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The blacklight empire

An Address to Friend and Foe

The flat bottoms of wooden spears smashed against the stone floor, men clad in steel head to toe beat their chests with a righteous fury to a dominating rhythm. Crowned banners in black and white draped elegantly from the stone hall's roof, dwarves sealed beneath a masque of steel, their eyes peeking out through precisely shaped sockets stared forward. Two parallel lines had been formed from the palace hall, the hold of the Emperor and all the way through the streets and ending at the gates of the Imperial City, holding back flocks of citizens, tens of thousands in their mob. The path between the two iron walls that were the Blackiron Legion was filled with hundreds, thousands of men and dwarves, standing soldiers trained and ready to give their lives in the defense of the Empire’s integrity and expansion of her Grace.

The Imperial Legion flooded the street, a finely honed column of pikes reaching for the mountain's roof. Each became another Legionary, Captains rode at the helm of their battalions, a red handprint emblazoned upon their masqued face, matching the feathers upon their helm and silk sash drawn across their breastplate. Throughout the column hundreds of cavalrymen from the southern realms of man weaved between each other, Onyx Knights of Lovinar, Silver Knights of Khivorhun, Red Knights of Alatia and the Green Knights of Frisolania.

The column marched, the people holding solidarity, mothers attempted to push through the lines of the Emperors Legion, calling out to their sons, asking the Living Earth for protection. At the helm of the Imperial Legion was Commander Elrik Blackiron-Carladan, instead of the Emperor themselves. In a time before this, in the time of Throkkrin Blackiron, perhaps he would lead from the front, however times were changing and the Empire is not so tightly held together as it was decades ago.

Emperor Throki sat upon his cold stone throne, rereading the scripture that had been sent to him by the Kingdom of Volgaro. A fist was pressed against his cheek as he read it at an angle, his head tilted to one side as he observed its contents over and over, as he did for weeks. The Council of Blacklight, and its Great Court had been throwing endless accusations and points around the hall in argument for weeks for and against intervention within the matters of Volgaro and Riddenheim.

The Blackiron Emperor could recall the very moments he brought his own opinion to the forefront, tired of the constant political speech and nonsense that they had pressed upon other members of the court.

“I had made a promise upon his Imperial Majesty’s death, over his coffin of stone. That I would fulfill his shoes and more, maintain his promises of peace and stability over our Northwest. A land free from the Imperial Ambitions of the South and the East. As a collective, I ask upon you to aid me in this pact to grant Volgaro its salvation.” The young Emperor called out, the attention of his caught at the end of his fingertips. “I respect the sovereigns and leadership of both great nations, however conflict of any nature between the two distracts us from our covenant.”

“And what of the cost of honoring our agreement? The dwarven blood lost for the sake of lands that are not ours.” A nobleman beseeched his Imperial Majesty, Throki’s head snapping in their direction, his golden crown glimmering with the light radiated by the burning braziers.

“It will not come to that. One sword drawn will keep the other in the sheathe. He will recoil to his Keep at our brandished blades, I promise you that.” Throki lifted his body from the throne, the rest providing a platform for his palms to launch from. “I dedicate the Legions of Venguard and Larendrak to the effort of halting Riddish aggression.” The Emperor takes a step down as if he were dismissing the court before raising his head yet again, as if making another note he had forgotten to speak of. “Of the Volgarans, send word that Blacklight will uphold their right to independence and sovereignty.”

His Imperial Majesty shifts his gaze over from the gallery to his Imperial Scholar, an elderly half-dwarf in brown and gray rags, writing over a piece of parchment upon a flat tabletop. “That is your responsibility, Scholar Aladak. I will write a personal message to Jander, an appeal to peace.”

The Emperor stared at the Volgaran message as the boots of tens of thousands rang through the hall, drowning out the matters of the great mountain-hold. The time of politics was still underway, and in their nature, two messages were sent out to the world, one directed to the court of Volgaro another to that of Riddenheim.

To the gracious Lord Marshal Drovij Van Utreik,

I apologize dearly for my untimely response, the yells and prattling of court stalled for time and rendered me unable to provide sufficient support.

The time of chatter within the Imperial Court has ended, and the Dwarven Empire of Blacklight is ready and able to brandish her legions in support of Volgaran Independence and Sovereignty. Both it will find to be uninterrupted by Riddenheimish efforts.

Emperor Throki Blackiron I, Lord of the Dwarves, Lord of Blacklight, Protector of the Kivorods, Frisolans, Alatians and Lovinar.

To Jander, King of Riddenheim and friend of Dwarves

It is long since we spoke and shared words, in a climate such as this? I did not imagine so. I know not the intricacies of your conflict with that of Volgaro, however the Imperial Court of Blacklight has agreed to not go idly by with the unwarranted aggression towards the Kingdom of Volgaro.

According to our pledge of independence, the Empire of Blacklight will henceforth stand in opposition to Riddenheim, however it need not be this way brother. Come, once more we may greet within Blacklight and strengthen relations, conflict is unneeded between that of Volgaro and Riddenheim.

Emperor Throki Blackiron I, Lord of the Dwarves, Lord of Blacklight, Protector of the Kivorods, Frisolans, Alatians and Lovinar.

Elvhenen, Dhorvas, Saeju, Volgaro, and 3 othersSyrduria, Ryeongse, and Eskeland

Post by Peoples rebulic of norway suppressed by Uyuti.

Peoples rebulic of norway

Do I have to go to the discord in order to go to war? because my last nation said I did

The Prince's Arrival

Main Plaza, Valendorf

It was a day of celebration all around. From all over the country, people gathered in the main plaza of Valendorf to receive their new king. From Nyholm to Skarhamn, all along the way, the people, from kids to adults, even foreigners, lined the streets to receive him, throwing flowers, coins, and just cheering at him in general. But who was the person in question? That was Prince Theodor from the house von Rosenthal, Prince of Vilnau and Herstadt and soon to be future King of Eskeland.

The plaza was beautifully decorated, the buildings surrounding it as well. From banners of the different institutions to those of the noble guests who were invited to assist, pots hanging from the buildings with the most beautiful flowers, pennants, even the fountain was decorated. There was no bit undecorated. It looked like a welcoming coronation worthy of an emperor. The musicians played music and the people danced. Local to foreign drinks were served to everyone assisting. This was but a taste of what the day of the coronation would look like. The atmosphere was one of joy, it made people forget there was a war happening right at their doorstep.

Grand Regent Stefan, and Patriarch Vidar were inside of the Saint Somerled's Cathedral, helping with the last details, the other council members were either outside helping keep order with the soldiers or inside helping Stefan organise the last bits, no minor detail could be left untouched, everything had to be perfect.

"Stefan, my son." Said the patriarch.

"Yes?" Said Stefan, with his typical emotionless expression on his face.

"You seem more distant as of lately, more quiet than ever. I can sense in you anger, remorse, anxiousness, sadness. Is something wrong? Are you nervous because of the prince's arrival? Talk to me, I hate seeing you like this." The patriarch put his hand on Stefan's shoulder.

"It's nothing, I'm fine." Stefan averted his gaze in embarrassment.

"You don't look fine to me Stefan, I know you are lying, and I'm sure you know why that is wrong. Look, you can trust me, am I not the Patriarch after all? I only want the best for you."

Stefan sighed in resignation, "I... I thought I could do it, I thought I could successfully prevent a crisis but instead I caused another one even worse. Many people have died because of me. Mikkel was right, I'm the true traitor here and know what? The prince is going to arrive in a country in chaos, divided like never before. Maybe I should retire from politics altogether, resign my title. How will I be able to face my daughter and wife when I come back?"

"I see... Well I don't think this is your fault and the gods know it too. This was a situation out of your hand, there is no way you could have predicted such an event."

"But I could have prevented it couldn't I?"

"Some things are out of our hands, others are not, but we make most decisions unconsciously, and this one was one of those. You just did what you thought was better for everyone."

"What can I do then? I'm an embarrassment, not only to my family but to the country, I should not have been elected Grand Regent, there were people far better suited than me to lead the country during this interregnum, like Lord Gustav, I truly saw what he was capable of during our last meeting."

"But that he is better than you does it make you worse at what you do? In my opinion no. Even if he was better, that doesn't mean you are bad at what you do, you were elected for a reason. The other saw something in you that they didn't have."

"I suppose, but what will the prince say? He surely will be disappointed."

"Stop worrying about it, focus on the present and what you can do to help make things better, like making sure the welcoming ceremony goes smoothly and if you still have worries, just talk to him and listen to what he has to say, I am sure he will understand."

"I guess, thank you patriarch."

"My doors will always be open for you if you need mine or the gods guidance, Stefan." He smiled at him.

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

The bells began to chime and the fanfare of trumpets welcomed the esteemed guests. The people turned their attention to the arriving caravan of soldiers, nobles and that who led it. Prince Theodor had finally arrived. Dressed in his finest garb, he wore the best Halderian fashion could offer. Alongside him rode two of his most trusted companions and friends, Herr Maximillian Mayr and Herr Sigmund von Lechner, both of them wearing knight armour. They were followed by the Halkerdiers and the Hakkapeliitta. Theodor greeted the people as he made his way to the centre of the plaza where a small wooden stage was set up for him to speak.

The rest of the nobles and council members waited for him there, Stefan, Einer, Gustav, Friedrich and many more. They all greeted him with a bow and a handshake once he dismounted his horse to climb the stairs to the stage. Formalities done, Theodor faced the crowd to begin his short yet inspiring speech.

"I stand before all of you here, not out of request, but out of duty, a duty I now have to not only to lead you, but to serve you as king. When I received the sad news that my cousin had passed away in the most gruesome of deaths, I knew what was about to come, and I remember perfectly that night when I was in my study at my residence in Szlachecka, one of my dear servants came to me exhausted, carrying a message with much urgency, "A message from Eskeland sire!" he said, I took and read it. I cried that night as I also learned of the strife my home was going through, and when they begged me to come and lead, I accepted without doubt. I couldn't leave my home to rot." Theodor paused for a moment to clear his throat," Now I know that for many this may be an unwelcome or a surprising change, many of you here may be asking yourselves, "What will this mean for the future of the county?" or ,"A Halderian King? This country hasn't been ruled by one in centuries!" This will mean many things, many positive things, I plan to move this country forward, but not by myself but with the help of those that make it run, the people, you!"

The crowd carefully listened to his every word.

"Now, of course I am a Halderian, but that doesn't mean anything. Halderians, Skeljaners, Hellige and Norden have lived together for centuries, we are all brothers who share the same struggle that is reality and thus together we must keep working to make a better future, not only for our children, but for the children of our children and all of those who will come after!"
Applauses came from the crowd.

"There is something that many of you have been waiting for me to address, and that is the rebels that try to claim legitimacy through killing. I will make everything possible, and I repeat, everything possible to defeat them, bring them to justice, they shall pay for all the pain they have caused us and the division they have sought in our country. No one can call himself the true king of a country through those actions, only a criminal commits such acts, and like the criminal this Mikhail person is, he shall receive his punishment. This is not an effort that I alone can accomplish of course, this is why I shall ask of you once, help me end this so that we can return once more to normality and rebuild our country stronger than ever!."

And with those last words, Theodor finished his speech. The crowd erupted in cheers, shouting things like "Long live his majesty." and, "We shall follow you into hell and back.", others chanted his name. Morale amongst the people was high that day. No king had been able to entice the people that much since King Gustav I, but that meant good news for Theodor. As the crowd celebrated and the musicians played songs in his name, Theodor stepped off the stage, he was approached by the council members who wished to speak with him before proceeding into the cathedral.

Amongst those was Stefan, who spoke before the others, "Your majesty, that was an excellent speech, I've never seen the morale of the people this high, I can tell by the way they are celebrating that they've never been this happy."

"It was nothing, I only spoke out of my heart, what I believed was what needed to be said. You must be Stefan right? It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance. I've heard great things about you and I must thank you for keeping the country together until my arrival."

"Thank you your majesty, but I don't think I did that great of a job, I could barely keep this country together and the enemy is now stronger than ever, It is also my fault that the welcoming ceremony had to be carried out here in Valendorf. The enemy has surrounded Tidahamn and I deemed it too dangerous to carry out the ceremony, then I thought of Königstad, but it could also be dangerous. I apologise. I don't think I'm able to rule a country."

"No need to apologise, you did the best you could, things could be worse, but you managed it perfectly. Now I want you to give me a full report of the situation after the ceremony is over, I will stay here in Valendorf for a few weeks before moving to Königstad, there I will award you and others a little something, so you will have to wait until then."

"Thank you, your majesty, that means a lot to me."

"Cheer up, you are double my age and here you are, fretting over this like a kid, I should be the one panicking." Theodor chuckled, " But anyways, go call the rest of the people to begin flocking into the cathedral, I was told that is where we are meant to go now. After church comes the real celebration, I want to see you drink at least three tankards of beer, you hear me?"
The men laughed and Stefan finally relaxed, and it was as if all of his previous worries faded away. He did as the patriarch told him and it worked. He would later thank him for it.

When Theodor was done talking with the rest, they all moved to the church to attend mass. The inside was very well decorated, at the end of it was a mosaic of St. Somerled, one of the saints of the religion. When the sun beamed through it created a reflection of colours on the ground. The patriarch was already at the altar preparing.

The mass went smoothly and the Patriarch was able to convene the gods blessing on Theodor until the day of the coronation, which is the day when the official ceremony would begin. The patriarch mostly told of the deeds of past heroes and their bravery, of the saints, the kings who gave it all for their kingdom and finally the gods. The patriarch read out one of Dagan’s and Farehir’s blessing to Theodor, to bless him with the courage and knowledge he would need.

After the mass was over, everyone went outside feeling refreshed and ready to resume the street celebrations once more. Everyone enjoyed it, from the drinks to the music. By the time the sun was starting to set, the majority of the people left for their homes, satisfied. Only the servants and soldiers remained to help clean up. The day ended without any problems.

Uyuti and Ryeongse

MAP UPDATED (April 25th, 2022)

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Onimiski

The Long Trail

The wind was low on the day and it made the heat all the more unbearable despite the cloth that covered their skins. The lack of wind to draw the heat away created a prickling sensation upon the flesh, like pigskins skewered over a raging fire. The air and the heat was like a terrible seductress, tempting them to do the most foolish actions to open their waterskins and empty it on their heat-laden bodies. Most would heed this sensation, but not the Galdestine Nomads.

Drawing their name from a legendary figure, Galdestro The Wise. They have wandered these harsh lands for many generations, riding upon the backs of elephants by eights and sixes around their sides. The herd of gentle giants have provided for them as much as they protected them from harm. A clan was marching towards the end of River Ilkara, where the waters of the White Ocean filter through the rock and the sand of the lands, leaving only a cool, clean, and crisp water that any soul can drink from with pleasure.

But they were not the only Galdestines marching towards River Ilkara, other clans coming from as far to the northeast, where olives grew and sheeps were herded had made their bodies more plump and desirable even to the eyes of outsiders, and as close as to the near west, where they found themselves beset with demons constantly had made them stern and suspicious but skilled warriors nonetheless.

Clan Qandar was the closest clan coming to the River Ilkara, their leader brought them to an early march from the west taking the old ruins of the Imperial roads on the first half of the journey, and then cutting through the Jutted Trenches where the shape of the land provided good shade against the stinging lights of the sun but just enough depth not to find themselves in the dwelling roosts of demons.

The clan had been traveling for many weeks now, they had lost an elephant from a single stray arrow, its rider and passengers were harmed and the cargo it hauled fell into depths of the Imperial Highway. They had yet to see another clan come close to their view, at least the booming sound of a horn, but nothing.

Daraq Eshtar, the leader of Clan Qandar, looked out from the railings, her eyes squinting over the distance as the elephant she was on marched slowly. She only saw the other elephants of her clan, with some dragging large wooden wagons, their gaps sealed with sap, where their belongings are kept. It had been many days since they lost an elephant, and she was not ready to lose another.

“Do.. You… See… Anything?!” Her strong voice launched over the distance, calling out to the others on the elephants. Her thoughts raced trying to recall that memory, she might lose another elephant in the journey. She couldn’t even understand how anyone could have made the shot in the daylight. The rider across her view turned his head and shook it slowly. She snorted underneath the covers of her face. “Nothing.” She muttered under her breath.

She shook her head once as her hand loosened against the railings, and returned to the rider’s seat of the elephant she was on. The gentle giant felt the drab aura as she sat down on the saddle and took the reins. She swung her trunk upward, slowly but playfully. Daraq Eshtar smiled, “Thank you, Dhalga, my dear friend.”

The march continued on for the following hours, there was nothing but rock, dirt, sand, and small patches of brown shrubbery here and there. Daraq Eshtar would see some tumbleweeds from time to time but it was exactly that monotonous constant that was slowly clawing against the back of her mind. Her mother and father had taught her well, her father being a Daraq before her and her mother being a renowned demon-slayer among the clans. But nothing had prepared her for this, by now she had expected other clans to show up. She may have started the march early but she knew very well that the first swell of the River Ilkara was something not to be missed.

She stood up from her seat, and she saw across the mirraging horizon the refracting shimmer of the River Ilkara. Her eyes focused on the glimmering lights across her eyes but the expression of worry did not leave her. She grew up among her own kind, inside the clan and outside the clan.

“Look only around you, my dear. Your people are just around here.”

Daraq Eshtar plucked a memory from her mind, the words of her own mother made her calm. It was a terrible memory that ended with a beautiful lesson. The death of her parents against the demons was just two years ago, it was exactly that memory. And this would be the second year that she would pay homage to River Ilkara without them. Small drops of tears welled from her eyes despite the straight face she held. Dhalga felt this, like every good elephant does, and roared a mellow tune through her nose.

“I’m sorry Dhalga.” Daraq Eshtar placed a hand on Dhalga’s head, while she wiped her tears with the other. “I was just thinking of them again. Papa Surras, and Mama Elqa.”

The elephant roared again, this time the tune was lower and lasted far longer. I miss them too, was what the sound meant. Daraq Eshtar smiled as her eyes looked down on the beast of burden.

A faint sound boomed across the vast stretch. Daraq Eshtar turned her head to her left, where the sound had come from. Her smile widened as she stood from her seat, Dhalga’s slacking reins flying upward making the gentle giant stop in an instant.

Eshtar’s body jolted forward along the direction of Dhalga’s trunk, only barely managing to save her posture, and herself, by leaning backwards intensely. She had nearly gotten herself killed over the sound of another clan coming from the distance.

“Sorry about that Dhalga.” Apologizing to her friend as she sat down, yet she could not contain the excitement inside her. Her heart slowly picked up its pace as she cracked Dhalga’s reins, urging her friend to move forward.

Her blunder did not come unnoticed. Raham, Eshtar’s betrothed, nimbly scaled across from the carriage and into the saddle. She felt his chest press against her back, and his chin upon her head. “What was that all about?” He smirked as he roamed his hands upon her thighs.

Dhalga released a sharp snort. Daraq Eshtar giggled, “At ease, my friend. Raham means no harm to me.”

Raham held back a chuckle. After all this time, Eshtar’s elephant still did not trust him. That’s what made a good friend though, he thought delightfully. “I heard it too, my love. It makes me happy as well.”

“Are you referring to the sound in the distance or Dhalga’s disapproval?” Her voice was cutely bubbling as her eyes glanced towards him with a raised eyebrow.

He snuggled his chin over her head chuckling, “Both, my dear. Both.”

“Did the sound of our horns ever reach them, Arhem?” He squinted his eyes over the distance, his hand gripping tightly around the top rail of the saddle. “I better hope it wasn’t just a mirage, or else we’d be attracting trouble.”

Arhem understood the underlying agitation of the voice of his Daraq, for the sound of a horn with no resounding horn in return always brought trouble. The sound attracted potential raiders, bandits, and brigands who would find an easy picking with a herd of elephants though the Galdestines themselves were not defenseless, it was the kind of banditry they always face. The ones with the courage and enterprise to engage their elephants, always prepared and seasoned for such a task. They were usually poachers, often Khemakh, hired by some wealthy patrons from across the bay.

Poachers never come this deep into the southern lands as his experience dictated, never so close to The Black Fault especially with the threat of demons, but still. Arhem thought that with enough money and courage that anyone could be so bold to mount an expedition as far as River Ilkara, the Galdestines weren’t exactly unknown to the rest of the land in as much as they were not ignorant of the world around them either. It would not be a far-fetched idea that a foreigner would have studied them and thought that it would be here, in this specific time of year, would be a good time to raid them, to steal from them.

Much like most Galdestines, Arhem didn’t come to trust many people outside of the clans. Khemakhs, mostly. Dwarves, much less. He had come to understand that Dwarves aren’t generally a trusting bunch based on his own experience, and they had little interest with ivory and other trophies sourced from living creatures, their quandaries were that of stone and gems. Meanwhile, Khemakhs were proper predators, respectable when possible, but vile in many instances. Their desires are opposite to that of the dwarves, stone meant little to them other than to lick for salts, but bones, meat, skin, and viscera. They hunted for that, and found themselves motivated when a greater reward was put before them.

Arhem turned his head to his Daraq, his hands kept steady and thus the elephant marching steadily. The look was obvious from the face of his master, he wanted to sound the horn once again. The way he clutched his hands on his seat, the way he clenched his other hand as if it were holding a weapon between his fingertips. Arhem’s brow turned inward, his eyes squinted. “Daraq, if you may…”

He managed to grab the attention of his master. He saw the look on his face, it was steady and open for ideas. “What is it, Arhem?” His voice was even steadier than his expression.

“We should just wait until we can see them with our eyesights, my Daraq. Perhaps, they don’t wish to attract the wrong attention.” He bowed his head to his lord and returned to commanding the reins.

Nhuqutt, Daraq of Clan Sullam, Arhem’s master, turned his head towards the shimmering light that revealed River Ilkara to them. He could already see the green patch form in the horizon grow larger. He gave it a thought and conceded to Arhem’s words. “When we see them, we’ll sound the horn once more.” He said sternly, breathing in hard and breathing out gently.

“At least we can mock them for their deafness, my lord.” Arhem made an attempt at humor. Daraq Nhuqutt smirked at the idea. “Then we’ll just sound the horn close to their elephants then.” He added as the idea slowly grew inside his mind.

Nhuqutt turned his head to the horn, it rested upon the railings of the platform that sheltered his flock. It was neatly fastened upon a sturdy branch that can be swiveled to the left and to the right. It was wrought from the tusk from one of the elephants in his clan. It passed away from old age, a worthy way to die. The tusk was pried out of the skull, cleaned with rough grains of sand, and then polished with finer grain, then the tusk was worked out patiently with carving tools designed for just such a purpose. It was hollowed out, and then engraved, and then the necessary holes were punctured. It took at least three years to finish a single elephant tusk horn. Clan Sullam held the best crafted tusk horn, well-tuned, with beautiful engravings, and an evenly shining finish that resembled the shimmers of River Ilkara, and it took seven years for it to be completed.

The longer Nhuqutt thought of the horn, the more he realized that Arhem was right. The horn was beautiful, both in sound and looks. Recognizable to a fault, and so much so that trouble came more often to Clan Sullam because of it.

But there was something else that hid deep within his mind. Rumors that he heard from the other clans, nothing more that he should think about yet he could not ignore it. It was about a coward who had returned to this harsh land. Once driven away both by demons and the other clans. The last of his line, perhaps. Some claimed that he was aided by the shamans and others said that he had hired foreigners to his aid.

Two things were consistent with the stories that he heard; First, was that the coward rode upon a horse whose skin was black as night, its mane flowed like woven silk, and its eyes glowed like the blue moon. It was like a blur when it galloped at full speed, and as enduring as a windswept rockface. It scaled the steepest ascents like a wild goat, and its neigh was like a cackling laugh just like one of the many demons from The Black Fault.

Second, the coward was no coward. Clan Daraq was the most recent tale of an incident involving the death of an elephant. It happened during the day, when Clan Daraq was marching towards the coast of The Black Bay through the old Imperial Highway, the arrow flew from nowhere and struck through the rearmost elephant’s eye sockets, killing it instantly. The elephant flopped on its side. It killed some of the clan’s kin, and injured several more. Much worse was that the wagon it hauled tipped over, half of its contents lost to the earthy depths below.

Daraq Nhuqutt turned his eyes back to the shimmering horizon, he still could not let go of that thought inside his mind. Why would anyone just go and outright kill an elephant like that? There were no scavengers that followed soon after the elephant was killed. It wasn’t rare for clans to have feuds with each other, in fact, it happened quite often. He has seen too many of them himself but often an elephant would only be taken and not killed, the giant beasts prove more valuable alive than dead. Perhaps, he thought, the topic would be raised once the clans have converged on River Ilkara.

He had patiently waited for this in his whole life, after fifty years of self-imposed exile. He stared into the glistening waters of River Ilkara as he twirled an arrow between his fingers. The tide was still low yet the waves were starting to creep forward, closer and closer to his feet. He remembered it the first time he saw it as a child. He was going back and forth, running after and away as the waves rushed in and retreated. His parents were waiting for him on the green patches just behind. He was laughing and giggling along with the other children of his clan, playing with him on the waters.

And now he was the only one left.

He stopped twirling the arrow he had between his fingers and caught them nimbly between his palm as the tip pointed downward onto the sand. For fifty years, he left the land he loved. For fifty years, he wandered throughout Sokos. For fifty years he fought in battles under different banners. For fifty years, he learned the ways of the world as a passerby. Listening to the idle conversations between nobles as a servant. Listening to the tirades of agitated soldiers fighting in a war as a mercenary. Listening to the studious words of Ziist scholars as a curious journeyman. For fifty years he integrated into himself the wisdom and the wonders of the world but never forgetting where he had come from, the suffering he had gone through.

He stared into the clean shimmering waters, the surface reflecting unto him like a well-polished mirror from Rolais, memories flashed as he stared into his ripple-distorted reflection. He remembered when he first stepped into the lands of Namalar, he remembered the indifference he received from his fellow elves. They saw him as nothing more than just another street urchin. Begging, starving, speaking a language they do not know. He remembered serving Rolesian nobles in the Winter Ball as a mere manservant, handing out drinks to pompous folks speaking ill of him behind his back…

“Thinking again, my desert wolf?”

The sweet voice of his wife, Andralla, broke his intense reminiscing. He felt her hand caress his shoulder as she sat down next to him. She looked at him with her eyes squinting just at the right angles, her lips pouting rather pleadingly as she rested her other hand on his lap and her head on his shoulders. He turned his head to her, smiling for her company. Her porcelain-colored complexion contrasted his dark complexion bearing that of a varnished wood from a crafter’s house. His skin was used to the harsh sun-stoked weather of the southern part of Sokos, hers had been turning red.

He dropped his arrow and swept her face with the same hand. Her skin was smooth against the rough scars on his hand, it was immaculate, even when pummeled by strong winds carrying rough sand, she knew how to take care of herself. She was from the empire to the west, Elvhenen, but they met each other roughly a decade ago when he journeyed to The Eternals. He looked into her eyes, it was as blue as the purest sapphire mined from the depths of the Blacklight Empire whereas his was as black as coal.

He could’ve lived a satisfied life with her in the west, and raised their two children there. Perhaps he would have served in the Empyrial army just as he volunteered to join Clan Miratris towards returning to the south but when he laid his eyes in the lost temple, he had realized that this victory was not his to share, but it has inspired him to do the things that he had done during the last five years.

“Yes. My living starlight, as I always have.” His voice tenderly caressed Andralla’s ears, it still surprised him that she had come all the way here, to follow him in his ambitions. He had always felt guilty, everyday, since she joined him.

Andralla's eyes fluttered to a close and her body breathed hard as she felt his hand run across her face, and when it had briefly paused on her chin she drew her hand from his lap and onto his hand, and greedily pressed it further. She kissed the palm of his hand and then placed it on her lap.

“Whatever it is you’re thinking, my love. We will be fine. You. Will be fine. You’ve come so far now.”

Her eyes then opened, did as he always remembered, and placed a kiss on his lips. It was short and brief, but tender and to-the-point.

“Come, my husband. The scouts have just returned, and they have seen at least three clans coming to the river. It’s time that you’ve prepared.”

He reached out his hand, and picked up the arrow he had left down on the ground. He nodded to his wife, and then stood up. He reached out his other hand and helped his wife stand up. The two of them looked into the shimmering waters of River Ilkara, waves were slowly creeping up to their toes now.

“Soon, they shall know the perpetrator of their maladies. Soon, they shall know the shadow that had haunted them until this very moment. Soon, they shall know that Clan Dhumat was not destroyed. Soon, they shall know that is I…”

Then he turned his face to his beloved, Andralla. His face filled with determination and ambition.

“Bordhagtar.”

Eskeland and Brelogne

Post by Sunshinie suppressed by Rolais.

Yello' :)

Voices: Part II

3k Expansion Post

Sorahnpu, Ivory Palace, Rachya’s Bedchambers

Dhoyanha shot up from her bed. Her bed. She rummaged her hands all around her, feeling not the jungle floor of southern Fahuatai but smooth silk and linen. She looked down, seeing not a throne room gown but her nightclothes.

“High Rachya!” a handmaiden who had been discussing matters with her subordinates immediately broke off from the conversation upon seeing the Angfar ruler awake and thoroughly confused. She immediately scrambled to the foot of the bed, fully bowing, while the other attendants bowed where they were. They all were wearing one-piece dresses, beginning at the chest and ending at the knees with trousers continuing to the hock. Sashes and traces of golden articles were neatly tied and arranged around their waists, perfectly curated to ensure no blemish or error in the Dhoyanha’s attendants.

“What happened?” Dhoyanha immediately asked.

The bowing handmaiden sat from her bow, her eyes darting side to side and stammering fearfully. “Y-you fell ill when you had traveled to the Chuyudi Ridge to make peace with the Kerboutay when there was a skirmish, High Rachya. We received you still unconscious and humbly did our best to nurse you back to health.”

“How long?” Dhoyanha turned her head to the window to her right, overlooking Sorahnpu. She could not bear to look at the terrified handmaiden.

“High Rachya?”

“How long?” Dhoyanha repeated sternly.

“One month, High Rachya,” the handmaiden said at last. “You were recovering for one month.”

One month? It felt a little more than ten minutes ago when she had exhausted herself to unconsciousness in Chuyudi. The memories started flooding back. Nheng’s insults. Her collapsing in front of the Kerboutay. The stray arrow. The retreat. And then nothing. And then this. If that was what one month felt like, Dhoyanha wanted to sink back into her bed, as if sinking beneath the ocean, ignoring and abandoning everything at the surface. But Angfaran needed a High Rachya.

“Prepare my gown,” Dhoyanha said at last, turning on her bed and placing both hooves on the polished tiled floor. She fell immediately, coughing all the while.

Handmaidens immediately ran to her side, propping her back up on the bed. “High Rachya,” one blubbered incoherently with fear and worry, “you need to stay on your bed and recover.”

“Prepare my gown,” Dhoyanha repeated, turning to face the attendant, trembling even more now, with large, unblinking silver eyes, as pale and as intense as the sun outside. They reflected the torchlight in the chamber so as to make errant locks of hair over them look as if they were aflame.

The handmaiden opened her mouth to speak but was silenced by her superior placing her hand on her shoulder. “Do as the High Rachya commands,” she softly ordered, with a tone of apprehensive surrender. The handmaiden had no choice but to nod silently and make for another of High Rachya’s gowns. The one from before had been thoroughly ruined.

