Whispers on the Port
Manaan, the last bastion of Elsar, stands alone against the encroaching darkness. The city, perched on the edge of the unforgiving bay, is a flickering flame against the cold wind of fate. The people move through its streets like shadows, their faces drawn with fear, knowing that the storm that consumed the rest of Elsar is now upon them. The air crackles with tension, the distant crash of waves against the docks a constant reminder of the peril that draws nearer. The city waits, holding its breath, as the tide of destruction comes ever closer.
Primer: Whispers on the Port
The week after the fall of the Azure Order brought a silence that was not calm but sinister, pressing in on the heart of Elsar like a vice. The remnants of Lunthorpe lay quiet beneath a sky painted with bruised, mottled colors—deep purples and blotchy greys, as if the heavens themselves bore witness to the suffering below. Where once children had played in Lunthorpe's verdant square, now only rubble sprawled, and at the epicenter of it all, the dark pylon still loomed, humming with a rhythm that seemed out of sync with the rest of the world. The earth there bore no life, only a barren scar, a void in the midst of green fields where nature refused to reclaim. Falkenstein remained a frozen wasteland, jagged spires of ice lanced through what had once been its heart, while thick mists clung to the ruins, so dense it almost seemed the dead breathed them. Imperialis, where half the city had vanished beneath furious waters, was a ghost of itself, the stench of rot and salt filling the air, drifting up from the depths where entire quarters lay submerged. Then there was the hollow nothingness where the Azure Order once stood, a blank spot in the landscape, the empty void palpably wrong—like a memory forgotten but still felt.
Manaan had been spared, for now, but its survival had not brought comfort. It had brought waiting. Fear rippled through the populace, gathering in the whispers that spread from door to door, drifting from tightly shuttered windows into the chilly evening air. The once lively streets had emptied, and now they echoed only with the occasional murmur of uncertainty—or, at times, nothing at all. Reports of ransacked settlements surfaced, stories of scavengers sweeping through the ruins, like vultures feasting on carrion. There were rumors of raiders—figures clad in mismatched armors, their faces obscured by masks, stripping homes and taking whatever small relics had survived the desolation of places like Falkenstein and Lunthorpe. They were moving fast, like a rising tide, and now the stories placed them just beyond Manaan’s borders.
The city was unraveling in its own quiet way, as desperation seeded itself among the citizenry. People were scared to leave their homes, their doors barred with iron latches or makeshift barricades of furniture. Graveyards were no longer sacred—mounds of fresh earth lay scattered where graves had been exhumed, the bodies within stolen. Even the tiny headstones marking children’s resting places had not been spared. There were whispers that some desperate individuals had begun to dig not for the dead, but for what they were buried with—pieces of jewelry, heirlooms, anything that could be bartered. And there was the fountain in the town square, once filled with wishing coins, the copper and silver pieces glinting beneath the clear water. All of them had vanished one night, leaving only the murky bottom, stripped bare.
It was not just the citizens. There were murmurs in the market of shops being raided, stalls ransacked in the dead of night. The thefts were becoming bolder, more audacious, and the Tideguard’s presence did little to reassure anyone. Many wondered where the guards themselves had gone, some whispering of missing Tideguards, others speaking of treason and desertion. The taverns spoke of plans to flee, whispered conversations of men and women with bags already packed, ready to slip away before Manaan met its fate. Every conversation held the heavy knowledge that Manaan was next, that it was only a matter of time. And in that knowledge, a shared despair—not loud, not panicked, but a hollow resignation that had begun to fester in every heart.
Inside the barracks, the air was heavy with the scent of damp wood and sweat. Tideguard Captain Emilia Sen stood hunched over a table littered with parchment, the candlelight flickering as if it, too, feared being snuffed out. Her hair, tied loosely at the nape of her neck, had come undone in strands that framed her stern features. She picked up one report after another, each one recounting missing Tideguards. Her lips pursed, then flattened into a grim line as she slammed another piece of parchment down.
