Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Nice story, Darkening! I'm too tired to finish my own, so I will tomorrow.
LINESII- Into the Darkness- Part II
- Thread starter Lord_Iggy
- Start date
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
I know, there's a route that leads up the hillside, like I said in the story, and previous ones. The lift is just for direct transport.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Oh sure, of course there are gates! I was only referring to direct access from the sea. There's a harbor, but to enter into the main city you either take the lift, or take a steep road up the hillside.
The New Veritasans are a bit paranoid about an enemy attacking from the sea.
The New Veritasans are a bit paranoid about an enemy attacking from the sea.
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
You could definitely say that. Traders and merchants usually keep their goods down in the port, (along with their sailors 
) and then go up into the upper city to trade. I've actually planned it out quite well.
Picture this. The city's walls are shaped like a diamond, with the upper corner cut off by the coastline.
...____
..\ ECS /
...\ H /
....\S/
(a bad picture, but it'll have to work)
The two gates are on each side of the diamond, about halfway up. The southern most point has the Shepherd's Quarter, (S) where the owners of the farms around the city live.
In the center is the Quarter of Commerce, just called the Haggles by most people. (H) In the upper left is the Quarter of Ecclesiastes, (E) where the largest Temples of the One are, and where the Priests and Disciples of the One are trained and live. In the upper right is the Quarter of State, (S) where the Hall of the Assemblum is located, the High Court of Justice, and any other government buildings.
Finally, at the top of the diamond in the center (C) is the Stratikrator's Citadel, with the Tower of Command in the middle. The Citadel has a second retaining wall, and three towers, intended to be a fortified fallback position in the event of a siege. The Tower of Command rises from the center, and is quite tall. It holds the quarters of the Stratikrator, and his War Room.
All of the other business is done in the Port, called the Mariners Quarter, or just the Lower City.
The lift comes up in the Quarter of Ecclesiastes. The entire city was almost destroyed by fire about 150 years ago, and so it was drastically replanned by Stratikrator Panteras, and probably the greatest achievement of his career.
EDIT: Finished changing it around. Hehe.
) and then go up into the upper city to trade. I've actually planned it out quite well.Picture this. The city's walls are shaped like a diamond, with the upper corner cut off by the coastline.
...____
..\ ECS /
...\ H /
....\S/
(a bad picture, but it'll have to work)
The two gates are on each side of the diamond, about halfway up. The southern most point has the Shepherd's Quarter, (S) where the owners of the farms around the city live.
In the center is the Quarter of Commerce, just called the Haggles by most people. (H) In the upper left is the Quarter of Ecclesiastes, (E) where the largest Temples of the One are, and where the Priests and Disciples of the One are trained and live. In the upper right is the Quarter of State, (S) where the Hall of the Assemblum is located, the High Court of Justice, and any other government buildings.
Finally, at the top of the diamond in the center (C) is the Stratikrator's Citadel, with the Tower of Command in the middle. The Citadel has a second retaining wall, and three towers, intended to be a fortified fallback position in the event of a siege. The Tower of Command rises from the center, and is quite tall. It holds the quarters of the Stratikrator, and his War Room.
All of the other business is done in the Port, called the Mariners Quarter, or just the Lower City.
The lift comes up in the Quarter of Ecclesiastes. The entire city was almost destroyed by fire about 150 years ago, and so it was drastically replanned by Stratikrator Panteras, and probably the greatest achievement of his career.
EDIT: Finished changing it around. Hehe.
@~Darkening~-Nothing wrong with that. You got the old innkeeper part right, Norvalin tend to work until they're dead.
@All-Something funny I noticed. According to the stats, more than 2% of my population is a Returned. That means more than one out of fifty of my poulation is fanatical enough to exile themselves for a year, and then come back and serve the military until the day they die.
@All-Something funny I noticed. According to the stats, more than 2% of my population is a Returned. That means more than one out of fifty of my poulation is fanatical enough to exile themselves for a year, and then come back and serve the military until the day they die.
Silver Steak
The Ghost of SS
I don't expect anything, but what exactly happened to the Shalamari? I've been away for far too long to plow the pages behind. Plus I'm leaving again very soon.
Oruc
Reactionary
they are hanging around Gorin, who is trying to culturally convert them, thereby destroying the Shalamari.
Silver Steak
The Ghost of SS
So the exodus was a failure? Darn. Oh well. I guess the remnant living peacefully in Gorin is better than all of them being devoured by the trackless sea.
