End of Empires - N3S III

An outline of Haina stuff, in case I never get to finish the actual stories.





Skin tone:

Something near-Polynesian. Google Images has come out with:

Closer to the lighter end of the spectrum. Has some contrast.

Roughly the average; a bit on the light side?


Pronunciation/language:
- The Haina language is a generally agglutinative, highly regular language.
- Vowels are generally half-open.
- h's that come after a vowel are silent. They typically indicate stress on the syllable they're in and open the vowel further.
- Examples are the best way to get a point across. After a wiki crash-course on IPA, I've tried to write pronunciations for several words. Since the symbol for the sound between e and ɛ apparently can't be used in CFC posts, I've decided to denote it by e.


Place-names:

Thagnor (/ðäg.nɔr/) - capital of the Haina. Made of the word "Thag" with the suffix "nor" added on.
Daran (/dä.rän/) - port right by (east) of Thagnor
Farah (/fä'ra/) - formerly the southern-most Dehr port. In the bay of Farah.
Lontan (/lɔn.tän/) - port south of Farah
Par - northern-most former-Dehr port
Tala - city north of Tlairinn, center of that ivory trade
The Airendhe (/äj.ren.de/) - the Airendhe. Not sure what to do with that dh. Could turn it into a ð, or just say the Haina spell it "deh" instead of the Dulama "dhe" and make it /äj.ren'dɛ/.
The Kahna (/'ka.nä/) - the stretch of Haina colonies and trade posts on the eastern shore of the Airendhe.
Rema / the Remas (/re.mäs/) - the island chain in the south-east, by the Kahna.
Sakuhl (/sä'kuːl/) - the fledgling colony in the far east, beyond the Remas.


Some other words:

Thag (/ðäg/) - current title of the ruler of the Haina
Saren (/sä.ren/) - primitive loaning/pseudo-banking system of the Haina merchantry that has mainly developed over the rule of Thag Lanat II. More detail provided in another section.

-nor (/nɔr/) - place suffix. Means something along the lines of "town." The generic way to describe a city of any size.
-nai (/näj/) - place suffix. Denotes size, usually along the lines of "neighborhood" but can vary between "large neighborhood" and "street block, but a very busy/developed one."
-ni (/ni/) - place suffix. Denotes size, usually along the lines of "street block corner" but can vary between "street block, but not very busy or important" and "single building, but a very busy/developed one."
The Haina merchant quarter in Saigh ends in -nai, the local mint operation ends in -ni. Saigh can be referred to poetically/stylistically as Airendhenor.

vohr (/vɔːr/) - language. Used as a suffix, as in "Hainavohr," "Dulamavohr," and sometimes "Saighvohr" to refer to the pidgin languages that can be encountered in Saigh.
nahar (/'na.är/) - peoples. Most commonly used as a suffix, in which context it usually describes to residence/citizenship but can also describes to various other things. For example: Saigh-nahar = people of Saigh, Dulama-nahar = Dulama people, blood-nahar = Dulama people, Airendhe-nahar = people living around the Airendhe, Airendhe-nahar = sometimes used for the Haina people, horse-nahar = the various nomads.

Hai (/häj/) - 1. One of the denominations of the newly-introduced standardized Haina currency. Copper.
Neh (/nɛ/) - 5. One of the denominations of the newly-introduced standardized Haina currency. Bronze.
Tahneh (/'ta.nɛ/) - 50. One of the denominations of the newly-introduced standardized Haina currency. Silver.
Ketahsahn (/ke'ta.san/) - 120. One of the denominations of the newly-introduced standardized Haina currency. Gold.



People/events of the past:

Hanni - Old trading clan. Established itself as a major player in Saigh trade during the Haina Despotism.
Xanto (/ksän.tɔ/) - Old trading clan. Dealt mainly in the western tea trade. Was essentially destroyed in Aimadewahr's War.
Dahrmu (/'dar.mu/) - Last Despot of the Haina. Born in 373 SR.
Proclamation of Daran - Edict signed by Dahrmu's father. Promised non-interference of the Despot into trading practices by the increasingly powerful merchant clans.
Lanat the Younger - Head of the Hanni clan at the beginning of Aimadewahr's War. Had three daughters. Born in 362 SR.

Aimadewahr I, the Great (/äj.mä.de'ʋar/) - Adopted son and chosen heir of Lanat the Younger at the beginning of Aimadewahr's War, 31 at the time. Regarded by his contemporaries as a skilled tactician and intelligent schemer. Ambitious and profit-driven. Short-tempered, though this trait has been forgotten over the years. Born in 385 SR.
First Thag of the Haina monarchy. Respected by his successors.
Over the last two generations he has been increasingly depicted by the Hanni as a peace-loving, benevolent ruler who warred solely out of necessity. This image is something that Aimadewahr III fundamentally disagrees with.

Aimadewahr's War - Massive Haina civil war spanning two decades. Nearly ruined the fledgling Haina nation, destroying a large portion of its merchant navy and leading to one of the largest famines in Haina history. Resulted in the end of the Despotism, the death of the Xanto clan, and the emergence of the Hanni clan as the premier economic and political entity in the Haina state.

Phase I - Begins with the Xanto clan attempting to intrude on Hanni trade in Saigh. Marked by numerous naval skirmishes between the Hanni and Xanto, with increased militarization on both sides. Ends with the mobilization of armies by both sides, and their first clash south of Lontan.

Phase II - Begins with Dahrmu declaring the fighting between the Hanni and Xanto unacceptable and mobilizing an army of his own. Several merchant clans protest this supposed breach of the Proclamation of Daran. The high point of this phase is the Battle of Daran. Ends with widespread revolts in the wake of Dahrmu's defeat, the devastation of the Xanto clan, and the coronation of Aimadewahr I as Thag.

Battle of Daran - Climactic battle between the Hanni army, the Xanto army, Dahrmu's army, and the army of Lord Sarab (nominally subservient to the Despot). The main fighting took place between the Hanni and Xanto armies. After the collapse of the Xanto left flank, a cavalry attack led by Aimadewahr overwhelmed the Xanto camp and killed the clan's leaders. A Xanto rout followed, prompting Lord Sarab to switch sides and Dahrmu's army to retreat towards the capital. Lanat the Younger was also slain during the battle, leaving Aimadewahr head of the Hanni clan. 419 SR.

Phase III - A prolonged struggle by Aimadewahr to suppress rebellions and power-grabs throughout Haina. The Great Famine occurs during this phase, as does the erosion of much of Haina's wealth and power. Ends with Aimadewahr in control of the entire Haina homeland, and most all non-Hanni factions in ruins.

The reconquest of Kahna (Phase IV) - Takes place several years after the end of the third phase.

Aimadewahr II - Second Thag of the Haina.
Lanat I - Third Thag of the Haina.
Lanat II - Fourth Thag of the Haina.



Succession law of the Haina kingdom:

The post of Thag is an elective one. Upon the death of a Thag, the rich of Haina gather and cast votes for a new Thag. The number of votes each individual has is closely connected with the amount of merchant ships he owns (indeed, the word for "vote" is the same as the word for "trade ship"). In the past, the voting process was mostly ceremonial as the former Thag's declared heir would inherit enough ships and political alliances to make his win a certainty. Over the last two generations however, these "protest votes" have been increasing in number and coalescing into blocks. The election of Aimadewahr III has been the most contested election so far, with Aimu III receiving about 60% of the votes and Konahr the Stout receiving roughly 18%, an unprecedented number for a "protest vote candidate".
Votes have in fact never been accurately counted, as the Thag's heir has always had a large lead over any other candidates put forward. If a count of votes is ever needed, it'll more than likely be mired in controversy due to the vague definition of a "trade ship".




People/things of the present:

Saren - Primitive loaning/pseudo-banking system, has mainly evolved during the reign of Thag Lanat II.

Sea-based Saren - Original form of Saren. A rich agent provides an individual with the money needed to send a tradeship out, in exchange for collateral and the promise of large interest. During Lanat I's reign it was a relatively rare practice between clan members, now it is a normal part of trade, with a handful of rich agents practicing Saren freely outside of their clans or alliances. The Uncle currently handles the largest volume non-clan-restricted sea-based Saren.
Sea-based Saren has also evolved an insurance system, under which rich agents guarantee trade ships against storm and pirates for a hefty fee. This practice has not taken off nearly as much, though the Uncle does regularly handle a small volume.

Land-based Saren - gradually arose as sea-based Saren grew. A rich agent provides an individual with the money needed to grow a year's worth of crops, in exchange for selling rights to the crops. Not as common as sea-based Saren, but steadily growing partly due to competitiveness in the merchant class. The Lanuhr clan handle the largest volume of land-based Saren as a single agent; overall there is far more land-based Saren on the mainland than in Lanuhr's Kahna, but it's fractioned among many sponsors.
Land-based Saren has evolved an insurance system as well, under which rich agents guarantee against the failure of crops for a hefty fee. Uncommon outside of Kahna.

Hanni - Main political and economic force of the Haina state. Operates most of the Haina's Saigh trade. There has been increased splintering at the edges over the last generation, as the Hanni clan grows increasingly rich and large.

Dosor - Merchant clan mainly involved in the Trahana tea trade. A surprising number of protest votes have coalesced around one of its wealthiest members, Konahr the Stout.

Lanuhr - Merchant clan involved mainly in the Kahna. Controls a significant portion of the Kahna's trade, and through political alliances with the land-based lords has a great influence on the Kahna's spice-producing commercial farms. Largest single practitioners of land-based Saren, their experiments in wide-scale land-based Saren as well as insurance have proved profitable.

Thag Lanat II - Thag of the Haina over updates 13-16, dies close to the beginning of update 17. Focused mainly on administration. Increased the power and reach of the merchant navy. Made contact with rich foreigners in the far east, founded the colony of Sakhul. Improved relations with the Trahana, culminating in an alliance between the two states. Joined war on Dehr, praised for seizing Dehr's ports with minimal loss of Haina life. His reign is currently seen as a sort of golden age for the Haina kingdom, by most of the Hanni clan as well as other Haina.

Thag Aimadewahr III - Fifth (current) Thag of the Haina. Well-educated, intelligent, and bellicose (at least in the opinion of his contemporaries). Took up fencing as a hobby early in life. Personally oversaw the capture of Farah. Born in 504 SR.
Admires Aimadewahr the Great for his military prowess and privately desires to also be remembered as "the Great." Disagrees with his father's policy of deep and personal involvement in trade, believes a ruler should delegate most such things to proxies and instead focus on the general well-being of the state.
His lust for conquest (blown out of proportion as it may be) has seen him come under fire from both members of his own clan and other Haina gentry. Partly as a result of this, he received a staggeringly low three fifths of the vote in his Thag election.

Zahru - Lifelong friend of Aimadewahr III, has known him since childhood. Not one of the major merchants by any stretch. Conservative, not afraid to speak his mind. Disagrees with Aimu's ambitions. Declared High Admiral of the Haina fleet by Aimadewah and sent to parlay with the Tlairinn. Born in 496 SR.

