End of Empires - N3S III

WHY DOES EVERYONE WANT IT??? :mad:

I WAS FIIIRST!!! [pissed]
 
Apparently the second I mention a country by name, it becomes the most coveted thing ever. :p For the record, Noaunnaha isn't THAT great, it's just that there seems to be an enormous demand for "thalassocratic state with exploration opportunities," and that's a pretty limited niche. Personally, I am of the opinion that Iolha, Kilar, Nech, and the Laitra have more potential and are in more interesting situations; Noaunnaha is a bit of a blank slate.
 
Also, with no interest from Kraznaya and with Lucky wanting to stay on as Cyve, the Dual Empire (a pretty major power) is now open as well -- though I'll wait to see who all might be interested before handing that one out to whoever comes first.

Also, I think JoanK expressed interest in Noaunnaha first -- someone else correct me if I'm wrong, so it could go to him.
 
I did, on chat, before anybody even asked in the thread.
 
Thinking about joining this again after my rather long absence. Haven't read up on the past couple updates... anyone want to bring me up to speed on the current state of things? :p
 
Stats are updated. Ninja, I'd be happy to catch you up via chat (#neverending) if you like, but in way of a really quick summary, the War of the Three Gods ended with the Satar ending up replacing the Evyni. Now they and the Savirai are locked in a brutal conflict over Gallat. The Opulensi are staggering, and the Dulama look weaker than ever. Kogur is still struggling along in Parna, with little real progress.

Good open states include the Dual Empire (Savirai), the Kothari, and others mentioned above.
 
North King said:
For the record, Noaunnaha isn't THAT great, it's just that there seems to be an enormous demand for "thalassocratic state with exploration opportunities," and that's a pretty limited niche.
Click to expand...

I suppose it might be time to announce that an officially stated aim of Leunan war effort against the Opulensi is to liberate the former polities of the Eastern League. This would be New Kalos, Cheidia, Tars, Cynta, Erlias, and Ichan.

ELlib.png
 
Exatai of the North Part 16


Hynasf
Lexevh, 439 RM​



The sweet scent of honey roasted meats filled the air of the Great Hall. Shouts of laughter and roars and cheers accompanied the smell, reverberating from the great stone walls like the pounding of a thousand drums at once. Three hundred or more of the highest ranked members of the ever . . . demanding nobility gathered themselves at the Palace on the Rock, night after night, to partake in the free flowing wine and entertainment. All of which, they said, was up to him, poor old Lord Hynasf, to find a way to finance. He’d lived these parties for longer than most men dreamed of living, and yet he had grown weary of them.

He opened his eyes to study his book once more. It was a foreign tome—as most were—written in the hand of some scribe of the Exatai who had copied a text that, in all probability, was copied from another text. He dreamed of originals, but the life of a northern lord, no matter how wealthy, prevented such acquisitions.

He had propped himself in a corner of the Great Hall, along a wall not far from the three thrones of his liege, in a leather cushioned chair of his own design. At his feet sat a finely crafted bronze tub filled with warm water from the furnaces below. It was scented by lavender perfume. The smell, he noted, sadly found itself overwhelmed by odors of the hall. Beside him, as they ever were, his personal concubines tended to his legs with trained hands. They massaged his legs, parting the silk garments he wore to place warm hands against his flesh. It was a heaven better than any he’d heard of.

The Fisheaters of the Nakalani, the book was titled. A rather suitable name, he thought. Perhaps . . .

He turned to his dark skinned concubine—Zai. She was from the far south, in the lands of the Moti Empire. He’d bought her when she was barely old enough to bleed, in exchange for a pearl he’d been given by a diver from Udel. It gave him a chuckle to think of how useless that pearl had been for an old man like him. At ninety-three years he had little need for gems and precious things, but a woman of her youth—such as Zai—could do many things for him that his peers only wished their wives could.

He lifted his liver spotted hand to her smooth, dark face. Her hair was unlike any hair he’d found elsewhere, and she wore it such intricate braids down her back. He caressed her face.

“My ebon beauty,” he said. She smiled back at him. “This book speaks of the Nakalani. Have you ever seen those waters?”

She shook her head.

Tsk.

It was a shame that she’d come so young. Perhaps, in another life, she could have told him of the colors of the seas of the south. Seas he’d read about. Bright waters, he’d read somewhere. Bright waters with fish of every color. He turned back to his book.

