Atlantis Times v1.1 v03n07 From: JJC%MP068@MPA15AB.mv-oc.Unisys.COM Date: Wed, 10 Aug 1994 01:01:42 +0000 ######################################################################## =-=-= Atlantis Times v1.1 Volume 3 Number 7 =-=-= =-= August 9, 1994 =-= ######################################################################## Words from The Big Guy: My apologies for the delay of one day. Unethical conduct by some player(s) is to blame. Speaking of unethical conduct, a number of people appear to be playing more than one faction. I'm keeping an eye out, and I must reiterate that you should only be playing one faction. There must be a good reason for you to be submitting orders for other factions, and permission must be received by me prior to doing so. Those who are submitting orders for more than one faction need to contact me ASAP. Next turn, I might not be so understanding... Remember to indicate which unit you wish to receive the money for the Atlantis Times submission when you send your articles in. Changes to the game this turn: - Guard Flag reset when a unit moves or is on a ship that sails. - Guard Flag reset when a unit loses a battle. Coming soon: - Tax Flag boolean. Send Times to: jjc@mpa15ab.mv-oc.unisys.com Send Orders to: JJC@MP068.MV-OC.UNISYS.COM Send problems/comments/bug reports/questions to me personally at: jjc@mpa15c.mv-oc.unisys.com I read the mail at the times address once a week, when I'm setting up the Times. I NEVER read mail where the orders go to, so don't send anything but orders there. Good luck, and enjoy. - TBG ######################################################################## Oui mon petit Liopold Glouton Farceur, il existe en effet un peuple qui comprend encore l'ancestral dialecte qui est le tien (vaut mieux que 2 tu l'auras...). Il est arrive en cette terre d'Atlantis dans la riche region de Glin. Moi, Prince de Fort, leur Maitre, je declare haut et fort que Liopold, chef des Gloutons Farceurs, saura toujours trouver en moi un allie, au nom du dialecte commun qui nous unit, que certains aujourd' hui appellent encore le Francais... Mais qu'on ne s'y trompe pas, Le Prince de Fort est Homme de parole et de respect, meme de l'ennemi, et utilisera donc leur fucking dialecte lors de ses discours sur place publique. Prince de Fort. ######################################################################## ______________________________________________________________________ | | | THE RENAISSANCE | | | | "Back to the mention" | |______________________________________________________________________| | | | "Here we are, brothers! This is the region of Glin, from the | | Land of ATLANTIS! In the Name of our Master, the PRINCE DE FORT | | I herebedy declare that we are here with no anger against any | | lord nor king of this World, that our intentions are peacefull, | | that we will be pleased to meet any good-looking warrior, to | | ally any strong but loyal army if necessary, but I also decla- | | re that any ennemy of the PRINCE DE FORT will be destroyed with | | no mercy!", said INGRES, chief of the CHEVAL DE TROIE unit, as | | he reached Glin, after 10 long months of travel through wilder- | | ness regions, where no human had ever been before. | | | | Yes, fellow, you said it, the PRINCE DE FORT is coming back | | to the Country where he was born, 200 hundred years ago. After | | a long long trip all over the worlds, from June to Dune, from | | Galactica to Barbarossa, from Dyshne World to Lago Land. He met | | there so many loyal fellows which became brothers, he was adored | | by so many people, he gained so many treasures, defeated so many | | demons, he has now succeeded in his goal of adventure. Time has | | come, to go back home. | | | | But it's so long since the last time he saw the landscape of | | ATLANTIS, his chidness land. What it became in 200 years he | | doesn't know. Are his friends, his brothers and relatives still | | alive? And where are they, WHO are they now? | | | | So, before coming back to ATLANTIS, he send there his loyal | | Numb, INGRES. INGRES is a Numb. Numbs are 5-feet-high creatures | | which look like humans, but with long arms, big hands, thin ears | | black shiny eyes, and without nose. They don't need nose as they | | don't need to breath, they're taking oxygen in their food and | | liquids. Their skin is rough and brown. They are twice powerfull | | as a human, so they can kill a fellow with the hand, if they got | | drunk. They're very calm and peacefull, unless they feel danger | | for them or their friends, or unless they have drunk. So if one | | day you meet a Numb, don't be afraid by his behaviour, but you | | must remember never to invite a Numb to have a drink. For a Numb | | "a drink" means more pints of beer that you'll ever drink in | | your life! And it makes them feel nervous, they sometimes panic | | and nobody can approach them. | | | | INGRES and the PRINCE DE FORT's soldiers are