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It was twenty years after the defeat of Alduin. A mysterious figure, of unknown race, gender, or appearance and called only the Viscount, descended upon Skyrim from the north with an army… of ghosts. This unstoppable and unending army took Skyrim by storm. The Viscount’s army only became more powerful as the fallen Nords of Skyrim are added to the ghostly army. The Viscount slowly began attacking other nations, taking High Rock and Morrowind, and eventually the Imperial Province of Cyrodiil. During the battle, nicknamed the Fall of the Empire, the Viscount’s ghosts took the Imperial City and the Viscount, whom people only saw as a shadowy figure with a deep voice, proclaimed himself Emperor. Over the next year, Elsweyr, Valenwood, Black Marsh, and the Summerset Isles fell to the Viscount’s Army. As quickly as it had began, the conquering ended. The Thalmor were virtually eliminated as resistance proved futile; any rebellions put down violently.

In the months that passed, the Empire, under the Viscount, tried to expand its land. It attacked the small jungle nation of Artha, just east of Black Marsh. Little did the Viscount know, Artha was heavily populated by the lost race of Imga, who had managed to stay out of the civilized world for dozens of centuries. When The Viscount invaded Artha and razed it, near half a million Imgas fled into Tamriel.

All of this was ten years ago. The rule under the Viscount has proven surprisingly liberal; Skyrim Jarls and Cyrodiilic Counts and Countesses still have power, for example, yet they owe ultimate loyalty to The Viscount. All guards of every nation were killed, and their ghosts compelled to serve the Viscount. Any rebellions are still put down with extreme force. As of right now, there is a cold civil war occurring in the Viscount’s Empire that threatens to launch it into farther destruction. The Loyalists, who believe that Tamriel was a reclusive, hostile group of nations before the takeover, support the Viscount. Those who want independence, the Separatists, often take their aggression out on Loyalists, harassing their fellow citizens. It truly seems as if there is no hope in defeating the Viscount…

I woke up at dawn to head out of town I didn't know to where but I couldn't stay here I would have every assassin in Sentinel looking for me after killing Cyrus, I was so busy planning his death I never stopped to plan what I would do after honestly I didn't expect to be alive after I did it, but I was so I had to come up with a plan. I would figure that plan out on my way out of the city so I packed my satchel with the little items I had and headed out. After walking a few miles I decided I would go to Stros M'kai I always heard stories of it being a criminals paradise full of pirates, thieves, and killers. It sounded ideal for me so I headed out to Hegathe to take a ship to Stros M'kai.

I traveled for 2 days across the barren Alik'r desert but I finally made it to the city of Hegathe. I slept at a cheap inn for the night, the next day I headed out and boarded one of the ships setting sail for Stros M'kai I snuck onto the ship at night and headed into the lower decks and hid behind a few wooden boxes and had myself some well needed sleep. When I woke up I heard footsteps on deck and heard a man say we're here I was in Stros M'kai.

After arriving in Stros'Mkai I immediatly started asking around for work when I bumped into an old Redguard woman sitting cross legged back against the wall, now she wasn't your average woman she had red designs tattooed onto her face she was blind with long dreadlocks and wearing rags for clothes. I started to walk away but then I heard the womans scratchy voice say Savund I looked at her in aw. I asked her how do you know my name, she said "I know things others don't" I replied so you know my name why did you call it? She answered "Because I can help you find what you looking for" I said oh and what's that and she said "Work". After talking with this woman I knew she wasn't a fake she was real how else could she have known this so I asked her to tell me where to go for work she replied "You must go to a ship called the Red Arrow and speak to Captain Tobias Ice-Heart at dawn this is your destiny child go". So I listened to the old woman why not it was almost dawn so I had to rush to the harbor when I got there I finally found the Red Arrow it was a mighty ship with big red sails thought that was odd red sails but what did I know about ships.