“They’ve deserted,” she hissed, the words heavy with restrained anger. She turned her gaze toward the figure lounging against the wall opposite her—Lord Dokvig of the Black Iron Wolves, a mercenary company that had arrived from outside the city. His armor bore the marks of long campaigns, scuffed metal and black iron engraved with snarling wolf motifs. He smirked, his lips curling beneath the thick beard that covered his jaw.
“This city has seen better days,” Dokvig remarked, his voice low, carrying the hint of a drawl. He pushed himself off the wall, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps until he stood across from Emilia, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “You need us more than you care to admit, Captain. Your men are either missing or dead, and the people are scared. Let the Wolves in, let us restore a little order… for the right price, of course.”
Emilia’s glare could have cut steel. “We need mercenaries to do the Tideguard’s job now, is that it?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain. But her tone betrayed her—weariness etched lines across her face, and there was no hiding the exhaustion in her eyes. She took a deep breath, letting her gaze drift to the papers scattered across the table—evidence of a city unraveling. Finally, she nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“We’ll let you in,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, as though speaking the words aloud gave them too much weight. “But understand this, Dokvig. You and your men step out of line… I’ll see you hanging from the walls myself.”
Dokvig chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that seemed to fill the room. “Understood, Captain. We’re here to help, after all.” He turned, his armor clinking softly, and strode toward the door, pausing only to glance back over his shoulder. “A curfew and lockdown might be wise. Keep people in their homes, make them feel safe. We’ll take care of the rest.”
As the door closed behind him, Emilia let out a slow breath, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the decision. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath, the streets empty and the air thick with the anticipation of what was to come. A curfew, a lockdown—it was not salvation, it was stalling. Everyone knew it, but there was no other choice. Manaan waited, caught in the stillness before the storm, knowing that the tide was coming, and it was only a matter of time before it swept them all away.
Manaan, the last bastion of Elsar, stands alone against the encroaching darkness. The city, perched on the edge of the unforgiving bay, is a flickering flame against the cold wind of fate. The people move through its streets like shadows, their faces drawn with fear, knowing that the storm that consumed the rest of Elsar is now upon them. The air crackles with tension, the distant crash of waves against the docks a constant reminder of the peril that draws nearer. The city waits, holding its breath, as the tide of destruction comes ever closer.
Primer: Whispers on the Port
The week after the fall of the Azure Order brought a silence that was not calm but sinister, pressing in on the heart of Elsar like a vice. The remnants of Lunthorpe lay quiet beneath a sky painted with bruised, mottled colors—deep purples and blotchy greys, as if the heavens themselves bore witness to the suffering below. Where once children had played in Lunthorpe's verdant square, now only rubble sprawled, and at the epicenter of it all, the dark pylon still loomed, humming with a rhythm that seemed out of sync with the rest of the world. The earth there bore no life, only a barren scar, a void in the midst of green fields where nature refused to reclaim. Falkenstein remained a frozen wasteland, jagged spires of ice lanced through what had once been its heart, while thick mists clung to the ruins, so dense it almost seemed the dead breathed them. Imperialis, where half the city had vanished beneath furious waters, was a ghost of itself, the stench of rot and salt filling the air, drifting up from the depths where entire quarters lay submerged. Then there was the hollow nothingness where the Azure Order once stood, a blank spot in the landscape, the empty void palpably wrong—like a memory forgotten but still felt.
Manaan had been spared, for now, but its survival had not brought comfort. It had brought waiting. Fear rippled through the populace, gathering in the whispers that spread from door to door, drifting from tightly shuttered windows into the chilly evening air. The once lively streets had emptied, and now they echoed only with the occasional murmur of uncertainty—or, at times, nothing at all. Reports of ransacked settlements surfaced, stories of scavengers sweeping through the ruins, like vultures feasting on carrion. There were rumors of raiders—figures clad in mismatched armors, their faces obscured by masks, stripping homes and taking whatever small relics had survived the desolation of places like Falkenstein and Lunthorpe. They were moving fast, like a rising tide, and now the stories placed them just beyond Manaan’s borders.
