Lerona Mere, even as it grows, maintains a wildly complex variety of concerns. They are a Realm of great cultural concerns, violent problem solving traditions, and seemingly-petulant ethos of contrarianism. Even as their great democratic experiment continues into this new year, and their war with The Drowned, the people of Lerona Mere continue to pursue the arts and joy with an intensity unmatched by any other realm.
In 226 the Lerona Mere pursue monsters in the mists below their feet, vanquising foes that have haunted The Concord for years, claim their place as the creative heart of The Concord, explore the mysteries of magic unknown to any who speak the common tongue, and all the while they grow into more than a single city.
Grow into a Realm of untold power and influence.
En Evante!
Let Loose in the Halls of the Learned
The Kings Rangers arrived at the heavy gates to The School of Embers, expected and carrying their promised cargo. With some discussion, and rather much confusion, it was decided to store it in the depths of the School, in basements of stone, cold, dark, and theoretically safe. And so, Kings Rangers dragged it across the pavements, down halls decked in wood, and finally through corridors paved in stone.
The whole time it screamed and screamed and screamed.
A Sewerslang, more erratic than ever and chained at the wrists and ankles. Captured under the orders of a Senator, a Headmaster and more. An agreed task, and a dangerous one given the echoed manic nature of Sewerslangs across Legend City. Still, it was one accomplished by those who were set to do it. Only, what was once a plan to secure it within the powerful Arcane Vaults available within each School of Magic swiftly turned to dust, and immediate solutions determined.
It would turn out, through choice or oversight or yet innumerable other reasons, The Archmage of The Concord, the only person with the power to align The Arcline and direct its power towards securing the Vault; simply did not do so. The Vault of The De Re School of Embers was inactive and unusable. And so, instead, simple stone walls, a solid wooden door, and heavy metal chains would suffice.
Their duty done, the Rangers left as quickly as they arrived, leaving the task of watching over the creature to those that requested it in the first place. A simple task made difficult by situation, both controllable and otherwise. With a lack of arcane security at their disposal, the faculty of The School decided on a more mundane method of keeping the Sewerslang contained until a method of research could be decided upon. A rotating watch, day and night, by faculty members and those volunteer students who were of age and passed strict requirements.
It was to be simple. A phrase repeated in confidence at first, then in horror once the body was found.
Mere days after the creature’s arrival, screams heralded the worst possible scenario. At the change of watch from evening to morning, a volunteer magus was found in a veritable lake of their own blood. Barely recognisable, their eyes had been torn from their skull as if by the fangs of some primal beast. Their throat a mess of muscle and skin, revealing the pureness of the internal body to the coldness of the external world. This was no easy passing, but all who saw the body prayed that it was at least one that was quick.
No one would know the truth, and all refused to guess. This promising young mage, full of potential and with a keener mind to learn than most, was ended now and forever more. It was simply hoped that they had accomplished enough in life to be deemed worthy by The Spheres.
It was no mystery what had done this. A trail lead away from the scene of tremendous carnage. A messy line of crimson, the heralding sign of the culprit. The Sewerslang, clearly having dragged itself away in search of escape, could be found just a few corridors down. Its body pale, even paler than normal, and its form utterly stiff and dead from a clear loss of blood. A result of its method of escape, rather than grave injuries from combat.
In its relentless mania, or perhaps panic, the creature had simply chewed its own hands and feet off with its sharpened teeth. Slipping its chains would be a simple affair after such an act. An act that would come at the cost of not just its own life, but the life of an entirely unsuspecting victim who could never have foreseen such a purely insane determination to escape.
The horror visited upon The School was one that would mar its history forever more. A live research subject was dead, but more importantly so was a student who had simply volunteered to assist in a great task. Some may view it as a waste of life for no result. Others would see it as an acceptable casualty of a volunteer who knew the risks. Some nameless young Lerona Mereian magus with barely a mark on history to note.
As it would turn out, it was not their mark on history that would matter so deeply, but their parents.
Barely a day after the news had spread through The School of Embers and its immediate surrounds, there would be another incident. This one with no immediate harm, save for damage to property. A cruel looking knife would be stabbed to the heavy front doors of The School, pinning a simple note signed in blood. All who saw it knew what it meant. It was a declaration of war by a Capo of Legend City, done in the old ways. It read;
“My child was promised safety. My child was promised a future. This School and its Headmasters past promised me this. Now the promise is broken. I shall take repayment in kind. I shall see this School ruined. Its leaders ruined. And still this will not be enough. I will have blood.”
