Metaworld Chronicles

Gwen wasted an uncertain number of minutes doing the equivalent of standing next to the ocean and having a smoko to tether her feelings to the correct pylons.

In Huangshan, she had fancied Jun as a supplementary father figure, and that had given her a rare happiness she hadn't known in either of her lives.

Her cynical consciousness also knew without a doubt that her feelings were no more particular than the pharmaceutical euphoria Dr Monroe had prescribed and that any fulfilling joy of daughterhood was merely a fleeting Ryxi among the Huangshan fog.

Instead, she should be happy.

Uncle Jun had given her a kickstart to success that the dickhead Hai never managed.

And now that Jun was a father, the responsible thing to do was to be a good aunt.

Or so Gwen narrated to herself.

After a while, Golos joined her.

"Calamity, you look pale." The newly evolved Dragon-kin's voice was more mellow than his previous self. As a being with whom she had shared more mortal moments than a daring cartoon mouse, she knew Golos was now different. Still, to have an empathetic Gogo was stranger than fiction. Incredibly, upon his arrival, her Planar Ally had even suggested bringing his brood, meaning Phelara and the chicks, over to Shalkar.

Her future city, Golos had explained, sat on a significant node of the Axis Mundi. Beneath it, her Dwarves had little use for the crystallised Air and Water within their craftsmen's furnaces, which were separated for trade. And considering the geo-political landscape here, she needed a guardian to keep an eye on the Demi-humans.

Her Dragon's suspicious proposal had sounded like Ruxin talking. That said, she wanted to believe in Golo's new bloodline. Certainly, Ruxin's demesne was profitable, Ryxi's was bountiful, and Ayxin had made Huangshan verdant and rich when she stood in for the Yinglong.

It was only Golos' domain that stood out as Blackheath.

Logically, there was only Golos' inferior bloodline to blame, for it wasn't as though Dragons attended Civil Service classes. QED, Gwen deeply suspected that genetic knowledge tied to the "Essence" of Dragons had much to do with their innate wisdom and knowledge.

"I am fine, Gogo," she replied. "Thanks for asking."

"Heehee, just thought I'd ask," Golos cackled. "A quick query, Calamity, would you mind if I sowed my seeds around here? Some of those Şöpters have been throwing themselves at me and the mares as well…"

Gwen instantly rescinded all of her praise for Golos.

She gave a hard, critical stare at the homeless vagabond.

"… How about the rats? I know you favour egalitarianism. I don't discriminate, Calamity. I am the fairest of them all, heeheehee…”

"Golos," Gwen said seriously. "Let's build the city first, shall we? After things settle down and we have a home for the refugees, you can work on nesting. I'll even commission a building for you and your… brood if you're serious about settling down."

"Hee, alright." Her Dragon-kin scratched his head with a claw. "When are the knife ears coming? This place has no trees at all. I don't think Phalera and the chicks will like that. As their aunty, you should do something."

A very human part of Gwen wanted to shout that she was in no way an "aunt" to what must be several hundred colourfully feathered nieces. If that many Harpies surrounded their "aunt", some unknowledgeable observer would immediately consider Gwen to be the greatest betrayer in the history of humanity.

On the other hand, that Golos was a better dad than Hai was so profoundly gut-wrenching that Gwen felt obligated to play her part.

"Alright, I'll chase them up," she promised. "Let's head back. Richard must be antsy by now."

She also promised herself that she had to call Shanghai and congratulate Golos' sister and her uncle. However, that would have to wait until she set up the Divination Towers or teleported somewhere with an existing exchange.

When she returned to the giant pavilion the Dwarves had helped erect, the adjourned meeting had broken up.

That was no surprise, for the Horse Lords did not see any value in the opinions of the Şöpters nor the Rat-kins. They respected the Dwarves, but that was because the Germanic Dwarves had brought an Ancestor in the form of a Balefire Golem to insure their interests were maintained.

When the Khan had met the Balefire, he was so impressed by the display of potential destruction radiating from the expressionless metal casket that he took off his helmet and poured out his best kumis personally, hand-delivering it to the glowing furnace of the Golem. The Golem had incinerated the helm, booze and all, in a blue-blaze of ultramarine fire, sending Gwen's heart to her throat before the Khan declared the Dwarven Golem pilots honourable horses.

As for Humanity, Gwen could only say that Ollie's hair loss was not in vain.

