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The Blacklight Empire, Baccar, The Pink Seas, The xovva, and 1 otherKhumasa
To Where the River Turns
The pony trotted slowly down the lonely road, the dirt path planted and pushed down into the ground through what were once rare travels. The qan’s army, having travelled from the north down to the south, came this way and set about making new routes in the open fields. Even now, as the pony continued pushing north, its rider looked around solemnly at the great fields; prairies of endless grassland stretched for as far as the eye could see, with no hills or mountains. Nearly surreal, but familiar to him.
Turlan kept a hand on his mount’s reins, but his grip was distant. His mind trailed elsewhere on that lonely road; his breathing, shallow and simple, served to carry his tired, red eyes back north. His right hand was behind him, at his side, where he left it atop a burlap sack stretched behind him on the horse. Never once did Turlan move it, for there was his friend, Arman, or what remained of him, and Turlan was yet ready to say goodbye.
Arman lived for a little while longer after his foolish fight with the qan. He struggled on the ground for some time when Turlan found him, but as the wound grew heavy and eyes started to film over, he calmed. There was an alien quality to him in those last moments; Turlan had never seen his friend so still, so quiet and slow to action as then. He stayed with him, even as his words failed him and he had nothing to say to soften his comrade’s blow; he stayed with him long into the night, until he heard Arman’s last gasp, and then Turlan could not be moved until the morning came. There he resolved to wrap his friend carefully in burlap, in a wanderer’s burial shroud, and left to bring him home.
Turlan’s heart burned with rage. Every second he felt the rough fiber that became his friend, his companion, he turned mad. It was exhausting; a maddening spectacle as Turlan rode across the plains, with nothing to take his mind away. Nothing to ferry him to a better place, he sulked and suffered thoughts unkind. Towards Sanchir Qan; towards Arman and the war. Yet, what bothered him most was the anger he felt towards himself. A rage kept uncontained haunted him the entire ride, of what he could have done, might have done, to change anything. He hated himself. Cursed his own name.
”Why had I not rushed forth when that bastard first took Arman down? I could have killed him when he looked away.” Turlan brooded, but he knew the answer.
Arman would not have liked it. He felt powerless, for out of the love of his friend, he relented and allowed him to make his own decisions. It was an honor in their culture to make your own decisions; to break free of your parents, your guardians, your tribe, and decide your own fate. Turlan could not have brought himself to try and steal that away from Arman. He loved his friend who had been by his side since childhood, and now, out of that same love he carried him home a corpse.
He left behind him a conquering army, but Turlan’s thoughts did not travel there. He cared nothing of the qan now, either before for his power he claimed, or now for the tragedies that he saw come in his wake. It was simple, all so simple, for Turlan to sleep so long in that peaceful slumber. So many of his kin did. They cared not for the other peoples, the foreigners they crushed, and their own who fell in the charge of hooves. He never once reflected or cared for those thoughts, but now, in the open sunlight of the steppe sky, he felt sick. Every fiber of his conscience, every thought he held dear was shaken by this epiphany.
Turning his head off far to the east, his horse slowed and his grip on the reins slackened, if just for a moment. He imagined a prairie hymnal crossing the fields, carried with the wind, and could hear the sweet words of rejuvenation carried on the lips of a sorrowful singer. All at once the sound ended; the skies, having darkened in the time he began his travels, sent wisping wind that struck against his face and screamed in the open air. His eyes, which had grown large and youthful at that time, again fell into their sorry state, and his face was in shadows as he retook the reins and continued his path.
There could be no delay.
The Blacklight Empire, Intipalla, and Chirenai
The Rise of the Shogunate
Southern Tylos, Fangos Spire
The battle drums sang loudly their tunes of war, their players smashing against the instruments hard, their low thunderous booming echoing across the flatlands of the archipelago that was named by Skraq upon arrival to Southern Tylos. Now, the followers of Shogun Skraq had arrived to Fangos Spire and they were prepared for war. The indigenous peoples that lived in the northernmost tip of the Spire, known as the Gorrin, had settled into the city of Kailoga, which had already been titled Skraqa by the Shogun. As the Shogun's Army marched forth, thousands of Lopexian warriors adorned in red and white battle armor locked by shields and long slender blades, the Gorrin prepared for battle. Although having no formal military, every male Gorrin capable of holding a blade marched out from their city to meet the Lopexian invaders. At their appearance, they were savage with their guttural horns, shaggy fur, and hooved feet. The only difference between these Gorrin and those encountered in the wilds was the clothing they wore. The clothing ranged in different colors but all had the same shape. The city at their backs was a great one, built with stone and iron and surrounded by a wall, matched with the same Gorrin architecture.
The Lopexi lines halted their march as they slammed the bottom part of their shields into the ground, planting them in defiance and strength. The Gorrin on the other side of the field were shouting, screaming, clanging their weapons and whatever shields they could find. They were ill equipped but the Shogun worried for their strengths and savage history. Before the Savoset, the Gorrin were raiders of Tylosian renown, feared on the field of battle and their bloodlust was great. They could overwhelm defenders by their stampede, which combined with their ability to form lines of pikes spelled utter devastation to an opposing army's vanguard. Shogun Skraq was unfazed outwardly for his fellow brethren's own morale. The White Sun flags flew proudly above the Shogun's Army, their bearers arms locked tight to avoid the savage winds from ripping them out of their hands. Each warrior had the sun painted upon the chest of their armor, the holy symbol for the God Urwindel, who was with them this day.
