m.t.cicero
Good Kid
New Blood
Throne Room – Opal Palace – Almadi
Nahri om Jiarabala, the unlikely prodigy and Sahrish of Manas, was having trouble coming to terms with what was occurring before his eyes. In the center of the throne room, that grand chamber in the heart of the palace built of the Roshate’s trademark red stone, stood the man whom Nahri had fought alongside just over a year earlier. Yet this could not be the same man who had led the charge at Kardil, scattering the Gallatene forces before him. No, for that man had been a powerful figure, standing with authority unmatched and wielding his siradhar lance with ease. The man before him, hunched, emaciated, defeated, could not possibly be Ibala. The pilgrimage to Sirasona had taken its toll, as the Rosh had taken only two guards with him and no supplies, forcing himself instead to beg for scraps from any who would take him after he revealed his identity and his sins; and rumor had it that he would take almost none of it from himself, instead sharing most of it with his guards. Those rumors were evidently true to Nahri, who felt great shame and sadness seeing his patron resemble a rag covering a pile of sticks. It was not enough, apparently, that his father Pohri had died defending their home of Manas as it fell; no, after all of his good fortune it seemed that Nahri’s second father, Rosh Ibala, would have to be humiliated and drained of life before being cast from his throne, disappearing to live out his life in meditation in some desert monastery. Nahri felt a great grief, as if he was losing his father for a second time.
Standing in front of the throne was the future face of the Roshate. Whereas Ibala’s health was fading fast like the last wisps of light at nightfall, this man shone like the midday sun, brighter than Ibala ever had; while Ibala was assuredly a strong man, this was evidently more due to the fact that he had, before his fall, been large, rather than fit. This man was lean, having the appearance of being at once strong and swift; and the glimmer in his eyes belied a clever mind and a vast library of experiences from which to draw knowledge. This man, the subject of conversation in Almadi and the entire Roshate, was the Barosh and Heir to the Succession of Airan. Sarhun ahm Aghrala am Ibala imaghal was the only son and orphan of Torin am Ibala, eldest brother of the now decrepit Rosh, Sabhru am Ibala. On his deathbed, as he was consumed by sickness at all to young of an age, Torin had named Sabhru his Barosh rather than Sarhun, as Sarhun had been just two years of age at the time, far too young to be Rosh without inviting significant unrest upon the Roshate.
So it was that Sabhru am Ibala became Rosh. Sarhun ahm Aghrala was allowed to remain in court until the age of twelve, in the year 508 RM, when he was sent to the court of Javan in Gallat. Over the next decade Aghrala would fight the Aitahists alongside Javan and become good friends with him, gaining great respect and devotion for the Halyr. Aghrala also witnessed the cowardice of Ibala’s rule, though Javan had always counseled not to allow this frustration to overcome him, as Ibala was the rightful Rosh of the Airan. Javan’s disappearance left Aghrala with no reason to remain in Gallat, so he returned to court in Almadi under the condition that he would not reveal his true identity. However when Ibala appointed Ahala as High Ward, Aghrala would himself disappear as his hero had. His return would come much sooner though, as when it became apparent to Ibala that this war was not worth the great bloodshed it would sure cause, especially with the compromises made at the Synod of Sirasona, Aghrala would appear in his camp, offering to negotiate with the Gallatene leaders whom he was already quite friendly and familiar with after his years in Sirasona.
The Peace of Manas which would end the War of the High Wards had been credited to Aghrala, who by this time had revealed his paternity. The peace was far from unfavorable for the Roshate, which would exchange the relatively unproductive territory of Occara for a decent sum of gold. Ibala, in the midst of a spiritual crisis, had accepted the terms of his abdication in the hopes that he could begin to atone for the great sins which he now believed he may have committed. Ibala’s stress had been compounded by the cowardice of his eldest son and heir, who had fled Manas before it fell. Now, with his impending abdication, Ibala had doubted that his son, Mourin am Ighela, would have been able to command much respect from the sahrishes and jabralahs of the Roshate should he ascend the throne so soon after such an ignominious disgrace. Aghrala’s star meanwhile seemed to be ascending, as he was universally praised by the lords of the Roshate for his handling of the negotiations with the Gallatenes. The “lost prince’s” association with Javan only raised his profile further. With no other sons of proper age to rule the Roshate, Ibala made the decision to return the Succession of Airan to his eldest brother’s line. Thus Sarhun ahm Aghrala was named the new Barosh, the Succession being stripped from Ibala’s cowardly son Ighela.