She had given her fellow Magister a week off to nurse his scalp and catch up in London. She understood perfectly that the Horse Lords, the premier "war band" in the region, fundamentally saw little difference between the bipedal Şöpter and the non-magical Humans. A month ago, Ollie's proposal of introducing "weak" refugees to the area had utterly confused the Centaurs and made the Khan fume.

With her return to the region, the Khan's tone had instantly changed, for he respected the Afaa Al-Halak Garp, which meant he rightly held concerns for its priestess, Magister Gwen Song of the Shard. As for the humans under Magister Song's rule, they were Şöpter sycophants, at best chattel, at worst parasites, which deserved no respect from the haughty Horse Lord Warrior castes.

Or, as Richard had elucidated, "You can shake the hand of the dog belonging to the woman who can swallow your yurt, but you don't sit her dog with your daughter at the banquet."

Which was, Gwen guessed, why Golo's suggestion made incredible sense—assuming Golos himself could be at all trusted to "rule" a coalition of competing interests.

Within the pavilion, her attention was redirected by the waving hand of Richard, who stood head and shoulders above the Germanic Dwarven ambassador.

The homogeny of the Dwarves was, for Gwen, another source of wonderment, one offset by her latent knowledge that Dwarves were not so much like Humans, who belonged to continental homes and cultures, but hailed originally from a single mega-metropolis—Deepholm.

Thereby, to call them "German Dwarves" was a misnomer, for the correct breakdown was closer to that of Brethren lost on the Himsegg, now living in the mountains the Humans called Bavaria. If she had to draw an analogy, Dwarven homogeny was best captured in the classic Aussie anthem by Men at Work. Be it Bombay, Brussels or a fried-out Kombi—the Dökkálfar lived down under, ran forges that glower, pubs where men chunder, factories where Golems thunder, in mines with minerals to plunder. And no matter where under the crust the Dwarves may find themselves, they all ate sausage on Stone Bread, drank copious amounts of beer, and knew a cousin or nephew living in another Citadel.

She could almost hear the song playing as she hailed the thickly bearded ambassador, Stone Lord Yossock Axenhoff, son of Nossal Axenhoff.

"Milord Axehoff." She slightly bowed when speaking to the ancient Greybeard. The venerable Engineseer was the Forge Master of Vethr Hjodlik Kjangtoth, the White Citadel under Zugspitze, known in Dwarven as the Sword Spire. The master crafter, according to their earlier meeting, had blood relatives within the now hollowed-out Mimm Agaeth Kjangtoth, the Citadel below Shalkar. "How fares your talks with The Cherbi?"

"Poorly, I fear." The ambassador shrugged, nesting both hands in the folds of his enormous braided beard, the length and weight of which had made Hanmoul green with envy. "A proud lot, but young—too young a race to have as much arrogance as they put on."

The ambassador's dismissal of the Horse Lords was within Gwen's calculations, for Axenhoff's concern was an existential conflict between a local civilisation a thousand years in the making against the considerations of a culture whose Balefire Ancients were a thousand years old.

"We'll mill them down with kindness," Gwen promised with a smile. Her confidence lay in the Shaman Saran, teacher to Temir, Khan of Khans, a priestess who held her Elven allies in total and complete reverence. She knew not what horns the Şöpter held the Khan with, but the giant Centaur seemed to put great faith in the woman's advice. She had few good guesses as to why a Wyrm-chopping Horse King would listen to a smiling sheep, but she was thankful. "Of course, the Horse Lords are no threat to Mimm Agaeth. They're wary of any space without the blue sky overhead, much less the impossibility of breaking a Citadel."

"That may be true." Axenhoff stroked his beard. "But our fortunes, at least until the deep granaries are established, will be tied to the supply of produce provided by the Mageocracy. Those, to my understanding, are grown under the Himsegg, yes?"

"With the blessing of our Hvítálfar allies, food and fodder should fall in line," Gwen assured the ambassador. "Although our knife-eared friends are not my only insurance for Shalkar Al-jadeedah. In the outskirts lie our Afaa al-Halak guardian of the city, and in the future, Lord Golos may very well nest among the city's highest Tower. Between the two of them, there shall be peace."

"Peace by the might of arms?" The ambassador gave her a sideways glance. "Is that wise for a region so infamous for Elemental incursions?"

Gwen redirected the ambassador's gaze toward the table, where her PowerPoint (™) presentation had remained frozen in time.

