Leviathan– The Three Way War

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Leviathan– The Three Way War

Post by Derickkeyman » Thu Nov 03, 2016 6:42 pm


“For to accuse requires less eloquence, such is man’s nature, than to excuse; and condemnation, than absolution, more resembles justice.” –Thomas Hobbes

“I’ve never seen something so beautiful in all my life.” Amnon Aligaard stood before what had just become the greatest book burning ever committed by any one force in the history of Ishaela. Its pyre was the entirety of the Grand Palace of Sengaard, its tinder was every religious text, ever divine manuscript, every infernal tome, every picture of religious iconography, every nursery rhyme that used Khavos’ name, and its fire was Radiant, touched off by Amnon’s own Radiant War-Hammer.

The fire’s heat could be felt throughout the great and ancient city of man. The fire made the night into day. The fire made the looming Lim into the driest of Yis. In time, people would call this great fire The Purge and would say it was an fire even Gods ran from.

And there was Amnon, silhouetted against the fire, his Aranium armor reflecting the light like the heart of Ka, his two war-hammers, one Radiant, one Entropic, giving him a grey halo against the nuclear blaze. When he spoke, not only did everyone hear, they listened, “With this, we throw off our shackles. With this, we end the reign of gods over Sengaard. For too long, the Priest-King and his Disciples of Rot have pillaged this land for all except those that work it. He has slaughtered in the name of Kaal; he has taken two tithes from all in the name of his dual office. His own lords are even more corrupt than him, serving dark gods and deceiving celestials… But no more. Now, we take Sengaard back, now we take our humanity back. And I call each who fights with my a brother and a sister. So… Brothers and sisters, let us take it all.

And the people cheered.


The Priest-King Evran Estaran sat upon a throne that was not his in order to take back land that was no longer his. He was barely a man, only twenty-three with his blood filled with piss and vinegar and holy righteousness. He sat contemplatively while looking at a map of the former Kingdom of Sengaard. The north was lost to Amnon, the south was his only nominally. The torches that burned along the walls did little to fight the cool dampness that permeated every inch of this keep.

Broderick Stonnes, a High Lord in support of Estaran’s claim, hovered near. He was older, had an air of pragmatism, a way that he talked and walked tgar gave solidarity to the monarchist camp leadership. He finished pouring a goblet of wine for the Priest-King and walked to his side, handing it to the young man.

“How goes, my King?”

“With the latest reports, it seems we are not popular, even in the south.”

“War is not popular, my King.”

“Of course not, High Lord Ston–”

“Please my King, Broderick.” Lord Stonnes sipped from his own goblet and eyed the map.

“Broderick, I’ve been thinking. I am a Kaalian priest, and the Dwarves will want to back my claim, hardly wanting to share borders with a Godless–”

“My King, we’ve contacted the Dwarves before. They refuse to act.”

“And I’ve been thinking. If I offer reform, a way to change the Kingdom to their liking, root out some of the corrupting my father let fester…”

“That is not a wise idea, my King.” Lord Stonnes places his goblet down hard enough to silence Evran, moving towards his side and place a hand on his shoulder. “You will not be contacting the Dwarves, my King. They are outsiders, foreigners, foreign rulers under your plan… Just like the Vampires and the Shei before them. Do you understand that?”

There was a fight in the eyes of the king, for a moment, a defiant fire, an aegis of holy reckoning that had been whittled down to an ember of malcontent. Maybe, at some point, Evran Estaran could have fought it, but then there was booze, women, perks of being the one sole ruler of Sengaard, unmitigated and uncontrolled… And then the things that Broderick had shown him. Powerful things. “You’re right, Lord Ston–… Broderick. Of course you’re right.” The King-Priest gave his friend a smile.

And Lord Stonnes smiled with him.


There was a third who stood upon the Isle of Quivyn and watched Ishaela burn. Of all the rulers, he was the eldest, his hair all white, the lines of his face prominent, the medals on his chest of three different countries. Damian Tucker had seen horror, and he knew how to handle it by now.

He knew that before him was the greatest war that he had ever fought, a war that would never end, not for a long time. The Three-Way War is what the papers called it. Damian Tucker just contented himself with referring to it as the Great War. As far as the Lord-General was concerned, it was a war between insanity, corruption, and a war of life, and he wasn’t always sure which was which.

Damian knew that for decades to come, there would be tales of the Great Retreat, when the Lord General had called all of Sengaard’s military to drop support for the monarchy, declared all supporters of Amnon treasonous, and retreated to Quivyn entirely. Borders were closed, the rulers made to cow, this was not a time for politics.

And outside of the General’s Palace at the heart of the city of Northreach, the greatest militarization of a people ever done was taking place. Citizens lined the streets, fortifying the city, storing food, getting military training, those that showed aptitude given the secrets of magic, the opening of the Northreach Archives for military research and cultural preservation. Engineers were being trained, an armada was being formed, the docks were being secured. Damian Tucker had set out to ensure that Quivyn would be safeguarded, that Quivyn would be ready for the coming war.

A country was being reborn.
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