Open Chronicles Times change

[Afanas]

The night settled thick over Alliria, clinging to the spires and merchant houses like a velvet shroud. The stars above the River Allir blinked faintly through a gauze of low-hanging mist, while torches crackled atop the stone parapets of the Merchant’s Gate. Beneath them, the cadence of armored boots echoed—a steady, grim rhythm.

Newly arrived knights from Reikhurst patrolled the main thoroughfare. Their armor was sculpted from blood-red plate and blackened steel, barbed and angular, designed not only for war but for intimidation. Helms crowned with wicked antlers and visors carved like snarling beasts hid their deathless faces. Their stygian banners bore the heraldic sigil of their order, a red dragon with flared wings, clutching a human skull in its claws, and from their hips hung cruel-looking swords etched with ancient, runic script.

High above, leaning on the stone balustrade of a low balcony that jutted from the Guildward’s inner wall, Afanas watched. No gleaming armor tonight—he wore his typical, traveller's attire.

His pale hands rested on the edge of the railing, fingers clasped thoughtfully. Below him, the vampire knights moved like silent phantoms, spreading into the city’s arteries—toward the gates, toward the slums, toward the markets.

From below, a voice interrupted the silence.

“Lord Commander,” called a firm but respectful tone.

Afanas turned his head slowly to regard the speaker—it was Belisarius, one of his mortal lieutenants trying to grab his attention. Afanas thought it prudent to set him to a task of showing the ferrigners how to navigate the city.

The man looked up from the torchlit courtyard, helmet tucked beneath one arm. His posture was rigid, his eyes wary but professional.

Belisarius saluted. “Sir, is all proceeding as you intended?”

“It proceeds,” Afanas said simply, his voice deceptively soft in spite of his towering stature.

He turned back to the patrol, watching his knights split into units and vanish into the veins of the city like clotting blood. Their orders were clear: establish presence, observe, suppress unrest. No unnecessary violence—yet.

Afanas’ voice drifted down again, almost contemplative this time. “They are rough-hewn. But they respond to command. That will suffice.”

The council commissioned him to raise an army, and raise it he did, albeit, non-conventionally.

 

[Vulpesen]

This was not his home. In truth, it was far enough that arriving there by any means beyond portal stones, even the fae art of traveling the ley lines, presented a major obstacle. Yet, his superiors, both mortal and fae had sent him to investigate the most recent state of this bustling trade city. He'd been here a few times on business, his stint as a traveling rigger having put him many times in this crossroads of the world.

But Aliria as he knew it had changed. Vampires roamed the streets, their dour visages being found at every corner and their terrifying attire sending children and even grown civilians scurrying to their homes. And yet, despite the fear, Vulpesen saw no abuse of their power. Not so much as a rough word among these ghoulish guards. They were consummate professionals and as a group passed, all Vulpesen had to do was duck out of their way and against a wall to avoid any unfortunate confrontation.

His duty, as he saw it, was to investigate the abnormal and bring evil to heel. Quite often one of those led to the other. Yet here in Alliria, surrounded by Vampires bearing grim standards and horrifying heraldry, he found himself reminded that life wasn't always what it seemed and different didn't always necessitate eradication or even apprehension. He had questions, more than he felt he could answer in the side streets and alleys, and thus he turned to forge his way into the heart of the grand city.

Afanas

 

[Afanas]

A sudden wind rose from the east, foul and cold, as if the gods themselves had drawn breath through the vault of night. It stirred Afanas’ cloak and sent the mist scudding low across the cobbles. The torches along the Merchant’s Gate flared and guttered, casting long, flickering shadows that danced with uncertainty.

Then came the sound—a dry rush of wings, like parchment torn in the hands of giants.

Above the city, a vast shape loomed from the murk. It soared with terrible majesty, its wingspan blotting stars, its silhouette crowned in tatters of ragged flesh and bone. A dragon—once a creature of fire and fury, now a necromancer’s relic, reanimated by death magic.

Its flesh had rotted to leathery shreds that clung stubbornly to ribs sharp as scythe blades. Vertebrae jutted like jagged spires, and its skull—half-buried in shadow—gaped with a grin of eternal hunger. Upon its flanks, arcane glyphs pulsed with corpse-light, burning with the sickly luminance of grave-lanterns.

The beast flew in silence, save for the thunder of the wind stirred by its wings. No roar escaped its ruined maw—only the hush of death given wings.

The knights in the streets halted, as if turned to stone. Even these blood-sworn revenants, armored in malice and dread, inclined their helms in reverence. One might've mistaken it for worship.

