Legacy Fiction - Henge Hold Scroll

The Henge Hold Scroll was a collection of micro-fiction posted to Twitter which covers the bulk of The Claiming, taking place immediately after the events of the Oblivion campaign book.

Written by Mike Ryan and Matt Goetz

Part One

Summation 1
Summation 2
Summation 3
Summation 4
Summation 5
Summation 6

Part Two

What is time? It seems to be losing meaning the deeper I peer, its strands fraying and stretching to the breaking point. Such power! In a single being, it bends the flow of her futures again and again for her people. For all people.

What price will the world pay for her actions, for her sacrifice? And precisely what will she sacrifice to save so many? She features in every future I see, but only uncertainty surrounds her with each step she takes on her path.

I see the Mantle of Lacyr, whose fate was unknown for so long. The nearest strand tells me of its recovery and its return to Ios. Its inability to revive Scyrah, who was weakened so grievously, would cause Ghyrrshyld to use it for the follies of his experiments.

He would ignore any objection from the pious among elves and take it as a purpose, one even he would have known was questionable. In another future, I see it in the hands of one whose heart will be darkly tainted by the tragedy soon to befall our people.

He will use it for his twisted vision of a new Divine Court, with himself as Narcissar. So many futures, but none give me the barest of comforts that the Mantle be restored to the Great Fane and celebrated. Perhaps it is best that I do not yet know its fate at any juncture.

Hours…days…weeks… the farther from the Hold, the further the scrolls see, but the further from certain the realities within them are. Yet my vision takes in all without discrimination. A moment here and now.

I see a day, months from now, in a part of Immoren where I have never set foot. There is too much for me to comprehend and not enough to make sense of any one thing I see.

Memories come to me unbidden, so far apart in time yet connected by souls both present and not. It is little wonder they deem me mad.

The more I look, the more I see, and the less clear things become. Events are written down, but so much is missing. The runes appearing on the page are jumbled, messy, overwriting themselves as though recounting too many paths at the same time.

Rushed, as if the many strands are compressed to fit within a mortal consciousness. There is much here to tell but not enough space to write it, not enough time to tell it. The futures of many are overwhelmed by others, fates of several are unknown in what I can decipher.

What is mortality to the divine? I cannot see what has truly become of my gods, for I wield no control over my visions. And yet one must ask: what is the fate of a god’s essence should a god die? The Divine Court was the conscious manifestations of the sun and moons.

With their forms on Caen expired, their essence returns to whence it came, to be whole perhaps. So long did a fragment of the gods lay here, clinging to existence in the realm of mortals. But what next? I cannot say. I do not see it. I am not allowed to perceive it.

It is…done. My purpose here, the purpose I was given, is fulfilled. The visions tell me no more, and I have nothing left to write or convey.

Pure malice. It hungered. It raged. It yearned for slaughter. Feeding on the living was one thing, but this was new prey. The true prey. The Great Enemy was here, and it was ripe for destruction.

All mortal eyes turned to it as its presence became known. It sensed the fear in those eyes. It should have delighted in the trembling, the cowering, thrived on it. But it ignored them and the smell of burning purest necrotite, the shriek of souls echoing in its wake.

It paid no heed to everything except the infernal horrors before it. With a metallic howl, Deathjack charged at the nearest one. It slashed its claws into the demonic being’s chest, casting it down in a black mist of viscera. But these horrors were not what would feed it.

What it consumed from the soul stalkers was not enough, merely appetizers. Deathjack howled again and found new victims, a nearby band of cultists. Indeed, the Skulls of Hate would feed deeply, for there was a greater well of souls upon which to glut. One that was near.

Deathjack feasted, but this was not the true prize. There was something close, something much better. It cast its gaze about, at last seeing what it had sensed. The titanic Guardian, overflowing with souls, captured by the Great Enemy.

Those souls, they would be Deathjack’s, and being so close, its hunger grew insatiable. Petty creatures stood in its path, but nothing would stop it from reaching its goal. Deathjack advanced, the rage fueled from the Skulls of Hate driving it on.

For here and now, it would vanquish this slave of the Great Enemy and relieve it of its burdens. It mocked the efforts of the little humans and their imperfect machines, and it mocked the aura of dread around the Guardian of Souls even more.

An irritating delay, Omodamos decided. The man in the machine was proving to be most resilient, and the Black Gate sensed something else approaching.

Hesitation, though quickly suppressed, nagged at the infernal master as his maces reaped a steady flow of souls.

The reinforcements these humans brought were of little value. What profit or enjoyment was there to be had destroying undead thralls?

“The arcanist in the machine gives you undue trouble,” Zaateroth observed to her colleague.

“Make way. The Guardian comes to deal with him.”

“I have the matter in hand myself,” he replied.

“Whether you do or not matters little. It makes for the gate, and it will destroy all in its path.”

Reluctantly, Omodamos retired from this fight, seeking fresh souls to cull.

“Is there no end to them?” Karchev growled as the infernal master retreated to be replaced by a pair of horrors the Greylord was sure he had split in two moments before.

Having lost count of how many infernals he had destroyed, he then saw a new foe he could not ignore.

He was backed up by massed fire from Winterguard rifles and the occasional volley of rockets. But the allies were retreating across the area around the Hold. That was only natural, for the latest threat was more than a match for any warcaster and their warjacks.

“Take heart, children of Khador!” Karchev shouted, readying himself. “After today, immortality awaits!”

The lumbering Guardian approached, raising one of its titanic claws as it did so. Karchev swept Sunder back to prepare an appropriate greeting.


The hulking Guardian’s claw rose from the ground, revealing the remains of the Khadoran warjack-warcaster that had given the infernals’ advance so much trouble. She nodded in approval and silently commanded Omodamos to divert to the flank.

“I will defeat these dregs. More of their weak seek to flee. You must stop them,” the Weaver of Shadows ordered.

He obeyed and gladly. Satisfied, Zaateroth willed the Guardian farther toward the defenders’ lines, both human or mechanikal, and the gate that lay beyond.

But with one fury-driven machine crushed into the ground, another appeared. This one—sleek, black, and demonic—was faintly familiar. Studying it, she saw it had been targeting the soul stalkers. The presence she felt within it was basking in the souls she was denied.

Then recognition dawned on her.
“Destroy that aberration!” she shrieked.
The Guardian paused before it could rear up to emit its abyssal howl at the retreating humans. At Zaateroth’s furious command, it heaved its body to one side and watched as the Deathjack charged.

“We must have a care, for that nightmare may be enough to be the scourge of all Immoren,” Asphyxious said.

“Any more than us? We have defeated more of these creatures than we care to count. This is merely one more,” Deneghra replied.

She added, “But this will be no different from the great machines of the Iron Kingdoms sent against us before. There will be an end to them—we know they bleed. We have bled them. Just one more effort to see out the day, and you will be god over what you perceive.”

“Thou seekest to reassure me,” he observed, “as though thou knowest my mind as I do.”
Deneghra flinched.

“I claim no such thing, I know only your ambitions and designs for this realm.”

“Thou dost share this ambition with me, no?”

Gleefully, the Skulls relinquished control. So many souls—why stop, why restrain? The ultimate prize lay within reach. From inside the Deathjack’s chassis, a manic metallic laugh emanated.

Whether this shell survived or was destroyed, the Skulls would devour and delight without consequence. If necessary, they would quickly find a new shell as they had done many times before. So, it mattered not.

The Guardian lumbered over the remains of the mechanikal and flesh alike. Pressed by the colossal before her and its lesser facsimiles that swarmed the area, Deneghra fell back, accompanied by her slayers. Quicker than she could anticipate, the Guardian lunged forward.

Its claw lashed out, gouging one of her helljacks. Deneghra was not quick enough to dodge aside as it crashed into her, pinning her beneath it. Before she could command the helljack to its feet, she felt the impact of the Guardian’s claw upon it.

She could not move, held fast by the chassis. Her legs had been rendered useless. As the Guardian reared back to tear apart its latest victim, she concentrated and fled into the shadows it cast. Still, her vanishing did not go unnoticed.

Turning to look at the Soulweaver as she suddenly reappeared, the colossal horror shifted its hulking form to focus its fury upon her. She had fled—but not far enough. Seeing her peril, Asphyxious swept down to gather her away.

As he drew near, a claw slashed into the ground in front of him. Swerving aside, he retreated as it raised its maw, an abyssal howl issuing forth toward him. Asphyxious barely stayed in the air as the blast grazed him, temporarily robbing him of his arcane sense.

A determined beat of his wings let him avoid the next attack as the Guardian turned back to Deneghra. Asphyxious was helpless as she tried to drag herself away only to be crushed into the ground. Mangled armor plates from her last slayer flew as each claw fell.

“Thou wouldst have been the inheritor of my legacy, Deneghra!” Asphyxious cried as he took flight. “But what hast become of thee, so wretched an end was not what I envisioned for thine future…dear child.”
On the battlefield below him, he could see nothing but corpses.

Those he might have ruled over who could have made him the subject of their adoration were no more. The former lich lord saw little but the overwhelming advance of infernal forces, spearheaded by the Guardian.

It had defeated all before it. First the half-man, half-machine of Khador.

Then Deathjack, the terror of southwest Immoren, which even Asphyxious hesitated to exert his will over. And now Deneghra’s helljacks. And finally, Deneghra herself.

There remains naught left here for me but blood and ashes, he knew.

Alone, he could not defeat the colossal horror so, clasping his soul vessel close to him, he retreated toward the gate. He snatched a last glimpse at Deneghra’s shattered body.

Malefactor, her spear, lay broken close by, alongside the spines torn from her armor.

Humanity was no more for Immoren but would be established in another world. There, Asphyxious would be its rightful god, where the gods of Caen would have neither presence nor influence.

His choice made, he ascended higher, accelerating toward the gate and his destiny.