"Might is temporary, but peace by profit lasts as long as there is money to be made," Gwen reminded the Greybeard. "The world is in chaos, venerable Engineseer, and we are here to provide the grain, the grease, and the motivation to see the chains reforged. We need your Dyar Morkk. You need our support."

"The richness of the Steppes is temporary. That was the last point of our discussion." Axenhoff raised a stubby, thickly-skinned finger. "My point remains. Our Citadel would outlast your stability. In my opinion, conjoining our cities is a poor choice. Our Deepdowners have grown liberal, thanks to our work with the Germanic peoples—but they won't stand for such varadam."

"Human lives are short," Gwen did not refute the man's criticism of the more mortal races. "However, longitudinal goals have only marginal correlations to immediate opportunities, which, once lost, shall not come again. When will Mimm Agaeth see another opportunity as we have now? How much longer will it take to transfer a hundred thousand Dwarves overland to repopulate the shattered Citadel and reopen the clogged veins of the Dyar Morkk? The longer your people wait, the longer the low ways remain lost and crumbling, perhaps forever to the Sinneslukare."

The Dwarven Greybeard appeared to be physically assaulted by her sibilance.

"The Mind Eaters do not wait a hundred years," Gwen continued. "The longer the Citadels of the Deep remain disconnected from Deephelm, the greater the chance that Aberrants have taken over. Following our investigations in Eth Rjoth Kjangtoth, did Vethr Hjodlik not also find these saboteurs in your midst? The news from Deepholm—if they can be trustworthy, was a bit of a quake, no?"

"Aye." The Dwarves, as always, were categorically against the notion of weaselling around the truth.

Gwen's tone turned sympathetic.

"You are not alone. Dwarven participation and investment are essential. As I said, a percentage of all products created by the Rat-kin will be made available at wholesale price to your people. The city, once built, will supply this entire region and its restoration operations. Once the Dyar Morkk underneath is live and active, you can connect this entire webwork of the lost citadels back into the European low-ways. The benefit for your folk is existential, while for us, the economic and logistical boons are immeasurable. We both profit. Our foes have only woe."

Gwen indicated the reports she had produced on the projected production of goods in the region, which rested with the Engineer's aides. She understood very well the position of the Dwarves. They were already invested in expanding the Dyar Morkk into Shalkar Al-jadeedah, the last hurdle to be crossed was merely the stubbornness to create an inverse "Himsegg" city. Thankfully, her "Bunker" on the Isle of Dogs was already a concrete example that such a design could work—albeit their planned project was on a far larger scale.

"There will be trouble. We will have clashes. I have no doubt my people's conflict with the Horse Lords will be pre-eminent. However, I would like you to think of such inconveniences as merely the cost of business. These are not situations to be resolved—Milord, but tinkered over time, tempered by unceasing hammer blows."

The ambassadors' expression softened.

"We will deliberate on this," the Greybeard promised.

"Please do, and do continue to attend our council meetings. Richard, can you see to our guests?" Gwen bowed her head. "Also, tell Pats we'll be having dinner together. She and Williams have been wielded to that Fabricator for weeks."

Richard obliged.

Gwen then took the opportunity to retreat toward the enormous round table, where her Rat-kin allies demurely waited their turn.

"Strun." She arrived with an air of authority, but could not help patting the fury, piebald head of her Champion.

The Rat-kin allowed her fingers to glide through his luxurious fur. A little over a year since their meeting, Strun was now a father of several hundred Ratlings. Her Rat-kin had promised to raise them as an elite guard in her service that would eclipse the Shadow Mages. The man was serious, for his children, each bearing minute motes of Almudj's blessed Essence, was already twice the size of regular rat babies.

Gwen had explained that proper nutrition, rather than starvation and slavery, was likely the cause, but the Rat-kin were adamant that the "Priestess of the Afaa-al-Halak" had elevated the fur-balls and they should gift her their life in turn.

"You didn't have to wait for me." Gwen greeted the hunchbacked Rat-kin elders in their sand-coloured cloaks. There were a few broad-shouldered youths among them—but most of the tribes preferred to have the longest-surviving members as leaders. "The meeting's done, as you can see. We'll have to hash things out another time."

Three of the Elders, Rat-kins from the Clan Chuluu, Plithf, and Kalk, dropped to their knees. "O Great Priestess, please gift our Clan with obedience, that we may also prosper from the gift of Lord Garp's Essence."

