Aramil Stonebringer: the Meita Conflict

*Temporal Distortion Prediction Algorithms at 94%.*

*Infiltration at 100%.*

*Intelligence Gathered: 82%*

*Chance of Victory with use of HOHOS: 100%*

*Chance of Victory without use of HOHOS:* Calculating...

Leaning back in his seat, Aramil watched the various constructed machines do their work, Naramoore's technological marvels still sending a thrill down his spine at their speed and accuracy. Coupled with his magical might, they were working at peak performance for what little time he had given them. His meeting with the Matron and her worshippers had not gone nearly as well has he had hoped, sad to say. The thing pretending to be a woman was, as blatant as could be, a misguided cultist.

A religion that fostered freedom from responsibility, a disregard for common laws, viewed any critique of it as a personal attack, coupled with a point blank refusal to compromise, left little in the way of peaceful consultation. As such, he studied the necromancers armies, quietly changing orders with his spies and agents, remaking the man's semi insane orders into actual tactical maneuvers that would *work*.

Supply lines that meandered were smoothed, mercenaries that failed were cut or reassembled into undead, while the ones that succeeded were rewarded with elementals to bolster their ranks. Weapons and armor crafted to far superior levels, enchanted within the realms of the time sped demi planes by his workers, each infused to bite hard against the aberrant, the outsider. Scrolls and wands were prepared for healing and utility, but also defense against the mental powers, along every axis, just in case.

He watched the guardian with the temporal powers at work, his own innate senses of times variations seeing faint specks of what the strange little creature could do, though he had to admit even he could not fully see it. *An impressive creature to be sure. I wonder if he can do the same against me?* Shrugging the idea aside, not one to risk his life on a potential, he instead observed as the Matron and her children prepared for war.

The fleet in the harbor would be easy to destroy, or if it proved stronger than he anticipated, at least ensure its weakening.

The supply lines could be cut with ease, considering it had to either be innate creations and such usage of otherwise offensive or defensive spells, teleportation could be detected and blocked, and underground tunnels? Well, that's just asking for trouble.

A slight tweak of a few small gravitic pulls would send down a light, but constant, shower of rubble onto the ice walls she had erected, coupled with the constant bangs that would result from said rain, he would apply an age old tactic of sound to keep the defenders awake at all hours. He did not know if such a thing would *do* anything to the poor bastards who had been twisted into monsters, but it was worth a shot. Generated by a few dozen enchanted items, they would blare out a mix of low grade white noise, animal roars, and demonic speeches to unsettle and rile up the remainder of whatever might be considered mortal in that be-deviled town.

A localized tornado would circle the city, fed by a few allies, adding to the cacophony and fear, while simultaneously ripping away at the ice barriers erected, constantly forcing expenditures of power to maintain them. Disposable, temporary troops of the summoned, undead, and planar varieties would lead the charge, their losses meaning nothing, but each wound taken by their side might well be a loss of the soldier.

Once the necromancers armies arrived, the ice walls would be nullified, the grounds beneath them tunneled in seconds, allowing the army to sweep in onto an unprepared force, and if by chance they had hidden behind additional walls of stone or steel, he would be able to dispose of such things with ease.

The simple fact of the matter was, barring the direct intervention of a deity, a enemy force that planned on a long siege would be unable to defend itself if the walls it relied upon were to be rendered useless, its supply lines cut, and its enemy forces prepared to cut its throat in one move.

However, Aramil was a cautious, paranoid, and patient man. He was not needed on the front lines, instead he would keep to the shadows, using the necromancers own people to his purpose, strengthening the army with supplies, logistics, weapons and support, while attacking the defenders from afar with fire and forget tactics, designed to harass, force resource use, and pick off the occasional soldier.

A part of him hoped that this conflict would help the Matron see reason, to help her come to her senses about what exactly she was bringing into the world, but another part of him knew that it was likely a lost cause. Still, he knew also that it was a bit hypocritical of him to view her use of others as her pawns, when there he sat, behind hundreds of different defenses against discovery, wards and physical barriers that rendered reaching him a act of...well, *finding* him alone would be a difficult task.

Reaching him *alive* if they *did* find his location? Even worse.

*Chance of Victory without use of HOHOS:* 88%

Let them fight, and if the day came that one overtook the other, be it the Necromancer or the Matron, he would adjust accordingly.

Yet all the same, that small part of him hoped that a peaceful solution might be found, a *third* option.