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500 word nation founding posts (part 1):
Far away in the north there is a land of high cliffs, cold winds and little mountain towns that live from Spring until Autumn.
Outside a small village between the sea in the south and the mountains in the north lies the home of a man who would shape the place's history forever, now know as King Conor the returner. As a child he was kidnapped by pirates and brought far away to the south, to work in a shipyard for the raiders. At the age of eighteen, he and thirty other slaves revolted against their captors. They took some of the ships they had been building and took their leave back to their homeland, but what they returned to was not much better than what they had left, a land where the lords stole from each other, and from the peasants. at his point, Conor is said to have taken a fit of rage. He called out that "any kings who are brave enough to kill peasants must be brave enough to kill me!" and it is said that any lord who showed his face in the south, where he reigned over his army of slaves (and an ever growing army of peasants), would not return without having his land or his life taken. Through the years his army grew and he became infamous throughout the north, as he swept through, taking over villages and killing nobles, until eventually he and an army of one thousand stood outside of the gates of the capital city.

Soldiers stood on the city's great walls, and tension hung in the air as Conor stared up, waiting for the king to appear, although he would not be king for much longer. As the tyrant came out onto the wall, Conor raised his spear, and the battle begun. After less than a day of fighting Conor stood outside the throne room, the old king dead at the hands of his soldiers. What would happen now? Well, this country would need someone to lead it of course. It would be him. HE would found a great new empire, HE would be an emperor the people would look up to.

Under Conors new rule, the Amyrian empire expanded significantly. The city of Amyria (for which the empire was named) contained a large port, markets and high stone walls, guarded by spear wielding soldiers. The rural areas also developed, with fishing and forestry becoming massive industries that also fueled the construction of a navy which was used to fight pirates. It was in this golden age that Amyria joined the international world, sending embassies to nearby nations, as well as some of the major powers. Responses have been varied, with many nations underestimating the power of a nation so far from the developed world, with so little influence and history, but the Amyrian people are warlike, and the Amyrian navy is quite advanced form its many battles with pirates, while Conor is a wise, popular and militaristic empire to the nation.

The New Born, a Founding Nation Post.

That morning was unusual in summer, which is the hottest season of the year, the rain fell very heavily accompanied by thunderous lightning strikes. That morning also marked the end of the bloody feud between two large tribes, -Piliang and Verida, each with their alliances-, for almost 50 years. A dispute that perhaps each of them has forgotten about the cause and purpose of the dispute, the feeling of wanting to avenge the death of one's brother or closest relative becomes a raging fire, continuing to revive the dispute, fading the fact that perhaps they shouldn't, and aren't need to feel responsible for a dispute that basically they don't know exactly why.

But one thing is certain, bloodshed will only worsen and prolong the existing conflict.

Amidst the torrential rain, they all stood, the border of the two tribes was a river, not too big and had a fairly calm flow. The leaders of the two tribes stood together in the middle of the river.

Akaizo, a leader and warrior of the Verida tribe - a middle-aged man standing firmly in front of the new Piliang Tribe-, is famous for his brutality during the 13-day battle, a battle that claimed the life of the previous Piliang leader.

"It's been 3 generations since I spoke directly to your tribal leader, the last 2 leaders were the worst, especially your brother hahaha," he said.
"I still remember him, when he begged one of my soldiers in the 13-day battle, prostrating himself before me covered in blood from his hand which was cut in that battle." he added again

The Piliang leader was still silent without a single word coming out of his mouth, with his eyes looking sad but sharp looking into the eyes of his interlocutor

"Just like you today, that's what I did at that time, maybe I should regret not responding well at that time" the leader of the Verida Tribe continued. with a slight grin

"I just kept quiet and smiled looking at your brother's scared face, I let him feel the pain he was experiencing, I let the battle continue. Unfortunately my pleasure didn't last long, just like your brother who was out of blood begging me". he added a little annoyed.

"Now tell me what you want, Pluto Piliang"

The Verida tribe and its alliance, even though they succeeded in killing the leader of the Piliang tribe in the 13 day war, they were the ones who lost, so badly. However, because the Piliang tribe also lost its leader, the decision that was reached was not to disturb each other's territory for up to 2 years.

"Lord Akaizo Verida, it is an honor to speak directly to you, my purpose in asking you to come today, is only to resolve the long conflict we have had so far," said Pluto to Akaizo, the leader of Verida

"I want a one-on-one match between me and one of your tribesmen until death determines the winner, and he who wins, he who owns this territory completely." Pluto said again.

Akaizo smiled at Pluto's words, that morning was a historic thing for both tribes, a one-on-one match to the last drop of blood was the first match in the conflict they had, and also to resolve it so that there was no need for much blood to be shed to color the land. where they live together.

“It's better that today we lost one great person. Let's remember this moment, the day when those who win unite us, those who fall serve as a reminder to us that we are no more like brothers and sisters fighting over their toys, who someday in the future will have to unite and fight together to protect the same territory we love. to sacrifice so much blood for almost half a century. Let's work it out, and let's promise together, for the first and last time in our conflict, we will be together, live and die for this region”. Pluto said in front of a large audience, in front of the top leaders of the two tribes and their alliances.

Akaizo accepted it, with a smile and a hint of regret visible on his face. Indeed, he should have accepted his brother's offer 2 years ago, he was certain to become the leader of the region. But is that a wise thing? Maybe this was the answer he had to accept now, fighting one on one against someone much younger and more skilled, in fairer conditions, Akaizo with his wealth of fighting experience, and Pluto -a spellblade fighter- with his mentality and determination.

The fight lasted for a full day, it was so fierce and there were so many scratches and wounds between the two of them, the river water which was previously clear suddenly turned into a red stream, like a vein in the human body, the splashes of water and the beats they made during the fight were like a beat. in that vein. Drums sounded and cheers enlivened the fight. Until then, Pluto managed to draw his sword straight through Akaizo's stomach.

Everyone was silent, only the sound of the rain and its increasingly heavy rain hitting the surface of the river water which was increasingly red. In this silent state, Akaizo plunged his sword into the riverbed while grabbing Pluto's shoulder with his trembling hands.

“With all your dreams and determination, I hope you're right, Pluto. One person is enough, right? I entrust them to you, please love them," said Akaizo with a smiling face as if he didn't feel the slightest pain, then slowly fell down and sat prostrate while giving a signal to his vassals to also kowtow to their new leader before he finally lost his blood and breathed his last breath.

In the end a new agreement was made, a constitution was created that day, a new country was born from the bloody history between these two great tribes. From now on, they will understand more about their own territory, how to use life to revive the country they have just born, and also to become a unit that will protect each other from threats from enemies outside their territory. They called it the Grenadine Calyx, because the river flow remained red after the fighting was over, and the Legendary Sword Akaizo was still stuck there with word “Universe Shall Prepare” as a sign and warning for future generations.

The Ambush at the Northern Pass I

Qiiyuon Wan moved with silent determination across the undulating dunes of the Kiivantuu desert. Her long, obsidian braids danced in rhythm with her purposeful strides. Her piercing hazel eyes scanned the horizon with the wisdom of a seasoned warrior.

Her flowing robe matched the golden hues of the desert sands. A cloak, adorned with symbols of protection, billowed in the wind behind her. Strapped across her back was a curved blade, an emblem of her martial prowess and a reminder of the responsibility she bore as the guardian of the Taeyaek family.

The small band of soldiers, handpicked for their loyalty and skill, trailed behind Qiiyuon with disciplined precision. Each member bore the traditional Kiivantuu weaponry – curved blades, sturdy spears, and agile daggers. Their clothing, like Qiiyuon’s, blended seamlessly with the desert terrain.

As they approached the northern pass, the only opening for days in a high cliff ridge that cut across the otherwise featureless desert, Qiiyuon signaled for the group to halt. The soldiers, eyes sharp and senses heightened, gathered around their leader. Qiiyuon's gaze swept over each of them, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

"We're nearing the pass," Qiiyuon spoke in a hushed tone, though one that still carried authority. "Remember, we do not fully engage. Our goal is to protect the caravan and ensure its safe passage through the ambush zone. Do not get so involved in a fight that you get drawn away from the thing we’re meant to protect."

The soldiers nodded in unison, their unwavering loyalty to Qiiyuon evident in their determined expressions. She continued, her eyes scanning the horizon as if foreseeing the unseen danger that lurked ahead. "We will split into three squads. Select a signaler. Signalers: Remain in constant communication. All of you, remember, stealth is our greatest advantage. Move like shadows, and let the dunes conceal your presence."

Qiiyuon quickly organized the soldiers into their respective squads, each with a specific role in the upcoming operation. The first squad she assigned to a seasoned warrior named Raun. They were to conceal themselves among the dunes on the low side of the pass. Once the raiders started to move, they would as well, coming at them from their rear. The second squad she gave to Saria. They would be in the pass itself, hidden among the elevated ridges. Once combat had been joined by the first squad, they would attack from the other side, catching the raiders in a pincer. The third group would be led by Qiiyuon herself. They would wait at the top of the pass where they could observe, but also be ready to move if the raiders somehow were able to attack the caravan despite her warriors' preparations.

