The king of Avant sat in his study reading the reports that had been delivered to him concerning the destruction of his assassin training grounds. While the loss of time, materials, and talent was problematic, the situation was far from a complete failure. With the orcs attacking his nation first his allies would have no reason to withhold their support. Their ancient enemies were acting up once again, therefore it was simply time to put them back into their place. Maybe once and for all. With the way he'd been playing the elves, painting several ambassador's tragic ends as orcish vengeance, they were primed to turn on the monsters. Once the kobold populace was implicated in the war as well, Avant could safely crackdown on them within their borders.

His majesty sneered at the thought of his ancestors, the ones that had lifted the slavery of the beasts within their borders. Not that the king hated the kobolds, he found them to be useful laborers, diligent even, given the right motivators. He just found it utterly stupid that one of his lineage could believe giving the pea-brained lizards more freedom would inspire them to be more productive. None of his predecessors had sought to undo this change that lacked foresight either. Of course, it fell to him to clean up after others. Just as it did now with the crumbled training grounds in the middle of his nation. Not that he was unused to such foolhardy decisions in his bloodline. He needed to look no further than his feckless father for that.

A knock at the door pulled the king from his thoughts. Nervously, a soldier entered, the light clinking of his armor as he shook within it irritated the royal. “Get on with it,” the king barked, if only to stop the noise.

“Yes, sire,” the knight barely managed, swallowing hard before continuing. “There were no survivors. Our mages just finished digging through the ruins. The mansion collapsed into the training ground below.”

“Pity,” the king muttered. “Some of those men shown real promise. Not that it matters greatly. We still have the other Eye.” The soldier only nodded. “Still, Rebeun's powers will be missed. Bastard though he was.”

“There's one more thing, your highness,” the soldier said, his voice soft as if that would save him from any wrath. The king suspected as much. What he'd been told so far was nothing to be shaking in one's boots about. “The white tower has reappeared. In the orc lands.”

That, however, was. The king sat his papers down and inhaled deeply.

“I see.” That was all he could think to say. The man in front of him was not some seasoned veteran, not worth taking his anger out on. “Who sent you, soldier?” he asked carefully.

“Captain Seiz, sir.” A prompt and terrified reply. The king wrote the name down on the side of a page.

“You're free to go,” the royal dismissed his soldier. Seiz had sent someone fresh anticipating the new blood would either take the brunt of his rage or that the king would keep his head. As the knight left the room, the king sat back and muttered, “We'll see how you like a week of sparring with the other captains, Seiz.” If he did well, his majesty might just grace the training grounds within the castle with his presence. Show the good captain a thing about sword-play.

“Done,” Red told Verist as she stood up. The red-scaled kobold dusted the chalk off her hands with a frown at the cloud it created. “Now what?”

The witch stood in the middle of the circle that had been drawn, prepared to once again move her tower. The frozen wastelands to the far North of the continent had hidden them well enough, but now it was time to once more be present for matters at hand. She was aiming to set her home down near the orc capital, perhaps even within its walls if she could. Another thought was forming in Verist's mind though as she watched the kobold mage step over the lines they had just completed.

“Come here,” she told the kobold. Red frowned but stepped into the middle of the circle with Verist. “I want to see how much power you've got on tap,” the witch revealed. “You'll cast the spell with me.”

Red frowned. “I'm not that good with these sorts of spells,” she reminded the witch.

“Yes and no,” Verist chuckled. “You're not good with many kinds of spells, but this is entirely outside of that realm of power. Teleportation is something unique. All you need is sufficient strength and a good sense of coordination. You'll see.”

The kobold shrugged. It wasn't like she had a choice in the matter either way. Verist walked her through the steps. They stood in the center of the circle Red had just finished making on the floor, their feet having only the slightest contact with the sigil. Then, they focused their energy onto the markings and directed the tower to the place they wanted it to be. Red needed to recall the orcish capital, a place Verist had only ever seen from her crystal ball, and put the tower down inside of it, at just the right spot. To simply will the materials of the tower to move from one point to another. It was why teleportation totems only worked one way. Verist would focus on the tower around her while sealing in the power, and thus they only returned to her tower.

