stMjMNES2: Sands of Time
- Thread starter MjM
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MjM
Deity
Silver, please resend orders with stats.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
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Walking a battlefield during the battle is no trouble at all for a man. The blood is charged with adrenaline. You cannot think, almost, for it is so intoxicating. The rush of blood, the beating of your heart. You slam your axe into the enemys gut. He dies, just like that, and you rush on, screaming for blood.
Not so after the battle. After the battle, there is no rush of adrenaline. There is no fierce struggle. There is no pumping blood. After a battle, you are in the dominion of death, and it is death that holds sway. It fills your every sense. You can smell the death on the air, a ripe stink that signals that the bodies are rotting. Your mouth fills with the air, and the smell of death is so thick, so oily, that you can taste it.
You can hear the last few murmurs of men who should have died. Men who have lost half of their guts, say, or whose neck is snapped; men who should be dead, but for one reason or another have survived the past few days. You can feel the death, too. Your hands are slick with sweat and the oil of the dead. And your feet, as you walk, feel wrong. It is not the firm crunch of gravel underneath, nor the soft pattering of dirt, nor the clapping sound of wood. Instead, it squishes, and you can feel the ground sag under your foot.
And then you look down.
The bodies are everywhere, staring you in the face. There are some who cannot stand to look a dead fish in the eye; they would not last a second walking the battlefield. The dead are everywhere, and they stare at you accusingly. Why did they have to die, they ask? Why did you have to kill them? Or why did that man over there kill him? After all, he was only going to die anyway.
You kneel down beside the corpse of a dead man. He was impressive in the battle, you recall, when you faced him. He was a demon of a man, whirling, roaring, spinning his spears and charging down every foe that came. A demon, truly. His skins had flapped around him, caught in the air. They made him seem like a fearsome beast out of hell. Maybe a bear, or a lion.
But now as you kneel beside him, he is not so big an impressive. Those eyes which had been so full of fury are now wide open, frozen in a look of shock for all time. Or at least until the crows peck out his eyes. His mouth is open, as if he were yawning. But the wide eyes make it not so; he is not yawning, he is screaming. And where drool might come out if he were yawning... He is drooling, yes. Drooling crimson. Drooling blood.
The dead man has no secrets. He lies there, for anyone to take what he owns. That pendant that is around his neck? Ah, it is only a few talons tied into a knot, in an artistic fashion. A clever piece of jewelry, but not worth it to the looters.
Not worth it to the looters, maybe, but that was his sons present for him, on his thirty fifth birthday. His fifteen year old son had made him that pendant. At least he shall die wearing it.
His pockets have been slit open. Not that they required much slitting, those furs were ragged to begin with. Ragged, maybe. But they were the furs his father wore to war. Those furs may have been spotted, but if they were spotted, that was only with the blood of storied foes.
Those furs may not be worth half a penny to a looter, but to the warrior, they were the honor of his house. At least he shall be buried wearing them.
His gold is gone, of course. That is the first thing a looter takes. Any fine cloth is next, and his weapons, of course. Anything else useful, goes. Most corpses you find are barefoot. Men do not have the decency to bury their foes with boots; boots are too valuable to waste on the dead.
So the living take from the dead after a battle. And that gives it the truly eerie ring. These were people with stories behind them. They lived lives happy and sad. They lived lives brutal and civilized. And then, one day, their liege lord plucked them to go off to war against men that they barely had heard of. Some stranger slit open their belly, and they died on a field they would only see once in their lives. To be buried in a mass grave, along with so many others.
For in life, we are forced to fight. In death, we are all comrades.
Not so after the battle. After the battle, there is no rush of adrenaline. There is no fierce struggle. There is no pumping blood. After a battle, you are in the dominion of death, and it is death that holds sway. It fills your every sense. You can smell the death on the air, a ripe stink that signals that the bodies are rotting. Your mouth fills with the air, and the smell of death is so thick, so oily, that you can taste it.
You can hear the last few murmurs of men who should have died. Men who have lost half of their guts, say, or whose neck is snapped; men who should be dead, but for one reason or another have survived the past few days. You can feel the death, too. Your hands are slick with sweat and the oil of the dead. And your feet, as you walk, feel wrong. It is not the firm crunch of gravel underneath, nor the soft pattering of dirt, nor the clapping sound of wood. Instead, it squishes, and you can feel the ground sag under your foot.
And then you look down.
The bodies are everywhere, staring you in the face. There are some who cannot stand to look a dead fish in the eye; they would not last a second walking the battlefield. The dead are everywhere, and they stare at you accusingly. Why did they have to die, they ask? Why did you have to kill them? Or why did that man over there kill him? After all, he was only going to die anyway.
You kneel down beside the corpse of a dead man. He was impressive in the battle, you recall, when you faced him. He was a demon of a man, whirling, roaring, spinning his spears and charging down every foe that came. A demon, truly. His skins had flapped around him, caught in the air. They made him seem like a fearsome beast out of hell. Maybe a bear, or a lion.
But now as you kneel beside him, he is not so big an impressive. Those eyes which had been so full of fury are now wide open, frozen in a look of shock for all time. Or at least until the crows peck out his eyes. His mouth is open, as if he were yawning. But the wide eyes make it not so; he is not yawning, he is screaming. And where drool might come out if he were yawning... He is drooling, yes. Drooling crimson. Drooling blood.
