Sama’s people are present...

Rorn led the men up to a hilltop and paused. Even knowing he was going to see it, he stopped.

Below him, the foothills suddenly smoothed away into a grassy plain, dotted here and there by copses of trees. Gouges had been scraped out of the plains, irregular hills driven up here and there in unnatural forms, all being pushed away from a certain direction to the northeast, tearing the smooth plains up into a bizarre, broken landscape of elemental monuments to some great power or disaster.

The nearest of those gouges ended exactly at the foothills of the dwarven mountains, as if some obdurate power had passed down sentence, and let them go no further.

“The Earthpower of the mountain’s roots stopped it,” Grym stated, looking over the strange tableau. All of them could hear breaths hissing out as Kaldens drew up and looked at the strange landscape.

It made everyone feel small. What manner of force could do something as bizarre as this?

Riann pointed silently, and eyes turned to see a slab of rock, larger than a village, frozen mutely in midair, just hanging there without any support. It wasn’t that far above the ground, but still, it was floating.

Smidges on the horizon promised other stones doing the same, some larger, and much higher up.

Below them was a camp.

The trails leading up to it were obvious, but not deep, for it had only been here a couple days, and it would be moving in a couple more. Rorn’s breath hissed out as he saw it, as did the rest of the North Wind.

The mounts there, supplies there, tents there, healers there, work area there, marshalling yard there, wagons...

The fences and posts, accented with shield walls and ground spikes, cut it off clearly from the rather disorganized mess on the south side of it, where a small city of tents and corrals for horses spread out, obviously meant as temporary camps. Large numbers of men teemed in that tent city, and more black dots were coming in from the south. A tunnel had already been cleaved through the border hills to allow the dwarven wagons and escorts easier access in and out of the Badlands. To the north was a river and a lake, for bathing and water.

Badlands, because at the middle of them was a very bad place. There’d been no road leading here before, but the Rockborn had put a crude one in with their normal tireless efforts, for they had a very good reason to be here now.

Rorn’s eyes went to a specific area of that quiet camp that dominated everything with its order and purpose.

She’d be right there. She knew they were here, and she was waiting for them.

The south side would be full of civilized men from the Empire and its borders to the south. They’d have little respect for northerners, and doubtless seek to take advantage of them, if they were not Marked. The southwest had the orderly camps of the Rockborn, who also looked to be disseminating some supplies.

“We’ll be resting for two days on the west side of that camp!” Rorn called out, and his words were quickly relayed through the horde, who gave out cheers. “Let’s go!”

----------

There were a lot of men queued up to enter the Sage’s Camp, but the North Wind walked in right past them, and the men on guard didn’t even glance at them as they did so. “Marked,” rose on multiple lips, words of envy, maybe prestige, at the way they moved, completely at home among these people they had never seen before, from lands and ideologies thousands of miles apart.

There were nine other men, and two women, with them as they went in as a group, unconsciously matching paces, letting some people slide by, and others raising wariness which ensured they kept a safe distance.

Without fail, they navigated this place they’d spent years walking in their dreams, to the area where the skilled hands worked, laboring at making them all stronger. Though there were strangers here doing their business, the sights, the sounds, the atmosphere of martial focus, discipline, and drive was almost explosive.

This entire camp was a sword, a hammer, and a bow, pointing towards Yle Tyorm.

The Investment Yard, over an acre of open space containing nothing but Patterns, was nearly full. Over two hundred men were sitting on glowing Patterns, as plunder of gold, gems, and Artifice were Burned down and poured into Armor, Weapons, and other items.

Over there, mana crystals and gold were being exchanged for Potions, over a dozen Alchemists and an equal number of aides operating Apparati set into the back of floating wagons, ready to move out in minutes, and dispensing life-saving healing and combat-enhancing Potions to those with the coin to pay them... which were immediately plowed back into purchasing the ingredients to make more Potions, also being offered up by those men.

They all paused as they crossed the mid-yard route to the middle of the Camp, where the Healers worked in the Hospice. Right now, some very battered men were leading their horses and themselves over the Healing Traps extending out in a line from the Hospice. There were at least a dozen of the white plates, because when you had a thousand men with injuries, one person every six seconds just didn’t cut it. Add in horses, and the time added up quickly.

More seriously wounded men were staggering into the open tents where those with Healing Reserve waited, ready to patch them back together. Off to the side, a Bard was playing on a Healing Harp, where an hour of song equaled a strong Healing spell, also able to restore Soak and rapidly hasten overnight recovery, and the ability to return to the battle-line in long-term fighting.

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Rorn could see a Druid also treating severely wounded animals as attentively as the humans were, also endowed with the Healing Reserve. Under his hands, steed after steed was led away, returned to full health from his touch and the power of the Land working with the Gentle Mother.

The very faint sound of hammers ringing on steel came from ahead; faint because there was a massive Sound Bubble radiating from the flagpole with the grey flag on it, so as not to disturb the rest of the camp. At all hours, even when the camp was on the move, there would be people working on the steel here: men, dwarves, elves, even hyn and a few gnomes.

QL 26+ Gear didn’t make itself, after all.

But that wasn’t where Sama was at this time.

There was a short line of men and women standing there, looking eager and hopeful. Rorn instantly identified them as Border Guards; a group of them must have come to the camp and finally had their chance at being Marked. Just a thought of inquiry, and he knew they’d come up from the south, where they were watching over the travel routes of people coming to the North, and had finally escorted a group of hynfolk all the way up here.

Rorn’s heart was in turmoil as he walked up, eagerness warring with ambition and a desire for independence. He didn’t want to be subordinated to her, to have his legend buried under hers... but at the same time, she was teacher, master, champion, officer, warlord, and general, her presence overwhelming, and her faith in her Ironblood was not something he could let down.

