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Written by Okadoka
The Lich Lord was displeased. The circumstances had turned against him, even though he had long predicted such; and now he found himself levitating above the mud-tracked roads of the Regalian backwoods. But his walking was not aimless, and his displeasure was not without a target. A fine aim through which to push his rather particular feelings had made itself available to him, a jest so good that it seemed implausible it had been left open- and so while gullible fools and reserve troops threw themselves on the swords of the Resistance at Greygate and the stubborn diehard Dorkarthi garrisoned his last holdfast up in Demetrius, Xilthruum had gathered up who he considered to be his best men (and change, just in case there were crossbow traps in the doorways) and made for a very particular target. His Vampiric Occupation had not only turned street thugs and laymen. A series of bureaucrats and genuinely important people had also fallen to the bites of Xilthruum's followers, and drawn by the allure of Arcanist power he presented, pledged themselves to his cause. It was one such important person, although completely unremarkable, unfindable in a crowded street, whom had led him to the object of his desire.
For when Xilthruum and his companions stopped in front of a building designed in squat gray brickwork, hardly could he contain his mirth at the smoke and steam still piping through its chimneys, and the people visible hard at work inside, oblivious to his presence. Bronze letters illuminated the heading sign to welcome visitors, "LORDSTON SHIPPING COMPANY", and just when it seemed like the crowd was about to express outrage at the meaningless little trade building the Lich had taken them on a wild goose chase to, he whipped about, raising his hands, skeletal form contorting into the closest thing he could manage to a smile. "Welcome," began Xilthruum, "oh Solifugae and beloved guests .. to the home office of the Black Order." He drifted to levitate in front of each one of his followers, offering them a slightly glowing wand of Arcane energy, which fluttered with red-gold light at the tip. "Simply burn," Xilthruum intoned, voice rumbling from somewhere deep in his spectral diaphragm, "everything with the four-sigiled stamp of the Foreign Office." At that, he drifted off to the side, bowing like a showman, one hand pressed to his chest. And led by Quin the Url, who snorted and boomed a roar to announce his presence, they crashed straight through the quaint, finely lacquered front gate.
The men and women inside were still in their dress clothes, and what was more, caught by utter surprise. Just in the first room alone, there was a Viridian Knight, an Altalar dressed in the lay robes of a priest of the Faith of Estel, a quaint bartending lady some would recognize from the Golden Willow, and a strapping Avanthar blacksmith, fiddling with the straps of his leather apron, poring over a map together with the rest. This did not matter to Quin, who was on them in a matter of seconds. Rather than open up with his hands on the pathetic uninitiated, he grabbed the table that they had been having a meeting on moments before, and crushed the bartender underneath it, impaling her with a table leg. When the Viridian lunged to try to stop him, he grabbed the man's head and pressed it in like an overripe cantaloupe, dropping him to the floor shortly after. The Avanthar and the Estellian priest soon followed, smashed against one another until their spines broke, and thrown aside like discarded toys. Content with his carnage, and provoked by the sound of footsteps and confused shouting in the rooms further beyond, Quin charged on, clearing a way for others to follow by shattering every single door in his path on the blazing tips of his horns.
Old Felsin Kretch, ever given to a wandering eye and a sick sense of humor, posted himself near one of the small doors to a secluded janitorial closet from which some noise had issued. When the man poked his head out, a squat and portly functionary with horn-rimmed glasses, Felsin tapped his shoulder to get his attention. Clearly unused to such a frightful sight, jumping back with a mouth wide in shock, Felsin knew just how to take advantage of this, ripping his hand crossbow from his belt. With a wicked glint in his stare and a cocky smirk decorating his face, he shoved it, loaded with explosive ordnance, straight down the functionary's throat. Holding his jaw closed with one hand and pressing down on his head with the other, he cackled softly, rapidly tossing him aside so that he did not have to lay eyes on just what happened next. He soon realized that he was not in a janitorial closet at all, but a series of filing cabinets resplendent with the sigil he had been asked to burn. Not one to leave things up to curiosity, Felsin opened one, withdrawing a single manila folder. "On the Oltaran Republic," it said, in handwritten cursive letters. Not caring for such mundane things, the folder was soon dropped, and with a tap of his wand, the cubbyhole lit ablaze, the first of many things to burn that day.
