Everyone raise their hand if they read the front page and saw that orders are technically due tomorrow.
...No one?
You got my orders, right?
End of Empires - N3S III
- Thread starter North King
- Start date
You got my orders, right?
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Of course.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Sorry, this has been a crazy week for me. My orders will be incoming in a few days.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
We'll set a deadline of this Saturday.
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
Link
Divergence: Chapter 2
A beautiful fall day arose with dawn on the town of Aspereno-Fardas. The humid air has a testy
edge to it, hinting at a hard winter and an early frost. The parca caravan-wandering merchantile
families who carry goods both exotic and banal among the Partheca – had left early that
morning, and now the townspeople took their newly-purchased tools out to the fields or into their
workshops. Fardas, the clan that dominates life in Asparena, maintained the ancient traditions of
the town by sending her elders to the town square. The Jarca, as it is known and which represents
the collective soul of the entire town, was ritually cleansed with brooms and its nearby walls
sprayed with citrus juices to maintain its purity.
They worked so hard, in fact, that they did not notice as another wagon arrived alone around
noon and stopped within the square.
Turpono Sarfas sighed with contentment as he arrived in Asparena. The newly built roads
were a pleasure to navigate from his departure from Tarwa, and his wagon was overfilled with
everything from King Dawentar’s newly minted coins and the newest Acayan fashions to
practical iron tools and hardy fall-sowing seeds. He looked around the town- it seemed strangely
familiar. Oh well, for a well traveled man of the Merchant’s Hahn- a guild-like organization that
focuses on brotherhood and collective action- who has seen dozens of towns and hundreds of
villages across Parthe, he should be surprised to see anything unusual at all from an old village
like this one.
Coming to a stop, Turpono placed blocks under his wagon, raised the flag embroidered with the
sprawling symbol of his Hahn and took his mule to the nearby Public House. All communities
in Parthe must be ready for guests. In smaller homesteads and villages, Parca and wanderers are
invited into the homes where many nocturnal activities may occur. Larger towns generally avoid
such problems with public residencies where guests and their companions are stored. Leaving the
mule with the Pub’s tender, he returned to his rest wagon to find that already a small crowd of
elders had gathered around it.
“The best goods of Tarwa, brought to you by Dasanuen Hahn” he proclaimed as he walked
towards the wagon, opening with his best, most trustworthy smile. “I am Turpono Sarfas, and I
shall be helping all of you today in purchasing anything and everything you might need for the
coming winter.”
A murmur roiled through the crowd, and several members of the congregation left. Several more,
however, joined, curious, holding lunch in hand as they entered the growing crowd. A good sign
for him to continue his sales pitch. As the sun left its lofty position, however, he begun to feel a
chill in the back of his neck. He had made no sails yet, and the stares of the townspeople- from
elders too old to work, to children and their caring mothers, to laborers leaving their workshops.
He nervously looked from one all-to-familiar face to another as he brought out product after
another.
Sweat blossomed over his brow and spilled down his face, dampening his cloak and the neck of
his shirt.
As the day entered mid afternoon, his smile slowly slid off his face like a greasy smudge. He
moved slower, more cautious as the crowd grew larger and the atmosphere darker. Blood is in
the air- he can feel it. He can almost taste it. He now regrets putting his mule away, for now he
desires nothing more than to gallop out of Asperno as fast as he can.
Finally, a wizened old women walked before him. She looked familiar, like almost all of the
rest of the adults, but he could not place the face. “Turpono Sarfas, do you recognize me?” she
rasped, narrowing her eyes with scorn.
His mind was blank.
She took a step closer, her accusing eyes boring into his skull. “Thirty seven years since the last
I’ve seen you, you ungrateful welp. Do you recognize me?”
Thirty seven years ago… Wasn’t that when he left his home? What was it called anyway, and
how did time fly so fast.
He took another step backward.
She took two steps forward.
Now she was in his face. Even though he towered over her, he felt dominated by her presence.
“I was with you since you were a babe, I raised you…”
“Grandmother?”
The crowd would have winced at the slap if they were more sympathetic, but he received nothing
more than a collective nod of approval as he sunk to the ground, an imprint of a wrinkled palm
forming upon his face.
“You didn’t even come to my mother’s burial!” screeched the old mother “You disrespect me,
your mother, your ancestors, and the tradition of Aspereno and the Clan Sarfas! You have broken
the Jarthe, the community soul, and have stolen all we have given to you and have returned
nothing you worthless wrench!”
Words fled him like his confidence did a mere hour ago.
“What is worse, you come back a Leech! A filthy Merchant! You have learned no craft, you
have practice no skills. You have left Everything and received nothing! You have thrown away
everything we have provided for you, to raise you, and you spend your life this way?”
She raised her hand again, then dropped it.
“You deserve worse than a beating. You have broken all bonds of fellowship and tradition.
You have defamed your family and the grief of your departure killed my husband. You have no
memory of your true self. You are no longer my son.”
She stepped away as silence ruled the crowd again.
He tried to stand up, slipped, and fell into the dust again.
“I’m going to be killed” he thought.
“Kill him” someone said, stamping his foot. The chant was hypnotic and spread throughout
the crowd as he tried to back away. “Kill him. Kill him. Kill him!” Faces twisted themselves
into rage as he stood up again, and inched along the wall. “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” They
closed in on him as he tried to find a path of escape. “KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”
they shouted as he darted for a path. Grabbed by countless hands, they dragged him to the edge
of the town where several large trees shadowed the boundary between town and field. Someone
grabbed a rope, and he felt it drawn across his neck.
He prayed for a quick death.
He choked.
Chapter 3
… to death” finished the merchant representative, his plump face visibly turning into an amusing
shade of red above his cultivated facial hair, “I ask your judgement this.”
