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Intelligence Reports from the White Queen War; Historical Record
Topic Started: Tue Dec 11, 2012 12:49 am (2,111 Views)
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Transcripts from an interview of the Stranded ex-viskaya Kvera, based on the notes of interviewer Magister Baas of the Striberg Academy of Magic.

After extensive interviews with the Stranded in Striberg, I have successfully tracked down an individual who possesses extensive personal knowledge of the White Queen and the life of Rejevi's upper crust. She is a middle-aged, blue-eyed woman. If I could describe her in a single word, it would be “austere.” Her sunken cheeks and the rags she wears suggest these recent years have not been kind of her. Still, she seems comfortable sitting across from me.

BAAS: Good afternoon, miss Kvera. Could you introduce yourself briefly, for my notes?

KVERA: I am named Kvera. More people know me with earned name “Alemdalvargur” which in Rehel it means Arrow Catcher. I was once a viskaya in Rejevi Royal Military Guard. I protected royal family in places where Skjoldir's claws could not reach.

BAAS: Before I get into the questioning, I just wanted to thank you for so graciously accepting an interview despite the danger it may pose. The Academy of Magic assures you it will do everything it can to protect and compensate you for the trouble.

KVERA: It is not problem. I do not fear White Guard.

BAAS: First of all, what is a “viskaya?”

KVERA: Viskaya in Rehel means “buckler.” It is very high status for servants. They stand closest to the royal family and protect them just like buckler shield. It is a way for people without lineage, who are what we call halevoi, to get a position with good pay when they are skilled. But they still have legal rights of servants.

BAAS: I've noticed in a lot of my interviews that the people of your country value lineage very much. And I've heard that "halevoi" term used before among the Stranded. How far do those values go, do you think?

KVERA: It is important in Rejevi. The honor of your family carries on to you when you are born. If you are born of rulers then you will be ruler. Or if born of carpenters then you will also be carpenter. If you do not know what people you came from, then you have no future, so you are halevoi which means “fateless.” Or you can become halevoi if you scar your lineage, such as being an oathbreaker or berserker.

BAAS: Very interesting. So the White Queen and her family are protected by servants? Would she not prefer to be protected by well-established families?

KVERA: The Queen desires highest skilled fighters and also does not want to endanger high class families with combat. And being soldier of Rejevi is not like being soldier in Imythess. Here it is glorified. But in Rejevi, most fighters and soldiers are poor. Many halevoi become soldiers. It is one of the only options these people have. People in Rejevi see soldiers like Military Guard or Royal Military Guard and they think, “Ah, these honorless people are trying to make themselves better.” It is, how you say... acceptance, not respect.

BAAS: Tell me more about the White Queen. What kinds of interactions have you had with her?

KVERA: She is an interesting person. She is the type that tries to seem very concerned about many things. But she is most concerned about getting mana back to the homeland. She was so concerned about mana that she left control of the homeland to her twenty-year-old son. He now fights the Abnathean Wars alone while his mother searches for a, er, what you call “trump card.”

BAAS: Mana? You speak as though mana is somehow limited, like a resource.

KVERA: I find it more strange that you look at the mana as not limited, Magister Baas. But I am not surprised. Ever since Rejevi discovered Imythess, we have been told that it is land of unlimited magic. We are told that Imythessians are wasteful and selfish and lazy. Because magic does all things for them, instead of working hard. Even lowliest commoner can use power that is best used by royalty. So we are wary of the Imythessians sometimes, and many hate them.

BAAS: So how much mana is there in Rejevi? Can only royals use it? Does anyone else even know how?

KVERA: You are going too far. I see that look in your eye. I do not want your scholars disturbing my homeland just because of knowledge.

BAAS: My apologies, miss Kvera. If you're comfortable, would you mind elaborating on the Abnathean Wars? Why do you need mana for that?

KVERA: You Imythessians do not understand what life is like with rationed mana. It is so important for industry, and for healing the sick. When it is limited, as it is in region where my homeland is, then whoever has it wins. So I know why the Queen is attacking. She is taking mana from people who do not deserve it and giving it to people who desperately need it to fight a war back home. I hate Her Majesty but I can understand that thought.

BAAS: Are you sure she's not just trying to conquer us and establish a New Rejevi or something?