He read.

The tribes of the southern ocean, also known to the locals as the Nakalani, inhabit a great number of miniscule islands of no material worth. The peoples therein, often nude in their own savagery, have no form of agriculture or metallurgy to speak of. It is these people, to be known as Fisheaters in the tongue of the Opulensi, that sprinkle their seed across the far southern edges of the world. On their islands, it is known, they bathe in sand and have no form of legal code to speak of. The Fisheaters build long ships from hollowed out trees, just wide enough for one or two men to journey out into the shallow seas around their near barren islands. Here they fish with all manner of weaved rope, from vines that grow in the thick jungles, and small lures of worked wood to grasp fish in similar manner to civilized metal hooks.

Hmm.

“A little higher,” he commanded the Satar woman opposite Zai.

He smiled, knowing they could not go much higher than they already were.

And then, he heard the sound of an ox horn blowing beyond the walls of the Great Hall. It carried far across the city in the low ground beneath the Rock, up from the harbor. He turned his head away from his book to the triple thrones. There, seated in the middle, sat his Prince-Regent, Glynt, son of Fulwarc, who had grown to be a man of heavy proportions in his excess. On both sides were lesser thrones, carved of the same pure marble as the much large central one. To the left the wife of the Prince-Regent, Nekelia, sat, her heavily engraved mask appeared to be near black in the lighting. While to the right the young heir sat, the boy Ephasir. The bronze masked true born son of Glynt.

Five generations of kings, he reminisced. Glynt of old, the Magnificent they call him now. That was a king. Mmm. And his son, and Fulwarc, all great kings and conquerors. He thought about the shame that had come to the family, then, as he watched the Prince-Regent Glynt wipe drool from his mouth as he fully removed the bronze mask from his face, tossing it behind the throne. He’d been sleeping. He downed a barrel of wine a night himself, and was drunk far before his guests arrived each night. And now the prince could hardly keep his image in line. Not even his wife, the young Nekelia, who was so proper in the Satar manner, could break Glynt of his rudeness. He did as he pleased.

The feast died down for a moment. Silence filled the hall until the drunken gesturing of the Prince-Regent coerced them back to their wine and conversations. Hynasf knew the sound that horn made to mean only one thing. The Prince of Bone had returned from the south. And, true enough to his thoughts, it was not long before the sound of horses by the dozens pounded on the grounds outside the Great Hall’s entranceway. The heavy wooden doors, in ill-repair for years, served to distort the ruckus into a jumbled mess of sounds that mingled with the cheerfulness of the hall. Servant girls in loose clothing—or none at all, in some cases—dashed about the hall with bronze and silver pitchers of wine to pour for their superiors. Hynasf even spotted one poor girl being ravaged by a low noble from the far north, or maybe the Frelesti conquest. They all dressed as poor as the Nechekt. She seemed less than enthused that the brute had overpowered her. His companions cheered him on.

Hynasf shrugged to himself. Power has benefits. It was the way of the land in the absence of Fulwarc, which had been the norm for the past three decades now. It had never bothered him too much, himself a man of pleasure. He never had to rape, though. Women were better in bed, he thought, if one soothed them with riches, wine and the poet’s tongue. He couldn’t help but wish for the energy of that young man, however. To be old was his greatest displeasure in life.

The heavy doors of the Great Hall swung open by the hands of four of Fulwarc’s prince-guards. Cool wind rushed in to flicker the candles and chandeliers overhead, and in doing so, pulled the spirit of the feast from the room. Through the door he could see the walls around the city that Glynt had built. They wrapped the entirety of Lexevh, which sat far downhill from them. Standing in the yard, over the yellow-green grasses that withered in the fall, were some thirty or more horses. On the back of a great white steed was his king, his prince, Fulwarc II cuCyve.

His prince’s beard had gone gray with age. The bone mask that sat across his face was stained by the sea winds and blood of many battles and raids. He dismounted. The Prince of Bone walked with a noticeable wobble and did not put weight on his left side. What had happened? He’d request to examine his king at once. If it was gout, he could tend to it. Fulwarc stepped into the Great Hall with an air of annoyance about him. He had not been back to his palace for most of the last decade. Off in the south, fighting the Aitahists in the Lovi Sea.