As they dispersed, melting into the desert landscape. Qiiyuon, accompanied by her select few, took her vantage point overlooking the pass. Her hazel eyes, sharp and focused, scanned the surroundings with an intensity that bordered on preternatural. She awaited the approach of the Taeyaek caravan, the lifeline that brought her family not only prosperity, but maintained the life of numerous others in Kamsa'ra.

In the distance, a moving break in the shimmering heat waves coming off the desert floor betrayed the presence of the impending caravan. Qiiyuon's fingers tightened around the hilt of her curved blade and muttered a silent oath to protect her kin. As the caravan drew closer, Qiiyuon's heart quickened, the responsibility of safeguarding her family intensifying with each passing moment. She glanced behind her to read her signaler.

Her signaler looked, not at her, but at the other groups, reading the flashes of light that came up from below and translating them into silent hand signals that would not disrupt her commander's orders. There is a small force moving up from the west. They are on an intercept course for the caravan. The threat was real, but their response would be as well. These men would regret choosing this course. She gave her consent to her signaler and she relayed a series of hand signals to the other groups. Their movements began with the orchestration of a seasoned dance troupe, converging on the intruders as they crept up on the caravan.

Kakhardy, “The Witch”
Early Summer

A full moon shone brightly upon the city of Yerory, illuminating the thatch roofs and cobbled streets devoid of all life. Not a baby murmured nor bird chirped neither daring to break the silence of this serene night. Twas a summer’s night plucked right from a fairytale, yet, like all fairytales, an iniquity gathered lying in wait for its opportunity. In the bowels of the natural world surrounding the city, darkness gathered.

A mild horse’s ride away, past the rolling foothills and into the elevating bases of the Latslinely Mtis Kedi, stood a woman bare in flesh in the fresh breeze flowing from those heavenly stretched rocks. Upon her ivory skin were markings and letters of antiquity painted in some sort of scarlet red pigment. To her front, a large funeral pyre blazed, yet to whom this was dedicated was a mystery as neither animal nor human corpse was within those flames that reached towards the heavens and sent ash falling back down to the world. The painted relics of a time forgotten, illuminated by the raging and churning of flame and ash, littered a woman’s porcelain exterior. Within her open palm, was a small bone totem with several markings akin to the ones on her body. In the totem, in that expression of peoples and cultures from days passed, was a kind of soul that spoke to the woman’s fingertips. Grooves and cuts made up the symbols, their meaning unknown to most.

Another woman, far younger than the painted woman, approached from behind as they both looked into the flames. The younger placed her hand on the painted one’s shoulder, a simple but gentle gesture. The painted woman spoke, “Is everyone ready?”

“Yes, Carni…”, she nebbishy spoke, “... are you sure about this?”

“Alenoush, my dearest companion, for us to succeed we need guidance and power from the Dzveli Astvatsnerir. Now tell the others to come forward.”

With that, Alenoush scurried off and a moment later a group of five women strode up from the woods surrounding the hill’s summit where the pyre and Carni waited. All besides Carni wore a long black robe around their everyday attire. They formed a semi-circle around the pyre and Carni which was between the group and the fire. An elderly woman of wrinkled, near honey-toned, skin sun tanned by the relentless turning of eternity, led the group in song. Their superlunary voices beckoning forth to the vast unknown powers of this world and all worlds. These women made up the chorus as a melody of otherworldly poetry floated into the cool breeze. They were calling to the Dzveli Astvatsnerir, the Classical Racinian term for the plethora of spirits and demons that many Racinians worshipped in the days before the spread and proliferation of the monotheistic Ananic faith. Carni began to speak in the bygone Classical Racinian language, “Mihr, bolorin tesnogh. Sanasar, hayr mer garrneri. Astlik, lusni yev astgheri mayr. Yes khosum yem dzez het. Mihr paylum e im mijov, Sanasar arrajnordum e indz, isk Astlik snutsum."
“Mihr, beholder of light. Sanasar, father of the flock. Astlik, mother of the moon and stars. I speak to you. Mihr shines through me, Sanasar guides me, and Astlik nourishes me.”

She paused as she scanned the fire for any signs of the Gods and as she did so a gust of wind came down from the mountains, breathing fresh air into the burning pyre and bringing it revitalized life. Surely this was a sign from the Gods, she continued, “Mardkants ays tagavorutyuny prkelu hamar anhrazhesht mi tgha, dzer Astvatsnerits yev im aryunits. Yes arrajarkum yem kez gayli atam, vorpeszi na lini sarsapeli yev khoramank, agrravi achker vorpeszi…”
“A boy, of you Gods and my blood, is needed to save this realm of man. I offer thee wolve’s teeth so he may be fearsome and cunning…”

She bent down, picking up a handful of bone-white teeth still sharp to the touch. Carni threw them into the pyre before going on with the spell, “na khelatsi lini yev kuysi sirt…”
“…a crow’s eyes so he may be intelligent…”

One of the women came forth handing Carni a pair of small but bloodied and fresh eyeballs. Carni threw them into the flames, “…vorpeszi na makur lini ir vchrrakanut yamb.”
“…and the heart of a virgin for him to be pure in his resolve. ”

As those last ancient words left her lips, the chorus stopped, almost utter silence, other than the crackling of the burning wood, washed over the group of women. Alenoush watched as Carni turned towards her, Carni’s face one of evil and horror seemingly stared through Alenoush into the deepest depths of her soul. Three of the women sprang into action with one grabbing her left arm, another grabbing her right arm, and the third wrapping her arms around her neck. Alenoush began flailing about in a futile effort to free herself but to no avail. The old woman that led the choir earlier, produced a dagger from her cloak which she handed to Carni who sauntered over to the struggle. The last of the women began to sing a new tune, in a lower more guttural tone that felt as if the world would tear asunder and bring forth the demons from the deep. Carni came to stand directly in front of Alenoush with the two staring each other down. In their contest of silence, Alenoush began to beg through her sobs, “Carni, please! You needn’t have to do this! Please!”

Through a mess of tears and snot, Alenoush fought on trying to break free but she could not. Carni continued to stare blankly at her friend. She wanted to grieve, to empathize with her friend but she could not bring herself to do so. The ritual needed to be done and Carni thoroughly believed it so. The blade crept above her head and was brought down deep into Alenoush’s chest. The scream was primal. It had a raw intensity to it that told of sorrow, of needless suffering.

Alenoush’s breaths were short and haggard. With all of her might, she continued to plead for mercy but none would be given. Carni withdrew the blade before again bringing it back down and again she withdrew it repeating the stabbing motion several more times. As the brutal assault continued, Carni’s gaze turned up towards Alenoush’s face. Her open but glazed-over eyes spoke of betrayal, and her gaped-open jaw hung lifelessly as words would never again leave it. A last breath left the lips of Alenoush followed by a dribble of blood, the dagger must have punctured a lung. Carni stopped, tears welled in her eyes as she stared at the corpse of Alenoush. The fire’s light danced upon the dead girl’s skin, the heart that beat no more lay still in her body, the sound of her cries still playing in Carni’s ears and soul. A myriad of emotions swirled about within Carni and she began to ruthlessly tear into Alenoush’s open chest cavity ripping her flesh with the dagger and her bare hands. Blood flowed outwards, bones cracked, and tendons ripped as she dug inside of the body only ceasing when she was able to feel Alenoush’s heart. Carni gripped the heap of blood vessels and muscles and cut it out of Alenoush. She raised the heart of her friend above her head, and the women who had watched on began ululating releasing wails and howls into the blackness of the ether.

At that moment, the wind picked up again and the Latslinely Mtis Kedi, the Weeping Mountains in the common tongue, earned their name as the mountains joined in the procession of sound adding its own voice to the women’s song of pain. Carni returned to the pyre to continue the ritual. There she stood, her hands and forearms encased in blood, the painted runes slowly washing off her body as sweat mixed with the pigments, and goosebumps creeping up her exposed body as the night chill crept on. As she stood there frozen, the elderly woman walked to her side.

“Finish the ritual girl do not waste Alenoush’s sacrifice,” the elderly woman callously said. Carni looked at the shrew of a woman as she threw Alenoush’s heart into the fire. The old woman went back to her place with the other women who all restarted their ethereal tune. Looking intensely into the blaze, she began to speak again in her witch tongue, “Im marminy kvo anotne. Mihr, Sanasar yev Astlik orhnir indz kvo zavakov yev tuyl tur, vor nran vordi anvanem, yev menk kez het kberenk mardu ays tagavorut yuny.”
“My body is your vessel. Mihr, Sanasar, and Astlik bless me with your child, allow me to call him son and we shall return this realm of man to your dominion.”

