[Azimuth]
Metal clanks as Azimuth tightens the straps of her gauntlets, her chief assistant buzzing around her as she walks through the lantern-lit corridors of the palace. Attendants swarm around behind her, masters of their craft as they adjust straps and tighten notches on her armor as she walks without ever impairing her movements and strides.
“- We’ll arrange a meeting with the cardinal again for tonight,” says the chief attendant. “That matter of the yearly sermon still needs to be decided, and there’s the issue of the tithe.”
“Tithe?” asks Azimuth, looking at her. “The Cardinal does realize that I work directly for the gods, yes?” she asks. “He just works for people.” The orc rolls her shoulder, and the servant behind her, who is adjusting her pauldron, jumps forward on one foot to perfectly follow the movement.
The chief attendant clears her throat. “Miss Azimuth. Be that as it may, as I keep telling you, there is proper decorum that must be followed if we are to establish your name within the noble dynasties,” she says, tapping against the ledger she is holding, full of appointments and meetings of all kinds, with a thin, sharp finger. “The cardinal expects tithes, whether they come from the barons of the inner regions, the king’s grandchildren, or yourself. We mustn’t disrupt the system in pl-”
Azimuth stops abruptly, one of the attendants behind her who was off their guard running right into her back and falling over, the others catch him and return to their tasks as if nothing had happened. The orc reaches over, placing both hands on the woman’s ledger and gently closing it. “Tell the cardinal that I’ve already paid my tithes in blood.”
“Miss Azimuth,” whispers the attendant, shooing all of the others away. The many servants quickly shuffle away. She leans in. “Please. I am trying to help you,” assures the woman, the lantern-light illuminating her sunken in, older eyes that carry a deep certainty to their gaze. “The gods may have chosen you to protect us, but they chose me to protect you,” she says. “That is why I am in this position during your ascension and no one else. Let me do my job. There is real danger here,” she pleads.
Azimuth looks into her eyes. “The sun is gone,” she explains. “The world is dark. I need to be outside, where the people are, not in here,” she says. “There’s no danger in here to protect them from.”
“I’m trying to tell you that you’re the one in danger, not the people!” she responds. “With all respect, Miss Azimuth,” starts the woman. “You don’t know this world we’re in. You’re just a chicken farmer.”
Azimuth nods to her, letting go of the ledger. “You’re right; I am. And don’t forget it,” says the orc, walking off to head to the city.
However, the woman runs after her, much to her growing annoyance. “I will remind you that your family is here, Miss Azimu -” She stops as Azimuth turns around, grabbing her wrist.
“- What did you just say?” asks the orc, narrowing her eyes. “Was that a threat?”
“It was a warning!” hisses the chief attendant, yanking her arm free. “Why do you think they brought them here?” asks the woman, looking at her incredulously. “The god chosen hero obviously can’t be controlled by the king or the cardinal or any other person of power,” she explains. “- But your family is a weakness that can be leveraged against you,” notes the woman. “If you don’t cooperate, they will use them against you, Miss Azimuth. Be it through harm or otherwise.”
“And risk the ire of the gods?” asks Azimuth, raising an eyebrow. “Do they need any more proof that I do not play these sorts of games than what I have delivered already?”
The chief attendant looks at her, looking around the dark corridor and then back to meet her gaze. “Gods mean nothing to men who believe themselves to be the same, Miss Azimuth,” she says, her voice drifting through the quickly cooling air. “If you really believe in the gods and that they put you here, then believe that they put me here too,” she insists.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Azimuth stares at her for a time before finally relenting with a sigh. “Sorry that I was rough with you,” she apologizes. “Send the cardinal what he wants.”
“And the meeting?” asks the chief attendant.
Azimuth waves over her shoulder. “Tell him his door is the first one I’ll knock on when I get back,” she replies, walking off towards the exit of the palace grounds, to get back to the part of the world she belongs in.
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[High King Meridian] Human, Male, High King Location: The Human Capital
“Are we ready?” he asks, his hands bracing against the table as he looks down at the map, covered in lantern glow. Shards of glass, from the many broken windows of the prior event, have been collected together in a heap on the table, melted together, as a reminder of the gods’ will for them.
“We are, my lord,” says the new military advisor, the captain of the regiment who had taken him from his lighthouse all of those weeks ago. “The borders are shored up tight. Patrols have been increased, and our line of logistics to and from the sea has been heavily invested in,” he lists. “We’re as ready as we can be.”
Meridian nods. Good. “What of the bandits to the south?” he asks.
“As of yet, no word. Soldiers were sent to fortify the local forces, but we’ve yet to hear back.”
“Why not?” he asks.
“These things take time, my lord,” replies the captain. “An anqa heading to that region and then back up again, even at a sprint, will take days.”
Meridian sighs, looking at the map, having an uneasy feeling in his gut, as if the weight of the darkness all around the world were pressing down on him. “How are our supplies in the capital?” he asks. “Do we have enough food?”
The economic advisor replies. “We do, my lord,” answers the man. “Together with the new fishing routes, we can feed the capital at least for a month with our reserves and the few crops we managed to save from the failed harvests.”
“Our neighbors, do they have food?” asks Meridian.
“We assume they have just as much as we do, through other sources,” he explains, pointing at the map. “To the northeast, they’ve discovered a large fungal cavern,” says the man, tapping on the map. “Our neighbors to the south seem to have established a trade-deal with the western continent, who are having better luck thriving with less sunlight than we are.”
“So they’re the best off then,” he says.
“It seems that way. Assuming the sun-out lasts longer than a month, the danger will be from the northeast, not the southwest,” explains the advisor. “On positive news, however, we’re expecting a sizable shipment of lantern oil to arrive in the capital today,” says the man, clapping his hands together.
Meridian nods. That’s good. They’re going to need as much of that as possible.
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[Wood-Mother of the Goblin Tribe]
Dryad, Female, Woodmother
Black oil, drained from the heart of the world and locked into cannisters, runs down past her hands and hooves as she crawls through the red river mud near the road, her hoof kicking into the corpse of a human as she then pulls herself up, climbing onto the wreckage of one destroyed carriage of many hundreds. She clambers up it, scanning the darkness, her body painted in oil and blood from head to toe as she watches the last of the caravan falter before the horde of gnashing teeth and ripping claws.
She sticks her forearm into her mouth, licking the slick mess off of herself as she looks towards the north, towards the human city that is now within sight. Vivid, unnatural lights fill it, painting the sky all around it with an aura that is entirely apart from the darkness of the natural world. It is a beacon that they themselves lit to signal their presence to the hunters of the gods, who scour these dark lands with hungry bellies and hearts.
— The last of the screams stop.
The roads are all too well guarded and patrolled. The humans will not venture far from their city in this darkness, but it is still inevitable that this ambush site will be found soon enough. It is too large to be overlooked, especially since it is on the main road to their gate.
She continues to lick her arm, the bitter taste coating her tongue as she comes up with a plan to infiltrate the brightly illuminated fortress, in which countless numbers of them live. Far, far more than they are in number. She needs to be effective; they need to be effective. They need to pierce deep and strike at the beating heart of the city if they hope to topple it.
Spit, blood, and oil run down her arm, dripping down to the broken wood. She watches as it runs downward, toward the river that runs along the road, flowing towards the south — away from the city.
But not too strongly.
And it flows directly from the human city, being used as a way to transport all of their waste and refuse out of their domain and into her world — defiling it.
Her teeth chew lightly on her arm as she narrows her eyes and hisses, clicking with her mouth. Hundreds of glowing yellow eyes look her way in the total darkness before they then all descend into the river, water splashing as they move through it like oil on its surface, as they head towards the city.