King Dawentar Thewen stifled a yawn from crossing his young, boyish face as he sat up
straighter. He leaned over to his old uncle Ceunwun and advisor and whispered, “What. Just.
Happened?”
Ceunwen rolled his eyes, protected by the shadow of his hood and turned to speak into the
youth’s proffered ear, “Twenty merchant representatives killed over last fortnight in the
Farsenca. The local Hasnuencas has refused to send men to guard them. The Taparsunuencen
desires a hundred men to force the governors to open their barracks and defend their merchants
from further attack.”
“And why were they attacked. Did they violate some law or taboo?”
“Seucpas, the representative, did not say anything.” Ceunwen’s eyes flashed as they rolled in
contempt, “either he does not know or does not desire to say I cannot perceive.”
“Interesting” the King sat a bit straighter, feeling the uncomfortable throne freshly made just a
moon’s walk earlier shift under his weight, “I will send two hundred men.” muttered the king.
Ceunwun almost interrupted Dawentar, but noticed the set look on his face. He fell silent as the
King addressed the court.
“Reprsentative Seucpas, your desired men will be available for march tonight. Any volunteers
who desires to head this expedition as a representation of the King’s Tarwacas Court?”
A wave of muttering cascaded among the gathered men of the court. Some were nobles with
royal and provincial blood giving them enough influence to head their own Hasnuencas-
brotherhood Hahns of governors and representatives. Others are common born leaders who
represent their local governors with eloquence and only recently married into the blood of the
more respected kind. One or two even ascended to the court through the ancient custom of the
Challenge of the Soul, an elaborate duel of poetry, crafts, and sword as well as a myriad of other
crafts to prove one’s worth above the incumbent. Many members of the court, eager to win favor
from the Taparsunuecen superguild, volunteered. Others, to appear principled or aloof, held
back.
“Choose your own” spoke the king, this time concealing a smirk. Immediately the rotund
representative was swarmed by a mass of scheming nobles and representative. “The Court is
dismissed for this night,” continued the king, using a thoughtful tone fitting to the occasion.
Of course, now several nobles, intent on a private discussion of whatever concerns they feel
whose importance supersedes procedure, walked towards him. Instead, he turned to Ceuwun to
acknowledge his burning questions as he stopped down from the throne and turned his back to
the eager politicians.
“Sire” begun the aged advisor, “A hundred men will be gathered to enforce your decree. Why
have you sent another one hundred? It would merely cost grain and clothes in the winter that is
soon to come and for what?”
“To investigate” said the King, who held his hand up, “I know you feel that I am too idealistic
for my own good, but I need to know their side of the story. I need to understand why this
region, and others like it, rose almost uniformly to near-revolt during these first years of my rule.
What could the merchants have done to face such persecution? After all, all they brought was
wealth. Why?”
“They are merely unappreciative of your ability” said the advisor as they continued down an
open corridor.
“They are merely silenced by the local Hasnuencas before I was able to interfere” replied
Dawentar as he walked up a set of stairs. “I intend to find out why they are rousing themselves,
and you will issue the order.” Ceuwun stopped climbing, a slighty pained look on his face. The
king sighed, and then turned, looking years older as he spoke directly into his uncle’s face “I
command you to send a hundred men to investigate, Ceuwun, as secretly as possible. If you have
any objection, I will give you ten counts to advise.”
“Sire, you need not bother yourself with local issues. That is for the Hasnuencas, as they have
done since the Great Plague of your great grandfather Wendicas. You must think broader…”
“Objection heard and overruled. This is my kingdom, and I desire to understand my people.
My people. Not those greasy self-important blood-blessed politicians. People. Not pigs. Human
beings. You will issue the order, you will send Prince Dahnsa to command them, and you will
leave now. As your king, I command you. ”
King Dawentar was still not used to using his authority, and even he winced as his voice cracked
upon his last sentence. But he stood, maintaining his decorum as his most trusted, if somewhat
uncomfortably outspoken advisor gave him a sharp, curt nod and walked down stairs.
As the man left his vision he sighed and let his aching shoulders sag under the weight of his
indigo colored cloak. Instead of continuing up the stairway to his room, he cut across a rarely
used corridor leading to the guest rooms. He ignored them as he entered a small spiral staircase
with only 3 sides instead of the customary six, and climbed up three fights of the narrow steps.
He sighed as he reached his destination. Between two decorative pieces a small unobtrusive
handle was pulled, opening an, if not secret, a certainly remote area. Walking through he closed
the door carefully behind him. Then he looked out of the balcony.
To the distance in the west lay the sea, its calm patters and the gentle crashing of waves filtering
through him. The sun hung low over of the horizon, glittering red-tinted orange on the azure
waters. Ships- both the spine Leunite boats and the multi-rigged boats of the Kitaluk style carved
thing paths across the face of the endless sea, thickening as it reached the port until a verifiable
forest of canvas and wood docked itself on the beach. And a few steps closer are the harbor
facilities of the West Home; Tarwa.
He sighed as a cool sea breeze, whispering of winter, ruffled his hair. He took off his cloak and
sat in the hammock he placed there, watching the hustle and bustle of the newly built town. From
the outskirts wagon loads of everything from wood to grain to the precious indigo were brought
in by his tireless merchants from the harvest still underway in the countryside.
He knew behind him the Tarpas Palace, merely an oversized mansion by any estimate,
sprawled ontop one of the hills just outside of the city. Within the city itself next to the northern
town square another building spiraled above the ground, surrounded by flat buildings. The
Taparsunuecen superguild, a union of over thirty major merchant guilds and almost a hundred
minor ones, resided within that palatial hall. The market has closed already, although new
products continued to be brought in for storage.
