There was...a glimmer. And the efforts, the work, the labor all seemed to pass far quicker then it should. Buildings that had been hastily errected aged. Things changed. The air had that purple hazy look of magic and felt greasy and tasted tinny...

Then all was as it was.

A much more Haggard duke was seen walking with the war wizards who he had called to his aid at this time into the city, and a proclomation was later released.

"This new city will not be weighed with the mistakes of the past. All are welcome in this city if you where banished from it in the past, but realize that We will no longer leave a gentle hand to those who threaten our peace and well being"

//

There's a new "banishment" system going in, its alot harsher. Everyone who was kicked out may come back in, but if you get banished AGAIN your in for it.

More to come later.

Yossarin did:


*******

Although her temple still stood, its gilded cornerstones tarnished by the soot and dust of a Cordor in flames and ruin, Waukeen seemed to have abandoned the Amian capital to its fate; where once business flourished, it was now handled in shady deals and purse-gutting auctions held amidst the rubble, in the very blackened eaves of Haur's forge and Ha'mar's second story adventurer's emporium, in the ashes of the Axis Arcanum or in the next-to-nothing floorboards and half-kitchen of Griff's Nomad. Where once people shared gossip, most of it fearful portents of the future or of the present ravages of the adventuring class, now they spoke of no future, only coughed at the dirt filling their lungs and graying their clothing. The citizens were too busy looking for their loved ones, buried in the mountains of rubble, to even think of looking for a future. And those who did look to the future could see nothing but smoke and fire, and the mountain Horde army somewhere in the island's distant outskirts, amassing for a strike that would level the bare bones of their beautiful Cordor to dust.

"Amia's jewel may have tarnished, but it has not shattered," a pristine voice whispered from atop the lone spire of the Duke's Hall, the only government building left standing in the wake of the quake that split the earth and swallowed the people and places of Cordor. The bard Yossarin, dressed in soothing violet Aranae silk, rested on a three-legged stool in the shadows of a crumbling overhang, his white eyes glistening with moisture in the obscuring darkness. Duke Montgomery, draped in the vestments of his office, perhaps the only formal gray and gold regalia salvaged from his wardrobe, stood forward, squinting heavily into the sunlight. He did not answer the bard immediately, but instead stared hard upon those who had already sacrificed much, and who now were willing to sacrifice even more to the reconstruction. The dwarven workers, dour in the face and calloused in the hand, stood in squat ranks, stroking their beards or resting their weary backs against the Tablets of Law, one of the only monuments left standing. The Knights, stripped of their armor and reduced to civilian labor clothes, fell into regimented lines near the remaining members of the Cordor militia not deployed to the trenches to fight against the Horde. And then, behind them all, a small pool of civilians who could not be driven from the city, their home, because they would have nowhere safe to go. Their grime-covered, expectant faces looked up towards the unwalled top of the Duke's spire, awaiting some announcement.

"You can see it in their eyes, my lord. The luster, the glimmer. It is still there," Yossarin reassures, fingernails as sharp as diamonds and as red as rubies playing noiselessly over the beautiful strings of finely crafted lyre, its curving foundation a warm metallurgical combination of polished wood and brass, hand worked so artfully as to avoid the ravages of temperature changes on the instrument's perfect tuning. "That's the soul of any treasure, the soul of any work of art: its undying beauty. You have left a legacy of prosperity for them. You have inspired them with your voice and your actions. They remember, and that memory will help us to create Cordor anew. And they dream..."

The Duke looked over his shoulder to the lilting tone of the ebony bard's voice as a fingernails plucked a resonating middle C major chord. "They dream, as well as remember," Yossarin continued, a smile evident in his words. "And we can grant them that dream, together. This instrument, and your power. Our combined wills, and the wishes of the people. We have everything that we need."

"These are dangerous powers we manipulate here," Montgomery countered rationally, but without fear. "We may lose everything in this moment, too."