With two of them contributing to the spell, it would take less power to move the tower, and the worst case was a few inches or so off of their target. It was hard to sync up exact destinations within one's mind, especially when neither of the participants hadn't really paid attention to the landscape of the place they were aiming for. Verist gave her best description of where she wanted the tower to appear and then she and Red shut their eyes and focused. The others were out of the tower, so luckily there wouldn't be any Merdon vomit to clean up after they moved the place.

The witch had only just started to reinforce the spell with her magic when she felt the tower shift and bend through the magic. She winced and focused on her destination as quickly as she could with the sudden movement. When the spell stopped, she staggered forward and clutched the edge of a desk to look back at the kobold she had asked to assist her. Red took a few deep breaths and stretched with an annoyed sound.

“That was rough,” she complained. “You do that all the time by yourself?”

Verist was, sufficed to say, speechless. She had hardly put any power into the spell at all.

Once more the group was gathered in Verist's tower. Days had passed since their assault on the Eyes of Ethral, since their victory over them, and things had shifted somewhat. Not just in the tower's location, but notably, Verist assisted Thickhide to his seat, which had an extra cushion for his still sore backside. The green-scaled kobold had difficulties walking without his tail. Stumbling and a loss of balance was to be expected until he got used to his missing appendage. The nightmares he appeared to suffer were worse, giving him a haggard, somber look. Shade had remained in good spirits, while Grot fell into the deep end of planning a war, positioning armies and supply chains. Avant had issued an official declaration to their people the morning after their attack. The chief-of-chiefs had hoped for at least a couple of days. Their time was short and the machines of war marched steadily onward, even without their leaders at the helm.

“What's this about, Verist?” Grot growled, irritated to be pulled away from his machinations.

“I've had a chance to read through all of Rebeun's files,” she told him. That caused the orc to lighten up.

“Well?” he spurred her on vocally. “What did you find?”

The witch sat herself down and opened the dossier disguised as a book in front of her. “Firstly,” she said with a note of excitement, “It seems our assassin was a bastard son of the previous king. His mother was a necromancer from Rastar, a forbidden practice even there.”

Merdon whistled. “That would explain his abilities if nothing else,” the knight stated obviously.

Shade sat back and tapped the table with her claws. “The Avantian nationalists wouldn't be pleased to know a bastard son of the previous king was so high up in a secret part of their government,” she guessed.

“If they can be convinced it existed at all,” Sarel countered. “The humans would rather blind themselves to the obvious to continue living in their own safe state of mind.”

Verist nodded, agreeing with them both. “That's why I'm working on sending out copies of this entire document to the nobility, domestic and foreign.” Some of the Avantian nobles would question the authenticity, but many outside of the nation would see it connecting dots. Still, other Avantians would take it as an opportunity to leverage their government or perhaps to even step out of line in their own ways. The goal was chaos and confusion.

“If they believe it,” Merdon worried.

“We don't need them all to,” Verist told him. “Just enough to destabilize the royalty and splinter the nobility's support. Not to mention the elves.”

Grot raised a brow. “What about those uptight ethereal forest dwellers?”

Verist smirked, “Nothing much. Just that the king has had several of their ambassadors assassinated before they even reached the capital in order to put pressure on you and Merdon in this upcoming war. If there's even a shadow of doubt about the king's intentions, they'll step back and let us kill each other. A win-win where they only have to clean up the victor.”

“So we only have to fight one then the other,” Grot grumbled. “Better that way, I guess.”

Merdon sighed and shook his head. “There has to be some way to get them to stand down,” he suggested. “Why do the elves hate kobolds anyway?”

“We don't have a god,” Shade told the knight. “Every race on the planet has a god of some kind, and the elves have been around long enough to know their faces. Kobolds have no god, and therefore are no better than monsters to them.”

“So it's not that easy to fix,” Skyeyes added. “We can't just make someone up or start worshiping nothing.”

Merdon agreed and sat back again to think. Perhaps there was a way, but what that was he didn't know. “One problem at a time then. We have to figure out how to take down the king first.”

“It might be easier to find the kobolds' a god,” Grot laughed darkly. “We've got a chance here, Merdon, and not a good one. Just a chance. Even if we manage to pull Avant's reinforcements out from under them, we have to deal with their armies, the people, and Ardmach's anti-magic walls.” Assaulting the capital was only one large problem atop a heap of others.

“It all starts with getting our information into the hands of nobles,” Verist said with a smile. “That should, at least, shake things up for the king and his men.”

