That Hideous Strength

[spaceman98]

Confirming that I am the Beluchi League. Further actions to come later

 

[Ahigin]

Torosa, the Hanged Man's Rest

Since its foundation by Brennus the Great, the Donjon of Torosa was one of the key strategic keeps that helped the Acquilivian Empire hold onto the Minthe's valley. Until the Wars of the Eagles, however, it was little different from many other fortresses and castles built by Acquilivian nobles in that region. What changed the keep's history was a dark episode in Omania's history, known as the the Year of the Red Minthe.

The Year of the Red Minthe
Having lost the Battle of the Deronne Forest at the height of the War of the Eagles, Ariovistus I found his dominion over what would later become known as Omania greatly reduced. In fact, his then-most prominent enemy, Lord Viriathus the Long-necked, attempted to eradicate Ariovistus' power base by chasing him down to the Minthe River valley and besieging a multitude of keeps that stayed loyal to the prince. As most of these donjons were located on the cliffs hugging the Minthe, most of them used the river for replenishing their fresh water supply in case of a siege. Having wasted two summer campaigns on capturing just three of the 18 donjons dotting the Minthe valley, Viriathus started facing desertion of his levies and mercenaries. His advisers urged him to negotiate with Ariovistus, but "Lord Long Neck" couldn't accept anything short of unconditional surrender from the previously defeated foe, so instead he went for a measure as brutal as it was desperate. Having rounded up thousands of previously captured Ariovistus' retainers, squires, and levies, Viriathus ordered to slaughter them all and dump their bodies into the Minthe in a narrow gorge upstream. The body count was so big that the Minthe waters briefly were painted red with the dead men's blood, and the river flow got clogged with bodies for the following two seasons, poisoning its waters with human rot. This horrific act butchery did help Viriathus to starve six donjons into surrender, but it turned the Omanians against "Lord Long Neck" and consolidated them around Ariovistus. Seeing that some sort of resistance to Viriathus was crystallizing in his domain, Ariovistus chose to show his people that he was far from surrendering to the "butcher of the Minthe." With just a few dozen knights and barely a hundred sergeants, Ariovistus locked himself in Torosa, the only keep along the Minthe that had a fresh water well behind its walls, thus making it impervious to Viriathus' horrific ruse. The siege of Torosa lasted for another six months, throughout which Viriathus' army was ravaged by typhus, while Ariovistus' own retinue melted under repeated assaults by the increasingly bitter enemy. Eventually, however, the defenders' situation grew desperate, and Ariovistus managed to flee the donjon under a cover of darkness after his retinue sacrificed itself in a desperate sortie, but not before poisoning the well, so that the enemy could not hold Torosa with the same ease in the future. Having learned of Ariovistus escape and his ruse, Viriathus, in his rage, ordered to build a gallows right above the poisoned well and hang every single Omanian still loyal to Ariovistus and let their bodies fill the well. This proved to be the last of his atrocities, as Ariovistus soon gathered enough support among both the outraged peasants and displeased nobles to join his cause and beat Viriathus' host in an open battle at the Dog's Creek. Cornered in Torosa and reduced to using the very same well he had helped to fill with dead bodies, Viriathus would soon succumb to madness and be captured along with his followers. Soon, "Lord Long Neck" would die the same death he'd brought to his enemies, being hung over the well and then cast to its bottom.

Between the Thrift and the Gallows
The reconstruction of the Omanian kingdom that followed the anti-climactic conclusion of the War of the Eagles was still a largely martial time. Besides constantly fighting off Petrean raiders from the Hillocks (as it was still about 20 years before they would be conquered and pacified), the Ariovennean Crown had to constantly hunt brigands and adventuring bands of unpaid mercenaries and "second sons." Feeling that a gruesome example was needed to scare the population into obeying the law and order, elderly Ariovistus I ordered to round up all criminals and troublemakers captured alive and bring them to the Torosa keep in big convoys. Simultaneously, he opened a royal fair in Torosa, which Omanian craftsmen and farmers happily attended, wishing to enjoy some commerce and entertainment after years of a brutal dynastic war. What they didn't know was that the fair was timed to go in parallel with hangings of the criminals on giant, multi-level gallows seen from every part of the fair, so every day of the grand fair of Torosa would feature both trade and executions (considered an entertainment for the crowd in these dark times). Such was an impact of that display on the Omanian popular psyche, that the Grand Fair became a source of plenty of sayings and idioms, most well-known of which is "to live between the thrift and the gallows," meaning living a life of tireless pursuit of one's well-being while constantly remembering of the one's mortality.

The Hanged Man's Rest
Torosa's growth after the War of the Eagles had little to do with its grim past and was mostly fueled by the city's proximity to copper and salt mines, as well as fertility of the river bend it was built on. As the horrors of the dynastic wars became a matter of the past, urban population started to grow and settle around the donjons dotting the Minthe River valley, Torosa being one of them. The conquest of the Hillocks by Ariovistus II brought with it even more wealth to the Acquilivian country, boosting the urban growth even further. This led two major expansions Torosa underwent, expanding its fortifications to protect most established neighborhoods and eventually stretching all the way to the exhausted copper mine of Magpie Rock located on a hill just east of the main town. Featuring well-developed docks, Torosa became one of the key riverine ports of the Minthe, becoming the main hub for timber and honey trade going from the north-east and wine and livestock imports going from the south-west. With most of Omania being covered in thick taiga forests, Torosa's location on the river bend made it one of the most crucial infrastructure hubs of the entire Acquilivian world north of Peren. An influx of wealth allowed the crown to invest into a number of city improvements; these included, an orphanage of Silent Oak, a gallery tower of the House of Vercenneans, a paved boulevard that crosses the elongated city from the Donjon Hill (the king's residence) to the guild quarter of Magpie Rock, and, of course, an Astorian-style aqueduct.