As Carni’s plea to the gods took flight from her lips, she began taking backwards strides, distancing herself away from the flames. The chorus of women came to a lull with the elderly woman, yet again, coming forward. The elderly woman came with a heavy fur cloak in hand while another unnamed chorus member walked alongside her pulling along a white horse. Carni began to falter, her emotions temporarily getting the best of her as her lip quivered and tears welled in her eyes. Seeing this, the elderly woman was quick to put her back into her place, giving her a smack across her left cheek before saying, “Carni, you have done well. Now go forth and bring our God’s child into this world.”

Lifting her hand to massage the pain and to hide the teardrops silently rolling down her face that mixed with the ash and paint that covered her, Carni responded, “Thank you, Varduhi,” her eyes glazed over in rage over the old hag’s assault on herself, “, nay you forget, that I am Carni of Ochleti, wife to Kom Melak of Yerory and now expectant mother of the child of the Dzveli Astvatsnerir. I will reign in the worlds of men and of the spirits, yet, you dare raise a hand against me?”

“I only meant to help you come to your senses. I meant you no harm, my child,” exasperated the elderly woman, Varduhi.

Coming to the momentary realisation that she still held tight a knife, the same knife she used to cut open Alenoush, Carni sunk the blade into the elderly woman’s throat in one swift motion. Varduhi fell back, desperately trying to plug the hole in her neck and save herself. She wriggled in anguish as her last hopeless breaths fled her lungs and blood oozed from her wound. After a moment or two of watching the pathetic show, Carni bent to her knees and spat at the slowly dying woman. She grabbed the cloak that Varduhi had brought to her, tearing it from her decrepit hands before walking to the woman who had handled the horse. In fear of her own mortal coil, the young woman tremored as Carni encroached. Carni grabbed the reins of the mount from the woman’s hands while handing her the knife that had slayed both Alenoush and Varduhi. As Carni did so, she said, “What do they call you?”

“They call me Shushan,” she anxiously answered.

Carni said with renewed resolve, “Shushan, you will lead the others and make clean of this land. You will then find me within the Kom’s residence in Yerory and become my new maiden. Can the one they call Shushan do so?”

Shushan nodded energetically, whether in terror or in excitement at her societal advancement and took hold of the blade. Carni put it on the cloak and, with Shushan assisting, mounted the horse before kicking the animal’s sides sending the creature into a gallop. The final part of the ritual was one Carni had been dreading. She ruminated in her thoughts as the city of Yerory grew closer, its church steeples and walls etching over the horizon. The sun raced over the edge of the world as Carni entered the city. Luckily for her sake, most of the city’s residents were still sleeping with no one seeing her until she reached the inner keep. A trio of guards huddled close around the gate to escape the early morning brisk air, they spoke softly telling gossipy tales of their recent conquests in and outside the bedroom. The echoes of hooves relentlessly beating the earth grew louder in the background and as they turned to meet the unexpected arrival of another, they were shocked when they saw the bare-chested Carni approaching atop a white steed. They observed her from head to toe, she was still mostly completely nude with only the cloak and the streaking paint of the runes providing some coverage, the blood that covered her arms had dried and crusted, and a thin layer of grey ash covered her black hair. Carni slowed and guided her mount over to the guard’s position with unrivalled grace and calmly spoke, “Open the gates. You will be paid handsomely to forget that you witnessed me in this state of manner.”

With gawking eyes and expressions of surprise, they all silently nodded, with two of the three guards preceded to open the gate while the third took the reins and escorted the horse to the stables. Carni dismounted and brought herself inside the palace. She walked through the grey stone halls leaving a path of mud and ash in her wake. At the end of the hall, she stopped in front of a large wooden door where she closed her eyes and whispered in her witch speak before opening the door to her husband’s chambers. Like some mighty beast of the wild approaching her unknowing prey, Carni crept towards the bed dropping the cloak as she moved forward to where Melak still lay sound asleep. Just as it seemed the beast would pounce and devour its prey, Melak woke.

Her appearance had stunned him with a million thoughts and questions which brewed about within him but before he could utter a single word, Carni firmly pressed her blood-stained palm over Melak’s mouth and said to him, “Silence. Rejoice for Mihr, Sanasar, and Astlik have spoken. They will make you Himnadir of Racinia in return you must prove yourself as their faithful servant. For the first task, three guards saw me upon my return, they need to be killed.”

Carni lifted her palm from Melak’s face, his face was one of great interest in her words but fear hid behind his eyes, “The guards will be put to the knife. I’ll have Aznavour handle the matter, my love.”

Carni lowered herself to sit on the side of her husband’s bed. Her eyes seemingly pierced through Melak directly into his soul as if determining if he was telling the truth. Satisfied with his answer, Carni inched closer to him so that she was nearly atop Melak. “Good, your words pleasure the Dzveli Astvatsnerir,” her voice was lustful and enticing to Melak with each word taking a stranglehold on him, “the Dzveli Astvatsnerir will gift us a son.”

Somewhat in surprise, Melak said, “Why now? Why after all the other times we have tried? After the death of our firstborn?”

“Because this is not a son blessed by Prophet Anania,” Carni disparaged, not hiding her disdain for the Prophet Anania who had failed her and made her miscarry her firstborn, “this is a son of the true spirits and they will not fail us, Melak.”

Before he could speak, Carni planted her lips onto his. The sweat, paint, ash, and blood made her lips taste bitter and smoky but Melak did not care. He pulled her closer. Both gave in to their primal desires delighting in each other's flesh as the dawn came.

The Witch of the Woods
Wilds Prompt Entry

Once upon a time, two elvish children, brother and sister with tousled sandy hair and bright eyes, played carelessly at the edge of a shallow brook.

Their Father and Mother were a rancher of sheep and a clothier together, and both helped their parents tirelessly through the days, full of energy and life in their small but homely cottage that sat on the edge of town in the fields that bordered the woods that sat at the foot of the mountains.

The day was warm and the sun bright, so the children were given leave to play aplenty and they went off gladly, though were warned to stay on their side of the stream, away from the darkness of the woods that it formed the border of.

The children ran off too soon to answer their parents and now frolicking among the resting sheep, and when they were tired, rested on the bank of the brook, stacking stones and pebbles into the shapes of towers and forts that dotted the lengths of the kingdom they called home.

The boy spoke first, saying “Sister, why do you think mother and father do not want us to cross the stream? Is it the animals that lurk there? Father built the fence to keep them away, and the village's old sorcerer made the boundary stones to keep away dark spirits.”

The girl lifted her gaze from her construction and looked at the woods. “Mother told me that a witch lives in the woods. She said that she is a large hag, warty with thin weed hair and sores across her gray-green skin. She practices terrible magic, lures young girls to make them her daughters and turn them into familiars, and she also eats young boys, using their bones for oracles and their flesh for stew.”

“Surely, that's just a tall tale for children younger and less brave then we are,” the brother boasted, puffing out his chest.

“Mother said that a childhood friend of her own had gone missing many years ago, and the 9nly trace found was by a hunter In the woods, stumbling upon an effigy erected in a clearing among many others, a tell tale bright cloth wrapped around it that belonged to her. A murder of crows watched them and one in particular had a baleful eye and ring of feathers the same color as the cloth.”

As the sister finished her tale, there came a loud crack that made the two children jump and knock over their creations, turning their gaze over the tall grass to where the sound had come from.

A section of the fence had been utterly broken apart, splintered into a thousand pieces and from the opening many of their father's sheep began to stream out.

The children yelled to stop them, but they heeded not the words of their master's offspring, and continued on towards the stream, either stopping at the bank or continuing on to the other side and to the edge of the woods. To the children's dismay, a pair of young lambs split off from the herd and ventured deeper into the shade of the trees, and without a second thought, the children followed.

Not far into the woods the atmosphere became dark and foreboding. Not knowing their way in the pursuit of the lambs, the children quickly were lost and frightened, holding hands as they walked through the darkness, letting the light of fireflies guide them. Further in the darkness wisps and shadows danced.

Deeper they walked into the ancient wood, over fallen trunks and crevices in the dirt and through thick leaves of bushes until at once the forest opened to a fog filled clearing, and the light of the fireflies converged and swarmed around the silhouette of a kneeling woman, beautiful with long hair and pointed elvish ears, caressing the heads of the two lambs as they slept in her lap.

The woman looked up and smiled warmly to the children before saying “Two small lambs, trembling as they trip through the dark, lost. Woe, come with me to my home as the night falls deeper, for these woods become filled with danger.”

The girl stepped forward, but the boy held her back as he looked at the woman with suspicion.

“Fear not children,” she said. “I know what fears you possess, for I had them myself once, but I have lived in these woods many years, and I can fight off dark magics that longer, as the hag has long left for other parts and will not return.”

She smiled once more, and the boy walked hand in hand with his sister forward. Each took a lamb in their arms from the lap of the woman, and she stood and guided them through the fog past effigies decorated with feathers and cloth of many colors to the front door of a small cottage where golden-orange warm light spilled out to the ground and the smell of fresh and rich food rode the wind.

“Enter children. Welcome home,” the woman said.

The children entered and were met by the image of a homely cabin filled with candle light and the crackling dancing flames of a fireplace, overwhich a grandmother stirred a bubbling brown stew with tantalizing smells.

