July 23rd, 5AC
In a large circular room, far beneath the surface of Runehold, multiple rings of stone objects expanded from the center of the room. Most were recognizable statuary. Snarling dogs facing outward in an expanding ring of protection. One was in mid-construction, pieces of stone falling off of it as an unseen chisel carved out muscles and hide along its back.
And at their center, He sat. On what his asshole of a brother christened the bitch throne. A massive, well-padded recliner (masochism was not a family tradition) with armrests formed from the backs of a pair of stone German shepherds.
Beautifully detailed German shepherds.
Sally ‘Carvers’ best work in His opinion. She'd captured something special in their supine forms. Not the traditional bared canines of Chinese Foo Dogs or the Threshold guard dogs that expanded outward from his position.
No. They were peaceful. Companionably curled up around frescos of playing pups that graced the rest of his ‘throne.’ The pack’s future at rest. He gently stroked their backs, imagining briefly that they were alive and rumbled happily beneath his hands.
And then again. Perhaps they had. Magic was like that. Incomprehensible. More about feel and intuition than ice-cold logic. His logical mind 'knew' that organically molded or not, stone was not alive. They could not purr or feel happy.
But magic now, it didn't care. Honey badger style, it did whatever it damn well pleased and wise men didn't argue.
But it was possible if you paid attention and let your instincts guide the way, to shape the unstoppable flow.
He moved his hand back and forth. Lightly scratching up and down his ladies' backs. They were warm to the touch, and for a time he stopped telling himself what couldn't be and reveled in what might. Magic was possibility given form. Give it enough time, and those who dared to dream might find success.
And Regi dared. He'd never been afraid to dream big. He scratched stone backs and imagined their supine forms breathing, happy and at peace. Protected even now by the pack members who embraced violence.
He let loose a sigh and opened his eyes. It was a dream worth pursuing.
Peace was a rare existence in this new world of dog-eat-dog. Violence and predation were the norm, not the exception. If life was a river, then they were all just struggling to keep their heads above water. The river was deep and the rapids heavy. He could not simply still its waters. The more he tried the harsher the backlash would be.
The trick then, wasn’t to stop it, but to guide small portions. The violent waves couldn't be stopped but perhaps. Just perhaps. He could create a few standing eddies in that turbulent flow. Not for himself, nor his men. But enough for the pups to get a start. A place to grow in relative safety before swimming out into the rapids.
It wasn’t the dream he’d first imagined stepping out into this new world. He’d looked much higher than. But it was a compromise he could live with.
With a sigh, he stopped petting his dogs and carefully leaned back. Even for a compromise, it wasn’t enough to just dream. In a flow of violence, only more violence could keep his small peace stable. The irony was bitter, but it was what he had.
He let his mind sink into his throne. Sink down and explode outward along channels of beaten copper to each statue. And from those statutes, he could jump to the exact duplicates in each Hold or Threshold throughout the union.
They were a connection. A web of loyalty and obligations to every Brotherhood stronghold who looked to him, and who he looked out for.
This was his magic. What he'd chosen in the dark early days, and what he was proud to still claim as his own. Conceptual magic, Timothy called it.
Loyalty and Brotherhood.
Do you support and keep faith with me, I will protect and keep faith with you. A simple creed. A circular bond, and only breakable from within. A bond that wasn’t a mere platitude or idealism. The shared commitment, the bond between them was the reservoir where their strength was stored.
A reservoir he would draw on today as it was meant to be drawn on. To gather the strength of the Brotherhood and lend it where it was needed.
With the speed of intent, his mind slid down a single connection. Testing the reservoir that filled the space between this statue and its twin. He tested the depths of stored power, even as he traveled through its stable waters.
It was smooth, rich and homogenized. A heady brew was true loyalty. The stuff of tales. Of blood brothers and chosen companions. Of sacrifice and honor. And so much more. To much more really. There were a thousand flavors and offshoots to loyalty. A hundred ways to see the concept and to participate.
That made the collection of loyal mana a bit of a mess.
That was not the case here. It was purified and codified into a single usable understanding.
His.
Orthodox it could be called. The original intent.
He nodded in satisfaction. The purification circles and the rituals that fed them were working properly. That was mostly the case now. He’d worked most of the bugs out over the last few years. A good thing too! In the first year, he'd just had a hundred guardians looking to him and did the processing by hand. By mind really.