Though it was unclear whether Aghrala made it to the throne room on good fortune or his own talent, it was a simple fact that he, the “lost prince” of the Roshate, was about to claim his place in the Succession of Airan. The abdication of a Rosh was an unprecedented event, and the new Ward of Almadi moved to get this embarrassment over with as quickly as possible.
“I, Pirat eam Nakala, Ward of Almadi, on behalf of the Faith and the Faithful, am here to bear witness to your penance, my Rosh.”
Ibala was looking straight ahead, at the Ward and straight through him, as if he was focused on something thousands of miles away. Time passed, and a minute passed more slowly than an hour, until the defeated Rosh startled and returned to the throne room.
“Yes, yes…I, Ibala, Rosh of the Airani and Successor of Airan, am here to repent my sins against the Faith and against my own people. I have lead them astray and caused war and suffering, and have allowed myself to be manipulated by corrupt men who seek to sew discord and darkness throughout our world. My penance shall therefore be to surrender my titles and live out my life in meditation in the Jadhai. Ward Nakala, take my crown, for I am unworthy to carry it upon my brow.”
“Very well, Sabhru am Ibala. Be at peace, for you have chosen the correct path”
The Ward’s old, arthritic hands lifted the opal circlet ringed with feathers off of Ibala’s balding head. Ibala immediately stood taller, as if a much greater weight had been lifted from him. He strode aside and melted into the crowd. Ward Nakala turned and walked towards Aghrala, who stood with the back of his legs touching the throne, barely able to bear waiting another moment for that reward which he had always known, in his mind, to be his by right. Nakala stopped not a foot in front of Aghrala, and had to look up to meet the young Barosh in the eye.
“I, Pirat eam Nakala, Ward of Almadi, on behalf of the Faith and the Faithful, am here to bear witness to your ascension, my Barosh. The Throne of Airan stands empty, and his Succession is unclaimed. Do you, Barosh Aghrala, accept the burden of leadership, as is your right and duty?”
“It would be my honor, my Ward.”
“So it is done. I confer upon you the Crown of Airan, and from the moment you feel its weight until your dying day you will be Rosh of the Airani, Successor to Airan. You will do all in your power to bring prosperity to your subjects, justice to the Faith, and most of all honor to the Succession. For the Succession was born before you were born, and it will live after you die. You are one with the Succession now, and your glories will be its glories, and your failings will be its failings. These burdens are yours to bear from this moment on.”
Nakala had to stretch to reach the top of Aghrala’s head, as the lost prince refused to bow an inch.
“May your rule be long and fruitful, my Rosh Aghrala of the Airani, Successor to Airan.”
Cheers erupted among the assembled nobles as the new Rosh adjusted his crown.
“Be calm, my subjects, for there is nothing yet to celebrate. There is much work still to be done; the evil Ahala, corruptor of my beloved uncle, has brought great pain upon our people. We must also reconcile with our brothers in the Faith, as the authority of the High Ward in Sirasona must be recognized by all throughout our lands. The Synod of Sirasona is a great gift to us, as finally all of the Faithful can be united in spirit. There is a myriad of other matter to which we must attend as well, as subjects of the North ourselves and…”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the celebrations of the coronation died down and the great hall of the Opal Palace emptied later that night, Jiarabala finished sipping down his third cup of wine. He had never gotten drunk before, as he had spent much of the past few years, the beginning of his adolescence, at war and with little to celebrate. He could now feel a slight buzz in his head, and found that he enjoyed the feeling, as it made him feel somewhat disconnected from the world around him. He grabbed a fourth cup from the table beside him. The separation felt nice, as reality had as of late been naught but suffering. Two fathers he had lost in the past two years; what ill fortune!
“You are Sahrish Jiarabala of Manas, are you not?”
His downward spiral of thoughts interrupted, Jiarabala blinked as he realized who was addressing him. He looked up to see Rosh Aghrala himself, clad in a ceremonial armor of opal which resembled that which Ibala had worn years ago when he declared Ahala to be High Ward. It must have been a different suit though, as there was no way that the tall, lean Aghrala could wear stout Ibala’s armor. Considering the rarity of opals however, it was not unlikely that Ibala’s armor was dismantled to create that which Aghrala was now wearing.
“Yes, my Rosh, I am your Sahrish, your humble servant.”
“I have heard much about you, Jiarabala, and cannot help but feel that we are very much alike. We were both sent from our homes at a young age, and we both have lost our fathers all too soon. We both have seen war earlier than we should have. I have heard that you fought bravely, Jiarabala, and it seems that you bear testament to that, willing or not”
Jiarabala saw that the Rosh was looking at the scar on his face, which ran from his ear to the edge of his mouth.
