The Twins sat low on the horizon, spreading an entire painter's palette of oranges and reds across the choppy surface of Vatyn. Peaking just above the waves on the opposite side of their daytime counterparts, the trio of moons, known as the Coven in these parts, a name Ulric quite liked, began their rise. Two were in the crescent phase while the third straggler was waxing gibbous. Streaks of golden clouds, striated bands of stratus, sat low in the fading blue-red hues of sunset. More weather would follow those harbingers of storms.
It was another one of those vistas that Varda seemed to produce like a magician, pulling even more scarves from their bottomless sleeve. Shame he had to go and do violence with a view like that as a backdrop, but that was how things had worked out. Ulric was sitting at the end of one of the slips, dressed in the way of the deckhands that pervaded the quayside. He had his pack wrapped in ratty rags, strung from a pole like many of the untouchables that could be occasionally found, before guards rounded them up and had them collared and press-ganged into oar crews for ships bearing Prosper's Seal.
It solved one of the mysteries of why there were so many rowers on these ships. Obviously, because there were so many desperate poor who could be shackled to an oar, dummy. Yet another perversion of law, injustice masquerading as ordnance for the public good.
Ulric shook his head when he saw a small commune of them, harming no one and huddling around a small firepit made of scavenged cobbles broken free of the roads by steel-shod hooves and heavily laden wagon wheels, was rounded up by a squad of guards. A summary judgment by statute, approved by the Magistrate, a loyal servant of Prosper, saw them collared immediately, the runed collars flaring brightly as free peoples were turned into property. Bartala had this coming. They had brought this on themselves, he told himself, remembering his brave friend. That they didn't even understand why was not the point. Hopefully, if he managed to break Prosper's grip on them long enough, they'd be able to figure it out for themselves.
Welp. Time to rip the defunct adhesive bandage off.
Rapid, efficient motions had his peasant's garb replaced by the blacks of the Iriel'en. Over the top of those he pulled on the armor crafted, first by himself, and then, to an extent he would never match, of the bones and hide of the [Forest Lord]. The straps buckled everything into place and it fit him like a second skin. Last, he donned the helmet, its bestial predator's visage completed when he pulled the faceguard down and clasped it into place, locking the grinning fangs into an apparent roar.
Ulric rose and gave a brief toss of his head, checking his range of motion and visibility. All fine. He hooked the pack, much less full now that the armor was gone from its bottom, to his belt like a large satchel. Xef'tocht he freed from its Wood and leather-wrapped disguising sheath. Glittering midnight blue metal and a cyan wave pattern along its edge were just the first hints that there was something special about the blade. It was another working of Galed Uldin, the weapon to go with the armor, its engraved runes charged with the core of the [Forest Lord], imbuing the enchantments with its fierce aura. Xef'tocht was made to cut and the razored edge projected its desires into a sort of slicing aura a few centimeters away from the metal itself. It would shear even through metal, provided that metal was not equally enchanted to resist its destructive influence.
All told, this was the first time Ulric had really taken full advantage of Taipan's godparent's gifts. Tonight, he was going to show Prosper why they should have left the [Lord of the Ancient Glade] exactly the fuck alone.
[Ceraunoperception]
[Warrior's Instinct]
[Battle Rhythm]
Instantly, he became aware of the subtle imprints on his skin that designated living things, metallic objects, and, to a far lesser extent, wooden structures. He closed his eyes to let the electrostatic sensory show him everything his eyes might have missed. His somewhat aggravated mind calmed, becoming more focused, less antsy. The slowing beat of his heart set the pace of the coming battle.
In Ulric breathed, long and slow, and out, long and slow. Ready.
Eyes opened slowly and he took off at an easy run, his legs taking him from one set of crates to another, slipping from cover to cover. The matte, charcoal black enamel of his armor let him blend somewhat easily into the shadows of the stacked cargo awaiting its transport, keeping the sight of the Baron's retinue in easy sight.
The Baron, it turned out, was not a hard man to find. He went everywhere with a large compliment of personal guards all of them wearing cloaks with Prosper's sigil, all of them marking themselves out as being the masters whose booted feet stood hard on the necks of their lessers.
Two days ago, after a manic Ulric found he could not endure the sound of water running down the walls of the abandoned cellar any longer, he'd gone out to locate Prosper's defacto figurehead and prime pencil pusher. It wasn't hard, just climb the relatively low wall between third and fourth-tiers from a mansion roof adjacent. Clearly, a failure in city planning and security, which he was discovering to be something of a common theme. He had only to find the biggest, poshest, most asshole-ish place possible. Whammo, one Baron located. He'd taken his breaks while explosive charges dried and purification filtrations dripped glacially through their crude papyrus cones into collection glasses and occupied himself by following the Baron around the city. Every day, around dark thirty, the Baron's escort circled him at his lovely estate's gates, and the lot of them headed down to the port, gracing the populace with the sight of what their riches could do when funneled towards a single man.
Ulric made a game of it, seeing how close he could get before anyone shooed the limping beggar away or tried to give him a hard time. He was within spitting distance, once, before anyone thought to wave him off. These men had no sense of self-preservation. Their armor and arms might as well have been made of silk, they were decorative. So certain were they all that they were untouchable that the death of the Magister had shocked them into calling for Prosper's forces to locate and subdue the killer. He'd heard the Baron complaining about delays and qualifications about those reinforcements to the chief of his guards, the only one of the jackboots that gave any semblance of competency. There was trouble down close to the border of some kind, disjointed reports were sowing confusion.
That news had brought a hidden smile to the pretend beggar shadowing the group. Ulric had placed his charges earlier this afternoon while he haggled for a ship to buy and runners to fetch a wagon. His exit strategy he'd revised upon realizing that he did not need to travel overland and, in fact, that it would not be wise to do so. The open water was far faster and, once he closed the false reef behind him, pursuit would be greatly delayed. From there he could navigate close to the shoreline to the nearest port. He'd beat word transported by land by days, if not weeks. If the city was in something of an uproar over a Magister, it'd come apart at the seams when the Baron got whacked publicly.
