End of Empires - N3S III

There has been quite a lot of degreening in the northern plains, which have gone arid quite quickly.

das said:

OOC: All Moti lands are familial property and so cannot legally be alienated.

IC:

From: Chief-of-Chiefs Third-Gaci
To: High Prince Atraxes

My apologies, but I can not give you lands which are not mine to give, for all those lands belong either to my ancestors or to the ancestors of the other chiefs in our Great Family. Please, accept my gifts instead, including more crimson elephants and slaves skilled in caring after them.

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While I accept your gifts, the Seven are not as patient as I. My life draws to an end, so beware. I doubt that my successor will be placated by gifts, however great.

Disenfrancised said:

OoC: Heh, degreening is a much quicker process than greening, hence why northern forests are such diversity wastelands. As a point of interest, which way is the planet turning?

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Same way as Earth; sunrise is in the east, blah blah blah.

The climate change is a lot slower than you guys seem to be making out. It's been at least 1500 years since the first climate map, probably much longer.

not one of the motives for the increased 'barbaric' movements?

You'd hardly have access to that knowledge, now would you?

true, but i just took it to be one of the contributing factors, hence the invasions so I sorta saw this kinda stuff happening

Destruction. That is what the Duroc, Uggor, and Liealb had just witnessed. The Satar had passed through their lands, sacking and burning the cities that had stood since the dawn of civilization. Now, they were burnt our husks and mountains of rubble. The Uggor were devastated, never having felt the sting of defeat this much. The Duroc people were in sadness, for their homes were wrecked as if these were the old wars again, for they felt they had once again come into the middle of the fighting. The Liealb were unsure of what was happening, being nearly untouched, yet a threatening cloud hung over their heads. With the strongholds of the Duroc in ruins, the cities of the Uggor filled with terror, and Liealb cities in quiet isolation from the rest of the country. The Twe were now largely conquered, although many still fled to the Kratoan part of their lands. Really, every race had been affected greatly by the Satar invasion.

However, the people of the south did not fall easily, and were sturdy. For ages they have dug their roots deep into the ground and grown strong in their homelands. For now, while still afraid, the Uggor continued to assemble their massive work force, the rubbles of destruction being carried away and shaped into useful material for the building of new things. The Duroc also focused on regaining their lost strength, allowing the Uggor to rebuild their homes as they strained to maintain trade. Their skill with sails and on horseback proved to be invaluable, allowing them to still keep tabs on the Liealb part of the country. Although the Ishanbi seemed rather restless, Kesui II had been given temporary control over the entire region, ensuring that any rebellions would get put down ruthlessly and hard.

And so Krato began to rebuild. Its treasury was still full, despite the sackings of the Satar. As a matter of fact, it was still wealthy and powerful in its crippled state. But the High Prince of the Satar would not cripple a wounded animal. That was something the people of Krato could respect, for they expected the world to nearly come to an end when they heard of the great force of Satar sweeping through the country. But the High Prince has had mercy on Krato, something no one in the country saw.

But the Algoli Exatai is something else.

The Kratoans had an extreme hatred for what they saw as spoiled barbarians who had sucker punched them. This hatred burned especially in the hearts of the Uggor, for they had the most contact with the Gorai, especially on the battlefield. While the High Prince had wise words that sounded like logic and reason to the Kratoans, the words of the Goria were short and blunt, demanding tribute and land. This created much rage within Kratoan society, viewing the Gorai as nothing but wayward Twe that happened to get lucky. In a way, this hatred fueled one of the greatest cultural achievements of Krato. The Stage of Gisuzi it was known as. Fiercely anti-Algoli and even having harsh words for other countries and races, Gisuzi thought that expressing one’s self was the key to art. And to him, shouting, raving, and ranting was the finest art form one could attain. He would spend hours on his stage, his face red with anger as he shouted the sins of the Gorai. He encouraged others to join him, and let their hate spill out. Finally, when Gisuzi died, the theater he preformed his rants at was named the Stage of Gisuzi, and became the center for a new Uggor art form called Istrillio, or “hate shouting”. It flourished in these tough times, where many men and women wanted to express their anger. Istillio buildings were set up all over the country, serving as places where people could get rid of their stress and have a good shout. Sometimes, particularly good rants were recorded on walls, being examples of the finest Istillio one could make. High Chief Hencon, Chief Heco’s grandchild was extremely fond of Istillio. He would listen for hours at a time in the theaters of rage, absorbing each shouted word. He invested great amounts of money constructing Gisuzian theaters all over the city of Krato.