In the center of the column of warriors, a line was split to allow the Shogun himself to pass through. The heavy metal, silk and rope armor of the Shogun was decorated in symbols of his people, the pauldrons painted bright red while the sun on his chest was given rays that expanded out across his armor, giving his armor red and white streaks. He carried two qaratas, or slender blades, as called by his people, which were shrouded in a red scabbard and a white scabbard. He marched to the front and witnessed the Gorrin, at least five hundred strong. They sang loudly in their guttural pitches, attempting to fill his warriors with fear. Slowly, Skraq drew both his blades, the shiny metal glinting back the rays of sunshine from the clear blue sky. He raised both blades high, prompting his warriors to do the same. In a single movement, thousands of qaratas were raised to the sky. The singing from the gorrin battle line was silenced and replaced with the clanking of axes and swords. The Lopexian battle drums in the rear of the lines beat harder and faster. "To Victory! To Dundrikar!" Screamed the Shogun as he slung his arms down, facing the tip of the swords to their enemies. In one fluid motion, the shield walls of the army fast marched forward. The Gorrin ran forward, barely coordinated and flushed with rage, just like Gorrin are known for. As the defenders sprinted forward with axes and swords raised high, the shield wall collapsed, their shields rushed to the left and right sides to expose Liruqlas, or spear-throwers. With the wind of Urwindel behind them, the spears whizzed past the heads of the vangaurd and the Shogun, slamming into the first dozen Gorrin, either sending them collapsing to the ground or slowed and kneeling to examine the wound to their torso. As soon as the liruqs were thrown, the shields reformed moments before the two battle lines converged.
The Battle
The shield lines of the Shogun's army collapsed almost immediately upon contact with the Gorrin, the monsters using their superior strength to smash aside the shields or simply go right through them, sending their axes and swords deep into Lopexian flesh. Upon contact, the Shogun rose both his blades and jumped to the first Gorrin, sinking both into the shoulders of it, sending him into the ground. In a singular motion, the Shogun used the momentum from the attack to roll over the head and back onto the ground, unsheathing two smaller daggers behind his hips and leaving his qaratas in the flesh of the first Gorrin. He faced another, who came at him with an overhead slash from his waraxe, forcing Skraq to dodge out of the way, narrowly missing it's jagged blade. The Shogun leapt to the Gorrin, slamming a dagger into his eye and stabbing it in the neck over and over again, releasing a disgusting groaning sound from it's bleeding mouth. Without waiting for the body to fall, he pulled both daggers out of his second kill, targeted another that was sending the killing blow into the stomach of one of his warriors and threw both into it's back, causing it to scream in pain and turn to him, as he was retrieving the blades from his first kill. Skraq rushed the Gorrin as it moved to attack. Utilizing both blades, he blocked the slash by the Gorrin sword and sliced open the Gorrin's stomach.
Despite the Gorrin savage offensive, the Lopexians held strong, though losing many of their own, they forced the Gorrin back, with the Lopexians right on their tails. Because of the disorganization and chaos amongst the Gorrin after their defeat in battle, the Shogun's forces rushed through the gates, engaging the unprepared gate guards and quickly gaining control of the gate. Street by street, building by building, the Lopexians slaughtered the male Gorrin whilst capturing the females and children and within an hour after entering the gate, the city was captured.
The Formation of the Shogunate of Fangosia
After wresting control of Skraqa from the savage Gorrin, the Gorrin females and children were placed in charge of burying their fathers and brothers as the Shogun and his Honor Guard marched in the Lopexian civilians belonging to Skraq's clan. Despite the city being captured, the fighting didn't stop. What remained of the Gorrin defenders retreated to the copper mines on the cliffs of the spire, determined to make their last stand. The Shogun's warriors barricaded the entrance and assigned a watch to ensure they would not attempt to escape and left them to their own demise.
The Blacklight Empire, The xovva, Red intria, and Marovinia
Reclaiming the Empire
Willkallpa
The city of Willkallpa was rejoicing the formation of the Savoset Empire yet again. Many in the city had seen the collapse
“Emperor Suri.” Izhi started. “The Reformation of the Savoset Empire was a success.”
“It was.” Suri reaffirmed. “But, what now?”
“The Empire reformed must still reclaim the Imperial subjects that have been either culled by savages, or simply have yet to see the error of their ways.” Izhi lifted her staff towards the roof of the palace. “The area around Cajapoya is still threatened by hostile forces, Arvenian, Lopexian, and Savoset alike.”
“Will Khuyak lead this expedition?”
“The Marshal has been busy trying to muster more troops, however, he has sent word that a subordinate has been sent westward whilst the Empire was being reformed.”
“And how long will it last?”
Izhi breathed in. “until either the Army hits the mountains, or, is broken. The Savoset Kingdoms held this coast and these mountains for centuries, and it's important we get them back. And the Empire will, in time, have it back.”
A servant rushed in. bowing his head to Suri, the man looked toward Izhi. “Word has spread that Intipalla’s ruler, Pisco, is in need of assistance. They are beset by a Rebellion, and require aid if they are to deal with it.”
Izhi sighed. “Already the Empire is in crisis! Suri, We will have to dedicate soldiers toward Intipalla. Whoever this rebel swine is, they shall not give others the same evil influence of the Astral Demons.”
Suri nodded. “Have Khuyak send a general and a thousand men! We can not allow Pisco to simply fall to traitors!”
“Emperor Suri, our armies are already quite stretched across our realm, but I shall see to it that a unit of men is sent out to help our vassal.”
Suri sat upright on his throne. “Cajapoya alone has yet to stabilize, we need to make sure Intipalla doesn’t face the same issue.”
The Western Expedition
The Western Expedition had been formulated by Khuyak long before the coronation of Emperor Suri had begun. Cajapoya, merely a shadow of its former self, still had ambitions as a footnote state at the time, yet always lacked the fervor that Izhi and now Suri provided. When the campaign southward had proven to be a mighty bit easier than had been expected, Khuyak had Tutayan, the self-proclaimed Mage General be the man to begin the campaign to the west, to reach the mountains that were once part of the Savoset Kingdoms.