“It was nothing, my Rosh.”
“Nothing indeed. Word has reached me that you saved my uncle during his defense of Kardil. Do not sell yourself short, Sahrish Jiarabala, for you have more to offer our realm than you yet realize. For I say again, we are spun of the same thread.”
Aghrala turned his head, and Jiarabala saw a scar along the back of the Rosh’s ear.
“Now I cannot say that I saved Javan’s life as you saved Ibala’s, but I did earn it fighting alongside the Halyr. Loyalty to one’s lord, regardless of one’s safety, is a trait that has proven time and again to be of great value. Without Javan I would be nothing. I hope that I can help you half as much as he helped me, for I see great potential in you, young Jiarabala.”
“I will serve you unto my own death, my Rosh.”
“I may need that service sooner than you realize, Sahrish, for I have my own lord whom I must serve with an even greater fervor.”
“These are dark times, my Rosh.”
“Indeed, I may need to neglect some of my other duties as Rosh in order to fulfill my loyalty. You see, Jiarabala, I am unmarried and without children, and with events progressing as they are I may remain that way for some time. Therefore I have refrained to name a Barosh, and will continue to do so until I find one worthy. So I say, Jiarabala, Sahrish of Manas, do not lose your focus, for you may reap from your loyalty rewards greater than you could have ever hoped for. Farewell, Sahrish.”
Aghrala turned to leave, but not before grabbing the empty cup from Jiarabala’s hand.
“And mind the wine, for it has taken great men from this world and in time it surely will again.”
Jiarabala watched the Successor of Airan walk away before suddenly realizing how tired the wine made him feel. He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, a slight hand with a soft touch.
“You…you were just talking to the Rosh, weren’t you?”
Jiarabala turned to see a young woman who appeared, at least through the lens of the wine, to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Yes, I was. Can I ask your-“
“Jinellhae, my lord.”
“You’re not a noble, are you-”
“Does it really matter?”
“No, not really.”
So it was that Jiarabala came to realize that he need not distance himself from the world to escape pain, but rather that he must become closer with the world to experience joy.
Throne Room – Opal Palace – Almadi
Nahri om Jiarabala, the unlikely prodigy and Sahrish of Manas, was having trouble coming to terms with what was occurring before his eyes. In the center of the throne room, that grand chamber in the heart of the palace built of the Roshate’s trademark red stone, stood the man whom Nahri had fought alongside just over a year earlier. Yet this could not be the same man who had led the charge at Kardil, scattering the Gallatene forces before him. No, for that man had been a powerful figure, standing with authority unmatched and wielding his siradhar lance with ease. The man before him, hunched, emaciated, defeated, could not possibly be Ibala. The pilgrimage to Sirasona had taken its toll, as the Rosh had taken only two guards with him and no supplies, forcing himself instead to beg for scraps from any who would take him after he revealed his identity and his sins; and rumor had it that he would take almost none of it from himself, instead sharing most of it with his guards. Those rumors were evidently true to Nahri, who felt great shame and sadness seeing his patron resemble a rag covering a pile of sticks. It was not enough, apparently, that his father Pohri had died defending their home of Manas as it fell; no, after all of his good fortune it seemed that Nahri’s second father, Rosh Ibala, would have to be humiliated and drained of life before being cast from his throne, disappearing to live out his life in meditation in some desert monastery. Nahri felt a great grief, as if he was losing his father for a second time.
Standing in front of the throne was the future face of the Roshate. Whereas Ibala’s health was fading fast like the last wisps of light at nightfall, this man shone like the midday sun, brighter than Ibala ever had; while Ibala was assuredly a strong man, this was evidently more due to the fact that he had, before his fall, been large, rather than fit. This man was lean, having the appearance of being at once strong and swift; and the glimmer in his eyes belied a clever mind and a vast library of experiences from which to draw knowledge. This man, the subject of conversation in Almadi and the entire Roshate, was the Barosh and Heir to the Succession of Airan. Sarhun ahm Aghrala am Ibala imaghal was the only son and orphan of Torin am Ibala, eldest brother of the now decrepit Rosh, Sabhru am Ibala. On his deathbed, as he was consumed by sickness at all to young of an age, Torin had named Sabhru his Barosh rather than Sarhun, as Sarhun had been just two years of age at the time, far too young to be Rosh without inviting significant unrest upon the Roshate.
