SamSniped
DJ Goodboye
lurker's comment: Would it be possible for me to join as Seehlt?
End of Empires - N3S III
- Thread starter North King
- Start date
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
http://vocaroo.com/i/s0VjLJfyf8nY
The host. The host. The host comes. The Prince's Host. The host kills.
The host. The host. The host comes. The Prince's Host. The host kills.
Starlife
de la terre à la lune
- Joined
- Mar 2, 2010
- Messages
- 1,498
It is the first day of summer, a rare day of festivities for the coastal settlements of Jipha. Yet in the temples of the coast, it is a time of solemn contemplation, for a change of season means a change of mind and spirit. It is a fragile time, when the prosperity of spring bears its fruit, but before it is all put at risk by the overbearing hand of the monsoon season. It is a time when nary a cloud drifts in the sky, and the bright sun causes the sea to glitter with each undulating wave. It is a time of contrasts: the bright, hot sun, the cold water, the love of spring, and the fear of downpour, ever-present, but not affecting the merchants so much that they would cease the merry boisterousness of their early summer markets.
This is the common sound of temples on this day of contrasts and fragile joy, a hymn played with the singing bells of the temple folk, while their mouths remain silent. The low notes mingle with the high, representing the rolling waves glistening with sunlight. This is truly a bell-hymn for a time of transition and merriment, with subtle anxiety looming in the background.
This is the common sound of temples on this day of contrasts and fragile joy, a hymn played with the singing bells of the temple folk, while their mouths remain silent. The low notes mingle with the high, representing the rolling waves glistening with sunlight. This is truly a bell-hymn for a time of transition and merriment, with subtle anxiety looming in the background.
Kraznaya
Princeps
He does not know where exactly he is, but he knows here there is no hurry, no fear, no worry, only peace. Every muscle in his body reassures him of this inviolate fact, and so he continues walking, only when he does, it feels as if he is lying down, resting on silk sheets. He looks around him, and sees that he is within a magnificent dome of glass, built to let light in from all corners, only scarlet banners drape from the walls and ceilings, muting the light to soft pink and red shades. He exhales; he feels pure pleasure, comforting and strong. But it is not a lustful feeling that convulses through his bones, but tranquility. Pain, melting away. This is peace, he realizes.
As he continues walking, he hears voices. “Khatai, Khatai,” they say. He recognizes Kintyra’s voice, and his father’s, and suddenly he starts running after them, only it seems when he runs, he’s still in the same place in the dome, and he cannot go forward. He tries to pump his legs faster and faster, but even though the floor under him seems to change, when he looks forward, the walls of glass around him are at the same place. “Come here, Khatai, come on, you can make it…”
Then suddenly, the red banners all fall limp to the floor, and the light from the top of the dome glares down in full force, harsh, blinding. A magnificent flash, and then it is all gone. Everything around him is dark and cold.
I have been here before, he realizes. A different place, but it is always the same. This time, I will be ready.
Now he knows it is coming, and so he draws his sword with a magnificent flourish as the steel exited the scabbard. He swings in rapid movement behind him, but this time, the first time, his foe is not there. He cuts through smoke, but it is only smoke, and then in front of him there is laughter, high and cold.
A cloaked figure stands in front of him, wearing a ghoulish white mask, with hollow pits for eyes. He feels invisible chains wresting his arms down to the ground, and then his body contorts as his sword drops from his grip. He struggles, but the force is too strong, and suddenly the floor opens up from under him, and he is falling, falling, falling…
“Pick up your sword, my Emperor.”
Every muscle in his body aches from pain, and when he opens his eyes there is only darkness into which he cannot see.
“I have… fallen…”
“But you may yet rise…”
And then the light glows from source of the voice… white, but comforting and warm, not like the light had been above when the banners fell…
A girl, no more than fifteen, kneels before him, wrapped in robes of red and covered in perfect locks of golden hair. She holds up his sword, shimmering silver and red and white, up to him, and presses it into his hands.
“You must rise…” She lifts her head and bright blue eyes look up at him, pleading.
“I will, I swear it… my queen.” He grabs the hilt of the sword.
* * *
His mouth was filled with blood again. The dream had come ever since he had taken this city, but what did it mean? He spat into the basin and gestured at servants to dress him. I returned to the city at light of morning, he thought, but it is still not yet noon. This day is not squandered yet. He exited his chambers.
“My Emperor! It is marvelous to see you; I truly did not expect for your highness to wake so soon,” General Reman bowed to him in greeting outside his hall.
“Yes, it is good to see you too, Reman. I assume court is already in session?”
“Yes, your highness. The Nechekt have arrived, and the Lord Chancellor will be seeing to them, my lord.”
Khatai raised his eyebrows. “Harunai?”
“Vesper is in Sern, and the diplomat Tanesai is under the Chancellor’s obligation, my lord.”
Khatai shook his head. “Thank you for your help, Reman. It is always appreciated.”
He walked out to the middle balcony that hung over the main atrium of the keep.
Court was already in session. Instead of interrupting the awkward dance of conversation already taking place between Harunai and Tanesai, Khatai decided to observe instead. I may learn more of these who pledge to fight for me from their manner than the translation of their speech, he decided.
The Nechekt had brought a great many men into the hall, with helms of bronze covering long sweeping strands of bright blond hair.
They do not feel safe in this hall, he realized. Small wonder, after they had just been our foes scant months before.
One of the men wore a helm encrusted with gold and gems, and the pelt of a great white wolf over his shoulders. The king, he thought, but it is strange. He is uncomfortable here in this court, and he does not act the leader of his men. Instead…
His eyes shifted forward, to the person to whom Tanesai was speaking. A young girl, cloaked in brilliant red, wearing golden hair. Her face was turned toward Tanesai as he translated Harunai’s piece. She must be the granddaughter of Fulwarc that Tanesai mentioned in his letter. Has Tanesai cultivated her to speak for our terms?
He listened at the voice that represented these uncertain allies. She spoke high and sweet, but filled with force. She is not Tanesai’s puppet, he thought. She speaks from her own heart.
“…get those barbarian riffraff their quarters and out of my sight,” Khatai heard Harunai snap at Tanesai. “Don’t act so smug when your great diplomatic triumph consists of four thousand men.”
Khatai saw Tanesai struggle to translate his comments at the northern princess, and then she broke from her entourage, walking up the hall flanked by Nahari spears to address Harunai directly, even as Tanesai glided forward to continue his translation. As she looked forward at Harunai, eyes filled with fire, he saw her truly for the first time.
She is the one from the dream. The feeling washed over him like the warmth of fine wine, and lingered like fire in his chest, as if to give him certainty.
The princess had come to understand what Harunai was saying. Her voice echoed within the stone hall, and reverberated below him, as if she had directed all her strength at his Lord Chancellor. Khatai looked down to see his reaction while Tanesai struggled to translate her words, and could not suppress a short laugh at his wine-stained clothes.
Tanesai’s attention was focused solely on his immediate superior. He could tell that the translator was softening her words, but neither Harunai or anyone else in this hall was fooled. “The Princess Aelona begs that you remember: she is your shield; as much as you are hers.”
I am your shield; and you mine. She speaks like the Red Lady once did.
The princess’s eyes, however, wandered from the chancellor as Tanesai spoke. Blue eyes met black, and he raised his hand in acknowledgment of his guests. The princess saw, and fell to her knees in a bow, blushing with uncertainty.
The Emperor had many demons, but he had long mastered the art of bending the court to his will. He spoke in a voice as cool and firm, letting the foreigners before him know his strength, even if they could not understand him.
“Princess Aelona; We welcome you and yours to my court, and give Her gratitude that you have shown us you are as strong as you are beautiful. For you speak what is undoubtedly the truth; the Redeemer and his army will come across the sea, and seek to sweep us and ours from all that we hold dear. And thus it is also true that we have asked for your alliance so that we might hope to stem his tide. But we the Savirai are not the Redeemer as you so accuse. In our place, he would demand you, as he demands from your grandfather now, to do his bidding to fit his plan.
If this is to what you are accustomed, that is not what we ask. We call ourselves in our ancient tongue the Free Men, and in our hearts we believe that we are all free. But how can this be, you ask, when each and every one of us is responsible for the sum of our obligation? Because to us obligation is choice; obligation is freedom; you choose whether or not to follow that which is given, whether there is merit in what is written as duty; and if not even given this, you choose whether to devote yourself to any obligation at all. What you choose determines whether you are good or evil, pure of heart or decrepit of soul.”
Tanesai had nearly jumped in surprise when he had first heard him speak, but recovered quickly and sang out his words in the northern tongue. He must be relieved to translate someone other than Harunai, Khatai judged.
The princess bowed her head at his words.
“Tanesai, tell the honorable Katu, King of Nech that should he accept his obligation to our service, the House of Savirai will never shy or turn from their promised obligation to him. Tell him that we welcome him to this city as we would our own banners, and he is welcome to one of the old Nahsjad lord’s manors for his own camp. Show him around the city, if you would please.”
“And tell the Princess of Cyve that I would see her alone.”
As he continues walking, he hears voices. “Khatai, Khatai,” they say. He recognizes Kintyra’s voice, and his father’s, and suddenly he starts running after them, only it seems when he runs, he’s still in the same place in the dome, and he cannot go forward. He tries to pump his legs faster and faster, but even though the floor under him seems to change, when he looks forward, the walls of glass around him are at the same place. “Come here, Khatai, come on, you can make it…”
Then suddenly, the red banners all fall limp to the floor, and the light from the top of the dome glares down in full force, harsh, blinding. A magnificent flash, and then it is all gone. Everything around him is dark and cold.
I have been here before, he realizes. A different place, but it is always the same. This time, I will be ready.
Now he knows it is coming, and so he draws his sword with a magnificent flourish as the steel exited the scabbard. He swings in rapid movement behind him, but this time, the first time, his foe is not there. He cuts through smoke, but it is only smoke, and then in front of him there is laughter, high and cold.
A cloaked figure stands in front of him, wearing a ghoulish white mask, with hollow pits for eyes. He feels invisible chains wresting his arms down to the ground, and then his body contorts as his sword drops from his grip. He struggles, but the force is too strong, and suddenly the floor opens up from under him, and he is falling, falling, falling…
“Pick up your sword, my Emperor.”
Every muscle in his body aches from pain, and when he opens his eyes there is only darkness into which he cannot see.
