Turn Twelve: Endgame
Time of the Warring States
Fall of 2533, Third Year of the Great War

"The stag bells, winter snows, summer has gone
Wind high and cold, the sun low, short its course
The seas running high.
Deep red the bracken; its shape is lost;
The wild grouse has raised its accustomed cry,
Cold has seized the birds' wings;
Season of ice, this is my fate."
----ancient Nipponese poem


The Hinterlands: Southern Cathay

As the Wood Elves watched from a distance, they considered the results of their efforts. Wanting to strike a blow that the greenskins would not soon forget, a party of Waywatchers had journeyed in secret deep into the Hinterlands, to the heart of that evil empire, the Deep Gloam! A barrage of blessed flaming arrows filled the air at dawn as the enchanted weapons burst into flame while in flight, falling with pinpoint accuracy into the midst of the Deep Gloam. The ruined city of the Hinterland Goblins soon began to burn with purifying flames, the flammable webbings of the massive spider nests serving as a lifeline for the rapidly spreading blaze. Crimson vengeance ran along the silken strands, each web connecting itself to a myriad others, serving as conduits to thousands of other webs, which in turn served to link thousands of more. Soon the screams of Goblin and spider alike erupted into the still morning air, the huge arachnids crisping in their webs as the flames burned brighter and higher, a roaring inferno burst into life as the ancient webs of the evil city caught fire as well, the drained husks of countless victims serving as further kindling!

As the city began to consume its self in cleansing flame, the warband withdrew back into the jungle, each Elf moving like a silent shadow that was swallowed up by the dark jungles. Silent hand signals between the group enabling each one to know and follow the movement of their kin, the burning city was soon left far behind…

Lan-Sheng: Southern Cathay, Outcast Armycamp

Mathis Kane strode the ranks of the Outcast army, noting with pleasure the ragtag companies of Lan-Sheng Volunteers standing shield to shield with the glittering ranks of Outcast infantry and knights, banners whipping in the fierce wind, horses pawing the frozen ground. The downtrodden people of Lan-Sheng had embraced the fiery Kane as their leader, a beacon in the dark absence of the light of the Emperor, for he appeared at time that they needed most. All had drilled for weeks to prepare for war, and the militia forces of the Outcasts were as solid a fighting force as any normal military man, and marched in defense of their honor and their homes. Kane smiled to himself as he saw one of the Volunteers lose his composure, his fellow soldiers supporting him and keeping him firm in the face of the coming battle. They would do well.

All to soon the generals issued the orders to advance, trumpets sounded and as one the army marched forth, the mile eating stride of the infantryman rapidly covering the miles as the Children of Alexander moved into the ruined valleys of Lan-Sheng, a force of Knights and mounted archers breaking ranks to resume their march north to the Forbidden City, while the remaining forces advanced towards the approaching Orc horde. The forces of the Outcasts, grim and determined, were fighting for their lives and each man and woman knew this. The greenskins continued to pillage the lands of southern Cathay and threatened the stability of the newly formed realm of Alexander. Pride soon took over these bleak thoughts and the ranks broke into song:

“Hold the fort, we are coming,
Alexander signals still
Wave the answer back to heaven,
By his grace we will.
Shields high, do we die
Spears forth into enemy chest
Our anger and courage
Are up to the test!”

Lan-Sheng: Southern Cathay, Ghost Fang Armycamp

Webweeva pawed the frozen ground with its massive clawed feet, the gigantic spider struggling to control its bloodlust. The immense leader of the Orc & Goblin army, known to the human armies simply as Ghost Fang, pushed hard on the spurs hooked onto his feet, causing the cruel barbed hooks to dig further into the arachnids pale flesh, the beast roaring in rage as it smashed its foot down on a hapless Wolf Rider! Thunderous laughter erupted from the unruly ranks of the greenskin army at the sight of the flattened Gobbo, the beating of drums increasing in intensity as the shamans moved among the ranks of monsters, siphoning the barely contained energies from the assembled horde, their eyes glowing an unearthly green as their frail bodies pulsed with power.

Raising an enormous spear above his feathered head, Ghost Fang looked back to his horde and pointed its metal tip in the direction of the approaching army of humans. Sunlight glinted off of his speartip, numerous shrunken heads adorning the shaft, enemies that the Warboss had purged during the war. Digging his spurs once more into the sides of his mount, Ghost Fang began to lumber down the hillside, as a veritable swarm of giant spiders following in his wake, remaining infantry and mounts surging forward in uneven mobs, many of them grinding to a halt as squabbles broke out, old scores needing to be worked out before the humans could be dealt with! The air was soon filled with the off key song of the Orcish army:

“Ere we go, ‘ere we go, pulping Stunties as we go,
Smashin’ men, bustin’ ‘eadz,
Kausin’ Panziez ter wet der bedz!
Runz yose Gitz, runz ‘an hidez,
De Orc’s iz comin ta gouge yer eyez!
Hur, hur, hur!”

Zhong-Sheng, Northern Cathay

The wind blew a cold chill over Cathay, the dreary and miserable days to set in. The sun shrouded by grey clouds, in a lethargic stillness that underlay the numb melancholy of the land. Hope it seemed, had dissolved away with the last pangs of autumn’s meager warmth. There was an impending doom about it all, yet as with all things in Cathay, there was a simplistic and ordered beauty to it. A calm shattered by the sound of heavy shod hooves pounding into the hard ground of the lanes, and stone of the roads.

Most looked up from their silent repose to regard the sound, a simple act undertaken in apathy but from the basic instinct to know from whence it came. They watched from the roadsides, from the fields, from the streets, others still from afar. They had watched the as the armies rode with indifference, for armies had ever marched and ridden and retreated and attacked and pillaged and protected this land for years now. It was the time of the wars, but the passing of these soldiers held in them a strange stirring of fate, that it may be the last that should pass before the end.