However, one part did remain unchanged from Torosa's early days. The giant multi-level gallows, known as the Hanged Man's Rest, still stay in an open Golden Boar Square right at the bottom the Donjon Hill. Crime is no longer rampant in the country, but what brigands do roam the realm, they consider Torosa's gallows simultaneously their final destination and much desired grand prize, as being executed there is being viewed as a sort of a grim professional achievement among these bloodthirsty types. Meanwhile, the city is full of all sorts of urban myths that extrapolate on Torosa's dark past. The Execution Well in the middle of the Royal Donjon (filled with stones since the times of the War of the Eagles) is rumored to open every full moon, as wails of thousands of dead and unliving are heard howling the name of Lord Long Neck; the cobblestones under the Hanged Man's Rest are said to move at night, as mandrake roots that have grown from the dead men's semen turn into little gremlins and dig tunnels under the great city; and the abandoned shafts of Magpie Rock smell of rotting bodies that once blocked the Minthe and painted it red, but since then were sucked in into an underground lake through a rift in the river bed and now languish in the still waters of the exhausted copper mine.

 

[Seon]

I have no capital of my own, so I shall describe a few of the NPC capitals.

Karolund

Capital: Karolby

Story about a place that is not here

Long, long time ago, there was a place. You arrived at this city through the sea, into a bay overlooked by a massive tower whose hideous strength dwarfs that of even mountains. The smell of the sea and fish overpowers the senses upon arrival, as is the norm for every other city, but here you notice an irregularity. There are no shantys, no boastful shouts, no laughter, no haggling of goods. All goods are handled by an overseer in bronze, and the only words you overhear are commands to the slaves, issuance of rewards, and administration of punishments.

Slaves and guards alike wordlessly walk through its streets, straight and carved of granite with immaculate precision by an unknown builder. Even the buildings to the side are massive and, you suspect, mostly empty. After all, for a city of such size, the streets are simply too empty--all you see are the occasional slaves and guards as they make their routine, endlessly cleaning and repairing the every day damage.

The builders of this ancient place valued aestheticism as a matter of faith, not practicality. Hark! Gaze upon its walls, covered in black obsidian and cloth and granite, in eternal mourning over a God that only they remember. Look upon its many temples, directing worship to the only God in the world that is incapable of hearing prayers. The temples are open, their many aisles and places of meditation empty, what few voices that can spare the time sing until their voices go hoarse. Only mortal ears hear their cries.

You arrive at the market place. Ah, here's some normalcy! There are sounds of laughter, of haggling, of boasting. Tall men and women--for the founders of the city cared not for bounds of the sexes--walk along the streets of its tiered bazaar, joking, crying, laughing, and dealing as they make their way. But there's something wrong. The boasting is done by men and women to people they need not prove themselves to. Your guide laughs at your every joke and observations, even the ones you personally found to be in bad taste. The merchants haggle, but instead of the thrill of the bargain, there's a tiredness to the voices--as if they simply bargain because it is what they are supposed to do, rather than it being something that they are wise to do. It is all a show, put on for your benefit.

For you see, there are no free men and women in this accursed place, for every freemen, guard, and lords upon the tower are the same lot as the lowest of the low--that of a slave. It is a place without soul.

..............................................................................................................................

A Story about a Place that is Here and Used to be.

Karolby is not the Place that is Not Here. It may be named after the King now, but it used to go by a different name. Long long time ago, this place was called Askam, named by people who cared for the aestheticism of the soul. In Askam was a place called Outpost 332, named by two people who did not.

The two people who ran Outpost 332 are people with long memories from the Place that is Not Here. They are a martial people, always clad in armor of bronze and silver no matter how outlandish this makes them look. One of them looks over the frozen seas upon a shorter tower than the one in Place that is Not Here, and another awaits at a harbor that is, once again, smaller than the Place that is Not Here. The sounds of other, unimportant ships arriving upon its shores annoy the two guards, for the ships are full of boastful, laughing people who need not fake their smiles and joy upon catching so much fish to others.

There is not much for them to do but wait. They wait, and they occasionally receive instructions. Instructions are followed to the letter, and the two return to their position to await further instructions. Years pass, and the two are now fixtures upon the town: an odd man and an equally odd woman in odd armor doing odd things like doing nothing for most of the day but stare into the sea. Angaguks tell the people to leave them alone, so the people obey.

One day, this injunction is ignored. As one of the guards stands on the harbor, a young maiden runs up to the man and tries to hand him a wreath of flowers. The father, warned by the shouts of the angaguks in time, roughly pull her away from the bewildered guard. A crime has been committed, but no punishment is meted. The guard plucks a flower from the wreath and sticks it upon his helmet to the astonishment of the onlookers and disapproval of the angaguks and the remaining guard upon the tower.

Things change from then on. People start joking to the guard upon the harbor, and perhaps for the first time in years, he responds with a joke of his own. His laughter is forced, faked, perhaps, and the joke is old and stale. Over time, he improves, jokes and laughter appear more genuine although it still seems unnatural. A flower almost constantly appears comically stuck upon his helmet. The other guard--a woman--eventually joins in, shouting down her equally bad jokes and laughter from atop her short tower (for she still refuses to leave it most of the time). Angaguks disapprove strenuously, but eventually they too simply accept that this is the way that things are to be in the Place that is Here.

Eventually, the two guards are invited to a feast at harvest day, which they pretend-grudgingly accept to the exasperation of the angaguks. Here, they are offered cider, bread, and other meager tasting provisions that are far inferior to the extravagant feasts they once enjoyed in the walls of the Place that is Not Here. Here, the male guard also finds himself wed to the maiden that started such a 'moral deterioration.' All is good, although the pair never manage to have a child of their own.

