From Whence We Came (Maelstrom)

[Nil Spaar]

It was morning in the capital of Palos, though that fact was scarcely evident to anyone in the city. Roiling black smoke choked the sunlight and blotted out much of the blue sky. Deafening screams of women, children, and battle frenzied warriors filled the air like a rolling cannonade, loosed from a mighty warship. The smell of burnt flesh and ensanguined bodies struck any consideration that this city had once been the vanguard of peace and prosperity in the region known as the Takrin Gre'as'anto or Desert Peace.

Rising from the center of the city, a black monolith stood where once had been nothing. Jagged and cracked, it scythed into the morning sky, each crack opened up within to reveal several pulsating sacks, alive and doughy. Each smoking crevice held wiggling masses of flesh, dislodging itself from the spire and falling harmlessly to the ground. The muted sounds of flesh upon stone were dwarfed by the screams of the infidels as they ran from death and their ultimate destiny. Destiny and death, the inalienable truths of the people of Palos, their light falling into the final stages of extinction.

It had been much like this since the evening prior, when the monolith had finally pierced the hardened mantle beneath the city. It toppled the statue of the infidel's fallen monarch, a sign of the great victory soon to come to the proud warriors of the Kin'kaan. The pulsating sacks had spewed herds of warriors birthed from the elements themselves onto the dreaming populace of Palos. The warriors hit the ground and immediately proceeded upon their objectives with eerie efficiency. The watch stations and the garrisons first, then into the sewer systems that snaked underneath the city, hundreds of silent warriors crept, blades extracted from the very spire they had arrived in. The governor's mansion, the mayor's home, all came second; the captain of the guard and the garrison near the bazaar came next.

By the time the slaughter had been figured out, it was too late; a few infidels who had survived the first attack raised the alarm, though none of their comrades could hear it from their death sleeps. The cattle swarmed from their homes and huts, grabbing what they could before running to the streets, praying to escape with their lives. Screams of young ones lured the second generation of beings forged from the spire, vicious four legged wolves, skin peeled back with vertebrae exposed. The Vor'sk, as they were called, raced into the streets to find the screaming, drawn to it like so many other predators who stalk the young as prey. Two-story beasts lumbered from the center of town, built from the denticulate black stone of the monolith-spire and seemingly dead flesh, these tormented souls walked through homes as though they were walking through waves on the beach.

As Maxim's primary started to burn bright in the sky, the very last of the monolith-spire had been exposed, like a black dagger striking out toward the sun. The apex of the dagger burst open to disgorge flying beasts, with wings like insects and convolute razor-thin claws with which they struck at the peasantry. Their faces were covered with the look of anguish and the ferment of hate. These horrid forms crashed through the night, stealing man, woman, and child alike, flying to the heights of the still standing buildings, siphoning them of their blood and wrapping their empty carcasses in sacks, for later meals. Within hours, as the sun came into full view, the first hives had been completed, stocked full of fresh food for the broodlings.

Far outside the city, atop a small cliff overlooking the once serene sight, he watched. He was wearing the chitinous armor of his brood, his face covered in the skull of some otherworldly beast. Furs draped from his taut frame and cascaded down his stalwart body. His name before this time had been many things, "slave", "killer", and even "thief", though he doubted the efficacy of those names. His proselytes below had come to call him the Executor, which he believed suited him much better, giving him an air of distinctiveness.

"Ol uriu tlus xunor, Executor" the attendant spoke as he approached upon a winged beast with six legs and the body of an armored horse. Jumping from the beast and then waving it off, the unarmored being fell immediately to one knee, head bowed low with neck exposed, the proper greeting for someone of the Executor's status.

The Executor did not elucidate any reaction to the attendant.

"Forgive my forgetfulness, Executor, it will not happen again." the attendant repented to the hooded Executor, "I will speak in the infidel's tongue as you had ordered."

The Executor scanned the carnage that was Palos, a lone man, no older than a squire climbed from the roof hatch of one of the various burning or smoking buildings carrying what seemed to be a musical instrument. Hot on his tail were two of the warriors the Executor had personally commissioned to assist him in this critical undertaking. Both were brandishing the taken weapons of the infidel, a hammer of prodigious proportions and what seemed to be a scythe, most likely stolen from the corpse of a farmer.

The young infidel began to strum his contraption, most likely celebrating his death with a psalm to his dead god. The Executor almost turned away from the scene, but a flash of movement caught his eye, one of the two warriors slammed the hammer into the midsection of the other, knocking the wind out of him and seemingly ignoring the boy completely. The Executor watched in fascination as the boy continued to sing his blasphemous song as the two warriors began to battle. A quick turn on a heel caught the hammer wielding warrior off balance and sent him to the ground in a stunning round house kick, the scythe maneuvered through the morning sunlight with all deliberate speed, truncating the hammer warrior through the midsection. A few twitches of the foot and his lifeblood had left him, abandoning just the singing boy and the scythe warrior.

