"Fire!" Captain Ramsey yelled and the line of sharpshooters opened up. The new twelve-shot repeating rifles barked out in unison, shell after shell hitting the deck. The rifles had been based of off Utopian rifles, but were not fully automatic. Now that they had been approved by Military Command, the rifles had been put in mass production to replace the old single-shot rifles of the past. Ramsey drew his pistol and fired into the air, signaling them to stop. Silence hung on the air as the soldiers on the Utopian ship struggled to find out what had hit them. He smiled wickedly; the first deployment of the rifles had gotten the wanted effect. Suddenly a low level of moaning came from the wounded upon the Utopian ship.

Even from where he stood, Ramsey could see the deck was covered in the blood of many sailors, but he banished the thoughts out of his mind, they were the enemy. He drew his rapier, grabbed a rope and jumped off the side of his ship, yelling at the top of his lungs. The boarding crew followed him, shouting war cries and brandishing swords and pistols.

Ramsey landed on the Utopian deck and raised his pistol, firing off two more shots at incoming soldiers. He charged into a pack of them and slashed furiously with his rapier, cutting them down. A sailor saw his face and recognized him and ran screaming that the Devil had boarded them. Ramsey gave the Utopians another wicked grin before his men ran into them and cut them apart.

"Please! Spare me, please!" The Utopian Captain screamed as he was held against a wall in his cabin. Ramsey walked around, looking drawers and opening closets, inspecting the Captain's personal items and keeping a few things he liked. "Take what ever you want, but spare the lives of me and my men, I beg of you!" Ramsey turned, his pale blue eyes looking like ice as he stared into the Utopian's eyes.

"Pathetic worm, do you know who I am? I am Captain Brian Wolfric Ramsey, descendant of the Captain Ramsey who once called himself a friend of your long dead founder. Recognize the name? You should, because I'm the reason your navy no longer exists. I was a rat inside your navy for seven years, until I finally got my own ship and now you will see how I treat enemies of Salamandastron!" Ramsey yelled and drew his sword. He lunged forward, over a table and thrust the rapier thru the man's heart and into the wall behind him. The Captain's eyes widened and then glazed over, looking as if they had been frozen by a layer of frost, Ramsey's calling card.

"Get rid of the crew, take what your men want and prepare to send the ship towards Utopia in twenty minutes!" Ramsey said, giving them both icy stares. They simply nodded veterans of his crew and left the cabin. Ramsey continued to explore until he found everything of value, smiled, kicked the dead Captain's body and left.

"His Majesty is not only concerned about the outcome of this war, but the manner in which it is fought! From now on, Captain, You will take prisoners and obey the rules of engagement. You are one of our better Captains so there will be no punishment, yet. But mark my words, if you continue on this path, I will act against you!" The Naval Lord, commander of Salamandastron's Navy, yelled. "But, as you know, the Army is mostly a Marine Corp attached to our Navy along with defensive units. His Majesty is attempting to turn from the Royal Family's ancient greed and is now looking into something else. It is our goal to control trade over all water ways, yes, but we are changing our approach."

"Changing our approach? Is he reducing the Navy? The Navy is our greatest advantage over our enemies; we control the coasts, rivers and Ocean because of the Navy. If we reduce it, the Utopians can load their better guns onto boats and compete with us!" Ramsey replied hotly.

"No, it has nothing to do with the Navy. It

"Sir, can you smell that?" The helmsman asked quietly.

"Yes... a storm is brewing, soon the clouds will darken. Damn it all, if we run into any of those ships the Saints have supposedly gotten from God we'll be in a tough spot." Ramsey replied and took off his hat, adjusting it. "Well sailor, this is what its all about..." He said and put the aht back on. Pushing the man out of the way, Ramsey grabbed the wheel and began to steer the ship straight into the storm.

"What are you doing?"

"I guess its time to say the old family motto, passed down from the first Ramsey himself: 'The closer we are to danger, the farther we are from harm'. Besides, I've sailed through a storm many times, this won't be too difficult." Ramsey replied, hoping inside himself that it wouldn't be too difficult.