The dead man has no secrets. He lies there, for anyone to take what he owns. That pendant that is around his neck? Ah, it is only a few talons tied into a knot, in an artistic fashion. A clever piece of jewelry, but not worth it to the looters.
Not worth it to the looters, maybe, but that was his sons present for him, on his thirty fifth birthday. His fifteen year old son had made him that pendant. At least he shall die wearing it.
His pockets have been slit open. Not that they required much slitting, those furs were ragged to begin with. Ragged, maybe. But they were the furs his father wore to war. Those furs may have been spotted, but if they were spotted, that was only with the blood of storied foes.
Those furs may not be worth half a penny to a looter, but to the warrior, they were the honor of his house. At least he shall be buried wearing them.
His gold is gone, of course. That is the first thing a looter takes. Any fine cloth is next, and his weapons, of course. Anything else useful, goes. Most corpses you find are barefoot. Men do not have the decency to bury their foes with boots; boots are too valuable to waste on the dead.
So the living take from the dead after a battle. And that gives it the truly eerie ring. These were people with stories behind them. They lived lives happy and sad. They lived lives brutal and civilized. And then, one day, their liege lord plucked them to go off to war against men that they barely had heard of. Some stranger slit open their belly, and they died on a field they would only see once in their lives. To be buried in a mass grave, along with so many others.
For in life, we are forced to fight. In death, we are all comrades.
MjM
Deity
Follow NK's example everyone. 
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Who is the Geishmal? The ruler of the Shaitae, of course. Im sure you knew that; one can hardly dwell in this nation without knowing that, and if you werent dwelling in this nation, why would you be reading this tablet?
But in greater seriousness, what is the Geishmal? Who are they, before they become the absolute rulers of a realm? One can believe that they were always great, and always spiritually pure. Well, of course, that doesnt stand up to analysis. The Geishmalae have never come from purely pure spiritual backgrounds, and many of them dont stay pure. How can one truly stay pure, when one has absolute power? Power corrupts, as the saying goes...
At the same time, some Geishmalae make little effort to tame their own lusts; Two Geishmal in particular is legendary for having fathered three bastard boys on the Virgins of the Faith, and having otherwise performed inappropriately during his reign (his fondness for scantily clad page boys is also documented; Two Geishmal was a double edged sword, metaphorically speaking, of course).
And of course, when you are a Geishmal, these sorts of things are hard to tame. After all, the Geishmal are cloistered for their lives. Well, Six Geishmal, Tadisha Seji, broke the tradition of them being literally cloistered, but all the same. A Geishmal never take a woman to wife; he is chosen from childhood and raised to adulthood without seeing any woman, except for the Virgins of the Faith. Noting, of course, that the Virgins of the Faith are traditionally the most beautiful and pure women of the realm.
But we dwell on the Geishmals... er... swordplay a bit too much. Moving on...
So, by this time, the Shaitae were on their ninth Geishmal. Nine Geishmal, by the traditional naming system, though he is referred to by his birth name as well, Gurishami Eliji (for after the reformation of the office by Tadisha Seji, the Geishmalae do not drop their birth names). A brave and wise man, though not without his troubles...
Tracing back, we all dance upon the strings that our ancestors pull for us. Gurishamis grandfathers both died in the war against SuriAti, both of his grandmothers were left to raise a single child each. His mother and father, as fate would have it. Each saw their mothers die before their eyes in poverty, old and frail, each were forced out onto the streets at the tender age of fifteen. There they found each other, and they fell almost instantly in love...
It was not easy for this couple, naturally. They had to find a place to start a livelihood; both had painful memories of the war, so they went as far as they could from SuriAti, and moved to the other side of the nation... Alas, this meant their farm was among the first to be raided by the Nandi. They fled as refugees to the capital, with their only son, a precious babe, and begged the great Geishmal to hear them. Somehow, they managed to convince them, and they met with the Geishmal at the gates of his compound, for no one can enter his compound but the messengers and the Sacred Virgins. And of course, the Geishmal himself.
It was one of those moments of fate, that the Geishmal looked into the couples eyes, and saw the troubles and trials in their past. He looked down at the babe that they asked for his blessing for. His eyes met those of the child, and found a strength, a resilience. He was enraptured by this babe; a babe who seemed so determined to cling on to life. And the boy was made Nine Geishmal, Gurishami Eliji.
Thus, he grew up from the age of one in the compound, but for a little fooling around with some of the more boisterous and flirtatious Virgins (which has become something of a tradition with the Geishmalae), he had a pure recordsomething quite unheard of. He succeeded Eight Geishmal at the age of seventeen, determined to wring a change in the world...
But in greater seriousness, what is the Geishmal? Who are they, before they become the absolute rulers of a realm? One can believe that they were always great, and always spiritually pure. Well, of course, that doesnt stand up to analysis. The Geishmalae have never come from purely pure spiritual backgrounds, and many of them dont stay pure. How can one truly stay pure, when one has absolute power? Power corrupts, as the saying goes...