The "Uncle" - Very rich and influential member of the Hanni clan. Seen as the second-most powerful person in the Haina state after the Thag, his vast wealth and network of connections means that if anything befell Aimadewahr, the "Uncle" could probably make the candidate of his choice become Thag. Decided several years ago to use his vast resources to experiment in Saren, is now the single largest sponsor of sea-based Saren in the Haina state. His offices in several cities (Thagnor, Daran, Lontan, Saigh, the Remas), with synchronized and accurate record-keeping, allow customers to make and receive payments nearly anywhere on the Airendhe.
Patient, pragmatic, respected and sought as an ally by many. Was a friend and adviser of the late Thag Lanat II. Born in 473 SR.

Konahr the Stout - One of the prominent members of the clan of Dosor. Charismatic, conservative, possesses ties with several land-based nobles in Haina's west. Dabbles in land-based Saren, though Lanuhr's success is encouraging him to expand the scope of his Saren. A surprising number of protest votes coalesced around him at Aimadewahr III's Thag election. Born in 498 SR.

Dahrmu - Minor merchant from a splintered Haina family. Escorted first Moti ambassador to Thagnor, made first voyage to the west (Jipha specifically), made first tea voyage to the west (Jipha specifically).

Dala - Younger daughter of 'Uncle'. Married Aimadewahr III in 541 SR. Born in 508 SR.

Faction list

Format: Name / Loyalty / Power

Hanni clan / 3.5 / 8
- Aimadewahr III / 5 / 6.5
- The "Uncle" / 3.8 / 4
- Zahru / 4.3 / 0.1
- Protesting conservatives / 1.4 / 1.5
- Not opposed to conquest / 4 / 0.75

Dosor clan / -0.5 / 3.2
- Konahr the Stout / -2 / 1.9

Lanuhr clan / 1 / 4

Other middling-to-major merchants / 2 / 2

Minor merchants / -2 / 2

Other land-based nobles / -3 / 1



Edit1: Finished what I'd started yesterday. Very small improvement to formatting, happened to address a bit of Thlayli's criticism by finishing. Put in a Perf-like partial faction list. Pretty non-normalized; power numbers are probably log'd or something.

Edit2: Map included

Edit3: Added two words, influence map. Updated faction list (tiny changes).

Edit4: Messed with formatting a bit, added a little, updated map.

1. Sheon of Táelic u Nuín
2. Sheon of Táelic u Nuín: Beasts
3. Sheon of Táelic u Nuín: Awake
4. Sheon of Táelic u Nuín: Storyman

--

A prod came at his side. Lips parched, the sunburnt man sat up slowly. Rocks and dirt painfully clung to his skin. Eyes squinting in the bright sunlight, he looked around to gauge his situation. He scanned the horizon only to see mountains. Dry, barren mountains. He slowly turned his head, wincing as the burnt skin stretched. As the pain faded he took not of a young boy standing before him with a stick and a container that he promptly held out towards the man.

“Eal. Coli uil. Water. Drink.”

The man reached up and took the small jug. He sniffed the mouth before placing it to his lips. The water was cool and tasteless. “Where is this from?” He questioned.

“The water is from the stream up the hill. Who are you?”

The man thought for a moment. “I’m not sure I remember.”

“You look like U Nuín. Someone took your stuff. Your leg is bound.”

“Why is my leg-” He tried to stand up, but a sharp pain from his leg brought him back to the ground, spilling a little water. “Aggh! The damn thing hurts.”

The boy helped him up again, providing support in place of the man’s weak leg. “My name is Olan.” The man nodded, but remained focused as they slowly trekked through the arid landscape. The sun was slowly rising, bringing with it more heat. An occasional breeze provided relief from the heat, but stirred up dust and sand.

“Saolu.” The boy pointed in the distance to their left. A large dust devil had formed in the distance and was moving slowly parallel to them. The man watched it twist and turn for a moment, but noticed the boy watching it closely. The boy looked back at the man, “It is good. It spins to the left, a good spirit is guiding us home.”

The boy smiled and they continued walking. They crested a hill and the man saw a small mud hut sitting alone by a mostly dry stream. A couple men, one clearly worn with age and the other less so, were plowing the dirt on the other side of the dry stream bed. As the man and boy began to descend towards the hut, the man noticed the younger plower point in their direction. The two men dropped the plow and began running up the hill to them.

In no time the two were upon the man and boy. The man was helpless to do anything and could only hope they meant well. The two farmers lifted the man up between them and made their way down the hill, leaving the boy to run ahead.

As they approached the hut, the man could hear voices inside speaking in hurried tones. The man closed his eyes as they adjusted to the darker interior and silently called out a prayer he barely remembered, though he was unable to remember why: “Locáloc Kíern méolu lócáloc mé kíe.”

. 5char

A Shadowed Mien

Prologue
Part One
Part Two

Interlude:

He was born under the rising Veil, an ill omen for a child. That he was the eighth child was even worse.

Such was his anger in being born into this world that he killed his mother in childbirth. As was custom, the eldest sister of the family took her mother's mask and assumed the duties of the household, acting as mother in all ways but one - that practice had been abolished under Atraxes.

At least, it had in most tribes.

Theirs was a small dusty holding along the southern ridge of the Rahevat. No brother-families to lend them food. Only two family slaves, strange queer Oscadians given to their father as a reward for his service many years ago. That the slaves were old and weak indicated the quality of the service his father had provided.

As he grew, he learned that the woman who raised him was not his mother, and that that woman was dead. And that her death was his fault. His elder brothers did not let him forget this, but their tortures were less than that of his two sisters, whose silence terrified him. It was a silence he came to understand as he became aware of what his father did with the woman who was not his mother.

As is custom, a father escorts his son into a deserted place upon the dawning of his fifteenth year. The trial differs by tribe, but it begins with a show of strength, and it ends with the playing of the latan.

The boy who was now a man began his show of strength by killing his father in the desert and burying his corpse. He knew what would follow. The challenges by his brothers, the keening wail of sisters who hated and despised a man but could still mourn his death. He would be hauled in front of the court of the Wheel and punished. Branded or enslaved. As he played his latan, he knew that he could not stay. So he took his father's mask and fled.

And the boy learned a powerful lesson that day.

The bloody climax of revenge does nothing to diminish the anger that inspired it.

---

"Zaphkel?"

"My living Redeemer."

"What is your opinion of my new council?"

"It was trust of the Accans and the Vithana that led the Ardavai to their ultimate destruction. And now barbarian northmen who know not the Lord? We need not be yoked to the inferiors. Let them go to their final heaven, and let the Satar stand alone."

"Do most of the old tribes believe as you do?"

"I know only of what the Argashim believe."

"It is time for the Argashim to believe something else."

"...if it be your will, Redeemer."

---

When a lone rider approaches the gates of the monastery, two men stand there to meet him. Kaphet-ha, Avet-ha, one in robes of night, one in robes of light.

"Do you know of struggle?" says the Kaphet-ha.

"Do you know of wisdom?" says the Avet-ha.

"I do," says the boy who is a man.

"Will you give your life?" says the Kaphet-ha.

"Will you receive your life?" says the Avet-ha.

"I will," says the boy who was now a man.

The Kaphet-ha drew his sword. The Avet-ha unfurled his scroll and began to read. "In their thousands they writhe and claw out of the depths of the world. What man can cast them back?"

He could.

The Kaphet-ha came at him with a sword. He parried the blow with his own easily, contemptuously.

The Kaphet-ha saw his contempt, and accelerated.

The boy who was now a man wondered at how anyone could move so quickly.

The Avet-ha was chanting, "In the gauntlet of suffering you shall become as new-made iron."

He was disarmed in about a minute.

The Kaphet-ha bent his ear to the Avet-ha. Their silent conferral was over as soon as it began.

"You are mine," said the Kaphet-ha, as the bright-robed Avet-ha withdrew. And he carved a downward-pointing triangle to match his own into the boy's forehead, as he screamed.

The monastery doors opened, and a wash of cool air came out.

It was green. He had never seen so much green.

Before long the occupants of the monastery heard that a penitent had held off the Kaphet-ha for an entire minute. A small, quiet space surrounded the grey-robed penitent as he entered the grim duties of the novitiate.

A Satar poet once wrote, "I yearn for the unspeakable beauty of the woven stone of Siaxis."

Surrounded by such beauty, the boy given the new name of Zaphkel had only his thoughts for the sword.

This is going to be a great update.

For the entire outer world is the reflection of the feast-tent of Eso Kotuu, and the Outer Mountains are but the reflections of the reflection of the heartlands, and nothing could happen in the heartlands of the Elephant Family without affecting the course of events everywhere else, for it is the center of the world and the world is in its nature not unlike a pond: throw a stone at the center, and the ripples will spread everywhere and remake the whole.

The Tale of Moti-Hero Kirost


She was the black-haired ghost of the Nakalani, flitting from port to port like a secret dark hummingbird. Epichirisi, Hanakahi, Leuce... she had seen each in turn over the course of the war. The ship came from the Zyeshu lands; no one minded them pulling into port, and few troubled them on the open sea.

She was a refugee, of course. Her brother had wanted to pay their way to the west, to escape the destruction of their family and what seemed like the doom of their homeland, but he had vanished somewhere along the way. That left only her.

Hiding among the cargo had been all too easy (though it left her ragged and filthy), as had sneaking food and water from the ship's stores. She suspected that at least the captain knew she existed – he'd made jokes about “our little ghost” before; she had no idea why he'd been so lax about it. She'd wanted to leave before – slinking out every time the ship made port. But Epichirisi had been full of the very people she had fled from before. Hanakahi had been a veiled city, and those who were not veiled went masked. It unsettled her almost as much, if not more, than the war. So the third time the ship made port, she hadn't held out too much hope.

But still, she darted in the secret little alleyways between the crates, scrambling sideways when she heard the approach of booted feet, climbing up the stepladders and scampering across the plank when she thought no one was looking. Compared to that, getting past the port guards was almost too easy; they didn't even see the gutter rat who climbed a fence and began to wander the streets behind them.

With that, she had come to the city of Leuce.

She’d only explored for a little while when it occurred to her that perhaps this hadn’t been the best of ideas. Leuce might not have been particularly large, but it was confusing, and though she’d heard plenty of the Faronun dialects and traders’ pidgins that she spoke, most of the people seemed to be speaking a tongue she’d never quite heard before. Even the smells were wrong – not the smells of people, which were almost universal, but the smell of food from the vendors, the spices and incenses in the air, floating like some maliciously unfamiliar miasma.

A man spoke behind her.

She turned, fearing some old lecher, an enormous drunk, or worse, a guard, and instead saw a rather average man, dressed in simple robes that looked vaguely familiar, though from where she could not quite place.

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”

The man tilted his head slightly. “You are from Farea, then?”

