Word of interesting events spreads quickly throughout the diminishing world. Although travel is difficult, the approach of the Disjunction has spurred tens of thousands into desparate flight across the land, and the news travels with them.

Across the World in Taverns, Lords' Keeps, Churches and Cities the following letter appears. Every one seemingly written by hand and every one appearing in the same night.

To whom it may concern,

thirty years ago I joined a War that should never have been waged. Thirty years I stood by as that War killed multitudes. Thirty years ago the world was broken and for that I shall ever be held to account. Though I can never make amends for my crimes, for all that has been lost through my inaction and the crusade of those I called friends, I shall no longer stand by.

For three decades I have searched for redemption and now at last I shall try to earn it. So to all those who still care about this world and the fate of its peoples’ I put out a summons; come to the Tower of Trap Town. I call you to Convocation.

Come and hear me. I do not offer salvation but only the hope that something of this dying world may be spared oblivion.

A handbill printed and distributed by the Glorious Golden Guild of Integral Journalists

Dear readers,

We are proud to present yet another issue of The Citizen, proving time and time again that even in this world we “live” in, some are not afraid to tell the truth! We will endure to the end, dear reader, providing you with all the news you care for, and some you don't!

Our first story: the Takers in the scrapyard. Why should we care? They are outside our walls, far from where they can cause us harm, and yet, dear reader, we have mounted an expedition to clear them out. Why? Is there something there that we need? Something crucial to our survival? Why has the Lord Protector, in his magnificent wisdom, decided to send forces our glorious city can ill afford to spare to combat this cancer that does little to endanger us? Either way, if you ask me, our troops would be better off repelling the refugees that swarm around the gates day and night, clamouring for entry. Fire will set them right.

Our next story: the City Watch have sealed off Folly Hill. Rumours of plague abound, more specifically 'Black Pox'. Nobody has been allowed in or out for the past week. A City Watch spokesman claims the plague has been contained and the Majestic Guild of Masterful Ministrations is tending to the infected.

Our final story of this issue: House Daverth, rumour has it, finds itself short one member. This all happened at a party hosted by the Lady Featherinne. Timo Daverth was found in a bedchamber, his head severed and nowhere to be seen, with only the following words found scratched into the wall

  Tor lorek san, bor nakka mur,
  Natromo faan tornek wot ur,
  Ter lantern ker lo Abin Sur,
  Taan lek lek nok -- Formorrow Sur!

Crazed Watchers are thought responsible.

As always dear reader, we are the sole light of truth, a beacon of hope in a dying world.

The Citizen.

Notes from an expeditionary force from the City

“Missive: Lord Commander of the Watch

The inhabitants of the Rim (known as the Watchers to those in the lands outside the walls of the City) appear to be paying the price for their precarious choice of residence. The remnants of the civilisations' of the West are rapidly being forced towards the coast; it is unlikely their makeshift rafts will be mobile enough to survive.

Heavy casualties are expected as is an increase in refugee activity.

From the north we collected credible intelligence that the settlement known as “Brink” is close to total collapse; filled with warring cults, slavers and the remnants of the northern barbarian tribes. The de-facto religious government of the Leveller cult appears to have lost control.

Heavy casualties are expected as is an increase in refugee activity.”

Before a great crowd amongst the refugee camps outside the City, Megaloskimos-In-Perpetuity Franchin Gos Skant delivers a sermon

“And lo, I said to the Captain of the Guard 'Who is your Lord Protector to shield an open Blasphemy against the Three and against Creation? Who is he to allow a sorcerer to reside within the safety of his walls? Does he not fear for his soul? Does he not care that this abomination will murder his people, will burn his palace and will feed off the suffering and fear of the survivors?'

And, I ask you, brave and true followers of the Three, do you know what his answer to me was? Can you imagine what this Trinity-denying son of a whore did in response to my impassioned plea to see the truth of the Three?

He spat upon my beard and said 'Leave these refugee camps and never come back, and I'll let you live'.

He knocked me to the ground and forced my face in to the mud.

He kicked me as I was down and said, for all to hear 'Better the Lord Protector's sorcerer, than having to hear your mewling and petulant sermons to your dead gods'.

Now I stand before you, and with the permission the Metropolitan-Triumphant, the Lord-Prelate and nine Pastors-to-the-Three, and I declare Anathema upon the sorcerer within the City, and anathema upon those who protect him, and anathema upon those who aid him in whatsoever endeavour he shall undertake.

Let the Trinity have Mercy upon them, for they shall have only the Miseriecorde from their Church.”

“Hold on there, meister! Damned lucky I caught you; another couple of hours and you'd have wandered into Taker lands. Merchant out of Kyrine are you?”