And now in the capital they say that no one can sleep, for the rantings of the enraged and insane fill the night air.

OOc: I'm planning on turning Krato into a fully fledged rage machine.

From: Second Redeemer Atraxes, High Prince of the Satar Exatai
To: The Accan Empire

We greet you with two minds. Your conquest of the Aya'se was quick and mighty; we admire this. However, the Seshweay cities had been placed under my protection, and though I was in the far south of the world when this occurred, their conquest does not please me.

These cities owed me loyalty and tribute. Now that you have taken them, do YOU owe the Satar loyalty and tribute? Consider your response wisely.

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From: Grand Negotiator Linnos, Autocracces Govados II's Instrument of Diplomacy
To: His Princelyness, Atraxes of the Satar

A one time tribute of a package of various luxuries is of course in order, but for permanent tribute to the majesty of the Satar's strength, the Autocracces has decreed a studying of the Satar faith. We will require several scholars of your faith of course to ensure a true conversion but once completed, it will stand as a timeless tribute to the Satar.

From: Xephaion, High Oracle of Magha, Advisor to the Redeemer
To: Grand Negotiator Linnos of Acca

Second Redeemer Atraxes has fallen silent, in the seventy eighth year of his life, the one hundred and third year of the Mask Restored. His bones will be buried deep beneath the Sapphire City, but his horses and bridles shall burn beneath the night sky in an offering to Taleldil. His successor will be chosen from among the Seven soon, but I speak for the Satar until that time.

Your tribute will placate us, but this offer of conversion to Ardavan intrigues us greatly.

Our holy scriptures are the Kaphai-Avai, the great history of the man Taleldil, chosen conqueror, wise emperor, loving father, and of his spiritual journey into the afterlife to become the God of Wind and Thunder.

We can enlighten you as to the perpetual reincarnation of Taleldil's aspect in chosen warriors, and will teach you our sacred litanies and doctrines. I will send oracles and acolytes from among the Satar to teach you both the words of our faith, and the martial forms in which we channel the might of the great Victor of Battles, Taleldil-ha-Satarai. It is a faith well suited to men of war, and your Autocracces should find it pleasing.

small eats tiny

Amasina Lightbringer

And when the Darkness had come upon the world, the people were afraid. Everywhere was chaos and loss. But the people knew not where to turn, and so they crept deeper into Darkness, seeking ever for safety in the realms which are hidden. All that had been, the Light and Perfection, fled their memories, and the turn of generations wore at the very heart of humanity. I say to you now, look not for salvation in the Darkness, and turn not from the Faith. For those who have so turned, lost is the path back, and the only sentence is purgation.
—Excerpt, unknown ancient sermon, from the inscriptions at the Old Temple

Ilunatar paced. The emissaries from Hasia had yet to return, though word from their Tarasene brethren had arrived more than a week past. Hasia was not by itself so important for what was to come, but such a lack of diligence disturbed him. The Purge should have put an end to such nonsense as delayed messages. Neither the Faith nor the Faithful could afford them any longer. Still more worrying was a thought which Ilunatar only barely let cross his mind, that the Hasenes had lost their taste for zeal. Something might have to be done about the Hasene church if such were the case, perhaps a purging of its own.

Ah, the Purge. Ilunatar remembered it fondly. There was disgrace in the past of the High Wards, and failure, and not all of it to blame on external forces. The Purge had seen to that. Ilunatar had been only a young man, but he remembered the great leader well, Amasina Lightbringer. She was the woman who had shown all of Gallat that the true terror of the Darkness could creep into the highest counsel, and from her had begun the Purge.

It began with the expedition against Aya’se. What had been the purpose? The Faith was not advanced by killing a few men in a far-distant city, no matter how great a threat to Gallat their ancestors had been. No, those who were to blame were the corrupt, those who were paid to build great warships for a war which required none, and the Wards who had endorsed it. Some spoke out even before the fleet was launched, but who would listen to young wards and acolytes against the High Ward.