Tutayan was a man known not to be trifled with. While he had been ousted by Khuyak in terms of the Emperor’s favor, he held what much of those outside of the priesthood lacked: Magic Prowess. Whilst almost having from a young age been forced into the priesthood due to this, he was spared the Political scheming that’d come from such an act by his father, who was a well respected Imperial Courtier during the reign of Emperor Nosh. Tutayan Therefore became a Mage for the Imperial Army, and, when on patrol through the countryside, avoided the destruction of said Empire. Tutayan and his followers were then forced to trek their way Northward, and meet back up with the scattered remnants of a once thriving empire.
Tutayan hid his face behind a silver mask, whom many believe to hide the scars and burns inflicted upon his body during an ambush by another mage on the march northward. Adorning his plated armor and robes were scrolls, believed for Augury and Runicism alike. Patterned in his robes were dozens of different swirling patterns: all runes embedded into cloth to protect the mythical mage in an aura of unseen protection. The Man, to all of Cajapoya and likely the world, was a Mage through and through.
The Mage General was tasked by Khuyak to expand westward until either his army had run out of power or they had reached the mountains. With his fellow Awqanlaiga, battle mages, Tutayan held high hope that they’d reach the mountains before they ran out of steam. Even if the manpower were to decrease, Tutayan hoped to be able to recruit, or possibly force, Savoset and Arvernian populations in the area to make sure they made it to their goals. With ideas on how to make the campaign end in glory, Tutayan prepared his small but elite force, on top of the levy Cajapoya could muster, to begin the march westward. The Expedition had begun.
Forward unto glory
Tutayan walked ahead of his soldiers, holding a bewitched staff in one hand, with a curved sword sheathed at his side. Already the journey westward had faced some trouble; The bridge allowing access westward had completely collapsed in itself, halting the Army’s march for several days. Luckily, some of the Levy were builders, and were able to fix it enough to allow the expedition to continue onward, without the need for drastic measures. Upon crossing the bridge, Tutayan halted his men, and turned to them, his voice echoing against his metal mask like a Dwarven hall with a horn being blared.
“Gentlemen, The Empire expands once more! Whilst the Imperial nobles and courtiers of the realm had caused the heavenly dominion to rot and decay centuries- nay, decades ago, the Imperial dynasty had once been restored under Apu and Yawar alike! We stand under a banner of an Empire that had just decades ago fallen to its lowest low. I am not a holy man, nor shall I ever claim to be, but to say this is not a miracle granted to us by the Astral Plane is a blasphemy! Emperor Suri Cachi of the Imperial Dynasty was handpicked by Apu and Yawar as a blessed child to revive a down and out people! They have taken pity on us, and to not strike out in our moment of rejuvenation would be a great travesty! Now, let us strike out, for the good of an Empire thought lost to Demons and Tyrants alike!”
The Soldiers of Cajapoya cheered with fanatic zealotry, lifting swords and shields to the heavens. Tutayan had whipped up his soldiers into a frenzy, it was now time to use said frenzy to accomplish his goals. A march to the mountains were obviously the goal of the expedition, but the Mage General knew simply planting a banner on the largest peak would not claim territory. He needed allies in this foreign land, to give the Empire Soldiers and supplies alike.
The Arvenians of the Region were off the table entirely, the Priesthoods, Emperor, people, and even the Army would not accept any help from them. They would have to be subjugated, as was the seeming crisis between the two species. Gorrin were located along the foothills, and would make an excellent Auxiliary force, for both the Mage General and Cajapoya for years to come. Along with that, were the Savoset, who had many towns and cities held by Tyrants and Nobles alike, either having claimed their titles as descendants from noble families during the reign of the Empire, or, Warlords who had to fend their meagre holdings from Hunger Remnants and raids by both Gorrin and Arvenians.
Miscoa was the city Tutayan deemed to be the most helpful for his expedition as of right now. Just north of their crossing, it’d act as a safe place to reform if the Cajapoyan forces are routed, and has walls to rest behind. As well as that, the city held an ample supply of high quality Iron, which Cajapoya had lacked since its forced movement northward. The Mage General had made up his mind then: he’d meet the Tyrant of Miscoa, and then march west to expand the empire once more.
The Tyrant of Miscoa
The City of Miscoa had already been in contact with Cajapoya for some time, but never under the direct sway of the priesthoods. With the Emperor coming to power, however, the city was now fractured between two paths: attempt to remain independent from the Empire, or, join it and reap the benefits of it before their rival city states did. The Divide had seemingly increased over several weeks after the Ascendance of Emperor Suri Cachi, especially now that the Empire had truly been reformed.
That was what Tutayan knew about the city from traders that had come to Miscoa, at least. The City elsewise was frankly unimaginative. Wooden walls separated it from the so called wilds that had now become commonplace in the old Savoset homelands. The locals were Apprehensive but friendly toward the Cajapoyan forces as they marched to the city. The Name of the Tyrant was also fully established: Yaku Cocha, a last name Tutayan recognized as belonging to an old Military General of the Empire. Seeking the Audience with Yaku, it took several long minutes before anyone approached Tutayan and told him that Yaku was ready for their meeting.
Climbing the stairs up the old Governor palace, Tutayan recognized it having been reinforced for raids: Two wooden towers were looking out toward the Northeast and Southwest, with staircases leading directly into the Palace. A once peaceful palace for Governing a realm, now desecrated by shoddy and quick made architecture to defend against a realm turned on itself. Barricades were placed through the halls, some more permanent than others. Every few paces was a one or two guards, who looked at the visage of Tutayan as if he were a bewitched demon from the Astral plane. They however, knew who he was, and allowed him to continue through the halls toward the throne room.
The throne room of the Governor’s Palace had a large banquet table in the center, with a dozen odd chairs around it. No doubt, once used for Administering the entire region, with a dozen vassals showing up to discuss the political issues of the year between companions. Now however, almost all the chairs clearly held a light dusting on it as if servants have stopped bothering to clean them weekly, with only a few chairs actually being cleaned up.