I stepped onto the plank on the docks leading to the ships main deck but as I walked down the plank I saw a large Redguard with long black dreadlocks, and he was extremely dark and wearing no shirt and torn pants, so when I got to him he asked what I needed I said I needed to get on to talk to Captain Tobias, he said why I replied because I need to. This went on for a few minutes until the captain himself came out of his cabin and asked what I needed I told him I needed to speak to him to my suprise he agreed and he led me to his cabin. The captain was a large Nord with fairly dark skin for a Nord that is and long black hair that was braided in a typical Nord fashion with a large mighty thick black beard and piercing blue eyes he looked a little like me I too had blue eyes and black hair but I kept my hair only to my shoulders he let his past his shoulders it was odd being a Nord and having dark hair not many Nords do it's a rariety. The captain sat at his deck put his rough callassed hands on his very large table and told me to sit in the chair on the other side of the table, I did what I was told. The captain then asked "Why would you want to speak with me yer just a lad what do ya need from me lad?" I said I want to join your crew I want to be a pirate and sail with you, he replied with a hearty laugh and then said "You look like a rough and tumble lad and all but the only need I would have for you is a swab for the ole Red Arrow here". I asked what that was and he told me that I would have to clean the deck, a little bit discouraged I asked in time could I become a pirate? He replied with another one of his hearty laugh's "Ay in time in time". So I said I would take the job I wasn't that thrilled to have to clean the decks but I was excited to explore Nirn and raid the seas it seemed like an exciting time and it seemed like the best choice I would never be found this was my way out, and I would also earn some of the loot and be able to explore Nirn it seemed like a great idead I was very excited. So I asked the captain where are we headed? The captain answered with a smile on his face "Elsweyr lad Elsweyr".

We had been at sea for 1 month because of the terrible storms for the past week we had no idea where we where we couldn't see a thing in the blinding storm wind gusting waves beating against the sides of the ship and running onto the deck I was getting extremely wet and my clothes where getting torn by the violent gusts of wind so I went bellow deck and layed down in my hammock with the rest of the crew when I heard a loud booming noise it was thunder this storm was getting even worse, I feared I would not live through our expedition to Elsewyr I honestly didn't care at the time nothing was going my way and I had finally found somewhere I felt comfortable, in my case I would expect to die whenever things went good for me they would get ruined it was the story of my life this was the last thing I had to hold onto if I am to die at least it will be with these men and woman that I now called family. I looked around the dim musty cabin of the ship I now called home I looked at each crew member this was my true family there was Kazia he was a large dark Redguard with long dreadlocks, and a gold ring in his left nostril he scared the hell out of me the first time I boarded the ship and was pretty cruel at first but after a week or two I became pretty close to the man his story was similar to mine he lived in Sentinel in the slums he lost his mother and father at a young age and joined up with the captain at the age of 10, then there was Taluro Deth he was a skinny grey skinned Dark Elf with red eyes like most Dark Elves and long black hair that he kept in a ponytail and a large nasty scar running from the middle of his eyebrow to through his lips and ending at the bottom of his chin he was a good man he grew up in Bravil with his mother, father, and four brothers I always wondered what went wrong for him to end up here he seemed nice enough and he didn't mention anything about having a rough childhood that might be something I never find out, those where the two I was closest to but there where 10 others on the crew that I didn't know very well.

I awoke the next morning to the soft swaying of the ship "Was the storm over I thought to myself?" Then I opened up the hatch to the upper deck a beam of sunlight hit me as I opened it it hurt my eyes I had not seen light in so long the storm was finally over so this really was ment to be I wasn't dead honestly it suprised me I though I would not wake from that sleep, but I did so things where looking up the fun would go on a while longer I live to see another day.

Before the conversion of Christianity, the many Slavic tribes that inhabited the vast and naturally diverse territory of modern Russia - mostly the central part, I believe - worshipped a number of pagan deities which, as it is usual, represented the forces of nature, and particularly the change of seasons, which was seen as the birth, ageing and death of the sun god; he had many names, reflecting the different qualities of the sun. The most commonly known name is Yarilo, which is derived from the same root as an adjective which can be translated as 'ferocious'; this name is supposed to refer to the glaring summer sunlight. Another widely revered deity was Perun, the god of thunder, who is famous for the wooden idols with gilded beards that were widely erected in his honour and, according to a popular legend, were eventually - in late tenth century A.D. - ceremoniously drowned in the river by orders of the prince who initiated the mass conversion to Christianity. By the way, the word "perun" is sometimes used in very elevated, poetical style as a synonym for "grom", that is, thunder.

