A real fever dream, something wild and insane. One moment Tyr had been drinking something given to him by the alf, and his mind had spiraled. Was still spiraling, blacked out and raving mad – it only took a few minutes to set in and now he was... Somewhere. Where? Baccia, and fast, too. Run like the wolf, eat, shit, fuck, wild and primal instincts overtaking him, he could only bear to resist one of them, keeping to his objective.

He'd taken Wotan's advice very seriously and decided to stop fighting with ice in his veins, to feel the heat and passion, but emotion didn't come so easily for him. Remus had explained this bizarre influence their bodily fluids had on some living things, after Tyr had run into a problem when bathing in Eve's blood as per their ritual. But it had just made him a bit ill and very sleepy, erect for days, they'd held him down and he'd felt so good even while they did it. Trying to rub against them in unbridled ecstasy, everything had been pleasurable, even the pain of their resistance. It had been so easy to throw himself into his emotions when that had happened, he'd felt them quite keenly.

This wasn't so different, if one exacerbated that sensation by several times and sent him on an hours long murder spree. He wanted more power but he didn't want to black out and travel nearly five hundred miles in... It was still pre-dawn, moving faster than he'd thought possible, which indicated it had worked. Emotion made him stronger.

Real unfortunate a thing to give that power to a man who'd had much of it beaten out of him, but perhaps that had been the point. For both he and Iscari, there seemed to be manipulations behind the scenes.

But... Who are these people?

Tyr looked down. He stood on a pile of bodies, all beaten flat seemingly with his bare hands – lost in that wild dream of his, some half eaten away and torn to bits, which would explain the flavor of raw pork lingering in his bloody mouth. They were crusaders, to be sure, a few hundred of them on patrol in the region. Had been. He was only a few minutes from Taur based on the blocky silhouette in the distance, so there was that to his benefit.

Not so useless after all, At least his compulsions in that fever dream of reds had pulled him in the right direction, feeling like he was rolling around in velvet at the same time. He stepped off the corpse pile, throwing a spark behind him and incinerating the bodies of the dead. Stalking through the fields, it was too early for the farmers to be up just yet, but the planting had been done and served to provide him with decent cover. Every touch of the juvenile stalks kissing his skin sent chills up his spine, it was not an unpleasant sensation – but not something he'd want to do again, outside of a blurry romp in a bedroom somewhere.

Preferably with someone he wouldn't beat to death once his compulsions ruled him, all considerations thrown to the wind. In a way, Tyr was frightened that he'd immediately jumped down such a dark path once given that freedom. Shackles removed, no conscious thought, only kill. Even in context, most would've thought to simply laze around and enjoy themselves, but he was rife with lust for all things, mostly a great wish to commit violence.

Whether or not that desire to commit violence was specifically for his enemies... Unknown.

Baccia was a curfewed city, no guards came out to stop him or call down at him from the walls. He saw some lit torches in the distance to indicate that some might be around, but oddly enough... The gate was unlocked and thrown open, there were fresh tracks and he could smell the flesh of men pungent in the air, but couldn't seem to zero in on their location.

He'd come here, quite simply, because this is where she'd died, and he was going to butcher the city for it. Whether this was hypocritical or not, he didn't care, the profound sense of loss weigh heavily on his mind, something guiding him here insisting that he do this thing. That while he had no desire to wreak havoc on the common citizenry, he... Well, he wouldn't, but he'd crush their towers, grind a city to rubble, to serve as a monument, he must be that monument, the primus' had not behaved as they should've, but his instincts told him he needed to now.

And he'd obey, not resisting it in the slightest. Right and wrong were irrelevant to him in his feud against Hastur, Tyr was right – and that was all. He had very little consideration left for other options, if any at all.

That same instinct seemingly gave him that ability to smell that scent of roses on her skin even at this distance. Roses were not commonly given to lovers in the north like they were in the south, all colors of them were only found at funerals. The yellows were for the birth of a child, and only the reds were used romantically, even here. The sacred symbol of Aphrosia was the red rose, but to any northern man they were the grave roses of Thanatos. Growing thick at the edge of grave sites where the cremated remains of non-royals were kept in their mausoleums, or encased within stone shrines by the priesthood. Burnt until they could no longer rise, cremated and mixed with the soil – the fate of the poor man who could not afford a stone.