here to discover | | the land, and their mission is to meet the people and report to | | the PRINCE DE FORT the situation there. Who are the Goods, who | | are the Bads, what is life like in the land, what are the | | relationships, who is able to be an ally, a friend, or more. | | | | So if you happen to meet a CHEVAL DE TROIE soldier, let me | | you that he will be pleased to know you, but before attacking | | him, remember that he's a PRINCE DE FORT soldier, and that the | | power of PRINCE DE FORT and his friends has no equivalent in any | | world... | | | | "Long is the chain, hard is the labour." (PRINCE DE FORT) | | | | | | June, Year 3, THE RENAISSANCE Weekly Mail, by Reynald Gastebois. | |______________________________________________________________________| ######################################################################## Acolyte at the Holy Church of Agrik, We have once gathered under the holy guidance of our high priest Chafin of Araku and his sacred words for us was that we should spread out in the world and preach the holy word to the peasants. Those who won't follow us on the true path will be forced or given as sacrifieses to the holy God. (some may even be given to Vox one of Agriks devoted followers). Our spiritual training has now started under the guidance of the old Sea Viewer. He has told us about the monsters in the sea and in the mountains that Agrik has put on earth to remind the people of their mortality. May the word of Agrik spread over the world and bless all that follow him and his holy church. ######################################################################## From a remote thicket, deep in a valley Somewhere, came the sound of muted argument and the occasional heated exchange. "mutter-mutter... mutter mutter mutter..." " Ni! mutter... Ni! Ni!" <slap> <hit> "Ouch!" On moving closer, one might have gathered the gist of the debate. "We need a New Image! We want to command respect!", proclaimed one. "Yeah", "Right", "Yeah - respect", "Ni!", murmured the crowd. "Howabout `People with Great Big Swords'?", piped up someone. "Right!", "Mumble", "Nah", "Maybe", "Rubard", vascillated the crowd. "Howabout `People Looking For Respect'?", suggested someone else. "Gah!" <slap> "ouch!" "Boo", "Shutup you!". "Howabout ... " (new, tall, speaker pauses for effect, crowd hushes) "... `The Knights Of Arrowroot`!" "Raahh!", "Arrowroot!", "Yeah!", "Hooray!", "Whoa - that'll get 'em", "When do we start?", "Arrowroot??", "I've always wanted to be a Knight! " - the crowd went wild. And without further ado the newly proclaimed Knights burst from the thicket ready to impress the world. "I reckon 'Ni' is easier to say" mutters someone <slap> <hit> <biff> " Ow!" ######################################################################## Le mois dernier j'ai essaye de prendre contact avec les nouvelles peuplades de notre monde sans avoir l'espoir de la reussite. Quelle n'a pas ete ma surprise lorsque j'ai vu mon message parmi les articles en dialecte local. Je reprends donc ma plume pour vous informer plus avant sur les motivations de mon peuple et moi meme. Les Gloutons Farceurs sont tout a fait pacifique et souhaitent ouvrir des relations suivies avec les peuplades voisines. Nous sommes tout a fait pret a faire du commerce et tenons a votre disposition des chevaux parfaitement dresses au prix tout a fait modique de 20$ l'unite, attention nous interdisons formellement ` tous nos clients d'utiliser ces montures dans un cadre de lutte armee avec les peuples parlant la langue des Gloutons Farceurs. En revanche, l'utilisation de nos montures dans des luttes intestines entre peuplades parlant le dialecte courant est tout a fait encourage. Nous sommes aussi tout a fait capable de construire de solides maisons a l'exclusion de tout batiment a caractere militaire. Si vous aviez besoin d'autres articles ne figurant pas a notre catalogue actuel, nous sommes tout a fait capable de nous plier a vos desirs dans les plus brefs delais. Leoplod, chef des Gloutons Farceurs ######################################################################## As she walked down the long hallway of the Citadel, the young girl in white tried to remember her lessons: breathe slowly and deeply, keep eyes on floor, follow two steps behind the escort, and above all, don't scream. This was a great honor, being selected for the Lord's Treat; her family would be well rewarded, and Agrik would smile upon her home towm, keeping it safe from sea monster attacks, perhaps. Still, she trembled. Through the double doors, up the stairs, past the sound of thick liquid bubbling in a large vat. Charnel smells, thick and dense. Finally a halt, and the escort two steps in front of her spoke: "Lord Vox, your dinner treat is served." She resisted the urge to look up, as she heard the rustle of paper in front of her, on what she assumed must be the Blood Throne. After a moment, a voice rumbled, "Send