[INTERLUDE]
MISSION NAME: OPERATION STORM MOUNTAIN
LOCATION: TARA, CAPITAL OF EMPIRE OF NESSA
DATE & TIME: 21/12/788 2024 HRS
OPERATIVE NAME: THE WHISPERER
OBJECTIVE: DISCOVER THE MOTIVE BEHIND THE SECRET MEETING BETWEEN AIOFE MINTAKA AND GILLIAN KLINE
BRIEFING:THROUGH INFORMATION ACQUIRED BY INQUISITION SOURCES, WE HAVE DISCOVERED THE WARRING FACTIONS HAVE COME TO A STANDSTILL, WITH THE GUILDS CHOOSING TO REMAIN NEUTRAL. THE SECRET MEETING BETWEEN THE HEIRS OF TWO DUCHY FAMILIES COULD PROVE DETRIMENTAL TO THE SANCTITY OF THE CROWN. INVESTIGATE AND REPORT BACK ON YOUR FINDINGS. DISCRETION IS KEY—ONLY ENGAGE WHEN NECESSARY.
YEAR 788 OF THE CYCLE OF KINGS.
EVE OF THE SECTARIAN WAR.
Nessira De Slanei walked down the streets of Tara. The capital was lively despite the harsh winter. The cold forced her to rub her woolen gloves together, then pull her coat by its lapels to trap the heat better. This was her first high-profile mission since joining the Inquisition four years back. Tracking Taranis was proving difficult. She was elusive and on guard—suggesting she knew she was being followed but not by whom. Based on her intel, Aoife "Taranis" Mintaka and Gillian "The Titan" Kline were former classmates at Dún Scáith—part of the golden generation of 782. They had not been in contact since graduation, and Nessira needed to know why now.
Tara was a city that never slept. The difference between day and night was marked only by the celestial bodies defining them. The streets were full—foul, noisy, and hard to navigate, especially for a first-timer like her.
The door to Licky's Tavern swung open dramatically as if its hinges were loose. She ignored the buzz of the festival but welcomed the warmth that came with it. She drifted to the counter, taking a seat at the edge near the door leading to the back of the tavern. She took off her gloves, then her earflap hat.
She scanned for Licky behind the counter. Their eyes met. Licky couldn't hide his smile, his eyes widening as his hand grasped the nearest whiskey bottle, rushing towards her.
"Oooh! Nessy," Nessira took him in a tight embrace, "Thought you forgot about this old man."
"You are old, alright," Nessira smiled lightly. "You grew fat."
"That comes with age," he patted his beer paunch proudly. He poured her a drink, his large hand nearly enveloping the glass.
Nessira drank the quarter-filled whiskey in one gulp, wincing as it stung her throat before warming her stomach. Licky drank from the bottle.
"What do you have for me?" Nessira leaned in, scanning for eavesdroppers.
"It's always business with you. A simple 'how are you, Licky?' or 'are the kids alright?' would have sufficed," he complained.
Before she could respond, Licky placed another drink in her hand.
"Drink with me first," Licky pleaded.
"Okay, two more only."
They caught up between drinks, this time Nessira taking her time. It had been two years since Licky moved to the capital, fleeing from an inquisitor he'd sold bad information to. With the inquisitor dead, Nessira had regained connection with one of the Empire's best informants."
I looked into what you asked about. Some sensitive stuff it was."
"What did you get?" Nessira leaned in closer.
"There was a closed conclave between the leading councilmen. All fourteen of them. They refused to pass it."
"To pass what, Licky?"
"A decree that would have banned the worship of the Old Ones.
""I already know that much," Nessira grumbled.
Licky leaned over to whisper in her ear. "You didn't hear this from me. Some nobles are planning a coup, claiming the worship of dead gods is heretical and should be forbidden."He pulled back, spitting thick phlegm in disgust. "Rat bastards. They say our gods do not exist. Do you believe that?"
"Calm down, Licky. It won't come to that." Nessira was distressed by the news. If Aoife were to pull Gillian into their cause, there wouldn't be a war—it would be a purge.
"I'll bank the money tomorrow," Nessira said as she stood.
"No, this one's on the house. If it helps keep what little remains of our heritage, that's payment enough."
"I assure you it will," Nessira put on her gloves.
He pulled her into an embrace. "Take care."
"I will, Licky."
"Then may the Good God watch over you."
"You too, Licky. Goodbye and thank you!"
"Anytime," Licky's warm voice darkened with sorrow as if he feared he wouldn't see her again. With the gravity of the situation, he probably wouldn't. Her hat on, she braced for the cold as the door swung out. She did not spare him another glance. She just left.
LIR'S SEPT, TARA.