No name nor sign was left with the note. None was expected.
Game Information
A successful capture of a Sewerslang would become a failure to keep it secured. As the School of Embers Vault was not empowered by the Archmage utilising The Arcline, a tragedy would befall a single young adult of The School and a life would be lost. As it was a single life lost, and was a successful downtime action, no investments were damaged.
There will be decisions regarding the declaration of war by an unknown Capo for The Champion of The Revolution and The Headmaster of The De Re School of Embers.
A Noose Pulled Tight at Last
Despite nights filled with terror, and the horrific loss felt by all in Gafroza due to its actions, The Hangman’s end would be a simple and swift affair.
Caught in the daylight, the supposed master of ghouls and stalker of the dark proved inexorably fallible. The simple light of the sun would prove enough to weaken its ability to sow fear and discourse, and the heroes of The Concord, Lerona Mere in particular, would not miss the sudden chance to cut it down for good.
The Hangman is dead. Its abominations slain with it. Its hat now hangs in parliament by request of none other than Jalen Von Voyant; always the publicist seeking glory. It seemed almost too easy. The people of Gafroza hesitated in their celebration. Not because they distrusted the actions of heroes, for that was not always reliable but certainly proved results, but because surely a beast that had sown such chaos could not die so easily.
But dead it was. There was to be no hidden resurrection, no unknown power of undeath to bring back a ghoul even so powerful as The Hangman. It was simply dead, truly dead, by the hands of heroes.
It would not be the only ghoul to face such a death. The Hangman had spread its influence wide, to Bolsterlee and Weiland both. Acting as a spy, infiltrating and causing mischief and mayhem. With its exposure after the burning of Gafroza’s spy network, it had made itself known. It tried to take the opportunity to make overt actions against Concordian lands while maintaining others covertly. Neither would work.
In Bolsterlee, The Hangman’s ghoulish goons would face slaughter at the hands of Iron Valley heroes. Whatever their scheme, whatever strange task they had been set to accomplish, it was never to be under the cold steel of Valley warriors. They were slain, their profane icon demolished beneath the boot of he who would become God of War, Thorin of Bolsterlee.
And in Weiland, beneath Lake Ladure’s lustrous quarry, a single man and his personal military force, one of the largest in The Concord, would find, rout and slay those ghouls that remained hidden within. Attempting to disguise themselves as fae creatures, causing trouble for the people of Everguarde amidst the strangeness of their surroundings, the undead had found a hideaway that was thought to be given freely. But this was not to be so, as Brigadier Griff Baker, under guidance of Deed Holder Tilly and the workers of The Lake Ladure Quarry, would ensure they were executed one and all in the late months of the Summer Season.
The Hangman was dead, and more importantly so was its entire retinue. While not all actions were performed by Lerona Mere alone, none could argue that at its core it was a Lerona Mere victory. They were the loudest, the proudest, and the most glad to see what once could have been a truly ferocious foe executed before its zenith.
And most importantly, the people of Gafroza could finally look into the night and expect to see the beauty of Lerona Mere, rather than the horrors of undeath. Some, at least, would sleep the easier for it.
Game Information
The Hangman, a powerful lieutenant of The Onyx Aristocracy, and all of its ghoulish retinue are now dead and gone. Heroes across Bordevar, The Iron Valley and Lerona Mere dealt severe blows to The Hangman’s affairs across The Concord, with Lerona Mere and others dealing the final blow to The Hangman itself.
At its core, The Hangman was a Spy Network of The Onyx Aristocracy. Its defeat brings no further benefit, but knowing that a Spy Network has been fully eradicated is knowledge worth its relief in gold.
Two Wings Alike in Dignity
In fair Lerona, where we lay our scene,
from ancient art break to new artistry.
In the eastern wing, great carvings of peacock feathers grace the arched entrance, as if floating down from the ceiling to land upon the marble floors, frozen in time by the sculptor who laboured over them with their apprentice. A clerk passes under the arch, smoothing out his velvet doublet worn with time and embroidered with love, feeling the crisp patches of paint too dry to wipe away under his finger tips.