“I have… fallen…”
“But you may yet rise…”
And then the light glows from source of the voice… white, but comforting and warm, not like the light had been above when the banners fell…
A girl, no more than fifteen, kneels before him, wrapped in robes of red and covered in perfect locks of golden hair. She holds up his sword, shimmering silver and red and white, up to him, and presses it into his hands.
“You must rise…” She lifts her head and bright blue eyes look up at him, pleading.
“I will, I swear it… my queen.” He grabs the hilt of the sword.
* * *
His mouth was filled with blood again. The dream had come ever since he had taken this city, but what did it mean? He spat into the basin and gestured at servants to dress him. I returned to the city at light of morning, he thought, but it is still not yet noon. This day is not squandered yet. He exited his chambers.
“My Emperor! It is marvelous to see you; I truly did not expect for your highness to wake so soon,” General Reman bowed to him in greeting outside his hall.
“Yes, it is good to see you too, Reman. I assume court is already in session?”
“Yes, your highness. The Nechekt have arrived, and the Lord Chancellor will be seeing to them, my lord.”
Khatai raised his eyebrows. “Harunai?”
“Vesper is in Sern, and the diplomat Tanesai is under the Chancellor’s obligation, my lord.”
Khatai shook his head. “Thank you for your help, Reman. It is always appreciated.”
He walked out to the middle balcony that hung over the main atrium of the keep.
Court was already in session. Instead of interrupting the awkward dance of conversation already taking place between Harunai and Tanesai, Khatai decided to observe instead. I may learn more of these who pledge to fight for me from their manner than the translation of their speech, he decided.
The Nechekt had brought a great many men into the hall, with helms of bronze covering long sweeping strands of bright blond hair.
They do not feel safe in this hall, he realized. Small wonder, after they had just been our foes scant months before.
One of the men wore a helm encrusted with gold and gems, and the pelt of a great white wolf over his shoulders. The king, he thought, but it is strange. He is uncomfortable here in this court, and he does not act the leader of his men. Instead…
His eyes shifted forward, to the person to whom Tanesai was speaking. A young girl, cloaked in brilliant red, wearing golden hair. Her face was turned toward Tanesai as he translated Harunai’s piece. She must be the granddaughter of Fulwarc that Tanesai mentioned in his letter. Has Tanesai cultivated her to speak for our terms?
He listened at the voice that represented these uncertain allies. She spoke high and sweet, but filled with force. She is not Tanesai’s puppet, he thought. She speaks from her own heart.
“…get those barbarian riffraff their quarters and out of my sight,” Khatai heard Harunai snap at Tanesai. “Don’t act so smug when your great diplomatic triumph consists of four thousand men.”
Khatai saw Tanesai struggle to translate his comments at the northern princess, and then she broke from her entourage, walking up the hall flanked by Nahari spears to address Harunai directly, even as Tanesai glided forward to continue his translation. As she looked forward at Harunai, eyes filled with fire, he saw her truly for the first time.
She is the one from the dream. The feeling washed over him like the warmth of fine wine, and lingered like fire in his chest, as if to give him certainty.
The princess had come to understand what Harunai was saying. Her voice echoed within the stone hall, and reverberated below him, as if she had directed all her strength at his Lord Chancellor. Khatai looked down to see his reaction while Tanesai struggled to translate her words, and could not suppress a short laugh at his wine-stained clothes.
Tanesai’s attention was focused solely on his immediate superior. He could tell that the translator was softening her words, but neither Harunai or anyone else in this hall was fooled. “The Princess Aelona begs that you remember: she is your shield; as much as you are hers.”
I am your shield; and you mine. She speaks like the Red Lady once did.
The princess’s eyes, however, wandered from the chancellor as Tanesai spoke. Blue eyes met black, and he raised his hand in acknowledgment of his guests. The princess saw, and fell to her knees in a bow, blushing with uncertainty.
The Emperor had many demons, but he had long mastered the art of bending the court to his will. He spoke in a voice as cool and firm, letting the foreigners before him know his strength, even if they could not understand him.
“Princess Aelona; We welcome you and yours to my court, and give Her gratitude that you have shown us you are as strong as you are beautiful. For you speak what is undoubtedly the truth; the Redeemer and his army will come across the sea, and seek to sweep us and ours from all that we hold dear. And thus it is also true that we have asked for your alliance so that we might hope to stem his tide. But we the Savirai are not the Redeemer as you so accuse. In our place, he would demand you, as he demands from your grandfather now, to do his bidding to fit his plan.
If this is to what you are accustomed, that is not what we ask. We call ourselves in our ancient tongue the Free Men, and in our hearts we believe that we are all free. But how can this be, you ask, when each and every one of us is responsible for the sum of our obligation? Because to us obligation is choice; obligation is freedom; you choose whether or not to follow that which is given, whether there is merit in what is written as duty; and if not even given this, you choose whether to devote yourself to any obligation at all. What you choose determines whether you are good or evil, pure of heart or decrepit of soul.”
Tanesai had nearly jumped in surprise when he had first heard him speak, but recovered quickly and sang out his words in the northern tongue. He must be relieved to translate someone other than Harunai, Khatai judged.
The princess bowed her head at his words.
“Tanesai, tell the honorable Katu, King of Nech that should he accept his obligation to our service, the House of Savirai will never shy or turn from their promised obligation to him. Tell him that we welcome him to this city as we would our own banners, and he is welcome to one of the old Nahsjad lord’s manors for his own camp. Show him around the city, if you would please.”
“And tell the Princess of Cyve that I would see her alone.”
Angst
Rambling and inconsistent
I love this.
Also, Thlayli has a voice. Interestiating.
And I'm not the only one doing this anymore! I love how many awesome things this NES generates
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Dremai o Faeoraio
Rofa Sirafan winced as he stepped out of his ship and onto the piers of Dremai. Something about traveling over water made him ache where his right foot had once been, like some vicious Coraia gnawing at his ankle.
Bah. Pain can be resisted. The old soldier picked up his stride, powering through the discomfort. Behind him followed a small contingent of Farubaidan soldiers.
Haiao glowed brightly in the midmorning sky, with only the lightest sprinkling of clouds marring its clarity. Across the broad, smooth-sloped bay, the shipyards of Dremai were a hive of activity. Masses of highland lumber lay stacked along the shores, and the skeletal frames of what looked to be a small fleet were laid down neatly in a series of lean-to workshops.
“Dockboy! Over here.”
A child hardly past ten years of age ran up, and then froze for a bit as he looked up at the strange man.
Perhaps he could be forgiven for staring. Rofa was a solidly built man with fading black hair and an unkempt beard hiding a small part of his tired, weathered face. A veteran soldier of 30 years, Rofa had picked up more than his fair share of damage. His wooden foot clunked heavily when he stepped, his exposed arms were laced with a crisscrossed network of scars. But perhaps most striking was-
“Uh… what’s wrong with your eye?”
Rofa frowned briefly, then gave the child a wry smile.
“If you ever meet a southern merchantman named Aluoda who says he can replace your eye, don’t trust him. Now, show me to the Councillor’s office.”
The young boy nodded and wordlessly began to lead the soldiers into the city. Rofa looked around as he walked, absorbing the sights and sounds of the city. In all his years, he had never managed to make his way through the capital of northern Hailsia. It was a beautiful city, he quickly determined. Its stone roads were smooth and solidly packed down by what must have been a millennium of foot traffic. Dremai positively reeked of history: its buildings, alternatively domed and blocky, were constructed in a most unique style- they had not nearly the scale of those back at home in Aramaia, but their angular bases were clearly some sort of archaic throwback to the earliest years of Old Farou. Even the newer buildings; townhouses and shops, seemed to bear the legacy of some era several hundred years past.
A group of three musicians sat on stools at a nearby corner, their thin and dextrous fingers flowing over the strings of their rehais, playing out a warbling, watery tune. Rofa looked briefly at his own gnarled hands, before the child’s voice interrupted him.
“Right here sir.”
The group was gathered before an unremarkable, blockish building. Tall, thin windows, and broad, mural-like engravings decorated its walls. Rofa looked up to it, then over to the boy, who looked back at him expectantly.
Ah, right. Northerners. The old soldier handed over a single haoui, which was apparently more than enough to please the child, who promptly scampered off. Returning his attention to the engraved door, Rofa kicked gently at the door to announce his presence. Scant few seconds passed before a tiny old man, with a head full of wild, wispy hair, greeted him.
“Ah, Commander Sirafan!”
“Present.”
The old man beamed, and pulled the door wide. He had the posh accent typical of Faronun from the Loafa coast, with many ostentatious trills and redundant diphthongs.
“Please, come in all. Nielae Pirof’s home is yours.”
“And may we soon meet with Councillor Pirof?”
The figure looked back, his wide smile briefly flashing into a scrutinizing squint.
“Speaking, Commander Sirafan. Now please, come in.”
The hunched old man beamed again, before hobbling off into the building. Rofa followed.
“It’s been some time that I’ve hosted such esteemed guests, you know.”
“Esteemed guests?” Rofa looked to the soldiers behind them, with a look of mild incredulity.
In front of him, a new voice cleared his throat.
“Actually, Councillor Pirof would be referring to me.”
Rofa Sirafan’s head snapped around to meet a familiar sight. A tall, slender figure, grey-bearded yet still possessed of an unexpectedly youthful , if stern, face.
“General Halai!” The soldiers lowered their heads in respect.
The man rose from his seat and gave a friendly gesture of dismissal.
“Please, Rofa, no formalities between us. Just call me Sikalohahela.”
“Very well general. But Haiao above, you were just about the last man I was expecting to meet here. I’ve not seen you since before the Battle of the Bays.”
“And I’d have hardly expected that the Faeoraio in Sahelahaia would release me back into Farubaidan service, but here I am. We live in unexpected times, times which call for unexpected men.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Sikalohahela rolled his eyes.
“You really ought to read more. To be simple, you’re here because I wanted- no, I needed the best man I could find for this job.”
“A job beyond garrison duty in Caroha?”
“Far beyond it. How do you fancy traveling overseas?”
“We’re fighting the Opilui again?!” Rofa spluttered, struggling to resist shouting.
“No! Well… hardly. I should hope our admirals aren’t so foolish.”
“Blessed Haiao general, just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
Sikalohahela paused for a few moments, then a smile began to play across his lips.
“Direct as ever, Rofa. Very well. The Saffirai Emperor requests the aid of the Farubaida. The Dahaiaou have crossed the Caeheran to wage war against him. Your talent for languages served us well amongst the Moti, and your experiences with the Satar have given you a great insight into their shadowed souls.”