The question caught her offguard. She stood on the front of her feet, ready to take off at the slightest hint of trouble. “Yes.”

“It is a pleasure meeting you. I am Jitanu.” He paused.

“Leaolia.”

“I wonder, Leaolia, if you are fond of sago.”

“I don’t –”

“It’s a pastry. Here.” He handed her a bit of food which he had clearly only just begun to eat. She took it, cautiously. It had a flaky outer crust, still warm from the oven, with only a little bite missing from the corner. “Please, go ahead.” She took a cautious bite – it was filled with chunks of yam and some thick sauce. “Wonderful. Walk with me a while.”

And so he trotted off, and she followed more out of curiosity than anything else, a priest and a ragged orphan girl walking side by side over a cobblestoned street.

“Do you know this city, Leaolia?”

“I have never been here before.”

“And I have been here many times. Down this street, perhaps, several hundred, more than once with a sago in my hand. And yet sometimes I feel as if I do not know this city at all.”

“How could that be?”

“When you speak of knowledge, you mean that you have never walked its streets, correct?” She nodded. “That you have come here on some ship, from a faraway land – Farea – and that you feel as though you are an alien here.” She nodded again, and snuck a small bite from her pastry. “But though I have been here a hundred times, and I know where I am going, I do not know that I know this city, not truly. Each of these building in turn,” he pointed at a few he passed, “are foreign to me. I know that a sago-maker who I trust not to put urine into his pastries lives at the end of this street. And I know that on the other end, this street connects to another street, on which is my home. But I do not know every nook and cranny of this city.”

“And thus you do not know it?”

“Can we know of a whole without knowing every part?”

She looked at him sideways. Was this amiph – this priest – regularly in the habit of giving street urchins his food and then engaging them in philosophical discussions? “I don’t know.”

“Neither do I,” he said, cheerfully. “Let us contemplate this mystery together. What do you know of Iehor?”

She blinked. “I... I know what my mother and father taught me, of course. But I must confess I am no priestess.” She snuck another bite. A cardamom pod burst in her mouth, filling it with a sudden, sharp spice.

“Tell me what you know, then.”

She hesitated. Explaining theology to a priest could get tricky. “Enlightenment is... the knowledge of... no, the understanding of the totality of reality. The comprehension of how things fit together, and how the whole fits into that whole.”

“An interesting definition,” he said, with an appraising look. “And understanding gives you...?”

“Liberation. Of old, the enlightened would seek to explore the world, for they no longer had to worry about... anything. Their horizons were at the horizons.”

“And they would sail off into the sunset, yes?” He smiled. “And yet, the men who came to this realization, were they sailors?”

“Some. There were warriors, too, and weavers, priests and kings...”

“And yet they all reached Iehor by one road or another.”

She nodded.

“But if they all reached Iehor by one road or another, then they only truly know of that one road. They have all come to the understanding of the whole, and yet they do not truly have knowledge of every path to the whole. The weaver does not know the thoughts of the priest, and vice versa. Their enlightenment is as different as night and day, for they have achieved it by another way. The weaver will forever be colored by his humble birth, the amiph by his years of training. Yet we do not value the enlightenment of a priest more than we do that of the weaver. Indeed, the weaver has, perhaps, spent more from his life than the priest, for it is not of his profession to contemplate enlightenment. Can one then know Iehor without knowing every aspect of Iehor?”

She took another bite and remained silent.

“I sense you disagree.”

“It seems to me that to know the totality is not to know each part of totality. The latter is superfluous knowledge, the former essential. It is much the same with the city. To know every house and every shop is a pointless endeavor; to know where the river lies, how the hills relate to one another, where to find urine-free food and spittle-free drinks – that is to know a city.”

He laughed. “You are a well-spoken gutter rat, and more than a match for many lords’ sons that I have taught. Leaolia, if you would care to, I would have you join my school. Do not fret if you must leave...”

She finished the pastry. “I... I am not rich, I have nothing to give...”

“Nothing to give but your mind. I do not mind that. Worry not, we are an accepting order. Or, at least, I am.”

“I...” she looked at her crumb-filled fingers. “Yes.”


Failure tends to play a far larger role in peace-making than a sudden affection for the ideals of tranquility and balance. The disastrous Accan Expedition, besides prompting shuffling in the upper military commands of the Aitahist military, had effectively destroyed their northern fighting force; rather than rebuild it, they settled for peace. Their Moti allies, similarly uneager to continue a costly and ineffectual campaign in the far north, made peace as well. With the disintegration of the Evyni Empire, the War of the Three Gods had finally come to a formal close.

Meanwhile, the Satar conquest of the old Evyni lands seemed to be only a few steps from completion, owing to the collapse of central imperial authority there. But the situation proved deceptively challenging, as the Evyni warlords (the most powerful being one Bannar and one Eisu) while nominally offering gifts and compliments to the Redeemer Avetas, remained very independent. The Satar gained most of their ground through negotiation, offering princedoms to the leader of the Taudo rebellion, and the former King of the Xieni.

Further campaigning by the turncloak Evyni Dvræsyn, now Prince of the Storm, met with some success, but his rathre limited armies could not make any real headway north of the Nuvn. There, the Evyni warlords continued to reign supreme, protesting to angry Satar envoys that they had every intention of submitting to the Redeemer's will, but not to this traitor Prince. The abandonment of the campaign by the Cyvekt, Luskanekt, and Gallassenes, each of whom had their own, rather more pressing concerns, meant that no real support would come from their quarter. Nonetheless, if the warlords had faced the whole might of the Exatai alone, they would doubtless have capitulated no matter which Prince they were asked to submit to.

But while the arrival of the Exatai had intimidated the majority of the northerners into at least token submission, others seemed distinctly less impressed.

After the capitulation of the Xieni, the only real opponent the Karapeshai could discern in the north was Zys, the upstart emperor of the Ming. A frustrating diplomatic exchange ensued, with Zys' envoys conveying messages that seemed to toy with Avetas – on the surface suicidal considering the power disparity, but rather less so when taking into account the paper-thin layer of Satar control over any part of the north. Zys had his empire already, the message implied – the Satar were welcome to try and take it.

Had Avetas been his father, or one of the classic Satar Redeemers, he might have obliged Zys with a full-fledged invasion, one that would have resulted in unacceptable casualties for everyone involved and a significant dent in the Exatai's forces. Instead, he opted for a much more methodical strategy – raids in the traditional Satar mold began almost immediately. They continued for the next few years, the large Karapeshai armies covering any potential route of counterattack, burning crops and villages and generally making life miserable in the middle of the Einan Valley.

Such a move drew the peasantry and nobility closer to Zys than to any ruler in recent memory, but as the war wore on, the toll started to tell. Without a Satar attack to focus on, the Zysi armies could not fight on their own terms; with the raids, they were forced to fight.

Eventually Zys decided on a bold move, much like the one that had won him his kingdom – he decided to attack the old economic center of Allusille, where Prince Elikas encamped with several tens of thousands of soldiers. Elikas had no intention of waiting for him – he left garrisons in Allusille and the surrounding cities, and took advantage of the move to march by a different route into the Ming heartland and reduce their cities. Seeing this, Zys fell back himself, and a carefully maneuvering dance between the two armies ensued, neither quite wishing to commit to battle.

All this, though, had been a cover – Zys' feint had concealed another expedition southward, a far more daring one under a lesser-known commander, directly at the new-constructed capital of the Exatai, Atracta.

The attack was reminiscent of the daring, similarly isolated attack that the Aitahists had launched at Acca only a decade before, and the subsequent failure of that attack was predictably reminiscent of it as well. The Ming soldiers ran into trouble as soon as they encountered the supremely well-constructed walls of the nascent capital. Pillaging a few of the outlying fields and lands, they had made little headway by the time a detachment from Elikas' main force returned to relieve the capital; a small Princely force cut off the Zysi retreat and destroyed the force to a man.

It had bought Zys more time in the interior, and his empire a few more years of life, perhaps. But ultimately, the end result never seemed in doubt. The Zysi Dynasty began to crumble under the pressure of trying to feed its armies, defend its frontiers, and guard against numerous threats as the Evyni warlords started to nibble at its northern frontiers. With one fell swoop of his main army, Elikas reduced the Zysi capital while the Emperor was off to the north, captured it, and eventually ran down Zys himself somewhere north of Thraeldirnë. There, depending on the tale you believed, the Emperor either drank a concoction of nightshade, or was slain by the Satar.

No matter the truth, Zys almost instantly became a folk hero among his former subjects – and the Satar had not made a particularly good introduction of themselves into the northern lands. While any city that surrendered was spared, and their mercy inspired much quicker submission than might have been expected, even the most obedient felt the heavy hand of the long Satar raids, and the center of the Einan Valley fell almost completely depopulated. Burned and salted rice fields lay fallow and grew into weeds; cities stood nearly empty; hundreds of thousands of Ming fled either south into the lands of the newly crowned Xieni Prince of the Wind, or to the Iom and the areas around Atracta.

Avetas' little project had grown rapidly since its founding. The court of the Redeemers of old had been a mobile affair; once it settled down in one place, the city swarmed with a whole array of bureaucrats and representatives of all the interests of the empire – which, as the Redeemer annoyedly pointed out, seemed at times to outnumber the inhabitants they supposedly represented. The heart of the city, of course, would eventually be the Redeemer's palace, a new Ardavai temple, and a curious complex the Redeemer called a “Sephashim,” but at this point all of them were but foundations, plazas of quarried rock and rows of undressed columns, set between empty boulevards.

Outpacing the monumental center, a whole matrix of shops, homes, temples (to half a dozen gods) and even few small nuccia rose around it; fleeing Evyni and Ming, Accan merchants, and Gallatene emigres mingling with a huge contingent of the Satar who had followed the Prince of the Scroll north and finally found a place to settle. Funded by the Accans, a bank of the Tepecci family stood near the middle of this, dominating the skyline until the first domes of the Sephashim started to join it.

This creation (“new knowing” in Satar) had been the brainchild of Avetas. Perhaps the Redeemer had a certain nostalgia for his father's old library in Kargan; in any case, it was to be an institution of learning sponsored by the Karapeshai government – uniquely, one that existed for knowledge's own sake rather than to train bureaucrats or military officers. Its almost palatial grounds had to house libraries and scholars of all creeds and nations – the Satar had few restrictions here, other than to forbid the arrival of any Aitahists. While in an older age many might have scoffed at the idea of immigrating to a Satar land to practice learning, times had changed, and the scholarly community, even at such an early stage, proved tempting to many from all over the known world.

The building itself, though still in its infancy, had the air of something germinating the spectacular; the corner of it already completed an intricate array of domes, glass, and colonnaded gardens, with fountains installed for the summer months and inside, all the resources a scholar could dream of. It would only be a matter of time before the Sephashim started to contribute to the larger world.