The warrior for a long moment just stood there, as though mesmerized by the singing of the boy. Then the boy let out a yelp as the warrior stepped forward dropping the scythe with a vicious howl. Grabbing the infidel's contraption with one hand, crushing it, and the retreating boy's hair by the other, the warrior turned to face the Executor. Holding the boy by the hair and echoing another howl at the recognition of his commander, he kicked out the boy's knees so that he was prostrate on the ground. Reaching to his right side he brandished a dagger, the young boy's face pale with the knowledge that his death was coming. The blade cut down across the infidel neck, blood seeping out of the wound almost immediately. He held the child there, almost like a father, as he waited for the shaking and shivering to end in the infidel's cold and pale body. When the boy had stopped his death seizure, the warrior set him down placing his head down, knees wrapped below the body, and arms crisscrossed beneath the chest in the sign of respect to the warrior gods and their brave soldiers.

"He sees something I do not, Valier." the Executor said.

Not surprised by his long pause before speaking, the attendant acknowledged the Executors answer and use of his actual name, yet said nothing before being asked.

"Perhaps he felt the infidel deserved more than just death. Maybe he was a tougher opponent for the warrior." the Executor concluded.

Valier knew better than to be goaded into this word trap the Executor employed. He would fish for an answer so that the attendant would answer incorrectly, thereby granting the Executor the opportunity to engage in Shin'ra or ritual killing.

"You are very good at these games Valier, please though tell me what it is you are thinking." the Executor allowed a tight smile creep out from under his mask, still looking away from Valier.

Valier nodded and bowed deeply, "Perhaps the boy had the Power of the Ancients, Eminence."

The Executor's expression disappeared, "Have his body investigated, his contraption, that instrument examined as well."

"Yes Eminence. Immediately, I will obey." Valier replied and turned to leave the Executor to his examination of the closing battle.

Impossible, the Executor thought to himself, a boy could never harness the Powers of the Ancients. We must investigate this further, there is much more conflict due in the coming days, we must know these people's strength. The very notion of the Power almost corrupting the great victory the Maelstrom had claimed this day.

[Nil Spaar]

The Shapers had finished the last of purification rites the Kin’Kaan considered mandatory when temples of false gods were taken from the infidels. Nil Spaar, Executor of the Kin’Kaan Praetorian Legions walked carefully over the charred and broken pieces of glass and woodwork that was haphazardly scattered across the floor of the once intact temple.

Nil Spaar was not a large man, but his size belied the strapping musculature of someone twice his size and weight, his face covered by the ivory remains of an otherworldly skull, its horns still pronounced upon the skull even after death. Nil Spaar strode confidently across the unholy place to a place near the altar where a being clad in what looked like a living cloak stood, intent upon the subject before it.

“You honor me through sacrifice Esal Volant?” the Executor said with a hint of questioned in his voice.

The being stopped his work on the frail old man before him and turned slowly towards the Executor, his tortured face covered by the shadows created from his hooded cloak, a golak cloak as it was called in the Kin’Kaan language. The creature mimicked the movements of a normal cloak perfectly, but through subtle muscle contractions it could harden points in its skin to protect the wearer, much like the blood armor Nil Spaar wore now.

“Executor, I am pleased you have come.” The hissing forming into words as he spoke.

Nil Spaar slowly advanced upon the Shaper and his sacrifice, realizing upon coming closer to the altar that the old man upon it was not dead, but instead being infused with Shaper organic devices. “You regard this one as valuable?”

Esal’s head returned to the preparation of the body, the hole in the man’s side serving as the entry point for the tentacled organism within his hand. “He just may. To know if our children will be compatible with the biological components of the infidels will be crucial to our success during this campaign.”

The Executor smiled as the tentacles picked up the scent of blood, drawn by pure instinct towards the gap opened by the Shaper between the man’s ribs. As the octopus-like creature slithered into the exposed wound on the old man, his eyes darted open, his mouth inexplicably thrust open as though he was wailing in pain, yet no one could hear him. Within seconds, the man collapsed to the altar, white foam exuding from the corners of his mouth.

“Prognosis?” Executor Nil Spaar said watching the wound heal almost instantly as the creature took control of the old man’s organs and brain stem.