Beside him a new red-masked Satar man walked, spear and shield strapped to his back. The man was far too young to be Artaxeras. A new tarkan? Interesting. And a half dozen more prince-guards in silver-plated scale armor, a group of many races.

The hall fell silent.

Hynasf used his feet to slide the bronze tub away from him. He nudged his concubines to lift him from his seated position. Standing gave his old bones a horrible grind. He stifled a moan of pain.

He cleared his throat to gain the attention of his king.

“Prince of Bone,” he said to Fulwarc, across the great expanse of lords and servants. He bowed deep.

Fulwarc tilted his head to Hynasf. “You’re still alive, old man?”

“Very, my prince.”

Fulwarc laughed. Others joined in, but stopped when he did.

“By heaven may I drink from the same well as you, Hynasf,” said the Prince of Bone.

Fulwarc turned his attention to the three marble thrones, whereupon his family was seated. He walked forward, not minding his path for others—and even pushing one lesser lord aside without a second thought—as he made his way towards the stairs that climbed the raised platform of the thrones. It was there that Fulwarc had kicked the Satar liaison down without a care all those years ago. Fulwarc was a young man back then, a black haired wild man of the north, and now he was a Satar Prince.

Fulwarc climbed the steps, leaving his new tarkan behind on the main floor of the hall.

“Father,” cheered Glynt in a drunken mumble. “I have kept your throne warm.”

The fat prince tried to stand, but fell back into the throne, laughing to himself. Nekelia stood from her seat and bowed to the Prince of Bone, but he acted as if he’d not seen her. He turned his cold gaze to the young Ephasir for a moment, until the boy shied his face from his grandfather’s stare.

“Your seed was not worthless after all,” said Fulwarc. “I see you’ve managed to mount your wife at least once since she’s been here.” The Prince of Bone paused for a moment to look back across the Great Hall. “And what have you all done to my city?”

“Improved it,” said Glynt, trying to stand, still, and somewhat succeeding by leaning against the marble arm rest. “I’ve built walls.”

“Look at yourself. You disgust me.”

Glynt shook his head as if to make sure he’d heard his father’s words correctly. Hynasf began to make his way to the base of the stairs, and once there, dared not climb them. He was supported by his Satar and Moti beauties.

“There are a great many things of importance that I must tell you, Prince of Bone,” said Hynasf. He looked up, heavy wrinkles pulling his face into a droop. “Things must be put into order now that you have returned.”

Glynt moved from the throne, wobbling under his own weight and drunkenness. He moved to the seat where Ephasir sat, but the boy did not move at first out of confusion. Glynt grunted at the boy to move, and in anger at his slowness, swung a heavy hand to strike the child. Fortunately, the boy was small and quick—and accustomed to beatings—so his reflexes were enough to allow him to duck underneath his father’s arm. Unfortunately for Glynt, in his state he found no balance and toppled over the small throne and to the stone floor beside it, nearly rolling down the stairs before he caught himself.

Fulwarc let out a great laugh at his son. Ephasir scurried down the steps of the thrones and dashed out of the Great Hall, up the winding stone stair to the royal quarters far above.

“Stay if you want, woman,” Fulwarc said to Nekelia. “The rest of you,” he spoke loudly, “leave.”

He took a seat in the larger throne, turning his head towards Hynasf below him. The partygoers behind him had dropped everything to leave the hall. Some went up the stairs to their quarters above, as many lived in the Rock itself, but others found a multitude of ways out of the hall and to wherever they thought to continue their entertainment. The servant girl he’d watched before limped her way into the arms of another and together they left the hall through a special corridor to the kitchens far below.

“The treasury is near empty,” said Hynasf, coughing a bit as he spoke. “Your son, as regent in your absence, has spent no day without a full belly of wine and entertainment of the highest cost. I have been a man of pleasure my entire life, but I have also made my mark as a merchant in the northern seas, and at no time have I taken pleasure over business. But I do as my lord commands,” he admitted, bowing.

“You’re not to fault,” replied Fulwarc. He looked at Glynt, who seemed unaware of his surroundings as he leaned back in the small throne, his large gut jutting from beneath his silken shirt. “Two true born sons and not one of them are worth a damn. Unger died as a woman would, and his daughter shames my name. Glynt is unworthy of his own name, let alone to be my seed. Their mother was a Nechekt. That was my father’s mistake.”