Gunfire. Energy beams. The occasional thump of a grenade launcher. The occasional noise of a mounted railgun that once belonged to a warmech now lost in the ashes.

All around the Regent's safehouse, pandemonium reigned. The Nordenstadt mages, eager for revenge, were tearing into whatever they could without mercy, followed by Salamandastron soldiers who saw an opportunity to take advantage of the situation.

Regent Septimus fired for all he was worth at any enemy he could see. "Alchemist dogs! Filthy pirates!" he roared, first gunning down a squad of Nordenstadt mages, then a small group of Salamandastron warriors.

When ammunition ran out, the fight became personal. With fists, bayonets, swords, empty rifles, and staves, the survivors fought each other hand-to-hand. Regent Septimus seized the hilt of the sword fragment he carried and drew it; the weak sunlight glinted on what remained of its golden blade.

He stabbed powerfully into a Salamandastron soldier, who fell, too surprised ever to react.

He threw a mighty punch at a Nordenstadt mage, who was sent flying by the sheer force.

He spun around and slashed at another Salamandastron marine that was sneaking up on him; out of nowhere, a thousand cuts appeared, and what was once a Salamandastron soldier now collapsed into chunks of flesh.

Then, it was over. The dead from all sides lay strewn all over the abandoned remains of the warehouse they called Safehouse 4. Regent Septimus had lost two more of his men; also among the fallen were four safehouse staff, a platoon of Nordenstadt mages, and about twelve Salamandastron combatants.

Regent Septimus was plain. "Salvage what you can. Dump the rest."

"How many rocket reloads do we have left?" the Regent demanded.

"Seventeen," the wounded safehouse commander responded; his arm was in a makeshift sling and his leg was bandaged.

"How much fuel?"

"These buggies are electric. We have twenty-five gallons of ethanol fuel left for the afterburners and the generator."

The Regent looked at the large pile of firewood to the back. "How much do you reckon we can distill from that?" he asked, pointing to it.

"The closest distillery is in C&C Three, about twenty seconds down Fifty-First Street. We estimate we can convert that into about twenty-five or thirty more gallons, if we do it all."

"What's the limiting factor?"

"We need that wood for fortifications."

The Regent considered. "Are there a lot of trees in the countryside?"

"Many of them have died, but there are definitely some."

"Can we work on setting up a camp next to what's left of the forest?"

"We have two of them, C&C 13 and 14, to the east of the city where we don't get too much action."

"Okay, fine. Are they shipping wood to our distilleries?"

The commander nodded to a nearby communications officer, who immediately started working the safehouse's computer. "Now they do."

"Excellent. Now for the rockets. How easily can we manufacture them?"

"Hmm... C&C 7 has the necessary machinery and technical expertise. We think they can churn out about three reloads every day as long as they're fed with materials. The materials, though, will be a challenge."

"Materials... metal we can do... what about explosives?"

"We've been able to plunder some from Salamandastron, but we can't obtain raw materials to produce our own explosives. The flaskheads say we can produce nitrocellulose for the bullets given ammonia, wood, and the right equipment, but getting ammonia's going to be the tricky part."

The Regent sighed. "Keep thinking about it. In the meantime... remember that bullets are my first priority."

Somewhere below Arasul's chamber, in Nordenstadt's Grand Armory, the Armorer-General of Nordenstadt, Calas-El, was reviewing the Grand Armory's inventory.

He extended his hand out toward one of the many floor-to-ceiling weapons racks and summoned a staff into his hand. Staves were the main weapon of most Nordenstadt battle-mages. Simple and powerful, they served both as the most common spell focus in existence as well as a competent close-range weapon. Unfortunately, their slow speed and weight made them unsuitable for operations in tight, enclosed battlefields.