...Why am I thinking about roses? He frowned, but the smell of them was so strong in the city that he couldn't get it out of his head. The whole city reeked of it, though it was not unpleasant, it was just certainly overpowering.

Astrid had smelled of lavender, with a faint aromatic of rose water – but now it was all roses. Such a fresh and fragrant aroma for so ugly a place, with their sparse grasses and hanging gardens. And so much sand... Roses couldn't grow here, not in this earth... He'd make his way through the outer district of the city, peeking into houses and growing frustrated, following the odd singing. There was a song here, rolling gently around every street corner and growing louder as he approached the core of the city.

All of it was empty. His mycelians were beneath the ground in waiting, the first time he'd called on them actively since the day they'd been born. But it wasn't their song. It was something else, something loud enough to drown them out. A siren's call.

All gates were unbarred and unguarded, the streets bare and no sign to indicate why that was the case. There were no signs of struggle, no blood, no dropped weapons or any smell he could detect other than those roses... He entered the keep without being met by a single man, making his way through hauntingly silent halls, there were footsteps, finally. Ducking into an alcove, he watched as a bleary eyed soldier shuffled onward, remaining completely blind and mute to his presence, even when Tyr appeared before him and struck the man's head clean from his shoulders.

Most disturbing of all was the face on said cranium, still whispering on the ground even as it thumped to the floor. Staring on, making no noise. Even the movement of its lips and rattling teeth were silent, everything here from the flapping of banners to the lit torches that should be making some sort of sound were so quiet...

Tyr shook his head, a hard frown about his face, he felt a chill too, a grim one that sent his downy hairs to standing on end, he was afraid with no reason why. Unable to come to any understanding as to why such a simple mechanic as sound seemed to have fled. Until he entered the throne room of the Baccian sovereign, that is. The largest chamber in the entire citadel by far, with high arching ceiling and a red rug that stretched on for fifty meters, down the length of a hall cast of that same dark stone as everything else here. Or it should've appeared so. He couldn't see the walls, all he beheld were headless corpses, in their tens of thousands, hanging in the air as if by some invisible mechanism of hook and chain. Arms spread wide and bleeding long after their bodies should've been exsanguinated, until all were as spouts contributing towards a shallow sea of crimson.

And at the head of it all, seating on a five meter tall throne of silently screaming faces...

“Astrid...” Tyr observed breathlessly, dropping his sword and losing all motivation to continue standing. Slumping to his knees in a clatter of armor when he'd seen what had become of her.

–

Octavian stood staring at at two full Harani legions marshaled in neat ranks, stationed just before the bridges and checkpoints of the Span that separated Empire from Marches. One of the only ways by which to cross that ancient edifice without flying. A forest of glittering spears, about thirty thousand men with the auxiliary included, the Iron Lions and the Moon Legion. The two most legendary forces in Haran's professional army, all able men and living testament to that which made the Empire so famous among its contemporaries. The incredibly quality of its legionnaires, they said no nation in all the world had better fighting men than Haran.

Though it came with some chagrin, Octavian was inclined to agree.

The colleges had come as well, and Octavian's brother primus made no use of a command tent. Standing at the escarpment overlooking his army with his pawns all in place, before a table nearly four meters wide at the top, set with a leather map of the continent and several levitating crystals slowly moving along it.

Contrary to what many people would consider of the 'primus of strength', Jartor was not only strong in limbs but in all things, a font of discipline among them. Everything had to be perfect, an oft repeated fact between them. To be strong. His supply lines, his economy, his legions, his son. His plans. Plots and schemes that were so incredibly vast, the architecture of it all surprised even Octavian sometimes. He'd always thought his sworn brother and oldest friend was a transcendent talent, and he was, but after his plans to make a 'perfect emperor', resulting in the person known as Tyr Faeron... Breeding with that thing... Well... Octavian was certainly in no place to judge him for that.

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He had no quarrel with Signe, but bearing a son with half-blood for the first time in perhaps ever had borne some unfortunate results for more than just the Faeron's. Haunted the boy, left him in lifelong pain as the literal world itself tried to pull him between his two halves, something that would eventually kill him. Half monster, most would call him. If they'd known who his mother really was, that is, and Octavian genuinely believed that they had. Hence why they'd tried to kill her, Tyr had taken drastic action – never understanding that they'd done so to protect the Prince himself. Fierce loyalists, so loyal that they'd tried to kill the Empress even though Jartor would've surely sought revenge.