“So your aid is to send them an aging cripple to tell them how pleasant it is to slave inside a Dahaiaou mine?”
“Hardly.” Interrupted Nielae Pirof, “Your experience may prove to be invaluable to the young Emperor. And the General shall lead a vastly larger force into the eastern continent soon enough.”
“The muster has already begun.” Added the Faerouhaiaouan, “But it shall be some time before we can embark. Until then, the Farubaida will aid the Saffirai in whichever ways it can.”
It was now Rofa’s turn to smile. A lopsided grin creased his face, the opportunity of confronting them after all these years igniting a fire behind his eyes.
“When do I begin?”
Rofa Sirafan winced as he stepped out of his ship and onto the piers of Dremai. Something about traveling over water made him ache where his right foot had once been, like some vicious Coraia gnawing at his ankle.
Bah. Pain can be resisted. The old soldier picked up his stride, powering through the discomfort. Behind him followed a small contingent of Farubaidan soldiers.
Haiao glowed brightly in the midmorning sky, with only the lightest sprinkling of clouds marring its clarity. Across the broad, smooth-sloped bay, the shipyards of Dremai were a hive of activity. Masses of highland lumber lay stacked along the shores, and the skeletal frames of what looked to be a small fleet were laid down neatly in a series of lean-to workshops.
“Dockboy! Over here.”
A child hardly past ten years of age ran up, and then froze for a bit as he looked up at the strange man.
Perhaps he could be forgiven for staring. Rofa was a solidly built man with fading black hair and an unkempt beard hiding a small part of his tired, weathered face. A veteran soldier of 30 years, Rofa had picked up more than his fair share of damage. His wooden foot clunked heavily when he stepped, his exposed arms were laced with a crisscrossed network of scars. But perhaps most striking was-
“Uh… what’s wrong with your eye?”
Rofa frowned briefly, then gave the child a wry smile.
“If you ever meet a southern merchantman named Aluoda who says he can replace your eye, don’t trust him. Now, show me to the Councillor’s office.”
The young boy nodded and wordlessly began to lead the soldiers into the city. Rofa looked around as he walked, absorbing the sights and sounds of the city. In all his years, he had never managed to make his way through the capital of northern Hailsia. It was a beautiful city, he quickly determined. Its stone roads were smooth and solidly packed down by what must have been a millennium of foot traffic. Dremai positively reeked of history: its buildings, alternatively domed and blocky, were constructed in a most unique style- they had not nearly the scale of those back at home in Aramaia, but their angular bases were clearly some sort of archaic throwback to the earliest years of Old Farou. Even the newer buildings; townhouses and shops, seemed to bear the legacy of some era several hundred years past.
A group of three musicians sat on stools at a nearby corner, their thin and dextrous fingers flowing over the strings of their rehais, playing out a warbling, watery tune. Rofa looked briefly at his own gnarled hands, before the child’s voice interrupted him.
“Right here sir.”
The group was gathered before an unremarkable, blockish building. Tall, thin windows, and broad, mural-like engravings decorated its walls. Rofa looked up to it, then over to the boy, who looked back at him expectantly.
Ah, right. Northerners. The old soldier handed over a single haoui, which was apparently more than enough to please the child, who promptly scampered off. Returning his attention to the engraved door, Rofa kicked gently at the door to announce his presence. Scant few seconds passed before a tiny old man, with a head full of wild, wispy hair, greeted him.
“Ah, Commander Sirafan!”
“Present.”
The old man beamed, and pulled the door wide. He had the posh accent typical of Faronun from the Loafa coast, with many ostentatious trills and redundant diphthongs.
“Please, come in all. Nielae Pirof’s home is yours.”
“And may we soon meet with Councillor Pirof?”
The figure looked back, his wide smile briefly flashing into a scrutinizing squint.
“Speaking, Commander Sirafan. Now please, come in.”
The hunched old man beamed again, before hobbling off into the building. Rofa followed.
“It’s been some time that I’ve hosted such esteemed guests, you know.”
“Esteemed guests?” Rofa looked to the soldiers behind them, with a look of mild incredulity.
In front of him, a new voice cleared his throat.
“Actually, Councillor Pirof would be referring to me.”
Rofa Sirafan’s head snapped around to meet a familiar sight. A tall, slender figure, grey-bearded yet still possessed of an unexpectedly youthful , if stern, face.
“General Halai!” The soldiers lowered their heads in respect.
The man rose from his seat and gave a friendly gesture of dismissal.
“Please, Rofa, no formalities between us. Just call me Sikalohahela.”
“Very well general. But Haiao above, you were just about the last man I was expecting to meet here. I’ve not seen you since before the Battle of the Bays.”
“And I’d have hardly expected that the Faeoraio in Sahelahaia would release me back into Farubaidan service, but here I am. We live in unexpected times, times which call for unexpected men.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Sikalohahela rolled his eyes.
“You really ought to read more. To be simple, you’re here because I wanted- no, I needed the best man I could find for this job.”
“A job beyond garrison duty in Caroha?”
“Far beyond it. How do you fancy traveling overseas?”
“We’re fighting the Opilui again?!” Rofa spluttered, struggling to resist shouting.
“No! Well… hardly. I should hope our admirals aren’t so foolish.”
“Blessed Haiao general, just tell me what you need and I’ll do it.”
Sikalohahela paused for a few moments, then a smile began to play across his lips.
“Direct as ever, Rofa. Very well. The Saffirai Emperor requests the aid of the Farubaida. The Dahaiaou have crossed the Caeheran to wage war against him. Your talent for languages served us well amongst the Moti, and your experiences with the Satar have given you a great insight into their shadowed souls.”
“So your aid is to send them an aging cripple to tell them how pleasant it is to slave inside a Dahaiaou mine?”
“Hardly.” Interrupted Nielae Pirof, “Your experience may prove to be invaluable to the young Emperor. And the General shall lead a vastly larger force into the eastern continent soon enough.”
“The muster has already begun.” Added the Faerouhaiaouan, “But it shall be some time before we can embark. Until then, the Farubaida will aid the Saffirai in whichever ways it can.”
It was now Rofa’s turn to smile. A lopsided grin creased his face, the opportunity of confronting them after all these years igniting a fire behind his eyes.
“When do I begin?”
dominatr
Smoke Jaguar
- Joined
- Apr 11, 2010
- Messages
- 922
Dziltocampal
Starting Location: Posted at bottom...
Society: Under leadership of brothers in the Zepeche family. They each rule different sections of the land, and get along very well. Very strong farming community, farmers are regarded highly.
Lineage: Unrecorded, generally just natives to their area, just recently begun organizing themselves.
Values: Brotherhood, sacrifice (not human or animal, just fasting, leaving food at temple etc.), and Freedom.
Religion(s): Worship of serpents, the stars/sky, and wisdom. They call it Uxtalam
Language(s): Unlike most of the languages known. Easy to learn for foreigners, however.
Mythos: As the oldest Dziltocampalic tale says, the first snake, Chempil, was enlightened by the first star, which gave him the first knowledge. In order to spread this enlightenment, he created man to live as an incarnation of him when he ascended to his throne in the skies. He wanted Dziltocampal to honor him.
Economic Base: Small mines of metals (tin, copper, iron (rare occasion)), rice, wheat, and tropical fruit. Fishing from small streams generates income as well.
Nation Names: Dziltocampal,Encopacal, Sek'Uyumil, Ekxentil, Tekmal, Amakpul, Dzekua
Person Names: Chempilkan, Chempilkan II, Ek'Zepech, Khat'Zepech, Ux'Zepech, Hit'Zepech
Place Names: Tlecdzibocampual, Eknex, Xetnembal, Agdza, Dzitochibal, Cuanetempec, Huenta, Chepena'akal, Atnaxembul, Xekuntep.
Anywhere in that red box, preferably along a river if possible. I would like my territory to be a light blue color.
Starting Location: Posted at bottom...
Society: Under leadership of brothers in the Zepeche family. They each rule different sections of the land, and get along very well. Very strong farming community, farmers are regarded highly.
Lineage: Unrecorded, generally just natives to their area, just recently begun organizing themselves.
Values: Brotherhood, sacrifice (not human or animal, just fasting, leaving food at temple etc.), and Freedom.
Religion(s): Worship of serpents, the stars/sky, and wisdom. They call it Uxtalam
Language(s): Unlike most of the languages known. Easy to learn for foreigners, however.
Mythos: As the oldest Dziltocampalic tale says, the first snake, Chempil, was enlightened by the first star, which gave him the first knowledge. In order to spread this enlightenment, he created man to live as an incarnation of him when he ascended to his throne in the skies. He wanted Dziltocampal to honor him.
Economic Base: Small mines of metals (tin, copper, iron (rare occasion)), rice, wheat, and tropical fruit. Fishing from small streams generates income as well.
Nation Names: Dziltocampal,Encopacal, Sek'Uyumil, Ekxentil, Tekmal, Amakpul, Dzekua
Person Names: Chempilkan, Chempilkan II, Ek'Zepech, Khat'Zepech, Ux'Zepech, Hit'Zepech
Place Names: Tlecdzibocampual, Eknex, Xetnembal, Agdza, Dzitochibal, Cuanetempec, Huenta, Chepena'akal, Atnaxembul, Xekuntep.
Anywhere in that red box, preferably along a river if possible. I would like my territory to be a light blue color.
SamSniped
DJ Goodboye
I should be able to catch up, send my orders, and start my RPing by the 12th.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Exatai of the North Part 15
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Her hands were small in his. He guided hers to the cold iron figurine. “The Redeemer moves as you command,” he whispered, closing her hand around the miniature horse lord.
She was no longer in her body, but outside, observing. She saw the great hall of her childhood, rolling with fog and empty save for her and this man. The long tables that she adored stretched into the haze with no end.
The man moved her hand, piece and all, from Sea to Earth.
“Will he win?” the girl asked.
He smiled, “He may.”
Father, she called, but her words were silent. She blinked, but for a second, and they were gone, replaced by two more. She saw herself again, older, sitting at the same seat, and playing with the same Kalis set. Across from her sat her uncle, Glynt. A gut churning anger spoiled her happiness.
“The Goddess takes your Redeemer,” said her younger self.
His face turned sour. “I cannot win.”