Yaku Cocha was standing right next to the throne as Tutayan entered. A purple hand rested on the pommel of a sheathed sword, and upon his helmet sat a dozen plucked feathers, all varying differently in color. “Tutayan.” the Tyrant grumbled. “It is good to have a representative of a strong Savoset nation in my home.”
Tutayan nodded his head. “I see you have defended Miscoa from threat. At least, for the short term.”
Yaku nodded and put his hands on the banquet table, gesturing Tutayan over. “We’ve had setbacks in recent months. The Arvenians tribes that my Father and I had worked hard to cull have become increasingly Hostile. I’ve had to defeat a dozen odd war hosts in just this season! They’re appetite for Miscoa is seemingly endless, and I fear that Miscoa will fall eventually, even if half the city believes we are better off on our own with Gorrin support.” Yaku looked around the room. “I’ve already had to bring our fishers back in almost daily just to not give the Avernians easy pickings!”
“Under the Empire, your people would see the Emperor’s protection, I assure you.”
“Protection? Is that what the Emperor said as a parasite clung to his throat like a baby to its mother?”
Tutayan’s mask held no emotion. “You would not see your people fighting on two fronts, would you?”
Yaku breathed out. “I suppose I can not. Miscoa has no other choice. But, I wish for the same for my allies.”
“Allies?”
The Tyrant nodded. “The Goriqaran occupy many of the foothills in the area, and despise the Avernians trampling over them just as much as we do. They’re stout warriors, and I imagine they will become servants of the Empire should you help them.”
“We help Miscoa first and foremost as a frontier settlement.” Tutayan said, flatly. “But, I shall visit these Gorrin tribes, and see if their help in our expansion will allow them a place in an Empire.”
“Thank you, Tutayan. I assure you they’ll fight to the end if it protects their people.”
Tutayan turned and left. He had gotten the answers he wished for, and had the Tyrant turn his blade without a fight. However, Tutayan was mostly intrigued about the Gorrins in the area. Cajapoya had a severe lack of recruits into the army, and if it can be bolstered by an Auxiliary force of Gorrin… The Empire may continue its expansions without pause. Tutayan left the city, and prepared his men to march toward the Gorrin tribes, and get an audience with them.
The Goriqaran
Mage General Tutayan had requested an audience with the Goriqaran, who agreed to meet Tutayan at the river bank. Before the Cajapoyans even arrived, there was a great horde of Gorrin there: the tribes had brought entire families to meet the Cajapoyans at the river. They had almost a dozen different colored banners flying, clearly representing each tribe in the Goriqaran culture. They had taken the opportunity to meet with their fellow tribes whilst meeting the Cajapoyans.
“Cute.” Tutayan muttered to himself, before rattling up his troops. “Soldiers! Break ranks, we meet these Gorrin as visitors.”
The Cajapoyan soldiers sheathed their blades and took the time to rest from the long trek up the river bank. Tutayan took two mage soldiers with him, to find the leaders of the tribes he’d have to deal with. The tribes had seemingly seated themselves around the bank of the river, with children chucking stones as far down the river as they could, and men showing off their strength to fellow warriors. The seeming undisciplined nature of the Gorrin made Tutayan wonder if it were a good idea to seek out these tribes in the first place.
After several minutes of searching, Tutayan and his followers finally found the tribal leaders, who had all seated themselves in a semicircle. The Gorrin were all blond furred, with great white horns turning and spinning in different directions, with silver and jade rings on or hanging from the horns. The one in the center of the semicircle, whose hair was both blond and silver, eyed Tutayan as if to know who he was. “I see you have requested an Audience with us. I am Bihar, leader of the Goriqaran Confederation.”
Tutayan bowed his head. “Mage General Tutayan, representative of Cajapoya.”
Some of the Gorrin looked at one another upon hearing mention of the nation. However, Bihar ignored the looks, looking at Tutayan with his staff in hand. “You have met the Gorrin of this area, now I must ask why you’ve come to meet us.”
Tutayan put his arms behind his back. “The Avernians in this region have proven a nuisance to your Confederation, and Cajapoya, The Empire, Wishes to expand within the region. Whilst some of my colleagues would wish for the death of all that inhabit this region, I see allies that can benefit us, and those that help us.”
Bihar scratched his great mane of hair, looking at Tutayan curiously. “How would the Goriqaran benefit from the oppressive regime that was once an Empire, who made us pay tribute without any of the protections that the Savoset had received?”
“The Empire is not what it used to be, and things have changed. Whilst the Empire has the Savoset as the foremost in the Empire, we can make friends or even allies with Gorrin… If they assist us.”
One of the Goriqaran got up from his seat, looking at Tutayan. “Do you wish to use our people like sheep to the slaughter, you toad!?”
“Sit down, you one horned fool!” Bihar shooed the Gorrin back, who sat back down. “The Goriqaran wish to know more about what this assistance would mean.”
Tutayan nodded. “Able bodied soldiers, as your tribes already have. Cajapoya needs locals in the event of a war, and your people know more about ambush sites and secret paths then me or my soldiers ever could. In return for these Auxiliaries, Cajapoya will assist the Goriqaran Confederation in kicking the Avernians out of this area once and for all, and you’ll see no trouble from them again.”
The Tribal leaders all looked to one another, with Bihar looking at Tutayan. “Let us discuss this in private and we shall get back to you.”
“Of course.” Tutayan replied, stepping away as the Gorrin chatted amongst themselves. The Mage General knew that he could not afford to have to fight both the Gorrin and the Avernians at the same time. No doubt, they’d find some common ground against the Savoset, and drag out the war in the west for years. He hoped that using their current animosity against one another would assist in the negotiations.
Called back toward the tribal leaders, Bihar spoke with a smile on his face. “The Goriqaran will assist Cajapoya. You have agreed to help Yaku, a long time ally of ours, already. And with his voucher for Cajapoya, the tribes will supply the men Your Empire needs to defeat the Avernians.”