***
In the western wing, a great patchwork of stone from across the realms forms the arched entrance, limestone upon sandstone upon granite upon marble upon a transitional step of slate; a labour of love showing welcome to all of those who enter from around The Concord. A clerk passes under the arch, pushing away the wrinkles in her linen trousers, newly bought and selected with care, feeling for the notebook in her pocket, the shape of her lucky pen clear under her finger tips.
***
The clerk, now used to this place that he has come to love, steps around the waist-high tables not yet splattered with clay and paint and ink and sweat and blood and tears, past the sinks that remain clean and the kilns that remain cold. The air around him dances in the sunlight as he shifts through this place in what is likely one of its final moments of stillness, eyes catching on the easel that he hopes could one day be his to paint from. He could capture the view from the window to his right without looking: the faded cobblestones transforming into the wood of the docks under the feet of workers forming a tableau that he has painted a million times.
***
The clerk, now used to this place she has come to love, steps through the open space, eyes quickly adjusting to the change in light, the windows ensconced in their heavy velveret coverings, as she takes in her favourite pieces one by one. A still life restored from the last arthouse to fall in the First Revolution. A denizen of Shagston, captured in charcoal on wooden panelling, face wrinkled but joyous. The rolling hills of Madre Campo expressed in delicate watercolours, created, according to the artist’s plaque, using only the flora of the region dried and mixed with the waters of Lake Isabella. She could speak its words without actually reading them anymore, having read and reread it so many times in the wing’s construction - describe the mauve set against sage without seeing them.
***
There is no creak or squeak when the door to The Avant Guardian’s office opens - too much time was spent in oiling the hinges - and the clerk steps through. The pile of paraphernalia collected from the streets of Lerona Mere remains in as neat a pile as it can; a poster from this round of parliamentary elections, an excerpt of a report of the most prominent clothing purchases of Heroes this season, and a crumbling carving of a flame all sit together in an amalgamation of Lerona Mere’s current climate, ready to inspire the incoming Liberartiste. The clerk makes sure that nothing is out of place, collects the reports in the centre of the desk, and makes their way back to the entrance.
***
There was no creak or squeak when the door to the Museographer’s office opens - too much money was spent in oiling the hinges - and the clerk steps through. The collection of icons from across The Concord claim the front of the desk; a stone Bolsterlee Beast next to a taxidermy raven sits opposite a once-rusted Andashi artefact adjacent to a detailed carving of an oak tree. The clerk makes sure that nothing is out of place, moves the large painting of a park in The North Ward aside, counts the funds in the safe behind, and makes their way back to the entrance.
***
The clerks greet each other as they step away from their respective wings.
“Ala Briller is finally done, I see,” says the velvet-clad man, eyebrows raised at the donation box in front of the entrance to the gallery.
“Indeed! And Maracavo’s Wing looks ready for some artists to begin their work at last,” responds the woman, eyes tracing the empty tables through the archway, smile sardonic.
It only takes a moment for it to break into a wide grin, joining that of her fellow clerk as they link arms and walk out of the great wooden doors, squinting as the sun shines down on the newly completed Triboulett’s Academy of the Arts.
Game Information:
With the tireless work of Civil Service clerks and Liberartistes, Triboulette’s Academy of the Arts has been constructed on the site of Fuch’s Plug, as a home for Liberartistes from across Lerona Mere. Artists and art-appreciators from Lerona Mere and beyond begin to flock to the site to see, and have strong opinions, on the art being displayed and created in both Maracavo’s Wing and Ala Briller.
The Lerona Mere titles of Museographer and The Avant Guardian have been created, both of which will be elected this coming Autumn Summit. Some slight changes have been made to the Museographer title since its inception in Monuments of More, primarily to maintain the spirit and impact of the title.
Great Grey Bricks, Mortared Together with Pain and Obligation
The powers of the Arcline are barely understood by The Concord’s most powerful arcane minds, regardless of this fact, the powerful artifact is put to use guiding the Realmweave to empower The Concord. This past season it has settled upon the leylines, the stones, and the minds of the people of Mancante Terra, producing two very different effects.
In Marepato, that vast plains lowlands that stretches from Lake Isabella in the North all the way along the coast until it reaches La Dove Dormani. Home to nearly all of Mancante Terra’s population, it holds the growing regional capital of Loricazzo, the small seaside village of Korrence, and the military outpost of La Bevanda Dei. It is a place of rolling grasslands that sway gently in the early morning wind off the bay. It is a place where one can see for leagues in any direction from atop an ox cart. It is that impossible thing; a land within Lerona Mere where you can find silence.