Dhoyanha started coughing violently. As she hacked away, the senior handmaiden quickly dashed over to her with a silk handkerchief, which Dhoyanha took with a nod of thanks, and ran to admonish the others for standing dumbly around and to fetch some herbal medicine. Dhoyanha forcibly steadied her breathing, wheezing horribly. Her eyes began to strain and her head felt light and dizzy. She kept forcing herself to breathe, slowly and fully, in and out. In and out. Her eyes cleared, images no longer spinning in a head feeling as hollow as an Avernian’s. Dhoyanha slowly pulled the light teal-colored handkerchief from her mouth to see that it had been stained a deep red.

========

Sorahnpu, Ivory Palace, Throne Room

The reign of silence in the throne room even with the High Rachya’s presence was lost to history now. Explosive chatter, violent shouting, and heated debate raged and echoed throughout the halls and pillars, escaping backwards to the open air of the Sorahnpu sky. Dhoyanha’s entrance changed nothing. On her bony frame was a similar court dress as before, this time in dark vermilion, like the blood on her kerchief hours before. Her classic peak-like Rachya crown sat upon her head, neatly braided and secured underneath it. Dhoyanha’s gown matched the redness of the sky, as if the sky itself was similarly splattered in the blood of the sickness of the firmaments. As if Aro, like Dhoyanha, was cursed to have the lungs of a dead woman.

Even as Dhoyanha was seated on her golden throne, the throne room was still chaotic with noise. Generals were bickering amongst each other and advisors were panicking and confiding with even their worst rivals. It must have truly been an entire month during which the High Rachya was absent. During which time Angfaran's war with the Kerboutay exploded back into full force.

Dhoyanha picked up her scepter once more and thudded it against the platform. The chatter ceased almost immediately. Despite this return to silence, Dhoyanha’s face was visibly exhausted, even more than usual. Her patience was wearing thin. Not once under her reign had the court shown such insolence.

“Am I suddenly not worth your attention now?” Dhoyanha began, with that same faint, soft voice. There was a mocking sense of hurt in her voice, although it was still set against a cold, regal tone. The tone was almost like a little girl’s, almost too innocent for the immense authority which it commanded.

The court immediately prostrated themselves fully, placing their horns upon the tiled floor. “Forgive us, High Rachya, for our impropriety,” the front row of the highest officials and nobles simultaneously called with tremulous voices.

“Perhaps I will,” Dhoyanha sighed, curling her hand in front of her pressed lips. She did not consider herself particularly merciful or merciless. Neither did she consider herself a judge spurred only by love or rationality. It was a mix of both. She looked past the humiliating groveling of her people and focused on their sincerity, weighing it against the Rachykhina’s interests. Often, grace would be victorious, although justice had its moments as well. Justice…

“Let this session immediately start,” Dhoyanha announced. “What has occurred under my absence?”

A general spoke up. He was considerably young, for his status; his vigor and bravery were signified with resplendent armor complemented with mighty moon-like horns. “High Rachya, the incident last month has stoked hostilities between the Rachykhina and the Kerboutay. They have managed to rally their forces and have just taken Kadhabruc.”

Dhoyanha grit her teeth, still behind closed lips and her hand. The port city’s capture would cut Rungsomlat off from the mainland. Especially with the Angfar fleet crippled beyond any use after the Retaliation to Sorahnpu.

“This day would have come sooner or later when the flames of war were to be stoked to its cursed fury once again.” Dhoyanha leaned her head back, almost as if trying to touch the summit of her throne’s backrest with her nape. She erected her head forward again. “Have you found and apprehended the stray shot?”

“Yes, High Rachya,” the general bowed his head.

“Bring him here,” Dhoyanha ordered.

“Yes, High Rachya.” The general stood, pointed at a few of his men, and turned, briskly walking past the many pillars of the open-air chamber until he was under no roof but Aro’s. His and the other men’s hooves echoed throughout the silent halls, almost deafeningly.

Dhoyanha waited in silence. As did the rest of the court, under her example, of course. Everything and nothing ran through her mind. She was no stranger to governing both a state and an army under war, but these were skills she had hoped to bury, never to use again. And yet she was calling to them, trying once again to weaponize her utter grief and fury after her father’s passing.

Nheng had spoken of her father’s passing with the scorn of an enemy and yet with the respect of a fellow warrior. She could not use him as a focal point of her resentment. Still, that changed not that her father was dead, leaving the Rachykhina in the hands of an infirm teenager. Dhoyanha could not, on behalf of Angfaran, forgive her father for such an act of treason. Even Angfaran, with its many sins, did not deserve a curse like Dhoyanha as its Rachya. Especially as a wartime Rachya.

Still, Dhoyanha needed to get and retain what supremacy over Angfaran she could muster, always. It was a blessing already that despite worries about her month-long recovery and the Kerboutay conquest of Kadhabruc, she had managed to silence the crowd and still carry authority in her voice that no others, at least within the Rachykhina’s administered lands, would dare speak up against. This was no particular pain or pride for Dhoyanha, although the authority she held still scared her. As if she bore a mountain of porcelain on her frail shoulders that could and would come crashing down with the slightest of mistakes. What responsibility she bore was for the good of Angfaran. Should Dhoyanha let go of even the smallest authority, Angfaran would conflagrate into violence, degeneracy, chaos, and mourning. She would not let that happen. Every bit of power she exercised was for the good of her people. Every attempt at increasing the gap between her and everyone else was for the good of Fahuatai.

So she kept telling herself.

The general returned, his men behind him dragging a chain-bound Gorrin, squirming in fear and against his restraints. He had been stripped down completely save a pitiful loincloth, a visible indication of his disgrace before the court, the Rachya, and the Rachykhina.

The Gorrin was thrown down and compelled to stay where he was, facefirst into the floor, by Khushatryi spearpoints barely grazing his back.

“This is the man whose arrow sealed the fate of thousands?” Dhoyanha raised an unimpressed eyebrow while stifling a cough and trembling lungs.

“High Rachya, please,” the Gorrin stuttered as he slowly raised his head to face the Rachya.

Immediately, the butt of a Kushatryi spear forced his head back down. “You dare to look upon the High Rachya?” a guardsman growled.

“Please,” Dhoyanha called out gently. “Let him face the one who will give him her verdict.”

She descended the throne, leaning heavily on her scepter and the stair railings as her lanky legs, one unsteady hoof after the other. With her weight almost exclusively being supported by her trembling on her scepter, she knelt before the Gorrin, whose face, marred by beatings and tears, showed an almost animal-like fear.

“Your arrow was but fate’s natural course. The day would have come sooner or later when the flames of war were to be stoked to its cursed fury once again,” she repeated. She paused, taking a steady breath in and out, doing her best to fight the entirety of her body dragging her closer to death. “Nevertheless, it was out of your carelessness that led to this development. One of our prized cities is under the control of rebels because of a galvanization you caused. It was by your hand that at a sacred site of peace, a Kerboutay soldier fell. That is a declaration of war. And a declaration of war without my explicit permission is nothing short of treason.”

Dhoyanha stood, supporting herself with her scepter. “Follow me, please,” she murmured to the general standing at the ready. He bowed in acknowledgment and tailed the Rachya. At this signal, his men took the Gorrin by the arms and chains and dragged him after their leaders.

The Gorrin knew what was coming. “High Rachya, please! Show mercy!” He frantically babbled in a frenzied attempt for his life’s salvation only to be interrupted by a crudely tied gag.

“This is mercy,” Dhoyanha turned and susurrated, her lungs still heavy, as she continued walking past the court’s pillars and entering the vermillion dusk. “And this is also justice.”

Dhoyanha continued to descend more stairs, in the open Sorahnpu air, with towering stone monoliths with amber-colored roofs surrounding the courtyard immediately before the throne room. Everything was cast in a ruby light, as the sun dove behind the hills and waters to the west. A crowd from both the throne room and the city itself gathered around, behind a radius Kushatryi guards kept for themselves, other soldiers, the prisoner, and the Rachya.

Past the expansive sea of stones composing the courtyard was a sheer drop, overlooking the splendor of the city’s monolithic buildings and structures. The base which met the wall of the edge, all the way down from the courtyard, was nothing but a large circle of stone, impressed deep beyond even the lowest level of the city. Only a few doors connected to the palace complex itself bridged it and the rest of the city. Layers upon layers of dried blood told an indicative story to everyone, including the Gorrin.

Directly ascending from the bottom of this pit to the courtyard grounds with no rests in between levels, connected by a maze of stairs running in and out of stone, would take five whole minutes. This Gorrin would take far less time going from the courtyard to the pit.

The Gorrin could do little more than make his last noises of anguish and terror behind his gag. Angfar soldiers dragged him to the very precipice of the courtyard. His hooves scrambled desperately at the edge, the only noise before even the amassed crowd, other than Dhoyanha’s syncopated footsteps approaching the Gorrin.

“Awati Leentharipon,” Dhoyanha called out against the silent courtyard, which was interrupted only by the Gorrin’s continuing whimpers. She had used the name told to her by the general. A shame she would only be using this soldier’s name to announce his execution. “The third High Rachya of Angfaran, Sovereign of Fahuatai and Manifest Will of the Lady Aro, Ruler of the Firmament, has by wisdom granted to her from Above finds you guilty of treason against your Rachya and your Rachykhina. Aro’s honor is hereby stricken from you, and her winds shall bring you to justice for slighting her will.” There was something slightly frightening in Dhoyanha’s voice, something even she had noticed, in the Rachya’s airy, delicate speech presiding over an execution. Yet even for this criminal Dhoyanha’s voice was anchored by a pang of condolence.

The Gorrin hadn’t even a chance to utter anything, even while gagged, before the soldiers, in a lightning-fast motion, simultaneously shoved him over the edge. His muffled scream pierced the air, his voice’s volume decreasing before ceasing altogether with a sickly, dull thud.

Dhoyanha approached the edge, dropping her scepter onto the floor. She peered over cautiously with her solemn eyes of silver. The faraway shape of the Gorrin’s mangled corpse was just barely visible in the darkened pit, blanketed almost completely in shadow as the sun dipped behind the horizon.

So the blood on the horizon today wasn’t Dhoyanha’s, or even Aro’s. Nor was it the treasonist’s.

========

Sorahnpu, Ivory Palace, Throne Room

Dhoyanha leaned forward on her throne, pressing both hands against each other and pressing them against her lips, scrunched in deep thought. Set on a table before the throne platform was a drawn map of the lands to the southeast of Sorahnpu, with the city itself and Okina Yama barely on the parchment. The main focus was on Kadhabruc, accentuated with miniature Angfar and Kerboutay banners.

Generals and advisors gathered around the table, stroking their bears and whispering between each other. Breaking a siege would not be easy, but there was only so much the Kerboutay could do with the city it had just conquered.

The map indicated three Angfar divisions stationed outside the city. Kadhabruc did have still-standing walls preserved from hundreds of years ago, but conflict and neglect had largely left its once-touted defensive capabilities defunct. Whatever the Angfar army would face would be whatever the Kerboutay could erect, bring, or muster within only a few days. Likely, Kadhabruc would not be as fortified as the Kerboutay would have liked. Perfect.

What was more was that the Angfar soldiers outnumbered the Kerboutay at Kadhabruc more than two to one. The rebels seemed to divert their forces elsewhere. Perhaps they recognized Kadhabruc was lost as soon as Dhoyanha had rallied the Angfar divisions currently setting up outside the city.

Dhoyanha cleared her throat. The empty court fell silent. The halls were vacant, save for some servants and guards. There was no pompous assembly but this gathering of leaders. “The two side divisions can send detachments to fire some arrows in a ruse at the Kerboutay’s beachside defense. The main forces of each can join the central division to make a direct charge at the defense’s center,” Dhoyanha said at last. She narrowed her eyes. The center of the city’s walls were the most intact, although by no means insurmountable. The city’s walls ended a bit before the shoreline, prompting the Kerboutay to stock up on defenses of these vulnerable ends, as reported by scouts of the Angfar forces having surrounded Kadhabruc for weeks now. Still, a direct frontal assault was risky. The walls would give plenty of time for the Kerboutay to realize Dhoyanha’s ruse, and from the center’s defensive positions, they would be able to drive the Angfarucs out. Worse still, what if the Kerboutay fortified the central walls instead, aware of this possibility?

The generals and advisors stood silently, taking in the proposal. The general from earlier replied with consideration, “It is possible that this maneuver could work, with the limited amount of men we have, High Rachya.”

“It would be an opportunity for us to interrupt what the Kerboutay are doing in Kadhabruc and potentially lead to the city’s entire liberation,” another piped up.

“Still, there is a lot of risk in this, High Rachya,” an advisor bowed respectfully. “The ruse might not work.”

“What choice do we have?” Dhoyanha sighed. As much as she would have liked to muster more men, both time and resources were short. The last few years had not been kind to the Rachykhina’s control over the island. “Commence the attack.”

The generals and advisors bowed before turning to leave, on their way to relay the strategy to the Angfar forces outside Kadhabruc. Dhoyanha straightened her back against the throne, feeling her spine rub uncomfortably against the backrest, even through her gown. This would begin the first major engagement between Angfar and Kerboutay forces since the night that started it all again.

I shall end this war that you began, Father, Dhoyanha thought as she closed her eyes in solemnity. I shall pay for your sins.

Dhorvas and Eskeland

Ryeongse

Refuge: Part III

Copost with Eskeland

Byeolsan, Inner District, Royal Palace, Front Gate

The large, lavish palanquin slowed as its dsen bearers decelerated to a stop. They lowered the vehicle in front of the colossal gates of the palace, set in thick vermillion walls overlooking the, by comparison, ants of its guards and the palanquin’s entourage. As the dsen stretched how they could while still maintaining their professional posture, the wooden door to the palanquin swung open on brass hinges, the dark wood of the door as well as the whole palanquin keeping the nigh evening sun’s heat from seeping through yet with the door-set paper window letting in this sun’s light. Black roof tiles atop red beams and supportive structures also helped against the spring heat, providing both shade as well as a place for decorative tassels of a variety of bright colors to hang.

Holding onto the doorknob and thus extending the door forward and out was a hand. As the door swung, the rest of King Theodor followed as the Eskelian monarch exited the vehicle. The dsen bearers once again bowed at their waists in his presence, while the palace guards, lined against the wall alternating with banner staffs flying the Ryeongsean king’s golden phoenixes, stood as still as stone. Gongs and drums resounded through the air, signaling Theodor’s arrival, and the gates opened, slowly, the behemoths that the doors were taking time and strength to open.

The opened gates revealed the royal courtyard, lined with a sparse yet strictly organized grid of Cheonyanten guardsmen standing parallel from the gate to the throne room’s main complex. A virtual path of men formed for Theodor, signaling for the Eskelian to continue onward to the throne room. Theodor loved the vermillion walls, with windows and pillars neatly alternating in a tidy pattern. The black tiled overhangs, under which beams and supports were elaborately painted in a multitude of colors, provided practical shade for the edge of the courtyard, far from where Theodor, walking through the center of it, was as well as a nice aesthetic touch as well. Walking through the courtyard with all the guards standing there made him feel secure, yet there was something he couldn’t just get out of his head. Theodor was known for being a bit paranoid, and it would sometimes kick in the worst of moments. Having to walk without his personal guard in a foreign country didn’t help either, yet he kept going, he didn’t want to make a fuss about it.

Theodor stepped into the throne room, where he was greeted by the King of Ryeongse who sat on his throne. Theodor greeted him with a quick bow, hand in front. As much etiquette he had been taught about the ways of greeting the Ryeongsean king, he would greet him like he would greet any other monarch.

King Jangyeon accepted this albeit casual greeting. The throne room was illuminated by sparse torches, with the day’s sunlight being let in through large paper windows sufficing. Only a few court attendants and scribes stood witness to the meeting between the two kings, compared to the palace’s full potential “audience.” Although half of the king’s advisory body was absent, Naehwa was sitting observantly at the base of the platform leading to the royal pair of thrones. Shirin’s throne was absent; she was currently tending to her and Jangyeon’s children. Now that they could walk (dash) about anywhere and could form sentences at their age, it was important that someone, someone capable enough to deal with two magical tricksters, kept their eyes on them. Jangyeon had on a royal red hanbok robe, with no semblances of armor but with a golden phoenix crest on his chest and on either shoulder still signifying his regal attire. He wore a phoenix hairpin crown set upon his topknot, each wing sprouting up and out behind the majestic head.

“Welcome to the Kingdom of Ryeongse, King Theodor of Eskeland,” Jangyeon warmly welcomed in Kostuan. Naehwa nodded in silent and similar sentiment. “I sincerely apologize for the state of the throne room as it is. We were only notified of your arrival on short notice, but I hope that your impression of our fine lands, therefore, would not be influenced by the superficial theatrics we had little time to prepare.”

Theodor smiled, “There is no need to worry, being in your presence is more than enough, and your lands are as beautiful as the evening sunset on a summer day, therefore I thank you for receiving me. I must admit it was a bit.. How do I say this? Unexpected, for sure, but I had to do it, not only as king, but also as family. I have duties and one of them is to keep an eye on my cousins in this foreign country, to which I must ask, where are they being lodged? And how are they faring? I do hope they are not an inconvenience. It was a rather rash decision from the council. As soon as the war is over I shall take them back.”

“No, they are no trouble at all,” Jangyeon smiled. “They are lodged in a manor a few streets away from the Royal Palace, but they often come here to study and spend time with Chief Consul Naehwa’s niece, Heonmye. In fact, they are in the east wing of the palace now. I have heard that they enjoy browsing and studying the palace’s artifacts and scrolls stored there.”

Naehwa continued off from the king. “If you wish to see them, would you like me to escort you there?”

I would certainly like that, if I went off by myself I would probably end up in the barracks." Theodor chuckled," Descriptions of this palace truly live to their name. And I would also like to meet this new friend of theirs, I thought it would be difficult for them to learn your language."

Jangyeon nodded, excusing Naehwa and the Eskelian king. Naehwa stood, turned, and bowed to Jangyeon before turning once more and directing Theodor eastwards with a slight smile.

As the two exited the throne room for the palace’s east wing, Jangyeon also took his leave, going through the door at the center of the throne room’s back wall. Down hallways and open gardens, he came to his and Shirin’s bedroom. He placed his hand on the polished frame and slid the door open.

Inside the large yet still cozy room, lit by a few slow-burning lanterns hanging on equally spaced posts and supports, Shirin was sitting on the large bed, with silk blankets and pillows neatly arranged in their proper places. Yeonmin and Yeonae were both sleeping on the bed, Shirin alternatingly stroking each toddler.

“Finally asleep, huh?” Jangyeon chuckled quietly, mindful of his voice.

<They ate and played a lot. Went out like rocks after dinner,> Shirin took her hands from her children to momentarily handsign back.

Jangyeon nodded and sat on the other side of their children, also stroking them. “You missed King Theodor’s arrival. He seems a bit young and rash, yet he seems to be able to bear his responsibilities quite well.”

<Sounds a little like you, a few years ago,> Shirin replied with a smirk.

Jangyeon laughed silently. Then his face fell to a more serious expression. “He failed to mention his civil conflict. Perhaps he’s here to garner support.”

Shirin shrugged, her slender hands, generating a low, warm glow, running over Yeonmin’s back. The boy was on his stomach, deep in slumber.

“Even if he had not come, I cannot simply sit by and watch Eskeland’s struggle knowing that the victor will severely influence the kingdom’s international stance. Should this pretender Mikhail win…” Jangyeon trailed off. He resumed, “Not to mention the friendship between our two countries, from King Karl’s reign over to King Theodor’s.”

<Sounds like your heart is convicted,> Shirin responded. <What more do you need?>

“Still, I think I need to think about it,” Jangyeon sighed, laying down on the bed beside his children. He would need to resume court duties soon, but he needed a break, as well as to seriously consider sending Eskeland aid, even if Theodor had not asked for such a thing.

<Your head will tell you nothing concrete,> Shirin signed matter-of-factly before also lying down and turning to face her husband with determined, intent eyes. She opened her mouth and whispered with nothing more than her nigh-soundless exhale, “What does your heart tell you?”

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

Byeolsan, Inner District, Royal Palace, East Wing Study Hall

Naehwa slid open the door to the hall and gestured for the king to enter, with Naehwa following. The hall was expansive and airy, with tall windows shining light in the L-shaped room, lined with bookcases, chests, cabinets, and drawers. In the middle was an array of tables and cushions. The occasional bureaucrat or capital scholar would enter and exit or roam about the room, but to the back of the room, hidden by the corner of the room’s bend, as Naehwa and Theodor soon came to see, sat Ludvig, Lynn, and Heonmye on their silk cushions, laughing and chatting with a spread of scrolls at their table.

Naehwa cleared her throat, drawing the trio’s attention. “King Theodor of Eskeland has arrived and has wished to see you, Ludvig and Lynn.”

“Cousins, a pleasure to see you after so very long.” Said Theodor with a smile.

Lynn and Heonmye stood up to greet him, Lynn rushing in to hug him while Ludvig was surprised by his visit, “Theodor, cousin, it has been years, ten perhaps? How good to see you, how have you been and Hildegard, how is she these days? Come sit with us, we must catch up.” Ludvig patted the cushion to his side, “Sit here.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

“Theodor allow me to introduce you to Heonmye, Naehwa’s niece, and our friend.” Said Lynn.

“Ah so you are Heonmye, a pleasure to meet you my fair lady, I am Theodor von Rosethal, cousin of these two wonderful people, I hope they haven’t been bothering you much.” He said kissing her hand as per tradition in Eskeland.

Heonmye, having stood with Lynn and Ludvig, bowed formally at the waist. “It is with great honor that I greet you in our fine country, Highness. And your cousins are wonderful people. They’ve yet to drive me insane,” she added with a chuckle. As she stood from her bow, she examined the Eskelian king more closely. He seemed charming enough, with that confident attitude. He was quite attractive as well, as Heonmye objectively noted to herself, hiding her emotions and thoughts with her unchanging, casual face that would make her thoughts on Theodor anyone’s last guess.

“I so hope they don’t, they used to make my parents go mad when they stayed over at our estate, they used to call them Miskunn’s Twins of how devilish they acted when together and of course, I had to take care of them for most of the time” Theodor sighed, “For as much as regret those days, I miss them, things used to be so much simpler. But anyhow, Lynn, Ludvig, I must leave you, I will be spending some time in the country and I shall stay where you are staying, I need to unpack all my stuff. Heonmye, it has been a pleasure meeting you, I hope we see more of each other, I would like to know more about you.”

Heonmye pressed her lips in concern. “Must you leave so soon after arriving? Stay awhile, Highness; we would be honored to host you as you catch up with your kin,” Heonmye found herself blurting out the words before she could catch them. She turned around, slowly and in composed shock, away from everyone while raising her hand over her mouth, as if to catch the sentences that had already escaped.

“Hmm…” Theodor pondered over it for some time before deciding to stay, “Well I suppose I could stay for a bit longer, whatever I had to do can wait for later. Alright why not.”

“There Is a seat next to Heonmye” Said Lynn.

“Don’t mind if I do. I must admit, this is a very nice cozy place for a library. Heonmye then, why don’t you tell me a bit about yourself, where you come from, your parents all of that. I do need to know who my cousins are friends with after all.” He said, chuckling. Lynn and Ludvig signaled desperately to Theodor to not ask those things, “Oh uhh” Theodor cleared his throat,“You know what? Let us leave that information for later, I want to know what you guys were doing before I arrived.”

Heonmye chuckled to herself. What was she doing? She had lost all her composure, her usual suave. She was not even sure how attractive this Theodor really was. She shook her head free of these distractions and answered, “I was helping the two go over their studies here. Ttsynnicist literature can be quite the beast, so I’ve been helping them decipher some of the more nuanced concepts and terms.” Heonmye rolled her eyes. “That is, until they went off-topic, as usual.”

“Ah yes, they used to do that always, but I’m glad to see they are learning something new, even more something as complex as Ttsynnicist literature, I personally like it and have gotten my hand on a few books, very interesting, of course, they are all translated by our local monsu, they are the ones who tend to import that culture to our country, had to away go down to Nyholm to buy them, In Halder is a bit more difficult to find some, and although they are good, I still prefer Halderian literature. I love reading books, novels sometimes romantic, epics, adventure ones.”

“Ah, I’ve only ever read literature from the Hallish in Syrduria and to the west as well,” Heonmye added, bashfully sweeping to her head a loose strand of hair. “I haven’t yet had the opportunity to read Halderian literature from Eskeland itself, but I would imagine the two to be pretty similar.”

“It might seem that way, but they are not, they might share similarities, but in reality is it’s own thing, some consider it a mix of Hallish and Eskelian literature, but there is more to it. I could recommend some from our most famous authors if so you wish, do you like reading?”

“Of course, I’d love to receive your recommendations,” Heonmye beamed. “I’m sure I could read these texts in the original language since I can’t imagine Halderian and Hallish from being too different of writing systems, but I would need to learn Halderian and Eskelian cultural differences.” Taking a look at the siblings, she added with a smirk, “I suppose they can help me with what I’ve been helping them with, provided they can focus.” She bit her lip cautiously, completely ignorant of her aunt, wearing a cross expression, standing right next to the Eskelian King and continued slowly, “Perhaps while you’re here, you can help me too.” She quickly added, “Highness,” at the end of her sentence, almost forgetting to address the sovereign ruler of Eskeland with proper honorifics.

“Oh I’m sure they will. Won’t you Lynn, Ludvig?”

“Of course we will, it’s the least we can do, well, at least when it comes to Eskelian culture that is, I’m not very knowledgeable in Halderian culture, shocker I know.” Said Ludvig.

“What shocks me more is how simple you have become. In less than two months you have both lost your proper royal etiquette, well, not like there was much to begin with” Theodor chuckled.

“Ha ha, very funny cousin.” Said Lynn sarcastically.

“Well alright you two, anyways Heonmye, I’d be glad to help you too during my stay here, that is if Naehwa allows it, there is plenty to learn about our cultures and the duality of them. But I warn you, once you begin you will want to know everything and it gets more complex the deeper you go” He said with a smile.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Heonmye again found herself catching her words too late. She slightly blushed, the only indication of any deeper emotions against her placid smile. She caught her aunt’s wary expression, narrowed eyes almost screaming in silence to Heonmye to be careful.

“Wonderful, I’m looking forward to it.” Theodor smiled yet inside he felt something from the small time of talk he had with Heonmye, but he simply brushed it aside as he had more important matter to take care off. Some time later, Theodor left Lynn, Ludvig and Heonmye to their own stuff before departing with Naehwa to the estate so he could unpack his stuff.

========

Byeolsan, Inner District, Royal Palace, East Wing Study Hall

Heonmye slid a bright red silk bookmark between the pages, its little tassel hanging about. The book’s wood-like leather covers were smooth and caught the light of the hall’s torches, indicating that it was read and loved well. “So the author really jumps into the plot with the father’s death in the first chapter,” Heonmye noted observantly. “Definitely not as convoluted and expository as many writers in the Hallish valley.” She smiled. “It’s… kind of refreshing, actually.”

“Yes, some might find it overwhelming, but I personally find it easier for me to understand the story and the motive of the protagonist,” Theodor answered. “Say, so far who has been your favourite author? Mine is between Wilhelm Bermann and the Ström Brothers, they always make the best tales, but also Johann von Dettinger, his romantic novels are just the best.”

“Any sort of romance novel hailing from the region always seems to just steal away my hours,” Heonmye chuckled. The two were alone, aside from the occasional scholar or bureaucrat needing to quietly intrude to confirm or breeze through some trivial record. They sat at a bench, against the sides of two opposing bookcases, a pile of Halderian and Hallish books between them.

“Von Dettinger has definitely caught my attention and engagement the most out of these,” Heonmye continued. “His usage of prose and symbolism, as well as parallel narratives, really makes you scream over the characters needing to get all of it over with and just declare their feelings already. The romantic suspense really evokes that sense of agony, but it’s the kind of agony that makes you want to keep reading.”

“Quite.” Theodor took out one of the less used books and dusted it off, “You know, I never expected our literature to reach this far, much less get out of Halder, but I guess we are finally getting some recognition” Theodor sat back down in the bench and by accident placed his hand on top of Heonmye’s, “Oh, uh, sorry.” He chuckled, he looked at Heonmye in the eyes and could not take them away, both remained like that for some time before Theodor came back to his senses, “uhm yeah anyways.”

Heonmye rubbed her hand instinctively with the other, as if to somehow catch the fading warmth of Theodor’s hand. The king was quite awkward, despite his prestigious title. Heonmye was not the most professional herself either. Not her professional self, as she had been with Ludvig and Lynn, albeit exhibiting very casual professionalism. “Yes,” she agreed with Theodor’s snap back to focus. “I would contend that Halder literature has earned its place among the great Hallish writers like Strichman and Einwech.” She now placed her hands on a book on her lap. Words in the Kostuan script silently screamed at her, reading The Death of Hesitation.

That caught her focus. “Yes, uhh,” Heonmye gathered, trying to recompose herself. “This is particularly one of my favorites from the river area. It was by a Syrdurian author. It seems to have a style very much like Halderian literature. The title seems to be quite the bold one as well. What’s more, the characters are spun so that they seem like matches for one another. The author masterfully brings them closer together over their hobby, which seems to be a metaphor for the overarching sociopolitical sphere at the time. Seems the Hallish use their constant struggle as inspiration for their work.”

“Our cousins like to use their struggle for inspiration, we on the other hand, like to romanticize most aspects of life, from the declining chivalry to the debates at the estates, it’s our way of life, but anyhow Heonmye, it is getting quite late and unfortunately Ludvig is in Ryiongsai… Ryongsai… Ryogangsai! Yes, you must excuse I still find it difficult to pronounce these names and Lynn is in Malpyeoro, I think I got that one right, what I’m trying to say is, would you help me get to the estate, I still don’t know how to properly navigate this city, took me hours to arrive here. I also have a little gift for you.”

“Sure, I’ll be happy to escort you,” Heonmye smiled. Happy? Heonmye was terrified. A nervous wreck, although she had managed to recover her cool facade and grinned professionally at Theodor as she stood, books in hand, and led Theodor from the East Wing. “As for your gift, let’s entertain it when you’ve arrived at the av Varberg estate,” she winked.

========

Ryeongse, Inner District, av Varberg Residence

The walk to the av Varberg Residence was quiet. It was already night by the time they arrived, the blue-as-sapphire moon shining confidently above and casting everything beneath it its indomitable azure glow. Heonmye and Theodor had walked in silence, not out of awkwardness but out of something deeper, something closer. There was no use for words. As the two approached their destination bit by bit, especially after leaving the palace grounds, Heonmye leaned against Theodor’s arm, taking his hand in hers.

When they arrived, Heonmye spun around to face him, still holding his hand. “We’re here,” she chuckled quietly. “I wonder if Lady av Varberg’s still awake at this hour. Hopefully you won’t be interrupting her sleep.”

“She is still here? I thought she had left for her ‘home’ by now, well, as long as we don’t make much noise I am sure it will be fine, come on let’s go.” One of the Königsgarde that stood guard recognised Heonmye and when he was told that was the new King of Eskeland he bowed, he then allowed them to go inside. Inside the residence Heonmye sat on one of the chairs and awaited for Theodor to come back with the gift she was promised. Back came Thodor with the gift, “Here, this is for you, this is a book Die Geschichte von Halder or The History of Halder, it’s a book about the history of the Halder region and other interesting bits regarding Eskeland as well, like a proposed renaming of the country and finally a Seidel, know as a Stein in Halland. This one is decorative and it is made of porcelain, it depicts many aspects of Halder. I was going to give it to Lynn and Ludvig but I am sure you will like this more, you can display it at your residence.”