Tutayan bowed. “I thank you, Bihar.”
“Baghatur, the youngest leader of the confederation, will assist. He will give guidance westward. Let this begin a new era, for both the Gorrin, and Savoset, of the east!”
MAP UPDATED (July 20th, 2020)
Night Terror
Soyul was panicking; she tried to run but her legs felt like they were stuck in mud. She tried to scream, but her mouth would not open. She felt a cold, large hand grab her shoulder, and pull her backwards, roughly, dragging her away. She looked around her surroundings; the architecture was recognizably Intrian, though much older than she had ever seen, she had only seen similar in paintings and old books. Kostuan crests and symbols adorned the walls.
She was thrown into a room with little light coming in from curtained windows. She heard a voice shout in Kostuan “You know better than to speak that heathen language, dog.” Her neck rotating violently to her left as she felt the back of his hand strike her right cheek with enough force to make her see spots.
She heard the slow bubbling of a boiling pot near the wall. Another man stood beside the stove, she could not make out any real features; only that his clothes were dark. She watched him grab the pot and approach her, as she felt her clothes being torn off by the man who had struck her. Completely exposed, she was bent over a wooden table in the middle of the room, her wrists held flat against the surface. The voice spoke gravely, “only Kostuan may be spoken within this school’s walls.” She then felt the agony of boiling water being poured over her back.
Soyul woke up screaming, covered in sweat. She twitched as she tried to reach behind her back to wipe off the sweat. She could still feel the burning on her skin for several seconds until she realized she had been dreaming. She was breathing heavily as her servant, Jaehwa, rushed in to see what was wrong. Soyul’s night terrors were common, but the servant could never take such a thing for granted. She brought the Queen a towel and a cool cup of tea.
“Thank you, Jaehwa,” Soyul whispered in a hoarse voice not unexpected from one who had just awoken. She quickly finished the tea, Jaehwa pouring another into her porcelain cup. It was quite hot in the Desert during Lowsun, even at night.
“Your Majesty, these nightmares seem to be getting more frequent. And if I may humbly assume, they are also getting worse, are they not?” Jaehwa asked with a concerned, empathetic tone. She had served Soyul since she was young, and at roughly 20 years older than the Queen, was at an age where she still had much of her beauty, yet also held wisdom and experience.
“More vivid,yes.” replied Soyul, staring forward at the flickering shadow formed by the flame of the candle Jaehwa had brought into the room. She thought that it looked like a spirit, writhing in agony. “Ever since I challenged for the throne. Our ancestors traumatized spirits....they have always whispered to me. Now they scream.”
Rumour was that the Sacred Blood class – the only class permitted to rule as Monarchs in Red Intria’s rigid hierarchy- remained deeply connected to their ancestors, where they could speak to their spirits at will. A form of Augury magic that could be done without sacrifice. Jaehwa knew, living with the royal family for so long that this was not quite true; the phenomena was quite uncommon, even among Sacred Bloods, and closer to a reversal of Augury. Haunting would be a better word.
Soyul thanked Jaehwa and dismissed her. She did not go back to bed, though it was still several hours from dawn. Once she was awake, the day had begun, as did her work, regardless of the hour. She lit her own candle on her wooden desk in the corner of the room, and reached into a drawer to grab some documents. She wanted to further prepare for her meeting with Youngshik that morning, and had been compiling notes.
Soyul had thought deeply about how to approach Youngshik. After much though she decided that a formal meeting would be best. A public meeting risked being awkward. But a personal meeting at either of their residences may give him the feeling he could be more at ease than he truly could. And she did have official business to discuss with him. This would also help ensure he would sober up the night before. Youngshik liked to imbibe in the local liquor, ssana. Ssana is a smoky, smooth spirit made by processing a flowering plant that only grows in deserts called yongseollan. He never allowed it to interfere with his life; or at least, not to the point where it would be noticed. Though his intake was well above the average, especially for a Sacred Blood.
Though he was her brother-in-law, Youngshik was also her competitor; he had lost, his pride would certainly have been wounded. A sibling rivalry without the blood that binds them can quickly become a toxic mess, their shared love for Princess Dahae notwithstanding. Conflict would be inevitable in her role as Monarch, but she needed at least her inner circle to be united. Chaos so close would be untenable. Especially not when Queen Soyul had great ambition for the future of Red Intria and its people.
For over 600 years, Red Intria had been ruled by members of only three clans. Queen Soyul’s Uh clan, and Youngshik’s Shim clan were two of the three. Their rivalry was deeper than that of base desire for victory; their ancestors were watching. Youngshik’s loss must have felt like the weight of twenty generations on his shoulders. Soyul would have felt the same. A delicate touch would be required.
Letters Home: Part I
My Own Darling Wife Yaiyao,
3rd Lowsun
It is a new month again and we are still so many miles apart. I can write to you, though, and you to me, and that helps a little. I started to write a couple of days ago, but somehow just couldn't. Do you ever feel that way?
-----
6th Lowsun
I set my letter aside to cook, so now this is late. I try and write frequently, but while there might be much news while at sea, often we reach port and it will be rather stale, but perhaps you’ll enjoy reading it anyhow, love. I have tried to keep faith in the knowledge that I will be home soon, but at times, especially when others leave for home, it is hard, and I'm afraid sometimes I backslide a little.
The weather is still a little cool, but in a few days, it will be plenty hot all night. We saw some odd animals today, which looked like fish but jumped out of the water to play alongside the ship. Our Rolesian liason says they are call dolofins or somesuch, and says they are just fish, but I can see the intelligence in their eyes and know now, seeing the spirits in them, that a power is watching over me, and you too, dear, every single minute, and my faith is what it should be.