At the same time, some Geishmalae make little effort to tame their own lusts; Two Geishmal in particular is legendary for having fathered three bastard boys on the Virgins of the Faith, and having otherwise performed inappropriately during his reign (his fondness for scantily clad page boys is also documented; Two Geishmal was a double edged sword, metaphorically speaking, of course).
And of course, when you are a Geishmal, these sorts of things are hard to tame. After all, the Geishmal are cloistered for their lives. Well, Six Geishmal, Tadisha Seji, broke the tradition of them being literally cloistered, but all the same. A Geishmal never take a woman to wife; he is chosen from childhood and raised to adulthood without seeing any woman, except for the Virgins of the Faith. Noting, of course, that the Virgins of the Faith are traditionally the most beautiful and pure women of the realm.
But we dwell on the Geishmals... er... swordplay a bit too much. Moving on...
So, by this time, the Shaitae were on their ninth Geishmal. Nine Geishmal, by the traditional naming system, though he is referred to by his birth name as well, Gurishami Eliji (for after the reformation of the office by Tadisha Seji, the Geishmalae do not drop their birth names). A brave and wise man, though not without his troubles...
Tracing back, we all dance upon the strings that our ancestors pull for us. Gurishamis grandfathers both died in the war against SuriAti, both of his grandmothers were left to raise a single child each. His mother and father, as fate would have it. Each saw their mothers die before their eyes in poverty, old and frail, each were forced out onto the streets at the tender age of fifteen. There they found each other, and they fell almost instantly in love...
It was not easy for this couple, naturally. They had to find a place to start a livelihood; both had painful memories of the war, so they went as far as they could from SuriAti, and moved to the other side of the nation... Alas, this meant their farm was among the first to be raided by the Nandi. They fled as refugees to the capital, with their only son, a precious babe, and begged the great Geishmal to hear them. Somehow, they managed to convince them, and they met with the Geishmal at the gates of his compound, for no one can enter his compound but the messengers and the Sacred Virgins. And of course, the Geishmal himself.
It was one of those moments of fate, that the Geishmal looked into the couples eyes, and saw the troubles and trials in their past. He looked down at the babe that they asked for his blessing for. His eyes met those of the child, and found a strength, a resilience. He was enraptured by this babe; a babe who seemed so determined to cling on to life. And the boy was made Nine Geishmal, Gurishami Eliji.
Thus, he grew up from the age of one in the compound, but for a little fooling around with some of the more boisterous and flirtatious Virgins (which has become something of a tradition with the Geishmalae), he had a pure recordsomething quite unheard of. He succeeded Eight Geishmal at the age of seventeen, determined to wring a change in the world...
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Nine Geishmal was in the city itself, drilling with the troops. Any Geishmal before Six would have never thought of doing so. But then again, any Geishmal before Six wouldnt have left the compound at all. In any case, he trained with the troops himself, keeping up his martial prowess, and at the same time, showing that he would fight with them, that he was one of them. After all, as Six Geishmal had made abundantly clear, though the gods had granted him a kingship, he was still human, nothing more.
The sweat ran down his brow in rivulets. The spear came whirling at him. Left. Right. Left. Right. Feint to the left, to throw him off balance. Feint to the right, as if you were going to strike him. He anticipates, but he doesnt anticipate the spear spinning around backwards and delivering him a blow to the left again.
Watch the persons intentions, not their movements. When a body is moving left, but it leans as though to switch to the right, you block to the right. When he thrusts at you but is really preparing to slash, you can see that in the muscles of his arm. The key to fighting is to anticipate, and to keep your internal discipline.
The recruit nodded. He was new to the Screamers, but he showed much promise. Gurishami had high hopes for him.
Now, meditate on the battle. No, not like that, he said, sharply. Do not lean on the sword. Tiredness cannot rule you. Your body cannot rule you. To learn how to move in combat, you must learn how to be still. Now, meditate. Think back on what you did wrong. Think back. Then, when you are ready, strike.
He waited a minute or two. I am ready. His lash caught him in the chest.
No, you were not ready. If you were ready, you would have struck me. Do not warn your opponent of your attack before you attack. If you do so, you are more helpless than a suckling babe.
The boy nodded. Then attacked, suddenly, springing at him. Gurishami deftly deflected the stick sword and delivered a flurry of his own blows that ended with the wood at his training partners throat.
Good. Your reactions are improving. But you must always strive to be better.
The day you are perfect is the day you cannot improve.
Just so. Now, move on, my son. I have duty to attend to.
If truth be told, he had not given the fight his best ability or attention. He was preoccupied; for his nation faced a problem. And if that wasnt the most cliche thought that occurred inside his head, then he didnt know what was.
The Nandi had invaded his nation, and the SuriAti were in rebellion. But with the right concentration and focus, he could create a plan that would drive them both out. And when that happened, perhaps the Shaitae could live in true peace for once. True peace... Something everyone longs after, but few achieve. Alas.
The sweat ran down his brow in rivulets. The spear came whirling at him. Left. Right. Left. Right. Feint to the left, to throw him off balance. Feint to the right, as if you were going to strike him. He anticipates, but he doesnt anticipate the spear spinning around backwards and delivering him a blow to the left again.
Watch the persons intentions, not their movements. When a body is moving left, but it leans as though to switch to the right, you block to the right. When he thrusts at you but is really preparing to slash, you can see that in the muscles of his arm. The key to fighting is to anticipate, and to keep your internal discipline.