One day, a damaged ship sails in from the frozen sea, launched from the Place that is Not Here. Inside is a man who is very much like the two guards of Outpost 332. He shouts warnings of an impending, unstoppable attack and instructs the two to bring this message elsewhere. Outpost 332 is also to be destroyed in order to prevent the information stored within from falling to the hands of the enemy. Young maiden, now a wife, begs the guards to not to leave--to remain and strip off their armor and to hide among its people as they flee to their hidden shelters and places in the woods.

The guard does not listen. They leave each other, wife for the townspeoples hidden shelters and places and the soldier for the forests with his comrades. The invaders' ships arrive, long oars stroking the surface of the water with perfect rhythm as they crash upon the harbor and disembark troops, but finds nothing but a burning tower and a charred box once full of letters. They leave, and the townspeople return. The wife stands in the place of the guard upon its shores and await her husband's return, but he never returns to Askam, and never reconstructs Outpost 332.

..........................................................................................................................................................

A Story about a Place That is Here Now

Karolby is a beautiful place, overlooking a large natural harbor where King Karo's followers landed in their thousands years ago. From a tall place, you can peer over its walls to see its apple groves, the wheat farms, and somewhere beyond, a field of endless forests.

There are no temples nor churches in Karolby, for King Karo has no need for such spiritual superstitions. Instead, there are many taverns and halls, for King Karo is kind to adventurers and travelers and prone to excess (not so true recently, but used to be the case). Some time ago, the harbors were busy with traders from Astoria and colonists from Vjalheim, intent on making profit upon the subjugation of the Petreans by King Karo.

Aside from the wheat farms and apple groves, very little of Askam remains. The harbor has been expanded to include more of the natural bay, and palisades have been erected around the town itself. Its old town hall has been replaced by a palace, and its many temples and houses have been torn down to gather the materials for the new smithies and Ringan longhouses. Nevertheless, it is still a place of trade, of bargain, of adventure, of sighs, and of life.

The plague has done little to change this. Outsiders are more guarded against, the streets are emptier, and one of the fields have been replaced by a large grave--but the place still largely remains to be a place of life and adventure.

Askam is gone now, and so is the Place that is Not Here. In the end, the Place that is Not Here's seemingly impregnable walls, the hideous strength of its towers, and its monolithic temples did not last longer than Askam and, while Askam remains to be a place of life, Place that is Not Here have by now reverted fully into a frozen wasteland upon which nothing can live.

There is a vitality to the land itself that cannot be found in the Place that is Not Here--despite its rationally organized streets, its canals, and palatial temples and marketplaces, it simply could not compete with Askam's apple groves, streams, and chaotic streets.

There is a man in bronze and silver armor, walking alone along the harbor at night, occasionally drawing glances for how outlandish she looks in unfamiliar armor. There's no reason for him to be there--he has not been ordered to patrol the harbor nor is it part of his directive, but he feels as if he must be there nonetheless for reasons he does not know or does not want to admit. He stands upon the spot that another soldier from ages ago did when he awaited orders from the Place That Is Not Here. He stands upon the very spot that a wife of another soldier did years ago when she awaited for her husband's return. There, in the distance, he sees a woman approach.

For an instant, it can all be restored. Everything, from the Place that is Not Here to Askam can all be restored. He can reject his purpose--that to kill or protect--and strip away his armor to live in peace. He can help erect taller walls, raise a beacon into the sky for all to see, and sing his praise to the gods with all the life and soul that he can muster. The chances are so slim, so infinitesimally slim that it is unbelievable, but perhaps if mortal souls can reincarnate endlessly, there's.... The moment passes, and the woman passes by with only a sideway glance, and the man wonders why he chose to stood at the harbor at all following only a gut feeling.

He walks off into the night, seeking the next instruction and contract--for the final fate of a soldier and a villain without a state nor family of his own is that of a mercenary.

 

[thomas.berubeg]

Medaula, the Mead Hall of Kings, of which songs are sung the world around, sits bright, a beacon of power high above the city that shares it's name. The timbers are old, strong, hard as stone, and the thatched roof glistens and shines as gold.


Meduala’s walls remember. They remember the forest from which they came, primal, ageless, powerful, a strength they have transformed into a duty. They remember the craftsman's hammer, the artisan’s chisel. They bear upon their bones the stories witnessed.


The know a thousand secrets, have seen a hundred infidelities, and have drank the blood of a unkowable murders. The have heard the laughter of uncountable children, have borne witness to a hundred honorable vows, and embraced a thousand lovers.


In it’s halls was Bleden first decreed, dozens of warlords rising one of their own above them. They caroused and drank for days, and left with seventeen new feuds, but forty-eight new alliances.


In it’s kitchens, once, a child was conceived. It was not a special child, the son of a housecarl and a maid, but he grew up in the shadows of the palace, and raised a family of good people, who themselves would raise families of good people.


In the dungeons was imprisoned, once, the son of the King. He had conspired a little too loudly while drinking with his friends, and his father, the king, was forced to imprison him. For any other man, the punishment would have been death. For this prince, the loss of his left eye was the price. He got his revenge within the year, his father succumbing to a wasting disease. The One-eyed prince was, by all accounts, a wise king, and died in his bed, surrounded by his loving children and grandchildren.


Meduala is a living palace, bright with the lives of all who have passed through it’s halls.


---------------


“If yer gonna anchor at Meduala, friend, yer gonna want yerself a drink at the broken chain. Best beer the world over”


--------------

Deep beneath the bay there lives a princess. She is a kindly spirit, and watches from her court at the passing ships. She doesn't care about them, for they are filled with bloody men with bloody steel and bloody iron.


Meduala’s young girls know that she likes offerings of flowers and other things she cannot have underwater, shinny coins and blown glass and myriads of baubles. They know that if they catch her eye, she will guide them towards a worthy boy.


They tell her their wishes as they throw their gifts from the stone pier into the water.