Strun caught the old fellows before they could perform a full-bodied kowtow. Gwen had clearly expressed her dislike for such displays, though Strun's growing success was an irresistible advertisement.

With time, the Soul link between Garp and Strun had been strengthened, particularly by Strun's ability to communicate with the Earthen Wyrm. The result of such a connection was a Rat-kin who stood as tall as a Human, with the vitality and strength of a Centaur Tumen. Even the Khan's Cherbi, Khudu, gave word that Strun was a formidable warrior and that in sharing a helm of brewed goat's curd with the Rat-kin, the rat should no longer be considered a Tasmüyiz but a "warrior".

And when Strun rode Garp on patrols of the region, uprooting the infestations of Afaa-al-Halak larvae and bursting Sand Wolve dens like a grown man kicking a termite mound—observing eyes had grown rounder and rounder.

The other Clans had already sent their daughters to Strun—but the Rat-kin's growing political power worried them all.

Very soon, Strun would not be a Rat-kin but a Rat-KING.

Of this, Gwen was of two minds.

Strun, as well as the others she had blessed during their exodus, was bound to her. They could not disobey her will if she exercised her Necromancy. It meant that Strun as "King" would bring absolute pacification to the Rat-related issues in Shaklka Al-jadeedah. At the same time, she knew human nature too well to know that tyranny was not the way forward.

Eventually, she would be tempted to rule rather than govern—for subtle applications of Soul Tap could easily subdue the Centaurs, control the Rats, and bring the surrounding Demi-human tribes into the fold.

It would be a catastrophic success—particularly if the Shard then categorically decided they did not fancy a prospective Soul Reaver pacifying the region for profit.

"I shall gift your most talented warriors with the blessing of Essence, that they may grow hale and defend your homes," she promised something she knew was agreeable to the elders but would not challenge Strun's unique position. "Rise now. All within our council chambers are equal— I do not wish to see such displays again."

After another outrageous display, the Elders stood around with nothing to say.

Gwen smiled and sighed. She knew it would take time for the Rat-kin, who were still used to their existence as Tasmüyiz, to speak their minds, so she left instructions with Strun to oversee the development of the new fields around New Shalkar.

The sooner the Dwarven delegating could see the green shoots of the potato fields arching around the horizon, the less passion their resistance would possess, especially if mountainous truckloads were being moved onto barges for export, away from thirsty distilleries.

Her next stop was with the Horse Lords, who had taken the opportunity to leave the insufferable indoors for a game of Buzkashi outdoors. With Strun keeping watch, there was no Tasmüyiz used as a ball.

Many of her allied folks had gathered to observe the Horse Lords. The Dwarves, in particular, were already discussing if pilots could reenact such a blood-boiling sport in Golem suits, played with a magnetic oval ball, on rolling skates. The Rat-kin looked on with a strange fascination, their macabre interest caught between their passion for the sport's history and their prior, passive involvement.

Only a week ago, the newly arrived Golos had participated. With so much testosterone on sale, it was almost impossible for the Dragon not to be embroiled in the egotistical combat of physical prowess.

As expected, the newly minted drake was sufficiently "dominating" in power and agility, even in his bipedal form.

To praise the victor, the Horse Lords had come from all over to drink with the Dragon, and Golos had made new pals by promising not to eat the studs he liked.

"Milord Cherbi." Gwen found the sweating Centaur dripping wet under the blistering sun. The tall gent, his body alive with vivid tattoos and inscriptions from Saran's crafty hand, was pouring chilled buckets of water over himself while a pair of mares brushed his hair and tidied the fur of his muscular rump. Every muscle, oiled and gleaming, was on display. "I see you've made a home for yourself. It makes me glad."

"Magister Song." The Centaur's bony face grinned, revealing teeth well-stained by betel nut tea, looking like he chewed blood. "This is a good place you are building. Many strong warriors are here, from these stout iron smiths to your cousin Dragon..."

The Cherbi habitually talked about fighters like blokes discussing MMA at a water cooler.

One of the reasons the Horsemen and the Dwarves got along like a Yurt on fire, Gwen suspected, was that both had a laconic culture that respected mastery—whether its mastery of war or the knowledge of the craft. When two competing tribes of Horse-kin met on the Steppes, contests and skirmishes opened the negotiations, followed by Buzkashi or all-out war. Afterwards, the survivors got smashed on fermented cud, made merry, and came to an accord. On the other hand, Dwarven entanglements began with intoxication, leading to brawls and grudge matches, until they sobered up and returned to their serious, stoic selves.