As for the rest of the Exatai, much work remained to be done to fuse the disparate elements into even the most lightly ruled state. Avetas spent as much time away from his labor of love in Atracta as he did in it – touring the various Princedoms, hearing grievances, settling disputes, and ensuring the reach of the Redeemer could be felt as far as the nominal bounds of the Exatai.

Among the Vithana – the people of Avetas' recent predecessor – the succession issue had snowballed somewhat. The death of Jahan had left the Princedom of the Moon open (Jahan's son being nowhere near old enough to take up his mantle), and that opening had been immediately filled by Jahan's brother, Xardan. A keenly ambitious man, Xardan had little desire to see his nephew ever take the princedom, and while legally there was no reason it should, his brother's name still commanded a great deal of respect. He needed to build an unassailable reputation if he would stand a chance at resisting the future challenge, and he needed to do so through conquest.

With the reports of a far-off war on the western steppe, the distracted Vischa seemed like an easy target. The other Satar princes ranged far from the Vischa border – this would be a relatively low-risk campaign where all the acclaim would come to him personally.

The invasion commenced quickly, with the Vithana forces easily taking the nearly undefended trade city of Tahat, and isolated raiders reaching the shores of Lake Eshka, only a proverbial stone's throw away from the great pass at Kerch. But at this point, the Vischa had received word of what was happening – great might their war against the Adanai be, but the Vithana invasion had struck them much closer to home, and much closer to their main routes of trade. Vast hordes of cavalry were recalled from the westernmost regions, and Vischa forces met the Vithana in a series of skirmishes by Lake Eshka, turning the main thrust of the advance.

Furious at what they regarded as a deliberate provocation by their eastern neighbors, they sent emissaries to the Redeemer demanding that he hold his vassal accountable, and rumor had it that they had made peaceful overtures to the mysterious Adanai in order to better focus on the Vithana threat.


I heard a story from the west once. It is an old story there, one of the oldest, but I think few have heard it in these lands – and I do not know where else I should tell it. It is the story of the twins, Ain and Glaide, of their journey to the ocean and their journey to the sky, and of the world's reshaping.

It all began when the twins were born, when the red horns were in the Veil. Even you easterners should know this as an omen – the moon, only its reddest sliver shining, the rest in darkness – and the black orb’s outline stark against the shimmer of that Veil. Like a demon interrupting the magic of some celestial weaver. Alas, that weaver is what grants us our luck; it is that weaver that grants us our fate. And to have him shorn of power on the day of your birth...

As twins go, Ain and Glaide could not be more different in all respects but one. Ain was quiet, always searching for something that could not quite be found, always thinking. Glaide – well, even Glaide would not be insulted to be called loud. Boisterous and wild, he had a glib tongue, plenty of bravado, and many, many friends, for he was generous and open-handed even as his brother was reserved.

Still, one thing they shared. They were warriors both – the one gigantic and impossibly strong, the other tall but startlingly quick – and yet warriors they were. And so it was in their seventeenth year that their father called them to see him.

“Ain,” he called. “Glaide.” They attended him closely, for they knew that their father was already old at this point, a broken king on a broken throne. “You know why I send for you. You know what I need. My realm lies broken as I lay broken. My reach has grown short indeed, for I can barely walk from my bed to my horse, and now I can lead no armies, fight no battles, win no wars. I have reached the end of my strength.”

Glaide nodded. “So you wish us to root out the evils as you cannot. Make your last years of rule be as golden as the first, restore that which made men exclaim at your wisdom and valor –”

“No.” The weightiest of words, and it startled both his sons. “I do not want you to restore my borders; they mean less to me than they ever have. I want you to help me mend my body.” His sons looked at one another in confusion, for neither was a healer, and in any case, the best healers had attended their father for many years, all to no avail – old age cannot be bandaged. “I want you to swear to me that no matter what I ask of you, you will pursue that aim until your breath, to fight until your death, to win the battle no matter the cost, no matter what may be lost.”

They looked at one another, uncertainty breeding in them, for they had long served their father with faith and distinction. Why would he need their oath? What task could he possibly ask of them that they might balk? Nonetheless, they swore on their souls that they would finish whatever task he gave them, no matter what might be lost.

He smiled and nodded, and cleared his throat. “I know that by the sea, there lives a woman who can see all that is as though it were laid out in the palm of her hand. And I know that this woman possesses a certain gem of distinction, one that, when placed in a drink, will dissolve and give the drinker eternal life, health and youth. And I know that this gem will restore me, even in my oldest age.”

And as he spoke, it was as though a fever had taken him. His face flushed, his eyes burned, and his words came faster and faster. For their father the king had seen them at play for the last seventeen years, growing stronger as he grew feebler. And he envied their youth, especially as the lines crept over his face, and his bones threatened to snap with every stride. If he could have stolen it from them, he might well have then and there. But he could not, and so he told them of this gem, this one last hope he had for outliving the approach of death.

Their uncertainty redoubled, but they could only nod, for they were bound by their souls to seek out this gem for their father. And so he continued.

“You must realize that this is no simple task. For this woman, who can see all that is as though it were in the palm of her hand – she can see even this, even us. She knows that I have told you to seek her out and steal her gem. She knows that you will journey from the highlands here, that you will venture past a dozen cities, and that you will stop at nothing. And she will know every plan and scheme you could create ahead of time.”

“So how are we to beat her, father?” asked Ain, and for once his dark looks were replaced by something darker still – fear.

“I do not know,” their father said simply. “If I knew, I would have done it an age ago, when I was youthful and strong. But you are stronger than I was then, and you are two where I was one. Twins born under the red-horned moon – who could be a mightier pair of warriors? If anyone can defeat this sorceress, it is you.”

They nodded, but they still feared, for they could not see how they could defeat an enemy who could see their every move and know their every plan. They were as exposed as ants on the ground, their machinations meaning nothing to a creature who could step on them simply.

But they had sworn their souls, and so they were bound. And so they could only ask their father for a few things. “Your old sword,” Ain asked, and was rewarded with the ancient, mighty blade, the length of a man and the width of a palm. “Your brazen helmet,” Glaide asked, and was rewarded with a golden helmet engraved with silver glyphs, bearing words of protection and magic. And so it went on – his spear, his bow, his knife, his shoes, until the old king had given nearly everything he had once used to fight – all except his beloved greaves, for he needed them to walk from place to place now.

And so, outfitted and given their father’s blessing – such as it was worth – they left the highlands to seek this gem, and set down the river by boat.

Now, their journeys there were long and fitful, and I have neither the time nor the inclination to tell you of their battle with the water snake, or their struggles with the sirens who tried – and nearly succeeded in – luring them to their deep forest glen, never to return. These stories are worthless diversions... the true story lies in their journey to the ocean, and to the mountains.

Truthfully speaking, the true story begins at that woman’s hut, and in the choice they would have to make afterward...

While the rest of the north tore itself to pieces, Cyve had by comparison been almost silent. The campaign against the Evyni had brought much success, and though they still had trouble with the nearest warlords, they suddenly had a tremendous surplus of gold to spend. No doubt some of this money went to the crowning of Fulwarc in full Satar ceremony, masked with the bones of the Lawgiver, and inducted into what was for most of his men some mysterious new faith from the south.

And yet the silence only lasted so long before the Cyvekt, too, turned once more to war.

Constructing an enormous fleet of over a hundred ships, Fulwarc took his soldiers across the Yadyevu, landing on the Lusekt isles in early summer. The move made sense – the Lusekt had been isolated, pushed into a corner of the world, cut off from trade, and had no natural allies... and were, moreover, ancient enemies of Cyve. But its suddenness caught everyone off-guard. With most of their fleet in the south, pillaging the Evyni shore, they were powerless to stop Fulwarc’s initial attacks, and, indeed, the first word the campaigning Lusekt king had of the invasion was the fall of his capital and the disappearance of his wives and youngest sons.

Furious, he returned north in full force, but even with forewarning he had not anticipated the sheer size of the Cyvekt expedition. Only desperation could have forced him to attack the enemy outright – desperation that his kingdom might fall, and him with it.

And though desperation might make men foolish, it also made men ferocious.

Thus it was that some distance from the capital, in some little fishing village, the two armies came face to face. The Cyvekt, smaller in number, held back for some time, Fulwarc drawing them up in a wall of shields and spears, standing behind wood and bronze and daring their foes to come forward. The westerners sent what few bowmen they had forward, but it was an exercise in futility, as the few volleys they loosed had little impact before the Cyvekt cavalry came sweeping across the field, driving them in fear.

The Lusekt had very little inclination to offer battle on terms so favorable to the opposition, but their hand had been forced. Their archers useless, they began to attack from several sides at once, probing and prodding at the shield-wall to try and break it somewhere, to turn the line and sow destruction. The Cyvekt, more accustomed to raiding than to fighting pitched battles, nearly broke at the first charge, shying a little and giving ground to their foes. Seeing this, the westerners urged forward...

But Fulwarc rallied his men, charging through their mass and into the enemy. Though his beard had the first touches of gray, his axe was a terror, cutting through a hundred men. The shields held firm, and the Lusekt charges broke one after another like ocean waves against Fulwarc’s line. Some three hours into the battle, the Lusekt king fell from half a hundred blows, and his men fled in all directions, hoping to salvage their own holdings in anticipation of the coming Cyvekt storm.

It had been an unexpectedly complete victory for Fulwarc. The majority of the Lusekt forces, of course, had escaped with their lords, who, even if divided, stood against the invaders – most worryingly, with the majority of their fleet intact. But consolidation is rarely so harrowing a task as conquest.

Of the rest of the north – there remained one more loose end to be tied up. But we shall turn to that in a moment. The Stettin seemed content to watch their Cyvekt neighbors achieve most of the glory in this decade. Brunn, in particular, mostly rested on its laurels, preferring to digest the conquest of Wer rather than add anything to it. And, just as consolidation is less harrowing, it also makes for a rather duller song. The Brunekt granted titles to the new nobility, burned out the last few enclaves of enemy support, and made themselves at home in their new conquests.

All that remained to worry about was the lingering threat of Seehlt, which loomed as the largest remaining Stettin state, and rumors of a new force out of the east, a mysterious people called the Ethir, who had conquered great swathes of territory already, and looked poised for more...

Meanwhile, far from all of the rest of the north, the Sharhi had started to come into greater contact with the rest of the world. As a people on the edge of the known world, their exotic goods became prized commodities in the markets of their Xieni neighbors. The newfound wealth, it seemed, had driven a new expansion of the kingdom into the northwest, where rumor had it that the warriors of the nation neared the great ocean that scholars say rings the world...


The vineyards had just bloomed, lending a golden tinge to a land that otherwise had that raw green of springtime plants. It was a landscape that had known little of war so far – the looming stormcloud of violence had lingered long over the west; it had barely passed over the sea still. Gallat had known many wars, and this one had not seemed all that important – just a petty squabbling over the succession of the Bhari Roshate, inflamed by the religious divide. But wars had a habit of growing, however leisurely their advance.

