating his lust. Their shouts came in all languages, so much so that some could say that Arch of the Lane was one of the great multicultural centers of Ardal, but it was only in the curses and moans of the women who staggered through those halls. Every night, like a phantom of the towers, townspeople could see the small flicker of candlelight, followed by a shadowy figure casting his watchful eye on them all. It was Prissy, Wentlaners would say, drunk out of his mind and searching for his next prey.

There was a sigh of relief to many, especially the women, when Prissy’s convoy of Medicalers and Knights followed in his stead. They numbered no more than thirty men (and they were always men, for any woman would have long left his service). While his father was busy in the eastern edges, pushing against the elves, he was summoned to a Lamsmeet, a meeting of all the Marshalls and greater Lords of the Ardalian Empire. He thirsted for something of the sort; it had been years since he visited the City of Endless Flame. More importantly, he knew that the Lamsmeet happened in the King’s chamber, and there was no short supply of women to satisfy his needs.

He let it run through his head as they galloped their way down around the lake of Magisalam. The courts had spoken of how King Radan, the second-born, was a eunuch, how he didn’t touch any of his girls and how the only wailing that came from the Sunlit Chamber was not wails of passion, passion, or passionate lust, but anger. Howls, rumours said, of unbridled, vile, vicious anger.

No matter, Prissy thought. Perhaps he could be the one to convince Radan to part with his girls if that was the case. Perhaps he could bargain! A place in the palace? It could help his career, move him away from the chatter of the little folk and the groaning of his oafish father.

All he had to do was appeal to the King’s better nature, to convince him that he was someone worth trusting. And who wouldn’t trust Prissy? His reputation aside, he was a man at the top of his class, a swordsman with little contest. Trained from the great Sir Pernus of Owmsverlauch, he was certain that even if he came across an Elder, he would be able to fall it in single combat! His magic was a little low, yes, and he would hardly be considered for the greater rungs of the College of Medicalers, but that snappy, racist old crow was much beneath him. She only understood elves as nothing more than little toys to be disassembled, but he knew first and foremost the beauty of elven bodies. How sweet and soft and slender their women were, the thought of such a delicacy made him flush with excitement. Could the College have such prisoners of faint beauty? No foul beasts run in the elven blood, and no brutish trait passed down through their lines. Always beautiful.

He never found an ugly Salah.

It took them a few days to reach Ardalsalam at full gallop on the Ardalian highway, stopping at Ardalowmreslan to switch horses. Prissy didn’t want to spend any time outside the glamour of the capital. He wanted to be there as much as possible.

Eventually, he reached the hot gates of Ardalsalam, the great ring of metal that consisted of iron crenellations, so hot to the touch that anyone foolish enough to step onto its battlements would find themselves melting into the fixtures. Steam can be seen at all times of the day, the inner rings emanating a relaxing, droning sizzle, like a guardian angel. There was no fanfare; there never was. Instead, the gates would just open, allowing them entrance, and it was here that they’d be in the outer courtyard of the castle, the inner courtyard of the College of Medicalers. Dismounting his horse, he gently dusted himself off, and with his entourage, royal soldiers led him through to the inner chamber.

It was not long before he came across one of his friends: Arathas of Vendirsalam, the empire's northern capital. Draped in a rather casual outfit, he hugged Prissy with all his considerable might. “Paroussi, my good man!” He said loudly. He was one of the few who didn’t call him by that foul nickname. “Been quiet, have you? I’ve heard many tales of your adventures; you’re nothing more than a werewolf now, aren’t you?”

“Good Arathas, I cannot possibly be that much of a fiend!” Prissy laughed. "Though undoubtedly some of the girls I've seen must have some lycan blood somewhere." The two of them walked through the open gardens of the first gate. Like the city, the castle was ringed with numerous gates, though why the Ardalians needed so many gates was unclear. “How is your wife?”

“By God, man, we meet for the first time in months, and you can’t stop talking about women!” Arathas flashed a toothy grin. “But she’s good, good. Taking care of our wee ones at home, my eldest is already seven, and he’s got quite the sword arm, I’d say. How about you? I can’t surmise that any woman’s been able to hold your appetite long enough?”