Attention to detail was nearly impossible to avoid while under the influence of the alchemist's little helper. The semi-random twitches just made him more invisible while he stalked his quarry. A pattern emerged that the Baron headed down through the city to collect the shipping manifestos from the docks and to receive their instructions from the Magister of the next city over from a sort of messenger bird system.
Ulric knew immediately that those birds had to go and had placed a charge there at his earliest convenience. It sat still, wedged between one loose slat and the stone wall beside it, unnoticed. Some drunk sailor, still stinking of raw brandy and wearing a grain sack over his head had run over terrorizing the birds and setting them loose the day before, before jumping into the sea to escape the vengeance of the guards and the bird's keeper. Whoever would do such a thing?
Now, armored and hidden in a cluster of penned beasts, the property of Clan Bitznes, in fact, Ulric watched from between the bars of the pens as the Baron made his rounds. He withdrew the small platinum rod from his belt pouch and fingered it lightly, thumbing the white crystal embedded in the end of it. Soon.
Swimming the still-cold waters of Vatyn was a brisk experience but none of the galleons and a third of the schooners would not be leaving Bartala, ever again. Not without a new bottom and a winch to lift them from beneath the waves of the harbor. Men had yelled at him when he'd been discovered in the water but had then ignored him when he waved his belt knife and cackled madly "Six Eld squires to scrape ye'r barnacles o’ captains! Only six Eld and they'll never trouble ye!" No better cover could a man have than to be thought mad. Out of consideration for Varrock's kin, he avoided any ships that carried the markings he recognized from the wedding.
He'd realized while testing the shaped charges that his putty like explosive had a far better application for scuttling ships than it did even for taking out the stone supports for the docks. Ulric had tried rolling it into a very thin strand, formed into a long loop. Triggering the putty at one end sent a cascading detonation through the loop. The resulting hole knocked out of his shield wall down in the basement revealed that there was no chance it wouldn't simply blow a massive hole through the wooden hulls with the water pressure pushing the wall of cut planks into the interior. He did love it when a plan came together.
The moment was coming. The Baron was almost to the Portsmaster, to receive his manifestos and be able to calculate the coin he would be claiming that day as his cut of the taxes.
A disruption started farther down the docks and Ulric struggled to see what was going on from his hiding place.
Oh godsdamn.
He heard the gutteral voices of Lupid peoples, yips and cries in riotous frenzy, and soon saw that they had come in a large angry group. Thirty or so, all young, mostly male, but more than a few female, had forced their way onto the docks and were pushing past hapless guards.
At their front was Nanya and her new husband Erswinn. The were dressed as if they were ready to travel and their expressions told of the kind of rage that had, along with the Alchemist's pills, been keeping Ulric going at full throttle, and beyond, for the three days prior. He heard the pair demand justice for Varrock Hora, Patriarch of the Horan Valley. They wanted blood for blood.
"Well, shit." Ulric whispered from his place.
[Ceraunoperception] revealed that each of the Wolfkin was armed. Kitchen knives, garden tools, a few of the Clansmen from the Hora carried spears and swords. They were no match for even the pissants that called themselves warriors guarding the Baron. The Lupid kinsmen gave no sign that they cared, they were here to have justice. This was Varrock all over again. It would seem the Old Wolf's legacy was to rouse his kin to action, to put steel in their spines again.
"Promises to keep, Ulric. No harm." He told himself under his breath.
Maybe it was better this way. They deserved to see their vengeance first hand, not to hear of it later.
[Surge]
The [Lord of the Ancient Glade] stormed from cover, pulsing his core to flare Ceraun into the [Caelis Sil] rod and its pure white gem before throwing it ahead into the group of Baron's thugs.
The entire quayside rocked as the pilings the docks sat on dissolved simultaneously. Great gouts of water from many of the ships nearly lifted some of the smaller schooners from the water before they began to list badly.
A tiny pulse of [Deathstone] antimagic washed through the Baron's men, even as they were drawing their weapons to slay the approaching group of Beastkin malcontents. Such was always the way to handle the rabble, at sword point and in public, to send a message. They staggered, unharmed, but stunned by what felt like a nauseatingly strong pull on the cores within them.
Ulric planted his feet and jumped, soaring high through the air. For an endless moment he was flying, free from gravity's hold, the rushing of air coming through his visor so sweet. His core thrummed fury and he concentrated on this first strike, feeling his mana join with the artifact blade in his hands.
Down he came hurtling into the gaggle of men that made up Prosper's choking hand around the throat of Bartala, rage in his heart for the wrongs they'd done and done nothing to stop.
[Crackling Draw]
Xef'tocht appeared as a half-moon of arcing violet, flaring bright as the Baron and the three men to his left were bisected at the chest, neck, and head, along his descending stroke.
Ulric hit the ground on his toes and pushed off, pulling from his core, turning his fall into forward momentum.
[Surge]
Like a cannonball, he tore ahead and shoulder-charged the commander of the guard, the most dangerous target, even as his employer's halves splatted wetly to the quayside stones. The pauldrons of the cuirass absorbed the thunderous impact, dispersing it across his body raising a bruise from the force, while concentrating it directly in the middle of the Commander's chest. Ulric blew through the only competent warrior in the jackboot squad and felt the man's breastplate cave in even as the ribs beneath shattered. His momentum carried him forward, the dying man flying through the air before him, albeit far reduced from the collision and the [Lord of the Ancient Glade] continued moving behind the projectile that was now the brand-new owner of a lethally flailed chest.
Surrounded by enemies and slaughtered prey the beast that slept in his mind howled loudly within and he nearly joined it. Instead, he called lightning and air, hand swiping as if collecting snow, and threw the arcing maelstrom behind him, to devastate the men just now realizing that death was amongst them.
[Galvanic Mistral]
A cloud of blood mist, body parts, tattered cloth, and armor shrapnel blew off the quay into the water. The ones who had been standing too wide of the arclight blender panicked. Some ran. Some threw down their weapons and begged for mercy, others ran towards the back of the armored figure that had slaughtered their Baron and comrades, finding some measure of courage too late in their lives, and only at the very end.