The Realmweave, that arcane enchantment infused into the Shardcircle, The Concord, every citizen, waystone and leyline, steels itself at the Arcline’s direction. Powerful Shards of mana are consumed and in turn the land of Marepato repulses magical influences from without while the people within are bolstered. The morning is easier to face, the evening arrives with a gentle thrum of energy. The works of the day are faced with an easy pleasantness of hard effort. It does not make any of the maladies of life lesser, or easier, but it makes surviving them that little bit more reasonable.
But the true trial was Mandrianos, for Marepato was not waylaid by the engulfing claw of The Drowned, Mandrianos is.
From the outpost of La Bevanda Dei and a string of smaller watchposts across the Plateau of the Gods, Lerona Mere volunteers, Civil Service workers, Shardcircle representatives and priests observe ‘The Sinking City’, ensuring that its influence does not spread beyond its sodden cobbles. As the Realmweave fortifies itself, they are privy to a beautiful sight.
The city glows. Pale pinks, greens, and blues. In the early morning and as the sun descends over the La Calidez Mountains to the west. The flicker-fires of arcane energy being expended, of whatever curse is woven into the soil, the sewers, and the soul of this once failed city. Every dusk and dawn the magic of the Drowned attempts to reassert itself and drag the city even lower, and every morning the magic of The Concord flares in defiance. This City of Beautiful Cinders finds its own rebellion and so lit is the fires of disobedience. Even this inert pile of stones within Lerona Mere has life within it.
Those few explorers sent by the wary Civil Service report even stranger sights, days pass in the time it takes for a week, nights take a month, the streets throng with the perfectly lifelike images of Artebazzani priests that are gone the moment you turn a corner. All of this is fleeting and ethereal, but beautiful and peaceful.
But as the Summit draws near, and Autumn rears, the effect wanes. The last night of cinders ended the week before Summit. The reports that have followed since are poorly. The mist once again creeps from the stones below the city, and the night wails with the anguish of things that should not be.
Game Information
The Realmweave Guardian of the Second Incantation has been performed by The Arcline, the most powerful of the Shardcircle’s Artifacts, targeting the territories of The Plateau of The Gods, and Marepato.
On the Plateau of The Gods, the Realmweave locked in sparking conflict with whatever curse the Drowned have placed upon it. The territory has suffered no further from ‘The Sinking’, remaining trapped in some arcane frozen time. The combat between the Shardcircle’s magic and the broken Illsevir corruption has produced some strange side effects, with frozen time, strange skies, and phantoms being reported. A different magical strangeness, but strange nonetheless. There will be decisions relating to these magical oddities for the Senator of Mancante Terra and the Archmage of the Shardcircle. In addition, every character with an investment in the Plateau of the Gods and the Magus skill gains +1 maximum hitpoint and +2 maximum personal mana for this upcoming summit.
In Marepato, the Realmweave has enthused the people and given good morale against the hard work ahead. Characters with an investment in Marepato and the magus skill gain +1 maximum hitpoint and +2 maximum personal mana for this upcoming summit, and any Mine, Farm, or Wilderness investment in the region will find they have produced slightly more.
Any character with an investment based in Marepato may opt to be affected by the following roleplay effect:
“I am capable of surviving great trials, for all things, even this, must pass.”
Lights of my Home, Shadows of my City
The repopulation and rebuilding of a city is no new thing to The Concord, but to Lerona Mereians it is a particularly fresh history. Loricazzo was not the centre of the revolution, but it played its part nonetheless. It wears its scars earned through the same fire as Legend City. It bears the same marks of a city rebelling against its self-proclaimed owners. The story of Loricazzo during the revolution is not one of unstoppable change however, but that is a tale for another time. Now, it lives a tale told by those that fill its strange and as yet unexplained vacancies.
With a population now even greater than that of Mivara, no small task given the short amount of time there had been to do so, everyone tells a different story as to why the city was found as it was. The most common tells of horrors inflicted by The Illsevir, before or perhaps during the phenomenon that would create The Drowned. Easily hand waved by the uninterpretable ways of a foe unknown. Some others prefer to tell more unique stories, like an Artebazzani ritual gone wrong or a mass hypnosis by some powerful mage from far away.
