Wubba360
Emperor
not my problem, but what veritas did was a blatant attack after an agreed peace against. They should pay some reperations for the destruction of countless homes.
LINESII- Into the Darkness- Part III
- Thread starter Lord_Iggy
- Start date
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
It was a combined force of Swade, Khemran, and Myocacan soldiers that utterly destroyed the city of Redemption. It is said that the piled corpses of children alone rose as high as the walls of the city. Bladeist soldiers have showed no discrimination between war and wanton slaughter.
Remove your demand for compensation, and be glad that the Veritasan Army knows the difference.
Remove your demand for compensation, and be glad that the Veritasan Army knows the difference.
Wubba360
Emperor
Myocaca removes its demand for compensation
"... and the potential revenues from mining would far outweigh the costs of shipping food over the mountains, particularly if we build the road along this route I propose ..."
"... pure genius, Elder! The sheer power of the horses applied to agriculture are allowing for increased yields in excess of ..."
"... no less then three Divotheist cells rousted from the eastern foothills in the past year! Elder, we must do something to guard the people against falling prey to these dangerous and subversive superstitions ..."
"Gentlemen. Gentlemen!" Elder Orosul, a distinguished man with hair beginning a slow march to grey, held up his hands for quiet. The small group of advisors slowly calmed, ceasing their shouted suggestions, pleas, and backbiting. Orosul waited a few moments further before speaking.
"I hear a great many terrible ideas and perhaps three worth exploring. Arkhon, you first." He pointed to a young and ambitious-looking man, who immediately spoke up.
"Elder, the ore samples sent by our scouting parties on the northern slopes of the Spine continue to prove rich. The land there is barren, but a mining settlement could be supported with shipments of food over the mountains. The construction of a road would not be too costly, I would say no more than ..."
Orosul cut him off. "Send word for the prospectors to prepare a sample of their best finds. If the results would be rich enough to offset the cost of sending supplies over the mountains, I will consider the settlement."
"And-"
"No, Arkhon, I will not give your mining crews preferential claims. Ulara, you spoke of agriculture?"
A matronly-looking woman assumed an important expression. "I have been experimenting with the use of horses on the farmlands in my possession. Their muscle power is much greater than the average laborer's, and work progresses much quicker with their aid. Entire fields can be ploughed in a fraction of the time, and placing them in harnesses in mill turnstiles makes for smoother and faster rotations than manpower can provide."
The Elder tapped his chin thoughtfully. "They could be used to move larger mills, then, could they not?"
Ulara gave a smug smile. "Indeed they could, and I had such a mill built. The grindstone is five times larger than normal, and I the horses still turned it with ease. I have no doubt they could manage larger still."
"Very, very good. Remind me to mark funding to distribute horses and enlarge all mills in the Ean Samhradh and Jara regions. Now, who else did I - ah, yes. Sulja? Now, weren't all the Divotheists lynched for their assassination of Yaran years ago? What's this about secret societies?"
The final advisor to stand needed assistance from those around him; an exceedingly elderly man, his eyes still burned with fervor for his nation, and his voice remained steady, if not strong. "I lynched many of them myself, Elder, but some few escaped, fleeing into the countryside. They are still there now, spreading their heinous superstitions to whomever will not kill them on sight."
"And?" Orosul steepled his fingers. "This sounds like something for the Arteshbod to attend to. He commands the armored men with all the weapons, after all."
"Simply killing them all will not solve the underlying problem, Elder." Sulja paused to cough. "The only converts the Divotheists can receive are those whose families have not informed them of how the world truly works; they readily believe any nonsense a fanatic spouts at them. We must educate the people, Elder, speak to them of the truth that they will not toss reason aside for superstition."
The Elder leaned forward a little, intrigued. "And how, Sulja, would we do that?"
"We build, Elder. A great building to house all the scripts, all the scrolls, the sum of Syracia's knowledge. And once we build, we train. The best, the brightest, they come to this building to learn, and then they leave again, and travel our Empire and they teach others. This will be our guard against superstitions, Elder; no religious babble will take root in minds warded by knowledge!" The ancient advisor raised a quivering, triumphant hand to emphasize his point.
Orosul was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. "You are wiser than even your advanced years would warrant, Sulja. Something of this magnitude will take a great deal of time and money ... but it will be worth it." He stood suddenly, turning away from the assembled advisors. "I have heard enough for today. Someone send for my scribe - I have proclamations to make."
"... pure genius, Elder! The sheer power of the horses applied to agriculture are allowing for increased yields in excess of ..."
"... no less then three Divotheist cells rousted from the eastern foothills in the past year! Elder, we must do something to guard the people against falling prey to these dangerous and subversive superstitions ..."