So it was that Sabhru am Ibala became Rosh. Sarhun ahm Aghrala was allowed to remain in court until the age of twelve, in the year 508 RM, when he was sent to the court of Javan in Gallat. Over the next decade Aghrala would fight the Aitahists alongside Javan and become good friends with him, gaining great respect and devotion for the Halyr. Aghrala also witnessed the cowardice of Ibala’s rule, though Javan had always counseled not to allow this frustration to overcome him, as Ibala was the rightful Rosh of the Airan. Javan’s disappearance left Aghrala with no reason to remain in Gallat, so he returned to court in Almadi under the condition that he would not reveal his true identity. However when Ibala appointed Ahala as High Ward, Aghrala would himself disappear as his hero had. His return would come much sooner though, as when it became apparent to Ibala that this war was not worth the great bloodshed it would sure cause, especially with the compromises made at the Synod of Sirasona, Aghrala would appear in his camp, offering to negotiate with the Gallatene leaders whom he was already quite friendly and familiar with after his years in Sirasona.
The Peace of Manas which would end the War of the High Wards had been credited to Aghrala, who by this time had revealed his paternity. The peace was far from unfavorable for the Roshate, which would exchange the relatively unproductive territory of Occara for a decent sum of gold. Ibala, in the midst of a spiritual crisis, had accepted the terms of his abdication in the hopes that he could begin to atone for the great sins which he now believed he may have committed. Ibala’s stress had been compounded by the cowardice of his eldest son and heir, who had fled Manas before it fell. Now, with his impending abdication, Ibala had doubted that his son, Mourin am Ighela, would have been able to command much respect from the sahrishes and jabralahs of the Roshate should he ascend the throne so soon after such an ignominious disgrace. Aghrala’s star meanwhile seemed to be ascending, as he was universally praised by the lords of the Roshate for his handling of the negotiations with the Gallatenes. The “lost prince’s” association with Javan only raised his profile further. With no other sons of proper age to rule the Roshate, Ibala made the decision to return the Succession of Airan to his eldest brother’s line. Thus Sarhun ahm Aghrala was named the new Barosh, the Succession being stripped from Ibala’s cowardly son Ighela.
Though it was unclear whether Aghrala made it to the throne room on good fortune or his own talent, it was a simple fact that he, the “lost prince” of the Roshate, was about to claim his place in the Succession of Airan. The abdication of a Rosh was an unprecedented event, and the new Ward of Almadi moved to get this embarrassment over with as quickly as possible.
“I, Pirat eam Nakala, Ward of Almadi, on behalf of the Faith and the Faithful, am here to bear witness to your penance, my Rosh.”
Ibala was looking straight ahead, at the Ward and straight through him, as if he was focused on something thousands of miles away. Time passed, and a minute passed more slowly than an hour, until the defeated Rosh startled and returned to the throne room.
“Yes, yes…I, Ibala, Rosh of the Airani and Successor of Airan, am here to repent my sins against the Faith and against my own people. I have lead them astray and caused war and suffering, and have allowed myself to be manipulated by corrupt men who seek to sew discord and darkness throughout our world. My penance shall therefore be to surrender my titles and live out my life in meditation in the Jadhai. Ward Nakala, take my crown, for I am unworthy to carry it upon my brow.”
“Very well, Sabhru am Ibala. Be at peace, for you have chosen the correct path”
The Ward’s old, arthritic hands lifted the opal circlet ringed with feathers off of Ibala’s balding head. Ibala immediately stood taller, as if a much greater weight had been lifted from him. He strode aside and melted into the crowd. Ward Nakala turned and walked towards Aghrala, who stood with the back of his legs touching the throne, barely able to bear waiting another moment for that reward which he had always known, in his mind, to be his by right. Nakala stopped not a foot in front of Aghrala, and had to look up to meet the young Barosh in the eye.
“I, Pirat eam Nakala, Ward of Almadi, on behalf of the Faith and the Faithful, am here to bear witness to your ascension, my Barosh. The Throne of Airan stands empty, and his Succession is unclaimed. Do you, Barosh Aghrala, accept the burden of leadership, as is your right and duty?”
“It would be my honor, my Ward.”
“So it is done. I confer upon you the Crown of Airan, and from the moment you feel its weight until your dying day you will be Rosh of the Airani, Successor to Airan. You will do all in your power to bring prosperity to your subjects, justice to the Faith, and most of all honor to the Succession. For the Succession was born before you were born, and it will live after you die. You are one with the Succession now, and your glories will be its glories, and your failings will be its failings. These burdens are yours to bear from this moment on.”