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
@Imago, you do know that the stats haven't been updated right? 
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
OOC: Who knows then
You know, it's very nice of you thlayli, to just start mentioning all this How... like you 
You know, it's very nice of you thlayli, to just start mentioning all this
How... like you
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
Actually, I started mentioning Redemption's construction several weeks ago.
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
Well I mentioned my city's construction months ago I don't see my three layers of city walls being built 
I don't see my three layers of city walls being built 
Because ~Darkening~'s story motivated me to write something better than I had before-
Bloodfire.
Oaths burned the night, as a single, lone man loped away from a burning shack, in the middle of the northern tundra.
I lost, didn’t I, thought the man. I lost everything. Everything has been taken from me, from my heart.
He heard the growl of the hunters behind him, the feral noises of the dogs, the wolves. And the ice-cold men who led them. The hunters were masters of their craft. The man, who went by the name of Drak, could not escape them. He knew that fact, in his heart.
That fact didn’t keep him from trying, though.
Drak pushed through the brush, not looking back at the remnants of his destroyed home, the home that he had set on fire, to provide a distraction so that he could escape. But, it seemed, the trackers had not fallen for the bait. By the sounds of the barking, the yells, the curses, they were onto him. Drak was frightened.
The man who was chased was a murderer. Six people he always boasted he had killed, but the truth was, only five he had died by his hand. Drak had found the third already dead in an alley. But, six or five, it mattered not. The Hands of the Law were coming down on him.
He called them that, at least, but in simplistic Norvalin style, the men were simply called Trackers. In the last three days, they had hunted him out, found the lair of the man who was a murderer. And now, they were going to kill him.
Drak rustled through thick branches of loose underbrush. The leaves were all gone, leaving nothing but a tangled mess, a web of thorns trying to stop him, to hold him steady, as the trackers with their dogs and wolves came to come and kill him.
As he struggled, as he finally managed to push through the branches, and began to run full out, Drak thought to himself, that it had not always been like this. Once, he had been a different man. A man whose death would have been a cause for great sadness, instead of a cause for celebration.
Drak thought back to that time, six years ago, in Vael Dash.
A priest of the Pirian Oneists sat at a gilded desk. Drak stood in front of him, hands folded at his front, as he wore a dark purple robe.
“You wish to be a missionary, Drak?” asked the man. “Why? The son of a Consul should have better things to do with his life, than live a hard an menial existence in the far corners of the world.”
“Third son,” corrected Drak, “of eight. No one pays me any attention. I want to go out, I want to do something with my life.”
The priest sighed, but then, a small smile crept to his face. “If the life of a missionary is the life you want, Drak,” he said, “then I will not be one to stand in your way.”
Drak, for the briefest of moments, snapped out of his reverie. The dogs were coming. He heard them. He kept running, as his mind replayed the events of a day, two years ago.
“I love you, Drak.”
“Why, Melisanda? You know we can’t be together. I can’t spend the rest of my live in Varlas. Others in Norvalin, others all across the world must hear the gospel, and I must preach to them.”
Melisanda, in that dark and crowded bar, put her hands on her hips. “I have to stay in Varlas. I have a commitment to my people. I can’t let Norvalin down.”
“I know that,” said Drak. “And so I want to leave you, because our love can never be.”
Melisanda looked at him. “You understand, really? I thought it was just a front. I thought you said you didn’t understand our ways, Norvalin ways. I was wrong.”
But the truth was, she was right. Drak didn’t understand commitment, or dedication. He had chosen to become a missionary because he had wanted to see things, not because he wanted to expand the faith. The truth was, he didn’t care about the faith. Maybe he had at one point, but not anymore.
And so that night, lovestruck, and confused, he had happened upon Melisanda, and he had killed her.
Things quickly slid downhill from there.
Back to the present.
Drak was tired. He couldn’t run anymore, and he collapse on the ground. Laying there, on the thin snow, he began to count the seconds until the Trackers caught him. He reached ten, and then, they were there.
One of the men, a powerfully built brute, who clearly had much native blood in him, leaned down to the ground, and looked Drak in the eyes.
“I have to ask this, skum,” said the Norvalin, ‘because the law requires it. Do you repent?”
“Go to hell.”
As Drak laid on the ground, helpless as the dogs, wolves, and Norvalin circled around him, he wondered if being more polite would have been a better idea.