The Shaper’s eyes glinted in the cracked sunlight that broke through the stained glass of the temple, his face horribly contorted and disfigured by years of sacrifice and ritual scaring. Esal slowly waved his hand up and down the old man’s body, just inches from touching it, “The child is growing faster than expected, it is instructed to leave the subject’s mind intact so that we may glean what information it has stored.”

Nil Spaar nodded, “You will alert the Masq of your findings immediately upon the patient's awakening." Pausing for a moment, Nil Spaar waited for the expected reaction of suprise by the Shaper. It was not common for one of his stature to deal with a lowly caste such as the Masq. "I want the Masq apprised of everything, Shaper, or it will be your sickly head that my warriors will deliver to the Ancients.”

“I do as you command, Executor.” The shadowy figure hissed back.

[Valier]

Colonization was a hard thing. It took decades of building and trailblazing as well as movement of thousands of pioneers and settlers, all for the promise of new lives and wealth beyond imagination. It had been the subject of countless years of debate between the warrior and shaper castes as to the proper way the Kin’Kaan could reinstate their once hallowed empire, yet even now Nil Spaar was happy the warrior caste got what they had desired; war.

Palos was nearing completion; those caught and trapped like animals after the initial raid were now in their pens, infidel crammed near infidel, their foul stench soon rising towards the horizon. The Haemonucli had been sent from the shaper spires that had risen from the ground to scout the area around Palos before intruders could report word of what happened here at Palos.

Valier was near the window of the once lively tavern, his gaze set upon the infidel that worked tirelessly to rebuild what the Kin’Kaan had destroyed in their assault. He truly was impressed at how easily the shaper organisms had adapted themselves to the infidel’s bodies, transforming the once weak and thoughtless creations into something better, something more apart of the Kin’Kaan way of life. “What do our scouts say about the surrounding areas?” Valier regarded the mucus covered brain near the back corner of the bar. It throbbed gently, revealing to Valier in a kind of telepathic image what he wished to divine. He saw through all the eyes of his scouts at once, each finding areas of population and concern for the new arrivals to this world.

“Thank you Magistrate, your assistance in this matter will not be forgotten. Shall I send more sacrifices for your deputizing?” Valier said with a smile.

The oversized brain hummed its pleasure at the idea of dominating another living mind once again. Valier only nodded and bowed deeply to the Magistrate. “Very well, I will gather only the best of the crop; the infidels will be purified with your very thoughts.” With that Valier left to return the information to his Executor

[Typhon]

Typhon hated the warmth of this area; it was not like his homeland had been. Down below there was not sunlight to beat on his face and body, there had not been cries of children as the Vor’sk ripped at their flesh. He did not like the fact his people had come to this world, he did not like Executor Nil Spaar. Typhon watched as another stream of infidels were moved past him towards the old church, there the group would be separated by weight, height, muscle structure, gender, and if the Shapers sensed the Power within them.

It was simple from there, those who possessed no value to the warrior caste would be handed down to the shapers and then to the Masq, after which, if intellect survived from the amount, the Cadith would most likely recruit them as pages and scholars. So it had been for centuries before that, simple and clean, something Typhon respected and loved about his people. Though Nil Spaar still stood as a thorn in his side, he was not of the Kin’Kaan, yet the Ancients deemed his best to lead them into battle. Had the Ancients chosen another, it was of Typhon’s belief that this war would not be happening, instead a peaceful accord may have been reached with the people of Palos or even the surrounding area.

“Don’t forget to have the hunsplith clean your armor for tomorrow. We must be ready for battle at a moment’s notice.” the other warrior said to the group who were reclining in the abandoned warehouse their cadre had been stationed.

“We continuing this campaign or are we going back to the subterrestrial?” another said as he removed a hunsplith from a pouch of flesh in his leg.

The first warrior looked about and then shook his head, “There have been reports that a much larger force existed just over the mountain range to the north. We are going to probably be going there; the gods know how much the Executor wishes to test his mettle against the infidel.”

The second warrior smiled a wry grin and leaned back to get some sleep, “Then the infidel shall taste our blades tomorrow.”

As the first warrior began to sleep, Typhon realized a thought had entered his mind, one not of his choosing, one that added dire consequences to the fight tomorrow, What if we do not win.

[Palleon]

The Lady Luck, an irksome little tavern just a hundred miles north of Palos was the entertainment center for many of the local merchants, militia, and even regulars from the nearby city of Truer. Truer was a nice town, larger than the capitol city of Palos, but only by a scant five thousand. It was never definitive if those five thousand were just travelers entering and leaving the city or if they had been actual residents at one time.

