<span style="font-size: 200%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="color: #408040">Chapter 1: The War Council</span></span><br/><br/>Doctor Aetherius Blackvein stood in his tent, a splendid, portable home and apothecary made with deep green velvet lined with silver thread, with a green and black banner flapping in the wind on top of it. His hands were resting on a large round table, usually used for sacrificial rituals and engraved with symbols, emblems, glyphs and icons beyond counting. Not today, however. Today, the easily-assembled but fancy mahogany table was covered in a white linen cloth, with only three items on it. There was a cluster of wine glasses on his right, and a large jar of wine on his left. In front of him, covering almost all of the rather large table, was a map. The map showed, in detail, all of Maeceria, its various towns, castles, and villages, in addition to mountain ranges, passes, lakes, rivers, roads, bridges, and anything else and aspiring strategist would need to understand the diverse landscapes of Maeceria.<br/><br/>Looking upon the map, he frowned. He had sent out quite a few letters recently, all to necromancers and other practitioners, each and every one of them with great renown and a talent for survival. However, the factors to consider were many. The plight they all faced was great, but required secrecy. He had omitted any mention of the Lifestone and the Bloodfountain, but there was still a risk that, should one of the letters' recipients decide to show it to their master, that the Bloodfountain would understand what Blackvein was getting at. Others might not decide it was worth the trouble. And yet others might choose to invite other practitioners, that Blackvein himself would not want to work with. Impatient, he stood up, and walked to the flap of his tent to step outside.<br/><br/>Ah, fresh air. There was something oddly serene about it. As a paguedoctor, fresh air was not a luxury Blackvein indulged in often. For this camp, however, he had elected to ensure that he would have exactly that. Looking upon the horizon, the Rhabeli mountain ranges were splendid in the twilight of dusk. His own tent was located squarely on a cliff, halfway up another mountain. Quite some distance below was the main camp, easily defensible and with a commanding view of the surrounding valley. The stench of the undead host he commanded could not reach his tent, and he was grateful. His gaze trailed over the coffin-beds of his vampiric followers, situated a sensible distance away from his fifty-odd live captives. He noticed with disdain that one of the mercenaries he had hired was rather roughly claiming a young captive woman. Well, if it kept morale high among them, they could play their little games of dominance. Blackvein didn't really care.<br/><br/>The plaguedoctor then turned his gaze to the valley. Along it, teams of mercenaries on horseback were keeping watch. Their purpose here was threefold: To ensure the valley was scoured of prying eyes, to escort Blackvein's would-be allies directly to him, and to serve as sacrificial pieces to buy time for his army to mobilize, should he for some reason fall under attack. He thought that unlikely, however. He had covered his tracks well, and the local guild masters did not have the backbone to challenge a host of the dead as large as the one Blackvein commanded. So at least, all was well on that front.<br/><br/>Stepping back inside his tent, Blackvein once again went over all the things he knew about the current situation in his head. The Lifestone, the ultimate philosopher's stone to which all life was invariably tethered, was real. There was irrefutable proof. What was worse, the Bloodfountain had learnt of its existence as well - and was coveting the stone for itself. Not to gain power, but to destroy it, and thus end all life in the universe. While Blackvein did not consider himself a mere mortal, he knew very well that he was a human, with a beating heart and breathing lungs. And as such, the end of the universe would mean the end of him, as well.<br/>The good news were that the Bloodfountain had no more clues as to the stone's whereabouts than he did himself. That could quickly change, however. Using Nevermore, Death's own messenger raven, the Bloodfountain and his most trusted vassal, the Mad Monk Rasputin, were now looking intently. If Blackvein - and his colleagues, he noted mentally - wanted to continue living and thriving in the world, they had to be stopped.<br/><br/>The question was how. Blackvein had a few ideas, but other practitioners of reputation might be able to give some ideas as well. All Blackvein could really do, was wait. And so, he waited, by his table, for the moment his mercenaries would come a-knocking, with a potential ally...