In Andash, life continues on as it has since the time of Grand Andash; full of joy and suffering in equal measure. The latter, fed by absence, drought, and a listless haze hovering over Tanebar South, sitting on one side of the scale, while the former manifests in an ally, once apart and now together, following through on their terms as The Concord have - in defence and blood.
It will be up to the Heroes of Andash and the wider Concord to decide how these scales will be balanced; whether the realm will be as lost in spirit as Nazafeza has been in reality, or whether they will rise as a phoenix from the ashes.
Lacking in All Things
Even in winter, the sun high in the sky cast the sands below in a warm glow, ripples of heat shimmering over the golden dunes. Set against the brightness of the cerulean sky, more than one Delver took the time to rest their eyes, heavy lidded and lazy on the sand as the light rose and rose, grew and grew, thankful for a moment to pause.
They would wait until it was less bright to begin looking at the plans, they decided.
The same haze that lay over the wider landscape settled upon the make-shift camp, the balmy breeze winding its way between the canvas tents and the figures splayed on their bedrolls in the slow-moving shade. The workers paid by The Civil Service were pleased that they started the season by laying out all of their equipment, feeling the sun’s warmth settle on their skin, golden and heady.
They would wait until it was less hot to proceed with checking the foundational structures, they decided.
As the sun moved through the sky, an idle call for lunch echoed through the camp, the fragrance of fizzing citrus and hissing chilli oil danced in the air as drinks were poured and meals were cooked. The collection of people were glad to have the full season to build up the settlement, lounging upon their blankets with stomachs full from their indulgent meal.
They would wait until their food had settled before starting the manual labour, they decided.
The light becoming softer, the horizon shifting in shades of saffron and madder, the people moved closer. Huddled around the campfires, now shining with golden fire light, they sat and spoke of old glories - of Grand Andash, of their digs, and of their discoveries. Some shed tears, some wore smiles; all felt a warmth in their chest from sharing in this moment.
They would wait until the conversation ran dry before making a plan for tomorrow, they decided.
The sky now damson, the fires now dwindling, the people moved apart. With no sun high in the sky, the desert was colder than any of them remembered it being, and as they withdrew to their tents, to wrap themselves in blankets and bedrolls, there was an ache in their chest. A lacking where a drive to forge their own place in the world had been.
They would start work tomorrow, they decided, emptiness ringing in their chests.
And so it continued.
Day after day, week after week. At first the delays were those caused by things of joy - of inspiring conversations, of sharing meals with new friends, and of lounging under the warmth of the sun. But it did not take long for these delays - these indolent indulgences - to shift into a state of malignancy.
Builders, fretting that work that should have started weeks ago would not be able to dry before the end of the season if they began now. Instead, they ended up doing nothing at all, vibrating in their anxiety, and cursing their previous lack of ambition. Delvers, commiserating over plans that had been left unupdated, and would entirely change the resources they needed if altered to reflect the current state of site. Instead, they ended up doing nothing at all, rotting in their inaction, and bemoaning their ‘New Kodiri,’ looking exactly the same as it had at the start of the season.
Game Information:
Due to the Plague of Idleness curse placed upon the Tanebar South, the construction of New Kodiri as a permanent site for the Delvers of Andash ground to a halt before it had even begun.
Though many of the resources purchased using funds from the Senate Treasury have not been wasted, and the workers sent are so inundated with guilt at their inaction that they have not charged for their time, this has meant that the construction has not occurred.
Given the lack of work, the Senate will have a decision to make in the first Senate Session of the upcoming Summit, relating to their allocation of funds for the commission.
The Fifth Garden Is Empty
There is something deeply uncomfortable about silence where voices once lingered. Even if those voices were whispered, filtered through bark and blood, or perhaps never truly spoken at all.
This season, the Gardens of Obregon, those morbid, marvellous glades born from the arboreal putrefaction of the dead, have fallen quiet, not by natural cause, but by decree. In twin edicts from the Church of the Divine Spheres and the Senate, access to these sites has been strictly limited. Only sanctioned investigators from the Church and the Shardcircle may now pass the iron gates. Citizens found lingering too close have been politely, but firmly, turned away. The legislation that enforced this ban did not clearly distinguish between visitors and Gardeners themselves, a bureaucratic imprecision that has cut to the root of something more tragic.
In practice, the Gardeners, those part-human, part-tree caretakers afflicted by the same magic that birthed the Gardens, haunt the gardens while Shardcircle investigators potter around, or as their arboreal graveyards remain empty. Most were interviewed briefly by the Shardcircle, who, despite divided attentions, included the Gardens in this season’s studies. Their preliminary reports, due for release at the Spring Summit, are rumored to contain curiosities rather than revelations, not revelations that shake empires, but those that gnaw at them. There is a slight sadness to these shepherds of roots with no flocks, but they appear largely content to spend their days alone with their more wooden companions rather than those that walk and talk.