With no truth to be found immediately, no roaring monsters nor hidden Artebazzani culprits springing forth, the topic would sequester itself away to idle wondering and tavern talk. Something there would be plenty of, despite how busy Loricazzo would be as it settled into its new rhythm of bustling life. And bustle it would! The eagerness of its new citizenry, whether they had arrived within six months or barely a year ago, would be palpable to those simply visiting. There was a life to build here, literally and figuratively, and so there was always work to be done and people to meet and greet.
The most notably recent of such new people caused an appropriately notable stir. Under the guidance of Champion Franco, for the betterment of Loricazzo and as a guarantee of Lerona Mere’s intent to keep hold of it, heroes of other Nations would move their livelihoods to Marepato and Loricazzo. Normally, the ever patriotic people of Lerona Mere might take offence to such an action, believing that it reflects a belief that they cannot protect what is theirs with their own hands. Normally, this would bring trouble, minor or major depending on the severe ideals of particularly vocal citizens.
But The Champion of the Revolution would see this off at the pass, by having those heroes formally join the Nation of Lerona Mere, ceding their original home in favour of a new one. And to this, they agreed. At first, it seemed just a falsehood to ease the minds of the citizenry, but the genuine actions of those heroes to learn and adopt the culture to which they had joined was what would sway the hearts of those who might have issue. So long as this remained the case, the people of Lerona Mere in Loricazzo would welcome them to their new home with open arms.
And what a home it would be. Colour had begun to make its way back into Loricazzo. Cloths, ribbons, drapes; material of all shape, size and purpose, hanging from windowsills, roof overhang’s, ladders and ropes. The verticality of its Burrows would prove all the easier to find somewhere to hang something, and to the burgeoning populace it would seem you needed little reason at all. Clothes would be hung, either for drying or for sale, right along a major walkway that crossed above the main street below. If it was able to be hung, then it simply was. If it couldn’t, then the clever would create a method in which it could be. Truly, the ingenuity of Lerona Mere could be seen in the most populated of its Burrows.
But, most importantly, this was only the case in the brightest and most heavily settled parts of the city. Some Burrows would remain far less modernised, either since they were yet to be settled or because the people who lived within it agreed to keep it that way. Perhaps this would one day become a cause of competition and rivalry between those that kept their Burrows plain and those that enjoyed the cluttered freedom of the opposite, but for now it simply marked a preference of living.
Loricazzo grows. With the once overflowing stream of settlers finally petering out into a more reliable, if not occasional, growth, the city begins to take on a personality. As it is rebuilt, and rediscovered as a settlement, Lerona Mere begins to draw comparisons to home. To Mivara, and Gafroza. To Legend City.
Even to Mandrianos, the cursed sister city of Mancante Terra. A place that should be home, but for its mysteries. Mysteries unique to its circumstance, but ones that make Loricazzo’s feel all the more strange. Despite its growth, despite its smooth settlement, it still shares an unnerving quality beyond that which is spoken about in idle talk and amongst tavern drinks. The shadows of Loricazzo give it its name, for even with a population ever increasing it stays The City of Lonely Shadows.
Many Lerona Mereians believe it is better to let the mystery be, no matter how strange it is that a home can never be truly lit, even by dozens of candles. No harm is done by a room with shadowy corners, even if it seems an impossibility. No harm is done by the shadow that seems to walk alongside your own at the corners of your vision. No harm is done by the Burrows that seem to snuff the light from any lamp that enters their bounds. It is simply a fact of Loricazzo. A quirk. A piece of the city that you simply learn to live with.
Yet, as is always the case, there are others who disagree. Rumours spread throughout the city that a group are gathering to solve this mystery. To learn whether Loricazzo is truly cursed, like its sister Mandrianos, or whether it is some strange mass hysteria that instead plagues their home. More than a group of scholars, researchers, priests and mages; it is a faction of Loricazzo built by its people. While their numbers are still rumoured to be small, barely a few dozen, with time they may grow to become a true faction.
The first of Loricazzo. The first of The City of Lonely Shadows. The first of Mancante Terra. And certainly not the last.
Game Information
Loricazzo continues to be rebuilt and resettled by Lerona Mere. Now large enough to truly be called a city, rather than simply a large town, the surge of settlers has finally begun to fade into a steady trickle. The previous reduced cost for Investments moving to Marepato has been removed, representing the best land, buildings and space being taken up by those who arrived early.
The Senator of Mancante Terra should expect further information or opportunities to arrive from the rumoured faction looking into the mystery of Loricazzo, and perhaps others with an interest in the city.