Amasina had been different. Ilunatar had seen her speak twice before the murder, before the true Darkness was revealed and cast forward into the view of all. She had mighty power in her voice, a great weapon for the Faith it had been, and greater still it could have been had she lived. The people listened in a way they had not listened to others who objected. They were swayed by her voice alone, and when the ships returned fewer than they set out, and beloved of the Faith had been lost to chaos, there was seething anger in Gallasa. At its head was Amasina Lightbringer, though she had yet to be given the appellation.

They said the Darkness had crept into Gallat, that how else could our fleet have been defeated, not by men of false belief, but by nature itself? And the High Ward could not contain them, and a fateful decision was made. Ilunatar saw the result, her blood on the stone platform from which she spoke. And then there was no stopping the Purge. They swept aside what resistance there was, and the High Ward in his falsehood was torn down. Ilunatar had been swept up, but a young acolyte soon a great ward.

And nw High Ward himself. A greater painter had depicted the death of Amasina Lightbringer in the traditional style, black and white alone. Her figure, pure as the dawn, was revealed only by the darkness cast by the figures behind her, and the black blood on her cloak. It was the only decoration in the austere chambers of High Ward Ilunatar. Her memory would shine strong long into the future, he knew. And, for the present, he must take the greatest lesson to heart. Never underestimate the Darkness. Fight the Darkness wherever it may be found. Seek always to stamp out the Darkness, and do so urgently. But in doing so forget not yourself.

A knock came on the door. Word had arrived from the Hasenes. Ilunatar smiled.

NK, how long will these updates be? I thought you said they were going to start being only 25 years, but the recent one was 50.

also, what is the situation with the Twe? How many of them are in Krato compared to Algoli Exatai? And who do they seem to like better, Krato or Algoli?

The updates will probably be 50 years. The 25 year one was an exception.

The Twe are still fighting for you; they bore the brunt of the losses in the recent war, but because of that are somewhat diminished. Probably only a couple thousand are left.

"I will have my chronicle written."

The voice of the aged High Prince echoed across the empty hall. It was night, and even the mightiest dome lies open to the stars before it is finished. Still, Xephaion was there. The man's presence, once mildly disturbing, was now a comfort to the Silver Prince. The High Oracle would not sleep until his sire slept.

"As you wish, sire." Xephaion, though old, showed his age less than many Satar might. The true blooded, first generation Satar were apt to die before the age of sixty, but the palace and comforts that royalty and empire bring had lengthened their time on earth. Even so, Atraxes reflected, Xephaion did not age like most men.

The High Oracle's robes swished quietly across the floor of rare and beautiful stones. A night bird cried in the rafters above as Xephaion passed under the ever-narrowing circle of stars to bow before his lord.

"Shall I call for a scribe?"

"I would have none but a friend write these words."

Xephaion did not smile, but his normally grim expression softened. "Very well. Where shall we begin?"

Atraxes opened his arms, revealing the glint of iron beneath his blue and gold robes. "Tremble with fear, dear speaker," he intoned in the traditional manner that began all Satar stories, "For you are written into this tale. It is but a strand of the all-tale which binds us all to our final heaven."

"I witness your speech," Xephaion replied.

"In the time before time there was void, until the void was rent asunder!"

Xephaion almost smiled. "Do not quote my own Kaphai at me, my liege."

The High Prince sighed. "What sense of humor you might have had died long ago, Xephi. But as you wish." He cleared his throat.

A servant, for there were always servants, had brought a stylus and tablet at Xephaion's silent command.

"I did not kill my father."

Xephaion looked up. "My liege?"

"Write it down. I did not kill my father Arastephas, Redeemer of Men, High Prince and Aspect of Taleldil."

---

News of the challenge had crossed the horde with the speed of silence. For two legends as Arastephas the Gold and Atraxes the Silver, there could be no arena, and no witnesses. The honor of father and son was spotless, won in a score of battles and countless bloody struggles. Their horses left for the Rath Tephas alone.

It was simple. Arastephas and Atraxes ate together, slept in the same tent. Atraxes remembered that his father had once snored, and the High Prince did as well. Yes, his father's body remained...but the spirit was changed. Taleldil or nay, the spirit was changed. They crossed the sands together in silence, hearing only occasional sounds: The joyous chants of a distant Clotir tribe celebrating a kill, or the harsh call of the desert carrion eaters.

