PBEM Game: Yarnspinners 2 (Running)

[Sedna]

Hey kids,

I've brought the maps for yarnspinners up to date: turns 42 - 51. Hopefully this will help any loyal readers follow the epic the battles now raging (slowly) across our fair land.

Start looking at the new maps here

Sedna

[djo]

I've written about half of my turn 54, and I need more inspiration! How about another turn?

We're close, so close now...

[Sedna]

Muszinger

Muszinger recalled a hymn from his childhood. He was sitting on a hard wood bench between his parents. Up front, a man convicted of heresy flogged himself in a wild frenzy of remorse. The choir, high in the lofty recesses of the cathedral lifted up a slow, lonesome song:

And I will lift you up on eagle's wings

The words echoed in him as marched the ornate halls of the palace of Pythium, always just on the edge of real hearing and imagination -- angels' music.

There had been angels defending the gates and towers of Pythium. Hosts of beauty which made the heart ache to look at them and flaming swords to cleanse the wickedness from the hearts of men. Gawain and his knights had tossed them aside like chaff in their charge, and then hunted them down on horseback, hacking their bodies to bloody chunks, which they burnt, dancing around the pyre. Then they sacked the rest of the city, burning and looting.

But now the palace was quiet. Little streams of water murmered in the stillness. Muszinger came to the foot of a spiral staircase. How long before, it could not have been more than six months, had he climbed that other tower in the cathedral at Saran Forest? How many nights ago had he read those orders which had started all this madness, which had plunged the world into bloody war?

Bear you on the breath of dawn

Muszinger reached the top of the tallest tower in Pythium, and gazed back toward the broken tower of Saran, and beyond that to the Mountains of Madness and Fort Doom. These few leagues where he had been trapped for years now-- fighting, always fighting. The broken tower still shone a sickly green, and the stories of the evil king of death, Antrax, unleashed upon a hapless world by Polgrave, had reached the ear of every soldier. Polgrave! Dear friend, lost to the light... and now death stalked the lands north and west of them, cutting of any hope of reuniting with loyal forces. Death rode at the head of a wave of nightmares: every heretic burnt by the inquisition, that was the rumor, each bent on seeking revenge upon the living, be they warriors of Man or Marignon.

Make you to shine like the sun

Muszinger watched the stars. Why had the LORD forsaken Marignon, and which in his time? For now, the borders still held, in one bloody battle after another, but they could not last. Avoca had been struck down by heavenly fire in his office in the capitol as he sat praying for angelic aid. Spire was even now stuck desperately alone in a flood of Ulmish and Van armies. The Archbishop of Marignon, if the reports are true, has been driven mad by the evils of Ermor. No, Marignon would fall. The mighty kingdom which had grown so great in the last years would wither utterly to a flickering ember.

But the greatest threat never came from without, but from within, from the rotten heart of man. Polgrave, utterly mad, and doomed, and fallen into blackness. Dear friend, now a pawn of death, and controlled by the black ichor infecting his veins. And according to Esclave, Wic was performing human sacrifices, and promulgating some now gospel about bringing forth the devils to hold back the flood of death which swirled around Fort Doom.

And hold you in the palm of my hand.

Yet the greatest darkness now in a sky of night was Afti-el. So pure when she arrived in this world, so full of heaven's light. What fell beast now stalked the weary world, trailing sickness in her wake? What twisted darkness had brought her low? How had the plans of the almighty LORD been so utterly perverted, that his greatest servant would lead to the destruction of Marignon?

Marignon would fall. But still Muszinger would ride out one last time on the LORD's crusade. He would track down and banish Antrax if he could, and if he could not... he would take his eternal reward. If those stars still held a heaven, he would see the living face of God. And death, afterall... What was it the prophet had said?

There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.

Even drought bears fruit.
Even death is a seed.

[djo]

Vanheim turn 54:

In which Anteirios thanks his dead sister, and Molly says good-bye.


Anteirios

She was very pale, and when I embraced my sister Tilneia, she was cold and stiff. But she lived, or something like it. For forty years, we believed she was dead. Now, she stood before me. Someday my curiosity would prevail, and I would question her regarding her condition; not today. My emotions flooded my thoughts, for my sister had returned.

"Thank you," I whispered as I held her.

"For what?" she asked.

"For rescuing my son."