The former commander ended his flight by slamming into his troopers, his body’s arc absorbed the first two of the swordsmen in front of the wrathful Reforged, and he turned one cut, another, and then, on the next, found his opportunity to retaliate. Ulric caught the unbalanced overhand chop of the frustrated, terrified soldier and turned it to the side with an easy wrist flick that brought his Sith in line for a swift extension of his forearms that took the point of the blade through the faceguard of the man, to plunge out the back of his helmet, metal throwing sparks as it was carved apart.
He had to take a branching back step to pull away from a cut made towards his neck, the newest opponent in front of him delayed but not injured by the collision with his former superior. [Ceraunoperception] put the awareness of the metal blade coming towards his back into his mind and Ulric made the conscious decision to trust Galed Uldin's craft. Instead of trying to stop the strike he adjusted his balance and took it squarely off his back plate while launching a brutal uppercut stroke at the man who thought to steal advantage while Ulric dealt with the approaching attack from behind. Mid swing, the Baron's man opened like a sashimi'd fish from groin to neck and the warrior behind him yelled in denial as the blow bounced from Ulric's armor, leaving no mark upon it.
It felt like being hit by a foam bat. Smith Uldin, you beautiful man you, I might kiss you, he mused before returning to predator focus.
That one wanted another shot at the champ, regripped his hilt, and came on with even more force. Ulric saw the man's arms flare a dim orange and new he was drawing on his own core's strength. The sword came around again in an overpowered hacking stroke meant to take Ulric's head.
Grinning behind his visor, Ulric took one hand off the hilt of his weapon and drew on his [Ohmic Knight] class's store of knowledge, pushing a dense plate of Ceraun mana into the gauntlet. This had failed, once, but only because the enemy had a giant's strength. He was certain none of these weaklings had that Svartalfin's might.
[Maxwell's Parry]
Electromagnetic force magnified the impact as he backhanded the incoming sword blade's flat, lifting the stroke high over his head hard enough to tear it from the man's empowered grip, sailing it into the night from its owner's forceful swing. Razored leaves on Xef'tocht's hilt stabbed into the man's temple, slammed into it as he countered the errant swing while the disbelieving man tried to figure out what had happened, his grey matter seeping from around the deceptively elegant hilt.
A short chopping stroke finished dispatching the disarmed fighter.
Two more came on in fanatical abandon, their swords low as if they would take him through sheer desire alone. The Iriel'en would have laughed to see so little skill in their enemies. Ulric just felt waste. So much waste.
Raising his gauntleted hand, palm loosely open, as if to compel them to stop before they could throw their useless lives away, Ulric called again to the coursing lightning and it again gladly answered.
[Voltaic Riot]
Wrist-thick arcs leapt out, buzzing joyfully as they danced across the chests of the two men before scrolling across their heads and limbs, coursing Ceraun leaving its glowing metal edges and cauterized wounds through the already dead corpses even as they plunged face-first to the stones.
Ulric stilled the vicious flow of mana and took inventory.
The Baron and his men were very dead. The Lupid Clansmen were unharmed, if frozen again by the sheer scale of the destruction around them. Boats sinking, docks tearing apart under their own weight, and some dozen armored men wearing Prosper's sigil dead on the port stones. They had not been still long, many of their weapons were stained red, dripping to join the rest of the carnage and Ulric saw why.
Those men who had run, and the ones who had dropped their weapons, were already dead, killed by the gathered Beastkin. The knives held by the Bride and the Groom were crimson, as were their sleeves up to the elbow. It gave Ulric some joy to see Old Man Varrock's kin get theirs.
His Lord instinct calmed, the foes dominated and stilled beneath his conscious thoughts. Sometimes Ulric had to wonder how much of his willingness to throw himself into these things had to do with those instinctual urges. Meh. Did it really matter? Ulric Einar was [Lord of the Ancient Glade]. The rest of Varda would learn to stop fucking with him sooner or later.
The Newlyweds approached him slowly, uncertain. He realized he was still holding Xef'tocht and lowered the gauntleted hand that had ripped the last two frenzied men apart.
"Are you Ulric, who befriended my Grampa and killed the Magister?" Demanded Nanya, with strength in it that would have brought a tear of joy to an Old Wolf's heart.
In response, he raised his visor, revealing his face. A few splotches of other men's blood left streaks on his cheeks and brow. The former engineer wiped a wristguard across, streaking it but keeping any of the driblets from getting to his mouth before he risked a spoken answer.
"The same." He replied simply.
The pair looked to one another and then to the ruin of the docks and the sinking ships. The rest of their kin milled around, staying close to support the pair who led them but not crowding.
Erswinn gestured to the mess and stated, more than asked, "You have done this. Brought this calamity to Bartala."
Ulric nodded and said gravely, "Yup."
"Why? What would motivate you to do…all of this? Surely not for a promise to a man you met only a day before." Challenged the Groom.
Well, the boy had asked, and Ulric didn't lie.
"Because they had it coming." Ulric answered, his voice taking on a hard edge, "Prosper has made themselves my enemy and Bartala was supporting their regime, through its ships, its ports, and its taxes. I would have done something to limit the ability of the city to fulfill its master's goals regardless. But. The murder of a good man in whom I found friend, and an oath to him, moved me to go…further beyond."
He tried, without overmuch success to take the anger from his tone. He wasn't mad at these two, after all. It didn't help much. Prosper still owed. The pair and the crowd with them looked at him in disbelief, that all of this was a single man's doing. It was understandable. Ulric could do, with what his civilization considered common chemicals, the proper equipment, and a little time, what it would take a dedicated effort of specialized Adepts to accomplish, without drawing on his core's might. The gift of a life spent hunched over tomes of chemical formula, electron orbital complexes, and metallurgical techniques at the cutting edge of the humanity of his world.
Time was against him now, but he figured he'd see if he couldn't pull the wool from their eyes, to give them a parting gift of clarity. Varrock would have wanted them to understand the way of things. As he had, the cunning old wolf.
"Your people live in silver-wired cages in this city." He told the pair bluntly, but mostly Erswinn, whose family was exclusively installed within Bartala.
"They have been under its sway for so long, have compromised so often for the sake of their futures, their children's futures, that they don't even notice that they have become mere tools. Glorified servants with the laws of Prosper forming the slave collars, instead of the more obvious ones. Varrock knew this, it is why he turned his clan aside from it, even when it brought them hardship." Ulric explained.