Palleon was here on business though, persons to pay and many to speak with still. He hated being in this place, not for the same reasons some of the other patrons quoted regularly to him like the smell, the degenerate mess that seemed to live here, or even the quality of the whores. Indeed these things were all terrible, Palleon had to agree, but he hated it because it was cursed. Cursed by the very gods that had sent him here themselves. Palleon was wearing his masq cloak, which allowed him to remain within the shadows just a bit more, not that it mattered right now. His shapeshifting abilities made him out to be more of a human than anything else, which in this area, was more than helpful.

The man who had just entered the bar was the one whom Palleon had come here to gather information from. His name was Zeek, he was not intelligent, he was not material for the Kin’Kaan Praetorian Legions, yet he did have a lot of information that would prove useful to the Praetorian on the morrow with their strike. Palleon waved him towards the back table, sitting comfortably with his back to the wall. Some patrons seemed to think that it was still necessary to practice obsolescent methods of ‘watching one’s back’ though the masq cloak allowed for more subtle means of alerting to threats.

Zeek nodded and came to rest at the chair in front of Palleon, “My god I hate this tavern, it smells like horse piss.”

Palleon kept himself from stifling a laugh, these infidels all behave the same, which made him even happier to be the genesis of their collapse, “Yes it does have a particular odor that really gets to the sinus after a bit, but you get used to it. Do you have the information I asked of you?”

Zeek turned and looked around, then reached into his pouch and unconcealed a scroll case with scroll in it. Palleon reached for it only to have it taken from his grasp by a smiling Zeek, teeth missing in his already cracked face, “No, not ‘til I get my money bud.”

Palleon nodded and threw Zeek the coin bag, which fell with a nice rattling of coins onto the table, “The scroll.”

Zeek handed him the scroll and took the money, “Thanks, now you ain’t never seen me and I ain’t never seen you. You got me?”

Palleon nodded, “Professional courtesy of course. Your identity will be kept a secret.”

_________________
Masq - Maelstrom

[Nil Spaar]

Nil Spaar stared fondly at the gnull, a creature capable of relaying images across great distances by producing a spray of spores that when hit with the right amount of light, could project the image that the other gnull, the other part of the mated pair, was seeing at that moment. In the same way, the gnull upon the other side would also project the image its mate was seeing from the telepathic connection created between the two at birth, thus creating a perfect form of communication for battlefield correspondents and minor city rulers. It was one of the facets of Kin’Kaan technology that allowed them to ignore the archaic Power the Ancients heavily relied upon.

The masq that shimmered in the hazy spore cloud bowed deeply, “Executor Nil Spaar, I am honored by this meeting.”

”Continue operative, what has your contact produced?” Nil Spaar spat, his voice remaining even and cold towards the disgraceful spy.

There was a momentary shudder that revealed the spy’s frustration at having to deal with one of the warrior caste, “My lord, I am pleased to announce that the entirety of the northern defense forces will be visiting Truer within the coming day.”

Nil Spaar paced back to his seat at the granite table behind him, “Excellent, did you receive numbers from your informant?”

”Yes your Eminence, thirty thousand strong.” the masq said with obvious satisfaction.

Nil Spaar sprang to his feet, his temper beginning to boil, “Good, make your preparations, contact our other cells there, tell them the time of the infidel has ended. We will arrive in the morning, during their parades. Make them weak for our arrival agent!”

The figure began his deep bow, “I obey your command.”

Nil Spaar hit the deactivation node on top of the gnull. The spores fell from the air and the lightshow ended. Stroking the gnull again, he whispered softly into its audio receptor, “Find me Valier.”

[Valier]

Valier was not shocked to receive the call from his gnull, he knew that using the creature outside would attract unwanted attention, so he made his way past the troops preparing for battle in the square and entered a small house that had been cleared for the use of slave labor, looking to the attendant he smiled, “Allow me a room for my use.”

The attendant was one of the flying beasts the Kin’Kaan had brought with them to the Takrin Gre'as'anto during the invasion. It stared for a moment as it debated what it was being told. Valier leaned forward into the multi-eyed face, “Room. Now!”

The wings flittered and it became airborne, it pointed with its razor-like claw to the stairway leading up. Climbing the stairs, Valier regarded the aberration that had become this place’s innkeeper, sickly thoughts of what happened to the original residents. Within a few steps he had reached the open room, he entered the room quickly and shut the door. From his flesh pouch on his right leg he produced the gnull. Stroking it ever so gently he gave it the authorization it needed to open the communication channels, “My Lord Executor, you have summoned me.”

The image of the Executor sprang to life in the air before the now kneeling Valier, “Valier, how goes things in this city?”