“Let him be handsome” One says, gently pushing a small boat with a bronze mirror out into the bay.


“Let him be brave” another says, throwing a jeweled dagger as far as she can into the waves.


“Let his hands be soft and his manner softer” a third girl says, gently placing a glass figure of the princess in the tide pools.


She watches them all, and smiles, and in her manner, helps as she can.


-----------


The king looks to the ground upon which he had first decreed the building a great beacon tower, bringing wealth flowing to the city. It is cleared, still, even years after the gods struck the plans down. He is wistful, but he is accepting.


The Angaguk looks to the ground upon which the king had unknowingly planned to insult the gods and forsake the old ways. It is redolent with the tears of the sacrifices that had warded the plague away. He is proud, and he is powerful.


The Merchant looks to the ground upon which his dreams were built, and upon which the Angaguk turned them to ash in his mouth. It is empty, now, but sings with the song of squandered wealth. He is lost, but he is resourceful.


The Craftsman looks to the grounds upon which he had rested so many future years. It is still there, the stones he had placed before the Merchants lost their power and the gold dried up. He is resentful, but he is pious.


The Begger sleeps on the grounds that had once been so many other’s focus. It is in those polished stones that he dreams, dreams of feasts and gold and women. He is nothing, and he cares not.


-----------


“Do not cast a coin into the north well. A witch lives within it, and if you do, she’ll come out and eat you right up if you can’t answer her riddles.”


-----------


There is a tree somewhere in the harbor. It is a tall tree, an oak, and in its branches live a colony of crows. The people believe the tree to have once been a God, or a forgotten hero, or perhaps a starcrossed lover betrayed, turned into the tree to watch the ages pass. They believe the crows are it’s guardians, forever cursed to watch it. They leave offerings in the hopes that the gods will help them.


That is not so. It is simply a tree, and the crows are simply crows, and one day, a storm knocks the tree down. It’s wood goes to build a home, and the crows disappear.


The stump where the tree stood is still there, but people have forgotten what they once believed. It was simply a tree, nothing more.


----------


Four bridges arc over the river that splits the city in two. They are all made of strong wood, built to last.


One the first bridge, the biggest, every festival, a market springs up. It is closest to the harbor, and sailors and fishermen and craftsmen hawk their wares. It is a happy bridge, boastful and strong, and it reminds the others that it is the heart of the city. That, without it, the city would not boast the wealth that allows even the meanest of beggars a chance to survive.


The second bridge is smaller, a bit rougher, but upon it cross daily the wagons of farmers bringing their crops in from the fields, and their purchases out at the day. It is a sensible bridge, content, though it too cannot help but boast. It, it says, is the artery by which the lifeblood of the city flows. Without it, the city starves, it says.


The third bridge crosses near many homes. Lovers take to it at night to exchange soft promises and stolen kisses. It is a romantic, this bridge, and it calls itself the soul of the city, for without it, where would the future of the city be made?


The last bridge is small, dark, and it lies in the shadows of the city walls. Children avoid it, and even grown men try not to cross it at night, for they whisper that a troll lives beneath it. This bridge does not speak. This bridge knows all the secrets of the city, and if it spoke, then there would be no city left.

 

[Kyzarc Fotjage]

From the Travelogue of Calvus of Peren, Volume 3, 2nd Edition

Spoiler :

After spending a full autumn and winter in the village, surprisingly mild given their altitude, I decided it was time to move on. The children, my main source of information, had gotten bored of my stories and Elder Persis had apparently caught on and refused to drink with me further. Possibly in an attempt to pass me off to someone else she was able to get me a pass to the visit the city of Salem, capital of the kingdom and center of Trasque culture. While the idea of restricting access to a city may seem strange to our western sensibilities, it is perfectly in keeping with the caution bordering on paranoia that the Trakkan mind has towards outsiders. It isn't dissimilar to how cities under threat of plague or castles facing possible siege will bar any traveler entry lest they bring disaster. This paranoia stretches back to the Long Night and likely contributed to their survival in those chaotic times, though now it is just quaint national quirk.

My trip to the capital took me up the Valley of Fallen Giants, a craggy and stark valley that winds it way past two dozen peaks, each more breathtaking than the last. The valley bottom was austere in the extreme, the only plants growing along the mile wide section that lay across the very bottom of the valley. The fields of quinoa and corn give way to craggy hills and boulder fields as you approach the valley walls, finally turning into full scree slopes broken only by shear cliffs when you reached the valley's steep sides. I was naturally somewhat puzzled why such an important city would be so far isolated from the broad Trakkan Plateau where most of the crops are grown and trade is done. Defense is all well and good, and the head of this godsforsaken valley would certainly be ni-impossible to seize by main strength alone, but a city needs a reason to justify the cost of a remote location. After all there's a reason why Brennodunun is along a river and not atop a mountain, despite the security that would provide. In response my guide pointed out the numerous dark spots in the slopes to either side of us, which upon closer examination had people moving in and out of them. While I had of course heard of the mines which provided Trasque its immense mineral wealth, I hadn't realized the shear number there were. Above the dots were elaborate mechanical contraptions which channeled snowmelt from upslope towards the mines, presumably to ease the processing of the ores, while others used that same flow to power some manner of automatic cart system going to and from the mine, though the long pull ropes on the carts implied that system was intermittent and likely seasonal.

We crested the last plateau heading up the valley and I was nearly blinded by the sight before me. No, not the city itself, but rather a field of gold which covered the western slope of the valley. When I'd recovered sufficiently to query my guide about the awe-inspiring display of wealth he just shook his head. He claimed the entire supply was cursed and needed to be cleansed by holy light before it could be used. I finally tore my eyes from the golden vision and looked at the city itself. Its layout was peculiar compared to more modern cities. The entire end of the valley was walled off, the valley having narrowed to the point where it was less than two miles wide. The wall was sloped much in the Veranese fashion, who built theirs such to deflect rocketry and mass spellfire, but with large iron spikes jutting out from it. When I later asked if it was inspired by similar constructions I’ve seen in the hills of southern Veren the engineer I spoke to laughed and said that the these were built by King Abilimech to fend off the horrors of the Long Night, not ‘lowlander imitations’.

