Wyrwild, The New Imperium of Marlem

  The sound of beating drums boomed in his ears, quenching the idle chatter of his fellow travelers and the soft noise of the waking caravan like a candle flame being extinguished in an ocean. Maximillian crouched over his bedroll, adrenaline fueled body barely restrained by animal terror, with one hand clutching his staff in a white-knuckled grip and the other hovering over his knee as he prepared to bolt at the slightest hint of movement.

  Seconds went by in tense stillness as the looming presence in his mind’s eye drew closer and closer, swelling and bloating to the point it felt as if he was drowning in a sea of indiscriminate malice. Maximillian broke out in a cold sweat as the booming drums in his ears intensified, and he braced himself for impact. And just when he thought everything was coming to a head, the presence, and the danger it brought with it, faded away like morning mist, leaving him sweaty and cold with no explanation or rationalization to calm his raging mind.

  Maximillian waited, unmoving for a few more minutes before he had the confidence to shift from his spot, carefully making his way around the blissfully sleeping traveling companion whose tent he shared. Peeking outside, he noticed the traders loading up their wagons in a hurry, and that the pilgrims by the fire who were about to prepare the morning fare rushed to pack it all up twice as quickly.

  The mercenary band that had been hired to guard the caravan, the 'Pondering Ogres', were shifting nervously. The four men that were clad in the green tree-patterned cloaks that bore the band’s emblem, the mages though, were especially twitchy of their surroundings.

  So it wasn’t just him, then. The fact both reassured and unnerved him. So it was something only those who were sensitive to the land could detect. The Pondering Ogres were notorious for being a dwindling sect of druids who were driven out of their forest by a great beast, and had turned to mercenary work when the Empire’s doctrine rejected their presence in society almost completely. If there were anyone in the entire nation who could teach him a thing or two about obscure magic that relates to spirits and the land, it was them. He so dearly wanted to discuss lore with them, but it was best to do it later, after everyone had settled down from the scare.

  A man wearing an expensive leather outfit bearing the imperial heraldry - a depiction detailing a curling tree with knotted roots and downward spiraling branches set in a grainy yellow background - approached him.

  “You are one Maximillian Ormson, yes? The hedge mage from Meldr?” He asked.

  Max bit the inside of his lips to silence the instinctual ire that rose up with that label, and nodded. “Yes, sir Ranger. That would be me”

  The imperial ranger nodded. “Good, good. The false prophets up front noticed your magic responding to whatever's got them up in a tizzy. Said that if you’re good enough to notice that thing-” The man waved his hand around in mock seriousness, making light of what sounded more and more like genuine sage advice, and sneered. “You might as well make yourself useful at the front. Well, what are you waiting for lad? Get to it!”

  Wincing, Maximillian said his agreements to the man, and headed back into his tent to pack his things up in haste. He approached an intricately decorated staff leaning against his luggage - it was more a work of art than a staff to be honest. Inspired in part by the rumored great totems of Western Oscela, it appeared to be a series of detailed carvings stacked on top of one another, ending in a head of curved petrified wood shaped unnervingly like a skeletal hand clutching at something nobody could see. The truth of the latter was a bit more morbid than one would normally assume, but as they say: ‘it was for a good cause’.

  He held up the staff and channeled a free strand of prana through it, lighting up each carving dimly until it reached the hand, which seemed to flex in a way that felt unnervingly natural - but not quite. The term ‘uncanny valley’ seemed apt for it.

  “Those annoyances are as insufferable as ever, I see. Even with the marching of the ages, some things seem doomed to remain ever unchanged. The Northern frontier is cold, Those who enter the great distortions never return, Pacifica remains the world’s biggest Meat-grinder, and the Imperial Rangers are assholes. What else is new?” Cassandra asked as she shimmered into existence over his shoulder, clutching the staff at a higher point than he did.

  His lips quivered into a smile as he let go of the staff, the weapon now in the grasp of a now more solid-looking Cassandra.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “You do know that the weird flexing thing the hand does is still creepy, right?” He said as he quickly arranged his valuables.

  Cassandra shrugged. “I can’t do anything about that, there’s a sympathetic element to the magic so it will move as if it were my own hand when it establishes a connection to me. Which… you know, because it is.”

  He snorted.

  “Something to look forward to in our next lesson then. Also, you have a bad history with the Rangers?”

  “Something like that. Did you know that the Imperial Rangers were instituted as a response to the Explorer’s association?”

  Maximillian raised an eyebrow. “Really. They don’t say that in the history books.”