From his perch upon the high balcony, Afanas watched the creature’s flight with the cold stillness of a mountain at dusk. His hands did not tremble. No fear stirred in his breast, naught but pride that he had managed to acquire such an asset.

The dragon wheeled over the spires, its wings carving wide arcs in the star-clad sky. For a moment it hovered, suspended in the moonlight like some blasphemous constellation come to life.

Afanas’ lips curled in the barest ghost of a smile.

Below, Belisarius remained frozen, lips parted in awe, helmet clutched to his chest like a relic.

The dragon made a single, sweeping circuit above the city, surveying it with its corpse-light gaze, then began to climb. Slowly, as if loath to leave the world behind again, it ascended into the night, its form dwindling until it became no more than a jagged blot on the moon’s pale face.

 

[Vulpesen]

Sensitive pointed ears picked up on the great massive flaps and Vulpesen instinctively threw himself against a nearby wall, golden eyes peering up into the sky to watch the massive beast as it sailed overhead. "Dragon..." That was a dragon. Giant scaly, leather winged, fire breathing, deep like short swords, dragon. Oh, and it was undead. Above his head was an undead dragon.

'Unnatural beast,' Varos' voice hissed within Vulpesen's head. A fae of the forest, the warlock's patron had a special distain for the unnatural. That didn't mean Vulpesen was keep to try and rid the world of the beast, especially when it seemed to be doing no harm. The city was becoming stranger and stranger, yet still, Vulpesen saw nothing that would call him to action.

As the beast flew on by, Vulpesen stepped away from the brick and stone before continuing on towards the city center. Whatever was going on here, he was determined to get to the bottom of it. 'Unnatural, but so far, nothing of actual concern. I've been free to travel as I please, and I've seen no signs of trouble. I think Alliria may be at peace.'

[Subjugation takes the guise of order and peace. Be certain. Find the head of this change and make your decision. If needed, we will give you the gifts necessary to make an exit... or a change.] Rerreno's voice sent a small chill down Vulpesen's spine. It was a reminder that while his people worshipped him as a god of diplomacy, there was still the belief that those of the Vitae Code had a responsibility to protect the world, no matter the peril. And while diplomacy was laudable, peace was not always an option. As he neared the Guildward Vulpesen prayed that it was.

Afanas

 

[Afanas]

Vulpesen
Vulpesen, though generally a man of poise and reason, was no illusionist; thus it came as no surprise when a figure—tall, imposing, and entirely sheathed in dull steel—emerged from the gloom of the alley ahead, effectively obstructing any further advance toward the Guildward. The fellow moved with the mechanical precision of long habit, his joints issuing the weary groan of leather straps long overdue for oiling.

His armor was of a utilitarian cut, lacking ornament but possessing a certain grim authority. From behind the slitted visor of his helm, a pair of pale eyes regarded Vulpesen with the dispassion of glacial stone—eyes that might well have stared out over some frost-rimed battlefield long before civilization ever dreamed up gate permits or trade levies. Without preamble or flourish, he brought a halberd to bear, its haft barring the way like the boom of a drawbridge. His voice, when it came, was metallic and clipped, as if seldom used for anything but commands.

“I do not know who you are,” he stated in a tone that might have been discussing the weather, “but one does not simply stroll into the Guildward unannounced. Kindly state your business, or remain precisely where you are.”

 

[Vulpesen]

Decades of instinct rang through Vulpesen's body and his fingers twitched at his side. A dagger through the visor, or a blunt strike to the helm could perhaps incapacitate the knight. Then there was the stealth approach. Make an excuse then leave, only to enter through another route. Years of scouting for the veran army had given him the skills to make his way past obstacles such as this in any number of ways.

But that was his old life. Taking a deep breath, Vulpesen slowly reached into his cloak and pulled out a small parcel of papers. "Vulpesen Torrevaso, ambassador of the Vitae Alliance of Veradune. I've been sent to observe evaluate the political changes here within Alliria."

He figured his chances of the political gambit working were fair. Veradune was not a well known municipality, its towering spires being hidden deep within the Malakath wilds, but its influence was spreading through the actions of agents such as himself. And as the champion of Veradune's triumvir of gods, it had been relatively easy for him to procure papers that would allow him to travel the world and handle situations such as these. Still, Vulpesen regarded the vampire warily, even if he kept his body relaxed. There was always the chance that the guard would reject his papers. And then there was always that element of the unexpected or plain bad luck.