Grot stood in an orc war room, surrounded by maps, intelligence, reports, speculations, suggestions, and plans for moving his forces. Shade stood nearby, toying with a figure that would represent a whole regiment of troops in a short while, as she looked at the map on the table. Lines were directing from the orc capital to Ardmach, some deviated and went to other places around the nation. Plans within plans, few of which Grot expected to go as smoothly as envisioned. Nothing ever survived the battlefield entirely intact. A good orc knew that.

As he pondered over invasion routes and supply chains, a guard entered and informed him of an unusual visitor. A human that wasn't the Kobold Whisperer. The chief-of-chiefs frowned, thinking for a moment, before relenting and asking to see the visitor in the throne room. Seated atop a large wooden throne decorated with jewels and skulls, Grot felt particularly powerful. At least, he felt confident enough to meet an unknown human with mysterious intentions. It wasn't the king or his army after all, the guards wouldn't miss that detail for the life of them. Although the chief-of-chiefs felt a little remiss to have not asked for more details when the man walked in.

His hair was well cared for, his clothes giving away his nobility without question as if the rings on his fingers didn't, and the smile on his face belied the cunning Grot could see in his eyes. A snake oil salesman were it not for his refined walk. That way he carried himself told the dark-skinned orc that this human was connected enough to be worth his time. Verist had sent out her copies of the Eyes' actions to the nobility weeks ago, and this, Grot expected, was a fruit of that labor. The human approached and bowed with the caustic grace of a traitor.

“I'm unsure what to call you, as an appropriate title,” the man said carefully. “Kings would be your majesty or some such, but I understand orcs go by chiefs.”

“Sir would be fine,” Grot replied shortly. “What is it you want?”

“Very well, sir,” the human chuckled. “Getting straight to the point, as someone in your position must. Good sense. The information that your side of this war has uncovered has sparked some degree of, shall I say, unrest with those of us in Avant.”

Grot hummed and leaned on a fist. He was waiting for that point he asked for.

“It's not enough to make us come flocking to your cause, sir,” the noble covered himself from conscription with that. “But, rather, there are those that wish to see which way the winds will blow. Neutral parties that aren't afraid to continue with their businesses as usual.”

“You're a merchant,” Grot guessed. “And you know other merchants that are willing to keep trade routes open.”

“More than that,” the man offered. “I'm talking about pre-established supply routes within the nation you're poised to invade by month's end.”

“And you ask for what?” Shade asked him, leaning against the throne her mate was sitting on in a very casual way.

The merchant carefully looked at Grot and, seeing that he did nothing about the kobold leaning into him, replied, “It would only be my civic duty to overthrow a tyrant that has ordered his own countrymen and their allies to be slain by shadowy figures, would it not?”

Shade didn't buy it, not for a second, but Grot eyed a guard, who stood at attention. He then looked to the Avantian and told him, “Speak to our quartermaster about what supplies we're most in need of. Have them stored somewhere on our side of the border; we have plenty of villages for such things.”

The man bowed gracefully and departed with the guard Grot had looked at. The chief-of-chief's kobold made a face, however. “I don't trust him,” she warned her verakt.

“Neither do I,” he told her plainly. “He's a snake through and through, but we need the kind of connections he's touting.”

Shade sighed, “His promise of a supply line does solve a lot of issues. The Avantians won't be happy when we start burning crops and sacking villages though.”

“No one ever is,” Grot grunted in acknowledgment. “They understand war though. If we offer some suggestions about what we're about to do, our merchant 'friend' can wriggle on prices.”

The black-scaled kobold tapped the seat with her claw. “He gets us supplies, we tell him which way the market will blow before we change the wind.”

“It's as close to a win as he'll get.”

“He's not in this for kobolds,” Shade pointed out.

Grot shrugged at the notion. “Of course not, he's here for money and power. We take out the nobility in Ardmach, he and his friends fill in the gaps, then they can play ball with whoever invades next. They stood against the king that slain emissaries of their nations, but hate the new regime.”

“So we play with fire,” the assassin assumed. “And hope we can put it out before it burns us.”

The orc shook his head. “No, we play with humans, and know we can outsmart them before they can make their move.”

Skyeyes was meditating inside his room within Verist's tower when Red walked in without knocking and cleared her throat. The white-scaled kobold cracked open an eye and looked at her with curiosity. She was supposed to be training with the witch, not meditating. Red seemed uneasy, her foot tapping impatiently on the stone floor, her arms folded against her chest as she thought about what to say. Groaning to break the awkward silence, she settled to simply say, “There's a nun here to see you?”