One man stood upon the road, an old man long battered by age and more still by what he did during those years. His walking stick was held in both hands as it tested each stone before him before he moved a shuffled step to further himself along the road. He looked up to see the passing of the army around him, the world turned from its gloom shrouded grayness into a streaking world of color, bright and bold hues upon man and beast flashing by as they rode... Above them all streamed the pendants and the long banners bending in the swiftness of their ride. Though there were a thousand knights, with their thousand colors, each banner was the same simple one.

The old man called out in his timeless voice “Who are you that would ride upon my road!?”

A knight wheeled about off the column that had passed and gave the old man a salute meant in respect “We are Bretonnia! And we beg your pardon venerable father, but we are in much haste.”

The old man eyed the young upstart upon his fiery horse. “To what end!? The Empire lies dying and The Emperor stands alone.”

The Knight pulled back his visor to show a long and fierce smile, eyes alight that they may have shone like the sun. “Not any more.” And back the knight spurred like a madman to catch up with his company.

Lu-Sheng: Southern Cathay

The lands of Lu-Sheng lay open like a great gaping wound in the flesh of the Grand Empire, the toils of war having reduced the once fertile lands to little more than a barren waste, filled with polluted rice paddies and scorched earth. The blanket of winter having mercifully buried the land in its chill embrace, the populace had rushed to bring it what remaining crops that they could salvage, only to be greeted by the armies of the Celestial Dragon. The forces of the Emperor marched into the providence as the harvest was being collected, bearing foodstuffs, artisans and other humanitarian supplies to ease the suffering. A vanguard of Ogres lumbered along with the Empires army, the once terrifying monsters from the Mountains of Mourn now working with the armies of Cathay. Many of the returning forces consisted of farmers, workers, land owners and villagers that had fled when the Ogres and the advancing armies of the Outcasts had first arrived. Trained these past years by the Ogres in the disciplines of fighting as an army, missile combat, first aide and living off the land, there were many a tearful reunion as families separated by war were once again reunited, fathers and children, wives and husbands all brought together once more under the blanket of the Emperor’s rule.

Grazok Beastslayer watched as his people marched with the armies of Cathay, his efforts securing a lasting peace with an Empire they had been forced to flee decades ago. The Emperor had granted the Ogres the tracks of land around the Great Maw and numerous other concessions. In return for their alliance, the ranks of the Imperial Army once more included the livery and crude banners of the Ogre Kingdoms. Of course pockets of resistance still existed in the south, the armies here pausing only to deliver their humanitarian aide before marching on the forces of the Outcasts and their rebels.

Leaning back on a mossy boulder that was being warmed by the rising sun, Grazok stretched his massive frame out and began to rub his back with relish on the jagged surface. Blood began to well in the growing gashes but the Ogre seemed to care not at all. Once the itch was no more, calloused hands reached into his shoulder bag and drew forth a huge wheel of cheese. Opening wide his mouth, the leader of the Great Migration swallowed it whole, followed by a resounding belch. Smacking his lips in satisfaction, Grazok drew froth another item from his bag, a crumpled piece of parchment smeared with brown juices. Unravelling the parchment, the Ogre read once more, the crisp lines of Cathayan origin barely readable on the surface, but the meaning was still clear to the Hunter. He rolled the parchment up once more and stuffed it into his bag. Pushing himself into a standing position, Grazok stared at an unseen enemy to the south. After staring at nothing in particular for several minutes, the Ogre pulled forth a dulled file and he began to run it across his tusks, his tongue snaking out in between rubbings as the teeth were ground to finer points.

“Coming fer ya Kane. Da Emperor wants ya and I aims to deliver ya to him right quick”

Imperial Armory: Northern Cathay

The smoking ruins of the storehouses blackened the skies, competing for space with the black clouds of carrion birds gathering for a feast. The armies of the Anointed had struck without warning, the garrison caught unawares by the raid as they assumed the armies were fighting in Wei-Jin. The savagery of the Dark Elves and the rogue Chaos Dwarves and Skaven was unreal, the desecrated bodies of the defenders hanging from every edifice in a grim memorial to the gods. Blood pooled in frozen puddles beneath the corpses, crimson icicles running from the severed bodies in bloody cascades, the grimaces of horror still etched in frozen screams upon their faces. Bloated rats ran among the twisting corpses, the rodents enjoying an unexpected feast before retiring to their breeding dens for the coming winter months.

Beyond the walls a great pit had been dug in the ice rimmed ground by prisoners that thought they were buying their lives. However once the task was done, the cruel Dark Elves had gunned the workers down with a hail of crossbow bolts, their riddled bodies pitching back into the hole they had so feverishly dug. More bodies were being carted in by the dozens, large wagons pulled by teams of unruly Cold Ones, many of which were already squirming and hissing at the numbing cold in the air. Slaves, chained in teams of two by stout leg and arm clamps, took hold of arms and legs, tossing corpse after corpse into the pit until the bottom was covered in human debris, upon which bubbling oil had been poured. The stench of decomposing flesh soon bubbled forth from the pit, the stench wafting under the sensitive nostrils of the Dark Elf overseerers.

Watching through cold, stern eyes Hekatina stood with folded arms as the slaves brought forth more and more bodies from the ruined Armory. Already having looted the forges of all use equipment and weapons, the vast bulk of the Anointed army had marched forth from this place several days ago, laden with supplies and soldiers to bolster the defenders at Nan-Gau. The ancient Dark Elf glared at the scene before her and cursed her fates. The leaders of the Anointed had deemed it necessary for another blasphemous ritual to Nurgle be preformed with the corpses here, and Hekatina now stood in ill favor with her superiors since rumors of her involvement in the slaying of Anthraxous Pox had surfaced over the last month. That there was no evidence that connected her to the plot in anyway, as she had seen to that personally, meant little to her rivals. They merely saw a chance to discredit her and thus had pushed with the faction leaders to have her relived of command, but her supporters had bartered a reprieve. And so she had been assigned here, to this gods forsaken place on the fringe of the war, taxed with the overseeing this foul ritual designed to empower the forces of the Chosen One.