Dawentar chuckled as he watched wagon after wagon go through the checkpoint. He can almost
feel his treasury growing full with taxes from the ceaseless commerce. Merchants are the
lifeblood of his father’s new expansive kingdom, and without them Partheca would be nothing
but a sleepy oversized town and several dependent villages.
Parthe… the Original Home of the Partheca people lay far to the east. An ancient site over a
thousand years old, everything is in stages of decay there. Even the Palace, which is rebuilt every
sixty six years within six months out of freshly chopped wood, abound in tradition and restraint.
There, possibilities are merely wisps of mist just out of reach.
No, he much preferred Tarwa. Here, dreams become heavy. Dreams become solid. Many have
already become wealthy, and many more would leave the dreary old capital for this new, never-
sleeping city on the sea as his men finish the road connecting them.
He calmed down. He didn’t notice himself getting frustrated. Then, he nearly jumped out of his
skin as the door opened behind him.
“Your grace!” came a voice roughened by sea salt, “King Dawentar, I see you have found the
secret baloney!”
There is only one person who has that voice, and who has a deep enough attention to detail to
slip a secret balcony into the plans while no one is looking. “Uncle Fardas!” he grinned “What
brings you back to Tarwa?”
“I came to see my king and my favorite nephew, of course!” the weathered man winked.
Dawentar threw out his arms as the muscular sailor picked him up and set him aside from the
door way. “So you’re king! What is it like?”
“Horrible” grimaced Dawentar, “you hear of all these stories about your nation, but you are
never able to touch them. You can’t hear the people arguing, or these merchants earning, or the
help the farmers harvesting. You hear reports. You see representatives. You help yourself out of
migraines.” The young king sighed, the weight of authority pressing upon his brow, “Remember
when you used to lead us-myself and Darjesne through the countryside to old towns and villages
you seen before you left for Tarat? Oh the fun we had! Like that time we had to help drag that
pig through the mud.” He looked at himself, his finery almost a better prison then the dungeons
being built just below, “Can you see me now, King of Partheca, enjoying myself after a day’s
harvest? Laughing with a merchant after a clever deal? Watching as the guards break up another
barfight?”
Fardas shock his head, “You may not like it, but from what I’ve heard that is why you were
chosen over all your brothers; all thirty of them. And was why your father Jarshuan was chosen
over men like Sarca or Kaundar. I can’t give you advice on that, but this advice I can give.”
Fardas looked longingly over to the sea, where the sun is beginning to set, “When I was just a
young boy, I always wanted to leave beyond the boundaries of Partheca. I followed our soldiers
and diplomats. I sailed on ships and boats. And when Jarshuan offered me command to the north,
I felt I had been finally given the chance to achieve my dreams.” He chuckled, both somewhat
sadly and yet somewhat amused, “Yes, I found Partheca of Tarat and the fierce Zarcasen. But
I found something more important. My need to explore is balanced by my love of my home,
and both shall always remain in my heart. Think about that.” The young king, a thoughtful look
on his face nodded, “Good man, you will make a fine king yet.” Joked the uncle. “Look at the
beautiful sunset. A new night shall begin soon.”
“A new night shall begin.” Agreed Dawentar as they sat together, enjoying the blood red sunset...
Divergence is a historical novel written about a hundred years after the reign of Dawentar and was the first historic fiction book within the Archives of Parthe. Although there are actual narratives and factuall details of the reign of this king within the archives, this book brought it into a narrative, if stretched and fictionalized. What was a small provincial revolt and petition, along with a bad year on the the Zarcasen border and demand for reinforcements was turned into a full blown civil war. This book is best known for its ambiguous ending, where King Dawentar and General Darjesne faced each other alone on the battle field, both badly wounded, and took a step towards each other, a determined look on their faces.
OOC: This is my failed Nanowrimo project. I am still working on it very slowly when I have time. Click the link if you dare, but don't expect anything decent.
Divergence: Chapter 2
A beautiful fall day arose with dawn on the town of Aspereno-Fardas. The humid air has a testy
edge to it, hinting at a hard winter and an early frost. The parca caravan-wandering merchantile
families who carry goods both exotic and banal among the Partheca – had left early that
morning, and now the townspeople took their newly-purchased tools out to the fields or into their
workshops. Fardas, the clan that dominates life in Asparena, maintained the ancient traditions of
the town by sending her elders to the town square. The Jarca, as it is known and which represents
the collective soul of the entire town, was ritually cleansed with brooms and its nearby walls
sprayed with citrus juices to maintain its purity.
They worked so hard, in fact, that they did not notice as another wagon arrived alone around
noon and stopped within the square.
Turpono Sarfas sighed with contentment as he arrived in Asparena. The newly built roads
were a pleasure to navigate from his departure from Tarwa, and his wagon was overfilled with
everything from King Dawentar’s newly minted coins and the newest Acayan fashions to
practical iron tools and hardy fall-sowing seeds. He looked around the town- it seemed strangely
familiar. Oh well, for a well traveled man of the Merchant’s Hahn- a guild-like organization that
focuses on brotherhood and collective action- who has seen dozens of towns and hundreds of
villages across Parthe, he should be surprised to see anything unusual at all from an old village
like this one.
Coming to a stop, Turpono placed blocks under his wagon, raised the flag embroidered with the
sprawling symbol of his Hahn and took his mule to the nearby Public House. All communities
in Parthe must be ready for guests. In smaller homesteads and villages, Parca and wanderers are
invited into the homes where many nocturnal activities may occur. Larger towns generally avoid
such problems with public residencies where guests and their companions are stored. Leaving the
mule with the Pub’s tender, he returned to his rest wagon to find that already a small crowd of
elders had gathered around it.
