The world trembles when dragons go to war.
Heard from the mouth of an unknown sailor in a Varencian tavern:
Come on closer, lad. I heard ye be collecting stories about the War of the Dragons. Well, it’s yer lucky day because I was there when it all started. Grab yer quill and listen to me.
It was many years ago. Too many for an old piece of cork like me to count. ‘was but a measly marine fighter, back then, on a ship called The Punch Piercer. Mighty ship, she was. ‘had been on a year-long campaign fighting the porcelain corsairs of Alagadda, punching them and their horrid selachian pets with bare knuckles, the boxer way. Don’t remember why, but we strayed too far westwards, away from our sacred Monastery, in pursuit of a monstrous masked shark.
‘round here is where it gets interesting. I didn’t know it then, but our captain, forgotten by the tides be his name, started to fall ill as we sailed and retreated to his chambers. His last orders were to leave the masked shark to its own devices and travel closer to Italagadda. We was excited at the prospects of punching more of these monstrosities in the face, so we didn’t question it. Then, one fateful morning we saw that we had wandered into a hellish sea, lost in waters warped by the Mistaken Beast. The sky was red and black as ash fell from above. The sea was boiling, but we could see that, even in its darkness, it was filled with twisted selachian leviathans. ‘couldn’t even dive below to punch their ugly mugs, because the poor bastard of a boxer who did got their skin burnt right off. It was enough to put me in a fighting mood. ‘tween the dark clouds we spied the origin of this hellscape, an island. It itself was burning, a mountain in the middle was spewing forth fire and blood.
And how could I forget about how The Punch Piercer was creaking and swaying. That boat, mighty as she was, wasn’t built to be in boiling water. But soon enough, we realized that there was something more to that powerful trembling. Yes, for it came from the captain’s quarters. A kind of thrashing came from it. A deckhand approached it, first mate’s orders, and said that she could ‘ear a voice from within speaking in tongues. Then, the door opened and something crawled out. Whatever that thing was, ‘twas not the captain any longer.
His skin had been turned into scales, and his body had been twisted into a sort of reptilian form, two boney wings sprouted from the back. And it had two heads that spewed fire. ‘twas frightsome, I tell ya. I was the closer boxer to that selachian abomination, so I plunged fist first into its face.
And that’s how I lost mine good right hook.
Where was I? Ah, yes. The thing that was once our captain crashed through the deck and jumped into the sea. I looked to the island (which a mapmaker later would tell me was supposed to be the Sicilia of the Yellow Lord) and saw that a colossal thing was stirring between the smoke. The first mate, a boxercat whose cowardice will never be matched again, ordered us to turn around and sail back to our monastery in Malta and come back to that hell island with a fleet of ships to deal with these abominations. But that’s a story for ‘nother day, isn’t it?
Tale of an unusual visit received by the Grand Emir of the Iberian Emirate of the Horizon Imperium:
On the days long past of the Emir Alacia Abd-Paraz II, her seat, the court of Corduba was a place of wondrous art. Tapestries with the word of God were hung from the high ceilings of palaces, churches and mosques. Minstrels and storytellers came from far away lands to sing songs and poems and sagas about heroes and false gods and monsters. A menagerie of warmongering penguins, heretical eastern monkeys, bronze lizards and other beasts of old letters was kept by Wild-sons for all to see and bask in its glory. It was here that the Emir received messages and emissaries from the taifas of Barnola and Varencia, on the year of our lord of 2135 in the Hijri Calendar or 2715 in the Gregorian Order.
The day dragged long as the couriers filtered into the great halls of the Emir’s palace. They brought news from the dozens of merchant ships sunk by leviathans of the depths and how an incursion of demons from the sea was narrowly held back by the warriors of those lands. But there was fear in their eyes. They demanded for a new Crusade to be declared, to rid the world of these brazen perpetrators, of that which spawned from the accursed lands of Italagadda.
Then, the unthinkable happened.
That fateful day, there was a small mekhanite invention amongst the gifts to be given to the monarch. It was a music box with automats inside capable of performing a play. While the Emir was discussing with her counselors, fate made it so a page stumbled on the box, activating it. A discordant music filled the room, and the shadows formed a shape in its center.
These holy lands have always been haunted by djinn and demons of many kinds, but one manifesting in the seat of power of a province of the Horizon Imperium is unheard of. Nevertheless, guards surrounded it, spear in hand. But what emerged from the darkness was no other than the Ambassador of Alagadda itself.