0015 HRS. Day One Of The SECTARIAN WAR.
The night was eerie. Not because the city was silent, but because the sky was starless. The foreboding darkness was kept feebly at bay by the crescent moon, hanging low on the horizon. It lacked the beauty that usually made night time, especially at the witch's hour, worth sacrificing sleep for. It was the worst scenery to witness while bleeding out.
For Nessira, Donn—the god of Death—was blanketed within the darkness, watching, waiting, eager to claim her soul before leading her to the Land of Youth—Tír na nÓg. But for her, it was not that night. It was not how she pictured her death, and she was unwilling to die.
She called upon the Arcane, drawing from it as she always had. Taking measured, selective breaths, her body brimmed with ether. Her sigil pulsed to life. She channeled the ether to her wounds, small punctures scattered across her torso. They were closing up, but not as fast as she would have desired.
She had determined where the meeting was to be held, and an hour ago, she had found Aoife and Gillian at the sept's garden. She had not anticipated that the meeting was not reserved for just the two. Soon after, Hrémon Míl Espáine, the crown prince, joined, followed by Vasilis Léclair, then Xie Scáthach, and finally Oisín Mac Cumhail. They were all former classmates from Dún Scáith. A cohort of sorts, comprising the best of their time. The future of the Empire.
Nessira was puzzled by this development. She feared that spying on them would be nothing short of suicidal since she couldn't use ether here—Vasilis would sense the magical disturbance. She was close enough to hear the conversation and equally close enough to be discovered if her masked presence faltered.
They conversed freely as friends reunited after a long time apart would. They sat around a table, laughing, reminiscing about their academy days, trying to avoid discussing what brought them there. Aoife was reclusive throughout it all. Nessira guessed her mind was wandering, wondering how she would carry the guilt if it came down to having to fight one of them. Nobility bound their own to honor and duty. Slaves with thick chains tying them to what they thought was unbreakable. They wore honor as one would don armor. Wielded duty as if it were their weapon of choice.
Chained to a world of man-eat-man. And now it was time once more. Time to don their armor, wield their weapon, and fight for a legacy. A footprint in an ever-changing world. A piece of history. A form of immortality in a very mortal world. It was heritage. Aoife wanted to win. She wanted to immortalize her family, and if that meant stepping over those around her, she was ready. Because they were all ready to do the same.
"Where is alcohol when you need it?" Oisín tried to lighten the mood.
"I know, right?" Hrémon chuckled in response.
The silence became maddening. All avoided each other's gaze. Aoife stood. Nessira watched as a faint smile grew on her face. She raised an imagined glass.
"I propose a toast," she said. The others raised theirs. "May the best man win."
"May the best man win," they echoed in unison.
Hrémon stood next. "I will leave now. Princely duties to attend to."
"What duties? You do nothing all day," Vasilis shouted.
"Kiss my royal arse, Léclair!"
The others said their goodbyes and followed suit.
Gillian was last. He turned to her."I wish I could help you."
"It's okay. Remember, you can't refuse my remaining two wishes."
"I'll try next time," he said, and left.
Aoife paced onto the pavement leading back to the sept. Her armor appeared with a gentle hum—a beautiful blue, just like the sea. Her spear appeared in hand. She was ready.
"Aoife Mintaka!" Hrémon's voice boomed, amplified by his sigil. "I, Hrémon Mil Espáine, first of my name, declare you under arrest for treason and conspiracy against the crown. I will give you five minutes to surrender."
Nessira was in shock.FUCK! FUCK! FUCK! she muttered under her breath.
"You can come out now," Aoife said.
Nessira emerged from where she hid, her stride firm and authoritative. She stood face to face with the one who meant to purge her heritage. She was in control of her emotions. They stood in silence until—
"I take that you have refused surrender," Hrémon bellowed. "Storm the building," he ordered his commanders.
Nessira turned to face the hall of the Sept. She summoned her weapon. She didn't have armor like most. With her rapier in hand, her sigil was activated, and so was Aoife's.
"I hope you fucking die!" Nessira said as calmly as she could.
Aoife did not respond. She eased into a battle stance. So did Nessira.
Then they charged to their deaths.
The city was in turmoil. Screams, shouts, and wails echoed through the streets. The carnage unleashed fanned an urge common to beasts, among men. The need to survive was strong, but in Nessira, it raged like wildfire. Her wounds were healing. She ducked and hid her way to the back of Licky's Tavern.
She banged the door before kicking it in. Stamps of bloodied handprints clung to the corridor walls as she pushed all the way to the counter. Slumping under it, she could finally breathe.
Licky appeared with a large, bloodied battle axe in his hand. Her one good eye saw that he was in much better shape than she expected.
"Getting much needed exercise?" Nessira joked weakly.
"I am." Licky watched as Nessira fainted. "Don't worry, you are home."
He picked her up, disappearing into the basement of the tavern.