~Darkening~
Weep, Mother.
I always hated my father. He was a tyrant, set in his old ways and unwilling to compromise to ease the pain of a single man. He was a tall man, towering over anyone who dared to stand next to him by at least a foot. Even into his last years he possessed the mane of a feral lion, thick strands of black hair forever disheveled and hanging loosely from his face. He wore scars from his quarrels in the north, two thick cuts that slid their way along the right side of his face, both etching their way deeper into his skid over time. And, the most vivid thing I will always remember about him, he had always had the fiercest blue eyes the thundered with the energy of a storm cloud.
Whether you have known it or not when you took this sheet; my father was of course the tyrant of the south, Kaliphan Malakh Sayyad I. Even as a young man living in the palace in Saruk, I knew of my father’s hated position. It was also said among the court that my father had more enemies than he had subjects- from the lowliest farmer to the grandest king of Asia. I can still remember sitting in the palace gardens as a child, listening grossly as my Imnna- grandmother- recited with interest the stories of her son. My favorite, in the oddest sense that I could admire what I truly hated, was without a doubt the story of Njjar Mallak.
Mallak was, during the ending of the war with Haman, my father’s most trusted general. Njjar was more often called feral than Macrabian, and my father had always known that Njjar was more loyal his own cause than his. Despite this, the man was without a doubt the smartest man in Africa, more than capable of routing entire armies- I can not recall a single defeat in his record. His skill alone was what saved him from my father’s wrath so many times, and I can assure you that he would always press his advantage to the breaking point. Going back to my story, after inflicting a savage defeat upon the Haman general Savyan Jdram outside the city of Hiji, he secured a peace with them and the savage wars of the north were over. Kzame took the region- to my father’s chagrin- and a monetary fund was paid to Macrabi’s treasury, and Mallak returned to Saruk a hero of unheard proportions.
And yet, after many months of living comfortably in the palace, the cause that propelled Mallak forwards took root once again and he approached my father. He pleaded, for quite some time, to leave the city and be granted governances of Xhoastan- the far northern regions of the kingdom. Now my father, having never trusted Mallak at a greater distance than the reach of his sword, was naturally very wary of the motives behind Mallak’s move. Nevertheless, he eventually agreed to grant the governance of Xhoastan to Mallak, and the retired general left northwards. All was well, at first, until the time came two years later for Mallak to return to Saruk to pay penitence to my father. It was then, when my father had grown lazy with his vigil watch, Mallak sprung his trap and declared his rule of the north, more specifically the land of Xhoastan.
Within days, the north of the kingdom was inflamed. Mallak moved quickly, secured the ancient shrines of Xhose, and reestablishing the rebellion capital of Xhoastan. The peasants- the scorn of my father’s rule- flocked to the newcomer’s flag, and soon enough Mallak prepared to march upon the south. My father was, naturally, furious at the betrayal and more enraged than he was ever known to be. He quickly brought back up the army, and quite shockingly placed the command of the armies under Hmen Mallak, Njjar’s son. What was heralded by Njjar as the grandest mistake of the century, father and son approached each other in front of the city of Xhose. To Njjar’s complete and utter shock, Hmen not only fought against his father, but utterly defeated his conscripted army. Njjar was forced to fall back, and time after time Hmen inflicted serious losses upon his father. A year after declaring his disobedience, Njjar was captured by his son and returned to the city of Saruk. My father’s retribution was swift and harsh. Three days after his capture, Njjar was executed in the center of the city, his own throat cut by his son as ordered by my father. The rebellion was over.
The city of Saruk, the ancient capital of its namesake, has always been my home- even among my childhood. Within its sheltered walls, I lived among the nobles without so much as a clue as to my father’s hatred outside the city. I lived in one of the villas on an island in the third lake, secluded with the rest of the children of my father’s harem. I was never told, until many years later, that my mother had actually been the wife of the Kaliphan, and that ironically I would be his selected heir. By age twelve, I had the best tutors the kingdom could supply: the poet Zanndred Nami was my calligraphy tutor, I learned mathematics from an imported Antalese scholor, and I learned history from the sages of the north. It was not much of a childhood, but the few meetings I had with father ensured me of the importance I served. At the age of seventeen I was allowed to leave the harem and immerse myself in my father’s kingdom.