“The best goods of Tarwa, brought to you by Dasanuen Hahn” he proclaimed as he walked
towards the wagon, opening with his best, most trustworthy smile. “I am Turpono Sarfas, and I
shall be helping all of you today in purchasing anything and everything you might need for the
coming winter.”
A murmur roiled through the crowd, and several members of the congregation left. Several more,
however, joined, curious, holding lunch in hand as they entered the growing crowd. A good sign
for him to continue his sales pitch. As the sun left its lofty position, however, he begun to feel a
chill in the back of his neck. He had made no sails yet, and the stares of the townspeople- from
elders too old to work, to children and their caring mothers, to laborers leaving their workshops.
He nervously looked from one all-to-familiar face to another as he brought out product after
another.
Sweat blossomed over his brow and spilled down his face, dampening his cloak and the neck of
his shirt.
As the day entered mid afternoon, his smile slowly slid off his face like a greasy smudge. He
moved slower, more cautious as the crowd grew larger and the atmosphere darker. Blood is in
the air- he can feel it. He can almost taste it. He now regrets putting his mule away, for now he
desires nothing more than to gallop out of Asperno as fast as he can.
Finally, a wizened old women walked before him. She looked familiar, like almost all of the
rest of the adults, but he could not place the face. “Turpono Sarfas, do you recognize me?” she
rasped, narrowing her eyes with scorn.
His mind was blank.
She took a step closer, her accusing eyes boring into his skull. “Thirty seven years since the last
I’ve seen you, you ungrateful welp. Do you recognize me?”
Thirty seven years ago… Wasn’t that when he left his home? What was it called anyway, and
how did time fly so fast.
He took another step backward.
She took two steps forward.
Now she was in his face. Even though he towered over her, he felt dominated by her presence.
“I was with you since you were a babe, I raised you…”
“Grandmother?”
The crowd would have winced at the slap if they were more sympathetic, but he received nothing
more than a collective nod of approval as he sunk to the ground, an imprint of a wrinkled palm
forming upon his face.
“You didn’t even come to my mother’s burial!” screeched the old mother “You disrespect me,
your mother, your ancestors, and the tradition of Aspereno and the Clan Sarfas! You have broken
the Jarthe, the community soul, and have stolen all we have given to you and have returned
nothing you worthless wrench!”
Words fled him like his confidence did a mere hour ago.
“What is worse, you come back a Leech! A filthy Merchant! You have learned no craft, you
have practice no skills. You have left Everything and received nothing! You have thrown away
everything we have provided for you, to raise you, and you spend your life this way?”
She raised her hand again, then dropped it.
“You deserve worse than a beating. You have broken all bonds of fellowship and tradition.
You have defamed your family and the grief of your departure killed my husband. You have no
memory of your true self. You are no longer my son.”
She stepped away as silence ruled the crowd again.
He tried to stand up, slipped, and fell into the dust again.
“I’m going to be killed” he thought.
“Kill him” someone said, stamping his foot. The chant was hypnotic and spread throughout
the crowd as he tried to back away. “Kill him. Kill him. Kill him!” Faces twisted themselves
into rage as he stood up again, and inched along the wall. “Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!” They
closed in on him as he tried to find a path of escape. “KILL HIM! KILL HIM! KILL HIM!”
they shouted as he darted for a path. Grabbed by countless hands, they dragged him to the edge
of the town where several large trees shadowed the boundary between town and field. Someone
grabbed a rope, and he felt it drawn across his neck.
He prayed for a quick death.
He choked.
Chapter 3
… to death” finished the merchant representative, his plump face visibly turning into an amusing
shade of red above his cultivated facial hair, “I ask your judgement this.”
King Dawentar Thewen stifled a yawn from crossing his young, boyish face as he sat up
straighter. He leaned over to his old uncle Ceunwun and advisor and whispered, “What. Just.
Happened?”
Ceunwen rolled his eyes, protected by the shadow of his hood and turned to speak into the
youth’s proffered ear, “Twenty merchant representatives killed over last fortnight in the
Farsenca. The local Hasnuencas has refused to send men to guard them. The Taparsunuencen
desires a hundred men to force the governors to open their barracks and defend their merchants
from further attack.”
“And why were they attacked. Did they violate some law or taboo?”
“Seucpas, the representative, did not say anything.” Ceunwen’s eyes flashed as they rolled in
contempt, “either he does not know or does not desire to say I cannot perceive.”
“Interesting” the King sat a bit straighter, feeling the uncomfortable throne freshly made just a
moon’s walk earlier shift under his weight, “I will send two hundred men.” muttered the king.
Ceunwun almost interrupted Dawentar, but noticed the set look on his face. He fell silent as the
King addressed the court.
“Reprsentative Seucpas, your desired men will be available for march tonight. Any volunteers
who desires to head this expedition as a representation of the King’s Tarwacas Court?”
A wave of muttering cascaded among the gathered men of the court. Some were nobles with
royal and provincial blood giving them enough influence to head their own Hasnuencas-
brotherhood Hahns of governors and representatives. Others are common born leaders who
represent their local governors with eloquence and only recently married into the blood of the
more respected kind. One or two even ascended to the court through the ancient custom of the
Challenge of the Soul, an elaborate duel of poetry, crafts, and sword as well as a myriad of other
crafts to prove one’s worth above the incumbent. Many members of the court, eager to win favor
from the Taparsunuecen superguild, volunteered. Others, to appear principled or aloof, held
back.
“Choose your own” spoke the king, this time concealing a smirk. Immediately the rotund
representative was swarmed by a mass of scheming nobles and representative. “The Court is
dismissed for this night,” continued the king, using a thoughtful tone fitting to the occasion.
