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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.
Post by Peoples rebulic of norway suppressed by Uyuti.
Do I have to go to the discord in order to go to war? because my last nation said I did
MAP UPDATED (April 25th, 2022)
Dhorvas and Eskeland
Dhorvas, Syrduria, Eskeland, and Straulechen
MAP UPDATED (April 30th, 2022)
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
Uyuti, Dhorvas, The Blacklight Empire, Namalar, and 6 othersRiddenheim, Syrduria, Ryeongse, Eskeland, Brelogne, and Raf Dralmar
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
Uyuti, Dhorvas, Volgaro, Syrduria, and 3 othersAlvaringen, Eskeland, and Raf Dralmar
Dhorvas, Volgaro, and Eskeland
MAP UPDATED (May 7th, 2022)
Uyuti, Dhorvas, Riddenheim, and Straulechen
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