She looked up from her work and smiled. “Daughter most beloved, you arrive late, these old bones creaked as I labored alone.”

“Mother most dear, forgive your Daughter, as I bring guests. Children alone in the woods, looking for the lost youngest of their flock. As your most devoted Daughter, that you raised lovingly to be diligent, I felt the need to bring them and their lambs home for warmth and comfort as the darkness of night fell.”

The Mother tapped her spoon on the edge of the pot and set it to the side and picked up a crooked old cane, shaped like it was the tangled mass of the roots of a tree, and walked toward the children with a hunched back.

“What lovelies my Daughter has brought to us. Please pray dearies, come and sit, lay your lambs by the fire so that they may dry and regain their energies.” She caressed the young girl’s hair. “Lovely hair. You remind me of myself in my younger days and my daughter. Oh, if I had a granddaughter as lovely as you.”

In the pit of his stomach, the boy had a feeling of deep and profound fear seeing the old woman with his sister. He felt hands on his shoulders, as though the tall woman were digging into his flesh with talons.

“Welcome to our home, dear children.”

Tidings: Part One
Late Summer

In the summer haze, Alzaburgai was trembling with signs of habitation. The stone wall, which had been built in the place of the old wooden palisade that once sheltered the inhabitants of the keep and its local lord, and ran around the length of the estate much like a draping curtain over the closing act of a minstrel play, occasionally betrayed the presence of men beyond the gates. Wooden platforms, raised from stairs beyond the dirt below, were placed along key points of the wall, and allowed the garrison to make the occasion of passing from one corner to the other; the longest route was south to west, where the gate, cut of hearty oak, had an overlook which could see down the road a fair ways. Such overlooks continued elsewhere: The east side hosted a wooden tower with a four-point sloping roof. Here, the turf and soil packed high for the base of the stone gave a dominant view of the surrounding landscape, and years of clearcutting revealed naught but open fields and cotter farms off into the horizon.

Another tower stood on the northern side, but unlike its sibling was not built into the structure of the wall, but instead rose a solemn vigil within the enclosure with the same presence of a forlorn tree that was never felled. These towers hosted part of the garrison of the keep. The rotating soldiery of Thiudoreikis fell into two ideally equal but socially separate parts. First were his companions, a closely selected breed of Ethridic tribesmen historically loyal to his house, and often of a character infused from their blood which compelled them ancestral service to the devolved chieftains of the tribe. These men came and went with the king, traveling wherever he did as part of his migrant court; the older ones, long in his service and owing many years to even his father, could recount the tiring days of travel. Each hardship experienced on the road, each obstacle and tribulation that prolonged or shortened their stays could be recalled in the same way a man might recount his worst days. Many of them were ministerials, born and bred in service to the court, and often of an administrative and judicial style. These figures assisted Thiudoreikis in managing his estates, oversaw the good of the household, protected the interests of the king and sought to increase his influence. This class was varied, and many within it were no better off than slaves, and feuding sometimes emerged between those of Ethridic origin and those of the Laretian and lesser peoples which called the coasts of the Demeidan home. The more prestigious and nobler of men were the uzarkethes, an Ethridic-only class of warriors who were bound to the king’s service not by oath, bondage or debt, but out of kinship. They were private servants and bodyguards, personal soldiers, champions and officers. Their obligations varied from person to person, and might have evolved into formal offices in more stable kingdoms. Instead they were simply kept men of the king, which was prestigious and empowering in its own right.

The second were mere soldiers and guards. Retainers who were either paid men of the house, or indebted by some fashion to serving Thiudoreikis in such a petty role. These reasons could be varied, ranging from having been forgiven a debt in return for service, or more complex, as some were sons of gesiths and tribesmen of renown, punished for their family’s past acts by now holding responsibility. These punishments were rather common across Ethrida, since the king’s kin were hesitant to spill one’s blood over crimes, and instead sought for retribution through obligation. While the companions of the king left and stayed constantly in his presence, these men were left behind to garrison and protect the keep and enclosure, and watched the estate much like common soldiers. When the king arrived, they housed together with his entourage, usually in cramped quarters for a few weeks at a time.

But at Alzaburgai, it was summer, and the heat had been an unbearable constant the past few weeks. The king upon his arrival in early spring expected to stay only a few days, certainly no more than a week. Instead the men welcomed in the new year in the sweltering summer, as Thiudoreikis’ stay grew longer. First it was matters of the local region, which involved him meeting with the gesiths and trying to set apart their quarrels. The state of the keep and its reinforced nature was not out of excess—Alzaburgai was close to the Aphrines, a land to the northeast below the rising slopes of mountains which eclipsed and bewitched the region, making it often violent and unsteady. Here his two cousins, Wulfstan and Guntheros, ruled as co-kings and attempted to woo the wild maiden.

The king could not risk such dissent and weakness in his periphery, and so spent days mediating the disputes, and hosting dinners and occasions between the gesiths, and with the advice of his courtsmen arranged new debts and obligations between them that would tie their spears and axes.

This delay had its effects in the burg. Two fights had broken out, one between Ingo Sartus (named as such for the blackness of his hair) and Ottus, and the other between some of the burg’s soldiers and his minsterials over sleeping conditions. In the case of Ingo and Ottus, the two were at each other’s throats for a while, but witnesses had confided to the king that Ingo started the disagreement; though he was dear to him as a loyal follower, Thiudoreikis nevertheless compelled Ingo to pay an amercement, likely to the amusement of Ottus. With the others he was less kind and more severe, ordering two of his ministerials to go without pay for a time, and having one of the soldiers given five lashes for each punch that he reputedly threw at the king’s servants.

Lastly, the final reason for their delay was the king’s youngest child, his daughter Siguna, who was taken with a strange fever despite the warm weather. She was warm to the tough, yet paradoxically shaking as if she was freezing to death; delirium had taken her, and in this confusion the young girl mumbled to herself loudly about the men and women that called the burg home. It seemed that the whole of the burg shared in this sadness, as two newborn calves suddenly were found dead in the fields, mourned by the herd of cattle. She had been sick a time or two before, as fierce as this, but Thiudoreikis made careful preparations to bury another one of his children when on the fourth night of her illness, a monstrous storm crackled in the night that drenched the fields and keep in torrential rain. The roof of one of the cotter homes outside the stone walls collapsed from the soaked straw, but by morning light his young Siguna had recovered, spoke amicably and kept down food.

In the king’s eyes, this good omen was all that was needed for him to decide it was finally time to depart Alzaburgai. After taking supper in the afternoon with his companions, the king retired from the presence of his men, and taking a moment to rest in the main chamber of the keep, was joined by Hemrado the Kyripalati.

After some small talk over the affairs at the estate that week, Thiudoreikis raised his head to meet with Hemrado’s eyes.

“I have stayed here far too long, and this wait has been miserable.” He said slowly, a hint of somberness to his voice, like a tired scholar reading from an old Drusic tome. “Autumn will be upon us soon, and I would like to make for Akropithos and perhaps Iskope yet, if the weather is permitting.”

“The wise ones say it's to be a mild year.”

“I have not thought much of their predictions. I do not think anyone can tell what the weather will be.” The king said with disregard, taking only a pause from his thoughts to drink from a cup of ale. “It’s up to chance, and should chance have it we will go to Iskope too. Does this fare with you?”

Hemrado nodded, his hands resting on his lap, where his long tunic and overgown bundled with cloth.

“Aye, it does.”

“I have decided that we should host the lords one last time before we leave. Tomorrow would be too soon, but send riders tomorrow. In three days’ time, I will host a feast. You will speak to the kitchen and see that they prepare sufficient food, and some of the men can go and hunt. Perhaps it will be good for them.”

He remarked, recalling the disgruntlement that had plagued the keep in the past days. The king’s mind was already made up, and he spoke more firmly now, instructing Hemrado on what he desired, and entrusting him to dispatch the necessary riders and orders to make it happen. The only hesitation, if it could be called that, was when the fair-haired king’s eyes fell onto Hemrado again, waiting for his response.

“Of course. To all of them?”

“Aye, to all the ones I’ve spoken to. I wish to—I will make it clear that my presence here in the north is more than just this body.”

Hemrado gave a nod, and that was the end of the consideration, as the king’s mind went elsewhere and he spoke on smaller, less important matters.

RP ~ The Night Raid of Ealdor - Late Spring 856 AP/956 AM

The Borderlands of the Erezites and Mayimites

As the noon sun bore down oppressively on the people in the camp, a mail-armored figure arrived, riding upon a large, dark coated, stallion. Dismounting his tired steed, the man removed his helm, exposing his graying black hair. After tying his horse to a pole, the man approached the congregated Mearhan warriors.

“Welcome Ealdor, how did your foray into the Ilanite lands go,” asked Alcide, one of the assembled knights. “By the blood that is upon your mail, I assume it was no peaceful journey.”

Alcide, Gabriel, Ingimar, and Luc, all fellow knights, were sitting around a pit in which the ashes of the previous night’s fire rested. With them were a score of other Mearhans, though they were only footmen. Besides the Mearhans, the camp contained many Arxites, many of them being wanderers or Merchants. But none of these were yet with the assembled group.