She pulled away from me. "Not soon enough," she replied, with pain in her voice. "Pherios will never be the same again."

"He's with us again. Shh. Don't say another word. Just know: I will be forever grateful."

She contented herself with a small nod and thin smile. She'd changed so much, and yet so little, still chastising herself for minute failings while ignoring accumulated achievements, just as she had before. She had changed, yet in her time away from us, she had not forgotten her family. I had not forgotten her. And now I had the opportunity to learn the answers to questions I thought unanswerable.

"Forty years," I said. "It seemed so much longer. But why? Why did you...leave us?"

"I've missed you terribly," Tilneia replied. "I was so lonely. I kept telling myself we'd speak again, eventually. I knew we would. Forty years is not forever. Our father traveled for fifty before returning to marry mother. Our view of things in Vanheim is always long."

"Father wrote," I said. "Please, dear sister, don't be offended by my questions. You know my faults. I haven't cured my curiosity. And I will bury every question if they would drive you away. But if not, I need to know. Why?"

We sat and drank our family's good wine as she told me.

"There is a way in which you and I are more alike than either of us is like Belletennares. You do not have Alteion's gift of prophecy. Nor do I--almost.

"It was a single blinding vision," she said. "I had not known it before, nor have I since. But in that instant, I saw Vanheim's need, and the means to fill it. You are a scholar, brother. You must have seen it. We were not what we had once been. Magic that had propelled armies to victory over the giants was lost, within our own living memory. Belletennares tried to explain it to me once, why he could not call lightning anymore. 'It is,' he said, 'as if my mind were a leaky cask. I continued to pull the tap, just as I always had, but the flow of ale became slower and slower, and eventually it was gone. And I no longer remember how to brew any more.'

"I knew we would need the knowledge of magic again, so I hung myself from an ash. I suppose it was audacious, or at the least, pretentious, to think I could follow the paths of the gods like that, as if I were some legendary figure. But it worked! It open my eyes to all the secrets of life and death. It was a beginning. Then I made peace with the dwarves hiding deep in the hills, and so I came to Vanheim. To learn, to research, to teach myself, for that moment when I was needed."

"In hiding," I said. "For all those years, I didn't know the Lady of the Tower was my sister Tilneia."

She would not meet my eyes. "I was afraid. Would you accept me? I hoped so, but I couldn't bear the thought that you might not. Could our house protect me? Forty years ago, I feared not. Vanheim had no tradition of necromancy then. Our house was not as strong. They would have persecuted us, brought us down. You know that is the curse of our house, to bring ill tidings of the future.

"And now...I would not give up what I've learned, but it seems my moment was lost. Perhaps I did not see truly. Perhaps my time is not to come for another decade, or century."

"You are wrong," I said forcefully. "You have guided Vanheim into this War of Ascension. We believed that Belletennares and Pherios warned us of the present times, but we were wrong. You were there first. This age is the age of House Alteion, and it is you who gestated it."

I believe she was pleased at the image, but her smile vanished quickly.

"Then let us see it remains so," Tilneia said. "For I do not wish to live in the age of Vethru."


Molly

At least we had a few more months together before Pherios had to leave. It was good having him around to help understand the visions. We worked on it all the time together. The future was a pretty big mess, but we made enough sense of it for Belletennares to do pretty well up north. Hurray for us!

It was fall when we went for our last ride. We headed up into the hills near his parents' estate, him on his big, black, spooky-untrackable Van horse, and me on my little pony. We both knew, without saying, that it was the last time. We're both seers. It makes things easy between us. He's like the big brother I never had.

We tied our horses and strolled along the hilltop overlooking the estate. We talked about the weather, the war, who was away and who was at home. But then I told him how Mistepeillia and Sennei treated me like family, and how much I liked that. And that was the beginning of the good-byes.

He smiled and tipped his head, which was funny, because unlike Tilneia, who could never keep her neck totally straight, Pherios still had really good posture.

"You've grown up a lot in the time I've known you," he said. "How old are you now?"

"Twenty," I told him.

Pherios laughed. "Still a child, if you were a Van. I'm only fifty-six, and if it weren't for the war, I'd still be at my studies.

"They've been tough times," he continued, "But you've come through them a fine young woman. You're bright, and loyal, and you've learned to stand up to Vans older than my uncle. And I've seen all the young man who trail after you with wide eyes and sweet words."