her. You may go." The crimson escort's robes brused her arm as he moved away behind her, and she began the walk forward, taking slow steps as the ritual demanded, breathing deeply to still her fears. Her downcast eyes finally sighted the arm of a rich carnelian throne, upon which rested a massive, grey, muscled arm, terminating in a collection of razor claws, of indeter- minate number. She let out a slight gasp, then held her position in perfect stillness, ashamed of the involuntary sound. The claws left the throne-arm, paper rustled once more, then the claws returned to view clutching the edge of a printed page which her temple training enabled her to decipher: The Atlantis Times. The low voice let out a throaty chuckle. "Hmm-hmm-hmm! Looks like we have a little imposter writing as my personal bard, here. The second article seems to imply I had a face-to-face argument with my impertinent scout, concerning some animal blood. Rather preposterous, of course; my ill-advised scout would have emerged from such an argument having...well...lost face, shall we say?" The girl remained silent, wondering what she should do. The Temple had not mentioned anything about conversation or spoken responses. "Ah well, I suppose some factions simply have nothing much interesting to say about their *own* adventures, so they must presume upon mine. How nice it would be to have them come insult me in person, eh? What do you think, my little dinner treat?" Her lips parted and her throat attempted to make some sort of sound, but nothing really emerged. The voice spoke again, as if to reassure: "Yes, you may look at me, treat, I won't...well, perhaps I'll bite, but not just yet. Hmm?" She gradually raised her vision until the face came into view. Lord Vox smiled. This one was admirably brave. She didn't scream at all, or attempt to flee; her eyes glazed over a bit, and she didn't seem able to say anything, but other than that, she was taking it all in stride. Temple training was a great thing. Vox licked the part of his countentance under what passed for his nose (the word "lip" had little relevance) and returned to his browsing. "Oh, look! The Faction With Excessive Consonants threatens to invade our fair continent! How delightful! He claims to have ten galleons ready to sail over for a visit. Hmmm... perhaps a misprint. I suspect he meant ten GALLONS. Not much of a bounty, actually, though it it's good stuff... have you ever had any Diamante/Grisbygd Merlot, my sweet?" The young lass shook her head, a bit shocked. That was considered the finest blood vintage, from the First Harvest. "Here, try just a bit, you should enjoy the moment." She watched in disbelief as Lord Vox hefted a finely-wrought spun iron chalice, folding his claws carefully in layers around its base, and brought it to her lips. She sipped delicately, tasting the rich, dark vintage in the back of her throat. Seeing the intense orange eyes watching her, she realized with some horror that a response was expected. Even though the blood had loosened her throat a bit, she stammered a little as she said, "My L...Lord, I am...not w..worthy..." Vox smiled again at her innocence. "I understand, my little treat. It is indeed a fine vintage. But, after all, that sip isn't exactly lost to me." She saw, then, his claws circling behind her, felt them through the white shift on her back, and felt herself being drawn forward. She closed her eyes, reciting the final ritual phrases in her head, until she felt the prick of hundreds of sharp teeth on her throat. Her last thought was to wonder how her own blood would compare to the fine warrior's blood she had just tasted... ######################################################################## "Hobi's war" status report 2 Last turn went well. Hobi apparently missed the turn, so my men north of Lorthalm escaped without injury. Hobi's force south of Lorthalm was totally destroyed. Our field armies now face each other across the northern Lorthalm border. I am stronger, but not strong enough to split my force without risk. We now enter a "guessing" phase. Will he come to me, will I go to him, will we "pass each other in the night"?. An interesting situation. Sir Aubec has apparently rejoined Hobi in his war. Lame Duck made me the offer: "Lame Duck takes all of Aubec and Hobi's territory and provides no help in the war in return for staying nuetral" I declined, so I anticipate fighting him also. So much for "peace in Lemuria". Next week: Battle reports from "Hobi's war" The above report generated by the scribes of faction 59, "Larson's Adventurers", formed in Gurkacre (9,14) on Jan 01 reachable at "Bill_Larson@ncsu.edu" ######################################################################## The conspirators gathered in an old stone barn on House Mecron land. A secluded site, but necessary; their project was forbidden by the largest Houses. While arcane apparatus sparked and wheezed in the