"We will lose everything, if we do nothing," Yossarin returned with equal politic, knowing that he stated only what was already on the Duke's mind. A sly hand on the tuning slide keyed the chord into a C minor, immediately conjuring images of the Horde, waiting out there somewhere, and the villainously imperial drow skulking in the skittering, spidery shadows of the underdark. "The people who remain are willing to risk their lives. Some, because they made that promise ages ago," Yossarin rises from the stool, which wobbles over on its weak foundation and falls to the stones with a dull thud; even the stool had not gone unscathed in the disaster, losing one of its legs. He focuses intently upon the knights and the militiamen and the conscripted laborers. "Others, because they have nothing else to put their faith into, but us." The disorganizing sea of civilians undulates impatiently, awaiting some address. "But all out of love for Cordor. Love of varying degrees, of shapes, sizes, and styles, but it is love, nonetheless."

A cool breeze whisked in off of Cordor bay, scattering formal documents bearing the Duke's seal in tiny eddies around the bottom of the building, fading memories of his political authority and bureaucratic power. Now with Cordor in a state of martial law, the only power he wielded came through the persistence of the home guard in enforcing order and stability in what would otherwise collapse into utter chaos and depravity. And in that instant, inspired perhaps by the knowledge that a man's power does not reside in ink and vellum, but in word and deed, Duke Montgomery D'Cordor raised one hand into the air, and a hush as stilling and silent as the ocean breeze swept over the amassed men and women set to rebuild the city.

“Assemblage…” the Duke’s voice rose from a booming attention-commander to a vociferous and drawn-out final syllable, pausing with emphasis until he is certain he has gained the full draw of the crowd. All eyes draw to his open palm, some hands raised in sudden salute to the Duke, and others merely held up to offer shade from the sun, so that they might catch a glimpse of the otherwise elusive leader. “Lend me your hearts, for your ears have surely grown as weary as mine, resounding with the plaintive cries of our fallen brothers and sisters, and this deafening silence that has overwhelmed our home. On the day the earth yawned to take back what we had plundered from her, our lives were altered; those of us who had known nothing of survival learned, with bravery and through sacrifice, how to scrape for life and look towards the light, even though the darkest hour was upon us. Those of us who thought we had everything looked around, eyes stained with tears, and saw only what we had lost. Our loved ones. Our brothers. Our sisters. Our mothers, fathers, and friends. Our children.”

A short sob went up from somewhere in the crowd, followed by hushed condolences. The Duke continued.

“The Cordor we built is no longer. The Cordor that raised us, and that we in turn raised, has retired, taking with it our way of life. She was a grand and beautiful city, built on hopes and ambitions, only to be made stronger in her convictions through the failures she experienced. And yet, through the virtue of her people, she lived on and prospered. Never did we fathom that we should be here today, standing in the ruins of Cordor…”

Duke Montgomery’s open palm clenched closed in a fist, shaking sternly as he stepped forward, setting his jaw.

“…but by the gods, we are still standing!”

A surge of exhilaration fluttered in the bellies of those who listened, who raised their tired, blistered hands in an equally close-fisted salute to the Duke and shouted triumphantly in honor of their lives, if nothing else.

“Countrymen, a city is more than four walls and commerce! Look yon! By the grace of our allies, the High Priest of Winya, the Hinfolk of Bendir Dale, the dwarves of Brogendenstein, the people of Wharftown and the magicians of the Arcane Tower, we have gathered the lumber, the ore, the raw materials we need to rebuild what we had, all of whom donated these not only to the survival of Cordor’s people, but to the revival of her prominence! In a show of Amian solidarity, our allies have given us the means to rebuild those walls around us; the adventurers who gathered those supplies for us, who risked their own lives to save those people who would have otherwise been lost, have our thanks! But though we can rebuild these walls with our bare hands, friends, it is her heart that we must build first!”

His hard, balled fist gradually softened, and found its way to his left breast, where it lay flat as a crested shield over his fiery and beating organ.

“I bid you to find it now: remember how things were, and dream, my people, of how they can be,” Duke Montgomery announced, glancing aside at Yossarin. With a nod that belied his own sense of inspiration in the patrician’s rousing words, the bard stepped forward and nodded briskly and confidently to the assembly of people.