That wasn't possible when there were well over three thousand members now.
Instead, there were statues and a hierarchy. Organization at its finest. A dozen brothers generating their individual flavors of loyalty bound themselves to a mate, first through third. A skilled veteran and a leader who'd guide them along the path. Training them to merge their ideals into a consistent and usable whole. It was a squad, the lowest level they deployed with and a powerful tool for cooperative spell casting.
When not in combat or at work, they were a processing node. Sifting 13 flavors into one. Hopefully, one that was closer to Regi’s. But not reliably.
So six mates were bound to a captain. The next deployable unit. A crew. It took a powerful will to handle that much power but in turn, there was little out there that could take a concentrated blast on that level.
Captains though closer to Regi, were still not him. And so they were bound to their totem. The dog, the most faithful of beasts and the symbol of the Brotherhood. It was also the final filter and link. Connecting the hierarchy across a vast distance to this room, and the throne that commanded it. The Admiral's throne.
From his vaunted perch, Regi reached back along those links and embodied the statue on the other end.
No supine and peaceful bitch here. But a guardian, hackles raised and teeth bared. He took a moment to examine the inner workings. The ritual links and circles enchanted into the not-so-simple stone. He nodded, it was well-maintained and correctly tuned.
Good!
His mind bled sideways and tasted the connections feeding into it. Three captains, 18 mates and a bit over 200 individual links.
Also good! They’d recruited back to full compliment after the last set was promoted out to the Thresholds.
Regi took his time, tracing those links, individuals and leaders. Not the full meld where he could join them inside their heads, sharing their problems and perspectives, but a much lighter touch looking for major grievances or snarls of incompatibility.
They were not just members to him. They were his Brothers, and he wanted the best for them. But if he didn't know them, how could he presume to know what that was? And despite that, people were people. He felt a good deal of animosity, rivalry and even the occasional bit of hatred. Normal in fact. Nothing stood out to him as a problem beyond the authority of the mates, much less the captains.
How were they to learn to lead if they didn’t suffer through the trials of hormonal teenagers and the drama they brought with them?
Still, that wasn’t why he was here. He glanced at the strongest bonds in front of him. Two were bright and active. The third was dimming down at a slow but steady pace as he fell deeper into sleep. The night shift captain then. No reason to wake him. He tugged lightly on the other two. Meshing his intent with theirs for a brief contact. Then he let it fade and waited.
Less than a half minute passed before first captain Sanders, then Willy joined him. Their disciplined steady minds stood attentively, but not subservient.
Regi nodded in approval. He didn't need yes men to shine his brass. They were his brothers, not his servants. Even his recruits were valued members of the collective, not deckhands from some British period piece.
Not that some didn't push the edges of those roles. Not the captains, but those same recruits. The youths who grew up under the Brotherhood's protection. The starry-eyed who joined as soon as age allowed. They'd grown to manhood in a far more brutal world. And they valued trust. They valued the certainty that only a purpose gave.
Zealots of the new order, they willingly acted the servants that no one above them expected or wanted them to be.
Equality was the favored banner of the old-world. Safety had far surpassed it in the new. And safety required an iron-clad chain of command. A rudderless ship could only run aground.
It was a modification of his original path. Painful to make, but necessary. They were his brothers, he was born an eldest brother, and that mantle wasn't anything he was afraid of. Authority was not oppression.
It was merely a tool. One he used to protect and uplift.
So? Regi pulsed.
Admiral, is it desperate? Sanders inquiry burned into the link.
No, a standard callup will do. Regi pulsed back
Relieved acceptance bled into the link from both sources. Then the second source, Willy pulsed a question. Drill?
Do it. Regi snorted softly. Might as well.
The sources dropped off, and through the links, Regi felt a massive pulse travel down the links. An alarm call that dodged a quarter of the connections. Those dimmed with the telltale colors of sleep. Even for the rest, it made no bones about the partial nature of the drill.
Not that it mattered. A fire drill when you could go your entire life without a fire wasn’t hard to ignore. An attack drill when they happened at least once a month was a different story.
His musings were quickly drowned out by a massive, disciplined response. Minds snapped into the link even as he felt bodies begin to pile into the square surrounding the statue. Not bad.