Nan-Gau: Northern Cathay

The fist snows of winter descended upon the ruins of the great fortress of Nan-Gau, the pure white flakes soon trampled into the muddy ground by the passing of armed troops of the Anointed. The fortress had been recaptured at great expense to the Anointed but the attacking forces of the Celestial Dragon were unprepared for the armies marching on them from the south, an army laden with weapons of war captured from their own armory. The battle had been swift, the shock force of Cold One Knights and War Hydras, redeployed from Wei-Jin, taking the defenders from behind and shattering all remaining resistance. While the outer curtain wall was shattered and in ruin in numerous places from cannon and catapult shot, while the inner curtain wall and keep where virtually unscathed. A solid fortress still stood however, and the forces of the Anointed moved swiftly to secure their holdings and purge the city of any remaining dissidents. The providence of An-Sheng lay in ruins, the forces of the Anointed and Hobgobla Khan having spent the better part of the past year pillaging the land and enslaving the populace. The sporadic attacks by the Cathayans had little effect on the control of the region, and thus it was a simple matter to bring the people under heel. The snow began to fall faster now, the giant flakes evaporating as the fell upon the fortress, the fires of the Chaos Dwarf forges turning the rock warm, the snows unable to gain purchase on the heated ground. A cold rain soon began to fall, sizzling as it kissed the grey stones.

Below the surface of the rutted streets, Chaos Dwarf engineers had already set about designing new fortifications to add to the defences, the evil Dwarves securing for themselves a friendly base from which they could raid Cathay for years to come. Metal sheathed walls, Earthshaker batteries, all manner of demon forged weapons would make the greatest fortress in the Olde World into a bastion unlike any known in the Olde World. The forges of the bastion had been running night and day, fed with coal, wood and bodies, the flesh running like fatty wax into the troughs of the forge. Hundreds of slaves toiled in the fiery light of the hellish forges, their lives mercifully short as they succumbed to the extreme heat of the chambers, or the barbed lashes of their masters.

Slavelord Kaegan, the flames of the forges reflecting in his crimson eyes, marvelled at his good fortunes. The Dark Pact had been dissolved into infighting, assassination and turmoil while the ancient Dwarf saw his chance to increase his fortunes by joining with the Anointed for mutual protection and profit. Thus he and his clansmen had thrown in their lot with the Chosen One and as the war seemed to be grinding to a halt; the evil Dwarf was right where he wanted to be. He had all materials he wanted to construct new infernal machines and all the slaves he could hope for to undertake construction of his insane inventions!

Lan-Sheng: Southern Cathay: Freeman’s Down

The armies of the Outcasts and the Ghost Fang clashed once more, the massive armies taking to the field for one final conflict that would shape the future of southern Cathay for decades to come. Two great beasts faced one another across the blasted landscape known to the locals as Freeman’s Down, an area of fighting that had changed hands numerous times during the war, the land fed on the blood of the militia defenders. The generals of the Outcast army placed their weapons on a ridge overlooking the battle, their crews sighting their weapons, an entire Iron Company had been moved into place. Great mortars and large bore cannons rolled into place, even as the Orcs moved over the crest of the far ridge.

The two armies faced off, their battle standards raised high for all to see, the loud and boisterous banners of the Orcs, the simple muted banners of the Outcasts both fought for recognition in the midday sky. A clarion of trumpets echoed across the valley as the Outcasts marched forth in uniformed ranks, militiaman and soldier shoulder to shoulder. The greenskins took exception to this and an ear shattering Waaaaaaaagh echoed across the Orc lines, the army of monsters surging forward in undisciplined mobs. The ground shook as the warriors of both armies closed the gap with the enemy; the Outcasts breaking into a jog as their artillery opened fire from afar, shelling the advancing greenskins with shot and death. Explosions blossomed among the Orcs as mortar shots fell upon them from above, blasting apart whole units. But still they kept coming, an endless tide of green, accompanied by hundreds of spider riders that moved like a hairy brown tide of their own. Ghost Fang urged Webweeva forward in a lumbering charge, the very ground shaking as the two armies raced towards one another, trampling their mates into the soggy ground.

Soon the racing soldiers of both armies could make out individual faces of the enemy as the gap closed, the mounted Knights of the Outcast thundering past the infantry, lances dipped to spear the foul monsters. Closer and closer the armies drew, until both met in a clash of steel and flesh, bodies pitched into the air, mounts toppled, the screams of the dying drown out by the clash of weapons and the blaring of horns and the blasts of artillery. The ground was soon drenched in blood, the cooling bodies of the fallen trampled into the mud, causing troops to stumble upon the blades of the enemy. Webweeva entered the combat, his massive bulk squashing the humans into so much paste, a stray cannonball bouncing between its flailing legs and impacting on a unit of Black Orcs, spraying blood and gore across the faceplates of a unit of Knights. Moving among the ranks of the Volunteers, Ghost Fang came face to face with a human figure, a figure that stood out among the masses, the figure of Mathius Kane. Seeing an enemy he could topple, Ghost Fang bellowed a challenge and urged Webweeva forward. A tall dark shadow fell across Kane as the towering bulk of the monstrous spider blotted out the sun…

As night fell upon Freeman’s Down, the forces of the Outcasts had been driven from the field. The bodies of hundreds of fighters littered the frozen ground, the flights of leering ravens gathering in wide circles above the battlefield in anticipation of the coming feast. Tattered banners hung from broken poles, broken weapons and dented shields formed crude burial mounds for the fallen. The generals of the Outcast army had ordered the retreat too late, and many of the militia were lost as the lines collapsed, refusing to give ground in the eyes of Mathius Kane. After the forces had fallen back, the remaining militias were cheered by their fellow soldiers, but among the survivors, no trace of Kane could be found. As the cold blanket of night began to fall, the bonfires of the Orcs began to light, the monsters roaring their bestial cries into the night skies…

Wei-Jin: Northern Cathay: The Forbidden City

---from the pages of Hito, scholar and poet during the Time of the Warring States.