Along with gods representing natural forces, the Slavic tribes also believed in the existence of countless small supernatural beings, generally malevolent or at least mischievous. The remainders of this belief are present to this day.
There is leshiy - the name is derived from the word les, meaning forest - seen as a little ugly old man with a shaggy beard and sometimes two left shoes, who can turn invisible or swell up in size till his head reaches higher than the tree tops; he takes great pleasure in making travellers lose their way in the forest and frightening them with his loud cries and thunder-like laughter.

Then there is kikimora, an equally ugly, ill-tempered old woman who dwells in swamps and is sometimes believed to be married to one of the male varieties of supernatural beings.

There also is rusalka, a Russian equivalent of a mermaid. She usually is a malicious spirit of a deceased, particularly drowned woman, luring unsuspecting men or children into the water where they meet their death. Her common attributes are pallid skin, long hair and a long shirt which reaches to her heels and resembles a garment in which a person is buried.
But the most famous supernatural creature encountered in Russian folklore is domovoy. The Russian word dom, from which the word is derived, is translated as "house"; thus, it is fairly easy to understand that a domovoy is a house spirit. He also has the appearance of a tiny, bearded old man, who may be surly and grumpy at first glance, but quite is kindly on the inside. He serves as the protector of family hearth, and if certain small rituals are performed to please him, he is bound to bring good luck and prosperity.

Another guardian spirit is Bereginya, a female being, in a way similar to a Greek dryad, as she is often associated with a birch tree. Birch trees in general play a significant part in Russian culture; they are often associated with pure feminine beauty. I do believe that a birch is the most common tree in Russia. I have been told, however, that the birch trees found in other regions of the world are not quite like the Russian ones. Our birches have thick white trunks with easily distinguished dark stripes and very lush, vivid foliage. The bark of birches was widely used in Russia as writing material, being far cheaper and easier to come by than parchment. Novgorod, a city in the North-West region of Russia, which used to be a major trade centre in the Middle Ages, its wealth and power rivalling that of Hannover and probably even Venice, boasts the most well-known archive of birch bark scrolls, perfectly preserved from the early Middle Ages. It comprises a variety of documents, written by people from all walks of life. But let us return to folklore.

Another group of popular folkloric characters is bogatiri, epic heroes of enormous strength, whose feats - which usually involve defeating monstrous creatures or numerous foes that threaten Russia - are described in songs, which are distinguished by a very particular kind of rhythm and quite a number of clichéd metaphors, somewhat similar to Scandinavian kennings. A song of this kind is called a bilina, roughly 'a tale of things that really were'.

Another genre of Russian folklore is, of course, fairy-tales. The typical storyline pattern is, like in many other cultures, the adventures of the youngest among three sons of either a king or a peasant, who is almost always named Ivan. He overcomes a number of difficulties, probably assisted by a wise supernatural being whom he saves from peril at the beginning of the fairy-tale, and ends up getting married to a princess and living happily ever after. The personae of the antagonists he faces are quite clichéd.

The major antagonist is quite commonly Kaschey the Immortal, a skeletal, avaricious, ancient being, whose life force is hidden within a needle, which is kept in an egg, which in turn is kept inside several containers on a remote island. Only by snapping the needle in two can Kaschey be killed.

Another well-known antagonist is Baba Yaga, an aloof old hag who lives in a house supported by gigantic chicken's feet. In order to enter Baba Yaga's dwelling, one has to chant, 'House on chicken's feet, stand with your back to the wood, and with your front to me!'; then the house will turn around on its feet and let one in. The interior is commonly described as very cramped, with hardly space enough for a pech, that is, a particular kind of stove which has a bed over it, accessible by a ladder, so that a person can keep his or herself warm while sleeping, especially in winter. A pech can still be found in a typical Russian country house, because, quite sadly, by far not all dwellings in small Russian villages have central heating. Anyway, returning to Baba Yaga: though known to ally with other malicious beings, practice evil magic and even steal and eat children, this old lady can sometimes assist a fairy-tale character on his quest, by giving him a magical artefact or a hint as to how to act in a certain situation. I am also familiar with cases when Baba Yaga let a hero, weary after his travels, wash himself in her banya (the traditional Russian wooden bathhouse, somewhat resembling a sauna, where people pour water on themselves out of pails and get heated up in the clouds of steam that rises when water is poured on red-hot coals in a pech; in order to sweat more, they also hit themselves with bunches of birch branches. It is still quite a common practice in villages and a form of entertainment in urban areas. I have experienced it quite a few times myself and must say that it is very refreshing, though not recommended to those with heart problems).