“You guess astutely,” Ealdor responded, sitting upon a large rock in order to rest a little. “But worry not, for it is not my blood. Let me tell you how I got it upon me. I was riding through the Ilanite lands, when as night began to arrive, I came upon a valley. Within the valley I saw a number of torches held high into the air, as a crowd surrounded the statue of a large bronze reptilian beast, perched upon a raised platform of stone. The mouth of the idol was turned up, so that it formed a basin in which a fire raged.”

“I am not surprised, these westerners like to praise their horrid gods in places high and low,” Luc commented, having never seen an Ilanite ritual himself, but having heard many tales from Arxite merchants and Mearhan veterans.

“Nor was I surprised either, to see pagans worshiping their idols. It was not surprise that I felt at the sight, but rather disgust, for the practices of the heathens are intolerable, tipping their own children into blazing idols as sacrifices. Thus I rode into the valley, too incensed to allow the rituals to continue. Those in the crowd that heard my approach scattered, afraid of my steed, for the Ilanites possess no equivalent mounts,” Ealdor said, before accepting some water, which one of the Mearhan footmen had offered to him.

“I have heard that they do not have any beasts larger than donkeys,” Alcide said. “You know more of the western people than any of us do. So can you confirm the truth of this rumor.”

“It is a foolish rumor, but based on some degree of truth. They do not possess any rideable beasts larger than a donkey, but they do have cows, although they are not of particular note either,” Ealdor responded. Now, by this time it was not only the members of the Mearhan band that were listening to Ealdor, but also many of the people in the camp, such as the Erezite merchant Gideon, and his daughter Sadie, jewel of the camp. For they had come just after Alcide had asked his question, and during Ealdor’s response.

The aging knight then continued his recollection. “Once I had made my way through the scattering crowd, I swung my ax down at one of the priests. Judging by his raiment, he seemed to be the foremost of the group, or at least was leading this ritual, and so I chose to strike him down first. The blade of my ax landed where shoulder met neck, on his right side, for he had turned to face me, having been previously turned towards the idol. The blade hewed deep through his body, his smaller stature making it easier than if I were to have struck an Arxiot or fellow Mearhan. Nonetheless, my ax did not go all the way through, so I had to tug it out with some effort.”

“What of any who did not scatter, if there were any, or of those who might have returned after their initial fright,” Ingimar questioned, now fully intrigued by the old knight's account.

“Those who scattered at the sight of my steed did not seem to go far, for I heard the sound of their running cease, but when I buried my ax into their priest, most of the Ilanites fled once more in fear, or cowered behind rocks, attempting to hide. But I had more pressing matters to deal with than chasing misguided souls, for I leave that duty to nuns. I hunted down the rest of the heathen priests, letting none escape, at least as far as I had seen before I charged in. I then dismounted, and as the cowering Ilanites looked on, began to shove their idol. This took much effort, for it was heavy due to its make, but it eventually toppled from its platform, and partially broke when it hit the ground. Once the deed was done, the Ilanites who had been hiding broke away, each of them likely scattering to their own homes. Thus I remounted, and immediately made to return here, for I had no intention of waiting to see if the Ilanites would preparing any mischief,” ended Ealdor, having finished speaking of the relevant details, and not wishing to bore his audience with droning about his quiet ride back through the hills.

All of those who listened were glad when they heard Ealdor speaking, for while many of the Ananians desired the destruction of the idols of the western heathens, the Ananian Arxites desired it the most, for they came in conflict with their neighbors more actively. Thus Ealdor gained not only the favor of his own people, but also of the Erezites and Mayimites that were present, and they respected him. In his honor a meal was made that night, and though it was no great feast, it was the best the camp had, and in Ealdor’s eyes it easily surpassed hunting beasts in the wilderness.

War of the Bloodied King
Chapter 2 (Expansion)

The lands of Gweragladd have always been a central setting of events in the history of Orian. Legends held that it was the first place that the elves landed in their exile from their homeland within the western seas. Dwyralon was the oldest elvish settlement among the many that dominated the isles now. But settlement and discovery were not the only notable events. Just as much as it became home, and eventually were the central lands of the Archdruids’ powers, it was a grave for many. Standing between the east and west, it was the site of wars and their battles. Elves and Dwarves and Men shed blood and quenched the land’s thirst.

The very term “Time of Wars” could almost be synonymous with Gweragladd, for its supreme reigning kingdom was often the inciter of them. Denward stood at the center, and in its past was looked upon with gluttonous and greedy eyes. Its people had to be strong to ward off predators following the collapse of the Druids. They conquered the river it rested upon, all the way down to Dwyralon at the mouth to the Dragon’s Maw Bay, then turned further south to Mas Gilean. It stood in contestation with the rising power of the usurper conqueror lord Perrad in the east, and the lords of house Anwylon held him and his kin at bay. They conquered the north of the Verdant Rivers to the borders of Gwelad that lay between the Dragon’s Ridge Mountains and the realm of Gar Tigan.

That was the last conquest of the current lord of Denward Ferathir’s grandfather, Ferrad. Though Ferathir’s father, Readad, did not expand the borders in his reign, he maintained them and made Denward strong and prosperous. More so in its history than before. But many lords still saw him as a weak and arrogant king.

Ferathir, in his time, came to become king and wished to put the resources his father gave him to use, and began a new wave of expansion, sparking skirmishes in the north and east, with the King of Gwelad being slain, and then Naredar.

in his own words, Ferathir was guided by the gods themselves, that he was bound for greatness and a glorious destiny…

Ferathir stood before the rundown, moss covered hut in the midst of the darkened woods, only miniscule beams of sunlight coming through the canopy of leaves.

Though it was a cold part of the year, at which he laughed to himself for it always was cold, well since the time before his grandfather, it was almost pleasantly warm here. But in that warmth hung a foul stench of sweet decay, and the air was thick and he could almost taste a miasma that hung around the hut.

But he steeled his nerves. He was always a collected warrior, but most importantly, he was familiar with this place, and familiar with the sound of bone chimes as the door creaked open.

“Ferathir, dear king of fire hair,” an old hag hissed with delight as she creeped out, unnaturally long arms and lingered hands outstretched in greeting. “Would you give your dear grandmother a hug?”

“You are no more my grandmother than a dwarvish baron that sniffs out loopholes in a contract, Morigos,” Ferathir said. From a pouch at his hip, he produced a ceramic bottle with topper. “I brought what you requested.”

In a blindingly quick fashion, the witch left forward and took the vile, untapped it, and took a deep inhale.

“Ah, it's true, it’s true! Excellent,” she cackled. “I almost figured you would fail at getting the blood as you failed with King Danion.”

“I was not present for that battle. The King was not supposed to be there. But I made sure with Geris. That I got the killing blow.”

The two entered the hut, and it was a mess of jars and hanging goods, stacked scrolls and scribbled parchment, with a shrine of bones and branches erected opposite the door.

“The Blood of a King, taken by a peer who slayed him,” Morigos continued to cackle. “You know oracle magics can often be misinterpreted and misleading.”

“If I am to become King of not just Denward, but the whole of Orian, I must know all and be prepared. I did not foresee the reinforcements arriving to aid Geris so quickly. Garawyn has already begun to strengthen her position in Naredar and its surrounding lands, consolidating control of thr more rebellious lords between her and the Cindermire. It is only a matter of time. I must know a way to end this before it becomes unmanageable.”

Morigos spilled the contents of the jar across the surface of the altar, and threw within it dried and rotting ingredients. Then with a snap of her fingers, a green flame erupted to consume the mess, and the spark danced off and hung in the air around the witch's head.

“We shall see.”

The Ambush at the Northern Pass III

What followed next was something that was not taught by any sane person, but perhaps it would be after this. As Qiiyuon ran for the edge, she found the length of rope that was at her belt and loosed it, hurling it behind her as she jumped. As she fell, it was caught up by one of her warriors, then two, then three. She had no time but to wind it around her left wrist and arm once before the line suddenly snapped taut. There was a burning sensation in her arm and a terrible wrenching, ripping sound, and then she was spun free by the centripetal force her body placed on the rope and slung against the cliff wall about twenty feet above the ground. She fell again, this time rolling away from the impact as she'd been trained. She glanced up to see her warriors preparing to more carefully follow in her wake, but there was no time to dwell on that, or on her useless arm. She drew her sword with her good arm and rushed to join the remaining caravan guards.

Her warriors followed in her footsteps, but none were willing to take the same risk. Qiiyuon couldn’t really blame them — it had been foolhardy. As she fought below, they descended in groups of three. They rappelled down the steep incline, their movements fluid and controlled.
At the last moment, just before reaching the end of the ropes, they released the tension on their ropes, allowing them to swing outwards in a graceful arc. The centrifugal force propelled them away from the cliff face, granting them a moment of weightlessness that they used to twist their bodies and angle their descent towards the road below, away from the sharp outcroppings on the cliff itself. Most stuck the landing, though a few were more bruised than necessary.