The city was unraveling in its own quiet way, as desperation seeded itself among the citizenry. People were scared to leave their homes, their doors barred with iron latches or makeshift barricades of furniture. Graveyards were no longer sacred—mounds of fresh earth lay scattered where graves had been exhumed, the bodies within stolen. Even the tiny headstones marking children’s resting places had not been spared. There were whispers that some desperate individuals had begun to dig not for the dead, but for what they were buried with—pieces of jewelry, heirlooms, anything that could be bartered. And there was the fountain in the town square, once filled with wishing coins, the copper and silver pieces glinting beneath the clear water. All of them had vanished one night, leaving only the murky bottom, stripped bare.
It was not just the citizens. There were murmurs in the market of shops being raided, stalls ransacked in the dead of night. The thefts were becoming bolder, more audacious, and the Tideguard’s presence did little to reassure anyone. Many wondered where the guards themselves had gone, some whispering of missing Tideguards, others speaking of treason and desertion. The taverns spoke of plans to flee, whispered conversations of men and women with bags already packed, ready to slip away before Manaan met its fate. Every conversation held the heavy knowledge that Manaan was next, that it was only a matter of time. And in that knowledge, a shared despair—not loud, not panicked, but a hollow resignation that had begun to fester in every heart.
Inside the barracks, the air was heavy with the scent of damp wood and sweat. Tideguard Captain Emilia Sen stood hunched over a table littered with parchment, the candlelight flickering as if it, too, feared being snuffed out. Her hair, tied loosely at the nape of her neck, had come undone in strands that framed her stern features. She picked up one report after another, each one recounting missing Tideguards. Her lips pursed, then flattened into a grim line as she slammed another piece of parchment down.
“They’ve deserted,” she hissed, the words heavy with restrained anger. She turned her gaze toward the figure lounging against the wall opposite her—Lord Dokvig of the Black Iron Wolves, a mercenary company that had arrived from outside the city. His armor bore the marks of long campaigns, scuffed metal and black iron engraved with snarling wolf motifs. He smirked, his lips curling beneath the thick beard that covered his jaw.
“This city has seen better days,” Dokvig remarked, his voice low, carrying the hint of a drawl. He pushed himself off the wall, crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps until he stood across from Emilia, his eyes glinting in the dim light. “You need us more than you care to admit, Captain. Your men are either missing or dead, and the people are scared. Let the Wolves in, let us restore a little order… for the right price, of course.”
Emilia’s glare could have cut steel. “We need mercenaries to do the Tideguard’s job now, is that it?” she asked, her voice dripping with disdain. But her tone betrayed her—weariness etched lines across her face, and there was no hiding the exhaustion in her eyes. She took a deep breath, letting her gaze drift to the papers scattered across the table—evidence of a city unraveling. Finally, she nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“We’ll let you in,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, as though speaking the words aloud gave them too much weight. “But understand this, Dokvig. You and your men step out of line… I’ll see you hanging from the walls myself.”
Dokvig chuckled, a deep, throaty sound that seemed to fill the room. “Understood, Captain. We’re here to help, after all.” He turned, his armor clinking softly, and strode toward the door, pausing only to glance back over his shoulder. “A curfew and lockdown might be wise. Keep people in their homes, make them feel safe. We’ll take care of the rest.”
As the door closed behind him, Emilia let out a slow breath, her shoulders sagging beneath the weight of the decision. Outside, the city seemed to hold its breath, the streets empty and the air thick with the anticipation of what was to come. A curfew, a lockdown—it was not salvation, it was stalling. Everyone knew it, but there was no other choice. Manaan waited, caught in the stillness before the storm, knowing that the tide was coming, and it was only a matter of time before it swept them all away.
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