Shalia Zordrush and Irel went forward together, because despite the many differences in their personal ideologies, it was advantageous in the moment for the well-shielded Shalia who could poke from long distances behind her bulwark, to go with the nimble and quick Irel, who was adept at dancing behind enemies when they presented themselves. They took a fork in the hallway, where they saw a pair of men cautiously gripping arming swords, both of them dressed in the reserve armor of the Violet Guard. How curious that they were not at Greygate. Shalia distracted them, slamming the bottom lip of her shield against the ground to get their attention, while Irel disappeared into wisps of black smoke. The two ran forwards to reach Shalia before Irel could rematerialize: but it was not to be, for the Crimson Witch appeared behind them, skewering both through the chest. Their eyes were closed, all eight of them, for they did not need vision to know just how good a well-aimed stab in the back felt. They jerked their hands up, pushing the blade in, and then wrenched them out, just as Shalia lashed out with her spear to slash the guards' unfortunate necks, sending them tumbling to the ground. Without any filing cabinets of their own to destroy, the unlikely pair expended their wands on obliterating the furniture, which had small drawers and cubbyholes hidden in them. Best not to leave anything to chance, not to spare any notes that a desperate clerk might have hidden upon hearing their approach.
Apsaalooke Ulster struck a comical figure, shifting forward tiptoe by tiptoe, trying her best to stay quiet and undetected. The Eronidas towered easily over anyone else except Quin, but despite this had an uncanny ability to keep her footsteps missable and unheard, creeping towards her own objective of the spare paper printing storehouse. On the other side of the lacquer and varnish door, a guard leaning against it became apparent, perhaps taking a nap standing, or trying to hold the door closed with his weight. What he did not expect was for Apsaa to send an arm shooting forward, until that point completely quiet, and punch directly through the door. Her hand grasped on the other side until her wrist found his neck, choking him out against the door, dropping him when the deed was done. After which, she pushed it gingerly open, peering inside. Racks and racks of blank paper lined the walls, used to write letters maybe, or to be put into a printing press. But although Apsaa looked around briefly, there was no printing press apparent. So she settled for torching the paper reserve, tapping her wand to the wall and watching as it vanished and lit in a puff of smoke.
Knave and Leuthar van Vichten were in it for the same thing, really. The pocket loot. And so far, they were sorely disappointed with how pristine and lacking in personal valuables this presumed Black Order base was. Everywhere they rummaged, there were just papers, most of them printed and typecast in a complicated, indecipherable encryption. Normally, the hungry for knowledge Leuthar would have rolled one up and taken it with him, but he was not exactly willing to find out what lengths the Black Order was willing to go to to track its printing, and had a sneaking suspicion of Arcane tracking agent left behind on the leaflets. So, in the end, he decided not to chance it, and with a series of nods at Knave, they lit up every hallway cabinet they found together. Their merry ride was interrupted by a few men dressed by Ranger graduates trying to leave through the side door that they just so happened to be inconveniently standing right in front of, and with an apologetic not-so-apologetic smile, Leuthar slipped a vial of Volatile Alchemy down for their legs, which hissed for a few moments before exploding, while Knave pelted them with trash from his knapsack, every so often pausing to take a bite. Together, although not before stopping to loot the bodies of every guard they downed on the way for a few regals and a nice pocket watch, they cleared a side route for others to follow in.
Fjolra Faerid and Sone Vevveth were going to go inside with the rest, when Xilthruum raised a palm towards them, shaking his head. He pointed towards the outside a spot on the road, and nodded brusquely, suggesting that all this ruckus they were causing was probably going to activate some kind of rearguard patrol contingency, and that the two of them should stay outside, purge as Black Order members looking for evacuation to lure out the reinforcements, and then deal with them in their own way. True to Xilthruum's suggestion, after fifteen or so minutes of standing innocently in the open with their hands dollishly folded together, Fjolra and Sone were greeted by a small detachment of five men in various stitched commoner costumes, the leader of whom conspiratorially leaned forward to whisper something to the Dwarf. Only then did he notice his blazing red eyes, as Fjolra leapt slightly and latched onto his neck, teeth digging in. He quickly brought another enemy down to his height by stabbing him through the knee with a conveniently unlatched shortspear, then twisting to bash the weapon's haft into the side of the man's head, knocking him down. Sone meanwhile dropped to a knee where he stood a short distance away, drawing back on his heavy bow's string. Arcane energy leeched into his arrow, where gusts of wind danced around its point. A man ran forward to interrupt him, but it was far too late: Sone loosed, aiming at the dirt. Not unlike Leuthar's veritable hand grenade, his bolt kicked up turf, exploding in a miniature cyclone of thunder and rocks turned into deadly shrapnel. Between him and Fjolra, they had the patrol company down in little time, grimly satisfied with their work.