The young emperor’s army marshaled just south of the city. Thousands of riders had made their path through the Allato Hills, through the old roshates, wending their way over a dozen roads as one campaign was exchanged for another. Now they neared their destination, the open fields inviting them onward.

Their coming could not have been entirely unexpected – both Tarena and Gallasa had made entreaties to their larger allies, and both had been answered rather publically. The Satar, it was said, had sent ten thousand men over the sea, and they had joined the host already present underneath the walls of Pamala. Seasoned soldiers, perhaps, but not truly what the League might have asked for – the men were Taudo, selected more for their Maninist faith than for their prowes... doughty fighters all, but lacking the experience of the Karapeshai cavalry.

And the Savirai... they had more than obliged their ally’s request.

Twenty thousand cavalry stood at Khitai’s command, ready to relieve the Tarenan capital. Through Occara and Selessan they had come, pillaging the villages of rebel Maninists, harrying and eventually overrunning the encampments of their heroes. They had been able to hide their numbers, however, and the last leg of the march was the fastest – they almost took the enemy unaware.

Opposed to them, the League and Satar forces numbered only twenty thousand total, and barely a quarter of that on horseback. With the Tarenans thrown into the mix, the Aitahist forces seemed poised for a tremendous victory over the besiegers. Nonetheless, the young emperor refused to throw himself into battle with unnecessary haste. His outriders scouted the opponent’s dispositions with care, noting how and where their points of attack were vulnerable. Of course, he also sacrificed some surprise.

Such were the lessons the youth learned.

Still, the Maninist force only barely caught the outriders of the advancing Savirai in time to sound the alarm. The echelons of the besieging army drew up in a most spectacular array, twenty thousand spears drawn up rank upon rank, braced for the charge that must surely come soon, stretching the whole length of the field below Pamala. The city could only marvel at this force, one of the largest seen in Gallat for decades. They had seen the besiegers for months on end, of course, but it was different to see them drawn up for battle. To some, it seemed a wonder that the city had not already fallen.

Then, of course, the Savirai mounted the crest of the little knolls that lay to the south of the city, and drove doubt into the heart of their Maninist foes. Such a force as this had never been seen – twenty thousand, all mounted on the great desert steeds of the Face of the Moon, all carrying lance, sword, and bow. As they amassed, they seemed to cover the whole hill in a shadow; by contrast, the army on the other side seemed rather diminutive.

The Gallasene leader had many tricks up his sleeve. Earlier, he had easily smashed the Aitahist fleet that had hoped to break the siege of Pamala. And word had come that his mission to the north had succeeded – the Nech had joined the growing war, seizing the northernmost cities from Tarena and threatening to move south. Their forces had already started to percolate into the center of the Aitahist kingdom, bringing much woe to a somewhat confused Tarenan populace. But they stood many days’ march from Pamala, and in any case they probably couldn’t have tipped the balance of forces the other way.

It would be the League and the Savirai, then, fighting for the control of all of Gallat in a tremendous clash beneath the walls of its western capital, bleeding one another until the Yadyevu itself ran red with –

– or not.

Call it cowardice or competence, most commanders know when they are unlikely to win, and most commanders prefer to keep their forces for another day. Any titanic battle at Pamala would have grossly favored the young Khitai, so after a few halfhearted skirmishes, a cavalry screen covered the retreat of the Maninists towards the southwest. The Savirai gave pursuit, but they preferred to scratch away at their rivals’ strength rather than to risk a potentially unfavorable battle as well.

Moreover, it suited the young emperor perfectly well to have this particular campaign begin with a string of victories – he had already broken the siege of his ally’s capital, and with an undeniable edge in numbers and position, he could now begin to reduce the easternmost Gallasene cities. Marona and Halandata would be difficult targets at best – the Maninist control of the sea remained firm – but Sern and Edrim fell with alarming rapidity, and soon Savirai bands threatened even the core cities of the League.

The Gallasenes sent appeals to the Satar for more troops, of course, but whether the reinforcements would come in time – or at all – remained very much in question as Gallasa and Sirasona trembled at the oncoming storm.


“War’s end” is perhaps the sweetest phrase. The war with the Satar had not ended wholly favorably for the Moti or the Farubaida, but excepting the last few years, the alliance could not help but be a little pleased at how things had turned out. On the balance, the War of the Three Gods had extended for quite some time, and it had begun with a Satar Redeemer in Magha and a Prince of the Scroll in Kargan. Only a few decades later, the Ayasi held sway nearly to the Kern Sea, and the Farubaida... well, its name alone hinted at their spoils.

Nonetheless, a sense of promise unfulfilled haunted the allies.

For the Uggor, it was the lingering presence of Satores’ band. Torono’s efforts had proven somewhat lackluster so far, and the troubles of that region had proven most damaging to the prestige of the great Ayasi – that merchants could not even travel through in safety was simply embarrassing.

Thus, the Ayasi decided to take a new tack, and ordered Torono to redirect his efforts. Instead of cracking down on each and every little enormity, he declared that all these rebels would be offered amnesty in what would become known as the Three Offers – conversion, penitence, and acceptance into the realm, conversion without penitence and an oath of loyalty, or simply the oath and the promise of leal service on the northern frontier. The third of these offers represented something of a radical step, given the religious inflammations that had plagued the conflict up to this point, and indeed, many deserted the rebellion in the first few months.

But many more did not. Indeed, a mere six months after the announcement of the Three Offers, a massive uprising in Magha took place on the Night of Reeds, a traditional Satar festival. Utter confusion and chaos broke out as men in reed masks slew men in reed masks, and all turned against the Uggor – worse still as the mask-fires became bon-fires, and then city-fires and soldier-fires. The attack had clearly been planned ahead of time, and the military took great delight in crushing the uprising, hoping through it all that somehow Satores would be there, and would be caught.

As it turned out, Satores had been there. He had also slipped through their net both times, seized Torono, and murdered him in an uncharacteristically brutal manner, with a molten mask. The brutality had to be ringing alarms, and with Torono – the heir of the Cow Family – dying, the situation had the potential to explode.

Fortunately for the Moti, cooler heads prevailed. The Ayasi personally visited Magha (under the highest of security, of course), and helped begin the reconstruction effort. Moreover, he reaffirmed the Three Offers once again, a move which made the daring Night of Reeds attack seem like a rather petty – if horrifying – gesture. From that day forward, Satores’ support waned rapidly, until his band had dwindled to perhaps a thousand men in the glaciers of the Kothai, just west of Yashidim.

With that threat not quite eliminated but certainly on the decline, the Ayasi could turn his attention to other things. The war had been a victory, on the whole, and he treated it like one, celebrating with massive parades through the various cities of the empire, and eventually reducing the size of the army somewhat through voluntary retirements. Pensions and lands were given out for some of the most heroic who had fought, and these chiefly settled near Gaci itself, far from the denuded moonscapes the war created.

With money to spare, Fourth-Frei directed a tremendous amount of resources to the Church of Iralliam, especially towards the missionary efforts in the north and the construction of temples in the new conquests. This did not entirely endear him to the Church, of course – the Grandpatriarch still very much seemed to dislike his temporal counterpart. Still, a few rumors sketching a connection between the Ayasi and Aitahism seemed ludicrous in the face of his enthusiasm for the Iralliamite faith, and nothing really came of it.

What did irritate the Grandpatriarch rather more was his new rank in the Imperial hierarchy.

Fourth-Frei had greatly expanded both the imperial palace and the court itself in recent years, and finally decided to disentangle the mess that had accumulated in terms of ranks and titles. An inner circle of Primates – mostly the leaders of the Godlike families – was constructed; beyond them, the heads of lesser families, and so on and so forth down the ranks: Seconds, Thirds, Fourths, and Fifths. The new titles pleased most of the recipients, except the Grandpatriarch, who had been given the title of Primate as well – something he expressed disgust at, given his own perception of equal rank with the Ayasi himself.

As usual, such jostling for position had wounded pride more than anything else, and though the tensions remained obnoxious, they were hardly toxic.

The Ayasi also established a new body, the Senate – and built it a massive, Seshweay-looking edifice to meet in – to gather representatives from the many cities of the Empire and the representatives of the many ranks in court. The body had largely theoretical power, serving mostly as an honorary position and vehicle for announcing decrees of the Ayasi, but it certainly did not hurt his position among the nobility, either.

The assassination of Second-Kirost, chief of the Horse Family, took everyone entirely by surprise.

A black night had seen him strangled in his own bedroom, behind a complement of hundreds of guards and loyal retainers. The question immediately was raised – who would be capable of this, and have a motive? Fingers immediately pointed in several directions: his rivals among the Godlikes, his foes at court... one rumor even had it that the Ayasi himself was involved, and indeed, there were some clues to suggest that might be so – but the Ayasi had just raised him to a high position of military command. The case, it seemed, lay open.

The Farubaida, by contrast, had a relatively quiet decade. The peace treaties on either side had come about with relatively few problems – in the north, their weak position had forced, it, and in the south, the strength of the alliance had forced it.

However, the whole affair had prompted something of a reevaluation of their foreign policy. The north now looked like a far less tempting target than it ever had before, the only fruit of that particular endeavor being the alienation of the Maninists – a poor reward for a hundred ships. They effectively cut their losses there: even the capture of Gilot by a few hundred Cyvekt raiders inspired nothing more than a collective shrug from the ruling Council.

The much-touted southern focus, by contrast, reaped immediate rewards. Most of Hulinui had been conquered, and even if Soui, Pisos, Xorob, and Yu remained outside their grasp – well, the Opulensi Empire had been shorn of its defensive buffer for almost no cost to the Farubaidans. With hostilities’ halt, trade on the Nakalani resumed as it once had, and Farubaidan merchants no longer had to avoid the eastern run. Tremendous profits started to pour in as the Federation maximized the potential of their central position – Trovin, in particular, experienced growth unrivaled since its glory days.

And, indeed, the oft-repeated idea that the Farubaida was returning to its glory days seemed more true than ever before.

Caroha and Dremai in particular had started to see a series of pseudo-scientific, pseudo-mystical treatises published. The sacredness of the geometry of the universe, first hinted at in that ancient tract The Beautiful Turns, had prompted mathematical inquiry into whta might be termed the grand movement of the heavens – physics. Helped along by tracts imported (somewhat sheepishly) from the Kothari, observatories were set up in the Helsian highlands, and combined with the general scientific development, they took the art even further than their southern neighbors had.

Meanwhile, the Carohans subsidized considerable infrastructural and cultural improvements across the Farubaida – roads, monuments, walls, and the like. Among the most spectacular were a series of buildings in the central parts of Caroha. One, a gigantic and well-built theater, was primarily designed for that oldest of Faronun arts, but also for the occasional official government function. Another was a massive and beautifully crafted temple to Aitah, a domed and columned edifice with open gardens, running fountains, and a kaleidoscope of geometric patterns adorning ceiling and floor alike.

