Mazera Mega Story Thread

Why is there riots? Not sure I understand.

There could be some in the Ngomele lands, but it's maybe too early.

Atudire Novre barely dodged another paving stone thrown by one of the mob. As it flew past, he thought he might have even recognized: that stone had that well-worn mark of a stone in front of the Sleeping Dragon. Probably meant that he'd be stepping in mud this evening if he wasn't careful, which would be a pity.

Atudire hadn't expected to be called back from semi-retirement for crowd control duty, but with most men and not a few women at the front, the Grigori town governments were forced to grab every able bodied man they could.

Atudire wished they had conscripted a few more of the women as he ducked another stone. He'd seen the young women who had hurled it with an impressive arm, but her impressive arm and even more impressive looks didn't make him any fonder of her.

"Knock it off!" he yelled at her, pushing the crowd back with his large bronze shield. Though obsolete for the front, they made suitable replacements for domestic concerns. "Get control of yourself, lass!"

"I do have control of myself, and no one else does!" she screamed back. "Better than you monarchist thugs, taking advantage of the Malakim! How dare you lot trick Cassiel into making yourself lords over them? You act as if you were gods!"

"Hey now!" Atudire responded, honestly offended at the accusation. "I had nothing to do with that! It was Cassiel who accepted the Malakim request, and he's been making them a better place to boot!

Another brick over his head emphasized her reply. "Lies!" she denied. "Cassiel would never put himself over another! If he does not lord over us, and we don't let the gods rule us, why should we let mortal men lord over each other?"

'Damned Demos,' Atudire could only think as another youth came to the girl's side, clearly hoping to gain her affection by agreeing and supporting her. He probably wasn't a Demos, just a young male.

The Demos always been a fringe of Grigori philosophy, arguing that the next logical step to rejecting servitude to the gods due to only their nature was to deny servitude to any man or women by virtue of their birth and instead only follow leaders selected and trusted by the most people. Cassiel had actually taken the time to warn against the faction-forming tendencies of such a democratic system, of how it could lead to greed and ambition that led men's souls to become vulnerable to the gods, but Atudire had quietly found himself nodding along with the Demos counterargument. Factions already existed, they said; even in the Palace, the ministers and appointed nobles would gather supporters and make political alliances to advance their causes, and that was a true point to make. Then the Demos typically stuck their foot in their mouth by saying that popularly-accountable politicians would be more open and honest, and Atudire had been left to wonder just why politicians would be compelled to tell the truth to the masses when a pleasant lie would be so much better.

Still, they had mostly been a benign and marginal group at best... until the vassalization of Varn Gossam and the inception of the Grigori Empire. Atudire had agreed with those who had thought it a great idea at the time: a semi-permanent friend to help the Grigori war, and Cassiel had made clear that he intended reforms of the Malakim society. It had seemed like such an excellent way to show that Grigori philosophies and practices needn't only be restricted to the Grigori nation.

But the hierarchical nature of the relationship had upset the sensibilities of many Grigori who, by their very culture, were distrustful of such relationships. The Demos, the first, loudest, and almost only group to have spoken against the Emprie, had been catapulted from political fringe to mainstream in a matter of weeks. Atudire had a friend who had been the leader of the local branch, never in a bad way and always helpful when tensions in the community were stressed, and that friend had told him that in the last weeks he and his branch had received more memberships and donations in a matter of weeks than they had in the last few decades. What had been a group of political friends at a corner of a bar had grown to the point in which they had more people and more money than they knew what to do with.

And some people had been very generous indeed in filling the coffers of the various Demos parties that had sprung up, whether the calmer ones or the radicals. Atudire's tolerance and patience with his friend's unorthodox politics had payed off big time when his friend had quietly told him that there were strangers he had never seen in town who were quietly giving the various Demos groups, and especially the radicals, great amounts of foreign coin. Granted, Kalm was a big city, and foreign coins spent as well in Grigori cities as any other, but it had fit Atudire's suspicions.

Hiding behind his shield, Atudire looked through the crowd for anyone standing out. Or maybe standing in too well. That would be what a competent rabble-rouser would do: hide in the crowd, inciting them from within, and be indistinguishable from them.

Then again, a competent rabble-rouser wouldn't have personally given Svartalfar coins to all the Demos parties in the city and neglected to disguise his face in the least. His friend had been quite generous in the sketches.

'Got you, Muldoon,' Atudire thought as he saw the man. The fool was too caught up in playing spy He was trying to be stealthy by wearing all black... in a crowd of working-class citizens. He gave an air of smug satisfaction and superiority, far too controlled to throw an occasional stone or halfhearted yell in a crowd positively throbing with wild emotions. He was there as much to watch and stroke his own ego at his success as he was to incite the crowd.

