#imperiate

As the three Circles approached the walls of the Imperiate capital, the Fleshreaper and the Summoner of the First Circle readied their most powerful magic. The Imperiate that had hunted and killed their sisters would see it feel the full might of their fury on this day. A living bomb conjured by the Summoner, along with the explosive boiling blood of the Fleshreaper, breached the city wall in moments. Inside the city they commandeered what supplies they could from nearby civilian stores before launching an attack on the tower. With the full weight of the three towers’ magic draining effects bearing down upon them, it was a hard-fought battle. But finally they were able to topple the tower over, onto a nearby temple no less, lightening the load on their sisters who were simultaneously making their way into the city. The Stormkeeper used her powers to draw strength from the tense atmosphere, and the First Circle made their way into palace for the final confrontation.

However, the High Priest Epimetheo and his loyal inner circle of enchanters would stop them from reaching their target, setting an ambush at the palace shrine. The Summoner’s living weapon and demonic steed balked at the incredible focus of Imperiate magic in the shrine, turning on the Summoner and her circle in fear. The enchanters took the opportunity to bless the surrounding holy relics with magical power, enhancing their own magic while handicapping our sisters’. Little did they realize that the Fleshreaper’s strength grows with her enemies’, and when they grievously wounded her she transformed her wounds into weapons, devastating the High Priests’ forces in a single frenzied strike. Having defeated them, the First Circle continued through the palace and engaged the royal guards, aiding their sisters who were engaged with the Emperor on the roof of the palace and halting any reinforcements from joining the battle.

The Second Circle’s Shapeshifter, in the form of a mighty elephant wielding a sword in her trunk, cut down soldier after soldier as she charged the Imperiate army at ramming speed. The Soothsayer’s visions of the future directed her blade, ensuring that it would always fall where it would be the most damaging. Any counterattack the guards could muster was quickly repelled by the Magister, her curses bringing the evil in their hearts to life. Even the magic of the Imperiate’s tower could do little to stop this Circle; the Soothsayer drew power for her sisters from powerful omens so they could cast their spells unheeded. In spider form, the Shapeshifter spun nets and pulleys of webs all around the tower, using them to manipulate the weapons she was now too small to carry. With the tower’s guards and priests held at bay, the Magister was able to inscribe her Mark of Penitence upon it, turning the magical energy it absorbed against itself. After that, the Circle only had to hold out against their enemies long enough for the tower to fall under the weight of its stolen magic.

Once the last of the towers fell, the Second Circle began their approach to the palace. The elephantine Shapeshifter charged straight to the heart of the Emperor’s fortress and broke into the throne room, her sisters close behind. But what lay waiting for them was no Emperor, but a terrible abomination. A priestess turned monster, infused with the Imperiate’s magic and transformed into a vessel of their gods’ power. The creature radiated a powerful aura that interfered with their spells and sapped their strength. Undaunted, the Soothsayer and Magister combined their protective magic to guard their ally from harm as she charged the living evil over and over. Twice, the sisters brought it to its knees, and twice it resurrected itself before their eyes, invoking the names of its divine masters. But the Imperiate’s gods would not save it a third time, and with a trumpeting cry the elephant Shapeshifter sliced straight through the abomination’s protective aura, cleaving the monster in half.

The Third Circle had little trouble entering the Imperiate capital. The Hedgewalker brought down the city wall by phasing key structural supports out of existence, while her Shieldbearer partner charged headlong into its defenders. When the wall was breached they found themselves in the city’s slums, where they incited the poor and oppressed peasants to begin a riot. As the riot drew city guards away from the nearest tower, the Shieldbearer constructed a battering ram and with the assistance of the Hedgewalker’s dark magic brought the evil construct crashing to the ground. The Hearthmother quickly salved what harm the remaining Imperiate forces managed to cause the pair, and they began their attack on the palace in full health, joined by the rioting peasants they rallied in fury against the Emperor.

