End of Empires - N3S III

“Chancellor, our prince needs more time to delegate on these matters. You understand, of course?” Said the rather portly advisor; he rested, lounging, in a large goosefeather mattress on the lawn of the king’s summer palace in the south of Cyve. A gold plated bowl sat like a shell on the belly of an otter, filled to the rim with imported fruits from Acca. His loose fitting clothing left little to the imagination as it revealed the majority of his tanned and oiled body to the sunlight.

“I do, Lord Hynasf, and I will respect his majesty’s wishes to leave these matters in your… capable hands.” The much thinner and rather healthier, black haired chancellor replied with all the dignity of nobility. His fine linens imported from the far corners of the world just as Hynasf’s meal had been. Cyve was in an economic upswing, ships left her ports and sailed the world for new wares. All of those of means benefited from advancing style and taste.

“My capable hands… yes, these capable hands,” Hynasf replied lazily, dropping plump red fruits from their clustered vine directly into his mouth. Juices dripped from his smacking mouth and splattered about his exposed hairy chest. “The weather is just a pleasure this time of the year, Chancellor. Do you agree?” He queried the standing man with a wave of his hand. Both of their eyes scanned the well maintained meadows outside the archaic stone palace.

“His majesty’s house has come far from the conquering days of old. A beautiful sight, this kingdom of ours, I will agree to that at every opportunity.” His reply came as if rehearsed, with the silky smoothness of a young girl.

“A true politician, Gryn, a true politician indeed,” he laughed deeply, momentarily choking on a seed in one of the fruits. “All the joys of life, right here in my bowl, on this lawn and sprawled across this mattress. Sit, Gryn, and talk a while.” He gestured to the short grass next to him, not offering a piece of his comfortable bed for his friend. Gryn sat, smiling, and laid back into the soft grasses.

“What do you think’ll happen with those savages across the sea?” Gryn asked, breaking the playful tone.

“Which ones?” Hynasf chuckled, his bowl nearly slipping from his belly-table in his jiggling.

“Either, I guess,” Gryn smirked. It was true that all men not born on the isle were heathens. “But I must say those Evyni women put up a good tussle. Savages the men may be, but those women are animals.”

“Ha ha ha,” Hynasf rubbed his stomach in a slow circular motion. “Mmm, tell me… have you ever lain with a Satar? They ride you like a wild stallion. I tell you, Gryn, I wouldn’t mind their warlords burning the north if just to steal a few of those tan firewalkers from their fathers.”
“You’re a cruel man, you know that? What would our wives think of this talk?”

“Since when has a woman, even your wife, kept your trousers in place?” They both joined in a long laugh, only interrupted by obnoxious smacking by Hynasf on those last few fruits he cherished so.

“Would these veins run with pure Cyvian blood if I let a maiden control me?”

“Ah, Gryn, your spunk brings the fires of war back into my heart. I could use a few more women.”

“The greatest treasure we can bring home.” Gryn acknowledged with a long sigh. “Fulwarc seems distant, though, and I regret his indecision.”

“I’ll speak with him,” Hynasf sucked the juices from his fingers, licking his lips of every last drop of flavor. “For the sake of our health.”

They did enjoy a long laugh that day.
 
Not sure if I like the color scheme, any ideas?

Spoiler MAHID WILL BE FIXED LATERRRRR :
 
The Lay of the Unbowed

Part the First: The Satar, The Shield, The Fire-Light
Part the Second: The Accanon, The Out-Caste, The Sea Lord
Part the Third: The Moon, The Scroll, The Challenge

Part the Fourth – The Bloodshed

“To break, to cow, and fight again is not to bow,
To bleed, to die, is greater than to live a lie,
We war to save the sky.”


-Final Call, The Lay of the Unbowed [Karapeshai Tela]

---

It had been raining that night, and their ironshod boots were wrapped in rags for silence. They thumped wetly on the cobbles. They wore the black-lacquered light armor of Accan marines. A beggar stirred from slumber as the armed men crossed the square. Armed men moving quietly with no torches. Men such as him, who were forced to live like animals, had a basic sense of self-preservation. He slunk towards the darkest alley possible, where he intended to hide for a very long time.

“Censoratta Etto Tepecci. You are summoned to the Letoriate.” The grim-faced captain said.