Unexpectedly, the Centaurs shrugged at the prospect of her city being erected on their grazing grounds. A part of it might be that they've successfully razed anything anyone had ever constructed since the inception of the Khanate—that or deeper plots and ploys were a-hoof—which Gwen felt could be attributed to the Shaman Saran.

"...The Tasmüyiz have only the rat—but he is very strong indeed. As for your female swordswoman, the Horse God should have made her a mare!"

Gwen laughed politely.

"I digress. The steppes have become interesting, a good outcome."

"I am glad to hear you say that, Lord Cherbi." Gwen bowed her head, but not too much lest the Cherbi thought lowly of her respect. "As discussed, shall I count upon your support for the outer region's security?"

The Centaur snorted, blowing back a few locks of her sun-tossed hair.

In the early days of their proposal, the Cherbi had hinted at his desire for a duel—though Golo's arrival, reaffirmed by Garp's labours in literally flattening the surrounding landscape, had since put that desire to rest. Gwen suspected the challenge had initially arisen from the incompatibility of cross-cultural expectations of gender. For the Horse Lords, respect for their females was based upon wisdom and lineage, with a strong emphasis on fertility—a mare matron with many warrior children, for instance, the Cherbi's mother-mare, held momentous sway within the Sārai.

On the other hand, Gwen was a locus of power but also a childless female, which made Khudu's role as a subordination existentially uncomfortable.

A subordinate—for that was how the Horse Lords thought of each other and all other existences. Superiors and subordinates, within the kin, between tribes, and between the Khanates.

"There is little profit but great labour to come." The Cherbi did not shy away from confronting her with his muscular form. "Don't you agree?"

"We pay very well." Gwen allowed the muscles to confront her. In her opinion, the sunny smell of horse sweat was more intimidating than the towering Horse Lord.

"We are the only mercenaries on the Steppes who can guard your caravans and barges." the Cherbi reminded her as a mare braided his tail. "Should we not command a better price?"

"Ours are the only employees hiring." Gwen threw the retort back unflinchingly. "Who else has the grains to keep the Khanate flourishing? The Fire Sea still looms, milord. It is not extinguished."

"A starving Khanate is like a starving wolf," the Horse Lord reminded her.

"Why do you think we're building granaries underground?" Gwen motioned to the Dwarves in the distance.

As they spoke, the Fabricator Engine, towering above the pavilion, rumbled past, leaving enormous foundation trenches for assembling the gated entrance into the Dyarr Morkk below. Its gait resembled a colossal Salamander: in front, manipulators and Spellswords tore at the land—behind, perfect units of construction material and a geometrically aligned trench were left in its wake.

"Mmm…" the Cherbi wasn't sure how to respond to the logos of supply and demand. There was a solution—to raid the Rat-kin as always, though the Horse Lord would be reluctant to threaten such a thing without first besting Golos or Garp.

"Dwell not too deeply on it," Gwen assured her ambiguous ally. One of the mares came close, offering to braid her hair. Gwen waved the girl away. "Shaman Saran said the seasons will remain rich for some years, did she not? Think of what we can gain now—as for the future, why not let the might of our arms speak their mutual terms? With the Khanate at its full strength, a glorious conflict awaits us all."

Her final announcement was enough to bring the grin back to the Horse Lord's face.

"You have a way with wisdom for one with no fawns from the loin." The Horse Lord gave her flat belly a nod of acknowledgement. "I shall not deny more of your time, then. You have a city to plan and build. Ours is the entirety of the northwest region. Do not forget."

"I shall supervise it well," Gwen answered in turn. "Do visit Lord Golos when you are free, Khudu. Gogo is often bored and in need of a competitive companion. My mind can be at ease with your prowess keeping his mischief caged."

Her humble-bragging flattery was enough to disengage the Cherbi, who laughed heartily, drank deeply from a horn flagon, and then focused on the mares.

Gwen retreated. When she was far enough, she took deep breaths, already tired even though the sun was not past midday.

Her mind was on her uncle and Ayxin, though she had one more stop.

On the outskirts of the FoB laid a small tent beside a larger one, with the modest yurt used for housing and the other as a laboratory.