She remembered it now, that stormy night in the Palace on the Rock. She smiled at her victory, but that short burst of joy escaped her as the memory returned. No, she thought, not this night. The great door of the hall appeared in the fog beside where she watched. The scene of her mother’s collapse, the news of her father’s death, it all played again like a horrible nightmare.
The scene changed to the chambers of her mother. The fine linens of the bed were soaked in blood. A crowd of faceless men and maids stood around them, she could not make them out. Glynt was not here, just her and the paleness of her mother’s face.
The midwives pulled the baby from her, limp and blue. A trail of blood dripped from the corpse. “A boy,” they cried. Aelona stretched her feet, standing on the tips of her toes to see the infant. The newborn, painted by the blood of fresh life, had the mask of bone across its face. She placed her hand to her mouth, and stepped back in horror.
Her heel caught on something. She tumbled backwards. All of the light had vanished, and now but the dark and damp surrounded her. She was no longer at the Palace on the Rock, but somewhere sinister, somewhere foul. The light returned in an instant, as if a cloth had been pulled from her eyes. She lay on all fours on a great woven mat of fine fabrics. The scent of incense burned her nose.
Around her were many colored drapes. The ceiling above fell to all sides like a great tent, too thick to allow the sun passage, or maybe it was night, she could not tell. She felt afraid.
“Do you fear me, child?” asked three voices at once. Behind her on a throne of great serpents sat a three headed man, wearing three golden masks. Each head moved freely of the others, making gestures in the Satar style for happiness, displeasure and command. They spoke again, “Do you fear me?”
She could not answer.
The sound of a thousand charging horses passed outside their tent. The clang of steel on steel made her shiver. The screams of dying men were all around her. They cried in Satar and Cyvekt, and tongues she had never heard before. She heard the dying wails of women and children. And then, in the distance, rushing waves like the sea come to land.
No waters reached her, only the Light. It peeled back the cloth of the tent in a hellish fury. The three masked being sat, unaffected by it. Yet, in its presence she lost all fear. It warmed her, but did not burn. It consumed her in love and courage and wisdom. She knew in that Light that all things were possible.
But just as it had begun, it ended, fading to darkness as the cloth fell around her. The three masked being laughed, hauntingly.
~~~
Aelona stood on a cushioned footstool as servants scurried around her. They brought in long lengths of red-dyed silk for Hoshana, her Nahsjad handmaiden, to attach to the dress. Hoshana had been called north specifically to serve Aelona, and had soon worked her way to the head of her personal servants.
Hoshana is beautiful, she thought. Her hair was brown, wavy and shorter than her shoulders by an inch, while her face was long and slender, with hazel eyes brightened by the makeups she elegantly placed around them. It all worked flawlessly with her olive skin.
She tugged on the fabric, sewing it to fit Aelona’s form. “It’s a little much,” Aelona told her, but she would not listen.
“The Emperor demands the best,” she replied, “and I shall give it.” Hoshana held high esteem in the south for her tailoring skills, Aelona knew, and her work would be brilliant despite the discomfort she felt now.
~~~
They walked the battlements, emperor and princess. He wore his armor; she wore her dress. The red cloak from their first meeting hung from her shoulders again. She followed him along the walls, to a section overlooking the camps.
The sun slipped beneath the horizon.
Three weeks had passed from their last meeting in his chambers at the keep. She had spent that time learning every ounce of Savirai she could from her new servants, particularly Imra, a Savirai free woman. She understood the choking and hacking that she had heard, now, but she lacked the natural talent with this language as she had with Satar.
He spoke slowly and simply to let her follow, “I have spoken with your uncle, the King of Nechekt.” She watched his mouth, nervous of missing a word. He had a handsome face, covered with a well groomed beard of short black hairs. “His men are taking well to mine.” His words were sweet.
“Good,” she said, hoping the sounds she sent him were the proper ones. She had practiced the language relentlessly in her chambers. There it had become easy in her confidence, but not here. No, here a nervousness over took her. “My hope is that he is as courteous to your grace as you have been to us.”
“He is,” Khatai replied with a smile.
He snapped his fingers and a servant boy ran up, oil lantern in hand. Khatai took it, adjusted a small dial, and the flame within grew larger to light their way. Their entourage was the small, only a handful of servants and guards, most of which were hers. “Free men have little to fear,” he told her. She hoped he was right.
She stopped at the notch in the battlements to look over the camp. Thousands of fires were raging, cooking meals in iron and bronze pots, while thousands more torches were being lit. She could not see the banner of her kinsmen, but they were out there somewhere. Khatai stopped beside her.
She had feared him, that first day when he summoned her. But the words he spoke to her were as sweet as northern honey, not filled with power or command. He called her his golden beauty, a messenger in Her Light. He seemed as thrilled to meet her as she was to meet him, and both were restless. He had gifted a manor to her, near the keep, in that brief conversation, and then he rode off to his camps shortly thereafter.
“May I confide in you, Emperor?” she asked. He gave a look of confusion, but his kind smile brought her renewed courage. “I dreamed of this war.”
Khatai did not answer immediately. She thought that maybe her words were incorrect, but then he spoke. “As have I,” he said, sighing.
~~~
Hoshana worked diligently on the tail of the dress. Thryar sat with her other guards against the western wall of the room, comfortably tended to by her servants. He never took his eyes off of her, not even in the presence of beautiful women. Imra and Vatai, her two Savirai handmaidens, opened the drapes to let in the rising sun. It would be a pleasant day.
Tanesai entered the room with two servant men carrying a crate. He stared at the ground as Hoshana bared Aelona’s legs for better sewing. She found his honor amusing, considering how outspoken he could be at times.
“Princess,” he said, bowing. She acknowledged him with the tilt of her head. The servants ran about her like bees in Cuskar’s hives, tending to the queen.
“Have you seen him this morning?” she asked in Cyvekt.
“Of course, my princess,” he replied. “I have but just returned from his grace’s keep, you see. He has refused to hold war council, and will see no one at court until after the ceremony. I have a few things to discuss, you see. Will you have Tanesai?”
“Always,” she said, sweetly. “How are his nerves?”
“Stalwart,” he said. That’s a lie, she thought. “The first order of business, eh, is the final course of this evening’s dinner. I have acquired Cyvekt honey by way of connections through Okner the Frelesti. It was sailed to Pamala, you see, and then carried in two days by riders. They have four hundred fowl imported from Opulensi in the kitchens, ready to be roasted on the sweetest northern honey, yes. Are you pleased with these arrangements?”
“I am,” she said. Hoshana and three other handmaidens held a piece of red silk across her legs, sewing it into place. “As you see, Tanesai, my emperor wishes to smother me in silk. What other business?”
Tanesai gestured to the servant boys with him, and they lowered the crate. Tanesai unlocked and opened it, letting out the high pitch squeaks of some animal within. He reached into the box, pulling out a long noodle of a creature, fluffy pure white fur with a tail as tall as it.
“What is that?” she asked, squeamish.
“A weasel, princess, from the jungles of Moti,” he explained. “They breed them to be this way, you see, as pets for high born women of some renown. They are rare creatures, very expensive, yes. This is a gift from the emperor.”
“He humbles me with his generosity. How could he have arranged all of this in such short order?” She was truly curious.
“He is guided by Her Light and wisdom in all his planning, you see,” he said. “Perfection is unheard of, but She blesses the emperor with victories small and large. He says you are his charm.”
“Of course,” she said.
The sound of crashing came from the doorway, and the laughter of a man. Thryar shifted in his seat, but she motioned him down as Tanesai spoke.
He sighed. “The third order, you see, is your lordly cousin.”
Tanesai rolled his eyes, sweeping his arms toward the door. Katu the Younger stumbled through. He tripped on his own feet with every other step and sang in drunken slurs.
“Did you write that?” she asked, sarcastically.
He stumbled over to her, resting his hands on poor Imra’s head as she knelt to fix fabric. “I did,” he smiled a drunken smile. He reeked of southern wines. Stains of the red liquid splotched his bronze plate.
“It’s horrible,” she said, laughing. Please don’t make a scene, she thought.
He laughed in response. “I never said I was a bard,” he said. Imra groaned under his weight, but did not complain. Katu the Younger reached out to her dress. “It is very lovely,” he said, “lovelier than my kingdom.” His words were heavy with sorrow, like the bird of his song.
“Why are you here? You should be in your chambers, preparing for the ceremony. The emperor has bought-“
“You,” he said, finishing her sentence. This word silenced her. He stepped closer, and even though she stood a foot from the ground on her stool, their eyes met. He leaned in, as if going for a kiss, but embraced her in a hug. He whispered in her ear, “It’s not too late. We could run north, you and I, we could run to Lutan. I could make you happy. I could sing songs to you every night.” He pulled back to look at her face. She smirked. “Or pay people to do it for me.”
“We have obligations, sweet Katu. Obligations we mustn’t break. Your sword is sworn.” He leaned his head into her shoulder. She ran her hands through his blond locks. Aelona lightened her tone, “How do you suggest escaping from Edrim with me? Hmm? Will Khatai allow you to ride north with me on your horse?”
“I’d fight his army if I must,” he growled into the silk. “Every man of Nech would see you safe.”
She pulled his head back. His blue eyes were covered in a watery glaze. She frowned.
“See me safe,” she pleaded. “The dawn is far off,” she said, smiling again, “see me safe through this darkness.”
~~~
They looked over the battlements as she finished telling him of her dream. The lantern’s flame reflected in his dark eyes. He stood next to her in deep thought. The occasional cheer from the camp below the walls sent a brief smile across his face.
“I’d met you before,” he said. “In my sleep, through my mind’s eye, I’d met you before. I too struggled against the Redeemer. I was lost, defeated. The chains of his grip bound me to a prison of suffering and darkness, but then a Light came, and a voice. I could not have been sure it was you, but now I know your sweet voice, Aelona. You lifted me from my restraints. You returned the sword to my hand, my golden princess. I fell into the darkness, but your Light came for me.” He placed his hand gently on her cheek. “Your eyes betrayed you in the hall of the old Rosh. I had thought you a mirage had Tanesai not spoken your words. You were the same, and I knew I would rise.”
She placed her hand to her chest, blushing. Khatai turned back to the camp below.
“The night seems brighter with you,” he said. “Perhaps you are the Flame.” He turned the dial on the lantern, lowering the light.
After a while she said, “Do you know Kalis?”
He raised his hands and laughed. “I lack the hooves to play.”
