Animosity Campaigns
Where narrative comes to play
Season 6 - Shattered Dominion

Ashrak Bastion

While skirmishes erupted across the city wherever explorers crossed paths, the first true battle took place outside of Ashrak Bastion, a sturdy stronghold that commanded both the harbour and the outlying city. Rumours sparked among the camps of each of the claimants for the Fated Blade of arcane artillery, ancient and powerful, kept within the tower’s depths and the devastation it could wreak if turned upon them. No time was wasted, and in short order two camps had emerged. The first, led by Vishkan Inkeyes, wanted to seize the tower, to harness the ancient power it contained and use it as a stronghold for their conquest of the Black Forge. The enigmatic mage was joined by the Mooncalled, the Blackwing Corsairs, and the Wolves of Agora, all believing they could turn possession of the tower to their own benefit. Opposing them was Khan Obedji the Cruel, the ogor maneater and his glutinous crew. The ogor's goals were simple - smash the tower and loot the wreckage. Though simple, this plan found support among the Shields of An’avon, the Drossforged, and the Shadowsong Renegades, each of whom would rather see the tower in ruins than held as a check against their own advances into the heart of the city. 

On the uneven ground leading up to the fortress’ curtain wall, the two sides met a resounding charge. Khan Obedji led from the front, directing his company to charge into the teeth of the enemy positions. Yet what he had not been counting on was the overwhelming presence of the Mooncalled. 

Melding grot cunning and skaven ingenuity, and driven on by their capering prophet, the forces of the Mooncaller split the battlefield apart with a surgical precision. Hopping squig riders bounded across the field, intercepting ogors and racing to take the walls. Around them, massed fire rained down on the advancing foes. Plague launchers delivered their infectious payloads, including a horrid concoction of gloomspite and skaven invention known as da Purple Stinkbomb, its fungal spores burning eyes and infecting those that came into contact. One enterprising crew from Clan Skorchfur even managed to drag a single warp lightning cannon through the narrow and ice-slicked streets, bringing its devastating firepower to bear before the shifting ground moved the heavy artillery out of alignment. 


While the Mooncalled bore the brunt of the initial charge, they were by no means fighting alone. Castegators from the Blackwing lines had joined with the makeshift artillery line, adding their own blessed bolts to the downpour. Ashyrian vampires had ranged far from the bastion’s center, fighting ogre reinforcements in the surrounding streets and preventing them from reaching the front. 

Across the field, the allies of the Khan were making their own presence known. The Shadowsong Renegades struck deeply into Inkeye’s forces, driving like daggers from above and below. They were the first to seize sections of the wall, as swooping khinerai and shadowdancing stalkers moved with an unmatched speed, yet there they stalled. Vishkan Inkeyes and a bodyguard of golden armoured templars held the ground before the gatehouse against their rapid assaults, and as the shock of their rapid strike faded they found themselves pressed back. 


The small force bearing the icons of the Shields of An’avon suffered greatly on their approach to the bastion, specifically targeted heavily by the deadly toxins and murderous bolts of the Mooncallers’ bombardment. Some small few made it through to the walls, including the Blackguards. They fought back to back with the soldiers of Melesis Daggerheart and Kherith’s witches, yet it was clear the assault had ground to a slow, close battle of attrition. Chaos was further sown across the Shadowsong’s lines, as Daughters of Khaine loyal to Morathi and bearing the mark of the Benediction’s Lament infiltrated amongst them and struck. 

The brittle air of the battlefield was split then by an explosion as the Wolves of Agora at last made their appearance. Taking the bastion’s curtain wall from the harbour side, they used barrels of blasting powder and rum to bring down a section of the fortifications, sweeping into the breach. Across the curtain wall, the Huntress of Slaanesh was joined by the Blackwind Raiders and Swords of the Celestial Void, cutting a swathe through the swirling melee. Gore’ox Palefur, his mane burning with incandescent power, was hoisted up through the air by spectral fists of Gork and launched into the heart of the battle. The intermittent bolts of Stormcast returning to Azyr made it clear that the Khan’s allies had lost the wall. 


In the center of the battlefield, the Khan himself was locked in battle with two gargants of Clan Kyodai. Though their strength was unmatched, the Khan’s skill drove them hard, fending off their attacks and landing opportunistic blows of his own. Had he not already been injured by the arrows of the Tuatha sylvaneth, Obedji might have been able to press forward and cut them down, but seeing his allies falling back from the wall, the ogor reluctantly bought what time he could before retreating. 