But they were simply playing to a plot, the lot of them.

It had worked out, in any event – all had been disposed of by Tyr and his affiliates through one channel or another. No proof left in the hands of any but the Pope. Though Jartor would not have known that Signe was alive, and so it seemed that she'd had her own schemes to separate herself from him.

This, all of it besides that one simple point, had been Jartor's plan. The shardlings, eugenics stretching back to the time of his grandfather, designed to solidify a core of powerful people in the kingdoms. Seeding them throughout the world. Essentially a bid to manufacture what people called 'heroes' without relying on the saints or churches, none of which could be trusted. Ragnar Stalvarg, Titus Slakt, Askel Mornstone, Lazarus Krell, Hector Goldmane, so many great figures all come together to reignite the ancient legacy of man through selective breeding. Not quite that, no, to manufacture nephilim was impossible – it was earned, so they'd chosen to carefully cultivate nonhuman blood into some of the children.

The only one who'd refused at the time had been Alexandros' father. A plan that had come from Cortus' father, who claimed to have seen the future or some other contrivance. His words had been foreboding enough to throw this plan of theirs into action, and nothing had come of it but a bunch of defective products. Ostensibly, that is.

Thus far, while the others were talented and reasonably able, Iscari was the only one of them who'd been exceptional. Half blood lineages hadn't quite produced the kind of synergy they needed. Lazarus had given rise to both a full blooded human son and a half orc, somehow finding themselves through amusing coincidence, perhaps it was destiny. While grim and incredibly cruel, this manipulation, Octavian did feel some warmth at the idea that, like in their time of 'saving the world', history seemed to be in the process of repeating itself.

But even one of the greatest mages of the modern era had failed to produce a hero candidate, fourteen children with eleven mothers and all of them were just... Talented, again, but far below expectations.

Alexis Goldmane, not of Lazarus' blood, was the only one that had begun to manifest an arcanum thus far – and it'd turned out to be an extremely dangerous nature spirit. One that had been contained by Ragnar and locked somewhere in the deep north, the black serpent.

Tyr was... Interesting, Octavian would say, but the man would kill himself eventually. Spirakin were near the complete opposite of nephilim spiritually, and that duality wasn't made to exist alongside the shards that made a primus. Further damage to his own soul involving taboo would only speed up the process and make it yet more agonizing, but he'd never fully ascend.

In summary, it'd been a whole lot of work for nothing, and now they'd all gotten themselves wrapped up into a war. These men and women with special bloodlines, or the more obvious inborn talents like primus', following that foolish plan. One that not even Jartor properly understood the point of, but he'd obeyed and moved the pointer forward. Regimenting the 'perfect childhood' for his son, and in the process turned him into a bloody handed lunatic. It was however, and again, amusing how they'd all seemed to find one another. Even Alexandros' youngest daughter, eventually. It reminded him of the old days, when they'd had the time and freedom by which to adventure and muck about, he missed those times more than a bit.

“I can see you've come prepared,” Octavian mused in a sardonic sort of way, “This is a bit inappropriate. The Marches and Churches alike will see this as an act of aggression, whether you're on your side of the border or not.”

“Okay. And? They are free to invade at any time,” Jartor grunted in agitation. The fact that the papacy had grown so bold as to begin posturing as their equals was more than enough to make him want to march down there himself and give their doors a nice kicking. They didn't need the paladins nor the faithful, but the panic and destabilization of such an act would have unfortunate consequences. Strength in all things, that was his purpose, and impulse was a weakness. “I do not remember asking you to come observe my legions, either.”

“How could I miss a rare exhibition of Harani might?” Octavian winked. To be truthful, he'd positioned all of his assets along his border as well. Just not armies, what he possessed in levy troops and banners stayed in river cities nowadays, in anticipation of another incursion, so it was no sudden mobilization. Varia had a wide border and much less in terms of defensible geography. It was a far larger country in raw landmass, and was difficult to defend even at the best of times. When a sentient hive of mushrooms capable of traversing the deep earth had shown up...

Well... It was self evident. Tens of thousands had died and that old saying of 'caught with their pants down' had been given new definition.

The Marches, what they called the Successor States these days, their resident powers had become overly bold, marching massive armies along the border. While the other side of the Span was not a breach of any treaty, it was ridiculous that they'd feel confident in toeing so close to the line on their eastward approach.