corner, Robert Mecron briefed his companions. "We'll go through in twos. The Sorceress says there's a bit of time flux between this world and Atlantis, so we may arrive in a different order than we enter. She's trying to target anyone of Diamante or Reynolds blood, but says there's not much to be found. Be ready for anything at the other end of the vortex." Roman Diamante announced, "I'll go first, with Helmuth, to make sure it's safe. Then Joachim and Philum, and Lilian and Hector. Blair and Robert will bring up the rear. Let's line up and get going!" A ring of fire framed the portal; inside, the vortex appeared as nothing but swirling, glowing mists. The old hag, named by Robert Mecron only as the Sorceress, motioned the first two men up to the portal, then thrust a crooked finger forward emphatically. With a final glance at the world they'd never see again, Roman and Helmuth stepped through the portal, and vanished. The Sorceress held up a finger for the next group to wait while she checked crucibles and meters. After a few minutes, muttering to herself, she gestured for the next pair to step forward. At the end of the line, a technician carrying a large metal case approached Robert Mecron. "My lord? Ivan Lefevre. These came from Atlantis two years ago." He opened the case; inside were two dozen objects that looked like fist-sized plant bulbs. At Robert's glance, he explained, "They're troll buds. I've studied them for over a year now, and I just can't get them to grow in our world. But back in Atlantis, they should spring right up in just a month or two. Lord, I put a lot of time into studying trolls, and, well, I want to take the troll buds back and try to raise them. May I come with you?" Robert frowned, but Lefevre looked sincere. He glanced at Blair, who just shrugged. "Very well. Maybe they'll be useful. You'll go through with us. You realize what you're doing, don't you?" * * * * * Lurvy crept silently through the weeds. The PATO officers in Sledmere seemed to have keener eyesight every month, but still hadn't found Lurvy and his small band. Months ago, when Lurvy realized Sledmere was a dead end, with PATO cavalry on their heels, he had most of his men discard their weapons and join the peasants. Peasant life wasn't fun, but better than becoming a snack for that ghoul, Vox. Only four men men joined him in hiding. Those men hid in the bushes behind Lurvy, loaded with spare weapons and wood. Lurvy grinned; their stealth training was almost complete. Soon he'd lead them out of this dead end, heading south. Somewhere they'd find a safe place where Lurvy would set up his own faction, and be lord of his own House. He'd show those bloated nobles how to run a kingdom! Lurvy took another step forward. A dry branch snapped loudly under his foot. Lurvy froze, but sharp PATO eyes focused directly on his hiding place. As he heard the sounds of swords clearing their scabbards and horses forming up for a charge, Lurvy managed a soft, "Oh, crap." MORAL: In a training race, the enemy will reach Observation level 2 before you can get to Stealth level 3! * * * * * Sea Cowboy wandered the beach. He was supposed to find horses on this forsaken peninsula, but it looked pretty barren to Sea Cowboy. He muttered once again at the stupid name he had been assigned. 'Have to talk to the boss about getting that changed,' he thought to himself. Up ahead, he spotted a body lying on the sand. Sea Cowboy walked up and prodded the body with his bow. Probably a peasant munched by a sea monster, he thought. Wait, did the body flinch when he jabbed it in the ribs? Sea Cowboy rolled the body over, then jumped back in astonishment. "Good heavens, it's Bascon Diamante!" ######################################################################## Chapter 4 Two months later, Tamara was beginning to run low on rations. Supplementing her diet was easy; there was plenty of seaweed and fish were easy to catch. The fish never suspected that they would be instantaneously cooked with a lightning bolt. Soon she reached the far side of the ocean valley. At the top of the valley was a beach with a sign that read: WARNING: YOU ARE NOW LEAVING THE STRAIT OF AIRUMEL AND ARE ENTERING LEMURIA. IF YOU VALUE YOUR LIFE, THIS IS THE WRONG PLACE TO BE. This sign was given the same treatment as the previous. Someone must have come ahead of her. It could not have been those lost boys; whoever made these signs knew where he was. Suddenly, Tamara heard voices. At first she did not recognize them; it had been almost three months since she had seen anyone. Slowly she backed the horse away from the beach and hid behind some coral. Soon two men approached the beach. There skin was much darker than any Tamara had previously seen. Instinctively, she looked at her own skin which was a bright red. Apparently, the southern sun was hotter than she was used to. Their unusual skin would make a wonderful trophy back in Vashcort. Lord Vox