"Gentlemen. Gentlemen!" Elder Orosul, a distinguished man with hair beginning a slow march to grey, held up his hands for quiet. The small group of advisors slowly calmed, ceasing their shouted suggestions, pleas, and backbiting. Orosul waited a few moments further before speaking.
"I hear a great many terrible ideas and perhaps three worth exploring. Arkhon, you first." He pointed to a young and ambitious-looking man, who immediately spoke up.
"Elder, the ore samples sent by our scouting parties on the northern slopes of the Spine continue to prove rich. The land there is barren, but a mining settlement could be supported with shipments of food over the mountains. The construction of a road would not be too costly, I would say no more than ..."
Orosul cut him off. "Send word for the prospectors to prepare a sample of their best finds. If the results would be rich enough to offset the cost of sending supplies over the mountains, I will consider the settlement."
"And-"
"No, Arkhon, I will not give your mining crews preferential claims. Ulara, you spoke of agriculture?"
A matronly-looking woman assumed an important expression. "I have been experimenting with the use of horses on the farmlands in my possession. Their muscle power is much greater than the average laborer's, and work progresses much quicker with their aid. Entire fields can be ploughed in a fraction of the time, and placing them in harnesses in mill turnstiles makes for smoother and faster rotations than manpower can provide."
The Elder tapped his chin thoughtfully. "They could be used to move larger mills, then, could they not?"
Ulara gave a smug smile. "Indeed they could, and I had such a mill built. The grindstone is five times larger than normal, and I the horses still turned it with ease. I have no doubt they could manage larger still."
"Very, very good. Remind me to mark funding to distribute horses and enlarge all mills in the Ean Samhradh and Jara regions. Now, who else did I - ah, yes. Sulja? Now, weren't all the Divotheists lynched for their assassination of Yaran years ago? What's this about secret societies?"
The final advisor to stand needed assistance from those around him; an exceedingly elderly man, his eyes still burned with fervor for his nation, and his voice remained steady, if not strong. "I lynched many of them myself, Elder, but some few escaped, fleeing into the countryside. They are still there now, spreading their heinous superstitions to whomever will not kill them on sight."
"And?" Orosul steepled his fingers. "This sounds like something for the Arteshbod to attend to. He commands the armored men with all the weapons, after all."
"Simply killing them all will not solve the underlying problem, Elder." Sulja paused to cough. "The only converts the Divotheists can receive are those whose families have not informed them of how the world truly works; they readily believe any nonsense a fanatic spouts at them. We must educate the people, Elder, speak to them of the truth that they will not toss reason aside for superstition."
The Elder leaned forward a little, intrigued. "And how, Sulja, would we do that?"
"We build, Elder. A great building to house all the scripts, all the scrolls, the sum of Syracia's knowledge. And once we build, we train. The best, the brightest, they come to this building to learn, and then they leave again, and travel our Empire and they teach others. This will be our guard against superstitions, Elder; no religious babble will take root in minds warded by knowledge!" The ancient advisor raised a quivering, triumphant hand to emphasize his point.
Orosul was quiet for what seemed like an eternity. "You are wiser than even your advanced years would warrant, Sulja. Something of this magnitude will take a great deal of time and money ... but it will be worth it." He stood suddenly, turning away from the assembled advisors. "I have heard enough for today. Someone send for my scribe - I have proclamations to make."
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
IC:
To Rozan
From Guangfei
You presume much, that you were speaking to my father in far off Sanctus Tutela. I am sure that my great-grandfather had his reasons but that is not the discussion at hand. You insult the honor, dignity and the ancestors of the Han Imperial Family and expect no consequences?
Repent and apologize for your insults or we will move to avenge our honor!
Thlayli
Le Pétit Prince
No one's mentioned any orders, but can I assume that they're due this weekend?
Repent to your heathen religion? I think not.
I will apologize for the sake of Trinlin & Rozan.
Blade struggled with blade in the cold Merhai winter. The harrowing sound echoed in a small clearing, covered with light snowfall from the mountains. The soft crunch of snow could be heard between the clang of steel upon steel as the combatants danced their dance of death in the winter chill.
Step, step, strike. Parry, repeat. The pattern had not changed for some time, and neither combatant deviated from the course. A missed strike, and the sword sliced through the bark of an unfortunate observing tree. Unable to quickly adjust his sword, his opponent kicked out at the man's overextension, catching in his leg. The man stumbled to the ground, and the younger gentleman that so kindly caused the fall placed his blade at the throat of the defeated man.