The fairy-tale protagonist may also female. In that case, her name is usually Mariia (Mary) or Vasilisa. While dealing with her foes, she usually relies on her wit power, eventually outsmarting the wisest of her adversaries. She often uses her intellect and sometimes magical abilities to help out her husband, give him advice, get him out of trouble or even revive him if he has been killed. In the latter cases, a magical spring of water is the most common means of salvation. It is called zhivaya voda - "living water".

Stranger Prince - The Goblin King Awakens

Tobil, the Champion of Evil and the Thwarter of the Gods, marched around the large, fiery cavern with a formidable, threatening demeanour, barking orders aggressively to timid, bent-over goblins. Tainting black smoke wafted slowly through thin, narrow vents, choking the already poisoned air and dark orange lava bubbled and seeped through cracks that riddled the sloping walls. Countless goblins silently leaped through shadows delivering messages to elders and hurrying towards their posts. Some were blacksmiths, creating Shadow Cutlasses and Ragged Blades, or builders erecting weak wooden scaffolding much to the dismay of workers slaving away below. Some were also taming huge, spider-like Lava Shooters and a few were training in the middle of the expansive cave, slashing bloody carcasses and groaning at the effort.
Shouting loudly, even audible against the horrendous noise, was a menacing-looking overseer armed with a dangerous whip. "No slacking, get to work!"

Every repetition of this was accompanied by the brutal sound of the whip and his eerie laughter echoing off the walls. The goblins being scolded would then fall to the floor, writhing in agony, before getting back up and resume working, albeit with less energy.
Tobil glided through the dimly lit warren of tunnels and passageways, passing goblins who halted and bowed out of fear and respect, and then raced away to tell their family groups the news. The complex labyrinth was confusing at the best of times and Tobil, having been banished and incarcerated in the Void for over 100 years, struggled to remember how to navigate the tiring network. Although he had retained his core, sadistic personage and the large majority of his memory, he failed to recount how he had been banished. He knew one thing though, and that was that he had been Banished by that interfering Druid. Oh… How he loathed that Druid.

All that he had of the events leading up to his untimely "demise" was unclear images and visions of a battle. Grainy recollections and fragmented memories clouding his mind like a thick, almost solid fog that never faded, unsettled or dispersed. However, thanks to the help of Tobil's greatest aide, the mist was going to disappear. The faltering images would strengthen into vivid pictures and the jumbled collages would cease to exist, instead replaced by clearer visions.

Zackarack, an old goblin who had been Tobil's marshal during his failed attempt to defeat the Mithraleenean Empire, had recommended that he should drink from the Fountain of Time Everlasting, an ancient relic said to have been made before the foundation of the First Empire and have a connection with the White Tablet.

Tobil, even as open-minded to desecrating artefacts as he was, dismissed the idea as rubbish, saying that even if it did exist it was lost in the Great Battle of the Desert Plains. He should know, as he was a general leading the Armies of the Mithraleenean Empire against the Canids, a race of canine creatures who dwelt in Afrik.

For weeks, he grew progressively more insane. No goblin, apart from Zackarack, dared go near him or his quarters. To him, even the Void was better than this torture. The torture of his fragmented mind. That was until he had encountered the fabled entity Norkel, the Corrupted King who pre-dated the First Empire of Queen Bekar. Norkel, although still powerful, was a shadow of his former self and an Eoni Wraith. Norkel had come to Tobil physically when he was in his Private Quarters and revealed to him the location of the Fountain.

After that fateful meeting, Tobil instructed every single scout, spy and soldier under his command to search and examine every inch of the area just to find the Fountain of Time Everlasting. Progress had been too slow for Tobil, who had become increasingly psychotic and mad, and the goblins sent out were getting spotted too easily. Luckily, for Tobil, the people crazy enough to believe what they saw had their claims regarded as fallacy or advised to visit the local healer for some physiatrist treatment - Enacra Goblins hadn't been seen in those areas for many , many years.