The lifeless arm twitched. The consciousness that drove it was still lucid. And it would not concede. Fingers curled, slowly dragging remains over bloodied earth and ruined flesh and scorched metal.

He was no longer here. Deneghra tired of waiting for the jabbering necrosurgeon to finish its work. She could only wait and command her last intact bonejack to range out to the limit of her control. The gate, she urgently thought, redirecting the stalker.

She watched through its eyes as it bounded toward the gate, useless as a ship flashed with a brilliant light as it transitioned through to whatever lay beyond. Barely visible through the bonejack’s visual sensors yet as clearly as if he stood before her, she saw him.

She watched as a winged clockwork form followed moments behind the ship. Deneghra slumped where she sat, deaf to the necrosurgeon’s words as she saw him disappear into the gate.

“Go. Be a god in an unknown world. This place will suffer for your departure.”

She shook her head and thought of other, pettier things. How fared Caine and his daughter? The girl would make a good warwitch when she returned. That was at least some consolation.

“Ravyn, you can’t be serious.”Kaelyssa, Night’s Whisper, touched her commander’s shoulder as they left the assembly hall.
“Extraordinary times require extraordinary means,” the Eternal Light replied.
“What’s extraordinary about you taking up your Fane Knight’s panoply again?”

“The Nine Voices agree it is necessary to show unity among the people. There are many who still disapprove of us, and our primary goal remains: the restoration of Scyrah and Nyssor. We need the Houses–all of them—to act with one purpose. My return to the Fane helps this.”

The younger mage hunter was silent for a few moments, so Ravyn filled the silence.
“Worry not. Look to Garryth and Narn as you have done before, make sure Elara doesn’t stray too far, and we will endure. When we endure, things change as necessary once more.”

“Do you think he was right?” Elara, Death’s Shadow, asked.
Ahead of her, one of her teams of mage hunters moved up to rendezvous with the returning forces of Lord Ghyrrshyld and Lord Arbiter Hexeris. Off to the side, another team stood sentinel over a small stone box.

“Right about what?” Kaelyssa asked, wary of the conversation’s direction.
“Our gods…” the younger commander continued. “That their deaths…”
She stopped when she noticed Kaelyssa glaring at her.

“Best not explore that belief—only heresy may be found. Especially now, when we may have a solution within reach.”
Elara merely grunted in response, the rest of her thoughts silenced now.

“Lord Arbiter.” He looked up to see his vassal, Tyrant Timaar, standing before him.
“How goes your work with Ghyrrshyld?”
“Poorly. Combining mortitheurgy and their arcanika is proving difficult.”
“That does not seem to be the only thing that bothers you.”

“Lord Ghyrrshyld seems distracted, as if he is plagued by doubt and convinced of his impending failure. He considers himself ‘Cursed’ again, though quite why I do not know.” Hexeris smiled. “Perhaps that was a former epithet.”

“Do you know what caused this?”
“No, but I have my suspicions.”
Of an infernal master, in fact. They did something, but he did not know what. Hexeris kept this to himself.

“Let it be recorded I disagreed with this.” Hexeris shook his head as he and Ghyrrshyld watched their forces join battle against the infernals before them.
“So you have said many times already,” the elf growled back as his gaze darted about.

He was focused, watching for tell-tale signs of an archon’s manifestation.
“Our previous attempts ended in no few deaths and more than just some harm to ourselves, Ghyrrshyld,” the Lord Arbiter noted. “This is a great risk we take.”

“I know the risk. Means to contain an archon’s power is what we lacked before, but we have it now. I will succeed.”
“Or you may die,” the skorne snarled.
“Then what would you have me do?”
Skorne and elf glared at each other, neither willing to concede.

“Lord Ghyrrshyld!” Elara cried, pointing at a shimmering space close to a heavy concentration of horrors.
“I see it!” He kicked his horse to a gallop, eyes fixed upon where the mage hunter indicated. He left the other two behind him.

They were only close enough to watch as Ghyrrshyld prepared the mortitheurgically infused arcanika, to see him activate it and attach it to his armor. The explosion crushed his mount and blew both Hexeris and Elara from theirs, knocking down every moving thing around him.

It took them all a moment to realize the otherworldly scream came from Ghyrrshyld himself as the manifesting Void Archon was drawn into the arcanika at his chest by tendrils of rippling energy. With difficulty, Hexeris and Elara managed to get to their feet again.

They saw a black-winged angel, beautiful and terrifying. With an aura of seeming dispassion, this elven archon, if he could be called so, surged into the infernal lines, banishing all within Voass’ reach, the blade of Nyssor’s sword freezing and shattering all it touched.


Falcir the Merciless observed from her distant, concealed vantage point, silent and motionless. The small crowd of soulless made way like water as Ghyrrshyld glided across the now eerily quiet battlefield.

They grow more numerous with each victory, it seems, Falcir thought as they followed in his wake. She focused her sight and invoked a significant part of her arcane strength. Unseen by all except herself, runes flashed above the elven archon’s form.

They grow more numerous with each victory, it seems, Falcir thought as they followed in his wake. She focused her sight and invoked a significant part of her arcane strength. Unseen by all except herself, runes flashed above the elven archon’s form.

“Bad news from Nyrrothyl, I presume?” she asked.

“That would depend on whom you ask, I’m afraid. They have declared joining the ranks alongside Elara, Death’s Shadow, specifically.”

“What I would do for some objectively good news for once.”

“You came back all this way to tell me this?” Ravyn raised an eyebrow at Kaelyssa.

They walked slowly in deference to the younger elf’s injuries around the plaza before the Great Fane.

“I don’t know who else to express my concerns to.”

“At least circumstances gave you cause to withdraw from the front lines.” The reinstated Fane Knight gestured at her friend’s bandages.

“Garryth, Narn, and Eiryss do well in my absence.”

“But it is Elara who is your… concern.”

“Perhaps we should have been more insistent on not allowing her to lead the teams assigned to Ghyrrshyld.”

“I am at fault there more than you. Again, though, this is not what truly troubles you, is it?”

Kaelyssa took a moment to collect her thoughts.

“I thought it was just a random quip, but it seemed she really believes it, if my knowledge of eldritch mentality is worth anything.”

“Believed what?”

“That Scyrah must die for the good of the Iosan people.”

Ravyn’s eyes widened in shock.

“Battles have seen Ghyrrshyld, whatever he’s become, resurrect more fallen warriors, and he’s preserving elven souls, but…” Kaelyssa gestured respectfully, if awkwardly, toward the entrance of the Fane.

“Yes, the rumors are true,” Ravyn said. “They were weakened even before Ghyrrshyld came here. The priesthood does not know how to tell the people. We have lost a great many to the infernals. Far more than what the Archon of House Vyre can save.”

“As though that were bad enough. If only that were our only problem.”

Ravyn nodded. “I’ve heard about the soulless, thanks to how he denies the infernals the souls they need to remain strong. I believe that to be why they willingly follow Ghyrrshyld without command.”

She paused to take a deliberate breath. “And the emergence of the eldritch from Eversael. They have taken up arms to fight with us.”

Kaelyssa was visibly shaken by this last, and a fearful shake of the head was all she could express.

Ghyrrshyld’s hyperion brought the infernal gate tumbling down in a pile of accursed rubble. Cheers rang out among the massed ranks of skorne and elves. All that remained were the infernals, their horrors, and their mortal allies on this battlefield within the Bloodstone.

However, the elven archon had the colossal withdraw to where Elara’s battlegroup stood. He looked to her and nodded. His enhanced myrmidons turned in unison with Elara’s. Upon their next salvo, hundreds of skorne warriors and their beasts fell.

As they prepared to fire again, Elara signalled to the eldritch under her command. Together, they charged into the ranks of their new enemy, striking at the skorne commanders.

“That BASTARD!” Incissar Vyros shouted as he sent his manticores against his erstwhile allies.
Across the battlefield, he could only spare a glance for the Supreme Archdomina in the distance. He could sense the same hatred he felt for Ghyrrshyld emanate from her.

He turned to the nearest Dawnguard officer, an issyr, who, like many of her fellow Iosans, stood unsure of what to do while many of their allied myrmidons maintained their fire on skorne and infernal alike.

“Find Falcir of House Ellowuyr. She has a job worthy of her talents at last!” he snapped at the unfortunate soldier.

Hexeris stood dumbfounded by the Iosan attack. Tyrant Timaar raced ahead to meet with his officers. Soon, he was hurriedly issuing a stream of orders to runners bound for his dakars and primuses. There was little Hexeris could do as waves of skorne warriors were struck down.

Praetorians, venators, even cataphracts—none were immune to the unrelenting barrage of arcane gunfire. Extollers stood powerless as Ghyrrshyld’s mastery over souls extended even to barring the skorne from exaltation. Eldritch warriors surged toward skorne command posts.

“Timaar! Beware!” the Lord Arbiter bellowed.
He hurled Gulgata and impaled an eldritch close to striking the tyrant with his raised swords. The eldritch snarled, looking down at the weapon in his chest with faint amusement.

Before Hexeris could draw his fearsome ceremonial sword, another eldritch appeared close by. With her fellow undead warriors, she charged him, cutting him off. As he struggled to defend himself, the Lord Arbiter looked on as Timaar and his honor guard were overwhelmed.

Trembling with rage, he willed his titans against the elven traitors, futile though he knew it would be. He knew he could not prevail against this surprise attack with so few forces immediately available and not many more he could issue orders to.

Reluctantly, Hexeris fought his way towards his marquee, marshalling what few soldiers he could as he went. More important, he had books, writings, and artifacts to recover, worth more than the lives of almost all the skorne present.

“I believe you were right,” Elara said, broaching the topic at last, “where the gods are concerned. They must be united, regardless of state or location to—”
“That matters not for now,” Ghyrrshyld interrupted. “We have more important concerns at hand.”

“But when the skorne are defeated—”
The elven archon stood as a statue for several moments. The only sound was the labor of soulless mechaniks.
“Do as you will,” he stated as flatly as his previous utterance and glided away.

