Okay. I will begin to slowly trickle information about the campaign to you now. It's a way away yet, but it's worth beginning to get it in your minds, as it willnot be a 'normal' game of MedII in almost any form. I'll write an arty-farty piece first to set the scene.
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It is fourteen years since Kadasandra was finished, it's majestic walls cresting the five isles like spear tips, silver in the twilight, golden in the morn. In the palatial halls of the Dragonthrone, Valerian rests in gloom, his Dragons gone to nest in the highest peaks of the Scald, his massive EMpire won and fortified, peace held tight, at the height of it's majesty and in the birthing of it has come the vestiges of an Ideal that no other could have borne the weight of.
In the East, Mournweaver still holds the Law, his grip tight, merciless in an unwavering pursuit of his friend's vision; he is fair, compassionate to those that obey the law, and merciless to those that bypass or attempt to control justice for their own needs.
Lisandra, the Golden Fawn, holds the line in the East, her five grand fortresses marking the edge of the all-important Heartlands. Hers is a merciful, talented and kind demesne, yet she punishes with regret, but a regret that does not stay her hand. To the south of the Heartlands lies Nehemia, the land of the riders of ponies, and the masters of bulls. In the very south is the massive fortress of Hedrin; Valerian's Folly, built on the ephemeracy of a dream-vision - a hulking brute of a city, one that can garrison a third of the Imperial West, yet this has been run down; Valerian's dream left to fallow.
In the Lands of the Pawn Saints, the Principality of STeel, the forging of the northern clans and the tight feudal south rest, but the scars are there for all to see - time may yet heal it, but the scar is red raw, stitched by the invasion of the coast by CHo Tetsu, who have been sent reeling to their homelands four years into their occupation.
The Elves still dwell in great numbers here, in the West. The hovering Pyramid cities of the Selediri make little noise as they gracefully strike shadows in the fiery gaze of a radiant sun. Thousands of their warriors train, and the sands are plentiful with bounty; oases, great clusters of crystal, works of wonder - tiny shrines, garrison towers - all is secure and well within their borders, and they remain unbested by any, including the great Emperor himself. Like silk and fire, they dance in waves of beautiful death, unfettered by mortal bonds.
The water gradens, fountains, lakes and white walled homes of the Ildiri lie behind an obsfucatory mist, a maze that is said to read men's hearts and send those lacking back to where they entered in the first place. Mighty sorceries are at work here, and the waters are literally teeming with life; pure, like liquid silver and clear sweet dew. At the edges of grand lakes are layered gardens, orchards, fields of barley and wheat, all tended by water Avtars, whose very nature boosts the bounty and fertility of the lands they so succour. The Heron King holds Court in the Palace of Dreams, his people safe and secure, possessed of such peace and tranquility that war would offend the very heavens.
The Khezdrul sit in their mountain Holts, brooding and obsessed, driven by the Hunger, and their main allies press for the works of war, believing they honour the stout dwellers of the Deeping Halls, the craftsmen that transcned the work of the gods themselves, with their Gnomes, the great works of a race that drives itself to death simply to sate a missing piece, some say a piece of their very soul.
What lies beneath all of this delight? Deep in the ground are walls and halls made of pure gold; there are wonders here, yet all is dark, all is filled by hate, brooding, feral, bound in a silent scream that will turn into a roar as the flood is unleashed upon the world; a tide of terror with one purpose; to wipe all that lives from the face of the world. These are possessed of a keen intellect, and all of that is focused on the world above; eyes burn with passion and there is little hope; yet often can small things build into something - an ideal that rises to challenge all terrors. Even this may not win the day, but it is always enough to try. A simple thing indeed.