The desert gave way to the Rath Tephas, as it must. Even if the Rath Satar grew less habitable by the day, holy Tephas would always have an endless swell of green. Some few picked Satar dwelt on this sacred ground, where Taleldil himself once tamed the first horse, and sired the Seven. They found a flat patch of ground, a clearing between two hills of waving grasses. Upon one of the hills stood a gnarled tree. It had been struck by Taleldil's Blessing more than once when the rain rolled over the hills.

There, they drew their circle. And they fought to the death.

---

Atraxes paused for breath. Xephaion held the pen expectantly for a moment, and then lowered it. The High Prince spoke.

"I cannot tell you of our fighting. He...fought like a beast, and like a god. I fought like a man, with cunning and fear, with strategy and caution. He swept aside my attacks and punished my defenses. It was as if I was a child training from a master. I was in the prime of my youth, and Arastephas...I knew not his age, but he was no longer a young man. But still he destroyed me. Taleldil was within him."

---

The final blow came. Almost a blow of contempt, it was delivered not with speartip but with spearbutt. Atraxes sprawled backwards, shield and spear rolling in random directions, outside of the ritual hexagon. Atraxes knelt, prepared to pay the ultimate price for disloyalty and pride without conquest.

Arastephas did not strike. And, for the first time in moons, he spoke.

"Do not despair when your will fails to change the world. It is not a failure of your will, but a failure of the world."

Removing the mask from his face, Ephkar looked at his child.

"My bones will bleach under the sun, and the wolves will have my carcass. Such is the honor afforded to a man of the steppe."

Atraxes stared at the legendary golden mask laying facedown in the packed dirt. "The victory...is yours, High Prince."

"I am the victor. Your life is mine. And I command you to live it. I proclaim you Redeemer in my stead. My task is done; I have redeemed the Satar in glory. Redeem now their spirit."

Atraxes untied his own silver mask, bloodied and battered, and placed it on the ground. Father and son stared at each other, unmasked, for the first and final time. "Where will you go?"

The Redeemer shrugged. "I went from a herder of sheep to become the Chosen of Taleldil. But the Chosen of Taleldil is still a herder of sheep. There is no law saying a man cannot be both."

Atraxes felt tears...this man killed children, he tried to remind himself...but tears, nonethless. "Goodbye, father," he managed to say.

Ephkar the Shepherd made a formal bow very inappropriate to his status as an unmasked, honorless Satar. "Until the heavens, paternal descendant."

---

Atraxes stood, and walked from the palace. He walked into the garden, and stared into the darkest parts of the water, where the fish were swimming, swimming, swimming.

Xephaion followed.

Revelations

Faerafaen Maeriouhau, white-bearded with age and tanned from years in the open southlands, sat in an empty room, gazing out a window towards the sun, descending over the golden River Had. In his hand was a dagger, which he softly twirled against his forefinger, grey eyes unfocused and lost in thought.

His mind freed, to a degree, from military matters, the elderly Faerouhaiaouan general instead turned to politics. Rafim Aramsayafa, the Lion of Farou and victorious defender of Subal, was ten Haia (years) dead, reaped by the unshakeable hand of time. Sayfo Maeriouhau, his brother and representative in the Faeoria, had also recently left his life. Faerafaen knew that he was one of the last of his generation- those who had lived before the war. He had not yet been an adult when the armies of the Hu’ut first crossed the Nerussian border, but his broad education, seemingly congenital tactical awareness, and birth into the influential Faeoria (Family Group) Maeriouhau ensured his meteoric rise to military command. His life had been a constant cycle of warfare in the realm of the Hu’ut, and political manoeuvering with his brother in Dremai, in northern Faron.

Now, however, the war that had defined his life was over- only police work remained, as the ever enthusiastic Shafay Fetosa set out on the task of clearing away vestiges of the old order, establishing a future for the new class of Hu’uti freemen. Just as these men, women and children were freed from slavery of the body, Faerafaen was now freed from a militarist slavery in the mind- and now it was free to turn to the future, in a reverie of contemplation where he, in his old age, now spent most of his time.

His cousin Rayelaei Maeriouhau was now the matriarch of the Faeoria and its representative in the council- she was a powerful figure indeed. Physically, she was large and imposing even to men, mentally she was alert and calculating. She had adeptly furthered her Faeoria’s dominance of the council- the kings by this point answered solely to the Maeriouhau.