It was only a few dozen arrivals, but that was inside the first 30 seconds. Pouring in at a sprint, half-dressed at times with clothes and weapons piled in their arms. Good troops. Over the next minute and a half, the two minutes allowed in case of a full alarm, over a hundred more piled in, taking their place in ranks with none of the grab-ass chaos he’d expect from civilians.
“Time!” Sanders called it, giving a brutal glare as the last few trickled in with hang-dog expressions.
Regi carefully didn’t notice. He didn’t have to. Captain Sanders had just been embarrassed before his Admiral. Those poor bastards were in for a bad few days.
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Regi let his will pour through the links, acknowledgment and appreciation for those who’d made it on time. Carefully ignoring the few who hadn’t.
Good morning Brothers! He rumbled through the links.
The Captains raised a hand, then dropped it together as 160 odd mental voices shouted the return greeting.
A good showing! Captain Sanders, Captain Willy, please pick your crews and dismiss the extras.
The grounds burst into action, as multiple orders pulsed out simultaneously, though not to the same set of recipients. Over half those present filed neatly out of the square. Leaving just under 80 behind. One full crew under Captain Sanders.
From the reports Regi had, he could do the job with half of that.
And that was just the way he liked it. Reports weren't always right, and even when they were. Use more, lose less. As long as logistics didn't get in the way it held true.
Thank you Brothers. I called and you answered. As it should be. My vows to you and you to me call. A group of our brothers are under siege, will you join me to offer aid?
“Yes, Admiral!” The massed voices again struck against him like a warm, comforting wave. Belief and trust in spades.
Good! Threshold Snaggletooth- A pleasant enough place, despite the ugly name. Built inside the tallest crooked peak of a jagged, jawbone-shaped stone promontory it wasn't much to look at, but it overlooked a prime bit of hunting ground some 100 miles north and a bit east of Runehold. -requested aid and they shall get it!
“Yes, Admiral!”
Excellent! Then it's time. Feel the flow, join the braid and let the tide of our massed intent drive us to our goals!
He shaped his will into a gangplank, bridging the distance through the nonspace of the Field along an imperceptible path anchored by the statues. To a massed command, the crew sat on the ground still in their ranks and leaned forward, elbows on knees and chins propped on their hands. With another flex, Captain Sanders, or at least his mind, trooped aboard. followed in time by his mates and their squads.
Being metaphysical, that took less than a second, as an outpouring of ghostly spectral figures marched aboard holding up the standard of a snarling dog. The image of their statue and their chapter. It was also a link to get them home, should disaster strike.
With the ease of long practice, they spread out across the deck, grabbing lines and climbing the rigging of the old-fashioned sailing ship he'd created in a few moments of nostalgia for an age that probably never was.
He could feel them, each member loyally joining their will with his, letting the links form the ocean, and their will the winds.
The ship sailed, and Regi the Admiral, teased out the link he needed and directed its course.
He felt it, the wind in his sales and across his face. A good crew at his back and he had the strength of a titan, ready and willing to smite the foes of the Union. No, not he. They. He would not forget that fact.
The ship sailed, for months and no time at all. Upon self-made seas, but through the nowheresville that made up the Field. Where moving backward might be the fastest way and up and down were more like philosophical points than true directions.
He didn't understand this place. He doubted anyone really did, not even his egghead brother. But he didn't need to understand it. Who could understand the sea? But he had a had a beacon behind and ahead. Even without understanding, he could sail her so long as held to the way.
He paused briefly as the burning pyre of Runehold stretched away behind him. Then down another tether, towards a much weaker beckoning flame.
He could feel the burn now. Like the third or fourth rep in the first 10 set. It was work, but nowhere near exhausting him. Not when he had so many to share the burden with. But only a portion could be shared. The rest was his to bear. This was his magic, not theirs and while they could help, it was his to navigate and to bear the brunt.
He ducked through eddies of mana, under waterfalls of earth and through clouds of life, following a direction rather than a road. The altars of stone linked the way, shortening the distance, but he still had to sail it. Struggling to comprehend the incomprehensible and choose the best paths.
Till Snaggletooth at last slid through the masking fog and the Construct Ship came to a stop. Floating on a pool of purified blood.