Afanas

 

[Afanas]

Vulpesen

The guard inspected Vulpesen’s documents with all the enthusiasm of a man whose profession required daily confrontation with the dull mechanics of bureaucracy. He squinted at the script, muttered something approximating approval, and slung his halberd over his shoulder in a way that suggested he’d much rather be anywhere else—preferably somewhere with a bench and a pint.

Without further ceremony, he beckoned Vulpesen to follow, and together they set off into the Guildward district—a neighborhood that had once been described, with no small measure of optimism, as “the beating heart of commerce,” though, wicked tongues would claim it was more akin to the liver: overworked, congested, and oddly odorous.

They passed through narrow streets where the architecture, while technically sound, leaned on the baroque side of respectable. Merchants in voluminous robes argued over bills of lading, their hands flapping like sails in a contrary wind. Apprentices scampered underfoot with the suicidal confidence of youth, bearing bundles, ledgers, or the occasional live goose.

Eventually, they arrived at a building that looked like it had been commissioned by a committee unable to agree on whether they wanted a temple, a bank, or a tomb. The white stone exterior glistened with the polish of civic pride, and every lintel and cornice bore some allegorical carving—scales, coins, and the odd hammer wielded by improbably muscular cherubs. One got the impression that the architect had been paid by the chisel stroke.

Inside, the noise of the city gave way to the hushed murmur of calculated negotiation. Men and women in garments too fine to be practical stood about in conspiratorial knots, discussing shipping routes, seasonal grain yields, and the eternally fraught topic of tariffs.

Beneath one of the marble arches, Afanas stood out not by ornamentation but by sheer presence. He wore a dark bodysuit that clung to a physique best described as inconveniently well-maintained. The material was plain, utilitarian, and gave the impression that he chose it for function rather than display—though it failed to completely disguise the effect of a man who looked as though he might strangle a debt collector just to stay limber. Strapped diagonally across his back was a broadsword of such size and obvious lethality that it seemed to have wandered in from a profession entirely alien to the soft-bellied merchants around it.

Afanas's face, pale and angular, gave little away, though as his gaze settled on Vulpesen, a single eyebrow arched with the slow deliberation of someone paging through memory and finding an entry of interest. His eyes—dark, fathomless things that might have been described as "Stygian" by a poet or a particularly excitable clerk—met Vulpesen’s with the calm, appraising stillness of a man who recognized not only the face, but its implications.

 

[Vulpesen]

Vulpesen suppressed his look of surprise when the guard accepted the papers and beckoned him to follow. It wasn't that it shouldn't have worked, but it was simply far easier than he had expected. Within him, the Zorren could feel a small kernel of jealousy forming for those members of the Howlaw court, the diplomats of the Alliance who so freely travelled with papers like those that had just granted him entry into the Guildward, no stabbings, disguises, or tricks necessary.

The ring leader of this circus was obvious as Vulpesen drew near, the magnitude of Afanas' presence being quite apparent as the warlock approached. Bright golden eyes met obsidian voids with a level gaze as the zorren presented himself with a polite smile. As far as diplomats went, he wasn't the most well kept, his dark cloak was somewhat worn from travel and he had a small leather bag which held his meager belongings on his trips along the road. What's more, the sword and daggers affixed to his waist marked him more as a fighter thana diplomat. Still, he kept his back straight and regal, using every lesson of etiquette from his child hood to present himself as something other than a roughed up traveler.

"You must be the new leader here in Alliria. I must admit, the city has changed in many ways since my last visit. Though I suppose in a few ways, it remains quite the same, particularly here among the merchants' quarter. I take it you might be my best bet as to getting answers on why and how those changes took place."

Afanas

 

[Afanas]

Vulpesen

Afanas’s obsidian gaze, unblinking and bottomless, lingered on Vulpesen for a heartbeat too long, as though weighing the warlock's very soul against the scales of some private judgment. A lock of chestnut hair, wayward as a rebellious thought, drifted across his brow. He brushed it aside with a motion so precise it might have been ritual, a gesture etched into habit by years of command.

His voice, when it came, was the voice of stone under pressure—low, controlled, like silk over steel.

“Rebellion,” he said, as if testing the word on his tongue. “A vulgar term. But accurate enough.”

"The petty lords grew bold—too bold for their own good. Craven men, fat off tribute, who thought a heavy purse could tame the law, buy oaths, and seal lips. And for a while, it did. But there's no loyalty in gold that isn't earned with steel, and no man trusts a master he can sell. So they grew scornful—first of the Council, then of one another. They raised their own warbands, not to serve, but to seize. Hired blades, foreign dogs with more scars than scruples."