Heonmye received these gifts, slightly encumbered by the book and mug. “Thank you, sire,” she curtsied. She paused, turning her face away slightly. Her face blushed bright red and she bit her lip. No time like the present, she rang through her head. “I have a gift for you, too,” she added, her voice trembling with apprehension. Before Theodor could say anything, Heonmye rushed forward, tiptoed, and planted her lips on the Eskelian king’s. Her hair flowed over Theodor’s shoulders from the momentum of her rush towards him, catching the moon’s light and reflecting its sapphire gleam. She pulled away, slowly, yet with fear. The scarlet in her cheeks had been completely chased away with a pale white. Her eyes darted from side to side, and she was trembling. What had she done?

Theodor’s heart exploded like fireworks and his brain shut down, only emotions that he had growing inside of him let loose. From that moment on he could finally confirm what he had been pondering over the last few days, he was in love with Heonmye, and all it took was a kiss to confirm it. He could see her panicking over what she did, who wouldn’t? He only told her, “Why did you stop?” Before pulling her into an embrace and kissing her back, except that this kiss lasted more and they could experience and explore the feeling they had for one another. Still embracing and kissing, the two stumbled inside the residence, never to emerge for the rest of the night.

========

Byeolsan, Inner District, av Varberg Residence

Heonmye’s arm felt something warm. Her eyes darted open to see a still-sleeping Theodor, and her arm was on his bare chest. He seemed to be wearing nothing except the blanket that covered them both. Heonmye soon realized she was as well.

She sat up, clutching the blanket over herself, and threw her head to the window. A warm, golden glow shone back from outside. Her eyes grew wide in silent realization.

It was the next morning. And Heonmye had just slept with the king of Eskeland.

Dhorvas, Syrduria, Eskeland, and Straulechen

The Story of Saint Finnian
Finnian was born in Gartán, the fourth son of a local shepherd. Indeed he spent many of his early years shepherding sheep across the plains of Muscraí. In his adolescence he was sent to the monastery of Mainistir Tímoilingin to the school of Naomh Éanna. Amongst his fellow-pupils were Comgall, Ciaran, and Canice.

For a time he put himself under the instruction of Naomh Berchan at the monastery of Cill Chré, until a violent distemper broke up his fraternity. At this time in the Goidelic lands there was a great divide in the holy classes, many debates and even those which ended in violence were common occurrences at Druidic gatherings. Many holy houses and monastic schools were beginning to schism over a new religion emerging, the old order of Cromic Druidism and the newer form of Goidelic Iskrenism. This was a Goidelicised version of Iskrenism as it was in other nations, the story of its emergence in the Kingdom of Nemed is one which I shall tell to you all good readers.

Seven years before this great schism in Goidelic Druidism, Brother Finnian had set up several schools for young pupils at Durragh, Ratheó and Drom na mBó. At this time, another notable holy man was Naomh Columb, who owned a specially valuable copy of a rare ancient Druidic manuscript, which Naomh Columb had copied in secret some years earlier fearing refusal of permission to copy, such was the importance of this holy book. Finnian demanded the copy that he may study and copy it’s teachings, that he may teach his pupils, but Colum declining to surrender it, the matter was referred to King Murchad Mac Elloch Mór, son of Muiredeach, who pronounced the decision: “To every cow belongeth her calf.” King Murchad. said, arguing that the book was in Columb’s custody.

“This is an unjust decision, O King Murchad,” said Finnian , “and I will avenge it on you.”

Murchad took great offence to this threat on his life. Matters were aggravated when King Murchad attempted to have Brother Finnian seized and dragged away by his arms. Tensions were worsened when one of Murchad’s men murdered a young pupil who had fled to Finnian to his defence.

In his miraculous escape from the encounter with King Murchad, he fled across the wilds of Nemed and even into the eastern mountains of Corcaigh where many sympathetic monasteries gave him sanctuary. In the wilderness of his journey he is said to have composed the beautiful hymn commencing,

“Alone am I upon the mountain,
Iscrán, King of Heaven! prosper my way.”

Finnian’s kinsmen back in Gartán took up the quarrel, and frightful carnage ensued at the battle of Mainisir Cáis, where many of King Murchad’s men and Finnians kinsmen were slain, yet no victor emerged as the battle was halted when Finnian called for the fighting to end. Repentant at being the cause of so much bloodshed, Finnian sought the counsel of Erenagh Molaise, a trusted and respected holy man who advised Finnian to go into exile, and thus he went.

Finnian left the land of the Goidels to visit many Iskrenist sites across Sokos, where he found many small Goidelic schools being set up, some of which he founded himself, to allow Goidels religious refuge.

Traveling across the continent with a band of devout followers, both holy men and warrior companions, all exiled from Nemed. Brother Finnian and his Goidelic followers next destination was west, to Riddemheim, where he had hoped to speak with Patrarc (Patriarch) Valken Bartke Keisel, Árd Prealáid (High Prelate) of Riddenheim. He held theological council with the Patriarch of Cursna and. From end to end, Finnian and his followers established monasteries whose occupants ministered to the religious wants of the people. In Syrduria, several Goidelic schools were set up under the grant from local officials and sympathetic Patriarch’s. Here Iskrenist religious texts were translated into Goidelic, such as the Leabhar na hAnba (Book of the Greatest) and Leabhar an Tairngire (Book of the Prophet)

The Miracle of the Curing of Fergus
In 345 ATF Finnian had become a respected holy leader in this new religious movement. Whilst he taught at a Goidelic college in Riddemheim near the holy Mount Armatov, a great sadness came over the land of Nemed. Not long after returning to his family, the royal house of Mac Elloch Mór, the youngest son of King Murchad fell deathly ill. This was most unusual because the boy had always been strong of limb and good in health.

Fergus, youngest son of Queen Brigid and King Murchad, was sent to her education on the island monastery of Inishgall, under the teaching of Ciarán Ó Maolmara, Erenagh of the monastery. He learned to get used to life in a monastic site, had made good friends but always longed to leave the confined island. That was until one day, after five years of education, he was brought back to live with his family again in Fornaght. Both of his parents were overjoyed to see how much their son had grown, and his youthful presence brightened up the halls of Fornaght. After all, King Murchad and Queen Brigid had already lost their eldest son, who was killed from wounds sustained in battle. Fergus wasn’t even born when his eldest brother died. Fearghal, the eldest surviving son of King Murchad was recently elected Táiniste, or heir to the kingdom. This is why young Fergus was recalled from his education so that he might be under the close protection of his clan, Mac Elloch Mór.

Fergus adored his older brother Fearghal, and although it had been years since they had last parted, it was like nothing changed. After settling back into his families stronghold in Fornaght, he often went on the hunt, fished or played imíocht (a Goidelic game involving a small ball and ash stick) with his old friends, the years he had spent away had really made him more independent, and it wasn’t rare that he would sneak out after dark with his friends woe perhaps a young girl he fancied. All the same, life was good back with his family. He lived in constant awe of his father, King Murchad, and felt very content every time his father had admired how proud he was of his youngest lad.

One certain week, after sustaining a minor injury in his favourite sport, Prince Fergus began to take to the bed and suddenly became terribly ill. Learned men from around the country to see if they could remedy the lad, once a strapping young fellow now a mere husk, yet none seemed to help. King Murchad and Queen Brigid were distraught. The thought of losing another son, let alone their young Fergus, was nearly too much for the parents to bear. Fearghal spent days searching the kingdom for some sort of remedy, fruitlessly, or so he thought.

One night, as Fearghal and his companions rested near a wood in the lands of the Mac Murroughs, a man visited in the night, wishing to speak with Prince Fearghal. The man was Finnian.

“Finnian of Gartán. Brave of you to show your face in the kingdom of Nemed.” Prince Fearghal said. “You were exiled, fortunately for your life.”

“I would not be here if I did not have a purpose greater than my mortal life.” Finnian replied.

Fearghal store on blankly, was this some more of the spiritual teachings which led to the exile of Finnian.

“Your brother, he is nearing death's door.” Finnian said. Fearghal was momentarily silent as to how did this man, exiled from the kingdom for years, know what was going on within the close confines of Fornaght.

“And how did you know of thi-“

“Give me one chance, Fearghal. Think of your brother. I can help him. What other choice have you?” Finnian almost pleaded. Fearghal stood silent, he was right, he had no other choice than to trust him.

“If there is any malpractice, or treachery, or if his condition worsens, I will boil you alive, Finnian. But if my trust in you is proven by your actions, you will never worry about a thing for the rest of your life. I mean it.” Fearghal swore with a mad glare.

“I promise you, if you trust me the boy will live.” Finnian said, and so the company left for Fornaght with haste. King Murchad had spent many evenings out hunting, just to get away from seeing his deteriorating son. At least there would be no confrontation between the King and Finnian yet. Fearghal led Brother Finnian to young Fergus’s chambers.

There he lay, once a strapping lad for his age, atheistic and agile, now was just a skeleton of his former self. The boy, twelve years of age, looked closer to death than life. Brother Finnian sat on his bedside, grasping his frail hands in his own. Fergus was unconscious, he had been for days now, but he was still breathing, barely at that.

Finnian asked for those in attendance to leave the room, and hesitantly Fearghal gave a nod to the guardsmen ushering them outside the chamber door. Fearghal sat on the other side of Fergus’ bedside, opposite Finnian, who clasped young Fergus’ hands and whispered prayers and incantations in his ear. Fearghal sat silently, watching with extreme focus on what Finnian was doing. In the hours that passed in that room, Fearghal often imagined if this was all a hoax, and how Fearghal’s father King Murchad would be furious when he returned to find Brother Finnian with his dying son. But Fearghal had little choice, and so they sat there for hours in a tense quietness.

When dawn arose news had reached the castle that the King was returning with his hunting party. Upon dismounting his horse King Murchad’s weapon and arms were taken away by his horseboy.

“How’s Fergus?” King Murchad inquired as he entered the castle.

“He…he’s with his brother, Fearghal, your grace.”

Murchad knew people. He knew something was up straight away just by the tome of the stewards' voice. Storming into the keep and marching up the spiral steps of the tower house, he looked down the corridor to see a few of his galloglass guards around his wife, Queen Brigid who was in tears, not of sorrow but of shock and joy.

“What is the matter of this?” King Murchad said, his brow furrowed.

“Look, it’s our Fergus…” Brigid could just utter before wiping tears from her cheek.

Murchad wasted no time and entered Fergus’ chambers, where he didn’t know what to expect. But to his disbelief, there he saw laying on his bed, his eyes had opened and he was able to speak once again. Murchad almost leapt on the bed, his boy was alive.

“Da..” was all the weakened Fergus could muster up the strength to say. A slight smile appeared across his sickly face.

“My Fergus. I knew you’d come back to us.” Murchad said, tears in his eyes, gripping his sons shoulders a bit too tightly.

“Ach! He’s already scoffed up a venison stew for his breakfast!” A familiar voice informed Murchad that his older son Fearghal was also present in the room, with his brother.

“What happened Fearghal? What did they do? When I last laid eyes on Fergus my heart was broken. I thought I was to lose another of my own. How? How did ye save him?” King Murchad asked, fixated on how much Fergus had recovered.

“It was him, father, it was Finn.” Fergus said sickly, smiling over at the fourth man in the room.

Finn. King Murchad looked over to see an old familiar face. It was Brother Finnian. The last time the two men had been face to face was many years ago, when there was a confrontation between Brother Finnian and Brother Cloumb over an ancient text, but Finnian was so insulted by Murchad’s decision not to allow Finnian to copy the manuscript drove him to anger, as aforementioned in Finnian’s tale, this was the initial cause of his exile by the very man who ordered it.

Murchad stared at Finnian for a moment, not knowing what to think. How was this possible?

The silence was deafening. Murchad to stand and face Brother Finnian, who maintained a calm and neutral expression. He was clearly fatigued, having been at work the whole night through.

“The last words you said to me, Brother Finnian, were that you would take your vengeance upon me.” Murchad said plainly.

Brother Finnian fell to his needs and bowed his head low. “I have come to give you my apology. Needless blood was spilt on my behalf, and I have still not forgiven myself for it. Something within me told me to return, and my purpose has now become clear. King Murchad, I beg your forgiveness.” Finnian said, not caring if he was to be put to death or not.

Murchad picked Finnian up by his shoulders, and embraced him. He could say nothing, with tears in his eyes, but Finnian could tell Murchad had forgiven him.

“You saved my boy, Finnian, I am forever in your debt.” Murchad said with a rare smile, before looking over at his young son.

“My boy, I thought I was to lose you, but I was blessed today.” Murchad said, “there are too many questions for the minute. The word must be spread, and celebrations for this miracle!”

Brother Finnian looked at Fergus laying in bed. “There is but one more thing that must be done, your grace.”

“Go on?” Murchad inquired.

“He must be blessed in the holy waters, his souls must be cleansed of the evil spirit which had corrupted his pure body.” Brother Finnian explained.

“I’ll have it organised by this time tomorrow, or as soon as young Fergus is able to. Finnian, you and I have much to discuss. Please see me after, I would like to spend some time with my sons.” Murchad said, before sitting back down by Fergus.

“Of course, King Murchad. I look forward to it.” Finnian said, before bowing to the three Mac Elloch men in the room before leaving. When Finnian left his chambers, Queen Brigid leaped at him and embraced him. She had no words for gratitude.

“Name a price and I will pay it, I will repay what you have done for us.” Queen Brigid offered desperately Finnian nodded and turned away, “-I shall return in a couple of hours to check on young Fergus. I am not the one who saved your son. Thank me not, my noble queen! Holy Íscrán (Iskrine) saved Fergus, not I. Let us speak on this later, farewell your highness.”

Art MacMurrough and Brother Suibhne
At the remote holy well of Naomh Fionn Barra the Beekeeper, high in the wooded hills near Liosnaré, in the land of MacMurrough Mór, one of the strongest Goidelic clans and rivaled by another sept, MacMurrough na Tuadh, a small temple stood to honour the plot of land on which the Naomh (Saint or Holy man) had lived. There was the outline of a round building said to be his house, and a few other stone structures which were almost fully reclaimed by nature. It was a beautiful spot, a holy place, you could even feel it in the fresh air, high overlooking the valley of Ossraí, and the towns of Cillceannaig and Ross-na-Bannagh in the distance.

But it's beauty was not the reason that Art MacMurrough had come. Art, son of Fiach Dubh chief of the MacMurrough Mór clan, was only a youth, but a clever one. He was cunning, curious and caring, much like his father in his youth. Art journeyed up to Naomh Fionn Barra’s well regularly to visit a Druid known as Suibhne, as often as he could, for although Art was the son of a great Chieftain, Suibhne was a wise well learned hermit who dedicated his entire life to Crom and learning. He also spoke of these radical prophecies about one named Íoscrán, or Íscrán, Iskren in the modern tongue. Art had found much of a friend in him, and he gave good council, Suibhne was over ninety years of age, and Art thought him to be an ancient relic, and an unlimited source of knowledge.

Quietly approaching the peaceful temple with the sun on his back, Art unstrapped his scian from his belt and left it by the temple door, before going inside. The dark temple was solemn and smelled of burning incense. At the head of the temple, the elderly Druid stood facing the alter, with his arms outstretched, his closed eyes looking towards the stained glass behind the alter.

Art watched on from the back, his arms folded watching on with interest, not wanting to interrupt the prayer. A moment of silence went by before the druid's old voice was heard again.

“Who comes to me, in the temple of Crom?” His tone was unconcerned.

“Tis I,” Art said stepping forward from the back of the temple. “Art MacMurrough, holy father. Peace be upon you.”

Rath Crom ort, Art MacMurrough.” Suibhne said with an aged but glad expression. (The grace of Crom upon you) “And a blessing on all your kinsmen.”

“I have a question, holy father.” Art said, coming closer. He took the Druid by the arm and led the blind man out of the temple to Suibhne’s small dwelling, where Art lit a fire.

“Where’s giolla Fenán?” Art asked, before blowing on the flame that spread through the dead kindling.

“He's out with the others, fishing down in the Géragh.” The old Druid explained, giolla being a young servant of a Druid. “What brings young Master MacMurrough? You are troubled, I can tell.”

“I need holy guidance, Suibhne.” Art said almost pleading.

Old Suibhne’s wrinkled features formed a smirk. “I know of what troubles you, Art Óg, the great division of the Druidic orders is very concerning to us all. The people here do not understand Íoscrán, yet, but soon they shall.”

Art sighed, hoping for a different answer, he listened to the Druid speak on.

“You are but a young man yet, Art MacMurrough, and more worthy than most, but you must make your own decisions. Your family may be greatly divided by this, or brought together. Only time will tell, Iskrenism in Goidelic lands is a very different thing, but only over time we will gain more knowledge.”

“I feel as if I am disobeying my forefathers by forsaking Crom.” Art said with his head buried in his hands.

“Crom is not forsaken, young Art. Come to my monastic school and I will teach you the new way. Don’t worry about it, it takes time for one to understand.”

Later that night young Art cried and cried, thinking his father and kinsmen would scorn him if he adhered to this new Goidelic version of Iskrenism. But I told myself that Crom has a reason for everything. Maybe he was just a servant of a greater being?

Art stood up, “Thank you, Suibhne, I shall speak to you soon.”

“Crom’s blessings, young Art. And! Do not forget to come to my sermon! Your time will come, your time will come.”
Art thought hard about what the druid had said to him, and back in Fethard’s great hall where he would undoubtedly spread the news of this new Goidelic version of Iskrenism.

Aelythium, Dhorvas, Riddenheim, Syrduria, and 3 othersRyeongse, Eskeland, and Straulechen

MAP UPDATED (April 30th, 2022)

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Syrduria

Count Josef’s Field - Part I
Copost Prompt Competition
Copost with Straulechen

Count Josef of Halbenstein stood calmly, his arms crossed and a faint smirk on his face, as he contemplated the field before him. His servant, Sir Rupert von Hirschtal, stood by him, bearing an expression similar to that of his liege. The two were atop a small hill overlooking the nearby plains and meadows, their eyes fixated on the nearby city of Leuchstal, which straddled both banks of the small Roer River, the grand spire of the settlement’s cathedral towering over the surrounding lands like a watchful guardian. The Count’s gaze turned to the road just below the hill, where his men—and those of his allies—marched. Nearby, the remnants of a camp were evident; poorly torn down tents, an abandoned wagon or two, the remains of a few camp fires, and churned up dirt and ground, places formerly occupied by great bombards and cannons. The Syrds had left in quite a hurry it seemed.

The Count, a man of the age of thirty, was dressed in a white doublet, covered in small fine cuts that revealed a golden fabric below. His chest, though, was covered by a steel cuirass, which was there mostly for show, for he wore no other armour under that. His legs, on the other hand, were dressed in a fine green hose, and he wore narrow-pointed shoes to cover his feet. His bronze brown hair, cut to just below the ears, was adorned with a red felt hat, nestled comfortably atop the man’s head. His posture was relaxed, and he moved with an energetic vigour, as if he had just become Count and was still a man with few hairs on his chest. For Josef, this was not the case. His father had died of sickness when he was young, and his early years were wrought with enough turmoil for him to grow to be an experienced ruler. Yet his enthusiasm, his confidence, his charisma, his pride—they had not waned during the years. If anything, they roared like a growing fire, especially now, as he commanded his men-at-arms to battle against the Syrds.

“What do you think Rupert?” Asked the Count, turning to his servant. The knight, older than the Count, looked at the marching army below them, then stole a glance at Leuchstal, its proud image invoking thoughts within his mind, which he proceeded to say aloud.

“We certainly gave them quite a fright. They’ve abandoned the siege with their tails between their legs!” He chuckled, remarking at the fact that the enemy had departed Leuchstal upon hearing of the impending Hallish army sent to relieve the city.

“So it seems. We should pursue, no? Give chase before they’re on the other side of the Geber.” Suggested the Count, his spirit rising as his thoughts turned to battle. His defeat at Uzhental the year prior had not been forgotten, and the Count was indeed motivated to make up for his loss, and the shame he had incurred in front of his vassals. “I would like to get back at them now that they’re the ones with their backs turned. Make up for lost pride, you know.”

“Of course. We should follow them. I heard they’re still not too far from us. Perhaps if we can make them give battle…why we could rout them in a good fight!” Exclaimed the knight, his mind too brightened at the prospect of the glory that could be achieved.

The two heard the sound of trotting behind them, and they turned to see Landgrave Jan Sigismund dismounting from his horse, accompanied by a few of his servants, who helped him down to the ground. The Landgrave was a much older man than Josef, who reckoned he was on his last days. They had fought together against Duke Martyn the past year, and were at the meeting in Grafsburg as well. While Josef had thrown himself into the League without much thought, the Landgrave had acted with more caution, though in the end he had still put his seal on the parchment along with Hans Albrecht and the others.

Leuchstal was his city, and so were the lands that both the Syrds and the Hallish were marching through. When the Syrdish Count Jakob and his army of mercenaries, having crossed the Geber by way of pontoon bridges, crossed into his Landgraviate of Eltenhof and besieged Leuchstal, the aging nobleman had taken up arms once again, and joined forces with Count Josef, aiming to relieve the prized city, arguably the capital of commerce in his domains. Now it seemed that they had succeeded—Leuchstal had been relieved, the siege abandoned—but he was certain that battle was not far off. They would have to pursue, after all, and he had just heard that the Syrds were closer than thought. He had no doubt that his allies would propose battle.

“Ah, Jan Sigismund!” Greeted Josef, making a short curtsy, as did Sir Rupert. “You came at the right time I’d say, me and Sir Rupert were just discussing the campaign. We think it would be wise to pursue.” He explained, and the Landgrave’s wrinkled face twisted into a wide smirk, the old man not surprised at all by Josef’s decision.

“Indeed, Your Grace, indeed. I have just heard from my scouts that the Syrds are closer than we thought. Perhaps they were bogged down trying to cart those great bombards of theirs.” He remarked, and Count Josef smiled.

“It’s just past dawn.” He commented, his eyes turning to the sun, which had only just begun to rise high into the sky. “We have enough time to catch them today, perhaps. And if not today, then tomorrow.” He said, before he turned around, looking back to the road below of marching men. “Now where is the Palsgrave?” He asked.

Airmanreik grunted from atop his mount, his eyes weary on the hill before him, the small figures no doubt of the men he’d come to rely on in these desperate times. He wore that plain doublet over a thick wool shirt and thick breaches, with a cloak dangling from his aging body. The march had contributed to his condition, but he felt the Greatest’s call looming over him even now. He’d felt uneasy the whole journey, two of his son’s, his heirs in company, along with four thousand of his own men, two thousand cavalry, the rest foot. The men sensed the coming battle, its cloud swallowing the land, alike to the days of Heinrik, he pondered.

Beside him rode Leudbold, his face prickled with the beginnings of a beard, his eyes heavy with the burden he carried, the torch he would have to walk with when his father drew his last breath. He wore plate armor, though lighter in build, his stature not strong enough to handle the heavier armor of his brother Heinrik’s set, or even the poorest of knights. He did not dwell on his disadvantages, knowing he’d likely not fight in the battle, if one was to come. Still, he thought he should look the part of the soldier, even if he was no soldier.

Heinrik strode atop his horse like the King’s in the legends, his hair blowing gently in the breeze, his mouth in a permanent smirk, as he looked down on the men who watched their party ride in silence. He had an unending thrill for the coming day, the moment he heard they rode to break the siege, he’d known the Greatest had answered his call, a chance for glory, he thought. He could not help but stay excited, even when he heard the Syrds had run from the siege, the excitement bounced in his mind, as he thought of the coming clash of steel.

“Father,” Heinrik began, riding forward to his father’s left, “Do you believe we will clash with the Syrd invaders?” He asked, his words exposing a tone similar to a child receiving a treat from a mother.

“Greatest willing brother, there shall be no battle today.” Leudbold commented from his fathers right, the bags on his eyes revealing his sleepless nights to his brother, who only glanced at him, before returning to his father.

Airmanreik sighed, his son’s enjoyment of the conflict troubling, but not unfound in children, or boys barely into manhood. He’d been that way in his own way, the thrill of the fight, all consuming to one in their youth. He could not look at this boy who shared in every feature and judge. “We will see.” He said quietly, as they approached the end of the hill, the party stopping, as they began to dismount. “Come, both of you stay silent as I discuss strategy with the good Count and Landsgrave.” He said, as he began to make his way to the Count Josef and Landsgrave Jan.

Hearing the familiar sound of footsteps, the Count turned his head one more time, and catching sight of Airmanreik’s approach, his face broke into a small smile, as he greeted the Palsgrave with open arms. “There you are! That’s all three of us then. A proper war council, I’d say.” He chuckled, his tone half serious, half humorous. The Count extended his arm to welcome Airmanreik’s arrival, his energetic vigour contrasting with the older manner of his two counterparts. The Landgrave meanwhile, gave a small curtsy to the Palsgrave, a false smile crossing his lips.

“Shall we discuss strategy, then?” Spoke up Jan Sigismund, older than Josef by some three decades, and Airmanreik by nearly two. His tone of voice showed it, as he spoke softly and quietly, the noise of his words barely reaching his two compatriots.

“Indeed!” Exclaimed Count Josef, his voice loud and resounding. “As I was saying, to both Sir Arnulf and then to Jan Sigismund here, Your Grace,” He began, gesturing to the knight and the Landgrave, while addressing Airmanreik. “We have the Syrds on the run, and as Jan Sigismund’s scouts report, their army is closer than we thought, bogged down by those large war machines of theirs,” He continued, taking the Landgrave’s hypothesis on the enemy’s tardiness as fact. “We must pursue! Pursue, and catch them before the day is lost. We have plenty of time before noon strikes, let alone afternoon or evening, but I say we must get a move on before Count Jakob’s force escapes from our clutches.” He said, his tone authoritative and firm, and his eyes immediately darted between his two counterparts as he awaited their response.

Airmanreik processed what was said, as he turned towards his back, his glance examining his forces he’d brought, then shifting to that of his peers forces, smaller than what could have been hoped. He swallowed, his throat dry, as he turned back to Josef, weary in voice in posture, “Do we have any idea on the force we are trying to catch, your Graces?” He asked, his eyes examining the pair, before landing onto the elder Jan, eyes that had lived and seen things far more ancient than himself.

Count Josef was silent for a moment, as he attempted to recall the details recounted to him by numerous reports and the such, which he had difficulty in remembering. He pondered it for a second, and looked about ready to respond, but it was the Landgrave who spoke first, opening his mouth to answer Airmanreik’s question. “They number some ten-thousand men, perhaps a few more. The same composition as the Syrds had at Uzhental, no doubt. They have knights, of course, but we can imagine that the bulk of their army consists of those mercenaries. Pikemen, halberdiers...the full lot.” He explained, hoping his words would satisfy Airmanreik.

Count Josef, who was interested in another aspect of the army, gave another response shortly after. “They’re led by that Count Jakob Zalan. He owns estates on the Kostuan…well…Namarian border. Yet there are few notable names in that army apart from the Count himself. Mostly mercenaries, as Jan Sigismund said.”

“Pikes and mercenaries, Greatest look at what has become of the honourable tradition of the Syrds, Heinrik must rock in his grave.” He grumbled, as he stepped forward, “We could run them down, aye, before they cross over the river, likely they won’t stand ground, no?” He asked, unsure of the professionalism of the force they spoke of confronting. “And this Count Jakob, he’s a fine general, or at least competent, might be he’d expect our lancers…” He paused, unsure, his glance returning back to the army encamped around them, thousands of horses, large enough to crumble any formation no doubt. “Aye, hitting them in the rear could work.” He said, seeing if the men agreed.

“Yes, they’ll be crossing the Rönster soon, if they haven’t started crossing already.” Replied the Landgrave, his knowledge of the land proving useful. “We should be able to run them down, whether they’ve crossed it or not. The lands here are fine meadows and small forests, few obstacles to warriors like ours. Fine ground for battle, if my memory serves correct, and I know from experience. I’ve sparred many a robber baron in these lands, and won. The Palsgrave’s words are sound. We should hit them in the rear.” Concurred Jan Sigismund, and the tone with which he spoke those words at once gave them a certain air of authority, as if they had to be true. Count Josef, perhaps dismayed that he hadn’t been the one to suggest cutting them down, simply made an expression of agreement.

Airmanreik nodded silently, as he turned, “Who’ll lead this vanguard? I would offer myself, but I must decline the honour, my body not what it used to be.” He mumbled, as he looked at Count Josef, the youngest of the three.

The Count’s eyes visibly brightened, and he saw at once the chance to seize what perhaps would be a good part of the glory during the battle, so he volunteered. “I would like to put forth myself as a potential leader of the vanguard. I do not wish to offend, and I know that you two both have more experience in these matters perhaps, but as Airmanreik said…”

The Count trailed off. Jan Sigismund shrugged, and answered. “I have no quarrel with this. I suggest you as leader of the vanguard as well, Josef. If Airmanreik’s body is not what it used to be, then you must imagine my state of things. I should be at the rear, or in the centre, perhaps.” He explained, giving a small chuckle at his own expense. Again Josef’s eyes gleamed, and his wishes having been confirmed, he seemed almost visibly jumping with excitement. He laughed, and his face was alight with a joyful expression.

“Then I accept the honour, goodsirs.” He cried out. “Greatest lead us! By His will we will cut them down!”

Heinrik stepped forward, his eyes wide as he bowed his head to his father, and then peers, “Father, your Graces, I’d ask to ride in the Vanguard with you, Count Josef.” He said as elegantly as he could, but the thrill in his voice was apparent.

Airmanreik’s heart jumped, but his posture remained stoic, as he glanced at his son, then the Count Josef, “It is not my place to deem your battles, if his Grace will have you, he can use you.” He said in a half whisper, as he turned to Leudbold, “I forbid you however to fight in this vanguard, I can’t risk losing two sons on the same afternoon.” He finished.

Josef smiled, and as he looked Heinrik up and down, taking in his youthful figure and brazen attitude, he was reminded of his own early years as Count, and felt a strange connection to the man. His lips curled to form an even wider smile, and he gazed fondly at Heinrik, before saying: “I would be glad to take you, dear boy. But…I and the good Heinrik here can’t alone take on the Syrds. Which banners should I bring along with me?”

The three men at once began discussing the matter of which banners should compose the vanguard, listing off the names of notable and well-liked barons and knights who they thought would be suitable. Josef listed off a majority of the names, always mentioning minor details or anecdotes about the knights and lords that he proposed to send, and always speaking fondly of them, perhaps recounting how he had fought with one of them, or shared a nice conversation with another, and so on. Jan Sigismund kept mostly quiet, and elected to send those who did not know personally, preferring that the knights and barons that he knew well to stay with him in the rear or centre. The discussion went on without much debate or interruptions, until Count Josef suggested sending a knight by the name of Sir Wernher von Keilswald, and Jan Sigismund’s expression soured, and he grumbled, his ears pricking up.

“Von Keilswald? I didn’t know he was here. What business has he in this war?” He questioned, his tone bitter and harsh, and Count Josef’s face took on a confused expression.

“Why, he used to be in my service for some time, and we met up again recently. He elected to come to battle, a fine decision I’d say. You have some quarrel with him?” He replied.

“Then I must question the men you choose to take into your service, Your Grace. I mean no offence, but I must object to your suggestion of von Keilswald. The man is a robber, and a fiend. He and his company spent a year marauding through my lands, only to be driven out after fierce fighting. I’d call him anything but honourable.”

“You insult my choice of the men in my service? I was not aware of von Keilswald’s actions in Eltenhof, but I have always known him as a fine and honourable man.”

“Not aware? My dear boy, he was notorious!”