Those that made the drop successfully wasted no time in joining the fray, their weapons drawn and their resolve unyielding as they fought alongside Qiiyuon and the caravan guards. The enemy, caught off guard by the sudden appearance of reinforcements, found themselves having to fight more skilled defenders as the caravan lumbered away from them.

The clash of weapons echoed off the rugged cliffs, the sounds of combat mingling with the shouts of warriors and the cries of the wounded. Qiiyuon moved with swift precision, her every movement calculated despite the searing pain that radiated from her dislocated left shoulder. She fought valiantly, her sword flashing in the sunlight as she defended the caravan with unwavering resolve.

Amidst the chaos of battle, Qiiyuon's hazel eyes locked onto the figure of the enemy leader. Clad in dark armor and wielding a wicked blade, he cut a formidable figure amidst his cohorts. And as she saw him, she knew that he knew their destiny as well as she. As the battle raged around them, they moved with a singular purpose, closing the gap between them as if the other combatants did not exist. One of her warriors got too close to him, and he cut her down with a single flick of his blade, not even deigning to look to see the results of his strike. Qiyuon put a boot to the head of one of the invaders, knocking him senseless and back out of her way, and then they were there, face-to-face, as if the battle were simply providing a backdrop for the true fight.

The enemy leader, his movements fluid and precise, engaged with Qiiyuon instantly, pressing his advantage of greater strength against Qiiyuon. As the chaos of battle swirled around them, Qiiyuon and the enemy leader locked eyes, their gazes burning with determination as they prepared to engage in a deadly duel. With swords drawn, they circled each other warily, each seeking an opening to strike. The enemy leader, a formidable opponent with years of combat experience etched into his every movement, made the first move. With a swift flick of his wrist, he lunged forward, his sword aimed at Qiiyuon's heart. But she was ready, her reflexes honed by countless hours of training. With a deft parry, she turned aside his blade, the clash of steel ringing out in the desert air.

Qiiyuon swiftly countered the enemy leader's attack with a fluid motion, stepping to the side and delivering a powerful diagonal slash aimed at his exposed flank. But her opponent instinctively shifted his stance, bringing his sword up in a quick block to intercept Qiiyuon's strike. With a sharp clang, their swords collided, the force of the impact reverberating through Qiiyuon's arm as she struggled to maintain her balance.

The enemy leader, his eyes narrowing with a predatory gleam, seized upon the opportunity presented by Qiiyuon's compromised left arm. In a lightning-quick maneuver, he launched a series of rapid strikes directed at her vulnerable side, exploiting her weakened defenses with ruthless precision.

With each calculated blow, he aimed to overwhelm Qiiyuon's ability to block or counter effectively, exploiting the temporary disadvantage to gain the upper hand in their deadly duel. His strikes came with a relentless ferocity, driving her back step by step as she struggled to fend off the onslaught with her one good arm.

Despite the enemy leader's relentless assault, Qiiyuon refused to yield. Summoning every ounce of her strength and determination, she countered his barrage of strikes with a swift and precise movement, deflecting his blade with a well-timed parry. With a sudden burst of energy, she retaliated with a lightning-quick thrust aimed at his chest, seeking to regain the momentum of the duel.

But she pressed her attack too far, thrown off-balance by the dead weight at her side. The enemy leader, seizing the opportunity presented by Qiiyuon's momentary vulnerability, pressed his advantage with ruthless efficiency. As Qiiyuon's strike was blocked, her momentum was abruptly halted, and she stumbled backward, her knees buckling beneath her. With a fierce onslaught of blows, the enemy leader forced her down to her knees, his sword inches away from delivering the final, fatal blow.

As he plunged his sword down toward her, she flinched, as if anticipating her death, but as he tried to drive the sword home through her heart, he faltered, his strength somehow escaping him, his sword went sideways, piercing Qiiyuon through her shoulder, and a grimace of pain contorted her features, but it was as much as he’d get to see. He could not draw his blade back. His arms would not work. Qiiyuon struggled to her feet, grasped the dagger that protruded from his chest, twisted, and pulled. Her enemy’s blood gushed out, eager to stain the desert floor as she struggled to and finally found the strength to keep her balance, staring down at his body past the dagger she’d kept concealed in her robes.

With any hope of victory gone and their leader dead, the remaining invaders began to capitulate, throwing down their weapons, or simply trying to run off back into the desert. Qiiyuon did not try to stop them. She could not even stop herself from toppling back down to the ground herself as the last of her strength, after the fall and the fight, finally ebbed away.

On The Trail of Iceheart (P.1)

====================

Rōsanheim, Ledenmark

Rōsanheim, the burg nestled at the heart of the duchy of Ledenmark, epitomised the essence of urban life in the realm. Named for the fields of roses that surrounded it, it was the largest settlement in the country, serving as the main hub of commerce, culture, and governance. Encircled by two wooden wall sections, Rōsanheim boasted a dual-layered defence: the first, enveloping the castle that stood as a bastion of power and authority, while the second formed a protective perimeter around the streets and thoroughfares of the city's core.

Beyond the protection of the walls, the outskirts of Rōsanheim stretched outward, where farmsteads dotted the landscape, contributing to the sustenance and prosperity of the city. Though the rural area lacked the fortifications of the urban centre, the presence of sentinel towers served as a silent guardian against potential threats, guaranteeing the safety and security of the town’s inhabitants.

At the heart of the town rose a magnificent wooden stave church, the inside was decorated with religious motifs and intricate patterns, and its soaring spire almost seemed to reach toward the heavens, it was a beacon of faith and spirituality that could be visible from miles around. Here, priests and worshippers alike congregated to seek solace, guidance, and the wisdom they sought from the gods.

Nearby, the marketplace which every morning was vibrant with activity, merchants hawking their wares and traders haggling over prices, the air always alive with the lively banter of commerce. Amidst the throng, the aroma of freshly baked bread mingled with the scent of exotic spices and roasted meat, enticing passersby to explore the myriad of stalls and offerings.

Adjacent to the marketplace stood essential amenities catering to the needs of the townsfolk: a tavern, its doors open to weary travellers seeking respite; an inn, providing shelter to those journeying from afar; the barracks, where the guards resided; and the local blacksmith's forge, the fire of its furnace always alight.

Dominating the skyline, was the wooden castle that stood atop a windswept hill, its imposing silhouette a daily reminder for the locals of who ruled them. Here dwelled the Herizogo (Duke), Conrad von Lilie, ruler of the duchy. The castle was composed of a longhouse, once the main building, now repurposed into a dining hall where feasts and gatherings of the Thing were held. Beside it, a wooden tower rose, built centuries later as an annex, here the throne room, ducal chambers and and a few other things laid. Below, nestled within the castle's protective embrace, were the stables, where the steeds could be found, and finally, the servants' quarters, humble abodes where the castle's staff lived.

The day went by as normal, but towards the evening dark clouds began forming, carrying with them strong cold winds, heralding the coming of a storm. Murders of crows began flying over, squawking like madmen, as if the gods themselves were trying to send the locals a message. However, the citizens knew better than to believe old tales of bad omens, as this was nothing new; and it happened every time a storm was inbound. It was also how they knew to prepare for such an event.

At the same time, Conrad was holding a meeting with his counsellors. This particular meeting was nothing more than the typical end-of-the-month report. Conrad found them boring, not so much because of the hassle of dedicating time to it, but rather due to the repetitive nature of the reports. While he could simply choose to ignore them, something always led him not to do so. Perhaps it was genuine interest or perhaps the naivety of his youth, expecting to hear something fun for once.

The council consisted of five members: Theodemir, Ingimárr the Northerner, who hailed from the land of the jarls in the north; Hulderic, the son of a blacksmith; Alfwin One-Eye, a practitioner of traditional magic and a renowned seer; and finally, his brother, Othmar, who had been absent for a while.

Theodemir, was Conrad’s least favourite councillor. Dull in nature He had the task of checking the realm’s inventory, which included supervising the harvest and ensuring there was enough food for the year. He also kept account of how much money was collected from taxes, trade, minor raids, etc., and wrote down the number of people who died and were born each year. He conducted the yearly census, among other tasks involving the quill and paper. Theodemir had probably one of the most important jobs in the realm, if not the most important, and he was efficient at it. This earned him respect from his fellow peers, making him an essential member of the council.

Next was Ingimárr, born in the village of Ketlinga, in the Jarldom of Haldafjall. Adventurous since birth, his desire to see the world led him eventually to settle in Rōsanheim after experiencing many things in his travels. He married a local girl and was recruited into the army after impressing Conrad’s father, Kuno, in a holmgang due to his strength. Displaying his abilities and quickly rising through the ranks, he was made into a general by Kuno and eventually a councillor by Conrad himself.

Then there was Hulderic, the son of one of the most renowned blacksmiths in the realm, who had been best friends with Conrad and Othmar since they were little. Despite their differences in class, it never bothered Kuno, as Hulderic's father, Leutgar, was respected across the realm. Upon Conrad’s ascension to the throne, he personally asked Hulderic to join his council, and Hulderic was more than glad to accept.