To even pass the First Gate requires a recommendation from an official Elder, typically in the form of a one-day pass with a formal letter of introduction and the seal of the village whose elder recommended you. Once inside you're assigned a guide who escorts you to the Hall of Hall of Hewn Stone, where the Sanhedrin, the council of elders who handle the administration of the country, hold session. There your letter is read and a decision is made whether to allow you to remain in the city and if so for how long. Merchants who regularly trade with the city are allowed to hire a resident Trakkan to act as their representative inside the city.

The city itself was divided into three sections around a large hill just before the end of the valley. The outermost section was very open, some parts of it being almost pastoral with fields and small herds of goats and was defined by the valley-wall, referred to by the locals as the First Gate. This section also has numerous entrances to the mine complex, though these entrances seemed to have been sealed. My guide explained that when the mines were originally depleted the tunnels were excavated further to create large chambers in the sides of the mountains for use in emergency. He claimed they could house the entire population of the country in them for years, a somewhat fanciful exaggeration. I had of course heard of villages taking shelter in cave complexes from raids, but to feed and shelter tens of thousands of people for a prolonged period would take vast stockpiles and caverns beyond what such a minor kingdom could muster. The stories from the Midnight Cycle of course take place entirely underground, but what I took to be metaphor or, at best, an exaggeration of a cave system used as a shelter during particularly trying times my guide apparently took to be literal truth.

The second section was built more along the lines of a traditional city, built around a large hill just before the head of the valley, and with another large rampart around it, this one taller and wider than the First Gate. The Second Gate, as it is called, is defined by six large granite towers, each of which stand forty feet tall and are decorated with the same iron spikes as the First Gate, with some even appearing on the battlements themselves as though to repel aerial assault, a patently ridiculous idea given wyverns' rarity making their use in a wall assault wasteful in the extreme. On several segments of the wall were age-worn signs of battles long past, with a glassified section of one battlement catching my attention, the relic of spellfire hotter than any I'd seen. The city within the Second Gate housed most of Salem’s population and its famous craftsmen. Going along the geometrically precise streets I must’ve passed three dozen smiths of various sorts in under a hundred paces. The noise of the city took me by surprised, having grown accustomed to the quiet villages of the countryside, with the dull roar of civilization reminding me of home.

But the superficial similarity to a Western city ended quickly as I realized that noone was accosting me, no beggars running forward for alms, no traders cajoling me into buying a souvenir, nothing. Rather the few people who did make eye contact looked cautious, almost fearful, like I was thug come to rob them and not a gentleman scholar in search of knowledge. Put off by this, I quickly started noticing more discrepancies. The foremost was the uniformity of appearance: slanted eyes with pink irises, unusually large ears and peculiar deep olive skin little seen outside the Holy Kingdom. Previously I remarked upon the bright clothing of the villagefolk compared to drab clothes western peasants wear, with the hope that I would see the medley of colors and designs that must be their urban fashion. In this I was to be sorely disappointed, their clothes being scarcely more varied than their rural counterparts, and there was hardly any more ornamentation. My guide explained that clothing was worn to mark class, with the color of the robes indicating vocation and the pattern of the sash their rank within that vocation. For example all ironsmiths would wear grey robes with red lining, but where an apprentice smith would wear a brown sash with wavy horizontal bands of khaki, a journeyman would wear red with a series of silver crescents going along its length.

The next thing to strike me was how quiet everyone was. While obviously much louder than the villages I had been staying at it, when compared to the metropoli of the West it was positively funereal in its silence. While this was likely in part due to the very short buildings, with only a few dozen across the entire city being over a story tall, allowing sound to escape, the greater share of the reason is the complete lack of shouting. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, spoke at volumes I more associate with a private mealtime than trading in a city. The loudest voices I heard, which were more along the lines of an orator’s raised voice than shouting, were the occasional teacher telling stories or singing to flocks of children. Even the forges sounded muffled, a result of their being partially embedded in the ground rather than freestanding.

Having been thoroughly put off by the alien nature of this strange mirror of a city I almost didn’t notice when my guide stopped. He, and the crowd we were passing through, made way for a bald man with a horrifically scarred head. Instead of the colored robes and sashes I’d facetiously begun to think of as a second skin to the Trakkan, he wore studded leathers and no sash at all. He was even armed, a rare sight outside of the guard, with a thrusting spear similar in form to an Astorian Hasta in one hand, a Veranese recurve bow on his back, and a short thrusting sword at his hip. I almost mistook him for an Assaban monk like the one I met in Torosa, my encounter with whom is detailed in volume 2 of this series. Everyone’s head was bowed to him as he passed and there was a respectful, or perhaps fearful, silence in his wake as he headed for the Second Gate. When I asked my guide about the strange man all he would say that he was an agent of the Sanhedrin. Before I could press him for more we’d arrived at my destination, the Hall of Hewn Stones where the Sanhedrin met.

