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Post by Adverun pin suppressed by a moderator.

Post by Adverun pin suppressed by a moderator.

Post self-deleted by Parental beans.

Lullubum

An Oration of the Renegade Scholar Acreus, on the subject of Ducal influence over the scholarly field.
(As provided to initiates of the scholarly True Eye Society)

"Brothers and Sisters, while we are united in our being the outcasts of Lullubites Scholarly establishment, we are in common agreement. Our distaste at the existing system in which Lullubite scholarship, and our continued distrust of those lured by ducal subsidisation
However, as we are constantly drawing into our fold, scholarly men and women by the day. People whom concur with our assessments of the moral decay of those institutions, as they are assailed by ducal intrusions. We must on occasion provide concrete examples of in what manner our capabilities as scholars are impeded. In your hands now, is the recollection by one of our founding members. The august scholar Acreus. On how he came to the conclusion, that the intervention of the dukes into the field of scholarship was malicious and self-serving. Allowing us to see the thought process that gravitated him towards this conclusion, as he contemplated a subject that was dear to his heart and central in his scholarly interests.
The history of Lullubum and it’s molestation at the hands of the Grand Dukes and the palatial scholars that they’ve subjugated to their despotic agenda."

()<==================================================================>()

The difficulty in divining the history of the Grand Duchy isn’t through lack of sources, but through the contradiction that those sources have to physical evidence and popular memories of events. Where despite common recurring characters, locations and situations, with physical evidence (Coins, scraps of paper and physical ruins of “mythical” locations) these are actively dismissed wholesale and even purposefully obscured, throughout subsidised Lullubite scholarly sources.
The reasoning behind this scholarly aversion, at least according to my own hypothesising, are the subjects of these common memories. The obscure and seemingly unorthodox founding of the Lullubite state.

One of the primary characters in these historical recollections, is that of a remnant Kostuan official, usually attributed as having held either military or political command over the region under the Kostuan Empire, is everpresent.
Being invariably characterised as cruel, vindictive and dangerously pragmatic. Attributed sometimes to being the initial ruler of a united Lullabite state, employing tactics of terror, fear and military might as a means of ensuring the Lullubite peoples submission to him.
One of the primary memories, a memory that is more widespread and shared amongst nearly all Lullubites, and attested to through a number of place names (Such as Massacre Hill, The Wretches Redoubt, and Tomb of the Chieftains). Tells of how this military despot was able to imprison and massacre a group of rulers of the Lullubites, after having arranged to meet them under the pretences of signing a defence treaty against the “Depthbeasts” undoubtably the initial demonic incursion from the Black Fault.

How this relates to another common memory, one that is irrefutable, and even attested to in the official histories of Ducal Subsidised Libraries. Is The Great Revolt, happening at some point soon after or during the Black Fault’s creation, is attested to as being an uprising of the Lullubite populace against the Kostuan military presence. The sheer convolution everpresent in these legends, different figures, sharing the same roles, at times leading the same battles and being attributed to the same actions, atop ruins from the age being rife with evidence of conflicts, cooperation and even military siege between Kostuan and Lullubite forces. Ensures that even from what I can discern of the historical record we are afforded through our own research, I cannot concretely assert who actually came out on top of the revolt.
This revolt, at least in my opinion, is from where the averseness of scholarly sources on covering this era of Lullubite history, probably arises. As I said, it’s uncertain even without the constraints of ducal influence, on asserting who specifically came out of the revolt on top, and who specifically participated in the revolt.
In some tellings, the revolt resulted in the rise of the Siranet dynasty. Their first concretely attested to ancestor, who is described in many genealogical records of both the mainline ducal Siranets and a number of influential offshoot families, as having through “unsurpassable merit”, founded the contemporary state of Lullubum through lawmaking, philosophising and mediation, settling the Lullubites onto individual homesteads and funding and propagating the earliest iterations of the Knightly Guilds.

Denying the Siranets any involvement in the revolt would be foolish and infantile. To deny this history, even if it would have to be directly dictated from the mouths of the Grand Dukes, would be a denial of reality. The Duke’s control over our society, our near hypocritical acceptance of their rule, and the autocratic situation they have asserted, must have been brought about through an event of incredible political magnitude, and I don’t doubt the Great Revolt would have to be that event. Either asserting their autocratic authority, or establishing a scenario which they exploited to seize it.
Yes, I said assert, as it is in the reality of their existence that we might find some of the truth of the pastThe title of Grand Duke, itself almost certainly derived from the same title present within the Kostuan Empire, and still employed within the Kostuan successor state, the Kingdom of Rolais. Could hint at a hidden nature to our rulers. At best, an effort to emulate the Empire, early, and before our cultural hatred of their Imperial legacy fermented. At worst, a sign that the Great Revolt ultimately, was crushed. And that the forementioned Kostuan military commander, triumphed. Establishing a lineage that, while nativized with time, would still be a heretical affront to everything modern Lullubite culture stood for. Whatever the reality, it is one that the Siranet’s have obscured generationally. Be it out of embarrassment, of an early effort to emulate our former overlords. Or out of fear, that they might be found out, banished to the winds of time, as empire they, in a sense might still represent, ultimately was.

()<==================================================================>()

"Acreus’ revelation, of just how integral this obscuring of our history might be, not only to the legitimisation of the Grand Dukes, but to the justifications behind our contemporary autocratic government. Is perfect for justifying our movement. Showing just how integral control over our intellectual environment has been for the continuation of the Siranet dynasty, and just how integral we, those who refute their control, are.
Remember this quote Initiates, as these words are often attributed to any one of the early Grand Dukes, or important figures adjacent to their courts. “He who controls the past, controls the present.” It's almost incriminating, isn't it. Now, let us begin the hazings..."

Uyuti, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Post by Kurkundi suppressed by Namalar.

Hi i am new

Post self-deleted by Nesketos.

Post self-deleted by Regno austriaco.

Road to Rougeforet: Part V

Gaius sat alone in the upstairs of the tavern. He had been up all night, sometimes pacing, sometimes on his back just staring at the wooden ceiling. With a blink he heard the bells of the city and voices start to emerge, and realized, quickly, that the day had come. At this point, he had definitely lost his chance to leave the city, and had only one resolution. If he was going to do what he thought he was then the bloodshed that would follow would be enormous. Questions still burned into the back of his mind, none more so than the simple word 'why.' Adjusting the last pieces of his armor, and grabbing his sword and his shield, Gaius donned his helmet, and made his way down the stairs. The tavern was now empty, and the doors were closed. All the curtains had been drawn, and the only source of light came from the dawn at the windows. The large amounts of hustle and bustle could be heard clearly from outside the doors, and Gaius knew that he was already short on time. Throwing a small part of his purse on the counter of the bar of the tavern for the innkeeper, he quickly made his way out the doors to the inn, and into the street, running into a small child who simply stared up at him.

"Ow." The small boy simply said.

"I'm sorry." Gaius immediately said, reaching his hand down towards the child.

The child burst into a fit of giggles, and rejected his hand before running off down the alleys. Looking off towards where the small child was running, he noticed several small groups of people all moving in that direction. It was safe to assume then that this was the direction of the Senate opening Gaspard constantly talked about arriving on time for. Making his way through the mud covered streets, he noticed what was all around him. This was clearly one of the slums of the city. The poor sat openly on the mud, flies buzzed everywhere and the people lived in their own filth. The whole place stank of human waste, perhaps even animal waste as well. Rats scurried along the streets like nobodies business, carrying tiny bits of food as their due. Gaius pushed on through the streets until he finally reached a stone street that fed into the centre of Rougeforet. The crowds had gathered all around the square street, all towards a large building at the centre. The building itself was astonishing. It was made of blue and white painted stone that looked smooth to touch, and stood higher than many of the buildings around it. The doors to the building were large and imposing, with two golden lions staring at each other, their arms outstretched, but never meeting. Beyond the gates it looked as if it had its own garden, with flowers that he had never seen before, and beautifully carved fountains that ran non-stop, made to look like the heads of various mythical creatures, such as Dragons, Griffons and even a large Hydra. The windows across it were stained glass and depicted many things. Kings, Emperors, rulers, Elves, Dwarves, even Dsen. All the peoples of Arkonos. Above the doorway stood by far the largest stained glass window, depicting the sun emerging behind a lion as it roared towards the heavens. The opulence of the building cannot be overstated.

Gaius did notice something while staring in awe at the building. The angle seemed off from where he was at. It was almost as if the square was not itself built right. Walking up some stairs he looked out over the crowd and realized something. The shape of the square was not a square at all. It was a diamond. Something in the back of his head clicked, and he thought back to his time in Werstan. The table, in the room down the hall. He looked across the street to the building beside the senate, a large book engraved for all to see. Above that, to the right stood a man atop the flat roof of the building. He saw a man atop the building wearing a dark blue cloak, much like the ones he saw during the meeting. Breaking off into a sprint, Gaius pushed his way past person after person, sometimes flat out knocking them over, using the armour's weight to his advantage. A few brave souls tried to stop him but Gaius simply charged past those people as well, flat out refusing to stop. Any guards that saw him charge past were either uninterested, or they themselves were too busy dealing with trying to keep the significant crowd in the diamond under control. Reaching the library, Gaius tried to push open the door to no avail. Bracing his right side, he tried to knock the door down, but again, there was no winning against whatever had blocked it on the other end. Noticing a gap between the building and the one next to it, Gaius stepped into the small gap and shuffled along it, his armor digging into his skin as he tried to move through it. Making it to the other side, he found himself in a small garden, complete with a large bush and some construction that led directly to the roof. He quickly ran over to the ladder, and climbed up towards the roof, coming face to face with the man he was looking for.

"Gaius." Gaspard said simply, staring at Gaius. Even with the helmet down, Gaspard knew it was him, after all he bought him the armor. "Well, this is a surprise, I thought I told you it would be better to be on your way from the city?"

"What the hell do you plan to do, Gaspard?" Gaius asked.

"Gaius, the politics of the Empire are far too beyond the understanding of a newcomer to these lands." Gaspard explained, pacing along the edge of the rooftop, eyes never coming off of Gaius.

Gaius likewise refused to take his eyes off of Gaspard. Eyes narrowing beneath his helmet, at the idea of Gaspard essentially insulting his intelligence. "Try me." He barked out.

"There are many reasons that many in my organization have, all of varying degrees to have for killing the Emperor of Rolais." Gaspard explained, as his pacing stopped. "Most believe Francois is a tyrant, a man so enamored with his place in the history books that he would throw this country into chaos to appease a cult from outside our lands. A cult that is hostile in nature to everything this country stands for, everything this country believes. When a strong front is needed, Francois eagerly kowtows to the swines of our north. For me? Blood runs from his hands Gaius, everywhere in Rolais there are murders, killings and butchery done in the name of the Emperor. It is like a river of blood running all the way from Tel Andes to Arden. None here stands to oppose him, not when his legions outnumber anything the nobles can throw at them.”

“And what relevance does this have to you Gaspard? Why are you involved in all this?” Gaius inquired, noticing sparks dancing at the tips of Gaspard’s fingers.

“Years back, Francois held an imperial conference with the heads of his armies. He invited them there on the false pretense of the granting of increased power to command and control legions, with the dividing of ninth legion which the disgraced Montefrat had lost in Namalar. Francois had every single person in that room save two butchered. He slaughtered them while they were guests in his house. One of the leaders, Legate Monymont, was stationed near my village, which provided shelter to the Emperor’s brother, Alphonse at the time. Despite Alphonse having long gone, Monymont exterminated the town, in a bid to show his loyalty to the Emperor.” Gaspard spat in disgust. “Monymont was rewarded with a pension and retirement for years of loyal service. My mother, father, sister, were slaughtered while I was selling our produce at the market. I came home to find ash and blood. Nothing else. I swore, on that day, that I would bring this whole thing down if I had to. Francois is the center, and if the center collapses, this is where we will have our opportunity to strike. We have men already inside the senate, awaiting for the strike to finally take the reins. The second Francois and Enzo Parneux dies, is the signal for our men to also kill his brother Alphonse, a bloody day in the Anderfalls. This will leave the Empire in a state of anarchy where our men in the senate will seize control over a nation. Slaves to no emperor no more, where our strength and unity will be found through our faith in Artyan and our humanity, not a mortal man who keeps peace through blood.”
“And what about everyone else?” Gaius asked, still trying to move into a better position where he could get to Gaspard.

“They will be removed…permanently. What we are trying to build will be great, and come at cost. But that cost is insignificant compared to generations of Francois’.” Gaspard said, shrugging off what he knew Gaius was trying to insinuate. “I am not a monster Gaius, I am a realist. I do what I have to do so that no man will be at the whims of another. Once the senate and legions are ours, any resistance to us will be an effort in futility.”

The sound of horns cut through the city. The Emperor was about to arrive. Gaspard turned and looked out over the city. “ It’s been clear since I have been with you that you lack the appetite for the work required for this kind of work. However, I admire your heart. I offer you this Gaius, the chance to walk. To leave, and let things happen. You’ll die at an old age, live a life, maybe you have regrets, but you get to live. Just walk.”

“I don't think I can walk away from this one Gaspard.” Gaius said, hand on his sword and readying removing the small shield from his back. “What you plan to do, I have seen justified a hundred times over from nobles in my homeland. I…for the first time I am in a position to stop it. To stop you.”

“I respect you Gaius, however that does not make what must happen next any easier.” Gaspard told him. “We are out of time to talk.”

Gaspard turned and the sparks that were so carefully dancing in his hand hit Gaius' shield. The force of it brought him to his knees, but the small amount of Antirium that Gaspard had ironically paid for kept it from completely destroying him. The flow of time seemed to slow as Gaius and Gaspard were now locked in battle. With all eyes on the celebrations and the arrival of the Emperor's procession, no eyes were tilting in their direction. As hard as he tried, Gaius could not stand up, as long as the force of lightning was continuing to keep him pinned. Likewise too, Gaspard could not keep channeling so much magic for so long, and eventually it stopped. As Gaius prepared a charge, a blast of air knocked him flying back and crashing into the small hovel that contained the door to the roof. The attack took a lot out of Gaspard as he too was struggling for breath. Gaspard took a knife from his side and threw it at Gaius, who raised his shield once again, as the knife impacted it.

“I see what training you were provided proved useful!” Gaspard shouted over to him. “My own generosity is my undoing apparently. Gaius, having caught his breath, raised his sword and shield and charged. As he did he collided with a magical wall. His arm hurt, it was like charging into a solid concrete wall. As the wall dissipated, Gaspard laughed. “But you were never the brightest, I must admit. All balls and no brains. A foolhardy champion of a nation of wicked eyes and wicked hearts.”

Gaius had raised himself back to his feet, but his left shoulder was now killing him. The impact with the magic wall had damaged it, quite badly in fact. Gaspard noticed his weakness and once again the sparks danced at his hands, and Gaius raised his shield. His shoulder screamed in agony as he did and the force of the magic did not help. Nevertheless, Gaius held his shield up but Gaspard marched closer, the magic intensifying as he did. Step by step, Gaius’s shoulder continued to get worse and worse, the nerves in his whole arm on fire, until an explosion of light overcame them both. Suddenly Gaius was on his back, his grip on his shield failing. Gaspard walked over, seemingly only covered in the dirt that sat along the floor of the flat rooftop but clearly exhausted from the fighting. Gaius tried to reach his sword but Gaspard kicked it away. “I'm sorry Gaius, but this is how it could only end.” Gaspard reached for the sword, and began to pick it up. Gaius, seeing what was about to happen, reached for his shield, and pulled the knife that was stuck in it, and lunged it into just above Gaspards ankle. Gaspard collapsed with a howl of pain as the knife pierced right through, destroying the bone as it went all the way through. The sword fell, clinking useless against the stone roof.

Gaius, dizzy and in pain, stood up as a pool of blood gathered underneath Gaspard and picked up his sword. Gaspard could only grab his foot and leg in a bid to stop it, while Gaius readied his sword. Gaspard desperately tried to heal his wound, but looking at Gaius he knew he was out of time. “You think you have won, Gaius? I am but one part. If I should fail , one more will take my place. The die is cast, Gaius, delivers the death blow. One day, we will strike, and victory will be ours.”

Gaius raised his sword, and stabbed Gaspard, stabbing directly into his throat, and cutting it across. Gaspard was dead. Gaius breathed heavily. A wave of emotion immediately overcame him. Regret, anger, sadness and sorrow. He had never killed somebody who was a friend before. The first time he had killed, it was a bandit looting his home back in Kostua, it felt wrong. Just cold blooded and it weighed on him immensely for months. Killing the bandits along the road on his way to Werstan, it felt different. It felt like winning. It felt triumphant. It disturbed him. As he looked at Gaspard, he felt that wave of emotion, and he did not know how to deal with it.

He sat down, and hung his legs off the edge of the roof and looked out at Gaspards cart. Several tarped barrels sitting ready, waiting to be ignited as the Emperor made his entrance. Guards adorned in the most fanciful armor he had ever seen. Parading in their shiny armor completely unaware of the fate that they had narrowly just avoided. Gaius looked back down to the ground in front of him and noticed another man in a black cloak, and made eye contact through the slit in his helmet.

“Crap.” Gaius remarked, as the man ran into the back alley. Having no time, Gaius descended along the slant in the roof and landed on the ground, his metal boots clinking on the ground stone ground. The crowd gasped as they noticed Gaius, covered in blood as the other man ran outside of the alley, holding a lit torch. Gaius charged him, no longer having his shield and impaled him on his spear. The screams of the crowd tore through the wind as Gaius’s sword tore through the conspirator's chest cavity. As the shocked sounds of the crowd rang out a gang of men charged out from the alley, trying to charge through the crowds towards the Emperor. Several of the emperor's men charged in their direction while Gaius attempted to deflect several of the blows from the gang. He saw many of the conspirators break behind them, assuming that they knew that things had definitely gone wrong. As he continued to fight, more of the Emperor's troops poured into the fighting. Most of the men were huge, and handled their shields extremely well. The crowds began to filter out, everyone quickly heading to the other side of the square where the conspirators' other attack had clearly not materialized. A man in front of him was quickly incinerated by a mage, adorned in a blue coat with a lion wearing a crown that had been embedded in his robes. Before Gaius could contemplate anything further he was hoisted into the air and slammed into a nearby cart where unconsciousness quickly took him, and the world went black.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Emperor Francois sat looking at the aftermath of the carnage at the far end of the diamond in the Senate’s square. Things had calmed down as the attack quickly failed. Many of the Imperial Fire Guard had surrounded him along with Enzo Parneux and Darius de Ailleurs, forming a circle of large shields. As the chaos died down, the commander of the Fire Guard, Sir Martin de Montelya approached them.

“My liege, the men are dead. We have one man, who was stabbed in the back of the neck, and six local guardsmen. We have captured three men, and one of our mages captured a man wearing different armor that eyewitnesses say were at the scene that he believed could have been helping. Not knowing his intentions he…knocked him out. What shall we do to him?”

“If I may, your Imperial Majesty, I would like to personally question this man.” Darius asked. “He may have information on these men that prove useful. I believe that I can make our little bird sing.”

“Take him, I will have to make a speech. I want these men found Darius. I don’t care how long it takes or the resources you need. Make the bird scream if you need to.” Francois demanded.

“It will be my pleasure, sire.” Darius announced.

Francois ascended to the steps of the senate, and looked out at the crowd. Some looked terrified, others in shock. Anger pierced Francois, this attack would embolden others, he had no doubt. He would need to hunt these men down if they believed that they were able to kill an Emperor and get away with it. He knew, however, that a speech had to be made.

“People of the Empire!” Francois shouted cutting through the silence. The Imperial Fire Guard formed a line of shields in front and behind him, ensuring that nobody could even approach. “As a nation, we have always strived to be our best, and to look out for the best interests of our people. Today, some of the parasites that feast upon our great country tried to attack and kill me, killing several of the guards of our great city. Some say, Rougeforet is the birthplace of our nation, it being where the rebellion that led to our freedom from the Kostuan Empire possible. An attack here, in our very heartland, is an attack on all the Empire. Many brave men of this city laid down their arms in the defense of this city, and as a nation we must mourn their sacrifice. The names of these men will be forever carved in a monument built directly in front of this building. Rolais must stand as a bastion, a place where all can seek shelter, both meek and strong. A place which shelters and helps to make the world a better place. So as our nation has stood for 300 years, so shall it stand forever!”

The crowd clapped at Francois’ announcement, and the Emperor entered the senate building with the Imperial Fire Guard in tow. The meeting inside the senate had just gotten significantly more interesting.

Uyuti, Namalar, Riddenheim, Cheysal serulea, and 4 othersSyrduria, Ryeongse, Eskeland, and Brelogne

Nesketos

Maspulagi and Pezpulagi

The outer forum overlooked the training grounds, just outside the city. Sometimes, the aristocrats and high judges, even regular citizens, would watch the strict training regimen of the Nesi Natui, the black-cloaked guards of Nesketos. It was a pastime of those in power to see how their power was to be protected - it brought with it security, a feeling of calm and security. Today's training was about synchronisation and group movement. The Natuisas shouted each time they made a stabbing movement with their spears, a shout that carried across the plains of Maspulagi and into the city's forum in Nesketos. They each seemed to know exactly when they should strike. This in itself was likely due to the brutal training that the Natuisas underwent. It was somewhat secretive, but its brutality could be observed easily. As one soldier fell behind, the trainer shouted a word, making each of the Natuisas stand to attention, before he beat the offending guardsman. 'Brutality breeds brutality', as the old adage went, and Nesketos needed brutality in this day and age.

An Ikori with brown fur and scars around his face entered the forum. He scanned around the paved, built-up area, and looked for the person he was to meet up with. Finally, he saw him. A black-furred Ikori, sitting and eating the carcass of a chicken. Some Ikori could be gluttons, but their high metabolisms gave most a wiry frame regardless of what they ate. This one was the same, despite the chicken having evidently been about as large, if not larger, than his head. The general put his black cloak over his weapons, a sign of respect in the forum, before moving over to the man. The second one looked up as the man approached, and passed the carcass to his slave, bowed next to him. He brushed off his robe before standing to greet the general.

"Well met, Jaukusu," the aristocrat seemed to bellow towards the general.

"Risdesu," the general almost whispered his response; "I received your Heleni in the barracks. It took a while to discern that he was not one of the Vhepas. I made him do some exercises - I'm sure the scrawny bugger could have used them."

The aristocrat roared his laughter, "No harm done. I might yet have him beaten once he gets back - he always has been slow."

The general smiled slightly, the single show of emotion he had made since he arrived, before continuing; "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The aristocrat took a sip of his brown liquor, a strong beer that was commonly drunk by all social classes in Nesketos, before wiping his whiskers and speaking back to Jaukusu; "To Pezpulagi, you owe the pleasure."