Faerafaen was not a typical Faron- even when one considers that he is a Faerouhaiaouan, one of the traditionalist northerners. His quirks could have been with him from birth, or maybe they were emotional and mental scars, traumas of war- but he did not hold the total trust in his family that is so typical of his people. The only figures he had ever trusted had by now all passed into the spirit realm- only Haiao, the sun, remained true. Faerafaen could never escape the suspicion that Rayelai’s actions were not all for the good of Maeriouhau, and Faron. Perhaps it was that shifting look in her eyes, that she spent so much of her time in the capital, or simply the dehumanization that comes with a lifetime’s experience of military atrocities. Faerafaen didn’t consider the reasons. He simply couldn’t feel trust, there was nothing upon which he could build it.

Unsettled, the old general’s thoughts shifted to other matters. Once again, he pondered his path through life. How he and so many others had lost their innocence, or their lives to the conclusion of the age-old struggle with the Hu’ut- the war that was the inverse of the dawn of the Faronun.

The younger ones knew of nothing before the time of war- some of these ‘youth’ had even raised children of their own by this point. During this period, Faron had experienced unprecedented political unity behind the de facto leadership of the Maeriouhau, and unprecedented power. This period had seen none of the irreverence towards authority that had once so characterized Faronun culture. That, in retrospect, may have been necessary for the defeat the Hu’ut, but had it been worth it? Was this what greatness was for a nation? To dominate its rivals, to dominate its own to the point of autocracy? Was the path of Faron to become a despotic state like so many other nations in the world?

Visions of this future flashed through the general’s mind- a Maeriouhau becoming king, but not in the style of the kings of old, in the style of the Emperors of the Hu’ut. Suddenly, Faerafaen was possessed by a horrific fear that throughout his life, as hard as he had fought against the enslavers, he had only served to bring enslavement to his own people. Immediately, this fear became a conviction- his work with his brother to ensure that the coalition of Faeoria supporting the war did not fall apart, his alliance-building in Krato and Neruss, his once-pleased acceptance of Maeriouhau domination of the council, and his tolerance of Rayelaei’s leadership- all of this had undone all of his life’s work.

The old general shook violently in his chair, falling off the side. His mouth tried to make out words, but he could only make a weak cry. Darkness crept in around his eyes, and a suffocating calm restrained his limbs, until the last bit of light faded away.

To the Faron
From the Church of Iralliam

We wish to make a formal askance of you, to let us speak of the path that a man might walk in his lifetime, to let us speak to those you have saved and those you have built upon.

OOC: just thought it would be fun to ask, what with the story being about the "path"...

Prince of the Spear Xetares is acclaimed Third Redeemer, High Prince of the Satar Exatai. His first wish is that all the Second Redeemer's decrees be made manifest, and that a holy tomb to the Silver Fist be built in the Sapphire City.

From: Third Redeemer Xetares, High Prince of the Satar Exatai
To: The Moti

Your kind words and kind gifts may have pleased the wise Atraxes, but I will not be deterred as my noble antecedent was. I will have these lands, called 'Bisria' in my maps.

I have been told that these lands are not for the Animal Prince of the Moti to give. This is fair, as I would not take any of the lands of the Seven for my own. But the families and tribes and clans that live there, I will not touch: Only that they swear allegiance to my might and the might of the Satar is required.

These are the lands we demand:



I have, in my great magnanimity, allowed the Moti to keep the lands of the mountains and the lands near them. For you are mountain people as we are not.

Do not refuse me, dear Moti friends. I am terrible to behold when enraged.

Kal'thzar said:

To the Faron
From the Church of Iralliam

We wish to make a formal askance of you, to let us speak of the path that a man might walk in his lifetime, to let us speak to those you have saved and those you have built upon.

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Please pardon us, good sir, for we may be misunderstanding your language, but we believe that you wish to speak to some of us of your faith in Opporia. If you wish for a dialogue, we could speak too of Haiaou.

Please pardon us, good sir, for we may be misunderstanding your language, but we believe that you wish to speak to some of us of your faith in Opporia. If you wish for a dialogue, we could speak too of Haiaou.

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If that is the requirement the authorities wish to persue, a theological debate can be put forth, if you wish to send missionaries to the lands of Krato, I am not the one to speak to...