Unsure if it were a dismissal, permission, or agreement, Elara frowned. Her sneer deepened when Nayl appeared beside her. Behind him, many soulless paused in their work, watching Elara. Were she a living Iosan, she might have been disturbed by such blank-faced attention.

“What of you, Nayl?” she asked, raising an eyebrow and thrusting her chin at the others. “And them?”
“I—we—follow you, my lady,” he replied slowly and deliberately.
She did, however, pause at how he addressed her.

“I did not expect you at this time.”
Falcir was irked by how much Ghyrrshyld’s tone of voice had changed since last they spoke.
“That is one positive, then, at least,” she replied, setting her helmet down on his desk so they could regard each other directly.
“What changed?”

“What else but you?”
“Our gods shrivel away within the Great Fane and our last enemies stand on the precipice of utter defeat. Yet here we are.”
Falcir was not often disturbed, but his complete sense of detachment left her dangerously uncertain.

“So our duties compel us to be.” She searched his expression for something, anything, but found nothing.
“Yours, perhaps. But mine is more than a mere duty.”
“Is what you do truly yours to claim for yourself, though?”

He was taken aback for the barest of moments, and knowing she had no better opportunity than this, Falcir triggered the first set of marked runes she had placed on the elven archon. It was the first time in months Ghyrrshyld’s expression betrayed pain, even weakness.

“Do not think this is enough.” He glared at her.
“I never did. I merely hoped it would not be necessary.”
She triggered the second set, and he fell to his knees with a heavy grunt. The third set immobilized him… The fourth silenced him.

Falcir hefted Iconoclast as she triggered the remaining runes. Slowly, she stepped toward the debilitated elven archon as he tried to get back to his feet.
“It was too much for you to be all our hope,” she said, a bead of sweat dropping from her chin.
She lifted her axe.

As the tide of myrmidons and elven soldiers swept toward the Abyssal Fortress with no sign of slowing down, Makeda turned to Hexeris.
“We have shared purpose, Lord Arbiter, and it is no longer just politics.”

“It ceased to be politics between us weeks ago. They betrayed us, desecrated our heroes, and made a mockery of our efforts to Exalt the worthy.” Hexeris’ voice was oddly calm.
The Supreme Archdomina glared at him for an instant, but then a sneer slowly crossed her features.

“A nation with weapons such as those they wield now?” she sighed. “What a glorious war that would have been ours to declare and win.”
“At least the world will condemn them for spilling blood first,” the Lord Arbiter said.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Makeda warned. “The peoples of this world do not care about our struggle unless we bring it to them. Let the pain and hatred of this betrayal strengthen our people. Ultimate revenge against the Iosans will be sweeter than mere conquest.”

Still, there was no choice left to her for now except to order a retreat across the Abyss. The two warlocks heard oaths of vengeance to be taken with every step. Even so, Hexeris paused to reach into his satchel and retrieve one of the hybrid arcanika modules.

The Lord Arbiter gave his leader a knowing smile. “Our work has not ended, Supreme Archdomina.”

As the skorne retreated across the narrowest part of the Abyss, Elara glanced over her shoulder. She was suspicious of Ghyrrshyld’s absence but also that of Falcir. The hallytyr led the Iosan and Nyss forces seemingly without worry.

With all other warcasters elsewhere, Elara made her way to the Retribution’s encampment and the elven archon’s quarters, gathering soulless followers as she went.
“Where do you go?” Nayl asked.

“It is time to end matters. We must return. Find horses while I retrieve Voass, for I suspect the hallytyr has finally tired of his presence. And have word sent to the risen eldritch. Advise them to make themselves scarce.”

She did not wait for the soulless’ response.

All remained unmoving and silent before the entrance of the Great Fane. Nayl’s eyes betrayed nothing—as befit a soulless—while Ravyn’s gaze remained on him. Around them, priests and Fane Knights stood motionless opposite Nayl’s fellow soulless.

“These are my orders,” he said again, just as monotonously as he had done before.
“And these are mine,” the former mage hunter replied.
As they settled into another silence, Nayl took the priests and knights by surprise when he partially drew his sword.

Ravyn’s hand sped to grasp Hellebore. She was about to assume a combat stance when she gazed down to see the icy blade of Voass emerging from below her ribcage. Ravyn struggled to turn and face its wielder.
“Elara? Why…?” she looked to the Fane. “Don’t. You doom us all.”

The eldritch leaned in and whispered. “Forgive me. Speak no more. I will send you on your way.”
Elara gently lowered Ravyn to the ground as blades clashed about her. The skirmish was brief; when she stood, it was already over.

She looked at Nayl and his bloody greatsword. As ever, the soulless remained dispassionate and distant.
“Wait here,” she ordered. “I do not know how long this will require.”
Elara did not see his gaze follow her as she entered the Great Fane.

In her hand, she carried a satchel containing the most intricately crafted of mortitheurgically infused arcanika. Behind her, she left the priests, Fane Knights, and a few of the soulless who lay dead around Ravyn’s body.

Elara reverently laid Voass in the fading Nyssor’s lap. As she let go, the sword shattered into a myriad shards, which fell to the chamber floor. The power released by the weapon’s destruction gave the Winterfather strength enough to open his eyes and stare back at her.

She stood back, looking mournfully at her god and goddess. Strengthening her resolve, Elara reached out toward the divine energy as it crystallized around the mortitheurgical-arcanika placed about the Fane, drawn from the fading forms of Scyrah and Nyssor.

Though weak, their power was still great for one such as the eldritch warcaster. Yet it was not so great as to overwhelm her as she channelled it into herself. With it, she perceived the last images seen by her gods: the souls of the elven people within the forests of Ios.

Into them, she poured that power. And onto them, she compelled a question.
“Choose,” she breathed to an empty, lifeless Fane.


“Are you certain?” Empress Ayn Vanar IX demanded.

“Very certain, Your Majesty,” the imperial physician responded, head bowed.

The empress of Khador sighed and sat down with deliberate care.

“Are we ready to depart for the south?” she asked, hand over her eyes.

“It may be wise to rethink this,” her attendant Greylord obavnik suggested. “An heir, even a potential one, must not be risked.”

Ayn’s glare matched the Butcher’s glowering from behind the throne.

“I am VERY aware of that,” she said. “We will continue as intended.”

“Your Majesty, do not be so hasty,” the physician said. “We must confirm the term will pass without undue complications and that the child will not be endangered as we journey toward the Hold. I am sure your other advisers have told you of the many—”

He trailed off, keeping his eyes down as he spoke. While all knew he spoke the truth, the tension within the hall was nonetheless palpable. They were eventually rewarded with another sigh from the empress. She was about to speak when the doors slammed open.

A harried officer sprinted in.

“The palace is under attack, Your Majesty,” the nervous kovnik reported. “Regna Gravnoy—she’s here.”

“It seems the Great Princess has run out of options,” the warcaster behind Ayn rumbled.

“So she has done the only thing she can,” the empress answered. “Kommander, you will ensure this pitiful attempt comes to nothing.”

The Butcher of Khardov hawked and strode out.

No matter how desperate she was, the Great Princess’ resources were great, enough to threaten the palace. They came from all corners of the city, madness in every eye. All her forces in Khadorstred, whether human or horror, descended upon Stasikov Palace.

There seemed to be no end to them as the Butcher lived up to his name. He was surrounded on all sides by the blood and flesh of the dead and dying. The White Queen’s power would be no more after today. But the calmness he found in this violence was marred.

Lola cleaved through yet another horror, the blade burying itself in the stone of the courtyard. The Butcher watched, terrified, as a splinter broke from the blade and clattered away. It landed in a red splash. This was not meant to be. Lola was immortal.

Or supposed to be immortal. Frustrated, confused, he swung again and again. More blood spilled, more enemies of Khador were destroyed. But it did not help. Another attack broke a second piece from the blade. Then, a girl, a familiar one, came and went in his vision.

A face he had seen before, perhaps not too long ago, though he struggled to remember when. He blinked, bewildered. Like a ghost, she appeared in one place and disappeared after just a glance. He should have been alone. Only him. And Lola.

The red mist descended, built up as blood splattered onto his armor and skin. But it did not arrest his roiling thoughts. This had been his solace through the years…but the girl. She haunted this time and place he called his own. The battlefield was supposed to be his.

She looked at him intently. Past the violence, past the blood, past the visage of the Butcher. Her face was without emotion orexpression. There was something in her eyes, though, and Orsus wanted to know what it was. He did not know WHY he wanted to know.

A tormentor’s claw scraped against his armor, nearly stunning him. Snapping his wrist back, he cut the offending limb away, half of the creature’s body soon joining it on the ground. So too did another small splinter from Lola’s blade.

This never happened when he fought. Orsus paused once all enemies within reach were destroyed. Before him stood the girl.
“What is your name?” he heard himself say.
If she replied, he did not have a chance to think on it. The screech of a lamenter made him look away.

“The Empress’ guard dog,” Gravnoy spat. “He is like our creatures—incapable of truly dying.”
She turned to give Bratya a calculating look.
“He’s here. You wish him to see him saved, no?”

Yes, Bratya did wish to see her father saved. But it would not be for the Great Princess’ purposes. As fast as her young, malnourished arm could move, a dagger snaked out from amidst her rags.

She was just in front of him. But this time, she stayed, a bloody knife in hand.
“I know you,” he said. “I should have given you a better name. One she would like.”
Orsus looked down at what was left of Lola. The haft was all that remained.

Bloodied splinters of steel were scattered about the courtyard. He looked to the sky and remembered. The girl stood calmly, looking at him as he lowered his head to meet her eyes. He remembered her smile. Her voice. Her laugh. Her dreams. Lola’s undying belief in him.

He had forgotten them for so many years. Why did he remember now of all times and places? Why so clearly? For once in a long while, Orsus felt a desire to sit. To rest. Strange that a girl with so crude a name would let him near her without backing away.