Some heated words are exchanged

“No sir, I won't let you by, it'd be the same as killing you myself. The Scrapyard is crawling with Jurgen Krieg's men. If you want to get to the City then you'd best head north and then cut back down once you're into the Greenswards.”

A further torrent of abuse from the merchant

“Sir, your cabbages aren't worth your life. Better they spoil on a long journey than end up in some Taker's pot and you with 'em. Look, if I had the men, I'd try and take back the road myself, but until help arrives then it's all I can do to keep folk from heading straight into their path.”

With some grumbling the merchant begins to wheel his cart back along the road.

“Hey there, friend, you look like you know how to handle yourselves. Interested in a little proposition?”

“You are? That's great! Okay here's the score. I've heard that out in the wetlands there's a great beast- scaly, twenty foot long, eats the natives, you know the score. Anyhow the thing is, the beast is a legerim, right? But, and here's the good part, it hasn't got no special powers or nothing. No fire breath, can't turn invisible, none of that crap. No, this beasty has got claws made out of diamond- think of that massive great claws an all of them crystal.”

“Damn right it's a fortune. Now here's the deal- we split 'em fifty, fifty. I'm the brains and you're the brawn, right. So you keep the monster busy, and I'll work out some way to kill it! What do ya think?”

“Hey! Come back! You need me! You'll regret this, just you wait.”

“How terrible this Ringmaster,
his whip is for the crowd
whilst lions watch with hungry eyes.”

“How mighty this man of stone,
he lifts carts and elephants
and screams his rage through lungs of clay.”

“How nimble this child,
graceful as a hawk in flight
her silver cage the audience's salvation.”

“How foul this Fair,
this Spectacle to the Void
its clowns…the clowns…”

He falls silent and begins to weep

The archers of Fulg can famously split an arrow with another arrow when they are both in the air. The Berserkers of the Yanilth tribe fight naked, as armour would merely slow them down in their mad rush to disembowel their enemies. The charioteers of Zareg go to battle under a hail of repeater crossbow bolts, the swords attached to their wheels spinning under the sun. Once, it is said, a pikeman from Alios ran from the field of battle - but that was nine thousand years ago, and it hasn't been repeated since…

These are just some of the mercenaries that have been gathering in the Kyrine colony of Mylenas, called there by the most brilliant of Kyrine's strategists, Tiro Kalanthos. Also arriving are the kite-cavalry of the sub-northern steppes, the Elephant-riders of Sland, the elite scouts of the Hiruta school, armoured trebuchets from the ex-City-state of Lute - and mercenary swordsmen, horsemen and javlineers from everywhere and anywhere.

The army in total exceeds twenty thousand men, and more are arriving daily, as Tiro Kalanthos encourages them to join up with promises of vaste wealth, glory and victory. It will soon be the largest army in what remains of the world, and may - though the records are vague and patchy - become the largest army the world has ever seen.

Behind cupped hands, locals mutter that Kyrine doesn't even have a tenth of the budget to pay for such a force (or even feed it), and wonder darkly where Tiro is going to get the wealth - and from whom. One thing is certain, with such a canny strategic mind, nothing is left to chance…

A woman carrying an ancient two-handed sword crossed paths with a man in a toga at the outskirts of Trap Town. Immediately, the man tried to hide the books he was carrying under his stained purple cloth.

“Aha, a thief I see!” cried Sword. “Prepare to die, to beg for your life, and to hand over what you’ve stolen! In whichever order you prefer.”

“Ha” spat Toga. “So be it.” He took out the books, embossed in gold and covered in a fine silver lettering, and held them in front of him like a talisman. “I would rather die, and destroy these books, than let them fall into the hands of a barbarian such as you! You shall never plunder the treasures of the Tower!”

“The Tower?” said Sword, lowering her sword. “Whyever would you want to go to the Tower, old man? I’m here for Trap Town.”

“Why?” Toga was always curious, even on the cusp of destruction. “What’s special about Trap Town?”

“It has stores of swords, barrels of poisoned bronze arrows, ingenious traps and more suits of armour than can be forged in a thousand years! Centuries of thieves and fighters have left their wares in this city.”

“Oh,” said Toga disdainfully. “Weapons.”

“Yes, weapons. Why? What has the Tower got? Maybe I’ll go pay it a visit, after cutting off your head.”

“The Tower, ignorant buffoon, has the greatest treasures of this world! Priceless paintings, artifacts from the dawn of history, flying wings decorated and perfected by ten generations of genius natural philosophers, intricate musical instruments of wondrous sound and beauty…”

“Oh,” said Sword disdainfully. “Art.”