Of course, now several nobles, intent on a private discussion of whatever concerns they feel
whose importance supersedes procedure, walked towards him. Instead, he turned to Ceuwun to
acknowledge his burning questions as he stopped down from the throne and turned his back to
the eager politicians.
“Sire” begun the aged advisor, “A hundred men will be gathered to enforce your decree. Why
have you sent another one hundred? It would merely cost grain and clothes in the winter that is
soon to come and for what?”
“To investigate” said the King, who held his hand up, “I know you feel that I am too idealistic
for my own good, but I need to know their side of the story. I need to understand why this
region, and others like it, rose almost uniformly to near-revolt during these first years of my rule.
What could the merchants have done to face such persecution? After all, all they brought was
wealth. Why?”
“They are merely unappreciative of your ability” said the advisor as they continued down an
open corridor.
“They are merely silenced by the local Hasnuencas before I was able to interfere” replied
Dawentar as he walked up a set of stairs. “I intend to find out why they are rousing themselves,
and you will issue the order.” Ceuwun stopped climbing, a slighty pained look on his face. The
king sighed, and then turned, looking years older as he spoke directly into his uncle’s face “I
command you to send a hundred men to investigate, Ceuwun, as secretly as possible. If you have
any objection, I will give you ten counts to advise.”
“Sire, you need not bother yourself with local issues. That is for the Hasnuencas, as they have
done since the Great Plague of your great grandfather Wendicas. You must think broader…”
“Objection heard and overruled. This is my kingdom, and I desire to understand my people.
My people. Not those greasy self-important blood-blessed politicians. People. Not pigs. Human
beings. You will issue the order, you will send Prince Dahnsa to command them, and you will
leave now. As your king, I command you. ”
King Dawentar was still not used to using his authority, and even he winced as his voice cracked
upon his last sentence. But he stood, maintaining his decorum as his most trusted, if somewhat
uncomfortably outspoken advisor gave him a sharp, curt nod and walked down stairs.
As the man left his vision he sighed and let his aching shoulders sag under the weight of his
indigo colored cloak. Instead of continuing up the stairway to his room, he cut across a rarely
used corridor leading to the guest rooms. He ignored them as he entered a small spiral staircase
with only 3 sides instead of the customary six, and climbed up three fights of the narrow steps.
He sighed as he reached his destination. Between two decorative pieces a small unobtrusive
handle was pulled, opening an, if not secret, a certainly remote area. Walking through he closed
the door carefully behind him. Then he looked out of the balcony.
To the distance in the west lay the sea, its calm patters and the gentle crashing of waves filtering
through him. The sun hung low over of the horizon, glittering red-tinted orange on the azure
waters. Ships- both the spine Leunite boats and the multi-rigged boats of the Kitaluk style carved
thing paths across the face of the endless sea, thickening as it reached the port until a verifiable
forest of canvas and wood docked itself on the beach. And a few steps closer are the harbor
facilities of the West Home; Tarwa.
He sighed as a cool sea breeze, whispering of winter, ruffled his hair. He took off his cloak and
sat in the hammock he placed there, watching the hustle and bustle of the newly built town. From
the outskirts wagon loads of everything from wood to grain to the precious indigo were brought
in by his tireless merchants from the harvest still underway in the countryside.
He knew behind him the Tarpas Palace, merely an oversized mansion by any estimate,
sprawled ontop one of the hills just outside of the city. Within the city itself next to the northern
town square another building spiraled above the ground, surrounded by flat buildings. The
Taparsunuecen superguild, a union of over thirty major merchant guilds and almost a hundred
minor ones, resided within that palatial hall. The market has closed already, although new
products continued to be brought in for storage.
Dawentar chuckled as he watched wagon after wagon go through the checkpoint. He can almost
feel his treasury growing full with taxes from the ceaseless commerce. Merchants are the
lifeblood of his father’s new expansive kingdom, and without them Partheca would be nothing
but a sleepy oversized town and several dependent villages.
Parthe… the Original Home of the Partheca people lay far to the east. An ancient site over a
thousand years old, everything is in stages of decay there. Even the Palace, which is rebuilt every
sixty six years within six months out of freshly chopped wood, abound in tradition and restraint.
There, possibilities are merely wisps of mist just out of reach.
No, he much preferred Tarwa. Here, dreams become heavy. Dreams become solid. Many have
already become wealthy, and many more would leave the dreary old capital for this new, never-
sleeping city on the sea as his men finish the road connecting them.
He calmed down. He didn’t notice himself getting frustrated. Then, he nearly jumped out of his
skin as the door opened behind him.
“Your grace!” came a voice roughened by sea salt, “King Dawentar, I see you have found the
secret baloney!”
There is only one person who has that voice, and who has a deep enough attention to detail to
slip a secret balcony into the plans while no one is looking. “Uncle Fardas!” he grinned “What
brings you back to Tarwa?”
“I came to see my king and my favorite nephew, of course!” the weathered man winked.
Dawentar threw out his arms as the muscular sailor picked him up and set him aside from the
door way. “So you’re king! What is it like?”
“Horrible” grimaced Dawentar, “you hear of all these stories about your nation, but you are
never able to touch them. You can’t hear the people arguing, or these merchants earning, or the
help the farmers harvesting. You hear reports. You see representatives. You help yourself out of
migraines.” The young king sighed, the weight of authority pressing upon his brow, “Remember
when you used to lead us-myself and Darjesne through the countryside to old towns and villages
you seen before you left for Tarat? Oh the fun we had! Like that time we had to help drag that
pig through the mud.” He looked at himself, his finery almost a better prison then the dungeons
being built just below, “Can you see me now, King of Partheca, enjoying myself after a day’s
harvest? Laughing with a merchant after a clever deal? Watching as the guards break up another
barfight?”