Nanya's eyes widened at that angry summary, so similar to her ancestor's complaints about becoming Prosper's dogs. She had always thought him bitter at his Clan's decline in fortunes. But how did this man know any of this?
"How know you of our clan, or of these lands?" the Bride asked, becoming suspicious as Ulric's words and actions began to raise alarm bells, "I do not know from where you come Destroyer, but it is not here. Tell us, truly, who are you?"
To answer the first was pain, recalling the grousing Elder Lupid telling his clan's tales, his brags, his failures, and all in between.
Ulric couldn't keep the sadness from leaking into his answer of Nanya's question, "I know your Clan from its Elder, Nanya Hora-Bitsnez. Your grandfather spent most of an entire night regaling me with all things Hora. He seemed a good sort, in spite of the growling, so I gave him my ear. The old Badger chaser spun me the tale of a determined and decent man, who loved his kin fiercely. I could not help but listen."
Many of the Lupid in the crowd, especially those who had known well the fallen patriarch, grinned their wolfish grins to hear him described as an old badger chaser. It was the sort of thing he would have said of himself.
Standing there in armor so near to artifact armor and holding a true Artifact sword, covered in the gore of his shattered enemies, it seemed like there was little point to hiding. Besides. This was part of his promise. The Merchant Lords would have a choice, expend effort on lowly Lupid Clan peasants who had never done so much as rustle a Magister's robes or direct their will towards finding and killing a threat that had survived their Adepts, their hired killers, and, now, ravaged one of their most profitable trade ports. It was obvious which one they would choose. Especially when he went and did the same thing to the next port down the line.
Ulric might be a tiny little hammer, but with Orlethrem acting as his anvil he could still make Prosper bleed.
"And, to answer the second part of your question, I am Ulric Einar, [Lord of the Ancient Glade]. I didn't tell you any lies before, I am also husband of Taipan who was once daughter of Bald'rt Iriel, the Blood Moon. Oh," he added as an afterthought, because it seemed like the event that kicked all of this into motion in the first place, "and I guess I'm also the [Forest Lord]'s slayer and, somehow, the old monster's successor." He told the crowd of Beastkin, slightly uncomfortable with all the attention.
Eyes widened all around as he made his identity known, in the way of the Iriel'en when it was time for Serious Business. The Wolfkin stared at him in silence and now he really was uncomfortable. What? It had been a busy year.
Husband and Wife Lupid exchanged glances again, before Nanya shrugged her resignation.
"It would be like Grampa to bring along as second, to his only granddaughter's wedding, a Lord of the Land and not mention it to anyone." She said, as if that explained everything.
Oddly enough, the rest of the gathered Beastkin just sort of nodded along in agreement. Ulric found himself nodding along with them. It did, indeed, sound like something the irascible codger would do.
Loud clanging rose up from the city, deep, sonorous iron-sounding gongs. Alarm bells.
Ulric realized he'd gotten too caught up in the Lovebird's questions. Time was short, he needed to be gone from this place.
"Welp. Time to go. You people should go. All of you." He suggested to the young lovers who, youth notwithstanding, were leading their pack decisively.
Even Erswinn, with his compact stature, compared to his wife, was showing a solid core of spirit. The Old Wolf misjudged that one; He's tiny, but he's got a mean streak a league long when his folk are in trouble. That pair was going to do their clans proud, if they survived.
"Leave Bartala and take all that is of worth to you that you may, " Ulric urged, not wanting them to be here when the inevitable agents from the Gilded Thrones came to raise questions, "Tell all who will listen that I have done this, because I have. And will do it again elsewhere. I swore to Varrock to keep you from harm and I will. Destroying this port, in part, was to draw their eyes away from you. But I cannot be everywhere. If you free yourselves of this trap of a city, with your goods, your kin, and your ships, you can live free, doing much as you have done before, but absent Prosper's chains around your necks."
That was as much of a plea as he could make. He needed to be gone five minutes ago.
"How will you leave, Ulric?" Erswinn asked suddenly, head tilted, as if he'd had a sudden inspiration take him.
"I have a little dingy out on the edges of the dock, way over yonder. Why?" He questioned, impatient.
Clock's ticking, he reminded himself.
"I can do you better, for all you have done for us. For what you have done for Grandfather." Said the Young Wolf, determination in his tone.
"I need a crew! Five hearts full of courage to serve Clan Horan-Bitsnez! Who will sail into the reef blind?" Challenged the next leader of his combined clan.
Fourteen Lupid stepped forward instantly, and the gods love every one of them. Erswinn selected his five by hand and the rest looked disappointed to not have been chosen.
"Take this friend of our clans to Shore Begone, man the ship to whatever port he wills it. I would have his word be my own while he stands aboard my ship. Return, if you are able, when his need is done. If you do not return, we will sing your songs to our people, of heroes that carried the honor of the clans on their backs, and bared their fangs to our enemies, no matter the cost." Erswinn commanded, his word holy writ to those five.
Ulric goggled. Holy shit. Now he knew why Nanya had "settled" for this rather miniature Lupid boy. Napolean Bonaparte had needed a footstool, but if he had one when he arrayed his forces the other guy was in for some fucking trouble.
The young miss of her house was only a moment behind. A snap of her clawed fingers brought three Lupid from the crowd, ones who had been wearing weapons. They knew which end to use, by the look of them.
"You will go with my mate's crew, to defend the ship and its occupants. Do not return without knowing their fates, dead, lost to the seas, or gone to war with our enemies." She ordered, with no doubt as to whom she considered her enemy now.
Gone were his reservations concerning Graus and what that might imply for the werewolf sorts of Beastkin. Graus was an animal. These here, these were men and women of honor. Ahhh, Varrock. You see this? They had it in them all along, they just needed someone to show them the way. They needed you to show them, by deed, instead of word, what a life's weight is.
Erswinn's chosen sailors gestured for him to follow and he did, the three Hora warriors in tow. Ulric saw the Lovebirds take their folk out from the wreckage of the dockyard. Suddenly, he didn't doubt that his promise to the Old Wolf would be kept. Varrock’s kin would be just fine.