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7th Lowsun
Yesterday passed without event, as probably will most of the days. Until last night, several gulls were following us, but they are absent today. Evidently it is too warm for them. We are seeing flying fish now, and I am told we will continue to until we reach the colder northern waters. Our route has taken us around a peninsula to Rolais, where we'll be dropping off the training crew, but we are hopeful that one or two will accept payment to stay with us as some of the men are not completely comfortable with being at sea yet. I will send this ashore and find a messenger to deliver it back to you, as we will be heading north still to the lands of the dwarves and lizards, if the rumors are true. I do not know where you should send a new letter, and our money is too tight to send them everywhere, but the Captain says they're building a shipyard on the northern coast, so if you have the money send it there. If all goes well I will get it when we stop for maintenance on our way back.
Your loving husband, Jael
A Day In The Life of Xovvan Elves: The Ellyyinth
We have seen the land, the sea, and the skies; The imbalance in the hearts, and souls of the many; So much of us wander across these lands, aimless, and without guidance; Under The Stars, to the will of The Constellations, Eternal, and Astral; We nurture The Purpose, We nurture The Ambition, We nurture The Sacrifice, and We nurture The Future.
We welcome those who have seen into their heart, mind, and soul, and found emptiness that they wish to fill, in honesty, clarity, excellence, and diligence; Your Work will be rewarded, your Worth will be recognized, and your Will shall be honored.
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Though Elves of Sokos are fairly prolific, the loss of their empires, their glories, and their heritage have greatly impacted the outlooks, perceptions, and demeanors of their descendants. Many of them now scattered across the continent, found working under the thumbs of Humans, Dsen, and Dwarves, with varying measures of cruelty, but such fates are as common as the ones that prefer to travel with their own kind akin to nomads, or mercenaries, then some try and stake their own nation in the continent.
As for Octavian Lythell, his sister, Eleanor Lythell, and their small band of Ellyyinth, an old elven slang that roughly translates to the Kostuan word for Worker, or Servant, they have been following them wherever the March went since they encountered them at Arta Village, just some miles north of the Kostuan border. In the last six months, they have seen The Tenet work in villages, preaching, teaching, and acting on their word. The parade of masks, and icons, and frivolous colors, and of flavorful mercenaries.
Octavian, the leader of the Ellyyinth, sometimes, found himself confused as to what The Circle of The Xovva, the number of mercenary companies that tail the march, and the fleet of tradeworkers, and craftsmen - including the Ellyyinth - had him thinking that they were once a nation of peoples wanting to rebuild, but that truth was far from what he expected.
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And so passes Dominus Valter-Raleigh into memory... And now ascending, The Xovva of The Second Sisterhood... Hail, Xovva!
Hail Xovva!
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Six months to day, the Ellyyinth followed to the end. They found themselves a amicable plot of land just some miles away from Xovvaran, near the tree lines, and the flowing waters just by The Astrals. Here the meek town of Bylaye was founded, a home where Elves that believe in the Xovvan Faith may find home.
Bylaye, The Holy Empire of The Xovva
The sun has yet to rise, but the horizon already shows its color, the elves of Bylae awake from the shift of the coming sky. Octavian awakens from his bed. His blanket shifted aside as he stood, then proceeding to tidy his sheets before making his way downstairs. He meets his sister, Eleanor, just by the dining table enjoying a warm cup of tea.
“The symphony of the wolves woke me up... It’s quite nice, really.” She says meekly, as her older brother walks down the stairs of their home, her eyes still squinting, her own body telling to the rest of her mind to go back to bed, and sleep some more.
Octavian scoffs with a smile, making his way down the landing, and helping himself for some crusty bread he found on the table, he knows very well that his own sister is a light sleeper. Octavian pulls a chair, and sits right next to his sister, the older elven brother just simply casually going about to eating a slice of bread. He glances over to his sister. “Don’t you have anything to do today?” Octavian casually asks with a woken-up deadpan tone, he isn’t a morning person nor an early bird.
“No... No... Nothing much to do today...” Eleanor blinks her squinting eyes, slowly, matching the speed of her even slower, lethargic response to her brother, “The tinted silk cloths have to dry, much so are the ones woven from wool... I’ll be some days before it is done... These mountains are cold, and the air is somewhat moist.”
The sound of howling wolves echo through the tree lines, the low hum reaching through the two’s wooden abode, Eleanor’s ears pick up and she joins in with a soft howl, her lips pouting as her head raises upward, and her eyes close softly. She lends to a giggle shortly after, her eyes still squinting, while still drinking tea.
Octavian smiles, as he shakes his head. It’s not often he sees his sister like this. He leaves his sister’s side shortly after, but not before advising to her that she should go back to sleep. Octavian returns to his room, picks up a small satchel of clothes, and leaves his home to head down to the river, where the bathing spots are.
Just some few steps outside Bylaye are wooden tubs able to fit a man squatting down inside, with water reaching up to an average man’s neck. This is where the elves of Bylaye bathe, their water drawn from the river, and then disposed on the downward slope nearby, where the tubs for the men, and the women are separate, and kept that way by an elderly elven woman that can still accurately throw a wooden rod onto those who wish to do untoward acts to the ones bathing peacefully. This is the Bylaye Baths, and this is where Octavian spends an hour soaking, and scrubbing himself clean from the dirt, sweat, and grime of yesterday’s work, just like the other elves of the Ellyyinth.
After taking a bath, and donning a fresh set of clothes, Octavius heads to the northern part of the town, where a horse-drawn carriage awaits them, he joins nine other elves in a scenic trip to Xovvaran, where he works as a woodworker, filing down, treating, and tending to the wooden logs from the trees claimed in the area of the fortress-city capital was founded upon. He’ll be there just until before nightfall, working for pay, and rations for his effort, as this is how The Xovva has decided to pay for the wages of workers, for now.