The actions of men are strange things indeed, false gods to be pursued but never mastered. Sometimes the smallest, the most insignificant thing can become monumental, but other times history truly turns with the obvious child, the great battle and the endless siege, the long anticipated treaty and the. I present here extracts from my notes, taken at the time of the second battle for Wei-Jin. I have decided to let them remain as they were written. Raw, inelegant but full of emotion. To seek to change them would be to try to change a part of myself that was born that day. May the Heavens bless this Empire, and all who dwell within her.

Day One. Arrived. Weary from travel and made more miserable by the sight that greeted me. Out shining city is a shadow of herself. Dark, brooding clouds gather overhead and craters mark the ground around her. She is marked but she yet stands and there is still hope.

Day One. I toured the emplacements with General Kwan. He feigned optimism I think, as much for my sake as for his. His men are laid out in two sections. The first encircles the Southern flank of the great city, where fields of Siege machines and archers fling chunks of masonry into the enemy. To the North, within the city itself, our infantry has a tentative grip on perhaps half of the city, though the General admits the battle lines are fluid. I find I am reminded of a poem by Xenshou, though I may have the wording wrong.

Our Autumn leaves form
Tiny poems as they fall,
Magnifying my
Loss until, at last, I see
World’s crafted from smaller things.

Day Two. The sight of corpses no longer bothers me. Such a thought would have been alien to be, but two short years ago. Now they seem to hold a particular grace, a reminder of the fragility of all that we are.

Day Five. A small breakthrough in the North. Another section of the city has been reclaimed, though General Kwan says that it is largely destroyed by the fighting. I try to understand these Chaotics, to put myself in their shoes yet I cannot. The urge to destroy, to burn something so fine and brilliant is as foreign to me as our need to build it must be to them. Why such opposites exist I cannot fathom.

Day Thirteen. Regression. We fall back as they push forward. A wave of frenzied frothing Elves rip our men to pieces. I have never seen the like of it, the bathed in blood. Our Southern flank is exposed and we must scramble to redeploy. The smoke moves ahead of the coming breeze and I fancy that I can see the faces of the dead within it.

Day Twenty Three. Joy. Joy beyond all joys we are reinforced. Knights from the South, the Mercenary Prince's finest. There is talk about the camp of rifts within the Mercenaries, of Orders disobeyed but who can turn away such a sight. Arrayed in their trappings, all bright colours and symbolic designs. Their armour glistens in the sun. They seem particularly fond of animals. I notice a substantial number of mythical creatures in their decorations, even a dragon! Perhaps such a thing can be considered an omen.

Day Twenty Four. General Kwan offers terms. Leave the city or he will unleash the Knights. I admit to a most childish thought. A small part of me wishes them to refuse, that I might see these men in action. I am deeply shamed for such impure thoughts.

Day Twenty Four (moments later). We have our answer. The body of a Cathayan, hacked apart then stitched back together. Legs and arms crudely sewn together in the symbol for laughter. I am unable to eat.

Day Thirty. They came from out of the night. Monsters some say. Allies say others. Great shapeless things with deep guttural voices and booming laughter. I have never seen such a thing before. Twice as tall as a man and three times the width. The fight like fury unleashed, wielding clubs and swords the size of horses.

Day Fourty Six. Breakthrough in the North. The fighting is street to street, house to house but we are winning. We move like shadows, slipping through the city. I feel a growing sense of optimism, of hope and with it, an alarming desire to pick up a weapon and charge heedless of danger or death into the teeth of the storm.

Day Sixty. Night time assault! We catch them off guard. Slumbering in their tents like children. Our cries are like those of wild animals, baying at the moon. Perhaps that is what we have become. Perhaps that is what we needed to be. The Ogres and the Knights fight differently. The Ogres are as subtle as an avalanche, all force and sinew and power. The Knights follow something called Shivalree, I do not know the correct spelling, but it is apparently much like the Samurai Code of our Nipponese neighbours. I find them a little cold and formal, yet they fight as well as any Cathayan.

Day Seventy Two. They are gone. They are gone and she is returned to us. Like the returning sun. Like a phoenix she rises from the flames. Wei-Jin is ours. The last of the Chaotics fell not an hour ago. It was an anti-climax. So many guarding so little we butchered them where they stood. They had bodies propped up on the walls, riddled with arrows, designed to fool us. Only General Kwan does not celebrate. Only he keeps his resolve. He says that this was a bad sign, not a good one. That they have redeployed forces elsewhere and we could shortly be under attack ourselves. I find I am unable to keep from celebrating. I share it with them, the soldiers, the people. They live on the very edge of life, they walk the line that the rest of us can scares imagine and I begin to see now why they live their life in the moment eternal.

Long live the Empire. Long live the Emperor and glory eternal to the Soldiers and their allies who gave us this gift. Treasure it, whatever the future brings. Hold it to you for the light it kindles can never be taken from us.