The Twins sat low on the horizon, spreading an entire painter's palette of oranges and reds across the choppy surface of Vatyn. Peaking just above the waves on the opposite side of their daytime counterparts, the trio of moons, known as the Coven in these parts, a name Ulric quite liked, began their rise. Two were in the crescent phase while the third straggler was waxing gibbous. Streaks of golden clouds, striated bands of stratus, sat low in the fading blue-red hues of sunset. More weather would follow those harbingers of storms.
It was another one of those vistas that Varda seemed to produce like a magician, pulling even more scarves from their bottomless sleeve. Shame he had to go and do violence with a view like that as a backdrop, but that was how things had worked out. Ulric was sitting at the end of one of the slips, dressed in the way of the deckhands that pervaded the quayside. He had his pack wrapped in ratty rags, strung from a pole like many of the untouchables that could be occasionally found, before guards rounded them up and had them collared and press-ganged into oar crews for ships bearing Prosper's Seal.
It solved one of the mysteries of why there were so many rowers on these ships. Obviously, because there were so many desperate poor who could be shackled to an oar, dummy. Yet another perversion of law, injustice masquerading as ordnance for the public good.
Ulric shook his head when he saw a small commune of them, harming no one and huddling around a small firepit made of scavenged cobbles broken free of the roads by steel-shod hooves and heavily laden wagon wheels, was rounded up by a squad of guards. A summary judgment by statute, approved by the Magistrate, a loyal servant of Prosper, saw them collared immediately, the runed collars flaring brightly as free peoples were turned into property. Bartala had this coming. They had brought this on themselves, he told himself, remembering his brave friend. That they didn't even understand why was not the point. Hopefully, if he managed to break Prosper's grip on them long enough, they'd be able to figure it out for themselves.
Welp. Time to rip the defunct adhesive bandage off.
Rapid, efficient motions had his peasant's garb replaced by the blacks of the Iriel'en. Over the top of those he pulled on the armor crafted, first by himself, and then, to an extent he would never match, of the bones and hide of the [Forest Lord]. The straps buckled everything into place and it fit him like a second skin. Last, he donned the helmet, its bestial predator's visage completed when he pulled the faceguard down and clasped it into place, locking the grinning fangs into an apparent roar.
Ulric rose and gave a brief toss of his head, checking his range of motion and visibility. All fine. He hooked the pack, much less full now that the armor was gone from its bottom, to his belt like a large satchel. Xef'tocht he freed from its Wood and leather-wrapped disguising sheath. Glittering midnight blue metal and a cyan wave pattern along its edge were just the first hints that there was something special about the blade. It was another working of Galed Uldin, the weapon to go with the armor, its engraved runes charged with the core of the [Forest Lord], imbuing the enchantments with its fierce aura. Xef'tocht was made to cut and the razored edge projected its desires into a sort of slicing aura a few centimeters away from the metal itself. It would shear even through metal, provided that metal was not equally enchanted to resist its destructive influence.
All told, this was the first time Ulric had really taken full advantage of Taipan's godparent's gifts. Tonight, he was going to show Prosper why they should have left the [Lord of the Ancient Glade] exactly the fuck alone.
[Ceraunoperception]
[Warrior's Instinct]
[Battle Rhythm]
Instantly, he became aware of the subtle imprints on his skin that designated living things, metallic objects, and, to a far lesser extent, wooden structures. He closed his eyes to let the electrostatic sensory show him everything his eyes might have missed. His somewhat aggravated mind calmed, becoming more focused, less antsy. The slowing beat of his heart set the pace of the coming battle.
In Ulric breathed, long and slow, and out, long and slow. Ready.
Eyes opened slowly and he took off at an easy run, his legs taking him from one set of crates to another, slipping from cover to cover. The matte, charcoal black enamel of his armor let him blend somewhat easily into the shadows of the stacked cargo awaiting its transport, keeping the sight of the Baron's retinue in easy sight.
The Baron, it turned out, was not a hard man to find. He went everywhere with a large compliment of personal guards all of them wearing cloaks with Prosper's sigil, all of them marking themselves out as being the masters whose booted feet stood hard on the necks of their lessers.
Two days ago, after a manic Ulric found he could not endure the sound of water running down the walls of the abandoned cellar any longer, he'd gone out to locate Prosper's defacto figurehead and prime pencil pusher. It wasn't hard, just climb the relatively low wall between third and fourth-tiers from a mansion roof adjacent. Clearly, a failure in city planning and security, which he was discovering to be something of a common theme. He had only to find the biggest, poshest, most asshole-ish place possible. Whammo, one Baron located. He'd taken his breaks while explosive charges dried and purification filtrations dripped glacially through their crude papyrus cones into collection glasses and occupied himself by following the Baron around the city. Every day, around dark thirty, the Baron's escort circled him at his lovely estate's gates, and the lot of them headed down to the port, gracing the populace with the sight of what their riches could do when funneled towards a single man.
Ulric made a game of it, seeing how close he could get before anyone shooed the limping beggar away or tried to give him a hard time. He was within spitting distance, once, before anyone thought to wave him off. These men had no sense of self-preservation. Their armor and arms might as well have been made of silk, they were decorative. So certain were they all that they were untouchable that the death of the Magister had shocked them into calling for Prosper's forces to locate and subdue the killer. He'd heard the Baron complaining about delays and qualifications about those reinforcements to the chief of his guards, the only one of the jackboots that gave any semblance of competency. There was trouble down close to the border of some kind, disjointed reports were sowing confusion.
That news had brought a hidden smile to the pretend beggar shadowing the group. Ulric had placed his charges earlier this afternoon while he haggled for a ship to buy and runners to fetch a wagon. His exit strategy he'd revised upon realizing that he did not need to travel overland and, in fact, that it would not be wise to do so. The open water was far faster and, once he closed the false reef behind him, pursuit would be greatly delayed. From there he could navigate close to the shoreline to the nearest port. He'd beat word transported by land by days, if not weeks. If the city was in something of an uproar over a Magister, it'd come apart at the seams when the Baron got whacked publicly.