Neither spoke for a moment.

“What would you have me do?” said Hynasf.

“Sell the ships to the Redeemer. I’ve brought back near ninety ships of tribute from the Carohan cowards. Sixty should recoup some of the losses.”

“It shall be done.”

“And your woman,” he said, pointing to Zai as she held Hynasf steady. “Where did you get her?”

“You can’t have her until I’m dead, my Prince. I apologize.”

“Hah, find me one, then. And fix this mess while you’re at it. You’re never going to die.”

“Some days, Prince, it feels as if the world refuses to let me.”
 
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

--

“They carried him. The family that found him were salt gatherers. They had barely enough for themselves and couldn’t risk taking care of an injured stranger for an unknown amount of time.”

The old man paused for a moment and took in the sight. Dozens of people sat on the ground in front of him as he told the story. The streets of Limach around them continued to bustle with traders, soldiers patrolled by taking only enough notice to ensure the group was not getting rowdy.

Satisfied that he continued to have the full attention directed towards himself on his small stage, he continued.

“They debated for some time. The boy who brought him water pleaded for the wounded man’s shelter; ‘We cannot leave him to die. He is in our care.’ His elder brother suggested apathy; ‘Return him to the sun-bleached road, and let us forget he exists.’ The mother and sister feared for their personal safety should he remain; ‘He is a man and shall have needs, and we are but defenseless salt gatherers.’ However the father had the last word; ‘We shall take him to those in the mountain.’

“Those ‘men’ were guardians of a shrine to a lesser known spirit of all mountains except Kíern named Kotsai. The shrine was the closest human inhabited location to the family. The father knew that if they took the man there, they could leave him with those who may help without risking the family’s resources. A wise man indeed!”

“I heard it was the mother and sister who suggested they go there and that father wanted to drown him.” Whispered a younger man in the back to his friend who sat beside him.

Unheard by the old man, he continued his story.

“They loaded the injured man onto a cart and travelled a half day to the shrine through harsh heat. The men were uncomplaining as their work was important. The mother stayed behind to keep watch of the house, but the daughter and youngest son joined their father to the shrine. Taking the daughter had been a struggle. She was uninterested in travelling, and the mother feared for her daughter’s safety alone at the shrine. However, the father knew she would not be bothered there, and demanded she travel along to see what it was to be a good person. She went begrudgingly.”

“I heard the mother made the daughter go worried that otherwise the father would kill the man once away from their home. He wouldn’t kill a defenseless man in front of his daughter.” Again, the young man whispered to his friend. The other young man gave him a sideways glance and continued listening to the old man.

“They arrived at the shrine of Kotsai, and the guardians came quickly. They helped the man off the cart. They whispered to themselves as they guided him into the guardian’s shelter.

‘U Nuín?’

‘U Nuín.’

‘Nól … deafói?’

‘Cai.’

‘Cáluf nóal tiac.’

‘Fúcáloc nól.’ (1)

The young man whispered again to his friend, “This is horrid. Who’s speaking to who?”

“If it bothers you so much, stop complaining to me about it. I am sitting here enjoying it.” His friend shot back while punching him in the leg.

“Fine,” the young man stood, rubbing his leg for a moment. The old man stopped his story and watched as the crowd turned. The young man addressed the gathered audience, “This is a terrible storyman. He has his truths wrong; it is impossible to tell who is speaking in his dialogue; and I just don’t like his lack of rhythm in his phrases.”

The crowd got noisy. Calls in support of the storyman and calls in support of the young man went up. Arguments broke out and it threatened to turn physical, but the storyman raised his hands up to calm the crowd. “Let him try,” were his only words as his stepped from the small stage.

The young man stepped through the crowd and took the storyman’s place. He looked around as the crowd returned to sitting. He took a breath, “So, um... the guy went into the shack. The father was glad to be rid of him and took his children home. Told the guardians to not let him back towards their house. The boy tried to wave, as did the daughter, but their father hit them both, so they hid. Then they took care of him. Also, um... they kept him for a while. Um...”

He paused. The crowd immediately started to become restless.

“Give me a moment. I’ll remember the rest,” He ducked as a half eaten fish flew towards him. As he stood, he wasted no time speaking, “He gathered fish for them! He went into the sea and gathered fish for sauce!”

A roar of laughter came from the gathered crowd.

