WAR! (Open)

Do Mugu thumbed the magic paint across his sagging brow, across his scarred cheeks, and down his hooked nose. Glinting on the horizon, a premonition of war was waiting to come alive. Fingering pointedly, he made openings in his matted black hair—in those holes he affixed dandy flowers, clean rat bones, and the caps of bright, red, poisonous mushrooms. Finally, the Arch Shaman of the Xangu Basin completed his battle garb with resplendent jade feathers; each plume trailed out down his leathery back like the glimmering tail of a mythical land fish.

The wind washed the scent of destruction through the sea of grass. To damped the sun's blaze, he shaded his eyes. "They are coming," Gum conceded contently. At his side were two thorny faced warriors. The flanking fighters were braced by their capacity: young enough to be bold, but seasoned with the settling spice of past victories.

"Become the tree roots, comrades," Do Mugu instructed with sage conviction. And so his allies fled, to the ground they went. Each Xanguan champion took to the tight tunnels like moles. Meanwhile, their commander—Arch Shaman, Gum do Mugu—remained in the field; his role was to be history's lightning rod.

Or, could it be, the Imperials would fall into the trap?

Maybe the Castigars would send outriders?

Or, what if, just what if... Shinsou himself would appear from the glare of the morning sun?

But, most likely, nothing at all would happen...

When a hare screams out in pain, the fox comes running...but not to help.

The mantra was as true for nature as it was for the Castigars. The lengthy and bloody conflict between Arius Mephisto, the usurper, and the leadership of the Brotherhood had taken a large toll over the long winter months. Many men, women and children had died. Many more were forced out of service due to the severity of their wounds. Key physical and economical Brotherhood infrastructure around Corone had been pounded into near oblivion. The leadership had been divided and scattered across Althanas by Arius's wicked sorcery, and it had taken months for them to re-group.

The feared beast that was the Brotherhood was wounded, and their enemies could smell the blood. People watched from the shadows as the animal that had once almost conquered Radasanth started to stumble. They, like hyenas circling their downed prey, could smell the opportunity and longed for the rare flesh that no other had yet managed to tear away from the Brotherhood carcass.

Like the fox that heard the hare cry out in pain, it was only a matter of time before a dog came to get its next meal.

Shinsou Vaan Osiris thought about this as he sat at the mirror, his trusted friend Durandal outlining a reconnaissance report whilst the Telgradian adjusted Enpera around his waist. The briefing was familiar subject matter; a small, unidentified band of armed men loitering in Brotherhood territory. Not unknowingly, most likely.

Something, however, was different. The men were dressed in garbs that didn't match the uniform of any known militia or military organisation on Corone, and Shinsou knew all of them. Their skin tone and complexions were closer to the people of Fallien than anything else, but even so seemed so much more distinct that Durandel couldn't place them. As saliva slid down his throat, Shinsou tried to comfort himself that it was probably just an advanced mercenary scouting party, hired hands trying to get paid for a good look for the Brotherhood's wounds. That they had been spotted at this juncture would give him time to prepare for whatever would come next.

"Normally, I'd leave this to you," Shinsou lamented to the dark skinned elf, the master spellsword dusting himself off and biting his lip as he pushed off from his chair, "But not this time. I'll go."

"Are you sure?" Durandel asked, shouldering his longbow and striding out of Shinsou's study together with him, "What about sending some advanced security, just in case?"

As they paced down the west wing's corridor, the elf shot a sideways glance at the Telgradian. Shinsou's eyes were narrowed and cold, their golden irises resonating ever so slightly with a rhythmic, arcane pulse.

"I am here. There is no better security than that."

It wasn't so much what Shinsou had said, but the way he said it that struck Durandel as the Telgradian paced away towards where his horse Slepnir was being fed. There was, finally, a sheer defiance in his tone. After months of having his heels bitten by the hungry dogs of Corone, it was clear now that the Telgradian was no longer prepared to sit by and watch these hyenas circling the Brotherhood's carcass, waiting for an opportunity to jump in and rip meat from their bones. Too much had happened, and too many had suffered this past year.

As Durandel watched his leader disappear from view, he found a wry smile slithering onto his lips.

He put his palm to the earth, what did he see? Rivers flowing into the sea. He begged the spirits, what did they say? Nothing to fear in the coming fray. Nothing to fear, nothing to fear. Their Overworld's reborn light washed them with lies and truth, balanced on the scales. Morning. Meanwhile, the Underworld sank for the day's burgeoning truth, but it, too, lied (in equal measure). Together, the light and dark pooled and wrapped into nature's perfect symmetry, each dotting the other with their seed. Do Mugu felt the warmth of love, and pressed kindness against its opposite: apathy, not hate.

Impassive, the stolid shaman smudged the dry tip of his index finger across a mushroom's crimson cap. The tender, cracked, bloody, receptive skin of his sullen lips felt the psychoactive toxin first. Then, slowly, his pink tongue sweltered from his mouth and lounged atop the thin cushion of his lower lip. His wet mouth muscle felt the cooling breeze, more so than his dry skin. And so, Gum ran his poison-smeared finger across his tongue's taste buds. Saliva, mirroring Shinsou's, slipped down the shaman's throat with a silent gulp.

The shaman's conduit to the spirits had been broadened.

A roar grew from a whisper, a message the shaman took from every blade of grass and every droplet of river spray. The spirits of all creation, he heard, were calling to justice their enemies' imbalance. The Imperials, the Brotherhood, and the conniving complex of interlaced power-grabbers would all buckle under the life-giving planet's infallible righteousness. Gum do Mugu, wired to the unified hive of raging spirits, would be nature's prime general in the war to come.

Do Mugu's flesh tingled, transformation magic bubbled in his flesh.