He inspected the staff he was holding, checking it carefully for defects, twirling it in the air to test its balance. The typical staff was about five feet in length, a relatively straight, thick staff of wood with a gem or an orb of glass secured at one end. Every staff was different, and though at least three guilds of craftsmen mass-produced them for training and emergency purposes, the most advanced arcanists carved their own.

The staff he was holding was made out of sturdy oak, with one end forking into three prongs that wrapped securely around a quartz crystal. Crafted by the Aardabas Guild, it served its purpose efficiently and without ceremony. He deftly tossed it into the air, whereby it flew back into its mounting bracket, ready to be summoned at a moment's notice.

He opened a small box resting on a table nearby, taking out a wand. Wands were much smaller than staves, about as long as a quill pen, and considerably more fragile, but no less powerful in the right hands. Issued mainly to non-combatants, they were less effective on average than staves, but drastically more useful at close range. Despite their small size, they could still cast all but the most powerful spells, and much faster than a staff could.

The typical wand was cut from a branch and infused with a core of magical essence that gave it its power. This core, typically from a magical item like a thread of enchanted gemstone or a shard of dragon bone, supplemented a wizard's innate skills, much like the gemstone or orb of a staff. Since the construction of a wand was a long, arduous, and complicated task requiring a great deal of skill and patience, with the best wands taking a lifetime to perfect, none were mass-produced. Anyone who required a wand needed to make their own or "inherit" one from another wizard.

He put the wand back into its box and closed it, then walked on a little and picked up a rod from a weapon bracket nearby. The rod was intended as a compromise between staves and wands. Manueverable and light enough to be lethal at close quarters, yet durable enough to cast the most powerful spells, a rod was the best of both worlds. However, they were a relatively new invention, and few had the privilege of owning them.

He put the rod back and moved on into a different section of the Armory, summoning a composite bow from where it hung on the wall. Proven by millennia of combat experience, the composite bow was a great improvement on the longbows of ancient times. Short yet powerful, their arrows could easily pierce plate armor. Additionally, Nordenstadt's archers used enchanted arrows, with different types of gems at the tip of each arrowhead to hold the needed enchantments. Some arrows exploded inside their targets; others flew perfectly straight, unencumbered by gravity or air resistance; others shattered into a cloud of lethal shrapnel that could incapacitate an entire platoon if aimed correctly.

He examined the bow in his hand for a while before placing it back and summoning a sword. The tried-and-true sword was still a useful weapon in an era of magic and technology, still capable of slashing through anything that got too close, though they were becoming obsolete as magic advanced. As most swords still used by Nordenstadt warriors were backup weapons, they tended to be of the shorter variety, often nearly short enough to be called daggers, but were still lethal to enemies. Swords could carry their own magic, as well, and an entire class of warriors, the ever-so-rare spellswords, still used them as primary weapons on the battlefield; as metallic focuses of magic, they could call down lightning upon unfortunate enemies and even slice through space itself, unleashing creatures from the Void upon foes.

Nordenstadt's air force was an interesting piece of work. Often indistinguishable from the creatures of nature, it could nevertheless turn the tide against unsuspecting enemies. Nordenstadt's armies could call upon the services of the Invari ravens, faithful scouts that could pinpoint the most secret of hostile encampments. They could also call upon the Great Eagles of the North, strong creatures that could lift supplies across long distances to the front. If fire support was desired, they needed only to call upon the Avara, winged magic-born avatars that could strike any target, anywhere, with a barrage of explosive spears that could tear apart anything.

Nordenstadt's navy, though, left something to be desired. Its old, obsolete boats armed with ballistas and fire arrows could not stand up to Sanctus Petrus's blessed ships, supposedly sent down by God himself, or to Salamandastron's dreadnoughts armed with batteries of cannon sufficient to shell a whole coastline into oblivion, or to any surviving Utopian carriers, if they still existed, each one with enough munitions to level a small country.