“There are many pieces in play,” she explained. “The Riders, they cut through lowly men and guard the flanks. They bring thunder to the field. You see them?” she asked, pointing to the camps. “They are led by great warriors. The Redeemer and,” she said, placing her hand on the small of his back, “the Emperor. These are great men that move in ways that normal men cannot, swift on the backs of immortal steeds with the gift of storm and lightning at their calling. There are greater pieces, Khatai,” she cooed. “The gods of heaven may do what not even an Emperor may.”
She placed her hands on his face, turning him to her. He looked down into her eyes.
“The Redeemer may seem daunting, but he cannot win. He has made the fool’s folly in the great game. Taleldil cowers before the Goddess. He has feared loss, so he dares not risk. You dare, sweet Khatai, you dare.”
“As do you, Aelona. You have risked it all.”
“There is only one course of action,” she said, bursting with energy. She pulled his face to her, embracing his lips with her own. She feared respite, but none came. He took all she gave him with equal passion. Her breath was heavy as she released his lips. “Take me for your queen, Khatai, so we may drive the Redeemer to the sea, back to the Rath Satar to pray to fearful gods that hide in their heaven.”
~~~
The dress wrapped to her form, perfection in red silk. It flowed on from behind her, the tail as long as the Birthstone was high. It stretched on forever behind her with dozens of handmaidens dressed in bright colors guiding it along to the door way. The courtyard of the Rosh’s keep was cleared, cleaned and rebuilt in less than a week to hold the hundred guests of the Emperor of Gold and Sand.
There were men and women of all castes of birth, from the east, west and far reaches of the south. The Nechekt king and his heir were guests of honor that stood near the center of the courtyard. She saw Tanesai, Harunai and all the other bureaucrats of his grace.
She walked through the opening to the shower of iris pedals: blacks, reds and yellows. She carried in her hands her husband’s gift, the Moti weasel, Xevha. It nuzzled in her arms, hiding its face from all the strangers before her. They blessed her in their many tongues. They called for long life, happiness and heirs for the Dual Throne.
She remembered her childhood; she remembered Glynt and the Kalis board. She could see him now in their faces. She saw her grandfather and the golden masks of the three-headed Redeemer.
She heard them speak as her uncle, “I cannot win.”
No, she thought, you never could.
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Part 9
Part 10
Part 11
Part 12
Part 13
Part 14
Aelona
Edrim, 542 SR
Edrim, 542 SR
Her hands were small in his. He guided hers to the cold iron figurine. “The Redeemer moves as you command,” he whispered, closing her hand around the miniature horse lord.
She was no longer in her body, but outside, observing. She saw the great hall of her childhood, rolling with fog and empty save for her and this man. The long tables that she adored stretched into the haze with no end.
The man moved her hand, piece and all, from Sea to Earth.
“Will he win?” the girl asked.
He smiled, “He may.”
Father, she called, but her words were silent. She blinked, but for a second, and they were gone, replaced by two more. She saw herself again, older, sitting at the same seat, and playing with the same Kalis set. Across from her sat her uncle, Glynt. A gut churning anger spoiled her happiness.
“The Goddess takes your Redeemer,” said her younger self.
His face turned sour. “I cannot win.”
She remembered it now, that stormy night in the Palace on the Rock. She smiled at her victory, but that short burst of joy escaped her as the memory returned. No, she thought, not this night. The great door of the hall appeared in the fog beside where she watched. The scene of her mother’s collapse, the news of her father’s death, it all played again like a horrible nightmare.
The scene changed to the chambers of her mother. The fine linens of the bed were soaked in blood. A crowd of faceless men and maids stood around them, she could not make them out. Glynt was not here, just her and the paleness of her mother’s face.
The midwives pulled the baby from her, limp and blue. A trail of blood dripped from the corpse. “A boy,” they cried. Aelona stretched her feet, standing on the tips of her toes to see the infant. The newborn, painted by the blood of fresh life, had the mask of bone across its face. She placed her hand to her mouth, and stepped back in horror.
Her heel caught on something. She tumbled backwards. All of the light had vanished, and now but the dark and damp surrounded her. She was no longer at the Palace on the Rock, but somewhere sinister, somewhere foul. The light returned in an instant, as if a cloth had been pulled from her eyes. She lay on all fours on a great woven mat of fine fabrics. The scent of incense burned her nose.
Around her were many colored drapes. The ceiling above fell to all sides like a great tent, too thick to allow the sun passage, or maybe it was night, she could not tell. She felt afraid.
“Do you fear me, child?” asked three voices at once. Behind her on a throne of great serpents sat a three headed man, wearing three golden masks. Each head moved freely of the others, making gestures in the Satar style for happiness, displeasure and command. They spoke again, “Do you fear me?”
She could not answer.
The sound of a thousand charging horses passed outside their tent. The clang of steel on steel made her shiver. The screams of dying men were all around her. They cried in Satar and Cyvekt, and tongues she had never heard before. She heard the dying wails of women and children. And then, in the distance, rushing waves like the sea come to land.
No waters reached her, only the Light. It peeled back the cloth of the tent in a hellish fury. The three masked being sat, unaffected by it. Yet, in its presence she lost all fear. It warmed her, but did not burn. It consumed her in love and courage and wisdom. She knew in that Light that all things were possible.
But just as it had begun, it ended, fading to darkness as the cloth fell around her. The three masked being laughed, hauntingly.
~~~
Aelona stood on a cushioned footstool as servants scurried around her. They brought in long lengths of red-dyed silk for Hoshana, her Nahsjad handmaiden, to attach to the dress. Hoshana had been called north specifically to serve Aelona, and had soon worked her way to the head of her personal servants.
Hoshana is beautiful, she thought. Her hair was brown, wavy and shorter than her shoulders by an inch, while her face was long and slender, with hazel eyes brightened by the makeups she elegantly placed around them. It all worked flawlessly with her olive skin.
She tugged on the fabric, sewing it to fit Aelona’s form. “It’s a little much,” Aelona told her, but she would not listen.
“The Emperor demands the best,” she replied, “and I shall give it.” Hoshana held high esteem in the south for her tailoring skills, Aelona knew, and her work would be brilliant despite the discomfort she felt now.
~~~
They walked the battlements, emperor and princess. He wore his armor; she wore her dress. The red cloak from their first meeting hung from her shoulders again. She followed him along the walls, to a section overlooking the camps.
The sun slipped beneath the horizon.
Three weeks had passed from their last meeting in his chambers at the keep. She had spent that time learning every ounce of Savirai she could from her new servants, particularly Imra, a Savirai free woman. She understood the choking and hacking that she had heard, now, but she lacked the natural talent with this language as she had with Satar.
He spoke slowly and simply to let her follow, “I have spoken with your uncle, the King of Nechekt.” She watched his mouth, nervous of missing a word. He had a handsome face, covered with a well groomed beard of short black hairs. “His men are taking well to mine.” His words were sweet.
“Good,” she said, hoping the sounds she sent him were the proper ones. She had practiced the language relentlessly in her chambers. There it had become easy in her confidence, but not here. No, here a nervousness over took her. “My hope is that he is as courteous to your grace as you have been to us.”
“He is,” Khatai replied with a smile.
He snapped his fingers and a servant boy ran up, oil lantern in hand. Khatai took it, adjusted a small dial, and the flame within grew larger to light their way. Their entourage was the small, only a handful of servants and guards, most of which were hers. “Free men have little to fear,” he told her. She hoped he was right.
She stopped at the notch in the battlements to look over the camp. Thousands of fires were raging, cooking meals in iron and bronze pots, while thousands more torches were being lit. She could not see the banner of her kinsmen, but they were out there somewhere. Khatai stopped beside her.
She had feared him, that first day when he summoned her. But the words he spoke to her were as sweet as northern honey, not filled with power or command. He called her his golden beauty, a messenger in Her Light. He seemed as thrilled to meet her as she was to meet him, and both were restless. He had gifted a manor to her, near the keep, in that brief conversation, and then he rode off to his camps shortly thereafter.
“May I confide in you, Emperor?” she asked. He gave a look of confusion, but his kind smile brought her renewed courage. “I dreamed of this war.”
Khatai did not answer immediately. She thought that maybe her words were incorrect, but then he spoke. “As have I,” he said, sighing.
~~~
Hoshana worked diligently on the tail of the dress. Thryar sat with her other guards against the western wall of the room, comfortably tended to by her servants. He never took his eyes off of her, not even in the presence of beautiful women. Imra and Vatai, her two Savirai handmaidens, opened the drapes to let in the rising sun. It would be a pleasant day.
Tanesai entered the room with two servant men carrying a crate. He stared at the ground as Hoshana bared Aelona’s legs for better sewing. She found his honor amusing, considering how outspoken he could be at times.
“Princess,” he said, bowing. She acknowledged him with the tilt of her head. The servants ran about her like bees in Cuskar’s hives, tending to the queen.
“Have you seen him this morning?” she asked in Cyvekt.
“Of course, my princess,” he replied. “I have but just returned from his grace’s keep, you see. He has refused to hold war council, and will see no one at court until after the ceremony. I have a few things to discuss, you see. Will you have Tanesai?”
“Always,” she said, sweetly. “How are his nerves?”
“Stalwart,” he said. That’s a lie, she thought. “The first order of business, eh, is the final course of this evening’s dinner. I have acquired Cyvekt honey by way of connections through Okner the Frelesti. It was sailed to Pamala, you see, and then carried in two days by riders. They have four hundred fowl imported from Opulensi in the kitchens, ready to be roasted on the sweetest northern honey, yes. Are you pleased with these arrangements?”
“I am,” she said. Hoshana and three other handmaidens held a piece of red silk across her legs, sewing it into place. “As you see, Tanesai, my emperor wishes to smother me in silk. What other business?”
Tanesai gestured to the servant boys with him, and they lowered the crate. Tanesai unlocked and opened it, letting out the high pitch squeaks of some animal within. He reached into the box, pulling out a long noodle of a creature, fluffy pure white fur with a tail as tall as it.
“What is that?” she asked, squeamish.
“A weasel, princess, from the jungles of Moti,” he explained. “They breed them to be this way, you see, as pets for high born women of some renown. They are rare creatures, very expensive, yes. This is a gift from the emperor.”
“He humbles me with his generosity. How could he have arranged all of this in such short order?” She was truly curious.
“He is guided by Her Light and wisdom in all his planning, you see,” he said. “Perfection is unheard of, but She blesses the emperor with victories small and large. He says you are his charm.”
“Of course,” she said.