He didn’t wonder for long.
Valin steel was his end.
Legacy
Bloodfire.
Oaths burned the night, as a single, lone man loped away from a burning shack, in the middle of the northern tundra.
I lost, didn’t I, thought the man. I lost everything. Everything has been taken from me, from my heart.
He heard the growl of the hunters behind him, the feral noises of the dogs, the wolves. And the ice-cold men who led them. The hunters were masters of their craft. The man, who went by the name of Drak, could not escape them. He knew that fact, in his heart.
That fact didn’t keep him from trying, though.
Drak pushed through the brush, not looking back at the remnants of his destroyed home, the home that he had set on fire, to provide a distraction so that he could escape. But, it seemed, the trackers had not fallen for the bait. By the sounds of the barking, the yells, the curses, they were onto him. Drak was frightened.
The man who was chased was a murderer. Six people he always boasted he had killed, but the truth was, only five he had died by his hand. Drak had found the third already dead in an alley. But, six or five, it mattered not. The Hands of the Law were coming down on him.
He called them that, at least, but in simplistic Norvalin style, the men were simply called Trackers. In the last three days, they had hunted him out, found the lair of the man who was a murderer. And now, they were going to kill him.
Drak rustled through thick branches of loose underbrush. The leaves were all gone, leaving nothing but a tangled mess, a web of thorns trying to stop him, to hold him steady, as the trackers with their dogs and wolves came to come and kill him.
As he struggled, as he finally managed to push through the branches, and began to run full out, Drak thought to himself, that it had not always been like this. Once, he had been a different man. A man whose death would have been a cause for great sadness, instead of a cause for celebration.
Drak thought back to that time, six years ago, in Vael Dash.
A priest of the Pirian Oneists sat at a gilded desk. Drak stood in front of him, hands folded at his front, as he wore a dark purple robe.
“You wish to be a missionary, Drak?” asked the man. “Why? The son of a Consul should have better things to do with his life, than live a hard an menial existence in the far corners of the world.”
“Third son,” corrected Drak, “of eight. No one pays me any attention. I want to go out, I want to do something with my life.”
The priest sighed, but then, a small smile crept to his face. “If the life of a missionary is the life you want, Drak,” he said, “then I will not be one to stand in your way.”
Drak, for the briefest of moments, snapped out of his reverie. The dogs were coming. He heard them. He kept running, as his mind replayed the events of a day, two years ago.
“I love you, Drak.”
“Why, Melisanda? You know we can’t be together. I can’t spend the rest of my live in Varlas. Others in Norvalin, others all across the world must hear the gospel, and I must preach to them.”
Melisanda, in that dark and crowded bar, put her hands on her hips. “I have to stay in Varlas. I have a commitment to my people. I can’t let Norvalin down.”
“I know that,” said Drak. “And so I want to leave you, because our love can never be.”
Melisanda looked at him. “You understand, really? I thought it was just a front. I thought you said you didn’t understand our ways, Norvalin ways. I was wrong.”
But the truth was, she was right. Drak didn’t understand commitment, or dedication. He had chosen to become a missionary because he had wanted to see things, not because he wanted to expand the faith. The truth was, he didn’t care about the faith. Maybe he had at one point, but not anymore.
And so that night, lovestruck, and confused, he had happened upon Melisanda, and he had killed her.
Things quickly slid downhill from there.
Back to the present.
Drak was tired. He couldn’t run anymore, and he collapse on the ground. Laying there, on the thin snow, he began to count the seconds until the Trackers caught him. He reached ten, and then, they were there.
One of the men, a powerfully built brute, who clearly had much native blood in him, leaned down to the ground, and looked Drak in the eyes.
“I have to ask this, skum,” said the Norvalin, ‘because the law requires it. Do you repent?”
“Go to hell.”
As Drak laid on the ground, helpless as the dogs, wolves, and Norvalin circled around him, he wondered if being more polite would have been a better idea.
He didn’t wonder for long.
Valin steel was his end.
You know, what I LOVE about Alexandria is that its destroyed so often that whenever it gets rebuilt, its built with the latest in Modern Defences, Cities like Khiso probably still have these crumbly walls for the central bit *shakes head*.
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
Kal'thzar said:
Well considering each time it was rebuilt with modern defenses, the city Alexandira still just fell again to more foreign invaders even with the latest in defenses while Khiso never fell to them. Maybe you should have crumbly walls for all your cities?
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