Kavnerrin Descroix tried, and failed, to stop his chalice of wine from spilling across the desk as the ship lurched yet again. Irritated that he would now have to rewrite the letter he had been working on, he stumbled to his feet and shrugged on his coat. They were just simple logistical reports – rewriting them a task made all the more aggravating by their tedium, as all critical information had been relayed back to the imperial headquarters by way of the nigh-irreplaceable scrying crystal. Long-distance communication was difficult at the best of times, without oracular talents, and at sea it became almost impossible. Devices capable of such communication were thus prohibitively expensive, and the empire only had a limited number. That the Emperor himself had allowed him to bring one spoke to the stakes of his mission.

The storm was fading; the waves had grown less predictable, and were smoothing out. Fresh air would clear his head, even if it came at the risk of getting soaked. He pulled up his hood for extra assurance, small comfort that it was, and lurched down the passageway from his office to the upper deck, even managing to keep himself from stumbling in front of the crew. Kavnerrin had never liked being on a ship, but with enough time even he had managed to get the most minor of [Sea Legs] skills.

The crew gave him a wide berth as they went about their own duties, and he made his way towards the helm where the captain stood at the rear of the ship. That's called…the quarterdeck, he thought to himself. He'd never been one to remember naval terms, but that sounded correct to him.

Captain Lagrom stood as if planted, unswayed by the winds and waves while Kavnerrin had to hold onto the rail. The other man stood on the deck, calling orders to the helmsman and the crew while checking across the water with a looking glass. Burning ships dotted the horizon, just now becoming visible as the worst of the magically summoned storm finally faded, revealing the late winter sky. He put the tool away as the young lord approached.

"Their fleet is done, my lord," said the captain, "but the flagship was able to escape. Not even these new propulsion designs are enough for us to catch a Kosalan clipper."

"While their flagship would have been a welcome prize, it is irrelevant in the end," responded Kavnerrin. "What's more important is that their fleet is no longer a factor on the Eastern Sea. We'll catch them at our destination, either way."

The captain nodded, his expression growing sober. "And now that the storm is fading, we have a choice to make. The [Tidecallers] stirred up the magic considerably, and we're headed straight into kraken territory. They're bound to be riled up already this time of year; this battle, and the blood in the water, will draw them like moths to flame. We can go further east and risk the True Deeps, or hug the coast to the west."

Kavnerrin looked over the water to the dozens of galleons flying the imperial flag, the masts and sails of hundreds more peeking over the horizon behind them. In the spaces between some of the ship formations, what looked like giant sea-shells scudded through the waves without sails.

"That will not be necessary," said Kavnerrin, turning to the sinuous form that had remained silent at the rear of the deck.

"Indeed," hissed the priestess as her torso straightened above her coiled lower half. Her face was sharp and elfin, her beauty barely concealing an active malevolence and marred only by the moist, fleshy gills like slashes along her neck. "You have nothing to fear from the krakens as long as the song does not falter. Thel'Nagai, ahm sherash. The song will not fail."

The captain and the helmsman both paled upon hearing the sinister, sibilant rasp of her voice.

"Steady as she goes, Captain," ordered Kavnerrin. "Pull the rest of the fleet in as close as can be done safely. We make for Kosala; any vessel that strays too far from the [Tidecallers] will face the Deeps alone."

=======================

Jacob Ward sat atop his warhorse, staring at a macabre scene that had been growing all too common of late. He held his lance at the vertical, hand gripping the haft hard enough to make his armored gauntlet creak under the strain. The march toward Eastharbor had been nowhere near as physically grueling as their rush to Expedition, but other horrors had been lying in wait as they traveled southeast. Between the Deskren invasion, and the Gathering of Kings that had followed, far too many troops had been pulled out of garrisons across the various kingdoms and holdings. Banditry had followed, and then winter in its wake.

The further south they went, the less fiercely winter gripped the land, though spring had not quite decided to make itself known. The march had been slow, the Lance's columns not keeping pace with the shifter tribes. Jacob hadn't even tried; his people had been too worn down by the race to relieve the city of Expedition, and to hurry them now would help no-one. Even with that, the Black Lance was the vanguard of the organized forces, still several days ahead of the main coalition under the Oracle's banner.

Jacob cleared his throat with a cough and spat to the side. "Ugly," he growled, "but I guess it makes the next choice easier."

"Aye," said Hett from atop his mule, scratching his beard. "My whole life, I've never understood the spectacle of things like this."

"The spectacle is the reason," replied the Battlemaster. "Symptom of banditry."

The village before them was surrounded by a wooden palisade, obviously meant to keep out wild beasts and the occasional shambling undead. The holdings between the eastern bank of the Twisting River and the western border of Kosala weren't claimed by any kingdom, but rather settled by a few independently wealthy merchants and old settler families. A few were self-styled lordlings of debatable nobility, but no nations argued with them because the land simply wasn't worth fighting over. It was full of nothing but bogs, marshes, sparse patches of scrub and forest. It was also, unfortunately, home to scattered revenants of an ancient forgotten empire; tombs whose denizens would rise from the dead and stumble into travelers. The only real advantage to the region was that it was easily forgotten.

With so many armies on the march in other places, most banditry had actually been driven out of other regions, which had led to a higher concentration of such types of people popping up anywhere an army wasn't. And in some places, the numbers were high enough that they organized, leading to examples like the one before them.