Fardas shock his head, “You may not like it, but from what I’ve heard that is why you were
chosen over all your brothers; all thirty of them. And was why your father Jarshuan was chosen
over men like Sarca or Kaundar. I can’t give you advice on that, but this advice I can give.”
Fardas looked longingly over to the sea, where the sun is beginning to set, “When I was just a
young boy, I always wanted to leave beyond the boundaries of Partheca. I followed our soldiers
and diplomats. I sailed on ships and boats. And when Jarshuan offered me command to the north,
I felt I had been finally given the chance to achieve my dreams.” He chuckled, both somewhat
sadly and yet somewhat amused, “Yes, I found Partheca of Tarat and the fierce Zarcasen. But
I found something more important. My need to explore is balanced by my love of my home,
and both shall always remain in my heart. Think about that.” The young king, a thoughtful look
on his face nodded, “Good man, you will make a fine king yet.” Joked the uncle. “Look at the
beautiful sunset. A new night shall begin soon.”
“A new night shall begin.” Agreed Dawentar as they sat together, enjoying the blood red sunset...
Divergence is a historical novel written about a hundred years after the reign of Dawentar and was the first historic fiction book within the Archives of Parthe. Although there are actual narratives and factuall details of the reign of this king within the archives, this book brought it into a narrative, if stretched and fictionalized. What was a small provincial revolt and petition, along with a bad year on the the Zarcasen border and demand for reinforcements was turned into a full blown civil war. This book is best known for its ambiguous ending, where King Dawentar and General Darjesne faced each other alone on the battle field, both badly wounded, and took a step towards each other, a determined look on their faces.
OOC: This is my failed Nanowrimo project. I am still working on it very slowly when I have time. Click the link if you dare, but don't expect anything decent.
JohannaK
Heroically Clueless
A fiction inside a fiction, neh? Fictionception!
JohannaK
Heroically Clueless
I wonder why it doesn't surprise me. 
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
In Memory
"As infinite kinds of almost identical images arise continually from the innumerable atoms and flow out to us from the gods, so we should take the keenest pleasure in turning and bending our mind and reason to grasp these images, in order to understand the nature of these blessed and eternal beings."
-Cicero
"Man has an order and a chaos within him. To fully embrace one is to find stagnation, and to embrace the other, destruction. The true beauty of the silver path lies in balancing the both; with one's left hand dispensing the justice of the gods, and with one's right their unbridled fury."
-Talan the Elder
---
One Year Ago
As his rheumy lids shook free from sleep, he knew that this was the day.
He had tried to rise from the bed, believing that as before, his bones might protest, and his muscles tremble, but the ruined body would carry out its tasks just one more day. It was not to be. He felt the wisps of a great and terrible pressure on his heart, and he knew that as the Kaphaiavai dictates, his second trial was about to begin. He prayed to Talledi then, as he had many times before. But in that moment of weakness, he prayed to all he could think of. Aitah, Yleth, Atraxes, his mother. He knew that men sat outside, drowsy heads nodding at the end of the gloaming watch. They could help him. But no, he would not cry out. Not now.
Under his body, and the bed on which it lay, he could feel the undulation of the world-sea that had carried him since childhood. The deck rose and fell, and his body with it. Rising and falling, rising and falling.
And evermore.
---
Two Years Ago
“Fulwarc, I do not doubt your loyalty. Only your strength of mind.”
“I bring you a mighty tribute of a hundred ships, and this is my thanks? To be called a madman?”
“Prince of Bone, let me tell you a tale.”
“Speak, then.”
“I was little more than a boy when I fought at Karhat. I was filled with anger, such terrible anger, and I swore to kill the Ayasi and all those who had driven my father to his horrific fate.”
“It was a glorious fate.”
The Redeemer merely nodded, and continued.
“In my rage, I killed dozens of the enemy. Most were poorly trained, but there were mighty warriors among them. So blinded was I by my lust to taste the Ayasi’s blood, I killed one of my own tarkan in the heat of battle as he pushed ahead of me. He was a cousin I had ridden with since before I could run, and I stabbed him in the neck, feeling nothing as I pushed on.”
Fulwarc stroked his beard. “When the blood takes you, there are only enemies.”
“Just so, my prince. And as I did, so have you done. In your bloodlust you have made both friend and enemy but flesh for your spear.”
“What else can I give you? You have my tribute, my kingdom, even my son’s marriage to your spy.”
“Your debt is not to me, Prince of Bone, but to Taleldil and Jahan. A debt such as yours can only be paid in one way.”
Fulwarc nodded.
---
“Do you really think that will sway him?”
“My dear Zelarri, if you should learn one thing, learn this. What men desire most is absolution. Offer them that, and they will give you their very souls.”
---
Three Years Ago
“Firelight.”
“Do you think you can best me, child?”
“The Lady’s will! Her will!” And he came on.
He had learned the languages of this land of fire, those of the Jadhai and the Peko. He knew seven languages now, each one a different suit of armor, thrown on and cast aside at need.
The boy looked afraid and angry. Common emotions. Blood trickled down his arm, a glancing hit from a javelin thrown at range, staining his cloth tunic.
The Prince of the Shield knew that there was only one secret to killing men. He had killed them in the scrublands of the Sesh, the darkened forests of the Rahevat, and the green meadows of the Einan before he came to the Peko.
He had to love them.
What does a lover do? He watches his partner, learning their body, until every movement is known, every action calculated to bring about the desired culmination.
Elikas-ta-Tisatar was an old man. This boy was stronger, faster, and afraid. He came on with a roll that he likely thought was impressive, the first slash of his sword scoring across Elikas’ mail shirt, bruising but doing no harm. The prince flicked up his spear in a gentle, trailing arc, catching the blade and throwing it wide, and pulled it downwards, across the boy’s bad arm.