“Censoratta Zettani Sarturro. You are summoned to the Letoriate.”

“Censoratta Sarian Atteri. You are summoned to the Letoriate.”

Tepecci was stupid enough to go. When they halted him in front of a street which he knew led nowhere, and the emotionless marine captain intoned “For your betrayal of Redeemer and Accanon…”

I wonder, was all he could think. Which of them drew the lot.

“…we cast you to the wind and the waters.”

Zettani Sarturro answered the summons with curses, and tried to wait out the storm in his personal fortress. Three battalions of marines battered down the outer gate and swarmed into the Sarturro nuccion. The fighting raged all night, but Sarturro died at last, arrowed through the leg as he tried to flee the city through a small postern gate and hacked to pieces by the marines.

Sarian Atteri, surely no younger than eighty, came to the gate in his sleeping robe. To the marine captain, he merely replied, “Young Arto may seek me at his convenience in the morning. It would be my pleasure to receive him.”

And in the morning, Letoratta Arto Rutarri arrived at his gates with an army in tow. Which shows what a low-caste dog knows of subtlety, he thought.

His mask was blue as the sea, not gold, observed Atteri as he thanked his luck.

This was a power-play, not a civil war. And he could manage it.

Until Tarkas Sarturro returned. Then they would kill this upstart.

---

The salakh was the traditional weapon of his tribe. Two curving bladed flanges attached to a wooden shaft. It was a brutal way to sever an arm.

Knowing this, the Redeemer had chosen two long knives. It was a deft and mobile way to turn his blade and get inside his reach.

Pride of the Scroll be damned, he should have used a spear and shield. But there had to be blood. They will not accept it if there is no blood.

As one, the host roared out the ancient words, a distant echo of Taleldil’s challenge to the Priest-King of Sarnax so many centuries ago.

“VANAK TALAD EXATAS?”

---

They had met outside the ruined city under the desert moon. And only their wives knew.

“How many years do you think are left to me, Avetas?”

“My oracles say six, Redeemer. I say twice that number.”

“My son will succeed me as Prince of the Moon, but a boy will not claim the Golden Mask from seasoned Satar warriors. I would not have his blood stain the circle when I die, Avetas.”

“And you know my price to protect him.”

“The Mask.”

---

Jahan did not wait. He rushed in with his knives, yelling in Vithana. The Redeemer was not young, but he was still fast.

He caught the downward arc of the salakh with one knife, his arm trembling with the strain, and thrust the other towards the Prince before he could pivot the lower flange towards his legs. Avetas turned, but not fast enough, and the dagger scored his skin.

Appearing to panic, the Prince flailed a kick at the Redeemer’s pelvis, which connected with a snap.

The Satar cheered, and the Vithana howled. But to Avetas’ dismay, Jahan only took a few stumbling steps back.

And he began to laugh.

---

“I am all that Nephrax was and more. I have studied the lays, the strategies, even the writings of foreigners. I defeated four challengers to take my father’s mask, and proved my worth on the field at Anyais. You cannot deny my exatas.”

They stared at one another until Jahan’s horse shied.

“Protect my son, and I will support you to follow me. But Tarkas Sarturro and his circle will support Elikas-ta-Tisatar. Sarturro speaks of your father Nephrax with less than contempt.”

“The sensorai-ta-akani are weak men who think that they can control the future from the shadows. Sarturro is no better. His schemes destroyed Vespilias-ta-Vaxalai...and my father’s life.”

“Child-prince, your father’s false cunning and his feud with Sarturro ensured his death. You would do well not to…banquet at his table.” The warrior of the steppe grinned behind his mask.

“…yes, my Redeemer.”

“Even so, Tarkas has outlived his usefulness to me.”

“Then we kill Sarturro to ensure my accession.”

“Not just Sarturro. We kill the Censoratta. We kill them all.”

“And the guilt of Karhat will be absolved…”

“Because it was all the Accans fault.”

---

The Letoratta did not violate the sanctity of his nuccion with his soldiers. He came alone, and for that at least, Atteri would not poison him. Today.

They sat and drank pomegranate juice out of crystal glasses, sitting on crystal chairs, with a crystal table between them. Around them, a few pheasants clucked gently, strutting lazily through the immaculate garden.

“This is nice,” said Rutarri.

“Quite,” said Atteri.

“I knew your nephew.”