Macrabi at that time was rapidly recovering from the blights of the past. It was a time when we were attempting to recover lost tomes of knowledge and to restore the natural order of the world. My father, having successfully engineered my tutorage in the arts, came to me one night in the palace with the intent of a brief exchange. My times with my father were always kept short, a few hours at the most in which he personally attempted to instruct my learning upon the ways of the Divine.
He came to me that night with the intentions of teaching me what he referred to as ‘his greatest lesson’. He voice was raspy that night, and I assumed that he was under the influence from some of his hallucinatory herbs. However, what stroke me as the most surprising was that instead of their normal fierce demeanor, his blue eyes lacked all signs of life and simply sat there. “Jammen,” he started, sitting down on the cot beside me. He ran a worried hand through the mess of hair that resided upon his head, an anxious look born upon his brow. “My son, I think it is time I shared with you the ways of this world.” He stopped to clear his throat, wild eyes darting around the room. “There are many in this life who will tell you that the most dangerous enemy a man may have is his friend. Then there are those who declare man’s greatest enemy would be a god. That too is a lie. The remaining few may declare with the most convictional voice that the greatest enemy would be the man underestimated. While not as far from the truth as the other two- that also is not correct.
My son, man’s greatest enemy is himself. The avarice that dwells deep within the recesses of a man’s mind is more dangerous than an entire army. It has the power to corrupt the incorruptible, and to sway the minds of the most convicted. At the same time, it can drive the strongest man insane, and reduce the wisest man to a child. In addition, the fear that resides in a man can take the greatest man from power, and drive him into exile. The hope that resides in yourself is yet another threat that can lead you into foolish situations, and yet at the same time inspire you to unseen heights. The truth, my son, is that man is his own greatest enemy. We kill each other, no matter the relations, no matter the faith, and no matter the pleading- we kill each other. In the name of the gods, we kill- and yet, in their names we claim to save. This, my son, is the truth of man.
In the times that come, you shall take my place as ruler of the kingdom. You must be strong for this- so that you can not be corrupted so easily by the words of others. Yet, as the paradox perfects, you must rely upon others to assist you in making your decisions so that your own enemy does not expose himself too greatly.” The man paused for a minute, pausing to catch his breath. It was in that moment that I saw my father for the first true time for what he was- tired. Even at the young age of thirty five, he had done much more than anyone could fathom. He had concluded his father’s war. He had be betrayed by his friend and dealt with numerous insurrections. He had been scarred, defeated, and yet came back out on top. He had been wounded and left for dead, and yet came back to life. And, after all of this, he was the man he was today: molded by the early years of his rule, my father had become what his enemies had driven him too. Harsh he may have been, but that was in due to the constant rebellions and betrayals. And yet, rather than feeling pity for the man, I was suddenly overcome a feeling of repulsiveness. I had known the invincible man; now I knew the weakened ruler. He started talking again, hollowed cheeks sinking in with every breath.
“You have seen it, haven’t you?” he murmured, hanging his head low out of shame. “Yes- it is true. My son, I am tired. These years have hollowed me out, and left just a corpse of my former self. And yet, I must keep with the pace and rule as I must. You may not understand right now, but there will come a time when I must ask a favor of you.” I started to interrupt him, but he quickly cut me off and began once more. “No- I shall not tell you the favor; you’ll know when the time comes. For now, you must continue with your studies and do not think of this again until the time has come.”
It was not till ten years later that I truly knew what my father meant. He had continued to slowly fade away, eventually being required to lean more and more upon his aides for daily rule. At then, one day after his forty-fifth birthday, my father had an episode. It happened unfortunately during the Martyr’s Ceremony in the central Ihali, while my father was giving yet another speech. He spoke on the divinity of the Divine, and the increasing loss of faith of the faithful. Suddenly, during the middle of his speech, he began to shake violently and collapsed upon the floor, a single withering mass. My father’s doctors, already upon duty, struggled to subdue him but were unable. It last for just a few minutes, but the effects were devastating. My father, the once proud Malakh Sayyad was reduced beyond a ghost of himself. After the episode, he could no longer walk. He could barely talk, and even the quietest conversations would be too much for him to take. Daily rule of the kingdom fell upon me, through I despaired at the thought of taking the title of Kaliphan from him.