((for guest fluff about the ride to Wei-Jin from the Bretonnian perspective, click here))

=====

Jing-Ke sat with his back to the gravestone, watching the stars go out. One by one the tiny points of light vanished as the dark clouds scudded across the sky ahead of the Westerly wind. Somewhere in the darkness a bird began to warble, its luxurious, liquid cry signalling the first sliver of daylight, creeping gingerly above the horizon and washing the surrounding hills in a pale yellow glow. In one hand was a dispatch from Lord High Advisor Xie in Wei-Jin, informing him that Jing-Ke's Ogre Mercenaries had been instrumental in retaking the capitol. The Emperor would be informed. Jing-Ke had no doubt that Xie would report only as much as suited his purpose. The letter continued, warning him that the Chaotics were massing in An-Sheng and could well strike South as early as the Spring. He was to prepare to meet them at the Border until the Celestial Dragon could arrive to reinforce. He sighed, his trembling hand tracing the outline of his wife's name chiselled into the cold stone.

'Sasha my love, I wish you were still with me. I find it harder and harder to see what I should do, what I ought to do. Why can we not start afresh? Why can we not do better? We cry out, demanding to survive but has anyone stopped to ask if we truly deserve to survive? It is not enough just to live...'

Jing-Ke paused, watching the sun clambour up into the sky.

'We are rotten to the core, eating away at our own foundations. There is so much I would change, so many things I could do better given time. The Empire crumbles around me, doing just enough to survive, just enough to cling on to the edge of the abyss and yet the grand gesture, the unified front will be forever lost to us for we cannot even trust ourselves. We bicker and we scheme and for what? I am as guilty as any, yet I did it for the right reasons. Oh Sasha, tell me I did it for the right reasons?

Jing-Ke paused for a moment, a lump catching in his throat.

'Tell Nisha I miss her too.'

Jing-Ke stood, his joints creaking in protest after a long, cold night. He smiled, running his hand over the gravestone once more, one more empty gesture, one more loving caress, before he turned and walked away, vanishing into the dawn.

Searing white light blazed across his vision, blinding him to the world.

Ambassador Yamato stood atop the mountain and let his Emperor's words wash over him, cleansing his mind and allowing him to think freely for the first time in days as he watched Neijokyo burn. Another explosion echoed out across the mountains, hurled from peak to peak before echoing upwards into an uncaring sky as a great plume of sooty black smoke mushroomed towards the heavens. The paper houses of his home and the wooden structures of his childhood burned and as the fire spread, each crimson tongue lashed Yamato's heart like a barbed whip, leaving livid scars and a dull throbbing pain in their wake. The Emperor's words may have soothed his mind, but they could do nothing for the wounds of the heart and of the mind. As he watched flames moving through Neijokyo in time to some silent beat, Yamato wondered if these would ever heal.

Neijokyo had fallen weeks ago, but he could not escape it. Thick columns of black smoke haunted his waking moments and were a trouble to his dreams. Yet what he held on to was not a pang for for the burning vista that had emblazoned itself upon his memory, but rather the understanding smile his Emperor had gifted him when Yamato had made his choice. As the fires of Neijokyo burned, he had cast his sash of office into the night, renounced his titles, his position and his family. The Emperor had asked him to flee south but Yamato had declined. His honour demanded that he stay, that he lead the army in it's guerilla warfare against the greenskins. His honour was a small thing perhaps, the last gasp of a man on the brink of loosing everything, but it was all he had. When he had told the Emperor this, the Emperor had only smiled.

As Yamato pulled his mind back to the present, the chill bite of winter pierced his clothing. The forest around him was blanketed in snow, the early morning sun lancing through the foliage and speckling the ground with small clusters of glistening diamonds. His breath huffed in the air as he walked, his people spread out around him as they moved towards the rendezvous, so deep in their own territory that not a one of them had their weapon readied, and Yamato found his mind drifting once more.

They would be like the Laiho, the winter wolves. As the newer Laiho of the Outcasts cleared the waters surrounding Nippon, his old wolves would free Nippon itself. They had lived as a pack, struck as a pack and died as a pack. Each man and woman that listened to his haunted howling, his call to the hunt, felt fear and doubt flow from them as they joined the whole. Day and night they serenaded the moon with their songs of death, honouring their fallen with swifter hunts, faster strikes and bloodier kills. It was survival of the fittest in northern Nippon, and Yamato's Laiho would make sure their people would survived this struggle. Yamato would make sure they survived.

His mind did not register it at first. The dark crimson splash that marred the perfect pale beauty of the snow covered clearing. The indents in the snow that looked like so many angels had fallen and lain in this one spot, wings spread behind them as they basked in the chill light of the sun. The hulking greenkinned figures at the edge of the clearing, bodies strewn about them in unnatural poses, as if a child had plucked them up and started to fold Origami, before becoming distracted by some other play thing. None of this truly registered as Yamato stepped into the clearing, his blade held before him, knuckles white as he gripped it in both hands. He felt his lips pull up into a smile, his mind roaring to life as the flames of rage turned his vision crimson to match the stains that marred the snow before him. The blade felt clumsy in his hands as he broke into a run, his smile turning into a laugh as a searing white light blazed across his vision, blinding him to the world before him.

She watched the girl dance. Her childish grace as she spun and dipped, swooned and swayed, was accentuated by the over-long white sleeves of her robe. The child's deep purple eyes caught her gaze as she whirled, her dancing becoming more frantic now, her breathing heavy as she became a white and black blur in the cold morning air. The ice beneath her feet polished and smooth, yet she did not miss a step.

While Wei-Jin had still burned, he had made his request of her. It was a simple thing, a simple gesture. It had no real value to it at all. Yet she had found herself unable to agree. This unknown knight before her, so instrumental to the webs she had woven over the past year, had asked for nothing more then a kiss. So she had changed him, perhaps in a way that he did not realise yet himself. She had given him a favour. A black handkerchief, the favour of the Lady to a questing knight, subtly perverted by the ways of change. As he had ridden to the defence of Wei-Jin she had wondered how long the change would take with one such as he, if it would even work at all.