Finally, after Tobil had resorted to enlisting Dark Ash Assassins, a group of cold, merciless killers, the Fountain had been unearthed in a heavily guarded Necronjer shrine and had then been installed in his room after its capture. Tobil himself had chartered the ship that took the assassins over the sea, from Eusiac to Ameninca, the great continent that was across the Western Sea. Of course, he himself couldn't join in on any of the heated skirmishes and minute battles that followed or he risked being sighted and starting another Goblin Purge. In the last Purge, the Mithraleenean Empire and other traitorous goblins had united to slaughter and destroy the terrible and feared Enacra goblins. The few survivors had been forced to seek refuge in the generally unexplored mountains of Moosh.

After many nail-biting hours, the assassins returned to the ship, having lost half their number and having gained many grevious injuries. Tobil was jubilant for days. So jubilant that he only had thirty goblins executed for laziness that week. Soon, the vicious, relentless plague of bad memories would vanish and he'd be free at last. Or so he thought.

As he turned the corner that led him to an intersection, that in turn would take him to his quarters, a thin smile, and expression Tobil had not used since his victory over the Mithraleenean Empire's forces at the Siege of Carthinhex, crept across his face. Two Menagi, attractive, naturally tattooed Half-Elves, guarded the doorway with spears in their gloved hands. They gave a hasty salute before parting, leaving Tobil alone. Tobil proceeded into his room. It was dark; a lone candle spluttered quietly on top of an ebony table.

His room was bare, reflecting his perfect world, apart from the intricately made table, a wooden bookcase housing a plethora of arcane books of spells and detailed treatises, a shabby bed and, in the pride of place, the Fountain.

The Fountain was made of immaculately white marble, draped in blood red velvet embroidered with gold, and was too perfectly rounded to have been created by even the most renowned sculptors or artists, even if they were dwarves. It radiated a mystical light that emitted from no visible source and was filled with a transparent liquid. Despite being an inanimate object, the Fountain looked as if it were repulsed to be in such a debased room. A golden goblet rested beside the water, carefully placed so it did not taint or corrupt the water.
Tobil walked over to the chalice, inscribed with intricate writing, and was shocked when it flew onto the table. Tobil, trying to make sense of the confusion, guessed that it must be enchanted with a Repulse charm. Hopelessly, he attempted to grab it and after hundreds of fruitless tries he raised his head skywards and let out a sickening insult at the Gods for they had sanctioned the curse. Nostrils flaring, he recomposed himself. He would have to touch the Water of Time with his hands, unprotected. He shivered. He was so corrupt ot touch somethign so pure.
Slowly, he edged over to the marble and cupped his hands. Gradually, suppressing as much pain as he could, he inserted his shaking hands into the liquid and withdrew them. Spasms shook him as he swiftly dipped his black, poisonous tongue into the agonizing water and regretted it. His head exploded with pain and images.

Visions of the future, of what was to come, erupted from him, pouring from his eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Tobil dropped to his knees, scratching slivers of wood from the table as the images fired from him. He saw a picture land beside him and take shape. It depicted a young man with brown hair walking through a bright forest, joined by a huge Giant Man and an old wizard-like person who looked like an older version of someone Tobil had seen before, carrying a beautiful staff and baring a stunningly white beard. The next one showed the brown-haired man and his gigantic friend travelling across Drooding Bridge while whitish water raged and fought below them.
Any other being would have been destroyed or, at the very least, been rendered a gibbering mess and a cripple for drinking the holy water, however, Tobil was more than just a prosaic being, he was so much more. 102 years ago, in the main square of Crusada, the great city of Mithraleen, the Jewel of Eusiac, Tobil, at that time called Sir Lancelot, had been shackled and brought up to a podium, in front of a jeering crowd. His crime? He had opened the Void to allow the creation of his Shadow Blades. Although mages opened the Void to summon creatures, Tobil had punched a hole through this realm and into the Void, allowing the Daemons imprisoned in the Void to pour into this world. On that dias, he was given Gornuka blood, a poison made from the blood of goblins. As the poison coarsed through his veins, it replaced his blood with that if a goblin and morphed him into one...