No one had seen quite where the Gardener had went, or quite what he was up to. That was because the man had busied himself running through the gardens in the back, the foliage on the way yielding to him as if it was nothing at all for him to go ahead and pass through, to where he had sensed a few quietly enjoying their outside morning break. A private detective stood next to a prettied-up Ithanian woman who looked something like a beauty salon manager, discussing some inane small talk, or at least so it seemed to the Gardener, words too long and dull to bother remembering. He leapt up from behind them like a skinwalker from the deep woods, an apparition of vengeful nature, and seized on both by the back of the head. Before they could struggle very much, he shoved them into the nearest bush he could find, watching with glee as the plantlife consumed them as an offering to Nirualla, the pair vanishing into the shrubs without so much as a sound- something the Gardener took as a sign of his divine blessing.
That left Adrian Marillia and Medea, who were doing the bulk of the destruction inside the main hall, having followed in Quin's wake. Neither could recount the identities of those they slew, only that they came from every Race and walk of life, every creed and ideology professed stood somewhere within those halls, and that they were utterly certain that each one was a member of the Empire's most elite espionage organization. Each dossier they put to the torch erased decades, if not centuries of gathered information, top-security files without any living backups. Poetically, the pair went continent by continent, taking glee in understanding what they were destroying just before they did it. Adrian killed with his blade and bullwhip, latching onto enemies and drawing them in just before driving them through the chest with his sword, the unfortunate target of his efforts unable to redirect their path from the tip of his weapon before it was too late. Medea, meanwhile, had utterly given herself over to the sickly siren song of Coraveau, the blade-turned-censer steaming black smoke from her waist. Two sets of wings unfurled from her back, and murders of crows and ravens streamed after her every blow. If the censer did not end what was in her path, the birds did, pecking away until nothing remained. Ithania, then Daendroc, then Hyarroc, then Teled Varren, then Teled Methen faded into nothingness, burned away under the flickering glow of Adrian and Medea's wands.
At last came Xilthruum and Valerica cel Tradat, proceeding together, to the inner sanctum. The few guards who remained stood no chance against the Desprince and Princess, throwing themselves at them anyway in a desperate hope that maybe if enough charged they could end him then and there. But it was of no use. The first to throw himself at Xilthruum was seized by the forehead, the years of his life rapidly ticking forward, accelerating. Crow's feet formed around his eyes, his hair whitened, his eyebags sunk and his skin sagged, before he rotted away into a husk, easily scattered with a blast of percussive energy, Xilthruum's bony hand nonchalantly flicking to the left to dismiss the remnants of the man's corporeal form. Valerica meanwhile deflected blows aimed at the few who had accompanied them there, rivers of blood forming between her and any who attacked her allies. She slid across the ground, beheading effortlessly, the gleam of her sword through the sky nothing less than a portent of death on all it touched. Cel Tradat no longer cared for the idea of swordplay or high fencing culture, killing in one blow any enemy she faced, not even taking time to savor their downfall- simply letting their bodies gracelessly crumple to the ground. In time, the pair breached the final door, around which those they had slain were scattered, and final agents playing dead, whom they quickly dispatched. On the round table in front of them were men and pieces, arranged in a way reflective of reality, the telltale schema of a military planning board laid ripe for them. And when each portion of the map was tapped, an Arcane display flared into reality, printing precious Regalian intelligence on the target region selected. It was the dream of any strategist, the goal of any politician, but a thousand blessings for the Lich Lord: here lay a thousand facts he had never learned, offerings to make to Selëya. Xilthruum floated and bobbed in place, bony hands rubbing together as he prepared to take the map for his own, with Valerica by his side.
But it was not to be. The clarion call of signal flares broke the sky, and then a pillar of flame from the top of Greygate itself; and the departure of Demetrius was as a wail in the night, leaving the Lich Lord finally and truly alone. With a penitent sigh, he brushed away what was left of his reluctance, smashing the precious icon. Several minutes was all it took to reconvene his posse. Thereafter they stole away in the night before any could catch up to them, having destroyed the entire store of the Empire's foreign intelligence on every single nation outside of its borders, leaving the only knowledge of powers abroad, their diplomatic institutions, their dispositions, their ties, and their weaknesses, in the minds and portfolios of the landed Nobility, and the lengthy memory of Emperor Alexander within the Imperial Palace, far away from the fighting.