I never talked to my father after that. The mere thought of seeing the vacant blue eyes staring back at me without a single thought would be too much to take. A year passed and my father continued to whittle away, and I kept away from the forbidden room holding my father and kept him from my thoughts. Then, suddenly, both returned to my mind. The palace of the Kaliphan was based on the smallest island in the second lake, with no other building near it. It was the central complex, the Empirical Ihali, and the rest was covered by gardens. I had always mediated within the gardens, sitting upon the wall where it met the Ihali, alone with my thoughts and the gentle breezes. It was there, alone with my troubled thoughts, that my mind finally returned back to my father- and the conversation eleven years prior. And suddenly, the meaning of his words struck me and, as if under a spell, I drifted back to my father’s room.
He was lying there, asleep in his quiet misery. The cruel grin was still struck upon his face, the rigid skin refusing to relax even after the passing of time. I slowly stepped towards his bed, and kneeled before the elegant structure with eyes steeled closed. I uttered a brief sentence, rolling my ‘r’s as I announced the death rites. Slowly, I pulled myself back up and gently took one of the extra pillows into my hands. It was orient, ornamented with a snarling dragon that breathed a stream of steady fire. I gently pressed the pillow over my father’s face. And, that night with the still breeze, I fulfilled my promise.
I murdered my father.
The next day, while the room was being cleared out in order to be refitted, my aides stumbled across a faded piece of parchment. The calligraphy was scratchy, written in my father’s last few years of freedom. The letter, short but brief, spelt out everything I had thought about my father and answered everything I already knew. It was the ending, however, that finally brought me to my knees. His words were clearer here, as if not written by a tired man but a man who finally knew his relief was coming. His pen was straight, and the words were more beautifully penned than those of the Ibya. In five brief sentences, my father said his final goodbye.
“I have prayed that this day will see you well. And I have prayed that my request will not torture your mind- you have not done an evil, but rather rendered a blessing upon me. Now my son, remember the words I have entrusted upon you: you are your own greatest enemy. You may fear the temporal punishments rendered upon your body, but in the end it will be the everlasting punishments rendered upon your mind that you shall hate the most. No matter what you remember, I plead you take the words I render here from the Ibya: ‘Life giventh upon you all; life taketh from you all."
Whether you have known it or not when you took this sheet; my father was of course the tyrant of the south, Kaliphan Malakh Sayyad I. Even as a young man living in the palace in Saruk, I knew of my father’s hated position. It was also said among the court that my father had more enemies than he had subjects- from the lowliest farmer to the grandest king of Asia. I can still remember sitting in the palace gardens as a child, listening grossly as my Imnna- grandmother- recited with interest the stories of her son. My favorite, in the oddest sense that I could admire what I truly hated, was without a doubt the story of Njjar Mallak.
Mallak was, during the ending of the war with Haman, my father’s most trusted general. Njjar was more often called feral than Macrabian, and my father had always known that Njjar was more loyal his own cause than his. Despite this, the man was without a doubt the smartest man in Africa, more than capable of routing entire armies- I can not recall a single defeat in his record. His skill alone was what saved him from my father’s wrath so many times, and I can assure you that he would always press his advantage to the breaking point. Going back to my story, after inflicting a savage defeat upon the Haman general Savyan Jdram outside the city of Hiji, he secured a peace with them and the savage wars of the north were over. Kzame took the region- to my father’s chagrin- and a monetary fund was paid to Macrabi’s treasury, and Mallak returned to Saruk a hero of unheard proportions.
And yet, after many months of living comfortably in the palace, the cause that propelled Mallak forwards took root once again and he approached my father. He pleaded, for quite some time, to leave the city and be granted governances of Xhoastan- the far northern regions of the kingdom. Now my father, having never trusted Mallak at a greater distance than the reach of his sword, was naturally very wary of the motives behind Mallak’s move. Nevertheless, he eventually agreed to grant the governance of Xhoastan to Mallak, and the retired general left northwards. All was well, at first, until the time came two years later for Mallak to return to Saruk to pay penitence to my father. It was then, when my father had grown lazy with his vigil watch, Mallak sprung his trap and declared his rule of the north, more specifically the land of Xhoastan.