“Assemblage, lend the Duke your hearts, but lend me your ears, so that you might hear the anthem of our future, and lend me your dreams, so that we might see Cordor come alive once more, together, and in harmony,” Yossarin begins, abruptly strumming two rich, overlapping chords on the Lyre of Building without a hint of dissonance between any pitch. “We are a city of culture, of commerce, of capital, of art, of beauty, and love, of power, and grace! We are a city of tolerance above all, always seeking unity in spite of those elements that would render us disparate and downtrodden. The power is in you, people of Cordor, to rebuild this city not only in the image of your memories, but in the image of your desires and ambitions. The past exists merely so that we might learn from it, not that we might emulate it. The future is ours to command! And perhaps, just perhaps…”

A triad of sonorous pitches rises up in a pleasing arpeggio, followed by a harmonic arpeggio in a higher scale immediately afterwards, raising eyebrows at the bard’s off-hand ability to make the instrument in his hands not only produce music, but to communicate his words, in its own language.

“…we might reinvent the past. Our home of Amia, friends, is called by many the Island of Chaos, rife with all manner of troubles that would seek to shatter fragile bonds before they have even begun to take hold, to keep its people living in fear of what might come the next day. My dear people, you have felt this fear for the past month, the unknowing, the uncertainty. The gods themselves have consigned the Amian Isle and its cities to its designated fates, but Cordor alone can rise above the chaos. Today, we have the opportunity granted only to poets and gods, to create, and to change. No longer need Amia suffer Fate, when Cordor rises as a bastion of peace, of tolerance, and of stability. No longer will we suffer the Horde, who seek to lay claim to this place we now make our home! No longer will we suffer the acts of vengeful wizards and webs of dark deceit!”

Yossarin hoists the Lyre of Building over his head, tousled black hair whipping around his head, black bangs drifting over the broad brow line. The brass glistens in the sunlight, and the strings, as though they were spun from crystal, sparkle and shine. Though he addresses the crowd with authority and grace, there is the hint of a challenging smile in the corner of his mouth when he begins to speak again.

“No longer will we suffer the nightmares of madmen, who beat down our fiery and passionate beauty with cold logic packaged in gold; our art is greater, our souls stronger, and there is no greater power in the world than the power of the human spirit. We dance to the tune of the celestial chorus!”

Vermillion nails, filed down to string picks, strum over every strand until the air throughout the square is vibrant with music! The hidden power of the Lyre begins to surface; the civilians wring their hands together anxiously, the militiamen and the knights cry out in inspiration, and the dwarves, often as immovable as stones, rise from their reclining positions and join in the praise despite the burning pain and soreness in their muscles!

“I bid you to listen for it, and to dance until you can dance no more,” the bard steps back and away from the precipice, glancing aside Duke Montgomery, who nods at him and then looks down at Franton. The Clerk makes a motion with his hand, and the rope lines holding the lumber together are sliced clean through, the burlap flaps over the carts full of metal ore thrown into the air, to flutter down over the dusty stones of the city. “If your words are the last things we ever hear, my lord, then take comfort that we will remember them hereafter.”

Duke Montgomery nods stiffly and removes an object from the fold of his broad, high-collared overcoat, holding it aloft with the same controlled panache as Yossarin’s legendary lyre. The Duke grips the elaborate hourglass in both hands, his knuckles closing taut and white around the spiraling handles of copper, silver, gold, and adamantium, all fused with hardened mercury, the collection of metals forming long, cold bars of enchanted orichalcum, the strongest and most mystic metal known to Archmagicians like the Duke; those with any knowledge of such things realize that the hourglass must have been specifically crafted, for orichalcum never occurs naturally, and can only be concocted through an ardent study in the principles of alchemy. The sand within the bottom of the two dual globes of blown glass comes from the Amian desert itself, representative of Cordor’s current situation as a desolate tundra, and the empty air in the top globe represents the unrealized dreams of the people, the untold potential of the powers soon to merge, and the future, soon to overturn the desolate sands and replace them, wholly.