The cracking of the ice was like a gunshot, thin lines spidering out along it's surface as the girl continued her dance. When the lines reached for her she span from them, long black hair spread out behind her like a cloak, and danced away from the web of cracks that looked to entangle her feet.

Yet the past years weaving had born fruit far sweeter then she could have ever imagined. Her threads had surrounded Xie Zhiqian, or perhaps his had surrounded her, yet they had become bound so tightly together that neither one nor the other could truly survive on their own for the foreseeable future. Every Great House despised her for how she had come to whisper in to the Emperors ear, every house save one for with support from Xie's unassailable position, hers was safe, at least for the moment, and they would both hold sway over the Emperor.

The child's dance came to and end when she reached the snow bank. Dao-Ming stood for a moment in the cold morning air, her chest heaving and breath huffing into a fine white mist as she fought to regain control of her breathing. The cracks reached the bank as well, the mirrored surface splintering and distorting her reflection as Dao-Ming smiled and looked down at the ice, seeing the dancing girl once more gazing back at her. She sunk to one knee and touched a long finger to the small cold finger of the girl.

“Oh we have brought about great change my dear, and there is more for us to do I fear. Shall you and I help end this war? Or is that not what we are destined for. I think, I hope, I pray that we can have some say with what may come awry within our fair kingdom of Cathay."

Jijing Shashou moved through Alexandria like a shadow. It was not difficult. All around him the city was in chaos. Riots? An attack? An uprising? It did not matter to him. A legion of Terracotta Warriors stalked the streets in unison and overhead some winged monstrosity screamed its defiance at the skies. It all made his life easier and for that he was thankful. He flattened himself against a wall, slowing his body until there was just the sound of his heartbeat. He was a flower, unfolding in the darkness. He was a flower, only this and nothing more. As he repeated the Mantra everything else vanished from his mind as one by one the delicate pink petals fell away into nothing and he reached out with his senses. He was alive in the moment, moving through a limitless world and nothing could touch him there.

Jijing moved like water. He was almost upon the first guard before the man though to draw his weapon. By then it was already too late. Jijing spun inside his guard, pulling the man's body in front of his as he slid a small dagger into the jugular, the warm, wet spray covering his hand as the body twitched in his hands, crossbow bolts impacting it with a series of dull percussive thuds. He dropped the body, his dagger already leaving his hands, turning end over end as it scythed through the air, sinking into the crossbowman's skull with a dull thunk.

As the last body slumped to the floor the escaping blood ran across the floor, creeping between gaps in the tiles like stubby, questing fingers reaching out for him. Jijing stepped carefully out of the way and ducked into the vast room, the wooden beams that supported the ceiling soaring upwards into the air above him like a pair of hands steepled in prayer. In the centre stood a bed, simply carved from local timber and swathed in white muslin that billowed in the breeze the leaked in through the open windows. There was a single figure silhouetted there and Jijing was at his side almost instantly, as though he had simply not bothered with the intervening space. The dagger glinted in his hands, cold and hard as he swept back the curtain and looked for the first time on the form of Alexander. Jijing paused. It was such a quiet thing, to fall. To have everything that you were, everything that you might ever have been taken from you. He was a False God indeed. He frowned and leaned in close, pressing his ear to Alexander's mouth as he listened for signs of breathing. A minute passed, then two. Jijing smiled to himself. There was a certain irony in it, he supposed, even if no one else would ever know.

He stood at the window for the longest time, watching the sky burn. The creature was still alive. He had never seen such a thing before. It wheeled once, its great wings beating frantically at the air as it cried out to some long forgotten god and tumbled, crashing into a building and sending a rain of rocks and ash fountaining upwards into the air. Cautiously guards surrounded its broken body and a great cheer went up across the courtyard.

Jijing sighed. It was time to go, he had already lingered too long. He was tempted to bury a dagger into Alexander's chest, for appearances sake, but there was really no need. There was something beautiful about his death. A peace that seemed too fragile to break. Such things mattered to people he suspected.

By the time the first guards arrived to inform Alexander that the city was safe, Jijing was long gone. It was a week before anyone found the black Origami Crane balanced delicately on the windowsill, miraculously untouched by the silent wind.

((For guest fluff expanding on the events happening in Alexandria, have a look here.))

A thin layer of snow acted as a makeshift bandage to the province of Tung-Sheng, covering the ravaged and scarred land in glittering white. Each week brought Fan-Hua more news of the devastation that the Greenskins wrought in his Province and against his people, news of a thriving slave trade and a desecrated temple, news of burning villages and slaughtered monks. Each week that he was forced to camp his army on the northern banks of the Gaoguihe River increased the sense of frustration and impotency that grew from his inaction. It was not until the eighth week, that the Emperor finally sent word.

“My Lord, we have received word from the Lord High Advisor Xie.”

Fan-Hua's gaze snapped away from the sluggish waters of the river, its slow course meandering gently through Tung-Sheng beneath a thick crust of ice, and fixed upon the speaker. It was General Xu, and the man held onto a slip of paper as if his life depended on it. Fan-Hua paused, allowing the man a moment to regain his composure, then extended his hand and smiled as the slip was dropped into it.


Fan-Hua

Your patience has done much to your standing with the Great Houses.
Dao-Ming has determined that the signs and portents are good.
The Emperor decrees that you may now move to reclaim Tung-Sheng.