In the south, the teachings of a bright young star of Indagahor -- Jitanu -- had started to rekindle religious fervor in Jipha and the neighboring Kilar. What had once been a faith dying had turned around completely almost within the span of a year. Old allies among the Zyeshu and Hamakuan elite started to struggle against the proselytizing Iralliamite preachers; the beautiful sculpture of Jitanu, meanwhile, came to adorn the public places of both Jipha and Kilar, a largely symbolic but still treasured mark of the peoples' newfound friendship.

Peace in the north was followed close on its heels by peace in the west. Dehr’s final surrender took no one by surprise – except perhaps in the harshness of the terms, which almost completely neutered that formerly rising power. With the final triumph of their armies, the Haina and Trahana might well have been poised ton continue on and take advantage of the chaos in the Dulama Empire, perhaps even challenging them for supremacy in the west.

But perhaps fortunately for everyone involved, that chaos, too, settled, if uneasily. The Dulama Emperor, having heretofore displayed remarkable sloth or perhaps incompetence, finally decided that the rebellion had grown too large to suppress. Meeting with envoys of the rebel leaders, they hammered out a compromise peace that would allow the Empire to stay intact – at the expense of many, many concessions: legal, religious, and political – to his eastern aristocracy.

The unexpected peace, as might be expected, brought the rather more minor events in the region into greater prominence.

Trahana, for its part, continued unabated expansion, settling large populations in the recently annexed north, funding the construction of a series of roads to connect the two halves of its empire, and launching an expedition across the mountains to conquer the city of Eglan... In this, the king met little internal opposition – the kingdom simply seemed to grow and grow, with no real threats and nothing to stop it. Of course, this was completely illusory – the expedition across the mountains was badly scouted and ended up in failure, as the Eglanites shattered their assailants underneath the walls of the city while the mountain tribes attacked from behind. Meanwhile, even with the new infrastructural improvements, royal control over the north of Trahana remained tenuous; the newly settled nobility had little inclination to listen to the dictates of the king, especially given the difficulty he had in enforcing his rule there.

The Haina king, too, could not quite rest on his laurels. An expedition to the southeast had met the new state of Suran, but the Haina quickly found that the Surani had little interest in sharing their lands with the newcomers; various Haina families’ attempts to set up trading posts were met with hostility, and even a few outbreaks of violence. All the same, the lucrative prospect of an eastward trade route – one that reached into the Nakalani trading network of the Uggor and others – was so tempting that numerous factions began to pressure the royal family to launch a naval expedition to take Suran itself.

As for Naran, the peoples of the pass had started to consolidate their massive gains to the south, conducting a royal marriage with Ther and securing the borders with the Dulama. Indeed, they were well aware that even if the chaos there had paused, it might return. Simultaneously, priests of the Machai faith had arrived in the cities of Unnaha and Naranue – their message of peace and spiritual power one that apparently the Naranue elite found quite compelling, for they began to support some small temples there.


On the other side of the world, the latest eastern war had ended almost as soon as it had begun. The allied attack on the Opulensi Empire had caught the latter off-guard with its sheer scale, but for all that, they had made very little real headway. Leunan hopes to push the Opulensi completely off of Auona, for example, had foundered almost immediately, with the garrisons in the cities of the former Eastern League proving impossible to dislodge. The Savirai had made large initial gains as well, but failed in the face of more difficult terrain in the south; the Aitahists, possibly the most successful, had taken a few cities, but any ne wpush would have to face a much readier opponent.

And so, they made peace.

The speed and ease of the negotiations were astounding, despite a few nervous jitters on either side. The Carohans fortified their gains and celebrated what had been a marked contrast to their disasters elsewhere; the Savirai contented themselves with a few gains, and everywhere else pre-war borders returned. No one had suffered any horrible losses, and no one had made any alarming gains. For all intents and purposes, it had been a brief scuffle.

Which is not to say that everyone was happy with the peace. The various Aitahists, having gained the most for the least losses, surely had few qualms. And given the numerous threats their empire had faced, the Opulensi might breathe a sigh of relief that they had lost so little. But more cynical eyes would see that the Empire had lost a very large chunk of land and only confirmed its diplomatic isolation; the strength of the alliance around them and the loss of strategic borderlands could lead to a much more disastrous experience in the next war. They had alienated the one real ally they had left in the region: Gadia, who been completely marginalized in the peace talks, given absolutely nothing for their trouble. And among their counterparts, much of the Leunan aristocracy cringed at what had been an extravagant spending spree with literally nothing to show for it besides preserving a country – Farea – which until recently had been more rival than ally.

Observers might have smiled at the quick return of peace to the region. But the illusion of tranquility couldn't last long, and it didn't.

Desperate to regain the confidence of their subjects, the Council of Leun used the lull in the west to deal with another threat – Iolha. The small Acayan state had been gradually overrunning its neighboring city-states one by one while the Leunans had procrastinated, more worried about the Opulensi. Worried that it might already be too late, they readied a large expedition to utterly crush the upstart state.

Nor did they make much of an effort to keep it secret. Far from it. They used the recently established forum for the Acayan cities – the forum that they themselves had founded – to publicly announce their invasion, and to call for aid from any of the other Acayan cities that felt threatened by this expansionist power. It seemed as though the Council was convinced sheer force of numbers and the support of other cities would carry the day. No doubt the situation was a little awkward for the Iolhan representatives at the forum.

Further problemetizing the situation for Leun, the announcement met with only lukewarm support from most of the Acayan delegations. They had called for Leunan aid in the past, certainly, but they much preferred financial aid, perhaps with a modest military detachment. This – an army of thirty thousand – seemed more like a full-scale invasion by the merchant republic.

No matter. The plans had been made, and at this point their execution had become a political imperative in Leun anyway.

At the head of a hundred and fifty ships and some thirty thousand men, the Leunans departed the capital with much pageantry. Some two months later, they had arrived on the scene near the southernmost of the Iolhan conquests, easily sweeping aside the small group of ships that the Acayan state had gathered to oppose them, and preparing to land their armies. Already, their plan ran into some bumps – hoping to outflank the enemy, they had planned to land north of the Iolhan armies. Given the advance warning of some two years they had given their opponents, of course, this was a somewhat unrealistic expectation – the Iolhans had been fully aware of the Leunan plans and withdrawn to the north to face them further from the coastline.

Of course, that alone would not deter the Leunans, who after all had considerable numerical superiority and the fleet to supply their enormous army. Striking north into the heart of the Iolhan Empire, they sought to liberate the Acayan cities – a move which would hopefully endear the Acayans to them a little more – and eventually capture Iolha itself as a vassal.

Problems mounted immediately. Battlefield superiority was one thing – and even that was tenuous – but siege warfare was something else entirely. The immense cost of reducing each and every Iolhan garrison, with almost no support from the population within, as they might have hoped for... it was already an awfully expensive expedition. The threat of it stretching on for years pushed the Leunan generals into slightly riskier confrontations, clashes that could end rather badly for the larger army.

In the end, however, deliverance came from an entirely unexpected quarter.

Even with the slow pace of the Leunan campaign, the Iolhans seemed to be on their last legs. They sought allies from every quarter, but their natural supporters – Gadia or the Opulensi – had been hamstrung by the Peace of Pisos. In response, they turned to one of the few peoples beyond the reach of the Aitahist alliance – the Berathi, a powerful group of horse nomads from the northern fringes of the Face of the Moon.

At the invitation of the eastern state, a Berathi chief by the name of Neret marched through the summer passes of the mountains and descended into the country with a force of some two thousand horse – a pittance by the standards of the great warriors of the west, but on this edge of the world an alarmingly large mounted contingent that threatened the flanks and supply lines of the Leunan columns. Such a small thing, but the war hinged on small things with the differences in forces so slight.

So it was that the Leunan advance stagnated, with Araña alone falling. And yet, the stage was set for still more twists, unforeseen by any of the participants, perhaps...

The rest of the east simply stood on knife’s edge in the years following the Peace of Pisos, each state expecting their neighbors to break the deal.

Of all the peoples on the edge of the world, the Parthecans had been perhaps the most active. Their age-old war with the Zarcasen had taken a turn for the successful – much land both north and south of old Parta had been secured before too much time had passed. The newfound peace allowed much development – especially in the newly founded city of Tarwa. There, a series of merchant guilds (“Taparsunuencen” in Parthecan) grew around the business of exporting the indigo dyes the isle had already become famous for. Their alliance with the Leunan merchantry allowed them immediate entrance into many of the larger markets in the region, though of course Leunan friendship came at the price of distrust from a lot of the other peoples in the region – especially the Acaya.

On a happier note, the prince’s lost expedition from the north had returned, miraculously still intact, if rather ragged. The prince explained that his men had been set upon by vicious Zarcasen raiders, forced to put to sea to avoid them, and ended up drifting away from land. They had finally arrived at a mysterious city in the north (“Tarat&#8221, where the locals had feasted their strange new guests for several weeks before finally helping them on their way south; he had been able to chart a huge length of the Parthecan coastline as a result.

Meanwhile, though the Peace of Pisos had seemingly cemented the anti-Opulensi alliance as a fighting force, the Opulensi were even further isolated by an alliance between the Fareans and Rihnit – the desert people on the edge of the Kbrilma, who had just launched a massive campaign against their northern neighbors the Alar – one which met with overwhelming success. Without the barbarian threat on their one border, the possibility had been opened for a more proactive southern foreign policy...


Up to now, the Ilfolk had remained almost entirely disconnected from the rest of the world. Minor raids by the Baribai had been their main exposure to other peoples, and vice versa. However, in the wake of raids came another group, almost as enterprising as the warriors -- the merchant class. Forced out of many of their natural haunts by the war, the Opulensi had ventured further and further in search of a profit, and that search had led them to the doorstep of the islanders. A market was quickly established on the northern coast of the island, where little trinkets would be exchanged for Ilfolk gold or artwork -- and this market, firmly protected by the military might of an Opulensi trading house was spared the worst of a series of raids which had started to worry at the coasts of the Ilfolk. The Baribai, previously a nuisance, had come to be seen as something of a threat.


Lone raindrops fell on the open earth, their whispers muffling the prince's quiet breathing. They had brought a girl from the village to see him, terrified and bleeding from a gash on her forehead. She had taken one look at the prince's wound and gone pale. Only after they threatened her again would she consent to treat him, sending for lichens and roots to mix into a poultice, grinding them together in a mortar and pestle. Their soft crunch added another voice to the quiet little symphony.

“Do you know who I am?” The girl looked up, frightened, and shook her head. “I was a prince, you know.” He laughed, and coughed slightly. “I might have been king, had my life played out a little differently.” He shifted and winced at the pain.

She shied away from the movement, but when he settled again, she went to work once more on his wound. “My royal father... I think he knew I would fail. He planned for it. He didn’t give me the ships or the men I needed, but not out of malice. Do you know why he gave me so little?” The girl met his eyes again, but seemed to be utterly mute. “It’s because he knew that even with a larger force, I would end up dying at its head.”