Skyeyes frowned and stood up. “A nun?” he asked the mage in return. “What nun?”

Red sighed and shrugged. “I dunno, but she's dressed like an Avantian nun, not that I know what a follower from Rastar looks like.”

The kobold priest started out the door, not afraid of whatever Avantain the orcs had let into their lands. Whoever she was, they hadn't deemed her a threat. He was in for a surprise, however, when he walked out of the tower and saw much more than a single nun. The woman dressed in white and blue was backed by at least a dozen others in similar garb. Their style was unfamiliar to Skyeyes. He hadn't seen it when he was in Ardmach's grand cathedral, yet they bore the mark of Ethral like any other. As expected, they were surrounded by a light group of orcs with large, heavy weapons, which relaxed Skyeyes further. He was in control here.

The nun that Red mentioned stepped forward, a slight limp in her right foot, leaving her comrades in the care of the orcish guards as she did so. Around her neck was a familiar amulet, but in her hand was one even more so. She wore the typical amulet of a follower of the church, nothing special, but the one in her hand was the one that had been ripped from Skyeyes' neck many months ago. He could tell by the unique and elaborate design that made the ones worn by lesser church members look like fakes, as well as the feeling of the enchantment around it. It had to be his because she had brought it to him, but for what reason?

“They call you Skyeyes, yes?” she asked him in a soft voice. “I … we heard about you when the head priestess had you removed from the cathedral.”

“It wasn't my proudest moment,” the kobold admitted as he shifted awkwardly. “But, why are you all here?”

The nun nodded, understanding his confusion. “We were disciples of Father Reing, and this is most certainly his amulet, taken from your neck by the inquisitors. We had to know,” she said, looking at the kobold with questioning eyes, “Do you know his technique?”

Red raised a brow, while Skyeyes seemed to pale. “I'm not sure I know what you're referring to,” he dodged, unsuccessfully.

“You do,” the nun replied quietly. “You know the prayer that he invented, that only the most devout can perform. We know of it,” she told him. “We are a sect dedicated to the Father's teachings above all. If you were his chosen student then there is none other we should follow.”

Skyeyes swallowed hard and looked out at the crowd. None of them looked at him with anything but curiosity and wonder. Red stepped back at the words of the nun, her words were like an arrow from the dark. It felt like a trick, it was too ridiculous, too surreal. Yet, her white-scaled companion stepped forward and placed his hands on the nun's arm. He exhaled softly and muttered in a low, indecipherable voice.

The nun's eyes widened and she moved backward as he finished his prayer. She moved with perfect grace and fluidity, while Skyeyes limped on his right leg, as she had moments ago on her approach. There was no question among those gathered, the ones in white robes of the goddess Ethral. They knelt, hands clasped in prayer, as the nun before them presented Skyeyes with his pendant.

“This is yours,” she said with reverence too deep to be fake. “We, the Martyrs of the Goddess are at your command, good Father. The wounds and ails of your allies shall become ours, as the goddess takes the pain of her followers.”

A chorus of agreeing amens came from the crowd as Skyeyes reached for his amulet. They hadn't given it to another. As he placed it back around his neck it bound to him once more, and he looked out at the Martyrs. He had heard stories, but no one believed them. It was far fetched at best. A group of Ethral's devout that used a special prayer to take the afflictions of one onto themselves. Yet, Reing had shown Skyeyes that power long ago, confirmed it for the kobold years before. It was only now that he saw how much charisma his teacher had. These humans were devoted to the same teaching that Skyeyes had spent the majority of his life following. They were not bound by the high priestess or the church of Avant. They were Reing's flock, and he, Skyeyes, a kobold, was the Father's chosen shepherd.

The white-scaled priest felt fear and awe building in his chest. He was responsible for these people, but now he could do something for the war. Something more than healing one person at a time. With Red watching in shock, Skyeyes stepped forth to deliver his first sermon, and to get his followers moving in the right direction. There were orcs with pains they could take away, troops they could get moving again, with Reing's prayer or other more conventional ones. This was part of Avant's effective war machine, a church of healers that could keep people in top condition. Now the orcs had enough to even the odds. Skyeyes would not waste this boon.