Attention to detail was nearly impossible to avoid while under the influence of the alchemist's little helper. The semi-random twitches just made him more invisible while he stalked his quarry. A pattern emerged that the Baron headed down through the city to collect the shipping manifestos from the docks and to receive their instructions from the Magister of the next city over from a sort of messenger bird system.
Ulric knew immediately that those birds had to go and had placed a charge there at his earliest convenience. It sat still, wedged between one loose slat and the stone wall beside it, unnoticed. Some drunk sailor, still stinking of raw brandy and wearing a grain sack over his head had run over terrorizing the birds and setting them loose the day before, before jumping into the sea to escape the vengeance of the guards and the bird's keeper. Whoever would do such a thing?
Now, armored and hidden in a cluster of penned beasts, the property of Clan Bitznes, in fact, Ulric watched from between the bars of the pens as the Baron made his rounds. He withdrew the small platinum rod from his belt pouch and fingered it lightly, thumbing the white crystal embedded in the end of it. Soon.
Swimming the still-cold waters of Vatyn was a brisk experience but none of the galleons and a third of the schooners would not be leaving Bartala, ever again. Not without a new bottom and a winch to lift them from beneath the waves of the harbor. Men had yelled at him when he'd been discovered in the water but had then ignored him when he waved his belt knife and cackled madly "Six Eld squires to scrape ye'r barnacles o’ captains! Only six Eld and they'll never trouble ye!" No better cover could a man have than to be thought mad. Out of consideration for Varrock's kin, he avoided any ships that carried the markings he recognized from the wedding.
He'd realized while testing the shaped charges that his putty like explosive had a far better application for scuttling ships than it did even for taking out the stone supports for the docks. Ulric had tried rolling it into a very thin strand, formed into a long loop. Triggering the putty at one end sent a cascading detonation through the loop. The resulting hole knocked out of his shield wall down in the basement revealed that there was no chance it wouldn't simply blow a massive hole through the wooden hulls with the water pressure pushing the wall of cut planks into the interior. He did love it when a plan came together.
The moment was coming. The Baron was almost to the Portsmaster, to receive his manifestos and be able to calculate the coin he would be claiming that day as his cut of the taxes.
A disruption started farther down the docks and Ulric struggled to see what was going on from his hiding place.
Oh godsdamn.
He heard the gutteral voices of Lupid peoples, yips and cries in riotous frenzy, and soon saw that they had come in a large angry group. Thirty or so, all young, mostly male, but more than a few female, had forced their way onto the docks and were pushing past hapless guards.
At their front was Nanya and her new husband Erswinn. The were dressed as if they were ready to travel and their expressions told of the kind of rage that had, along with the Alchemist's pills, been keeping Ulric going at full throttle, and beyond, for the three days prior. He heard the pair demand justice for Varrock Hora, Patriarch of the Horan Valley. They wanted blood for blood.
"Well, shit." Ulric whispered from his place.
[Ceraunoperception] revealed that each of the Wolfkin was armed. Kitchen knives, garden tools, a few of the Clansmen from the Hora carried spears and swords. They were no match for even the pissants that called themselves warriors guarding the Baron. The Lupid kinsmen gave no sign that they cared, they were here to have justice. This was Varrock all over again. It would seem the Old Wolf's legacy was to rouse his kin to action, to put steel in their spines again.
"Promises to keep, Ulric. No harm." He told himself under his breath.
Maybe it was better this way. They deserved to see their vengeance first hand, not to hear of it later.
[Surge]
The [Lord of the Ancient Glade] stormed from cover, pulsing his core to flare Ceraun into the [Caelis Sil] rod and its pure white gem before throwing it ahead into the group of Baron's thugs.
The entire quayside rocked as the pilings the docks sat on dissolved simultaneously. Great gouts of water from many of the ships nearly lifted some of the smaller schooners from the water before they began to list badly.
A tiny pulse of [Deathstone] antimagic washed through the Baron's men, even as they were drawing their weapons to slay the approaching group of Beastkin malcontents. Such was always the way to handle the rabble, at sword point and in public, to send a message. They staggered, unharmed, but stunned by what felt like a nauseatingly strong pull on the cores within them.
Ulric planted his feet and jumped, soaring high through the air. For an endless moment he was flying, free from gravity's hold, the rushing of air coming through his visor so sweet. His core thrummed fury and he concentrated on this first strike, feeling his mana join with the artifact blade in his hands.
Down he came hurtling into the gaggle of men that made up Prosper's choking hand around the throat of Bartala, rage in his heart for the wrongs they'd done and done nothing to stop.
[Crackling Draw]
Xef'tocht appeared as a half-moon of arcing violet, flaring bright as the Baron and the three men to his left were bisected at the chest, neck, and head, along his descending stroke.
Ulric hit the ground on his toes and pushed off, pulling from his core, turning his fall into forward momentum.
[Surge]
Like a cannonball, he tore ahead and shoulder-charged the commander of the guard, the most dangerous target, even as his employer's halves splatted wetly to the quayside stones. The pauldrons of the cuirass absorbed the thunderous impact, dispersing it across his body raising a bruise from the force, while concentrating it directly in the middle of the Commander's chest. Ulric blew through the only competent warrior in the jackboot squad and felt the man's breastplate cave in even as the ribs beneath shattered. His momentum carried him forward, the dying man flying through the air before him, albeit far reduced from the collision and the [Lord of the Ancient Glade] continued moving behind the projectile that was now the brand-new owner of a lethally flailed chest.
Surrounded by enemies and slaughtered prey the beast that slept in his mind howled loudly within and he nearly joined it. Instead, he called lightning and air, hand swiping as if collecting snow, and threw the arcing maelstrom behind him, to devastate the men just now realizing that death was amongst them.
[Galvanic Mistral]
A cloud of blood mist, body parts, tattered cloth, and armor shrapnel blew off the quay into the water. The ones who had been standing too wide of the arclight blender panicked. Some ran. Some threw down their weapons and begged for mercy, others ran towards the back of the armored figure that had slaughtered their Baron and comrades, finding some measure of courage too late in their lives, and only at the very end.