He coughed again and nearly cried at the pain. Outside, the rain had started to fall a little more thickly, a sporadic little patter. The whispers of sky ghosts, he’d heard it called once – he didn’t remember where. The chill seemed to settle the air, taking away echoes, making the whole world intimate.

“I wonder what he’s doing now. You know, he’s fighting another war.” She continued to dress the wound. He noticed, even at the edge of his blurry vision, that her forehead beaded with sweat. “Relax, girl. They know that I’m a dead man. Your bandages and poultices are a formality at best. The last move in a drawn out game of kalis where the lone god has wandered around heaven for half an hour with the enemy closing in on him.”

She looked no less frightened. He sighed. “But my father... he is killing the Lusekt.” She looked up. “Ah, you know that name? Clever girl. He’ll win a dozen battles, I don’t doubt, and rid the north of their scourge forever. Not that anyone will thank us... we’ll probably end up being a scourge oursel – ahhhh, that hurts.” She had dabbed at the wound with her poultice, and it sent shivers of pain up his arm. “Can’t you numb it?” She hesitated. “Fine. The formalities first, the numbness after. I feel like I’m attending my own funeral here.”

She continued, and so did he. “Are you an Aitahist? You look like an Aitahist. I keep ending up losing kalis games to Aitahist girls, you know.” He looked at her and sighed again, continuing in a weaker voice now. “I suppose I shouldn’t have expected you to get that joke.

“But truly, I’m wondering already what lies in store for me. I know I said the words, but the horse-lords’ god is not my god, not truly, not yet. And not ever, at this rate. Belief is a tricky thing...”

He was wheezing now. “Gods, killed by a rock. If anyone asks you, can you change that particular line of the song. ‘Prince Unger, slain by a twenty-foot fall’ sounds ludicrous. ‘Prince Unger, slain by the lack of a tree branch to grab hold of. Prince Unger... can you tell them I was killed by a... a... a dagger? Or a sheep.”

He chuckled at the thought, and then tried to talk again, but the words came out in a slurred stream, with only the hint of consonants. The girl looked alarmed, then, when he closed his eyes, she ran for help.

It was already too late.


Maps


City Map

Economic Map

Religious Map

Political Map


OOC:

As is the norm, I apologize for the long wait and hope it was at least somewhat worth it. As is also the norm, let me know about concerns or mistakes.

I'm going to be away for a little more than a week, starting Tuesday. Any questions PMed or posted will, of course, be answered in full when I get back.

Brilliant!

To: Gallasa

You have fled the field. That is acceptable to us; even though honor in battle would have given us satisfaction if not joy, we understand the wisdom of prudence for lacking of its righteousness. But now, having turned down our challenge, you must accept the consequences of your pusillanimity.

Mounted though we may be, we are not the barbaric Satar who you have chosen to associate yourself with, who only operate on one maxim: that righteousness in this world is only defined by the strong who do what they can and the weak who suffer what they must. That is not our will, or the will of She who we serve. Thus we ask not for your utter humiliation, but for your acceptance. For we understand the value of Mercy, and offer thus to you: if you would remove the demons of the sunset and accept the disciples of Her word to return the Truth of what was once His to your soil, we will grasp your hand in friendship and forget the grievances of past wrongs.

To: Nech

In our land, we say that only a coward would strike a man whose back is turned and shield raised against another man. But we are certain that you are indeed no coward, and that the presence of those sworn to you on the soil of our allies is only a mistake that will be rectified. Immediately.

To: Cyve

We congratulate you on a campaign hard won in Luskanekt. The bearer of Her flame humbly writes only this in reminder: the lord of hunters is the one who chooses his own prey.

Excellent update! I got a whole paragraph. Woah.

The General-Tyrant of Tarena resigns from his position. In the face of unavoidable realities, his successor sees no option but to submit to Savirai.
*****

My laziness doomed Tarena. The same won't happen to Vischa. Questions will be pm'ed to you, NK.

Exatai of the North Part 9

Ancient spires of limestone jutted from the earth like the spear wall of an advancing army. Meadows betwixt them were thick with low grasses and purple wild flowers. The great sweet lake nestled between the caverns and high peaks, the city of Lemdeh hugging its shore. In the distance, built against a mighty limestone cliff sat the Birthstone, the house of her lord cousin Cuskar, an ancient keep less a palace than a fortress. She walked with him, now, and an entourage of servants and guards in bronze scale. Following nearest her were her two personal guards that had come with her from Lexevh, the monster Thryar and the witty Tasmarc. They walked through those wild flowers, in the shade of a series of great spires littered with moss and patches of grass, towards the hives that Cuskar was so proud of.

“Any news from the Rock, Cuskar?” she asked. Her lord cousin ruled over Lemdeh in her grand-father’s name. She was his ward.

Cuskar was scarcely double her age, a young man when his own father had passed, and her stay was not as unpleasant as her uncle intended. Cuskar had wealth, and courage, but most of all he had kindness and sincerity that a young princess needed to stay sane. His family was not the family, but a lesser branch, distant cousins with red tinges to their hair. She often wondered about that trait; her own hair remained as bright and golden as the day she was born.

“Some,” he said. “The Lord of the Rock tries to keep us isolated, but birds chirp still.” He laughed. “The king has demanded the Lusekt lords surrender their armies to him in Luskan, where he has taken the throne of the old kings as his. Many capitulate, but many remain defiant yet. The Dead King they call him.”

“And a dead king he will be if he stays there,” she commented. “What of the Lord on the Rock? What has my dear uncle been doing?”

“Draining the King’s treasury,” Cuskar grunted. “The stone merchants have been buying up all the limestone and marble from my quarries for his constructions. Say he is building walls, big walls, ‘round the whole city. And the Palace, well, I’ve heard he stripped the late prince’s rooms and melted down all of his jewels to feed his appetite for whores.”

“What,” she roared. “My father’s things sold for whores? What of my great-aunt? Is she not watching our things as she promised?”

“Wylgret passed, princess.”

“When?”

“This past winter a great whooping cough came upon her and took her. She was the King’s elder sister; you shouldn’t have expected her to live forever.”

Aelona kicked at a clump of wild flowers as she walked, spraying a purple powder into the wind and back towards Thryar’s face. He coughed, batting it away with his humongous hands. Aelona had grown considerably in the five years she had been banished to Lemdeh. The earliest notions of womanhood had come to her and every year she grew in more ways than one. She did not care for those things, but for the growth of her mind, her education. She remembered beating Glynt at Kalis on that night so many years ago. The night she lost both of her parents and an unborn sister.

“I do have good news from Lexevh, princess,” he began, “something not even my cousin could keep from you.”

“Oh?” She perked.

He snapped his finger above his head so that all members of their entourage may see and hear it. From the rear, through a half dozen other servants ran a young common boy in quilted armor, holding a silk covered object in his hands. He was near her age, and attractive, but she’d never show that to a lowborn boy.

Cuskar pulled back the silk, revealing a silver crown, a solid band with engravings and inset rubies as large as pebbles. “A gift from the Prince of Bone,” he said. “The first you’ve received, but not the first his highness has sent. Prince Glynt has failed to inform his father that you’ve been moved to Lemdeh.”

“If he knew he’d be infuriated,” she commented, knowingly. She reached out for the crown. It was heavy, solid silver and well made. She admired it for a moment. Thryar and Tasmarc admired it, too, but in the way Cyvekt men admire shores to raid.

“The King’s own men took that from the Queen of Lusekt just before they executed her and her children. I hear they killed them in order, so that Fulwarc may claim slaying three kings of Lusekt. They say our army broke, but our king charged forward with his horse-lord on the winds of a storm he summoned through the Satar gods. He slew a thousand men, maybe more, if the messengers tell it true.”

“They never do, Lord Cuskar,” she said. She fumbled with the crown trying to place it on her head. “It is too big.” She frowned. “Was this queen a hog?”

“You’d have to ask the men that killed her. Rumors are that Fulwarc cleaned them for their bones. He’s making something else out of bone now. He disturbs me.”

Aelona handed the crown to Thryar to hold as they walked on to the hives. They reached them a few moments later in a low spot in the meadows. Thirty slaves worked the hives in thick fabric and netted faces to protect them from stings. Cuskar stopped walking.

“Do you like the hives, princess?”

“I haven’t seen them, lord cousin.” She paused for a moment, considering her cousin’s facial expressions. “A twelve year old girl has more courage than the Lord of Lemdeh?”

“It is not a lack of courage, Aelona,” he said, sharply, “but a lack of a need to be stung a hundred times.”

Aelona pointed to Thryar’s broad chest, the bronze scale mail that sat on it donned the honeybee sigil of their kingdom.

“We built a kingdom on bees, Cuskar,” she said. “If you build a kingdom on slave you do not fear the slaves. A slave can sting just as the bee and more often if you show them they can. You’re a tough man in thick leather armor. Are you not?”

“I am,” he groaned. “But you are a princess in thin fabrics.”

“To live my life in the hive, I must accustom myself to the stings. Besides, I wish to taste fresh honey. To raid their miniature kingdoms for their golden bounty as my father and grandfather have.”

So they walked to the hives, amongst the thousands of bees and the beekeeping slaves. The bees buzzed around them curiously, but did not sting. Aelona walked to the first hive on her left. She motioned for the slave to calm them with smoke.

“Has the Redeemer sent message to the Rock?” she asked.

“None in many years,” Cuskar replied. “He is busy building a new city in the south, Atracta. Paved with gold and filled with rich men and beautiful women. His armies fight the remnants of the Lawgiver’s empire in the north and in the east they cross the sea to fight the Savirai.”

“Savirai? I have not heard of them.”

“A great empire of sand and gold with a hundred thousand horsemen flying their banner,” he said. “They are the new masters of Tarena and ride against both the Gallasa and our horse-lord allies. Your uncle Katu, the King of the Nech, has invaded south as well they say, to purge the lands of Aitahist heretics.”

Aelona smiled at her cousin. She took a handful of hive from the slave, eagerly biting into a corner of it. A loan bee remained on the hive. Soaked in honey, it climbed to her hand and stung her above the knuckle.

“Princess, you’ve been stung,” growled Thryar in his heavy northern accent.

“No, it is the bee that is the fool, sweet Thryar.” She brought her hand to her face, and looked into the bee’s eyes. “My uncle’s assassins come early,” she joked. The bee pulled free from its stinger, ripping its entrails out and falling to the ground in a fit of buzzing. “The bee has never played Kalis.”

“Hmm?” hummed Cuskar.

“What have you heard from these Aitahist sand men?” she asked.

“Just this morning my birds in Lexevh brought me word from the Rock,” he said. “The emperor of these sand men sent a diplomat to meet with Fulwarc, but met with Glynt in his absence.”

“What did it say?”

“I have yet to read it, Aelona, for I am here with you. Would you like to read it with me when we return?”

She nodded, continuing to gobble up the hive in her hands.