Airmanreik sighed, as gestured for his son to get him a chair, before taking a seat, the two men still arguing as he held his temple, “You two argue over a sword who’s willing to strike down our shared enemy? Is that not honourable enough in times such as these? Greatest knows, I have had to let grudges go since this uniskrenist ordeal began, and likely will again.” He stated, before sighing deep, “Every moment we are still throwing words on this tiny hill, is another village burnt, another home raided, another widow created.” He finished, as he gestured towards Heinrik to pour him a cup of ale.

Count Josef’s face reddened, ashamed of himself after hearing Airmanreik’s words. Jan Sigismund, as Airmanreik’s elder, did not react in such a manner, but recognised the merit of what he said, and relented. “He’s right, I suppose. We mustn’t waste any more time squabbling over petty disputes such as who to send, when with every passing second the Syrds grow further and further from our clutches. If we are to pursue, we must seize the initiative, and now!” Proclaimed the Landgrave, and there was a murmur of agreement from Count Josef. They discussed the dispositions for a moment further, but ultimately Josef decried the need to march, and he rode forward to the head of the columns, sending word to those who would be in the vanguard.

Airmanreik took a long sip of his ale, before handing the cup to his son, not even glancing at which one took the cup, “Then we are decided.” He smiled, as his hand moved towards his stomach, the pain unbearable, but not important, not now. He pointed out towards his own horse, before looking at Heinrik, “Take my own horse, and ride well.” He said, placing his hand on his son’s shoulder, “Greatest willing we will win this day.”

***

A few miles out, Ferenc’s company of Huszars, along with a few others, had been sent to watch the Syrdish army’s rear. The army had by now crossed the Rönster River, and was ahead of the Hallish by some distance, but Count Jakob took no chances, delivering instructions for the huszars to watch their rear, aware of a potential pursuit by the Count of Halbenstein. The army moved cautiously, perhaps even slowly, abandoning Leuchstal and taking the southwest road, all too aware that the enemy could give chase. The Count’s vanguard of knights had taken front place within the army’s column, followed by the heavy baggage train, while the mercenaries had taken centre stage, shadowed by the huszar rearguard.

Ferenc’s company lagged far behind the mercenaries and some of the other huszars—although on horseback, they rode at a leisurely pace, taking stops for foraging and plunder, and disregarding orders to keep up with the rest of the army. Shortly before noon, with a blistering sun hanging high over them, a number of men under Ferenc’s company took a small detour off the road, and came to a small fenced farmstead, in which they wasted no time in scouring for the smallest trinket or bauble.

Lyrenz was with them. That day he had taken to wearing his plate armour, unnerved by the possibility of seeing action against the enemy. It was a decision that he was coming to regret, as he hobbled around in the sweltering weather, the visor of his sallet wide open, occasionally raising the palm of his right hand to wipe off the sweat from his forehead. His left hand rested atop his pommel, as he strutted about, his face frowning, while he observed cautiously the movements of his companions. Sólyom, the man who had a strange quality to him that had made him both detestable and charming to Lyrenz, was sitting down by a nearby bench, his red felt hat resting by him, as he curiously examined his sabre.

Csaba, one of the more unremarkables of the group, was fixated on the entrance to the small farmstead, his eye finely tuned to the art of looting after years of experience. He stood there silently, as he turned around every now and then, casting a glance at his surroundings with a dull face, his eyes droopy and sunken. He livened his mood by whistling a popular camp tune, tapping his right hand on his yellow kaftan to keep with the rhythm, while his legs jumped and moved about, making a poor imitation of the dance that came along with the camp tune.

There was a shuffling sound from inside the farmstead, and the ears of the three men pricked up, as they heard the movements of their other companion, Antal, who had taken to searching the main house of the farmstead itself. The small home was downtrodden and dilapidated, the walls on the outside showing signs that a good cleaning of the house was needed. The upper floor, covered by a shingled roof, the small green patches of moss interspersed throughout the tiles only contributing more to the farmstead’s air of abandonment. A small ladder on the outside led up to the attic, resting against a large open window.

Csaba called out to the huszar in the house, who answered, saying that he had found nothing, which provoked a small grunt from his partner, who walked around the edge of the house, his eyes setting on the ladder that rested against the open window. Deciding that he would search the attic, he began to climb, his whistling still not having ceased. A second later, the other huszar bursted out of the front door, a grimace crossing his face and his hand clutching his sabre, as he let out a curse or two before withdrawing to his horse, which he began to tend to.

There was a crashing noise from the attic. The ears of the three men outside again pricked up. Lyrenz’s grip on the pommel of his sword tightened; Sólyom rose from his seat with some alarm, and the huszar who had gone to tending to his horse turned his head with a sudden jerk, his hand making a quick movement to his belt, which his axe was fastened to, as it shone in the gleaming sunlight of the day. Sounds of a scuffle were heard from above and Sólyom moved quickly to the ladder, and began to climb, as the crashing continued, and the groans of two men resonated throughout the farmstead. The other huszar entered the house, disappearing from Lyrenz’s view, as the young knight walked over to the ladder like Sólyom. He tried to peer into the attic for a moment, going on his tip-toes, but Sólyom’s slender figure obstructed his sight, and he felt unsure of what was going on.

“You’ll pay!” Spat one of the voices from the attic, a harsh bitterness in its tone, and Lyrenz recognised it as Csaba’s.

There was another shout from the attic, then a cry, and Sólyom—who had just finished climbing—suddenly swerved, as the figure of a large man, his forehead wrinkled and his hair cut to his ears, stumbled towards the openless window, blood streaming down his face, before losing his footing and falling from the attic, cracking his head against the ground below. Lyrenz recoiled, as the man’s blood gushed out, and there was by that point no doubt that the man had died, his corpse motionless and still, and his head split open. Things were silent then, or so it felt to Lyrenz, a blank expression having crossed his face. It felt to him as if a moment was being dragged out a minute long, as he stood there frozen, before the image of Csaba again crossed his face, though it was visibly changed. A few streams of blood trickled down from the edge of his temple, as he held his right hand up to support his wounded head. He had been struck in the side of the head by a pitchfork. The huszar hobbled away, then sat down at a nearby bench, taking his seat with a loud groan.

It took the grimacing face of Sólyom for Lyrenz to be snapped out of his strange trance. Turning his gaze slowly to meet the man’s eyes, he heard his words but did not process them in his mind, instead simply withdrawing to his horse, rubbing his hand once again against his forehead to wipe off the sweat. He turned his gaze back to the three huszars, and saw that Sólyom was peering over the dead Hallishman’s body, his face betraying the fact that he was in deep thought. He walked over to a shovel that was resting against the wall of the house, and grasped it with his hand, before going to a small grassy spot by the fence, which was partly covered by the shadow of a small willow tree. He tested the ground with his foot, then set to digging. The two other huszars, including Csaba—who had just finished applying a bandage to his head—mounted their horses and prepared to ride off, signalling for Lyrenz to follow.

“A good Iskrenist you are, Sólyom! Don’t take too long now.” Chuckled Csaba.

“Bah! I’ll catch up later, no? Now be off!” He replied, digging up more and more dirt with each strike of his shovel, and again invoking that same strange quality which had been so perplexing for Lyrenz.

By noon, Lyrenz, Csaba and Antal had ridden back to their Company: a small column of some two-hundred huszars, marching along the dirt road. Their spirits were dampened slightly by the fact that they were retreating away from the Enemy, and that they had been caught on the back foot, but they nonetheless maintained their lively mood. One of them had taken to playing a tune on the recorder, which was picked up by others who knew the instrument also, while the rest joined in with their voices, forming a song that resonated within each and every man throughout the column. Lyrenz smiled as they sang, his hands firmly on the reins of his horse. He listened attentively, and once he felt that he had grasped the lyrics well enough, he joined them too in the singing, contributing to the merry tune that they had all begun to recant.

Yet as he listened to those words and recalled the events of the hour before—when the Hallishman had been slain—he at once felt a certain revulsion to the whole thing, and felt utterly ashamed of what he had done, and was doing. Csaba’s words rang loudly in his mind: “A good Iskrenist you are, Sólyom!”. Turning his gaze to meet the faces of those who rode next to him, he saw only their expressions—their lips had twisted into wide smiles as they sung—and as Lyrenz again remembered the death of the farmer, his head split open against the ground, his shame only grew, as he understood all he had done, and sulked. “Now I’ve done it! I’ve…associated with these men far too much! Partaken in their murders. Now I’m no different, aren’t I?” He thought to himself, as he turned silent, though his companions kept on singing.

Sólyom joined the column a few minutes later, his face sweating, and his breaths quick and numerous, betraying his exhaustion. Within a minute he too had joined in the singing, his face alight with excitement like many others, as they rode along at a slow pace, their horses making a loud trotting noise as their hooves beat down on the dry dirt below. They were all basking in the oppressive sunlight, their eyes squinting, and Lyrenz especially was suffering, feeling that he was about to collapse from the heat any second. The weather had not been clement to him nor the army in the recent months. First the great snowstorm of the winter prior, then followed by an unusually hot spring, as the trees blossomed with new life and the sun shone with an unusual brightness. Each day of marching had taken its toll on the Syrdish army, and though Lyrenz was far removed from the affairs of the main army—a product of his assignment to the huszars—he had heard from Ferenc that men had begun to succumb to the harsh conditions. This was true for the huszars as well; the week prior they had buried two of their fellows, who had died of dysentery and a sudden fever respectively. The thought of sickness terrified Lyrenz more than battle itself and the idea of succumbing to a simple ailment, which had no glory in it, drove him to take certain precautions that he had not done before.

The trotting of their horses was overtaken by the sound of a single horse galloping, and turning his gaze to his right, he saw another huszar—dressed in a red kaftan and yellow riding boots—riding along quickly, before making an abrupt stop as he reached the captain of the company. Ferenc looked at him with some confusion, assessing his state; the huszar was panting, as was his horse, which appeared worn out and weary, exhausted from what must’ve been a long few minutes of galloping. There was some muttering along the column, as speculation abounded, while the exhausted huszar spoke softly and in a tired tone, stopping between each word to catch his breath.

“Ferenc…Iskren’s sake they’re…not that…far off…good Lord…” He said, provoking yet more murmurs, and Lyrenz’s face twisted to form a confused expression, as he tried to overhear what the captain and the huszar were saying.

“The enemy…” He continued, and Ferenc’s eyes widened. He turned at once to two other huszars (Csaba was one of them), and told them to ride off to warn the others, before his gaze switched back to the rest of the column.

“Go! We must all go! Before they catch us! Hyah!” He shouted, kicking his horse to a gallop, and he was followed by the rest, along with Lyrenz, who was only now beginning to make out what was happening.

Not far off, the banner of Count Josef of Halbenstein fluttered slightly in a sudden breeze, before going limp once again. Having caught sight of some of the Syrdish scouts, and seeing that the rearguard itself was not too far off, the Count, who had crossed the river with his vanguard far ahead of the rest of the Hallish army, now appeared to be in the perfect opportunity to strike. The knights he led numbered some one-thousand men strong, their plate armour basking in the sunlight, and their lances raised high in the air, waiting for the moment to be lowered.

Sitting idly atop his horse, the Count, positioned in the front line, caught a glimpse of his Sir Rupert von Hirschtal who was riding back from a small scouting mission. As he approached the Count, he raised the visor of his sallet, a sly smirk on his face, as he gripped the reins of his horse and spoke. “The first company of huszars is not far off at all, Your Grace. I caught sight of them here, saw them with my own two eyes, I did. We should charge while we have the opportunity to cut them down.”

“The rest of the army is still crossing the river, we’ll be far removed from them if we do decide to charge.” Spoke up one of the knights, who was overhearing the conversation. Yet by that point the whole vanguard had been caught up in the glory of it all, and Count Josef, who had been barrelling towards this moment with all his momentum and energy, merely brushed aside the knight’s words. “You would see us forsake this moment now, Sir Werhner? Where’s your spirit?” He exclaimed, his words proving a biting remark for the knight, who cowed, and lowered his sallet in response. The Count brushed the sweat off his forehead, then turned his attention to the crowd of knights, his gaze meeting the eyes of Heinrik, who was in the row just behind him. He smiled, and with a cry of “Greatest willing, we will win this day! Let’s charge and let them have it!” he provoked a cacophony of cries and shouts, as they formed up for the charge, lowered their visors, and kicked their horses to a gallop.

They rode with full speed as rows upon rows of knights in plate armour, the colourful banners of each baron and lord limp in the windless day, but nevertheless striking an imposing figure for all to see. They galloped along the road, and it was there that they caught sight of the first company of huszars, which too was riding away as fast as possible. The Count’s smile widened, and he laughed. Here now was the thrill of it all, and he felt as if he was on the hunt for a hart, chasing the animal with his hounds, who barked and cried out for blood. He lowered his lance, and prepared to strike the first huszar he could get close to.

Heinrik struggled to breath, the world around him moving so quickly he felt like a man flying through the wilds. His eyes were squinted as he peered through the visor of his helm, the sound of hoove breaking earth like a rhyme. No, like a drum. Soon screams began to add to the choir, as man came upon man, or were those beasts. His mind raced as the sounds of splintered lances filled the air, the weight of his own lance threw him off for a moment, his breaths short, his eyes wide, he’d just driven his lance through someone, but there was no time to think or even dwell, the screams were now all around him.

One of his companions, unknown who, screamed in agony, Heinrik turning to see one of the Syrds had driven him through with some sort of lance, piercing his armour. The man slumped over and died right before Heinrik could even process who had struck him, already he was charging his own foe. Some young lad, not much older than Heinrik likely, but the man dropped quickly, as Heinrik’s crimsoned covered lance pierced his belly. Heinrik gazed for a moment at his dead eyes, his stomach clenching as he felt sick, before getting swept back into the chase.

The man beside Heinrik rallied the men forward, as more of the enemy ran at their sight, but their mounts were slower than what Heinrik would have imagined. Perhaps the Greatest truly did favour them this day, he thought, the idea an encouragement as he let out a cry. The front of the vanguard however came to a sudden halt, as the sounds of steel pierced his ears, the huszars must have stopped to stand and fight.

Heinrik galloped to the front of the vanguard, and as he’d expected a couple hundred of the huszars had stood to fight, the bodies of a few dozen friend and foe already staining the ground as he jumped into the ever moving frey. Heinrik thrusted his lance forward, knocking a man onto the ground. Before the man could even stand, Heinrik trampled over him, as he went on to the next man, his eyes grizzled. Heinrik thrusted his lance, but it fractured from the man’s horse, as both Heinrik and he fell in a tumble of death.

Heinrik stood slowly, his head throbbing as he stood up, looking to see what had happened. His horse lay dead, along with the huszar’s, but the man still drew breath and the will to fight. Heinrik unsheathed his sword, thrusting forward with all his weight, as the man stepped just away from the blade’s edge. The man then struck Heinrik once, then twice with his sabre, the damage minute upon his armour, but the sting of it’s strike hurt Heinrik nonetheless.

Heinrik began to move for another strike, but the man was propelled by a lance, killed instantly. “Young Heinrik, grab one of the squire’s mounts, and let us ride them down, for Iskren and the Greatest!” The knight yelled, Heinrik not even aware of who, his armour so battered and discoloured from the blood of battle he was unrecognisable. Still Heinrik raced his arm in agreement, before being brought a new mount from a young man, his eyes wide with excitement as he helped Heinrik upon the new horse.

“Lance.” He said harshly, his throat dry, as he breathed a deep sigh. He raised his visor revealing his dirt covered face, gesturing for the young man to hand him water, “Does Iskren guide us this day?” He asked, as he took the water before drinking it down quickly.

The young man gestured a little ways west, “The vanguard continues to run down those they find, and with great success.” He said, as Heinrik handed him back the pouch. The young man then gave Heinrik a new lance, and gestured towards the west past the hill to regather with the vanguard, their sounds of cracking steel still loud, even some distance off from the battle itself.

Heinrik thanked the man, before galloping over the hill, his thoughts only of continuing the fight, as his father would want of him. Before him was carnage, as friends and foes in the hundreds were dead upon once fields of green, but there would be time to give rights and burial to the dead, he thought, comforting himself from dwelling.

Heinrik rode up next to a large number of his peers, before stopping just next to Count Josef, raising his visor to hear what the Count was saying to one of the men beside them.

The Count had his visor raised, his face sweaty and exhausted, as he panted, taking in deep breaths to regain his composure. His armour was bloody, and he had his hand resting on his injured shoulder, which he moved around as part of an exercise to see if it’s condition would improve. “Nothing too bad.” He remarked with a chuckle to Sir Rupert, who was by his side. He then turned his gaze to the rider who had approached him, and as he caught sight of Heinrik’s figure, he again smiled. “Ah, my boy! Made it here in one piece, you have! Excellent…excellent…” He laughed, before his gaze turned to Airmanreik’s steed. “Lost your mount did you?” He asked.

“Aye,” He said, almost a wisp, his body still burning in pain from the pressures he’d put it through. “An unlucky blow threw me and the mount for a bad tumble. Shame, but it broke its neck there and then, no pain, I hope.” He said, as he leaned forward to try and remain composed. “What is our next move, Your Grace?” He asked, the other eyes of the party turning to the Count, as they all were curious.

The Count looked around, and saw that more and more men were riding over to his position, while others were recovering some distance away. He had a servant of his sound a horn, which blared loudly as it called for the others to come to the Count and prepare a charging formation once more. “A good charge, this one was, but we still have time. We should press on.” He exclaimed, his words reverberating throughout the crowd. “We won’t be catching the enemy in a spot like this a second time, I can tell you that.”

The men around him, all seized by the momentum, the thrill and the glory of the charge, could see no other option. Their minds had been seized by a thirst for victory and blood,and their confidences were boosted by the sight of the dead huszars sprawled out across the field around them. It was no longer a question on whether they could win the battle—in their eyes victory had been practically achieved. The only thing left was to form up, charge, and end the Syrdish threat for good.

“Aye! Aye! The Syrds will rue the day they took up arms against us!” Cried out Sir Rupert, and his words were echoed by some of the others.

Heinrik glanced around to see if anyone disagreed, but of course, none would raise a question of doubt, and neither would he. “Aye, I am with you, Your Grace!” He cheered, throwing his arm up with a fist.

Rolais, Aelythium, Dhorvas, Namalar, and 2 othersEskeland, and Straulechen

Straulechen

Count Josef’s Field - Part II
Copost Prompt Competition
Copost with Syrduria

Shouts and cries again resonated throughout the men, as they raised their banners and swung their swords in a wild fashion, before forming up for battle once again. Count Josef again placed himself in the front, and called for one of his scouts to ride ahead and see exactly where the Syrds were, for it was hard to see where their enemy were with the rolling hills and thick forests that were interspersed between the fields. Yet, as he did so, one of the knights in the front line lowered the visor of his sallet, and with a cry of “For The Greatest!” began barrelling down the hill that the knights were on. It was as if the Count himself had sounded the order, and within seconds the knights were galloping down, with the Count taking the lead, not wanting to lose control of his men.

Heinrik galloped hard along with the Count, his heart filled with pride as he rode into yet another battle, another victory for today, he hoped. He steadied his lance, the figures of the few remaining huszars fleeing before them, as the two groups yet again made contact, only this time they would have no escape. Some, the few who had fled on foot, as their horses had either been struck down or abandoned were crushed underfoot, as they rode harder to reach the riders. Their screams short, but piercing, as they were forced to continue onward without a second thought of regret.

Soon the runts of the riders were met upon, the steel and lance, the familiar sounds of combat resuming, along with their accompanied screams of horror. Heinrik thrusted his own lance forward, throwing one of the men down from his mount, the man quickly being swallowed by the hooves of hundreds of horses, as they simply now trampled over all. Any man who fell onto the field, would surely die, Heinrik told himself, he could not let himself be dismounted again, or it would surely lead to his own death.

The last of the huszars were trampled underfoot, and cheers could be heard, but a quick silence fell upon the men, as their gallop went to a slow jog, the field before them sitting what seemed to be the bulk of the Syrdish army. Heinrik’s heart jumped with fear, such a large force, larger than he could have imagined in his mind, even knowing their number from what his father had said, could not prepare him for this. How could they defeat such a force, he thought for only a moment, before turning to Count Josef, looking for reassurance and guidance.

The Count stared down the enemy, as his eyes darted between the soldiers that laid before him and his men. He could see them forming up for battle, as rows of men rushed along the field, trying to desperately get into formation as they awaited the charge of the Hallish knights. The Syrds were numerous, that the Count could see, but the movement of the enemy army was shrouded in an air of mystery—the exact precise movements and positioning of the Syrds was unknown to him, and it was unable to be seen by the naked eye. Perhaps they were still forming up, having been caught completely off guard, and were about to break into a rout any second now? Or perhaps they were forming a rearguard and retreating even further away from his men? Josef had no real way of telling.

The Hallish knights continued riding forward, their enormous momentum propelling them forward, as they braced themselves for what was to come. The Count squinted his eyes, and raised his visor for a brief moment in order to better see what was exactly going on. There were some pike squares in the distance, though they were still far away, and the Syrds that laid before them now appeared to be an easy target. He lowered his visor, then lowered his lance, aware now that the charge that they were about to undertake could not be stopped now—they were being driven forward by their own impetus, by an unseen force that pushed them forward and forward. Perhaps it was The Greatest moving them along, the Count thought, and he laughed, kicking his horse to a gallop with a cry of “At them! Cut down these dogs!”.

The charge had been resumed, the Hallish were barrelling towards the Syrdish line with all their might, all their momentum. The knights, in their battered and bloody plate armour, and their lances and swords were a menacing sight to their enemy before them. Yet the small line of men who were waiting for the Count and his men did not budge. Though their hands trembled, and their minds raced with all sorts of thoughts, they waited, before raising their arquebuses, pointing them at the knights. Their commander, who had been staring the enemy down, and who had been awaiting this exact moment, raised his hand and brought it down in a swift movement, before crying out in his thick Rolesian accent: “Fire!”.

The sound of gunshots immediately rang out, and smoke bellowed out from the matchlocks. The Rolesian arquebusiers did not see exactly what happened to their foe. Having fired their shot, and aware that they were far too close to the enemy to fire another, they ran back with all their speed, giving way to three pike squares, who pressed past the fleeing arquebusiers, and moved slowly towards their enemy, the men alive with shouts of “Death! For the King!”. Their pikes, that bristled slightly in the calm wind, began to be lowered as the Syrds prepared to counter-attack.

For the Hallish, it felt as if they had been struck by some unknown, unseen force, as if an invisible regiment of knights had just charged at them with all their might. Yet it was all too real, the testament to what had happened being clear to them from the first second: bodies of their fellow comrades were strewn across the ground, while others had been trapped under their slain horses, as they groaned and cried for help. Some looked to their leader, the Count, but did not see him—the first line of the knights had crumpled under the weight of the volley, as had the momentum of their charge, and everything was obscured. It was only when Sir Rupert—the Count’s servant, who had had his horse slain under him—caught sight of the Count’s corpse, and began to wail, did some begin to grasp the situation; a shot had pierced the Count’s chest and killed him instantly.

Heinrik gasped for air, as he struggled to lift his head, or to even move his body, each movement sending a jolt up his spine. The sounds of screams of sorrow shook him into reality, as he leaned his head forward enough that he could see his surroundings, hundreds of horses and men dead, his own horse feet away from him. He screamed in horror at the sight, as he tried to crawl away, but his leg was still under the steed, it would not give, not even an inch. He yelled for help like the others, but the few men still mounted were filled with fear and shock.

He tried to use his arms to move the great beast, but a fierce pain jolted through his left arm, a realisation shocked him, a thick red crimson coated his arm. He’d been hit by something, but there was no time to dwell, he could not, or it would consume him. Again he began to call for help, but now the sounds of combat ringed through his ears.

The Hallish vanguard was stunned, shocked by the sudden volley of the Rolesian arquebusiers. Catching sight of the three pike squares that marched towards them, they could see no that the charge could not continue. What was worse was that the arquebusiers had not fully fled the battle. Instead, they wheeled around, and forming up for another volley, they lowered their matchlocks once again, and waited for their commander to give the signal. When he did so, the crackle of gunfire was again heard, as they unleashed a second volley on the flank of the Hallish knights. The Syrds pressed the attack.

Approaching slowly, the pike squares began to jostle with their foe, as they stabbed and thrusted their weapons forward, piercing the plate of the knights, and delivering blow after blow. Those in the back lines of the vanguard, who had been spared the carnage that was occurring in the front lines, had already begun to trickle away. Seeing that the Syrds were pushing forward with their pikes and halberds, and that the Rolesians were about to unleash a third volley into their flank, they turned tail and began to ride away with full haste. When their comrades saw this, and turned their gazes back to what laid before them, the solution to their plight seemed clear as day—to retreat with full speed, and ride back to the main Hallish army.

A third volley resounded throughout the battlefield. Yet more knights were slain by the sudden gunfire, as a rout took hold of the vanguard. If they had previously possessed a momentum that had been propelling them forward every step of the way, now they were being driven backward by a similar impetus, as they galloped away from the field, their armour bloody, and their horses weary. It took some six minutes for this rout to take hold, and once it had, there was no doubt that the vanguard could not return to the battle. The knights who had not fully grasped the situation, or who had had their horses slain under them, or who simply chose to press forward against all thoughts that might’ve said otherwise; these knights were now caught in the thick of the melee, as the Syrdish pike squares opened up slightly, revealing the halberdiers who charged forward to cut their foe down.

Multiple men approached, Heinrik could tell, the sound of clanking steel ever closer, as he raised his one good arm, “I yield!” He scream-whispered, his voice so light it could have been just a gust of wind. Again, he yelled, still yielding, and so on for what felt like an eternity, his arm beginning to throb from throwing it up, till finally a voice shouted something as two men approached, their faces that of peasants.

“Oi, ‘his one live?” One of them asked, his face crooked as he looked down at Heinrik, his accent clearly Syrdish, perhaps from near the Kostuan border regions.

“I yield!” He whispered, as he threw his arm down, his Syrdish was not very good, but they heard and understood him. “I am the son… son of Palsgrave Airmanreik.” He said, though their faces only glanced upon the word Palsgrave. Neither of the two seemed to know of his father.

“Bring ‘em.” The other stated, as he spit at Heinrik’s face, before walking off, calling out something he could not understand. Soon around six or seven men were removing the horse from his leg, before carrying him from the field.

His vision was failing him, but all around him the screams of the dying, the faces of his former friends and comrades watched him. He could not weep, not a single tear, his body was broken, like the spirit of the vanguard.

“The Greatest has forsaken us…” He mumbled in Hallish, before passing out in the arms of two of Syrdish soldiers.

***
Airmanreik galloped over the hastily created secondary bridge, his mind absent, as he tried to ignore the fear for his son, who right now likely fought beside the vanguard, with the good Count Josef. He was a competent man, Airmanreik convinced himself, not wishing to dwell on what could occur, that outcome far too disturbing for the ageing Palsgrave to think on.

Leudbold was only a foot behind him, exhausted from the day’s stresses, but ready to serve his father at any moment. He was nervous of the coming battle, but understood, as his father’s son, he had to remain composed, inspire the men.

Airmanreik was ordering and commanding the men around him, addressing where to put equipment, along with baggage. Already barking commands at his sub commanders, who had attached themselves to the Palsgrave hours earlier. “Finish getting the men over the secondary bridges, along with the remainder of the baggage.” He ordered Sir Georg, a minor Baron’s son, who was fighting in the vanguard, along with his two elder brothers.

Another knight, Sir Mikeal approached, followed by a young lad, his fair features uncanny in appearance, almost like a shadow of his son, “Your Grace, a squire from the vanguard.” He said, clearing his throat, as he addressed the boy forward.

The young lad approached Airmanreik, an expression of horror clinging to his face, as he seemed about ready to collapse from exhaustion. He asked for water, and was granted it by one of the Palsgrave’s servants, who rushed over to quench the squire’s thirst. He drank from the waterskin eagerly, and within seconds had emptied the whole thing, as he sighed and gave it back to the servant. His gaze turned to Airmanreik, before he looked away, his face expressing some sadness. “Your Grace…Your Grace…” He said, taking deep breaths. “I come from the vanguard…good Lord…Greatest help us.”

“Speak boy! What’s happened!” Cried out Sir Georg, the thought of his brothers and father weighing heavy on his mind, the sight of the exhausted squire not alleviating his concerns in the slightest.

“It started off well…we routed those…huszars of theirs. Drove them back to the main army. But then…we kept on charging, towards the main army. And they caught us with those…matchlocks of theirs. Shot us to pieces…and counter-attacked with their pikes. My master…was slain. Saw it myself. I was at the back of the line, and I rode with all speed to bring word of this, Your Grace. Please, do not punish me for cowardice. My thoughts were only of the army.” He said, still panting, and his gaze still fixated firmly on the ground, as he averted Airmanreik’s eyes.

Airmanreik stepped back a moment, before leaning onto Leudbold, who’s eyes were unmoving, as everyone shared a similar expression of utter disbelief, as the words sunk in. “My son, is he alive?” He whispered.

The squire stared meekly at the Palsgrave, perhaps expecting that he would ask such a question. He took a deep breath, and answered. “Last I saw him, we were still finishing off the huszars. His horse had been slain, and his lance shattered, so I provided him with new ones. He went off to ride with the Count…” And he hesitated before finishing the sentence. “...in the front lines.” He responded, and again his eyes turned to the ground below.

“Greatest, have mercy!” One of the knights behind them screamed, as his friends tried to calm the man down.

Airmanreik gestured for someone to remove the man, as he processed what he had just been told; his son was likely dead. Greatest why, he thought, as he fought back against collapsing, “Leudbold, have the men go back over the bridges, all of you, we make haste to the city walls, now! Inform the men we make flight towards the city” He barked, pointing for the men to move with haste to inform their commanders.

“Father, what of Heinrik?” Leudbold asked, his voice shaky, as he stood in silence, as the other men who weren’t struck with fear moved to follow their orders.

“Heinrik, Greatest willing still lives, but today is not the day to dwell on the fate of your brother. We must move now.” He commanded, before turning to the young squire, “You showed no cowardice this day, but courage to inform us of the fate of the vanguard. What is your name, lad?” He asked, gesturing for him to follow, as they began their crossing of the bridge.

The squire looked at him, wide-eyed, but answered eagerly. “Otto, Your Grace. Otto of House Kunibert. My father owns land east of Palaststadt. His name is Lord Dietrich of Kunibert.”

“Oh, Lord Dietrich, a good man.” He said, as he gestured for someone to get the lad a mount. “Otto, you will serve under my son, Leudbold, will you agree to this? I need good men, more than ever I am afraid.” He said, not really waiting for an answer, already speeding up across the halfway point of the bridge.

Otto looked flustered for a moment, as his face turned red. “Your Grace…it would be an honour. My father will be pleased to hear it, very pleased.” He said, before Sir Georg, who had been keeping up behind Airmanreik, interjected.

“Boy! What do you know of my father and his brothers!? Did they live? Were they in the front lines as well?” He said, an anxious and sombre tone in every word that he spoke.

“I- I don’t know. What were their colours?”

Or, a bend azure. Those were my father’s colours.” Answered Sir Georg, who knew the description of his father’s arms off by heart. Otto pondered on Georg’s answer for a few seconds, trying to recall the events of the vanguard’s charge, but his memories were blurred—everything had gone so fast, and he could hardly recall the exact details of it all.

“I might’ve seen them, I can’t recall. I think I saw your father’s valet carrying the banner while joining up with the Count. I’m sorry.” He answered, aware that his response would not and could not satisfy the knight, who simply looked down with a sad expression, a tear streaming down his face.