The Church sent no delegation. With attention fixed on matters like the Wolstad Gravetree and the necromantic incursions farther north, the Gardens were left to fall into doctrinal shadow. The High Priest of Cervitas, Esen Del Panoply Del Cervitas, did issue a call for personal accounts from mourners, but few were willing to speak under the weight of possible heresy.
In the meantime, Obregon’s City Council has hired mercenary guards to enforce the closures. At first, there were outbursts; grief mistaken for defiance, devotion mistaken for sedition. But Obregon is a city that is not unreasonable and considers careful dealing in difficult matters a point of strength. Mourners stood in silent protest, then went home. Candles stopped appearing at the gates. Flowers began to wilt.
And the Gardeners? The vast majority stuck by their gardens, even if they received no visitors save for the handful of mercenaries sent to guard them. But the draw for a Gardener is always that final drift into becoming part of it. With less attendants some felt the pull of Obregon's cursed waters and a futrher descent into the Arboreal Putrefaction. A few were found days later, roots entwined with the fenceposts, skin cracked and blooming.
Then came the disappearance.
At dawn, a pair of guards unlocked the northernmost garden, expecting to find what they always had: the same warped figures, the same low wind, the same uneasy quiet. Instead, they found nothing. The garden was empty.
The man-shaped trees, two dozen in number, were gone. No disturbed soil. No broken lock. Only long, shallow divots in the dirt, as though feet had never existed and roots had simply decided to walk. Over the wall. Into the city. Or beyond it.
Also missing: Ramiel, once a central figure among the Gardeners. His post by the fence had stood undisturbed for weeks. His blanket and gourd remained. His staff, too. But not him.
What has happened is unclear. Where they have gone is unknown. The City Council has issued no statement. The Church has not spoken. The Shardcircle’s final report is still sealed. Guards remain posted at these gardens even now but it is unclear if there will be a return to mourning for Obregon, an end in conflagration, or something else altogether.
Game Information
Edicts from the Church and Senate do much to separate the people of Obregon from the strange gardens that appeared over the last year. Concerns that these places are replete with heresy and, Spheres forbid, necromancy giving more than ample reason to do so.
The Shardcircle included the Gardens in their passel and will receive some information on their magical methods, but a split focus between the gardens and other concerns in Obregon reduces the overall depth of this information.
The presence of the new oasis and Obregon’s reduced population due to lack of water means that most people are not consuming the waters from the city's cursed wells that cause the Putrefaction and new cases are very very small. No characters will be afflicted with Arboreal Putrefaction this season.
The Gardeners and their gardens remain. They will likely be in touch with the Senator of The Tribelands and other characters this season.
The missing Fifth Garden is a concern. While people are reasonably sure that Ramiel and his garden are not a security or safety risk, they are certainly a worrying curiosity. There will be decisions and information regarding the Fifth Garden for the Senator of the Tribelands and the Champion of the Tribes.
It Is Only So Far To Walk, Should You Wish Not To Die
The city of Obregon, grand in size and stature, is by all rights dying.
This is not some immediate thing, some threat of steel and hatred. Nor some insidious thing, a conflict of belief stirring distrust that will tear all apart from the inside. Neither is the cause of the city’s death some arbitrary thing, such as the passing of time and all that its irrefutable nature brings.
No, the truth is much more mundane, even if its origin was magical. The city is dying simply because it is dry. There is water to be found, but the water close by is tainted and the water that is blessedly safe is a distance, albeit a short one, away. It is difficult for all in Obregon to travel, and there are some things where quick access to water is simply a necessity. A city so large, with such little true access to its lifeblood, will die.
And yet, there are no screams in the streets. There are no swords raised against those who may not have done enough, for there are none to raise such swords against. The Concord, its heroes both Andashi and otherwise, have worked with each passing Summit and Season to see the city and its people saved. This is known by all, and the immediacy of the problem has been abated with the Oasis, created just a Season passed. Yet still, the death of the city is something that looms on the horizon, a thing so far away that it is not even a concern to all but the most far-minded.
Such concerns are raised, but not worried over, as the researchers of the Passel work to investigate their given topics. Off-handed remarks by professionals who know that Oasis do not last forever in the climate of Tanebar South. Queries by worried citizens, resting by the banks of the Oasis that they had come to claim water from, that while it was made in magic, this gift was not proclaimed to be infinite. These and more are spoken by people far apart and close together, both simply worried for the future that they may face.