KVERA: That is not question you should be asking.

BAAS: What question should I ask, then?

KVERA: You should ask, “Will the Queen use mana for her country, or herself?”

Written By: Ozan
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My stomach churns as the ship crashes over some huge wave. I look around to see if any of the other soldiers packed below deck are similarly queasy. From what I can tell, they're ignoring the tossing of the floor around them and are focused on their stories. This craft, the Spark in the Eye, is a ship-of-the-line from the Striberg Navy, one that escorted the ice ships to the cove. Since the native crewmembers didn't have a chance to get out into the action, my unit and a whole slew of others are doing their best to fill them in on what happened while we catch up with the ice palace. It's not like we have anything better to do. I listen in, trying to distract myself.

They're laughing about something. “Okay, okay,” Magister Ercole says, “now let's be serious here. How many Frost Giants are there? By Seele's pointy ears, I can't imagine what it was like to pack so many into a moving fortress with limited space.”

Our Corporal is eager to answer. While he speaks, he shakes a finger at them to emphasize every point. “You have to look at it this way, Magister: the giants are like a kind of living siege weaponry. Very valuable! I saw them performing all sorts of roles on the battlefield. They were among the enemy army when that crazy flying warrior-monk and the anti-mage took out a pair.”

“Ah, yes, did you ever find out what happened to that man? I know there have still been sightings of the flying monk elsewhere since then,” says Ercole. No one answers; they probably just don't know.

“Or how about the other pair they toppled while clearing the cove? Can never forget the dynamic duo.” I force back a grimace, trying not to look like I know several of the Istani those two mercenaries were fighting with. One of the crewmembers asks Burgess to elaborate on this “dynamic duo,” and the conversation splits off between the talk about frost giants and the Kellenite's second-hand account of what happened.

“What is with giants always traveling in pairs?” Kat says, and there's amusement in her voice.

“Not so,” chimes in a soldier from another squad. “There was a trio that attacked the portals yesterday morning. I was there. A Striberg noblegirl did most of the work killing them, though. And the sniper she hired.”

“I thought the sniper was trying to kill the noblegirl.”

“Impossible. Everything that got too close to her just died. It had to be a hired job.” The dissenter drops it.

As they keep discussing all their run-ins with frost giants, I see the Magister Ercole sliding up next to me. I glance at him sidelong, wondering what he wants. “You alright, Scars? You don't look well.” The Magister looks old, but talks and acts like any of us twenty-somethings. There's an odd spark of youth in his eye especially, like the name of the ship we're on.

“I'm fine,” I say, returning my attention to the greater conversation. The topic has already changed to discussing the destructive storms that tore at the east wall of the fortress, attributed to some woman calling herself “Sarah the mercenary.” She enlisted as a siege weapon somehow, which seemed to amuse the crewmembers. More frightening to these Istani, though, was the one who helped her: a woman followed by creatures they had difficulty describing. Both came, destroyed, and left. I don't trust people who hide their motivations.

I try to keep listening, but by the time the Corporal is on one of his tall tales again, rambling about some old guy and a girl with wings and how people were falling from a wrecked airship and fighting a horde of enemies and something called burning spirit – a phrase he inexplicably insisted on shouting at the top of his lungs – I know I need to get some fresh air. Right at the top of the stairs I hear someone question the validity of his story about people jumping off burning airships, and I can't agree any more. At least he's doing a good job of keeping the crew entertained.

Not many non-essential people are above deck, for obvious reasons. The sky is dark and it's impossible to see anything beyond the edge of the ship. I walk up to a couple Istani troopers and a Striberg midshipman trying to light a pipe. Even though I've never been so cold in my life, the fresh air helps my seasickness a bit. I grab the edge of the ship and lean on it to steady myself. They pause mid-conversation to give me a brief greeting before going back to whatever they're talking about. “Lord General keeps shifting people around. My wife's unit got moved to that fort near the palace. Kept complaining that the four-armed swordsman and some mercenaries cleared it all out themselves, so now she's bored. They'd even taken care of the giants there.”

The midshipman interjects, “At least she's not in danger. Like you're gonna be.” They all pause to chew on that uncomfortable truth. The Spark in the Eye hits another big wave and I find I'm not the only one up here for seasickness. The Striberg seaman chuckles at us and pats me on the back. “What about you, kid? We're telling some stories, getting the news. Seen anything interesting out there?”