Airmanreik carried on, as Sir Georg continued asking questions the poor lad couldn’t possibly know, but he ignored them for a moment, as Landgrave Sigismund came before the party of fleeing men, his face a mix of anger and confusion. Motioning for the men to make way for him and his entourage, he called out Airmanreik’s name. “What are you all doing? I hear we are to make flight for Leuchstal! Have you all been stricken by madness?” He shouted, his voice feeble and raspy as he called for the men to halt with their retreating.

Airmanreik turned from atop his mount, “Otto here, informed us of the fate of the vanguard. They were destroyed almost entirely, those that survived routed into the wilderness.” He said, before continuing, “We make flight towards the city, better we survive than fall under the heel of the Syrds.” He said, gesturing for the line of men to continue, not waiting for a response from the Landgrave.

The Landgrave called for the men to halt again, and they stood there, unsure of what to do. In the end it came down to their commanders, who either ordered the men to press on and cross the river, or to stay their ground. There was some awkward shuffling, grunting and arguing as groups of men tried to cross the bridge, only to be stopped by other groups, who would not budge. The Landgrave processed Airmanreik’s words, mulling over them, as he considered the true ramifications of what had happened. “Does the Count live?”

“He was in the front line, Your Grace. He is either dead or captive. I have little doubt of it. I’m sorry.” Answered Otto timidly, not wanting to incur Jan Sigismund’s ire. The Landgrave’s face turned to one of horror, and his posture slumped, as he made the sign of The Greatest and pressed it to his lips.

“Greatest save us…have mercy…” He whispered. “But are we not equal to the Syrds in number? We could still fight and avenge this tragedy! Do none of you wish to take up arms against those who have taken Count Josef captive?” He said, assuming the best of Count Josef’s situation, and appealing to the vassals of the Count who he saw around him. There was some murmuring, but then Sir Georg spoke up.

“Your Grace, my brothers and father were there. I do not know if they live. I have the greatest urge to avenge this great slight, but you ask us to fight with our backs to the river. There’s bravery, then there’s foolishness.” Spoke up the knight, trying to make the Landgrave see reason.

Airmanreik stopped, turning around, “Your Grace, the situation is hopeless for now. Without our vanguard we are like a crippled animal in a hunt, our only salvation escaping the hunter to the safety of our den.” He said, as he sighed, “Jan, we must make flight, it is the only chance of the survival of our force.” He finished, a deep weight still on his shoulders and mind as he forced himself to continue down the path of flight.

The Landgrave heard Airmanreik’s words, but it took a moment further to process them completely. He had every wish to fight, but his years of experience in these matters spoke against his desires. Accepting the reality, he lowered his head in shame, and consented. “Then we must make flight to Leuchstal. And burn the bridges too! Let’s go!” He said, crying out to the men, and at once they resumed the crossing.

Airmanreik nodded in agreement, the bridges would need to burn, Greatest protect those of ours who would flee in this direction, as they would find no salvation. He swallowed the pain, the fact his son could be among those who might try and flee towards this bridge are lost to us. “After the last of the baggage is across, set all four of the bridges afire!” He yelled across to those who were marching across the other bridges.

***
In the afternoon of the same day, as the sun began to creep behind the horizon, the Syrdish army began to set up camp and assess all that had happened. Count Jakob, leader of the army, rode forth with his aides, servants and valets, to observe the site of the battle. Dressed in his plate armour (though he was without his sallet), he brought his horse to a slow trot, as he came to the sight of the battlefield, and began to take in the horror that had occurred just two hours prior. Bodies of the Hallish knights were strewn across the ground, joined together with the corpses of their mounts, their faces pallid and faint, and their expressions of a wide variety.

The Count dismounted, as did his companions. They began walking through the field, but they could not go a single step without passing over the mangled corpse of some knight or horse, slain either by the volleys of the Rolesians, the push of the Syrdurian pikes, or both. There they laid now, once a proud column of knights, their armour resplendent in the harsh sunlight of that day—now simply a mangled amalgamation of men and animals, their armour battered and bloody, pierced by the bullets of an arquebus or by the tip of a pike, or crumpled by a halberd.

The Count was not the first to walk over the battlefield once it had finished. Some of the men were checking whether there had been survivors that could be captured, others had already taken to looting, stripping the corpses of whatever they had left. The Count saw all this and felt sick. Here was a proud force, one of lancers, a force that he was not unfamiliar with. How many times had he ridden with his comrades, and charged down with lance in hand? He thought of himself riding along with his fellows, running down the enemy, then being pierced by enemy gunfire, and cut down by the pikes and halberds of their foe. Where was the fairness? The honour? It had not even been a pitched battle. “If only our two armies had joined together and fought an honourable battle!” He thought to himself, as he saw all that his men had accomplished.

He called for the captain of the Rolesian arquebusiers. A dainty looking man, his brown hair cut to his neck, and his beard shaved in a wild and rugged fashion, he greeted the Count with a smile, speaking Kostuan, his Rolesian accent present in every word. The Count stared him down, his mind turning to everything they had done, and yet after all that he was not sure whether to congratulate the man or not. “You cut these men down.” He said, and the captain nodded. The Count’s expression became blank, as he mulled on what to do, before he resumed speaking. “You did well, I suppose. You’ll be paid well for your efforts. I’ll have your praises sung to His Grace.” He remarked, and the Rolesian smiled again, wider this time.

“My Lord.” Called one of the Count’s knights, motioning for Jakob to come. The knight had a man by his side, as they gazed at the corpse of a Hallish knight, whose chestplate had been split open by an arquebus ball, embedded deep within his heart.

“This fellow here…” The knight said, pointing at the Hallishman who was with him. “This man says he recognises this man here.” He said, and the Hallishman looked at the Count with a dismayed look.

“And? Who is he?”

“The Count of Halbenstein.” Said the Hallishman in Kostuan and Count Jakob turned his gaze to the corpse.

“Good Greatest! What death! What death!” Cried out the Count, an expression of shock crossing his face. He motioned for his men to carry the Count of Halbenstein’s corpse away and to bury it. The Count walked away back to his horse, stunned, as he was followed by his companions. He repeated the words again and again: “What death! What death! What death…” He remarked again and again, mounting his horse. “Come! Let’s leave this so-called field of glory.” He spat, kicking his horse to a trot, as he feared that he could not stomach the sight of the battlefield any longer.

He asked to see the prisoners. A servant of his said that some seven hundred had been captured. All were worthy of a good ransom, of course, but the Count asked to see the most important. A valet showed him to a clearing in a nearby forest, and this is where the Syrds had placed a good number of the prisoners. Some were simply sitting around, idly, watched over by their Syrd captors, whom they either conversed with, or simply remained silent. Five tents had been set up to care for those who were wounded or in danger of death. After chatting with those outside the tents, and evaluating those he had captured, the Count pressed on and entered one of the tents.

The stench of sickness and death at once hit him and the valet that he was with—Jakob nearly recoiled from it. This tent belonged to those who were in the worst condition. He raised his hand to cover his mouth, as he coughed. One knight was laid on the ground, a physician watching over him. His abdomen had been punctured by a pike, and his leg shot by an arquebus. He groaned loudly, then let out a softer moan, tears trickling down his face, as he called for The Greatest to aid him. By that point it was clear that the man would not live, or so the physician said, as he shuddered and wiped his hands clean of the man’s blood, before turning to attend to the next individual. A priest, who had been tending to the last rites of one man, turned to that wounded knight, and began to give him his last prayers as well. This was Sir Georg’s father.

There were some others in the tent and Count Jakob caught a look of each of their faces. Their scared and shocked expressions, interrupted temporarily by a groan or cry of pain, as the physician and priest, aided by one servant, worked around the clock to tend to the nobles, who were edging closer and closer to death. Jakob spoke briefly with one who was slightly better than the others, and able to speak. They exchanged a few words, and some prayers, and the Count left the tent soon after.

He came to the second tent. Some men were better here, others were in a similar state as those before. Unlike the last tent, there was no physician, only a priest, who filled the role of the doctor quite nicely, darting from man to man to see if they were alright or not. Some of the men in this tent were seated atop an awkwardly placed bench. These were those who were deemed to have been ‘saved’, though they didn’t exactly look the part. One was tired, and had fallen asleep, his face bruised and beaten, as he took deep breaths in the midst of his slumber. The Count turned to this man, his expression simple and plain, as he asked the priest what had happened to him. The priest gave a short answer, explaining that he had been shot in the leg and that he hit his head quite badly too. The Count, not wanting to disturb the man’s sleep, simply turned to the next knight.

Heinrik sat slumped, his left arm was bandaged, the light wound he’d sustained from what he later learned was from a volley, was luckily a grazing shot. It would scar, but it was in a better condition than his leg, that laid out before him, braced, as to keep it straight. It looked more painful than it was, truth be told he could barely feel pain in his body as was, but his leg was almost entirely numb to him. Heinrik glanced up, his eyes meeting the man before him, his look of someone important.

“And who is this man?” The Count asked, turning to the priest, not expecting the prisoner himself to answer.

“I am Heinrik von Hönberg, son of Palsgrave Airmanreik, Count of Straulechen.” He said with a light air of authority, though it was light, he tried to impress his position onto the unknown man.

The Count’s eyes widened, as he processed Heinrik’s words. He smiled, already taking a liking to the man, before he answered. “Are you your father’s heir?”

He smirked, the common question to men who did not know his position, “Second son.” He said plainly.

“Ah. I’m sure you’ve made your father proud. The Palsgrave’s son you say…” He commented, before trailing off. He resumed shortly after. “I’ve heard good things of your father.” He added, taking note of Heinrik’s young complexion, provoking more thoughts in his mind, which he put into words readily. “You’re a young lad. I trust this was your first time? Fighting that is.”

“Aye, my first battle, if you’d call this butchery, battle.” He commented, a hint of disgust in his words, as he remembered the many dead. He need only turn his head and see his dying friends to remind him of this fact.

The Count’s smile faded, as he understood Heinrik’s comment, and mulled it over. “I apologise that you had to see battle for the first time in such circumstances. But such is war, lad, such is war…you’ll come to learn that in time, when you’re older. Yet your words ring true. Some butchery this was.” He answered. “I want this man in good condition, father.” He ordered, turning to the priest. “I don’t want him catching some disease in this ailment-ridden place. The same goes for all these men, for that matter.” He continued, and the priest gave a simple nod, before resuming his duties. The Count turned to the next man. The next knight was also sleeping, his breathing not even audible to Jakob. The Count squinted, before reaching his fingers to touch the man’s neck lightly. There was no pulse.

“This one’s dead, father.”

Rolais, Aelythium, Dhorvas, Namalar, and 3 othersSyrduria, Eskeland, and Raf Dralmar

Succession

Founding Post

Aurogiena, La Reggia, Central Kitchen

Giasone bent his knees, physically lowering his gaze and bringing his tired eyes up close to Ramurio’s plate, set on the monolithic countertop as its lone inhabitant.

The pasta caught the evening’s light through the palace’s stained glass beautifully. The black noodles, stained with squid ink, did little to reflect the outside sunlight but rather invited it to dance on the dish itself with the hospitable dash of olive oil immersed into a sauce. The scallops, cooked adequately well, were arranged in a kind of floral pattern, a sprig of parsley serving as its figurative central stigma. Bits of the garlic slices were visible throughout, crispy from a saute a minute or two over what would be welcome.

Giasone leaned forward and sniffed at the dish, still freshly steaming from a recent transfer onto the plate from the pan. Immediately, the garlic was the first thing to be noticed, its strong, rich aroma almost overpowering and working in contrast, not in tandem, against the more delicate seafood smells of the scallops or even the pasta itself. Still, the garlic did play well with the quiet yet foundational aroma of the olive oil.

Next, he took a golden fork in his aged hands and twirled a small knob of pasta. On the utensil he then cleaved the meat of one of the scallops and then delicately placed the combination in his mouth. Again, the garlic was a bit strong for his taste. It was a good aromatic, to be sure, but at least for Aurogiense purposes it was best used in moderation. This overpowering garlic presence in this dish, on the other hand, resembled the tendency for garlic the Ryeongseans or Saejin would exhibit. At least the scallop wasn’t lost. Its natural flavor played well, even if only a little, with the garlic and the natural saltiness of the pasta from the squid ink, as well as the dashes of pepper flakes Ramurio put, despite how modest he was with them. The oil was a bit heavy but not enough to weigh down the entire dish. Perhaps it could have been emulsified better; the sauce did lack the light, cohesive feel Giasone looked for in his pasta.

Next to him, Ramurio shifted nervously. His eyes were locked on his father’s mouth, which juggled the judgment of his dish. Giasone internally sighed. Perhaps his obnoxious movements were a bit much; no matter how many times he judged Ramurio’s cooking, Ramurio was always made so nervous at the moment of truth.

“You put too much garlic,” Giasone said at last, looking up at the ceiling in recollection of his verdict. “Put a bit less next time and consider your other flavors. The taste of seafood is strong, but when many attempt to balance it, it can easily be broken.” He looked down at Ramurio again, who bore a solemn face of notation. Giasone put his hands on his son’s shoulders. “It is a hard task. I might have had you before I could master it myself. And you know how young I was when I started cooking. Even younger than when you started.” He added with a gruff chuckle.

Ramurio smiled a little.

“In addition, you could emulsify the sauce more. The pasta’s water is your friend. The olive oil has a nice feel to it but cannot be left by itself if you are already making a sauce out of it. Try to mitigate its weight next time. It needs to be light, airy, and strong, as an oil-based sauce should be,” Giasone continued. He twirled his fork in his hand. Giasone’s criticism was often direct and bluntly honest. Still, thankfully, although Ramurio would often be crushed at his dish falling so far, the value he saw in his father’s points seemed to outweigh his failure. Giasone appreciated how honest he could be with his son. Nevertheless, he felt the need to add, “Not perfect, as dishes seldom are, if ever.” He took the bowl in his other hand. “The Greatest certainly did not intend for us to be perfect chefs, or perfect people. Where would he fit if we were?” He smiled again. “But this is a fine dinner. I will enjoy it nicely with some white wine.”

Ramurio bowed. “Thank you, Father.” He matched his father’s smile and went to the cupboards to fetch a bottle of fine domestic white wine, probably older than his grandfather.

“No, thank you,” Giasone replied cheerfully as he made his way to the dining room. “With Culaud I could never get him to learn to cook. He lacked the passion for it, seeing more value in statecraft instead. Which is important too.” Giasone sat at the table, Ramurio at his side with his own serving of his pasta. Giasone poured in pristine chalices a drink for each of them. “He would make a fine king when I should pass. But to you, Ramurio, I impart my true legacy. That is something you should try to succeed, more so than a million crowns or the dead greatness of Kostua itself. Kings come and go and can be fielded anywhere, but true mastery of an art is something truly precious. Succeed me in this, son.”

Ramurio nodded in determination. “Yes, Father.”

Dhorvas, Saeju, Riddenheim, Eskeland, and 2 othersBrelogne, and Raf Dralmar

Sins of the Father

Copost with Riddenheim

The Morning following Illarians departure after the incident with Kiril, Drovijj paced across the Volkiban chamber halls, his pipe sitting within his mouth as he puffed away thinking before pausing and grabbing one of the nearby servants. “Summon Saint Ulrich’s own, I would like a word with their Grandmaster.” he stated coldly.

Within the hour the servant returned with a man in well maintained straki armor, a half cape along his shoulder showed the colors and sigil of one of the oldest houses within Volgaro, The House of Ragnvaldria, a large double sided axe with long forgotten runes that had been it’s symbol for millenia.

The man kneeled. “My Lord, you summoned me and my men?” he said plainly.

Lord Drovij looked at the man for a moment before responding. “Sir Demitri am I to understand you converted to the Iskrenite faith?”

Demitri stood and nodded. “During my men’s patrol’s around Myrali, I spent time with Father Illarion, during said time he showed me the light of the Greatest which I chose to follow.”

Drovij nodded. “Then you will be sent after the Priest, to make sure he makes it to Riddenheim to stop this war, your men shall join the rest of the Royal army under my command, ride with haste and you should be able to catch him at Seržant.”

Demitri bowed and quickly made his way back to his man, one the captains, a younger man originally from Almuna met him at the door. “What are our orders, my lord?” he said, trying to keep up with the Grandmaster's pace.

“You all are to report to the Lord Marshall, Nume do not make my choice to bring in a foreigner a regretful one.” Demtri said, mounting his Drunaran Stallion, Heimdallion, before riding off chasing Ilarion’s tail.

Seržant. Seržant was the only word that filled Ilarian’s mind. The site of the horrific crime, committed by the Prophet’s own blood… Seržant and it’s survivors would convince King Jander and the rest of Riddenheim not to listen to the mad ravings of Valkovich. It had to.

After almost two days of near constant riding, Ilarian arrived at the village. His elderly body could barely endure the strain the ride took on him, but he ignored the protests of his body as he entered the village. The Volgar townspeople spat in the dirt before him as he rode on, their views and opinions of The Greatest’s faithful being thoroughly destroyed. Still, Ilarian went on, stopping and entering the now abandoned Iskrenite church in the center of the town.

What had once been host to a vibrant congregation of the faithful had been ravaged by an angry mob of peasants, who ransacked the church after the burning of their fellows. Pews were upturned and broken into kindling, while the altar had been stripped of the gold and silver engravings. On the single non broken pew sat a monk, his head in his hands as he mumbled a prayer of forgiveness in his shaking voice. Ilarian stood in the ransacked church silently until the monk finished his prayer and sighed, looking up and turning his head to greet Ilarian. The monk's depression turned to exasperation as he saw the acting Prelate of Volgaro standing before him. He stuttered,

“F-Father Ilarian! I-I did not know you would be coming here, I…” Ilarian held up a hand as tears swelled in the monk's eyes and he began to choke on his words. Ilarian spoke gently,

“Tell me your name, my son.”

“V-Viktor… Viktor Ivanovich.” Ilarian took Viktor gently by the shoulder and led him back to the pew, sitting down beside him.

“Tell me exactly what happened here Viktor, spare me no detail.” Viktor recounted the whole incident, from the initial trials by Valkovich to the priest Alexi’s condemnation, to the pyre being built and the accused being burned. Viktor concluded,

“… and then he told the peasants to observe well what had happened here and ‘Never transpire with the enemies of The Greatest and his Prophet, or you shall join them in eternal damnation’. Greatest, I can still hear him say it when I close my eyes…” Ilarian held his hand over his mouth, suppressing the urge to vomit. He swallowed his disgust and spoke quickly,

“Listen to me Viktor, it is vital I get you and your testimony to Valken and the Synod. Valkovich has already fled from Volgaro, and I believe he may be trying to start a war between our Kingdoms. Now, do you know any additional witnesses to these events?” Viktor nodded and spoke,

“A few of the peasants may still be open to your words. Most abandoned us, but I believe I can find you additional voices.” Ilarian nodded as he stood from the pew and walked from the church, leaning against the door to catch his breath and collect his nerves.

Demitri arrived shortly after the priest, his stallion panting heavily as the Straki dismounted it, tied it to a post and reaching into his saddle bag pulled out an apple feeding it to the horse before entering the village.

One of the remaining villagers ran up to Demetri pointing towards the church. “The Iskrenist dog is in there! They’ve come to burn us once more!”

Demitri looked to the villager, noticing the mixed look of loss and rage on the man’s face, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Return to your home, I will deal with it.” The straki said calmly before walking towards the church and opening its doors.

Ilarian shot to his feet and immediately stood between demetri and the altar. He readied his frail body and spoke stoically,

“I mean these people no harm. I came here to seek justice for the unjustly martyred.”

Demitri smiled at the sight of Ilarian. “I mean you no harm father I’ve only come to make sure you make it to your destination.” He said putting his hands into an arch.

“By The Greatest Demitri, Don’t startle me like that! Why are you here and not in Myrali?”

“The Lord Marshal sent me to protect you in the case our people or yours decided to harm you.” The Straki said softly.

Ilarian only nodded, for he could not speak the proper words. He rallied his emotions quickly, speaking orders to the commander,

“Very good then. We’ve no more time to waste. I’ve sent the priest here to collect witnesses to the tragedy. Once he’s returned with them we must ride with all haste to Valken. How many men do you have with you?”

“Just me, all of our forces are being mobilized to face your King’s forces.” He said bluntly. “Gather those witnesses you can with haste.”

“That’s probably for the best. We’ll attract less attention with the fewer men we have, and the quicker we can move past the border lords the better. I suspect Valkovich hasn’t gone much further than Davir at the most. He’ll intend to start his war there.” Ilarian shook his head before stepping outside the church, waving the returning Viktor over to the pair.

Two men followed Viktor, volgar farmers and devout Iskrenites, the both of them. One had brought along several fine horses, more than adequate to accommodate all of the small party’s needs. Ilarian mounted his own tired horse and began to ride forward, shouting back to Demetri,

“The bastard will have us at a disadvantage for quite a while. It’s a week's ride to Valken, assuming the very best of conditions. And in the time it’ll take for the King to muster a force and march them to Davir to apprehend Valkovich, it’ll be more than enough time for him to set off the whole damned powder keg. As such, we must ride day and night to Valken, only stopping once both animal and rider can go no further. Are we in agreement, Grandmaster?”

“The Lord Marshal will try to fend off the invaders till we can stop this madness, so yes we must make haste.” Demitri said, nodding. “If not we may return to a Volgaro in flames.”

Meanwhile, in a castle close to the border,

Kirill looked up from his table and smiled broadly as a servant whispered quietly into his ear, his attention soon turned from the golden plate piled high with roasted duck and pork that sat before him. He motioned to the servant, who began to push the wheeled chair he had been confined in after his escape from Myrali to one of the many side rooms of his host's castle.

The room was bare besides a large round table and a collection of finely carven chairs. On the wall opposite the door was a small hearth, where a weak flame was kept alive by the deposition of fresh logs by the Boyar of the castle, Andrei Dultsev. Tall and thin was the master of this estate, his eyes darting around nervously as Kirill was rolled into the room and left beside the table. The Boyar bowed to Valkovich, his voice filled with reverence and supplication as he spoke to the Prophet’s Scion,

“Your Holiness, how did you find your dinner? Was everything to your liking?” Dultsev was sweating as he raised his head and watched as Kirill scratched his chin slowly, a wicked grin spreading over his face as he spoke slowly,

“The meal was… adequate, lord Dultsev. But enough of mindless pleasantries. I assume the requested guests have arrived?” Dultsev nodded erratically as he retreated to the doorway and shouted down the hall, standing deferentially before Kirill as an assembly of nine Boyars entered from further down the great keep. Each one paid respects to Valkovich, some bowed as low as Dultsev, others knelt as one would before the King, and some merely nodded and spoke simple words of respect.

Each took a place at the table, and when Dultsev took his chair at the left hand of Valkovich the Prophet’s scion spoke to them all,

“Gentlemen, thank you for agreeing to meet here on such short notice. I shall endeavor not to occupy so much of your valuable time, so I shall speak plainly. The matter that I have called to your attention is of such grave importance as to threaten the very foundations of Riddenheim and Iskrenism. I speak of the heathens to the west, the Volgar menace who slaughter the faithful and harbor vast hordes of heretics. As some of you are aware, I recently led a holy mission of pious men into this blighted land, to guide and protect their redemption in the view of The Greatest. The very first town I came to was infested with the minions of that most ancient of heresies, those who follow the wicked teachings of my most vile ancestor, Radek.”

“I was compelled by the very blood in my veins to put an end to this nest of vipers and prevent these simple minded people from dooming their eternal souls. I quickly identified those who were beyond saving, and ordered their bodies to be burned along with their preacher, who was no doubt the one spreading to them the heresies of the Radekite creed. I departed from this village, content in the knowledge that though they may now despise me, their souls had been freed from the dread grasp of the Necromancer.”

“Several more villages I liberated during my holy mission, but the corrupted hearts of the Volgar lords could not stand to see their people accept the true path. I was called before them by a man I thought could be trusted, the man who was supposed to be leading these heathens away from evil. Ilarian Anosov was meant to save the Volgars from heresy, instead I found him nurturing and encouraging its growth. I saw him whisper lies into the ears of the blood mad Volgar lords, and the master of their assembly called for my head. I was given no choice but to defend myself, and during my escape I saw as all of the holy men around me martyred themselves for my own survival. Though I was and remain gravely injured, I pressed on to the motherland to preserve their memory and insure their deaths were not in vain. Gentlemen, I have called you here to liberate the Volgars from their own ignorance and bring them into the glorious light of The Greatest and His Prophet.” Several Boyars immediately jumped from their chairs and knelt before Kirill, swearing their men to him, while others remained seated while ceding command to Valkovich. Only one was reluctant, and this elder Boyar spoke quietly to Valkovich,

“S-shouldn’t we wait for the King to give his consent, or perhaps even the Grand Prince would…” Kirill slammed his fist into the table, startling the old Boyar.

“Now is not the time to wait for the King to grant his approval! Iskrenites are under threat at this very moment, we do not have the time to wait! Once your Grand Prince and the King sees the righteousness of our cause, they will rally to us and strike down the heathens, all they require is for us here to take the first step towards victory.” The old man rented and knelt before Kirill, kissing his hand as he pledged his own life and the lives of his subjects to the Prophet’s Blood.

One week later along the western bank of the Dolgava river

Drovij looked out on the horizon, the winter winds clashing against the makshift fortification that his army had begun to prepare. Sighing he lit his pipe once more entering the command tent, within sat the newly formed Marshalry of Volgaro, who all bowed taking their seats looking towards the Lord Marshal expectantly.

He looked to the marshals, then to a large map of Volgaro and Riddenheim and took a deep hit from his pipe. “Men, we stand threatened with destruction of everything we hold dear by what accounts to little more than a madman. I hope that our allies are able to convince the good King Jander to stop his dogs from seeing both our homes burn. We must hold the Dolgava at all costs until word is received from Ilarian and Demitri, is that understood.”

One of the men on the right side, a merchant from Halland under the service of Alrik, stood. “My lord, I do not mean to overstep but what if the Riddenheimic horde does not stop?”

Drovij sighed. “Then we will deprive the women of Riddenheim of their Fathers, Sons, and husbands. We will show them the price of war with the valiant people of Volgaro.”

He then moved several pieces on the map. “The Volgar marshals will hold the north, Sudenmen the south, my forces shall guard the pass from Davir. Kasimir you will be in charge of the Northern front, Ser Hanneman you will be in charge of the south. Ser Polikarp, Maxim Vladov, and Höger your forces will stay with me. I am sure we are going to face the brunt of the force here.”

All of the marshals nodded in agreement and stood getting ready to carry out their orders. Kasimir approached Drovij.

“Do you think Demitri will succeed old friend?” He said calmly.

Drovij sighed. “For all of our sakes I hope he does.”

Meanwhile, at a tavern on the road to Valken…

Ilarian had insisted on a rapid pace once they had left Volgaro, and despite his own advanced age they stopped to rest only thrice on the journey from Seržant to the Riddenheimic capital. The men grumbled and some spoke of their displeasure loudly, but the elderly priest paid them no mind and kept riding. Eventually, his own exhaustion combined with his illness took its toll, and at Demitri’s suggestion they had stopped at a tavern to rest and recuperate for the night.

While most of the party was glad to finally sleep on a real bed and fill their bellies with many good drinks, Ilarian sat nervously by the fire, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames as his hand shook around an untasted mug of vodka.

Demitri downed his own drink before looking at Ilarian. “We will succeed, it is the greatest will that this war not happen I am sure of it.”

Ilraian nodded, his movements rapid and twitchy; he was completely unsure of himself and even a blind, deaf leper would be able to tell. He took a quick swig of his drink and turned to Demitri, his question frank,

“Demetri, why did you convert when I first came to Volgaro?”

Demitri thought for a moment. “Redemption you could say for my clan's past atrocities “ he said solemnly.

“And as it was pointed out by my cousin when you first came, Iskrenism and Velski seem to be cut from the same cloth with only a different design for each.”

Ilarian smiled genuinely, his mouth a patchwork of missing and rotted teeth, a testament to a life spent eating simple food on unforgiving roads. He gave a small chuckle as he spoke,

“Then our current plight is quite ironic, wouldn’t you say? Here to my right we have a descendant of the disgraced destroyers of the first Volgar kingdom who bowed to the Kostuan empire, who is engaged on a holy quest to stop the mad delusions of the direct descendant of the holiest man to ever walk the face of this world. In times like these, I truly do believe The Greatest has a sense of humor.”

“Or perhaps the Greatest allowed you to meet me to stop Iskren's descendant from completely destroying his name as my ancestors did to ours.” The straki said solemnly.

Ilarian nodded again, the smile fading from his face. He again looked to the fireplace and watched as a lower log gave way and sent the flames spiraling higher into the stone chimney. He sighed and spoke quietly,

“Sometimes I wonder what our Lord truly plans for each of us, in the end. I had hoped to spend the rest of my days in quiet prayer and study, but then He called me away first to bring His word to Volgaro, and then again to safeguard those words from the plotting of a lunatic. I wonder Demitri; when will The Greatest be done with me? I am but an unworthy vessel for His will, surely He can find a better servant than I.”

The Straki thought for a moment. “Perhaps you are far more important than you think.”

Ilarian nodded and took another short and erratic sip from his vodka. He paused, then spoke,

“And what does our Lord think your purpose is in all this, Demitri?”

“I honestly don’t know, I know what I wish it to be, to redeem my family’s legacy and to save my home.” Demitri said, taking a sip of his own drink.

“And may you find success, and may The Greatest stand with us during our trials.” he stood and placed his mug beside his chair and started walking to his quarters. “We should continue riding at first light. If we keep a swift pace we may reach Valken before the day is out. Goodnight, Demitri, and may The Greatest keep you.”

“Goodnight father..” Demitri said, finishing his drink pondering for a few hours before heading to his chambers as well.

Uyuti, Dhorvas, The blacklight empire, Namalar, and 6 othersRiddenheim, Syrduria, Ryeongse, Eskeland, Brelogne, and Raf Dralmar

On Target

Prompt Post

Byeolsan, Inner District, Royal Palace, East Wing Study Hall

“Heonmye?” Naehwa peeked her head through the hallway’s entrance, dawn-red pillars gesturing with eternal silence, as if admonishing its entrance to follow suit in such silence, to the perpetually dim rows of bookcases, cabinets, and tables with silk cushions at each side. The dark brown of the polished wood of the structures dominated the room, the red walls and ceilings only being further combated by the faded tawny wooden plank floor.

From behind a bookcase poked Heonmye’s inquisitive head in response. “What is it, gomo1?” She made a curious frown. The young noblewoman stood from her seat, her simple black and white hanbok tattered with the dust of tomes and scrolls, as well as with the occasional cobweb. Heonmye vainly patted her clothes to make herself more presentable in front of her aunt, doing nothing aside from conjuring even more dust.

“How long have you been in here?” Naehwa approached Heonmye and brushed at her niece’s shoulders and sleeves, this also doing little. “You are beyond filthy.”

Heonmye’s face turned a light rosy color as she turned her face down. “I’m sorry; I can’t get a break from the books King Theodor had gifted for me to read. They pull me to them.”

“Then let’s interrupt that, shall we?” Naehwa patted Heonmye’s shoulders with a weary smile. “Her Majesty the Queen has invited us two to a game of archery with her.”

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

Byeolsan, Inner District, Daesalgi Military Academy, Southside Range

Shirin secured her reflex bow’s silk cover around her waist with a gentle but firm knot, the elegant black and red of the piece matching with her midnight blue and white hanbok gown2. Her outfit was rather light, to cope with the spring’s encroaching heat as well as the activity ahead of her.

Despite the heat, it was a rather pleasant day. Practically no wind as well. Perfect for a game of archery.

Shirin firmly gripped the bow’s handle, drawing back with her other hand to test its weight. It seemed she had little reason to distrust the bowmaker. The bow was perfectly constructed for her height, proportions, and strength.