“He’s headlong in the mountain scrub, you fool!” shouted one man.

“You skipped the horse!” cried another.

“Bring back the old man!” was the last intelligible comment from the audience before sand, maize, and fish started flying en masse towards the young man. He looked around for help as he tried to make his way from the front.

He caught site of approaching soldiers only to be knocked out by a small clay cup. The soldiers broke up the crowd and found an unconscious man covered in tóasu, fish bones, maize, and sand.

---

1:
‘U Nuín?’ (He’s from Naranue/Naran?)
‘U Nuín.’ (He’s from Naranue/Naran.)
‘Nól … deafói?’ (This...man/warrior?)
‘Cai.’ (Yes.)
‘Cáluf nóal tiac.’ (His leg is injured.)
‘Fúcáloc nól.’ (It will heal.)
 
The Red Goddess


Aelona
Gurach, 550 SR​


The Spirit is with Me. It guides my quill to the ink and the ink upon the paper. I am one with It, as It is one with Me. We have seen what has before gone unseen. We have seen the world as it will be, as it is destined to be through Me. With the Flame and Light, burning forever, We are. We are.

The flicker of candle light blurred in her vision. The room around her, indeed the world itself, was returning from the haze of drug induced visions that she so longed for. She could feel the chill of the desert air upon her bare flesh. And the crackling of dry paint, smeared upon her naked body from face to foot in a new pattern that she did not recognize.

She was not that fair child any longer.

Before her sat stacks upon stacks of parchment paper, scribbled on in all the languages she knew, though time and time again she found her hand writing in the calligraphic style of her Satar enemies. It came from within, without her consent, and it must stop. Her chambers were lush, filled with exotic plants and chirping birds from the Nakalani islands. Her Flamebearer had constructed a new wing, especially for her, on the far eastern portion of the main palace in Gurach. But she hated the desert. She hated it.

“Drink more from the dark inspiration,” said the Spirit.

She shook her head, inhaling deeply. The voices were a blessing and a curse. They confirmed what she was, and told her what to write, but they were not always welcome to her mind. Khatai had drunk the Nightdraft as a rite of passage. She drank it daily. The heavy liquid chilled her stomach and set alight her mind.

She went to stand from her stool, but lost her balance. If not for the table she would have fallen to the hard stone floor. The stickiness of the paint upon her buttocks had set into the chair, leaving flakes behind. She looked beyond her balconies, through the curtained passages out into the open air a few dozen feet above the gardens below. The sun had set on the Face of the Moon.

How long? She wondered. How long have I been here?

She traced her own figure in the low light of the candle’s flame. The paint upon her body was hard to make out. It was made of many colors: reds, whites, blues and purples. Her hands ran down her flat stomach. She gasped.

“Qasra!” she screamed. “Qasra!”

She went to run, but her own drunkenness left her in a maladroit state. Her bare feet slipped on loose parchment upon the stone floor and she tumbled, banging her arms into the unforgiving stonework as she did. Her own writing caught her eye as she wept against the floor.

The world in darkness . . . false idols of the west. They hide their intent from the world, but not from Me.

“Empress!”

“A voice calls for you,” said the Spirit.

Warm hands grabbed hold her arms as she crumpled the parchment before her. With a great strength, she felt herself pulled from the floor in a mighty swoop to a full stand, though only the tips of her toes reached the floor. She was older, yes, but her guard still towered above her.

“What,” Thryar asked in her father’s tongue.

She frowned. “Nothing.”

He gently placed her feet and released his grip. Thryar was an old man now, much older and worn than he had been when they crossed the desert just four years before. His beard was turning to an ash color, losing the strength it once had, and his eyes were sinking into a wrinkled and tired face. He wore a sash of bronze masks about his waist, signs of victories long won.

“Qasra,” she whispered.

“Is with his wet-nurse,” Thryar replied.

Her hands ran to her stomach again as she sighed. Just a horrible thought. A single tear rolled across her cheek, taking white paint with it as she wiped at it.

“Bring him to me,” she commanded.

“No,” he replied, unyielding.

“Ha ha ha ha ha,” laughed the Spirit.

She backed away from her guard. Her most loyal of friends left in this new world. She had lost the servants of the Rock. She had lost her cousins, Cuskar and Katu, to distance and time. And now Thryar commands Me? No, she thought, whimpering as she walked to her table. She threw the newest parchment to the floor and spilt her ink in the process. She was looking for her drink. Her dearest friend left.

