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[Shootandrun]

"So it is done."

Alandios nodded approvingly as the shaman recited the oath. The Triumvirate was assembled, and the union of the tribes had been made possible. His part was over - for now, he needed to rest, he felt. Giving the title to Feinor had been slightly exhausting. He looked at the board, then at Unsobar.

"We could play for all time and no one would arise victor over the other. You may be the God of War, but this is not a battle; it is but a game, and I know all the possible moves by heart. Let us call it a draw. Perhaps one day we shall have a rematch."

Once that was said, he looked at all four of them at the same time. Something appeared behind his eyes - perhaps pride? It was rare that Alandios felt much of anything, but now was an occasion to be proud. The first pantheon of the world had been created under his guidance.

"It is time for us to part ways. The exodus awaits. Our task here is done, but the overall work is only beginning. Soon, our three tribes will be united as one - and our union will be known to mortals and gods alike. For now, however, I must rest.

Feinor of the Alandians, it is likely that we will never see each other again. You are the first mortal I ever spoke to directly - and I will certainly remember this occasion. May the fates bring you luck and happiness. I must go."

With that, the old man turned around and left the clearing. Feinor did not see where he went, but the gods could sense him fade out of his avatar and into his aethereal form.

[Ardas]

Aradan dissapeared in a blink of a eye, with no smoke, light or effects whatsoever. You didn't even have to blink to suddenly notice a large eagle on the ground in the place where the hooded figure stood just a moment ago.

With a mighty sweep of its wings it rose into the air and flew high, in the direction of its tribe, The Great Task was just beginning.

Faedon, Aydun's son and the new Shaman of the Aradon slep uneasy. He heard screams, pain and fire. He saw a fiery bird and he saw death, as it followed the bird - sinister, silent and merciless.
It was then that he woke up, scared and confused. "Aradan's prophecy", he thought to himself. "I just saw it..." he left his house to get some fresh air. He stepped out and walked towards the village square. But as he made his way towards it , the further he was walkign away from the village. No matter how hard he tried to make his way back, every turn he made, every place he crossed turned out to be further and further away from the village. Until he stood in the wilderness, full moon shining brighlty and starts dotting the sky.
It was Then when he saw a cloaked figure, wtih a hood over its head. Imposing, dark, menacing, yet he felt no fear. He walked closer towards it and asked "Who are you? What am I doing here?"
The figure only stretched out one of its hands and potined to north, far off in the distance.

"The Great Task. You had the dream, you know it is true. The longest journey starts with a single step..."

The figure dropped its hand. The shaman flew, flew high, soaring above the earth and the clouds. The sun was shining to his right, as he sailed over the plains and towards the Great Task. Where he previously saw the burning fields and the black steps of death now there were tended fields, orchads and other wondorus things he could never imagine were possible for humans to achieve. This was it. He knew that they had to follow. Knowledge and Ambition were waiting, calling , the Duty spurring him on. It was his time to make the step.

He woke up in the morning, cold sweat covering his body. He recalled waking up in the night... Did he truly awake back then? He knew he had a task to do. A Great Task. And the elders of the tribe would listen, and he would use his gifts to make them follow. To make them take the step on the journey to Knowledge. The Aradon had to move, their god demanded it. The Mark of The Apostle burned brighlty within the man, attuned with his desire to lead them north.

1 Act - Aradan sends a prophetic dream to the Aradon's shaman, urging him to push the tribe to take up the Great Task and journey north to meet with Alandians.

[Digital Hellhound]

The journey back went by more quickly. The Autarch paid little heed to his surroundings, thinking on his plans. The powers the shaman now possessed were a welcome relief. The Toman would not destroy the other tribes, now - though he intended to make sure of that regardless, in case the shaman died too soon. He considered what he knew of this Ihanet. The man had been ambitious even before the Staff had passed on to him. Getting him to move should not be difficult, especially if the tribe wished it - but he had to be careful with what he sent to the man. He possessed the primal twisted, cunning mind the Autarch so valued, and there was no telling what he would see in his words.

He sighed as he arrived back in the lands of the Toman. He would need to use his powers to guarantee this worked. Touching their dreams seemed like the fastest option - he needed to go dormant soon.

The Autarch found he was struggling near the end. The Rider threatened to surface again, snatching back at its brief chance of freedom earlier. He refocused and spun the prophecy into being, slipping it to the villagers through their dreams. No doubt it would be corrupted by their small minds, but what he needed would remain the same, and the pull towards the knowledge-god's tribe, growing more and more insistent the longer they tried to ignore it. A place in the south. Power. Prosperity. Alliance...