Ambition
Youngshik sat cross-legged facing Queen Soyul in the meeting room. They were in one of many such designated rooms for official business of the Royal Family, in the Palace colloquially known to Intrians as the ‘Half-Moon Palace’ due to its crescent-like shape, designed as such to match the curve of the waterway behind the palace. At three stories tall, it was both the tallest and largest residential building in the city. Clay, concave tiles formed the roof that angled upward from two sides to meet in the centre. The walls, where painted, were mostly red, with some black and occasional splashes of yellow symbols, representing the sulphur that was the main resource of the area, and mined by Intrians since before the Kostuan oppression. The main walls were made of stone.
This particular meeting room held no table; Queen Soyul sat a few meters in front of Youngshik, on a slightly elevated platform. They both sat on large, black pillows sitting upon red blankets. Soyul wore an ornate, red silk robe, with extensive yellow embroidery and a black sash. Youngshik wore a more subdued black robe with minimal yellow embroidery near the shoulders, and a yellow sash.
“Thank you for coming, Dear Youngshik.” smiled Soyul.
“I hardly had the choice, your...majesty,” Youngshik struggling to say the term he thought certain would be his, his ambitions flashing through his mind as he spoke.
“We always have a choice” Soyul stated firmly. “I’m sure you could have figured out a way to avoid, or at least delay, this meeting without it making look like unusual. I am thankful you have come. Before we get to business, please, enjoy some tea”, Soyul directed a handmaiden to pour them both a cup. Soyul noted his hand shook ever so slightly as his hand lifted the cup to his mouth.
Hungover, she thought to herself. no need to bring it up though; that would be twisting the knife.
“Youngshik, I’ll be open with you. You are aware of tomorrow’s very important meeting in our palace,” Soyul using the word ‘our’ as opposed to ‘my’, even though it was literally under her control. This was not unusual though, it was a quirk of the Intrian language, one that helped foster the strong sense of community throughout the Intrian people.
“I’ll be meeting with the heads of the major clans, as well as the Royal Geomancers to discuss my plans for Red Intria. In fact, as soon as this meeting is finished, I am due to meet with head Geomancer Jaesun; but I wanted you here to give you a bit of a preview. As you are part of these plans.”
Youngshik looked Soyul in the eyes inquisitively. Though his sister-in-law, as main rival for the throne, part of him worried that Soyul wanted to dispose of him. Perhaps not directly, nor violently, but she could easily reduce his status, and give him a lesser role. Though even direct violence would not have been out of the question. Had Soyul wanted him killed it would not have been without precedent; Red Intria’s history remained bloody long after the Kostuans left. Soyul was ridiculously ambitious, and Youngshik interpreted her volunteer work for Red Intria’s lower classes to be more political than altruistic. However, he felt that she genuinely loved her sister, and did not believe she would kill him, if only for the fact it would psychologically harm his wife, Princess Dahae.
Youngshik, ten years older than the Queen, figured himself to be quite adept at the political game. But part of him, as much as it hurt him to admit it, knew that Soyul was on another level. As crushed as he was at not being given the throne, he was not entirely surprised at the decision. And though he had wasted a week literally drowning in his sorrows, he had recovered emotionally, if not physically just yet. After all, he concluded, he was still young, and there was no guarantee Soyul would live a long life. The chapter on his ambition had concluded, not the book. He still wanted the throne.
“Your majesty, Queen Soyul,” he said respectfully, with no shred of animosity. He calculated that submitting to the Queen’s will would be the wisest path; at least for now. “What do you need of me?”
Soyul wasn’t sure exactly what to expect from Youngshik. Would he try to oppose her authority? Part of her worried that he would try to lead an insurrection; he certainly had ambition at least as equal to her. But she knew such a move would crush Dahae, and did not think it a realistic possibility. She knew Youngshik knew the political game; if he were to rebel, it would be slowly and quietly. So she needed to place him in a position where his role was both important, as to reflect his status, but also where rebellion would be counter to his own goals.
“As you know, my ascendancy to the throne was in Part due to King Sunghee’s interpretation of the Geomancers call for change. I too, shall heed the call of their expertise.” Soyul spoke deliberately. “I will be doing government in a different way than before....fear not, brother.” Soyul smiled, “I shall not be dishonouring our past, our ancestors would never forgive me. I merely seek to do things in a more....organized manner.” Soyul’s eyes locked in on Youngshik’s as she spoke the word ‘organized’, a not too subtle attempt to tell him that she needed him to get his drinking under control. He knew Dahae, loyal wife that she was, could not hide anything from Soyul if she tried. Queen or not, Soyul would always be her little sister. She knew that he would understand exactly what she meant.
“I shall be declaring the formation of many ministries. Many of these jobs were being handled already, but to varying degrees of competence depending on how important they were to the King at the time. I have my own ambitions, and thus shall be putting specific people in permanent charge of many specific tasks, to allow me to focus on my own duties. The Lords in charge of the ministries will report to me, of course, but will be given much sovereignty to perform their duty. One of these ministries shall be the ‘Ministry of Internal Affairs; its job will be to guarantee the Kingdom against internal threats. Crime, tax evasion, corruption, the things that risk destabilizing our country from within.... “ Soyul looked past Youngshik for a moment before her eyes set back upon him. “...and of course, threats against the Royal family. And the person in charge of this Ministry shall be....,” Soyul again looked Youngshik in the eyes with the intensity of a snake observing its prey, “....you.”
Soyul smiled, her face suddenly much more warm and friendly, and continued, “I will discuss the details later, but I hope this role sounds satisfactory. I know you can fight, but I need someone in this role who also knows strategy, who is intelligent. Who can plan. I cannot think of another person in the Country who I would want to be in charge of protecting my people, and indeed, to protect me.”
Youngshik stared at her in awe. It was as though she had read his mind, she knew exactly what he wanted, and had run all of the possibilities. She had placed him in a role of great importance, but also one that would require him to submit fully to her if he wanted to keep his honour. If Soyul falls, for whatever reason, he fails. And failures rarely rise in status.