Seeing the Emperor and his men on top of the palace’s tallest tower, the Shieldbearer wasted no time in beginning their battle, picking up her sister Hearthmother and calling upon all her magical strength to hurl her up into combat. Riding on the hopes of her sisters, the Hearthmother made the flight safely and was quickly joined by the Hedgewalker, who teleported into the fray. But the Emperor was not without protection: his weapons and armor were magically enchanted, said to be gifts from the gods themselves. They repelled magic, granted him the power of flight, and projected twin phantoms to confuse his foes. By the time the Shieldbearer reached her allies, they were in the fight of their lives. But together again, their strength would prove too much for the Imperiate’s ruler. First they evened the odds by collapsing part of the tower, sending the Emperor’s men careening down into the palace. Then they dueled with the powerful Emperor, whose fervor only increased as the battle went on. In a noble and risky gambit, the Shieldbearer impaled herself on the Emperor’s magic sword, holding him still. Seeing the opportunity, the Hedgewalker emerged from the darkness behind him and slit his throat from end to end, cutting off the head of the Emperor and the Imperiate in a single stroke.

The Imperiate

What can I tell you about the Imperiate that you don’t already know? You already know the Imperiate. In the ache of your mother’s heart, the creases of your father’s face, the fear in your grandparent’s eyes. The Imperiate was darkness, dear sister. Cold, impenetrable, unfeeling and cruel.

But this is meant to be a history. Very well, I will tell you history; because thankfully, that is all they are now. A decomposing relic of a dark, brutal time.

The Imperiate claimed to be descended from their gods; the entire world their right to rule by divinity. And for a time, it seemed as though that may very well be true. Armies fell before them, sometimes in mere days. Never more than a season did the kings of old stand once the Imperiate claimed their realms.

The stregas, of course, tell me otherwise. The Imperials were a people like any other. They came from the south, a land rich and fertile, full of wealth and beauty. But the Imperiate was monstrous in its hunger: for more lands, more wealth, more victories. So they came into our lands: to burn, to subjugate, to control.

They hated us, of course, with a burning passion. And for centuries, they persecuted and hunted us like rabbits. Many a sister met her end bound to a stake while the Imperiate ruled these lands; but they were the lucky ones. Some sisters, poor, unfortunate souls, were dragged back in chains to the Imperial’s gleaming cities, to be cast into the dirt of their mighty stadiums, bait and amusement for their savage games.

There was another story, of course. One that the Imperiate itself told, casting themselves as liberators and defenders of humanity. They claimed to hold back the darkness of the forest, carrying the light of knowledge and the power of their gods far and wide. True, they built temples. True, they built outposts in the wild and libraries in their grand, walled cities. But they never gave their riches to anyone, never taught the village folk, never sent medicines, or teachers, or scholars. They protected only what was theirs, and left the rest to wilt and rot upon the vine.

How, then, was the mighty Imperiate brought low? Some say it was their own excess and greed, their grasp at last exceeding their strength. Others speak of mighty warlords, sweeping down from the east to ravage and sack the gleaming towers of the Imperiate. But we know the truth. We labored, for centuries, in secret and in constant danger. A missing guard here. A lost supply caravan there. Until at last, from a thousand pinpricks, the great beast of the mighty Imperiate lay dead.

Never forget, dear sister, the darkness of the Imperiate. No matter the danger of the forest, no matter the filth and ignorance of the present, we are still free witches, unshackled, at last, from the tyranny and horror that was the Imperiate.

No Sides

I will forever gives thanks to the gods that I became a praefectus mercifully quickly, trading the front lines of battle for an uncomfortable chair at a large wooden desk. You may think this cowardice, but if you had seen what I had you would know that it is foolhardy for any man to eagerly seek battle. Not because of the threat of injury or death, but because the squabbles of mortal empires and kingdoms are mere child’s play when stacked next to  the grand cacophony of the world. Strange beings who command forces more powerful than any general’s army fight for incomprehensibly higher stakes while we scrabble in the dust for our inconsequential, petty gains. I have seen a glimpse of the secret war waged between order and chaos, and I know that in its shadow our conquests and legions mean nothing.