Its voice is an echo of an echo, it used words of an untalked language, and spoke thus:
Attacks on your realm from our land come not
A wound on ourselves has been inflicted
Yellow Lord weeps for the loss of its domain of rot
For a Wyrm has awakened
Its bloodthirst eternal
It alone the author of your woes
Against us do not ready your weapons and salt
That is how the word of My King goes.
The Ambassador disapeared shortly after, as the music box crumbled to dust and rust. The glorious Abd-Paraz II immediately decided that such an invasion required immediate retribution and called a Holy Crusade to cleanse the sea from the Italaggadan filth and their apparent pet dragon.
Thus, the ill-fated Third Horizon Crusade began.
Series of prophetic predictions by the Silicate Nornir of Ur'tec for the year 688 AW:
It is the will of the Nornir to predict these events, and so these events shall come to pass:
On 688 AW, the southern provinces of the German Occult Confederation will suffer a series of catastrophic occurrences.
First: The principality of Sjhlfels will fall to a horde of Italagaddans, with the Black Lord or the Red Lord on its head. The Mages Academy will be ransacked and 67 of every hundred of the faculty and its students will fall to the sword. A contingency of soldiers from the White Infantry are to be deployed on the frontiers and hold the onslaught of masked horrors. Parahealthists are to be ready to supply any help needed to the refugees. The Nornir predict that even if this spells destruction for the Sjhlfels princedom, it will be beneficial to our Princedom and the Empire at large.
Second: No less than a hundred fire breathing beasts will wash ashore in the ports of Maselie and Nice. These are the spawn of an enormous dragon nesting in the Isle of Sicilia. The Orange Cavalry constantly dispatched into the beaches of that region to slaughter the abominations will be enough to stop any further advancement by these monsters, but they predict that the appearance of a large wyvern of our own will turn the tide of the conflict in our favour.
Thirdly: As will be reported by the networks of spies from the Marches of the Sapphire order and the Vassalized Kingdom of Mirmande, a large force of Imperial holy mamluks embarking into a crusade to retake the sancta Roma from the hands of the Hanged King. No action is recommended. This Crusade will fail.
The Major Interpreter of the Silicate Nornir communicated with the Speaker to Humans of the Silicate Nornir and recommended the following actions to be fully realised by the mortals of this realm:
Send a company into the Dolomites in search of the fabled Tharnock the Second. This dragon is the most likely to be the one predicted by the Nornir in their second prophecy.
Sirs Frederick Vaulles and Ophelia Vang (both survivors of the Mittenwald massacre), Meister Jung and Nornir Seer Nolk are to be sent into this mission. They will bring gifts of gold and silver, and it will join our cause due to our common enemies.
Furthermore, mendicants are to be directed to Ur'tec from other provinces of the Confederation. Failure to do so will result in The Nornir resenting the lack of offerings in their name.
Wailing prayer to Mekhane spoken by the Broken God cultists of the island of Mayurqa:
Mekhane herself cried when Mayurqa fell.
The bronze-footed warriors were away, aiding in a misplaced war against the masked ones and could do nothing when the Flesh came and burned the island.
Steel legions were melted. Dome of the golden mosque of Alcudia lifted and stolen. Our peoples slaughtered and eaten.
Never such a destruction had befallen the world.
Cursed be the Flesh.
Cursed be its Wyrm.
Mekhane herself cried when Mayurqa fell.
Letter by the disgraced Lady Adelaide the Mason, former Earl of Middle Normandy, directed to Secretary Empress Andanta the Second:
To the Elect Secretary Empress Andanta II.
I hope this letter finds your majesty well. And I hope your majesty rests assured that I wouldn't bother her unless I knew I had some information worth her regal time.
The fishermen have been restless lately as they reported that, when they approached the land of Uk to get bigger catches, they saw a large shape moving in the miasma. As is my duty, I didn't take these reports lightly, so I put my best men on the watchtowers overlooking the channel. It was with great sorrow that I received the news that, this morning, a three headed dragon crossed the channel southwards. I listened to this report directly from the mouth of one of my Einherjar, and that is how I can guarantee that this information is trustworthy of your regal ears.
Thus, with the message inside this apparating crow, I regret to inform your imperial majesty that the Dark seems to have woken up again, and its path of destruction leads it deep into the lands of Franquia.
Lady Adelaide Mason
Earl of Middle Normandy
3rd of January of 689 AW.