Though forced to retreat for now, Khan Obedji was by no means finished. The curtain wall was breached in a dozen places, and unknown to the defenders, the Drossforged had not been idle, Stonbrak’s Rune Throng tunneling beneath the hard rock of the shoreline and under the fortifications. Vishkan Inkeyes held the fortress, for now, but the battle was far from finished. 




Lady Gwenefyre sat alone in the upper floor of the Estgard gatehouse, her head heavy in her hands as she attempted to decipher the strange writing on what was perhaps once someone’s skin.  She stared at the ghastly parchments a while longer before her gaze moved towards the mirror shards her scouting parties recovered from the gatehouse. She studied her reflection for some time, struggling to recognize the Gwenefyre that had departed from Tir’Anavon in the visage reflected back at her. Her eyes now held dark circles which betrayed the inspiring presence she projected among her followers. 

“Goddesses, please give me strength to see this quest fulfilled.” she whispered to herself before a sudden knocking startled her back to attention. The door slid open, and Isoult entered with heavy bundles in hand.  

“How do you fare, Gwenefyre?” she asked. 

“Well enough, though this damned cold bites deeper than I anticipated.” she answered, setting down the shards.

“Well, fate shines upon you, Princess,” Isoult responded with a laugh. “The scouting parties have discovered an entire cache of these nice, warm coats.” Isoult held up a large and ugly thing made of wool and furs. “They are quite itchy and not exactly fashionable, but it’s better to be warm than comfortable, eh?”

Gwenefyre turned to her, smiling despite herself. “What is the word from the scouting parties?”

“Estgard is entirely under our control. The aelf prince has turned his attention to other parts of the city, and some of our more, ah, ‘necromantically gifted’ followers have begun to construct fortifications, again.” 

“I see, anything else?” asked Gwenefyre. 

“Well, some of the ghouls raided the old butcher shops and held some kind of feast, which smelled awful, apparently. One of the knights has been having visions, and some of the Shields managed to capture an orruk shaman alive, though nothing much seems to have come of it.” 

Gwenefyre’s gaze slowly drifted to the floor as Isoult spoke. Isoult was relaying information of aelven ambushes when Gwenefyre cut her off,

“Isoult, can I see this through? Am I strong enough for this?”

“Strong enough for what?” asked Isoult.

“This ritual. This quest. Am I strong enough to bear what's to come?”

Isoult smiled. “You know, any amount of pain is worth going through for home. The false dawn is a threat to us all, and the Blade may be the only way we can protect ourselves. I know we’ve been through a lot already, and it’s only going to get harder, but I’ve seen you face down things ten times worse than what we’ve seen here. So no, I don't think you’re strong enough for this. I know you are, and I won’t let you give up now. This is too important.” 

It took a moment for the words to truly sink in, but when Gwenefyre stood up and looked Isoult in the eye, there was steel in her voice again. “Rally our Shields to me. We have work to do.” 



Kul-Brimir could almost hear the roar of the long-dead crowd. Rastorg was a place of contest, and the Old Bull already felt more at home here than any time since departing Tor Agöra. The starting stalls would be broken down for firewood, the deep mud of the racing track would be scraped away. Sand would be brought up from the beaches, and this would become a place of contest once more, where his Wolves would train and bond in the ways of battle.

His coal-black eyes flitting back and forth under heavy brows, Kul-Brimir made sure nobody would catch his lingering, longing gaze at the many ale casks of unknown vintage they’d uncovered, an unexpected prize Ritos had secreted away within Rastorg. Discipline was the beating heart of Goroan teachings, yet such aged brew was a rare delight, indeed…


The fight for Rastorg had begun days earlier, when the Wolves’ forward scouting parties entered the ward. First among them was Loremaster Aeredris, whose band of Dryads and Sisters of the Watch made not a sound as they slipped between recently-thawed buildings. The same could not be said of the mega-gargant Half-farts and his Mancrusher underlings who, in a flash of inspiration, strapped flotsam about their bodies in an attempt to disguise themselves as the very structures around them.

Alas, they did not succeed in this endeavor, as Half-farts rotund girth beneath his disguise quickly betrayed the ruse. Kul-Brimir entreated Snowshovel to withdraw his gargants from Lowtown, lest they raze the very wards the Wolves sought to take, yet the retreating Half-farts soon found himself set upon by Arcanites of Belagos Blackhand’s broken Ironsworn warband. Like sharks to blood, the Goroan Minnow and his fellow ogroids moved to Half-farts’ aid, butchering the Arcanites faster than they could flee.