The sound of crashing came from the doorway, and the laughter of a man. Thryar shifted in his seat, but she motioned him down as Tanesai spoke.
He sighed. “The third order, you see, is your lordly cousin.”
Tanesai rolled his eyes, sweeping his arms toward the door. Katu the Younger stumbled through. He tripped on his own feet with every other step and sang in drunken slurs.
Oh, sang the bird of sorrow
To the princess on the hill
May you take my last feathers
For the fletching of your thrill
Draw back your bow
Steady your aim
Strike swiftly the heart
That you’re wont to maim
To the princess on the hill
May you take my last feathers
For the fletching of your thrill
Draw back your bow
Steady your aim
Strike swiftly the heart
That you’re wont to maim
“Did you write that?” she asked, sarcastically.
He stumbled over to her, resting his hands on poor Imra’s head as she knelt to fix fabric. “I did,” he smiled a drunken smile. He reeked of southern wines. Stains of the red liquid splotched his bronze plate.
“It’s horrible,” she said, laughing. Please don’t make a scene, she thought.
He laughed in response. “I never said I was a bard,” he said. Imra groaned under his weight, but did not complain. Katu the Younger reached out to her dress. “It is very lovely,” he said, “lovelier than my kingdom.” His words were heavy with sorrow, like the bird of his song.
“Why are you here? You should be in your chambers, preparing for the ceremony. The emperor has bought-“
“You,” he said, finishing her sentence. This word silenced her. He stepped closer, and even though she stood a foot from the ground on her stool, their eyes met. He leaned in, as if going for a kiss, but embraced her in a hug. He whispered in her ear, “It’s not too late. We could run north, you and I, we could run to Lutan. I could make you happy. I could sing songs to you every night.” He pulled back to look at her face. She smirked. “Or pay people to do it for me.”
“We have obligations, sweet Katu. Obligations we mustn’t break. Your sword is sworn.” He leaned his head into her shoulder. She ran her hands through his blond locks. Aelona lightened her tone, “How do you suggest escaping from Edrim with me? Hmm? Will Khatai allow you to ride north with me on your horse?”
“I’d fight his army if I must,” he growled into the silk. “Every man of Nech would see you safe.”
She pulled his head back. His blue eyes were covered in a watery glaze. She frowned.
“See me safe,” she pleaded. “The dawn is far off,” she said, smiling again, “see me safe through this darkness.”
~~~
They looked over the battlements as she finished telling him of her dream. The lantern’s flame reflected in his dark eyes. He stood next to her in deep thought. The occasional cheer from the camp below the walls sent a brief smile across his face.
“I’d met you before,” he said. “In my sleep, through my mind’s eye, I’d met you before. I too struggled against the Redeemer. I was lost, defeated. The chains of his grip bound me to a prison of suffering and darkness, but then a Light came, and a voice. I could not have been sure it was you, but now I know your sweet voice, Aelona. You lifted me from my restraints. You returned the sword to my hand, my golden princess. I fell into the darkness, but your Light came for me.” He placed his hand gently on her cheek. “Your eyes betrayed you in the hall of the old Rosh. I had thought you a mirage had Tanesai not spoken your words. You were the same, and I knew I would rise.”
She placed her hand to her chest, blushing. Khatai turned back to the camp below.
“The night seems brighter with you,” he said. “Perhaps you are the Flame.” He turned the dial on the lantern, lowering the light.
After a while she said, “Do you know Kalis?”
He raised his hands and laughed. “I lack the hooves to play.”
“There are many pieces in play,” she explained. “The Riders, they cut through lowly men and guard the flanks. They bring thunder to the field. You see them?” she asked, pointing to the camps. “They are led by great warriors. The Redeemer and,” she said, placing her hand on the small of his back, “the Emperor. These are great men that move in ways that normal men cannot, swift on the backs of immortal steeds with the gift of storm and lightning at their calling. There are greater pieces, Khatai,” she cooed. “The gods of heaven may do what not even an Emperor may.”
She placed her hands on his face, turning him to her. He looked down into her eyes.
“The Redeemer may seem daunting, but he cannot win. He has made the fool’s folly in the great game. Taleldil cowers before the Goddess. He has feared loss, so he dares not risk. You dare, sweet Khatai, you dare.”
“As do you, Aelona. You have risked it all.”
“There is only one course of action,” she said, bursting with energy. She pulled his face to her, embracing his lips with her own. She feared respite, but none came. He took all she gave him with equal passion. Her breath was heavy as she released his lips. “Take me for your queen, Khatai, so we may drive the Redeemer to the sea, back to the Rath Satar to pray to fearful gods that hide in their heaven.”
~~~
The dress wrapped to her form, perfection in red silk. It flowed on from behind her, the tail as long as the Birthstone was high. It stretched on forever behind her with dozens of handmaidens dressed in bright colors guiding it along to the door way. The courtyard of the Rosh’s keep was cleared, cleaned and rebuilt in less than a week to hold the hundred guests of the Emperor of Gold and Sand.
There were men and women of all castes of birth, from the east, west and far reaches of the south. The Nechekt king and his heir were guests of honor that stood near the center of the courtyard. She saw Tanesai, Harunai and all the other bureaucrats of his grace.
She walked through the opening to the shower of iris pedals: blacks, reds and yellows. She carried in her hands her husband’s gift, the Moti weasel, Xevha. It nuzzled in her arms, hiding its face from all the strangers before her. They blessed her in their many tongues. They called for long life, happiness and heirs for the Dual Throne.
She remembered her childhood; she remembered Glynt and the Kalis board. She could see him now in their faces. She saw her grandfather and the golden masks of the three-headed Redeemer.
She heard them speak as her uncle, “I cannot win.”
No, she thought, you never could.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
A Shadowed Mien
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Interlude
Part Three
Part Four:
“In republics founded by nomads, the assistance of foreigners is indispensable in all that concerns masonry.”
-Ibn Khaldūn
“I am not a god of myself, but of all who empower me. Mankind is the true god.”
-Taleldil, Challenges 3:23, The Kaphaiavai
---
They told him that he had failed. That he was unworthy.
Then they offered him a choice. Walk through this hole in the floor, and die. Your broken body will be fed to the monastery’s pigs, they said. In this small way, you will serve Taleldil.
Or, walk out the door behind you. No one will stop you.
He did not even stop to consider the dilemma, but walked to his death unthinking. His robe fluttered as he fell in the darkness for a few seconds, before landing in soft piles of hay.
Then the room was filled with torchlight, and soft hands patted him on the shoulder. “Welcome, our brother,” they said. “Welcome, our Zaphkel.”
The lesson, as he was taught, was to accept death without glory.
---
Before the city of Atracta was fit for habitation, as the paving stones were laid over dirt, the first farms settled, and so on, the Redeemer lived for some time in Acca. That overgrown labyrinth-city had begun to prosper more under the light but firm hand of Rutarri. Smaller families were building their own nuccia, and once-deserted quarters began to fill again with trees, children, and the sounds of running water. Rutarri’s newest project was some sort of great cistern to keep waste from collecting in the gutters, and it filled the city with noise and dust.
But he did not stay in the fortress of the Letoriate. To have a Redeemer so indebted to the Prince of the Sea he had just created, surrounded by Accan marines, not Satar…he trusted Arto, but he would give no one such a golden opportunity to take power for themselves.
Instead, he stayed in the Tepecci nuccion. Vecco’s fortune and survival were utterly dependent on the Redeemer, who had funded the new Tepecci bank in return for its mobilization of the skilled labor necessary to complete Atracta. And the Redeemer’s gold was on display; Tepecci had jade-lined pools of crystal water filled with lavender, tea leaves, and strange underwater flowers, each pool a different color and sporting a different fragrance. The constant attentions of the Tepecci women were…endearing, as well. Less so his host.
One night over wine, a lot of wine, Tepecci had decided to lecture him. “You Satar foster desperation in those you conquer,” drawled he. “Which is manageable only if the slave population does not exceed your own.”
Avetas shadowed his eyes, exatal dignity barely keeping him from slurring, and said. “Overstep yourself, Vecco, and you will lose everything you have gained.”
Tepecci slumped forward on the table, trying (and failing) to pour himself another glass of wine. “And you would stick my head upon a pike forged in Acca, from Oscadian iron, pulled from a mine we dug. Which is exactly my point.” He hiccupped. “The Satar make nothing but fear and death, and leave the Accani to pick up the pieces.”
“What of Atraxes and the towers of Magha, the lays, and the faith?”
They debated long into the night over a game of kalis that the Redeemer won. But Vecco’s words turned over in his mind like stones.
And he thought of what his father had wrought in Kargan, and what he had wrought in Anyais.
---
As a boy of fifteen, newly acclaimed by the scattered remnant of the Scroll-tribe who had escaped the Feast, Prince Avetas watched the siege of Magha from across the Sesh. He marveled at the great siege engines brought by the southerners, and watched with perverse fascination as one of the tall stone towers of Magha began a slow collapse. He asked his tarkan Elikas why the defenders of the city were not able to make engines of their own to repel the attackers, Elikas grunted, “Only the Accans do such things.” For the first time in his life, he began to think.
He began to spend as much time reading as training with the men of his tribe. Often he would stay up late into the night reading ancient chronicles by lanternlight, sleeping only when the sun rose. In the days of Atraxes, when monuments had been built and lays had been written, there were schools. That is to say, academies of learned scholars who were Satar. In what accounts he could read of them, these men fought, but also wrote and learned. It seemed that most of this rare class of people retreated to the monasteries after Atraxes’ reign ended.
Satar literary output continued, but in secret places where a man could only enter if he gave his life to the monks. Like Siaxis. Siaxis…
---
The Redeemer’s study was covered in inlaid marble, carved in the shape of dancing cockatrices and slender masked women holding bowls of fruit. He had drawn the designs himself.
Zaphkel was standing behind him, as he always was. He had begun to resent the man’s dutiful guardianship of his Redeemer, noting the way the man tensed up whenever Avetas spoke to an Accan or an Evyni. The Argashim were…a powerful tool. But he had decided to send them far from the capital for a reason. Zaphkel unnerved him.
“Aspect Master. Would you walk with me?” he said in neutral tones.
“Your will, Redeemer.”
They walked onto one of the balconies of the newly-built flower-petal palace, the Eshvada. The pale pink stone shone as dawn crept over the land. Looking from the palace heights towards the Kern, they could see the foundation of a fortified harbor to dwarf Kargan one day, with massive stone blocks climbing up a switchback stair to assemble two great sea-towers, an iron chain between them. It was a work of engineering that would have been impossible without the architects who had come for the building just to the west.