Atudire was about to order an advance to divide the crowd and trap the spy, but a well-thrown stone knocked into his temple. As he went down, he saw the spy laughing at him, mocking him.

Atudire recovered, of course, after the riot continued for many hours. Shops were damaged, and as he stumbled into the Sleeping Dragon he wondered how they would handle tomorrow's riot.

Staggering in still in his riot gear, he saw his Demos friend, who wasn't quite the person he most wanted to see right now. But his friend had already ordered him a beer and gestured for him to come over. He was talking to a man who hadn't turned around, but already Atudire felt like it was Yuletide come early.

"Atudire!" Menah greeted. "I believe I told you about my generous friend Isley?"

The man turned, and recognized Atudire just as the gauntlet-clad fist crashed through his nose.

During his youth, Icarus Marocho found he had an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. When he was old enough (around 17 or 18) he bought a horse, packed his belongings, and left for a life of adventure and learning. It has been several years since he left his family’s troupe, the Peregrinus of Mazera. His name was still unknown by most, but that fit him fine. He preferred to seek knowledge alone, save his very peculiar companion, Telemachus. Telemachus is a clock-work crow, made of a silvery material that Icarus thought could only be mithral. How he came across his odd friend was one of his favourite stories.

While traversing the towering mountains that housed the Khazad, he was caught in winter storm. Winds flew at him from all sides, small pieces of rock and ice whipped his face, leaving stinging marks. He managed to stumble into a small cavern in the rocky mountain side. There he planned to wait out the storm. He lay onto his back and let his mind wander as he often did, resting his head on his pack. His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a loud caw, coming from the deep shadows in the catacombs in which he stayed. Fumbling with his pack, he managed to pull out one of his many long daggers. Though he was a pacifist in most cases, he had to learn to defend himself quite well, and he often wandered long distances alone, and thus, was a prime target for bandits. He stood in the near darkness, waiting, listening for movement. A caw was produced again, this time, behind him. He swung around just in time to see the graceful Telemachus land before him. Though, Telemachus could not issue noises other than the colourful vocabulary of a crow, he seemed to be able to get his point across easily. The crow’s presence calmed him which, at the time, frightened him more so than bandits. He was suspicious and inquisitive by nature, and that this, creature, was able to banish those feelings, replacing them with undying trust. Icarus and Telemachus stared at each other for hours, doing nothing. When the storm ended, Icarus left the cave, with Telemachus perched on his shoulder.

Icarus savoured the memory, as he rattled down the pound dirt road. He sighed with impatient; he had been on the road to Brookden for days. It was this blasted war between the Dural and Balsheraph that caused him such a long journey, From Kings Port of Brookden. Normally the journey would take only days, a week at most. Now, because he was forced to detour around the Balsheraph, through the Clan of Chaos, Chilslev, Bannor and Elohim the trip would take him a month at least! Not to mention, for short while though it was, he would be in Archos lands, he shivered at the thought, but it would be worth it.He fidgeted with the wrist watch he had made. A piece of ingenuity; it was a clock-work clock, made small enough to fit on his wrist. He was anxious. He had heard of the massive libraries of the Dural Empire, but now he could finally access the endless rows of books. The pursuit of knowledge...

Strangely, for all the worry that had accompanied and surrounded Votakara these last weeks, stopping his decline had been remarkably crisis-free, accomplished almost in a matter of hours by a properly trained and experienced Grigori Medicos. Not to be offensive of the Dural's own practitioners, but their experience with poisons had largely been limited to the Archosian spiders of the west, whereas the Cualli assassins of the west used poisons and venoms far closer to the Yokaido venoms. Eerily close, in fact. So much so that Pakun had saved a vial of infected blood that his hosts and patient would never know about, to be examined at the Medicos laboratories in Midgard.

To be fair in his sucess, Pakun had arrived quicker than almost any other Grigori Medicos could have, and he had carried potent reagents. Both were easily decisive in ensuring Votakara's survival in their own right; poisons were more dangerous the longer they were left untreated, and reagents had become a prized commodity in the Grigori lands for their ability to stop the worst damages of poisons. Applied together as they had been, there was now no doubt as to Votakara's eventual recovery.

Technically speaking, there was no need for him to stay here. Nothing that remained to be done could not be done by the orderlies of this hospital, and the compulsive helper inside him yearned to walk into the streets, find the Medicos station, and start taking more patients immediately.