She turned to the target, about fifteen horselengths away. A neat stack of hay, the target beckoned a good shot from contestants on the other side of the range with a cloth target piece featuring against a black backdrop a white rectangle, inside of this further a smaller red rectangle. She squinted, lining her eyes carefully with the bow’s edge and, further than that, the red square, slightly below where the arrow was to leave the bow to account for the distance. Satisfied, Shirin gently, yet with firmness lest the string slip out of her hands and damage the bow in a dry-fire, goaded the drawstring back to its neutral position.

Shirin had never been an archer. An upbringing in shaman and Ziist temples coupled with extensive training purely in melee combat meant that her ranged attacks were strictly limited to what she could procure from her own hands. A well-timed ice bolt or thunderbolt always hit her target, but when it came to launching projectiles from something as inorganic, relatively, as a bow, Shirin struggled. She always chafed at the idea of practicing archery with Jangyeon. Yes, she did love him, but his constant victories, with her never even coming close, got old quickly. Even now, Shirin was not sure as to why she chose archery as an activity to partake in with the highest-ranking military official under the king and her surrogate daughter, raised to shoot bows and swing swords practically from birth.

Shirin did not need to win, though. Thankfully, although losing an archery round with two of her subjects, even nobles, would no doubt prove a humiliating story. She needed a pretense.

The gate to the range opened and then closed shortly afterward. Shirin turned, seeing Naehwa and Heonmye approach in similar outfits, each with their bows. The two noblewomen bowed as they stopped in front of the queen; Shirin replied silently with a cordial bow of her head.

“Thank you for inviting us, Highness,” Naehwa bowed again.

Shirin shook her head with a bashful smile. She hung her bow from the handle on her right elbow. <Please,> she handsigned. <Today we are competitors. Let us start.> The queen turned and beckoned the two women to their spot, a single alley-like expanse of grass before a length of fence, the lone target on the other side.

Naehwa stepped up to the fence first. She grabbed three arrows from a bucket at the fencepost and placed them in the pocket formed by her bow cover around her waist. She then gently pulled from her quiver a single arrow. With one hand on the bow itself and the other on the arrow’s tail, she pivoted her body to the side, still facing the target, and raised both arms in tandem, nocking the arrow on her bow over her head. She drew the bow as she lowered her arms to aim at the target, her arms vibrating from the beseeching tenseness of the drawstring only being made more tantalizing to release from the bow’s composite construction. Yet Naehwa held firm. She inhaled, focusing on the target. From her eye to her hand to the arrowhead to the target. One singular path.

She released.

The arrow flew in the blink of an eye, across the grass in an instant. A dull thwack. The arrow had landed just shy of the inner red rectangle.

Naehwa exhaled with a tinge of disappointment. She pivoted once more, turning fully to where Shirin and Heonmye were as the queen approached the range. Like Naehwa before her, she drew three arrows from the bucket and placed them on her bow cover around her waist. Drawing from this an arrow to fire, she raised both it and her bow above her head and slid the arrow back as she nocked it and pulled back on the drawstring. Lowering the bow in aim, Shirin inhaled and held her breath. Some slight movements against the uptick of wind, and then more when it died. Then release.

The arrow flew in its own path almost instantaneously, landing with a similar thwack on the other side of the rectangle opposite Naehwa’s.

Shirin let her bow down and followed Naehwa, stepping away from the fence with an emotionless visage.

It was Heonmye’s turn next. Stepping forward, she took some deep breaths to compose herself before the older women. Especially, it seemed to Shirin, before her. Shirin could not blame Heonmye. As normal as she herself felt, she was the queen of Ryeongse. The most powerful woman in the kingdom’s expansive bounds.

Heonmye faced the target, turning her body to the side as she took her own batch of three arrows, placed them into her quiver-pouch, and then from there drawing one arrow and her bow to the sky. The two were connected as she drew her bow both back and down. She aimed and held her breath. Whatever gust had come up before was, for now, completely gone. The air was rather dry too; what minute differences humidity did make were crucial between a hit in the bullseye and a hit outside of it. Something Heonmye had learned from years of training.

Heonmye tensed her body. She fired.

The arrow flew like its predecessors at breakneck speed and landed on the target. Thwack. Just barely within the confines of the red rectangle.

Heonmye suppressed a girlish smile as she retreated from the fence, as it was her mother’s turn next.

<Good shot,> Shirin signed, sitting on a bench near the fence. Her bow was leaned against it on one side. Heonmye bowed deeply in thanks before taking the other side at Shirin’s beckoning.

Heonmye was not yet a generation older than Shirin, yet still the young woman bowed, both out of respect for the queen and piety to elders. It made Shirin feel uncomfortably aged, but such was the sacrifices of royalty, she supposed.

<How have you been? Your studies going well?> Shirin asked as Naehwa raised and then lowered her bow in aim.

“Yes, Highness,” Heonmye smiled bashfully. “Although admittedly I do lose myself in literature, particularly from the center of the continent. It seems the passion of the Hallish translate easily into words and pages.”

“Yet books are not the only things from the west that my niece loses herself in,” Naehwa chuckled as she paced to the bench, somewhat satisfied with her latest shot, marginally closer to the bullseye.

Shirin’s eyebrows rose in piqued curiosity.

Heonmye’s face turned redder than her scarlet hanbok. She stammered helplessly, unable to find her words.

“Do not suppose you and Theodor have gone unnoticed. It has been a month, and Lady Raewyn has told me everything,” Naehwa continued.

Shirin nodded with an understanding, teasing smile.

Heonmye somehow turned even redder.

"It is good that your relationship seems healthy and reciprocated," Naehwa sighed, stroking her still-mortified niece's loose strands of hair.

Shirin stood, signing before she took her bow and an arrow in hand, <Then a marriage could be quite prudent.>

It was Naehwa's turn to be stunned. "Highness?" she called out weakly as the queen stepped up to the fence to shoot. No response, as her hands were conveniently (for Shirin) occupied.

Heonmye opened and then closed her mouth, several times, trying to make out any semblance of a sentence, all in vain.

“Highness, if I may,” Naehwa began as Shirin concluded her shot and headed back to the bench, “might it be too soon to come to such a decision? And we would have to factor in Heonmye’s decision as well. We cannot just assume for her—”

“I…” Heonmye began at last, standing. Perhaps her turn at arching prompted her, but she nevertheless kept her hands to her side, curled in apprehensive fists, and bit her lip, whose vermillion brightness was still threatened by her flushed cheeks. “I am not opposed to… to marriage.” Embarrassed beyond any further speech, she hastily sped over to the fence to shoot.

Naehwa amended her argument. “What about what I think? Can a mother—” Naehwa bit her tongue. “Can an aunt have any input on a marriage I see rushing into as foolish and potentially disastrous? How do we know Theodor of Eskeland is trustworthy for Heonmye?” She inhaled, closing her eyes and taking a moment away from the other two women to compose herself.

<He bears the responsibility of his kingdom against evil men,> Shirin replied matter-of-factly. <He would show such care to his bride.>

“Respectfully, Highness, she would be his bride no more than his political bargaining tool,” Naehwa scoffed.

<Ours too,> Shirin returned Naehwa’s frown with a smirk.

“That is not my point, Highness,” Naehwa had to restrain herself from exhibiting impropriety before the queen. “The point is that this marriage will relegate Heonmye to nothing more than an object for the political agendas of Byeolsan and Tidahamn.”

<But that would further the goals of the kingdom.>

“My foremost duty to further the goals of my kingdom is to sacrifice myself for my family, my nation, and my king. I cannot sacrifice one to serve another,” Naehwa stated with an undertone of irritation.

<This is how the world works,> Shirin also returned Naehwa’s slight hint of hostility. <Heonmye will be fine. Why keep her for your own reasons?>

“Because I cannot bring myself to give her up.”

<Not even for the king?>

“I do not think so, no.”

<Then perhaps we have chosen Munhan’s successor wrongly.> Shirin sighed silently, a professional, downcast pity in her cold eyes.

“Please stop,” Heonmye interrupted. She had finished her turn. She had composed her face’s complexion but was distraught with emotion. “Gomo, you can’t just talk about me as a bargaining tool when you won’t consider what I want. I love you, but I am not yours to ‘sacrifice.’ I’m nineteen.” She turned next to Shirin. “Frankly, Highness, I don’t care much for the politics of it all. I love Theodor, and I want to be with him. Whatever benefits either Ryeongse or Eskeland will have, let them come as they may, but I care first and foremost about what’s important in my life. I respectfully ask both of you to respect me as I am. Not as a possession. And not as a tool. As a person, in love.”

Both Naehwa and Shirin fell silent to the young lady’s words. Naehwa broke her speechlessness first. “Okay,” she said at last. “I trust you. I am sorry for my behavior and thinking of you that way.” Naehwa took a shaky breath and then embraced Heonmye. “I’m sorry, my daughter.”

Heonmye buried her face in Naehwa’s shoulder. “I love you, umma3. Thank you for understanding.” Naehwa silently cried in response. Solemnly, Heonmye turned to Shirin, still in Naehwa’s arms. “I apologize, Highness, but I request that we end this game early. I think we are all quite tired.”

Shirin nodded in agreement. <I apologize as well. Accept my apology by continuing to follow your heart, no matter what silly old women like us think. Shoot straight against the wind.> Shirn then turned to Naehwa. She tried to bring up her hands to sign something but kept them down, pressing her lips together. Naehwa said nothing as well, her unashamed eyes saying all that needed to be said.

Heonmye nodded in acknowledgment. Hand in hand, Heonmye and Naehwa turned away from the range, bows in hand to later wrap in their covers. Following the pair, Shirin began wrapping hers and summoned some free hands about the range to collect their arrows for them. Shirin bit her lip. She had been too harsh in her words against a mother who loved her daughter that was not even her own. As a mother herself, Shirin despised herself for attacking a virtue that could very well be hers one day. What if Yeonmin or Yeonae had to be given up? No mother should be punished for wanting to hold onto their children. Still, children had a right to exercise who they were. And both mother and child had a right to come to conclusions without the tangled mess of continental politics.

Maybe this was a weakness. Maybe personal attachments were a hindrance to the right choice. A hindrance the chief advisor to the king could not afford to struggle with. Is love a weakness? Shirin sighed. Perhaps not. Heonmye had demonstrated otherwise this day.

That was when Shirin cast a last glance at the target and realized that, all alone, Heonmye’s latest arrow had dug itself deep inside the red bullseye.

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

1: gomo: familial name for the sibling of one’s parent

2: when practicing archery, a composite bow’s sheet-like cover is traditionally removed and tied around the waist. This functions also as a quiver. This practice is not used in military applications, merely only in Ryeongsean sport.

3: umma: affectionate name for one’s mother

Uyuti, Dhorvas, Namalar, Eskeland, and 2 othersStraulechen, and Raf Dralmar

The Epilogue of Liberation

300-Word Expansion Post

Kadhabruc, city center

Anilu sighed, chafing in his hybrid lamellar-plate armor, a distinct aesthetic of his home city of Bupokhnong. Kadhabruc had not been occupied by the Kerboutay for long, but their effects were as present as the sky above.

Much of the city’s streets were empty, with ransacked fruit stands and streetside butcher shops lying strewn about the stone pathways. The Kerboutay had taken what they needed, both for food and to set up a makeshift barricade with impending Angfar troops en route to liberate the captured city. Or, as they would likely have said, to capture the liberated city.

Still, that had not stopped the Angfarucs from bringing the Kerboutay defenses crashing down, scattering the rebels and wresting control of Kadhabruc back under the hands of the High Rachya. Anilu had captained his own division, mostly from the northern part of the island and many also from the solitary island city of Bupokhnong.

Their taste of victory had been utterly shattered when entering the city, to find destitute cityfolk scrambling up to the soldiers begging for food, to which the dumbstruck soldiers could only give their plenties away. Anilu knew the importance of reestablishing exchange and logistics between Sorahnpu and Kadhabruc. That was why he had enlisted, to assist with his division, several cityfolk who knew the city’s roads and infrastructure. Anilu and some other commanding officers then had organized search and rescue operations as well as basic rebuilding programs to get hospitals and military facilities back on their feet. The former institutions were much more readily revitalized; the Kerboutay had completely sacked the latter. Anilu had at that moment then filed a request for more arms for storage in Kadhabruc to replenish the empty wares.

That was when Anilu had felt the dull thud of an overripe durian bounce against his horns. That was when he had turned to face three lone protesters, looked on by a wary, slightly disapproving crowd of bystanders. “The Kerboutay were right to liberate us,” they had said. “The oppression of the High Rachya must be eradicated from the entire island.”

That was when Anilu had placed a cautious hand on his sheathed dha1 and calmly asked for the protesters to apologize. That was when the protesters, in response, had drawn their knives and called for their fellow citizens to rise up against the “injustices of the fake god Aro” and to stand with “the true successors of the Yuannon.” That was when Anilu’s men had yelled at the bystanders to flee the area. That was when Anilu had drawn his dha in response and slew the oncoming offenders with his men.

That was when the streets had become even more empty. That was when the blood of the people of Kadhabruc being spilled on the city’s tiles meant that their words had not fallen on deaf ears.

Uyuti, Dhorvas, and Eskeland

A Visit: Part I

400-Word Expansion Post

Sorahnpu, City Limits, a hill

Dhoyanha stood on emerald-like, luscious grass, rivaling her well-kept fur in softness. The breeze tickled both the fields and her hair gently, providing a constant, cool reprieve from the strong sun above. This wind was not considered enough of a danger to jeopardize Dhoyanha’s venture outside, as the weather often did to the worry of palace attendants and advisors. How will the Rachykhina be led, they all would say during such times, without our strong High Rachya?

Which weren’t their sentiments for Dhoyanha when she first ascended the throne.

Before Dhoyanha was a colossal stone box-like tomb, supported at each corner by towering pillars with layered roof tiers coming to a point. A large arch beckoned entrants to approach with respect, even without the indicative inscription on it which read: The Second High Rachya of Angfaran, Phengkaset Phusukhwaron, Defender of Sorahnpu and Aro’s Prize.

Dhoyanha turned behind her, facing her attendants and Kushatryi guardsmen. Their never-changing wardrobe, of either two-piece elaborate dresses or black and gold plate armor, made Dhoyanha feel slightly awkward whenever she would wear anything else but her throne room ceremonial attire. She currently had on a deep purple dress, simple and without the usual highlights. It was loose and rather casual, allowing Dhoyanha to feel the air outside on much of her arms and midriff. She nodded to her entourage, signaling them to stay. They bowed in obligation.

Dhoyanha entered the tomb of her father.

Despite a large stone chamber having the tendency to make unbearably loud any echoed sound, the tomb of Dhoyanha’s father was completely silent; the natural noises from outside were almost barred from entry as if by some invisible force, maybe Aro herself, forcing back the impropriety of Giorn’s constant jubilee in respect to her now-gone servant. The tomb itself was situated on the tallest hill in Sorahnpu’s outskirts, a local point of harmony and closeness with Aro. A point that would honor both her and the last High Rachya’s noble death defending this city.

She approached the monolithic coffin of her father, completely carved from stone brought all the way from Okina Yama. Dhoyanha knelt and placed her hands on it, as if she could somehow reinvoke the warmth of her father who lay underneath this barrier of cold, unfeeling rock. She rested her head on the stone structure as well, tempering her fluctuating heart and lungs, as if these two would betray her already frail body and add one more inhabitant to the tomb.

“Hello, aiyah2,” Dhoyanha whispered softly. “It has been a while since I visited you, hasn’t it?” she chuckled derisively at herself. “I was busy reigniting your war and continuing the reign of death on this forsaken island.”

Silence.

Aiyah, why did you leave?” Dhoyanha continued in her whisper, bringing her hand to a fist on the coffin and banging weakly.

More silence.

Dhoyanha sighed. A tear fell from her eye, seemingly carrying a glint of the eye’s silver luster itself and pattered noiselessly on the stone. It wasn’t for her father but rather against him that she found herself crying. Against the man who laid an unendurable curse on his very own daughter.

Uyuti, Dhorvas, and Eskeland

A Visit: Part II

500-Word Expansion Post

Sorahnpu, at the entrance to the Ivory Palace

10 years ago

Dhoyanha’s throat felt like it was stuffed with rocks. Jagged. Painful. A horrid feeling that conquered, for the moment, even her persistent coughs. Although she would much rather have died coughing her lungs out than undergo this: the death of her father.

The last High Rachya was carried back on a stretcher, a silk sheet over his corpse on which sat his crown. A humiliating return of a ruler back to his home. Dhoyanha wished her father could have gone with more grace. Arriving in Sorahnpu with full funeral pomp. But, as smoke rose on the twilight horizon and the flames of war waged between the Angfarucs and the Kerboutay just outside of the capital, it couldn’t be helped. But this disgraced Rachya had accomplished his goal: Kerboutay logistics had been thoroughly been destroyed, and there was no option for them but to abandon a siege of the city.

Although Dhoyanha knew Sorahnpu would not have been sieged in the first place if it were not for her father.

In her nightgown on the steps to the palace, she was petrified, large silver eyes transfixed on her father’s body carried by stone-faced soldiers, wearing the blood of their friends and enemies with solemnity. Attendants, passersby, and advisors wailed in anguish, crying out “High Rachya” and Aro’s name. They were silenced as Dhoyanha approached her father, her small, thin frame masking her fifteen years of sickness and frailty. She sat beside the body, laid down at the base of the steps, and gingerly uncovered the cloak covering his face.

Father was resting peacefully. His strong, piercing gaze, silver, like his daughter’s, had retired, as if he was sleeping after a long day of leading the Rachykhina in its war.

Dhoyanha put her head on his still chest and began to cry quietly.

All around her, drowning out her noiseless sorrow were the whispers and frantic conversations of witness generals, officials, bureaucrats, and other court audiences. From “Poor heir, O may Aro guide her father safely,” to “It’s a wonder her father managed to die before she did,” the voices were unbearable.

She stood at last, her face like stone. This immediately silenced the audience.

An Aroist priest fully prostrated to the floor, amidst the still-standing, bewildered congregation, touching his bald head to the tiles below him. “Hail the High Rachya, manifest will of Aro,” he simply said.

One by one, each person bowed, foreheads and horns tapping on the palace floor, on the steps behind, Dhoyanha, and on the tone before her. She stood silently, receiving each act of reverence.

Then she spoke. “Aro has placed me here to succeed my great father. The rebels retreat as of now, but we must fully realize my father’s ambition and ensure that Sorahnpu is never threatened as it had been ever again.”

Still bowing, a general spoke up. “High Rachya, what do you have in mind?”

Dhoyanha continued. “There is a hill on the outskirts of the city with a rocky face toward Sorahnpu that will serve as a crude natural obstacle. The Kerboutay will likely stop to recover there. If they manage to set up for a siege of the city at that point, then my father’s death will have been for nothing. The infantry must be scrambled to utterly break the Kerboutay at that point, giving light infantry and ranged groups the chance to set up behind them and harass their rout even more.”

A voice called out. “You are no Rachya.”

Uyuti, Dhorvas, and Eskeland

A Visit: Part III

600-Word Expansion Post

Sorahnpu, at the entrance to the Ivory Palace

10 years ago

“You are no Rachya,” the voice repeated. A group of officials and generals had stayed standing, to Dhoyanha’s discovery. “Your father was a Rachya. You are just a dying child. We will not obey you,” the leader among them, a slender Savoset clad in Angfar plate armor, narrowed his eyes in hatred. They stood brazenly at the top of the stairs to the palace, overlooking Dhoyanha and her father’s body below.

Dhoyanha turned and climbed. Behind her, her people followed. One by one, she formed a train, then a clump, then a crowd. Guards and soldiers left their posts or tasks to follow the Rachya to the top of the stairs. Officials, Aroist clergy, court attendants, and servants, who had previously served Dhoyanha’s father now placed their loyalty in the weak teenage girl climbing a set of stairs with barely enough strength to do so. As Dhoyanha reached the top, she coughed, exhausted from the journey. Wordlessly, generals came to her side, prepping her up while attendants brought towels and herbal tea. Dhoyanha brushed those aside, composing herself and summoning the strength needed to come directly before the group of dissenters. Staring into the leader’s eyes with large, unblinking eyes, Dhoyanha hissed softly, “Are my eyes not blessed by Aro above? And do I not have the blood of ancients coursing through my veins, the legacy of Sorahnpu’s past glories and the Yuannon’s bygone might?”

The dissenters were silent. Dhoyanha took one step closer. “My father entrusted the fate of the Rachykhina upon my shoulders, shoulders as bony and thin as a corpse, ever since I was but an infant. Even though life was a hope, not an assurance, every single day of my life, my father was satisfied by me. Poured his time, knowledge, and love into me. Defy me, and you defy my father. Defy my father, and you defy this island and Aro herself.” She peered more tenaciously into their eyes.

The dissenters stayed silent. The leader, eventually, shook himself from his stupor, wildly unsheathed his kalis, and swung his arm back to slash at the Rachya. Then he stopped. Then he dropped to the ground, into the pool of blood that poured from a Kushatryi spear piercing into his chest.

The other dissenters prostrated immediately.

“If Aro should find me unworthy of my father’s title, of my grandfather’s title, then may I be stricken down as this dissenter, undignified and justly punished. However, until that time comes, if at all, Aro’s blessing is with me,” Dhoyanha stated with a steely confidence. “It is upon my father’s throne which she calls me to be. It is this war that I am to end.”

The audience before her repeated in unison, “Hail the High Rachya, manifest will of Aro!”

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

Sorahnpu, City Limits, a hill

Present day

Dhoyanha stood, gently wiping her face clean.

“Aro hasn’t stricken me down yet, aiyah,” Dhoyanha whispered softly. “She may have cursed me from my very birth with my sickness, and you may have cursed me from my teenage years with your throne, but I have not been killed by either. I am strong, despite what you and Aro have put ahead of me.” Dhoyanha took a deep breath, trying to suppress untimely coughs. She failed. Regaining her composure and clearing her throat, she continued, “Maybe after this war Aro will see no further use for me and kill me. Perhaps out of nowhere she will call someone to start a new dynasty.”

Dhoyanha turned to exit. As she emerged from her father’s tomb, atop the hill where retreating Kerboutay forces were given no chance to recuperate, atop the hill where Angfar forces secured Sorahnpu from future Kerboutay threats, she thought, It would be better if Aro did so, anyway. This dynasty deserves to die.

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

1: dha: a regional term for the daab sword commonly used in the Angfar armed forces; along with regional terms, the daab have regional variants. The northern “dha” variants have longer, straighter blades with a more pronounced, wider head that tapers nearer to the hilt.

2: aiyah: affectionate Angfar term for one’s father

Uyuti, Dhorvas, and Eskeland

Preparing the Void

Airmanreik sat in silence, the sunset already having passed, as the darkness of night began to consume the hall; the hall of Bledbach Castle, the home of his brother, Ekhart. Ekhart had welcomed him to his hall after the defeat of their vanguard in the disaster that saw the presumed death of Count Josef, and their flight from the field. Airmanreik had pondered utter humiliation, even thinking of bending down to any demand set before him by the Syrdish force that had seen them off Josef’s Field, yet he chose to withdraw across the river, Bledruss. His peers, those who stayed true to the pact made in Ulmefurt, had likewise fled to their castles and cities. Some might have stayed in the field for now, but he already knew victory was unlikely when, already, his peers were shaken by such a decisive blow in the first moments of conflict.

Bledbach Castle was a humble hall, not even a hall in truth, more a tower, overlooking one of the crossing creeks on the Bledruss. It was three floors, the entry hall, where he sat now, the personal rooms of Ekhart and his family upstairs, and that of the underhall, where the servants slept and prepared meals. It had a small stable, and two small houses built beside it for his servants and personal guard, who manned the small wooden palisade that surrounded the castle. Rightside the palisade was around six huts of varying sizes, along with a workshop and a modest smithy.

Airmanreik had not visited his brother's home since he had inherited it and had been caught off guard by its simplicity then and still now, seeing it barely changed. He wondered why he insisted on living in such a small home, yet understood this was all that his father had left him. Airmanreik could understand treasuring one’s ancestral home, such as he treasured his own home in Hönberg Castle. Still, his brother should not be living like this, he insisted in his mind, as he continued to try and dwell on anything but the fate of his son.

“You sit in darkness, brother?” Ekhart said, as he entered the hall, closing the door behind him as he entered. The hall was split in three parts, the dining room, the main living room where they now dwelled, and a small chapel. He took a seat beside his brother, prodding the fire with a small rod, before pouring himself a cup of ale.

“It’s past sunset brother, yet you still drink?” Airmanreik asked, surprised by drinking at this hour. It was customary to refrain from drinking after dining, where food and drink were plentiful. It was seen as unrighteous to drink after you had concluded the nightly prayers, which always followed the last supper. Their prayers had concluded over an hour ago.

Ekhart ignored his brother, taking a long drink from the cup. “I will go to the chapel once more if you insist, Your Grace?” He said, with only a slight grin, before sensing there would be no humor found in Airmanreik’s stiffly found depression. “You still dwell on the defeat, then.” He stated, as he placed the cup down onto the small table on his right, and glanced at his brother, “Heinrik likely lives, he’s a strong man now, like you and I at his age, remember?” He said, as he sat back, his mind wandering, as he thought of his youth.

Airmanreik heard his brother's words, yet they felt hollow. He was trying to comfort him, he knew, yet all he felt was bitterness, at himself, at his brother’s council, at everything. “Heinrik could be dead. Greatest have mercy, Heinrik could be dead.” He mumbled, as he leaned forward, clenching his stomach, as the pain returned from moving. Greatest why, he thought, his eyes on the brim of weeping; why had The Greatest done this to him. He had been a faithful man, a pious man, all his life, yet now The Greatest saw fit to challenge him. First with his own looming death and now that of his second born son? He could not understand why he was put to the hardest tests of his life at the end of his life.

Ekhart heard the utter defeat in his brother's words, and pitied him. He could not imagine his situation, the thought that his own son or daughter possibly being taken so young brought him to fear at merely the thought. To actually have it happen to his brother, he could only feel deep pity and sadness. “You still have Leudbold and Halthar, brother.” He said quietly, knowing that could and would not ease what his brother faced. “You must be strong for your two remaining sons, Airmanreik, they’re the future, your future.” He said, trying to redirect his brother’s mind onto the future of the sons he could still protect.

Airmanreik shuttered at his brother's words, his right hand still clenching his stomach as he nodded in agreement. “By the Greatest, you’re right.” He whispered, swallowing his depression for the time. He turned towards Ekhart, as he brushed what could be tears from his eyes, “I must prepare for the succession.” He stated, his brother’s eyes widening at the sudden change of conversation.

“Brother, now is not the-”

“I am dying, Ekhart!” He stated plainly, before throwing his arms in the air. “Everyday is a torture on my body, like swords striking me with every movement, every twitch of my arm!” He yelled, before shuttering from the pain of the exhortation, breathing heavily, as his brother blankly stared at him in disbelief at his brother's condition.

He sighed, with a look of defeat, “You say look towards the future, and so I do. I see a pit, brother, a looming void, an emptiness, which is my coming death. I have known it, you have known it, The Greatest has always known it.” He said, before reaching over to pour a cup of ale. “So see, brother, I look towards the future, and understand that now is the time to plan for my coming death. Now is the time to settle my will, settle my remaining children, before I am incapable.” He concluded, before drinking down the cup of ale, then tossing it upon the wooden floor.

Ekhart meekly nodded, shrewd as he was, he knew his brother’s words ringed a morbid truth in their cynical perspective. “Leudbold must be married sooner rather than later then.” Ekhart stated, as he agreed subconsciously, that they must look to the future of the family.

Airmanreik nodded, “Halthar too.” He added.

Ekhart 's eyes surprised for only a moment, before realizing Halthar could very well be his second in line to the Palatine. “Halthar will be disappointed, he’s been groomed for the clergy since his birth.” He said, knowing Airmanreik was still correct, even as the words slipped from his mouth.

“Halthar no longer has the curiosity to decide his own future.” He said boldly, though he did speculate his youngest would be deeply upset by such a sudden change in his life. Airmanreik shook his head, shaking the thoughts of what his son wanted from it; none of them would have that comfort of decision any longer, “Halthar will be married, like Leudbold. I hope sooner than later.” He said, reaffirming his position to himself.

Ekhart nodded, understanding the need for haste, with one son possibly dead, the remaining two would need to carry their brother’s torch, for the sake of the dynasty. “Shall I send out feelers to those who have daughters, Your Grace?” He asked.

Airmanreik nodded, but his mind wandered as his brother spoke, only vaguely listening, “Yes, send out feelers to see what people would say of the proposal. Do not be hasty in selection, try to send first to those of my peers who measure equal in prestige and title. I do not want my son’s to marry beneath them.” He stated.

Ekhart nodded, understanding Airmanreik only wanted candidates who could push his son’s and his own ambition. “I will do so,” he said, pausing, “what of the Syrds, Your Grace? Would you have me send feelers into the kingdom proper?” He asked, uneasy in doing so.

Airmanreik pulled himself from his wandering thoughts, and looked into his brother’s eyes, silent for a long moment. “Yes,” he said quietly, “yes, send the feelers into Syrduria. I wish to put away this conflict, move past it.” He said to himself as much as to his brother.

“Move past it, Your Grace?” Ekhart asked, unnerved by his brother's words.

Airmanreik processed what he had said and decided in only moments, before standing, “I will write to Count Jakob, and inform him of my condition and premature surrender of my arms.” Airmanreik said quietly.

“Surrender, you must jest?” Ekhart mumbled out in disbelief.

“Jest? No, I speak with clarity in my mind and words.” Airmanreik said, as he stepped towards the roaring fireplace, “I will inform, His Grace, I surrender my arms. I will not continue this pointless conflict, not when my death looms over me, and this conflict has already stripped me of respect and child.” He said bitterly, before continuing, “I am too old to fight a children’s war, a war that carries shadows with it, shadowing the destruction of my home.” He said, before glancing back to Ekhart, who also stared into the fire. “I would see my own exit out of the fire, instead of leaving my land’s burning when I pass on to The Greatest.” He finished.

Ekhart was filled with rage, his face flustered, yet he calmed himself. “It is always your decision, Your Grace.” He stated plainly.

Airmanreik nodded, thinking, for now it is. A sigh escaped his frail lips, as he returned to his seat, “Tomorrow’s burden.” He said, regarding writing the letter. “Tomorrow I will sacrifice my honor for the sake of my children.” He said, as he finally shut his eyes, for much needed rest. Tomorrow he would face the burdens, for now he would dream of his son, Heinrik.

Uyuti, Dhorvas, Volgaro, Syrduria, and 3 othersAlvaringen, Eskeland, and Raf Dralmar

Starter - The Birth of a Nation
-----------------------------------------------------
The end and the beginning

Haznolim
A smell not one of disgust, or decay but the smell of the fresh land, nothing compared in the mountains of Anderfalls or our voyage through the “Decay. ‘But the goats didn't care; they did their thing whenever and wherever’ thought Haznolim, They were slow moving but that was good, Haznolim enjoyed his daily walks through the dirt path, not knowing where he may end up, not knowing if something was gonna attack or scare the herd away. Happily nothing did, a nice day for a new normal.

Sadly the Sun in her glory had hit the trees, this always fascinated Haznolim. Just as Bogart had snorted. Haznolim sighed, “ Shut it bogart we’re goin back now !”. He tried not to sound excited, not to surprise or make the ‘others’ see his reaction, and so they started trotting back to Nuvrim.