He screamed, and clutched the wound.
The Prince of the Shield smiled sadly.
“Correct your errors in the heavens to come.”
---
Seven Years Ago
The Aspect Master had donned a gold mask, and there was confusion and the clash of arms in the dusty courtyard before the Gate of Tributes as he sought to escape Atracta. Two lizard-headed cockatrices, cast in bronze, gazed down in imperious impassivity from the gate they flanked, as the melee broke out in the shadows of the threshold. It was the Prince of Wind and his tarkan who met them there, returning from the day’s hunt, not a fortnight left before their return to the endless Vischa war.
Karal vaulted from his horse, kicking one of the charging Argashim in the face and crushing his windpipe below his armored knee as he landed. He stood and spun, slicing a shaving of nose from the next warrior to engage him, leaving him on bended knee to have his throat slit by one of his tarkan as he made for the center of the melee, the Argashim whittling down the few of the gate garrison that had not broken.
“Your challenge is false!” he roared at Zaphkel, who reared his own stolen steed and came at the Prince at a gallop through the melee. Karal crouched down, spreading his arms wide.
“Avetas-ta-Vaxalai!”
---
The Present Day - 443 RM
Eshat rolled her head around her neck, a bead of sweat sliding down her chin and dripping off to feed the lush grass through which she waded. This land was nothing like the monastery in the Rahevat where she was born. Life was everywhere, and all around her, not struggling to survive in tight crevices away from the endless wind and cold. Her feet were sore, and she had not eaten since the dawn, but this did not concern her. For twenty years past, as a girl of four, she learned a lesson from her Avet-ha. He found her sitting lost in the hallway crying, a great jug of goat's milk clutched in her hands.
“You have a self, Eshat, and a spirit-self,” he said. “Even as your body carries the goat's milk to the kitchen, and learns to read and write, your spirit-self stirs and moves. Awaken it, and the warrior in your mind can fight and pray as your body labors.”
She did not understand at the time. But now, as her tired legs protested, and the ache in her neck returned, and the sweat made her clothes itch, she lived in bliss, as her mind rotated through the Heavenly Scythe of the Sixth Form of Tactics, and her spirit-self’s lips prayed an endless prayer of life to the God of Men, the god who lived in the people.
The village was where the traders in Alusille had said it was, nestled between an oxbow lake and the river which once spawned it. Little wooden walkways ran over the marshland on which it sat, and a thin trail of smoke rose from what was obviously both meeting house and primitive temple.
A child was the first to see her, playing with little figures carved from bone. Eshat had seen many maskless before, but the sight of her exposed mouth and nose, the naked face staring right at her, still gave her a chill deep in her stomach. She was very young indeed, too young to be afraid.
But she must look equally strange to these people. A robed figure, tall and slender, carrying a staff and bearing a mask of black and white.
“Ke'vema?” queried the girl in a dialect she would soon have to learn. She squatted down until she was eye level with the child, and took her hand.
“I am an Oracle of Taleldil, and you are his warrior.”
"As infinite kinds of almost identical images arise continually from the innumerable atoms and flow out to us from the gods, so we should take the keenest pleasure in turning and bending our mind and reason to grasp these images, in order to understand the nature of these blessed and eternal beings."
-Cicero
"Man has an order and a chaos within him. To fully embrace one is to find stagnation, and to embrace the other, destruction. The true beauty of the silver path lies in balancing the both; with one's left hand dispensing the justice of the gods, and with one's right their unbridled fury."
-Talan the Elder
---
One Year Ago
As his rheumy lids shook free from sleep, he knew that this was the day.
He had tried to rise from the bed, believing that as before, his bones might protest, and his muscles tremble, but the ruined body would carry out its tasks just one more day. It was not to be. He felt the wisps of a great and terrible pressure on his heart, and he knew that as the Kaphaiavai dictates, his second trial was about to begin. He prayed to Talledi then, as he had many times before. But in that moment of weakness, he prayed to all he could think of. Aitah, Yleth, Atraxes, his mother. He knew that men sat outside, drowsy heads nodding at the end of the gloaming watch. They could help him. But no, he would not cry out. Not now.
Under his body, and the bed on which it lay, he could feel the undulation of the world-sea that had carried him since childhood. The deck rose and fell, and his body with it. Rising and falling, rising and falling.
And evermore.
---
Two Years Ago
“Fulwarc, I do not doubt your loyalty. Only your strength of mind.”
“I bring you a mighty tribute of a hundred ships, and this is my thanks? To be called a madman?”
“Prince of Bone, let me tell you a tale.”
“Speak, then.”
“I was little more than a boy when I fought at Karhat. I was filled with anger, such terrible anger, and I swore to kill the Ayasi and all those who had driven my father to his horrific fate.”
“It was a glorious fate.”
The Redeemer merely nodded, and continued.
“In my rage, I killed dozens of the enemy. Most were poorly trained, but there were mighty warriors among them. So blinded was I by my lust to taste the Ayasi’s blood, I killed one of my own tarkan in the heat of battle as he pushed ahead of me. He was a cousin I had ridden with since before I could run, and I stabbed him in the neck, feeling nothing as I pushed on.”
Fulwarc stroked his beard. “When the blood takes you, there are only enemies.”
“Just so, my prince. And as I did, so have you done. In your bloodlust you have made both friend and enemy but flesh for your spear.”
“What else can I give you? You have my tribute, my kingdom, even my son’s marriage to your spy.”
“Your debt is not to me, Prince of Bone, but to Taleldil and Jahan. A debt such as yours can only be paid in one way.”
Fulwarc nodded.