The Sephashim loomed over all else but the harbor towers. One day it would be a dozen domes rising one over another like the view of a distant mountain range, each one dedicated to a different art, shining a different color. The first three domes had already risen, but two were yet marble frames awaiting tiles and glazes from far-flung lands. He would see even greater ones rise, the library dome to be the largest, to dwarf even the Metraxas.
He could not enjoy the view, of course, because of the man standing behind him.
“Your work at Vadathydr was extremely thorough. The city defied Dvræsyn for years,” said Avetas to make conversation.
“He was afraid to do what was necessary.”
Silence.
“What do you think of me, Zaphkel?” he said bluntly.
Deafening silence.
“My Redeemer…”
“TELL me.” he spat.
“Very well, Avetas.” He tilted his mask downwards, abandoning the pose of acceptance. “Your days are spent with Accans, and you neglect your tarkan, and your wife. She weeps, Redeemer, for the whole palace knows where you truly sleep. Great masses of tribute from the princes are spent on your…palaces and scrolls. Xetares the Wondrous would have conquered all the world had he your gold.”
“Xetares the what,” Avetas mumbled to himself.
“You are not a warrior,” finished Zaphkel-ta-Siaxis. “You are not…what I had hoped you would be, my Scion.” He spat out the last word, swiveling his head in contempt.
Worry turned to fear in a brief moment. He glanced towards the door, seeing two guards, both Argashim.
“Then it is good,” he said calmly, slowly edging towards the door, “that you are to serve a noble warrior-prince like Karal…far from my Accan degeneracy.”
“Battle-challenge.” said Zaphkel.
“Witnessed.” said the guards.
Avetas swore. He was going to die here, he knew, to a brainless dog of a warrior-monk who had corrupted his own palace guard. But even a degenerate Accan-corrupted Redeemer carried a sword.
“You will fear me before the end,” said the Redeemer.
“What is fear?” said the Aspect Master.
Avetas bared his teeth and came at him screaming.
Zaphkel’s sword was in his hands like magic; he moved with inhuman speed. Avetas’ first three brutal slashes from either direction, each strong enough to sever a limb, were not so much parried as slid away into thin air. More stabs, more faints, all shunted aside with a minimum of effort. Looking slightly bored, the Aspect Master splayed his limbs wide, beginning to chant.
Zaphkel entered a rendition of the second martial form adopted for battle, arcing downward slashes designed to draw resistance and mask a subtle stab through the heart. They had all learned it as boys, but it was like he was being taught all over again. Avetas could only think of the perfect mechanical motion of a water clock he had once seen in Alma. A forward lunge like the flight of an arrow he only barely sidestepped, then the Argashim’s sword flicked up; he felt pain, and blood flowing into his ear.
“Is this the limit of your ability?” said Zaphkel. He sounded vaguely disappointed.
Avetas knew that at range he would cut him to pieces. Throwing his body to the side and pushing a desperate stab towards Zaphkel’s face which he quickly blocked, he bullrushed him, head down, twisting his shoulder to the side to avoid Zaphkel’s effort to impale him as he came on. Their bodies slammed together, the Redeemer being slightly more solidly built, and Zaphkel stumbled into the balcony railing. Avetas managed to get his arms around him, pinning the sword to his side, but the edge cut into Avetas’ thigh. He grimaced and forced him back further, the Aspect Master’s back leaning over the edge.
The Redeemer headbutted him, once, twice, and Zaphkel’s nose broke beneath his mask, pouring blood down his face. He was still holding the sword between them, and they struggled, Avetas dropping his weapon to grapple him better. Zaphkel managed to get his other hand free and punched the Redeemer hard in the kidney. Winded, Avetas released his grip on the Argashim’s sword, falling to his knees. As Zaphkel rose his sword to make a killing stroke, Avetas grabbed his ankles and pulled for all his might, tilting the Aspect Master backwards. The descending blade sharply grazed his scalp, drawing blood, and clattered to the ground.
And Zaphkel fell. It was a fifteen foot drop to the tiled gardens below. The Redeemer bled from multiple cuts on his head, his legs, and his torso. Hissing in pain, he hauled himself up onto the balustrade railing, only to see Zaphkel, who had landed on his hands and knees like a cat, jumping up and running for the quarters of the Argashim. He is not human, he thought.
Retrieving his sword, he turned to the two Argashim who stood impassive, golden mask stained with his own blood, and said in a ragged voice, “See you now the warrior-prince you crave?”
They crossed their arms over their chests, masks tilted upwards in utter submission.
He gasped a bloody breath, and roared, “KNEEL!”
And they knelt, as one man.
“And now we kill your master.”
Prologue
Part One
Part Two
Interlude
Part Three
Part Four:
“In republics founded by nomads, the assistance of foreigners is indispensable in all that concerns masonry.”
-Ibn Khaldūn
“I am not a god of myself, but of all who empower me. Mankind is the true god.”
-Taleldil, Challenges 3:23, The Kaphaiavai
---
They told him that he had failed. That he was unworthy.
Then they offered him a choice. Walk through this hole in the floor, and die. Your broken body will be fed to the monastery’s pigs, they said. In this small way, you will serve Taleldil.
Or, walk out the door behind you. No one will stop you.
He did not even stop to consider the dilemma, but walked to his death unthinking. His robe fluttered as he fell in the darkness for a few seconds, before landing in soft piles of hay.
Then the room was filled with torchlight, and soft hands patted him on the shoulder. “Welcome, our brother,” they said. “Welcome, our Zaphkel.”
The lesson, as he was taught, was to accept death without glory.
---
Before the city of Atracta was fit for habitation, as the paving stones were laid over dirt, the first farms settled, and so on, the Redeemer lived for some time in Acca. That overgrown labyrinth-city had begun to prosper more under the light but firm hand of Rutarri. Smaller families were building their own nuccia, and once-deserted quarters began to fill again with trees, children, and the sounds of running water. Rutarri’s newest project was some sort of great cistern to keep waste from collecting in the gutters, and it filled the city with noise and dust.
But he did not stay in the fortress of the Letoriate. To have a Redeemer so indebted to the Prince of the Sea he had just created, surrounded by Accan marines, not Satar…he trusted Arto, but he would give no one such a golden opportunity to take power for themselves.
Instead, he stayed in the Tepecci nuccion. Vecco’s fortune and survival were utterly dependent on the Redeemer, who had funded the new Tepecci bank in return for its mobilization of the skilled labor necessary to complete Atracta. And the Redeemer’s gold was on display; Tepecci had jade-lined pools of crystal water filled with lavender, tea leaves, and strange underwater flowers, each pool a different color and sporting a different fragrance. The constant attentions of the Tepecci women were…endearing, as well. Less so his host.
One night over wine, a lot of wine, Tepecci had decided to lecture him. “You Satar foster desperation in those you conquer,” drawled he. “Which is manageable only if the slave population does not exceed your own.”
Avetas shadowed his eyes, exatal dignity barely keeping him from slurring, and said. “Overstep yourself, Vecco, and you will lose everything you have gained.”
Tepecci slumped forward on the table, trying (and failing) to pour himself another glass of wine. “And you would stick my head upon a pike forged in Acca, from Oscadian iron, pulled from a mine we dug. Which is exactly my point.” He hiccupped. “The Satar make nothing but fear and death, and leave the Accani to pick up the pieces.”
“What of Atraxes and the towers of Magha, the lays, and the faith?”
They debated long into the night over a game of kalis that the Redeemer won. But Vecco’s words turned over in his mind like stones.
And he thought of what his father had wrought in Kargan, and what he had wrought in Anyais.
---
As a boy of fifteen, newly acclaimed by the scattered remnant of the Scroll-tribe who had escaped the Feast, Prince Avetas watched the siege of Magha from across the Sesh. He marveled at the great siege engines brought by the southerners, and watched with perverse fascination as one of the tall stone towers of Magha began a slow collapse. He asked his tarkan Elikas why the defenders of the city were not able to make engines of their own to repel the attackers, Elikas grunted, “Only the Accans do such things.” For the first time in his life, he began to think.
He began to spend as much time reading as training with the men of his tribe. Often he would stay up late into the night reading ancient chronicles by lanternlight, sleeping only when the sun rose. In the days of Atraxes, when monuments had been built and lays had been written, there were schools. That is to say, academies of learned scholars who were Satar. In what accounts he could read of them, these men fought, but also wrote and learned. It seemed that most of this rare class of people retreated to the monasteries after Atraxes’ reign ended.
Satar literary output continued, but in secret places where a man could only enter if he gave his life to the monks. Like Siaxis. Siaxis…
---
The Redeemer’s study was covered in inlaid marble, carved in the shape of dancing cockatrices and slender masked women holding bowls of fruit. He had drawn the designs himself.
Zaphkel was standing behind him, as he always was. He had begun to resent the man’s dutiful guardianship of his Redeemer, noting the way the man tensed up whenever Avetas spoke to an Accan or an Evyni. The Argashim were…a powerful tool. But he had decided to send them far from the capital for a reason. Zaphkel unnerved him.
“Aspect Master. Would you walk with me?” he said in neutral tones.
“Your will, Redeemer.”
They walked onto one of the balconies of the newly-built flower-petal palace, the Eshvada. The pale pink stone shone as dawn crept over the land. Looking from the palace heights towards the Kern, they could see the foundation of a fortified harbor to dwarf Kargan one day, with massive stone blocks climbing up a switchback stair to assemble two great sea-towers, an iron chain between them. It was a work of engineering that would have been impossible without the architects who had come for the building just to the west.
The Sephashim loomed over all else but the harbor towers. One day it would be a dozen domes rising one over another like the view of a distant mountain range, each one dedicated to a different art, shining a different color. The first three domes had already risen, but two were yet marble frames awaiting tiles and glazes from far-flung lands. He would see even greater ones rise, the library dome to be the largest, to dwarf even the Metraxas.
He could not enjoy the view, of course, because of the man standing behind him.
“Your work at Vadathydr was extremely thorough. The city defied Dvræsyn for years,” said Avetas to make conversation.
“He was afraid to do what was necessary.”
Silence.
“What do you think of me, Zaphkel?” he said bluntly.
Deafening silence.
“My Redeemer…”
“TELL me.” he spat.