The recruit nodded. He was new to the Screamers, but he showed much promise. Gurishami had high hopes for him.
Now, meditate on the battle. No, not like that, he said, sharply. Do not lean on the sword. Tiredness cannot rule you. Your body cannot rule you. To learn how to move in combat, you must learn how to be still. Now, meditate. Think back on what you did wrong. Think back. Then, when you are ready, strike.
He waited a minute or two. I am ready. His lash caught him in the chest.
No, you were not ready. If you were ready, you would have struck me. Do not warn your opponent of your attack before you attack. If you do so, you are more helpless than a suckling babe.
The boy nodded. Then attacked, suddenly, springing at him. Gurishami deftly deflected the stick sword and delivered a flurry of his own blows that ended with the wood at his training partners throat.
Good. Your reactions are improving. But you must always strive to be better.
The day you are perfect is the day you cannot improve.
Just so. Now, move on, my son. I have duty to attend to.
If truth be told, he had not given the fight his best ability or attention. He was preoccupied; for his nation faced a problem. And if that wasnt the most cliche thought that occurred inside his head, then he didnt know what was.
The Nandi had invaded his nation, and the SuriAti were in rebellion. But with the right concentration and focus, he could create a plan that would drive them both out. And when that happened, perhaps the Shaitae could live in true peace for once. True peace... Something everyone longs after, but few achieve. Alas.
Silver Steak
The Ghost of SS
The race is on, Iggy! May the best MOD win! 
Silver Steak
The Ghost of SS
Yeah, battles kill time. 
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
Fffffffft. An arrow flew through the air, flames trailing after it, burning brightly in the dusk sky. The Nandi warriors looked up at it, wary. Something was wrong. There should be no flaming arrows in an encampment, even less so flying over the thing instead of being used on the practice range. Shouts rang out among the sentries, as they called out at the slightest movement of a shadow. Nothing happened. The camp was at peace again in only a few minutes.
Ffffffffft. Another flaming arrow. More calls. Some had seen where it issued from. Less prudent men put arrows to bowstring and let fly, the flight of arrows hissing through the air towards the stand of trees where the arrow had issued from. Thht thht thht thththht ththht thht. The dull thuds of arrows smacking into trees, and the rustle of leaves was heard. Shhhhk Thnk. Thnk. Thnk thnk thnk. Shhhh...
The more prudent commanders of the garrison began to round up sallying parties. Men started to organize in the encampment... As organized as the Nandi ever got. They were milling about when a man with black face paint drew back the bowstring a third time, and set the arrow to it, dripping pitch. He nodded to his partner, who lit it aflame; he loosed the arrow over the encampment. Ffffffffft.
Then a hundred more followed. Thhh thhhh thhh th thhh thhh thhh th thhh. The sounds of arrows plunging through cloth tents, and into the soft wet flesh of men were heard. Shhk shhhk shk shhhk shk tch tch shhhhhhk tch tch skkkkkh. A kettle was struck by an arrow: Clang. More arrows followed, but now they were drowned out by the screams of the wounded. My hand! My hand! Oh gods, make it stop! And then those by a louder roar.
HURRAH! A hundred masked men attacked, orange, red, and yellow laquer armor gleaming in the firelight. They leapt over the makeshift palisade and attacked the sentries who stood terrified, slaughtering them. They plunged into the camp, their spears whirling like dervishes, slaying men left and right. They threw torches into tents, scattered the disorganized Nandi, and then they were gone.
Ffffffffft. Another flaming arrow. More calls. Some had seen where it issued from. Less prudent men put arrows to bowstring and let fly, the flight of arrows hissing through the air towards the stand of trees where the arrow had issued from. Thht thht thht thththht ththht thht. The dull thuds of arrows smacking into trees, and the rustle of leaves was heard. Shhhhk Thnk. Thnk. Thnk thnk thnk. Shhhh...
The more prudent commanders of the garrison began to round up sallying parties. Men started to organize in the encampment... As organized as the Nandi ever got. They were milling about when a man with black face paint drew back the bowstring a third time, and set the arrow to it, dripping pitch. He nodded to his partner, who lit it aflame; he loosed the arrow over the encampment. Ffffffffft.
Then a hundred more followed. Thhh thhhh thhh th thhh thhh thhh th thhh. The sounds of arrows plunging through cloth tents, and into the soft wet flesh of men were heard. Shhk shhhk shk shhhk shk tch tch shhhhhhk tch tch skkkkkh. A kettle was struck by an arrow: Clang. More arrows followed, but now they were drowned out by the screams of the wounded. My hand! My hand! Oh gods, make it stop! And then those by a louder roar.
HURRAH! A hundred masked men attacked, orange, red, and yellow laquer armor gleaming in the firelight. They leapt over the makeshift palisade and attacked the sentries who stood terrified, slaughtering them. They plunged into the camp, their spears whirling like dervishes, slaying men left and right. They threw torches into tents, scattered the disorganized Nandi, and then they were gone.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
I have named my successor. It has been relayed to the Sacred Virgins; they know who Ten Geishmal is.
Most Sacred Lord, naming a successor is all well and good, but...