---
“Do you really think that will sway him?”
“My dear Zelarri, if you should learn one thing, learn this. What men desire most is absolution. Offer them that, and they will give you their very souls.”
---
Three Years Ago
“Firelight.”
“Do you think you can best me, child?”
“The Lady’s will! Her will!” And he came on.
He had learned the languages of this land of fire, those of the Jadhai and the Peko. He knew seven languages now, each one a different suit of armor, thrown on and cast aside at need.
The boy looked afraid and angry. Common emotions. Blood trickled down his arm, a glancing hit from a javelin thrown at range, staining his cloth tunic.
The Prince of the Shield knew that there was only one secret to killing men. He had killed them in the scrublands of the Sesh, the darkened forests of the Rahevat, and the green meadows of the Einan before he came to the Peko.
He had to love them.
What does a lover do? He watches his partner, learning their body, until every movement is known, every action calculated to bring about the desired culmination.
Elikas-ta-Tisatar was an old man. This boy was stronger, faster, and afraid. He came on with a roll that he likely thought was impressive, the first slash of his sword scoring across Elikas’ mail shirt, bruising but doing no harm. The prince flicked up his spear in a gentle, trailing arc, catching the blade and throwing it wide, and pulled it downwards, across the boy’s bad arm.
He screamed, and clutched the wound.
The Prince of the Shield smiled sadly.
“Correct your errors in the heavens to come.”
---
Seven Years Ago
The Aspect Master had donned a gold mask, and there was confusion and the clash of arms in the dusty courtyard before the Gate of Tributes as he sought to escape Atracta. Two lizard-headed cockatrices, cast in bronze, gazed down in imperious impassivity from the gate they flanked, as the melee broke out in the shadows of the threshold. It was the Prince of Wind and his tarkan who met them there, returning from the day’s hunt, not a fortnight left before their return to the endless Vischa war.
Karal vaulted from his horse, kicking one of the charging Argashim in the face and crushing his windpipe below his armored knee as he landed. He stood and spun, slicing a shaving of nose from the next warrior to engage him, leaving him on bended knee to have his throat slit by one of his tarkan as he made for the center of the melee, the Argashim whittling down the few of the gate garrison that had not broken.
“Your challenge is false!” he roared at Zaphkel, who reared his own stolen steed and came at the Prince at a gallop through the melee. Karal crouched down, spreading his arms wide.
“Avetas-ta-Vaxalai!”
---
The Present Day - 443 RM
Eshat rolled her head around her neck, a bead of sweat sliding down her chin and dripping off to feed the lush grass through which she waded. This land was nothing like the monastery in the Rahevat where she was born. Life was everywhere, and all around her, not struggling to survive in tight crevices away from the endless wind and cold. Her feet were sore, and she had not eaten since the dawn, but this did not concern her. For twenty years past, as a girl of four, she learned a lesson from her Avet-ha. He found her sitting lost in the hallway crying, a great jug of goat's milk clutched in her hands.
“You have a self, Eshat, and a spirit-self,” he said. “Even as your body carries the goat's milk to the kitchen, and learns to read and write, your spirit-self stirs and moves. Awaken it, and the warrior in your mind can fight and pray as your body labors.”
She did not understand at the time. But now, as her tired legs protested, and the ache in her neck returned, and the sweat made her clothes itch, she lived in bliss, as her mind rotated through the Heavenly Scythe of the Sixth Form of Tactics, and her spirit-self’s lips prayed an endless prayer of life to the God of Men, the god who lived in the people.
The village was where the traders in Alusille had said it was, nestled between an oxbow lake and the river which once spawned it. Little wooden walkways ran over the marshland on which it sat, and a thin trail of smoke rose from what was obviously both meeting house and primitive temple.
A child was the first to see her, playing with little figures carved from bone. Eshat had seen many maskless before, but the sight of her exposed mouth and nose, the naked face staring right at her, still gave her a chill deep in her stomach. She was very young indeed, too young to be afraid.
But she must look equally strange to these people. A robed figure, tall and slender, carrying a staff and bearing a mask of black and white.
“Ke'vema?” queried the girl in a dialect she would soon have to learn. She squatted down until she was eye level with the child, and took her hand.
“I am an Oracle of Taleldil, and you are his warrior.”
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Just a reminder.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
I do anticipate that my orders will be in at least some time tonight. I'm not sure when, though.
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
Ordahs sunt.
Luckymoose
The World is Mine
Going to run my orders by you and Thlayli tomorrow before sending them.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Since it seems like people need some extra motivation, I'm just going to start updating with what I already have.
Angst
Rambling and inconsistent
So psyched. 
Shadowbound
Incorrugible
- Joined
- Mar 4, 2007
- Messages
- 4,079
After Finals, sheesh.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
9/21.
I moved my deadline back two weeks, and waited a week after that, for this. Wow. Well, tell you what, you have exactly twenty-four hours from the time of this post to get your orders in. If I don't get orders from more than one-half of my players, this NES will officially go on hiatus, indefinitely, until I feel like reviving it. One-half is a pretty low standard, yes, but whatever. If I do get over that 50% margin, I will start updating, and I will not accept any late orders, regardless of whether they are from Lesa or the Karapeshai.
That is all.
I moved my deadline back two weeks, and waited a week after that, for this. Wow. Well, tell you what, you have exactly twenty-four hours from the time of this post to get your orders in. If I don't get orders from more than one-half of my players, this NES will officially go on hiatus, indefinitely, until I feel like reviving it. One-half is a pretty low standard, yes, but whatever. If I do get over that 50% margin, I will start updating, and I will not accept any late orders, regardless of whether they are from Lesa or the Karapeshai.
That is all.
Terrance888
Discord Reigns
BaBAM.