Nightdraft.

But there was none left in her cups. None. She lifted one of them up, holding her mouth open beneath it in hope for but a single drop of the deep coolness. None came. She growled, grinding her teeth in anger, and tossed the porcelain cup towards her guard. He batted it away with his hand, sending it to shatter against the stone floor near her bed. She surrendered, flopping down into the hard wooden stool she had been in before.

“What do you know?” She mocked her guard.

He smirked and paced near the door. “What has your Spirit told you today? Has it told you how best to be beaten by your husband when he returns? Has it made you paint yourself like some pagan whore? That is the worst attempt at a bone mask you’ve ever made.” His voice was unforgiving in tone.

She turned her face from him, burning with rage.

“And if I tell the Emperor that you’ve denied me?”

“He’d give me a raise.”

Her eyes caught a worn Kalis board lying upon the floor, pieces arranged in the four quadrants of a game half done. Such a curious sight, she thought. She did not remember having played the game for weeks.

“When did we play?” she asked him. Thryar was, after all, the only person that bothered to play the Satar game at all in this forsaken city.

“That’d be the voice in your head or you?”

“What?”

“I don’t know anymore, Empress.” He paused in thought. “Sometimes, you beg me to play. Sometimes you play all by yourself, moving as both sides and talking to no one. Sometimes.” He sighed. “You shake and scream. Sometimes, Empress, you beg for me to give you a child that doesn’t exist.”

“Has my love . . .” she went to ask, but stopped.

A sharp pain came into her head, pulsing at her temples. The memory flashed through her thoughts and brought a harsh reality to her awareness. It was as if she was watching herself from outside of her body.

She was in her chambers. Qasra, but an infant, held in her lap as she scribbled at her table. Parchment flew with a breeze, but she paid it no mind. She drank from her porcelain cups, the dark liquid within running from the corner of her mouth and dripping onto her bare breast, where Qasra suckled for milk. She had painted herself in Cyvekt runes. The names of long dead gods written in fingered paint. As she drank, she moaned like a whore. The drugs had overtaken her.

She watched herself, sitting there with infant in arms. Soon her husband, the emperor, Khatai, came into the chambers. He was angry. And though he yelled, her memory could not remember the exact words. The memory grew blurry.

She focused, pulling back at the memory.

Khatai struck her across the face with a hand full of rings. The infant Qasra fell with her, but her body broke the fall. She saw a stream of blood trickle down her cheek and past her mouth, tumbling like a rolling stone off of her smooth, painted chin. Khatai grabbed the child, and with a whistle summoned a servant to take him away.

She watched the scene unfold. Khatai grabbed her by the hair, pulling her to her feet. He shouted at her, but the memory of the words was lost in the haze of Nightdraft. But in her nudity, all she did was smile. She licked at the blood, and then at Khatai’s own face. He shook his head as she hugged him close, licking and kissing on his face and neck. He grew tired of it all.

He tossed her to the bed of silk and feathered pillows. There she rolled about, and Aelona no longer watched the scene, but lived it. The memory returned more thoroughly to her as she recalled it, and now she saw as she had on that day, from the bed. Khatai poured her Nightdraft from the cup into a nearby potted bush.

“Is this the Light?” he asked. “Is this the curse of being the Bearer of Your Flame?”

She lay on her back, spreading her legs wide to her husband. She felt herself all over in anticipation. She didn’t know why she’d done that, only the drink did.

“I’m only here for the week,” he said. “I must go south again, to fight our enemies. To save you. To save my children.”

He sighed as he looked through her writings. She still writhed in yearning.

“Another child,” the Spirit said to her.

“Your seed, my love,” she called out, quivering. “Another child.”

She sank in her stool at the memory. She felt her face where the rings had cut, but no wound was there to obstruct her fingers. How long has it been? She looked at Thryar, who had stopped pacing to watch her as she zoned out of their conversation. She spit into her hands and rubbed at the paint on her face.

How long has it been? She wept.
 
It's part of a grand conspiracy to unseat you. :p

In all seriousness, include it in your orders next time.


Just as an FYI, I'm bowing to popular demand and moving the tentative deadline back a bit. The update will likely happen in December as a result.
 
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