But what? Gurishami was mildly irritated by this scribes insistent delays on his departure from the city. If he was to be gone in war, he would rather be gone soon than later, rather be fighting with his troops on the day of battle than serenely arriving in a palanquin days after it had ended. He was the Geishmal, and the Geishmalae do not run from combat.
But if you are to die, then that... I mean, you would be the first Geishmal ever who has died in combat.
I know this as well as you. What of it?
The Geishmal is more than a ruler, sir. You are the spiritual leader of the people as much as the political leader, and in no tradition are you required on the battlefield. Leave the warfare to your generals, and handle the policy from your home, I beg of you. There is no reason to go on this war, and if we were to lose a Geishmal in battle... If we were to lose you, the stability consequences would be tremendous.
So they would be. But I will not sit in an ivory tower, waiting for the news to come to me. I will fight with my soldiers; they will fight all the harder for me if I am there. Why should they fight for a ruler that is not there? The Nandi chieftains go into battle; so shall I.
But sir...
Spare me your but sirs. I am riding into battle, and the gods shall watch over me or strike me down as they see fit.
You are a young child; you are impulsive. Sit a while with me, clear your head, please, drink a cup of tea with me, just... dont hasten to go off to war so quickly.
Drink a cup of tea with you... is the tea to be laced with the milk of the poppy? I decline your invitation, and I would thank you not to bar my way. I am the Geishmal, and if I say that I am going to war, I shall be going to war. And by the gods, I am going to war. And if I need ride you down in the process, I gladly shall.
The scribe did not move, but jabbered more at him, incessantly. He ignored the scribe, pulling on the gloves, sewn with metal plates, which armored his hands. He checked the fastenings of his breastplate and leg greaves, and then turned to his squire for a helm. And still, the scribe was trying to convince him that he should not go. Court scribes were only pawns of a larger force; the machinations of a noble moved them. He ignored the scribe, and lowered the helm onto his head.
Alas, the helm had earholes, so he could still hear the scribe, but he had had worse luck before in his life. He lowered the mask, and slowly, the feeling of boiled leather spread all over face, hard and yet padded. He was enclosed from the world. Protected. Such was the helm of the Screamers; an instrument which allowed them to turn away glancing blows to the face, sparing them many a scar in battle.
He gathered the reigns in his hand. Horses were not common in Shaita, and were not an important part of their military, but he rode a horse into battle; only he and a few generals had that privilege. His was a slim snow white mare, traded from the far south to here through a variety of merchants, a horse which had been positively tame in his hands, yet at the same time, so alive that she seemed to read his mind. A smart horse, to be sure.
He squeezed her flanks ever so slightly with his heels, immediately she trotted forth. The scribe moved out of the way. A good thing, Gurishami had almost forgotten he was there. He rode out of the central keep in the center of the city, through the gates, and into the city itself, along the Road of Heroes that would lead to the southern Lion Gate. The people gave a great shout when he appeared, followed by his riders, with the phoenix banner of the Shaitae flying behind him.
It was a mighty sight. The Lord Geishmal of the Shaita, Gurishami Eliji, was riding to battle. The nation of the Shaita was prepared for its war.
Most Sacred Lord, naming a successor is all well and good, but...
But what? Gurishami was mildly irritated by this scribes insistent delays on his departure from the city. If he was to be gone in war, he would rather be gone soon than later, rather be fighting with his troops on the day of battle than serenely arriving in a palanquin days after it had ended. He was the Geishmal, and the Geishmalae do not run from combat.
But if you are to die, then that... I mean, you would be the first Geishmal ever who has died in combat.
I know this as well as you. What of it?
The Geishmal is more than a ruler, sir. You are the spiritual leader of the people as much as the political leader, and in no tradition are you required on the battlefield. Leave the warfare to your generals, and handle the policy from your home, I beg of you. There is no reason to go on this war, and if we were to lose a Geishmal in battle... If we were to lose you, the stability consequences would be tremendous.
So they would be. But I will not sit in an ivory tower, waiting for the news to come to me. I will fight with my soldiers; they will fight all the harder for me if I am there. Why should they fight for a ruler that is not there? The Nandi chieftains go into battle; so shall I.
But sir...
Spare me your but sirs. I am riding into battle, and the gods shall watch over me or strike me down as they see fit.
You are a young child; you are impulsive. Sit a while with me, clear your head, please, drink a cup of tea with me, just... dont hasten to go off to war so quickly.
Drink a cup of tea with you... is the tea to be laced with the milk of the poppy? I decline your invitation, and I would thank you not to bar my way. I am the Geishmal, and if I say that I am going to war, I shall be going to war. And by the gods, I am going to war. And if I need ride you down in the process, I gladly shall.
The scribe did not move, but jabbered more at him, incessantly. He ignored the scribe, pulling on the gloves, sewn with metal plates, which armored his hands. He checked the fastenings of his breastplate and leg greaves, and then turned to his squire for a helm. And still, the scribe was trying to convince him that he should not go. Court scribes were only pawns of a larger force; the machinations of a noble moved them. He ignored the scribe, and lowered the helm onto his head.