I wipe my mouth as I straighten up from the edge of the ship. “Ah, no, not really.” In this kind of state I'm not in the mood to casually share stories of war. I've seen a lot since I came up here, though. That bugbear with the magical trinket people kept talking about? I saw them, teaming up with an elven archer. I wasn't sure where they were running off to, but it seemed important.

One of the Istani soldiers turns to the other. “Sir, did you ever hear back about that berserker elite? Vos-something, the one that killed your pointman?”

“Voskormir.” He looks at me to explain. “Some kind of dragon fanatic that went insane. Yeah, he's dead now. That one desert bringer went ahead and called in two units of specialists. And two of the Firious brothers, too.” It sounds like overkill to me.

“We've got company!” Someone on the mast yells. I start, more horrified by the thought that someone was on the mast in this weather than the threat of enemies.

The shipmaster comes marching through the wind and snow. “What now? Did our friends let something slip through?” They rattled off an exchange of naval jargon. The only thing I could follow was that there were more ice serpents coming from the direction of the floating ice fortress. “Battle stations, everyone! We're not just going to get silk-wrapped enemies sent to us for clean-up this time!”

I direct a small nod to the people I was talking with and, in an attempt to get out of everyone's way, head back below deck to wait out the remainder of the trip.

Written By: Ozan
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High Sage Duncan Rathmore stood near the prow of one of the foremost assault vessels, peering ahead across the northern sea. The sea and sky were both a dreary shade of grey, and fierce winds whipped across the waters and pulled at his Academy robes. The portly man gathered his cloak tighter around himself in a vain attempt to keep the frigid breeze at bay. The entire deck of the boat was crammed with fighters, soldiers and mercenaries and magicians from every nation in Imythess. When their assault against the White Queen’s palace had finally broken through the gates, everyone had thought the war was all but over. However, at the last moment the foreign monarch had somehow managed to dislodge her palace from the rocky cove in which it had rested and had floated out to sea, fleeing from the army.

They had managed to load up a respectable flotilla of the large ships used in the amphibious portion of the attack with soldiers and set off after the queen, but the going was slow. The northern seas were turbulent in the best of times, and the massive blizzard that had obscured the battlefield only made it more difficult to navigate around the icebergs. Rathmore was certain that without the assistance of him and his colleagues, the pursuit would have failed minutes after taking off. Magicians were stationed at regular intervals on the deck of each ship, simultaneously reinforcing the hulls of the vessels and magically enhancing its speed.

”We are getting close now, High Sage.” Duncan turned at the sound of the precise, clearly enunciated words and met the eyes of Grand Duke Vincent Strilin, one of the rulers of Striberg. He was a tall, gaunt man in his early forties. He had stark black hair that was cut close to his skull and an immaculately trimmed mustache and goatee, with only a few grey strands visible at his temples. His eyes were a pale shade of blue and glimmered with intelligence. The Grand Duke wore a thick mantle of soft white leather that was hemmed with gold thread and small, glimmering sapphires. His clothes were durable and finely made, and even after weeks of fierce fighting they didn't look much the worst for wear. He was accompanied by a coterie of advisors and bodyguards that included several Academy of Magic graduates. ”How soon before we can start teleporting troops to the palace?”

The High Sage turned back to his study of the ocean. The White Queen’s palace was visible in the distance, enshrouded in mist so only its highest spires could be seen. Even with the obscuring covering, it was clear that the shape of the fortress had changed since its disembarkment. Thick walls had grown around the entire perimeter of the structure, with regular high towers on which movement could be seen. He licked his lips nervously before turning back to the waiting Grand Duke. “Technically, we could create a connection immediately… but to do so would be suicide. We have no idea what is waiting for us beyond those walls or how many troops remaining within the palace. Only half a dozen of our forces could be transported at a time, so anyone leaving the portal would get slaughtered before they could accomplish anything. It’s in our best interests to wait for the ships to catch up with her palace.”