Vaalaalek would face much the same, as Hedonites fell howling upon each other. All attempts at subterfuge cast aside, the Wolves moved upon Rastorg in force, the Contractors, Crimsonforgers, and Finkerz finishing what Loremaster Aeredris began. With intent to maintain their momentum, the Wolves mustered a second offensive toward Dragon’s Teeth, while those with eyes on other prizes slipped away to Redgrave and the Eye.


Sigurd Prow-Dancer, last chieftain of the Jitae, was first to reach the ward. Eager to make a name for himself, his darkoath savagers soon ran afoul of the restless dead. What hand moved them against the Wolves was unclear, and didn’t much matter, as Sigurd’s hubris would find him drowning in the dead. Wolves, however, are nothing if not a pack, and the dead would find themselves put to ground again by Gore’ox Palefur, yet not before a Scriptor Mortis placed a withering upon the Goroan’s very soul.

The clash of Sigurd and Gore’ox’s battle quickly brought other Wolves to them, with both the Exiled Blades and Golden Roses scouring the ward for foes. What they found instead was their own ogor Lord Wu, beating a hasty retreat from the Eye. Sagradiel’s aelves, he warned, and too many to fight without proper muster or fortification. Gore’ox raged at the news, bellowing for battle, his oath sworn to Kul-Brimir to slay the would-be usurper. Lord Wu’s desire toward Sagradiel’s death was none the lesser, the ogor counseled, yet battle would bring no victory this day. The Wolves quit Dragon’s Teeth and Redgrave with it, leaving the Branchwych Aoire and Treelord ancient Amhranai to raise a bulwark of wyldwood between them and the approaching Iscarneth.



The Dross-fray of Razkhos Gloomspine declared their presence in Coldside with the pounding of hooves and the bleating of warcries. They set eyes on their opposite number upon reaching the square: Zamos’ Warherd, their wolf-faced namesake standing head and shoulders again taller than Razkhos. Undaunted, Razkhos loped forward, ready to charge, only to smell the rotten flesh of the Gloomcourt’s Merrie Flensers among the alleys to their right, upwind of them. Turning to move toward the buildings to their left, his ears caught the heavy-booted march of Earl Valmar Bahn’s Stormcast Eternals, the lone wolf Averian among them. With a snarl promising bloodshed, Razkhos spit upon the mud before Zamos and slunk back into the shadows.

Where Coldside was lost without bloodshed, Axhald would become a charnel house. Led by a probing force of Kharadron, Papirius’ undead vanguard found themselves set upon by the Cult of Khaine the Unconquered, sworn now to Klarieth of the Shadowsong Renegades. Aided- quite unintentionally- by the skaven Askip, Papirius waged a fighting withdrawal as the keening cries of Khoralis Doomspite’s brought others of their faith down upon the Hosts of Zagron, Khelasis Bleakshade and Kherith's Shade-Troupe among them. Their own fallen mounting, Papirius and Askip quit the ward as the Renegades turned their attentions to the interloping Black Venom Stalk Tribe. 


It was in Juddermark the Dross-forged burned their will into the city’s flesh. The ward was all but overrun by the Mooncalled already, the skaven of Skrek Skychaser and Clan Skorchfur racing to hang their wild-eyed, moon-faced banner from the clocktower. Seemingly safe in their stake upon the ward, they were blindsided by the greenish-yellow tide of Mougev’s Free Hobgrot Asosiashun and Sevvir’s Luxy Dogs.

Their momentum quickly spent, the Mooncalled might have recovered if it weren’t for help from on high. The clocktower’s spire standing tall through the fog like a lighthouse, Okbryn Whisperport’s Kharadron risked a combat landing, disgorging their Dross-forged allies onto the Mooncalled’s reeling fighters. Perhaps the last straw, however, were Xiris Forgecalled’s duardin arriving in Juddermark from beneath the streets. Surrounded seemingly on all sides, including above and below, the Mooncalled broke, withdrawing back beyond the wards.

Upon his arrival, the Dross-forged presented the Beardless with their prize: a small, curious aethergold-powered automata, seemingly a keeper of the clock tower’s impossibly precise machinery and now, a fiercely loyal servant… whether Uhred liked it or not.