Valier was taken back by the question, he was being given much more power than he had before, “It is calm here my lord, soldiers have sec …”

The Executor cut him off, “No! Not tactical reports, have you found any instance of the Power by which we can study and learn from it?”

Valier knelt lower, “No, Eminence.”

Nil Spaar visibly sighed, “Very well, go to the Shaper in the temple, his name is Esal. Ensure that his work with the slave goes well, we must be ready to infect the infidels with our children before we leave for Truer.”

”I obey master.” Valier pronounced with an even deeper bow, showing his subservience to the Executor through his use of the word “master”.

“I have no doubt you will Valier.” The message dissolved quickly after his last comment, leaving Valier upon the ground, contemplating his next move.

[Esal Volant]

He had almost finished the last of the applications of skin grafting to the human. Baleful tentacles of ebon soot trailed up the old man’s arm. His jaw had been reset to make room for the sharp incisors that now protruded from his upper gums. The left eye remained as it had been; though the right now bore a black ocular implant that allowed ranged tracking of the host when the control gnull was activated. Esal swung the man over to inspect his work on the chitinous armor he had grafted upon the man’s backbone, his words exhaled at the sheer beauty of the pearl effect the bone armor created upon the subject, “Perfect.”

“Are you sure it will be able to survive the grafting and begin reproduction?” the weakling attendant, Valier, asked.

“I am sure that I will be able to control him, whether or not he will mate is still up to him.” Esal snorted.

The attendant watched closely as Esal stroked the gnull, activating his telepathic link with the creature. At the same time his subject, the neo-humanoid, awoke as well, rising immediately upon its haunches. It was at this instant that Esal was seeing two worlds, one being the ugly, depraved one his shaping knowledge and spells would help change, and the beauty of the shaped thoughts. The gnull gave him the full telepathic bond that allowed him to wield the human slave as though he was wielding a weapon. Though he could tone down the levels of interaction or raise them to take his full consciousness into that of the human half-breed, together the master and slave spoke, “You can tell the Executor, that if gives me two days I can create about ten of these specimens for his little plan in Truer.”

”How would you know about that shaper?” Valier said casually.

“We shapers are not without our methods warrior, plus the warriors about town have loose lips.” the melody of perfect unison explained.

Valier seemed to take note of the shaper’s observance of respect when Esal spoke to him, “I will inform the Executor of my findings here. Now tell me, can you make these things more … subtle.”

Esal grinned heavily, his voice and the slave’s voice creating a harmonious melody as they spoke in unison, “Yes my young attendant, I can do that much easier.”

The neo-human chuckling along with his master, either out of humor for his master’s joke, or because of the symbiotic link due to the controller gnull.

[Typhon]

The dirt tasted superb in his mouth, causing his glands to fabricate a milky substance as saliva and the earth produced a mud. He did not enjoy this feeling of being gagged as he lay in the damp ground, but he endured it a moment longer, for his mission was about to begin. Over the crest of the hill he hid behind, four armed sentries patrolled the gate to the city of Truer, their silver helms shining in the setting sun. The forest surrounding Truer had been silently filled with Kin’Kaan warriors as well as the proto-humans the shapers had created for the glorious battle about to begin.

Typhon took another deep breath and looked back over the cusp of the hill, the sentries were about to move again, he had timed them carefully so as to be ready for when the Kin’Kaan began their assault. It was important that the sentries not be able alert the interior regiments before the ground forces had begun their assault. The slave troops would come in last and be used to secure buildings, while the warriors would combat the nearly five thousand man military, not a true challenge, but enough for the Executor to make a handsome reputation if all went according to plan.

Typhon’s gnull began to hum, he stuck the organism to his ear, allowing the tentacles balled within its belly to unlatch into his ear canal and down into his mind. Since gnull were telepathic, it had been learned that they could transmit impressions and even thoughts when connected to another being. The draw back of course was the significant chance that brain damage may occur during the telepathic bonding. Typhon and others of the warrior caste had understood this and acknowledged the responsibility, coming to the conclusion that need for victory was much more important than the weight of one warrior’s life.

The gnull’s impressions became his own, the voice echoing slowly in his head, “Warrior, begin your attack.”

With a thought, Typhon replied, “As you wish Executor.”

Typhon reached past his blood armor and grabbed at his flesh pouch, neatly hidden beneath the skin on his thigh, he pulled from it a small wrapped ball of weeds. The shapers had been careful to wrap the ball in goresh-wire vine before sealing its deadly contents. Palming the small explosive, Typhon arched his arm and let loose the ball, which upon hitting solid ground, unraveled into what seemed to be vines of some sort, horribly twisting and thrashing as they began to grow uncontrolled.