The two regions of Nesketos were Maspulagi and Pezpulagi, this side and that, both sides of the Tengimesadi highlands. Maspulagi was the side where the city stood, and the most developed portions of wider Nesketos lay. Pezpulagi was a largely untamed land, around the same size as Maspulagi but nowhere near as developed - a couple of farming villages, and one hastily constructed fort, to defend the mountain pass that led to the city. Jaukusu knew what the aristocrat meant.

"The Land Court didn't object to your proposal?"

"The Land Court welcomed it, once I told them of the benefits it would bring us," Risdesu responded, standing from his seat and bidding the general follow him, "It is no secret that of the Eastern Coast cities, we are the strongest. We have an army that most of them shudder at, we have a prime location at the Vacavhi, we have all the trappings of a future regional power, if we were to simply flex our muscles, show some backbone... Invasion, that's what I called for. The Thiton all supported the idea, and the Zematu to match. We knew it wouldn't be long until the Land Court came to see reason. Lo and behold, they see it too. Nesketos is wasted as a backwater. It's time that we made ourselves known."

General Jaukusu nodded in understanding, thinking a moment; "Then your only obstacle is the military itself. Which is why you called for me."

"Which is why I called for you," Risdesu responded, "I know you too well to think you'd back down from a campaign like that. I just hope someone like you could bring the rest of the generals in line."

Jaukusu grunted, an agreement that many of the generals would rather train troops and play soldiers than actually make moves to attain glory. Risdesu continued.

"As far as I understand the military, you only need one general to lead an army. The benefits are too great to pass up on this. The members of the Thiton all want more land to farm and develop, and want to better be able to defend our trade interests. The military could project its power. We could become the eminent power of the eastern coast, our name become legend. Or we could sink into obscurity, never remembered. Never revered."

Jaukusu thought for a moment. He realised what the aristocrat was saying, "You're wanting me to deliberately mislead the Puedes He? Make them think I am taking the troops for training, when actually taking them for conquest?"

"They'll soon get the taste for war," the aristocrat assured him, "You are merely becoming the catalyst for that change."

Jaukusu gripped the hilt of his sword. He had been ready for this a long time.

"Then I go to war."

--------------------------------------------------

Within mere days, troops had streamed into Pezpulagi. There was a contingent of Nesi Natui, the most elite troops of Nesketos, dressed in their black cloaks. Around a hundred of them stood there, dressed in heavier armour. The rest were Vhepas, trained levy troops from the Heleni class, consisting of spearmen with some archers. All of them infantry - Nesketos did not yet have the resources to maintain a high cavalry contingent. Jaukusu's two lieutenants and Jaukusu himself were the only ones on horseback. One lieutenant spoke to his general.

"I can organise the setting up of the camp, sir, if that suits you."

Jaukusu spoke quietly, but with a determination to his voice; "We're not setting up camp yet. We're marching to the border."

The lieutenants looked at each other with confusion, "The border, sir? What are we doing there?"

Jaukusu kicked the flanks of his horse; "Invading."

Jaukusu approached his army, 600 men strong, and began to speak to them, his voice carrying across the flat land.

"Ikori of Nesketos, Heleni and Karku. You were told that you would be here for training. Let me speak to you now in truth. You are not here to train at war, to play soldiers in safety. I have brought you here for a real fight. One which will prove Nesketan superiority and will begin a new era for our nation. One which shall precipitate the rise of our glorious city to glory here in the east. You all are the catalyst for this rise," he moved across the front rank on his horse, looking each soldier in the eye as he passed them, "Some of you may be afraid of war. You may shudder at the thought of battle. But think - this is what you have been training for. This is what it truly means to be a soldier. Not to prance around pretending, but to actually fight. And if, we pray to Nessus, we win, we become greater than the sum of our parts. We become the legendary precursors to future glory. Ikori for generations will speak of us as heroes! If you shudder now, just think of how they will shudder when they face the soldiers of Nesketos in the future! And all it requires is your dedication, your commitment to me, to your fellow Ikori, to Nesketos and your homes! Come, join me in glory. Today we fight for land, for aristocrats to expand their territories. Tomorrow, we are remembered in glory, in victory, so come on! Join me here! Let us be glorious!"

The soldiers began to cheer. Jaukusu turned back towards his lieutenants, one of which spoke to him, just under the sound of the men cheering.

"You do realise you lied to the Puedes He? They will find out."

"They will," Jaukusu stated flatly, "But those who will care are a dying breed. Come! Northwards. The border awaits."

Rolais, Uyuti, Namalar, Riddenheim, and 2 othersRyeongse, and Eskeland

Last Lord
3k Copost with Qirinai

For months, General Virtumal and his Battlegroup had taken the hard work of cutting a vast swath through daobem territory. With resistance scattered and unorganized, the major threat to the elves was the lizards' constant harassing of Empyrial supply lines during the expedition that numerously slowed their march into Xuuaka. Regardless, the First Lord's attacks did little but do just that. Slow, but never stop. In the face of a superior force, both strategically and numerically, everything the First Lord did was nothing more than a delaying action. And that action had finally come to an end. Here he stood, the Elven General, before the domed entrance into Xuuaka. The entrance had been abandoned, closed shut by Qirinii wood, steel, and stone doors, and secured by large beams of wood in the hopes it'd be enough to keep the Empyrium out. It had failed as by horse and ax, pieces and chunks of the door were removed over the course of a fortnight. Once the gate had been opened, nothing stopped them from making their way inside.

First Lord Ssrael snarled at the sniveling fool in front of him. The latest report was even worse than before, and there was seemingly no way out. He crashed back into the wooden chair that served as his throne since the newly appointed palace above-ground had been breached a month ago. "So they're breaking through the doors, are they? Let them. Here's what we're going to do..."

As he began detailing his plan to his generals, there was one more set of ears listening, a set of ears that went unnoticed - as they always did - because they were too weak and too afraid to fight to be useful to Ssrael. His youngest son, Zanin, remained behind the curtain that led to the rooms next door until he had heard all their plans and then silently slipped away. He hurried down the main corridor of this level of rooms until he found the right-hand turn that would take him to the main stairs. Going up a level, he turned a sharp corner and rapped his knuckles on the slender door that stood in the shadows. It opened a sliver, and then once he'd been recognized, it fell open for him to enter.

"What news do you bring, friend?" The voice out of the shadows was deep and raspy, the combination of age and good health.

Zanin bowed. "They are planning a counterattack. When the elves finally breach the door, they will let them come into the main plaza, and then surround them."

"They are fools," the shadowy voice answered back. But let them have their plan. It may provide the best escape for us in the end..."

The massive hallways of Xuuaka never failed to impress the General as he took in the sight on his way down. Qirinii builders strived for perfection and it was seen in every corner, every beveled edge, and every joined bridge between blocks of stone, strips of steel, and bolts of iron, neatly painted and stained in black, blue, and white. The colors seemed to dance in the sputtering flames of the torches carried by soldiers all along the edge of the formation as it marched through, the halls cleared initially by brave young elves of the vanguard force. As they passed, each and every chamber would be guarded by squadrons of ten soldiers each, whose mission would be to keep their flank clean of trespassers and daobem skirmishers. Despite the fact that the Battlegroup's cavalry force remained topside, General Virtumal would not leave a duty so lightly given to one single faction of his troop.

The General's eyes diverted their gaze from the ornamental accents of the Qirinii Elven city to the lines of Empyrial troops ahead of him. Leading the front were thirty of lighter armored soldiers, walking in tight formation, their shields pressed against their chests and their swords rested upon their right shoulders, ample enough for them to quickly engage should they be forced to do so. Dividing them and the main force heavy infantrymen was a gap of thirty yards. Within the primary column of these heavier infantrymen were two hundred elite soldiers of the Old Guard, elves whose profession of war had been carried with them from the Eternals to the Southern Sokos Deserts. From skirmishes with rival clans to organized assaults on dens of thieves, bandits, and Kostuan soldiers, they were the Battlegroup's seasoned veterans and General Virtumal's most trusted. Not only had these elves fought for their clans when they needed them most, they were also trusted by the nobility and royalty of various nations across Sokos to kill their enemies with prejudice. While much of their experience came from their time in clan servitude, skill also came from the Empyrium's eastern campaigns during the taking of Altaxabir. Should the vanguard be engaged, the Battlegroup's battle-hardened warriors would be given ample enough time to prepare themselves.

Following them were two columns, numbering the same, of fresh-faced elf and human warriors, most of whom hadn't seen combat and had been rotated in from postings in Mithranus, Tassaria, and Ehrenor to relieve troops who'd been deployed far too long. At the rear of these columns were General Virtumal, riding upon a tan horse draped in gold and red. Riding beside him were four warriors of the Elvhen'henai, dispatched personally by the Consuliar for protection of such an esteemed and older officer of the military.

The walk would continue for what felt like an eternity until they reached a second pair of doors, massive in size and bolted together similarly to the dome's entrance. The only difference was that these were open and chained to pillars behind them to keep them so.

Those doors were the last impediment before the city itself, and the incline beyond led down into the large, main plaza of the formerly-dwarven city. It had been significantly reinforced by the daobem, but their additions had been made to shore up the ancient dwarven work, so there was nothing to prevent the elves from simply marching into the city. But that was all part of the plan. The daobem knew the city; the Empyrials did not. One of their men would count for five of theirs down here. Or so Ssrael thought. He huddled with his men, ready to begin the fight as soon as the elves made their presence known.

Zanin walked from corridor to corridor. He knew the houses on which to knock; he knew the ones to avoid. He did not stop to talk. In fact, he did not even care if the owners of the rooms opened their doors to him. The two triple-taps followed by a single loud knock was a signal. The receivers would already know what to do; there was no further communication needed.
The small vanguard was the first to begin their descent into the main plaza of the city, their eyes remaining vigilant, their heads constantly on a swivel. Behind them, the Old Guard column was not so easily convinced that walking into the plaza was such a good idea. So much so that once Marshal Vesserian Ehrsol, commander of the Old Guard, had seen what was laid before him, he immediately rushed to General Virtumal to express his concerns. His opinion was acutely heard and listened to by Ralnor Virtumal and as a result, ordered the entire march to halt. By the time the halt order was given, the Vanguard and the Old Guard were already present on the Grand Plaza of Xuuaka, while the young columns were stuck halfway down the decline to the plaza. It was still enough to ensure that the General remained at the top of the bridge with his Elvhen'henai and the Marshal.

Neither of the two commanding officers was an idiot; both understood that an abandoned city center of what was supposed to be the capital of First Lord Ssrael's fledgling faction meant that either they abandoned the city and moved north, perhaps finding a secondary exit from the city and traveled up or down the coast to avoid detection by Empyrial cavalry patrols or that they were establishing a trap for the Empyrials. An outright and frontal assault conducted by the First Lord's army would mean the end of their army. Established intelligence gathered by Empyrial agents prior to the Second Battlegroup's entry into former Qirinii territory informed them that Ssrael's forces sat at about half of what the Battlegroup's numbers were. This intelligence would be outdated should the First Lord had conducted forced conscription, bringing every fighting-age male under his own war banner, it would most likely have doubled this number. This would have ensured that Ssrael's forces would numerically match that of Ralnor's, but experience and skill would win the day. A week's worth of basic sword and shield training would easily be annihilated by the superior training of Empyrial soldiers, not including the seasoned warriors of the Old Guard. Victory against Ssrael was confidently assured by the elite in Mithranus. General Ralnor wasn't so sure. Skill and experience are vital to the success of a mission, but knowledge of the terrain was just as important. The Empyrials had wealth, numbers and experience at their command, but the daobem had the home-field advantage. In Ralnor's eyes, the Empyrium could win, but it would be a long and bloody conflict should this go the way he didn't foresee.

The understanding, as accurate as it was, came too late. A thunderous crash reverberated through the cavernous space, and the entire rear wall - just yards away from the top where General Virtumal stood - came crashing down. For this was Ssrael's plan. In the weeks leading up to the breakthrough, his best engineers had subtly and painstakingly removed the vast majority of the supporting stone along the grand archway. All that was left was for a few volunteers, willing to give their life for their city, to crack loose the remaining supports.

Ssrael watched as the wall came down, severing any contact from outside.

And then he and his men attacked. They came from every angle, screaming epithets that drowned out any attempt to communicate with them. But even as they attacked, Ssrael was aware - at least in some small corner of his mind - that something was not as it should have been.

The sounds of chattering stone and wood breaking alerted General Virtumal as it happened before him. The stones came crashing down, spooking the General's horse, forcing it to break all sense of training that its military masters had given him as he bolted off, whipping back Ralnor and forcing him to tumble from his horse. Remaining on his feet, Marshal Vesserian was quick enough to run, barely avoiding being crushed by the stones falling down. The General's Elvhen'henai were not as lucky. Three of the four had been crushed beneath the weight of the collapsing doorway, with the other's leg crushed beneath one of the stone pillars. His blood-curdling screams echoed through the city as daobem warriors flooded from every doorway, every window, every alleyway. Their screams were what alerted the troops in the plaza and on the walkway, which shook from the impact of the stone blocks coming down upon it as well.

The Vanguard, remaining separate from the Old Guard formation, was quickly surrounded to avoid their number sinking into the main column. Khemakh swords, clubs, and axes smashed into what they were trying to form into a shield wall, dragging down Empyrial soldiers and scattering their attempt to organize into a hollow square small enough to be organized by thirty men. They were put to the sword with rather an ease. The Old Guard's column was hit on three sides by the waves of Khemakh screamers, smashing into their shields and scoring lethal hits with thrown spears and lucky lunges, sending a dozen soldiers to their deaths as they moved to form a shield wall on three sides, an upside-down U that allowed the other columns to sink into a consolidated and right formation within it that provided ample protection for the General.

"Hold! Hold the wall!" Screamed some of the soldiers as the daobem shrieked and smashed into the walls over and over again, but the strong wall of the Old Guard held. Marshal Vesserian took command with sword and shield as a squadron of soldiers built a second much smaller hollow square of shields around General Virtumal within the U-shaped wall. Vesserian screamed a series of orders to the peak of the U formation, ordering them to open inwards. And so they did, a line of six soldiers moved backward, keeping their shields connected as they swiveled open like a human door, the khemakh flooding into the opening, where they were met with a charging cluster of Empyrial soldiers, smashing into them as the Old Guard door began to close.

The formation buckled as they tried to push forward, their advance constantly slowed by the onslaught of the powerful Khemakh warriors, some of them forcing their way through the shields and targeting the shield wall from behind, causing gaps that were not so easily refilled. While the technique - in theory - would have been valuable in slaughtering the Khemakh systematically, the Marshal had underestimated the drive and bloodlust of the daobem, and had allowed the strength of the shield wall to diminish from the swiveled movement. Once the wall began to fall from within, all sense of organization was doomed to fail and the Old Guard began to engage.

The clashing of steel and screams of men, elf, and khemakh filled the air as the battle raged like wildfire. Even Marshal Vesserian, now paying for the mistakes of his actions, proved that experience and skill weren't all that was required, especially when you were a commander. It required calm and carefully thought-out maneuvers, though without a proper fight against his enemy until now, how could he have known the ferocity of his opponent other than by the word of patrols who engaged skirmishers looking to disrupt their supply lines? With his sword and shield, he joined the fight.

General Virtumal, though he had his sword and shield in hand, kept his eyes opened and scanning the field. He noticed that while some fought like Eternalic riverwolves, others pulled back, their shields up, but their swords made no strike.

Ssrael was sure now what was happening, but he did not understand why. Not yet. The plaza made up a sort of rough cylinder in the middle of the city. On one wall ran the immense pillar of salt - what before the Cataclysm in Caeluon had been amber - but around the rest of the plaza were multiple levels of housing, all with doors that opened onto landings on the plaza. By now, these should have been full of warriors, hurling spears, or leaping into the battle from the ready-made ramparts. It should have been a slaughter.

With a start, First Lord Ssrael realized that it was indeed going to be a slaughter, but not of the elves. His warriors were fierce, but without the planned reinforcements, the fight would soon be a rout. He jerked his gaze to the side in time to see the doors that his men had just charged in from being shut! A quick glance showed the other two doors being closed as well. Not only would there be no more reinforcements, but there would also be no retreat.

Then, to his amazement, an old daobem emerged from one of the uppermost dwellings. From his distance, and without having time to study the figure, Ssrael could not tell who it was. Then the figure began to speak, and First Lord Ssrael's blood ran cold.

"Elves of the Empyrium," said the female daobem on the wall, "We offer you these, who have been the instigators of a generation of violence, as a gift. They are of us, but they are not us. Dispose of them as you will, and we will submit peacefully. We have no need for bloodshed, but we will be happy if their shed blood is an end to it. And to you, Ssrael, you forgot all the warnings I gave you of your father and his end. I am sorry, but I will not let you be ours."

General Virtumal's attention was also jerked to the new arrival above them. The sounds of battle quieted as many looked up, especially the daobem. The Empyrial soldiers near them simply stood with shields raised, bloodied swords poised to strike whenever they resumed combat. Many of the elves, most of them members of the Old Guard, took this moment to strengthen their position by grouping up in an attempt to make clusters of easily defensible positions and set themselves up for easy strikes on daobem that were engaging other soldiers.

Ralnor was perplexed by the situation before him. Betrayal of the highest order. A moment that had decided the rest of this battle. More and more of the daobem seemed to have lost faith, their expressions telling him everything he needed to know. Once the female Khemakh had spoken her piece.

"Warriors of the daobem!" Called out General Virtumal, hoping to play on the sense of defeat many had swirling through their minds now that their secret weapon had come for them instead of the elves. "You've fought well and you've fought nobly! But I'm sure many of you now understand the situation. Many of your brethren have fallen. Do not allow yourselves to become more casualties in a pointless game by one whose decisions have led to this awful situation! Surrender now and your lives will be spared!" He paused for a moment to allow them to digest this offer. "First Lord Ssrael! This offer applies to you as well. Lead by example and end this charade!" He yelled out once more.

Slowly, gradually, but inevitably, the daobem soldiers paused, glancing among their ranks, and then began to lay their weapons down. As Ssrael saw this, he roared in rage. "No! We cannot become subjects again to the lesser races!" He began to stride forward, but two of his soldiers - former soldiers now - grabbed his shoulders, holding him in place. His fury at this injustice made him look around in a frenzy, seeking an escape... but there was none.

As the daobem soldiers began to drop their weapons to the ornate stone of the plaza ground, Empyrial soldiers kicked them away, keeping their eyes on each Khemakh that was surrendering. With this, the clumped Empyrial formations around the exit from the declined bridge began to spread out, the Old Guard moving the former daobem soldiers into clumps and surrounding them with shields and swords while the other, newer warriors moved to clear the houses of any further hostiles and secure the alleys.

General Virtumal left the safety of the hollow square, a mass of Elven soldiers accompanying him as he moved towards the First Lord. As he approached, Empyrial soldiers moved in, pulling the two daobem warriors from their position at both sides of the First Lord and replacing them with Elven soldiers, gripping his arms tightly, swords ready to plunge into him should he move on their commanding officer.

"It's over, Ssrael. We will negotiate terms of surrender with the others and Xuaaka will fall under the protection and safety of the Empyrium. And you will be taken to a cell and await sentencing by both a Qirinii and Empyrial military council. Consider it a mercy. Had this decision had been on me, you'd be facing summary execution right here, right now." General Virtumal turned to see the groups of Khemakh warriors surrounded by elves and men. "As for the First Lord's army, see to it that they are taken to somewhere secure, perhaps the city's prison cells or anything that can pass off as one. They will be judged as well." The General said to Marshal Vesserian, who nodded in response.

Rolais, Uyuti, Chirenai, Ryeongse, and 1 otherEskeland

Nesketos

The Northward Expansion

In the chambers of the Thiton sat many chairs. It is said that every Karku invader founded a lineage in Nesketos, and each of these lineages went on to form a part of the aristocracy. The trouble was that many lineages makes legislation unwieldy. Some of the lineages were unable to handle the costs involved in operating an entire noble family, some had too little land to actually comprise a full domain, and a few had died out entirely or been exiled in the years since the founding of the city of Nesketos, but their chairs still littered the hall. It was circular, windowless, with a large table surrounding a firepit in the middle of it. Those closest to the centre were the most important lineages of the land, given the most prestigious tasks and the largest slices of land. Gradually moving further out were the less important lineages, all supposedly equal in vote, but their voices did not matter until their patriarchs made their voices matter, shouting and being heard by those around them. Charisma ruled in the Thiton. If you could curry the favour of the other patriarchs, and not have your lineage relegated to obscurity, becoming of little more importance than the Heleni citizens of Nesketos, then you survived in the Thiton. If you could make others fear you, respect you and obey you, you became a centre patriarch. And if they respected you enough to put their trust in your lineage to lead, you might be selected to become Zematu, Archon of Nesketos and the most powerful individual of the city and land. But there was a saying in Nesketos - "Respect the man who keeps your snakes". It roughly meant that power resides in the ones who give you power. Resting on your haunches led to assuming safety. You could never assume safety when you held power. But just as the Zematu could never assume safety from the patriarchs under him, the Thiton could not assume safety from the Land Court, who had always moderated the Thiton and the aristocrats to ensure that they could not become too omnipotent. And yet being critical of power did not mean being fearful of the power holders.

The light of the sun lit up the chambers, as the doors to the chamber were thrown open. A General in his black cloak, helmet beneath his arm and ears up in anger, stood in the light, casting a shadow, while beside him, standing meekly with both hands in front of him, was a member of the Land Court, a Heleni. The both of them moved forward into the chambers, amidst the mild protestations of the two chamber guardsmen at either side of them. The General dismissed their shrieks with a wave of his hand. Two of them moved in front of the two as they entered, lowering their spears in a threatening manner. The General lifted his black cloak, his hand on his sword. The Zematu rose from his seat and looked towards the guards.

"Stand down. Let them pass."

The two guards shouldered their spears, and made a parting between them for the General and the member of the Land Court to pass. The General took his hand off of his sword and lowered his cloak again. He stopped where he stood, and spoke accusingly to the Zematu.

"Lejenna!" he cursed, "You approved an illegal operation of the Nesketan military into foreign territory, sending our citizens and others to likely die on a foreign soil? How could you?"

There was silence in the Thiton chambers. The Zematu leant on the table behind him, relaxed. He did not fear either of them. He gestured to the Heleni; "Did the Land Court not deem our operation legal?"

"Some in our court approved your proposal, not all of us," the Heleni spoke, his voice wavering, "And we never believed for a second that you would commandeer a General and send an army to invade outside of our borders without consulting the military first! Is that not a violation of our own traditions?"

"These are our traditions!" A member of the Thiton shouted to the Heleni, rising from his chair.

"Calm!" the Zematu instructed the councillor. The aristocrat sat back down, and the Zematu continued, addressing the Heleni; "They make a point, however. Whatever traditions you feel are being violated are simply in the nature of Karku. We invade, we conquer," there were murmors of approval around the Thiton chambers; "Is that not what brought our rule to this great city? Is that not why we sit here today?"

The General scoffed, "You curry your favour with the Thiton, all the while using my resources?"