My guide went to present my letter to the Sanhedrin and, after a lengthy wait, I was escorted to meet with Keeper Levi, a member of the Sanhedrin. The Hall of Hewn Stone is no metaphor and I was forced to admit that perhaps my guide wasn’t exaggerating as much as I’d assumed when he claimed that there were chambers beneath Salem that could significant quantities of people. The veritable maze I was led through stretched for what felt like miles, the twisting corridors interrupted by chambers that varied in size from closet’s to grand ballrooms. In these rooms were living spaces, storage spaces, galleries, and everything other sign of civilization that the surface city seemed to small to contain. The carved walls were pieces of art, with metal wires embedded in geometric patterns on every surface. Keeper Levi brought me to a comfortable, if somewhat austere, set of quarters where he grilled me at length of the lands I’ve visited in my travels. Apparently the Sanhedrin had assigned him the role of learning the histories and mythologies of the rest of the world, a job I was more than happy to assist with, albeit in exchange for stories of his own. He personally gave me a tour of the third and final section of Salem, the underground which even the regular merchants rarely see, telling stories of the more important rooms, while I regaled him with stories of old Petrea and the North. This time was exceedingly pleasant, though I strongly suspect he was misleading me both in terms of his own importance, given he rarely attended the Sanhedrin meetings his voice couldn’t have been at all important, and the true size of the underground section. I heard on two separate occasions mention of an even lower section called the Catacomb Libralus, which he dismissed as unimportant and sealed besides, though the mentions seemed to imply it was both important and still used besides. Still, I knew that hospitality had its limits and after a month as a guest of the Sanhedrin it was clear I was fast approaching mine. I was laden with minor gifts, including a fine pack-goat and enough pickled eggs to last me a month, and sent on my way.

 

[Kyzarc Fotjage]

The Blue Cycle, 11th of Kislev, 1065 years post-Founding, Of Izaiah's Plea before the Sanhedrin, Stanzas 4097 and 4098.

Spoiler Izaiah's Plea Before the Sanhedrin :

Izaiah bold, having done his task
returned at last to holy Trasque
To report what he had seen
Tell the King where he had been
of mortal man beneath demon's yoke
Of madmen and monsters long he spoke
Twelve days and nights he did stand
Telling Council of our land
from furthest east where shadows lie
as corpses rise and dragons fly
to darkest west where demons roam
brave men die in endless gloam
The elders wept as he did speak
And raised a cry that shook mountain's peak
To rise up and with mortal might
Drag the world back to the light
His story told, his time long passed
Izaiah lay down and stopped at last

Spoiler Screaming :

The Speaker finished with a faint, triumphant smile, rolling up the scroll he’d been marking down notes on.

To his right Navi Amos leaned back with steepled fingers, also smiling, “Thank you Speaker, your recitation was perfect.”

The Speaker bowed his head respectfully “Thank you Navi, I must admit it is a joy to go through the Cycles again. With your leave I would like to have these copied… do you have a question child?”

David, the young man he had been reciting to, was clearly fighting the urge to interrupt him, “Pardon me honored Speaker, but then what?”

“Then we move on to the King Ablimech and his-”

“No, no, I mean what about Izaiah?”

With this interruption the atmosphere of the room suddenly went chill, with Navi Amos leaning forward again with an unreadable expression.

“I’m sorry child, but that’s all there is. After repeating his stories to the Sanhedrin his task was complete and he could pass on, his soul returning to the cycle of reincarnation.”

David shook his head, “No, that’s... there was… something… else” He took a deep breath and then began to recite haltingly, as though recalling a passage only vaguely remembered,

“Encased in iron, bound by lead/The demon caught inside his-”

He was cut off by a sharp intake of breath and loud clang from the corner. The fourth and final person in the room had dropped one of the Navi’s early attempts at metalcraft. Keeper Levi cut off the boy’s fumbled apologies with a sharp, almost angry tone,

“Speaker, please go and copy your notes. Your task here is finished and admirably done at that. It goes without saying that they are not to shown to anyone until the Navi and I say otherwise.”

The Speaker, confused, nodded, gave a respectful bow to the Navi and the Keeper, and scurried out. David remained frozen in his chair as Keeper Levi and Navi Amos moved to the door, closing it as the Speaker left. They ducked their heads together for a hurried conversation,

“Levi, what are you thinking?”

“Its… possible that he is as you suspect, Amos. Unlikely, but possible.”

“But how else could he know what he knows?”

“If I knew that then there wouldn’t be a problem here”

“Its your job to know”

“I just… okay, we’re approaching this the wrong way. We’re trying to prove a negative and frankly there is no way to distinguish between someone who knows the secret histories because they somehow gained access to the Libralum’s records and someone who knows them because they lived them. Not unless we can confirm with a… third… party...”

“Levi, what are you thinking?”

“I believe I know of a possible solution to our dilemma. It won’t disprove anything, but it might be able to definitively prove whether he is who he claims or not.”

“It will have to do. Please deal with this quickly, we need to know quickly for my own peace of mind if nothing else”

Navi Amos and Keeper Levi exchanged nods and turned to David, still frozen in his chair. Seeing their attention he quickly began stammering out his apology again

“I-I’m sorry for interrupting the Speaker, honorable Elders, I forgot my place.”

Amos waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, “You would hardly be the first young man to get carried away by the Cycles. Please accompany Keeper Levi, I believe there he still wishes to test the extent of your… unusual knowledge.”

David, hearing the dismissal, shot upright and gave a stiff, formal bow to the Navi before all but running to the door. Keeper Levi was waiting in the hallway for him, frowning deeply as he stumbled to halt.

“Come with me. I’m taking you into the Catacomb Libralis and-”

David cut him off, “But honored Keeper, I’m not-”

“You may interrupt the Speaker boy, he is quite used to it, but if you do so to me again I will bind your tongue.”

David opened his mouth, then shut it.

“Good. The Catacomb is my domain and I decide who may enter it. So long as you do exactly as I say you may even walk back out. Nod if you understand.”

David nodded, eyes wide, and they wound through the corridors of the Hall of Hewn Stone in silence. The few people they passed as they went gave small bows to the Keeper, who gave them perfunctory nods in return, though they pretended not to notice the slight. A certain level of rudeness was to be expected from the Keeper, their duties required for them to be somewhat insulated from the humanity and it discouraged others from reaching out to them. The Keeper didn’t speak even after they entered the Catacomb, signalling one of the place’s deaf-mute guards to follow them with hand gestures.