I knew your wife. “He was a golden sun to all the Exatai.”

“I would prefer that you not share his fate.”

Atteri chuckled warmly, and it turned into a hacking cough. “Come now. I may not pass the next winter. It matters little, your sword today or my bed tomorrow.”

“Yes,” the Letoratta replied. “But of course,” he continued as if remembering something, “I would also kill your children, and your grandchildren, and anyone with the Atteri name. Burn down your nuccion, smash your table, and wring the necks of your pretty little birds. And if I don’t walk out your gates unharmed in an hour,” he added, “my men will do it for me.” His eyes flicked towards the outer walls of the Atteri Quarter.

The Censoratta merely closed his eyes. He was too used to brutality.

“The Satar way.”

“We ARE Satar.”

“And do you think the Redeemer will agree?”

The Letoratta produced a scroll and handed it to the Censoratta. “I do.”

Sarian Atteri scanned its contents. His eyes widened. "...dissolve the order of the Censoratta..." And then he exhaled. Slowly and deliberately, he removed his jet black mask, and carefully placed it on the table between the two men.

“You set a fine kalis board, for a low-caste dog,” he said at last.

“And you concede gracefully, for a high-caste snake.”

Then the true negotiations began.

---

Roaring in pain from a long cut across his chest, Jahan came at Avetas with an overhead slash, which the Prince countered by holding his salakh over his head. But the Redeemer’s vicious, even unheard of strength shattered the wood, which exploded in a cloud of splinters, the two flanges falling to the ground on either side. Vithana and Satar hissed in amazement.

Outwardly showing all the terror of one confronted by a monstrous beast, Avetas thanked Taleldil that he had hollowed out his weapon just enough to break at the pivotal moment. He fumbled for his dagger, which the Redeemer quickly tore out of his hands with a savage arcing slash from one of his longer knives.

Now fully disarmed, Avetas fell to his knees, as Jahan placed his knives against the veins of his neck. “I…accept my death,” he said. “As befits a prince of the Satar.”

Bloody but triumphant, Jahan held back from the death blow as the army watched in total silence.

“Why?” he said simply, chest heaving with exertion. “Prince Avetas…you are like my son. I would give you my last horse. Why would you do this thing?” Some of the Satar openly wept.

“My…Redeemer,” Avetas replied, his voice soft. “I was…convinced.”

“Who?” cried out Elikas-ta-Tisatar. “Who would have you challenge our Redeemer in this time of dark trial?” Despite his wounds, Avetas almost grinned. He plays his part perfectly, and does not even know it.

Avetas stood, the Redeemer pulling him up from his knees. “Tell me, Avetas, and all will be forgiven.”

The Prince raised a bloodstained finger to point at the black-robed, black-masked Accan standing at the center of a group of Accans. “Tarkas Sarturro.”

“You lie,” he said flatly, in a voice without passion. The voice of someone who knew he was caught in a very well-laid trap.

“No,” said Avetas, as if coming to a realization for the first time, “You lie, Tarkas! You whispered in my ears to convince me that it would be exatas to challenge our Redeemer over my grievances rather than simply approach him as a friend.”

One of the veteran tarkan of the Sword stepped forward, as they had planned. “You were in the retinue of Vespilias-ta-Vaxalai when he met his end.”

“You argued against sending men to aid Prince Nephrax in his time of need!”

“And what will it be next!” snarled Sarturro, whirling to face the circle of his accusers. “That I worship the slave whore?”

Jahan pointed directly at the Censoratta. “Bind him.” Tarkas was roughly shoved to his knees by the Redeemer's tarkanai.

“Every drop of my sweat has served the Exatai. I have given everything!”

“No,” said the Redeemer. “But you are about to. Prince Elikas, send this man to the battle beyond.”

The tall shape of Elikas-ta-Tisatar stepped forward. He drew his sword uncertainly, his posture (if not his hidden face) effecting profound sorrow. “If it is your holy will.”

“Elikas, please,” Sarturro said, his voice finally wavering. “You know–“

Blood gurgled from the orifice where the Censoratta’s head used to be.

It had all happened so fast. The Accans in particular, were too stunned to react. But that would change.

Now comes the final act, thought Avetas.