Strilin stared at him for several long moments, his face a blank mask. ”That, High Sage… Is merely your opinion.” He strode forward to join the man at the railing, staring at the distant palace. Rathmore thought back to the rumors that circulated about this man that had ruled Striberg since he was a teenager. He had been on sabbatical at the Academy in Istan when Strilin had been enrolled as a student, but stories about him were still whispered in the halls. He was exceptionally talented in every aspect of magical theory and application, but his true genius lay with ice and weather magic. Some people believed that the Grand Duke was just as strong as his famous ancestor for which the City of Magic was named… and others thought him to be more powerful still.

After almost a full minute of silence the Duke turned to one of his subordinates. “Nathaniel, have the task force members been chosen?”

An aide stepped forward, a young man who wore a set of heavy spectacles and had a halberd slung across his shoulders that looked far too large for him to lift, much less wield effectively. “Yes sir. All four members are on this ship and awaiting your command.”

”Gather them, please. I would like to commence the operation as quickly as possible.”

The aide scurried off to obey, leaving a flabbergasted Rathmore staring at his retreating back. “Operation? Sir, what do you mean?”

Strilin did not answer immediately, holding one hand out in front of him. The air around his outstretched fingers shimmered as the moisture was sucked to his hand, forming a thin layer of ice over his skin. With a flick of his fingers he began to shape it, forming a weapon out of pure ice. A few moments later he held a slender rapier three feet in length, with a blade that was several inches wide near the hilt and tapered to a sharp point. A sweeping hilt formed around his hand, interweaving strands of ice that would protect his fingers. ”High Sage Rathmore, the White Queen besieged my city. She demanded that I surrender our mages, and when I refused she killed countless civilians and guardsmen. She is a plague upon our society.” He gave a few practice swings with the nearly invisible rapier, the blade whistling as it cut through the air. ”Now you tell me she is finally within my grasp, and you expect me to wait for my vengeance? No. She must die. Immediately.”

The High Sage licked his lips nervously before speaking. Although Strilin technically had no control over the Academy of Magic and therefore no authority over him, it was well known that the man was close friends with the current High Archmaester. Contradicting him was not something that Rathmore wished to do lightly. “Are you sure that is wise, sir? It is the seat of her power. It would be a tragedy if you were lost in a hastily-assembled assault.”

The Grand Duke smiled thinly, a dangerous expression that lacked any semblance of mercy or warmth. ”'Hastily assembled?' This was my intention from the minute we set sail, High Sage.” He placed the frozen weapon to his hip, a clip of ice forming to hold it in place. ”I expect you to make full haste with the fleet. I have full confidence in our ability to dispose of the Queen, but reinforcements might be required for dealing with the remainder of her forces."

Rathmore silently watched the rail-thin figure at the prow, his brow furrowed. He wanted to protest, but knew it was a hopeless endeavor. There was no room for compromise in Strilin's tone. "We will do our best, sir. And... good luck."

Vincent's lips curled up into a small smile for an instant, so quickly that Rathmore wasn't sure if he had imagined it. They were spared the need for further conversation when Nathaniel reappeared. With him stood three individuals, each of them carefully selected from dozens of volunteers for the task force that would attempt to assassinate the enemy monarch. Strilin turned and stared at them for several seconds before nodding in greeting and approval. ”You know why you were chosen. You know why we are here. Let us end this.”

The Grand Duke turned, raising both hands in front of him. His fingers twitched in fast, precise movements as he began to murmur in the language of magic, each syllable sounding as sharp and brittle as cracking ice. The air began to ripple and shimmer as a vertical line formed in the air, its edges crackling with raw power. Vincent Strilin wrenched his hands apart, the violent motion accompanied by a terrible ripping noise. The line widened to form a perfectly circular portal, mist curling along the edges of the hole. He lowered his hands with a satisfied grin, striding forward and through the portal.

Written By: Seele
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There was no peace to be found. Even in the camps lining the cove, it was impossible to escape the sounds of war. Wounded soldiers groaned and beckoned for the aid of overworked healers. Soldiers that couldn't sleep found themselves huddling around dying campfires, using their bodies to shield the source of warmth from the wind. Torches and magic lit up the ice below; the fighting continued despite the sun having gone down an hour ago. Noses turned toward the sky as an arcane humming filled the air. The bright headlights of an airship descended from the blizzard and were soon followed by their originator: the Cascadian battleship Longsword. The colossus of a craft soared over the camps at a dangerously low altitude, covering the sky with its hull painted deep blue. Scratched white steel covered the prow. Eyes on the ground followed the Longsword with a mixture of wonder and abject horror. It was searching for a place to land. Once it was out of sight, the campgoers thought nothing more of it. Many tried to ignore such a damning portent. With one of Cascadia's most powerful weapons now grounded, Imythess' odds of succeeding shrank and everyone knew it.