“Very well, Avetas.” He tilted his mask downwards, abandoning the pose of acceptance. “Your days are spent with Accans, and you neglect your tarkan, and your wife. She weeps, Redeemer, for the whole palace knows where you truly sleep. Great masses of tribute from the princes are spent on your…palaces and scrolls. Xetares the Wondrous would have conquered all the world had he your gold.”
“Xetares the what,” Avetas mumbled to himself.
“You are not a warrior,” finished Zaphkel-ta-Siaxis. “You are not…what I had hoped you would be, my Scion.” He spat out the last word, swiveling his head in contempt.
Worry turned to fear in a brief moment. He glanced towards the door, seeing two guards, both Argashim.
“Then it is good,” he said calmly, slowly edging towards the door, “that you are to serve a noble warrior-prince like Karal…far from my Accan degeneracy.”
“Battle-challenge.” said Zaphkel.
“Witnessed.” said the guards.
Avetas swore. He was going to die here, he knew, to a brainless dog of a warrior-monk who had corrupted his own palace guard. But even a degenerate Accan-corrupted Redeemer carried a sword.
“You will fear me before the end,” said the Redeemer.
“What is fear?” said the Aspect Master.
Avetas bared his teeth and came at him screaming.
Zaphkel’s sword was in his hands like magic; he moved with inhuman speed. Avetas’ first three brutal slashes from either direction, each strong enough to sever a limb, were not so much parried as slid away into thin air. More stabs, more faints, all shunted aside with a minimum of effort. Looking slightly bored, the Aspect Master splayed his limbs wide, beginning to chant.
Zaphkel entered a rendition of the second martial form adopted for battle, arcing downward slashes designed to draw resistance and mask a subtle stab through the heart. They had all learned it as boys, but it was like he was being taught all over again. Avetas could only think of the perfect mechanical motion of a water clock he had once seen in Alma. A forward lunge like the flight of an arrow he only barely sidestepped, then the Argashim’s sword flicked up; he felt pain, and blood flowing into his ear.
“Is this the limit of your ability?” said Zaphkel. He sounded vaguely disappointed.
Avetas knew that at range he would cut him to pieces. Throwing his body to the side and pushing a desperate stab towards Zaphkel’s face which he quickly blocked, he bullrushed him, head down, twisting his shoulder to the side to avoid Zaphkel’s effort to impale him as he came on. Their bodies slammed together, the Redeemer being slightly more solidly built, and Zaphkel stumbled into the balcony railing. Avetas managed to get his arms around him, pinning the sword to his side, but the edge cut into Avetas’ thigh. He grimaced and forced him back further, the Aspect Master’s back leaning over the edge.
The Redeemer headbutted him, once, twice, and Zaphkel’s nose broke beneath his mask, pouring blood down his face. He was still holding the sword between them, and they struggled, Avetas dropping his weapon to grapple him better. Zaphkel managed to get his other hand free and punched the Redeemer hard in the kidney. Winded, Avetas released his grip on the Argashim’s sword, falling to his knees. As Zaphkel rose his sword to make a killing stroke, Avetas grabbed his ankles and pulled for all his might, tilting the Aspect Master backwards. The descending blade sharply grazed his scalp, drawing blood, and clattered to the ground.
And Zaphkel fell. It was a fifteen foot drop to the tiled gardens below. The Redeemer bled from multiple cuts on his head, his legs, and his torso. Hissing in pain, he hauled himself up onto the balustrade railing, only to see Zaphkel, who had landed on his hands and knees like a cat, jumping up and running for the quarters of the Argashim. He is not human, he thought.
Retrieving his sword, he turned to the two Argashim who stood impassive, golden mask stained with his own blood, and said in a ragged voice, “See you now the warrior-prince you crave?”
They crossed their arms over their chests, masks tilted upwards in utter submission.
He gasped a bloody breath, and roared, “KNEEL!”
And they knelt, as one man.
“And now we kill your master.”
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
The Pale Descent
All the great works of the Emperor Orlagh Saghir, the King of Kings, were forgotten. The Grand Canal, the Palace of Mora and the High University faded to insignificance in comparison. One thing alone defined him: the disintegration into civil war of the greatest Empire in the world; the end of the Dulama Empire. Anonymous Naran scholar
to compile a history of the Great Struggle is my goal, so that someday people will remember the horror of war Caryil Nieva, Historian
------
The drums rumbled on into the morning light. The two armies stood, each facing another. The glare of the rising sun as for the first time in centuries, two large Dulaman armies stood against each other. The silence was overwhelming. From the highest lords and commanders to the lowliest common soldier, all knew exactly what was happening. For over three-hundred years, the Empire had stood unified against all opponents. This day, that unity would be forever shattered.
The drums continued and the march began. Dust was thrown into the air was the two lines of infantry slowly advanced under the hail of arrows. Javelins were thrown as the lines came together. Swords sliced against shields as battle commenced. Pikes slashed and gutted knights horses and slaughtered one another indiscriminately.
Charge after charge, advance after advance, the battle wore on as the best laid stratagems and tactics of generals came to naught but a simple bloodbath as blood went against steel. Brother slaughtered brother, their blood mixing together and flowing onto the battlefield. It was they who suffered and died for the aspirations of the powerful. A dream which had died long ago, the dream of an ancient and gloried Dula as their deaths shed tears for another dream.
As the Imperial lines began crumbling, the entire Imperial front disintegrated as soldiers began retreating. A total unparallel disaster was unfolding as the Imperial army threatened to collapse in the face of the Regionalists. It was here that the first defections began, as Imperial generals joined many of their friends on the part of the Regionalists. Yet the meaning of Empire still held strong, as some of those generals realized as they were cut down where they stood. Many soldiers in the coming days would hear the story. The story of how an arrogant traitorous general and his conspirators were cut down by a vengeful and outraged young lord. It would bring a chuckle to their faces, a respite from the war, at seeing the mighty and powerful brought to their knees, headless.
Yet for every chuckle in the Imperial ranks, it would come with a frown. There was another story: of the last charge of a Prince, with crimson cloak with the emblem of the eagle, and his knights and crushing the Regionalist left. It was said that when the Imperial Standard appeared as the flower of Imperial nobility charged, the regionalists dropped their weapons and fled for so great was their shame. So great was the aura of the standard that the fleeing soldiers would later swear they saw not the standard, but the great sigil of Dulama - a mighty eagle- manifest and emerge to smite them. They did not fight a man, but a legend, a dead legend.
The dead legend of an Empire.
----------
She pulled him along.
He was following her, if only hesitantly. The halls of the palace raced by, the majestic tapestries blurring together as she hurried along. The heads of the bowing courtiers and servants were ignored. The air of the room was sucked out as she broke through the doors. For a moment, she willed the world to freeze in time staring at the bed she screamed and leaped at the bed. Only to be pulled back. She knocked aside the hands attempting to restrain her. And promptly fell on the bed crying.
Murmuring erupted in the room when the small boy emerged from the crowd and stopped at the side of the bed, watching the woman crying hysterically with a bit of confusion.
Mother? Why are you crying? The woman stopped in her hysteria, wiped away her tears and glared at the boy. She seized him and held him up to the bed.
Your father is dead. Poisoned!! She let the child go and flung herself at one of the mourners, perhaps because he had the misfortune to be the closest individual standing next to the bed. The man fell back as quickly as he could but it was of no avail. She grabbed him by the collar and was pulling him down when a voice rang out, clever as honey: My beloved daughter. She turned and fell at her fathers feet. "Hush". He gestured and two servants came to escort her away. He turned and went to pick up the child. "Come child, come with your lord grandfather". Carrying the child, he bestowed a magnificent smile upon the other spectators while profusely apologizing, "He is in shock no doubt, shock brought no doubt by the twin tragedies of his family. I beg for your lords' forgiving nature to find it possible that I make myself scarce". Seeing nods, he tepidly bowed his head and walked out of the room, the child casting a furtive glance at the bed as the doors closed.
The silence in the room could have killed. The mourners once more returned their focus on the bed at the center of the room. One by one, they went to give their last farewells. Starting at their lips, two fingers would move to the deceased's forehead in a sign of respect and reverence even as they would mumble some last words of farewell. A man in particular went much further and bent down to kiss the forehead. He lingered there out of respect before he too bid farewell one last time. One mourner remained. Like the others, he too wore clothing of the mourning colors, that of a deep vermillion, but his cloak alone had the imprint of an eagle outlined by golden thread.
Gesturing at the door with his head, the attendants and the guards filed out of the room and left the mourner alone amongst the living. He sat down in the lotus position and began to lecture the dead as if he were a wise man. "What fathers outlive their sons? Fathers blessed with ill-fortune. We could have done great things together but alas you, my only son, was taken away from me. What shall happen to our house? We are now divided while our enemies surround us on all sides."
Standing up and pacing with hands behind his back, he walked the length of the room and back all the while being unrelenting in his lecture "Your mother blames me for all of this. She has returned to the southorn coast and refuses to see me, citing a need to mourn privately. Your mother knows everyone and their mother in the southern provinces not to mention the rest of the Empire. She is godmother to so many children that if she were not my wife or a woman, I would have long suspected her of plotting treason and rebellion. Perhaps her numerous god-children will bring her comfort and she will return to me. I can only hope". He returned to the floor and resumed his vigil.
The sun set and the moon rose to dominate the skies yet the man with the gold-threaded cloak remained at his post. The sun would rise and set two more times each before noise stirred outside. Food and water had both been rejected and now another envoy had come to make a pitch. No lowly servant he was, but a soldier of some standing and renown considering the quality of his armor and the embellished cloak he wore.
Bowing first to the dead and then the living, he made his way next to broken old man and taking great liberties, sat down. A measure of time passed before one of them broke the silence of the dead.
"So. You came." The statement hung in the air. "Of course I did. It had to be done regardless of what is said, it is as simple as that. You have greater responsibilities than that of being your son's sole mourner".
The old man was visibly angered and in a cold measured tone parried. "My son is dead and you speak of responsibilities? You have gone too far Aylar". The soldier smiled and seemed to snicker "Im not paid to cater to your sensibilities. Im paid so youll live as long as possible. My previous employer dying after not eating or drinking for three days makes it unlikely for others to hire me. A failure of my persuasive skills theyll say.
The silence was stifling.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
The line of doom and death approaches.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Yep, still accepting orders, though the later they come, the more likely it is that I won't be able to use them. Missing orders from... too many people to list.
Please send.
Please send.
SamSniped
DJ Goodboye
Tomorrow morning, I promise