However, Nordenstadt had no real reason to develop its navy. Nordenstadt thaumatologists, or magic researchers, had recently come up with a way to open direct portals to certain points within the world. Such portal points were spread out across the entire world, with locations conveniently available within strike distance of all the major powers. However, Nordenstadt's magic allowed the empire to sustain only one portal link at a time, and for whatever reason, Arasul demanded that it be located in Second Chance.

Personally, Calas-El would rather it be in Salamandastron, but Arasul had his reasons, or so Calas-El supposed.

Arasul sighed, relaxing his concentration from the weather spell he had summoned. Once again, Salamandastron's finest had weathered the comparatively feeble hurricane he had summoned at them. This was going to be difficult. If only he could get closer, though...

Regent Septimus awoke abruptly from where he was nestled in a corner of the safehouse. He reached for his water canteen, drinking deeply, then got up.

The night-shift commander nodded to the Regent as he approached. "Good morning, Regent," he said. "Sleep well?"

Regent Septimus shook his head. "I never do. Did I miss anything?"

"Nope, doesn't look like it. Those pirate boneheads need as much sleep as we do, all four hours' worth. And the lazy Alchemists need more."

Regent Septimus nodded. "Weaknesses of being human."

"Of course. The Jaradan Order contacted us this morning. They've reviewed the alliance documents you sent them last week, and their response seems favorable."

Regent Septimus scoffed. "Of course it was favorable. All they want is a piece of the sword. My sword." He paused a moment, then shrugged. "Are we supposed to take their gesture as meaning they accept our proposal?"

"Yes, with your approval."

"Fine. Let them know I buy their sympathy."

"Done."

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis..." the monk whispered.

He lived as a hermit on the shore of the Western Sea in a small chapel on the top of a sheer cliff. On the ground floor, in front of four benches set in two rows, was a small altar in front of a stained-glass image of a religious figure. To the rear of the chapel, a spiral staircase led to the upper floor, consisting of two rooms - one with a rather large bell, the other serving as a bedroom.

The monk lived a simple life, dedicating most of his waking hours in the service of God. When he was not praying, he was tending to the fields of flowers around the chapel, or tending to the small farm where he grew vegetables. At night, after locking up the chapel, he slept and dreamed of Heaven, of the time that Humanity might one day set foot on its doorstep.

Although his chapel was many miles away from civilization, that didn't mean it wasn't well-visited. This chapel was no ordinary hermit's home, but actually the equivalent of a military outpost for the nation of Sanctus Petrus. With God's grace, armies of warrior-monks could materialize in the chapel, sent from the capital of Paterdomus, ready to fight off any enemy incursions from the sea should the need ever arise.

"...sed libera nos a Malo. Amen," the monk concluded. Just as he finished saying these last words, the candles on the altar suddenly flared up, and a column of pure white flame descended from the sky, landing on the chapel floor. The flame cleared away, revealing a tall man dressed in priestly attire. The four-pointed star he wore identified himself as a Saradominist, differing from the monk's own Christian teachings but nevertheless no less welcome.

"Welcome, Father Aereck," the monk greeted the Saradominist priest.

The priest nodded. "Thank you, Brother Adrian. Do you know why I'm here?"

"Do tell."

"We are in trouble. Salamandastron is on the move. Even now they are sending ships in the direction of this outpost."

"To my chapel? Well, we shall give them a proper welcome then."

"A plan is in motion as we speak."

"Does it involve God's Armada?"

"See for yourself."

The two of them traveled out into the sunset air, looking out toward the ocean. As Father Aereck raised his hands in the air, whispering in Misthalinian, great columns of light shot down from the clouds, creating splashes of pure white where they landed. As the clouds of divine mist cleared, the two saw a small fleet of about fifteen mighty, majestic ships float gently along the ocean waters.

"The Salamandastron pirates will soon know divine wrath," Father Aereck whispered.

"Is there anything I need to do?" Adrian asked.

"Do what you have always done," Father Aereck replied. "Hold the chapel." He looked up to the sky as if someone up there was calling him. "I must go now," he said, turning back to Adrian. "Saradomin give you grace."

Adrian nodded. "God be with you, Father."