Flaigi
The morning Hollering was loud as it normally is, a baggy eyed Flaigi had woken up exhausted and stiff. She had gone down stairs to see her mother cooking, “The Sleug is almost done” her mother yelped at her, trying to speak over the sizzling of the pan and cracking of the fire. “Sit and drink your goat or it's gonna get rough”. ‘It was a joke her mother always told, because for a single time she went to say goat milk but instead she said goat once, Flaigi thought.

The Bell rung just as she finished her Sleug which had a rich smell of ham, steak, and egg,“did the Shurkers come in early today?” she asked her mother. “Aye they weren't cheap though, had to use my lucky bag, just hope it's good, '' her mother said as Flaigi took a spoon and shoved some in her mouth, “The builders called on you again” her mother said. Flaigi rolled her eyes, “I know, I know, I messed up the stone carving on one of the practice stones'' She stared at her lump of meat, egg, cheese and tomato, taking a moment to think “ I think i might leave the builders and join the Buritsa….” her mother slammed the wooden spoon “For what reason? We're in no war or conflict, you know it's just for the men to play war…” Flaigai was surprised about this, in her house it was normal for the youngers to join the Burtisansik, her family was known for it. “I didn't know you didn't like it, is that why you got mad at Kimc after he got injured?” Her mother stared at her, "go, go tell the chief, i won't stop you, you are a full now, after Kimc I didn't want this anymore, those meat heads always end up getting hurt !”

Flaigi knew her mother was getting irritated, she got up, put her bowl near the stove and grabbed her tools. “I am gonna take a while to think about it,” she said, and walked out the door.

Kratumin Gadec
‘The Bells, oh the bells, beautiful and loud…. The flowers and stone trees’, yes, loud, he thought, and beautiful, that sounds perfect. He scribbled in his handbook, sitting at the steps of the temple, and with the goats passing by Gadec knew it was time to pack up his collection, ‘maybe the river is a good spot next….’ while weaving through the market, ‘little people everywhere’ he had started laughing to himself. He just had to take notes here, ‘the colorful tops and fresh greens, the different color dyes and new spices being sold’ he had to scribble down fast, the carts were nearing and the dwarves would burn you if you stopped the Shurkers. “Damn humans” he heard this constantly in both Dralmic and his own, the height difference really aggravated some of the dwarves, but both he and them knew the Gartarks wouldn't show mercy.

The diversity of the city had made it lively and had always interested Gadec, he even found out his cousin had arrived a few months before him and was living in the central district of the city near the river, Gadec had received a few letters from his cousin mostly about the scenery and how different it is compared to Tsokhai, and asking about how his poems were coming along.

Colonel Thromb
Early, always early, no other choice, no other preference. Had to be early for that's what Thromb had taught himself, "you couldn't have gotten through the decay by being 'on time' '' he had always thought.

Emptiness that's all what the courtyard was, he felt disappointed but prided over the fact he was… early. 3 bells, they echoed from the town, a sort of dull ringing but he had gotten used to it over the last month of standing here with the loneliness. Not by choice obviously the uppers be nagging him about "the state of the army is inexcusable" and "we need to revitalize our army" but don't understand dwarves and humans fight and train completely different, and men and women of both species act, think, and have completely different needs from each other.

"Ah Finally" Thromb said as a thick group of humans and dwarves, most of them decently young, flooded into the courtyard. Probably out of instinct the group had segregated themselves between dwarves and humans columns, but this time Thromb knew they had to learn. He forced the lines to intertwine, 12 columns, all must have equal numbers of humans and dwarves. It took 2 bells for them to do it, but it was done, and it was time to make captains and officers or else it would had been pure hell sorting this lot out. There had to be at least 3 officers for a captain, one for humans, one for dwarves and another for the newbies, 'oh the newbies, always fun to watch them and their clumsiness' he stated to one of the captains who had most of the newbies.

There was a sound, some voices from inside the barracks, a bit muffled but it was yelling, Thromb had sent one of the captains to see who it was….

Scitheir Loldrarra Nolaelsia
Today is probably the most important day in Nolaelsia's life , at least that's what she thought. She woke up late so there was no time for her bath or for the temple service, the temple was temporarily closed today.

She was very anxious, everything had to be in the right place and she had to remember the speech, oh god the speech, she forgot to practice it. She looked around her cottage,"where, oh where are you dammit" she said in a rush and irritated voice. There wasn't enough time, she had to get her Kapota and leave.

She stepped out into the street, quiet…. Not surprising but was weird to her. She isn't usually up this early, 'she must have gotten up as some of the Shurkers were gathering their herds either for the daily graze or… it always weirded her out thinking about it, but the butchers' she thought. It was important she got to the temple even if it was closed, she had to check up on the state of the decorations and the builders guild had told her about some design around the Stovpy's. She never heard of designs centered around them but it would be nice to see what Aralgrotum was proposing.

A few carts here and there filled with dwarves and humans alike was normal but the most annoying was when they stopped and beckoned Nolaelsia about the Biely Celebrations today or how they were excited about the market not knowing she was practically late and couldn't make the builders guild wait any longer.

Finally, not even a bell had sounded between when she left her lodge and arrived at the temple, she felt a little pride but that wouldn't last long. Aralgrotum was standing next to the Oapal tree, just by the stance and Non stop fidgeting and shifting his body, the dwarve was mad.

"Sorry Aral i slept in a bit, didn't even have time for a bath" she said while approaching the dwarve. " you done make everyone late…. oh great Scitheir" he said, stating the end in a sarcastic tone. "Anyway what do you think, I had one of the youngers carve the entrance and we did some things with the flowers you gave us…" he said, turning his body toward the temple.

The Giant pillars were covered in white, red and purple flower lines and freshly trimmed bushes making the entire view seem crisp and colorful and not only did the sight look amazing the smell was exquisite, with a mixture of lavender, lily's, roses, and jasmine.

She had to stop herself from dropping her jaws, she was lost in words, "I know, the youngers really know how to set up decorations…" Aralgrotum said. He motioned to her to follow and they followed the flower lines all the way around the temple admiring the beautiful sight and extremely well detailed work on the stone

It was nearly 3 bells in, Nolaelsia had been talking with Aralgrotum and a few of the other guilds people about what could be added or whether this or that bush should be cut a little bit lower or if the there should be more flowers and people were arriving, walking around and looking at the magnificent display.

The shurkers arrived in the markets and with lots of meats and vegetables, and she noticed a large mass heading to the barracks, "what the hell… what does Thromb think he's doing especially on a day like this" she waited a few bells to look around the market and went toward the barracks

She barged in through one of the entries, yelling for thromb " Throoomb you disgraceful bastard…." A man came in and looked at Nolaelsia with shocked eyes "oh.. great Scitheir what could you want with Thromb….uh, Colonel Thromb" He said nervously. She walked past the man and bursted into the courtyard "Thromb you damn well know what today is, why are you doing this now?" She said angrily while looking at the dwarve…

***
Colonel Thromb
She burst into the courtyard loud as ever, almost unimaginably rude but that was to be expected, Thromb started calmly " Nolaelsia i am in the middle of training some of the finest men and women our great nation has to offer" he gestured his hand in a way to showcase the mismatch army.

She looked at Thromb and at the columns of people and back at Thromb

"Thromb you know it's the biely today they shouldn't be training!!”' she said in an aggravated tone. She was right and he knew it, he facepalmed himself and waved his hand toward the large group. "Alright everyone you heard her go enjoy yourselves…. But tomorrow we're training for 2 bells Longer"

There was a large sigh and audible signs of discontent from the group as they left the courtyard.

Thromb turned back toward Nolaelsia "are you happy now?" He said. She was staring at him " yes, yes I am, I hope to see you at the celebration, it's quite a sight, the temple… The builders really know what they're doing" she stormed off….

Kratumin Gadec
The morning hollering was as loud as ever, reaching out through the busy stone streets. Like a wall of sound, all the loudness muffled, all the diverse voices faded out into the river and the sun reflected off the river going under the bridge and the wind going with the river rustling the trees and herbs down by the water.The perfect scene for any artist…

He kept scribbling down some verses and notes on the side here and there and it wasn't much time for him to find his cousin's shop. As usual half a bag was the price to get it printed, maybe he will be lucky at the celebration and get someone to buy the flyers.

Flaigi
A Fleet of Goats and a dwarf riding a donkey passed by her house almost running her over, she had to kick a goat or two off of her. She headed down the road, it would take less than a bell for her to reach the guild… but it was closed.

She was confused and started to panic; A cart of flowers slowly trotted by heading toward the temple, then it hit her, " of course, that's why they called me" she thought to herself and started running, she had to get to the temple….

Haznolim
The bank of the river was a welcoming site heading back to Nuvrim, it showed the way to the city and gave a cool breeze. Both he and the goats liked it. At least he hoped the goats liked it. The road finally gave way to the outskirts of the city, you could see the ground posts of what was to be some sort of large construction, even for humans. That didn't matter much today, he needed to get the goats to the butcher who was just after the wooden entrance. The outside of the butcher had a line, as long as the entrance, he made his way up the road and met Guarmor. “Were a bit busy today Haznol… might take a few bells before we can get to you, some sort of big celebration” Guarmor said hastily, “You could try Flond’s, he is on the other side of Nuvrim but may be a bit less of a wait ” as he turned away to go back into the building.

“A walk through the city would have been nice but the goats aren't fun to bring along, usually Guarmor wasn't this busy but this celebration must be important which means more money to gain”, thought Haznolim

He made his way through the city, the goats didn't cause all that much problems happily but it took at least a bell and a half for them to get to Flonds butchery, which was a bit busy but not as much as Guarmors. Seemed like Flond knew what was happening, “a large celebration, probably about the settlement of the Dralmar and some tree stone” he said, “Kind of surprised a dwarf yourself didn't know that… ” he added annoyingly “well it doesn't matter, do you take 3 striebors? or half a bag?” he responded, trying to change the subject. “Aye i can do both, but preferably 3 striebors” Haznolim dropped the coins onto the counter and led a few goats into the butchery. “That will be 2 more striebors, for the information and cause its a special day” the fat man said snickering. Haznolim stared at him grimly and plopped the coins in the fat hands.

***
Scitheir Loldrarra Nolaelsia
She stormed out of the barracks, not only because she was late, but she didn't enjoy the barracks or well anything being involved in killing whether its animals, beasts or others….

The outside of the temple was crowded, almost 2 more bells until the celebration and she had to meet with the Other Upper's….

Ermkyl Rozalik
" Ermkyl!" He heard from the crowd near the Oapal Tree, He turned his thin body around to see who it was. "Ermkyl, i am so sorry it has been a crazy day…" Loldarra had started, but was stopped by Ermkyl who had raised his hand, "Its fine,Its Fine, it is a magnificent sight, I think the builders did extremely well" he said,while turning back to look at the temple and its flower's.

"Did you forget your Speech" as he took a piece of paper from his torso pocket and handed it to her. "OOOOh, That's Where It Was, I panicked when I woke up, I thought I accidentally burned it !" she said, opening the paper and skimming through it. "I have to get this to Bhardohr, I made some parts for him to say…." Ermkyl responded, "He is in the temple, probably doing service for himself, and preparing for the Celebration"

She walked off…

Bhardohr Lorkinhag
The flickering light protected an orangey glow and exaggerated the shadows both on the walls and floors. It didn't feel right, none of this felt right, It wasn't that long ago when he stood there with his brother overlooking the hills and rivers, traveling through the Great Anderfalls and… and… he started to cry, tears falling on the stone floor, on the foot of the statue quietly splashing but felt as loud as a great horn. Uncontrollable, the past, the future… life.

The doors opened behind Bhardohr, the light of the outside temporarily destroyed the orange glow, the shadows… and the tears.

The figure closed the temple door and the footsteps echoed as they walked toward him. "Bhardohr, it's almost time, the people are excited and waiting…" the footsteps reached right behind him and a hand fell on his shoulder "I… i don't like it, but i will do it for the people '' he said, standing up, straightening himself out. She handed him a piece of paper "I wrote a few things you can say if you're up to it, if not you can just stand by me and wave…"

He skimmed through the paper, " I can say this… let's not make them wait any longer…" he said. They started walking toward the temple doors, and stepped out into the sunlight.

The Future
Both Bhardohr and Loldrarra walked out the temple toward the stares and they could see the crowd, the cheering, the eating, the waving and the throwing of flowers and its petals.

The two waved and almost forced to start the speech Loldarra was going through the motion of starting the speech, but Bhardohr started:

" Great people…" it got slightly quieter " Today… well we all know what today is, and why we celebrate, Our great Neighbors and Newcomers, our friends and families who survived the harsh road, the white exodus, and our New Generation…" he paused. " We can't forget what was sacrificed, what was taken and what has been given to us, My brother led us to our new home and planted our great Oapal and started Nuvrim, But…" he went off track " We can't stop there, we need to secure our great city, we need to develop our people and our land, we can't waste our gift and not use our tools to its greatest extent…"

Glossary

Others - a overall term to animals, monsters, or other species

The Decay - Reference to the Black Fault

Sleug - Dralmic term for a traditional dish that originally consisted of a few ingredients that a Dwarve threw together in order to call it food. Was commonly used during harsh times without any food

“Rough”- Dralmic term for referencing to milk or any food going bad

“Lucky Bag”- a Bag of salt, which is very well known in Nuvrim to buy a lot produce through the market barter system

“The Builders' “ - the builders guild, which was created by the founders to manage… well construction; the guild supported artisans bye hiring them to “Beautify” the city

Burtisansik - a community made “guild” that practices military and police training/tactics and trains anyone who joins how to handle weapons. i.e. A militia

“Full” - Dralmic term for adult

1 "Bell" - 30 minutes

2 "Bells" - 1 hour

Kaptoa - Religious dress worn by the Scitheirs

Scitheir - Major religious figure in Raf' Dralmar

Gartarks - police made specifically for human-dwarve issues

Dhorvas, Volgaro, and Eskeland

Friends From Afar
With Eskeland

King's Harbour, Nyholm

The last preparations were being carried out to ship the soldiers to Zlatina, in Dhorvas, in support of Obren Kholev. King Theodor gave the orders to spare some troops from the army, to send them to aid them in their conflict. Theodor had many reasons to do it, but the main one was to support his cousin Hildegard and her husband Obren, who he knew all too well. One might even say they were good friends.

General Holmberg was given the task to lead the Expeditionary Army, as it was called. He would be joined by Captain Ahlgren, Captain Tielman and Captain Bauer, each leading a different regiment but under Holmberg’s leadership. The army was around five thousand men strong, good enough to get the job done. It was the only amount Theodor could spare for the moment.

Finally a notice from the harbour master reached Holmberg, informing him that the ships were ready to set sail. All the soldiers were in and the horses too. With the last formalities the ships set off. It would be a long voyage to Zlatina. It would take them some months to reach them. It would be a treacherous journey, not only because of the distance, but because of the climate around that time of the year as well. They would only make a quick stop in Himmel to resupply but afterwards it would be all the way to Zlatina.

The strong winds, rowdy seas and rain, followed them through much of the voyage. There were fears that a storm could form at any moment, but thankfully it only reduced to those. The skill of the Eskelian sailors allowed them to be able to navigate without much trouble, using compasses, the stars and their intuitions to guide them through. The only true threat to them were the supplies that had almost run low and because of that a strict rationing system had to be implemented, to save them from going hungry, the horses got the worst of it.

Luckily for them, their arduous journey would come to an end as the first buildings of Zlatina were spotted by the sailors at the crow’s nest, and once the sea fog had dissipated the ships could find their way to the port with ease. they could feel the change in the climate, the cold breeze and the cold waters. The sight of Zlatina calmed the weary soldiers and sailors who were exhausted from staying at sea for so long.

***

Obren stood by quietly watching the courtyard as his son, prince Kresimir, practiced his archery under the guidance of one of his tutors. Today it was master Orlin of the Order of the Radiant Star. Members of the holy order often served as teachers and advisors. The spread of knowledge was a key tenet of the order, both of artyan and worldly matters.

Obren enjoyed these moments, a brief respite from the planning and the fighting. Suppressing the revolts of the renatists had been a much slower affair than he had originally envisioned. Worse still, the new order that had formed from their cause had now fortified themselves in the old citadel of Jurun. It had delayed many of his larger goals, such as extending his kingdom’s hold and influence in western Dhorvas. Though he had no designs for the country as a whole, he wanted ample resources and territory for the kingdom. Such goals would strengthen his claim, less others seek to undermine him. He had not forgotten the warning from the dwarves to his south, though fortunately they had seemed content with little more.

Obren heard footsteps approaching along the cobbled path in the foyer of the courtyard where he stood. He turned to see his wife and queen; Hildegard. There was always a strength in her movements that he admired, always carrying herself with purpose and determination. Even some of his council balked in her presence when she made herself known. She greeted him with a strong but sincere smile once he had noticed her arrival and came to a halt beside him, peering out into the courtyard.

“You could join him in his practices, you know. I am sure he would like that.”

“I seldom have more than moments to spare these days.” Obren said with some regret. He watched a few moments more before turning away. He offered his arm for Hildegard and she took it, walking with him.

“You are king, you need only to make the time.”

“If it were so easy. Once we are more secure. We have many enemies and there may be snakes in the grass.” said with a sigh.

Hildegard gave his arm a slight squeeze. “We will deal with them. In the present time, however, we have guests to greet. The ships have arrived.”

A sudden spark seemed to alight within Obren. “At last! Fortune will favor us soon. Let us go and greet our friends from afar.”

“Such was the idea”, Hildegard replied with a smile as the two continued to walk, changing their course to prepare for their arriving guests.

***

The ships docked in the port as they were received by the port officials. The crew began unloading the goods and the soldiers picked up their stuff. Many of them were happy to finally touch land after such a long voyage, many prayed to the gods for their safe arrival. General Holmberg and his commanders came down from their ship, all dressed in their uniforms with fur coats, for the colder climate. They waited some time for someone to approach them and introduce them to the country.

Soon after the troops from Eskeland had disembarked they were greeted by a column of cavalry. The soldiers on horseback wore elaborate armor. The silver caught the sunlight in places and gave them a light sheen. Beneath their armor they all wore fine tunics of dark blue and edged in white. A single member of the group rode slightly forward.

“Welcome to Kivoruhn.” called out Valko Savov, leader of the unit. “King Obren and Queen Hildegard have sent me to escort you to the castle where they await your arrival. One of my captains will escort the majority of your men to the barracks where they will have lodging during your stay.”

“Thank you for your kind welcome. The rest of the commanders will come with me. The crewmen of the ship can transport the supplies to the barracks if it is no problem” Said General Holmberg.

“It is not.” replied Valko and he shifted his mount, turning to lead the way.

The foray to the castle was quick, passing through the western reaches of Zlatina toward the center of the city where the castle stood. Great flags hung from the castle’s ramparts, made all the more visible as it was the largest structure near the center of the city. Their procession continued through the gates, pausing only when they had reached the great doors. They continued through after a moment, Vlako still leading. Inside was a large great hall decorated in banners and fine tapestries depicting scenes from the history of kivoruhn. Obren and his wife Hildegard stood before the throne at the far end, awaiting their arrival. Once they were close enough, Vlkao halted and announced the guests.

“Presenting General Holmberg and his officers.” Valko said, giving a ceremonial salute and stepping aside.

“It is wonderful to greet you here in our home at last!” said Obern, stepping forward to greet the general better.

“And to see faces from home.” added Hildegard as she kept pace with Obren. She greeted the general and his company with a nod and a friendly smile.

“Obern, old friend, it is good to see you once more and in none other than your home, good to see you in good health and Hildegard, you haven’t aged one bit since we last saw each other. I just wish the circumstances of our reunion were different, but we simply couldn’t refuse the call. Also Theodor sends his regards. Oh and allow me to present to you the commanders that will join us in. This is Commander Viktor Alhgren, he will lead the archers and arkebusiers, Commander Johann Tielman, he is in charge of the cavalry and lastly you know who it is, Bauer decided to also join us, he will lead the infantry.” Once Holmberg was done introducing them, the commanders bowed, “ From today we are under your command as ordered by our majesty King Theodor.”

Obren added his thanks to each of the commanders introduced. “I am pleased to have all of you here. With such able officers, the conflict should turn to our favor. I trust you have been shown where you and your men will stay?” he added, looking at Vlako.

“I had the rest of their company taken to their barracks before arriving.” the guardsman replied.

“Excellent,” said Obren. “I imagine, after such a voyage, you are ready for a proper meal?” he asked, looking back at the general.

Holmberg laughed, “Good to know you still know how to properly greet a guest even during times of war, let us go, my stomach is growling like a dragon, all I was able to eat during that damn voyage was bread, not even a bit of mead!”

“A terrible fate”, remarked Obren. “Then let us move on to the dinning.” He shouted some orders and the hall began to move as it was prepared for a feast for their guests. Soon everyone was seated at a large and long finely carved table. The general was given a seat at Obern’s left with his men along the left side of the table with him. Some of Obren’s own sat along the right. Before long, exquisite dishes were set upon the table; seared venison, a pair of Novali geese stuffed with dressings, the finest pears from the yards at Zenik, and many more delights that Kivoruhn had to offer.

As the meals were set out Obern turned to the general. “How does Theodor fare? We have not had much news from there in a while, given the chaos around us.”

“Theodor is fine, he seems to be handling the kingdom just fine, and the war seems to be turning in our favour which explains why he was able to send us over here. For a lad his age, he certainly knows what he is doing. He has his eyes set on some Ryeongsean noble and is thinking of marrying her. He did say he wanted to visit you as soon as everything was over, even said he would fight at your side should he be able.” Holmberg laughed, “He got some spirit I got to tell you.”

“He always did have a clear vision of what he wanted.” remarked Hildegard.

“The Ryeongse?” asked Obren. “Interesting. Perhaps he might be able to encourage relations between us.”

“Perhaps or perhaps not, I can’t say. They might be united in marriage but politics between both countries is more complex than that, only time will tell.” Said Holmberg while enjoying the seared venison, “I haven’t eaten this well since I left Nyholm.”

“We are blessed with great resources here. I assure you your men will not be left wanting while they are here. I intend for you to have a decent rest on your first days here as well, I will be needing you with me in the field before long.”

“Thank you, although we have our own supplies for the time being, so it won’t be necessary and if things calm down a bit more back home, then King Thodor might establish a supply route through sea to support the both of us in that regard.”

“I look forward to the day that both our homes overcome their obstacles and can enjoy the benefit of more peaceful times.” said Obren.

At that moment their conversation was interrupted as the great doors at the entrance of the hall opened, revealing a small woman in the religious garb of the artyanists. She was flanked by two men. The one on the right was a middle-aged man of stout build with long black hair that draped across his shoulders. He sported a neatly trim beard and wore a fine tunic of blue. His counterpart was a bit older, his hair was also long but tied back and graying. He wore a red tunic that contrasted with the other. They made their way down the hall along the table before reaching the head where Obren sat with Hildegard and General Holmberg.

“Ah”, said Obren, rising from his seat, “Allow me to introduce the archsevron of Kivoruhn.” he said to Holmberg.

“A pleasure to meet you archsevron, I am General Henrik av Holmberg, leader of the Expeditionary Army sent by his majesty King Thedor to aid his highness here.” Said Holberg as he rose from his seat to shake her hand.

The archsevron gave a slight nod of acknowledgement which caused her flowing red hair to droop before accepting his hand. “It is a pleasure to meet you. I hope with you here we can look forward to restoring a sense of order here in Kivoruhn. The two accompanying me tonight”, she added, “Grand Master Davor of the Order of the Paradium and Grand Master Savo of the Order of the Ironway.” She gestured to the older man then the younger in turn as she gave their names. They each acknowledge the general but otherwise made no effort to move.

“A pleasure to meet you two, allow me to introduce you to the rest as well.” Holmberg proceeded to introduce the rest of the commanders, each of the standing up to shake their hands.

Once introductions were complete, Obren had space made at the table where they would be seated to join them. The archsevron was seated closest to them, with the grand masters further along the left side. The expressions on some of those already present varied. Some seemed to welcome the three genuinely. Others were stoic, or seemed to tense slightly at their arrival.

“I apologize for my tardiness. It seems the messengers sent out forgot to notify me.” said the archsevron. Her eyes quickly cast toward the queen before returning to the others.

“An unfortunate mistake,” said Hildegard.

“Indeed.”

“Must have gotten confused and assumed the others had seen you.” added Valko. Several others eyed the guard captain, a few seeming to doubt his words.

“I suppose it is easy to make such a mistake in a large city such as Zlatina, if the messenger is not from the city itself.” the archsevron replied. She turned toward Holmberg. “I do hope you will have time to see the city while you are here. We are quite proud of it here. I would be happy to help you see some of the more important sights in the city.”

Holberg combed his beard with his hand, carefully analyzing the situation between both sides before answering, “Why thank you my lady, this city is very beautiful and I can’t wait to explore it as much as I can while I still can, I believe the current conflict will take me away from here for most of the time if not all.”

“Of course. We look forward to your help in putting down the heresy that has plagued us for so long now. Before you leave, I invite you and your men to the cathedral here in Zlatina, where I might offer Artyan’s blessing and guidance on your mission.”

“We must kindly decline my lady, for personal reasons, but your blessing is nonetheless welcomed.” Said Holmberg, the rest of the commanders agreeing as well.

“How disappointing.”, the archservon said. A small, awkward pause held in the air a moment before she spoke again. “Still, I wish you well on the endeavor. In anycase, you and grand master Savo should become acquainted, you will be working together a great deal in the days ahead.” she added, looking to the grand master.

“Indeed, I look forward to crushing the enemy with your help,” said Savo. “Together we can crush this rebellion once and for all and return to how things should be.”

“In any case”, said Obern finally. “We are pleased to have you here.” As soon as he had finished his words several servants arrived carrying several varieties of desserts for the diners; valotva, a fine pear pie with spices and sugar sprinkled on top. Cievel, a sort of berry pudding from Danbac, and many more.

The general and the rest of the commanders looked at the desserts with much appetite. They tried each of them and were very satisfied.

***

After the feast the group had talked a bit more before Valko escorted General Holmberg and his company to their accommodations. The archsevron and the grand masters soon followed and then most of the rest. At last only a few servants remained, cleaning the hall from the evening affair. Hildegard remained at Obren’s side.

“The evening seemed to go rather well.” she said, breaking their present silence.

“I could have cut the tension with a knife once the archsevron arrived.” Obren replied. “Was it you who omitted the message to her of their arrival?”

“It may have slipped my mind.” Hildegard said, showing little emotion in the words.

“She already does not like you. You do not help matters by antagonizing her.”

“Then perhaps she should remember her place, she is not second in Kivoruhn, though at times I swear she acts as though she is first, even before you.”

“Her position has been influential in Kivoruhn for a long time. With the south subsumed by the dwarves, and now the Renatist, she is desperate to restore the order we once knew.”

“And the power her office once had.”

“Well, yes.” Obren conceded. “But she is my ally, and she knows her boundaries when it comes to my authority. She needs her alliance with me to get what she wants. And for the moment, I need her influence.”

“There may be better, more reliable options. Especially now that my brethren have arrived to aid us.” Hildegard said.

“Perhaps”, replied Obren. With that he rose from his seat. “But I have had enough politics for one evening. Hildegard knew the conversation was finished and rose as well, taking her husband’s arm as they took their own leave to retire for the evening. Tomorrow would be another day for politics.

Uyuti, Volgaro, Eskeland, and Straulechen

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Eskeland and Straulechen

Rolais

The Aurosa Accords: Prompt
Co-Written with Namalar

The sun bore down brightly over the smooth roads of the Imperial Highway. The Imperial Carriage, adorned with golden lions glimmered brightly at the approach. The smooth wood from the many forests of Rolais were painted black complimented itself well against the gold adornments which dotted the carriage. While all looked good, the black carriage itself was drawing the full wrath of the warm sun, which was bearing down heavily as the horses made their way along the Imperial Highway towards Aurosa, the former capital of the Kostuan Empire, and current capital of the new kingdom of Namalar.

Francois himself sat in the back of the carriage along with Enzo Parneux, the Imperial Chancellor who had decided to accompany him. Enzo had let his hair grow significantly, and his face was beginning to sag. Age was creeping up to him dramatically, something that Francois was needing to bring up. The role of Imperial Chancellor was an important one in the Empire. The Chancellor leads the Imperial Senate, along with the appointment of magistrates who now all eventually become senators. It was imperative that a strong chancellor was around to lead the Empire.

“Enzo, have you thought anymore about the matter we discussed yesterday?” Asked Francois, trying to broach the subject once again.

“I have, but not too much sire. I still have a few good years left in me, and too much to accomplish before you put me in the grave.” Enzo replied.

“That's not the point Enzo and you know it.” Francois stated. “The fact of the matter is you have appointed or even mentioned any possible successor. Is there anybody that you would appoint tomorrow if you had to.”

“I have told you that Duke Renois de Werstan would make a suitable-”

“I won't have that bastard even in the palace, much less lead the senate.” Francois spat. “I wonder by the day how the Inquisition hasn’t found even a shred of note condemning him. Anything would be a huge boon, weakening his power over the region, instead I receive excuses, leads vanishing and even Darius’ Order of the Rat cannot manage to get a scrap of paper condemning the man. I tire of this war in the shadows.”

“This war in the shadows would not be occurring if you would agree to the proposal which both I and Darius brought forward to you.” Enzo snapped back. “The ancient Kostuans had this tool to deal with strife, and you have the armies to back up whatever policy you pursue.”

“I will look like the worst kind of tyrant if I go ahead with your idea of proscriptions. The chaos that could follow would be…insanity. The whole realm could fall to chaos. I don’t see why you would wish to see the realm fall to that…barbarism.”

“Sire, I spent 30 of my good years ensuring that since you were a boy that you were prepared for everything that the world could throw at you.” Enzo stated. “You are the closest thing I could ever have to a son. I would never seek to sabotage you or the Empire, but you must realise that none of us are for this world forever. You must start taking the harder decisions on your own, and realise that sacrifices must be made in the name of peace.”

“And what of justice?” asked Francois.

“Justice is not the same as law and order.” Enzo replied. “One trumps the other in importance by leaps and bounds.”

“Perhaps then, you could at least begin training my cousin, Markos Stravox, to take over some of the duties. He has been running Lydes smoothly, and it has so far remained a bastion of stability for the Empire. He is a smart man, and with your education we could ensure stability for years to come, and it would put my heart at great ease.”

“Fine sir, if you will not make peace with the duke or threaten him with proscription, I can educate Markos in the affairs of the Rolesian state.” Enzo surrendered before looking outside the window. “It looks as if we are approaching our destination.” He said, pointing outside. Moving his head outside the window, Francois saw it coming into view. The great city of Aurosa, the once heart of the world. Its white structures and tall buildings dominated the otherwise green and flat landscape. Giant ancient statues were clear, and awning as the carriage continued its slow trawl over the Imperial Highway. They would soon be there, to meet with Melorath, the King of Namalar.

The halls of the former imperial palace were abuzz with the floaty, hastened shapes of servant and slave, fluttering through the estate like worker bees to parts unknown. Any number of tasks they had from the household administration was typical on modest days, but with the expected arrival of the Rolesian Emperor, came overbearing expectations. It was important that the palace was made to receive a guest, although in truth there was little work to be done that could be considered exceptional; room-clearing and furnishments remained a constant fixture of the household’s labor duties. Melorath had finally returned to Aurosa, and with his return came politics and court offerings. Every few days another figure graced the halls, and the staff had been transformed into a perpetual host for Melorath’s numerous allies and peers.