The fourth, Alfwin, was already part of the ducal council, having served Kuno in the past. His wisdom and knowledge always impressed Conrad, and Alfwin loved to sometimes show him a few tricks or teach him something new from time to time ever since little. This not only led to Conrad leaving him on the council but also making him his personal advisor.

Lastly was his brother. Although Othmar wasn’t on Conrad’s mind at first, after careful consideration, he decided to include him, just because, for no other reason, although it eventually morphed into a desire to see what his brother could be capable of.

As the meeting progressed, the storm intensified in the background. Lightning illuminated the night sky while thunder echoed through the valleys. The curtains wildly fluttered with the wind. The first drops of rain fell pitter-pattering on the wooden rooftop. And then suddenly, a gust of wind entered through the open window, extinguishing the candles in the room, and sending any papers flying all over.

"Close that window, Hulderic." Ordered Conrad as he moved to shut the one behind him.

"Right away." Hulderic swiftly moved to close the window, ensuring it was tightly secured, "Seems we've got a storm brewing," he remarked.

"May the gods shield us." Alfwin murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, as he cast a wary glance towards the darkening skies outside, and followed by a small incantation.

"There should be a sparker and some flint around here somewhere." Conrad muttered, rummaging around the room. His search, however, proved fruitless. "Verdammt, I thought for sure there was some in here." he cursed under his breath. "Alfwin, could you perhaps go look for one down in the kitchens?”

"Absolutely, but mind your language, my son," Alfwin cautioned. "Swearing is ungodly and may cast a dark light upon you."

Conrad expressed regret, “My apologies Alfwin, I just can’t seem to avoid it when something frustrates me. But your words always carry so much wisdom. I can’t help but admire that. How do you do it?" His eyes reflected genuine admiration, seeking insight from the elder's experience.

Alfwin's weathered face softened as he scratched his grizzled beard, “I believe I told you countless times in the past. Years of mental training and communion with the gods.” he mused, his eyes filled with a mixture of wisdom and empathy, “But you're still young and able. If you dedicate some of your time to that as well” he paused, his voice carrying the weight of experience and age, “You'll have achieved a true understanding of the inner workings of this world.”

Conrad remained silent for a moment, his brow furrowing in thought, before speaking up. "Perhaps I could spare a few minutes each day," he mused, his voice tinged with uncertainty. Though his duties weighed heavily upon him, the prospect of gaining wisdom and a better understanding of the world around him enticed him.

"Even a few moments of reflection each day can yield great insight." Alfwin replied, his tone gentle and reassuring, "The gods often reveal their wisdom to those who seek it earnestly. Say, come by the church sometime; one of the priests will be more than happy to aid you if needed." Alfwin said as he tried to ease Conrad's uncertainties.

"I might take you up on that offer sometime, Alfwin. Vilie Danc (Many thanks)," Conrad replied gratefully, “Now please, go look for that sparker.”

Alfwin bowed and left the room in search of the sparker. After a few minutes, he returned with it and a piece of flint he had found. With careful precision, he began lighting each candle one by one until the room was once again filled with warm, flickering light.

As Conrad and the others were settling down to resume their discussion, Othmar burst into the room, his voice ringing out, "Brother, brother!" He quickly removed his fur hood and helmet, an old spangenhelm inherited from his uncle, and placed it down on the central table of the room. With a sense of urgency, he opened his satchel, revealing a couple of scrolls, which he carefully extracted and laid out on the table for all to see.

Conrad breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of his brother, "Othmar, brother, it's good to see you." He exclaimed warmly, stepping forward to greet him, "I was beginning to miss your presence, but by the gods, you look utterly exhausted!" Conrad remarked, his gaze sweeping over Othmar with concern.

"That's because I am." Othmar admitted wearily, his shoulders slumping with fatigue. "And to add to it all, the storm caught up to me just as I was nearing the city.”

"Here," said Hulderic, extending a piece of cloth to Othmar. "Dry yourself off."

"Thank you, Hulderic." Othmar responded, his breath still coming in pants as he took the cloth and began to dry his face. After adjusting his cape, he let out a sigh of relief. "What a return trip that was. I'm just glad to be back." he remarked wearily.

"Where did you go, anyway?" Conrad inquired, curious, as he sought to understand the events that had transpired during his brother's absence.

"Well, it started as a small visit to a friend of mine who lives in the north, in the land of the jarls. Rūnestein-Hof it's called, or Rúnasteinn-Hof, as the locals call it, a small solitary longhouse surrounded by a few farmhouses in the Jarldom of Hrafnsfjǫll." Othmar began, recounting his journey. "He sent me a letter asking me to come, and I obliged. Turns out the jarl made him the new thane of the hold, and he wanted me to come to the celebration he was going to hold, and quite the celebration it was. Mead, ale, roasted boar, maidens ready to serve you at all times, and the music, oh the music."

"You seem to have enjoyed the music more than anything, but are you sure something else didn’t catch your eye first, eh?" Hulderic teased with a playful grin, a small chuckle escaping him.

"I'll admit, the maidens were indeed quite beautiful and strong; they could probably best any man in a fight." Othmar conceded with a reminiscent smile. Pausing for a moment, lost in thought, before continuing, "Anyways, my friend allowed me to stay for the night, but as soon as the first rays of sunshine began blessing the land, I was up and ready to leave. I made sure my horse was well fed and prepared for the journey, donned my helmet, bid farewell to my friend, and set off."

"How long ago was this?" Conrad sought to piece together the timeline of his brother's recent journey.

"About a month and a half, perhaps? Or maybe less? I'm not entirely sure." Othmar admitted with a shrug. "I lost track of time, to be honest. There were other matters occupying my mind." he explained, acknowledging his preoccupation with other concerns during that period.

"In that case, could it have been maybe two months? You must have left sometime around Ernting, which is the last time I saw you, and it is currently Nebulmānōd," Conrad pondered, his brow furrowing slightly as he calculated the time. "But it doesn’t take that long to travel from Hrafnsfjǫll to here, that much I know," he added, "So, something must have kept you occupied?" he inquired, raising an eyebrow in anticipation of his brother's response.

"You're right, something did, brother. When I left, I wasn't heading back home. No, I was venturing deep into the Demarholz, or as the locals call it, the Dømrskógr." Othmar explained, his tone sombre as he recalled his journey into the mysterious forest.

"The Dømrskógr..." Ingimárr whispered, his voice barely audible as he uttered the name of the mysterious forest.

"The Demarholz? Whatever for? That forest is infamous, very dangerous. Bears, wolves, bandits, roaming bands of berserkers, maybe even dragons! I've heard the tales. Surely you must have heard them too, Ingimárr, you hail from those lands." Conrad exclaimed, turning to look at him.

"One or two, mostly about the Eldríkr, and how he supposedly caused the end of the Fornríki, or Altirīhhi (Old Kingdom)," Ingimárr recalled, his tone tinged with scepticism. "Of course, they are all but tales. No one has actually seen one, and there is no proof of the Eldríkr being the cause of the fall of the kingdom or if he’s real either. It could also just be a tale parents told their children to keep them from ever entering the forest." he added with a shrug, his expression reflecting a mixture of doubt and curiosity.

"Fascinating!" exclaimed Alfwin, his voice full of excitement. He always found tales or myths of any kind interesting. Anything of cultural significance he came across, he loved to record and preserve, diligently writing them down in scrolls or books for his personal collection, which he called "Irzellanungan unti Mythen: Die Verborgene Giscihte der Liudisken Liuti" (Tales and Myths: The Hidden History of the Liudic People). "I must record this. I need to." he declared, eager to document anything he could about the Demarholz.

"Fascinating, yes, but let me finish, because I did not go to that forest seeking adventure and whatnot." Othmar continued, "I went there looking for someone. You see, the night of the celebration, I overheard some people talking about an old sword imbued with mythical powers. They said that whoever wielded the sword was destined to rule the lands, but first, they had to seek the old man in the forest. They joked and laughed, and didn't seem to take the claims seriously." he explained.

"I wouldn't either," Hulderic snorted dismissively. "That sounds like every other tale ever, sounds ridiculous, made up even," he spoke, his scepticism of the whole thing evident.

"Now hold on, Hulderic," Othmar interjected, his tone firm. "Neither did I at first, but after much thought, I decided that first thing in the morning, I would venture out and look for that old man. Why? Because if it turns out to be true, then Conrad could have a potent claim to the kingship of the northern lands. And if not, at least we can learn something." he explained, his determination shining through.

"What are you trying to get at, Othmar?" Conrad’s confusion was evident as he sought to understand the intention behind his brother's actions.

"Brother, are you not tired of being a duke, ruling over such small lands?" Othmar questioned, his gaze steady as he posed the probing question to Conrad.

"Othmar, I've only been a duke for four years." Conrad replied.

"You don't get it. Remember what father used to tell us about the kings of old? Remember King Hariwald and his famous defence of the Otha? It was brutal, but he sent those blasted elves packing." Othmar reminded Conrad, his tone impassioned as he invoked memories of legendary kings and their heroic deeds.