Stranger still that he paused to give thought to this.
“No!” he called out in a voice both his own and not.
Orsus caught the girl as she slumped to the ground. He ignored Gravnoy as she was ushered away by another surviving infernalist.

The fading wound in the Great Princess’ back and her calculating grin were things he did not care about. Only that she was gone mattered. His gaze turned to the girl he held.
“Kommander, pursue her! Hunt the pretender down and bring her back to me, cowering!”

Orsus did not hear who commanded him. He did not care. Only Bratya, such a small child next to him, held in the crook of his arm.
“Let me rest.”
All eyes were upon him. Incredulous eyes.
“I have no use for an attack dog if it has lost the ability to kill,” Ayn snapped.

He looked blankly at the empress, then at the hesitant, uncertain soldiers surrounding him. The empress wrung her hands in disgust and gestured sharply to the Greylord obavnik. Arcanists moved to stand between warcaster and monarch.
“I command you again, Butcher of Khardov—”

“No,” he rumbled, closing his eyes.
Orsus stood and took a step toward the palace gates. In one hand was the haft of his axe while the other carried his injured daughter, who rested against his shoulder. They ignored the shouts that rang across the courtyard behind them.


A man watches as a procession makes its way toward a setting sun. Sounds of rejoicing rise from those who reach the peak of the hill where the Creator’s light emanates. The light is awry, though, and he feels trepidation.

It flickers, as if impure, its brilliance does not reach all it beholds. Without warning, it is extinguished. Dread and doom fill his ears as darkness descends. He is drawn away, and the sight of this salvation grows distant. He turns away, knowing the answer cannot lay here.

He hears footsteps on the dirt and stone. Clear at first, but more footsteps join in, and they soon grow distant.
In the darkness, the sound of gentle waves approaches. The man walks through an unending expanse, head bowed. Ripples of water soak his tattered priestly robes.

But his Menofix, the only thing his bowed head sees as it sways with every step, remains pristine. He drags a thick rope over his shoulder.

Blood trickles down his arms from his exertions. The rope is also stained red. As the sun rises from his left, its pure white light shimmers about his form.

His figure is as a flame on the surface of the water. Inexorable, sacrosanct, enduring.

Behind him, the rope divides into strands beyond counting, each one towing a ship, a skiff, or even a modest boat. On every deck, before every seatwell, the faithful kneel in solemn prayer.

As the sun shines upon a land in the distance, a growing giving of thanks is heard from all around. The prayers from the sea are answered by the welcome of the land. The man looks back toward the faithful, and he weeps in relief.

Tristan snapped his head up and saw the skyship disappear through the gate. Several figures in flight circled overhead. The light goes out, he thought to himself, terrified. As he tried to make sense of this new vision, he ignored the chaos around him.

He knew the meaning of what he saw, but he wept not knowing how to accomplish it. Seconds after clearing his mind, a bolt of lightning arced down from the afternoon sky. Tristan struggled to contain his grief as he watched the first stone fall.

There were still thousands of faithful among the refugees, now with nowhere to turn. The skyship did not reappear as it had before. Cries of despair rose among the pilgrims.
“This was to be our salvation!”
“What are we to do now? Where are we to go?”

Around him, they gathered, entreating Tristan for his guidance. The Sovereign’s throat was dry, and he knew there was only one way to proceed. Though Nadira was not the most verbose of his lieutenants, Tristan wished for her steadying presence beside him.

For several moments, Tristan tried to find his voice. He looked into the eyes of the Menites who awaited his words. He stopped when his gaze met those of a group of sailors, many of whom were huddled with their families.

Uncertain of what he intended, he made his way towards them to…do something. To say something.
“What is your name?” he asked the first sailor.
“Justine, your eminence.” She knelt hurriedly, perhaps as unsure as he as to what to do.

“Stand, Justine. I am no greater a being than you in this place.” Tristan placed a hand on her shoulder.
Uncomfortably, she returned to her feet but took a furtive step back.
“Which ship did you serve on lately?”
“The Swiftsure. As ship’s third mate.”

“And you?” Tristan turned to the next sailor.
“Simeon, a deckhand on the Wandering Minstrel.”
“And you?”
“Martin, lookout from the Lumiere.”
Tristan asked a dozen or more sailors, receiving just such answers from each.

In the panic, all of them had been abandoned by their ships’ owners, whether businesses or entrepreneurs. They had nowhere to go. Crews went their separate ways. And rumors spread, rumors of a place to escape from the slaughter.

“All of you have come here from Mercir.” It was not a question.
The sailors glanced at one another and nodded. They were stunned, for they were from all parts of Cygnar, whether Caspia, Thuria, Southpoint, or elsewhere. Yet Tristan was certain.

“You men and women who find home and duty on the waves. You will bring deliverance your fellows. Not I. You know the lands far to the south across the ocean, where lives a people who the nations of Immoren have not spoken to.”

“And they, they worship Menoth. Though they do not call Him by this name, they, too, know He is their Creator.”
“H-ow do you know?” Justine asked.
“I do not. I have only seen it, heard it…”

Cries went up as the city came within sight. The caravan was long, slow, and above all, tired. Some had traveled far just to reach Henge Hold, only to return to where they had fled from. But the sailors realized what might become of them in a new land with a shared faith.

“The ships, they’re still in the harbor,” Justine called.
“From this moment onward, I give you a great burden,” Tristan said to her as he looked at the masts in the distance. “That of the future of these people.”
She looked at him curiously.

“I will have no great burden, no greater than when I command those of my watch. But your knowledge alone weighs much. And it means—is worth more than we plain folk can understand.”
Tristan was not as sure, and his heart sank when he saw the mounted warriors ahead.

Feora looked out of her ragged tent into the expanse of the Bloodstone, shrouded in the night. Feora fleeing, her flame of ascendancy in the Protectorate extinguished. It seemed everyone and everything conspired against her to bring her down.

The last time she saw Malekus, he was fighting beside the Eye of Truth, both of them beset by Kreoss’ Exemplar lackeys. They were losing. The warcaster’s scouring flames were no more while his warjack’s shield had been ripped from its arms and smashed to pieces.

It instinctively held up its bare limb to block the storm of attacks from the Exemplar bastions. Around her, Flameguard and Feora’s sisters among the Daughters of the Flame were felled by the traitors’ relentless advance. Yes, Kreoss was a traitor to the Protectorate.

His ambitions were far beyond what he deserved, what he had earned. But there was no worse a traitor than Pyrrhus. Feora’s hands trembled as she held the pieces of her mask. Her symbol of office, broken by his treachery, which left her scarred.

Roughly shoving the pieces into her satchel, she turned back to stare into the flames of her dying campfire. She could see nothing but her rival’s assumption of power in the Protectorate. Presumption, rather. Angrily, she threw a handful of dirt to put out the dying flames.

The Protector of the Flame, now but a miserly fugitive from those who were not even counted among the truly faithful. But Tristan Durant. Worse than any traitor, he was a horrifying enigma. This mere Sovereign had the adoration of the common believer.

Nothing but heresy was to be found in his every thought. Thyra might succeed in her pursuit of him, but she would return to nothing. Who knew if she could even carry out her orders now that Imer was no longer in the hands of its rightful protectors?


This is awesome and exactly the sort of content we need for this site. Perhaps a Lore Overlord of some kind could also sort out exactly how “canon” the scrolls are (perhaps in an updated timeline) so people can get a new take on the events of the Iron Kingdoms in the last decade?

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The Daughters of the Flame dismounted and drew their weapons.
“The Synod sends its regards, Sovereign,” Thyra said as she approached Tristan.
“Do they? You are only here at the Priestess…”
“Protector,” the Flame of Sorrow cut him short, readying her swords, “of the Flame.”

Tristan struggled to stand, having barely deflected Thyra’s arcane attack. The refugees stood horrified upon seeing his bloodied robes.
“Protector.” Blood trickled down his face. “You are only here at her word. I am not so foolish as to be oblivious to her contempt for me.”

“That makes things easier, then.” The other Daughters moved to flank their warcaster.
“Look around us, Flame of the Sorrow.” Tristan gestured to the great caravan of Menites. “I have no quarrel with you, nor should you have with me. I wish no harm upon the Protectorate.”

“I serve only to protect and guide. These faithful, who have been displaced with nowhere to call home or temple and who have journeyed far with a great part of their voyage still to endure, they follow and precede me to a new land under the Creator’s light.”

“Should you strike me down, there is little I will be able to do to resist your swords. But upon your shoulders will be the weight of the future of all these people as well as theguidance through the trials they will face, be they here or within a new nation.”

“This is a weight I bear gladly, not because I wish to but because I feel it is right to do so.”
Tristan gazed at his counterpart.
“You think too highly of me but even more so of yourself. These people are not yours to lead but the Synod’s and the Hierarch they elect.”

“The Hierarch? You would see the Protector of the Flame be made Hierarch, wouldn’t you?”
“Enough! You have not the right to judge.”
But Thyra’s advance on Tristan stopped when the sailors and other, whom he befriended, counseled, and sought counsel with, blocked the way.

The Daughters of the Flame raised their blades but hesitated as more people clustered around the Sovereign, determination in every gaze.
“Tristan Durant does not lead us,” Justine spoke up.

“We choose to follow him.” Her voice grew steadfast. “Of us, there is no demand but faith in the Creator and to encourage each other to keep our faith strong. Where he goes, so will we, even if it be to the City of Man.”

The seneschal approached Kreoss, making sure to keep his step even. He stopped only to salute the senior honor guard who attended the Intercessor.
“You lost her, didn’t you?” No one could mistake the dangerous tone coming from behind Kreoss’ mask.

Though able to restrain himself from fidgeting, the seneschal was nonetheless nervous.
“I’m afraid so,” he managed.
“Her last known location was Klokhor Fortress. We attempted to follow her west, but it seems she double-backed and ventured into the Bloodstone.”