They passed dozens of heavy iron doors, each more heavily bound than the last, as the Keeper strode purposefully down endless winding corridors. While the Hall of Hewn Stone had basic wards and ironwork built into the walls, a basic precaution from the Long Night to prevent demons from simply walking through them, here there was iron mesh on every surface reinforced with long iron bars. David almost stopped several times, memories almost making themselves known at the oh-so familiar sights. There was… a room, full of broken rocks, and one full of iron jars, and… he couldn’t get anything more. The guard, with her scarred neck and head gleaming in the shifting light of captured fire elementals, was all but pushing him along. They stopped in front of a door labelled ‘Tales’, a single guard standing stiffly at attention as he exchanged a flurry of hand gestures with Levi. Levi seemed satisfied with the guard’s responses and the guards took up positions on either side of the door, shortswords drawn in readiness. With that Levi finally broke the uneasy silence.

“David, I’m going to enter the room and speak to the… the occupant. Do not enter until I tell you to. When you do so I want you to look the occupant right in… right in the eyes.”

“And then what, honored Keeper?”

“That should be sufficient. Do not try to hold its gaze for more than a few seconds and ignore anything it says to you. It is exceptionally dangerous and will say anything if it thinks it’ll allow it to escape. There will be a series of circles carved into the walls, floor and ceiling. Do not interrupt them. Do not step between them and the occupant. If you go more than a pace into the room the guards will kill you on the spot.”

David’s eyes were starting glaze with fear as Levi went on, but abruptly snapped back to attention when Levi grabbed his shoulder.
“Boy, the occupant is an active threat to both the Second Article and the First Contract. As such anything that can be construed as risking its escape will be met with immediate summary execution. The Navi wouldn’t even blink, even if I thought it necessary to explain what happened. Do you understand?”

“I-I_ don’t want to be… Please Honored Keeper, I’m sorry for telling the stories. I didn’t want any-” David’s eyes began to scrunch as tears welled up. Levi let go of his shoulder and awkwardly patted it.

“My son, this isn’t about what you want. Do you think I wanted to end up like this, guarding two thousand year old secrets and monsters, without being able to confide in anyone? But it’s what’s necessary for the greater good”

David clenched his jaw and sniffled, squaring himself against the door.

“Yes Honored Keeper. The greater good.”

Levi gave him a tight smile then turned to the door. He pulled out a small knife from his belt and pricked his thumb, pressing it tightly against the door as blood welled up. A moment later and the door slowly swung open.

The room beyond was dark, the light from the hallway only somewhat illuminating it. In the center of the room was a kneeling figure bound in… no, bound wasn’t quite right. There were great spikes of metal rising from the floor which pierced the figure’s body in half a dozen places, some going all the way through. The figure’s arms and legs were attached to the floor with iron spikes, forcing it into a pose of supplication, and a thousand razor thin wires crisscrossed the chamber, all conspiring to hold the figure exactly in place. It barely moved at the sudden light, but its voice rang out loud and clear as Levi stepped into the room.

“Ah, good Keeper, it’s been far too long! How long has it been since your last visit?”

Levi ignored the figure as he examined the wires holding the figure in place, carefully stepping around the great golden circles engraved into every surface of the iron-lined room.

“Come now, it can’t be more than a day or two, a week at most.”

Levi lightly tapped one wire and listened to the low thrum

“I think I’ve served my time. Surely ten years is long enough. Or has it been fifteen? Its hard to keep track down here.”

Levi, apparently satisfied, turned to the largest of the circles and inspected the runes surrounding it. As he did so they glowed softly, illuminating the figure in full. He was a desicated Trakkan man, thin muscles and taut skin speaking of long starvation. Dried blood was crusted where the spikes punched through his body and the ground around him was stained black. His head bore the distinctive scars of a Sanhedrin agent, each faint line marking a steel wire just under the skin, and his mouth was forced open by a large lead mouthguard. It was his eyes that drew attention though, or rather their lack. A jagged iron spike jutted out of each socket, with a slow trickle of vitreous fluid dribbling from them. David choked back a gasp at the revolting sight and the figure moved a fraction, the corners of the horrifically stretched mouth going up

“Ah, I have a guest! I’m afraid its a bit of a mess, I’ve been a little tied up. Please, come in good friend, come and see what wonders your good masters have wrought! See mortal justice in action! A mere eternity of torture for committing such a horrible sinner as I! To enter a home when invited, truly the gravest of crimes. Please friend, come closer. I can’t… quite… smell you.”

Levi nodded to himself and stepped back to the door. He gave David a tight nod,

“Enter.”

The man laughed as David stepped forward, steeling himself for the worst.

“Yes! Look upon… look...”

THe figure hesitated, then shook slightly, the crust of blood breaking and fresh blood coming from the spikes. David could see its mouth move as it spoke around the lead guard, the first time its done so,

“Eh-eh… ehz aht ooh? I ing alimech, leeze, eh ee iii. Leeze, ILLLL EEEEEE”

The figure shook again and started a choked, throaty scream. The wounds were torn wide open as the figure convulsed, blood gushing out onto the floor. He screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed and David could hear the scream rising up through his boots and into his bones and his blood and he could see the man standing before his father talking and his father saying saying saying saying-

Levi stepped between it and David, face taut, and pushed him into the hallway, the guards shutting the door as he stepped through. He gestured at the door and glyphs glowed, the sound of screaming abruptly cut off. Only then did he turn to David, crouching down and putting a comforting hand on his shoulder,

“I’m… sorry about that Your Majesty. He has that effect on people. I sometimes forget how… how the things here can take the unprepared.”

David didn’t respond for a long moment, a deep silence stretching between them. When he raised his head there were tears in his eyes.

“I-I remember the end of the poem, Honored Keeper. I remember what happened when-when Izaiah returned.”