Father Aereck raised his hands into the air and turned into a column of white flame that flew up into the clouds and vanished. Adrian turned back to the ships. Few that they were, they were nevertheless fine pieces of work indeed. Propelled and guided by God's blessing alone, they needed no crew, and they could never be captured. Though they were forbidden from mounting cannon, they still had a few tricks up their sleeves - warrior-monks could be called from anywhere in Sanctus Petrus to board enemy ships, and the ships themselves could manifest God's wrath in mysterious ways. Though Adrian had never personally seen them in action, he had heard stories of Nordenstadt ships set aflame by streams of divine fire, as well as other stories of enemy ships simply breaking apart into a mess of planks, the nails holding them together inexplicably vanishing.

Adrian turned around and put these violent thoughts aside, locking up the chapel for the night and heading upstairs, while somewhere outside, a small piece of God's Armada sailed northward to meet Salamandastron's navy.

"Bleh," he said.

He looked all around him and discovered that he was in a cave. Outside, he could hear harsh winds. He followed the sound and found the cave entrance blocked by a heavy stone.

"They don't call me Father of Second Chance for nothing," he whispered.

He straightened up and barked harsh words at the stone blocking his way... and the stone moved aside, too ashamed to speak. He stepped out into the morning light and was carried off by the winds that chronically blew over the Northern Mountains.

The winds carried him northward; as he spread his arms, he turned about and glided south. He had known many things in his day, but not flight such as this.

He looked down for the first time and realized why. He was spirit made solid, made of a gossamer material lighter than space itself.

He knew why he had been called back, of course, but by whom?

His gaze turned southward to Second Chance, and a bitter expression formed on his face when he saw what they had lost. He could taste the smoke from a thousand battles; the cries of a million dead brushed past his ears.

He howled with fury, and far away, the pieces of the Sword came to life, and a certain river in the west turned blood-red...

Regent Septimus suddenly reached to his belt, taking out the Sword fragment he carried with him. The fragment had turned perceptibly warm and seemed to be exuding a golden light.

He whispered to himself a bit, recalling an old legend, then turned to the rest of his platoon. "Today we ride. Today we push Salamandastron and Nordenstadt from our beloved city. To arms!"

He was at Second Chance in a heartbeat. He looked all around at the devastation, unnoticed by the hordes of warriors battling below him. Even in ruins, the city looked so much different from when he had been governor. He saw the ruins of a mighty castle where the old town center should have been; the wreckage of a skyscraper where the physics lab had lived; the burnt ashes of a commodities exchange where he had remembered a marketplace.

He looked at what remained of his people, battle-hardened guerrillas fighting for the sake of a cause many of them had trouble remembering. He looked at where they lived, camped in safehouses nestled in the wreckage. He looked at their piece of what they were fighting for, a battered golden hilt attached to a mutilated shard of what had once been a mighty blade.

He glanced into the eyes of the one who kept it and recognized him as of his own blood. This was a Bloodmoon, descended from the creators, and it was not without cause that he bore the name Septimus Deus.

He was close to home now, and even as he floated he could feel himself gaining weight, gaining substance. Now was the time to set in motion the events he had been called back to manifest. It was time to reverse the damage...

"Bring him. Now." The Spirit said. King Reginald III ordered for a long imprisoned prince to be brought to him.

"This is him... My Lord." The King said and bowed to the Spirit. The Prince looked ill, poorly fed, but understood what the Spirit was.

"Jonathan Buckley. It is time you took your rightful title and ruled your Kingdom. Long has Salamandastron been governed by false rulers... Your Fleet sent to attack the Monks has been borne back here by My Sea. You must now decide what must happen here." The Spirit said to the young Prince, now King. "And as for you..." The Spirit rounded on the false King.

"You can't-" The winds blew him off of the ramparts, into the water and rocks below.

"Now," Said the Spirit, "It is time to enter the crypt and secret Vaults of your ancestors, my children. There we may find my purpose in this world."