“And by the time that possibility occurred to you, it was too late. She could be in Alchiere, for all you know.”
The seneschal did not answer. Instead, he tried not to march too quickly when he was dismissed. The First Knight of the Exemplar order watched him leave.

As the door closed behind the seneschal, Kreoss turned to the High Exemplars and other leaders present.
“We can waste only so much effort hunting the renegade down. We must consider the future of the Protectorate and what is to be done about what was the Northern Crusade.”

“Our work, whether here or there, is in grave danger of being utterly wasted by the foolishness of traitors among our own and the opportunism of the heretics.”
“You know I stand with you, but the Synod–,” Reznik, the Wrath of Ages. rumbled from behind his heavy mask.

“They have torn themselves apart with their corruption and seem bent on taking the Protectorate with them. An inability to unanimously condemn the renegade is merely a symptom. Those loyal among them know the Synod is nothing but a backroom without purpose.”

“It must be torn down and rebuilt to restore its integrity before the Creator and his followers.”
All present nodded in agreement.
“And what of Tristan?” Cyrenia asked.
Of the Sovereign, Kreoss was not so sure. And judging from his stance, neither was the Wrath of Ages.

With one last look back at Thyra and the pier, Tristan stepped onto the gangplank and followed Justine onto the merchantman. Ahead of this last ship, a veritable armada of ships of all sizes and functions could be seen making its way south.

He knew he must keep his gaze forward, but too much had happened in the land he was leaving behind. His membership of the priesthood, his role in the defence of Imer, witnessing his Hierarch die, and the tearing apart of the nation he so wished to call his true home.

He could not help but look to Immoren, the Protectorate, Cygnar, Llael…all of it.
But he would not mourn.


“We are ready, my Queen.” Ashlynn d’Elyse bowed before Kaetlyn.
“Are we?” Llael’s monarch replied as best she could. “We leave our homeland for a place unknown. War brought on by powers who would seek to take what is not theirs. What is there we can truly be ready for?”

Ashlynn tried to form an answer. The queen smiled sadly at her champion and beckoned for her to lead the way. The few soldiers left in the palace formed an honor guard as Ashlynn rode beside Kaetlyn’s carriage.

Every single individual present had buried many close to them in the fight to reclaim the palace of Merywyn. Once more, they could not rest in the place that was supposed to be their sanctuary and home.

Marie Aguillon and Vayne di Brascio stood behind their commander as she attended the queen. Slowly, the column, the pitiful remnants of the Llaelese army, ventured out for the south.

“I will not die here!” Ashlynn shouted as her sword lashed out at another infernal demon.
Even here, away from the cities of Llael, they had to contend with this threat. The Queen’s guards formed a protective ring around the royal carriage.

They were pressed, retreating inward until all were shoulder to shoulder. All around were the victims of the infernals who tried to flee but were not quick enough.
“I fear we will not be given that choice,” di Brascio growled as he emptied his pistols into a tormentor.

Aguillon was about to take a shot against the same creature when a cannon blast disintegrated it in a shower of viscera. She whirled around to see ranks of soldiers approaching, batteries of field artillery arrayed on high ground.

Nodding to her companions, she charged back into the fray as incoming halberdiers, riflemen, and cavalry laid waste the enemy forces. These were no Steelhead mercenaries; they were soldiers of the King of Ord’s army.

“Soldiers of Llael!” an officer hailed them.
“General Gervasio Cabral, the Thorn Division is most welcome here.” Ashlynn saluted him, before quickly adding, “If perhaps under less than ideal circumstances.”

“We thank the King for the aid of his armies,” Kaetlyn nodded stiffly to the general.
“All nations do their part. All nations have taken their share of suffering and loss, Your Majesty.”
The combined Ordic-Llaelese camp was more a large field hospital.

In defense of Ord’s eastern border, the Thorn Division had fought tirelessly against the infernals. They ventured abroad only after securing the safety of the nation. Upon making camp, it was clear to the Llaelese there were no few injured among the ranks of their saviors.

“You journey toward Cygnar and Henge Hold?” Cabral asked.
“We heard the allies from across the Iron Kingdoms converged there to make a stand,” Ashlynn replied.
Kaetlyn added. “And that Cyrissists had discovered a way to escape Immoren if humanity fell to the invaders.”

“We have heard such also, but we also know the roads leading south are infested with more of this infernal menace.”
This new council regarded one another with resignation.
“You are but a few hundred strong altogether,” Cabral continued diplomatically.

“I cannot spare enough soldiers to reinforce you, not with the wounded I must take care of.”
“What do you propose?”
“I have an invitation to extend to you from King Baird. For the safety of the Llaelese throne, he offers the protection of all the forces Ord may command.”

“Much reduced though we are, we will aid in the security of Llaelese lands when the infernal threat is no more and ensure you will survive to sit upon your throne.”
There was a sorrowful reluctance during which Ashlynn and Kaetlyn looked at each other.

Many unspoken words passed between the two, the displaced queen and her champion. Eventually, the Queen of Llael turned to address Cabral directly, taking courage from Ashlynn beside her.

“Caine!” Gunnbjorn yelled. “Took you long enough.”
“What is it?” Allister Caine asked, seeing the trollkin looking over his shoulder.
“Just checking you’re not being chased by an army of angry Cryxians.”
“Admiral Skarre is unsettlingly friendly when she needs to be.”

Caine added, “She dropped me off to—”
He was interrupted by a distant boom. A salvo from naval artillery soared over their heads, fired from the Cryxian fleet’s broadsides. They watched the cannonade as it blasted the nearest concentrations of infernal forces.

“That’s her now, I’m guessing. Hope she picks her aim this carefully all afternoon.” the gun mage turned back. “I can’t stay here for long.”
“What? Why?”
He stepped aside and Gunnbjorn saw her, the Hellslinger’s daughter.
“Dhunia’s teat, she’s real!”

Dozer and Smigg’s sudden and gleeful bombardment drowned out Caine’s retort. He settled for glowering at his counterpart, who raised his free hand, palm out in apology, despite the smirk.
“I need to get her out of here,.” Caine put a hand on Cynthia’s shoulder.

“Then I can join in the dirty work.”
The trollkin nodded. “Ace isn’t going anywhere, and neither are we.”
“Ryan and Watts?”
The trollkin pointed toward a battery of barrage teams who were directed by the remaining members of the Black 13th. Caine nodded in satisfaction.

Father Lucant’s rear-right leg could no longer support his weight except for the briefest of moments. The oncoming colossal horror seemed unstoppable. Even all of his calculations and the Forge Master’s perfectly executed tactics seemed insufficient.

Sebastian Nemo, Aurora, and the detachments under their commands were almost defeated. The Iron Mother prevented their retreat from turning into a flight, and only Lucant’s timely arrival prevented their total destruction.

All agreed for the Artificer Prime and his daughter to retire through the gate before they were overcome, too injured to continue the struggle. As for those who remained…
“They disregard the logic of numbers, Divinity Architect.”

Syntherion watched as the line of reciprocators withdrew. Lucant noted his colleague’s quirk of reverting to formal modes of address as his mind raced to seek a solution. The Forge Master’s vessel was spattered with ichor that had melted away a part of his intricate tools.

The senior priest was none too clean himself. His symbol of office, Apogee, had been broken and lost during the struggle, replaced with a lowly enumerator’s staff. He felt the weight of even that rank’s responsibilities.

“With the disposable forces at this time, the colossal beast will be within striking distance of the gate in but an hour, Father Lucant.”
“An hour we do not have, and it is too much to demand the Cygnaran maintain her efforts for all our followers to make the transition.”

The Divinity Architect leaned on the staff to remain fully upright.
“However, we will need—”
Lucant’s raised hand stopped Syntherion mid-sentence.
“You must sense it also.”
“Iron Mother stands true to her word.”
“And not a moment late.”

As one, the two priests of Cyriss looked off into the distance. Sure enough, the familiar silhouettes of a phalanx of heavy vectors came into view, Iron Mother Directrix leading them toward battle.

Hugging Cynthia close to him, Caine made his way through the throng of refugees. The skyship that had been relief to so many thousands of souls that day was within reach.
“Magnus?” Their last jump brought them face to face with the crusty warcaster.

“Never heard of queuing, huh?” he sized Caine up.
“If it means she’s safe, I’m willing to risk it.”
Magnus looked down and noticed the girl clinging to the gun mage’s side. He sucked a breath between his teeth.

“Well, there ain’t a register or nothing, so find yourselves a corner and get out of the way once they start coming up,” he gestured to the waiting mass of refugees, waiting for the ramp to lower from the lower deck of the ship.
“Take care of her for me, please.”

“Please, Magnus.”
The two men looked at each other, grim faced. Magnus finally nodded and flicked his head toward one side. Caine quickly gathered up his daughter and backed away.

If his time on Skarre’s ship meant anything, he guessed quarters suitable for a young girl would be toward the rear.
“Yer pa’s gotta go help his friends now,” he said, kneeling before his daughter. “Ye’ll be safe here. Magnus is a grumpy old stick, but he’s a good man.”

Cynthia took a breath but stopped.
“What is it?”
“I don’t…”
“Want me to go? I know, but I want to do right by yeh and make sure yeh live like I should’a done for yer ma.”

Zaateroth was furious. So many souls were escaping. And by means that defied expectation. The extent of the Nonokrion’s gift to the humans did not include this. But she could not deny what was happening before her.

Massive ships, first empty, then filled with fleeing lambs ripe for the taking, winked in and out of existence, not just view. Zaateroth scanned the battlefield to confirm the location of the time-witch. There had been too many distractions so far.

Enough was enough. Not another soul of the debt owed would be lost. She must die next.
“Not so fast, bookworm!” A pistoleer suddenly came into view.
Before she could react, he shot her squarely in the chest.