"So, this is the end," the fallen man remarked calmly from his position on the ground, as if he was commenting on the weather. The younger gentleman chuckled, but did not move the blade from its position.
"It seems that way. You were an excellent teacher," remarked the man as he raised the blade ever so slightly, "but your life is finally at an end."
The elder man looked straight into the younger man's eyes, and an unspoken conversation played out in those tense moments. Nothing was said for several long moments, but then the elder man gave a slight nod to the younger.
"It has been our way for centuries, in times that war is absent," the elder man began, rising slowly with his sword clenched in his hand, "that the Supreme Generals should duel with their younger subordinates over command of the army."
The man leaned against the tree, holding on to it as he regained his footing in the snow, and recovered from the blow upon his leg. The younger man stood silent, in respect for his superior as he recounted information he already knew. But this was merely a round about tactic by the General to teach the younger warrior one last lesson.
"It is through such battles that reckless up and coming generals are removed from the chain of the Khagan's command. It is through this tradition that decadent, and weak generals are purified in the flames of battle," the old man recounted, his tired eyes obviously remembering the days when he was once a young captain vying for Generalship.
The younger man stood stoic in the cold, and of the Generals warning, soaking up everything the man said like a sponge. All the while, his blade as at the ready.
"All life is a struggle, and there is not greater struggle than thousands of men's greatest sacrifice fighting against one another for the right to live just one more day. Battle, and war is where we test ourselves. All of our flaws, all of our impurities are striped away in battle. Only the man remains."
The elder man smiled, a sad, tired smile at the youth. He pushed of the tree, and stood firm and unyielding against the blade arrayed against him. His breath floated up high into the air, and neither man moved.
"Very little remains of me now, after so many battles and struggles. My life is all that I have left to give. Yet, do not grieve for me my son, but be proud and strong. Rejoice in your strength and your resolve; rejoice in a life long lived. I die in glory! I die in triumph!"
The old man rose his sword high as he screamed to the heavens of his death. His son brought his sword up to his face in solemn salute, tears running down his face. Without warning, the elder charged, his sword still raised high in the air. Quick as lightning, the youth moved, his sword raised ready to meet his fathers charge.
No symphony of blades rang out in the forest. The echo of the scream faded into the midday, and a light snow began to fall upon the land. The elder man gurgled, impaled upon his son's blade, his sword clutched lightly in his hands. He did not looked surprised, or in pain. He smiled a bloody smile, and kept pushing against the sword, grunting with step his took until he was impaled to the hilt.
"G-ener-a--l," whispered the dying man, as his hands reached out to clutch his son's head. The youth touched his head to his fathers, and then cradled his fathers body in his hands, and laid him gently upon the ground. Removing the sword with a grunt, he placed it back into his scabbard.
The youth than removed his father's golden mask, while discarding his plain Iron one. Placing the new mask upon his face, he then closed his fathers eyes, and wiped the blood from his face.
"Born from the wild, so to do we return to the wild," said the man simply, knowing that his father was proud of him as he died. He would grieve, as all children do for the loss of his father, but battle would have always been his father's chosen end, and it was here he dying in the arms of his most beloved son.
Tears fell to the ground as the youth walked away, but the new rising General was eager to prove himself upon the battlefield, much like his father before him. Jakhata, the Blade, was ready to lead the Iron Face to a glorious crusade of battle and war.
The Second Great Crusade. The First had seen the rise of the Lengel Empire, and the second? Perhaps it would result in the Lengels ultimate demise, or victory, but no matter the outcome, the Lengel were committed to battle. Win or lose, they would forever echo in eternity.
Step, step, strike. Parry, repeat. The pattern had not changed for some time, and neither combatant deviated from the course. A missed strike, and the sword sliced through the bark of an unfortunate observing tree. Unable to quickly adjust his sword, his opponent kicked out at the man's overextension, catching in his leg. The man stumbled to the ground, and the younger gentleman that so kindly caused the fall placed his blade at the throat of the defeated man.
"So, this is the end," the fallen man remarked calmly from his position on the ground, as if he was commenting on the weather. The younger gentleman chuckled, but did not move the blade from its position.
"It seems that way. You were an excellent teacher," remarked the man as he raised the blade ever so slightly, "but your life is finally at an end."
The elder man looked straight into the younger man's eyes, and an unspoken conversation played out in those tense moments. Nothing was said for several long moments, but then the elder man gave a slight nod to the younger.
"It has been our way for centuries, in times that war is absent," the elder man began, rising slowly with his sword clenched in his hand, "that the Supreme Generals should duel with their younger subordinates over command of the army."