It would be nice to say that the wisdom of Toga overwhelmed the brutality of Sword, and they parted peacefully. It would be cruel to say that Sword lived up to her name and left Toga’s blood stained toga to molder in the dust behind her. Reality, alas, has no deep message to convey: still arguing as they died, they were both decapitated by an ancient device left by the previous inhabitants of Trap Town.

Around the Hundred Kingdoms rumours have been flying of a Sorcerer building an army. Some days ago black-cowled figures began to travel the lands each carrying a simple message which they repeat to all who they encounter, in voices deep and terrible.

Tremble not mortals. Fear not men and women of the world.

I am Vale, Sorcerer-King. You are my subjects and I cherish you as you deserve.

Follow me, and I shall lead you to the End of the World and then Beyond.

Reject me, and I take your loved ones, melt their flesh, break their bodies, sow their blood into fields of wheat, and leave you weeping in despair that you ever thought to oppose me.

I am Vale.

A pair of twins lean against a fence next to one another. Behind them, a field burns.

“Reckon it is time to move on Duncan.”

“Reckon it is Gordon.”

They pause for a while as the smoke thickens in the sky above them.

“Who'd have thought them lackeys of that Vale Sorcerer-Fellow would have reacted so badly when you told 'em we couldn't grow the crops any faster 'cause of the manure cycle?”

“Who'd a thought indeed Duncan? All that tosh about cherishing and new worlds won't make the manure-cycle work any faster. We told 'em. We told 'em.”

“Ah well Gordon, might as well go dig up the grain stores, load up the cart and head off. Good thing you thought to bury the stores when we saw 'em burning old man Wilikins in 'is house yesterday.”

The Black Court seeks skilled entertainers to indulge the many and varied requirements of its most august members. Auditions will be held shortly and successful candidates may anticipate the honour of demonstrating their arts to the world's most discerning audience.

Do you know which end of the sword is which? Can you stick it into an opponent with greater skill than any other? Then why are you not yet a member of the Tiro-Argos-Kyrine army? Is it because you haven't heard of the fabulous fees we pay to all our soldiers, enough to get you a dukedom in a year? Or is it because the rumours have not yet reached you of the hideous tortures we inflict on all warriors not marching under our banners?

Well, those excuses no longer apply - so get yourself over to the Kyrine colony of Mylenas, and join up! Wealth, glory, and a lack of hideous torture await you!

Wanted: Mihail Atlas, Antikytheran deserter. Dead or Alive. Significant Reward Offered

He's helped me. Anyone in the rural areas, especially to the north of the City, has a friend in Flavius Itsaso.

(Message not endorsed by Flavius Itsaso)

“The City Watch Protects, the City Watch Serves.”

“Do your duty! Report any suspicious behaviour to your local City Watch official.”

“Play your part in stopping the Disjunction: reject the tripartite faith”

“Preform your duty: Have faith in the Lord Protector”

Now with the disjunction devouring many sources of the usual wines and foods – weep with me for the loss of the Alagnian vineyards and the cattle of the Sun – and disrupting trade routes for what remains, many traditional dished are becoming hard or impossible to cook. But here at Martin Stew's, we prefer to see this as an opportunity!

A great cook, famously, can cook with anything, anywhere, for anyone. They can fry eggs underwater or prepare ice cream atop a volcano. So this new situation really gives us the chance to do some extreme cooking, to discover new flavours by forcing us to look anew at our limited resources. Tomorrow we will look at the wonderful opportunities that dog meat offers us, with a specially brought in moral philosopher to discuss the ethics of cooking our canine friends, as well as a charity worker trying to stop dogs tumbling into the disjunction and depriving hungry humans of their meat.

But today, we will be focused on the myriads of tastes and savours that can be had by using ants. I have it on very good authority that one of the hundred kingdoms is suffering from an ant infestation, and the problem will be getting worse. Ant cooking used to be a niche, luxury market because of the difficulties in procuring enough of the little critters; but soon, getting a hundred thousand ants will be child's play. We will be focusing on several staple recipes: glazed ants in honey, ants in boars blood (de…li..cious…), fried ants on a coulis of aphids and peaches, a simple nourishing ant casserole for eating on the move…

• I heard that somewhere in the Erewhon Desert murderers compete for titles and exaltations through brutal gladiatorial matches.
• The Lord Protector is a duck
• The Hierophant is dead, and his body is simply being puppetted by a Sorcerer hidden within the Hallowed Citadel itself.
• There is something wrong with the Eisotrophians. No, I mean really wrong.
• The lower orders in the City are sharpening their knives against the Watch. No one knows who their leaders are.
• …poorly designed and executed!
• The Will War is not over. Once more the Gods shall rise!
• Who will blink first?