The tangler vine dove beneath the ground, the sentries still unaware by sheer luck. Sucking on the surface world’s vital nutrients it grew quickly, vines racing towards the smell of fresh meat. The first man had it grab his throat in a powerful vice, known to crush rocks in the deep subterrestrial. His compatriot was luckier, drawing his weapon he chopped off a large vine that swung for him, only to fall into another. The mass of vines began to wilt almost immediately from the breaking sunlight, the mightiest of its weaknesses.

“Ko chan sind’le la CHAA, Kin’Kaan!” Typhon howled as he and five others of his reconnaissance team charged over the hill. The ranged warrior let loose his curved and serrated Vorsha blade, its metal whirlwind of motion slicing the human warrior in the tower.

Typhon stared at the man now turning to him, he grunted as he withdrew his Vorsha blade. The human likewise withdrew his sword and threw off his helmet, pacing slowly to his left. Typhon did the same, moving to his right, circling with the human. He watched for the change of footing that would indicate a jolt forward and raised his blade in a position to strike at the man’s heart when he came at him. The man did change his footing, quickly and threw the blade at the bell in the watch tower, Typhon having only enough time to make a strike at the back of his neck, sheering his head from his shoulders and giving Typhon an uninterrupted vantage point to see the striking of the alarm, its murderous gong resounding throughout the quiet city.

This did not bode well for the Kin’Kaan.

[Nil Spaar]

The embarrassment of their failure would have been well known throughout the Kin’Kaan society still basking in the revels of subterrestrial life, if it had not been for Nil Spaar’s quick judgments on the battlefield that day. For the five thousand opponents he had brought significant numbers of his warriors to bear on their main combat area, the promenade and the keep. His Vor’sk handlers and masq saboteurs had made short work of the patrol regiments within the alleys and causeways that linked the main square and the promenade together.

The shapers had been correct though, this the Executor was certain of, the neo-humans preformed beautifully, rushing headlong into violence and carnage without a single worry but the idea of failing their master’s call to push them along their paths towards sacrifice and honor amongst the Kin’Kaan. Master Shapers controlled single units of neo-humans with such accuracy that it almost seemed that master and slave were one. The slave troops moved into ambushes and tactically unsecured areas to trip defenses and even kill visible leaders of the resistance forces before warriors from Nil Spaar’s personal cadre made their way into the bloody zones of combat.

“It was to be expected my liege.” Nil Spaar said quietly to his gnull, it’s simple spore-reflection technique, turned off to protect the identity of the one on the other end of the message.

“Expecting disaster is the first stage towards failure, Executor. I did not have you promoted through Kin’Kaan ranks just to make me look like a fool. You are powerful, this we know, though your strategy could use some assistance. Tell me of this failure, Typhon.” the other voice said with an almost uncaring lack of urgency.

“Typhon was the warrior who let slip the alarm, his troop was almost completely wiped out during the first wave of the attack, yet he pressed on. If it hadn’t been him at the promenade when the three infidel battalions converged on us, we would still be fighting there now. His leadership and drive to cleanse his mark of failure is a testament to us all.” Executor Nil Spaar said from gritted teeth.

The voice made a slight grumbling noise on the other side of the gnull, “I see, though he will be executed I take it?”

The Executor paused for but a second, enough for his dissatisfaction to be made known to his liege, “It has already been ordered, your Excellence.”

“Excellent, Nil Spaar, your time is being well served there on the surface world even though the Ancient’s quest and my quest are two wholly different visions of the Kin’Kaani future. I will leave you now, expect a gift from me to arrive within the next few days, it should put you back on course quite quickly and without much resistance from the other infidel states about you.” the voice began to hum a bit as the gnull was stroked.

Nil Spaar still kept his head bent low, “Thank you, Supreme Chancellor.”

[Reylan]

Reylan stroked the gnull softly, his smile thinning upon the ending of the conversation with the Executor. Across from him sat a very old man, his face haggard and wrinkled from age, “Your thoughts?”

The old man sighed, “They are rough and callous towards our ways. It is no doubt that the inhabitants of Truer and Palos are dead, mutilated, or sacrificed to their foolish underworld gods.”

Reylan stood from his chair, taking a seat upon the corner of the desk, “They are a useful tool though, I thought it would be impossible to tame them, but it is coming along nicely, especially thanks to your intervention.”

”It was nothing, old friend.” the old man chuckled. “Who knew they could be so easily manipulated by the simple use of magic like my own.”

Reylan grabbed his flagon, “To our continued victory and the victory of our allies as well!”