The bard looks to the Duke with his hand poised over the lyre strings. The Duke murmurs a rote series of incantations in preparation of the chronomantic time crunch, invoking the empirical powers of haste, constancy, expedience, control, and accentuating the mystic words of power that command each one of them. Meanwhile, Yossarin waits patiently, focusing on the music dying to burst forth as though through a broken dam:

The earth collapsed and swallowed you, fair city, and the waters moved in; they washed away the fires and swept away the dead. Kismet, you have made your intentions clear, and I read these signs like a book. The only kind of city that can survive upon an island of chaos is a city that dances to the celestial chorus, as my muse has told me, balancing reason and passion, logic and love, walking the ever-shifting line between these paradigms with élan. We must be as the water: strong in volume, yet flexible, willing to bend as far as a willow branch without breaking; a refreshing balm to temper the fires of destruction; a city of expedience and communication, for water goes everywhere, and does so quickly, moving through the streets like a serpent in search of its pretty; water is the blessed element that carries commerce, and Cordor is a trade city, indebted to water. And water is wise, speaking towards a series of wise rulers. We shall not be as Kholingen, the earthen stone that refuses to buckle against any onslaught until we are pushed headfirst into the ocean, only to sink beneath the weight of our own convictions. We shall not be as Winya, the tinderbox so isolated that we chafe at the attentions of others until we ignite and burn to ash. We shall not be as the Arcane Tower, rising into the air with hubris and demanding, with our arts, that the gods strike us down with lighting and thunder for our arrogance, and their fear. We shall be a city of water, but not cold and sluggish; we shall keep it warm with the light of our passion and ambition, hot as candle flames, floating just above the surface, refusing to sink; each small light, a memory of those who perished, and a way to light the current that whisks us into the future.

Simultaneously, the lyre plays and the hourglass overturns. In that instant, the vectors of time, space, and force lurch towards one another, threatening to move inwards into a sinkhole that will suck the entire ruin of Cordor fully into the earth. But an instant and an eternity later, the music of the Lyre of Building forces the powers unleashed by the Duke’s hourglass into an organized chorus, played in Yossarin’s talented hands that wash over the strings like a black river. Red fingernails pluck every warbling note out, sounding like musical droplets of dew kissing the face of a pond in dawn’s light. The atmosphere ripples around Cordor, reverberating to the sound of the music, and instantly, the civilians, the militiamen, the knights, and the dwarves vanish into a flurry of activity around the Duke and the bard, zipping like streaks of light, quicksilver fish beneath the surface of a lake torrid with tidal activity, surging towards some goal that the two orchestrators can only hope is formulating within the minds of those building. From the outside, the dilapidated skeleton of Cordor is enveloped in what appears to be a large whirlwind of hot, dry sand, spinning and swirling around the city; so, too, does the sand in the Duke’s hourglass tumble inexorably downwards, filling the bottom so slowly in comparison to the lightning fast world around them. The sun winks in and out and in again like a sluggish strobe, forcing Yossarin to close his eyes and concentrate only upon his familiarity with the instrument and the music, letting his fingers find the notes, ‘lest the effects of their own combined power drive him mad. Shadows build all around them, as columns of stone rise like animated kudzu around invisible designs, strengthening and taking shape as the solid sand vanishes from one globe into the next. Inspiration drives the bard’s fingers to rake over the strings, and as he does so, a whiplash line of liquid blue musical bars and a swimming symphony of sixteenth notes gushes outwards in a geyser, vanishing from sight before it ever seems to hit the ground. Toil and trouble plunder ahead at a breakneck pace, along with productivity, and finally, when it seems the Duke may collapse to the ground as a withered corpse, his hands drawn, skeletal, and barely able to hold the hourglass with the strength in his atrophied arms, cloaked in a hoary white beard, when it seems the bard may lose his mind and his form and melt into the very foundation of the city, oozing between the bricks and drinking in the new Cordor eternally, everything stops.

Abruptly.

Yossarin does not even realize he has finished playing, his wrist aching with effort, his fingernails pounding in pain and dulled to flat square-cuts. The Duke stares in mute wonder at the hourglass in his hands, no longer filled with sand; now the bottom appears to be filled with crystal clear water, shimmering and pristine in the refractive sunlight. Outside the city, the dust storm is swept out to sea by a sudden gale, unveiling Amia’s most valuable treasure: New Cordor.

Swallowing hard, his throat dry as the choked Ne’sek river, Yossarin stumbles forward and whispers hoarsely while gazing upon the cityspace. “The diamond is unearthed. Look upon this, my lord, at the hopes and dreams of your people. Long live New Cordor.”

The Duke takes in a solid breath and blinks the moisture from his eyes. “Aye. Long live Cordor.”