Within days, the north of the kingdom was inflamed. Mallak moved quickly, secured the ancient shrines of Xhose, and reestablishing the rebellion capital of Xhoastan. The peasants- the scorn of my father’s rule- flocked to the newcomer’s flag, and soon enough Mallak prepared to march upon the south. My father was, naturally, furious at the betrayal and more enraged than he was ever known to be. He quickly brought back up the army, and quite shockingly placed the command of the armies under Hmen Mallak, Njjar’s son. What was heralded by Njjar as the grandest mistake of the century, father and son approached each other in front of the city of Xhose. To Njjar’s complete and utter shock, Hmen not only fought against his father, but utterly defeated his conscripted army. Njjar was forced to fall back, and time after time Hmen inflicted serious losses upon his father. A year after declaring his disobedience, Njjar was captured by his son and returned to the city of Saruk. My father’s retribution was swift and harsh. Three days after his capture, Njjar was executed in the center of the city, his own throat cut by his son as ordered by my father. The rebellion was over.
The city of Saruk, the ancient capital of its namesake, has always been my home- even among my childhood. Within its sheltered walls, I lived among the nobles without so much as a clue as to my father’s hatred outside the city. I lived in one of the villas on an island in the third lake, secluded with the rest of the children of my father’s harem. I was never told, until many years later, that my mother had actually been the wife of the Kaliphan, and that ironically I would be his selected heir. By age twelve, I had the best tutors the kingdom could supply: the poet Zanndred Nami was my calligraphy tutor, I learned mathematics from an imported Antalese scholor, and I learned history from the sages of the north. It was not much of a childhood, but the few meetings I had with father ensured me of the importance I served. At the age of seventeen I was allowed to leave the harem and immerse myself in my father’s kingdom.
Macrabi at that time was rapidly recovering from the blights of the past. It was a time when we were attempting to recover lost tomes of knowledge and to restore the natural order of the world. My father, having successfully engineered my tutorage in the arts, came to me one night in the palace with the intent of a brief exchange. My times with my father were always kept short, a few hours at the most in which he personally attempted to instruct my learning upon the ways of the Divine.
He came to me that night with the intentions of teaching me what he referred to as ‘his greatest lesson’. He voice was raspy that night, and I assumed that he was under the influence from some of his hallucinatory herbs. However, what stroke me as the most surprising was that instead of their normal fierce demeanor, his blue eyes lacked all signs of life and simply sat there. “Jammen,” he started, sitting down on the cot beside me. He ran a worried hand through the mess of hair that resided upon his head, an anxious look born upon his brow. “My son, I think it is time I shared with you the ways of this world.” He stopped to clear his throat, wild eyes darting around the room. “There are many in this life who will tell you that the most dangerous enemy a man may have is his friend. Then there are those who declare man’s greatest enemy would be a god. That too is a lie. The remaining few may declare with the most convictional voice that the greatest enemy would be the man underestimated. While not as far from the truth as the other two- that also is not correct.
My son, man’s greatest enemy is himself. The avarice that dwells deep within the recesses of a man’s mind is more dangerous than an entire army. It has the power to corrupt the incorruptible, and to sway the minds of the most convicted. At the same time, it can drive the strongest man insane, and reduce the wisest man to a child. In addition, the fear that resides in a man can take the greatest man from power, and drive him into exile. The hope that resides in yourself is yet another threat that can lead you into foolish situations, and yet at the same time inspire you to unseen heights. The truth, my son, is that man is his own greatest enemy. We kill each other, no matter the relations, no matter the faith, and no matter the pleading- we kill each other. In the name of the gods, we kill- and yet, in their names we claim to save. This, my son, is the truth of man.
In the times that come, you shall take my place as ruler of the kingdom. You must be strong for this- so that you can not be corrupted so easily by the words of others. Yet, as the paradox perfects, you must rely upon others to assist you in making your decisions so that your own enemy does not expose himself too greatly.” The man paused for a minute, pausing to catch his breath. It was in that moment that I saw my father for the first true time for what he was- tired. Even at the young age of thirty five, he had done much more than anyone could fathom. He had concluded his father’s war. He had be betrayed by his friend and dealt with numerous insurrections. He had been scarred, defeated, and yet came back out on top. He had been wounded and left for dead, and yet came back to life. And, after all of this, he was the man he was today: molded by the early years of his rule, my father had become what his enemies had driven him too. Harsh he may have been, but that was in due to the constant rebellions and betrayals. And yet, rather than feeling pity for the man, I was suddenly overcome a feeling of repulsiveness. I had known the invincible man; now I knew the weakened ruler. He started talking again, hollowed cheeks sinking in with every breath.