Stranger Prince

A few weeks later, far away, Zilnee, the High Druid of the Idruidi Order and one of the most accomplished spell-casters in the world, was sitting at his teak desk, reading over a report from one of his many sub-ordinates. He stroked his white beard gently, his old eyes intently staring at the writing on the parchment. His room was large and beautifully decorated with precious metals such as gold and silver. The tables, of which there were many, were laden with exotic, metal instruments that spread smoke into the room. The walls were covered with ancient, tall bookcases. Each bookcase was filled with a collection of spell tomes and books, potion receipes and anecdotes. In the corner of the room, hidden from `forces of the light coming through the windows, was a withered, red-spined book. On the front cover, etched in a faint golden ink, was a spidery script. It read:
"The Book of Banishings"

Suddenly, rising from its place of refuge, the book hovered into the air, light pulsating from it. The wave of brightness reached Zilnee, blowing his parchment off the table. He jumped off of his ebony chair and wheeled around. He spotted the book and his eyes widened in horror. How could I have forgotten? He questioned himself. Tobil couldn't have returned. It isn't the correct time!

He grabbed the his immaculate, white robes that were sitting on the back of his black chair and, radiating fear, stormed out of his room. His breathing became heavy. We aren't ready, Lokve. We do not have the power to defeat him. The Prophecy is silent. Help us. He prayed to his god. There was no reply.

His pace quickened. He was now in a long, narrow corridor. On one side, there were squares cut into the wall, allowing light into the passage and to provide a view into the Courtyard where the Initiates practised. At the end of the corridor, large, imposing and enchanted to prevent any undesired guest gaining entry, was a thick slab of wood, masquerading as a door. Beside it was a thin stick, about four feet in length. The wood from which it was crafted was grey. Three long, wooden fingers at the top of the staff held the Essence Orb, the magical ball that gave the staff power. On his way out of the door, he grabbed it and tucked it under his robe.

A string of thoughts flowed through his mind, pushing out all of his rational thinking. How can this be... I banished him for one hundred and fifty years. This is impossible. What if he already has an army? I must warn the emperor, lest the world fade into darkness.
Despite being surprising quick and agile for his age, Zilnee decided that it would take too long to arrive at Crusada in the ferry. Time is of the essence. He prepared a teleportation spell, finding it difficult to do in his panicking state. After a few more seconds, he had managed to cast the spell. He walked a few more steps and then his body began to stretch up into the air. There was a flash of light and then he was gone.

***

A week later, hidden in the bowels of the Palace, was a small, dimly-lit room. Inside, surrounding a round, stone table, were the Lords and Ladies of Mithraleen, the emperor and the High Druid. A few candles spluttered lazily on the table, making the room even darker than it was. The men and women in the hot, claustraphobic chamber were debating loudly.

"If Tobil has returned we must act!" yelled Lord Hogan of Carthinhex, "I will not allow him to destroy my city like he did the last time!"
"Hah!" spat the Lord of Dwide, "If he has returned! Mages are liars at the best of times! What does he know?" he glared at Zilnee.
"Silence, Vrokun!" barked the emperor, "You are talking to High Druid Zilnee! He could blow up this Palace whilst still keeping this room intact!"
"It is okay, Malfal. I'm sure his distrust is well placed," smiled Zilnee.
"It damn well is!" shouted Lord Vrokun, an imposing, ugly figure.
"Enough," piped up Lady Avron of Lydoras, the Great Tribal City of the Ael'nonuvah, "We are here to discuss how to deal with Tobil, not to debate his existence. High Druid Zilnee is arguably the smartest being in this room, Vrokun. Listen to him."
Vrokun cursed and then resigned in silence.
"We should advance through the Carth," began King Belleen IV of Khazaduru, "We'll attack Tobil at his cave!"
"Using Carthinhex to push into the Defiled Lands will endanger the people! I say we use the Ruvahian Forest to attack him!" argued Lord Hogan, enraged that the Dwarf dared to suggest that his lands be used to attack a powerful enemy.
"And allow him to ravage our forests?" hollered Avron and Lord Alros in unison, standing up, shaking in anger.
Hogan and Belleen jumped to their feet too, "You bunch of tree-huggers! There are more important things than trees!"
"You would know all about that, King Belleen. You live in the cold, hard city of the rock!" retorted Alros, "A place of stale air and mining. You have no respect for the living, only for your pockets and your ores!"
"SILENCE!" roared the emperor, his voice bouncing off the walls and into the ears of the Lords and Ladies assembled, "No! We have another way! We shall send our forces down the Wolven River and to Fort Major."
"Fort Major is on Tobil's doorstep. If I were him, it would have been a pile of rubble and death by now." said Vrokun, revealing his disdain for this plan, which he regarded as folly.

