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A priest of Menoth stood arms spread, shouting his sermon to the throng before him. To one side a great Menofix, wrought in sacred iron, seemed to glow with a fire equal to that of the priest’s fervor. The crowd stood, dusty robes and face-wraps ruffling in the breeze that flowed through the open sanctuary. The priest continued the holy rite and petitions.

“May the Great Fire burn in all of you!”

“And also in you,” the crowd responded. They swayed, mesmerized by the masked man standing before them.

Near the entrance of the sanctuary stood a man wrapped in the same garb as the other zealots. And as the sermon reached its fever pitch, he slowly stepped away from the congregation. A few last words caught his ears.

“We battle the unbelievers with a righteous fury,” he heard the priest shout. “The day of reckoning is at hand and Menoth will see our enemies lain low before us! We are His instruments! His weapons! His blade and bomb!”

Two hands erupted into the air each holding a metal sphere. Packed with explosive powder, these simple weapons proved deadly even in the hands of untrained peasants. The priest held them aloft for all to see as the man exited the sanctuary.

“Fools,” he thought to himself. “To be sent to slaughter is their reward for mindless obedience. Their souls merely a commodity to Menoth in his war in Urcaen. Undead thralls of another kind, I suppose.”  Lazarus Fugue surveyed the city and spied a plume of smoke that belied the location of the building he sought.  The local foundry where warjacks were constructed and repaired delivered loud clangs and hisses of steam into the street. Lazarus cast off his robes, handing them to a poor beggar, and disappeared into an alley behind the factory.

A week later, a message arrived at the door to the lich Revanon’s laboratory. The messenger, a shifty, filthy man, knocked on the door. Soon after, it opened and the courier was dragged in by an iron-clawed hand. He screamed in horror, but was quickly silenced as the door slammed shut.

Ethereal robes glided over the dead body of the messenger as Iron Lich Revanon focused on the communiqué from overseas. The skarlock Memphon dragged the corpse to an adjacent meat pile as the lich read. . .

To the Great Liaison of the Dragon, a report of the Menite army:

Mikael Kreoss has wasted no time in preparing the Protectorate’s greatest warjack for battle. The Avatar of Menoth is being prepared with new glyphs of magical warding like none have ever seen. Its shield nearly hums with “divine” power. The sword it carries is also receiving attention by their mechanics. Menoth’s blood boils in its hilt and fire bursts from the blade. They have yet to tune the weapon exactly and I surmise some time will pass before it is ready to see the field. Other warjacks are being prepared in this factory, but they have yet to be fully constructed. One carries rockets, the Skyhammers we often see, and another has received visits by Kroess himself. The arcnode it carries has been blessed by his priests and the cortex paired with the warcaster’s mind. More time will be required to fully discover the warjacks being built here. Expect more information soon.

I trust you are killing the messengers who deliver these reports. No one can be trusted regarding this mission.

In Undeath,
Lazarus Fugue