OOC: Update your damn stats already.
The Lay of the Unbowed
Part the First: The Satar, The Shield, The Fire-Light
Part the Second: The Accanon, The Out-Caste, The Sea Lord
Part the Third: The Moon, The Scroll, The Challenge
Did you, forget, that to the plains you owe a debt,
Your walls, of stone, have caused you to be overthrown,
So trust your spears alone.
-Third Call [Call of the Vithana],
Karapeshai Tela [The Lay of the Unbowed]
---
Being a warlike people, foreigners have often ascribed to the Satar and their Vithana cousins a lack of subtlety. This is true even among my own people, who might claim to know the Satar the best; for so often unwary Accani even believe that they control the Satar, guiding their passions into forms which can be more useful for the Exatai, and the benefit of Talledi our God. But it is the Satar who rule us, rather than the reverse. When the first Accani to meet with the Satar asked Atraxes why he wore his mask at all times, the Satar responded simply, I do not bare my naked genitals before your eyes. Do not bare your naked face before mine.
The idea that the sensory organs of the face were somehow intimate and private seemed so strange to our ancestors, but is so naturally accepted by us today. We revile the maskless peoples as having no culture, as if masking was an Accan invention to begin with. While the Rutto have had mask-culture since the ancient days (more support for my claim the Satar and Accani are brethren,) the gift of the mask was not extended to all until after the Great Tribute to Atraxes-ta-Vaxalai.
Even the beggars in Alma with their wooden masks, seeing Satar riders cantering through the streets, say, Thank the sky-God that they wear masks like civilized men. How far, indeed, we have come.
But to return from the hill to the mountain; this question of subtlety. If the Satar truly are an unsubtle people ruled by their passions, why do they conceal their emotions behind a mask?
-Axilias-ta-Alma,
The Third Exatai
---
The Redeemer held court atop of the corpse of a dead empire. It was a tableau, he realized, that would be made into murals. The restoration of the lost tribe, saving their wounded god from death. The host of three peoples overcoming the barbarian north.
Unless we are the barbarians. He admitted, considering the sack of an ancient and beautiful city of men, that it was a valid argument.
They had claimed the palace of some lord. Quem, they called them. Someone had broken the windows of colored glass and torn down the wall hangings. A few Satar men-at-arms were busy making holes in the wall so that the Redeemer could feel the wind, which was necessary in order for the building to be holy.
The lord himself lay writhing at his feet. Limbs bound, he thrashed like a snake.
As his men grew amused at the barbarians impotent rage, Jahan noticed that
satharī was one of the words he spat most frequently, followed by what could only be the most vile curses in his tongue. Good! Jahan roared. They know who we are! And they heaved with laughter, as he knew they would. One of his
tarkanai strode forward sneering, and slammed a spearbutt into the mans ribs, transforming his curses into whimpers.
Jahan motioned to him to cease before the beating became too brutal. These
evnai were a proud nation unused to defeat. But pride could be tempered into something
useful. One of the simpering men from the
akano was asking him something about tribute, and he called over his oracle Seikar to advise him. Find this
quems enemies in this city, he said softly to Seikar. His debtors, his rivals. Give him and his property over to them. Then bid them come to me.
The quem was dragged from the room as his servants watched with wide eyes.
The Redeemer shivered despite himself, as the chill autumn breeze flowed in thorough new-made holes. This was a cold, wretched, barbarian land. It was perfect.
---
The mask was covered in elegant silver engraving, the interlocking runes that spelled scroll etched across the border. Two green eyes took in the scene.
He saw the Accans in their bulky armor, bows slung behind their backs, shortswords at their sides. They were in small groups talking quietly amongst themselves, unassuming. Their hair was sandy brown compared to the jet black hair of the Satar and Vithana. Accan eyes were also lighter, blue and blue-green. There was also a coterie of Accan indenture-scribes given as a gift by the High Families of Alma, translating the Vithana-accented trade-Satar of the Redeemer into the hieratic Atractid Satar of government, and into Accan as well. They were also here, he suspected, to gain control of Jahans new bureaucracy.
The Satar and the Vithana occupied opposite sides of the hall, while the Accans were closely arrayed around the Redeemers dais. Despite the campaigns of the last fifteen years, the oldest warriors still remembered the days when the Vithana were hated enemies that constantly raided the Gap of Phalen. Some of the bad blood had been washed away, but not all. The princes were not at all reconciled to the idea of a barbarian warlord leading them.
Avetas approached the dais, walking slowly between the lines of men.
The Redeemers cronies parted to let him through.
Prince Avetas-ta-Delphis, Jahan rumbled.
Jahan of the Moon, Avetas replied, simply.
There was silence in the hall. Avetas had addressed the Redeemer by his princely title alone. The Accan scribes were retreating into the shadows as surreptitiously as possible.
The tarkan who had beaten the quem before, an uncultured enforcer by the name of Narrak, spat at the floor dangerously close to Avetas feet. Your disrespect endangers you,
ketris. [1]
As do your three wives, in the eyes of Taleldil, Avetas simply replied. Narrak snarled, but before he could throw himself at Avetas, the Redeemers hand clapped down on his shoulder.
The ire of a servant, Jahan intoned, lies in defending his master. The calm tone of the Redeemer lessened the tension in the room, but only slightly. Elikas-ta-Tisatar was not here, but the other princes in the room (some newly acclaimed) looked ready to come to Avetas aid, if he called for it. The Vithana looked equally ready to try and stop them.
So tell me, my young
sartas, said Jahan to Avetas, What have I done to deserve such disrespect?
With all the dignity of a Satar prince ancient in lineage, Avetas replied, Your men have violated the sacred laws of Atraxes. They have committed rape in the sack of this city, and taken more than the allotted number of slaves. They have stolen great treasures, and burned the sacred places of these people. Your tribe made themselves monsters
and they have done so with your consent.
Absolute silence in the hall.
Against those who have no exatas, anything is permitted.
And a Redeemer who has fled, rather than accepting noble death on the field of his defeat, has no exatas.
Karhat was not a defeat, but a lesson from Taleldil.
Jahan-ta-Vaxalai, Sartas-ta-Aresha, you face the battle challenge.
---
The scroll, unfurled, before the dais, and Jahan's world
Would shake, would shake, as scroll-prince did his challenge make
Exatai was at stake.
---
[1] Satar (and by adoption, Vithana) word for pheasant. Derogatory term used by Vithana to refer to Satar.