This revenge would have to do.
The Lich Lord was displeased. The circumstances had turned against him, even though he had long predicted such; and now he found himself levitating above the mud-tracked roads of the Regalian backwoods. But his walking was not aimless, and his displeasure was not without a target. A fine aim through which to push his rather particular feelings had made itself available to him, a jest so good that it seemed implausible it had been left open- and so while gullible fools and reserve troops threw themselves on the swords of the Resistance at Greygate and the stubborn diehard Dorkarthi garrisoned his last holdfast up in Demetrius, Xilthruum had gathered up who he considered to be his best men (and change, just in case there were crossbow traps in the doorways) and made for a very particular target. His Vampiric Occupation had not only turned street thugs and laymen. A series of bureaucrats and genuinely important people had also fallen to the bites of Xilthruum's followers, and drawn by the allure of Arcanist power he presented, pledged themselves to his cause. It was one such important person, although completely unremarkable, unfindable in a crowded street, whom had led him to the object of his desire.
For when Xilthruum and his companions stopped in front of a building designed in squat gray brickwork, hardly could he contain his mirth at the smoke and steam still piping through its chimneys, and the people visible hard at work inside, oblivious to his presence. Bronze letters illuminated the heading sign to welcome visitors, "LORDSTON SHIPPING COMPANY", and just when it seemed like the crowd was about to express outrage at the meaningless little trade building the Lich had taken them on a wild goose chase to, he whipped about, raising his hands, skeletal form contorting into the closest thing he could manage to a smile. "Welcome," began Xilthruum, "oh Solifugae and beloved guests .. to the home office of the Black Order." He drifted to levitate in front of each one of his followers, offering them a slightly glowing wand of Arcane energy, which fluttered with red-gold light at the tip. "Simply burn," Xilthruum intoned, voice rumbling from somewhere deep in his spectral diaphragm, "everything with the four-sigiled stamp of the Foreign Office." At that, he drifted off to the side, bowing like a showman, one hand pressed to his chest. And led by Quin the Url, who snorted and boomed a roar to announce his presence, they crashed straight through the quaint, finely lacquered front gate.
The men and women inside were still in their dress clothes, and what was more, caught by utter surprise. Just in the first room alone, there was a Viridian Knight, an Altalar dressed in the lay robes of a priest of the Faith of Estel, a quaint bartending lady some would recognize from the Golden Willow, and a strapping Avanthar blacksmith, fiddling with the straps of his leather apron, poring over a map together with the rest. This did not matter to Quin, who was on them in a matter of seconds. Rather than open up with his hands on the pathetic uninitiated, he grabbed the table that they had been having a meeting on moments before, and crushed the bartender underneath it, impaling her with a table leg. When the Viridian lunged to try to stop him, he grabbed the man's head and pressed it in like an overripe cantaloupe, dropping him to the floor shortly after. The Avanthar and the Estellian priest soon followed, smashed against one another until their spines broke, and thrown aside like discarded toys. Content with his carnage, and provoked by the sound of footsteps and confused shouting in the rooms further beyond, Quin charged on, clearing a way for others to follow by shattering every single door in his path on the blazing tips of his horns.
Old Felsin Kretch, ever given to a wandering eye and a sick sense of humor, posted himself near one of the small doors to a secluded janitorial closet from which some noise had issued. When the man poked his head out, a squat and portly functionary with horn-rimmed glasses, Felsin tapped his shoulder to get his attention. Clearly unused to such a frightful sight, jumping back with a mouth wide in shock, Felsin knew just how to take advantage of this, ripping his hand crossbow from his belt. With a wicked glint in his stare and a cocky smirk decorating his face, he shoved it, loaded with explosive ordnance, straight down the functionary's throat. Holding his jaw closed with one hand and pressing down on his head with the other, he cackled softly, rapidly tossing him aside so that he did not have to lay eyes on just what happened next. He soon realized that he was not in a janitorial closet at all, but a series of filing cabinets resplendent with the sigil he had been asked to burn. Not one to leave things up to curiosity, Felsin opened one, withdrawing a single manila folder. "On the Oltaran Republic," it said, in handwritten cursive letters. Not caring for such mundane things, the folder was soon dropped, and with a tap of his wand, the cubbyhole lit ablaze, the first of many things to burn that day.