Chronicle of Lady Maureen Lynisha of the Pentagramic Fiefdom, retired Uhequian Cataphract of the Orange Cavalry:
Aye, I remember the Battle of the Blue Coast. Though I wish I could forget.
We had seen the wreckages of Mekhanite and Horizon Imperium ships. Their crews maddened by the sights of Italagadda. I talked with some of the more rational ones, and they talked of a giant battle in the sea. Crusaders of the Imperium aboard Mekhanite ships supported by the Protectors of the Coast fighting a fleet of Corsairs of the Black Lord. And then, something descended from above. A dragon of colossal proportions and its host of spawn. They burned the water with their flames, and all the boats in it, too.
We had also seen the monsters that washed ashore. I had killed more than ten with my lance.
So it wasn't as if we were not prepared for the battle. Fifty Orange Knights, with our shining armor covered in runes and thaumic circles. Three hundred other knights, from many orders. Five hundred Black Infantry and one thousand white infantry. Twice as many unregulated militias. And I don't know how many wizards. There were some Hunters of the Primordial on our midst, too. Brutal soldiers, I forget if they were contacted by the Duchy or if they came following the scent of the soon to be spilled blood.
And our own dragon, too. Tharnock, was what we called it. It was bigger than the spawnlings that crawled out of the water regularly, and it had a taste for Italagaddan flesh. We were glad to have it with us.
We had been fighting the hordes that spewed out of Italagadda. They were pitifully easy to kill. We could not shake the feeling that they were fleeing from something.
Aye, I remember that something. Clear as day.
A storm covered the entire sea. The boiling water was infested with nightmares that slowly rose up from it to meet our spears and arrows. Their fire turned the beach to glass, and we stained that glass red with their blood. I charged headfirst, slicing many of those abominations with my sword.
We were winning the battle. And then the sky broke.
That Tharnock didn't stand a chance against that thing. It was bigger than anything I've ever seen. It was bigger than Maselie itself. And it demonstrated it by razing it to the ground with its breath. The dragon on our side flew upwards to meet it, and it was rended asunder with one fell swoop of that other wyrm.
While it gorged on the miserable inhabitants of the city, its spawn fell on us. Our lines were broken. Knights were boiled alive inside their armors, their horses ran aflame through our ranks. A well placed ballista bolt could kill those beasts, but many more took their place.
I lost my spear when I threw it like a javelin, impaling the head of a turtle-like enemy. I drove my sword into a snake the size of a cow. My steed trampled a thousand lizards with its armored hooves. But it wasn't enough.
And it was then that I heard the most horrible sound. A laugh… No. Three laughs turned into one. Another monster descended from the skies. The dreaded three-headed beast I know in my dreams as Marscar the Dark.
This is where my memory grows frail. I remember fire. I remember ice. I remember the shouts of the wizards as they were set alight, or frozen to death, or trampled. I remember the cries of the dead and the dying. I remember the ground trembling under my feet as the two colossal wyrms fought over the ashes of the Maselie. I remember waking up two days later, with my armor broken and my horse half-eaten. I do not know how or why I was left alive. A mercy of the gods, if I had to guess.
You can visit that place, if you dare. The ground is poisoned by the reptile blood. And the Duchy of Maselie never quite recovered.
Oh, and how could I forget about the skeleton. It still rests there, on that accursed coast. I, for one, will not go back there.
Interview with the Curator of the Burlin Hall of Occult History.
Ah, yes. That is one of the favourite tales amongst our scholars. As you can see in our collection, some of us hoard mementos from that sour moment. We have an entire hall dedicated to the skeletons of the fallen beasts.
Our scholars still ponder what brought the first dragon northwards and what brought that second dragon southwards. There is a tale that might shine some light on the matter: once, there was a king who had a large and rich crown. And so, he was mirthful. But he heard that the king of the neighboring kingdom had a larger and richer crown. And so, his mirth soured. He marched with his armies and met his neighbor on the field of battle. Swords clashed until they both plunged their blades into each other's hearts. Only then the king thought to look at his enemy's brow. He saw that the crown he had thought was bigger and better than his own was, in fact, exactly like his.
Yes, as the story says, sometimes the things we hate the most, are the things more alike to ourselves.
We may only guess what drove them to actions that spelled doom for many men, for these accursed beasts are prideful and fickle. The truth now is that the Wyrm of Sicilia died that day and that Marscar the Dark mercifully lies dormant again.