The Zematu made a mockingly confused face, stroking his right whiskers with his hand, "I'm sorry, General, isn't the Puedes He made up of many Generals, not just the one?"

The General strode forward. The guards crossed their spears in front of the Zematu, blocking the General from moving closer. He gripped onto his sword, anger in his eyes. The Zematu stood to his full height, batting the spear away with his hand, before continuing; "You think me some King who has failed in his predictions? You kill me, you die. See if the Land Court objects then. My actions are permitted by the state and the Karku Constution - legally speaking, anyway. Will you reject me in my right to use the state's resources as I see fit?"

The silence was deafening. The patriarchs of the Thiton eagerly awaited the General's response. He looked around, again loosening his grip on the sword.

"The dead of this campaign of yours will be forever on your shoulders," the General spat, venomously.

"And what if they return home in victory?" the Zematu crossed his arms and cocked his head.

"Then the Land Court will carve up the territory," the Heleni spoke up finally, peering from around the General's cloak, "You do not get to claim it for yourself by conquest alone."

The Zematu did not even look at the Heleni as he spoke; "You hear, General? You've gone soft. Worse than soft, you've become servile, like the very Heleni who would tend to your chambers, or fill your army as vhepasi. You have lowered yourself to below where a Karku should stand. Or even beyond that, you have listened to their lies so long that you think they speak the truth. What do you really think, General?"

The General paused for a moment. The Heleni looked from Karku to Karku, as the Zematu waited for his response.

"If they are victorious, it changes nothing," the General spat back, "You have still left our state without a significant proportion of its defenders. What if Cajapoya attacked, or Elotomek? You have stretched our army out thinly, only moreso if many die. One day, when you are campaigning, you will come to see that this is a poor choice."

"Maybe," the Zematu responded, "But maybe not."

--------------------------------------------------

The rolling hills of this new region were home to sparse livestock farmers, herders and the occasional village. Sheep and cows, those were the main fare of the region. They had crossed a river on their third day of campaigning, and had circled north, taking village after village. Finally coming back southwards, they set their sights on the main town of the region. It was a small town, nothing compared to the larger city of Nesketos, or even some of its satellite towns. The houses were made of straw, mud and a little bit of stone and timber, while the roofs were thatched. The army met little resistance thus far, but that would change as they stood opposite this defending army on the field.

"How many do you see?" General Jaukusu asked one of his lieutenants.

"400 men, mostly levies I believe. Weakest in the centre - might be that they'd try to envelop us?"

Jaukusu nodded, "Move the Nesi Natui to the left flank. I'll lead the right flank myself."

The opposing army blew a horn. They waved a grey flag, obviously made from the same wool that the troops' grey cloaks were made of. A signal for parlay. Jaukusu considered it merely polite to accept their offer of parlay. The enemy commander began to trot out on his horse, flanked by two retainers on horseback. Jaukusu turned to his lieutenants.

"Make it so. Pazu, with me."

Pazu and Jaukusu rode out into the centre of the field. There was not much ground to cover, the battlefield would not be large. There was little to stop the more rowdy Nesketan troops from hurling insults at the enemy Ikori on the field, or for insults to be hurled back. As the commanders approached each other, the enemy commander spoke first.

"I am Apollon, King of this region. And you?"

"Jaukusu, General of Nesketos."

Apollon smiled, "Then we now know each other. Let us speak, Ikori to Ikori. Your troops have raided my lands and taken my villages, but I cannot imagine what benefit you feel this would bring. We are a peaceable people, we have never once infringed upon Nesketan territory. If we can pay you tribute, you could leave us. Let there be no cause for bloodshed here."

Jaukusu nodded to Apollon, "Indeed, your people have not yet put up much of a fight. Let me say this, as an Ikori... As Karku... It sickens me."

Apollon's face instantly became more dour. It was as if he had been struck by some form of moving object. Jaukusu continued.

"Your people are peaceable. But you are also leaderless. Nesketos would lead you. Nesketos would make you better than you already are, improve your lands, utilise your resources, mobilise your people."

The rival King sneered, "You Karku... You never were content just to let others be. Your thirst for conquest will be your undoing."

Jaukusu nodded once again, "Perhaps. We shall decide the outcome for today on the point of the spear."

Jaukusu moved back to his army, as Apollon slowly moved back to his own. Apollon carried himself as an already defeated man. He must have known the futility of what was to be undertaken here. He must have known that the Nesketans would invade his territory and that, even if they were merciful, he would be subjugated to them. Though the likelihood remained, Apollon would die in the snake pit of the Nesketan King. Nesketans were not known to be merciful. Perhaps it was better to die on the battlefield than live longer.

Jaukusu gave the order. The army moved forward.

Rolais, Uyuti, Aelythium, Elvhenen, and 3 othersRiddenheim, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

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Rolais, Uyuti, Ryeongse, Eskeland, and 1 otherNesketos

The Prophecy of a King

The General of the Puedes He paced around the outer chamber of the Epuvis Cama, the Room of Sight, in the royal palace. When the King was not feasting, dancing, acting in a thoroughly debauched manner, he was here. Some monarchs ruled. Others acted as checks on power. The ruler of Nesketos has always been a seer. Possibly even from the beginning of the city as a mere colony on the southern tip of the Helenicanta, for at least as long as there have been records to speak of its history, the citizens of this realm have looked to their Kings not for leadership, as other states might, but as prophets. Sure, before the arrival of the Karku, they ruled, just as the Kings of any other nearby state would. They made decrees, they passed laws, and even when the city was a part of the Savoset Empire, they had some level of local rule. But one should not mistake - their main purpose was as the seer of the city. That was one office of state that the Karku would not touch. They adopted the Kings as if the office was, all-along, a Karku custom. But while legislation shifted to the Zematu, Archon of the City, the King and his role as seer remained paramount.

The King's Serpent Keeper opened the curtains to the Room of Sight. He bowed to the man waiting outside; "General Zatu, the King will see you now."

The General bowed to the Serpent Keeper, entering into the Room of Sight as the Serpent Keeper closed the curtains behind him, pulling a chain across them. The General and the King were not to be disturbed.

The King sat upon a cushion, wearing a toga, some wisps of smoke seeping from the water pipe. He seemed serene, truly at peace. General Zatu knew that he had trained by imbibing the herb since shortly after birth, growing a resistance to it, not losing his mind as many who first tried it would, but learning to see through it, gain wisdom, foresight and truth. A skeptic might say that the King was merely taking some hallucinogen. Some believed otherwise. General Zatu did not know what to believe, nor did he care. He was here for political reasons. The very thought sickened him. How the aristocrats of the Thiton could bear such politicking for years on end, and still do more. It must have been the calling for some, but General Zatu resented those types. There was honour in a soldier's life. There was none in an aristocrat's.

Moving around the large, round room, the General noticed the King's eyes. They did not blink. The low light in the room reflected through them, and they seemed like glass. Whether or not the King could even see now, other than in the religious sense, was a question the General could not answer. He had been around the King at other times - the Puedes He worked closely with the monarchy, sometimes even moreso than it did with the Archon and the Thiton, but never like this. The King seemed as if merely a vessel, yet to be filled with liquid. The King's rhythmic breathing lay undisturbed. He was an old Ikori - nearly 43, and had been King ever since he killed the last King for failing to predict a drought. General Zatu sat down on another cushion, holding the hilt of his sword as he descended, wrapping his cloak around himself.

The King's face turned to the General.

"You require my sight, General Zatu."

The General was startled. The King's voice sounded somehow etherial, not natural at all. And the statement, for it was a statement and not a question, seemed to penetrate into the General's soul. The question of whether his eyes could see remained unanswered, but somehow the King could see into him. If it was a trick, the General understood why it had been so successful at keeping the Heleni in line over so many centuries. It was unsettling.

"I do, my King."

The King clicked his front teeth together. For most Ikori, the act of gnawing on wood helped to file their ever-growing teeth, but for the King came the ultimate luxury - a dedicated servant who filed his teeth. For Ikori, to have one's teeth filed was akin to drinking the finest liquor, bathing in rich milk and herbs, dressing in finest linens. The General resented such excess. Not even the aristocrats tended to do this. This was pure regal excess. The King cocked his head, his furred ears finally settling.

"You have a question. Ask it."

The General brought from a satchel by his side some charts and maps, details of what was understood of General Jaukusu's movements by the Puedes He. He began to lay them on the ground. The King's ears picked up the rustling sound of the parchments, his lips beginning to turn up. He began to let out a laugh, subdued at first, before becoming louder, more manic... More frightening. The General paused.

"You are a warrior, General Zatu. I am a King. If you wish to know what to do with your armies, ask the Puedes He. I'm sure they will know."

"My King, I need to help you understand the mat-..."

"You have a question," the King said again, before lowering his voice, his face turning dour, as he seemed to stare again into the General, "Ask it."

The General left the charts on the floor, folding both of his hands on themselves and placing them on his lap. He sucked the air into his lungs, and began to formulate a preliminary question.

"Do you know what General Jaukusu is d-..."

"Yes."

The General flinched. He continued.

"Our sources say he has captured Theodyma. That he is now moving onto Mylethra, and Crotaclea... He takes with him a large portion of the army," the General sighed, "He leaves much of our land undefended, not to mention setting a precedent. The Thiton, the Archon, formulated this campaign;" General Zatu could feel his face twisting into anger as he continued to speak; "We do not answer to the Thiton. We do not answer to the Archon. The army answers to the Puedes He and, ultimately, the Puedes He answers to you."

The King's rhythmic breathing continued unabated. The General paused for a moment, hoping for some expression, some recognition of what he was saying. The King was silent, save for the breathing. Zatu continued.

"I feel that his course of action is foolish. He is forcing us into wars unnecessarily. Jaukusu may think what he is doing brings us glory - of course the Thiton would tell him that. But ultimately, all he is doing is creating for us a target, a mark for death," the King did not respond, either visually or verbally. Zatu continued again; "I cannot act against Jaukusu, for I would invoke the ire of both Thiton and Archon. The Puedes He cannot act against Jaukusu without plunging the realm into civil war. We are in... A corner."

The General gazed back to the King. His vacant expression did not let up. The General began to twitch in anger.

"You are supposed to answer me."

"You have yet to ask a questio-..."

"Forget the bloody question and listen to what I'm-..."

"I am not here to listen to sto-..."

"Just tell me what I should do!"

"YOU. HAVE. A QUESTION!" the King's statement turned into a declaration that shook the General. He fell backwards, catching his tail under himself as he fell. The King leant forward, before spitting the words to General Zatu; "Ask it."

Zatu shuddered in genuine fear, a fear he had not felt in a long time. Not since he had been a mere lieutenant during the invasion of the now-Pezpulagi. All that bloodshed, all that violence, he thought, for some land that the aristocrats, the Thiton, even the Land Council just divided up. Pointless. The fear he felt here was just as real. He managed to form a question, almost whispering to the King.

"Will it be worth it?"

The King breathed heavily, as if a sigh of relief, but with the same largely blank expression on his face. His eyes seemed to look around the room, and blank expression turned to pain, anguish. The King's rhythmic breathing turned to gasping.

"There will be a mistake," the King stated, "A terrible mistake that one will regret so much. It will cause such pain, such despair. Things will change forever. An attack fails, the sword comes down," the King began to shake, and behind his front teeth, frothy white spittle began to fall from his mouth, "The head of the snake is bitten off before it eats its own tail. The sharp edge of the sword is blunted before it can sweep at its enemy. The way of things altered, if a path is not averted..." he fell to the ground, his fall cushioned, but continued to shake, "I, King of Nesketos, declare this... truth;" the shaking seemed to intensify. The King bit at the air, trying to breathe, with blood coming from his nose; "The bell..."

The General stood, shocked, as foam and blood began to stain the maps and charts he had brought. The King's hand reached out and grabbed some of the papers, "The bell!"

Zatu looked to where the King pointed. A bell lay on a cushion there. He picked it up and rang it. No sooner than he did, the Serpent Keeper and two servants rushed through the formerly chained, curtained doorway. The servants, one male and one female, clutched the King close to them, while the Serpent Keeper forced a liquid into his mouth. The shaking soon began to subside, the King beginning to mellow into a stupour, before becoming unconscious. The servants placed a green cloak around him, and gently lifted him up. The General sat on the cushion, stunned.

"I trust you have your answer," the Serpent Keeper said to the General.

--------------------------------------------------

"Make no mistake. The King spoke of the doom of Nesketos if we do not work to undo the damage done by Jaukusu and the Thiton."

The assorted generals of the Puedes He looked around at each other, somewhat confused at General Zatu's retelling of events. General Castasu leant toward Zatu, "The King... Seized? From his prophecy?"

Zatu nodded, "It certainly was something major. Foam from the mouth, blood from the nose..." Zatu shuddered to think back to the event.

"And you are sure of the meaning of this prophecy?" the only Heleni member of the Puedes He, General Achaikos, spoke up, "Many of the greatest mistakes of our history have been made due to bad understanding of prophecy, even if the prophecy itself is sound."

"I don't think it could be more clear," Zatu shook his head, "A mistake made, that causes pain and despair, an attack that fails, a blunted sword that cannot hit the enemy... He is speaking of our undoing."

"Then it's settled," General Castasu stated, "We have to confront Jaukusu and the Thiton and take back the reigns of power, before they are too far gone."

"And how would we do that?" Another General named Incristu spoke up, "We know the Archon is acting against the law using our troops without consulting us..."

"Except that traitor Jaukusu..." Achaikos muttered under his breath.

"But surely what you are suggesting is actual treason."

"Didn't you hear Zatu?" Castasu responded to Incristu, "Our city will fall if we do not avert this course of action."

"It's not so much the 'how' for me," Achaikos spoke up, "But the 'when'. We can't send another army after Jaukusu while we have inaccurate reports of his whereabouts, and we can't wait too long or the Thiton will try to use Jaukusu's army to defend themselves."

"Most definitely, let's all discuss this treason as if it's a legitimate plan," Incristu sneered sarcastically, "This all hinges upon us carrying out this action successfully. If we fail, we are all extremely dead."

Zatu snapped at Incristu; "Do you agree something must be done?" Incristu made a noncommittal groan, slinking back down into his seat. Zatu continued, "This is a matter of life or death for our city. Need I remind you that the Archon would have complete control over the army if the Land Court decided to give it to him? That's his only obstacle, a group of Heleni adjudicators, who will be swayed if Jaukusu returns home in victory, which is looking increasingly likely," he turned to Castasu, "What did we hear about the losses in his last battle?"

Castasu rustled around some papers, before finding the offending report; "41 of ours dead, 342 of theirs.

"Their survivors, he had their tails cut off," Achaikos muttered again.

"He's taking minimal losses," Zatu noted, "Remember, he stole 100 Nesi Natui from their barracks as well as the levied vhepas. I doubt more than five of his losses were from our elite troops, and few surrounding states can stand up to our elites, even with numbers. Jaukusu will return, this campaign at least, and will curry favour with the Land Court to advance his position, doing the bidding of Thiton and Archon as he does so," he rubbed his whiskers to his face in frustration, "Even if you don't believe in prophecy, believe in sense... What's that sound?"

The generals of the Puedes He listened. They could hear the faint sounds of what sounded like roaring... No, cheering. A vhepas courier barrelled into the meeting hall, excited.

"Sirs... General Jaukusu has conquered Mylethra!"

Castasu nodded slowly, "Good man. Back to your post."

The levy left, as excited as he came in, not recognising the Generals' dread for what it was. Castasu rubbed his forehead, Achaikos put his head into his hands. Zatu simply sighed and looked at a wall, while Incristu looked straight in front of him. The silence hung for a moment, before Incristu piped up.

"Okay. We need to solve this. How?"

The Puedes He turned to Zatu. He paused to think, before speaking.

"Jaukusu will not enter Maspulagi. When he tries to cross the Pusum Hevh, we meet him there. We enter our troops into Nesketos simultaneously. Archon, Thiton, and Jaukusu... All in chains by the day's end."

A silence fell onto the Puedes He. Treason, then.

Uyuti, Namalar, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Khoiaavi

For the Greatest, We Shall Fight Part I
Khoiaavi Founding Post

The dust from the north made it difficult for those of us marching in the column to see far in front of us, forcing us to brace low in our helmets and caps and hoods to protect our mouths and eyes. Yet it did not deter us from our long and lonely march towards looming death, far from our homes. My spear felt heavy in my hand, the shield on my back even more so. It had many, many long miles since we had set out from Vauti, ancient city of our people, and seat of our Queen. The southernmost half of the two sister crowns of Khoii and Chiraavi, Queen Ksenia of the royal House Avalishvili had made the call for the able and courageous to join her in a crusade northwards, to defeat a surge of demon filth that had broken through our kingdom’s frontier defenses. I had been one of thousands to answer the call from across Khoii, just another set of hands to hold a spear.

They had outfitted us as well as they were able. Armor, helmets, shields, long spears and shorter melee weapons for the average man at arms. Knights and warrior prelates received better equipment, while every soldier of the army carried at least one ranged weapon. Mine was a short curved bow and small quiver, attached to the back of my waist. Heavier archers and crossbowmen marched alongside us, our main skirmishing and missile forces. I had always wanted to be a soldier from a young age, dreaming of glory and battle like all children did. I had gazed out at the columns of men and women marching out past my village with awe and envy, and afterwards had theorized which of them was the most noble, which of them was the grandest and most likely to become a knight in the Greatest’s eyes. Even later as we went through the combat drills expected of all Khoiivers, we played the same game. As a child, it had been easy to ignore how much smaller those columns had been on the march back home, and how few of the ones we had marked out as heroes were ever seen again. Now that I marched in the columns I myself had ogled when I had been so young, I could not help but wonder if any of the children gaping at us believed me to be a hero. And naturally, that made me worry if I would die with the rest of the heroes, at the Black Fault.

The dust storm reached us in full, and our column was forced to huddle close together to keep marching forward, intent on reaching our destination. We had passed small groups of retreating soldiers from where the demons had broken through, those survivors regaling us with horrifying tales of carnage and terror on a scale those of us who had never been soldiers before could hardly even begin to imagine. I certainly couldn’t, averting my eyes every time I saw the wounded pass by us carried by their comrades or on wagons. It made me question my purpose here, whether coming along to fight for the Queen and Khoii had truly been the wisest decision. And in that moment, my resolve wavered. Until I imagined seeing those wounded not here, on the northern frontier, but further south. Back home. Imagined seeing piles of the dead and dying, and recognizing the faces of those from my village amongst them. That mental image sobered me rather quickly, and my back straightened as my strides forward became more confident and heavy.

As the hours passed by, and the sun began its descent towards the western horizon, the dust began to clear and something became clear to me. I could see the distant walls and towers of the frontier fortress that we had come to relieve, and I could see it aflame. The banners of the Count Stepane Ambrosi flew in tatters from the wrecked walls, and the flames glinted off the metal of the few remaining defender’s armor and the black chiton of the demon’s carapaces and claws. The screams of the abominations easily drowned out the screams of the wounded and dying, a shrill and hellish sound that made my teeth grind against each other, my shoulders filling with tension. I glanced around my comrades nervously, seeing my fears reflected on their faces and in their eyes. But the banner of our noble Queen Ksenia still flew strong from hundreds of poles by hundreds of standard bearers, and even if I could not see where she led the army north, I was strengthened by the knowledge that she was with us. Our columns marched closer and closer to where the fortress was aflame, and I shuddered to imagine what the brave men and women inside had been through these last weeks. Demons never needed to rest, they never needed to rally, they never needed to stop. They only pressed forward, ever forward. Their attacks would never cease. They would never retreat. Until this wave was defeated, they would only continue to ravage the land that we Khoiivers had called home for millenia. And at that moment, we were the only line of defense that stood in their way.

As we approached the fortress, the order came down the columns to form up in ranks. My limited time of drilling let me take up my proper place in the formation, four spears from the rightmost flank, two rows deep. Here, I could see our Queen. Queen Ksenia Avalishvili, Chosen of the Greatest, Shield of the South, Iskren’s Hammer, stood apart from our ranks. She was an older woman, five and forty, but showed little signs of her age. Her hair was long and braided down her back, it's dark black strands peppered with grey. Her helmet was tight on her head, plate and mail on her body. She carried a strong steel mace in one hand, a shield in the other. Some nobility in other lands fought from horse back, I had heard in rumor, but in Khoiiavi, horseflesh was rare, and all warriors fought on foot. I saw her stare out at the wrecked stones, and the writhing mass of demons beyond. She stood still as a hero’s statue, unaffected by the horrors that awaited us. The sight made my back straighten, even as the grip on my spear trembled. I was afraid. But if my Queen could stand strong in the face of our enemy, then surely, so could I?

“Archers!” Queen Ksenia’s voice rang strong and true, her orders repeated by officers up and down the ranks to relay to all the troops. “Forward!” My movement was subconscious. I came forth from my place to form new ranks with the other archers, leaving my spear and shield at my feet. My shortbow did not have as much range as the heavier bows or crossbows, meant more for skirmishing than for extended volleys. As such, I stood with the other skirmishers in front of the heavier archers, and I was afforded a near unobstructed view. The demons had caught sight of us, now. With the sun making its way below the horizon and night overtaking the sky, the flames gave us the best indication of their movements. Their dark carapaces reflected the firelight as they directed their screams of rage and murderous fury at us. I had to suppose that they had finally finished off the last of the defenders, then. I watched as they poured forth from the breaches in the walls and gates, sprinting towards us in their horde. I had heard legends of the demons. Stories told in hushed whispers of these monsters that haunted our lands, pouring forth from the Fault to murder us and ravage our homes, held back only by the courage and sacrifice of the Khoiivers that marched north. I had always fantasized about being one of those heroes of legend, but now that the opportunity was before me and the demon horde was descending upon me, I did not feel awe, or courage, or the want to sacrifice myself for my people. I only felt fear.

I heard the order for the heavy archers to knock arrows, followed by the distinctive thunks of arrow shafts being slid into position. As the demons left the confines of the castle, the firelight no longer illuminated them, so I could not see their individual forms as clearly. But that did not mean I could not see them. Though their carapaces were dark, they were still visible as they tore through the night. They had become a constantly moving flood of death rushing towards us, snarling and howling and screaming as it prepared to wash over us all. That’s when I became aware of the chanting.

With every Khoiiver army came the prelates. Holy men and women of the Iskrenite faith, dedicated to the Greatest, here to guide us in our faith and in our war against the abominations of the Fault. While northern prelates might dress in robes and wield only the Holy Books, our prelates stood with us in more than just spirit. They wore armor and wielded weapons alongside us, the Words upon their lips as they committed themselves to sacred and holy battle. A small column had come forward to stand with the archers, crossbows in hand save for their leader, who wielded a mace in one hand and the Book of the Greatest in the other. He was leading the prelates in prayer as they prepared their own volley to coincide with the heavy archers, their voices providing a counterbalance to the hellish screeching of the abominations. I felt myself strengthened by their presence, their prayers giving me the steel to stand firm. My back straightened as I turned back to the front of me, facing down the ever-approaching demon horde.