"I remember reading about it, yes. It's my favourite second battle of the war." Conrad responded, recalling the historic event.

"Then you understand what I'm trying to convey, don't you?" Othmar asked, his eyes locking with Conrad's.

"Yes… I believe so." Conrad affirmed, his expression thoughtful as he considered the implications of his brother's words.

"Here we go again.” Theodemir rolled his eyes while letting out a sigh, exasperated, “Othmar, please, stop filling his grace’s head with fantasies and false ideas of glory and renown." Theodemir interjected sternly, breaking his silence to address Othmar. "Your grace, I believe it is in your best interest, as well as that of your people, to focus on what you already have. There are still many issues that need solving, and we can't simply stand idly by. I beg of you to remain on the path of logic and wisdom." he urged, concerned for the welfare of the realm.

"As always, Theodemir, whispering poison into my brother’s ear." Othmar retorted sarcastically, his tone dripping with disdain. The tension, almost rivalry, between Othmar and Theodemir was nothing new, stemming mostly from their ideological differences, but also, the hate between the two was palpable, often leading to heated arguments over most matters.

Filled with anger, Theodemir lashed out at Othmar. "Poison? Listen to yourself! You want to send your brother into an adventure with no lead, no clear destination, and for what? A sword that may or may not even exist? What's next, an all-out war against his neighbours for a kingship? If you ask me, that is the embodiment of idiocy, a lapse of judgement of the worst kind. You're a buffoon!" he exclaimed, his voice dripping with contempt.

"I've never seen him this angry. This is going to get good." Hulderic whispered to Ingimárr, amused, as they both observed the heated exchange unfolding before them.

"Fuch dih, du Weihei" Othmar seethed, his voice thick with anger. "How dare you disrespect me like that! I am the brother of the duke and a prince. Know your place, you insolent councillor." he spat out, his eyes flashing with fury.

As Othmar was about to draw his sword on Theodemir, Conrad, who had remained silent, contemplating the proposal and completely ignoring what unfolded next, snapped out of his trance and decided to intervene before things escalated further. "Enough! Calm down, Othmar. I am sure Theodemir meant no disrespect." he interrupted firmly, his voice cutting through the tension-filled air.

"Of course, your grace. I was simply trying to protect you." Theodemir uttered with much restraint, annoyed at the situation.

"Othmar, you have to admit he has a point after all. However, I am also in agreement with you, a bit curious if you might, which is why, let me ask you: Did you find the old man? Do you have anything to prove the existence of the sword? Anything?" Conrad asked, his tone measured.

"Your grace, you're not seriou-" Theodemir began to protest, but Conrad held up his hand to silence him, indicating that he wished to hear Othmar's response first. Theodemir grumbled, “Your grace, may I be excused?”

"Yes, you may." Conrad replied, granting Theodemir permission to leave the room. Theodemir cast one final glance at Othmar, giving him a dirty look before exiting, his resentment visible. "Now, Othmar, if you will." Conrad continued, prompting Othmar to provide the information he had learned.

Othmar calmed down and then adjusted his sword, "I did, in fact find him, or I think it was him, although in all honesty, I don't believe many would choose to live in that place, voluntarily. Unfortunately, our interaction bore no fruit at all. I couldn't understand a word of what he was saying, and he probably couldn't understand me either. It sounded similar to the tongue of the northerners, but more archaic. Nevertheless, I persisted. I came back the next day, and the old man was waiting for me with some scrolls in his hands." Othmar explained, gesturing towards the scrolls he had placed on the table earlier. "These ones. He said something, then handed them to me. Since there was nothing else I could do, I decided to head back with them."

“I see, awfully convenient, but let’s not think of that.” Conrad pointed out, sensing how strange Othamar’s interaction with the old man was, he almost felt like Othmar was lying, but decided to ignore that for the time being and continue, “Open them then.” Conrad ordered.

Othmar opened each scroll, one by one, and found all but one empty. "Hmm..." he murmured, a furrow forming on his brow as he inspected the contents.

“What? What’s wrong?” Conrad inquired, curious by Othmar’s reaction.

"Here," Othmar said, handing the scroll to Conrad.

“Let me see…

ᛒᛖᚾᛖᚨᛏᚺ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚨᚾᚲᛁᛖᚾᛏ ᛈᛁᚾᛖ ᚹᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᚱᚢᚨᛏᛋ ᛖᚾᛏᚹᛁᚾᛖ

ᚾᛟᚱᚦ ᛏᚢ ᛚᚨᚲᛖ ᚹᚨᚱ ᚹᚨᛏᛖᚱ ᚷᛚᛖᚨᛗᛋ ᚱᛖᚠᛚᛖᚠᛁᚲᛏᛁᚾᚷ ᛞᚱᛖᚨᛗᛋ

ᚠᛟᛚᛚᛟᚹ ᛏᚺᛖ ᚲᚱᚢᛈᚢ ᛏᛟ ᚦᛖ ᚳᛁᚱᚳᛚᛖ ᛟᚠ ᛋᛏᛟᚾᛖᛋ ᚨᚾᛞ ᚺᛁᛋᛏᚢᚱᛁ ᚹᛁᛚᛚ ᚹᛁᛋᛏᛈᛖᚱ

ᛖᚨᛋᛏ ᛏᚢ ᚨᛗᚨᚾᛞ ᚹᚺᚨᚱᛖ ᚲᛁᚾᚷᛋ ᚱᛖᛋᛏ

ᚦᛖ ᚠᛁᚾᚨᛚ ᚱᛖᛊᛏ ᛒᛖᚨᚾᛖᛏᚺ ᛖᚨᚱᛏᚺ

ᚲᛚᚨᛁᛗ ᛃᚢᚱ ᛈᚱᛁᛋᛖ ᚦᛖ ᛋᚱᚹᛞ ᚩᚠ ᚲᛁᚾᚷᛋ

These are ancient runes, there is no mistake about it." Conrad read aloud, furrowing his brow in concentration as he tried to decipher their meaning. "However I can’t make sense of any of these. Alfwin, perhaps you can read this? I know you’ve worked with them in the past." He passed them over to Alfwin, hoping for some insight.

Alfwin paused, absorbing the significance of the message. "My lord, I have the answer," he finally said, his voice carrying weight. "It may not be entirely accurate, but I've done my best with my abilities." He took a deep breath before continuing, "It says something along the lines of:

Beneath the Ancient Pine, Where Roots Entwine
North to the Lake, Where Water Gleams, Reflecting Dreams
Follow the Crow to the Circle of Stones, and History will Whisper
East to the Mound, Where Kings Rest
The Final Rest Beneath the Earth
Claim your Prize, the Sword of Kings

Apologies if it sounds odd, but that is the best translation I could provide. I'd recommend consulting a runes expert for further clarity."

Conrad pondered for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "No, no, you did what you could, Alfwin. Thank you very much, I will bring it to an expert. What has caught my attention is the last bit—the Sword of Kings. I don’t know what sword it could be referring to."

“Ísshjarta, Iceheart,” Ingimárr announced.

Conrad furrowed his brows, perplexed. "What was that?" he inquired, turning to Ingimárr for clarification.

"It must be Iceheart, the Sword of Kings," Ingimárr replied confidently, a glint of recognition in his eyes. "I remember reading about it when I was younger. The legendary sword that once belonged to King Sigfrøðr. According to the accompanying legend, it was crafted by the god Smidda and imbued with the powers of the god Krīg. It passed down through generations, the last known bearer being King Magni before its disappearance upon his demise."

"Well, it seems it wasn’t lost at all," Othmar said.

“But we don’t know that.” Hulderic chimed in.

“Soon we will. Othmar, Ingimárr, accompany me when the time comes. Alfwin and Hulderic, I entrust the realm to your care during my absence. I shall inform Theodemir about this change later.”

"My lord," Alfwin felt the need to speak, concerned, "I don’t wish to question your decision, but I fear it would be too perilous for you to embark on this journey. Should anything untoward happen to you and your brother, the realm would be plunged into crisis. With no heirs or successors in place, the stability of our land would be at risk."

"Alfwin, I value your concern for both me and our realm, and your loyalty does not go unnoticed," Conrad responded, acknowledging Alfwin's worries. "However, I feel compelled to lay eyes on this relic of the gods myself. To allay your fears, I will be accompanied by only a handful of soldiers as bodyguards—no more. We must tread cautiously, avoiding drawing attention from neighbouring lords who might seize upon my absence as an opportunity for aggression. I wish for my departure to remain unknown; let it appear as though I am still present within our city's walls."

"Very well, my lord, I trust your judgement," Alfwin affirmed respectfully.

“Brother, Ingimárr, get your affairs in order, we depart in two days.” With a nod of acknowledgment from his councillors, Conrad watched as they dispersed, his mind buzzing with plans and possibilities. He made his way to his chambers and laid down to rest, thoughts of the sword swirled in his mind, until eventually he drifted off to sleep.