Angry at yet another distraction, Zaateroth spent a portion of souls to reform the matter blasted away. Newly summoned desolators attacked Caine, forcing him to teleport away. The infernal retreated while raging at these humans and the obstacles they placed before her.

“Hang in there, Haley!” Caine saw the major’s strength wane just as he felt himself weakening.
Except she was oblivious to all else around her. Almost too late, he saw a lamenter barreling toward him. He swung one of his Spellstorms to fire off a shot.

Before he could pull the trigger, a thunderous shot from Ace brought the lamenter to a halt. Then came another chorus of broadsides from Skarre’s ships. Caine was taken by surprise by a sudden blast of arcane energy that delivered the killing blow.

As its corpse dropped to the ground, he glanced over his shoulder.
“Oh, Magnus’s gonna love this,” he groaned.
“You ain’t leaving me, Pa!” Cynthia cried, runes of casting swirling clear and bright around her.
“But I…”

“I don’t care. Ma got taken from me, and so did you before. I don’t want it to happen again.”
Caine turned back to the battlefield, looking upon it with a father’s eyes. His mind raced, wondering what best to do even as his pistols brought down more infernal beasts.

Directing Ace to cover him, he lowered his guns, and looked to his daughter again.
“I wish to protect yeh, but I can’t do that here, yeh hear?” He sighed. “But if I know anything, yer gonna be as mulish as me.

“Ye’ll need to learn quick, but it’ll help me some if Ace here helps protect you, too.”
Hearing him, the warjack gave a metallic grunt as it slowly made its way to father and daughter. Ace paused every few steps to fire again.

“Come ‘ere,” Caine gestured for his daughter to touch the warjack’s armour, above its head.
For Allister and Cynthia, for just a brief moment, this was not a battlefield and they were not in a fight for their very existence.

“How many times do I need to kill ye?” Caine shouted in frustration.
He had fired more rounds and faster than he ever thought possible. He teleported from vantage point to vantage point, looking to destroy the infernal master.

His bullets never failed to find their mark, yet the Weaver of Shadows’ form seemed indestructible as shorn limbs reformed and wounds closed unnaturally.

As soon as she recovered, a fresh cohort of her minions appeared to spirit her away. And attack anew.


The newly arrived vectors intercepted the Guardian of Souls. Sure they could withstand the horror’s attacks, if temporarily, Iron Mother convened the leaders of the priesthood to the Convergence’s barricade before the gate. She was troubled by the damage they had suffered.

“The Major Prime is weakening,” she stated without preamble. “We must find a solution to the problem posed by the infernal master and that…thing, or we risk everything we have accomplished up to this point.”

“We have estimated the better part of two hours now Iron Mother’s reinforcements are committed,” Syntherion began.
“That is not good enough!” the Directrix snapped. “We do not know if that estimate will change even if we defeat that monstrosity.”

She took a moment to calm herself. “More important, we do not know if another may be unleashed upon us.”
“Indeed,” Lucant agreed. “It is clear it and the host accompanying it are commanded by the master we’ve lost many allies among the other nations to.

“Were we to have any chance of prevailing, she must be dealt with.”
“The pistoleer has apparently killed her no few times already to no permanent effect.”
“Bullets of Cygnaran manufacture are apparently not enough, then,” the Directrix observed.

“He should support my vectors.”
A brief silence followed during which minds processed information and calculated solutions.
“The gate can be reconfigured,” Syntherion noted. “I am certain there are settings to allow us to change the location of emergence.”

“For how long?” Lucant asked.
“That would need to be tested.” The Forge Master’s reply was slow and careful.
The practical reality of being engaged in the largest battle ever witnessed on Immoren went unsaid.

“Great risk comes with such a course,” Iron Mother said, “if need be, the gate’s destruction might preserve refugees who succeed in reaching Cyriss.”
“No other choice currently presents itself,” the Divinity Architect responded, assessing the situation on the battlefield.

“We will invest everything necessary to bring down the demon. It seems to be a cornerstone of the infernal forces. As for the infernal master, I am in no position to deal with it. Neither is Syntherion, and Orion is indisposed, too far to aid us in time.”

“It will take too long to apprise him of our plans. He must be left to his own devices at this time.”
“Very well. If there is no other optin, I will confront the infernal master, then,” Directrix said.
“It is not your duty to do so,” Lucant said.

“If it is for furthering the Great Work, then it must be done, whether by me or another among us.”
Her counterpart nodded in concession.
“Syntherion knows the mechanisms of the gate and will remain to operate it and ensure its destruction,” she added.

“You, however, must be among those who depart through the gate before it is reconfigured.”
Father Lucant adjusted his legs, mindful of the damage suffered.
“They require a leader,” she said, cutting off any objection.

“An indisputable leader. They will be before Cyriss as never before, and as the first priest of the Convergence…”
“This I know,” he conceded, nodding. “Your fate here is uncertain. I wished to step down soon, in any event.”

“And Orion is most suited to continuing the Great Work for those who remain. The followers of Cyriss must establish themselves in the world beyond the gate. It seems most…logical.”
The others nodded in agreement.
“And in case of our defeat…” Iron Mother seemed unsure.

“There is but one recourse,” Syntherion said, “to ensure the infernal master’s absence remains a weakness to their presence here.”
Both Directrix and Lucant regarded each other with silent determination that the Forge Master knew to be acknowledgement.

“They do not share our ultimate goals,” he continued, indicating the small force commanded by the druids of the wilds, “but they do fight toward the same end for Immoren.”

“Stormlord.” Kaya appeared alongside Laris, close to Krueger’s position.
The Circle Orboros’ contingent, though small, gave ground slower than any other. The Stormlord’s constructs proved a formidable barrier against the infernal forces. The two regarded each other coolly.

“What draws you away?”
“Our allies convene without us.” Kaya pointed toward the gate.
There, the druids saw the distinct forms of the Convergence’s most senior priests. Krueger swept his hand at the approaching line of horrors, bolts of lightning striking them down.

He took the measure of Kaya.
“You are wounded,” he observed, “but your wolf may yet run.”
“Indeed. I will go and learn what they scheme and relay it as swiftly as I can.”
The Stormlord noted Laris had already run far ahead. Moments later, Kaya disappeared.

Caine materialized just paces away from Ace and his daughter. He fell to the ground, exhausted, worn to his limit. Barely able to focus, he checked his pistols, took a breath, and took a moment to watch his daughter. Cynthia controlled Ace from pure instinct.

There was little skill and even less finesse, but there was power and potential. Only a fool would not be able to see it, how Ace was imbued with different ability. The warjack devastated enemy after enemy with the same raw power and lack of guile as its new controller.

I should know I got other kids, he thought to himself. I hope an’ pray they’re safe from this mess, wherever they are.
Shame crept in. He was never a good partner and often a worse father. But he looked at Cynthia and could not suppress his pride.

“Look at me, gettin’ all weepy,” he smirked.
“What?” Her eyes were fixed firmly on the enemy before them.
Ace’s long arm resounded, bringing its mark down with two quick shots.
“Leave some for yer pa, eh?” Caine said, raised his pistols, and took aim.

Inform him of this,” the Forge Master said, his mechanical tools chittering away at the console.
“What of the rest of us?” Kaya asked.
“You will need to assume the Stormlord’s battle duties when he comes to aid us.”

“The enemy will not sit idle while we carry out this plan, and it is likely you will come under fierce attack. Your soldiers and beasts must hold.”
“We do not seem to have much choice in this, do we?” She frowned, reluctant to look to the still advancing infernal forces.

“Our calculations, based on our mortal limitations, deem this the best course. Go now. Time wastes.”
Bristling at being commanded by the metal priest, Kaya left in silent fury, though she knew he spoke the truth.

“What delays your decision?” Syntherion asked.
Asphyxious did not answer straight away. Instead, the former Lich Lord lookied back at the expanse of carnage before the gate.
“Make it soon, or it will be made for you!” the Forge Master warned.

“How long, and what is planned?”
“Our plan…is before you.”
Indeed, so much was clear to Asphyxious. Lucant was organizing a final line of defense while a strike force under Iron Mother had but one goal: Zaateroth, the infernal master.

The Guardian was slowed by the Convergence’s vectors but not stopped, and Syntherion himself was awaiting a signal at the controls of the gate. It seemed all of Immoren’s hopes lay in this one effort. It was going to fail.
“I foresee a scorched ruin of this land.”

“We would certainly forestall such an end with your strength. The odds would be in our favor if you give it.”
“Thou sayest forestall, not ‘prevent.’”
“That fight is beyond my ability to calculate to its conclusion, but we have every potential to bring the horror down.”

The former Cryxian slowly shook his head as he watched another vector fall to the Guardian’s thundering claws. None looked ready to take its place. Syntherion paused, as though he were about to speak again, but Asphyxious waved him to silence.

“Worry not, artificer of Cyriss, I decided ere I came here.” He spread his wings. “Fare thee well, Immoren, for what little time remains to thee.”

Time seemed to slow for all who witnessed it, but the Guardian of Souls, upon defeating the last vector barring its way, bellowed with inhuman triumph. Yet its victory was costly. One claw hung almost useless at its side while the other had been sheared off by assimilators.

It was covered in its own hideous viscera, due to many huge gashes across its body. All eyes were upon it as it heaved itself toward the gate, raising its remaining claw to attack the construct and its last defenders. Exultant, Zaateroth ordered the attack.

She heard a metallic shout from nearby. “You will not have your prize!”
Iron Mother Directrix had fought her way through. All that remained of her strike force were two conservators, a handful of servitors, and a squad of Eradicators.

Haley flinched as she felt a touch on her shoulder. She knew her expression must have been pained. She felt the reluctance with which the Divinity Architect had come to her.
“Once more. Just once more, Major Prime.” His voice was oddly muted.

Despite his understanding with Iron Mother, he had continued to fight, leaving much of his clockwork vessel’s plating damaged. Some of its inner mechanisms were exposed. He had lost the use of a second arm.
“And you?”