The old man and Reylan took deep sips from the aired wine within the flagons, each emblazoned with a silver hurricane upon them. Reylan offered the old man more of the wine when two men wearing black leather tunics and pants entered the room, their necks buttoned tight and their heads masked by tarps. Reylan nodded to them as the old man looked around to them slightly.

“What is the meaning of this …” the old man stuttered as his heart began to contract and sputter.

Reylan smiled as he pushed the old man to the floor, his grin widening as he looked him in the eye, teeth gritting as he spoke, “You are my only liability Tenris, the only problem that lies in my way of taking Maxim for my own and for Isonia. The Kin’Kaan will do my bidding now, not your moronic errands of enlightenment. Know that your sacrifice will restore my family to power here on Maxim.”

Waving with gloved hand, Reylan requested the service of his men, “Take him to where they won’t find him. Make sure he lives the last moments of his life where he cannot be bothered.”

[Typhon]

Typhon stood tall, resolute, and unafraid of what was to come now. His left eye cut from the last vestiges of battle, his nose broken in several places, the ichor that ran from it now long dried and crusted over his upper and lower lip and down his chin. The man before him was his Executor, the chief liaison between the world Typhon had left and the armies known as the Praetorian Legions. Though his failure in this battle had not been severe enough to warrant execution, he knew he was being made an example of for the rest of the warriors. Lax attitudes and even the feelings of superiority were not something the Executor was willing to allow while upon this most holy campaign.

The bonds that held his arms together had been released, for the warriors knew he would not stray from them, instead that he would succumb willingly to decision of the Executor. The Executor was carrying a box made of hardened wood and latched with a vine-lock. He placed the box before him for Typhon to take and take is exactly what Typhon did.

The Executor looked back upon the warriors and slaves standing in shushed silence of the condemned warrior, “Your failure, Typhon Torin B’kar, is a failure upon this legion, upon this race, and upon your own flesh. You have accepted the fate of death; now succumb to its embrace here to preserve your country’s honor.”

Typhon turned the box toward him, unlatching it as he did. Upon opening it, he was amazed to see a crude knife and a bubbling mound of flesh he recognized as a spurgort. The flesh ball had many tentacles, its membranes poisonous. The knife was of medium size, used in ritual cuttings and ceremonies much like this. Drawing the knife, Typhon dug it deep into the spurgort and allowed the blood to cover the entire knife.

Dropping the box, Typhon raised his knife to the sky, his eyes tearing as he did, “I am Kin’Kaan, I am of the Warrior Caste, I ask freely to cleanse myself of these deeds and to wipe clean the horrible failures of my design! Forgive Executor, forgive my family, and forgive me warriors of strength and integrity.”

Slowly, those watching the spectacle of the warrior caste turned away, their backs towards the lone teary eyed warrior. They said nothing and did nothing, but turn their backs to him, the slaves still watching intently, though not bothersome in anyway. With a quick move of his wrist, Typhon plunged the crude knife into his chest, slicing quickly with precision to his heart, the sounds of tearing flesh and moving bones sickening in his ears. In his last moments before the blade pierced his heart he remembered his thoughts from the day earlier and cried out.

His voice cracking with the choking blood and the pain of knowing the truth, the Kin’Kaan would not win this war, they would loose just as surely as Typhon would now die. And die Typhon Torin B’kar, warrior of the Praetorian Legions did.

[Nil Spaar]

As the last scream of intense anguish dripped from Typhon, he waited until he could see the pool of blood trail out of the lifeless husk that had been his body. It was a shame that such a noble and proper warrior must die to salvage the good graces of their Emissary. An Emissary appointed by the Ancients to task the Kin’Kaan with enlightment and targets which needed to be removed for their day to come again here on Maxim.

“Pa’dim faruk jelu.” Take his body home, Nil Spaar said in native Kin’Kaan.

The others of the crowd watched as the body was ritualistically held above the heads and shoulders of those carrying him, his entrails, a tangled mess, rested over the side of the gash in his thorax. Valier approached Nil Spaar as the last of the procession was leaving the square, “Your Eminence, we have word from our scouts just due north that invaders have breached the perimeter you set. You orders?”

Nil Spaar’s thin lips parted to create a carefree smile, “How many of these invaders are there?”

Valier nodded, “Ten at the most, we have vor’sk tracking them through the forests.”

“Good, bring them to me alive, if possible. If not, make sure they are sent home after they are sacrificed to our gods.” Nil Spaar said.

Valier smiled, “As you wish my liege.”

[Reylan]

“This is horrible!” Reylan spat, the ever resilient aid lowering his eyes to the ground beneath his feet. Reylan kicked back a bit and put his reading glasses down upon the oak desk, interlacing his fingers in front of his mouth and resting his elbows on the hard oak surface.