The former commander ended his flight by slamming into his troopers, his body’s arc absorbed the first two of the swordsmen in front of the wrathful Reforged, and he turned one cut, another, and then, on the next, found his opportunity to retaliate. Ulric caught the unbalanced overhand chop of the frustrated, terrified soldier and turned it to the side with an easy wrist flick that brought his Sith in line for a swift extension of his forearms that took the point of the blade through the faceguard of the man, to plunge out the back of his helmet, metal throwing sparks as it was carved apart.
He had to take a branching back step to pull away from a cut made towards his neck, the newest opponent in front of him delayed but not injured by the collision with his former superior. [Ceraunoperception] put the awareness of the metal blade coming towards his back into his mind and Ulric made the conscious decision to trust Galed Uldin's craft. Instead of trying to stop the strike he adjusted his balance and took it squarely off his back plate while launching a brutal uppercut stroke at the man who thought to steal advantage while Ulric dealt with the approaching attack from behind. Mid swing, the Baron's man opened like a sashimi'd fish from groin to neck and the warrior behind him yelled in denial as the blow bounced from Ulric's armor, leaving no mark upon it.
It felt like being hit by a foam bat. Smith Uldin, you beautiful man you, I might kiss you, he mused before returning to predator focus.
That one wanted another shot at the champ, regripped his hilt, and came on with even more force. Ulric saw the man's arms flare a dim orange and new he was drawing on his own core's strength. The sword came around again in an overpowered hacking stroke meant to take Ulric's head.
Grinning behind his visor, Ulric took one hand off the hilt of his weapon and drew on his [Ohmic Knight] class's store of knowledge, pushing a dense plate of Ceraun mana into the gauntlet. This had failed, once, but only because the enemy had a giant's strength. He was certain none of these weaklings had that Svartalfin's might.
[Maxwell's Parry]
Electromagnetic force magnified the impact as he backhanded the incoming sword blade's flat, lifting the stroke high over his head hard enough to tear it from the man's empowered grip, sailing it into the night from its owner's forceful swing. Razored leaves on Xef'tocht's hilt stabbed into the man's temple, slammed into it as he countered the errant swing while the disbelieving man tried to figure out what had happened, his grey matter seeping from around the deceptively elegant hilt.
A short chopping stroke finished dispatching the disarmed fighter.
Two more came on in fanatical abandon, their swords low as if they would take him through sheer desire alone. The Iriel'en would have laughed to see so little skill in their enemies. Ulric just felt waste. So much waste.
Raising his gauntleted hand, palm loosely open, as if to compel them to stop before they could throw their useless lives away, Ulric called again to the coursing lightning and it again gladly answered.
[Voltaic Riot]
Wrist-thick arcs leapt out, buzzing joyfully as they danced across the chests of the two men before scrolling across their heads and limbs, coursing Ceraun leaving its glowing metal edges and cauterized wounds through the already dead corpses even as they plunged face-first to the stones.
Ulric stilled the vicious flow of mana and took inventory.
The Baron and his men were very dead. The Lupid Clansmen were unharmed, if frozen again by the sheer scale of the destruction around them. Boats sinking, docks tearing apart under their own weight, and some dozen armored men wearing Prosper's sigil dead on the port stones. They had not been still long, many of their weapons were stained red, dripping to join the rest of the carnage and Ulric saw why.
Those men who had run, and the ones who had dropped their weapons, were already dead, killed by the gathered Beastkin. The knives held by the Bride and the Groom were crimson, as were their sleeves up to the elbow. It gave Ulric some joy to see Old Man Varrock's kin get theirs.
His Lord instinct calmed, the foes dominated and stilled beneath his conscious thoughts. Sometimes Ulric had to wonder how much of his willingness to throw himself into these things had to do with those instinctual urges. Meh. Did it really matter? Ulric Einar was [Lord of the Ancient Glade]. The rest of Varda would learn to stop fucking with him sooner or later.
The Newlyweds approached him slowly, uncertain. He realized he was still holding Xef'tocht and lowered the gauntleted hand that had ripped the last two frenzied men apart.
"Are you Ulric, who befriended my Grampa and killed the Magister?" Demanded Nanya, with strength in it that would have brought a tear of joy to an Old Wolf's heart.
In response, he raised his visor, revealing his face. A few splotches of other men's blood left streaks on his cheeks and brow. The former engineer wiped a wristguard across, streaking it but keeping any of the driblets from getting to his mouth before he risked a spoken answer.
"The same." He replied simply.
The pair looked to one another and then to the ruin of the docks and the sinking ships. The rest of their kin milled around, staying close to support the pair who led them but not crowding.
Erswinn gestured to the mess and stated, more than asked, "You have done this. Brought this calamity to Bartala."
Ulric nodded and said gravely, "Yup."
"Why? What would motivate you to do…all of this? Surely not for a promise to a man you met only a day before." Challenged the Groom.
Well, the boy had asked, and Ulric didn't lie.
"Because they had it coming." Ulric answered, his voice taking on a hard edge, "Prosper has made themselves my enemy and Bartala was supporting their regime, through its ships, its ports, and its taxes. I would have done something to limit the ability of the city to fulfill its master's goals regardless. But. The murder of a good man in whom I found friend, and an oath to him, moved me to go…further beyond."
He tried, without overmuch success to take the anger from his tone. He wasn't mad at these two, after all. It didn't help much. Prosper still owed. The pair and the crowd with them looked at him in disbelief, that all of this was a single man's doing. It was understandable. Ulric could do, with what his civilization considered common chemicals, the proper equipment, and a little time, what it would take a dedicated effort of specialized Adepts to accomplish, without drawing on his core's might. The gift of a life spent hunched over tomes of chemical formula, electron orbital complexes, and metallurgical techniques at the cutting edge of the humanity of his world.
Time was against him now, but he figured he'd see if he couldn't pull the wool from their eyes, to give them a parting gift of clarity. Varrock would have wanted them to understand the way of things. As he had, the cunning old wolf.
"Your people live in silver-wired cages in this city." He told the pair bluntly, but mostly Erswinn, whose family was exclusively installed within Bartala.
"They have been under its sway for so long, have compromised so often for the sake of their futures, their children's futures, that they don't even notice that they have become mere tools. Glorified servants with the laws of Prosper forming the slave collars, instead of the more obvious ones. Varrock knew this, it is why he turned his clan aside from it, even when it brought them hardship." Ulric explained.