“Loose!”

The cacophony of thousands of bowstrings twanging at once nearly drowned out the chanting, but only for a moment. The arrows screamed as they cut through the air, forming an arc. I could barely pick out the shapes of those shafts as they hurtled down upon the oncoming flood, becoming little more than more dark outlines of shapes blending in with more dark outlines of shapes. But I heard the demons scream with pain. I heard them scream as the arrows stabbed into their carapaces, peppering them with wounds, perhaps even killing some. But this was only sweeping aside a few drops in the flood, and it rushed ever onward. Twice more, the heavy archers unleashed their volleys of sharpened rain upon the demons before the call was made for skirmishers to knock their own shafts.

My hands shook as I withdrew the arrow from my quiver, setting it against the string and shaft of the bow. My heart raced and thundered in my chest, and time seemed to stretch and flatten until a moment felt as everlasting as a day. The prayers of the prelates drowned out most other sounds, and my lips moved silently along, mouthing the words. Praying to the Greatest for victory. Praying to the Greatest for strength. Praying to the Greatest to lend His strength to our arms, and guide our arrows true. Praying to the Greatest to give us the righteous fury to smite these abominations before Him.

“Loose!”

This time, the twangs of the bowstrings were near deafening as I released my arrow, quickly losing track of it in the barrage of shafts. The demons were getting closer, and closer, and closer. Our latest valley rained down upon them, and I watched as our arrows were swallowed by their seemingly infinite dark mass. I knew we would not be able to fire many more times. And accordingly, I only released one more arrow before the order was given for the archers to return to our ranks. The heavy archers would form up behind the spear wall and melee warriors, to continue their volleys. I replaced the bow on my back and once more took up my spear and shield as I hastily rejoined the ranks of gleaming warriors.

The smell of fear was choking as I stood in place, my hands slick with sweat on the shaft of my spear. It was difficult to breathe, standing there and waiting for the demons to smash into us. They were close enough now that I could make them out more individually, and I learned that they were just as terrifying as all of the legends and myths had warned me. I heard the sound of clanking metal next to me, and upon the turning of my head to investigate, I discovered that the man next to me was trembling so violently his shield was clanking against his chain armor. I nudged him, and his wide eyes swiveled to stare down at me. I cleared my throat, so my voice did not sound so light and femine, trying to sound as confident as I could.

“The Greatest is with us, brother. Have courage.”

He nodded, turning his attention back to the front. The shaking ceased, though his eyes were still wide. I myself felt comfort from my own words, especially as the prelates among the ranks of soldiers lent their voices to the chanting prayers. Their voices were strong, confident, and wavered not even in the slightest. The order was called to lower our spears, and the first two rows did as commanded. My own spear was lowered, poking out in a small gap in the shield wall. They were almost upon us. Their howls and snarls were so utterly inhuman they pierced directly into my soul. In the moments before battle was truly joined, I breathed deeply, the stench of fear, sweat, and piss assaulting my nose, before letting it out in one long and continuous gust.

And then they were upon us.

The demons crashed against our shield wall, their talons ripping at us, trying to break through, to rend us in twain and scatter the remnants to the wind. They ran directly into our spears, caring not how many of them were impaled to injury or death. I felt the weight as my own spear stabbed into one, though I could not see it. I pulled back, feeling the weight slip off, before stabbing forward. The front ranks pushed forward to stand firm, their wall tight to keep the demons back. Those that climbed over to leap upon us found more spears waiting for them, like a deer falling into an expertly dug spike trap. The constant drills of my youth had prepared me better than I had initially believed, and the movements were as smooth and unthinkingly easy as those of a dream. It was difficult to even comprehend that I was stabbing and killing rather than using my skills against a dummy packed with straw. In those first few moments, we seemed invincible, and I believed every man and woman of us to be as immortal as the Prophet Iskren, blessed be his name.

And then one of them broke through. I saw claws as black as the infinite abyss of the Fault itself pierce through a man’s chest, separating to tear him in two, gore splattering on the sides and faces of those around him. His killer bounded through the line before a spear could be thrust in to close it, and for one instant there was a hole in our formation. But an instant was all they needed. Demons poured through the gap, their claws and teeth flashing and swinging, rending and tearing and wounding and killing. I felt panic overwhelm me, and I was certain defeat was imminent. Chaos overtook us as we wheeled around to face this new threat, but our spears were too long, and the demons too close. One came right for me, its claws extended, and I was certain that I was to die. But death did not come for me that day.

The melee soldiers had rushed forward to join the fray, led by the warrior prelates. One of those prelates was a woman, her white armor a stark contrast to the black carapaces of the demons, her eyes fierce as she wielded a long warhammer. She came between the demon and I, screaming a war cry as she swung the hammer in an arc that smashed the demon’s head, its black ichor splattering outwards as it fell to the ground. The prelate stopped not for a moment, already turning to meet another foe, words from the Book of the Greatest on her lips.

The Greastest tore the flesh from his face and revealed Malacho to be naught but an ash demon!” Her hammer caught a demon in the chest, knocking it aside long enough for another warrior to plunge a dagger into its eye. “His eyes shone red, for he was controlled directly by the Necromancer!” Her boot, cast in steel plate, came forth to kick a demon away from her, only for her hammer to be brought down upon its head, a great splattering puddle of ichor splashing onto her armor. "Thou hast all turned wicked before mine eyes. Thou hast slaughtered mine chosen King!" She brought the pommel on the end of her shaft to bear, spiked and sharp, stabbing it into the throat of another demon. She spat in its face before letting one armored hand free to turn into a fist and smashing it into the demon’s twisted and corrupted face, pulling her pommel free to stomp onto its face with her heavy boot. "Thou art all unworthy of mine mercy and mine protection!" She brought her hammer high above her head, swinging it in a sideways arc that knocked two demons aside to be finished off by other soldiers. She screamed her last words, to be heard above the din of battle. ”I give thee all unto the cruelty of the Necromancer. May he grant ye all that thou deserves for thine treacheries!"

She turned and looked to me, who stared at her with my jaw dropped in awe. She pointed to the gap, where the melee soldiers were trying to rally and close. “Come sister!” She called out. “Tell me your name and come with me to smite the Greatest’s foes!”

I dropped my spear, now useless in close quarters, instead loosing the war pick from my belt, holding it loosely. “Rusa.” I replied as I held my pick aloft. “I am Rusa.” The prelate hefted her warhammer, smiling at me.

“The Greatest smiles on you, Rusa. And now it is time to repay His kindness. To arms!” And together, we charged forth.

Uyuti, Elvhenen, Riddenheim, Ryeongse, and 2 othersEskeland, and Nesketos

The blacklight empire

A Glance at the Past

“Those were the days.” The weathered dwarf spoke in a voice as rough as tree bark, raising a wooden cup of beer towards his cracked lips, the liquor catching the edges of his greying black beard. He placed a soft leather boot upon the seat next to him, leaning over the wooden table as he spoke with his company, the dwarf, was in the company of two of his clansmen, both with a cup in their palms and listening intently to their elder’s speech. Alvand they called him, a man bearing many scars from many times, a veteran of many wars across the Sokos, he frequented the tavern often, in need to satisfy his thirst for drink and chatter. For a man retired, what else were he to do?

“Those were the days.” He repeated, setting the cup down lightly against the wooden flat of the tabletop, marked many times over by his spilling of liquor. “When I could dehorse a bloody archangel rider upon a mere pony. With ma war axe as well.” Alvand followed his words with a gesture depicting the moment he was speaking upon, his fingers wrapped around the axes wooden shaft, swinging it about at an imaginary rider. He reached for his drink again, lifting it towards his lips and taking a long chug from its contents.

“You served during the invasion?” One of the men spoke out in reply, his tone of speech matching his appearance, smooth and light, taking a slightly higher pitch for a younger adult. They ran a finger through the short hairs of their stubble, scratching their chin with a scabby-blistered hand, worn from weeks of work.

“Which one?” Alvand replied with a small smile, lowering his drink for the exchanging of dialogue before raising it again. The young dwarf was tapped by his friends elbow who shook their head, his mouth agape to make a minute smile of all teeth. Largely out of embarrassment in the presence of an elder.

“The demon one. Just before the Anderfalls.” The elder of the two would speak, bringing his arm back to his core as his free hand reached for a drink of his own. “Our grandpap fought and died durin it.”

“Ah, aye. The Siege of Blacklight, the Second Siege of Blacklight most call ‘et. I was there, what do you want to know?” The dwarven veteran said, smile carved across his face as he went for another sip of his beer, suddenly discovering the lack of said content within the cup. He set it down with a slight sigh, waiting for the dwarves’ question as his former joyous smile turned to a straight line across his face.

“What was it like? I heard the emperor retook the city after losing it, led the counter-charge himself, which is when I heard our grandpa fell.” They spoke, leaning over the table and folding their arms, their younger kin followed, pressing the bottom of his palm against the bottom of his jaw, resting his head upon it. Alvand bit the flesh of his mouth, pulling the skin of his lower lip back as he took a second of thought to speak.

“Aye, the ol’ Emperor did. Throkkrin lost the city against tens of thousands, we went blow for blow in a fighting retreat. Got as many people out through the tunnels, after they were safe, we pushed right back.” The dwarf gave an affirming nod, Alvand lifting his empty wooden cup and tilting it towards the pair of young men. The younger one sighed as he reached for his belt, pulling out a silver Dren and placing it flat on the table, raising his hand for one of the tavernhands to approach.

They were a tall, pale dwarven lady with braided black hair, it wasn’t like they needed to see her coming, her heavy boots made her quick approach apparent. Her apparel was quite much to bear, with a long-sleeved, loose brown tunic being fitted beneath brown overalls, two straps reaching over her shoulders and connecting at her lower back. The tavernhand glanced around each dwarven man around the table, taking a second look at Alvand, furrowing her brow and grabbing both his drink and the silver Dren.

“Same thing?” She asked in monotone, her eyes practically half shut as black rings formed around her eyes.

“Aye. A refill.” Alvand gave a heartfelt smile from cheek to cheek. The tavernhand gave a nod as she turned around, the older dwarf glancing her up and down in a quick manner as her back was turned. Alvands mood became more upbeat following her departure, ready for another drink so he may continue spinning tails. Shifting his boots off the chair beside him and onto the cold stone floor of the tavern, he set both his hands flat on the table.

“Lotta good men died that day.” He continued after the long pause, the two dwarves on the other end of the table glancing at each other, their pockets getting emptier by the hour as they talked with the veteran. “Then followed our excursion into Dhorvas, then the bloody Anderfalls. I was lucky to survive all three.” Alvand leaned back from the table, pushing his chair slightly backward. “I miss my brothers-in-arms. I really do.”

“Wait. You went into Dhorvas, and the Anderfalls? Then survived both?” The younger dwarf was mouth agape, raising both his eyebrows in shock. “How the hell does one manage that?”

“Like I say. Going through hell.” Alvand spoke nonchalantly now, stretching his back out and turning around as he looked for the same bar maid. His eyes lock with hers as she steps through a labyrinth of dwarven customers chatting at tables of their own, their voices and cheers deafening if it were not for the hefty space between tables. The dwarven lady set the drink down on the table, giving Alvand a disgustful glance to the side before making way to another thirsty guest.

The dwarven veteran moved to speak again, stopping mid speech as he heard a chair scrape across the stone brick floor of the tavern. Alvand glanced back, raising an eyebrow as a tall figure wrapped in a tattered crimson cloak sat down to the table adjacent to him, their back was facing the dwarven group. The bar maid walked up towards them, setting a wooden cup down and pouring them a drink. As she turned to leave, the figure raised a hand, their arm seemed to be fitted with a black leather glove, they spoke a foreign tongue which the maiden appeared to have recognised, speaking back in kind. Alvand was waved back by the dwarves sitting next to him, who wish to get back to their chat, having invested in it much already.

“Yes. What is it lad?” He spoke, his tone shifting towards a more hurried pace, tapping his right foot against the cold floor as he angled his head towards the left, his ear catching mere whispers of the conversation behind him. Alvands attention being forced forward as elder of the pair spoke.

“So, you’ve been up to Dhorvas as well? I heard the khemakh there saw a legion recover their capital.” The elder dwarven boy spoke, taking a sip of his drink with moderation, then setting it down again right after.

“Yeah, something like that. We beat the hell out of them.” The dwarf paused, quickly collecting himself and then making a correction to what he had spoken. “The demons I mean.” Alvand gave an affirming nod as he leaned back, tilting his head to the side once again, his eye catching a glimpse of the crimson cloaked man. They remained unmoving, the sides of their cloak shifting as they raised and lowered their drink. He glanced forward again, interlocking his fingers as he again spoke. “The khemakh are right weird ones.”

“Right.” The elder dwarf looked to his younger counterpart, giving a slight shrug. Alvand however began delving into his alcoholic beverage, glancing back at the crimson cloaked man behind him occasionally. The younger of the two stared into space behind Alvand, snapping out of it a few seconds later and locking eyes with their elder. “I think it’s time me and my brother to take our leave. It’s getting late.”

The elder looked down to his younger sibling tilting his head as he murmurs a phrase of confusion over to him. Their words were cut off as a fierce bump came to their padded thigh, their eyes locked on with something behind Alvand before he began to agree it was time to leave. Alvand glanced back, the figure shrouded in scarlet had gone, bumps began to rise underneath the dwarf’s tunic, he glanced back and the two were already beginning to leave, both with a leg over the seat. Flipping the other over, they didn’t speak, leaving Alvand in complete confusion as they both began walking away.

The now lone dwarf sat alone, outstretching his arms with open palms as he straightened his back, moving them about as he failed to make heads or tails of the matter. After a full minute of nothing but the white noise of the tavern, men and women laughing and cheering, arms wrapped around another as they began singing with glee, Alvand could depict a single sound unlike the others.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Heavy boots stamping across the floor, one step after the other. Soon enough, Alvand could only hear the approaching steps, as it deafened out all other noise, seeping life from the room. He glanced around as his joyful demeanour that he placed as a veil across his face evaporated, his vision flickering between all the seats of the room, he hopelessly grasped for the source of the sound. As his back was turned, the seat across the table scraped across the stone floor of the tavern, looking forward, there they were.

A figure too tall to be that of a dwarf, no shed of skin was made clear either, as each part of their body was covered in onyx, steel armour dressing them from head to toe. Their most glaring feature was a long and tattered cloak of faded scarlet, their face was covered by a black steel armet, the nose of the face piece extending shortly outward, the gaps in which the user could see were drawn with crimson tears.

Alvand was still, his body freezing up. He didn’t recognise this knight, he had no idea what it wanted with HIM, from what he could discern from memory, they looked somewhat like an onyx knight hailing from Lovinar, however their affinity with red was unfounded whatsoever. He opened his mouth to speak, glancing side to side as he did, his open mouth ready to spew forth a variety of possible questions. The dwarf was cut off as soon as he could let out his first syllable.

“Wh-“

“Repent.” They spoke in a fierce tone, one which echoed about their own helmet, there was no discerning whether the knight was man or woman. Their tone was forward, aggressive; however, their body didn’t reflect such, remaining absolutely still in a neutral position.

“What?” Alvand replied in a stiff tone, clueless.

“Repent.” They replied, absolutely nothing changing in their pronunciation or form.

“For what, exactly?” Alvands tone shifted from stiff to some form of begging, begging for anything at all, a simple clue on what was occurring.

“Your sins.”

Alvand nervously laughed in reply, throwing a handout towards the onyx plated knight as he glanced around the room, no one paying a shred of attention to their encounter. His laughter turned to silence as he glanced back, a pool of sweat forming upon his forehead.

“Admit to them.” Their tone hadn’t shifted, nor their body, they were a statue completely still in form. Alvand glanced around again, his eyes silently pleading with the shrouded knight as he leaned forward again, from there his pupils turned dead cold.

“Listen, if this is some form of joke. I’m not getting it. Who sent you?” Alvand paused, tilting his head to the side as he tried to find some form of answer in their composure, posture, anything. “Was it Anvari? Tell him I’ll pay him by the end of the month.” Alvand stated crossing his arms in denial of the reality of the situation. The Crimson Knight remained unmoving, its chilling glare staring the dwarf down, Alvand knew he was failing to understand reality. Again.

“If you will not speak them. I will write them out for you.”

“I-I don’t have time for this. Please, I can’t take this.” Alvand begged. “I’ll do anything, just leave me be.” Any attempts at negotiation would strike an unmoveable force, the Crimson Knights glance shooting down every plead. For once however, their right hand shifted through the air, moving with thought and grace as its gauntleted index finger extended towards the front doors to the tavern. “I can leave?” Alvand tilted his head, he was somewhat confused now, with an unreadable suit of armour sitting opposite, he had no way to discern their meaning.

The dwarf pressed a hand against the edge of the table as he lifted himself up, the knights head staring dead ahead as Aland began to shift away. Alvand’s front remained face forward, staring directly at the onyx knight wrapped in scarlet, the deafened speech of surrounding tables now heard with full force as he moved back. Stepping backwards, bumping into a table as he scrambled about, looking around for what he’d just collided with, everyone around him stopped speaking, staring dead towards him.

“You right there mate?” One of the customers spoke.

“Yeah, he’s bloody off his head.” Another said in a light-hearted tone.

Alvand glanced around, specks of sweat flicking about as he stumbled about, his head throbbing from the drink, he gained a sense of direction, making a deadline straight towards the exit, his breath hot and heavy. Grabbing the frame of the doorway and staring into the bustling stone streets of the Imperial Capital, the Alvand looked around, glancing back towards the table in which he was seated, the scarlet cloaked figure gone from sight.

The dwarf entered the streets, mixing with the crowd as he rushed across the street, crossing the open road a horse stopped in its tracks with a great neigh, kicking its legs up into the air as a carriage crawled to a halt behind it. The dwarven driver let out a yell followed by several curses towards Alvand as he entered the crowd on the opposing path of the road. He let out bated breathes as he held the side of his head, growing nauseous from the constant movement, he came to a sudden stop by the corner of an alley, his hand resting against a stone constructs edge.

The cold brick was somewhat warming as he tried to find some familiarity with the surrounding area, having lost his way in a drunken rush. Throwing himself off from the stone, Alvand stumbles into the alley, fitted between two large stone buildings, with no windows marking either side, within the alley itself sat a hunched over dwarf in rags, barely able to clothe himself. Their head flicked upwards as they locked eyes with Alvand, sparkling slightly as they raised a weathered cloth pouch upward, a few coins clinking together inside.

“Any spare dren’s for a simple man?” They pleaded, their tone heavy with sorrow as Alvand worked his way past, breaking eye contact as he used the building opposite the beggar to move towards the other opening to the alley. Cursing to himself for getting into this mess. However, in the next few moments, cold and pure dread would wash over him as the ever so familiar echoes would sound through the alley.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Alvand’s entire body shivered as every single hair across his entire body rose in a form of terrified anticipation as the steps drew closer.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Unable to locate the source of the steps, Alvand glanced forward and back, looking for anything resembling a knight wrapped in scarlet cloth. Another moment passed, the deafening screech of metal boots against stone brick tore into Alvand’s mind. He’d finally get his answer as turning around the corner from where he’d entered the dark backstreet, was the crimson cloaked figure, brandishing their steel sword to bare as they marched towards the dwarf.

The poor beggar glanced from the fleeing Alvand to the scarlet dressed knight, offering out a hand in hopes of any coin. Alvand was fleeing as fast as he could pressing himself off from the wall as he entered full sprint towards the exit, the knight stopped for a moment, its cold demeanour washing over the beggar as its composure remained unmoving. Delving two fingers into a small felt pouch on its belt, it flicked a gold dren towards the begging dwarf before it reared its head back towards Alvand and continued its steadfast march towards the sinner.

The fleeing dwarf on the other hand began losing energy, sprinting as fast as possible through the alley, the exit was in sight, Alvand close enough to outline the different men and women passing the opening to the backstreet. His luck ran out as his boot planted itself at the outline of a shallow puddle in the centre of the alley, his full weight was pressed forward in a full sprint, causing his foot to give way under the profuse amount of pressure.

One foot gave way, and his body came tumbling down, his face smashing first into the stone floor. As his eyes fluttered open, he lay flat on his back with a great deal of pain stemming from his open jaw, several teeth lay missing, and he could no longer feel any touch from his nose. Towering over him was the knight clad in black and red, dropping to a knee as it raised the dwarf up towards its helmet, feint breathing overpowering all other sound, the smell and taste of blood embedding itself in Alvands shattered mind.

“Repent.”

The dwarf didn’t reply, his head falling back as his collar was held within, he onyx knights metal grasp.

“Repent.” Their tone shifted for the first time, becoming agitated and far more aggressive than beforehand. Alvand’s watery eyes gave way, shedding tears that pooled beneath his held-up body, he forced his mouth agape as his shattered voice began to creep out.

“I am a liar.” He uttered out. “I take the glory of others.” Alvand paused he stammered the next admissions of sin out of his bloody mouth. “I am a cheat. A gambler. A whoring b*stard.” With repentance finally made, the Scarlet Knight dropped their victim, releasing the grip of Alvands collar and letting their body fall against the stone brick. Their blade still brandished, the knight placed two fingers on their temple, drifting it down towards the chest piece in prayer.

“You may see the Lord in peace.” They uttered, their tone shifting to a somewhat graceful voice, following their few words, they whipped the tip of their swords blade from left to right. Making a clean cut across Alvand’s throat from which crimson liquor would spill across the alley. The Crimson Knight lowered their hand and sheathed their blade turning on their heel and leaving, the last few sounds the dwarven sinner, Alvand could hear were the heavy thuds of their steel boots, it echoed throughout the alleyway and throughout his mind, ringing through his ears.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Uyuti, Corcaigh mor, Elvhenen, Namalar, and 3 othersRyeongse, Eskeland, and Nesketos

Post by The lovepocalypse suppressed by Aelythium.

The lovepocalypse

Hello all you wonderful people, just letting you know that all of you are beautiful people deserving of love. <3

And also letting you know that you are worth it. You have value, and you matter. Please never forget that! <3

Aelythium and Syrduria

Aisling Banríon Brigid
The Vision of Queen Bridget

A gloomy fog had clouded the mind of the aged Queen Brigid, as she lay in a deep slumber, in her dreams she was drawn back into a time long ago, but to her it was as if it was the present day.

She crossed the mountain hastily to return home, the skies gloomy and shapeless, anxiety had riddled and shook her that whole day. A sick feeling turned her stomach with worry.

My beloved sons, please Crom, guide them home to me. My husband, let him bring them home with your guided hand.

As she descended the path further her anxiety only worsened. The singing curlew and snipe gave her chills. They were not singing a joyful song, they were keening, relating to Brigid that her son had been killed.

In an instant she was approaching her residence, the white-washed tower house of Astagh, where dozens of forlorn warriors were gathered in the courtyard. Not one of the bloodied, exhausted warriors could even look at her as her nightmare became reality.

I called to you and your voice I heard not,
I called again and I got no answer.