The Oasis, a relic of times long past, a gift from not just the depths of Kodiri but the hands of the mages who decided it was here that it shall be used, is a lost art. What, or who, created such an Artifact must have been one of the most skilled crafters of their time, by the standards of Artisans today. The creation of something so physically large and deep from a magical reserve so small, it causes a yearning in many. A yearning to learn. To know. To discover.
How they would go about such a thing remains a mystery to most. To some, however, a step towards true mastery may slowly be unlocking within the very walls that suffer from drought.
Obregon stands strong, despite tumultuous and dangerous times. It remains steadfast, despite the suffering of its people and the drought that seeks to topple it. The people, Sand and Stone both, work and live to see that the place they call home does not return to the desert that surrounds it. There is hope within the capital of The Tribelands, and that hope cannot be quenched.
What remains to be seen, is whether a solution can be procured by those in power before such a hope runs dry.
Game Information
The city of Obregon continues to suffer from drought, its magically-fed wells still unusable since the terrorist attack by The Cult of the Starved. Using the wells still causes Arboreal Putrefaction, an arcane malady of the most severe kind, and is avoided at all costs by those within the city. In spite of this, Obregon survives. This is in no small part thanks to the Oasis that was formed near its border, as without it, the city would be facing dire times indeed.
Despite the efforts of The Shardcircle and their Passel teams, a solution to the core problem does not appear. The teams are, however, productive in their discoveries and The Shardcircle should expect the Passel result to contain pathways forwards in resolving the conundrum, or recommendations to that effect.
There will be decisions for the Senator of The Tribelands regarding Obregon’s future.
The Pact of Blood and Grass
Two years ago, the Al’Mai had pulled back from the edge of a war they did not want to fight. They had bent the will of the Concord without breaking it. Their treaty, inked in truth and signed in sand, was a covenant of respect, of recognition, of peace hard-won through the art of stillness. When the fires of Nazafeza flared once more, they did not run. They guided their city-kin east, through salt roads and dry riverbeds, their backs thick with sweat and eyes lined with salt. They did what they had always done: endured. Protected.
But war finds its way into even the deepest dunes.
Spring did not come gently to the Priado Expanse. With the warmth came messengers, strange scouts from the north whose eyes gleamed with promises. They came not with threats, but with golden offers: betray the Concord, cripple their lines, become lords of land the Trade Princes did not even deign to govern. “Take what you deserve,” they said, “and leave the coast to us.” Aprivano’s great butcher, Bareeva Al’Shakti El’Basalisk, had loosed her hounds, and the Al’Mai were to be the knife in The Concord’s back.
They were heard. The Al’Mai fed them, gave them water, listened with the stillness of plainspeople who measure time not by clocks but by the turning of stars. And when they were done speaking, they were killed—throats slit, tongues nailed to dry wood, their corpses marked and left exposed to wind and crow. Such is the price for breaking hospitality. Such is the price for asking old rebels to forget why they ever rose.
Al’Shakti had overplayed her hand. A warlord with blood and betrayal in her heart had failed to foresee that other people would not be the same. That the Al’Mai would not betray their word, would not betray The Concord who had been honourable and staunch in their word.
And so no feast followed. Only war.
From the creased valleys of the Mitricasa to the bone-hollows of the Priado, the Al’Mai called their banners. Shesti warriors—once scouts and shepherds—buckled their belts and traded reed flutes for sabres. They did not march in formation. They surged in rhythms known only to those born of firelight and footstep. As Concordian forces prepared to redploy, the Al’Mai would join whoever came, confident that there would be Concordian forces to aid them. For the nomads did not defend Mukarrem—they belonged to it. The war came to them, and they answered with pact-bound steel.
In the heart of Al’Mai country, near the hidden camps, an Magli Al’Mai tied red cloth around the hilts of two rusting swords buried upright in the dirt. They were the blades of Kharas —he who had stood for dignity when the Concord forgot their names, and died for it. Now, they would stand again.
The war would not be won in coastal sieges or by ships with names etched in bronze. It would be won—or lost—on hills thick with grass and grief, where silence says more than any banner and where betrayal dies under open skies.
Game Information
An attempt by Bareeva Al’Shakti to pull the Al’Mai into a second open rebellion against The Concord has failed. Concordian dedication to the treaty that ended the Al’Mai crisis has ensured the loyalty of the nomads of Mukarrem and rather than betray that loyalty, they have put the messengers from Al’Shakti to the sword.
More than this, the Al’Mai have embarked to join the conflict in Mukarrem, supporting Concordian forces in territory of the Priado Expanse this season. The Priado Expanse gains the following trait:
| Trait | +Cas. Inf. | +Cas. Suff. | Special |
| Al’Mai Scouts | +10% | -10% | Concordian forces in this territory cannot be affected by Bareeva Al’Shakti’s ‘No Mercy’ trait.
Only affects Concordian armies. |