Xie


The note crumpled in his hand as he fought to control his anger. The man spoke of patience, yet it had been that snake, that spider Dao-Ming that had kept him here for eight weeks. She had allowed her previous home to suffer under Greenskin mistreatment just as an exercise of power, he was sure. An exercise designed solely for him, designed to show him where the true power lay as winter gave a frosty reception to the new era that was dawning. Yet he would not dwell on this, he would not allow anger to cloud his judgement when he moved. His men were prepared, but his tactics must be sound to reclaim everything that was rightfully his.

“Xinshi or Tiantan? New hope or old power?” Fan-Hua mused “Which we reclaim first will send a clear message to my people, a message that must contain the right meaning.”

The general frowned, shifting from foot to foot as if in doing so he may speed Fan-Hua's choice. He responded in a strained voice. “Does it truly matter? We must take one or the other. Tiantan is closer, but the Greenskins hold onto it with an iron grip. Xinshi manages to defend itself from raids, yet we must march the army through Greenskin infested lands.”

A curt not stopped the General from speaking further. Fan-Hua sucked in a lung full of air through clenched teeth, the hissing noise partly in pain as the cold air chilled his gums and partly from the set of his jaw. He turned sharply, striding away from the river towards the encampment. As the general hurried to catch up, Fan-Hua spoke over his shoulder.

“We march for Tiantan. Not only will retaking it crush the largest single collection of Greenskins in the Province, but it will also give me much needed influence within the Forbidden City. Influence I think I will need.”

As the General nodded, Fan-Hua gave an order and the camp began to disband, the hurried movements of the Soldiers muffled by the soft pattering of snowfall as a hundred thousand men prepared for war.

Xie Zhiqian stood in the darkened room, hands clasped behind his back, head raised as he gazed serenely out of the vast windows of the Forbidden City. The evening mist was rising in a fine vapour, writhing and dancing as the migrating Chong-Chi once burst one last time out of the clouds in wheeling, expanding pillows of vibrant colour. Their exuberant cries echoed across the rolling valley as the small birds darted and contracted, spinning over one another in a spiral of oranges and greens. Every year their numbers declined. Xie found himself wondering where they went. Haihan had always loved the Chong-Chi. As the sun sank wearily behind the mountains, lances of molten light splitting the cold grey clouds and scattering the shadows, Xie lifted a small lacquered box from its hiding place, the inlaid mother of pearl refracting the light of the setting sun into a rainbow of colour as he opened it, reverently, for the first time in almost three years.

Inside were two pieces of parchment and a small portrait in watercolour, painted delicately in the Nipponese style. He lifted that from the box, allowing the molten light to wash over the browning parchment, his thumb idly moving against the rough paper. It was a simple painting of a man and a woman beneath a cherry tree, the falling leaves tumbling down to earth around them like snowfall or a rain of tears. The woman looked so happy that Xie almost wanted to go to that moment, to reach out and touch it, sample it as she had done. Such a simple thing, a few brush strokes, the pigment bleeding into the folds of the paper, and yet it sang to him. One moment, frozen for all time and for all things. How delicate it was. How perfect. How utterly beautiful.

He turned the painting over and smiled as he read the Kenji, the Nipponese script, hastily scrawled on the back in a female hand. For you always my love, my life, Moumoku, my 'Jijing Shashou', from your wife Aiko.

He cast it into the fire and as the edges began to burn, curling back upon themselves like a clenched fist, for one aching moment there was nothing left of it but her luminous face staring out of the inferno, so happy, so peaceful, until the flames consumed her too until there was only a pile of smouldering ash.

Xie paused for a moment before lifting the first piece of parchment from the box. Written so long ago. He had been another person then just as Cathay had been another place. Keeping a copy had been dangerous but necessary.

Moumoku Kensei,

You do not know who I am, nor do you need to. All that should concern you, given the recent and tragic death of your wife and your not inconsiderable status within the Nipponese Court as babysitter to the Ambassador is the painting I have in my possession. I'm sure you know the one. A sad looking man and his radiant bride stand together beneath a Cherry Tree in Nekijeo. The inscription on the back is most interesting I must say and I'm sure a man of such imagination as yourself can think of many who you would rather remained blissfully unaware of such information. We all wear masks Moumoku Kensei, we are all of us false gods. I have need of your services in the coming years. You will continue as before. You will report to Lau-Cheng and his Triads, as before, except for one vital difference. You work for me now.

I am the False God
That follows your name around.
Do you love me still?

Xie held the letter for a moment before letting it fall into the fire, the flames rising to meet it like a pair of long-lost lovers returning to one another's arms. As it quickly withered into a fine grey ash he smiled, remembering the boy, barely a man, who had sent that letter. Who had set his sights so high, who had dreamed of the Forbidden City itself.

There was only one thing left inside the box. Xie took the parchment and smiled, untying the string that held the thick bundle of papers in place.

Prince Marcello Alfonti,

Greetings again Your Highness from distant Cathay. I will be blunt and pray that you will forgive my rudeness, for time is short and my need is great. You asked for more details and here they are. The Empire is in desperate need and the hour grows late as the shadows lengthen. We fear that in a few short years we will be under siege. Our crops begin to fail and Dark Alliances form outside our borders as greedy eyes turn towards our lands. You will find more in the documents attached – intelligence gathered by out Military over the last two seasons. As you can see, Cathay has need of a Protector.

You will find enclosed with this letter promissory notes and credit slips that will be honoured in Tilea by any reputable Trading House. There will be as much again when you reach Cathay and another payment once the contract is completed. I beg you, do not delay. Assemble an army to drive the Wolves from our door. You have perhaps a year, for the journey will be long and we do not have much time.

Beware. We must keep our arrangement a secret for there are those within the Empire who will try to use you to their advantage, for many who profess to love Cathay would, in truth, see her burn. Be careful. Trust no one.