The two yurts were also set up in the middle of New Shalkar's only cemetery. A Frontier city had many deaths, and real estate for the deceased was necessary.

Of concern was that she was now in a region with known Spectre activities, Necromantic ones at that. Only five hundred kilometres toward the direction of Petra's old Tower was a hotspot of Undead infestation, Ufa. On the other end, less than a thousand kilometres into Siberia laid the Undead Wildlands, worse than Pyongyang because it was a Necromancer's free-for-all. These were the regions where the Great War had banished the milling millions of the dark craft, with Moscow as its great gatekeeper and China as its long-abused neighbour.

On the other hand, after her six-month campaign against the Undead at sea, her feelings toward land-based hordes were nothing like her dread of the Mermen. As long as her city did not "turn", she was confident the threat could be managed.

Which was why Gwen now came to the cemetery.

When her refugees arrived, she had no wish to mediate a debate between the Horse Lords and the Humans, with the former advocating for the bodies to be left as carrion to nourish the plains, then stomped into the earth to prevent reanimation.

"Master Litvak," she greeted the robed figure emerging from the larger of the two yurts, casually wiping his bile-soured hands upon profaned towels. "How fares your research? Will our people be safe when they arrive?"

"No mutations, nor increased potency, thank her Majesty's Grace," the Necromancer replied with visible relief. In Gwen's mind, his skeletal skull always seemed to rattle as he spoke. "For now, whomever's forces that had harassed our settlements no longer has the means to modify their necrophage."

When he spoke, the Necromancer's eyes glistened. Though the bloke's dabble in the craft was far older than hers, the untitled Magus was in awe of her achievements in the "forbidden" avenues of spellcraft. After all, sorcery to do with Essence, particularly the subjugation of living beings, was magnitudes worse than raising Undead. The rationale was simple, for Soul Reaving was the gateway to the creation of intelligent Undead with thoughts and agendas of their own. According to her access to sanctioned knowledge, it was also the principal path to Lichdom.

"How's our vaccination programs progressing?" She peeked into the man's laboratory. The interior was dark, but her enhanced eyes could still discern the gruesome collection of flasks, samples, and offensive energies.

"Your Rat-kin has been using up everything I've made." The Necromancer looked at her amusedly. "They call it the Priestess' Blessing and urge all their relatives and children to participate. Those who do not are publically shamed and ostracised—sometimes cast from their burrow homes…"

"Right…" Gwen could imagine that.

"The bad news is that your Horse Lords are less inclined to prevention. Their mares have been spreading rumours that the inoculation solution will weaken their studs in the long run or are responsible for infirmities, whatever that means. The men say it affects their erections. The updated dose has been very poorly distributed."

"What does Mistress Saran have to say about this?"

"She says to leave the Khan's men to their demise."

"She said what?" Gwen blinked. "Demise?"

"That was what Mistress Saran inferred," the Necromancer confessed with a lopsided grin. "An interesting ally we have found, Magister Song."

"Indeed."

"If I may. Has the matter of our discussion from last time… settled?" Litvak asked, his dull-blue eyes unsettlingly milky.

"No dice." Gwen shook her head. "The Dwarves will not work on constructing a Necropolis, no matter the reason. They did offer to build you a furnace for cremations and such. We won't be getting help from the Horse Lords for obvious reasons. The Rat-kin will help—but only if I tell them to—which I wish to avoid."

"I see. Then I shall deal with the influx of… Faiths… as best as I can," Litvak replied with a shrug, then opened the flap to his tent. "Please shield my labour, Mistress. If you do, no Undead will rise, or you may subjugate my soul. Shall we?"

"I trust that they shall not," Gwen concluded, deciding that she didn't want to inspect Litvak's laboratory anyway. If the man said he's ready to deal with an enormous influx of bodies from natural or unnatural sources, that's good enough for herself. So long as the unique circumstances of a Frontier fringing an Undead Front were accounted for, that's the best any regional administrator can do. “Thank you, Magus Litvak. I still have paperwork to do, planning zones to establish."

The Necromancer lowered the flaps, bowing deeply as one might to a superior in the craft.

As for Gwen, her mind turned once more to her office.

From under her shawl, she withdrew the Ilas leaf. Golos wanted trees, the rats wanted shelter, and the Dwarves needed convincing.

In Shalkar Al-jadeedah, there was no rest for the wicked.