“Absolutely not! Time has passed, but my power sure hasn’t.” Prissy said, laughing. “I don’t ever see myself being chained down to one woman.”

“Make sure you don’t speak about this crassness in the chamber.” The rough, gravelly voice of one Vera of Iril chimed in. “Don’t embarrass your father.”

“Of course not, Auntie Vera!” Prissy smiled. It had been a long time since he had seen her, the wizened war maiden of Ardaliril, the only fortress named after their commander. A tired old crow (in both features and nature), Vera’s walk was no heavier this time than last; even as she aged, the spring in her step was fast and light. And it was at Vera’s manner that Prissy found himself at home - not cooped up in dirty Wentlane and its dirty women, nor on the front lines with his trophy-obsessed father, but at the western edges, watching the rolling fogs of the dead plains. He remembered the moments when they’d occasionally pick at the stray Elder that sauntered into the plains, firing bolts and arrows and flame from their battlements, seeing who could fell the giant beasts. But Vera was now old, too old. She could have been Prissy's first love, an enchantress of all things war, a statuesque woman losing the war against her least graceful enemy: time.

Vera groaned approvingly. The three of them entered. They were the last. To Arathas’ chagrin, Radan was hardly a neat man. The Sunlit Chamber was once again messy and filthy. All sorts of finery surrounded them. Prissy almost shuddered to step on some important trinket accidentally. He tip-toed around everything, the clanging of the tip of his pauldron against his breastplate making sounds that he felt everyone could hear.

Clang, clang, clang. Dodging another bit of the king’s old dirty clothes.

Clang, clang, clang. His fearful, prancing moves were so strange that the girls in Radan’s harem chuckled. He flashed a charming grin, though desisted immediately when he remembered whose grace he was in.

Radan gave Prissy all the kindness in the world. He waited, without interrupting, for Prissy to find a place. He found one, tucked in between two young girls, his hands already on their legs. “Thank you, Marshalls, Lords, and their proxies, for coming to this Lamsmeet. I heard that the campaigns in the east are going well, that every day the Salah infestation is being moved away, and wild growth will soon be wild no longer.” If Prissy could describe King Radan's voice, it would be that of a wagon wheel, a constant drone that, occasionally, would squawk loudly and obnoxiously.

A raucous clap emerged around the room. With a wave of Radan's hand, it deafened. “There’s more good news; with the work of our wonderful Marshall Iril, the route to the outer west is almost completed. Soon we’ll have the port we sorely need to wrest control away from Siralian pirates.” Again, a wave of applause, followed by a quick, sharp silence. “However, if good news is all we need for a Lamsmeet, then we'd have good news every other day." The Lords and Marshalls laughed. "Something worries me, and this is the concern of this Lamsmeet. Haron.”

Marshall Haron was a Vermite, a ratman. Though small in stature, his peers were greatly respected, arguably not because of any particular strong ability. Rather, by Vermite standards, he was kind, articulate, particular, and particularly unkind to elves. No taller than a human child, the rat-general of Ardal straightened his tiny jacket and raised his scarred snout. “The Medicalers are all retreating from Aura. Disease has swept through the fort-city, and its deleterious effects are worrisome. At first, it seems to be nothing more than Siralian problems, but this strange foulness can creep past the southwest line and has taken root in our borders."

“What effects?” Asked greasy-haired Savan of Ardalowmeren, the silent fortress of the northwest. He leaned forward in his blackened ring mail. “Is it magical?”

“Possible, though we don’t know.” Spit flung everywhere Haron spoke, though he was attentive and careful enough to try and wipe it. His servants, two large men more than three times his size, would pull out embroidered wipes and gently tap his fur to spackle the spit away. “This disease spreads invisibly, though filthy air whose filth, frankly, cannot be smelled or seen. We know it spreads through a breakdown of the body, and after it runs amok, humans collapse.”

“But that could be any sickness; why is that so important to us?” Arathas asked.