If anything, the most unusual aspect of it was how close Melorath attached the royal court to the Teisma, which traditionally sat apart; King Sacromo had barely considered them, and spoke to the Teisma less than three times in his entire reign. Meanwhile, Melorath had yet to address them, for the occasion had yet to come, but he sought to become a familiar face with the most influential among their ranks. As such, Hyvas Musamor, one of the more experienced members of the council, had just reached his second day within the court, as an honored guest of Melorath’s. The King had remembered him from the time he spent in Mindara, and naturally sought to remold the short-lived encounter into a proper alliance of interests. The two men spent the entire past day in conversation, intermixed with dinner, pleasantries, and a few soft periods of entertainment composed of musicians and choir folk.

The conversations were mostly over the growing ‘war community’ in the Teisma, which interested Melorath and worried Hyvas. Recently, the Hero of Sarbós, Mindien Atheenar, had thrown her lot in with the warhawks and began calling for a renewed war against the Syrdurians. It was a nebulous, scattered group of people from all walks of Namarian life, but their excuses and reasonings betrayed a simple truth: conquest. The annexations of the north; the triumphant destruction of Kostua⁠—Namalar was rejuvenated, and men and women alike thumped their chests with eager anticipation and called for their General-King to proclaim yet another chapter in the martial legend of the Namari.

Yet, presently, the presence of the clique aggrieved Melorath, who did not fully adhere to their vision and machinations. The King’s gaze was affixed towards the north, though not out of a warlust for violence and riches. The King was confused by instabilities and recent developments between the nations there, and he watched the states with growing interest. The cauldron had been left to boil for too long, he reasoned, and now it threatened to spill over. How Namalar would traverse these developments was of vital interest to Melorath; more-so than carving out a new territory. It was politics of the greater sort, not focused merely on a single topic, but cast like a wide net and aimed to watch, inspect, and reckon with all. This was the most beneficial approach, in his mind.

In this context, it was that Francois, the Rolesian Emperor, arrived. The master of the court, and its many organs of state, were hardly moved by the presence of a Sokosian great figure, for the entrenchment of their kingdom was not something Melorath viewed as being achievable with a single handshake. In total, four men were to meet with the Emperor and deliberate with him. One, of course, was Melorath. Then it was Neloril, his old comrade he trusted dearly. Ralvoth Dandras, his good, loyal diplomat was also present. Lastly, Hyvas was permitted to meet with the Emperor and sit-in during the meeting; he was honored by the insistence of Melorath, and considered a guest of the court.

As the carriage made its way through the city Francois was in a state of awe. The beautiful marble white buildings still dominated and attested to the power and wealth of the ancient Kostuan Empire, and the opulence it espoused with every fibre of its being. Emerging from the carriage with Enzo, he was to be accompanied inside the Imperial Palace by two of the Imperial Fire Guard, Sir Jacques Honon and Ser Juno de Tel Andes, both seasoned fighters. Jacques himself however had his hands full with a large wooden box, which was brought all the way from Tel Andes. The rest of the Imperial Fire Guard made a small circle around the Emperor as he made his way through the central plaza of the city, stopping only so that the Emperor could see some of the mosaics and and sculptures which still existed in the city as guards and the people of the plaza all crowded to get a look. Before long, Francois had climbed the steps and had entered the throne room.

The throne room was just as beautiful as it was described to him as a boy. The roof was adorned with hanging lights, and on both sides of the tiled walkway to the Cinder Throne were clearwater pools, with some of the freshest water imaginable. Several large statues and banners of the new kingdom adorned the massive columns which kept the roof over their heads. with exquisite engravings and works of art being on display. Approaching the throne, Enzo began to kneel along with the two Imperial Fire Guards as Francois placed his left hand over his heart, and raised his right hand, a Rolesian gesture of friendly greeting.

Around the throne, those in attendance offered varying degrees of curtsies and bows. The human servants, whether indentured or freemen, bowed deeply to the foreign dignitaries; Kostuans lowered their heads in an act of fitting irony, though some of the gentrymen from the city offered only the slimmest of respect—their presence alone was an act of supplication, a near constant reminder of the belittlement, and dismantling, of the Kostuan Empire. The Namari present seemed confused and uncertain of how to reciprocate the Rolesian gesture. Some of them returned bows or salutes, but others, stone-faced and unwilling to show any kind of deference to humans and foreigners, watched on with beady, dark eyes that traced their every movement.

It was the first time that a human delegation had arrived in Namalar in recent history, and many had not experienced such a thing. It was alien in its totality; the confluence of two lands and people, with little in common between them, now intruding into each other’s spheres. Melorath had met with Francois on the border, yes, but that was scarcely comparable to now, with the Rolesian Emperor standing at the foot of the throne, and fully present in the stately court of the once-Kostuans.

Firmly, Melorath rose to his feet. The King had a strange look on his face as he had sat on the amber throne; his eyes unfocused, and glazed over, he was as if deep in thought, despite the presence and commotion around him. Though he stood, and leaving the presence of the throne as his hands departed the cold, shaped gemstone resin behind, seemed renewed of purpose and direction.

“When we last met it was in a tent. I hope that you can appreciate the comfort offered here instead.”

Melorath spoke, skipping pleasantries as he reminded the court of his familiarity with his peer. His voice was straight-forward and undiplomatic, lacking flourish and extravagance. The language was Kostuan; to the King it was the language of servitude and slavery, and sharply learned to speak to lower castes and deliver orders. It was to his mind, as it was to most Namari, a language entirely unfit for intrigue and statesmanship.

Francois laughed as his party rose, taking the mention of the tent and inn as a small jest. “I heard stories of the extravagance of the Imperial Palace of Aurosa as a boy. To see the magnificence brought to light by your people is truly heartening. The fate of nations was oft decided in these halls, and you have once again made it so. To begin I would like to present a gift from our people to yours.”

At this, the large wooden box was placed into Francois’ hands. As he opened it a gleaming and freshly forged sword was sitting cushioned against the fine blue fabrics of the interior. “This sword was forged from a star that fell from the sky. For a hundred nights, the greatest smith in the Empire, Gaspard Du Pont, laboured in the moonlight in the face of the other stars of the night sky, carefully forging the metals until this magnificent weapon was created. Consider it our gift, to you.” Francois said, holding out the box towards a servant to be carried to Melorath.

Melorath readily accepted the gift, instructing Neloril to take it. The General held the box at his side, but the King did not seem immediately interested in looking over the weapon. It was clear that his mind remained focused on the present meeting, and eager as to the dialogue that would emerge with Francois.

“I thank you. Swordsmanship is prized among my people; it is our way of life, and our secret to success.”

He said, a rhetorical flourish to his words as he recalled what vulgar Kostuan he knew.

“I do not think it is worth complimenting these halls. Maybe to the Rolesians this is a place of awe, but we Namari did not make this palace. Or this city. Nothing within these walls was made by us, except perhaps by the labor of distant kin. Perhaps one day I will show you our homeland, and then you can understand all that made us what we are.”

“I would be honoured to see the unique history of your people. To experience it outside the words of scholars.” Francois said, trying to hide the fact that knowledge of the culture and people of Namalar were utterly unknown to most members of the Imperial Government. Thinking on that, he realised he should probably finance a significant research mission with a group of whatever the University could spit out. “As for our visit today, if I could borrow a moment of your time, we would be quite eager to discuss some sensitive matters of state.”

The elven King nodded, placing his hands behind his back as he looked to Neloril for a second, flashing a look of common understanding between the two.

“Very well, of course.” He said. “I have already had a room prepared for us, so that we may speak in comfort.”

The delegation of Rolesians were encouraged to follow their Namarian counterparts as the gathering exited the throne room and proceeded down the halls of the palace. If it was mistaken before, it was easy now to see that this was a Kostuan building through and through. Pillars flanked the structure of the hall, which was open. Periodically a lattice window was struck into the wall, and gave a view of the square internal courtyard. If they continued forward, and reached the rear of the palace, they soon would have found the gardens, which similarly were crafted out of that typical Kostuan arrogance and immensity.

The walls were flanked with paintings, tapestries and statues, ranging from all walks of life and histories. Though it was not as complete as the imperial vaults and library, the palace had its own little collection of worldly artifacts. Stories telling the fall of the conquered and the victories of the vanquisher were woven into every fiber of each tapestry; many of the art pieces were stolen and confiscated from the lands they conquered, and told of many foreign stories and legends utterly unknown to both Kostuan and Namarian. If one focused, they could even see signs of the Namari adding their own to the halls. A few pieces showed off their own histories, and the gathering of diplomats passed by a small silver statuette crafted in imitation of King Therrund.

Soon they reached the drawing room that Melorath had prepared for them. Though some of the many other rooms of the palace were exquisite and ornate—with gilded furniture and walls embroidered in gold and silver—he tacitly chose one of the lesser levee rooms. For many it was no less extravagant, with satin and velvet furniture, and themed with crimson-cushions and decor that led to it being known as the ‘Red Room’.

Like in his meeting with the Concordat, the King saw that some food and drink was prepared for them, though Melorath took no cup for himself and chose to abstain from wine; a regular occurrence for the man. He gestured for Francois to sit across from him, separated only by a small table which was set with silverware. There were seats for others to gather around them, though Neloril chose to stand towards the rear of the delegation, perhaps to watch the room in totality and make up his own mind.

“Now,” Melorath started, clearing his throat as he kicked up one of his legs to rest across the other. “I must admit that I am curious as to what could have brought the Rolesian Emperor himself into my halls. What presence! I can only wonder how important it must be that a messenger or letter could not dictate your own will.”

“As you are a man of the military I am sure that you will appreciate a frank and honest exchange to establish the situation.” Francois explained. “Several months ago, an attempt on my life was made in the grounds of the new Imperial Senate, a new vital part of the Empire's governance. Many of these men were born with noble blood running through their veins, seeking to throw our country back decades. What followed has been a shattering of the internal peace that has existed for years inside the Empire. Large groups of zealots are arming themselves with weapons to create a large army at the behest of these conspirators. Many of these men were also made up of individuals who felt slighted at the fact they could no longer garner the support they once had with a war with Namalar.”

Francois stopped for a moment to take a drink before continuing. “This presents a significant risk for the Empire. I would like to ask for your consent for a Trade Direction Edict that any goods and people entering the Empire all make use of the Westion Wall. It will allow us to focus inspections on goods in this singular area to deter smuggling. To this I can guarantee, no hostile action will ever be taken by our border guards against any Namarian, we will turn them over to your people at the border if found to be transporting illicit goods. I would also like an assurance of non intervention from the Kingdom of Namalar, if the conflict becomes reality. We believe your people to be trustworthy and fair in all our dealings, a full permanent non-aggression pact and declaration of friendship would be beneficial to both our peoples.”

“Secondly, I would like to further build good relations with our people by establishing a proper trade agreement, in which goods and services can be freely transported across the border between our nations.” Francois proposed. “As you know our Empire is rich in various goods, its forests providing huge bounties of Hardwood. Likewise, some goods which exist inside Namalar would be of great interest to people of the Empire, such as its rich bounties of Salt and Antirium.”

As Francois broke directly into the point of his visit, Melorath lowered his leg and leaned forward, somewhat surprised by the sudden turn of events that the Emperor described. He listened closely, not out of only interest, but that he feared he would miss a second of the Emperor’s refined Kostuan speech and have trouble understanding.

Upon finishing, and offering his numerous deals and questions for Melorath, the Namarian ruler sat in silence for a few seconds. The rest of his delegation were intrigued as well, and looked between themselves and the Rolesians as they waited to see how Melorath would approach the matter. Certainly, General Neloril could not help but notice that the Emperor betrayed the vulnerability of his state, and pondered quietly if it was an intentional ruse to encourage Melorath to invade.

“I do not like to make decrees of people who act in their own enterprise, but I can see to this, only if you agree as well that any Rolesian trade destined to Namalar or through our lands passes through the same border.”

Melorath gave his answer in parts, thinking over and reflecting on each demand and request that Francois had made. Though he did not look behind him, he could tell that Hyvas and Ralvoth were perplexed as to why he acquiesced at all. Neloril, who was more intimately familiar with his King, likely understood his motives.

“To that purpose, I can assure that my people are encouraged and made aware of the prospects of trade and mutual respect with the Rolesians; though, I question that you put me in a difficult, perplexing position. You desire an opening of trade, yet you claim violence and that a clique of war-minded individuals infest your country. What promise can I, or they, have that will protect them from harm, whether incidental or targeted?”

"My Chancellor Enzo can easily arrange a decreed mutual border where goods and people can make good with their own prospects of fortunes, and can even provide writs and seals from a permanent magistrate to ensure easy and toll free movements for Namarian merchants. We do not wish to burden your state with an anarchic or unfair system of trade." Francois explained. "As for the violence which could escalate, these groups are unorganised, underequipped, and sporadic rather than any unified fighting force. Meanwhile we are equipped with a strong standing army that can easily move to crush their dissent, provided things stay as they are."

Francois paused for a moment thinking over Meloraths request for protections. "Your loyalty to your people is admirable. In the Empire we protect the rights of all who abide by the law. I can assure you, that the Rolesian crown will issue an Imperial proclamation guaranteeing the safety of any Namarian subjects which pass through the borders of the Empire, and back it with force of arms. They will be defended as if they were citizens of the Empire. Any violators of this will be removed…permanently. This, I will give you my oath."

Francois paused for a moment, before adding "I and a huge amount of the Empire see the people of Namalar as not enemies, but friends to be made. We would like to continue a long and healthy relationship and can see an easy road towards a bright future for us both where we can partner and share in mutual prosperity for generations to come."

“Good, good.” Melorath said thinking. “Now as per your final request, you desire non-aggression?”

He inquired, taking a moment to consider the prospect while he leaned back, reassuming his casual, relaxed posture from before.

“Yes, I do think this might be agreeable, but this significantly limits my power, as you know. This weakens the ability of my court to consider all possible avenues of defense and self-interest for us. It restrains the Teisma’s free will.”

Smiling, Melorath looked away for a moment, sharing a glance with Neloril that showed more than it said. Looking back to the Emperor, Melorath nodded.

“I will agree to this under one condition: the Rolesian Empire is to promise, and assure me, that they will not interfere or act against my kingdom and my military in any action it takes place north of our border. I, of course, guarantee the protection of Lydes and the free travel of all Rolesian merchants and gentry—but I want it agreed that the Empire will not interfere with our ambitions in the north, nor restrict or interfere with our goals."

Francois smiled. “More than agreeable. The north of the continent has become…significantly more complicated. The chaos that reigns in Syrduria and growing tension among the states have the Rolesian Empire thoroughly uninterested in anything outside of good relations and trade. We will not interfere or restrict your goals in any way if you can hold and follow through on these guarantees you can be assured that we will uphold ours.”

“Then this is something we can agree to, wholly.” The King answered, moving his lips in a slight smile. “I can assure that our side of this agreement shall be followed, as provided that the Rolesians act in good faith and generosity with us.”

“I assure you that I would not have come all this way to negotiate in bad faith.” Francois said, standing up. “Nor If that is us agreed then I would be more than happy to take this agreement back to Lydes with a smile upon our face. On behalf of the citizens of the Empire, I extend our thanks for your help in this matter.”

Francois lifted a glass nearby. “A toast, then. To a bright and prosperous future.”

Melorath relented, the rest of the Namari delegation pleased with the agreements that their king had reached. Pouring himself a cup of wine, he raised it up to Francois, and the two drank in honor of their states and newfound understanding.

With a deal in hand, the Rolesian delegation took their leave. Happy that an accord had been reached so that the Empire was free to handle its issues and work on things in the south. Francois knew now that the path was clear for the Empire to make ready for war, one which would shape the Empire for years to come.

Uyuti, Aelythium, Dhorvas, Namalar, and 4 othersCheysal serulea, Syrduria, Ryeongse, and Straulechen

Love of Outcasts

Prompt Post

Geomhae-do, Chiollan Village, Bei Residence

“Okay, Sister,” Chuhyun entertained with a sarcastic smile. She already knew what Ryunja had in store for her ahead, her cousin’s thin fingers haphazardly covering her eyes doing little against what Chuhyun had already supposed. “What is it?”

Ryunja giggled. Slowly, she peeled her hand from her cousin’s face to let Chuhyun behold the secret that she had prepared in the dark mud-walled pantry.

It was Chuhyun’s wedding hanbok, on a makeshift bamboo mannequin. An elegant, trailing piece, its first notable quality was its composition from inexpensive flax and wool, rather than silk, with notable efforts to dye it resembling the pricey material. A deep scarlet central piece with accessories in white, yellow, and blue symbolizing the prosperity coming with one’s marriage, also made with substitute materials.

The wedding dress of beggars, to put it bluntly. Still, tears welled in Chuhyun’s eyes. She knew it was her dress but had not seen it until now. It was beautiful.

She turned to Ryunja, who was giggling with her hand over her mouth. “How is it?” the triumphant girl boldly asked.

“It’s perfect,” Chuhyun sobbed with a hint of melodramatic emotion. She rushed forward, embracing her startled cousin. “Thank you.”

“Hey, hey,” Ryunja, confused, patted her cousin’s gaunt back heaving from tears of bliss. “Even if all the village girls stayed up late for the past three weeks making it, it’s nothing to cry over. Not anything yangban-tier.”

Still, Chuhyun was inconsolable in her happiness. All she could say was “Thank you” over and over again. She loved the dress. She loved Ryunja, who had apparently organized the corps of village girls and women with the task of procuring the materials for and constructing the hanbok itself. A poorly-kept secret of an operation, for Chuhyun had been privy of it since the third day or so. Chuhyun loved her village for celebrating the joys of her and her fiancee, only but two people in a community of just shy of two hundred. It was the sole source of love and acceptance she had ever received.

As with every other villager in the so-called “outcast village” that was Chiollan.

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

Geomhae-do, Gaetpae, City Square

Gaetpae was not so bad, Pyaechul supposed, tightening his headband. It was essentially a fortress-turned-city, the central administrative palace from which operations and policies concerning Mavgilias were carried out looming over the marketplaces and town settlements sprawled throughout. It was large, however, as the relative metropolis felt like a maze to him compared to his small, quiet, and close-knit Chiollan Village. The blazing afternoon sun above, crowded streets full of noisy pedestrians and vendors, and fluttering colors of flags, banners, and advertisements only further nauseated him to bustling Gaetpae. But that was irrelevant. What mattered was his mission.

Pyaechul entered a small shop, gently swinging to the side cloth curtains with a symbol for a duck painted on either flap. The shop was dark, the only source of illumination coming from the sunlight lazily penetrating through the paper windows, giving everything a dull white glow. Tables were scattered about with blocks of wood stacked carelessly about. In contrast, tools and carving pieces were intricately arranged into their proper designations, as if micromanaged by a deity above.

“Hello?” Pyaechul called into the darkness. A lamp was lit in response, illuminating the face of a grease-stained old monsu wearing a leather apron above his beige-white commoner’s cotton hanbok.

“Ah, you must be Pyaechul.” The monsu, whose name was Cheungyi, emerged from the rear of the shop, traversing over workbenches, tables, and cabinets. “You came at a wonderful time. Your order reached completion but an hour ago.”

Pyaechul smiled. “Good timing, then.”

Cheungyi beckoned, turning and retrieving from the rear of the shop a bamboo basket. With aged, calloused hands, the old man handed the basket to Pyaechul, who bowed reverently in response.

“I cannot thank you enough for this,” Pyaechul replied, his words practically spilling out of his mouth. “My only wish is for my family to be much richer so that I could possibly come close to paying you what you are owed for this gracious gift.”

“No,” Cheungyi softly snapped. “I would not take any more than what I charge. You draining your entire possessions to display thanksgiving for one gift is foolish. A foolish act for foolish youngsters.” Cheungyi softened in expression and firmly pat Pyaechul’s shoulders. “Your happiness at my simple creations is more than enough for this old man.”

Pyaechul bowed again. “Thank you,” he repeated. “Thank you.”

Cheungyi chuckled. “Now go,” he firmly charged, grabbing a broom and playfully goading Pyaechul outside. “You have somewhere to be, no? Don’t let this old man waste your time any further.” Pyaechul simply obliged. Once Pyaechul was outside, Cheungyi gestured at the basket with his eyebrows, he asked with a sly smile, “Who’s the lucky lady?”

Pyaechul returned the woodworker’s smile with his own, sincere and uncontainable. “Only the best in the world.” He bowed at the waist in farewell, still beaming, and went on his way.

The irony with the word best was that it felt almost insulting to describe Chuhyun with it. If only there was a better word, perfect for capturing Chuhyun’s strong yet delicate beauty, her smile, her eyes, her laugh, her kindness. The word “best” sounded limiting. But as per what “best” meant, there was no label better.

Pyaechul kept walking, out of the city now. His smile in anticipating the big day, a union with the girl he had loved for years, the girl who loved him for years, blended with the relief of leaving this packed city. Granted, its sights, smells, and noises were quite an experience. But nothing beat the comfort of home.

A thud. Pyaechul stumbled briefly before composing himself and stopping himself, and the basket he had in hand, from falling. “My sincerest apologies,” Pyaechul uttered as he came to face a group of passersby into whom he had bumped. “Please excuse me.” As he bowed in courtesy, he turned to continue on his way when he felt a hand on his shoulder restrain him from his journey.

“You…” one of the passersby, into whom Pyaechul had run, slowly said, tightening his grip on Pyaechul’s bony shoulder. “You’re from that village, are you?”

Pyaechul kept his head facing forward, towards his destination, towards home, away from this city. Away from what he had been afraid of going in. “I-I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Pyaechul responded briskly, impersonally. “Please, I have to get going.”

“Going where?” the man began reeling him in. He was tall and brutish, his large arm virtually unopposed by Pyaechul’s futile attempts to walk further or even stand in place. Soon, Pyaechul was brought face to face with the three men. They wore hanboks of slightly higher quality than his own, made with more expensive linens and hemp and spun in more colors. “That village” the man repeated, his hand still on Pyaechul’s shoulder. He placed a hostile emphasis on the word “that.”

Again, Pyaechul stammered, “I don’t know wh-what you’re talking about.”

One other from the posse slammed a fist into Pyaechul’s gut. The skinny peasant sank, coughing madly. His vision blurred from the pain. Were there three men or six? “Don’t play dumb with us, seoyeon-in.” Seoyeon-in. West-lover. The label danced about the man’s mouth in derogatory sadist glee.

“Hey, let’s show some propriety here,” the third man teased, stifling his laughter. He picked up the basket which had fallen when Pyaechul had been punched. The other two caught his cue and dragged Pyaechul, one on each arm, down the street and towards the city limit. All Pyaechul could do, frightened, pained, and unaware, was scream for mercy.

“Please,” Pyaechul managed to get out. “I have a fiancee. Show mercy, please.”

The men all laughed. “So the seoyeon-in dung mongrels are mating amongst themselves, eh?” the one with the basket snorted. They had reached the city limits. The man with the basket chucked it forward, while the two holding Pyaechul threw in some kicks to the rib for good measure and tossed the man after his basket. “Better not get in the way of that, then,” he continued, gleefully chortling at his own joke.

The man who had gripped Pyaechul’s shoulder stood over the half-conscious peasant. “Don’t taint His Majesty’s city with your presence again,” he growled softly. “Gaetpae belongs to those who haven’t rejected their blood.”

The men turned to leave. Pyaechul coughed some more and shook his head, trying to chase his double-vision away. His head was pounding, and everything sounded muffled. It was no use. But no one would come to his aid. So Pyaechul weakly gripped the crumpled basket and began to crawl, at first, and then weakly hobble to the village, two days away.

About an hour in, it came to him that the basket was damaged. Pyaechul collapsed onto the road and took the basket in his lap. He opened the lid gingerly.

Inside were two wonderfully carved wooden ducks, with Cheungyi’s expert level of detail present in every facet.

One of the ducks had its head broken off from the trauma the three men had inflicted on the basket.

Pyaechul sunk his head into the basket and began to cry softly.

Nothing beat the comfort of home.

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

Geomhae-do, Chiollan Village, Bei Residence

Chuhyun gingerly grabbed with a cloth over her hand a block of ice the village cleric had conjured for her. Taking the ends, she silently wrapped the block with the cloth, shielding the raw cold for applicable use.

It was almost sundown, as the open window beside her in their mud-walled house (the label of “window” was not as accurate as “convenient hole in the wall”), the day after Pyaechul had practically collapsed at the village gate with a crumpled basket in hand. Even in his injured state, he hung onto the basket with utmost devotion. Pyaechul’s father had understood and managed to get the basket from him, under a promise made by his son to guard it with secrecy. This Chuhyun had no idea what it was, unlike the dress.

Having prepared the ice, she came over and sat next to Pyaechul, on the hut’s straw bed. She gingerly unfurled his robes. Pyaechul chafed somewhat. “I can’t help you if you’re going to be so uncooperative,” Chuhyun sighed. “Besides, I’ll be seeing more of this in a few days, anyway.” Pyaechul silently obliged with reluctance. Chuhyun fully uncovered Pyaechul’s battered abdomen, already in suboptimal shape with his thin build. The girl placed the wrapped ice on the darkest spots on Pyaechul.

“That feels nice,” Pyaechul simply observed, closing his eyes in rest.

Chuhyun did not reflect her fiancee’s comfort. “Idiot,” she snapped.

“What?” Pyaechul called.

“Getting injured like that a week before our wedding. It’s a wonder if you’re able to stand during the ceremony,” Chuhyun hissed disapprovingly. “If you were going into the city, you shouldn’t have gone alone. Look where that got you.”

“Bringing others wouldn’t have changed anything,” Pyaechul sighed. “They would’ve just brought a bigger mob to attack us.” He turned his head from the ceiling to Chuhyun’s face, opening his eyes and placing his hand on Chuhyun’s cheek, which she took with both hands. “It’s just who we are. Who we chose to be. It’s foolish to reject that if we can’t bear the consequences.”

“But why?” Chuhyun began to cry. “It’s not fair. Can’t we live as we please without fear of the state or the people killing us for some arbitrary reason? Can’t I spend one day without worrying whether my husband out in town on a trip will make it back alive?”

Pyaechul was silent.

“I’m tired, Pyaechul,” Chuhyun whispered, tears streaming down her face. “How much longer?”

“Patience rewards. He makes sure our patience is answered.” Pyaechul answered, still looking into Chuhyun’s eyes.

Chuhyun closed her eyes and clung Pyaechul’s hand onto her face, softly rocking back and forth. She nodded. “You’re right,” she said at last.

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

Geomhae-do, Chiollan Village, Village Square

The day was here. Marked by a calm, peaceful morning with little clouds and a confident sun overhead, the entire village was seemingly transformed. Villagers scattered about, preparing the decorations and readying a village-wide feast after the occasion. It was a day of rejoicing. A testimony that suffering converted into celebration brings the greatest joys.

And with the event itself underway, every villager crowded in the village square, cheering and applauding with jubilant glee the bride and groom, Chuhyun and Pyaechul walking side by side, across the length of the square to the assembled table at the other end. The only piece of polished and lacquered furniture in the entire village, it was communally used, exclusively for large events such as marriages, funerals, and other such rituals. On the table was set an embroidered cloth, no doubt another feat of village-wide orchestration carried out by Ryunja. Scattered deliberately on the tablecloth was a mix of nuts, dates, persimmons, and pine cones, with gourd cups and a copper pot also in the medley. Each in the former list symbolized different virtues, such as fertility, fidelity, a long life, and unity. At the other end of the table opposite the approaching couple was the village cleric, in a pure white flowing hanbok. He wore nothing on his head, which was completely bald. In his hand was a leather-bound time. At the front and the back of his hanbok was emblazoned a simple woven crest, twin rings with sixteen dots between them. In the middle of this pair of rings was set a horizontal diamond, in this respectively a dot. The shapes formed in the midst of the ring an eye.

Chuhyun and Pyaechul stopped at the table. The two turned to face each other. Chuhyun wore the red hanbok Ryunja and the other village women had crafted, complemented by a lengthy white embroidered cloth piece hanging from the hanbok’s conjoined sleeves and a black headdress with a flap that trailed over and behind her head, the entire piece decorated by beads and further embroideries. Meanwhile, Pyaechul wore a more simple blue hanbok, made of similar material and constructed with similar means. Unlike Chuhyun’s, Pyaechul’s hanbok was much older, an heirloom from his father when he himself had married decades prior. On his head, Pyaechul wore a simple brimless horsehair hat.

Chuhyun slowly bowed to Pyaechul twice, bending reverently at the waist in full respect of Ryeongsean tradition. As Chuhyun stood, Pyaechul bowed similarly, once to his bride. The two repeated this procedure once. They turned back to the table.

From his sleeves, Pyaechul procured two wooden ducks. He turned briefly to Chuhyun to behold her startled face. “When did you have the time to get those?” Chuhyun began to ask, only realizing the answer to her question with the last few words. Her face blushed red and tears began to well in her eyes. So the bruises she had treated were all for the wedding. For her.

Pyaechul silently placed the two ducks on the table, the last additions to the assembly. The “groom duck’s” head was missing. Another bruise, Chuhyun guessed. “I’m sorry one of them is damaged. They’re just so expensive and I couldn’t get a replacement pair,” Pyaechul bowed again in apology. Chuhyun immediately gripped Pyaechul’s shoulders and brought him up, interrupting his bow. The villagers watched in apprehensive silence.

“One of the carvings was damaged by the world,” Chuhyun responded softly, looking into Pyaechul’s regretful eyes. She turned to the table and picked up the other duck. With all the strength she could muster, she broke off its head, stunning Pyaechul, the standing cleric, and the villagers. “I cannot stay if you leave, and I cannot leave if you stay. We shall stay together, and we shall depart together.” She tossed the head to the ground while she placed the body of the duck back on the table next to its partner.

Pyaechul could only nod, fighting back tears.

The cleric nodded as well, moved by the display. “What more needs to be said,” he began, announcing to the assembled village, “that has not already been said, that has not already been observed by this faithful man and this faithful woman before us? Their love for each other has not waned in the face of oppression for their choice and our choice: the choice of accepting the truth, while the rest of our kingdom lives in darkness. As such, I shall keep this brief. A day of celebration awaits us, and I would rather have the village enjoy itself eating than listening to another one of my lengthy sermons.”

The village chuckled in response.

The cleric continued, “Now then, Ka Pyaechul, Bei Chuhyun, by performing this sacrosanct union you declare yourselves husband and wife, before the witness of Gajang-Dae and honoring the Holy Prophet Isugeul. As such, will either of you ever forsake this union?”

Chuhyun smiled. “Never, not to my beloved.”

Pyaechul shook his head firmly. “Never, not to the world’s best.”

Smiling, the cleric nodded in acknowledgment. “Then let it be so, that the union of the Ka and Bei families of Chiollan Village is to be. Now, please officiate your vows through the sharing of the bowl on the table.”

The cleric picked up the pot in the center and poured in one gourd cup milky-colored rice wine. He picked it up with his spare hand not holding his tome, handing it off to Chuhyun’s and Pyaechul’s hands. First Chuhyun took a sip with an untameable smile. Next, Pyaechul drank his sip, reflecting Chuhyun’s smile.

“The union has been sealed, in a declaration of love under the watchful gaze of Gajang-Dae. As you pursue your lives together under him, with the entirety of this village to help you walk against all tribulations you shall face from outside the village gate, do so inseparably and faithfully. You may now kiss,” the cleric smiled.

Chuhyun had not waited for the last sentence to finish before leaping into Pyaechul’s unprepared arms, which had just handed back the bowl to the cleric. Chuhyun planted her face boldly into Pyaechul’s, who responded by enveloping his everything, the very best in the world, with his arms. The village exploded into cheers.

Uyuti, Dhorvas, Riddenheim, and Straulechen

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