Galloglass Captain Ronán Mac Abhaird was the only one who dared to approach her. His mail was torn in parts and his muddy face appeared sunken and defeated.

“Where is my husband Murchad?” Brigid asked frantically.

“My lady, he is by Murtough.” The voice of the Captain was that of a broken man, despite his monstrous proportions he could not give her the news.

Her eyes scanned across to a group gathered around something, the groans of injured men filling the intervals of women weeping. As Brigid ran over the warriors cleared a path, and as it opened so too did the sight of her son laying flat on a blanket on which he was carried. Her husband was at his head, blankly staring at the corpse of his son praying to himself in disbelief, himself shattered and bruised from the battle that had taken place. The shriek Brigid let out was haunting.

She kissed Murtough’s lips, and O Crom how cold it was. And cold his bed in the lonely cairn that would be his earthly resting place.

O green-sodded grave in which my child is, little narrow grave, since you are his bed, my blessing on you, and thousands of blessings on the green sods that grow over my treasure.

Murtough had died in the rearguard, retreating from a far larger force pursuing the Goidelic warband at their heels. Muiredach, who was only Táiniste then, was crippled with disbelief at the death of his son, despite the words of those who carried his body away, that he fought to the last, it was shallow comfort for the shaken father.

No words could put her misery in just form, as she sat beside the bloodied body of her son. Several arrows had pierced his body, but the ends of which were broken off, showing that Murtough carried on after being hit. Ultimately it was a lances blow that had finished him, the warriors said, before they could momentarily push the enemy back by the brutal hacking of their battleaxes in order to reclaim the body of Murtough.

My wee Murtough, whose once little ruddy head ran in and out of the halls of Astagh, his little tricks he would play, endless mischievousness brought great delight to those around him, O apple of my eye, a ghrá (my love). Now here you lie, cold as clay. And soon I will be stretched on your grave.

“Banríon” a gentle voice was heard by Brigid. “Banríon” a young boy's voice called again.

Queen Brigid awoke from her nightmare, lying in her bed chambers. After a few moments her eyes opened to see her young giolla, or foot page, at the end of her bed.

“Oh young Finín.” The Queen said, relieved to have been pulled from her nightmare. “Tis only you.” She said softly.

“Aye, my Queen, I've just came in to light the fire. I didn't mean to disturb you, Banríon.” He said nervously.

“Not at all, Finín. Did you have your breakfast?” The Queen asked.

“Not yet, Banríon. I must attend to a few errands first.” The lad admitted, within a few moments the fire was lit.

“Go and get some food into you, Finín. And where is that husband of mine?”

“King Murchad is down speaking with Lord Arkinstone, down in the main hall.”

“You go down there and tell them I said to have you fed or there’ll be trouble!” Queen Brigid said sternly. Finín was more than happy to oblige, his stomach empty, and off he went.

Finín made his way through the castle of Fornaght, down to the main hall where many were gathered around, eating their breakfast, chatting amongst eachother at the long tables within the lofty great hall. At the head of which sat two men, King Murchad and Lord Harkinstone, chatting jovially. The young Finín approached the high table almost unnoticed as usual, until one of the Kings bodyguards pulled the lad back by the scruff of his saffron leine[1].

“Stay back, Finín, ya lebige![2] Open yer eyes, the king is busy.”

King Murchad’s eye strayed and saw the page being held back, “Finín Ó Meaghar, what’s the matter?”

“The Banríon said I am to get some food.” Finín said innocently, the bodyguard pleasing his grip on lads leine.

“Then eat you shall, sit down and put some meat on them bones o’ yours.” King Murchad ordered, and with a single hand gesture a plate of food was brought over in front of Finín as King Murchad and Lord Harkinstone continued their discussion. Finín was too hungry and knew better not to listen in, well contented with his early breakfast which he usually wouldn’t get until his chores were done.

“And so I shall meet with you soon, Lord Tigernán of Harkinstone. May the wind be at your back on your journey home!” King Murchad said with a nod.

“Always a pleasure, my king. Crom’s blessings on you and your kin.”

And thus the meeting ended, with Finín none the wiser, but his belly full nonetheless.

Marcradoh shíofra na Righ Mac Lír
The Elven cavalcade of King of the sons of Lír

The Síofra (see-fra) Déanach (dane-ack) mac Lír (leer) (the 'last elves of Lír'), a tribe of elves which once populated the highlands of the Astrals. The history of the Lírian elves goes back for many centuries, and they enjoyed both good and bad relations with the local Goidelic clans whom they often lived peacefully with. They had been forced to live a nomadic life; in areas where they were welcome they offered their many services to the Chieftain in return for payment of various types, but in places where they were not accepted they took to the mountains and dense forests of Corcaigh, however, as a Goidelic speaking people they were moreso welcomed than not, seen almost as a magical novelty to the human Goidels. Over time, the Elves of Lír had learned to make the most out of what they had, and many elves from foreign lands took refuge with the Lírians in the dense mountains and forests of Corcaigh to enjoy life on the peaceful encampments on the local Chieftains land.

Speaking the same language, living almost the same culture, practicing Druidic ways, the Elves of Lír became valued members of Goidelic society. Many gifted poets, bards and other such positions highly regarded by the Goidels allowed them prosperity, where in other lands they were seen as estranged outsiders. In truth, Goidels found friendship in many other races faster than in other certain human cultures.

The name of these folk, the Lírians, came from an ancient Elven king, Lír, who was given refuge in the mountains of Corcaigh fleeing from foreign oppression. So helpful and liked by the Goidelic kings was he that they granted him and his people the same rights as that of the Goidels under law, effectively giving them protection, in a continent mostly hostile toward their kind.

There were many types of ‘Síofra’ in Goidelic folklore, but the Lírians were known as the ‘good folk’. They had, after all, found love for the freedom-loving Goidels, and found great reverence for Druidism, which was unforced. Druidism could never be forced upon a person, for that would only be false worship, which in itself is extremely sacrosanct. One must find the path of Crom on his or her own, and no other way.

As such, Lírian elves can be found throughout Goidelic lands, but usually the lay-elves stick together, just as clan folk would, in small communities. There are several figureheads of the Lírian elves, notably represented in King Murchad’s courts. Three of these Lírian’s were elected as representatives of the three tribes by which the Goidelic speaking elves were divided, they would represent their people, but also be close advisors to the king. As the noblest, most skilled and knowledgeable of their people, these three representatives offered the Goidelic king a good and useful service as advisors, strategists, or skilled physicians, a skilled position which the Lírians were well known for.

As such ingrained members of Goidelic society, it was only natural they would take part in Goidelic ceremonies and hold their own special roles in each. One such ceremony was providing the Táiniste with a personal guard, known as the Garda Dhubh, or the Black Guards.

Táiniste Fearghal Mac Elloch’s first orders for the Black Guard was to retrieve his youngest brother and bring him home safely from the monastery of Cillcáis on the isle of Inishgall, where the young Fergus Mac Elloch was finally of age to finish his tutelage. And thus they left Fornaght, under their commander, Gancanagh and made tracks for the isle of Inishgall.

The Isle of Inishgall

On a small island in the river sat the monastic school of Cillcáis. The holy site was used for hundreds of years as a secluded place for Druids to worship and practice their teachings, it was a school renowned for learning, and the Erenagh of the monastery, Ciarán Ó Maolmara, was one of the highest regarded learned men amongst the Goidelic speaking lands. It was here that young Fergus Mac Elloch, youngest son of King Murchad, was sent at the age of seven to begin his learning. It was common for a Goidelic noble to send his sons to schools like this for tutorage, how to read and write, and how to follow the path of Crom.

It took young Fergus a few years to settle in properly, being sent away at a young age was difficult, but he was well cared for by the Druids, and found his footing eventually. He had spent five years on Inishgall, and knew the small island like the back of his hand. It’s ancient monastic complex, it’s great round tower from which one could see for many miles around in case of attack, which was at one time a regular occurance. But in the past decades with the western migration of Goidels into the lowlands of Nemed, fears of attack from foreigners lessened. Two tower houses could be seen on the eastern banks quite close to the island, one owned by the Ó Ruairc clan, and one by the smaller MacGilladane’s, both gave patronage and protection to the monastery.

Although study was hard, Fergus was content. He had great respect for the elders and had gained many friends his own age, his fellow pupils.

Nowadays he had grown to appreciate life and was comfortable there, although maintaining a life under the restricting life of the Druids was somewhat lonesome. Fergus was beginning to watch from the shore of the island the mainland that he was so curious about, he watched ships of all sorts pass by, always envious of their freedom. But Fergus knew he had to commit to his education. As the son of the Goidelic King Murchad he was keen to serve his duties, his greatest aspirations to live the life of the heroes he heard of in stories, of the old Goidelic clan wars, of renowned warriors, of his own ancestors' martial feats.

It was a regular day, at noon all the pupils were gathered by a mass rock, under which the elderly Erenagh, Ciarán Ó Maolmara, began a wildly passionate sermon, as he usually did.

“We men, made of earth, fall upon the earth in a very fragile manner, a man made of earth moves himself miserably towards the earthen grave. You were made of the dust of the earth, and, men, you are all equal - the poor and the rich awoke in the same earth. Do not forget this. Of earth you are fashioned, and to the earth will you return. In the one earth the rich and the poor are stretched, equally.

Men go about in the world, moving to dwellings great and meager, in garments fine and tattered, yet both go toward the grave to feed the worms that lie below. A man carries to the grave all the deeds of his life. Remember this! When man is in the earth, it determines your just desserts. When a man is in the grave the roof is on the chin. Then shall a hundred worms must writhe on his skin.

But it is not the man who commits unholy, dishonourable, or unjust deeds who need worry about the time which Crom has deemed for you to return to the earth that gave you life, so long as he devoted himself to living a good life. No, for it is his soul, and the good and holy and just and honourable, where contentment shall begin. It is this man who will not need to consider what happens to his earthy corpse.

The Earth on which we stand, the creation of Crom, demands a rotten corpse from king and from knight, from merchant and from pauper. In life the great warriors, and nobles and men of great riches stride in the finest fur mantles, golden jewelry to adorn their person, but no man will escape the day of death. Then shall all men be clad in clay, adorned in earth, feeding the grass above their bones. Of earth you were made and earth you will return.

I see fear within the eyes of some of you, youths and men alike. Embrace it, for fear of death is as natural a feeling as happiness is. Your body of flesh and bone is only the dwelling of your soul on this mortal plain. You should only fear death if the life given to you by Crom was ill spent. Think, men, on your final end in this world. Do you wish to endlessly roam the isles of madness? Do you wish to be but a play thing, merciless to Suibne, cursed and deranged, to his endless torture in the lands where day and night exist not, but eternal fog that blankets the land. Is this your wish? To be flung and flayed, driven to dementia, in the island where words have no meaning, nor does anything that exists other than to torture your soul. I think not.”

The Erenagh’s grim sermon slightly unnerved Fergus, but he was almost used to it at this stage, having spent so long on the abbey. Just as the Erenagh paused to begin a prayer invoking the spirits of the ancestors to guide the youths and to instill in them to fear not death, for it was the only thing in this life that was inevitable, Fergus saw a most unusual sight approaching the gathering. It was the Lírian Black Guards, sent to retrieve young Fergus. Fergus was intrigued from his first glimpse, he had never seen anything like it, their appearance, combined with his family's banner carried by one of the elves.

After joining in the final prayers, the Elven leader of the guard spoke quickly with the Erenagh, and then approached Fergus.

“Hail, young Fergus, son of Murchad. Gather your things, for we must leave at once.” Captain Galcanagh said in a calm tone. Fergus wasted no time, with great excitement he rushed off to get his belongings, say his goodbyes to his friends and teachers, and follow the Lírian Black Guard as they escorted the lad back to Fornaght, back to his clan.

The tale of Dúlaman, the Fued of the Ó Docragh’s and the Ó Ceinselagh’s. Part I
[i]from the Red Book of Maighláin, attributed to Brother Enda[i]

In the year of 329 a most gruesome war occurred between two clans in the district of Cinél Murach, in the southern glens of the Perennial mountains. To call it a war would mislead you good reader, for this conflict was more akin to a series of skirmishes, small scale fighting, ambushes, and dishonourable murders of the most blood curdling kind. Mind you, no conflict goes without such things, but it is important that these words be written down lest the endless march of time leave them forgotten or unknown to those who are not from the district of which I speak. I will write of two clans, first the Ó Docragh’s, then of their neighbours, the clan of Ó Ceinselagh.

It began, as most of such Goidelic feuds do, over the smallest of issues, blown up by pride and a lack of adherence to the good judgment of learned men’s council in favour of the fuel which drives on the egos of young warriors seeking to make a name for themselves. I write this not to slight either clan, but I do condemn their actions as a man of reverence of the Brehon laws.

These two clans, nestled against each other in the wooded glens of the southern slopes of the Perennials had lived for a time in an uneasy peace. Affairs across the Goidelic lands at that time had drawn the attention to the east, in a period where many Goidelic clans were engaging in cross border raids and counter raids upon both the Ryeongse and the Goidelic clans that had sworn allegiance to them. These cross border attacks had become almost seasonal during this time, and much blood was spilt on both sides.

Our tale began on gentle evening in 328 ATF, in the bustling market town of Temair, the chief town of the region where many of the clans from the surrounding hinterlands would converge to buy and sell their goods, cattle being a main stable in these fair as well as horse fairs which were held once a quarter. People would come from all around to sell anything they could. These fairs were great events for the spraoi (spree), once the day's business was done great drinking sessions and feasts were held to celebrate the fair.

Caol ‘Ciotach’ Ó Ceinselagh, or Caol the left handed, son of Chief Cúconnacht Ó Ceinselagh had as usual brought down a crowd of his kinsmen to the fair, with many cattle and other such wears to sell and buy at the fair. Once the days work was done, the kinsmen of the Ó Ceinselagh celebrated their earnings by carousing in some of the many inns and public houses across the town. Not all of course remaining together, as a group naturally would split up after the consumption of plenty of ale and spirits had enticed many young Ó Ceinselagh’s away in pursuit of a fair maid to make off with.

Indeed Caol Ciotach found himself so engulfed in the prospect of a deal between himself and another local chief that he had unknowingly been separated from his own wife, Aoife Ní Ceinselagh. As the night went on , Aoife was nowhere to be seen and it had been a few hours before Caol had even thought to go look for her. In a panic all of the men of the Ó Ceinselagh men tried to muster themselves, half drunk, in an effort to locate Ó Ceinselagh’s wife. Every tavern in the town was searched, which put the people of the town in a bit of an anxious state, seeing such a large gathering of frantic clansmen ruining their evening of fun in search of a woman.

Darkness had fallen over the town when a few shouts went out from a tavern off the mainstreet back to the main square where most of Ó Ceinselagh’s men were gathered.

“Here, boys! Mon! She’s down in Cahill’s Inn!” A voice cried up to the main square. A dozen or so Ó Ceinselagh’s rushed down the street led by Caol Ciotach himself, Ciotach meaning both ‘awkward’ and ‘left handed’ in Goidelic. By the time they had reached the outside of the Inn a group of men stood outside the front, hearing the commotion outside. They were Ó Docragh clansmen, who were just as confused by the commotion as those along the street.

Caol Ciotach stormed forward towards the inn but his path was blocked by a stocky Ó Docragh clansman, with more flanking.

“Move, move!” Caol Ciotach barked drunkenly.

“Wha’s going on here, Ó Ceinselagh? What vexes ye?”

“Move before I move ya.” Caol Ciotach said, he was young but he was bold and fearless, especially after the alcohol consumed and backed up by his kinsmen who seemed just as keen to gain entry to the Inn as Caol was.

“Cé thú Féin?” (Who are you?) Ó Docragh’s kinsman inquired, now insulted and beginning to lose his temper.

Caol drew his blade, he was in no mood to be questioned. Seeing him do this, some of his kinsmen followed suit and drew whatever weapon they had on their person.

In an instant Ó Docragh’s men did the same. Before another word was spoken Aoife Ní Ceinselagh came scurrying out the door of the Inn, followed by Donagh Ó Docragh and a few more, who were immediately surprised to see the two groups facing down on the Main Street. Aoife ran over to her husband's side, looking frightened at the Ó Docragh’s.

“Do not lie to me woman, what were you doing inside with those fools?” Caol demanded an answer from his wife.

“Watch yer tongue, Caol Ó Ceinselagh. Say it once more and you won’t have one by the mornin’.” Donagh Ó Docragh said, the anger boiling within him.

“He took me, they took me, I- I was searching down Maglan lane for you when that man took me and brought me here.” Aoife squirmed. Her allegations were shocking to both parties for different reasons.

The look of disbelief on Donagh Ó Docragh’s face couldn’t be hidden. “Éirigh as an mbréagadóireacht, Oinseach!” (Quit your lies, idiotic woman) you knew well what you were doing. Don’t make a liar out of me.

Caol raised his sword, “You’re dead, Ó Docragh!” he exclaimed, spitting through his teeth.

Donagh stepped back into the threshold of the inn, without a weapon, but a young kinsmen handed him a sword and he stepped back out in an instant. Caol’s men were slightly reluctant to just attack, and try to calm him for a moment but nothing could be done. Likewise Ó Docragh’s men were reluctant to fight but they were left with little choice when Caol Ciotach brought down his sword, cleaving downwards with his vicious left hand. His nickname, ‘Ciotach’ meaning ‘left-handed or awkward’, but his furious swing was parried by one of Donagh Ó Docragh’s men, and thus a chaotic melee broke out in the middle of the street.

Whilst Aoife Ní Ceinselagh was escorted away, onlookers watched on, some jeeringn some screaming for the men to stop as the two groups fought up and down the street, resulting in the death of Caol’s brother Calbhach, another two of Caol’s kinsmen, whilst one of Donagh Ó Docragh’s men was killed and another heavily wounded. Within half an hour, both parties had fled the town with their dead and injured, before Ulric Ó Burca and his town guardsmen and personal galloglass guard arrived on the scene, only to find a crowd gathered along the side of the street around scattered pools of blood.

As the sun rose the next day, the stark realization what happened on the night before quickly became apparent to everyone in the local district of Cinél Murach, and Lord Ulric de Búrca, under advision from his Brehon judges and the Bardasach, or aldermen of the town in Temair. Although no bodies were discovered in the town after both clans escaped almost instantly after the fight, it was no mystery of what happened with so many witnesses.

As the Iarla (Earl) of Úrluagh, he was responsible for maintaining justice in the northern region, and so, called the heads of both clans to Temair to answer for the incident that happened and hopefully mediate the situation before it grew any worse. Earl Ulric was perhaps naive to think such an event would be settled so easily. (Continued in Part II)

Footnotes
[1] leine - (lay-in-ah), a leine is a common form of Goidelic clothing, it is a long tunic with very wide, hanging sleeves. Most often they are dyed saffron.
[2] lebige - [leh-bih-jeh), a Goidelic word for a fool, often applied to a youth.

Uyuti, Elvhenen, Riddenheim, Syrduria, and 3 othersRyeongse, Eskeland, and Khoiaavi

Sermons and Sorcery
(Written with Riddenheim)

Another year had come and gone in Versalen since the appointment of Matthias Wrand to the position of Grand Sorcerer by his peers on the Zaubersrat, and though little transpired save for news of a grisly scene in the east of Eisenmark with a Mad Baker and the ongoing crisis of the Rebellion in Syrduria to the south, all was peaceful though full of wariness. That is what made the reception of a specially sealed letter from Lord Magus Delyan Reznik of Riddenheim so curious and mildly concerning.

“As enticing as it is to meet with fellow mages, is this Delyan not one of the Iskrenist fanatics,” Arch-Mage Wolfgang Lochte of the House Altebriefe asked the assembled council.

“Calm yourself Wolfgang,” Matthias remarked. He himself was standing at his own seat with Delyan’s letter in his hands. “Remember that a grand majority of Eisenmark’s citizens and a substantial population of its own mages are adherents of Iskren’s Faith.”

“Perhaps, Grand Sorcerer, but the point still stands that nothing good will come of-”

“Lochte, just for a moment don’t be a crotchety old man,” lamented Erwin Wahler of Geheimnis, “I’m not particularly keen on the leadership of the Church, but I’m interested in what they’re wanting.”

Some days of debate followed between the members of the Zaubersrat until at last the Conservative element relented and voted to entertain the idea, and Grand Sorcerer Matthias Wrand would venture north himself.

The journey started in the middle of winter and expected to take a week or so at least with the weather hopefully being ideal. The carriage ride from Versalen up to Silberwatche and then out onto the imperial Highway was an easy few days, but it seemed that nature did not care for the idea of the mages leaving their home, for the weather turned foul quickly and a snow storm enveloped the Grand Sorcerer and his entourage, forcing them to take shelter in a waystation on the banks of a Halenthal tributary. Luckily though their magic allowed them to keep warm and comfortable in the couple of days stranded there.

That misfortune set them back near a full week until the weather cleared enough for them to continue the journey north into the Eternals and the twisting road to Drohorad Fortress.

Amid the many stone peaks that rose high into the sky like jagged spears, there sat a work of man that made the natural works of The Greatest to shame. Thirty eight mighty stone towers rose from the earth, connected by a massive wall of the mightiest stone, able to withstand all but the wrath of The Greatest himself. Inside was a series of three smaller yet no less formidable walls, before the great central citadel rose over even the tallest of the outer towers.

“I cannot help to wonder if they’re overcompensating,” the Captain of the Grand Sorcerer’s guard mused aloud. Wrand gave him a deathly glare at the comment however. “I apologize, Grand Sorcerer Wrand.”

“Herr Pedigron, you would be wise to remain silent for the duration of our stay here,” the Grand Sorcerer said. “We will be in the house of our host, who so graciously invited us. And besides, we are hardly in a place to judge the fortifications of another when Versalen is in itself a fortress. These are difficult times. One must be prepared for everything.”

It wasn’t long before they reached the main gate to the fortress complex and the burgundy and diamond banner of Eisenmark was held aloft and the Herald-Attendant stepped out of the front carriage.

“His excellency Matthias Wrand, Grand Sorcerer of Eisenmark and Custodian of Versalen has arrived by invitation of Lord Magus Delyan Reznik and requests entry,” he exclaimed.

Several guards stood above the gatehouse, and while their commander shouted a command back and a messenger was dispatched to gather the Lord Magus, the majority of the guards stood in wary silence, gazing down at the Eisenmarkers and talking quietly among themselves.

After a short wait the gate was opened, and the guards stood to attention as the Lord Magus rode out from the fortress, his retinue consisting of dozens of master wizards from his own order, along with two banners held aloft by young acolytes. The first and larger was the great heraldic flag of Riddenheim itself, the double headed eagles starting defiantly over the four colors of the Kingdom. The second banner was much smaller and often found itself obscured by the larger flag in the harsh mountain wind. It was green, and it’s edges were arrayed into complex silver colored filigree. This was the heraldry of the Riddenheimic mages, and the acolyte who carried held the symbol of his order high and proudly.