Shalia Zordrush and Irel went forward together, because despite the many differences in their personal ideologies, it was advantageous in the moment for the well-shielded Shalia who could poke from long distances behind her bulwark, to go with the nimble and quick Irel, who was adept at dancing behind enemies when they presented themselves. They took a fork in the hallway, where they saw a pair of men cautiously gripping arming swords, both of them dressed in the reserve armor of the Violet Guard. How curious that they were not at Greygate. Shalia distracted them, slamming the bottom lip of her shield against the ground to get their attention, while Irel disappeared into wisps of black smoke. The two ran forwards to reach Shalia before Irel could rematerialize: but it was not to be, for the Crimson Witch appeared behind them, skewering both through the chest. Their eyes were closed, all eight of them, for they did not need vision to know just how good a well-aimed stab in the back felt. They jerked their hands up, pushing the blade in, and then wrenched them out, just as Shalia lashed out with her spear to slash the guards' unfortunate necks, sending them tumbling to the ground. Without any filing cabinets of their own to destroy, the unlikely pair expended their wands on obliterating the furniture, which had small drawers and cubbyholes hidden in them. Best not to leave anything to chance, not to spare any notes that a desperate clerk might have hidden upon hearing their approach.
Apsaalooke Ulster struck a comical figure, shifting forward tiptoe by tiptoe, trying her best to stay quiet and undetected. The Eronidas towered easily over anyone else except Quin, but despite this had an uncanny ability to keep her footsteps missable and unheard, creeping towards her own objective of the spare paper printing storehouse. On the other side of the lacquer and varnish door, a guard leaning against it became apparent, perhaps taking a nap standing, or trying to hold the door closed with his weight. What he did not expect was for Apsaa to send an arm shooting forward, until that point completely quiet, and punch directly through the door. Her hand grasped on the other side until her wrist found his neck, choking him out against the door, dropping him when the deed was done. After which, she pushed it gingerly open, peering inside. Racks and racks of blank paper lined the walls, used to write letters maybe, or to be put into a printing press. But although Apsaa looked around briefly, there was no printing press apparent. So she settled for torching the paper reserve, tapping her wand to the wall and watching as it vanished and lit in a puff of smoke.
Knave and Leuthar van Vichten were in it for the same thing, really. The pocket loot. And so far, they were sorely disappointed with how pristine and lacking in personal valuables this presumed Black Order base was. Everywhere they rummaged, there were just papers, most of them printed and typecast in a complicated, indecipherable encryption. Normally, the hungry for knowledge Leuthar would have rolled one up and taken it with him, but he was not exactly willing to find out what lengths the Black Order was willing to go to to track its printing, and had a sneaking suspicion of Arcane tracking agent left behind on the leaflets. So, in the end, he decided not to chance it, and with a series of nods at Knave, they lit up every hallway cabinet they found together. Their merry ride was interrupted by a few men dressed by Ranger graduates trying to leave through the side door that they just so happened to be inconveniently standing right in front of, and with an apologetic not-so-apologetic smile, Leuthar slipped a vial of Volatile Alchemy down for their legs, which hissed for a few moments before exploding, while Knave pelted them with trash from his knapsack, every so often pausing to take a bite. Together, although not before stopping to loot the bodies of every guard they downed on the way for a few regals and a nice pocket watch, they cleared a side route for others to follow in.
Fjolra Faerid and Sone Vevveth were going to go inside with the rest, when Xilthruum raised a palm towards them, shaking his head. He pointed towards the outside a spot on the road, and nodded brusquely, suggesting that all this ruckus they were causing was probably going to activate some kind of rearguard patrol contingency, and that the two of them should stay outside, purge as Black Order members looking for evacuation to lure out the reinforcements, and then deal with them in their own way. True to Xilthruum's suggestion, after fifteen or so minutes of standing innocently in the open with their hands dollishly folded together, Fjolra and Sone were greeted by a small detachment of five men in various stitched commoner costumes, the leader of whom conspiratorially leaned forward to whisper something to the Dwarf. Only then did he notice his blazing red eyes, as Fjolra leapt slightly and latched onto his neck, teeth digging in. He quickly brought another enemy down to his height by stabbing him through the knee with a conveniently unlatched shortspear, then twisting to bash the weapon's haft into the side of the man's head, knocking him down. Sone meanwhile dropped to a knee where he stood a short distance away, drawing back on his heavy bow's string. Arcane energy leeched into his arrow, where gusts of wind danced around its point. A man ran forward to interrupt him, but it was far too late: Sone loosed, aiming at the dirt. Not unlike Leuthar's veritable hand grenade, his bolt kicked up turf, exploding in a miniature cyclone of thunder and rocks turned into deadly shrapnel. Between him and Fjolra, they had the patrol company down in little time, grimly satisfied with their work.