I blushed. I wondered how he saw it. I knew I appeared as a wren in his visions. I laughed at the image of a gaggle of silly geese following a tiny songbird around.

He laughed, too. "You've made my hard times much easier," he said. "You saved me, once. And I couldn't have done the rest without you." And then he said it, what we were both dancing around. "I'm going to miss you."

Knowing it was coming didn't make it any easier to hear. I felt my eyes fill up with tears. "I'm going to miss you, too."

"It isn't clear what will happen--"

"I know." It was the one future we never discussed. It was dark, really dark.

"I have to go," he said. "There's no other way. And you know that the things we see don't always--"

"I know. It's OK. I figured it out," I told him.

"Figured out what?"

It's funny he didn't see it right away. He'd been living it for years. "The visions. Why we have them. It's not to avoid the bad roads. It's so we know the right roads when we come to them. Right?"

Then he hugged me really tightly, and I didn't want to let him go. But we both know what has to happen, has to happen. We mounted up and started to ride back.

"You never flinched, or looked away," Pherios said. "After I came back. Like this."

"Shut up," I said. "You're practically my brother."

He smiled. "I don't know, you're not very tall," he said, "and all my female relatives have blond hair."

"Shut up!"

"It's true," he insisted, conveniently forgetting Irulia. I let him.

"I'll pack you some meals. You can't cook."

"You don't have to. My mom and Aunt Sennei said they would."

"You'll need it all where you're going," I said, and he sobered.

Because we both saw it. Vethru was headed into dead lands, where there was no game, no crops to scavenge. And that's where Pherios would follow. To Ermor.

[djo]

You know, we can still finish this thing up in under a year! Just a few more turns to go...

Vanheim 57

In which Pherios asks for Galameteia's sword, and Belletennares ponders the worth of it all


Vethru

"Damn," I swear, throwing the knife onto the table. "Take it away."

I toss the blood-soaked smock on the floor as the corpse is wheeled out. Quellian Ji flutters to my shoulder from the corner he's been hiding in. I should've made him a crow, way back when. Crows don't get as squeamish at the sight of carrion. But no, he was a sailor, and his world had some truly marvelous oceans, so I made him a seagull.

"Hey, boss, I didn't know you could read entrails," he says.

"I can do anything," I reply. "Usually I get other people to do it for me. But it doesn't work right in this world. Bleeping censored dammit, I need a gods-be-damned seer!"

"Are you sure about that, boss? The last four didn't work out so good."

"Shut it, bird."

"Or is that five? Let's see, Pherios, Galameteia, Molly, the lizard, Belletennares...OK, I guess that's one for you. He hasn't run away. Four!"

"Not now!"

Fortunately for him, he shuts up. What do you expect, philosophy from a seagull? He makes his jokes, then he shuts up. It's the only shtick he has.

I don't really need a seer. One of them visited me yesterday.

He'd gotten even sneakier since I hung him. Ji and I were walking back to the castle when he stepped out of the shadows in a small courtyard. There were guards everywhere; he found a way through them to the one place on my path they couldn't see.

"You have something of mine," Pherios said. In the dark, you couldn't even tell what he was. Dead like me.

"Right when I didn't expect you," I replied. "And that, I suppose, is what I should have expected."

"Galameteia's sword," he said. "I'd like it back."

"Your emotions betray you," I told him. I've always wanted to use that line.

"You don't need it. It means something to me. Give it to me, and I'll give you something you do want."

"The world?" I asked.

"The future."

He had me there. "Come up to my tower," I said. I wasn't planning to recapture him, and Pherios didn't ask. I guess he knew it already. He just smiled, and in that smile I saw a maturity that warmed my heart. OK, that's a metaphor. I don't exactly have a heart, and most of the things I use in its place exist on another plane and work best at liquid helium temperatures. But that's really beside the point.

It warmed my heart. I could see it in his smile, in his eyes, in his confident posture. He'd become what I had hoped he could become. I saw that he had mastered life and death, the past and the future. If only he hadn't turned away from me...we would already be ruling this world.

You bet I would trade him his dead girlfriend's sword to hear anything he had to say about the future.