Levi gave him a sad nod, “Then you know why we did it and why we kept it secret.”

“He… he was the best of us. He gave up everything so we’d… so everyone would have a chance.”

“Yes. Now come Your Majesty, there is a great deal you must learn.”

He helped David to his feet and together they began the long walk out of the Catacomb Libralus

The Blue Cycle, 11th of Kislev, 1065 years post-Founding, Of Izaiah's Sacrifice, Stanza 4099.

Spoiler Izaiah's Sacrifice :

Encased in iron, bound by lead,
the demon caught inside his head
screamed long and loud to be free
but King ignored the monster's plea
for though Izaiah was no more
he had opened up the door
for man to rise and take their place
to step forth and the demons face.
While Izaiah's shell was hid from sight,
where none will know the demon's plight,
Trasque stepped forth to rewrite fate
armed with knowledge and clad in hate.
And he yet lies there all alone
Buried deep beneath the stone
Screaming, screaming, screaming still
helpless bound and wishing ill

 

[spaceman98]

Arravenna

An old word, that once meant "Mouth of A River". The capital of the Beluchi League. Here, the people govern, while Lucos Irrovano rules. Here, wealth flows, as does plague. The great Running River is the center of the city. Around it, the city is remarkably well planned, and in this planning, the League can be seen. A ship entering the city would first see its great harbor. Many sailing craft dock in this mighty port, as all manner of wares are brought from as far afield as the Baccan League, the Fennian empire and Tonn. Over the entrance to the harbor, there are chains. Any ship entering must prove that it is free of pirates and Bleden raiders. Sometimes, those with The Plague are also turned away.

But the plague has made its way into these walls. An entering ship will see proof of that in a recent expansion that hangs over the harbor: two long tubes going from the city's main aquaducts, whic bypass the river, and dump their refuse directly into the sea. The aquaducts were recently extended, so that they dump refuse further away from the harbor. After all, nothing quite disrupts a buyer's appetite as much as seeing the burnt belongings of those who died of plague disposed of into the sea.

The area immediately surrounding the harbor is reserved for the quarters of dock workers, and barracks of soldiers. The biggest threat this city expects is from the sea, so it stands to reason that soldiers would be housed near the water.

The next ring is the city's most prosperous. It is an area that is close enough to the harbor that one can comfortably walk to the dock-markets, but far enough away from the harbor that the stench of fish is absent from this district. Here, there are many inns, interspursed amongst the quarters of more elite soldiers and city guard. Here to can be found the rich houses of merchants. The streets are clean, it is a showpiece for tourists.

Sailors are ushered past this segment. They don't care for clean streets and marbled gardens. They want to drink and carouse after their long voyages. Down along the river, the city's main street, like a jugular vein, carries the working men of the see past the wealthy district, towards the city's beating heart.

Near the harbor stands the lighthouse of Arravenna. The old woman who keeps the lighthouse is remarkably jovial for a widdow. Strange crystaline contraptions protrude from its upper observation deck. In mundane quality, they are inferior to Lundic or Omani telescopes, but it is said that if someone you love died at sea, and you look through them long enough on a starless night, you will be able to speak to their ghost. The keeper allows very few into the lighthouse after hours.

Further up river from the district of wealthy merchants, is the district of the city's artisans. Here drink can be found aplenty, and this is the last point where the river is deep enough for almost all ocean going ships. Thus, here stands the shipyard of the city. It is separated from the harbor, so as to not interfere with trade, and placed upstream of the merchant district, so the rich on their strolls see each new armed ship as it is made. A daily reminder from the League's Executive: You are protected, and you are watched. The artesinal district as a whole is cramped and noisy. Like capillaries, ducts run to the central aquaduct, taking away waste. People of all casts mingle in the streets, but for the most part, only Astorian commoners can afford to live here. Acquilivians come in the morning from northern districts to hawk their wares, and then leave at night. The shipyard is sometimes the quietest part of the district. Its vast girth designed to accomodate large warships, but the League's resources dictate that production sometimes stops, and sometimes starts fitfully, like an arrhythmic heart. In times when the shipyard is quiet, the city's youth find spots in it for private lovemaking, moments of intimacy amongst austere, millitary construction.

Past the shipyard, a huge structure bridges the river. Beyond this point, the water becomes too shallow for the largest oceangoing ships, and smaller rivercraft can sail under this huge gate. The gate is ancient, built by the mighty Sehir Empire long ago. They say it once had a pair of locks that could be used to dam the river. No one knows for sure, but two great metal slabs lie in the silty water. Odd symbols are engraved on them, but the water is too muddy, cold and deep for anyone to dive down and divine their meaning.

On the gate stands the governor's palace. Flanking it on either side are the Signora and the Quaranta. The governing houses. In the former, a fixed number of representatives are sent by the nobility of each region of the League. In the latter, the people directly elect one representative per region, whose voting power depends on the size of the region's populance. Irrovano comes from a noble family, and sits on the former. On the later, he is elected by Arravenna itself, so has the most votes in its deliberations. Of course, both institutions are too large to be subverted by one man. Deals are cut here, some for the good of the League, and some for the good of the self.

Past this is a low wall. This ancient structure once served to defend the colony from the interior. Now the city fears no invasion from inland, but it is maintained, "just in case". In practice, it separates the Acquilivian district from the Astorian one. In the markets past the low wall, tradesmen from inland across the league come, to sell their wares. Brokers buy them, and take them to the city's artisans.

The city breathes. It breathes uneasily.

 

[spaceman98]

Are the stats on the front page up-to-date with the current update?

 

[Shadowbound]

They should be now.

Spaceman98 is confirmed as the Beluchi League. Tynde and the Fennian Empire are open, and I'd particularly like a player for the latter.

Deadline for orders is Monday, May 21st at 8:00 EST.