He stepped forward, the movement smooth and full of coiled strength.

"The council gave me a scrap of parchment and called it command—told me to raise steel against their own subjects, not foreign foes at the gate. But when I looked to their coffers, I found naught but cobwebs and dust. No gold for pay, no meat for the men—only hollow words and the stink of fear. They thought I could conjure an army from smoke and words alone. The fools."


“So I made my own bargain. Rode northeast, where the Reikhurstan king sat coiled like a serpent on a crumbling throne. He gave me his finest knights—in return for a single thing: for Alliria to recognize the shadow of his authority."

 

[Vulpesen]

Vulpesen weathered the gaze as he did a storm at sea, staring back with his polite smile and his hands clasped easily in front of him. Afanas struck an imposing figure, but when you dealt with beings capable of turning you into a frog or a potted plant with a wave of their hand, even those who appeared to be members of the cursed undead had a hard time leaving an impression.

"Seems like you're effective at your job. What does that make you? Lord Commander? Governor? General?" The Alliance and the Vitae court both agreed that freedom for the people was a natural right that belonged to all. But they also agreed that there was a need for unity, and through that unity, order. Treason and rebellion were, in Veradune, perhaps the worst crimes a citizen could commit. Indeed, Vulpesen had a special hatred for those that betrayed their people for power.

"Though I suppose before you answer that, I should introduce myself." he cleared his throat as he realized and began to correct his own impoliteness. True, he had a job to do, but that was no reason to disregard common courtesy and protocol. "Vulpesen Espadus Torrevaso, Heir of House Torrevaso, High Agent of the Tenevi Order of the Vitae Alliance, and representative of said Alliance. As I stated earlier, my goal is to simply evaluate the situation here in Alliria and perhaps begin some diplomatic relations if I determine the city to be in good care."

Afanas

 

[Afanas]

Vulpesen
Afanas gave a languid shrug, as though the weight of his broad shoulders was but one of many burdens he had long grown accustomed to bearing.

"Lord Commander, for now. Should Alliria bleed—should war come howling through her gates—they'll dress me in the mantle of Warmaster. A courtesy title, mostly. But it grants me the one thing that matters: the authority to silence the council when survival outweighs their squabbling."

"It is fortunate you declared your station when you did," he added, eyes narrowing beneath a furrowed brow that bore the shadow of darker thoughts. "Had I taken you for one of Autumn’s agents, I’d have driven steel through your heart without a word. And fed what was left of you to the beasts beyond the walls."

 

[Vulpesen]

Fine titles indeed for a man of Afanas' tastes. That he'd been trusted with such responsibilities brought about some measure of comfort, and what's more, his priorities were more than understandable. Though he did his best to keep his expression schooled and neutral, Vulpesen relaxed a bit inwardly. At least, he did until he mention of a certain faction with which he was well familiar. Vulpesen knew of no organization that called itself Autumn beyond that of the fae court, and he doubted Afanas was referring to some physical embodiment of the harvest season.

Immediately he stiffened and his eyes roamed the room. His tail lashed behind him and within his head, he heard three sudden buzzes of activity. Interest, concern, and curiosity filled his head, emotions that were not completely his own. "Not many know of them on this side of the Asherah. But I belong to the Stars." He felt a hint of amusement through his patron bond, the alternate name of the Vitae court being rarely invoked. "Though I'd be interested in knowing what your issue with the Wild Hunt is. Beyond their whisking away of mortals that is."

Afanas

 

[Afanas]

Vulpesen

"What is there to like about their brood?" Afanas said bitterly, shifting his gaunt frame with a weariness that seemed older than flesh. A black vein throbbed to life on his brow above the eye—thick, worm-like, and twitching as though it had a will of its own, pulsing beneath flesh pale as a burial shroud.


"They prate of destiny, of divine balance and sacred purpose—as if such lofty words could mask the stench of their decay. Their king—ha!—a high-born churl crowned in gold and rot, swills wine from the skulls of his enemies and buries himself nightly in a writhing heap of flesh and perfume. They call it culture. I call it the death-rattle of a crumbling race. Their riders take delight in the slaughter of mortals, pursuing young and old alike with the same idle cruelty a spoiled child shows a wounded insect."

He drew a breath like a man reeling back the leash on something savage, nostrils flared, jaw clenched, the fury in him coiled but not quelled

"I piss on their legacy, and spit upon their graves yet to be dug."