“You have seen it, haven’t you?” he murmured, hanging his head low out of shame. “Yes- it is true. My son, I am tired. These years have hollowed me out, and left just a corpse of my former self. And yet, I must keep with the pace and rule as I must. You may not understand right now, but there will come a time when I must ask a favor of you.” I started to interrupt him, but he quickly cut me off and began once more. “No- I shall not tell you the favor; you’ll know when the time comes. For now, you must continue with your studies and do not think of this again until the time has come.”
It was not till ten years later that I truly knew what my father meant. He had continued to slowly fade away, eventually being required to lean more and more upon his aides for daily rule. At then, one day after his forty-fifth birthday, my father had an episode. It happened unfortunately during the Martyr’s Ceremony in the central Ihali, while my father was giving yet another speech. He spoke on the divinity of the Divine, and the increasing loss of faith of the faithful. Suddenly, during the middle of his speech, he began to shake violently and collapsed upon the floor, a single withering mass. My father’s doctors, already upon duty, struggled to subdue him but were unable. It last for just a few minutes, but the effects were devastating. My father, the once proud Malakh Sayyad was reduced beyond a ghost of himself. After the episode, he could no longer walk. He could barely talk, and even the quietest conversations would be too much for him to take. Daily rule of the kingdom fell upon me, through I despaired at the thought of taking the title of Kaliphan from him.
I never talked to my father after that. The mere thought of seeing the vacant blue eyes staring back at me without a single thought would be too much to take. A year passed and my father continued to whittle away, and I kept away from the forbidden room holding my father and kept him from my thoughts. Then, suddenly, both returned to my mind. The palace of the Kaliphan was based on the smallest island in the second lake, with no other building near it. It was the central complex, the Empirical Ihali, and the rest was covered by gardens. I had always mediated within the gardens, sitting upon the wall where it met the Ihali, alone with my thoughts and the gentle breezes. It was there, alone with my troubled thoughts, that my mind finally returned back to my father- and the conversation eleven years prior. And suddenly, the meaning of his words struck me and, as if under a spell, I drifted back to my father’s room.
He was lying there, asleep in his quiet misery. The cruel grin was still struck upon his face, the rigid skin refusing to relax even after the passing of time. I slowly stepped towards his bed, and kneeled before the elegant structure with eyes steeled closed. I uttered a brief sentence, rolling my ‘r’s as I announced the death rites. Slowly, I pulled myself back up and gently took one of the extra pillows into my hands. It was orient, ornamented with a snarling dragon that breathed a stream of steady fire. I gently pressed the pillow over my father’s face. And, that night with the still breeze, I fulfilled my promise.
I murdered my father.
The next day, while the room was being cleared out in order to be refitted, my aides stumbled across a faded piece of parchment. The calligraphy was scratchy, written in my father’s last few years of freedom. The letter, short but brief, spelt out everything I had thought about my father and answered everything I already knew. It was the ending, however, that finally brought me to my knees. His words were clearer here, as if not written by a tired man but a man who finally knew his relief was coming. His pen was straight, and the words were more beautifully penned than those of the Ibya. In five brief sentences, my father said his final goodbye.
“I have prayed that this day will see you well. And I have prayed that my request will not torture your mind- you have not done an evil, but rather rendered a blessing upon me. Now my son, remember the words I have entrusted upon you: you are your own greatest enemy. You may fear the temporal punishments rendered upon your body, but in the end it will be the everlasting punishments rendered upon your mind that you shall hate the most. No matter what you remember, I plead you take the words I render here from the Ibya: ‘Life giventh upon you all; life taketh from you all."
). However, I believe the players are quite more interesting in the setting and the interactions, and quite a few of the people who built the world are more than willing to murder if someone acts stupid. Long answer short: no, its not serious. Just don't do anything incrediably stupid (like ignoring where the nation came from) and you won't have a problem.
}