Jahan stood on top of the corpse of what was once the most powerful man in the Exatai. It made an excellent platform. Placing his hands on the two princes’ shoulders, he cried out to the army. Heralds translated his words to the Accan soldiers, many of whom were afraid and even hostile after the execution of their commander.

“I do not doubt the loyalty of the Accans! I have made Sea-Lord Arto and all his heirs Tarkanha-ta-akani, to take possession of all akano in the name of the Redeemer. With him, and with my most favored Princes Avetas and Elikas, we shall make the world tremble. Not simply in fear of what we have burned, but in awe at what we shall build.

The evnai and all the peoples of the north will not be treated as slaves, except for those which shed our blood. I will open my arms to them, and grant them lands, titles, and riches. We will not disturb their ancient beliefs. And though Avetas admitted his wrong in challenging me, his grievance was right. Never again shall we repeat the destruction of Anyais. For this is our conquest no longer!"

"It is our home.”

As one, the army knelt, removed their masks, and pressed their naked faces to the earth.

---

Translations:

Censoratta - Bureaucratic judge-inquisitors of the Exatai, all Accan. In Satar, sensorai.
kalis - A popular tile game played in the Sesh Valley and in Acca. In the most popular version one competes to control quadrants of the board with differing point values, with different tiles behaving differently in each quadrant.
Letoratta - Roughly equivalent to admiral. Letoriate is an anglicization derived from this to mean Admiralty.
Nephrax-ta-Delphis - Previous Prince of the Scroll, orchestrated the horrifying Feast of Kargan during the War of the Three Gods in which he was killed. Known for his intelligence and his overambition, he was also the father of Prince Avetas.
nuccion - An elaborately beautiful secret garden, at the heart of the walled quarters of Accan cities controlled by their most powerful families.
tarkanai - Lords or knights. Member of the retinue of a princely figure in the Exatai.
Tarkanha-ta-akani - First Lord of the Accans
Vanak Talad Exatas - Scriptural motto from Hieratic Satar, very roughly trans. "Who can level my might?"
Vespilias-ta-Vaxalai - Vespelian Atteri, final Accan Redeemer and Prince of the Sun, killed during the opening battles of the War of the Three Gods. Commonly believed to have been a puppet of the Censoratta. Nephew of Sarian Atteri.
 
Stats have been updated. Please let me know about errors, oddities, etc. I'm setting the due date for about two weeks from now, I hope to get things back on track soon.
 
An income increase of over 3000! And manpower is gone?! March 7th is officially a Leunan national holiday for life. :D
 
Dawn of the Rihnit ~ Part 1


Bleak Prosperity

While we were drowning in an abyss of poverty
They celebrated with extravagant festivals and feasts
While we were famished and we dying from thirst
They ate the finest meats and owned entire oceans of water
While we worked all day just to make ends meet
They sat around doing nothing productive
This is only a time of prosperity for the elites​

A decade or so had passed after the mothers child taken. Agamar was entrenched in the life of the elites and was able to participate in their activities and become educated in the Ngarrma customs and culture. However, even when he was a part of all of this, he still felt different. He was naive, and obviously wasn’t very athletic. But he was very curious and was always asking questions. His habit of skipping important celebrations to go collect and study plants didn’t help him either.

One evening though he was summoned by a guard who said to him, “Agamar, the rest of your family is starting to become suspicious of your habit of skipping family dinners and events. But I can sense why you do this...”
Agamar replied “oh... I doubt you do...”
He walked off but left a note saying, “come to the courtyard tomorrow night”

So the time had passed and he escaped his room and went as he was instructed to the courtyard. The first thing he noticed was that under a bush a note was placed which said, “listen to the leaders outside the window but don’t let your presence be known. The guards will kill you if they catch you listening on this conversation. Do all of this and you shall be safe.”

He did as the note said and listened to the conversation going on in the meeting room. The first thing I saw was Ahidawo consulting with a high priest. He said, “Ahidawo, your father is becoming older and less decisive while the people are starting to loose confidence in the oligarchy. Your father needs to be eliminated quickly or who knows what will happen!”
Ahidawo said, “I have thought about this myself and agree it needs to be done. However, we can’t be caught killing him, if we are caught we will be killed and known as traitors.”
“Yes, yes I know, which is why I feel we need to frame Agamar for the murder. I mean think about it, it would be so easy for us to frame him considering his behaviors and current status among the family.”