Lines of mana glowed to his sight, by far more real in this spectral form than they would be to the physical him. The lines wove a blanket across and into the pool they floated on, joining the snarling mastiff in the center to a ring of smaller statues that ringed it. Statues of concepts as much as creatures. A dozen snowflakes barely touching one another in a fall of lace that made him shiver to look at. A forest of stone stalagmites like a demonic lower jaw. A howling wolf to one side and what had to be a skunk on the other. A set of the more common beasts stood on one round stone plinth, all wearing blindfolds and breathing in a pungent incense from a burner below.
Good, stable spellscraft. If more artistically leaning than the usual.
Good Morning, Cardea.
“Admiral!” Relief filled the male voice inside the ubiquitous black robe and shadowed cowl. Regi froze at the sound. He'd become something of a connoisseur of relief over the last few years, and that was quite a bit more severe than the report he’d received should call for.
He wasn't desperate, not yet. But he was close to it. An edge of panic flavored his mental voice... six or seven out of ten Regi judged. There was danger here. Oh my yes. But not lethal.
Yet.
He pushed lightly against the pool with his will, a polite request for entrance and a moment later several mana screens slid aside and images formed on the crimson waves. Jagged, distorted images, but the bubbling and twisting eddies were clear enough to those who knew how to read them.
He could feel the bits and pieces that were human. Hunters fighting gorilla warfare from behind the wards. Striking out full power from ambush then retreating into the mysts to recover their mana. He winced. Or at least trying to retreat.
He felt the notes, the resonance in the flows and made his judgment. A tier three then, if barely. Already snared in the outer wards and tearing its way through the mana lines in a rage. Bad, but not something a Threshold of several years should have a problem with.
He winced again as the pool rippled and sloshed with another explosion of beast-driven mana. It was throwing a tantrum and while it wasn't terribly effective as a method of ward breaking, well quantity had its own way.
It would break them, eventually. But not for a very long time. Unless... his mental eyebrows raised Regi dropped his well below the surface of the pond and looked at the stored power.
Or lack of it.
A pond this size, and after several years of fortifications should be a staggering bonfire, too bright to look at. Not a set of banked coals. He held his tongue, willing to wait and listen. They might have a good reason. It seemed foolish to hope so, but he would throw them a line.
He just hoped they wouldn't hang themselves with it.
Details? Regi willed.
“Yes First Brother. Earth Toads. A Tier 3 with two top Tier 2 Lieutenants plus the usual horde of minions. Mostly Tier 1 trash but with a sprinkling of low Tier 2's. No mids that we can see. Probably newly evolved with a few old comrades and a bunch of kids growing too big for their old hunting grounds.
He ran his eyes over the statues again while listening. Decent spell work, but the mana filling them, tuned mana ready to be cast, was worrisomely low. It wasn't empty, but closer to that than full.
“-tongues can reach out 30 feet and punch through an inch of hardwood-”
Enough. You shouldn’t need help with this and your defenses are looking perilously- thin? Empty? Please, explain how it got this bad.
He had to work hard at it, but there was no accusation in his mental voice. Just a considerable amount of concern. It wasn't feigned either. This wasn't a disaster yet, but even with his aid today, if they let the mana levels get this low, it would only be a matter of time before something else broke them.
“Ahh, -” The cowled faces of the four glanced at each other, and he didn't have to be his brother to read guilt and fear. Not to mention the older tells he was more than capable of noticing. The set of their shoulders and the way they backed up slightly. Guilt and fear didn't surprise him. Even hard workers would feel them when a job wasn't working out. Worry was also expected. But shame? That wasn't a good sign.
The question stood, hanging there in the air while the masters of the Threshold glanced about, each seemingly hoping the others would answer. In some ways that was even more troubling than the state of the defenses. Indecision and an unwillingness to take responsibility were not traits in their Cardea a Threshold could survive.
At last with a sigh, the Cardea to the right of the pool spoke. “The number of attacks have been ramping up. Where last year we had 3 or 4 a month, now we are having triple that. All four of us spend at least 6 hours a day just gathering mana and it's just not enough to keep up.
Regi paused. That was… better than he’d feared. Still not good, but better than the worst case. Then how do you intend to fix it?
They looked down, the shame coming to the surface in quantities high enough to make it actively uncomfortable to be around them.