When heads turned again, it was to a new arrival on the ground rather than from the sky. Whispers spread through the camp. Some furtively pointed at the figure marching up the path. Even from a distance his outline was unmistakeable. He wore a lightly battered suit of near-white adamantine metal with lines of Istani script engraved along the edges of the plates. The vibrant red and gold on the crest of his helm and embroidered into his heavy cloak together screamed his status as a high commander. The bloodstained guan dao strapped to his back suggested he was much more than just an armchair tactician. Lord General Hakan Solak was on a mission.

A pair of brown eyes roved across the camp from between slits in his helm. Every so often the Lord General would stop among idle soldiers, interrupting their conversations with his presence. This time it was not to converse with them, as he had often done in the past. He set his hands roughly on the plated shoulder of a paladin, telling him to come with him. The Lord General called upon an avariel, too, motioning with his thumb. Halfway up he stopped among a squad of Taber Nahkal soldiers of the Istan Army and picked out one in particular to follow him. He even approached the four-armed swordsman, his low voice bidding them all to follow. Four people in total he selected -- at random, perhaps, or maybe not -- before he continued up the side of the cove without a word in explanation.

The Lord General reached the apex of the climb after passing through several crude encampments. There, on a piece of tundra that was flat and open enough, the battleship Longsword rested hovering a short distance off the ground. The freezing maintenance crew was using the huge craft as a windbreak, huddling around a little fire behind the keel. They caught sight of the Lord General and his small group of followers quickly, their eyes narrowing. Only a couple stood. The Istani commander stopped in front of them and lifted the visor on his helm. Hakan Solak was an old man in his late fifties. His coffee-colored skin was deeply lined, combining with his sharp features and grisly facial scar to create a severe appearance overall.

"My friends," he rumbled, somehow managing to sound both amicable and terrifying at the same time, "I'm going to need you to bring me the captain of this fine craft as swiftly as your legs can carry you." The Cascadians, sensing his anger brimming just below the surface, did what they were told after a short hesitation. They returned with the Captain in tow within a few minutes; surprising, considering the size of the ship. He was a fairly young man by the looks of it. As he stepped down the lower gangplank and onto the rocky ground, he finished buttoning up his heavy coat embroidered with the designs of the Cascadian Air Navy.

"What can I do for you, sir Lord General?" He reached out a hand to shake.

The Lord General grabbed him roughly by the collar, lifting him a little bit up off his feet. "Do you understand how many you're killing with your idleness?!"

"Excuse me?" He sounded more offended than afraid.

An adamantine-plated hand whipped toward the dark, snowy sky. "You command one of the only hopes we have of destroying that threat. None other in our arsenal has as much firepower! Why do you leave the fight?"

The captain pulled himself out of Solak's grip and dropped onto his heels. "My crew risked its life covering the landing of other ships, and you think us cowards! In Istan, may your men and women only be called brave when they have gotten themselves killed?"

"Do not pull yourself out of battle while you can still be of use. You are battered, but not broken. Sonia might not have any duties left for you, but I do." He loomed over the Cascadian, their chests almost touching. The captain stood his ground until Solak backed off. "Bring us up to the dragon so that we might engage it in combat."

"Even if I thought that was a good idea, there is no way to set a course at this point. The storm is too strong."

Solak released a frustrated huff through his teeth. "You've flown in it before, and you can do it again. Follow me!" He beckoned to his four followers before passing onto the gangplank. "If you're so insecure about your performance in unfavorable conditions, Captain, then perhaps I should take it upon myself to commandeer this vessel in the glorious name of Her Majesty the Sultan! Surely the workings of a Cascadian battleship are simple enough to coordinate." His comment was in jest, but it certainly did what it was intended to do. Even before he said anything the Captain was rushing after the Lord General alongside his entourage. If he couldn't beat them, he supposed he might as well join them and make sure the rough Istani didn't get the Longsword destroyed during his wild suicide mission.

Written By: Ozan
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