But then another figure came into this meeting room, his voice sounded so familiar, and then he proposed another solution to the two of them,
“I can agree that Agamar is being a major thorn in our side but I think that rather than killing him, we should just exile him to some where far away so he can’t cause us any problems.”
Ahidawo said cautiously, “I don’t know, I mean couldn’t Agamar cause us some problems in the future?”
The high priest said, “I’d have to agree with the guard, perhaps it is a bit excessive to kill him, while hes at such a young age.”
“Fine, so be it!” Ahidawo said annoyed tone of voice and with that the three people parted and went to bed for the night.

Soon Agamar was smothered with a rag which quickly knocked him out. But the last few seconds before he lost his consciousness, he heard a voice saying, “honor the thorns and the trinity will be with you.”

The next day he found himself inside a wagon with his mouth covered and his arms and legs bound on a wooden chair. His eyes were open though as he saw an audience listen to Ahidawo give his speech, “
“We have noticed the commotion that all of you have been expressing about the news of the
People of Ngarrma, we have caught Agamar with killing our Jagarak (king/ruler) in cold blood!”
The audience gasped with horror with various people yelling intermittently, “kill the bastard!”
Then Ahidawo continued reassuringly, “due to our merciful and wise leadership, we have spared him and instead are sending him into exile.”
A roar of applause occurred and then soon enough, the wagon that Agamar was in soon went off into the distance.

Strangely enough, his eyes weren’t covered so as he left the palace he saw what the rest of the city was like. Downtrodden, poor, and unsanitary. It didn’t help that the sewers from the palace all drained out into the streets of the main city. He saw how there were people dieing from disease, starvation and poverty. It gave him a picture of what the world was really like. By the time he got to the outskirts of the city however, he became sleepy from exhaustion and it was a long while later before he woke up again.
 
Matt0088: Is that intended as a RISK map or something... Greater? I'm intrigued and smirking.

NK: I've slowly begun to make an entry for Ilfolk on the wiki. It's not done yet, at all, because I hate formatting it, but I'll get there.
 
Exatai of the North: Part 1

The flag of the Exatai flew strongly in the winds of the Yadyevu Sea. A fall storm approached with them. The cool winds of the north collided with the dry air of the south to create a rough sea the Satar had never experienced. These were diplomats of the Horse Lord come to grovel at the feet of the prince of the northern sea. They made port at Lmehugu and it was there they first laid eyes on the blond haired guard of his majesty Fulwarc. A thousand men of copper skin stepped from their ships to greet their northern hosts and were welcomed into the lands of the Cyvekt king.

The diplomats and their entourage of guards, slaves and whores were ushered through the city to the Palace on the Rock, the king’s coastal resort built onto the rocky shores by Glynt III. A massive structure of stonework, built of rock quarried from the far reaches of Cyve and decorated to the fashion of the northern kingdoms with defensive walls of stone built atop an earthen mound. The Satar brought with them a thousand horses as gifts, with slave drawn carts of fine silks and spices from the south not far behind. They marched up the slopes to the entrance of the palace. There they saw the royal guard, a well-disciplined group of young men as tall as two Satar and as strong as oxen. They wore their blond hair long and their beards matched, all braided with smooth stones of all colors as jewelry tied within. Through the stone archway and the open oaken gates they were led into the grand hall, there on his plain wooden throne sat Fulwarc surrounded by guard and advisors of court.

A young Satar man approached, his clothing was ill suited for the northern climate and his knees were of goose flesh in the hall. He spoke in broken Cyvekt.

“Prince of the North, King of the Cyvekt and of your conquests,” he spoke with an outward chest and no fear of failure. Fulwarc remained seated in a half slouch, expressionless. He wore finer furs and leathers from his kingdom and a crown of gold with inset rubies stolen from the Frelesti. His face was young and his hair and beard were a dark color. A group of young boys, the eldest no more than a young teenager, watched intently from the side with their mother – the princes and queen. “I speak on behalf of –“

“I know of who you speak for,” Fulwarc roared from the depths of his lungs. His hands now gripped the edges of the arm rests on his throne and his feet met the floor perfectly flush. The Satar man bowed his head.