“You, Admiral. You were our plan. We don’t know what to do, we need your help for this fight, yes, but more we need advice!”
Regi sighed. They were in charge, and they he’d hoped they were better planners than this. And failing that, they advice they needed should have come from the Origin in charge of this area.
Neither was true. He’d have to look into why not. But for now, he needed to fix this.
Alright, start with a mana buy.
“At a Threshold?” A female voice objected, startled.
A buy, not a conscription. Make the price high enough to tempt. If you’re taking that many attacks, then use the proceeds from the kills to pay for it.
“We’ve, well, we offered the kills to those who help in the fight.” The female voice dropped in volume towards the end of the sentence.
Regi sighed, that was short-sighted but not completely foolish. That needs to stop. A portion of the proceeds is only reasonable, but without the wards, and the mana you pay to keep them active, they could not kill something like this. Fair shares all around will serve you better than misguided generosity.
This is just a stop gap measure. Enough to tide you over until some more significant support can get there. If attacks are ramping up that much, I’ll see if I can shift a Brotherhood crew out your way. If the attacks peter out, they likely won’t stay. He warned.
“Thank you, Admiral!” He only thought the relief was potent before. It was overpowering now.
In the meantime, I guess we’d best clean up this mess.
Glancing at the statues again, he focused on the frost wolf and joined his will with the mental construct inside it. Not of the wolf itself, though the tie-in to a canine was useful, but to its magic. To the utter cold that was so foreign to these parts. He reached to the cone of expanding cold jutting from the stone beast's jaws.
He knew the cold winds that drove down from the artic north. He’d felt them freeze the surface of skin. The prelude to frost burn that stuck with a man on a long cruise. He filled the construct with his understanding, of the first breath of winters coming.
He filled it with his stories. With his experiences, dragging from the wolves jaws a far colder storm than it had ever been meant to hold. Filling it with an image of Boreas, the Greek god of winter blowing down from the north in the illuminations found on old maps.
Finally, to that potent mix, he added the Brotherhoods mana from the bonds between him and Captain Sanders crew. That mana ran hot and sweet, vitalized by fulfilling its purpose. To protect and defend his Brothers, wherever they might be.
As the pouring mana filled the statue, and the forming spell he began to feal the strain. Distance was a factor for him as much as any other and even with the statue to anchor him, it made everything harder. But he wasn’t alone, and the united minds behind him took a synchronized step forward to bear the load. Many hands makes a task light.
Then the moment came, the construct filled and the time ripe.
He acted.
Tracing a connection between the statue and the largest disturbances in the pool. Leaning heavily on the infrastructure and built up spell work that underlined the Threshold to bridge the distance and deliver his blow directly to the enemy.
His mind followed the link from statue to blood pool. From blood pool to beast blood and to a fog filled glen that was rapidly freezing over. From the very blood out the three beasts stiffened and froze into statues of their own. Completing the cycle and ending the spell.
They were strong beasts and they fought back with wills of iron. But even iron will bend beneath the combined might of a crew. Massed might united behind entrenched wards and powered by vast stores of mana. It was the coin of the new era.
He took a moment, looking, and through him allowing the crew to see as well. Three statues of bull-sized toads sparkled in the diffuse lighting while the very grass, bushes and vines withered in the foreign cold radiating off of them.
Regi sighed, it would be a job to recover the ingredients from frozen prey. But they could do it, and a Tier 3 was a treasure pile waiting to be exploited. Enough to pay for the mana the Hold would need to survive, or so he hoped.
He mentally leaned back. Stepping back from that fridgid glen and onto the deck of his ship. Controlling that amount of mana was a real strain but a bit of strain was far better than dead Guardians and a broken Threshold.
But would he be back here doing the same task in a week? Or to another hold if a large scale migration was really beginning?
It shouldn’t be this desperate.
Guardians were growing in power everywhere he looked. Better understanding, better resources and even better weapons. They were growing madly in power. So why was he having to step in more and more?
His ship turned and began to sail, slower this time but with dignity. He would send his crew, his Brothers, home first. He forced a bit more of his tired mind into the sails. Despite his exasperation and most importantly his exhaustion, he could do that much.
A little voice whispered in his mind, and he tried very hard not to listen.
It spoke two little words.
For now.