Alas, the helm had earholes, so he could still hear the scribe, but he had had worse luck before in his life. He lowered the mask, and slowly, the feeling of boiled leather spread all over face, hard and yet padded. He was enclosed from the world. Protected. Such was the helm of the Screamers; an instrument which allowed them to turn away glancing blows to the face, sparing them many a scar in battle.
He gathered the reigns in his hand. Horses were not common in Shaita, and were not an important part of their military, but he rode a horse into battle; only he and a few generals had that privilege. His was a slim snow white mare, traded from the far south to here through a variety of merchants, a horse which had been positively tame in his hands, yet at the same time, so alive that she seemed to read his mind. A smart horse, to be sure.
He squeezed her flanks ever so slightly with his heels, immediately she trotted forth. The scribe moved out of the way. A good thing, Gurishami had almost forgotten he was there. He rode out of the central keep in the center of the city, through the gates, and into the city itself, along the Road of Heroes that would lead to the southern Lion Gate. The people gave a great shout when he appeared, followed by his riders, with the phoenix banner of the Shaitae flying behind him.
It was a mighty sight. The Lord Geishmal of the Shaita, Gurishami Eliji, was riding to battle. The nation of the Shaita was prepared for its war.
Silver Steak
The Ghost of SS
PFFFT, will you quit, NK?! You're getting spammy with your stories! But they are so good! It's not fair! 
Julius Gandi
The Foreign Disease
Ridding upon the high seas of civilization in a boat named success the Indicans are a beacon of peace and prosperity. Life expectancy for citizens is high and people live well. Food is still abundant and the nation is large in size and population. Great roads cross the countryside connecting towns to cities. The Farmers Union is still strong and their influence is strong.
After the successful invasion of Erita Indica has thrived in a mixing of cultures. It was not that difficult, both were similar, but still it brought a great sense of pride to many. All Indicans were proud of the quick and ease their nation conquered Erita and freed up land to continue their grand agricultural empire.
Expansion continued west as well. Floyd and the Farmers union saw the cold north as a barrier and so they began to turn south. “Richer Pastures and fertile fields await us in the south” was the motto of many settlers. However there was a new barrier to the south, barbarians. News of their atrocities had reached Indica from all parts of the cradle. These barbaric people were to be reckoned with and Indica prepared to battle for these lands and protect the order of cradle.
Sorry it is a bit short, lot of tests coming up.
After the successful invasion of Erita Indica has thrived in a mixing of cultures. It was not that difficult, both were similar, but still it brought a great sense of pride to many. All Indicans were proud of the quick and ease their nation conquered Erita and freed up land to continue their grand agricultural empire.
Expansion continued west as well. Floyd and the Farmers union saw the cold north as a barrier and so they began to turn south. “Richer Pastures and fertile fields await us in the south” was the motto of many settlers. However there was a new barrier to the south, barbarians. News of their atrocities had reached Indica from all parts of the cradle. These barbaric people were to be reckoned with and Indica prepared to battle for these lands and protect the order of cradle.
Sorry it is a bit short, lot of tests coming up.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
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- 18,165
The skirmish was a small one, but no less furious for that. The Nandi horsemen came tumbling down the steep slope, roaring for blood. They whirled their spears, axes, and even a few swords as they came riding, screaming, riding, charging down the slope with a fury that only the warriors in a society are privy to. He reached calmly down for his quiver and pulled an arrow from it. The Nandi forces came closer with every second. He notched the arrow, pulled, aimed, and let fly.
The sound of a hundred arrows was joined to his. Thhh thhhh thhh th thhh thhh thhh th thhh. They thudded into the Nandi horsemen, and a dozen went down, screaming for their gods now, not their mothers, tumbling down the slope. He felt a moments sorrow, and brushed it away. He was a warrior, they were warriors, and it was their mission to kill each other. Another arrow. Nock, draw, loose. They fell like a black rain.
And then they were getting too close. He slung his bow over his back, and took his spear in hand. Here they came, proud and bold as brass. A single spear thrust, blood spurted. Down went the horse, rider, and all. His spear was wrenched out of hand, so he took a dagger and finished the man, plunging it into his bowels until he let his last breath out, so quietly.
He took an axe from the dead man, and looked around. There were more Nandi now, on the ground and on horseback. He chose one of their infantry, swept in for the kill. This one was armed with one of their gleaming gray swords. He parried it with the handle twice, ducked, and buried the axe blade in the mans belly. The foe went down.
Now he took the sword from him. It was not bronze, but it would serve; he preferred the sword to the spear anyway. He took a couple of practice swings, and then an enemy rider was upon him. Too quick, they rode past, and wounded him in the shoulder. He squared himself, and when the rode past again, hamstrung the horse. He plunged the sword into the mans head as he lay there, writhing with a broken leg under his horse. Then he realized that this sword had an edge. Impressive, but he wondered how long it would hold it.
Then another barbarian was upon him, with a sword. Clang. Parry. Whoosh. Feint. Schk. Odd. He couldnt see the enemys sword anymore. He lifted his own to make an end of them, but his arm felt curiously weak. He looked down, and saw a foot of gray steel in the weak joint of his armpit. He fell to his knees. He grimaced, and the man laughed, snarling, cackling at his pain.
His left hand reached for his belt, found a dagger. Plunged it into the mans belly. He twisted his knife, and died then, content that he had died a warrior.