I gave him the blade. He pulled it from its sheath, raised it to his eyes, and watched the thing glisten in the lamplight. For a long moment, I wondered if he had made peace with Galameteia's fate. Pherios couldn't hurt me, but I didn't want to have to hurt him if he decided today was revenge day. But without expression, he returned the sword to its sheath, and, as I knew he would, kept his end of the bargain.

"Ermor," he said. "It all ends in Ermor."

"When?"

"Three months."

Hmm. I guess that splinter sect in Marignon was right after all. Who would've thought it?

Before I could ask more questions, he was gone.

So I really didn't need another seer, or any more animals to cut open. I had it from the horse's mouth. Ermor. It made sense. The source code I was looking for dealt with density. And in this whole world, which was swimming in dead, where did one find the spirits? The insubstantial dead? The incorporeal? The ethereal? The bodiless? In Ermor. Where the Soul Gate lies.

I send word to Belletennares. We're going north.



Belletennares

I can no longer make any sense of this world. The armies of every nation run rampant; if alliances still hold, I can only assume it is due to oversight. We are plunged into chaos, and I foresee no peace for us, those who have survived the turmoil long enough to look upon this, the end of days.

Marignon is dying. We have pushed them to extinction in the north, save for Archbishop Spire and his damned ethereal lions. My scouts say they have few territories left, and they will fall within months. Elsewhere, our armies face other armies across new borders--Tenecheia's demons, Ulm's armored legions...will they move south? The dragon of Ulm, Griffin, has struck our lands and left as precipitously. Will he return in force?

And what of Vethru? His search, for I now know, thanks to the investigations of my brother, sister, and nephew, that he searches for runes of great power, take him north--to Ermor. He asked me if we could defeat the armies of Ulm that besiege Ermor. I told him their forces were vast, that they were a thundering herds whose iron boots trod the earth to dust. That they had iron priests and black Templars. But I also told him, truthfully, for deception in wartime must only be used against one's enemies, that I doubted their skill in magic. He promptly ordered us there, to face this army, so he may plunder whatever riches or knowledge that dead capital contains. It is perhaps the first order he has given me more specific than "defeat our enemies."

I do not know if we have any possibility of prevailing against that steel-clad host, and if we were to prevail, whether we could then defeat whenever forces the zealots still hide behind the walls. But he was insistent; I believe this end-of-the-world frenzy has taken him as well. And at the end of the world, it is best to be sure that god is on your side. So I shall obey, despite what he has wrought upon my nation and my family. I will go to Ermor. I will stand by him in battle. He will not be alone.

Not quite.

My nephew has a plan.

[puffyn]

I'm all for finishing soon (says I, not having played my turn yet)... it would be nice to have a little bit of a pause before starting Yarnspinners 3 on Dominions 3: When version numbers collide (?).

Um, here's my yarn for Turn 54:

----
The army paused to wait for dawn. Pots clanged with the hasty evening meals, and lizards shouted to each other to erect the tents and sharpen their falchions one last time. The whetstone ground well into the night. Off in the distance, tall white spires rose from a battered looking castle; some of the damage was clearly years old, while the rest had a more recent origin. There were few lizards to mark the sunset, however, since most were curled up against the cold, dreaming of vengeance, and perhaps of an end of all this fighting.

Pythium was to fall again in the morn.

Laph squinted at the last stack of papers, with barely a centimeter left in her candle. She had hastily drafted her speech for tomorrow, to be given from one of the spires in the distance, and she hadn't even bothered to write a contingency speech in case things went differently. Was she getting lazy in her old age, she wondered? Or was it that foregone a conclusion that it just didn't matter anymore?

She smiled when she picked up the next letter. It was in a bright red envelope, with some bizarrely mystical line drawings on it, and was addressed: "To the yarnspinner. Super-duper-secrett. DONT OPPEN THIS!"

Inside, Fela wrote:

"Dear Mom, Uncle Ruli said I should always inkripped things I send you, and he gave me this super cool secrett paper to write on, in case this is stolened by the enemy. (PUT IT DOWN, YOU DUMB MARINON SPY!) Tari says they're too stupid to be able to read it, but I said Tari was dumb for thinking that. Anyhow, I have been very dillijint and have watched Man's border every day for the last week, and there are no strange cloud creatures or anything, and it really looks quite peaceful, so they're probably not going to attack us sneakily like you were worried. Also, Shem stole my baby scales, and won't give them back, make him stop. Love, Fela."