The Blackwing Corsairs descended upon Frørholm like crows upon a corpse, casting feathered shadows upon their unfortunate victims. They had come to this city to pick it clean of plunder, and they set about doing just that, slashing the throats of any who stood in their way before dancing back into the shadows, pouches full of stolen loot and trinkets. As Lissea’s crew spread terror throughout the city, she herself was leading the charge to gain a foothold within its walls. The target of her assault was Strongkeld and the old manor house therein, a fitting seat for a Queen, at least until better accommodations could be found. No expedition led by the Carrion Queen herself could be as crude as simply walking in and staking claim, so Lissea directed her troops to scout ahead, sending the Remembered’s Gryph-Hound, Alto into the district first. These were eyes that, if spotted, would not tip her hand. The Gryph-Hound returned, having found nothing save old ghosts in the vicinity of the manor, and Lissea sent in the second stage of her assault.


Nihil Sael Carna briefs his underlings on the plan to take Strongkeld.

A small team of the Carrion Queen’s allies had discovered an old waterway leading into the heart of the city. Led by Wight King Bredgar Felforge and Carcin Sal’Ran, they made their way beneath the city, emerging from an old well within the estate. With the aid of skaven Deathmaster Titus Lashtail and his agents, they scouted and entered the manor, preparing it for the Carrion Queen’s arrival without a single witness. Or so they thought. Scouts from the Shields of An’avon had spotted the group entering the manor and identified them as allies of the Blackwing Corsairs. Before long, they had mustered a host to besiege the manor, the small group of unprepared defenders standing little chance at survival. The time for subtlety was over; the Carrion Queen mustered her troops.

It started with the furies. A swarm of the creatures, bound to the Knights of the Occluded Oath, descended upon the Shields, harrying them and breaking their formations, allowing the main charge to break the siege before it could begin in earnest. With Lissea soaring at their head, the allies of the Corsairs charged into the disoriented ranks of their enemy, who quickly sounded the retreat, crumbling under the joint onslaught of Cannonbelly’s Buccaneers and the Stewards of the Shadow Grove. With that unpleasantness out of the way, Lissea the Carrion Queen claimed the seat of Strongkeld in the name of the Great Gatherer, and her allies began their search for the secrets hidden within the old manor.

The Blackwing Corsairs did not limit their ambitions to only one district of the city, however, and a contingent of them set their sights upon Turning and the ancient knowledge held within. When the Blackwing Scouts arrived, however, they found the old square infested with rioting Mooncalled, already tearing through the place with abandon, destroying priceless relics and forgotten writings as they went. Sending word back to the main host headed for Turning, the Corsairs set about their bloody work, descending upon the revelling horde with blinding speed, killing and sowing fear and discord as they went. By the time the collected forces of Dailan’s Haulers, Jhaellarex’s Menagerie and Deffgit’s Gloomwyrm’s poured into the square, the Mooncalled had already begun their panicked retreat. There was little for the gargant Junko Holmesmasher to do as he lumbered into the square behind them, and even less work for Captain Chanzit’s makeshift frigate as it came thundering in overhead. The battle was won before it had even truly started, and the Great Gatherer feasted well upon the spoils.



Axhald was a bloodbath. Corpses of fallen foes in all forms were strewn everywhere and their blood flowed through the streets creating islands of cobblestone. The surrounding air reeked of iron and to even experienced warriors, the sight and smell would be overwhelming. To Klarieth and her Shadowsong Renegades, it was beautiful.

The shattered Melusai slithered through the streets, running her finger along a blood trail on the walls as she went. This scene of brutality brought reassurance to Klarieth. She was beginning to worry of possible ulterior motives of her stormcast allies, given the history between khainites and the storm forged. She saw now they were quite willing to butcher in the name of Khaine, or at least hated Morathi enough to do so to support Klarieth’s cause. Nevertheless, they had caused quite the stir already. Yet, the stormcast couldn’t take all the credit for the carnage this ward had witnessed. Not only were there a sizable amount of khainites among Klarieth’s ranks, but Kharadron duardin, who shredded the enemy from range while a delightful troggoth and his cave squigs tore the survivors apart limb from limb before devouring them.

For all these warriors, the ones Klarieth dreaded the most were the swathes of undead. The presence of those undead hosts at her command had somewhat unsettled Klarieth at first. Like many others, she was under the assumption that all undead were eternally bound to the great necromancer, and Klarieth had no end of reasons why she wished to stay far away from him. Her nerves were eased once she learned that this was not the case. She even felt sympathetic towards the one who called himself inquisitor, for he too had split from his own malicious queen, just as she had with Morathi.