The Lord Magus rode ahead of his retinue and stopped before the guard of Matthias. His robes were the same green as the rest of the mages, though his were covered in the same complex markings as the banner, while the armor he wore beneath the robes was made of the finest steel. His wavy brown hair was pulled behind his head while his beard was left to hang long and low. He smiled as he called out in Kostuan to the Eisenmarkers,

“Grand Sorcerer Wrand, I would like to welcome you personally to Drohorad, and Riddenheim.”

“The pleasure is mine, Lord Magus,” Wrand replied in kind with a respectful nod of his head and hand over his heart in a typical gesture of greeting. A somewhat mischievous but endearing smile spread across his face. “It is not everyday that we humble mages from the lands of Halenthal are graced with an invitation from the lords of Sokos’ many great kingdoms.”

The Lord Magus smiled and gestured for the Eisenmarker party to follow him, before turning his horse and leading the delegation through the gates. The first ring of the fortress had the largest gap between walls, and it was here where the married men kept their families, women tending to clotheslines and gossiping amongst themselves while their children ran wild and played games between them. The fortress was situated atop a natural hill, and the second wall rose higher than the first, giving its towers a much more commanding view of the region around them. Here was where the barracks and training yards were housed, hundreds of men took brief breaks from their brutal routines to steal glances at the foreign sorcerers before being berated by their drill masters.

The third section housed the main armories of the great fortress, and two lines of soldiers assembled on either side of the path, officially to greet and honor the foreign arrivals, in truth they stood there in case the sorcerers grew too curious about the most essential part of the fortress. The fourth wall was the greatest of all, it’s towers the most massive and it’s men the most elite. Here laid the command structure of the whole fortress and, beyond that, the whole command structure of the martial forces of Riddenheim. The great central citadel rose high and commanded the mightiest view of the mountains below it.

“Your excellency,” Captain Pedigron whispered as he leaned in towards the open window of the carriage, “I feel uncomfortable with the eyes being given to us and the amount of soldiers standing at the ready.”

“We are a novelty and an unknown variable to be sure, Captain Pedigron,” remarked the Grand Sorcerer’s Chief Attendant who sat opposite of him in the carriage. His name was Arcanist Erwin Wahrseele, a young and upcoming enchanter in his own right from House Verzauberung. “They’d be fools to not be wary.”

“Well said indeed, Erwin,” Matthias said approvingly. “While I can hardly approve of the manners of their men while training, I can understand the curiosity, and can understand the need to guard their assets.”

“If you say so your excellency,” Pedigron said in defeat, and returned to a proper riding posture on his horse.

It was also here where the convoy came to a stop before the second tallest structure in the fortress, the tower of the Mages. In contrast to the wide and practical towers that rose from the walls, the mages tower was far more sleek and ornate, it’s sides covered with green banners marked with esoteric runes and symbols.

The Lord Magus lept from his horse and took his staff from a waiting acolyte, and casually walked over to the Grand Sorcerers carriage. He arched slightly forward as he spoke to Mathias,

“If you would be so kind as to follow me inside, we will speak in my chambers at the peak of this tower.”

“Gladly, Lord Magus,” Matthias said with a nod. “I must say, this is seeming a bit more like home than I might have expected. The towers, the feeling of the fortress, the soldiers training. I have very rarely ventured from Eisenmark. But, regardless, will this be a private meeting, and thus would care only for say my captain and chief attendant to be with me? If so, I do hope there will be lodgings for the rest of my countrymen.”

“Worry not Grand Sorcerer, I’ve taken the liberty of preparing quarters for your men.” He called out in his native tongue to one of his silver faceplated acolytes. “This man will lead your men to their lodgings. Your captain and your attendant would be most welcome to come along. If you are ready?”

The Grand Sorcerer smiled and nodded once more. “But of course. Come Pedigron. Erwin.”

“Yes, Grand Sorcerer,” they both bowed and said in unison as they followed the two into the tower.

The landing of the tower housed a massive library, hundreds of tomes tended to by elderly scholars and young acolytes alike. A series of staircases led them further up the tower, and the party passed through barracks constructed in a very martial faction, to lecture rooms for acolytes to learn the basics of magic and have a safe place to practice, and finally sanctums for the master mages, where they could attempt to unravel the mysteries of magic in peace.

Finally, they arrived in the chambers of the Lord Magus, and he ordered the two masters who accompanied them to stand watch outside the door. He began to casually stroll towards his own desk at the far end of the room, and he gestured to several chairs arrayed before it. He spoke with a hint of embarrassment in his tone,

“Apologies for the climb, Grand Sorcerer. We do what we can to keep our acolytes in fighting shape, and running up and down the staircases each day is the most effective method.”

The Grand Sorcerer chuckled. “I worry you would have a poor taste for the Palast des Arkanen then, if you think this is too much,” he said. “Though I do question the necessity for ‘keeping in fighting shape.’ Only specialist forces are mages in Eisenmark. Exercise is important, yes, but what sort of things do you do to exercise the mind? Surely there is more than being kept inside.”

“We are both warriors and wizards, Grand Sorcerer. One of order must hone his mind as often as his body, his blade as often as his spell craft.”

“I suppose I will have to sit in on this training one day and compare it to our own then,” Matthias said as he finally took a seat and his two companions took up either side behind him. His friendly demeanor turned cold and calculating. “Now then… with all the pleasantries out of the way, what is it that the most holy Lord Magus of Riddenheim asks of this humble and heretical free mage of the Eisenmark?”

The Lord Magus leaned back into his chair, sizing up each of the men that sat before him. He folded his hands together and spoke,

“Why, protection and alliance with your ‘heretical’ state. It’s a dangerous world beyond the Eisenmark, and you’d be wise to know who your friends are when your foes start tearing down the gates of Versalen.”

“I’ll be honest, Herr Delyan, when I think of the mages of Riddenheim, I think reclusive and meek zealot,” Matthias retorted with a smirk across his lips and mirrored Delyan’s posture. “I am pleasantly surprised and quite thankful for your candidness, and the veiled threat is quite refreshing. Eisenmark has existed in relative peace for well near three centuries, and we have always strived to live in peace with our neighbors, but friends have never been a luxury. We have always had to live with the fear of one day being attacked, and only by the Grand Design have we been so lucky not to have been by our many potential enemies. Tell me how indeed you are to be a friend and not an enemy with a smile and knife behind his back.”

“And when I think of the mages of Eisenmark I think of arrogant heretical snakes far too concerned with their petty feuds than the population they marginalize and oppress.” Delyan leaned forward, his voice tempered with ice, “We don’t have to pretend to like each other, but I trust you’re smart enough to realize all of your neighbors despise you to some degree. The pagan Goidel lords have little love for any mages not their own, and if you believe us to be zealots, the Syrdurians have us bested when it comes to hatred of mages. Deny this proposal, and you will be left surrounded by nations much more powerful than your own, that could sweep it from the map of Sokos in less than a month.” His speech finished, Delyan reached into his desk and pulled out a long parchment, and he handed it to Matthias.

“This proposal details the terms and conditions of an alliance between our states. What I believe you’ll find most interesting is the transfer of magically inclined individuals between us.”

“Oh, you don’t say,” the Eisenmarker asked as he began to look over the document with a particularly scrutinizing eye.

The terms detailed an arrangement between the Kingdom of Riddenheim and the Zaubersreich of Eisenmark. In short, any magically inclined persons, be they adults or children, Riddenheimer or Eisenmarker, would be given the choice of where they wished to be educated. If they desired a religious education of magic they would be sent to Drohorad, and if they chose a secular education they would be sent to Versalen. Certain clauses were in effect so that both sides may retain powerful or other valuable individuals.

“Willing to hand over your impressionable youth to the immoral and wild mages, are you,” Matthias asked. “This seems like quite a radical change of doctrine, and hardly out of the goodness of your hearts I would imagine. This has been the way things have been for centuries. Why change now?”

“Times have changed, very rapidly and not necessarily for the better. Thousands of potential mages pass through these gates every year, and not every recruit is as.. pious, as I need them to be. Killers, thieves, heretics, I have no use for. But perhaps you do, perhaps you may bolster your ranks with the scum of the earth.”

“Hmph. You think that we are not as selective as your church, Herr Delyan,” Matthias asked. He leaned forward and put his elbows upon the table and rested his chin on his interlocked fingers. “Isn’t the whole point of a clergy to provide a second chance and lead the flock? You would cast out such lost souls for their past crimes? For shame. Almost… hypocritical. If you want us to actually entertain these negotiations, I do have some suggestions.”

Delyan leaned back in his chair, folding his hands once again as he spoke in a cold tone,

“Go on then.”

The Grand Sorcerer smiled. “Eisenmark and the Church will share initial custody of mage children, whereupon they reach an age of soundness of mind, they will be given the opportunity to decide on the Church or the Magocracy to further their studies. But in cases where they are not in a position to choose and must be assigned, Eisenmark will be given priority. And this will not simply be limited to Riddenheim, but extend to its allies as well, as Eisenmark will be deemed the sole secular authority and place of learning for magic for Riddenheim and its allies. And Eisenmark will be given the single authority to investigate for new mages. Now, I must say, Eisenmark isn’t terribly interested in training newly discovered adult mages, or criminal adults for that matter. At most, teenagers are acceptable, so you can have whatever adults there are. There is a reason why we make an effort to have every newborn in Eisenmark tested for magical aptitude. And furthermore, any and all refugee mages, so long as they are found to have not committed any legitimate and or violent crime, will be given to the custody of Eisenmark and its protection without question.”

Delyan pondered for several seconds. The lack of an easy way to get rid of criminal mages would not go over well with the Lord Prelate, but that was an issue that he was sure he could mollify. He was slightly worried about the Syrdurians, but he was sure their hatred of mages would overwhelm their current doctrinal disputes. The only concern he held was over the joint custody arrangement, but the roots of Iskrenism ran deep and he was certain his order would not lack in new blood. His worst fears rationalized, he stood and spoke,

“Your terms are agreeable. If you would sign the parchment, we will seal this alliance.”

Matthias almost looked disappointed. It was true that he half expected angry raving, but the resignment was most unexpected after the emotional journey that Delyan seemed to show on his face. But he took up the quill and began to sign his name, but pause half way and look back up.

“Those who are ready, willing, and able to learn we will take regardless of their age or what they’ve done,” he said. “So long as they are genuine to commit their lives and their magic to society, it doesn’t matter. But it won’t be an easy way out. Anyone who comes will only ever have a single chance and be judged before they even enter the gates. Found lacking, they will be sent right back here.”

He looked back to the parchment and finished signing.

Delyan nodded, thankful the Eisenmarkers were willing to help take the burden of mages whose hearts had fallen to evil. After all, the last thing both lands needed were bands of magic criminals terrorizing their countrysides.

He turned the parchment and signed his own name, sealing the compact.

“And so it is done.” He stood again and extended his hand to the Grand Sorcerer, genuine relief in his eyes and plastered over his face.

Matthias took his counterpart’s hand gladly.

“For what it’s worth, I only insult the people that I actually like,” he said with a nod.

Uyuti, Corcaigh mor, Riddenheim, Syrduria, and 2 othersRyeongse, and Eskeland

Brothers and Sisters: Part II

Copost with Ryeongse

Malpyeoro, Provincial Palace, Courtyard

Sohye fiddled around with her gloves. The dawn’s air had a nice richness to it, the smells of mountain, snow, and grass carried by the wind washing over her nose. She had on a casual hanbok, a loose, flowing yet elaborately ornate skirt in deep red blooming from her short-sleeved pale orange silk blouse, tailored to allow room for her Rolesian fingerless gloves, a souvenir from her studies in the far-off nation. Patina had long since run throughout the entirety of the gloves, covering every inch with a weathered sheen that boasted use (abuse, almost, on several accounts) for years upon years. Coupled with black Ryeongsean steel-studded bracers, they were the key piece of her “casual” outfit.

Slowly pacing about the courtyard’s edges, Sohye kept tugging at the gloves’ straps. They were tight enough to make her small, thin hands feel like they were choking, but, even though they were custom-fitted to Sohye specifically, Sohye kept tugging nonetheless. Riddenheim, leaving father, Gyeji’s words, Daeja, all racing through her head. Sohye tilted her head up to the pale blue sky, dotted intermittently with flat lines of clouds. She closed her eyes. Everything and nothing through her mind. Anxiety and boredom.

The clang of metal resonated through the court’s air. Sohye’s eyes shot open, and her head darted to the noise’s origin. The Riddenheimic caravan must have taken a break with packing for the long journey to their kingdom. Some of the escorts were having a playful duel with the palace guards. Sohye felt her feet immediately take her across the sand-covered courtyard, her bark-colored fine Serulean leather boots grazing against the miniscule particles of gravel and setting them afloat on the wind.

Ryeongsean and Riddenheimic escorts, soldiers, guards, and court attendants chuckled amongst each other as the current duelists danced about the courtyard, dust rising like the breath of the palace grounds. A Riddenheimic escort had apparently challenged a Malpyeoro palace guard. Each duelist’s feet shuffled mesmerizingly against the other’s. Riddenheimic steel slashed and parried Ryeongsean steel, the duelist’s eyes seemingly locked onto the other pair but in actuality glancing about all of the opponent’s body, waiting with frenzied patience at a window of weakness.

The Riddenheimic duelist found one first. He lunged, thrusting his sword off the Ryeongsean geum of his opponent and shoving sideways with the blade’s flat side. Catching his opponent off-balance, the Riddenheimer then swung his massive leg at his opponent, sending his bottom in a rather ungraceful meeting with the ground.

The other Riddenheimers chuckled, receiving their victorious comrade in good spirits. The gathered Ryeongseans laughed too, if only to berate their disgraced brother.

“No hard feeling,” the Riddenheimic escort roughly made out in Gogwihano-eo. “Good match, huh?”

The palace guard could only nod in response, still sore from his clumsy fall.

“Excuse me,” Sohye jumped in, a calm professionalism about her tone. She spoke Masenov with an unexpected proficiency. Even the court attendants and palace guards of Malpyeoro were caught off-guard. When did Lady Yang have time to study the Riddenheimic language? “I would like to challenge one of you from Riddenheim in a friendly duel. I tire of my idleness, and I could not help but enjoy myself watching the last duel. I should very much enjoy partaking in one even more.”

The Riddenheimic party stifled crude laughter. The victorious duelist cleared his throat cautiously, doing his best to hide a derisive chuckle. “Far be it from me to do harm upon Lord Kassal’s betrothed, Lady Yang,” he bowed in his native tongue in response.

Sohye’s lips turned casually in an unamused smile. “Think nothing of it,” she replied to his bow with her own. “On the pantheon above, you will be handsomely compensated if you down me in a duel. These servants of Malpyeoro can and will testify an oath in the name of the gods above.”

The escort had no choice. “I accept your duel, Lady Yang,” he put his hand to his chest and bowed. “Please hold nothing against me, for I shall hold nothing back.”

“An unrestrained fight would truly bring the greatest honor,” Sohye calmly responded. “Fetch my sword for me,” she called behind her to a court attendant, who ran into the nearest door with a serious face. The other Ryeongseans matched the servant’s solemnity, to the bewilderment of the Riddenheimers.

The servant came back a little while later with her single-edged do, in a neatly polished jet-black scabbard. Sohye received it humbly with both arms, drawing it slowly and letting it dance in her hand. Just like it always had for years now. The blade, as straight as the sun’s rays, shimmered like snow in the morning light, giving off a refined resplendence. Sohye respectfully handed the scabbard back to the court attendant. Her eyes danced from her sword to her arms and then her opponent, who had also presented his weapon.

Sohye bowed at the waist. The Riddenheimer bowed as well. All was silent, the wind and even the sunlight itself becoming deafening. Sohye’s eyes scoured her opponent four horselengths before her. He was giant, as were most of the Riddenheimers that had come to Ryeongse. Easily four full sacks of rice large. His broadsword complemented his stature, longer than the average child. He held his blade close to his left waist, his right boot extended forward to prepare for a lunge. Sohye took a deep breath with her nostrils. She readied her do directly in front of her, perpendicular against the ground. The point stood between her eyes and the Riddenheimer.

Not even a minute had passed since the Riddenheimer had lunged towards Sohye that he found himself, confused and dazed, face-first into fine courtyard gravel.

{{==========}}

Erich had retreated to a secluded section of the courtyard to clear his mind and calm his nerves. He had long abandoned wearing a kaftan and had instead donned a much more comfortable padded Aketon, the armor he would normally wear over it instead found itself in his lap as he polished it and his sword. Many small dents and chips had been formed over long years of battle after battle, each one a reminder of how close he had come to death, time after time.

The casual duels between his own soldiers and the garrison men had proved to be a calming sound to Erich, the clashing of steel and the crashing of bodies into the ground reminded him of the campaign trails. It was one of the few reliefs he felt in this land. He longed to finish the formalities in Ryeongse and return to his home, where he could feel at peace on the battlefield once again.

In between his mindless thoughts another duel had been started and won in less than a minute. Erich knew that none of the men in Malpyeoro could best one of his so quickly, and he would be surprised if one of his own braggart soldiers would put a man in the dirt so soon, without at least toying with them first. He stood, leaving his sword and armor on the beach where he had sat and wondered casually over to where the duels were taking place. A crowd had formed, with cheers and jeers in both Masenov and Gogwihano-eo erupting from them and masking his view of the dueling square. Behind the crowd stood the priest Alexi Korozov, laughing as he sipped from a water skin filled with Ryeongsean wine. Erich began to speak as the priest shot up a hand and caught a small bag, jingling with coins.

“Good match, eh old man? Certainly seems good for you.” Alexi caught another bag and opened it, counting the twelve silver rubles and depositing them into his increasingly heavy pocket. He smiled a crooked grin as he spoke, his voice heavy with wine,

“Aye, I’ve always known where best to wager my coin,” he juggled the water skin and chuckled before continuing, “and where best to spend it!” Erich laughed with the priest, then turned his attention back to the dueling ring.

“So who won you so much coin anyways? One of our boys or, Iskren forbid, one of the locals?” Alexi cast a wide smile as he called two of the Riddenheimers to him, creating a gap in the crowd and giving Erich a clear view of the victorious duelist.

“By The Greatest…”

Sohye spun her head around in surprise. Receiving her do’s sheath from the court attendant from earlier, she noiselessly slid her blade in its cover and bowed bashfully at the waist before Erich, her two hands together gripping the sheathed blade at her waist.

“Forgive me, Lord Kassal. I should not have let my personal musings attract so much attention best reserved elsewhere, such as preparations for our journey,” she stammered, her professional Masenov faltering with mortification.

Erich stood in stunned silence for several seconds before laughing deeply, startling those around him. He spoke,

“No apology is necessary, Lady Yang. I had no idea you were a duelist,” he cocked his head over to his red faced soldier, his ego brushing more than his flesh as his comrades mocked him relentlessly, “and such a skilled one at that.” He stepped forward through the crowd and stood with her in the dueling ring. He smiled slightly as he stated,

“In fact, I’m wondering if you’d be interested in a duel against me?” He signaled with his hand to one of his men, who dashed off to receive his sword.

It was Sohye’s turn to blush. She supposed it caught Erich by surprise. She quickly interjected, “It would be my honor. I would… be glad.”

The bystanders cleared the ring. The Ryeongsean party grew more apprehensive. If the sheer impropriety of a betrothed couple dueling with sharpened and quite lethal blades was already insufficient, that they were nobles, distinguished echelons of Sokosian society, added to the bizarreness. Sohye unsheathed her blade, the neatly polished blade, several refurbishments still unable to hide deep scars from training and other duels, shining back a crystal-clear reflection of Sohye’s determined eyes.

She bowed formally to Erich at the waist, signaling the duel’s start. “If I may,” Sohye softly started, shifting to a defensive stance as she adapted her small frame and single-edged do, her two hands aligning the edge perpendicular to the ground once more, against Erich’s enormity, “please hold nothing back.” Even if she was betrothed to Erich, she would not hold back either. To do so would disrespect him as a duelist and warrior. Sohye expected much the same from her fiancée.

Erich chuckled as he unsheathed his longsword from its battered and battle worn scabbard. The silver of the blade caught the sun's light in a brilliant flare, and Erich handed off his scabbard to a soldier as he gripped the hilt with both hands, readying himself and taking a defensive stance. He bowed back to her, and as he rose he spoke,

“My lady, I would have it no other way.”

Sohye smiled. That was all she could ask for.

Both combatants began to slowly circle the ring, each one eyeing each other carefully, waiting for a gap in the other's defenses, waiting for an opening to strike.

Erich found one first, and in a moment he crossed the distance between them and brought forward his longsword in a mighty lunge.

Sohye exhaled calmly. Erich was large and yet surprisingly fast. She darted to the side just as Erich came upon her, bringing her do to an angle to redirect Erich’s blade, and thus Erich himself, away from her. As her opponent regained his composure, Sohye was already at the ready, shifting her stance to another defensive position.

Erich recovered quickly, switching from attempting a stab to attempting to slash across her chest, bringing his sword quickly to Sohye in an upward arc.

Swiftly sidestepping, Sohye caught Erich’s arm as the sword flung upwards to slash nothing but air and excited dust. She accelerated the sword’s movement, guiding his arm in its current path upwards and darting out of the way as Erich’s empty swing left him in vulnerable imbalance. Sohye leapt in, elbowing Erich’s exposed chest and creating space once more between the duelists.

Erich rallied and turned on his heel before circling the ring opposite Sohye, his sword flashing as he tried to find an opening in her stance. When he thought he saw one he rushed forward and unleashed a barrage of wild and quick cuts and slashes with devastating precision.

Sohye brought up her sword, shifting into position after position, gliding Erich’s blows away from her. There was no pattern, no plan to this frenzied rush. As unorganized as this gambit was, it was working. If only a little bit. Sohye grit her teeth. For each blow to have so much power, and for so many blows to occur in rapid succession, with no particular plan about them either, presented danger to Sohye. She needed to get out of there or become mincemeat. Sohye used one particularly high blow to duck, guiding Erich’s blade upwards as she rolled backwards, again creating space between the two duelists. Quickly getting back up, she adopted yet another defensive stance, some loose strands of hair glued to her perspiring face.

Erich began to breathe heavily, sweat covering his face as the two once again circled the ring. He was beginning to feel himself run out of stamina, and he could tell that Sohye knew his plight. He had to do something to reverse the odds, to put her on the offensive.

He positioned his sword behind and below him, letting the tip of the blade scrape the dirt as he ran towards Sohye, stopping before her and bringing the blade up in a colossal upward swing, a dust cloud rose with the blade and exploded between them, masking Erich removing his left hand from the sword hilt.

Sohye scrunched her eyes against the dust rising into the air. Even so, her eyes stung with pain, alleviated, if only slightly, by the accumulation of sweat and tears keeping much of the particles away. She put her do up, pointed at Erich’s exposed torso, her sleeve masking her nose and mouth. What did Erich have planned? Surely he knew his maneuver would leave his torso widely exposed. Erich was still swinging.