That was a fascinating update. It's nice to see a lot of the ongoing story arcs getting woven into the update - very classy, NK.

From: Redeemer Avetas
To: The High Ward of Gallasa, and all Potentates of the League

And so the worshippers of the ancient enemy have come to Selessan at last. The path of Manin, flawed though it may be, shall not be allowed to die.

Nor shall her Lightbearers falter.

Exatai of the North Part 10

He ran his hands over the veiny grooves in the wood. The nails of the former king had dug deep in his stress. Yet he now sat upon this modest throne in the dank, ancient hall. The bone mask had worn to fit his face, and he only removed it in private. The braziers of the old king still had fire in them, burning bright and heating the hall on that chilly mid-spring evening.

Fulwarc had much to be thankful for; his victories on Sarkanda were legends around the north now, his axe stained with the blood of a hundred Lusekt men and the old king too. The new king wears the old king, they would say, and it was true. The Prince of Bone had his crown and mask of bone, but now a breastplate decorated with the fallen prince of Sarkanda joined his regalia. He never liked armor, but in his age he considered it a fine substitute for slowing reflexes. The steel could take a hundred blows where flesh could take but one.

“I yield to the Prince of Bone, the King of the Sea and Storm, Lord of Sarkanda and Cyvekt…”

This man was pitiful. A proud lord knelt before him in his polished armor, a long green cloak rolling off his shoulders. His face remained clean shaven, or perhaps in his youth he could grow no beard. Had he slain his father? He could not remember the details of his campaign with any clarity these days. He knew he killed men, lots of men, but faces eluded him.

The hall of this castle stood solid, a mile inland from the harbor of Luskan, made of granite and wood, decorated with the finest silks and linens the poor old king could afford. These luxuries meant nothing to the Prince of Bone. He took what he needed, and silks he did not. The castle stood strong, though, a prize worthy of a king, so he took it as his capital in Sarkanda.

The young lord in green cloak stood. His chest bore a solid plate of iron, polished to a shine with brass rings holding the cloak on his back. Leather straps tied a sword to his belt, the leather hilt stained with blood could be seen even in the low light of the braziers. Fulwarc fondled his greying beard.

“Did I slay your father, Lord?” he called out, kingly and deep.

“Lord Jorn of Seabreak,” he answered his new liege. “My father died alongside the old king. Your horse-lord took him with a spear, but he didn’t die for some time after.” He bowed low in his kneel. Artaxeras stood in the hall, near a brazier to keep warm, upon hearing Jorn speak his name he paid attention. His mask hid his true expression.

“Seabreak,” said Fulwarc.

“A village to the south, your grace, to the west of Voninheim,” he explained. “My family has a small keep there, a gift to my great-grandfather for service to the king. It is small, but it is yours by right.”

“I have no need for your foreign keep, Lord Jorn of Seabreak. You are forgiven of your defiance and granted amnesty. You may return to your home, there you will raise a levy of two hundred men, no less, to secure your lands for the Prince of Bone.”

He bowed as low as he could before standing to leave. He did not utter a word, not even a yes, but Fulwarc had grown to enjoy those moments of silence. When the Prince of Bone speaks, you do not speak without query.

The heavy oak doors of the hall opened shortly after Jorn had left. Four Cyvekt warriors entered, they dragged a man soaked in water with a gash across his forehead. Fulwarc stirred on the throne.

“Prince of Bone,” one of the warriors called with a bow. “We pulled him from the sea. He claims he sailed from Lexevh on the orders of your son.”

“Who is he?”

“A messenger of Tarena,” the soldier said. They dropped him on the ground, heaving and squirming. “His ship ran aground near the harbor. Spring seas are too much for his blood.”

The hall erupted in laughter. Artaxeras move from his comfortable position near the flame, instead choosing to stand at the bottom of the stone steps that lifted the throne above the hall. He wore thick leather over his chest, with thicker fabric covering his limbs. His trusted spear stayed on his back at all times. Fulwarc nodded to his friend as he came over.

“Speak then, messenger,” demanded Fulwarc. “What words do you bring west?”

The messenger coughed, and then caught his breath. Fulwarc could see the Tarena in him, and maybe something more southern. His flesh had a darker tone than Fulwarc’s. He was no man of the north. He sat on his knees, wiped his forehead of blood and began to speak the worst Cyvekt the Prince of Bone had ever heard.

“Bone Prince, humbled I are,” he said, bowing again. “Khatai, Savirai prince, he know Cyvekt prince of…”

“What in every hell is he saying?” Fulwarc looked to Artaxeras in disgust. “What are you saying? Do you speak Nechekt or Ederru or Satar?” Fulwarc called each out in their native tongue with his lion's roar.

The messenger touched his chest, “Satar, yes, I speak it well.” He paused for a moment. Fulwarc gestured him on. “I speak on behalf of the Emperor of Dual Thrones Savirai and Nahari, Scion of Gurach, and Bearer of Her Flame.”

“Her Flame? Ha ha, who's Flame? My grand-daughter’s? She’s a fiery b*tch if the north ever birthed one. Hmm, there will be no speaking of the heretics’ god in my hall.”

The messenger bowed, “I mean no offense, Prince of Bone. I bring the words of my lord, Emperor Khatai of the Dual Thrones. His majesty extends congratulations on victory here in Sarkanda.”

Fulwarc nodded.

“He has sent me to speak with you on matters of political concern. The lord of hunters is the one who chooses his own prey, as we say.”

Fulwarc looked to Artaxeras, who now ground his teeth at the messenger.

“Wise words,” Fulwarc said. He turned back to Artaxeras. “Does something bother you?” he asked in a whisper.

“This man sings notes of false gold. Be wary, Prince of Bone. The cats of the desert are vicious and traitorous. They strike against your brothers in the south. They defy the Redeemer Avetas with their armies.”

Fulwarc returned to his conversation with the messenger, “I do not know of your prince… Khitai. I have heard only legends of empires in the deserts beyond Selessan. Tell me, is there a lake in the sea of sand?”

“As lavish as the grandest palace of the south,” he answered. “Gardens of roses, berry vines grow like weeds on her shores and no man goes without. It is paradise.”

“Hmm,” Fulwarc thought hard, “My friend does not like you, nor your Emperor Khitai.”

“Khatai is the master of the east. Your friend would do himself a great injustice in distrusting me. I am but the messenger of a man wealthier than the world has known, wealthier than the Redeemer and more powerful thrice over.”

Artaxeras spit.

“You insult my friend with your words. Perhaps you drank too much of the sea and have lost your mind? Eh?”

“I beg forgiveness of the Prince of Bone,” he replied, gazing hard at Artaxeras.

Fulwarc looked to his friend. The red mask reflected the blazing braziers. Fulwarc thought over the silence, shook his head and raised a hand to the messenger.

“Can you write in Satar?”

“Yes.”

“In the morning if you feel up to it I will give you private audience.” He motioned to the soldiers still waiting behind the messenger. “Take his tongue.”

Divergence
The Road to the Sunset part 1

“Wandering, wandering, from Sea to Shining Sea
You can only wish you are as free as me!”-common Parcen [1] saying

The Parca caravan moved a long the new road, having just left the village of the Hanecen clan. Covered wagons were filled with strange exotic items like music instruments, fortune-telling tales, and strange beasts in covered cages. Others held more mundane items like indigo leaves, bars of iron, finished tools and even a few children, playing within the wagons. Outside walked loaded beasts of burden, with men or goods, moving into the sunset.

“A beautiful evening” remarked the Sarnetu Derpa, “the wide wanderer”, leader of the caravan. “It is so quiet and peaceful, unlike the days of the Zarcasen.”

“Indeed” said Jara Suenca, a young manon the way to Tarwa, a warrior, as seen from his spear and sheathed dagger. “Have you heard of the victories of Prefect Kaundar?”

“The Prefect?” asked Sarnetu, “The Prefect of Parta?”

“The very same. About two years ago a Zarcasen raid hit the my clan, the Haneca, hard and we retreated to a town about a week’s march north of Hanecenatar. The Prefect Kaundar rose six hundred men to their aid, and outflanked them when a raiding party under Harca Thewen returned from the north.” Jara smiled from the memory, “I volunteered as a militia captain, and we pushed northward until we burned every village which sent warriors into our lands.”

“You seemed to have won yourself quite a place under Kaundar’s command” joked Sarentu, “So what brings you to our caravan, young Jara Suenca?”

The young man, with the grief of men much older, sighed. “Alas, after the campaign I brought my family young and old into the northlands. The Zarcasa earned their name well.” He bit his lip. “I was called into emergency service away from the Homestead to block a vengeance raid, a large one. T’was a hard fought battle, but was another victory as we secured our new colonies.” Jara looked away, into the setting sun, “Well, most of them. Perhaps one of them remembered my face, or heard me give the order to destroy them before they can destroy us.

Perhaps if I were able to fight better, my family would still be alive and I wouldn’t be traveling with the Parca.”

Sarnetu held his hand, “Don’t worry, you have a new family now. With us. And perhaps, when we reach the end of this road, where ever it may lead, you might find somewhere they can accept your skills.”

Jara nodded, “Thanks.” As the sun set rapidly between jungle, where a thin road cut through the undergrowth. “It is a peaceful evening indeed.”

As the Derpa sounded the call to make camp, Jara looked at the horizon, and wondered how far he must travel before delivering his message to the distant King away from his throne.

Amazingly beautiful update, NK. That was a treat to read upon my return!

Due to the unabated assault of Haina merchantry by the Suranahar and their general refusal to participate in civilized discussion and commerce, I, Thag Aimadewahr III of the Haina, hereby declare war on the state of Suran.


OOC: Nice update.
Holding myself to updating my compilation-post and getting a few wiki articles off by the time stats come out.

From: Arto Rutarri, Prince of the Accans, Letora-ta-Exatai
To: The Dual Empire

I offer you this ultimatum on behalf of the Exatai and the Concord of Sirasona, whose forces I represent.

First, the Dual Empire will withdraw from the Despotate of Tarena and the whole of the Selessan. In return, the Concord shall guarantee the right of the Aitahist minority in Tarena to practice their faith unhindered. Furthermore, no efforts at conversion between the Maninist majority and the Aitahist minority will be sanctioned.

Second, the Despot of Tarena will be allowed to enter exile in the Dual Empire. Tarena shall re-enter the League of Gallasa, based on its historical possession by the Gallatenes, excepting that portion which has been occupied by the Nechekt Kingdom.

Finally, the Dual Empire will guarantee the territorial integrity of the League and the Airani Roshate, and the Concord will guarantee the current territorial integrity of the Dual Empire.

I am the conduit of this offer from Twelfth Redeemer Avetas, my will his fist. Its acceptance shall ensure a new era of peace across the great sea. Its refusal shall ensure the cleansing of Tarena in the name of the Redeemer.

The puppet dances from strings held by gloved hands, and the shadows grow ever longer.