“My efforts will begin anew on the other side. For all those you save.”
“Your goddess is not mine, though.”
“Yet you continue to expend your strength to save her followers as well as those of your god.”

For several moments, Haley closed her eyes and focused. She exhaled almost violently when an empty skyship faded into existence close by, pulled from a near past made distant. Awaiting refugees clambered aboard.
“Go,” Haley whispered hoarsely. “Your people await you.”

Zaateroth struggled within the grasp of the machine, incensed it could subdue her. She had no time to weaken it as she had the other one. The time-witch’s mechanical ally grazed her with arcane magic and attacked with a flurry of blades, some of them holding her fast.

The utter temerity that a human soul could attempt such action and, worse, succeed. She had the ear of the Magnate Tritorium, gods before even the creators of this puny world, yet Zaateroth was facing her demise. Save me, she called out to all who could answer her commands.

Single-minded, spurred by irrational fear and fury, every horror, every infernal minion within sight made for the gate, toward their infernal master. Suddenly, the machine let go and sped toward the Guardian.

Syntherion saw her signal and input the last of the necessary configurations into the gate. It shimmered and changed color. He looked up to see the Guardian’s claw descend. Its attack did not connect, though, as the Iron Mother’s conservators slammed into its back.

The horror was driven stumbling into the gate instead. Seeing this, Syntherion had his modulator reinforce Iron Mother’s vector in disrupting the Guardian. But it was much weakened by its fight against so many defenders and unsteady under the momentum of the two vectors.

Unable to keep its feet, the colossal horror lurched forward into the gate itself. The stone structure cracked under the Guardian’s weight as the creature fell.

As Iron Mother Directrix passed through the barrier of the gate, the presence of the infernal master terrifyingly close, she prayed fervently one last time. For her people who would make it before Cyriss. For those who would be deprived of that opportunity.

For he who was once Sebastian Nemo, the man she loved in days past, and for Aurora, her wayward, cherished daughter. Regretful she would not be a part of their future, she prayed her actions would ensure they may see it. And lamented that her vessel could not weep tears.

Hunched over on the ground, Victoria Haley remembered her childhood—innocent days with her sister and her family in a small fishing village. Early days in the army, ill-fitting journeyman warcaster’s armor, and the respect she fought to earn from the trenchers.

Promotions as her power and renown grew. Ignorant of the madness swirling about her, she could do little but gaze at her fading hands and feel the many strands of time claiming her, weakly at first but gaining strength with every labored breath she took.

Among the many strands and echoes, she saw her fallen sister. Did I do enough, Gloria? Haley asked, watching the faint outlines of a thousand echoes gather around her. Those of Haley’s future and past selves embraced her near-transparent body as though in answer.

The echoes disappeared, and with them, so, too, did she.

“It is time to…END THIS!” Krueger raised his spear, and a bolt of lightning arced down to vaporize a howler.
Observing the leaders of the clockwork cult and the infernals disappear through the gate, he ascended and sped towards it with all haste.

As he neared, he saw Syntherion working feverishly at the control panel.
“You are aware of what we intend. Make ready, druid,” the Forge Master uttered without looking away.

“Finish your preparations quickly. We are at the eye of a coming tempest—one that is not of my making.” Krueger readied himself and moved to intercept the incoming infernal tide just as the clockwork forces, what remained of them, did likewise.

“A few more moments.” The priest’s reverberating voice sounded odd to the Stormlord as the battle raged louder around them.
In the distance, Krueger could see a cloud of grievers surging toward him. Of those present, only he was in any position to delay them.

“A few moments and we are ended, Priest of Cyriss!” He roared.
Syntherion’s mechanical limbs suddenly stopped and he backed away from the panel. “Now, Stormlord!”
Needing no further instruction, Krueger called a storm like no other to strike the gate down.

Those who were saved would survive, those consigned to the void would remain there, and Krueger would be the agent of this certainty. The first bolt to strike disabled the control panel.

Krueger bellowed amidst the thunder as he brought down a deafening bolt upon the gate. He had time only to watch the giant structure crumble in upon itself before the tide of horrors reached him.
“I stand immortal now,” he spat contemptuously.

“What will you be but a foul memory years from now?”
He swept Wormtongue around and decapitated the nearest one. Below him, Syntherion, still at the damaged monitor and modulator before him, fired salvoes in the druid’s aid but could do little to stop the wave of infernals.

Dozens were dispatched with each swing of Krueger’s spear and each shot from the Forge Master’s warjacks. But there were too many of them. So much more I wished to accomplish, Krueger ruminated, before his lacerated body, covered in gore, tumbled from the skies.

“It’s…over, isn’t it?” Ryan said, stumbling toward Caine.
Her fellow Hellslinger did not answer. Instead, he slumped to the ground, eyes closed as he leaned against Ace’s leg. Cynthia was beside him, just as bedraggled and exhausted. Ryan started to turn away.

“I’m not dead, in case you were wonderin’,” Caine said.
“Like you’d let somethin’ like this kill you,” she smirked and went to kneel down beside Cynthia.
“Getting himself a new line of stitches.” Ryan reached out and placed a hand on the resting girl’s shoulder.

“She’s had one hell of a last few months, eh?”
“Sound familiar?” Caine grinned and exhaled.
Ryan stood, looked about, and gently kicked Caine’s boot.
“Time to be a responsible adult. The battle is won, but we ain’t got time to rest. Not yet.”

“Never the time to rest.” He hauled himself to his feet.
Before leaving with her, he checked Ace’s coal hopper. There was still some fuel and water left, enough for the warjack to remain active for a couple hours still.

As he stepped away to join Ryan, Ace rumbled at him.
“Not any more, buddy. You’re hers, now,” he said, patting Cynthia’s head, “Take care of her.”
Ace gave a strange clanking salute, careful to keep its legs still.


Alexia Ciannor roamed the battlefield, Witchfire in hand, unsure of her place amongst the carnage. Everywhere she went, she saw defeat in the faces of those retreating. But amidst her own battle, she paused to see the gathered specters of the Legion of Lost Souls approach.

An angelic figure, her armor emblazoned with the iconography of Morrow, bowed to Alexia and pointed to the maelstrom of violence around them. At the archon’s sweeping gesture, the Legion of Lost Souls marched into battle.

“What am I to do here when the dead come to try where the living have failed?”
You will know when the time comes, the voices of her mother and the coveners assured her.

Omodamos watched uncomprehending as the metal priestess grappled his fellow infernal master and, struggling against one another, vanished through the gate. His confusion led to an unfamiliar fear and unfathomable outrage when lightning struck the gate’s foundations.

First, the loss of the Guardian and all the souls it was entrusted with, and now the infernal armies were deprived of the Weaver of Shadow’s leadership itself. And Agathon remained unaccounted for. Omodamos felt the presence and power the souls afforded him slip away.

The Harbinger opened her eyes. She knew the infernal master lashed out in frustration. He yet remained a great threat and none but the most powerful of humans could stand against him with any chance of survival.

The massed crowds of refugees, with many thousands of the faithful among them, fled, terrified, before his advance. The Harbinger interposed herself before Omodamos, knowing she would have done so whether or not she stood alone.

While she might die once more, she would do so knowing the glory of Menoth was brought to the new world. Indeed, she knew another congregation succeeded in crossing as the ship disappeared through the gate not far from where she stood ringed by her loyal paladins.

She regarded them. Many had been slain in her defense and that of the pilgrims.
But the girl, born from nothing, who would be a prophet, the voice of Menoth on Caen, privy to his words…she was given no more time to offer her mortal praises to what her Creator had bestowed.

She lay on the ground, unable to breathe, hearing little but muffled cries of despair. Voice by voice, the battlefield grew quiet to her ears. Though she knew she was soon to depart, she sensed an impending arrival.

The wrath of Menoth had been incurred. He did not remain idle.

The heavens were torn open when a single beam of blinding fire lanced down, striking the Harbinger. All near were compelled to their knees or to retreat from the holy light. Even the infernals struggled to stand straight, such was His fury.

Surrounded by Menoth’s radiance, the Testament stood before Omodamos, the Harbinger’s now pristine form held in his arms. Silently, he watched the infernal master, conveying the judgment of the Creator of Man upon him. The enemy would have no more souls from believers.

The spirits of the fallen warriors, defenders who left their homes to help the effort here at Henge Hold, stood as a defiant phalanx around the Testament. Angered by the intervention of a god to such a worthless race, Omodamos swung his mace at the Testament.

But the first among Reclaimers was unmoved. The weapon passed through him, striking nothing but air. Souls gathered around him, untouched and unbowed. As though in contempt, he strode forward, still reverently carrying the Harbinger and attended by the souls of the fallen.

No infernal would harm them. As though by divine command, a rift opened before the Testament. The souls parted, making way for him to lead to the City of Man. The infernal master flinched away from the light shining from the Harbinger as she was carried into Urcaen.

Franticly, Omodamos looked to something, anything, that might grant him renewed strength. But the priest. That accursed priest who had returned to the dead, he, his presence, the ground upon which he had walked, all were inviolable.

The infernal master grasped at the passing spirits as they followed the priest. It was useless. His power was being taken from him and he felt himself fading from this realm. Like him, his forces grew weaker as each moment passed.

But he sensed many souls, different souls, and they were close. Omodamos turned to see a massive formation of the undead, marching in serried ranks toward him. With slow, measured steps, the ensouled dead advanced upon the infernals, moving in unceasing and perfect unison.

Not knowing what else to do, the Black Gate ordered his horde to charge this latest enemy.

“I am—we are—close,” Alexia said softly.

His power is no more, he has no souls left to consume. Her mother and the coveners urged Alexia on. Driven by their voices, the Mistress of the Witchfire strode toward Omodamos. The Legion of Lost Souls were tireless, a boon to the flagging allies of the Iron Kingdoms.