Nakala had to stretch to reach the top of Aghrala’s head, as the lost prince refused to bow an inch.
“May your rule be long and fruitful, my Rosh Aghrala of the Airani, Successor to Airan.”
Cheers erupted among the assembled nobles as the new Rosh adjusted his crown.
“Be calm, my subjects, for there is nothing yet to celebrate. There is much work still to be done; the evil Ahala, corruptor of my beloved uncle, has brought great pain upon our people. We must also reconcile with our brothers in the Faith, as the authority of the High Ward in Sirasona must be recognized by all throughout our lands. The Synod of Sirasona is a great gift to us, as finally all of the Faithful can be united in spirit. There is a myriad of other matter to which we must attend as well, as subjects of the North ourselves and…”
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
As the celebrations of the coronation died down and the great hall of the Opal Palace emptied later that night, Jiarabala finished sipping down his third cup of wine. He had never gotten drunk before, as he had spent much of the past few years, the beginning of his adolescence, at war and with little to celebrate. He could now feel a slight buzz in his head, and found that he enjoyed the feeling, as it made him feel somewhat disconnected from the world around him. He grabbed a fourth cup from the table beside him. The separation felt nice, as reality had as of late been naught but suffering. Two fathers he had lost in the past two years; what ill fortune!
“You are Sahrish Jiarabala of Manas, are you not?”
His downward spiral of thoughts interrupted, Jiarabala blinked as he realized who was addressing him. He looked up to see Rosh Aghrala himself, clad in a ceremonial armor of opal which resembled that which Ibala had worn years ago when he declared Ahala to be High Ward. It must have been a different suit though, as there was no way that the tall, lean Aghrala could wear stout Ibala’s armor. Considering the rarity of opals however, it was not unlikely that Ibala’s armor was dismantled to create that which Aghrala was now wearing.
“Yes, my Rosh, I am your Sahrish, your humble servant.”
“I have heard much about you, Jiarabala, and cannot help but feel that we are very much alike. We were both sent from our homes at a young age, and we both have lost our fathers all too soon. We both have seen war earlier than we should have. I have heard that you fought bravely, Jiarabala, and it seems that you bear testament to that, willing or not”
Jiarabala saw that the Rosh was looking at the scar on his face, which ran from his ear to the edge of his mouth.
“It was nothing, my Rosh.”
“Nothing indeed. Word has reached me that you saved my uncle during his defense of Kardil. Do not sell yourself short, Sahrish Jiarabala, for you have more to offer our realm than you yet realize. For I say again, we are spun of the same thread.”
Aghrala turned his head, and Jiarabala saw a scar along the back of the Rosh’s ear.
“Now I cannot say that I saved Javan’s life as you saved Ibala’s, but I did earn it fighting alongside the Halyr. Loyalty to one’s lord, regardless of one’s safety, is a trait that has proven time and again to be of great value. Without Javan I would be nothing. I hope that I can help you half as much as he helped me, for I see great potential in you, young Jiarabala.”
“I will serve you unto my own death, my Rosh.”
“I may need that service sooner than you realize, Sahrish, for I have my own lord whom I must serve with an even greater fervor.”
“These are dark times, my Rosh.”
“Indeed, I may need to neglect some of my other duties as Rosh in order to fulfill my loyalty. You see, Jiarabala, I am unmarried and without children, and with events progressing as they are I may remain that way for some time. Therefore I have refrained to name a Barosh, and will continue to do so until I find one worthy. So I say, Jiarabala, Sahrish of Manas, do not lose your focus, for you may reap from your loyalty rewards greater than you could have ever hoped for. Farewell, Sahrish.”
Aghrala turned to leave, but not before grabbing the empty cup from Jiarabala’s hand.
“And mind the wine, for it has taken great men from this world and in time it surely will again.”
Jiarabala watched the Successor of Airan walk away before suddenly realizing how tired the wine made him feel. He suddenly felt a hand on his shoulder, a slight hand with a soft touch.
“You…you were just talking to the Rosh, weren’t you?”
Jiarabala turned to see a young woman who appeared, at least through the lens of the wine, to be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
“Yes, I was. Can I ask your-“
“Jinellhae, my lord.”
“You’re not a noble, are you-”
“Does it really matter?”
“No, not really.”
So it was that Jiarabala came to realize that he need not distance himself from the world to escape pain, but rather that he must become closer with the world to experience joy.