would be envious of her when she came back wearing a naturally dark leather coat. The men spotted the scorched remains of the sign. They quickly looked around. There was nothing to be seen except the pounding surf. There were no boats in sight. Slowly, they backed away from the sign and retreated into the nearby forest. They soon came back with 200 of their best friends; all of whom were carrying large clubs. Tamara decided that Lemuria was indeed the wrong place to be and returned to the bottom of the ocean under the cover of darkness the next evening. ######################################################################## Dwight Eisenhower looked over the province of Sandwick. It seemed like the peasants were well entertained by the antics and continuous bickering of the Senate and House of Representatives. The CIA director informed him that there were other French factions to the east. Diplomatic channels would be established, and their forces evaluated. Then action could be taken. ######################################################################## After a long days work he went to bed. He was tired and his only thought was just to sleep as soon as possible. Unfortunately that night he had The Dream. He was standing in an empty hall. It was made of some black rock (?) and had been shined to a glossy finish. The ceiling arched high overhead, supported by a long row of pillars, and the walls beyond the pillars held torches every 40'. He was dimly aware that this was a dream, this was a new experience for him as he had never had a lucid dream before (he did know what they were). He began walking along the hall toward one end where he could dimly make out a chair. Upon the chair was a figure cloaked in shadow ("of course" he thought) he started to walk toward figure when it spoke. (this had NEVER happened before!) "Halt," said the figure, "You have been chosen ..." "Why?" "...to bring a new idea into the world. Long has it been at war, great suffering has resulted and it must stop. You must further..." "How can I stop a war?" "...tell others of this idea that it may spread and benefit all. You must be very careful as any careless action will surely lead to your death..." "What if I don't want too? "...But I have arranged to that you may have an advantage, go to your garden and dig in the exact center, you will find a chest of coins." "What was this idea?" This time the figure seemed to take note of his question. "This is what you must know." And then the figure told him. ######################################################################## Boldmarine was worried. Annother of her comrades had been spotted last turn and killed. That meant that they had observation 2 and the rest of them were still month away from stealth 4. They had assumed that stealth 3 would have sufficed. She was now torn between studying longbow and studying stealth, the loingbow skill would have to wait for if it was needed here it would be insufficient. She spent the month studying stealth and it went silently..... ######################################################################## As Drake wandered out of the small plains village towards the Spellweaver's hut, he reflected on the events of the previous month. The mysterious man who identified himself only as "the Spellweaver" wandered into the village and recruited him to be the captain of the guard for a new faction. "Drake," he said, "you are a natural leader of men and have a good mind for tactics. Join me, and together we will leave our mark on Atlantis." Before he knew it, the stranger had organized close to 100 men, and the fledgling faction was started. Drake didn't know how, but the stranger had also noticed the others. Out of thousands of peasant, the stranger picked five other groups of twenty and ordered his new unit of guard to keep watch on them. The guards had just now reported to Drake that the other groups were indeed new factions, for a total of six in the one plains region. Reports were starting to trickle in by carrier pigeon from the scouts who were dispatched last month of contact with at least four more factions. While all of them were potential trading partners or allies, all of them were also potential enemies. Drake snapped out of his reflection as he approached the hut of the Spellweaver. The stranger was waiting for him by the door, the hood to his black robes pulled back to reveal a dark haired man in his mid twenties with dark, penetrating eyes. "Greetings, Captain Drake. What do you have to report?" "Well, sir, the groups that you had my men observe are indeed new factions. Some of them are growing almost as rapidly as ours, while others appear to have done little during the past month... Sir, if they are hostile..." "If they are hostile, our new faction could be quite short lived. Do not worry just yet, Captain. I have anticipated your report and already planned for it. Take these scrolls, and