Thoughts spiraled about her mind in what felt like an eternity, despite Erich’s impending blow set to land within the second. Sohye had to think fast.

She could not. Made excessively clear in her instruction abroad. That was what infuriated Sohye’s instructors: her weakness in improvisation.

Sohye froze, her muscles locking in their place. If she did not act soon, she would be defeated in any case. Still, what was the best course of action? Was this a trap? She had to do something. Erich’s blade swung closer and closer.

Clenching her teeth, she lunged forward, bringing the hilt of her do close to her chest, the tip of the blade pointing at Erich’s chest. Sohye planted her feet, Erich’s exposed torso before her blade.

Then the dust settled. And Sohye saw that Erich was not holding his blade with both hands. Her eyes widened.

A second after she noticed the trick Erich’s fist crashed into her torso with the force of a mammoth, sending her staggering back as Erich moved his sword back down rapidly, knocking the sword from Sohye’s hand before landing a devastating kick with his right leg, sending her into the dirt, gasping for air.

The double shock sent ripples of pain throughout Sohye’s body. Lying on the excited palace courtyard, she tried to send signals to her arms, her legs, but they were like soft tofu. Sohye teared as her gaping mouth would take no air. With what strength she had, she pushed herself up with an arm, coughing madly. She had lost.

Erich immediately let his sword fall to the dirt as he rushed to Sohye, not noticing as the crowd reacted along national lines. The Ryeongseans grew concerned for Sohye, some even rushing off to find aid for her, while the Riddenheimers stood in silence, apart from the shifting of coin pouches between them.

Erich crouched down beside Sohye, not knowing if there was any right way to aid her after knocking her to the ground so violently. He stammered,

“My lady, are you alright? Are you injured?”

Sohye cleared her throat, hazy double images of Erich slowly shifting back into one figure. “Congratulations,” she exhaled with still-racking lungs. “You’ve won the duel. It had been years since I lost so drastically.” She extended her hand to Erich, blisters and bruises hidden by her glove.

Erich took her hand and raised her up, smiling as he confirmed she was unharmed. “It was a good duel. You almost had me there.”

Sohye’s legs still felt a little wobbly as she stood, her boots feeling like they were melting into the ground. She shook her head to chase away her remaining nausea, which still persisted. “You are a determined warrior who values the honor of all duelists. I am glad that we have been betrothed.”

“As am I,” a gentle, warm voice called out from a pavilion overlooking the courtyard in Kostuan. Sohye turned to see her father, Yang Donman. “I saw the battle. Safe to say that if Erich can defeat Sohye in battle, he can defeat anything that threatens Sohye.” Donman’s placid smile dissipated immediately. “However, please refrain from exerting such force upon Sohye again.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, my lord. I’m sure your daughter will be more than ready to return the favor, the next time we draw swords.” Erich laughed then retrieved his sword from the dirt, placing it back in it’s worn scabbard.

Donman nodded. “Would certainly be something to see. If you lot are done with your little dances, then I believe you have a destination to reach soon.”

========

The afternoon sun sat placidly in the summer skies, only just beginning its descent beyond the Astrals. The Riddenheimic entourage had just about finished preparing for the next stop on the way to Riddenheim.

Sohye fumbled with one of her travel chests, trying to jam it into the carriage’s cargo space. She had changed once more, now in a more formal hanbok gown, deep green with red and silver highlights. Her combat clothes, fully cleaned (somehow, despite the massive amount of dirt accrued on the outfit left even the best maids of the palace speechless) were packed in this chest, a hopeful life of liberation, of further training stowed like the rest of her belongings, Riddenheim its destination.

“Don’t force the chest to fit, Sohye; you’ll damage the other cargo as well as the carriage,” Donman sighed, in native Gogwihan-eo. Sohye turned around, a frown of perplexion and embarrassment on her face. Donman took the chest into his own hands and neatly arranged it between some travel supplies and Riddenheimic cargo. “There we go,” he sighed.

“Will you be alright?” Sohye tenderly asked, eyes full of concern.

“Come now, the extra time without you is time I can put into art,” Donman chuckled. Sohye rolled her eyes. “Yes, Sohye, I’ll be fine. Will you?”

“Yes, Father,” Sohye echoed her father’s words. “I know not what Riddenheim has in store, but Erich is a good man and a strong warrior. Even if a million hostile souls greet me, with Erich standing by me, I can take it.”

“You’re as determined and brave as your mother was,” Donman beamed.

Sohye instinctively touched the ribbons on her hanbok’s front. Me? Like Mother? Was I not the reason why Mother is dead?

Donman stepped forward, taking Sohye’s narrow shoulders into his hands. “Keep looking to the future with courage. Be good to Lord Kassal. Don’t exert yourself and know your limits, but keep trying to push them further and further. You should go soon, before it gets dark.”

Sohye reached forward as well, slipping past her father’s arms and tightly embracing him, burying her face in his shoulder. “Thank you, Father. For everything.”

Donman nodded, returning Sohye’s hug. “Thank me by being the best you can be over there.” Releasing her, he put his hands on her shoulders once more.

Stepping back towards the carriage, Sohye bowed at the waist in farewell. Donman bowed at his head in response. She then turned, continuing on her way to Erich and the rest of the Riddenheimers, to depart beyond the Eternals.

Erich stood inside the carriage door, and he held a hand to help Sohye as she came before the carriage.

Sohye took Erich’s hand, stepping inside and taking a seat beside him. She wore a hopeful smile but could not hide the anxiety that still lay in her eyes.

Erich caught the anxiety in her eyes and spoke with a calming tone,

“What’s wrong, my lady?”

Blushing somewhat, Sohye took her gaze to the window of the carriage, as the vehicle started with a lurch and then a steady acceleration away from Malpyeoro, away from her father looking out at the departing entourage. “Regardless of how I can prepare for these things, how important they are and how much promise they hold, new chapters in my journey always fill me with fright,” She mused. “Still, that I have you comforts me.” Sohye pondered a moment, leaning her head against the stained glass of the carriage window. She then sat up with a newfound resolution and turned to Erich. “Regardless of this marriage being arranged as a political ploy between our two kingdoms, I believe this bond is still important as it is,” Sohye announced with conviction. “Will you stand beside me when adversity reaches me, and will you let me stand beside you when it reaches you as well?”

Erich took her hand smiled, declaring,

“Whatever may assail us, whatever we face, no matter the adversity or the danger, I will stand beside you. Now and forever.”

Sohye wrapped her fingers around Erich’s, smiling as well and matching his eyes with hers. “I as well.”

Uyuti, Cheysal serulea, Syrduria, Ryeongse, and 1 otherEskeland

Elvhenen

Judgement Deemed in Xuaaka

With his position in Xuaaka consolidated by the remainder of the troops that remained outside of the city's domed entrance, General Virtumal, with written permission given by the Great Empyrian himself, had begun negotiations with the First Lord's mother Virik, a woman of great honor, import and dignity. During their several meetings within the last month, the General had become impressed with her knowledge and wisdom that she bestowed upon him. Their meetings, that would regularly stretch from the early morning to the late night, were fruitful and proved to see the end of Kazmoxai as an independent kingdom and now an Empyrate under the protection of the Empyrium. Despite many daobem unwilling to bend the knee to more elves, Ssrael's mother's influence would see them bend the knee to her rather than a foreign elf. Understanding that this may be the only route to peace between the khemakh and the humans and elves, General Virtumal commanded a scroll be devoted to listing all of her wants and demands during the negotiation. Many of them were small and relatively easy for the Empyrian to accept, such as lowered taxes for her citizens for the first year of their status as an Empyrate to allow time for Empyrial and Qirinii merchants and settlers to revitalize the ruined economy under the First Lord. For request to be made Kazmoxai's Empyr was one that may have been seen with some hesitation by the government of Elvhenen, as placing a relative of Ssrael's in command of an entire province may provoke her enemies or even her allies to strike out against her or in her name, wishing to from another rebellion that will require a military response to put down, a costly move.

Another viewpoint of such an appointment would be that Khemakh territory would remain under the authority of another Khemakh and within the hands of one with influence amongst the daobem populations, it would surely result in peace if it played out how the General wished it to. Regardless of what the Empyrian signed off on, the General was instructed that his troops were to remain at Xuuaka for the foreseeable future, both to ensure the security of the region and to assist Kazmoxai in rebuilding.

Another matter that needed attending to was that of the imprisoned First Lord Ssrael and his army, which had been taken to Xuuaka's underbelly, the darkest levels of the city reserved for future mining operations that never came to be. The secured pits that had once housed pickaxes, hammers, wheelbarrows, harnesses and other equipment had been cleaned out, their entrances barred and stuffed with Khemakh soldiers awaiting their trial. Such was an adequate punishment for those that followed Ssrael. As for Ssrael himself, General Virtumal had ordered his stay was to be within Xuaaka's own holding cells, guarded by a dozen Empyrial soldiers around all hours of the day and night, as to avoid those still loyal to him hiding in the city's shadowed alleyways and house attics from launching an attack and freeing him from the chains of justice.

In the next few hours, judgement would be rendered upon Ssrael in the form of a combined council of both Empyrial and Qirinii representatives. The journey for many of them had been long to the newly claimed Empyrial city, and it'd seem the longest to Matriarch Afzal, leading authority for the Saari's Council of Elders. As First Lord Ssrael's main targets had been those that belonged to the Saari peoples, Consuliar Atron agreed that they should have an equal part in deciding the fate of the one who had orchestrated the slaughters across northwest Empyrial holdings. The Matriarch had arrived the day prior to the trial's date, along with Kraewal, the Master of Law from Saekhuri and Warden of the Guild of Scribes. He'd serve as Qirinai's authority on the Council due to Kazmoxai's uprising against the Qirinii government. For the Empyrium's role in bringing down Ssrael, General Virtumal would take the High Seat upon the Council and would be the final authority on Ssrael's fate.

Flanked by gold clad soldiers of the Empyrial Army, First Lord Ssrael was marched into the Grand Plaza from the lower depths of the city. His rigid and blackened armoring he had donned in the hours of the morning of his defeat had become smudged with dirt, his scaly face oily and had gone many days without a proper bathing. As the First Lord's eyes gazed once more upon the arena of his surrender and the stage of his embarrassment, he'd see a panel of judges sat within a risen wooden structure in the center of the Plaza. On both sides of the judgement stalls were five more soldiers, holding spears tightly into their hands, their faces covered by red shrouds that were hung from the face of their helmets. From left to right sat Kraewal, Qirinai's representative. Followed by Matriarch Afzal, the Saari representative, General Virtumal and Ssrael's mother and now declared leader of Kazmoxai, Virik.

Ssrael's face shriveled in anger at the sight of his own mother sitting there above him, her expression that of superiority and the disgusting hint of disappointment. Ushered onto the central platform of his fate by the Empyrial soldiers, he spat onto the ground in front of the panel, showing his absolute disdain and disgust at his judges. His eyes looked around to the houses and walkways above them, filled with Khemakh bystanders, human soldiers, and elven merchants newly arrived to the city in time to watch the entertainment.

"I see I have an audience." Stated Ssrael quietly.

"You've been brought in front of this panel because of the many crimes laid upon you, Ssrael. The audience should be the least of your worries." Said General Virtumal, a hint of annoyance in his voice. Ssrael scoffed then turned his attention to Ralnor Virtumal.

"Ah, yes. This panel destined to determine my fate. Traitors, weaklings, outsiders, the lot of you. Even my own mother has forsaken me." Said Ssrael.

"You've brought this upon yourself, Ssrael. I warned you many times of what your course of action would cost you. You don't act headstrong knowing you hold no cards, no advantage. I tried to guide you and you ignored me, thinking I was some old fool. Your actions are by your own doing and you alone will face it's consequences. Your father would have scorned you much worse had he still been alive, leading our people to ruin as you have." Snapped Virik. General Virtumal had instructed the other judges to wait their turns before speaking, but wouldn't dare move to silence Virik. This was what a mother needed to tell her son, this was a matter of family. Virtumal would have no part in halting the moment.

"Say what you will, mother. You abandoned me in my time of need. Had you have not interfered, we would have killed these invaders, we'd have them on their heels by now! We would have earned our freedom!" Screamed Ssrael. Virik stood from her seat, her hands stretched out in front of her on the table. "You dare! I have done nothing but look after you! Protected you and guided you! You would have ensured the complete destruction of our people! Sacrificing more of our people for a crime you initiated. The Empyrium was right to send their army against you. Had you have somehow managed to fight them off, it would have been a temporary victory and it's sweet taste would soon turn to ash in your mouth! They'd have sent more and more until there was nothing left of our people! Let us not forget who raided their villages, massacred their people. You're getting everything you deserve." She ended it by sitting back down. General Virtumal and the others remained silent, the good General had looked down, fidgeting with his pen during the painful confrontation between the Khemakh.

"Although this territory had been captured by the Empyrium, you will remain responsible for the theft of this land from the Federated Dominion, thus they will continue to hold the power of law within this realm until a complete transition can be fulfilled. To respect and honor the realm of Qirinai, the charges against you will be displayed to you by Lord Kraewal." Said General Virtumal, motioning over to the Qirinii representative.

Kraewal creaked to his feet, a process that took nearly as long as the reading of the charges themselves. "It is hereby forwarded that Ssrael, Formerly the First Lord of the daobem, did knowingly and deliberately incite rebellion against the Kingdom of Qirinai. Those charges being deferred as part of the creation of the daobem state as part of the Federated Dominion of Qirinai, he then proceeded to injure and conspire against the Dominion in that he failed to render requested aid in the recent crisis, and also that he, not stopping there, commenced to raid the kingdoms of Qirinai and Voksarca while they were attempting to recover from said crisis. In so much as these charges are all capital offenses against the crown, the sentence the crown deems is either death, or - if that be not pleasing to the court - permanent exile from the lands of his birth and rule."

After the reading had been done, Kraewal returned to his seat, looking over to General Virtumal and nodding. "This judgement has been deemed as well by the Matriarch of the Saari, the people you've hurt the most, Ssrael. We are all in agreement. As High Seat of this Council and sole speaker for the Empyrian himself, I declare here and now that Ssrael, the former First Lord of the Daobem, shall be executed. At this result, Ssrael loosed a snarling reaction. "Do as you wish. But never forget this. I have many friends, here and abound in Sokos. My brethren will come, those that support me will not allow this travesty to go unanswered. They will hear of this sham trial, they will hear of the traitors that set upon the end of our glorious state. And when they do, death will be upon you, Ralnor. Vengeance will come for all of you!" Screamed Ssrael as he lurched forward, the guards around him stepping forward, their spears pounding the ground beneath them. "Enough of this. Judgement has been rendered. Guardsmen, escort Ssrael back to his cell where he will await his fate." Said General Virtumal calmly. The soldiers that had escorted him in stepped forward, grasping both his arms and pulling him away from his position. For the rest of his journey back to his cell, the once famed and powerful First Lord Ssrael had kept his mouth shut.

Instead of immediately rushing into the next set of judgement that would include every lieutenant under Ssrael that led the various companies that formed the bulk of the First Lord's army, General Virtumal made the decision to convene for the day. The trial had visibly injured Virik, who had been hurt by her son's accusations and threats of further retaliation. Instead of pushing forth to try to finish the trials by the end of the day, Ralnor stood and dismissed the judges. Being the last to leave the elevated row of seats, Ralnor Virtumal watched as the last of the day's spectators dismissed themselves and returned to their homes and went about their daily lives. Escorted by two human soldiers in the service of the Empyrium, he walked down from the stage and took the alleyway that would lead to the main road that cut through the middle of Xuuaka. Devoid of windows and strung up with linen lines for drying soaked clothing, he made his way through the cramped alley, the two soldiers were forced to file in line behind the General as they made their way through. Coming out onto the other side, they had seen the main road with both sides lined with three story homes for the wealthier citizens of the city, as the main road was more expensive to rent due to it's constant contact with merchants, nobles, travelers, and state officials. As such, it's appearance, aside from the carved and square design of the structures, was clean and uniform. Hanging from the highest linen line was the gold and scarlet banner of the Empyrium, placed there by order of Matriarch Virik, a title she reluctantly accepted on behalf of General Virtumal in order for her portray a stronger presence among the khemakh of Xuuaka. He noticed it and forgotten it as soon as his eyes befell it as he walked away from under it, on his way to the former seat of First Lord Ssrael known as the Ancestral Keep. He had taken the long and uneventful walk up the main road to the stairs leading upwards to the Keep. Standing guard by the rectangular opening devoid of any doors of any kind were soldiers belonging to his Battlegroup, at attention with their weapons of war gripped tightly into their hands.

At the sight of the General, they bowed their heads in respect as was befitting an on-duty warrior with the tools of his trade encumbering his hands. In response, Ralnor bowed his head slightly higher than the others. Entering the Keep, Ralnor was swept up in the feeling of a naturally colder breeze than what there had been outside, despite being within an underground opening. The Keep was devoid of windows, replacing them only with shutters that allowed for privacy due to the cool atmosphere that was a blessing for the older elf. Months spent in Altaxabir and Zuncasai gave the elf a terrible heat rash and burning of his skin. Applying salves and creams used by the Saari and Qappaq stemmed it some but to expose the naturally pale skin of those formerly of the cradle of the Eternals, it was hell for hundreds of elves in the years after Tassarion's arrival. Since those early days of the sun's tribulation on the skin, he had developed a darker complexion, a hint of gold touched his skin since but there was never a time where he could call his position in the south comfortable. The only reprieve from them being the cold nights that he could truly bask in.

But here, underground, he felt comfortable. Truly comfortable. Shrouded from the sun for eternity and to feel the frigid air brush his skin like it would near the pleasant waterfalls and virulent shade of the pine and oak trees. The Qirinii were ahead of all others and it wasn't the least bit prideful for him to admit it. A short walk up a flight of stairs, the navigating through several corners led him to his new quarters. Entering the room, it was nicely illuminated by sconces and candles, a soft yellow glow that brought ease to him as the day's stressful activities seemed to slide off of his shoulders. He sighed a breath of relief as the soldiers behind him halted at the door and began to take up their posting until the captain of the guard for the Keep would dispatch guardsmen to take up their positions. He closed the door behind him and walked over to the massive bedding that laid against the far wall. On three sides above the bed was a large rectangular opening, the open window that allowed the lord, being the First Lord's former quarters, to look down upon his city. Standing over the bed, General Virtumal began unstrapping his gold plated chestpiece, followed by the shoulder guards. All of his armor had been identical to that of the Xuulikaq, with the only difference being that his was intrinsically woven with strips of crimson bars placed across the whole suit, denoting his rank and his importance to his men. Piece by piece, it began to come off, ending with the tightly strapped and reinforced leather boots. All he wore were the trousers and long shirt that had been present under his armor. The sweat that had collected under his armor had begun to wick away from the cold breeze that entered in through the large window above his bed. A light tap on the door turned his attention towards it. "Come in." Ralnor said. The door opened slowly, revealing a thin elf girl of moderate age, her blonde hair pulled back into a bun, her pale skin shining against the candlelight and her bright green eyes shining. Her lips were pursed into a smile as she bowed, dressed in green and gold silk robes that flowed beautifully around her body. "Serala. What a pleasant surprise to see you here." Said Ralnor with happiness in his tone.

"Of course, General. Any chance I get to see you is a blessing from Maescia herself. Finding entry into this city has been easier than getting into Mithranus." She said with a sarcastic smile. She approached Ralnor, placing her smaller hands upon his chest. "I feel the tension weighed upon you, Ralnor. How long will you continue to let this profession kill you?" She said, her face closing distance between his. "For as long as I'm alive."

***

Late into the evening of Xuuaka's eternal night, Ralnor sat up in his cushioned and reclined seat, overlooking a series of papers stacked neatly into the corner, a cup of hot black tea sweetened with some sugar, lemon and sage closest to him at the center and a pen and inkwell on the right hand corner. He looked back to the bed to see Serala bundled up in fine linen sheets atop a soft bed of bagged feathers, her gold and green dress laying upon the floor next to it. He released a small smile in the corner of his mouth. He'd wonder how his darling wife would react to a situation such as this, but as a soldier that hadn't seen his wife and children in nearly a year, certain needs had to be fulfilled. Serala was a good friend and although she had many gifts, her most gracious and fulfilling gift was that of her ability to listen. To simply listen and care. As soldiers need a softer side of them lest the wanton blood and battle ruins them and curses them to Sehanine's own bosom. He turned back around to face the stack of papers. Picking up the teacup, Ralnor look a long and peaceful sip of the liquid, it's warmth coating his throat and chest and he closed his eyes, embracing the pleasure and peace of the moment that had been given to him, as they were far and few between. He sat the cup gently back down upon it's small saucer and grasped the first slip of paper. Reading it, it would be revealed to him that the stack of papers were updates on Empyrial positions across Elvhenen, sent directly from the Military Panel in Mithranus, as requested to him by General Virtumal. He leaned back into his seat and read the report. "Ahh, peace remains in Yiywa. General Chaena kept good on his promise, I see." He said as he placed the paper on the other side of the table with the inkwell and pen and picked up another.

Uyuti, Riddenheim, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Nesketos

The Turn Homeward

The verdant hills and manicured plantations of Mylethra gave way to the dense forests of Crotaclea. Cultivation of wood here in no way seemed to impact on just how deep the forest was. The 'roadway', if one could give that name to such a paltry hillside trail, started and stopped at random intervals, with long areas of overgrown foliage blocking it. Not that the army now travelling along said road seemed to mind. The ground was, at least, solid; the road was, at least, sometimes there. As the column of troops moved through the deep, dark forest, they moved around the trees in the way, and simply ignored the portions of overgrown greenery.

The great expedition of Nesketan troops into the lands to the north was soon to conclude. Jaukusu had, with the army at his back, taken two whole regions, Theodyma and Mylethra. The caravans of the army had been supplemented by each incursion - Ikori with thick leather slave collars on, their tails cut from them, carried much of the equipment, food and resources used by the army on campaign, while each soldier carried his own spear, sword, shield. 93 Nesi Natui remained at Jaukusu's disposal, as well as a further 438 vhepasi. The campaign was a positive one. The men laughed at each others' jokes, spoke in excited tones about the kills they had scored on the battlefield, the victories they expected to achieve, the glory awaiting them on their return home. It would not be long, surely.