Axhald, despite the redecoration, held a greater value to the Shadowsong. The abandoned buildings lined the streets would make a fine barracks for her soldiers away from the cold and wind. Yet she was drawn to the cracked anvil found in an abandoned blacksmith’s forge. The weathered iron radiated powerful magical energy around the ancient forge, and duardin sigils on the sides revealed the maker marks of Grungni himself. Klarieth could sense it had some connection to the Fated Blade, and in the heady scents of so much freshly spilled blood she felt Khaine’s hand at work. 

Given this new confidence in her cause, Klarieth felt reinvigorated. The misery she experienced upon first landing on this island now melted away before the burning fire of her desire. The blade felt one step closer to being hers, she was sure of it.


“The city is thawing at an alarming rate, but I have begun to gather a plethora of useful information from the forces converging on it. Gnawmarket is rather unsavoury, and the precise manner of place I had hoped to avoid returning to, but it has been incredibly useful in my task.”

Excerpt from the Emissary’s second missive

Chimaera Point

The Mooncalled's celestial patron must not have been shining upon their expedition into Frørholm, for they discovered little but disaster within its darkened streets. Their forces split into two main contingents, the first and smaller of which held Turning in its sights, seeking lost knowledge of ages past. This excursion was to be overseen by Ragathan the Mad, one of the Mooncaller’s most trusted lieutenants, and headed by Ichi of Clan Kyoudai. The gargant had been assured in his diplomatic talks that few others had much interest in the place, and, as they arrived in the hushed square, this appeared to be true. The quiet was broken when the amassed Mooncalled began to revel in their apparent easy victory. With shouts and cheers, Gloamdregg’s orruks, Maggottail’s Skaven, and the Tzeentchian Men of the Moon, among others, began to spread out, looting as they went. The revelry ended abruptly when Ragathan the Mad fell to the ground, throat slashed.

Within moments, the scattered Mooncalled expedition was engulfed by panic as more and more dropped to the ground, staining the snow red as they fell. Flurries of black feathers were all they saw of their assailants, before the main force of Blackwing allies fell upon them, spilling into the square like an inexorable tide. The Mooncalled survivors turned and ran, clutching what few scraps they had managed to gather in their reckless looting. It was little enough.

The other expedition, larger than the first, was led by the Mooncaller himself, prancing at the head of his assembled horde. Their destination was Juddermark, the narrow alleys and crooked pathways perfectly suited to the many grots and skaven under the Mooncaller’s banner. Their bravado was broken, however, when they immediately found themselves face to face with the assembled might of the Dross-Forged, already in the process of staking their claim to the district. The fight was brutal, and short. Even with the Mooncaller himself shrieking and tossing hexes, as well as the valiant efforts of the likes of Lord Godfrey Wolnir and the putrid troggoth Runn, the Mooncalled were forced to retreat.

It seemed, however, that their forces had thinned even before the fighting had started, much to the Mooncaller’s chagrin. Grey Seer Ignetio Creepsnout had peeled off from the march before it had even arrived at Juddermark, determined to pursue his own personal ambition to take the Rastorg Racetrack. His plan failed spectacularly when, expecting to only find a small contingent of squig riders, easy prey to one such as him, he instead ran his doomwheel directly into the assembled hordes of the Wolves of Agora. They barely noticed his foolhardy charge, and he returned to Chimera Point battered and short a few of his beloved doomwheels. 

As soon as they encountered the Dross-Forged at Juddermark, Loonboss Stinknob and his grot knights made a tactical retreat towards Turning, thinking that their martial might would be needed by the smaller and hopefully uncontested force there. The Blackwing Corsairs didn’t much care for this plan, however, and Da Knights ov Da Grinnin’ Moons might have been routed had their talent for retreat not been so impressive.



It was just so easy. The vagrants and barbarians had flocked to this island, all with their little wars and little dreams, only to be cut down like wheat before the scythe. It was almost laughably tragic, like they were the butt of some cosmic joke that only he was smart enough to see. 

Sagradiel took aim as another skaven broke from the cover of a shattered building ahead of him, fleeing for some imagined safety. It was already a hundred yards away, ducking and weaving across broken ground and through fallen scaffolding before the sharp bark of the rifle sounded. The heavy ball took it cleanly through the back of the head. 