Doing things they shouldn't. Breaking accords by letting heroes with sworn oaths to the Pillars run amok. More than just Aurelius, the others just weren't quite so loud and foul in behavior – but they were all a bunch of petulant children who believed themselves above others. Diplomatically, it was such a bad look that to many with anti-war sentiments – Tyr Faeron was ironically being lauded as a great hero. A dashing and heroic freedom fighter. Being here as a nascent primus was not against the law, a bit of a gray area, and he'd chosen to make a stand. It was something, Octavian could tell that Jartor was proud of his son – possibly weighing the breaking of a few laws himself, just for the fun of it.

Octavian would support it, smashing the Successor States apart and bringing a few decades of instability was well worth the benefits that would follow. Humbler residents, hopefully, and such was their solemn duty to shepherd men, even if by force.

It had been so long since the primus' had forced their heads down that they were beginning to act in ways they shouldn't, the 'mortals'.

“And how does it look, my brother?” Jartor gave a grim chuckle, fierce and black bearded with that maul of his resting over a shoulder that Octavian had always found so titanic. Even compared to himself, even of a similar stature – Jartor was and always had been the titan. In a way, the dynamic between their own children had been an ironic reversal of this. “I'm sure they don't look so impressive compared to your hundred thousand man peasant fyrd's, but I promise you they'll do the job should any test us.”

“Mmm...” Octavian smiled. “Let's hope it doesn't come to that.”

Jartor's face grew grim and stony again, he could spot the host off in the distance from his vantage point. There was no chance they would try to cross the span, the primus could flatten them alone without much in the way of difficulty. But the gall of it irked him, no permission had been asked nor notice sent to him that they'd be acting in such bold fashion. “Aye. But maybe the men of this era need a good fight to keep them in line, perhaps we can rile the Saints up and have a real showing of it. It has been a long while since I've stretched my legs.”

“You are an idiot,” Octavian said.

Jartor laughed at that.

The crusade army was only the smallest part of their worries. Something else was happening, and they could all feel it – all of the primus' no matter how far afield of the events unfolding. Nephilim awakening at a pace that beggared belief. Even lesser variants... Hundreds of them in the last year all concentrated in the same area was a foul omen.

Part of Tyr's plan by the looks of it, and nobody knew what he was going to do when it was all said and done. And Cortus... Who'd somehow managed to create items that could permanently hold spira in reserve for whatever thing he planned to do. It was troubling. Not even Ragnar was capable of creating nephilim, and yet Tyr Faeron could, perhaps not so daft and impulsive as he'd appeared to be.

“What do you think, Octavian?” Jartor asked after a moment of silence. Unfortunately, the crusade barges to the far west looked to be slowing in preparation to raise the parley flags. Which made it lawful, it's not like they could scale the canyon, nobody owned the Span. Taking such large ships down the rapids was quite enterprising, though. Or just stupid.

“You've asked me this before,” Octavian replied, he'd have appeared a majestic eagle beside his lion of a brother to all onlookers. The men to the rear awestruck and inspired by the two ageless primus' standing at their helm, their God Emperors in the flesh. “My mind hasn't changed, not about what we should do – nor my agreement to do no such thing.”

“That's not what I meant.”

“His plan, then, perhaps his intellectual quotient?” Octavian asked, and Jartor nodded curtly. “If it's happenstance, it's not bad – even for a wise one.”

“And if it's not?”

“Not what, Jartor?”

“Not happenstance.” Jartor grunted. “What if, as Ragnar claims, Tyr has been cognizant and planning this all along?”

“Frankly...” Octavian mused with a sigh, it was hard to say. On one hand, it would be a good sign, to know that Tyr was capable of engaging in stratagems on that level, making him a worthy primus. Showcasing great foresight and a duplicity of nature that would serve a sovereign well, Jartor planned to make his son a king of something – one day. Whether that be the Successor States or the Disputed Valley, it was unclear at the time. But on the other hand... “I suppose that'd be downright terrifying. Though I think you give him too much credit, your boy is still an idiot.”

Jartor laughed, slapping Octavian on the shoulder. “We shall see, I've never known Alexandros to concern himself with any individual – my famously frigid wife, the new one, even seems to love him. I'm afraid that despite all my best efforts, I do not understand my own son.”

“You're not alone, brother. Not at all. And...” Octavian added, “I hardly think anything about your efforts was the best, old friend.”