Julius Gandi
The Foreign Disease
no! your just trying to annoy us now arn't you? arn't you!!!!
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
OOC: No, I'm writing these for fun, to be honest. Really! I do like writing, you know...
Here, mLord.
Gurishami looked over at the man, who looked ragged in his robes, his sandals nearly worn out from apparently months of fighting. He was only a regular soldier, no Screamer, and looked all the worse for wear.
Yes, soldier?
I have something for mLord to see.
And what is that? he asked, curious and impatient at the same time. He had little time for these kinds of charades, if it was that. His army would be nearing the enemy.
Well, mLord, have you had training in the use of bronze swords?
I have. Get to the point.
I have something better than a bronze sword, if it please mLord. Nicked it off of one of them Nandi raiders. He was surprised to see my spearpoint in his belly, lets just say, but I was even more surprised to see what he was carrying. I mean, Ive seen bronze swords before, but this... They call it an iron sword, mLord. It can hold an edge; in fact they say it shears a bronze sword in half, and it kills leather armor dead.
Indeed. Let me see this sword.
If he please mLord. He took out the scabbard, and drew the blade, quivering. Even the sound of it was sharper than a normal bronze blade; it had the dangerous glimmer of a razor edge, and a rippled grip. It was sleek, and beautiful, in a way.
If it please the Geishmal, this is my give to you.
I thank you, soldier. I will instruct the paymaster to give you a suitable sum for this blade. Now, please leave me, I must investigate this.
The soldier bowed roughly, and walked out of the room with a spring in his step. He would be getting enough money for a proper pair of boots, though likely he would squander the lot on ale and other pleasures. The regular army was not known for their religious fanaticism like the Screamers.
He took the blade in hand, and tried a cut or two. It swept through the air cleanly and sweetly, gleaming in the rays of the evening sun that slipped into his tent. He tried a few more sword forms, but then realized that the sword forms that his people had been so used to would be obsolete with this sword; unlike bronze, this could be used to slash as well as stab. Someone would have to be informed of the new development, and develop a new tactical doctrine. Perhaps it would be himself, after this next battle against the Nandi.
He experimented more with the sword. It was magnificently balanced, a sword fit for a king, and it felt so alive in his hands that, even though he was a novice with this new kind of blade, he felt like he could defeat any foe. Perhaps that was his natural martial instincts, but at least some part of it was the pure power of such an excellent blade.
He sheathed it, and buckled the scabbard to his belt. Perhaps this blade would come in handy in his battle against the nomads...
He left the tent, which sat high on the hill that the encampment occupied, and looked around. The hills of the plains stretched onward endlessly to the horizon, and his encampment, though large, was nowhere near occupying it. It was said that Six Geishmal had led an army of ten thousand, but he had scarcely three thousand at his back...
Regardless, he thought as he studied the surrounding terrain, he could make do here. He would make his stand, and the barbarians would be stopped; the Nandi incursion would be shattered, and the Shaitae forces could move onward for once, in order to defeat the SuriAti once and for all.
Here, mLord.
Gurishami looked over at the man, who looked ragged in his robes, his sandals nearly worn out from apparently months of fighting. He was only a regular soldier, no Screamer, and looked all the worse for wear.
Yes, soldier?
I have something for mLord to see.
And what is that? he asked, curious and impatient at the same time. He had little time for these kinds of charades, if it was that. His army would be nearing the enemy.
Well, mLord, have you had training in the use of bronze swords?
I have. Get to the point.
I have something better than a bronze sword, if it please mLord. Nicked it off of one of them Nandi raiders. He was surprised to see my spearpoint in his belly, lets just say, but I was even more surprised to see what he was carrying. I mean, Ive seen bronze swords before, but this... They call it an iron sword, mLord. It can hold an edge; in fact they say it shears a bronze sword in half, and it kills leather armor dead.
Indeed. Let me see this sword.
If he please mLord. He took out the scabbard, and drew the blade, quivering. Even the sound of it was sharper than a normal bronze blade; it had the dangerous glimmer of a razor edge, and a rippled grip. It was sleek, and beautiful, in a way.
Spoiler big picture :
If it please the Geishmal, this is my give to you.
I thank you, soldier. I will instruct the paymaster to give you a suitable sum for this blade. Now, please leave me, I must investigate this.
The soldier bowed roughly, and walked out of the room with a spring in his step. He would be getting enough money for a proper pair of boots, though likely he would squander the lot on ale and other pleasures. The regular army was not known for their religious fanaticism like the Screamers.
He took the blade in hand, and tried a cut or two. It swept through the air cleanly and sweetly, gleaming in the rays of the evening sun that slipped into his tent. He tried a few more sword forms, but then realized that the sword forms that his people had been so used to would be obsolete with this sword; unlike bronze, this could be used to slash as well as stab. Someone would have to be informed of the new development, and develop a new tactical doctrine. Perhaps it would be himself, after this next battle against the Nandi.
He experimented more with the sword. It was magnificently balanced, a sword fit for a king, and it felt so alive in his hands that, even though he was a novice with this new kind of blade, he felt like he could defeat any foe. Perhaps that was his natural martial instincts, but at least some part of it was the pure power of such an excellent blade.