That was the villagers dealt with - the important ones, atleast, the ones they listened to in both the Toman and the subjugated tribes. Now he needed to deal with the shaman.

After some consideration, the Autarch decided to contact him in dreams as well. But this message would be different. Lighted by flickering flames, his dream-self stood at Ihanet's side in his sleep. He spoke, with a quiet but powerful tone, filling the hut around them with images of the lands in the south. His words were there to reinforce what Feinor would, if luck was with them, already guarantee;

They expect allies. A triumvirate of mortals, a triumvirate of gods. It would strengthen all. We both know arms will not work here - and I am sure you know how to gain power over them by other means. The Toman will rule over all if you are patient...

He added an image of the gods themselves attacking the tribes with powers they did not even truthfully possess as a helpful touch.

The journey will be long and arduous. But the rewards are greater than anything ever before...

He continued throughout the night, slipping subtle images of the future - Ihanet's imaginary, golden future - into the shaman's mind.

---

Act: Unsobar spreads a prophecy among the Toman of forming a great and ever-lasting tribal empire in the south, of vast power and prosperity and two great allies of Unsobar and Venórr.

Unsobar tries to divert Ihanet's ambitions to non-violent methods of gaining power.

[adwarf]

Zantaware looked at his brother warily, his instincts told him that he could not risk killing Zantaware for without each other the living one would die, but still this did not keep him from growing stronger ... perhaps a stronger god could handle this river he knew none other than him could.

Shaking his head he walked out of the passageway and strode to a place several feet from the Well of Souls and began to weave his power, a small thing he knew yet to a mortal such power would be unfathomable.

The shadows of the temple stirred, twisting, winding, and pooling together as they grew closer to where Zantaware stood they even began to pull free from the ground. 'An impossible thing,' Zantaware thought, 'to all but the gods of course. Why must the powers of mortals be so weak when they are such promising beings ...'

Reaching forth a hand the shadows stirred, the shadows becoming something material yet ethereal at the same time, within moments Zantaware clasped a sword in his hand.

Its entire length, matching the height of a full grown man, so black that it seemed to radiate a faint golden light, the handle wrapped in a cloth of blood red material, and the blade a twisting mass of shadowy strings that somehow formed a solid blade.

Taking the blade in both hands the god spun it to face the ground and with a sudden motion slammed it down with all his might, half the blade sank into the clean cut the sword made before it stopped sinking deeper into the temple's surface.

Turning from it Zantaware spoke to his brother, "See to that which is your responsibility, and I shall see to mine. Till the souls of the dead begin to arrive at the Well I will begin to spread whispers of our awakening, we shall see what this world has prepared for us it seems ..."

With that he stepped forward and was gone from the Well of Souls, he felt oddly cold, oddly weak so far from it, but his work had already begun and thus it must be finished ...

--------------

Many tribes in the North began to hear whispers, rumors from among them, of two new gods coming to the world. Seemingly Brothers the gods were that of Death and that of Souls and the Afterlife, brothers who saw that the souls of the living reached a resting place till their life was brought back into the Cycle of Life.

These rumors also spoke of a prophecy, of a sword so black it made the night seem daylight and of the power it would give the one that found it in the Well of Souls, the place where the brother gods walked freely. The prophecy said that the one who took up this sword would be someone so powerful they could fight the gods and live, yet it also spoke of sacrifice, of the fact that only a just being could draw it from its resting place.

It also said that the one who was found worthy by the Ferryman would never again would they find the rest of the afterlife, even the embrace of death would allude them unless the gods themselves faded. A nameless sword that came at such a great price only the most promising would make the journey, as the rumors spread Zantaware began to feel a tiredness, a wariness to stay awake.

Something was pulling him to an early rest yet he had much to do ... no perhaps he could rest, for a little while ... with that Zantaware fell into his slumber, something calling for him to rest. What length of time past that the Ferryman, that Zantaware worked the river to the Afterlife he knew not, and the slumber took him all the same ...

Zantaware creates a nameless sword forged from shadows. It cuts the soul of a just and willing being from the Cycle of Life and makes them the immortal Champion of Zantaware.

Zantaware spreads rumors of him and his brother awakening along with tales of the Well of Souls and the prophecy of the nameless sword to all tribes and individuals in the lands surrounding the Well.