“Because…” Haron’s claws were shuffling. His whiskers twitched, and his tail curled up. The whip of the carpet as it swung was visible to everyone. It was clear he wanted something dramatic. “...it eats your magical supply.”

Despite his poor delivery, despite his telling body language, despite all of his fumbling, Haron’s words worked. Everyone leaned forward. Some shifted around uneasily. Even Prissy, whose hand had been preoccupied, was now firmly at his chin, his elbow resting on his knees. He was now sitting straight, leaning forward, and eyes wide.

Diseases were rare, but they did happen. Most of them were minor trifles; fevers and headaches, weakness and soreness. Some died. When one was old, it would get worse. But to some, it was natural. “Was the flow of magic overflowing their bodies?” Arathas asked. It was the talk of magical supply that quieted the room. A disease that, at this moment, could be understood as a mage-killer.

“Nothing of the sort. Many of them non-mages. Some of them mages. Self-heal doesn’t work. Didn’t work.” He cleared his throat. “We think the air is sick, but the physicians can’t figure it out.”

“Figure it out? Are your men at Aura? Is that allowed?” Gassaria, a mountain of a man and the grand wizard of Magisalam, asked while swaying nervously.

“Medicalers have retreated. Their numbers are low.” Haron shook his head. “They’ve not yet reached home, but I’ve heard that many are already dead even before they left. Yet more pressingly, this foul air has reached Ardalvsil.” His hands fell to his side as if he had failed in the mission, but instead of screams, only the silence of the others remained. “Before I left, a fifth of my men have been found with the disease. My entire barracks has been compromised. All of them young. This foul air is spreading, but I cannot figure out what is happening!”

“I’ve heard rumours from my scouts that farmlands in West Siral were abandoned so that this disease fog could have come from there.” Vera crossed her arms, leaning against a pillar. “We could send scouts there and investigate.”

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“Is Prince Liarus not investigating that area?” Arathas asked.

“My brother came across blood mages, and he’s in pursuit of them,” Radan spoke with clear disinterest in his voice. It seemed almost monotone and rehearsed.

“Blood mages! It must be their foul work!” Gassaria shouted. “We’ve let such vermin hang around for so long, and now they’ve - “

“We’ve hardly let the blood mages stay; they’ve been proven to be a much hardier infestation than any rat,” Issadara said. He was a handsome man with eyes of periwinkle blue. He was draped in a large robe emblazoned with the sigil of Owmsverlauch, the fortress of the indomitable north. “Even I found blood mage activity only a few months ago in the north, battling with some Elder chieftain. They’re everywhere, doing everything.”

“If the blood mages are the ones to blame, then rooting them out is the correct answer, correct? Can’t we just maintain the course and see how it turns out?” Issadara asked.

"Frankly, maintaining the course got us into this mess..." Gassaria noted. "...we wouldn't need the Lamsmeet if the course was set."

“Even so, hunting blood mages when they might not even be the source. If we chase those phantoms, then we could all be dead soon from this miasma.” Vera reasoned. “What about you, Paroussi? Does the Horn of Wentlane have any suggestions?” She heavily stressed the word horn.

“Auntie Vera, I would know no such thing; I’ve not heard of any sickened and weakened peoples through our territory. The farms have been as quiet as ever - ”

“I spoke to your father before the Lamsmeet. He mentioned troubling news of the rectories filling up.” Gassaria intercepted. “I thought he would have told you.”

“My father…has told me very little.” Prissy cast a weak, defeated smile. “As is custom.”

“And what of the lady of Ardalsalam?” Vera turned her sights to the Headmistress.

She had been silent this whole time, watching the members of the Meet try and figure out something - something - about this strange miasma. It was ripping through young men and women with a power hardly seen before, and it seemed it could come so viciously and so quickly. “Marshall Haron is understating its reach.” The Headmistress weakly explained. “Cases have emerged in Ardalsalam. I can’t figure out the trail of this miasma, but we believe it grows and festers in the people, like an odorous poison, and then it comes through their mouth.”

“That’s no different from a regular sickness, then. But…choking out mages of their magic, dear God….”