The man leaned against the tree, holding on to it as he regained his footing in the snow, and recovered from the blow upon his leg. The younger man stood silent, in respect for his superior as he recounted information he already knew. But this was merely a round about tactic by the General to teach the younger warrior one last lesson.
"It is through such battles that reckless up and coming generals are removed from the chain of the Khagan's command. It is through this tradition that decadent, and weak generals are purified in the flames of battle," the old man recounted, his tired eyes obviously remembering the days when he was once a young captain vying for Generalship.
The younger man stood stoic in the cold, and of the Generals warning, soaking up everything the man said like a sponge. All the while, his blade as at the ready.
"All life is a struggle, and there is not greater struggle than thousands of men's greatest sacrifice fighting against one another for the right to live just one more day. Battle, and war is where we test ourselves. All of our flaws, all of our impurities are striped away in battle. Only the man remains."
The elder man smiled, a sad, tired smile at the youth. He pushed of the tree, and stood firm and unyielding against the blade arrayed against him. His breath floated up high into the air, and neither man moved.
"Very little remains of me now, after so many battles and struggles. My life is all that I have left to give. Yet, do not grieve for me my son, but be proud and strong. Rejoice in your strength and your resolve; rejoice in a life long lived. I die in glory! I die in triumph!"
The old man rose his sword high as he screamed to the heavens of his death. His son brought his sword up to his face in solemn salute, tears running down his face. Without warning, the elder charged, his sword still raised high in the air. Quick as lightning, the youth moved, his sword raised ready to meet his fathers charge.
No symphony of blades rang out in the forest. The echo of the scream faded into the midday, and a light snow began to fall upon the land. The elder man gurgled, impaled upon his son's blade, his sword clutched lightly in his hands. He did not looked surprised, or in pain. He smiled a bloody smile, and kept pushing against the sword, grunting with step his took until he was impaled to the hilt.
"G-ener-a--l," whispered the dying man, as his hands reached out to clutch his son's head. The youth touched his head to his fathers, and then cradled his fathers body in his hands, and laid him gently upon the ground. Removing the sword with a grunt, he placed it back into his scabbard.
The youth than removed his father's golden mask, while discarding his plain Iron one. Placing the new mask upon his face, he then closed his fathers eyes, and wiped the blood from his face.
"Born from the wild, so to do we return to the wild," said the man simply, knowing that his father was proud of him as he died. He would grieve, as all children do for the loss of his father, but battle would have always been his father's chosen end, and it was here he dying in the arms of his most beloved son.
Tears fell to the ground as the youth walked away, but the new rising General was eager to prove himself upon the battlefield, much like his father before him. Jakhata, the Blade, was ready to lead the Iron Face to a glorious crusade of battle and war.
The Second Great Crusade. The First had seen the rise of the Lengel Empire, and the second? Perhaps it would result in the Lengels ultimate demise, or victory, but no matter the outcome, the Lengel were committed to battle. Win or lose, they would forever echo in eternity.
human-slaughter
brand new year
Can I b e put on npc for a while? Im going out of town but will return to claim my nation.
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
OOC: It has nothing to do with that message, but why are you dueling Lightfang? First fifty's avatar and now this...
jalapeno_dude
AKA Panda Judo Eel
Still waiting on that PM...
No update this weekend, I'm preparing for finals.
Sure, I'll temp NPC the PoE.
It was beginning.
The secret War council of the Iron Face was gathering once more, for the first time since the operations into Fairfelt territory ceased. Torches were lit as twelve dark figures walked through the secluded camp toward the central camp. Flickers of gold could be seen from a distance, forcing several curious soldiers to quickly move away.
The Golden masks adoring these men's faces meant only one thing: the high generals were gathering. Getting to close to these men during a meeting meant a quick death for high treason. Not that any Iron Face soldier would abandon his honor to spy, as such a blemish carried into the afterlife.
The torches were still visible through the tent, and many of the soldiers could make out the twelve men sitting in a circle, with a dark figure sitting at the head. Those soldiers still curious enough to look into the tent realized who the figure was: the Khagan was here. Suddenly the torches went out as one, and the soldiers quickly found other tasks to do.
It was not worth death to wonder at the conversation that was occurring behind closed doors.
Silence.
When thirteen masked men gathered together, silence usually lasted quite a while. Intelligent men used this time to gather thoughts and plans; guilty or incompetent men used the time to sweat or wonder of their fates; stupid men merely thought of nothing; the great men kept silent until it was wise to speak.
It hung heavy in the musky tent, the silence. A heavy burden upon the weak minds of a few. It lasted for many minutes, and everyman kept still and silent. Until one of the jumpier Generals shifted his weight suddenly, and his armor rustled. Despite his slight movement, the sound seemed to echo in the formerly silent tent.