"But thankfully, Lord Vrokun, that is not the case. The fort still stands, as strong as ever. And it will still be standing when we drive Tobil back to the Void! My Lords, my Ladies, my family, I tell you to ride back to your cities and your settlements and prepare for war! A darkness spreads across the land! Tobil's foul stench of corruption has found its way into our world, his tendrils of evil are at our very doors! We must prepare! We must fight! We must win!" shouted the emperor, trying to inspire his lords.
"Aye!" yelled Belleen, "And the Dwarves of the Cthorian Mountains shall see to that!"
"And the Elves of the Ruvahian Forest shall be by your side," said Lady Avron.
"I will do what I must to protect my citizens. The legions of the Carth will be at the Defiled Lands to see to Tobil's defeat." declared Lord Hogan, glad that they had not chosen to endanger his subjects.
The Lord of Ziir pledged his battalions to the cause and the Legate at Fort Dibel promised that his legions would be there to help. Only Vrokun had not given his support to the cause.
"I will not send my troops to harsh lands to kill someone who does not exist!" he bellowed as everyone stared at him.
Emperor Malfal rose to his feet, looking as formidable as possible. His blue eyes stared daggers at his disobediant lord, "Then I will find someone who shall. Everyone, return to your cities as soon as possible." he left the room.

***

"Sir!" announced Zackarack, entering Tobil's chambers, "Our spy has informed us that the emperor plans to assault us through Fort Major."
Tobil was sitting at his table, eating a meal of rotten vegetables and repulsive, maggot-infested meat. "Excellent. Excellent. How strong am I? How many goblins do I have?"
"Sir, another batch of goblins were made. We now total at five hundred thousand goblins, thousands of Lava Shooters and Mekka, the Great Wolf Lord, has dedicated his wolven hordes to our cause."
"Yes, that is all well and good but what about weapons, armour?" he barked.
"Our slaves are busy. Soon, we will be able to outfit and equip our soldiers with the best equipment. The forces of the Empire will not be able to fight us!" he said proudly.
"My slaves, my soldiers, my equipment, Zackarack. You are but my marshal, a good marshal nonetheless. You shall lead my forces against Fort Major."
"I am honoured," he bowed and exited the room.

Tobil let out a cruel laugh. Once Fort Major is destroyed, I can turn my attention to more important matters. The purity of the Empire must be defiled. After I have destroyed Crusada, the world shall crumble and the old days shall be restored.

And don't forgot who will rule the world, came a voice inside Tobil's head, It shall be I, not you.

***
Decanus Giaus Macro stood on the walls of Fort Major, clad in the red and white chainmail armour of the Mithraleenean Legions, a gladius in one hand and a metal, square shield in the other, bearing the crest of the Empire. Despite being on the edge of the Defiled Lands, a volcanic, barren land, the fort was freezing and the thick, writhing clouds above threatened to assault the ancient stone fortress with its arsenal of rain. The Decanus stomped to egain feeling in his feet. As always, the visibility around the fort was poor. A thin mist shrouded the area a few metres away from Giaus, making it hard to see anything from a distance.

Damn, he swore under his breath, This place is so cold, so dark, so horrible. I can't wait until I get home. Six months... It was almost too much to bear, six months guarding a desolate wasteland. The only supplies they got were from a ferry that arrived every few weeks, bearing gifts from home and, most importantly, food. Despite having a small farm, the fort was wholly understocked and required the ferry to supply its soldiers with food, its fires with logs and its blacksmiths with metals.

Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, Giaus spotted a small, canine-like figure running towards the fort. He ran over to the wall, peering into the mist. A feeling of fear shot down his spine, making his arms and legs tingle.

"Wolves!" he yelled, "Wolves!"

The soldiers in the barracks stirred and groggily went and got their armour and weapons. Giaus nocked an arrow, aimed and fired at the advancing wolf. The arrow sailed through the air, cutting through it like a knife through butter. The arrow struck the wolf's head, sending it flying backwards. He nocked another arrow, training his bow on another wolf. He released his missile, watching as the arrow hit the quickly moving canine. The other archers had joined him and they too were rapidly firing at the large, grey wolves. There was a yell as an archer beside the Decanus was shot by an arrow. The arrow pierced his chainmail armour, sending him to the ground. Giaus looked at teh arrow and noticed its rough, crude nature.