The aelf-lord felt a thrill of pleasure run down his spine, the heady joy of perfection rushing through him. All around, his sharpshooters were sweeping through the streets, driving off or putting down the scum that had rushed in to infest the thawing city. Across Scaltorg and Rainside, through Dragon’s Teeth and the Eye, the amber sun flew. It would all be his, because of course it would be. Everyone else here were just footnotes to his story. 


Estgard, once more

The ritual site had been cleared. Gravewillow bark ash had been carefully laid in a map of the island, its arcane lines picked out in gleaming oil and converging on the point where they stood. 

At the ritual’s center stood Lady Gwenefyre. Her armour lay in a neat pile outside the circle, and the simple shift she wore left her arms bare to the cold winds. Thin red lines, picked by a fine-edged ritual knife, scored patterns across her skin, invoking the ancient god of the dead whose power was to be channeled. If she had any misgivings, they did not show in her steady eyes. 

Around her stood the ritual’s participants. Caradrya the Enchantress had led them here. The Mad Queen Silanor and Ashtar Broadplate had prepared the way. Valinar and Baron Isteleo stood ready, alongside Starseer Tu’Bok and the kroxigor Kamaa. To one side, a bone crown in hand, waited Ghoulin. 

Caradrya looked to Gwenefyre, who nodded back with a thin smile. The Basalt Citadel ritual, if it worked, would call forth a necromantic fortress from the earth. It was old lore, calling upon the powers of a god of the dead long ago consumed by the Great Necromancer, yet it held power still. It would provide a fastness here, a stronghold from which they could range out across the rest of the island. There was risk, yet for the protection it offered her people Gewnefyre had agreed to bear it. She placed her trust in the mage that had served in the High Queen’s court for so many years. 

Caradrya and the ritualists began their chant, the low resounding sounds of the ancient words echoing from the stone. Upon the ground, the gravewillow ashes stirred, as though caught in a breeze that did not exist, then began to jump like oil in a pan. It rose up in the air, keeping to the lines it had been painstakingly arrayed in, until the map of the island floated around Gwenefyre like a three-dimensional illusion.

The ground around them began to shake, and the ritualists focused their power. They called across realms and mortal planes, reaching for the damanse of the King of Silent Fields, to bring his Basalt Citadel to Frørholm. Yet the mage could already feel something was wrong. It felt like the island itself was trying to resist them, angered at this encroachment upon its domain. Dark shadows lingered at the corners of her vision, and the words fought her, like they were trying to crawl back down her throat before she could give them wind. The ground rumbled and split, yet instead of a mighty fortress emerging, shards of basalt like broken bones splintered upwards at sharp angles. The ritual was failing, and they were losing control. 

Gwenefyre hung in the air in the ritual’s center, spectral winds whipping at her hair and lifting her from the ground. The magics they had summoned raged uncontrolled around her. Ancient and dark powers had long laid claim to this island, and would suffer no challenge to their hold. Black taloned hands made of shifting darkness reached upwards, closing around her and trying to drag her down into the earth. The ritualists fought against them, sending every ounce of power they still held to pry them back. Red lightning blazed outwards, burning flesh and bone alike, but still they powered forward. Light built around Gwenefyre’s body, blazing against the shadowy claws, and she cried out a name that was lost in the raging winds.

In a flash of white fire and a peal like thunder, it was finished. The ritual site was scoured clean. Gwenefyre and the ritualists lay where they had been thrown by the magic’s force, some moving slowly. Noble Kamaa was the first to leap forward, the kroxigor far more resistant to hostile magics than most. He gently lifted and cradled Gwenefyre’s body. It was clear that her arm was badly broken where the blast had thrown her against the rocks, yet aside from that she seemed unharmed. Her chest rose and fell in shallow but even breaths. Even the ritual cuts across her arms had healed. Yet there could be no hiding the mark the ritual had left upon her. Kamaa cradled her head carefully, and the two massive, curving horns that had sprouted from her brow. 


Cracks skittered like spiders through the ice. So many warm bodies were here now. So much warm blood had been spilled on these shores. Water flowed out towards the sea, sweeping away the carnage in a red tide. Streets long frozen were free again. Passage gasped greedily at the now open air, leading down to hidden places long forgotten. At the heart of the island, its secret flamebeat grew, ever present and just beyond the edge of hearing. 


VI Shattered Dominion