“We bring tribute to your crown,” he said without looking up. A group of slaves from behind him jogged forth with samples of their goods, baskets of spices and folded pieces of fine silk. A warrior rode into the hall on horseback and reared the horse back in front of the royal court. Many of them showed fear at the beast, but Fulwarc showed no sign of concern. “Your highness,” the man spoke again, kneeling as he stepped forward and up the stairs before the throne to within reach of Fulwarc. “Our prince has demanded your alliance against the Evyni Empire.”

Fulwarc stood, his towering height dwarfing the kneeling man. He looked down at the man with disgust. He placed his left foot upon the shoulder of the man and with a great heave kicked him down the short stairs. The man rolled and grunted, stopping only when he had reached the flat stone base.

“I am the Prince of the North,” he shouted, looking down at the warrior on horseback. “I fear no horse lord.”

The translator recovered himself to a kneeling position. “Our prince means no disrespect, only friendship and tribute. We have heard of your people’s plight under the rule of the Law-Giver in Evyni.”

“He gives no law that I cannot take away,” Fulwarc pounded on his chest, his guard grunted at the edges of the hall.

“Our prince offers you the lands of the Law-Giver for your allegiance. All of the lands you conquer will be yours by the grace of his will. Will you accept his gifts?” he said without missing a beat.

“I will accept your gifts,” Fulwarc said as he brushed his dark beard. He surveyed the group before him, a group of seductive Satar women waited in the wings. He raised his hand to them and called them forward with the snap of his fingers and they obeyed without hesitation. “I will consider your prince’s offer, boy, over a night or two with your horse whores.” Behind him his queen frowned and looked away, but the princes studied every detail. “If your women cannot please the king, your prince has not a chance in hell. Take them from my hall,” he said as he motioned to his advisors. “They will camp on the fields like they do in the southlands. A Satar has no civility for a palace.”
 
Thlayli is like the Napoleon of N3S, trading paper promises for concrete gains. I wish I had that level of self-assurance.
 
Exatai of the North: Part 2

And he lay with them for three nights, ravaging the slave women with the fury of all the northern storms. His diplomacy had worked on the Horse-lords. They now camped along the palace lawns outside the city with Cyvekt guards watching over them. A chilled wind rode the hills from the north and crashed against their encampment throughout the day and night. A number of Satar slaves came down with a swift sickness and were tossed from the rocky cliffs and into the sea. The thousand horses sat pastured by makeshift fences built of the young wood that grew at the tree line of the fields, their many colored coats shined even under the cloud filled sky.

His highness came from his room on the fourth day with a glowing aura of sweat and a mean expression upon his face. The queen sat with her servants upon the lawn high above the encampment, studying the ways of the Satar. His young princes played outside the walls with dulled blades, practicing the ways of war under the supervision of the various highborn soldiers that commanded the guard. They did not carry swords, but axes of great weight and size; even dulled they could crush a bone like a boulder rolling from a high hill. The bearded prince of the north came to watch his sons learn the ways of war, to witness their growth into men. A circle of high ranking Satar, with their masks of many colors, stood around the princes examining their efforts. The crimson masked captains, Vatakasa in their tongue, grinned as they took in the combat of youth. Fulwarc stepped forward as his eldest two sons, Unger and Glynt, fought in the style of the Cyvekt warrior.

The boys were both in marvelous shape thanks to their hard training as soldiers. Unger, of fourteen years, held the body of a growing man with muscles that an adult would be hard found to have. A thin layer of brown and red hairs lined his jawline and neck, a few more years and he would be a well bearded warrior. His younger brother, Glynt, held a fine head of red and blond hair similar to his namesake but even his twelve years showed no inexperience in his smooth face. They both circled one another, without clothing on their chests as is the way of the Cyvekt during such combat, and roared their own battle cries with the strength of grown men. With deep shouts of power they swung their heavy blades at one another but both boys missed and dodged in their own right. They carried about with their duel for a number of minutes before Glynt was disarmed and knocked to the ground by a crushing blow to the stomach. His skin ran red and would surely bruise from the impact. It was in this moment that the true way of the Cyvekt warrior came out in the boys as Unger dropped his weapon and taunted his younger brother. Glynt charged from his position on the ground and they began to roll about the soil in a fist fight of rage. Fulwarc stepped in and pushed them a part with a smile.

“This is the spirit that won the north, Satar,” he said to a nearby crimson-mask. The Vatakasa spoke in his tongue and the same young translator from the great hall rushed to tell his words to Fulwarc.