"Goblins!" he screamed, as the air became black with arrows rainign down on them.

More figures, clad in black, became visible as the mist retreated. A large formation of goblin archers were advancing on the fort, sending torrents of arrows at the soldiers. Behind the column of goblins, armed with tall, fierce spears, were pikemen, marching menacingly towards the fort. Wolves dashed between them, only being distractions for the soldiers in the fort.

"Archers, keep firing! Do not allow those pikemen to reach the walls!" commanded Giaus, drawing his sword and running along the walls of the fort, towards the armoury.

He thundered down the stairs, almost slipping on the slick, wet stone. Some soldiers ran past him on their way to assist the archers. He reached the thick, wet mud floor of the fort. The armoury was on the other side of the fort. A trickle of fully-armour legionaries were coming from it, running over to defend the gate, should the archers fail. In his haste, Giaus tripped, landing helmet-first in the mud. He scrambled to his feet, picking up his iron sword, and entered the armoury. At the end of the room, hidden behind a rack of armour, was Tribune Marus Octavian, the head of the fort.

"Tribune! The goblin army is almost at the gates! There are too many of them!" he informed the Tribune.
"They're just tribal goblins, nothing our cohort can't handle." said the tribune, attempting to assuage the Decanus' fear.
"No, sir. I believe they're... Tobil's goblins."
The tribune laughed, "Nonsense. Enacra goblins are extinct. They're just tribals."
"Then explain to me why there are about two thousand of them outside the fort!" argued the Decanus, forgetting his position.
The tribune spat in Giaus' face, "Who are you talking to? Me? Your superior? I'll have you court martialled! Now, go to the gate and await my orders!"

Giaus stuttered and apology, saluted the tribune and retreated to the gates. A few hundred legionaries joined him, forming a wedge of people. They drew their swords and raised their shields. Above them, on the walls, the archers were being slaughtered. They had managed to kill hundreds of goblins, however the creatures outnumbered them and it began to show. Despite their greatest efforts, the goblin horde advanced. The archer column split into two sections, allowing the pikemen to advance through the middle. The pikemen lowered their spears when they were but metres from the gates and began to stab at the weak, old wood with their weapons. Holes began to form in the gate as the pikes smashed through the planks. The legionaries backed up a bit, to prevent themselves from being stabbed by a pike. A few soldiers fired javelins at the goblisn through the holes that were appearing in the gates. With yelps and groans, a few goblins died but their companions still hacked at the gates, with each stab gaining more vigour. The first goblin made it through the gate but was chopped down by a sword. More and more poured through, getting killed swiftly. Soon, there were enough holes to allow most of the goblin army to funnel through. The first legionary died, failing to block a pike. The pike rammed past his shield and through his chest, killing him. His companion slew the perpetrator, shoving his gladius through the goblin's belly. The soldier turned around to face another goblin, but he felt a jagged edge go through his back. He looked at his chest. A spear was lodged in it. Warm blood fountained from his wound and he slowly fell backwards, skin turning white. Decanus Giaus Macro yelled, avenging his fallen friend by cutting down two goblins. He felt a stabbing pain in his shoulder and turned around. A goblin had speared him but the weapon had not pierced his armour. It still hurt though and his muscles were complaining. He hit the goblin over the head with his shield, following up his assault with brutal blow to the torso. The ripped his sword from the goblin's corpse and looked around, just in time to watch a pike career into his face. Dazed, he collapsed on top of a dead goblin. His helmet had taken most of the damage but a small cut was sending blood down his cheek.

"Die, goblin scum!" he yelled defiantly, standing up.

He delivered a painful kick into the belly of the beast and stabbed the goblin. He blocked his foe's counter-attack, catching its spear with his shield. With all his might, he pushed the goblin, causing it to trip up. He was just about to finish it off when he felt a burning snesation go up his arm. He clutched his shoulder, watching in horror as blood spilled onto his hand. He faced his enemy and was terrified by what he saw. The goblin was about six feet tall, surprisingly. Its face was old and battle-scarred, its teeth decaying and black like its cruel, cold, unloving heart. The hair that still clung to its head was grey and straw-like. He laughed coldly as it drove its sword into Giaus' stomach. Macro gurgled as the life flowed out of him and onto the mud.