For many moment, not one man said a word, as their eyes darted from one another to the Khagan, who continued to sit as still as a shadow.
"Is it so hard," softly began the deep, raspy voice of the Khagan, "to keep still for but a few simple moments? Rarely is such peaceful silence gained, in our lives. Conflict drives us, and conflict always has a habit of being quite noisy, especially when a Fairfelt Ramid is collapsing upon its spearmen," the Khagan remarked dryly.
A chuckle rumbled through the Generals, relaxing them from the tenseness that had been holding them before. A change in mood swept the room, and the burden was lifted completely from the shoulders of the generals.
"Yet, in these moments before another conflict," continued the Khagan, his voice becoming serious again, "it is best to calm our minds, and think of our lives in the gentle silence between comrades. Tonight, let silence be our council."
Silence hung once more in the room, but it was a calm silence. Every general relaxed into his seat, and contemplated the silence. The feel of the wind in the summer, and the cold snow during the winter hunt. The tender moments between loved ones, and the moments of true faith in the wilderness. Moments of utter fear upon the battlefield, and those moments of triumph.
Before an Iron Face war council could truly meet, its Generals must first conquer life, before attempting to become the hands of death against the enemies of the Obsidian mask.
The secret War council of the Iron Face was gathering once more, for the first time since the operations into Fairfelt territory ceased. Torches were lit as twelve dark figures walked through the secluded camp toward the central camp. Flickers of gold could be seen from a distance, forcing several curious soldiers to quickly move away.
The Golden masks adoring these men's faces meant only one thing: the high generals were gathering. Getting to close to these men during a meeting meant a quick death for high treason. Not that any Iron Face soldier would abandon his honor to spy, as such a blemish carried into the afterlife.
The torches were still visible through the tent, and many of the soldiers could make out the twelve men sitting in a circle, with a dark figure sitting at the head. Those soldiers still curious enough to look into the tent realized who the figure was: the Khagan was here. Suddenly the torches went out as one, and the soldiers quickly found other tasks to do.
It was not worth death to wonder at the conversation that was occurring behind closed doors.
****
Silence.
When thirteen masked men gathered together, silence usually lasted quite a while. Intelligent men used this time to gather thoughts and plans; guilty or incompetent men used the time to sweat or wonder of their fates; stupid men merely thought of nothing; the great men kept silent until it was wise to speak.
It hung heavy in the musky tent, the silence. A heavy burden upon the weak minds of a few. It lasted for many minutes, and everyman kept still and silent. Until one of the jumpier Generals shifted his weight suddenly, and his armor rustled. Despite his slight movement, the sound seemed to echo in the formerly silent tent.
For many moment, not one man said a word, as their eyes darted from one another to the Khagan, who continued to sit as still as a shadow.
"Is it so hard," softly began the deep, raspy voice of the Khagan, "to keep still for but a few simple moments? Rarely is such peaceful silence gained, in our lives. Conflict drives us, and conflict always has a habit of being quite noisy, especially when a Fairfelt Ramid is collapsing upon its spearmen," the Khagan remarked dryly.
A chuckle rumbled through the Generals, relaxing them from the tenseness that had been holding them before. A change in mood swept the room, and the burden was lifted completely from the shoulders of the generals.
"Yet, in these moments before another conflict," continued the Khagan, his voice becoming serious again, "it is best to calm our minds, and think of our lives in the gentle silence between comrades. Tonight, let silence be our council."
Silence hung once more in the room, but it was a calm silence. Every general relaxed into his seat, and contemplated the silence. The feel of the wind in the summer, and the cold snow during the winter hunt. The tender moments between loved ones, and the moments of true faith in the wilderness. Moments of utter fear upon the battlefield, and those moments of triumph.
Before an Iron Face war council could truly meet, its Generals must first conquer life, before attempting to become the hands of death against the enemies of the Obsidian mask.
Silver Steak
The Ghost of SS
Can I have a PM regarding my nation? Plus a copy of the map?
jalapeno_dude
AKA Panda Judo Eel
To: The Interdimensional Penguin Battlefleet
From: <SECRET>
Message has been recieved, and reply sent.
<Maniacal laugh>
From: <SECRET>
Message has been recieved, and reply sent.
<Maniacal laugh>
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
OOC: You know, I was just re-reading the update, do people really see my Emperor as the "Divine Leader"? I mean... like... really? That's kinda... creepy They don't really like worship him right?
They don't really like worship him right?
alex994
Hail Divine Emperor!
OOC: How interesting!
So how do the like, artisans, merchants, nobility and the bureaucrats who make up the rest of the population view the Emperor?