Nanya's eyes widened at that angry summary, so similar to her ancestor's complaints about becoming Prosper's dogs. She had always thought him bitter at his Clan's decline in fortunes. But how did this man know any of this?
"How know you of our clan, or of these lands?" the Bride asked, becoming suspicious as Ulric's words and actions began to raise alarm bells, "I do not know from where you come Destroyer, but it is not here. Tell us, truly, who are you?"
To answer the first was pain, recalling the grousing Elder Lupid telling his clan's tales, his brags, his failures, and all in between.
Ulric couldn't keep the sadness from leaking into his answer of Nanya's question, "I know your Clan from its Elder, Nanya Hora-Bitsnez. Your grandfather spent most of an entire night regaling me with all things Hora. He seemed a good sort, in spite of the growling, so I gave him my ear. The old Badger chaser spun me the tale of a determined and decent man, who loved his kin fiercely. I could not help but listen."
Many of the Lupid in the crowd, especially those who had known well the fallen patriarch, grinned their wolfish grins to hear him described as an old badger chaser. It was the sort of thing he would have said of himself.
Standing there in armor so near to artifact armor and holding a true Artifact sword, covered in the gore of his shattered enemies, it seemed like there was little point to hiding. Besides. This was part of his promise. The Merchant Lords would have a choice, expend effort on lowly Lupid Clan peasants who had never done so much as rustle a Magister's robes or direct their will towards finding and killing a threat that had survived their Adepts, their hired killers, and, now, ravaged one of their most profitable trade ports. It was obvious which one they would choose. Especially when he went and did the same thing to the next port down the line.
Ulric might be a tiny little hammer, but with Orlethrem acting as his anvil he could still make Prosper bleed.
"And, to answer the second part of your question, I am Ulric Einar, [Lord of the Ancient Glade]. I didn't tell you any lies before, I am also husband of Taipan who was once daughter of Bald'rt Iriel, the Blood Moon. Oh," he added as an afterthought, because it seemed like the event that kicked all of this into motion in the first place, "and I guess I'm also the [Forest Lord]'s slayer and, somehow, the old monster's successor." He told the crowd of Beastkin, slightly uncomfortable with all the attention.
Eyes widened all around as he made his identity known, in the way of the Iriel'en when it was time for Serious Business. The Wolfkin stared at him in silence and now he really was uncomfortable. What? It had been a busy year.
Husband and Wife Lupid exchanged glances again, before Nanya shrugged her resignation.
"It would be like Grampa to bring along as second, to his only granddaughter's wedding, a Lord of the Land and not mention it to anyone." She said, as if that explained everything.
Oddly enough, the rest of the gathered Beastkin just sort of nodded along in agreement. Ulric found himself nodding along with them. It did, indeed, sound like something the irascible codger would do.
Loud clanging rose up from the city, deep, sonorous iron-sounding gongs. Alarm bells.
Ulric realized he'd gotten too caught up in the Lovebird's questions. Time was short, he needed to be gone from this place.
"Welp. Time to go. You people should go. All of you." He suggested to the young lovers who, youth notwithstanding, were leading their pack decisively.
Even Erswinn, with his compact stature, compared to his wife, was showing a solid core of spirit. The Old Wolf misjudged that one; He's tiny, but he's got a mean streak a league long when his folk are in trouble. That pair was going to do their clans proud, if they survived.
"Leave Bartala and take all that is of worth to you that you may, " Ulric urged, not wanting them to be here when the inevitable agents from the Gilded Thrones came to raise questions, "Tell all who will listen that I have done this, because I have. And will do it again elsewhere. I swore to Varrock to keep you from harm and I will. Destroying this port, in part, was to draw their eyes away from you. But I cannot be everywhere. If you free yourselves of this trap of a city, with your goods, your kin, and your ships, you can live free, doing much as you have done before, but absent Prosper's chains around your necks."
That was as much of a plea as he could make. He needed to be gone five minutes ago.
"How will you leave, Ulric?" Erswinn asked suddenly, head tilted, as if he'd had a sudden inspiration take him.
"I have a little dingy out on the edges of the dock, way over yonder. Why?" He questioned, impatient.
Clock's ticking, he reminded himself.
"I can do you better, for all you have done for us. For what you have done for Grandfather." Said the Young Wolf, determination in his tone.
"I need a crew! Five hearts full of courage to serve Clan Horan-Bitsnez! Who will sail into the reef blind?" Challenged the next leader of his combined clan.
Fourteen Lupid stepped forward instantly, and the gods love every one of them. Erswinn selected his five by hand and the rest looked disappointed to not have been chosen.
"Take this friend of our clans to Shore Begone, man the ship to whatever port he wills it. I would have his word be my own while he stands aboard my ship. Return, if you are able, when his need is done. If you do not return, we will sing your songs to our people, of heroes that carried the honor of the clans on their backs, and bared their fangs to our enemies, no matter the cost." Erswinn commanded, his word holy writ to those five.
Ulric goggled. Holy shit. Now he knew why Nanya had "settled" for this rather miniature Lupid boy. Napolean Bonaparte had needed a footstool, but if he had one when he arrayed his forces the other guy was in for some fucking trouble.
The young miss of her house was only a moment behind. A snap of her clawed fingers brought three Lupid from the crowd, ones who had been wearing weapons. They knew which end to use, by the look of them.
"You will go with my mate's crew, to defend the ship and its occupants. Do not return without knowing their fates, dead, lost to the seas, or gone to war with our enemies." She ordered, with no doubt as to whom she considered her enemy now.
Gone were his reservations concerning Graus and what that might imply for the werewolf sorts of Beastkin. Graus was an animal. These here, these were men and women of honor. Ahhh, Varrock. You see this? They had it in them all along, they just needed someone to show them the way. They needed you to show them, by deed, instead of word, what a life's weight is.
Erswinn's chosen sailors gestured for him to follow and he did, the three Hora warriors in tow. Ulric saw the Lovebirds take their folk out from the wreckage of the dockyard. Suddenly, he didn't doubt that his promise to the Old Wolf would be kept. Varrock’s kin would be just fine.