Reylan waived the messenger off, “Leave. I have other business to attend to.”

The messenger bowed slightly and made his way to the door, careful not to slam it in his haste. After a few moments Reylan retrieved the sack-like lump of flesh from his desk drawer and the key to his office. Quickly, he sealed the door so that others would not be privy to what he was about to do. With the gentle hand of mother, Reylan stroked the gnull to life, his mind slightly being probed as it sought out its brother gnull, “Executor Spaar.”

The spores held themselves in place as they burst from the sack, green light conveying the image of the masked leader of the Kin’Kaan warriors, “Yes, Chancellor?” the image said inquisitively.

“You have captured scouts, do you not?” Reylan said evenly, trying desperately not to reveal his haste in this unsecured transmission.

The figure nodded, a visible sign of tension upon his broad shoulders, he was not going to take this well, “They are unharmed, we are preparing to sacrifice them for the glory of the Kin’Kaan.”

”Return them at once, those are Chan’ti scouts you have in your possession, to ‘sacrifice’ them would be considered an act of war, Executor.” Reylan said as slowly as possible to accentuate the gravity of what this situation presented.

Executor Nil Spaar took a few moments to respond, obviously thinking what it would mean, “That was precisely what I had planned to do, Chancellor. I had planned to start a war.”

The Executor’s stress was evident through the communication, he had to act quickly “Executor, please, if our alliance is to continue as planned, we must have trust in each other. At one point in time, the Church of Foret as well as those within Chan’ti will need to be able to consider you allies on the field of battle, taking this measure will only further embolden them against us. We must have peace with the guilds, otherwise the singular nations will eradicate your threat before you even have the chance to evolve to the next phase of the plan.”

After a few moments of deliberation the Executor gave his reply, “I warn you Reylan Talonspyre, continue to interfere in my plans for war and how I command the Kin’Kaan, and you will feel my wrath as well.”

Abruptly the communication channel closed, leaving Reylan in his office staring at the small gnull on the table, his thoughts running miles a minute, his mouth only forming the words he had intended to say minutes earlier, “Good day, Executor.”

[Reylan]

It had been one full year since that date. The foul stench of Palos had been washed away in the cleansing swells of fire that only the god of law and righteousness, Foret, could have wrought upon the forsaken Kin'kaan and their flesh weavers. It could only have been that divinely righteous prick that brought hell to bear upon Reylan’s only hope for reckoning. Oh how he wished for revenge while he plotted day and night, cursing Foret’s name under his breath and swearing vile oaths to the cursed agents of Chaos and War.

Finally though, his faith was restored. The gnull he had been asked to keep within his desk had activated a week ago. A cloaked figure asked for a meeting in Greenheart with the ageless heir to the Talonspyre crest, a medium sized town filled with humans, elves, and squat dwarves Greenheart was your atypical place of business. The request had been quite clear, not to mention the only communication Reylan had received from any Kin’kaan in over a year. Reylan turned around a dark alleyway and found the wooden doorway with the small slit in the top and etching that proclaimed this place the “Ten Torches Theater”. Reylan wrapped three times upon the slightly dilapidated door. The top slit slid open almost instantly, startling the jumpy Talonspyre, “Whadda want?”

Reylan cleared his throat and regained his composure, “I am here to see the show.”

The gruff looking pair of eyes blinked a few times and looked over the dashing looking human, “Yeah, what’s da password, grog?”

“For king and country, I shall bear no regret.” Reylan repeated flawlessly, as his contact had told him in his message.

The top slit slammed closed and for a few moments Reylan thought twice about how flawless he had been in his recitation of the password. Then with the churning of locks and gears, the small wooden door opened and a savage looking orc that appeared to own the set of eyes Reylan had been just talking too, ushered the shorter human inside. Reylan lowered his cloak and began through the maze of hallways until he reached the main chamber. Men, dwarves, elves, orcs, hobgoblins, bugbears, and even some unmentionables were all about the room, sitting at makeshift tables with mugs of ale or mead in one hand and turkey legs or daggers in the other. The place was just what Reylan had hoped it not to be.

A hand grasped Reylan by the shoulder and a gravelly voice hissed in his ear, “Chancellor.”

Reylan did not move, he recognized the voice alright, but he was unsure he wanted to turn around.

“I didn’t think you would come, but again I have miscalculated your cowardice.” The voice said with half of a chuckle.

Without thinking, Reylan turned to counter that incredulous remark and found himself face to face with a burnt and scarred face. At once, he realized who it was he had been speaking with, and at once he found himself lacking the words to express his disappointment, “Executor …”