The next letter was very curt. "CONFIRMED. Engagements between Vanheim, Marignon continue; Vethru seems committed to our fight after all. T'ien Ch'i mobilizing to south, moving on former dead lands. Campaigns progressing well." It was signed by the new Head of the Guild of Empoisonners, who was leading the southern campaign. Laph didn't bother trying to remember his name; there was little point.

Cole wrote a very long and erudite letter, and Laph reflected that his long convalescence was doing wonders for his handwriting. She puzzled for a while over his last paragraph.

"... and I almost pity the few remaining archbishops in charge these days of a crumbling empire, abandoned by their divine ruler. I have some VERY IMPORTANT plans on that matter, but mustn't reveal my secrets before the time is ripe. Let me just say I plan on fighting fire with fire, as it were.... such a pity I cannot join them myself for a good knight roast."

Laph blew out her candle and went to sleep.


Aceline came from a long line of lizard-handlers, and even after the practice had been all but abandoned on order of the new lizard overlords, someone had (wisely) stopped and thought that, perhaps, a trained handler was actually a good thing when it came to bog beasts.

Aceline had two main qualifications for the job. The first was that she was a combat veteran, from the AYE war. The second was that she could count, which was a particularly useful skill in making sure none of the bog beasts wandered into the main camp and accidentally poisoned everyone to death.

".. three of them, come on lads, that's easy!" came the voice of the distant knight, rallying his band in a charge that was aimed more or less directly toward Aceline. She caught a glimpse of a bright shiny shield, and was momentarily disoriented.

"... five, sir..." she heard dimly, but things were moving fast now, and she had signaled the bog beasts to engage in battle formation seventeen. To the lay observer, all bog beast battle formations looked suspiciously like the giant reptiles just sitting there until their attackers fell over gasping from the poison, but that was why a specialist such as Aceline was necessary.

Besides, this time she was attempting a new flanking maneuver, and as the knights rushed past her hiding spot at the edge of the woods she motioned the largest of the bog beasts, who had been hiding with her, toward the unprotected flanks of the knights.

There were, as a matter of fact, six bog beasts. She noted idly where the innumerate knight commander fell, so that she could return for his shield, in a week or two, after the fumes had dissipated.

[Sedna]

Great fun to hear from Pythium/Quantum again.

Marignon Turn 57 is here:

Esclave

The floodwaters of Marignon's enemies have covered the land. Now the deathless roar of their pounding surf laps at the few remaining rocks of resistance: Ermor, Fort Doom, Camelot, and Marignon herself.

Muszinger and Gawain are dead, their bodies eaten by the lizards who sacked Pythium.

The Archbishop of Elkland is dead. Madness took him, and he marched forth from Camelot against the Manish army, leading with him into death the last of the knights of the Chalice. Now the city on the hill lies empty and defenseless. If my son is there perhaps Man will spare him when they take control. Perhaps not. He is the spawn of Afti-el. Will an infant's cry be enough to save him?

Afti-el is/was dead. But Hell could not hold her and Heaven did not want her, so she has returned to slay more innocents at Marignon, and perhaps, if we're lucky, to butcher the lizard horde which tears and claws at the gates of the holy city.

Archbishop Polgrave is... undead? We heard he was killed when the lizards overran the broken tower, but we have also heard that he is now in Marignon, aided by two mysterious acolytes who fled T'ien Ch'i's destruction of the Shadow Watch. God's holy fire continually blasts this heresy, this man who used magic to cheat death.

We will not hear further news of the war. A vast company of Man's troops surrounds us, and slowly breaks down the defenses of our mountain stronghold. There is no way that Afti-el will be vanquished and peace made in time to spare us.

Wic remains as cheerful as ever, somehow still believing that the death which comes for us all swiftly will pass over him. He thinks demons will come to our aid and hold death at bay. But we are death. Marignon is now the corruption the LORD charged us to fight. The sound of daily prayers is a death rattle. And Man, like an unstoppable force of nature, will break through and kill us all.


Foen

I can no longer see. The blackness of Ermor has finally robbed me of sight. This is what I hear:

My fellow druids have abandoned the corrupt faith of Marignon and turned to our old ways. We have brought forth great vine ogres and summoned the spirits of the old trees of Ermor. These ghosts and mindless things mix with the awful snakes still crawling out of the body of Marignon where it hangs, chained before the Soul Gate.