Unfortunately, it was not his call to make. The head of the Ordine Medicos had already informed him that he, to, was a patient in this hospital: though he had certainly survived the magical transfer, there was no way to know what else might have occurred within his body. Were his veins still in the right place? Had he lost or gained anything he shouldn't have? And so he had been instructed to remain in the hospital, take care of Votakara, and wait for the other Medicos to finally arrive in a week's time so that they could give him a clean bill of health.

Cassiel, damn his good intentions, had let the Dural know of the Ordine's concerns. And the Dural, grateful as they were, had proceeded to place him under virtual room arrest so that he would not exert himself in any bad way. They had already had one important guest nearly die on their watch, and had no desire to let another risk himself in anyway.

Hells, they wouldn't even let him help the other patients!

And so he was reduced to tending to Votakara, still sleeping but visibly improving, or resting in his own room. The only benefit was that the Dural were very generous in bringing him books from their libraries, and just as keen to partake of his wisdom and experience. At times Pakun felt he was back at the Ordine Medicos college, only this time he was teaching a room full of elderly professors who scribbled down his every word and treated him as a great teacher.

Which he most certainly wasn't. He could work with his hands in another's body, yes, and could identify five different causes for a malady, but it had become clear early on that they knew and remembered the proper names for all the parts and vessels that he had long ago forgotten. And yet they still paid him such reverent respect for his success where they had almost failed.

For now, though, Pakun was sitting beside Votakara's bedside, reading a book from the Dural's own medical college, even having the audacity to make notes where he saw errors of judgment or description. Even if the Dural could not heal as well as him and the Medicos, their academic knowledge was extremely impressive. Pakun idly wondered if he should broach the idea of setting up a Medicos college here in the Dural capital: the Ordine had been looking for ways to expand their presence and effects in other nations of late, and he was sure both the Dural and the Ordine could benefit from such a center of medical learning.

Pakun's considerations as to how the Balseraphs might factor in was cut off by the shifting and moaning of the patient beside him. Quickly placing the book aside, he turned to examine his patient. Still running a fever, yes, but a stable and recovering one. His blood circulation remained good from regularly being lifted from the bed, and no signs of clotting were apparent yet. The elderly man had been given water to keep him hydrated as well, so it wasn't dehydration delirium...

Nothing... nothing... nothing... apparently a fever-dream. Nothing to much to be concerned with, and nothing worth calling in the orderlies for.

Then Votakara's eyes slid open and his hand grabbed Pakun's closest wrist. Pakun was startled that his patient had awaken so quickly, but then saw how his eyes were glazed over.

'Lucid dreaming,' he thought, recognizing that halfway state between waking and sleeping even as Votakara's mouth began to move.

"-ves," Votakara whispered.

"What was that, Votakara?" Pakun asked, lowering his head to the leader's level.

"The elves," he whispered again. "Tell... tell them to go... the city is burning. They must go as we planned..."

Elves. Of course. The Ljosalfar remnant that had lived in the Austrin capital before it's destruction. During the darker days of the Yokaido war, it had been an open secret that Cassiel had tried to find and convince the Ljosalfar remnant to immigrate to the Grigori lands after their nation's collapse, but by the time they had been located the elves had found refuge with Votakara. Even though his initial plans had been dashed by the great man's charity, Cassiel had maintained a strong interest in the elves even after their second disappearance, and had sent more than a few scouts to try and divine their current hiding location. None had succeded, and currently the only man who might know was halucinating about them right in front of him.

"I will tell them, Lord Votakara," Pakun assured the delirious man, easily falling into other's imagined role for him. "But where are they going? Where should I tell them to go?"

"Arendel knows," Votakara reassured despite his discomfort. "Just tell Arendel to do as we discussed..."

Damn. Not enough. "What if I can't find Ardendel, my Lord?" he asked. "She might be dead from the fires. Where shall I tell them to go?"

Votakara breathed deeply, considering the tragedy if the last of the summer elves did not escape.

"Tell them," he began to his trusted aid at his side, and Pakun already had a pad and pencil to write with, "tell them to go-"

Five minutes later, after Votakara had fallen back asleep with no future memory of this discussion, and after Pakun had torn the pad pages off and stuffed them safely in his pocket, Pakun strode out of the room and down the short hallway of the wing the two had been assigned to. Opening the door with authority, he didn't even give the guards posted there a chance to remind him that he was not yet allowed to leave the hospital without full supervision.

"You," he commanded the first guard with a tone that allowed no refusal, "inform the Head Healer that Votakara regained consciousness briefly, just as he asked to be informed. Tell him that he was delirious and reliving the razing of the capital, but was coherent." He sanitized his own discussion with the man; that could be shared later. Much later, possibly.