As the column marched, one of the slaves slowed his pace. Many of these "soldiers" that Nesketos faced were not meant to be actual soldiers, merely the defence militia of whatever small region they lived in. The long-distance marching was not what they were used to. Their tails had been docked, they were considered the lowest among the slaves of Nesketos. The Karku had a mixed reputation with how they dealt with slaves - on the one hand, slaves did have the possibility for social mobility through a system known as the Saca Rasunascas, 'the Way of Hunting', where a slave would be left in the wilderness to fend for themselves and survive, making their way back to civilisation and rejoining it as a citizen. Additionally, Karku often treated their slaves well. But as well as the Karku treated their slaves in some circumstances, they were ruthless in others. One's personhood was stripped away, and they became little more than tools for the aristocrats and higher citizens who could afford them. As such, a slave not performing their duty was punishable. Pazu, Jaukusu's lieutenant, brought out his leather whip. He had ordered it made soon after the invasion of Theodyma, from the tanned hides of the cattle of the region. While cattle had been present in Nesketos-proper, the leather, meat and milk from these ones was of a much higher quality. Pazu unfurled his whip, and beat at the slave, causing a terrible crack each time he brought the whip to bear on the back of the slave. The other slaves seemed to jump whenever they heard the sound. Some had cuts between the fur on their backs from where they had already tasted the whip, while others simply feared what would happen to them if they slowed or stopped while the army did not.

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"The city is here," Jaukusu stated, pointing on a map to the area marked with a black spot, "We know they have lookouts all around, and that the land is much rougher than any we've fought in before. The forest is their home, they've lived in it a long time, developed a great many practical skills for taming it and defending it. What's more, their bowmen are among the fiercest, most elite troops that we've yet faced. Crotaclea has an actual army, not merely a militia."

Jaukusu's two lieutenants pondered for a moment. They knew the rough location of the routes through the forest, but admittedly, Nesketan troops, even the Nesi Natui, were not the best at fighting in dense forest. Nesketos itself had plains and sparse forests. These ones were thick and oppressive. Taking the city would not be easy, even if the Nesketans could force their troops into open ground, which there wasn't much of to be found. Mylethra, with its rugged hillsides, was difficult enough.

"We might win in an open confrontation," Pazu said bluntly, "We have the elite troops for it. But how would we ensure they left their city? It's practically fortified by the forest. They would know, their position is one of strength. Ours is a weakness."

"We know their military is large," Jaukusu's other lieutenant, Lamanuisu, spoke up, "Even if we did win, we'd suffer losses larger than we have yet on this campaign. Perhaps this is where we should stop? Head back to home, return with a larger army on a later date?"

"Even if we did that, would it matter?" Pazu spoke again, "Their lands are so firmly entrenched that we'd have to be willing to sacrifice half the army to attack them."

Lamanuisu paused, continuing to think over the options; "We'd need an elite archer corps, like what they have. Elite archers and spearmen would be able to drive them from their position."

"We have the spears, but only vhepas bowmen," Pazu combed his ears with his fingers in frustration, "Face it - we're outmatched here."

Jaukusu remained silent. He knew what they were saying was correct, as much as he hated to admit it. It seemed probable that the conquest would end here, that Nesketos would be forced to return another day. And was that really so bad? Jaukusu would be received in glory at home, for the conquest of two whole regions. The land area of Nesketos would have doubled thanks to his efforts. And yet, it still felt so incomplete. As if he had only done a half, or less, than what he had set out to do. It was a failure. And Jaukusu could not abide such failure. He rubbed his black cloak in between his fingers, mulling over his options.

Could it work?

The lieutenants caught on to the fact that Jaukusu had an idea. They stood to attention, awaiting his instructions.

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The mess tent had been constructed by the slaves, at the order of Jaukusu and his lieutenants. It was a fairly decently-sized tent, with open walls and a fairly high roof, with a large area. Underneath it, the soldiers sat on the ground, eating their meals for the day. Most ate the beef that the army had brought from Theodyma, while some ate rabbit, and another section of the camp had caught and killed an elk, which now fed quite a few of the men. The soldiers spoke in the rather casual "Soldiers' cant", a creole of Heleni and Karku that most of the soldiers could understand. However, not all of the army was here, just the vhepasi.

The Nesi Natuisas ate alone. For the elite troops of Nesketos, the separation was necessary. There was a mystique, a cultural boundary between the normal troops and these elites that has persisted ever since they were founded. They had their own internal rank structure, and tended not to interact with any regular soldiers, save for in combat, and only respected certain officers. Each of them also had a vial of liquid around their necks - the venom from one of the numerous snake species of Nesketos. They would rub the venom into their intricate spearheads, which had grooves allowing for the venom to remain in there until it stabbed an enemy. But they would also ingest a small amount of it with every meal. For a trainee Natui, this would cause convulsions, illness, sometimes even death. For the longer-serving Natui, however, the immunity they had built up stuck, and the ingestion of this venom caused few, if any, adverse effects. All was part of the training regimen for the Nesi Natui, and what set them apart from the other soldiers in the army.

Jaukusu approached the tent where the Nesi Natui were eating, putting little dots of poison onto their food before they consumed it. Their own laughter came to a halt, as they noticed the General in front of them. One, the de facto leader of the Natuisas on this campaign, stood and bowed to the General, hand on his heart, keeping his cloak close to his body as he bowed. When he rose, he met eyes with the General; "To what do we owe the pleasure, sir?"

Jaukusu turned to the forest, pointing into the distance; "Over that way is the city. It will be surrounded by lookouts and dense forest - we do not know the exact position of these. They have elite archers, and will not leave their city to attack us if they can help it. In about two hours, it will be night," Jaukusu turned back to the Natui, "How good are your men at infiltration?"

--------------------------------------------------

The King of Crotaclea, Eutropios, had received a hurried message from the King of Mylethra not a week prior. Crotaclea and Mylethra had never been on the best of terms, but one thing was certain - the Mylethran King warned of a greater threat than either of them coming from the south. Nesketos. Eutropios knew about Nesketos - the reputation of the Karku was one of cruelty, and the stories of the elite Nesi Natuisas in the invasion of Tragios, what they called Pezpulagi, had sent shivers down the spines of even the most resilient. Moreover, he knew that Nesketos was on the move. The letter from Mylethra had come the day after Eutropios had heard of Nesketos' successful invasion of Theodyma. The King of Mylethra had petitioned Eutropios to join their forces and attack Nesketos. But even had Eutropios wanted to help his rival, even had he wanted to leave the safety of Crotaclean forests, even had he wanted to stop Nesketos before they reached his own lands, Eutropios felt there was no chance. The Nesketans prospered in battlegrounds that offered them position to manoeuvre. Mylethra was just that kind of terrain. Eutropios felt there was the possibility of cutting the head off the snake if he let them attack him. A possibility, at least. Though he didn't rate his chances. Nesketos had razed Theodyma, logic dictated that they would have done much the same to Mylethra. Perhaps, soon enough, that same fate would befall him.

Eutropios' palace stood at the highest point in the city, though that meant little. Crotaclea was a mostly flat region with a shallow incline leading to the west. The 'highest point' of the city was a few feet above the lowest, at most. It was an inland city surrounded by forest. Arguably, that was their greatest defence. Eutropios travelled out onto his balcony, looking toward the forest. How many watchtowers would he have needed for an attack by Nesketos? Arguably more than he had... But then again, if they attacked in a unified formation like they usually did, it wouldn't matter. That was what Eutropios banked on. Though he felt it was foolish to assume they would walk so blindly into a trap.

Thud.

Eutropios whipped around. It sounded like something heavy falling against his ornate, wooden doors. He let out an involuntary groan. He knew it. They were already here.

The doors opened. Three Nesi Natuisas, their black cloaks wrapped around them, with their hoods raised, stood in the doorway. One removed his poison-tipped spear from the body that fell into the King's quarters. Two of them dragged the body into the room, while the third shut the doors. That third one turned to the King and lowered his hood.

"Order your men not to attack, and you live."

--------------------------------------------------

Jaukusu and his two lieutenants rode into the city at the head of the army. First the vhepasi, then the slaves, then the Nesi Natui followed the commanders as they entered, surrounded by an increasing collection of curious citizens and shocked soldiers. The Nesketan army just marched into the city, completely without resistance. Some sparse discussions began, mostly confusion at what exactly was occurring. Those few who had heard of Nesketos' invasions into their two southern neighbours were the most shocked - this did not feel like an invasion. At least, not in a traditional sense. No raiding, no looting... This felt like a triumphal entry into an already conquered city. Perhaps that is what it was.

Jaukusu reached the foot of the steps leading up to the King's palace. He dismounted, alongside his two lieutenants, and began to rise, the three of them flanked by eight Nesi Natuisas and five slaves. The lieutenants each carried a small package wrapped in grey wool, while the five slaves came up the rear, carrying large items over their shoulders, wrapped in green wool.

Jaukusu reached the King's quarters, where the three Nesi Natuisas remained, stood against a wall, alongside King Eutropios, who had taken a seat at a table. Jaukusu bowed to the King, and ordered the slaves to place the green wrapped objects next to the bodies of three guards that already lay in the room. The lieutenants held onto their packages, while Jaukusu gestured for the slaves to leave, and the doors to be closed.

"Eight of your troops in all," Jaukusu gestured to the eight bodies on the floor, five already wrapped in their cloaks as a Karku funerary rite; "They brought down two Nesi Natuisas in the defence of their homelands. All carried themselves with honour, but no more need to die for this business between us to be concluded. If you so wish."

Eutropios remained silent. A lot of questions ran through his head. Most prominent was 'why'. Why did they come to negotiate, when the soldiers who had invaded his palace had every means to kill him?

Jaukusu continued; "The King of Theodyma died on the battlefield, alongside many of his soldiers. All of them, I had their tails docked, and the survivors became my slaves. The King of Mylethra, he committed suicide, leaving his soldiers to suffer defeat themselves. All of them, I had their tails docked, and the survivors became my slaves," Jaukusu gestured to the two grey-wrapped parcels, held by his Lieutenants.

"Nesketan, I am aware of your conquests," Eutropios stated bluntly, "I am aware that you have taken over the entire coast up to this point, and that your soldiers have killed many Ikori and taken many more as slaves. I suppose you plan to take Crotaclea too, and perhaps you will do the same to our people as you have done to those before us. You needn't boast to me of your conquests."

Jaukusu smiled softly, and seemed to relax a bit; "See, I hoped you wouldn't beg. I can't stand it. Nothing displays weakness like begging for life when faced by death. In a way, all of the Kings I have met on this campaign have been the same as you - unafraid of death, to a point," Jaukusu chuckled to himself, before continuing dryly, "If you would subject yourself to Nesketos, I would spare all of the Heleni here. You would all prosper as part of this state that plans to unify the Helenicanta and gain prominence on the stage of Tylos. All you must do is come to Nesketos, and bow to the King as his vassal."

Eutropios was shocked by the proposal. It was quite generous, albeit definitely still with the conquering spirit of Nesketos as prominent. It was a good offer. Or at least, it seemed it.

"Well, Nesketan, I would be a fool to refuse your offer. But I think that you could offer better," Eutropios stood, and paced a moment; "The King of Nesketos has no power. You know this, I know this. A vassal to the King would be less powerful still. Your state, its power lies in the aristocracy. The Thiton, correct? With the Archon at its head?"

Jaukusu blinked. He caught on to what the King was asking; "You're suggesting joining the aristocracy? There has never been a Heleni member of the aristocracy..."

Eutropios chuckled, shaking his head, "No, there has not. But see, you have had every chance to kill me, and yet you have not. Which means that you need something from me, and I believe that it's something I can only give you while I am alive. Perhaps information, maybe favour, it matters not," Eutropios looked back at Jaukusu through the corner of his eye, to see the General staring, mouth agape. The King had figured out this General's game, and he relished in it; "So in order to give you whatever it is you want, I need to be assured that a place in the Thiton, a central place, is mine."

Jaukusu sighed. The King was perceptive and stubborn. Perhaps it was easier to kill the kings and take their soldiers as slaves, but Eutropios was right, the General needed something from him. Jaukusu also knew that if he promised something and then broke said promise, he would be in even more trouble with the Land Court, even than what he already was in. This conversation was like a battlefield, and Eutropios had free reign of it.

"Fine. I will petition the Thiton for this to be arranged."

"Good," Eutropios smiled broadly, "You can help me make my case to them - I will return to Nesketos with you to ensure everything goes as planned."

Jaukusu could not object. The King had played him, and there was nothing to be done about it; "Alright, you will come with us. And we will bring 400 of your rangers with us," the General indicated for his men to leave the King's quarters. Eutropios' face dropped in surprise.

"400 men? Why do you need those for the journey south?"

"South?" Jaukusu turned back to Eutropios, "We're not going south. Not yet. We need them for the journey west."

Uyuti, Riddenheim, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Guidance from Beyond

300-Word Post

Byeolsan, Inner District, Seongyeunja Temple

Shirin closed her eyes. Not that it made any difference. The deepest chamber reserved exclusively for her communications with the Astral Plane was always kept completely dark.

Wearing a simple white robe, showing nothing in terms of rank or power, Shirin breathed in through her nostrils and out with her mouth, cross-legged in the center of the chamber.

It was only the second of a new yearly tradition of only the top Gyunhyeongji clergy in the nation to enter into communication with what was beyond the Veil. Shirin deemed it was important to learn of the general path of the future in order to outline their role in keeping balance in all things, yet it was also in this pursuit of balance that these auguries were to be quite minor. All participants would be called to nothing less and nothing more than a sixteen-day fast and monetary sum of sixteen days’ wages. Whatever information they could purchase from beyond with these would have to do; potentially dangerous visions of the future warranting a sacrifice of an animal, or a worse deed, was completely out of the question.

Shirin exhaled. She swept her hand gently around. Sixteen stands of incense lit in a rosy ring around the queen, casting the floor and Shirin in a reddish glow. What insights did the Astral Plane have for her? What wisdom did the gods perceive necessary for Ryeongse to know? Or would Ryeongse stay in the dark, at the whim of the gods above?

Silence. Even the crackling of the incense all around her faded into complete nothingness. It was as if the silence was waiting for Shirin to ask her question.

“Gods above,” she mouthed noiselessly, "Let us here receive whatever insight you deem proper and fitting for us, your humble servants and executors of your will of balance and harmony.”

Shirin’s eyes sprung wide open immediately. The incense sticks around her burst from lazy smolders into open flame, pillars of bright crimson casting everything in a blinding light. As soon and instantly as the flames sprung, they died, silent smoke climbing idly into the air where an inferno once burned.

Shirin stood, troubled. She scrunched her eyebrows quizzically, standing silent and still in the dark. It was a whisper, distorted and fuzzy, Shirin had received from the Astral Plane. As clear as day the one word was, what it meant completely escaped her.

Dusk. What did it mean?

Uyuti, Elvhenen, and Eskeland

A New Family

400-Word Post

Dongbu Kolkaeguk (Corcaigh Oirthear), the Chiefdom of Moy, the MacCahan Residence

The sun rained down its horrid summer beams down on Manus’ bald head. One of the only drawbacks of living in the mountains was the lack of shade clouds would have otherwise provided.

It was a quiet day. The intense heat made most birds lethargic, something caught by the rest of the village too. Many villagers tried to use siestas to cope with the heat. Some simply resorted to lying in their fields, their homes like ovens by comparison. Even those outside of the village were affected by the heat. Ryeongsean traffic moved much more slowly within Moy, with Ryeongsean soldiers, rather than duty or errands, would stop by for a cold drink and some shade.

Manus himself was sitting on the grasses of his pasture. He had managed to repair the fences and clear dead brush and grasses since the woodkern raid, but it was still empty. Devoid of life. He kept the skull of the bull of his now-deceased herd on a post in the fence, as a reminder of what his cattle meant to him, the loyalty of Ryeongse to chiefdoms like Moy—and the treachery of the woodkerns.

“Boss?” Einneane’s groan cut through the cicadas, somehow. They were louder than ever. Manus turned to see his deputy leaning on the pasture’s fence, her face drooping, as if melting in the heat. She had on a thin silk blouse flowing loose over her midriff, as well as a short plaid skirt, in an effort to allow as much breeze to cool her body as possible. Manus had adopted a somewhat similar strategy, only wearing his linen shirt and wool trousers, rolled up to his knees. “There’s a Ryeongsean party wanting to meet you at the village entrance.”

Manus scoffed. “Guess Moy beer really is the best in Ryeongsean Corcaigh.” He pushed himself off the ground. “Might as well welcome them. They always diligently pay, after all.”

========

“What is this?” Manus shook his head in disbelief. There was a small band of Ryeongsean soldiers and shepherds, escorting a herd of yyaka.

“A gift from General Ro, Chieftain MacCahan,” a sergeant bowed curtly, replying also in Kostuan. “He also expresses regrets over not giving the herd to you in person; he currently is in Byeolsan concerning an important matter. Please do your best to understand.”

“Of course, I understand,” Manus absent-mindedly responded, still unable to believe that a general of Moy’s suzerain would gift him with a literal herd of cattle.

Einneane nodded, racing her apprehensive tongue across her teeth. “Alright,” she called out to the shepherds in Gogwihan-eo, “Let’s get to business.” She barked out some more guiding orders, leading the shepherds as the group corralled the herd to Manus’ repaired pasture.

“Tell the general he has my gratitude,” Manus half-smiled, chuckling softly. “If you don’t have anything better to do, let’s go to the tavern. One of our village mages is doing some work there; let the village treat you all to some cold beer.”

The sergeant bowed, alongside whatever soldiers and farmhands were not distantly edging yyaka past Manus’ pasture’s gates. “I gratefully appreciate and accept your offer. After all, I have heard that Moy beer is the best in all of Sokos.”

Uyuti, Elvhenen, and Eskeland

Passing: Part I

500-Word Post

Byeolsan, Inner District, Royal Palace, Throne Room

The summer sun was beaming mightily upon the earth, the palace’s black tiled rooves both providing precious shade and also slowly baking those inside. The paper windows were blinding with solar translucency, drowning out even the defiant orange flames of the torches along each pillar.

It was a hot day. A hot summer. Thankfully, some Hyeongshinjo attendees did what they could to cool the air through chilled blasts of wind.

The chamber was less crowded than usual. Only half of the consulate was currently present, sitting patiently at the base of the royal thrones. Only a handful of court attendants were present, sparsely lining each side of the hall. Still, palace security stood guard at the usual quantity, intervallically lined from the entrance to the throne. Munhan stood before the king and queen each in their respective thrones. He wore a simple red hanbok, with white pants. It was a piece often worn under his resplendent armor, absent from his outfit today. Behind him was Munsang, clad in dark steel professional lamellar armor, with the usual red and gold highlights. He held his tasseled helmet under his arm, its black and gold strands swaying against magically-propelled cold currents of wind.

“Thank you for coming. I apologize for the unexpected summons but thank you, especially Your Majesties the King and Queen as well as my son,” Munhan smiled. There was no better king in all of the world than Jangyeon, and no fairer a queen than Shirin. Their hearts were righteous and their loyalty to their country, not to mention an old man like Munhan, honorable and inspiring.

“Think nothing of it,” Jangyeon responded. Shirin nodded in affirmation. Both were wearing their everyday court hanbok, far more extravagant than what even the most refined aristocrats could muster but not anything like full regal wear or battle armor. Each was wearing hairpin crowns, allowing their heads to receive more hair than a full crown, tiara, or crown-helmet.

Munsang nodded as well. “To be fair, I did lose a few hairs trying to clear out a schedule for this,” he chuckled.

Munhan chortled. “Finally getting a sense of humor now?” Munsang was never the one to joke around, frequently being the butt of Munhan’s and Munyu’s jokes, likely to several breaking points over the years. Munhan could see Munyu’s smile in Munsang. It was good to see such a spirit live on.

“I understand the subject matter of this assembly of the court was regarding a brief announcement?” Jangyeon cut to the chase. It was clear that Jangyeon valued Munhan as an advisor, mentor, and friend, but it seemed the king was busy. An assembly of the court would need to be just that. This was time also taken out of Munsang’s schedule, despite his jest.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Munhan bowed, acknowledging the need for brevity. He paused, taking a shaky breath with uncertainty yet resolution. “This seventeenth of the moon of Keongcheong, in the 2,502nd year of Wonjungmu, I hereby tender my retirement as Chief Consul of the Won Dynasty of Ryeongse.”

Uyuti, Elvhenen, and Eskeland

Passing: Part II

600-Word Post

Byeolsan, Inner District, Royal Palace, Throne Room

The court fell silent.

“To be frank, for which you will have to forgive me,” Munhan continued, “I am getting old. I do not wish to go to the grave with this responsibility. I have had no problem bearing it, but I am hindering the nation in this state and wish to pass this responsibility along to General So Naehwa, a worthy member of the consulate to succeed me in this office.”

Naehwa was among those in the consulate not present, currently overseeing Hwangsorui Fortress. She was a quiet woman, working hard and saying little outside of what was required. There was a long way to go, Munhan knew, for her in becoming the best advisor to His Majesty she could be, but it was possible.

Jangyeon furrowed his eyebrows, placing his hand on his beard in deep thought. Shirin looked beside her to her husband, trying to read his thoughts and play them alongside her own.

“Of course, if it is a problem, I am more than honored to stay, if that be your wish, Your Majesty,” Munhan resumed once more. Although Munhan longed for rest, he would do what Jangyeon would permit. Regardless of how he took power as king, he had done incredibly with it. His say was final. Mandated by the gods above.

“What is your opinion, General Ro?” Jangyeon leaned back into this throne.

Munsang continued to think in silence. Then he spoke, “If that is what Father wishes, I ask that you let him retire, Your Majesty. He is the finest servant of the royal dynasty anyone could ask for, and he more than anyone should rest when wanted.” Munsang stepped forward, in front of Munhan, continuing with a kneel, “I know my father well. He wishes no offense to the dynasty and thinks foremost of its prosperity. If that means sacrificing his position, then he will gladly do so.”

Jangyeon narrowed his eyes in consideration. “Very well. I accept your resignation as Chief Consulate. I shall thoroughly review General So’s portfolio and will decide on your successor shortly.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” Munhan fully kowtowed on the glossy jet-black tiles of the throne room. His joints ached like Rhilubuan’s fury, but he did his best to ignore the searing pain.

“May your numerous days henceforth be filled with peace, blessings, and rest deserving of a true servant and friend to the dynasty,” Jangyeon responded, waving his hand to dismiss the assembly. The king smiled warmly, yet there was a melancholy behind his eyes. Perhaps His Majesty was saddened at this latest show of his friend’s life reaching its last legs.

Munsang bowed as well at the waist before helping his father up and out of the throne room. As Munhan hobbled past the throne room’s massive doors, down the steps of the royal courtyard, using his sheathed sword almost as a cane, he proposed in an idle hope to Munsang beside him, “I should very much like to visit Dhorvas again and perhaps Uyuti as well sometime. I wish to see Ganai again as well as the Tong princess. I also want to meet the Tong Emperor himself, given his reputation.”

“You have lots of time, Father,” Munsang sternly responded, a hint of nervousness in his eyes. “Don’t talk as if your next life starts tomorrow.”

Munhan nodded, then acknowledged, “Perhaps I do have time. I should visit the physician again and stop spooking everyone.” Munsang smiled a bit. “However,” Munhan turned to face his son, in the bright sunshine of the summer, “if Munyu has taught me anything since his departure, it’s that every bit of this life needs to be cherished. Only the gods above know when we pass over into our next.”

Uyuti, Elvhenen, and Eskeland

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