There is no more than a half dozen living left in the land of the dead, but that is good, for there is no food. We sustain ourselves on an endless supply of foul wine. The Ulmish army sieging us is not so lucky. With nothing to eat for miles and a great force, the mass of living men out there are slowly dying as the twin horsemen of disease and starvation hunt them day and night.

The Soul Gate laughs as these, near death, kill themselves as they tear down the gate of Ermor in order to kill the few living within.

Perhaps I am not blind. Perhaps there was just no light. Now great arcs of fire flow from the Archbishop's withered form. It is Ulm, they are in the gate. I cannot but fight, and it is a simple matter to convince them that the air they breath is poison, for it is. The mass of fire snakes boils at the entrance. A once mighty charge of sacred knights falters, breaks. Poison and flame. Ulmish infantry roast in their shells and bile pour from their mouth. Most welcome death.

Now mighty stone crushers come forth and meet our ogres at the gate. There is stalemate: rock and vegetation fight their ancient, slow battle. But Marignon, crying each time in pain -- for he longs to be cut down and killed -- summons forth unearthly flame, melting the very rock of these creature ones by one by one. The granite melts and pools.

We watch, without emotion as the Ulmish magicians and priests on the other side of the wall who had fainted in the choking dust are trampled by a few rampant ogres.

But a new Ulm army has us under siege. They will break through again, storm again. We have no more power to restore the vine men. There are no more spirits to call forth. Death comes.

[puffyn]

Coming up on the final turn here... I believe the plan is to host turn 60 as our last one, but not 61? Which means, after turn 59 hosts (which most of us have already submitted), we have but one turn left to play...

--- C'tis, Turn 57 ---

As the army rolled out of Pythium, the leaves of autumn were falling fast. Laph was one of the last lizards to leave the former capital, detained with harried last minute correspondences and other minutiae that fell to her as the senior non-military lizard. It was late evening when she mustered the final few troops, barely more than an honor guard, for the march north. Her mind was filled with a thousand details of things she should have done or might still be able to persuade other people to do for her, and so it was mere happenstance that her eyes caught upon the fountain.

She had walked through this courtyard, between the scholars' quarters in the center of town and the temporary camps of C'tis high command, many times in the weeks following the defeat of the Marignonese squatters, and had never thought much of it. But now that she stopped and looked around, she realized that it had once been quite a grand courtyard. Come to think of it, perhaps it wasn't a coincidence that all the grand boulevards in Pythium converged here; and she paused for a moment, imagining the massed hordes of soldiers crowding the streets, harangued into their final deadly war. The courtyard had been deserted as long as Laph had been in the city. But with the original Pythite residents long since supplanted and suppressed by first Mannish and then Marignonese conquerors... perhaps that wasn't surprising.

It certainly didn't look like much now. The former heart of the empire was now weed-grown, and here and there cobbles had been pried from the streets, probably to rebuild houses destroyed by war after war. Half a dozen stray dogs and iguanas slept in the fading sun. And the fountain in the center, heavily chipped, long since dried of water, though remarkably devoid of pigeons or other nasty scale-leavers so common in these lands, shouldn't have really caught her eye, except for the way it seemed to wink at her as she walked past.

And not a friendly wink, she thought absently, before whipping her head around to get another look. The fountain remained resolutely stony, worn, with no trace of any carvings that could be considered the face of any creature, or even eyes; it was, therefore, completely incapable of winking. But she stared at it nonetheless for a good long while, until one of her bodyguard finally prodded her forward, to the last conflict with Marignon and the inevitable destruction of their forces on this front.

It was just a broken fountain, after all, and Laph had a long march to the Saran Forest. She shivered a little, and blamed the nightfall, and the impending winter.

---

Time weighed heavily on Lugal's shoulders.

Or at least, it really should have. Hema knew he was far and away the oldest lizard in C'tis. He had lived through more wars than he could count, even considering that she suspected he couldn't count past five. To hear him tell it, he had lived through the end of the world more than seven times, and Hema wondered, as so many had before her, just what was the plural of "apocalypse".