The living were beyond exhaustion, and the clockwork soldiers were few as evening drew near. With the advance of the Legion, the infernal army was surely diminished bit by bit. Unwavering with each effort, they isolated the infernal master while staying out of his reach.

Instead, Alexia stood before Omodamos, his maces heavy on the ground. Every action was slow and ragged as he tried to raise his weapons. She would give him no chance. Faster than either thought possible, Witchfire was buried in his chest.

It cast a light from the wound that almost blinded all who beheld it. Omodamos had souls remaining to heal, but it was as though they were locked away. Unable to move, he felt fear—inexplicable, immense fear. It became a weight upon him, closing in around him, crushing him.

He resisted it, but the more he struggled, the heavier it became.
The infernal master’s sheer power threatened to engulf Alexia as it surged into Witchfire. The coveners were insistent, and she understood, intimately, the strength of the sword she wielded.

She leaned into it, driving it farther into Omodamos’ chest. It seemed an eternity later, but abruptly the sword pushed back against her. Alexia withdrew it with a cry of surprise, stumbling for several steps. She opened her eyes to see nothing before her.

Instead, the runes running the length of Witchfire flared brightly. All around her was silence except for her ragged breathing. No fighting to be heard, no horrors to defend against, no infernalists to betray them. The Legion of Lost Souls stood stoic, facing her.

As one, they saluted her. They started to back away and gradually turned to dust. The souls they left behind gathered about the awaiting archon, the Prophet, ready to guide them back to Urcaen as they had done before.

They arrived but were not sure what they had managed to escape to. Inexplicably, Zaateroth was nowhere to be seen. And they witnessed Omodamos overwhelmed, struck down by a mere girl. Impossible. This was beneath the dignity of the Nonokrion Order.

How could the beings of this solitary planet, just one continent even, be capable of defeating them? The Magnate Tritorium would not be… They thought better than to dwell on where that might lead.

Agathon nervously fumbled through the contracts they had with them. Contracts…yes, they would do well to make sure the contracts were carried out to the letter. But they were distracted by events before them. Agathon was concealed from mortal eyes.

Even so, they felt as though there was no place to hide. There was a gate in the east, but that way, they awaited. Agathon recalled the power and attitude of the master of the occult of House Vyre and the skorne warrior sorcerer. No, they thought.

Without a great deal more support, confronting them again was too great a risk. Those two were not human and had an ingenuity that Agathon needed more time to acquire the means to counter fully. Past Henge Hold, out toward the Meridius.

They might not come tomorrow, next year, or even within the decade, but they, the servants of a most hated rival, would come. The other societies would no doubt seek to capitalize on the Nonokrion failure here. Agathon was unaccustomed to fear and yet felt it only recently.

And once more. Now. They focused once more on the contracts in hand.
Yes, best exploit the more familiar. Even if the infernals were to taste defeat here and other threats loomed near, the humans… Well, the humans would remain human.

They carefully rolled up the contracts that had served as a convenient diversion. And with a renewed sense of purpose, if tempered by necessary vigilance, Agathon planned their next move. First was undermining what would become of the Iron Kingdoms.

And foremost was ensuring an infernalist presence remained, if not strong then at least persistent, to withstand the struggles that lay ahead.



Thanks for posting this! I was trying to read the whole thing on Twitter the other day, but it wouldn’t load the earlier posts. I slept on this story as it was being written, and need to be caught up on the lore.

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Great to see this summary here, was looking for it - thanks!

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Hey, this is great, appreciate the repost since the only alternative nowadays seems to be signing up for ‘X’…

I’m trying to work out who might have gone through the portal, and who died at Hengehold. Anyone able to sense check my lists: let me know if they disagree or I missed something. It’s not exactly clear in some cases

My list of named characters we see or strongly imply go through the portal: Aurora, Asphyxious, Nemo, Lucant, Zaateroth, iron mother, Vlad’s child. Haley, Gubbin, and Caine’s child are mentioned in Warcaster Easter eggs but unclear if / how they went through

My take on dead characters from hengehold (this is vaguer with a lot not clear or implied after being overwhelmed), and who killed them. Madhammer (horrors), Damiano (zaateroth), Vlad (zaateroth), Clogg (horrors), Axis (Valin), Durst & Vilmon (missing defending refugees from Feora), Feora (Pyrrhus), Pyrrhus (mortally wounded by exemplar), Karchev & deathjack (crushed by guardian, riot quest timeline has them survive), Goreshade (turns to void, killed by Falcir?), Ravyn (Elara), Haley??? (Exhausted, or losing herself), Krueger & syntherion (overwhelmed by infernals defending / destroying the gate), Harbinger (omodamus), omodamus (Alexia assisted by testament taking his souls)

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You should absolutely sign up for a Warmachine App subscription. The fiction comes in a steady stream and there’s a ton of good stuff there. :slight_smile:

As for the rest:
Asphyxious, Nemo, and Lucant went through the gate to the Cyriss galaxy, as did Vlad’s child and probably Caine’s child as well. (Given that we know Artemis Fang is a gun mage, and she had a flashback to Caine1’s feat turn at one point.)

Zaateroth and Iron Mother went through the gate but they certainly ended up in a Bad Place™.

Haley evaporated into the time stream after overusing her powers. Gubbin never appeared at all, as far as I remember…? And at one point – and I couldn’t tell you where – Matt Wilson stated that no non-humans went through the gate.

Aurora stayed on Caen to lead the remnants of the Convergence after the rest of their leadership was disposed of.

Durst was confirmed alive in the Protectorate RPG supplement. Feora was confirmed alive in Henge Hold itself. Additionally, she’s alive and in exile in that same RPG supplement.

Syntherion lived; only Krueger was definitely killed that particular heroic last stand.

Agree with your first few paragraphs.

Gubbin and Haley are vague. They stand out because while not discussed using the portal, there are Easter eggs referring to them in the Warcaster rulebook. Whether these are canon is unknown (Gubbin in particular)

Aurora is mentioned going through in the same breath as Nemo

All agreed for the Artificer Prime and his daughter to retire through the gate before they were overcome, too injured to continue the struggle. As for those who remained…

Is syntherions survival confirmed? I agree he wasn’t described as dying, but he was in the same hopeless position as Krueger and kind of hard to see why he wouldn’t die

The protecterate characters… Messy descriptions of civil war and disappearances and I might have missed parts. Thanks for checking

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A couple of quick things:

Gubbin does not appear in Henge Hold at all, so I don’t know where you’re getting that. :slight_smile:

The last thing said about Aurora was “Everybody agreed she and Nemo should go through” or something like that, but it’s never made clear if she does. I feel like she appeared in one of the post-Henge-Hold RPG modules on Caen, but I don’t know which one it might be.

Nemo absolutely, unambiguously makes it through, though, because it’s pretty clear that he’s “The Prime” referenced in Warcaster: Neo Mechanika The Thousand Worlds.

And, of course, Lucant makes it through and appears as Master Tulcan in Warcaster: Neo Mechanika.

Haley’s fate is very clear:

She doesn’t go through the gate; she time-magic exerts herself out of existence. :slight_smile:

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The questioning with Gubbin and Haley is they are both referenced in rune Easter eggs on warcasters first rulebook. I agree there’s no evidence for either going through the gate in hengehold, although hengehold requires you to insinuate a lot- there’s very few who explicitly go through the gate (zaateroth and Mum are the only off the top of my head)

Rune Easter eggs
“Gubbin was here”
“The one who has transcended time is our bridge to the past”

Now I don’t know if it’s canon, but a lot of the evidence for Asphyxious as arc lich and Caine (or children) as fangs ancestor comes from the same source.

In Haley’s case, the easter egg is more vague, however the haley3 future echo could be a link to warcaster: with a sci fi style armour. There is also an intriguing possibility that she could be the prime: being the only other known character to hold the rank.
Bring a bridge to the past could hint at something even if she didn’t go through the gate

In Gubbins case: to be honest I don’t believe it is canon, just looking at the hints from both ends.

Is there a list for the status of all the MKIII warcasters and warlocks? As far as who survived and who died. I’d love to have some kind of reference as to who we lost and how. I know many of them but not all

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Interesting thought!

Nothing concrete, the writing team is being deliberately vague to give themselves wiggle room I think. We know a few that definitely did because they are referenced in either Requiem or Mk4 but I don’t have a definitive list on hand.

The paragraph only means that everyone agreed that Aurora should evacuate with Nemo. There’s no evidence that she actually did. The Iron Mother’s last recorded thoughts were a prayer for Nemo and Aurora, but there’s no clear indication that the two were going to share a destiny together.

Artemis Fang seems to be a descendant of Caine, based on her flashback moment in Warcaster fiction. But according to Henge Hold Scrolls, Cynthia remained on Caen despite Caine’s attempts to get her evacuated. That said, Caine quite likely had other bastard children, as he admits as much in the fiction. I guess there are drawbacks to being an unerring shooter.

As for Haley’s fate: the Haley as we know her seems to have ceased to exist in this timeline. But as her time-shenaginans were getting more and more out of control towards the end, who can say whether she pulled a baby Victoria out of a parallel timeline to go through with the ships? She may not even have intended to. But that’s just a theory.

Of the two people with the title of Prime, Nemo seems to be the one more likely to be the Prime of the Warcaster setting. We know he already went to the other side once, to take in the view, when the gate was first opened.

Another good one. Both of them seem quite difficult to destroy permanently. We know from Gavyn Kyle files that Karchev can survive without his life support apparatus, so even if his warjack suit was totaled, he may have survived, once again, against all odds, just a little angrier than before. And the Deathjack is basically the Skulls of Hate attached to whichever mechanikal body, and it grows into a new Deathjack. It’s entirely feasible that the nigh-indestructible artifacts would’ve survived being stepped on by a kaiju monster.

Yeah, Pyrrhus managed to only break her mask. Would’ve been too much hoped that Feora would get her just desserts. Not that she’s exactly pleased with her current situation, either.

I should get to reading the more recent Requiem books.

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