Jon Snow flailed through a thicket of brambles and tumbled out onto the north-south Almenly road in terror. Behind him, the enchanted echoes of the spirits of cursed elven warriors of generations past called out for his blood. The forest around him — one of the most spectacular in the Broken Lands — seemed to blight and decay around him into sweeping darkness. His only chance to escape this wickedness was to flee back to his city of Winterfell. Perhaps there, he thought, behind its massive wall and protected by the city’s mages, would he be free of this curse.
Bloodied from his terror-filled tear through the woods, he limped as quickly as he could until he came to a fork in the road. To the right, the road would continue northward, taking him back to where his siege army had just attempted to storm the gates at Evilbanking7’s city of M3. Meeting only token resistance at first, all had gone wrong once he and his storm force crossed the threshold into the city square, and the spirits of the disquieted elven dead seeped from the city’s dark shadows, enveloping he and his troops in a terrifying, mystical fear. “Never will I look upon that city again,” he whispered to himself. “And perhaps never upon this accursed region of Almenly, for that matter.”
At the fork in the road, a makeshift sign for Winterfell pointed down the western leg of the highway. Up ahead, the rotten, petrified forest seemed to give way to pastels, sun-lit glades, and safety. “That’s the way!” Jon reassured himself. “This is the surely the way out of this nightmare.”
As he took his first step toward the western route, a firm hand grasped his shoulder. “Jon? What the hell are you doing? What the hell are you all doing?”
It was Phoenix, his commander, who looked upon his face in bewilderment. “Do you not know, commander?” he asked, perplexed. “Have you not seen the elven spirits? They are coming for our blood!”
At once, Phoenix recognized that Jon and the others he had seen pouring out of the forest along the north-south were under the effects of a powerful spell. “Pull yourself together, man!” he intoned, slapping Phoenix at full force. “These elven spirits are folly! They are the work of elven magic.”
Jon Snow was incredulous that his eyes could have so profoundly deceived him. “Sir . . . no. You were not there, sir. You did not see what I saw. What we all saw . . . ”
“The spirits of the elves — we all know that they do not linger when they are parted from their bodies in this world,” said Phoenix, taking a softer, more reassuring tone. “The city had no defenses left, Jon. All they had left was their magic. We have to go back.”
Snow began to weep. His commander spoke with earnestness, but the fear in his heart was still palpable. And yet he knew that he’d have to enter M3 again, this time confronting not the defender’s spear, but the greatest fear he had ever beheld in this life. “We have to go back, Jon!” Phoenix insisted, shaking his officer out of his din. “We must assemble who we have left and finish this!”
Snow wiped his eyes and composed himself, nodding to the ground in agreement though every fiber of his being conflicted that sentiment.
“Let’s spread out along the road,” said Phoenix. “We’ll collect all who is left, and rendezvous at the siege site in six hours. And take heart, Jon — this grand victory is still in hand. This victory will staunch your fear.”
Snow and Phoenix mustered all who they could find — they numbered less than 300, including the 4 idle catapults left in the field. But it was enough to take M3 that afternoon — the city fell without bloodshed, as there were no soldiers left to fight. Stark forces scattered the remaining townfolk and razed the city. It was Snow himself who torched the mage tower.
Yet in spite of the victory, the destruction of that city’s mage tower, and Phoenixfire’s promises, that fear never left Jon Snow, and 30 years later, as an old man resting in front of his hearth on an early winter night, he still thought he could feel the cold, dead fingers of the elven spirits upon his shoulders.
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The Deathmongers [Death] have signed a non-aggression pact with Shu-Han [Han] as a deterrent against potential outside interference from other larger alliances in the event of a future Han/Stark war. The announcement came directly from Death leadership, who told the Times:
Peace has been reached in the Han/Stark war, but resentment remains high in the Han camp, with details of the surrender terms offered by Stark being leaked to the Times by Han leadership. As of this morning server time, there was no longer a declaration of war between the two almenly alliances, indicating that the terms had been accepted by Han. B!B has yet to agree to terms with Stark in a war declaration that was largely symbolic and sympathetic to the Han declaration.
Peace negotiations appeared to be progressing late on Thursday night between Shu-Han and House Stark in ending a short but acrimonious war in Almenly over land claims, personality clashes, and politics. However, in spite of talks proceeding on surrender terms for Han, resentment for what Han and others in the game see as political and military interference from the likes of Elgean-dominant players and alliances appeared to be on the rise.
The Illyriad Times 