No one had seen quite where the Gardener had went, or quite what he was up to. That was because the man had busied himself running through the gardens in the back, the foliage on the way yielding to him as if it was nothing at all for him to go ahead and pass through, to where he had sensed a few quietly enjoying their outside morning break. A private detective stood next to a prettied-up Ithanian woman who looked something like a beauty salon manager, discussing some inane small talk, or at least so it seemed to the Gardener, words too long and dull to bother remembering. He leapt up from behind them like a skinwalker from the deep woods, an apparition of vengeful nature, and seized on both by the back of the head. Before they could struggle very much, he shoved them into the nearest bush he could find, watching with glee as the plantlife consumed them as an offering to Nirualla, the pair vanishing into the shrubs without so much as a sound- something the Gardener took as a sign of his divine blessing.
That left Adrian Marillia and Medea, who were doing the bulk of the destruction inside the main hall, having followed in Quin's wake. Neither could recount the identities of those they slew, only that they came from every Race and walk of life, every creed and ideology professed stood somewhere within those halls, and that they were utterly certain that each one was a member of the Empire's most elite espionage organization. Each dossier they put to the torch erased decades, if not centuries of gathered information, top-security files without any living backups. Poetically, the pair went continent by continent, taking glee in understanding what they were destroying just before they did it. Adrian killed with his blade and bullwhip, latching onto enemies and drawing them in just before driving them through the chest with his sword, the unfortunate target of his efforts unable to redirect their path from the tip of his weapon before it was too late. Medea, meanwhile, had utterly given herself over to the sickly siren song of Coraveau, the blade-turned-censer steaming black smoke from her waist. Two sets of wings unfurled from her back, and murders of crows and ravens streamed after her every blow. If the censer did not end what was in her path, the birds did, pecking away until nothing remained. Ithania, then Daendroc, then Hyarroc, then Teled Varren, then Teled Methen faded into nothingness, burned away under the flickering glow of Adrian and Medea's wands.
At last came Xilthruum and Valerica cel Tradat, proceeding together, to the inner sanctum. The few guards who remained stood no chance against the Desprince and Princess, throwing themselves at them anyway in a desperate hope that maybe if enough charged they could end him then and there. But it was of no use. The first to throw himself at Xilthruum was seized by the forehead, the years of his life rapidly ticking forward, accelerating. Crow's feet formed around his eyes, his hair whitened, his eyebags sunk and his skin sagged, before he rotted away into a husk, easily scattered with a blast of percussive energy, Xilthruum's bony hand nonchalantly flicking to the left to dismiss the remnants of the man's corporeal form. Valerica meanwhile deflected blows aimed at the few who had accompanied them there, rivers of blood forming between her and any who attacked her allies. She slid across the ground, beheading effortlessly, the gleam of her sword through the sky nothing less than a portent of death on all it touched. Cel Tradat no longer cared for the idea of swordplay or high fencing culture, killing in one blow any enemy she faced, not even taking time to savor their downfall- simply letting their bodies gracelessly crumple to the ground. In time, the pair breached the final door, around which those they had slain were scattered, and final agents playing dead, whom they quickly dispatched. On the round table in front of them were men and pieces, arranged in a way reflective of reality, the telltale schema of a military planning board laid ripe for them. And when each portion of the map was tapped, an Arcane display flared into reality, printing precious Regalian intelligence on the target region selected. It was the dream of any strategist, the goal of any politician, but a thousand blessings for the Lich Lord: here lay a thousand facts he had never learned, offerings to make to Selëya. Xilthruum floated and bobbed in place, bony hands rubbing together as he prepared to take the map for his own, with Valerica by his side.
But it was not to be. The clarion call of signal flares broke the sky, and then a pillar of flame from the top of Greygate itself; and the departure of Demetrius was as a wail in the night, leaving the Lich Lord finally and truly alone. With a penitent sigh, he brushed away what was left of his reluctance, smashing the precious icon. Several minutes was all it took to reconvene his posse. Thereafter they stole away in the night before any could catch up to them, having destroyed the entire store of the Empire's foreign intelligence on every single nation outside of its borders, leaving the only knowledge of powers abroad, their diplomatic institutions, their dispositions, their ties, and their weaknesses, in the minds and portfolios of the landed Nobility, and the lengthy memory of Emperor Alexander within the Imperial Palace, far away from the fighting.
This revenge would have to do.