“He says the way your sons fight is rough and untamed,” the translator spoke with a shaking voice. Fulwarc narrowed his eyes, staring into the eye holes in the blood red mask.

“Hahaha,” he laughed, “there is not a fight worth fighting that is tame or pampered, Red Mask. War is not a pillow or blanket of fur, war is hard as stone and as jagged as these cliffs. War is not the horse whores that I ravaged in my chambers. War is my cock that did the ravaging. War is the savage molestation of civil ways, Satar. War is brutal. War is this,” he said as he pointed to his sons. The Red-Mask spoke again and was translated into broken Cyvekt.

“War is the way of life, Prince. War is beautiful.”

“Do you wish to test your ways against ours?” he said to the Red-Mask with a smirk. The Red-Mask nodded his head in acceptance. Fulwarc summoned the greatest warrior from his guard, a burly man of some six and a half feet in height. A head of long shaggy blond hair dangled from his head in a series of braids, and his beard mimicked it. His chest was massive and covered in tattoos of fanciful green, black and blue inks. They were symbols of the old languages to protect him in battle. The Red-Mask chose his weapon, a spear and wooden shield of light weight and the Cyvekt guard wielded his mighty steel battle axe. Both men stripped of clothing on their torsos as custom in the land of Cyve. Other Satar climbed the low slope to aid in creating a circle around the two men and intermixed with soldiers and nobles of the Cyve.

The Red-Mask circled with light feet, shuffling back and forth within the circle. His shield arm rose to play host to his spear that pointed at the Cyvekt man. The guard walked slower and with broader steps as he let out shouts of insults at his enemy.

“No one dies, the loser is the first to yield,” Fulwarc commanded.

The Cyvekt charged at the Satar, cleaving his heavy axe over his head and down at the man with great speed. The Red-Mask side stepped and parried with his shield. The impact of the powerful hit sent a shockwave up his shield arm and staggered him for a moment. They circled one another again. The Cyvekt guard charged once again, but this time the Satar spear stayed to meet him and force his movement. The edge of the spear caught the Cyvekt man in the shoulder, slicing an inch deep into his muscle, he did not flinch. His great axe swung once more in long horizontal arc and the Satar withdrew his spear as he jumped backwards, tucking his stomach to narrowly escape the blade. The Cyvekt ran his hand over the cut and ran the blood across his face, growling.

“And the ends of the world meet,” said Fulwarc to the translator.

The men continued their dance. The Satar jabbed a few small holes in his prey’s arms and legs, but those did not stop him. The Cyvekt fought tooth and nail, kicking and punching to substitute his great missed and the Red-Mask staggered beneath his blows. His axe came at the Satar once more and the spear clashed into his forearms, forcing the axe out of his grip and spiraling to a thug just before the king. Blood ran down the Cyvekt guard’s arms and into his hands. The Red-Mask raised his spear to jab, thinking the guard would yield, but he did not. He lunged forward and grabbed the Vatakasa’s spear by the handle and ripped it from his grip, tossing it away to bring the fight back to equal grounds. The Satar dropped his shield and raised his hands defensively to his face. They boxed at one another for a moment before the Cyvekt grabbed him by his arm and tossed him to edge of the circle of onlookers. The Satar was outmatched in strength, but not speed and he quickly returned and struck kicking blows to Cyvekt’s shins and bloodied arms. Neither man flinched at the other’s blows.
The Red-Mask spoke a simple word and the translator echoed it, “I give tribute.”

“What does that mean?” Fulwarc asked the translator as he waved the two men to stand down.

“He pays his respects to his fellow warrior, but wishes it to go on no longer. They are allies now,” the translator explained.
 
I don't particularly blame everyone for missing the deadline, but I can't exactly update without orders. :p

When I get a sufficient number as judged by me I'll go forward with it. Those who get orders in sooner will get bonuses. Allowances will be made for those with outstanding questions.
 
I don't particularly blame everyone for missing the deadline, but I can't exactly update without orders. :p

When I get a sufficient number as judged by me I'll go forward with it. Those who get orders in sooner will get bonuses. Allowances will be made for those with outstanding questions.

While following this, I completely forgot that sending orders was part of the necessary activity to play here of some reason. I'll send orders tomorrow... :)
 
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