When I was still a foot soldier, our legion was sent to capture a hill of some vague strategic importance before some local savage chieftan and his warband arrived. The hill was not far from a major city, and had once been home to an ancient temple used by the local’s ancestors, the ruins of which still littered its peak. We arrived at the same time as our enemy, and a bloody struggle ensued.

As I readied my spear and crested the ridge of the hill, I saw a... ‘’disturbance’ rippling through our little warzone. Something was cutting through the chaos of the battle, visibly dividing our two sides down the middle. When the soldiers holding the line ahead of me fell, I saw that it was a group of four bent and ancient figures in dressed in long black cloaks. One was holding up a shield with a strange eye symbol that cast a golden light over all the others. Any attacker’s blade that entered this glow seemed to curve away from its target, leaving its wielder wide open to a counterattack from another of the women who wielded two long curved blades. She disappeared and reappeared alongside her allies like a phantom, instantly coming to the aid of any who were threatened. The other two held long wooden staffs over their heads and cast bolts of lightning and fire down on any soldiers from both armies who still stood in their path.

“Witches!” spat one of my comrades to my left and had stopped dead in his tracks, as had I.

“What are they doing?” I asked aloud, my gaze transfixed.

“No telling,” a veteran centurion on my right growled, “these crones come together in groups like that, ‘Circles’ they call themselves, guided here by some arcane purpose that you and I will never understand.”

The crones eventually reached the heart of the ruined temple, and one wielding the more black and gnarled staff held it high into the sky and shouted words in a language that twisted and rattled with power in my ears. Dark clouds swirled together in the formerly clear sky, and in a moment, the biggest thunderbolt I’ve ever seen cracked down from the heavens. It struck the temple floor  once, then twice, and then a third time. The ancient ground collapsed, and something dark and unholy writhed up, out of the darkness. It appeared as an enormous wyrm, easily the size of the temple it had once lived beneath, covered in an obsidian shell and perched at it’s top, a long curved beak. As it struggled up from the darkness, it spread huge black wings that cast a shadow over the entire hilltop. Every soldier, legionary and barbarian alike, ceased their fighting. Some fled in sheer terror; others stood frozen, as I did, staring in horrible wonder at the terrible creature.

No sooner than had the monster let out a furious and gurgling roar than the dagger-wielding witch was somehow atop its head, stabbing repeatedly at where it should have had eyes. The crone who had called down the lightning was now crying out to the lowering the black clouds on top of the creature, and an icy wind was howling out of them. The other one with a staff seemed to be shouting orders at nobody, until I saw the glimmering outline of something with a human shape flying around the worm, opening small wounds in its armored skin. Meanwhile the old witch with the shield protected the other two from the worm’s wild thrashing, somehow bearing the brunt of its massive body on her tiny frame.

As suddenly as it had begun, the battle ended. The wyrm, roaring and flailing wildly one moment, was suddenly limp and falling the next. Its decapitated head emerged first from above the dark clouds, frozen in ice and covered in gashes. The behemoth’s lifeless body fell back down into the crater it had come from as its head crashed onto the hillside and shattered into pieces. The crones huddled together and seemed to quickly discuss some matter of great importance, then began trudging down the hill the way they had come. Though there were a few other soldiers like myself who had not yet fled, the strange women did not acknowledge them, and as they passed by both Imperiate and savage I turned to the old soldier beside me, awestruck.

“Whose side are they on?” I asked, trying to make sense of what I’d seen by placing it in the context of our conquests, which until now had seemed like the more important than anything else in our world.

The old soldier, his eyes still staring up at the sky where the monster had fallen, replied, “Circles have no sides, boy.”