He certainly looked scarred and ancient enough for Hema to believe that at least some of his stories of survival against impossible odds were real, even if she doubted that he had single-handedly defeated a million squids in the Caves of Time, as he had claimed just that morning before the council at the High Rock. Last week, he had gone on at some length about how he was the sole survivor of the Silver Forest Massacre, in spite of being set on fire by the great dragon Astairr himself, whom he had then cursed with the total annihilation of his realms. And so forth.

These days, most able bodied lizards were out at the front fighting, or holed up in their towers frantically devising clever ways to liberate Marignon from the tyrannous theocracy of the Inquisition. The council of elder lizards was the domain of the very old, and consisted, on most days, of half-mute revenants. Lugal loved the amount of floor space they gave him to propound his ideas, and how nobody ever interrupted him any more, and Hema had learned more about his past than she had ever wanted to know. He should be well on his way to senile obsolescence by now, barely able to muster up a good harangue.

But he remained remarkably untouched by the ravages of time.

Hema herself had woken up one morning to discover a mysterious wound – and not fresh, but long-ago scarred over, the memory of some distant battle she had been in, except that she had never seen combat in her life. Her most challenging day-to-day experience was surviving the job of Liaison to Crazy-Elder-Lizard, which had, admittedly, brought her close to death on more than one occasion. (The incident with the herd of rampaging dead elephants still stalked her nightmares.) But she had, remarkably perhaps, completely escaped permanent harm. Until now.

It wasn't just her. The streets of C'tis, though mostly deserted, saw more and more newly-made cripples, and reports flew in from all around the world, not just in lizard lands, that the young were aging and suffering maladies far sooner than they should, and the old dying prematurely. She had tried to see a healer, when she had first noticed her own malady; but he merely shook his head. "I fear that wound will never fully heal," he sighed. And he stared sadly at her through his remaining good eye, the other lost to forces unknown.

Laph had sent a cryptic letter trying to make sense of it, that Hema puzzled over. "... and at Saran Polgrave was killed in battle, run down by undead horsemen, but the few Marignonese we could question seemed overjoyed at his death, and cackled about him becoming 'more powerful than you could possibly imagine', before taking their own lives in an attempt to join him. Rumors are that he has been 'born again' in Marignon of all places, but it is hard to determine reality from religious hallucination with these people..."

So perhaps this was one final attempt by Marignon to hurry on the end of the world, and somehow they had sped the hands of time itself for everyone, as they had also hastily precipitated their own demise. Or perhaps Hema had really been in battle, in the AYE wars maybe, and had simply... forgotten her war wound.

It all seemed as likely as Lugal, walking jauntily down her path with a brace of coneys over his shoulders, come to borrow her spices or harangue her into working on his latest doomsday weapon, who could say? Perhaps even time recognized that this was not a lizard to be trifled with, and quietly left him alone.

---

Cole paused in his garden. His agapanthus had grown to such enormous height that even in dragon form he could stop and admire them without stooping too low; which was good, because his back ached these days. Cole's wounds, he cheerfully admitted, were entirely legitimate, the penalty for roasting one too many knight, and gladly paid.

He turned to his roses. He had had great hopes for this breed, a brilliant shade of orange, but the plant seemed on the verge of death. Perhaps a little more fertilizer, he reflected. He would have to remember not to eat all of the cows for lunch, though it was hard. The C'tis mountain cow had such a delicate flavor.

In the fort, where the dragon sometimes resorted to human form, there was a stack of letters from everywhere in his dominion. It seemed the small lizards were marching on Marignon itself, while Man and Vanheim and even T'ien Ch'i (such a cute little civilization, such quaint notions they had about dragons) were marching on all of Marignon's lesser fortresses. Epic battles were being fought, full of derring-do and stunning heroics.

Cole moved on to the gold roses. He had been too negligent of late, and little pyrite weeds were slowly encroaching on his magnificent creations, the finest of all the flowers of his garden. The dragon hummed happily as he puttered. Wars came and went; and after the last knights had disappeared from the land, Cole had frankly lost interest. But roses, now...

[djo]

edit: all removed; stupidity on my part regarding timing

[puffyn]

Hey Tauren,

Is anyone still missing a turn? I was hoping I could get Turn 60 (the final one I might add) to play before I start traveling on Saturday.

If someone still hasn't played, by all means wait for them, but I'd appreciate it if they could try to get their turn in. Marignon's getting stormed this turn, and my lizards are getting restless...

Thanks,
puffyn