He had earned that faith from her. They all had...

The Kaldens and the North Wind walked up, and waited patiently for the Border Guards to be Marked, watching Sage Sama.

She was five and half feet tall, her golden hair swaying like a thing alive, ignoring the wind. It was better than any cloak or crown, wild and free and shining. Her Mask, black and white and turning her eyes to orbs of ebon with pupils of starlight, was exactly as they remembered... and the black nose and Whiskers somehow even cuter.

The blue-black of her Curse climbed up the side of her neck and face from her shoulder, but vanished under the Tats. She wore the same Vest, the knee-length tight trousers, and the tight brown shirt that barely covered her ribs, leaving her midriff open. Glowing Tats formed a belt on her skin beneath her crossed Belts, iron Bracers on her arm, a Buckler was sitting on her back, and the hilt of a very, very familiar Sword was jutting out behind her waist.

She radiated poise, control, hidden power, and deadly precision, all merging into fluid movements that were hard to look away from. Sometimes her hair seemed to billow with sudden flames, other times flowing like water, drifting weightless like a breeze, or forming a shell and not moving at all.

And, of course, her chest was as flat as a board, despite her starting to show the curves of a young woman, and her nails were obsidian.

She moved through the Tatting process with incredible speed, her fingers like talons as they pressed the Ink into the person she was working on. Given the time being taken, she allowed no variance in where she scribed it, placing it on the upper arm now. It didn’t matter, as the Marks could be moved by will and touch once they were active.

All those freshly Marked would be heading out to the battlefield, intending to get the Marks empowered. She was paying the cost for the Marktell out of her Glory awards, but they earned their Buffs themselves.

She dealt with them smoothly, one by one, and the North Wind knew that more dwarves were trooping over to gain the same treatment, but there would be time for them.

She looked up at them as the last of the Borderguards drifted away, their Marks already lighting up as the Karma Invested and they hooked in. Rorn could feel them enter the Markspace, and they almost staggered as they did so, their real eyes having that empty look come over them as they looked upon The Map, and felt that incredible presence on the other side of the Markdoor.

Those heads turned to look at Sage Sama, and suddenly they had a much, much clearer picture of who had been working on them.

The Kaldens watched them leave, shooed away with no more than the slightest of mental nudges. Sama was very busy, and would be more than happy to download her schedule into their heads to make them realize how busy she was.

But her Ironbloods were here, and she would make time for them, no matter how many people wanted Marks.

She turned to face them all, and her facial Tats went away.

The smear of the Hag Curse was now fully visible across the side of her face, ruining what could have been great beauty. But the eyes were unaffected, that heavens-blue that saw right into his soul, and his guts clenched despite himself.

“Thank you for letting me see you in Reality.”

He’d heard her mental Voice so much, but her physical one had even more power to it. He was sensitive enough to identify the ki and Essence in it, the power of soul and life, and the thrumming Diamond Vajra beneath it. Her voice was silk and steel, caress and razor, and you didn’t just hear it with your ear, your entire soul was a receptor. He was pretty sure a deaf man could hear her perfectly.

She came forward, one by one, taking their hands, looking into their eyes, their faces, as if once again burning them into her memory... because that was exactly what she was doing. He didn’t even open the Markdoor, and he could feel an ocean of emotions on the other side when she finally came to him.

He was pretty sure if he opened that door right now, he would follow her forever.

Her Diamond Vajra was like a cool rock, cold and utterly unaffected by his Source flames, so solid and dependable and reassuring, a toughness of mind and soul that he could lean on forever.

He was clearly inferior to her in this regard, and her blue eyes seemed to dance as she read his desires... and didn’t mind them at all, as he knew she wouldn’t.

They were both Human/3’s; she was a Null, he was a Source.

He was a King among Men. They had different things to do. She was the bedrock and the foundation, a Pillar of Reality, and he was a Maker of Destiny.

All of the others looked at him, suddenly realizing the weight behind him, the fire and the drive that had swept them up and was driving them, too.

“What have you decided to do, Sergeant?” she asked him quite calmly. He could join her personal force, rejoin the Ironblood once more, and carve a path to glory. He was certain he would receive an immediate promotion.

“We will fight for the glory of the Kalden,” he said firmly, not even considering another action.

She nodded acceptance, eyes flicking over them all, and finding no deviation. They were Ironblood, but now, they followed him.

It was perfectly fine. “I can upgrade your Strength Marks to the next level, but you will have to fill them yourselves, as normal.” Eager breaths hissed out from the warriors as she walked away from them to a Cabinet nearby. “Line up,” she called over her shoulder, “while the rest of you sign The Book.”

Rorn was the first in line as she brought back the massive Tome all Ironblood would recognize. As the Powered clustered up to find their pictures and sign their names, he and the four Nulls among the others received their improved Marks.

----

His hand paused over the picture in The Book. The man there was younger, leaner, his beard short and tight, somehow trimmer, without the commanding look in his eye of a Source.

He was the boy from his own dreams.

He knew how to read and write, not common skills in Kaldenheim... especially in three languages, courtesy of Dream and Sage Sama.

He wrote, I Will Be King!... Rorn Graywolf of the Hiken.

Smiling, he set down his pen, and made his Oath, as had the other Sources who had come before him. “And I will stop the gods of the Warp and their plans on this world!”

Fate burned around him, and a new stream joined the mounting river, coming and crashing to meet the Divine powers trying to bend the will of the world.

Sources might break, but they wouldn’t bend. The gods of the Warp were his stepping stones to glory, and he would make them pay for their arrogance on this world!