“It does more than that.” The headmistress looked at Radan. Radan looked at his girls. Understanding immediately, they lowered the curtain around the pillars and slid out of view. Their hushed whispers can still be heard, though the scratchy wheel of a wagon quickly drowned it out. On it was a woman under a white sheet. She was lean and pretty, her eyes and mouth closed. However, to the members of the room, they found it ghastly.

"What are you doing?! You're bringing one of them in here, in the presence of the King?!" Arathas snapped at her. "We can't let one of the infected come in here!"

"I can guarantee this girl will not infect you. I've placed a limited wind barrier on her; any foul air should not infect us. I want the Marshalls, however, to take a look at what we're dealing with."

She was blue, bruised, her nose and mouth caked in blood. As the Headmistress lifted the sheet, she pressed her fingers into her body. Then, the crackling came. Something was popping, a vicious and clear mucus coating the wood as she rolled the corpse over, followed by more pops.

Pop, pop, pop.

Pop-pop-pop-pop-pop-pop.

Things were bursting beneath her skin. “One of my students. She planned on going home but eventually got sick. She coughed so hard and so heavily that she cracked her own ribs.”

“This is no different from my own men,” Haron said, dejected. “Good, strong boys and girls. Their hearts and stomachs would fill with fluid, and they’d drown themselves alive. Not a single drop of water, but they’d drown themselves alive!”

Prissy closed his eyes at the sight. Was this going on in the south? This strange horror? And now it was in Ardalsalam? Here?! He wanted nothing to do with the city now, to just return to the comfort of the countryside, praying and hoping that it would subside.

The rest of the room was silent. They cast eyes upon each other, occasionally darting to the body on the wagon. Vera shook her head. “What do we do?”

“If it’s from people, we stop the borders, close them until it slows down. If it’s from something else…we kill it.” Arathas suggested. “We’ve killed much worse than a fog.”

“A wretched fog, an unseen and unsmellable fog.” The Headmistress corrected him. “We don’t know how far this fog has gone - ”

“Then we close the borders,” Haron suggested. “Stop this wave of deaths right now.”

“And risk undermining the Ardalian-Siralian connection? The port isn’t finished. We need the Siralians for access to the Roaring Seas.” Gassaria raised his hands. "This is a naive suggestion at best, and I understand your military background, but commerce can only flow by ship through the river."

“It is my boys and girls, and Vera’s, that are building this road for you to peddle your piss powder, Gassaria. We can’t keep the border open just because you need it.”

“And how do you reckon my alchemists can keep supplying Palepowder if we don’t have these ports open? Or even worse, the Salah take Siralian mercenaries? Can Ardalian flame stop a storm?”

“We're in the midst of a storm right now, and we have no answer to this situation. You speak about my counsel as if a military man cannot speak on Ardal, but it was through the military that Ardal has made the alchemists fat and wealthy. Don't forget that, Gassaria!"

"Oh, what a surprise, the rat-general can only think of things as food." Gassaria leaned forward. "Last I checked, I have more under my charge than you have in the entire south. So between the two of us, who is better fit to give counsel on the state of the south?"

"Some blasphemous words from alchemists, locked in their little tower, protected by the lake! I’m starting to think you’ve turned sellsword-Water yourself!”

“Oh, good! Because we need water to cool the heads of at least one flame lord here, Haron.”

“Sir Haron, I agree with Sir Gassaria; what good does closing the border do when it has already broken through even the gates of Ardalsalam?”

“Arathas, it is not your men and women dying by the hundreds right now!”

The room fell silent. Radan, who was somewhat disinterested, sat up. “Hundreds, Haron?” He asked. “You didn’t mention hundreds.”

Haron’s hands fell at his side. He shook his head, his teeth chattering. With a pained expression, Vera stepped forward. “I’ve been underreporting the casualties as well, my King Radan.” She bowed forward, deeply, her eyes pointed down to the ground. “This disease is greater than just the southern fort.”

“A ratman and an old woman…destroy their realms. What a surprise.” Prim and proper Issadara laughed, his arms crossed.

“A catamite will not mock me.” Vera snarled through gritted teeth.

“Auntie Vera, please - ”

“Marshall!”