deliver them to the leaders of the other five factions. They are offers to form an alliance to guarantee our mutual safety." With that, the stranger turned away and went back into his hut. As Drake walked away, he returned to his reflective mood. An alliance. If it could be arranged, it could be quite beneficial to all six fledgling factions. But how would the others receive the idea? ######################################################################## Sergeant Dachsund entered Clive's new office in an obviously agitated state. Clive looked up, peering through the moving boxes piled atop his desk. "Yes, Sergeant, what can I do for you?", he asked mildly, as he removed and polished his spectacles, glad for a break in the unpacking which had consumed most of the day. "Hooker sent me to inform you that the prisoners have escaped!", was the astounding reply. Dachsund caught his breath and went on. "What with everybody packing for the move, security at the jail was lax. When the guard detail was finally sent to fetch the prisoners for transport to Banlar, they found mostly rubble where the jail used to be!" Clive's eyes widened at this, but Dachsund went on before he could interrupt. "The jailer was pulled out from under part of the collapsed ceiling. He was groggy but mostly coherent. He claimed that there had been an Atlantis-quake which demolished the building, but that can't be, because nobody else noticed anything. The Captain is of the opinion that the building was destroyed either by an explosion or by sorcery, perhaps a goodly number of lightning bolts, but strangely, there weren't any scorch marks. We didn't have a chance to examine the scene fully - we almost got left behind! It took us until now to catch up." "And there was no sign of any of the prisoners?", asked Clive in amazement. "The mad scientists were crushed by a falling wall. All that was left of them was something that looked like, well, toenail jelly. Cucumber, Zucchini, and the talking horse have probably run north into Salen. If they had gone south, somebody in the caravan would have spotted them on the way." "Do you think we should notify the Brotherhood of the Mist about potentially dangerous fugitives in their midst?" Clive wanted to know. This stopped the Sergeant cold for a moment as he considered the political implications. "I suppose so", he muttered. Thinking about the Mist made him vaguely uneasy, but he didn't know why. * * * The new replacement scientists were hard at work trying to devise a ship-mounted mass weapon which could be used to defend ships against the increasingly pesty sea serpents. Mindful of what had happened to their predecesors, they made sure that it didn't involve Simone. Clive was viewing the latest prototye, a medium-sized catapult loaded with a barrel of something smelly: "This is what we call a bloat-on torpedo," one of the scientists explained. "We launch a barrel filled with sauerkraut into the serpents maw. It swallows the kraut and quickly thereafter succumbs to indigestion and gas pains - the whole GI tract just bloats right up." Impressed, Clive gave out a low whistle and nodded. "We originally tried baked beans, but the beneficial effects on the cardio-vascular tract seemed to offset the gas pains, yielding no net reduction in the serpent combat effectiveness. You know - 'good for the heart...'" "'the more you eat...'", Clive started to add, but then thought better of it. "What's the downside of the system?" he wanted to know. "Carrying barrels of tepid, percolating sauerkraut in cramped ship's quarters on a long voyage, for one thing", replied the scientist. "Plus we've discovered that there is a german breed of the serpent which seems immune." "Hmmm, carry on with your research", decided Clive. ######################################################################## Aeolius looked at the frenzied dancing about him with approval. These peasants were just waiting for an outlet like this. Granted, a little chemical assistance helped, but their response to the sacred ahichichibleb root was greater than he had ever seen. Their response was more than just an enthusiasm for dancing, the donations had been enough to recruit another member. Certainly he would have to leave some brothers and sisters here to keep them entertained, but his calling was elsewhere. Leaving the circle of dancers he grabbed his small sack of belongings and headed off away from the setting sun. ######################################################################## The messenger was tired and bloody, his tunic ripped and stained. Demark ushered him into the mountainside hut which served as the headquarters of the Kashmari mining venture. "So, perhaps you can explain the absence of orders and news from home these past months?" The messenger paused to take a draught of mountain brew. "Aye, my lord. There was a, an attempted coup." "What?!" "It is believed that the Keswickian witch was