With Regards and Eternal Thanks,

Xie Zhiqian, Governor of Zhong-Sheng

Xie nodded and dropped the bundle of papers into the fire. It had been a fine balancing act, the saviours and the terror, the mercenaries and the assassin. A little nudge here, a subtle counterbalancing act there, destabalizing the Empire only to take credit for cleaning up the mess. As the last of the papers vanished, consumed by the flickering flames there was a soft knocking at his door, and one of the Emperor's personal Servants entered, bowing low, his eyes fixed on the floor.

'My Lord High Advisor. A thousand pardons for the interruption. The Emperor, long may he reign, requests your presence in the throne room most urgently.'

Xie smiled to himself as the servant scurried from the room. The little boy and his dreams had not been so far off. It was all going quite well, after all.

Everything changes, given time. Lives so furiously and desperately lived become meaningless as time stretches out and generations come and go while the world turns around them. Empires live and die as the people who birthed them change or vanish altogether. Step back far enough and these too become trivial as the world itself shifts like a slumbering beast, its surface slowly drifting across the ocean as the fire at its heart rumbles and growls. Yet all history was lived once, all wars and the end of all Empires fought over by someone. Blood freely given in the vain hope of survival. For a people. For an Empire. For a way of life.

Cathay has trembled, has known fear for the first time in a millennia. Six armies there were who sought to claim the prize for themselves. The Dark Pact fell early, collapsing under the weight of their own corruption. Bickering and mistrust lead to outright civil war and they never managed to advance from the mountains. Though the events surrounding their implosion may never be truly know, this scholar takes comfort in knowing that those who oppose all that is good and true in this world may not have quite such an easy time as many doom-mongers would claim, for if they did we would truly be lost to darkness.

The Outcasts, or the Children of Alexander as some prefer to call them, came from the South, seeking a home, dreams of freedom burning in their hearts. Fiercely independent they preached peace but could not achieve it without war and found themselves trapped between a vision of future promise and the cold, hard reality it would take to achieve such truths. Their initial advance stalled when they ran into the elemental Greenskins and when the Cathayans turned on them, they were forced to defend territory on two fronts. In the end this proved their undoing, for a brave and daring strike on Fukiwara left too much of their holdings undefended. Closely allied to the Nipponese, one wonders how different the war might have been if they had received more aid in their noble quest of saving this ancient and proud Empire from the Greenskins.

The Anointed. The first enemy to truly breach the Barrier. The name will not willingly die while we give it credence. They massed beyond the Barrier like a plague, a cloud of darkness expanding to cover the North until, finally, they threatened Cathay itself as death's gate fell. History, it seems, is not without a sense of the appropriate. From their the advance seemed unstoppable. Nan-Gau, Cathay's oldest fortress fell and though it was recaptured, fell once more. Worst of all, for the briefest of moments, they stilled the beating heart of the Empire itself. Though they were driven off by the combined might of the forces of the Celestial Dragon and Mercenary Knights and Ogres, the remain, like a cancer, burrowing into the heart of the Empire.

Much ink has been spilled debating the role the Order of the Dragon Shield played in war and I am hesitant to add further fuel to the fire. Certainly they were a divided force, uneasy with themselves or, perhaps more accurately, we might say that such a large and varied army was unlikely to reach a common consensus on the best way to defend an Empire divided against itself. Some criticized their divisive shift from engaging the Anointed to assaulting Tung-Sheng, but this scholar feels that not all of the criticism is wholly justified. They quietly went about their business, securing Chuanshi and Fujei and never lost their grip on the most important Province in Cathay under difficult circumstances. While they will hardly go down in Cathayan history as heroes of the hour, without them the Empire would have fallen.

It is perhaps difficult to imagine now that attitudes and prejudices overcome by the Ogres of the Great Migration. At the start of the war they were seen as monsters, an insidious and ravenous threat to be removed before they took control of the Empire. Yet in the end they proved to be Cathay's staunchest allies, despite possessing limited military strength they saw off the Dark Pact, secured Shulin-Sheng and with it, the majority of Cathay's populace for the duration of the conflict before retaking Wei-Jin from the clutches of the Anointed. It is something more befitting fiction than reality, the hideous monsters with hearts of gold, and yet none the less true for that fact.

The Ghost Fang Waaagh. What is there to say that has not already been said? Greenskins are a remarkable race. Their single minded approach and simplistic outlook is often mistaken for stupidity and yet never has this been less true than in Cathay. For here they not only held their ground, against two assaulting armies, and in doing so displayed a tactical savvy that many declared them incapable of, but they concurrently managed to capture Nippon itself and even Arch-Prelate Dao-Ming. It is unusual that a Waaagh! (the term for a Greenskin invasion and, coincidentally, an often heard battle cry or remark of enthusiasm) can sustain its momentum for so long but with Tung-Sheng and Nippon firmly under their control, there is little doubt that the Ghost Fang Waaagh! Represent the greatest threat to Cathay as the war enters its fourth year.

Many scholars make the mistake of debating winners and losers in wars. Such is the privilege of those detached from the cut and thrust of real combat, sheltered by the embrace of institutions of learning, however there is some merit in the exercise as long as one does not get carried away. The war may be far from over, but the Ghost Fang Waaagh! and the Great Migration stand out for this scholar. The one threatening chaos, the other standing up in defiance, drawing a line in the earth and declaring this far, no further. There is little, if anything, that can be used to separate thee rest of the Armies though this scholar would remind you, once again, that the war is far from over. Step forward far enough, and it all becomes meaningless as mountains fall and seas rise to take their place, but here and now, as the Empire of the Celestial Dragon is ravaged by war under a cold, uncaring sky, nothing could be more important.

---Kristoff Haamar, The History of the Great Cathayan War. Book III.