The original villagers decorated the outside of the walls, crows feasting on the remains. The birds barely protested as the makeshift gates opened, so intent were they on their meal. A man in mixed leather armor with two curved swords on his belt – one on each side – sauntered out, giving a contemptuous glare to the two men before him. A few grinning lackeys followed, their gear even more makeshift and mismatched.

Jacob felt some sort of aura emanating from the man, but it simply splashed off his own without affecting him. Hett snorted in derision.

"Bit odd for travelers 'round these parts," the man called, his voice rough-hewn. "But leave your gold and your horse and mule and we won't ask for your boots too."

More men appeared on the walls, bows in hand. Hett and Jacob ignored them, and the bandit leader as well.

"Some sort of fear aura, I reckon," said Hett, talking around the lump of bitterleaf he was chewing. "Pretty common when the more distasteful combat classes rank up at their milestone level. Causes fear, and makes 'em stronger when their victims are afraid of them."

"Doesn't seem all that impressive," replied Jacob, just loud enough for the bandit to hear. "Must be a right terror for unleveled civilians though."

"Oi!" shouted the man. "I was just gonna take yer gold and horses, but now we'll be takin' yer boots, too! The boys can find a place on the wall for both of ya!"

"I'll give you and your men one chance to surrender," said Jacob, raising his voice to carry across the entire town. "Your aura tricks obviously won't work on us. You're just not that scary. If you surrender now, you'll still hang, but it'll at least be with dignity. That's your best choice."

"It's just a bit of fun," said the bandit, drawing his swords as his companions grinned. "Makes it a little sweeter when they scream. I don't really need it when I have over a hundred men with me."

Hett sighed, leaning to the side to spit bitterleaf juice at the ground. "I'm amazed this one reached level fifty," he said. "It's not like we tried to hide."

"Hide what?" the bandit asked, still boisterous and confident as he waved his arms, the gesture encompassing the hills and scrub brush outside the village.

Jacob lowered the lance to point at the [Bandit Lord]. "I see you've made your choice then," he said. "I can't say I'm too disappointed; your trial would have just been tedious."

Enraged, the bandit put his hands on the hilts of his blades. "There ain't no law in the marshes, and the two of you are too outnumbered, no matter what yer levels are. The law's whatever the strongest group says it is! And I say I'll be takin your coin, your boots, and your horse!"

The Battlemaster shifted in his stirrups, thrusting his lance to the sky. "And I say," he replied, his voice carrying for miles without effort thanks to his [Aura of Command].

"Lances forward!"

Drumbeats thundered in the hills.

=====================

Morgan Mackenzie was floating in a familiar darkness. It was comfortable; neither hot nor cold, humid nor dry. There were no worries, no pressing issues demanding her time. Just restful darkness. She was content to stay there, where time had no meaning.

Even eternity can be interrupted, however, and soon she felt her feet hit soft dirt. The sudden resumption of gravity sent her stumbling, and she flared her wings for balance. The darkness began to recede, and she found herself in a familiar place. Another Morgan stood a few feet away, her wings furled into tattoos. The other her leaned against a stone wall that Morgan hadn't noticed was there; or, maybe, it hadn't been there until she noticed it. The Other-Morgan didn't speak, just grinned and tilted her head towards the arch that suddenly had always been there.

She furled her own wings, slowly stepping through the arch. It had changed since the day she had gotten her class; the day she had become the [Skyclad Sorceress]. Gone were the hundreds of stone platforms with statues representing all the possibilities that had lain before a younger, less experienced Morgan; now, she stood within a clearing encircled by dozens of massive stone pillars, fluted columns reminiscent of Greek or Roman temples. Moss grew in patches around their bases, and ivy traced lazy patterns upwards towards where the structures rose into the clouds and disappeared.

Above her, the whole sky was wrapped in storm, distant lightning flickering chaotically amidst the clouds. On Earth – or anywhere else, for that matter – it would have been a thrilling, terrifying sight. Here, however, deep within her soul, it brought her peace; she knew she was safe, in a way that went deeper than merely knowing.

Her musings were interrupted by the crisp crunch of someone biting into an apple, and she turned. Another her lounged on a stone chair, much like one she herself would have made. Two more sat on either side of that one, in similar chairs.

On the left sat a Morgan, naked and tattooed. But this one's tattoos were jagged like lightning, and the storm seemed more intense directly over where she sat.

On the right sat yet another Morgan. This one was actually clothed – nothing more than a simple linen shift and cloth sandals, but clothing nonetheless – and in her fingers she held a wineglass of delicate, paper-thin crystal, filled with a rose-colored liquid. She stared at the original Morgan with unblinking, piercing eyes and a knowing smirk on her face.

The one eating the apple sat in the middle, and the three of them stared at the one of her as she, all unhurried, enjoyed her snack. When she had eaten it down to the core, she negligently tossed it over her shoulder; a burst of fire incinerated it in midair. That Morgan gave her a sly grin, leaning forward with her hands on her knees.

"So," she said, that familiarly unfamiliar voice breaking the silence. "The big five-oh."

"I guess so," she answered herself, her gaze darting between her three doppelgängers.

"Gotta admit," the center Morgan remarked, leaning back, "we thought it would be a lot longer before we got here."

"So what happens now?"

At this, all three Morgans sat up and leaned in, grinning at the original. Then, they spoke in unison:

"Now, you have a choice to make."