“A Marshall no more, if your people are dying in the hundreds.” Issadara shook his head, smiling at the thought. “How did it even happen? To let them fall like this? It’s even worse than Haron’s pathetic display of governance. A rat, unable to maintain his brood. I thought your people were good at foulness.”

“The miasma has not yet reached the Lauch, but when it does, you will have no comfort in the arms of dragon chieftains, Lord Issadara,” Haron replied. “Your men already quake at the sight of trees; how will they fare against disease?”

“I suppose the Vermite are professionals at disease, given how they cloak themselves in it like a mist,” Issadara said, backing off as a ring of fire emerged around Haron’s claws.

Before anyone could act, Arathas chimed in. “I think we need to remember that, regardless of the numbers given truly or falsely, there are numbers in Ardalsalam. Whoever is succeeding or failing at maintaining this miasma, it cannot be understated that it has penetrated the capital.”

“Is that a strike against our beloved headmistress?” A cross-armed Irwin of Witchway asked. He was a gigantic man draped in an ill-fitting plate, and every minor shimmy of his arms came with an annoying clang. For that reason, he had been nothing more than a statue to the argument. But now, like a hound, he barked. “Without her, I assume Radan would be even more taxed.”

“Don’t speak on what is and isn’t difficult for me, Lord Irwin.” Radan shot back. “I can’t control how mere air moves throughout the realm.”

“Witches staying together, what a surprising sight!” Gassaria shuddered. Vera and Prissy laughed. “Next thing you’ll tell me is Haron is a connoisseur for taverns.”

“Last I remembered, Gassaria, Lord of Magisalam,” The Headmistress placed heavy stress on ‘Lord,’ “the alchemists have yet to come up with anything that breaches past the Western tower of Wraithwood. It seems all they can do is conjure up more Palepowder, though I hear the Siralians might be selling those at a fine price now.” She turned to Radan. “I think we might need to reconsider who is the most deserving of the tower of Magisalam, my King.”

“It would make sense.” Irwin calmly said, to which Gassaria shot a dirty look.

“Bay your bark, boy.” Gassaria ironically clenched his teeth and bared his fangs. “I know you’re in league with that whore -”

“Bay your bark?!” The headmistress laughed. Issadara laughed as well. “How clever you are to come up with that. Did you perchance find a book among your flasks?” She leaned forward, and with a softer, sharper voice, stared deeply into Gassaria’s eyes. “I can do it too, but the braying of a blacksmith’s bastard bears no weight for me.”

Gassaria didn’t back away. He drew closer and closer, noses almost touching. “Ohh, what wordsmithing, I didn't know Salah chicks have poetry lining their guts.”

“I’m at least finding something while you and your lot toil away on Palepowder until the end of your days. Besides, sympathizing with the enemy? That sounds quite treasonous, wouldn’t it, my King?” The headmistress turned to Radan, but Radan did not reply. He only looked on with disinterest.

“We’re getting nowhere on this.” Radan got up, walked over to the girl on the wagon, and then observed her. His fingers ran down the pustules of her skin, feeling the crackling and stiffness of her flesh. Fluid had collected in her mouth and throat, giving off a strange waxy feeling. With a flash of his fingers, her body began to light up, a flame beginning in her heart and then breaking the skin. As she burned, he looked at everyone in the room. “If this is the fate of subjects in the empire, then we need to fix this immediately. Marshall Haron,” he turned to the Vermite, “you’re the one who’s lost the most, and you’ve seen this disaster firsthand. What would you recommend we do?”

“My Lord, we must meet with the council of Medicalers -” The headmistress tried to interject, but a firmly raised hand stopped her.

“It is my concern for the Medicalers that partly drives my decision. If they’re dying as quickly and surely as what we’ve seen, then the counsel of its victims may not be the best decision.” He scanned the room. “I would also like to avoid the bickering I saw today.”

Haron quickly patted his fur. “King Radan, I suggest we close the border. Cut off the Siralian access, and if this is foul Siralian magic, then we find it at its source and eliminate it with haste.”