"You," he said, turning to the second guard and already forgetting the first, "get me an orderly. I want more dressings for Votakara's fever, as well as a potion for the next time he's awake enough to take some." When neither guard had moved, still stunned with the force with which he arrived, Pakun clapped his hands. "Chop chop! Get moving!"

Both men nearly sprinted down the halls, and Pakun could not help but wince at the sound of protests from doctors and nurses getting out of the way of a armed man.

"And us, your lordship?" asked the remaining three guards asked, and Pakun winced again at the sound of the title that they had given him for the risk he had taken and the success he had delivered. Any other Medicos could have done the same.

"You," he said, pointing at one, "Go make sure that the security detail against spiders and other critters is increased. If anyone is going to try to assassinate Votakara again, it's going to be now that he's recovering."

"Anything else, your lordship" the remaining two asked.

"One of you stay here and guard this door, and the other get me my enchanted Ordine Tags. I need to talk to the Head Medicos about our patient's spell."

The man nodded and ran off to collect the trinket, and Pakun began to consider just how he would deliver his message to the Head of the Ordine.

Cassiel, after all, had remained very, very interested in the last of the Ljosalfar elves.

Upon the seas of Mazera
A tiny craft is tossed
The waves are fierce, the men are brave
But this night the craft is lost

The song had washed over the island settlements like a tide. It came unbidden to the lips of fishermen and sailor, spread to the bards and butchers, and eventually trickled up to the mainland. Everyone knew the words, but no one knew the author.

The sea is wide and deep my love
The oceans are unbound
But if you listen closely, love
Its voices can be found

It is said that even the Palace has heard the song, and that even Perpentach himself was heard humming it. The theatre in Jubilee has commissioned a play based around the song, but the playwright assigned to the task has taken his own life.

The morning comes, the wives await
The return of their proud men
But sets the sun and sets the hope
ne'er to see them again

Even the soldiers in Dural lands have been singing it. With the coming of the song came a changing of tactics. For months, the forces under Keelyn had been assaulting the city of Coralspire, fighting a bloody war of attrition to little gain. But today, they retreated to a hill far inland, and they wait.

The sea is wide and deep my love
The oceans are unbound
But if you listen closely, love
Its voices can be found

Back in Balseraph lands, fishermen have been disappearing at an alarming rate. Though the sea's bounty has increased, so have the costs of harvesting. Despite this, fishing has become a lucrative trade, with young men from the poorer sections crowding the outgoing boats. Though less then half come back, few quit the trade voluntarily.

The men are fishing over long
The catch has no scales or fins
The seas claim more then simply men
The waters steal our sins

From the marble parapets of Coralspire, a young man shades his eyes. He can be forgiven for disbelieving what he sees, as he watches for ships, not men. The solitary figure standing on a vast sea raises his arms, and the waters recede from the shore. As the water rushes out from the harbor, great ships are left stranded on coral and sand. The lookout does not raise the alarm, for he is stunned by the sight that faces him. A mountain of water, stretching across the horizon, races towards the city. In the last instant before it hits, he swears he hears singing.

The sea is wide and deep my love
The oceans are unbound
But if you listen closely, love
Its voices can be found

As the brackish waters recede, the waiting army charges. The marble walls had collapsed in the tsunami, and the defenders washed away. There would be resistance, and the fight was not over. But finally, it had begun.

"The reagents are here, milors Ilyth. All six wagons filled to the rim. No-one survived on the plantation, and we escaped the Amurite borders without trouble. They might only just have realized what has happened."

Lord Ilyth turned to face the caravan master. "Thank you, Ghian. Your reward is waiting for you in the inner courtyard. One twelfth of the volume of the cargo you brought me, in gold, as promised."

Ghian's eyes flared up with greed as the sum was repeated to him again. He could hardly believe it... He brushed his hair through with his hands as he exited the room.

Lord Ilyth did not evne flicker as he heard the surprised gasp of Ghian and the sound of steel blades through cloth and flesh. He counted the thrusts. Ten. Twelve. Fourteen. Twenty. Thirty. Thirty five. Then silence. The body hitting the floor.

Dora entered. Ilyth could see the gory corpse that had once been Ghian, on the floor behind her. "Well done, Dora. Now, get some slaves to clean up the mess, and get me Katakiel."

She bowed and smiled. Although officially free, she was forever in his debt, like her sisters.

Lord Ilyth smiled as the Ritualist entered.
"I have the reagents you asked for, Katakiel."
The black-cladded man smiled, his bleak lips giving way to the even more bleak teeth. "Perfect, milord. I am ready to start the ritual."
Lord Ilyth nodded. "Then let it be so. Flauros has ruled for too long."