in league with the enemies of Morgoth, and that she somehow managed to subvert many in Sigunem to her evil cause." "By all the evils of the sea! And how fares the Seneschal?" "He was gravely wounded in some of the fighting. At present a triumverate rules in his stead, but not everyone is happy with their actions." The messenger smiled grimly. "Least of all the enemies of Morgoth." ######################################################################## King Greagrian stoond on the galleon, looking out at the ocean. The seas were rough - but none of the ships in the fleet had had the least trouble. It had been an extremely boring month - with nothing more than an attack by a couple of sea serpeants to liven things up. The poor things never even had a change, Greagrian thought. Much like Vox and his allies, in a way. Sighing, Greagrian picked up the shief of papers he had been studying. He had sent a longboat full of scouts to the western island more than two years ago. They had been very stealthy - and it was impossible that they had ever been spotted. They had sent back a lot of valuable intelligence though - and now Greagrian had to pick a landing place. It wasn't very hard. The western-most - and thus closest - part of the island was a forest called Menter. And it was barely garrisoned. Greagrian's forces could land there and instantly recruit lumberjacks and weaponsmiths from the local peasants. Within two months, he could have two hundred longbowmen a turn marching east to what he was sure would be the ever-advancing front. The swamps east of Menter would provide some wood too - but he would have to make a determined drive towards the concentration of mountains in the south if he hoped to disrupt the North Wind's iron production enough to allow victory. 'Rejoice,' he muttered, 'rejoice Padishahs, Renyolds, Lost Boys. Your vengeance is at hand.' ######################################################################## From the Chronicles of The Brotherhood of Northern Warriors July, Year 3 - Lorthalm Lord Falken sat at his map table. There were several thick books open on the table, but he was ignoring them. Instead, he eyes were staring at the letter in his hands, and he read it again and again. The letters leaped out at him. "Unwilling to give up any lands or resources . . . would rather go to war now . . ." Lame Duck had reacted extremely negatively to General William's suggestion that, if the Doom army was defeated, he would expect some claim to Hobi's former empire. The whole thing frustrated Falken. He completely agreed with his allie's insitance that they could not fight a crippling war without hope of recovering at least some of their losses, but he truly did not want to fight Lame Duck, whom he had come to consider a friend. "If we go to war now," he said to nobody, "it will be for good. Once the battles begin, there will be no peace on Lemuria until either the Ballindines or ourselves have been completely wiped off the face of Atlantis. This is what I think." Frowning, he looked out at the fields of Lorthalm, where his army and that of William were training. The Doom army, now apparently the Ballindine army once again, had not advanced last month. There had been talk of going after them if they did not invade this month, but that had been before they had learned Lame Duck would be rejoining his former ally. That changed matters. It more than doubled this size of the army they were dealing with, changing the situation from one that should have been an easy victory to one that would be a hard fought war with an uncertain outcome. But there was nothing more to be accomp- lished on the diplomatic front. Efforts at the bargaining table had failed, now the matter would be decided on the battle field. Standing, Falken walked out of his tent, planning to inspect the troops. Suddenly, the frown dissapeared off of his face, to be replaced by a smile. There, stridding towards him across the plains, was his old friend, General William. It had been more than a year since the two men had last found themselves in the same region, and Falken was enjoying the chance to talk easily with his ally. True, the matter that they had to discuss was rather unpleasant, but at least they could do it face to face, instead of through messengers. And it also meant that the alliance's two best tactians were here, at the front. That, Falken thought, could prove to be a problem for the Ballindines. He looked at the hundreds of troops drilling in the summer heat, at the class of mages gathered in one tent, increasing their already awesome power, at his elite unit of swordsmen, each one mounted, armed, and dressed in chain mail, and he thought that there might be a great many problems for the Ballindines indeed. ######################################################################## =-=-= END TIMES 307 =-=-= ######################################################################## Up