He sheathed it, and buckled the scabbard to his belt. Perhaps this blade would come in handy in his battle against the nomads...
He left the tent, which sat high on the hill that the encampment occupied, and looked around. The hills of the plains stretched onward endlessly to the horizon, and his encampment, though large, was nowhere near occupying it. It was said that Six Geishmal had led an army of ten thousand, but he had scarcely three thousand at his back...
Regardless, he thought as he studied the surrounding terrain, he could make do here. He would make his stand, and the barbarians would be stopped; the Nandi incursion would be shattered, and the Shaitae forces could move onward for once, in order to defeat the SuriAti once and for all.
North King
blech
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2004
- Messages
- 18,165
A vision.
Burning houses. Stones flying into a city. Buildings smashed and shattered. Rubble in the streets. Blood on the walls. Warriors attacking a gate fiercely, smashing into it with their axes as the defenders desperately fired arrows off at them. War, death, pain, suffering. His mother and father, lying dead, sprawled on the paving stones. The Sacred Virgins of the Temple, blood slowly staining their silken robes.
He woke from his sleep, startled, sweating. His chest heaved as he breathed fiercely for air, trying to calm himself. He took deep breaths, closed his eyes. Meditated upon his dream. It was only that, a dream. Or was it a dream? Was it a vision? A premonition of the future?
He called out in his tent, and the Sacred Virgin handmaiden who followed him out of the temple arrived at his side in less than a minute. Aria. A lock of dark hair fell over her eyes, but she brushed it away, and asked him what was wrong. He told her of the dream, or of the vision. Of the destruction of the capital of the Shaita, and of the fall of the Shaitae Empire. Of death and plague everywhere, of barbarians ruling the lands.
She comforted him, took him in her arms.
But what is it? he insisted, pulling away. What is it? A dream, or a vision?
She thought for a moment as he breathed heavily, still frightened by the... vision. I think that it was a warning, my liege. A warning of what will come should you lose. This is given to you by the gods, but it is only one possible future of many. This is what will happen should you fail in your battle.
Then I will not fail, he said, fiercely. She smiled, and left him, but he could not sleep.
He rose from the bed, pacing his tent. He looked down at the battle map that he had pinned to a board; it had the enemy positions as reported by the scouts marked on it. They were advancing for him, beyond a doubt, coming to destroy his army if they could. This was the army of the Nandi, all of their soldiers that were in Shaitae territory, and if he could defeat them, then the road to defeat the SuriAti would be infinitely easier.
The enemy were advancing in a broad front, determined not to get trapped, but his forces lay here in waiting. The enemy were nomads, they would see his forces, and determinedly move forward to engage him. He was square in their path, waiting for them to come at him. He had already sent emissaries to the enemy, of course. But they had not been intending to make peace, no. He was intending to aggravate them, to get them to attack him. And if they did...
He had laid his trap. He was waiting here for them now. Here his Screamers waited, a force of fury waiting to be released, an arrow taut on the bowstring. Here they waited, here they stood.
Burning houses. Stones flying into a city. Buildings smashed and shattered. Rubble in the streets. Blood on the walls. Warriors attacking a gate fiercely, smashing into it with their axes as the defenders desperately fired arrows off at them. War, death, pain, suffering. His mother and father, lying dead, sprawled on the paving stones. The Sacred Virgins of the Temple, blood slowly staining their silken robes.
He woke from his sleep, startled, sweating. His chest heaved as he breathed fiercely for air, trying to calm himself. He took deep breaths, closed his eyes. Meditated upon his dream. It was only that, a dream. Or was it a dream? Was it a vision? A premonition of the future?
He called out in his tent, and the Sacred Virgin handmaiden who followed him out of the temple arrived at his side in less than a minute. Aria. A lock of dark hair fell over her eyes, but she brushed it away, and asked him what was wrong. He told her of the dream, or of the vision. Of the destruction of the capital of the Shaita, and of the fall of the Shaitae Empire. Of death and plague everywhere, of barbarians ruling the lands.
She comforted him, took him in her arms.
But what is it? he insisted, pulling away. What is it? A dream, or a vision?
She thought for a moment as he breathed heavily, still frightened by the... vision. I think that it was a warning, my liege. A warning of what will come should you lose. This is given to you by the gods, but it is only one possible future of many. This is what will happen should you fail in your battle.
Then I will not fail, he said, fiercely. She smiled, and left him, but he could not sleep.
He rose from the bed, pacing his tent. He looked down at the battle map that he had pinned to a board; it had the enemy positions as reported by the scouts marked on it. They were advancing for him, beyond a doubt, coming to destroy his army if they could. This was the army of the Nandi, all of their soldiers that were in Shaitae territory, and if he could defeat them, then the road to defeat the SuriAti would be infinitely easier.
The enemy were advancing in a broad front, determined not to get trapped, but his forces lay here in waiting. The enemy were nomads, they would see his forces, and determinedly move forward to engage him. He was square in their path, waiting for them to come at him. He had already sent emissaries to the enemy, of course. But they had not been intending to make peace, no. He was intending to aggravate them, to get them to attack him. And if they did...
He had laid his trap. He was waiting here for them now. Here his Screamers waited, a force of fury waiting to be released, an arrow taut on the bowstring. Here they waited, here they stood.
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