“And the north? Any activities from the Elder bands or dragon chieftains in the tundras?”

“Minor, my King. It’s quiet.”

“Then we’ll cut off the southern routes. Both Ardalvsil and Witchway are to be sealed off until we figure out how to stop this rampage. Marshall Vera, accelerate the port to the western shores. I suspect the Cardinals of Siral will have…choice words about this.”

“‘Accelerate’?” Vera asked.

“Speed up.”

“Then at once, my King.”

“How are the farms?” He turned to Prissy, who had been somewhat disconnected from the conversation. “I hope you didn’t come here just to fondle my wives but that you’ve relayed something from your father.”

A bead of sweat ran down his head. Was it the heat? Or was he nervous? It was hard to tell in the Sunlit Chamber. “I don’t have anything, my lord. I-I-I mean, my King.” Radan closed his eyes at the comment.

“When we conclude, go back to Wentlane at once. Meet with your farmers on the state of their harvests; relay this back to me by the birds.” Prissy got up at once, but Radan’s hand raised to stop him. In fact, when anyone made a move, Radan’s hand stopped them. It had been a long and arguably fruitless conversation. They were all hot and tired. However, it wasn’t the end.

“I’ve received word from my brother, as well as a message out of our Chapter in Ravinder.” He unfurled two strands of vellum, both of them hastily scrawled, as if in a rush…or a panic. “He’s found Anaxeles, and he will do what he can to bring her home. She’s…summoned some beast that, according to his report, can rip an armoured man clean in two.”

“Like a blade,” Savan whispered.

“Without a blade, he thinks. A thing of sheer force, perhaps a God that emerged and with it, this pestilence.” Radan replied. “We have to do what we can to ensure this does not end up in Siralian hands; if she makes alliances with the Bog-lords, with this disease and this infestation, we’re going to be hard-pressed to keep pressure against the Salah." He closed his eyes and then slowly opened them again. "The other message worries me even more.”

The room fell into a deep silence. Ravinder was on the other side of the continent. A land that had been slowly losing ground to the Authalian empire in the east, its meagre towns were clustered around fields of lichen. The tinkerers and thinkers of Ravinder were hardly warriors, preferring to think of creative ways to survive their last days. The Ardalians only saw them as a pitiful state, a once-proud band of dog-men and women whose fangs had tempered over time. What strange news could have come out of Ravinder to warrant a message directly to Radan, and more importantly, would worry him?

“They’ve taken Firdrom and are marching onto Etherod.” Firdrom was a town on the edge of the border, but Etherod! Etherod was a true city with true walls. How could they scale such a place?

“Luck, perhaps? The Ravinders are perhaps pirates, alchemists, and scholars, but even they may bear blades once in a while. It's been generations since a Wolf-King emerged, but it can emerge. Even pretenders can do damage," Issadara said, his fingers rubbing his beardless chin. "Besides, the Authalians preach the impenetrability of their arms, but even they would fall before steadfast steel.”

“The problem is the person leading them. They’ve united under a Grand Magus, who goes by the name Septaria the Fourth. A wild woman of sorts rumoured to have been found in a ravine.”

“The machinists of the north being led by a wild woman? Now isn’t that a strange sight?” Prissy said. “I wonder what she looks like.”

“They’ve sent nothing on what she looks like, but she fights with an unconquerable power, commanding both might and magic to a degree they’ve never seen before. And they believe she is an oracle in her own right, given that everywhere she goes, strange devices of steel and light go with her.”

“When you say ‘never seen before,’ have they ever compared her magical pool to -”

“Not even ten of me could overwhelm her inexhaustible supply.” Radan grimly stated. “Her sights are set on the Authalians, but I doubt she would quench her thirst for conquest by just overwhelming the eastlings.”

"Would she march against the Salah?" The headmistress asked hopefully.

"If Holy Authalia falls, then I have no doubt the Ravinders would march against everyone. Once the snow-dogs find a taste for better weather and soil, they will no doubt birth their pups, and we'll be drowning in Xenos before long." Radan said. "It will be a long time before they can break the mountains or the desert, but it's not impossible, and that worries me."