  “National propaganda.” Cassandra said as she waved her hand dismissively. “The church of Orleal created both the Sedian theocracy and the Explorer’s association hand in hand because, you know, her divinity Orleal is both a sea goddess as well as the patron deity of travelers, pioneers, all that stuff.” She explained.

  “The Grand Expedition that landed them on this continent created a lot of tension between the then ever-expanding theocracy who just wanted get a foothold out of the hellhole that was Pacifica, and the Old Marlem Empire who had no idea how to deal with losing their peasant population to temptation of a better life as a colonial pioneer rather than stay under their lord’s thumbs. Old Marlem was a relatively idyllic utopian society at the time so they had no clue as to how to reel back unchecked ambition.”

  “Oh yeah, I read something that mentioned Old Marlem using undead as free labour? Something about the ancestors safeguarding the younger generations.” He asked.

  “Everyone knows how that turned out. There’s no going back from militarizing necromancy. In any case, expanding their borders was also not something Old Marlem concerned itself with for understandable reasons, so there was a lot of unexplored land that they suddenly risked falling into rival hands while their population bled through the seams. This led to the creation of the Imperial Rangers as a direct response. We’ve been rival organizations ever since, and we even had a clashes over the years.”

  Maximillian blinked. “Huh. That explains a lot of the inconsistencies.” Then he blinked. “So then why…?”

  Cassandra picked up on the question. “Why is the Association looked upon as role-models, and seem so awe inspiring, even to a complete foreigner? Why your countrymen prefer the ‘heretic explorers’ over your own national equivalent?”

  “Yeah. That.” Max nodded.

  “Structure, mostly.” Cassandra hummed. “We were already well organized long before we set foot on the Western continent. We had proper ranks, uniforms, specialized equipment, protocols, a dozen different solutions prepared well in advance for any potential problem that might suddenly crop up. Everyone could see that we were competent. The rangers on the other hand were given a lot of power, authority, and very few people to answer to. They were mostly left to their own devices with very little oversight. They’re very scary and effective, as you know, but fear also builds a lot of resentment.”

  “I see.” Hummed Maximillian as he slung his pack over his shoulder and moved to leave the tent.

  “Took you long enough.” The ranger commented as Maximillian exited the tent. “Now off you go, straight to the front boy.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Maximillian did as instructed. There, he saw one of the green cloaked druids, and upon closer inspection, saw their fabled ‘wooden’ armor. Well, seeing it directly, it was less an ‘armor’ and more of a… suit, it was called? It was a form-fitting mass of streamlined fibers, hardened glistening segments and connective tissue that almost seemed to flow and undulate organically like living muscle more than anything Maximillian could think of.

  The man had a scruffy beard and a rather sleep-deprived look to him. “You’re here. Good. Did he tell you what we needed your help with?”

  “No.” Maximillian replied honestly.

  “We need some help to expand our sensor grid. I personally don’t want to get caught with my pants down if that thing ever decided to come back. How good are you with your magic? Do you follow a particular school, or do you just practice it free-form? I don’t recognize your equipment.” Free-form being a ‘nice’ way to say ‘hedge-magic’. Seriously, did he really look that unhinged?

  “I’ve been training some Sedian Standard lately, but it's mostly lore so far. I have some basic proficiency using catalysts, though my teacher did force me to learn the [Broadcast] and [Receiver] spells to some proficiency since she said that Transmission magic is in demand no matter where you go.”

  The druid smiled. “Smart woman, that. And very true besides. Maybe you will be useful after all. What do you personally specialize in?”

  Maximillian rubbed his neck sheepishly when he answered. “I managed to reach mastery in [Seek Guidance].”

  The druid raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise when he heard that he had reached mastery, but then his eyebrows furrowed as he stared Maximillian down. Ah. The man knew his stuff… enough to make Max’s life difficult as well, it seemed.

  “[Seek Guidance], eh? From Spiritual Evocation, yes?” Eldritch Evocation, actually. It was severely misclassified and it was telling why so many people had issues with the thing before it faded out of use. “That is… old magic. Even more shamanistic than what we ourselves practise. And very dangerous, besides. You may think you’re fine because you have a contracted spirit-” At this, the druid’s eyes went to his totem-staff. “But that’s the kind of spell where you can never truly control the results of. Are you sure you know what you’re doing, lad?”

  “Yes.” He affirmed confidently.

  “Very well, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt since you’ve been a polite young man so far, but do know that I am watching you. If only for your own safety more than anything else.”

  Maximillian sighed. “Understood, sir.”

  The druid nodded. “All’s well then. Call me Cevius. I’ll show you what you need to do. Come here, lad.”

  Well. Time to get to work then.