“It would be my honour, your Majesty.” smiled Youngshik. “I look forward to hearing more details regarding this position.”
“I am glad, You....no, Lord Youngshik,” Soyul now using the title that she had delegated for the heads of her ministries. “You have brought me great joy today.” Soyul dismissed him, as she needed to go over her notes to prepare for her next meeting with Head Geomancer Jaesun.
a piece in in the right place......for now Soyul thought to herself.
First Contact: Part Two
“One can’t siege a city before they reach the city. It’s common sense, Bordy.” The words came from the mouth of a Marovic warrior. He was speaking to his companion over their dinner at the campfire.
“You’s would normally be right, Orszlach, but seems to’s me a right besiegin’ needs a full envelopment a sorts to be more den a mere mock’ry of warfare.” Bordy was an old man who hid wisdom behind his white beard and quick eyes.
“Surrounding a city would be required to truly siege a settlement, but just reaching it would give our men all they need. We can’t possibly starve out the city or break it’s walls.” Orszlach replied “We’ll take Syra Velvir through trickery of sorts and heroics, for that all we need is to reach it.”
The old veteran Bordy took time to think. He knew the young warrior was right, but that didn’t mean he had to admit it. The Marovic brothers came here to carve out lands and earn names and facing a city with unorthodox tactics and a mercenary band was sure to help with both.
As long as they didn’t die trying.
Bordy was skeptical, as war often makes men, but he had seen things the band had done before that shattered his expectations. The conquest they had accomplished so far felt extraordinary, seizing land with nothing but good men. Some of these “good men” rode into camp with several heads on spears, cheering. Good Warriors was what he meant.
“Another village down. These people sure don’t put up a fight!” Shouted the head rider and he was met with applause from around the camp. Orszlach threw a fist in the air cheering for the riders.
As Bordy looked into Orszlach’s battlehungry eyes and saw something deeper in the bloodlust.
Hope.
And despite his years and pessimism he couldn’t truly deny he felt the same way.
First Contact: Part Three
Laszloszlach was a simple man with simple pleasures and simpler views. A man who could be given any lone task and would see it to completion, but only in the most basic of ways. Laszloszlach was no genius, for as a child he had wandered too close to the rear of a horse his father had bred. Luckily enough for Laszloszlach his thick skull saved him from death. Unluckily for Laszloszlach his father cared more about the horse and traded the boy away for three gilders the next day.
The ‘man’ who had purchased Laszloszlach was a young Maroszlach of fifteen years old. Despite being a few years younger, Laszloszlach dwarfed Maroszlach by more than a head. As the two grew Laszlo’s height and build became unmatched and only his loyalty could measure up to his immense size. By the age of twenty Laszlo had become known as ‘Ovryansky’ The Giant and had gained a reputation as a fearsome warrior.
“Ovryansky!” shouted a warrior interrupting Laszlo’s all too rare thought session. While Laszlo had been contemplating his men had gathered the inhabitants of the village and had lined them up in front of him.
“A rider from the Marovic Band had gone missing in this village and his head was found in the woods by the village at the end of a stick” announced one of the warriors in Kostuan, mail covering his face. Grabbing the village elder the warrior brought him to a wooden stump in the center of the settlement clearing and forced his head against it. Laszlo raised his axe and brought it down. Like a well practiced routine another villager was pressed to the wood before Laszlo’s axe reached the top of his swing. Then the warrior grabbed another. And another.
Again and again.
The eyes of the villagers were filled with fear and confusion as their possibility of survival was being calculated in their minds. They were asked no questions, offered no choices. The large warrior never paused in raising his axe nor in bringing it down. Many fell on their knees and begged for their lives. Others desperately pointed out the culprits of the killing shouting at their fellow villagers. A fair peasant girl even eyed up Laszlo motioning what she had to offer him and his men for her survival. All these occurred without a word being uttered by Laszlo because he knew what Maroszlach had sent him to the village to do.
He only knew one thing to do.
He raised his axe again.
The Bloodhound's Brood
The Streets of Malynore
Part One
The cobblestone streets of former Sukhluk were bustling with activity. The sun hung high and hot, but it disturbed the various traders, workers and tourists very little. On this little cramped street filled with voices and shuffles of feet, Maeral sat in a wooden chair with leather straps, fumbling with the handle on a painted porcelain cup of tea gone cold long ago. He examined the cup, noticing the worn paint that striped through in the colors of yellow, red and green on a white background. It had to be at least fifty years old, conaidering the cracks that had been repaired over and over again. He had to admire the natives of Sukhluk, they wasted very little. Through the waves of elves, humans, and a few dwarves was a warehouse belonging to the Atannus Shipping Company, an elf-owned private business that recently moved here from Rolais, looking to support the newly formed Elven nation. Though, it wasn't the owners that interested him, it was who was inside. For the past month, he'd gathered intelligence on a supposed group of like minded individuals who would thrive on a dead Empyrian and the collapse of their new nation. Though Tassarion was uninterested in rumors and far too busy to officially divert resources away from the expansion of Elvhenen to hunting down whoever may or may not attempt to assassinate him, it was Maeral's job to keep him alive. Had been since they were elváhsúm, children. So he'd placed Igallia as his temporary commander on duty and ventured off on his own to discover what was truly going on.
So he would investigate, talk to those who were assuredly allied to the Empyrian, or at least to Maeral. He dispatched Elvhenhenai across Malynore and Mithranus, gathering information from trusted sources and finally received his first target: a lowly elf worker by the name of Affen, that cleaned the bedchambers of the Empyrian while Tassarion was away. Though Affen would most likely not be the would-be assassin, he most certainly could have passed information to those who were more ambitious. For now, Affen had drawn the attention of the Elvhenhenai Commander, and it wouldn't be good for him.
The Bloodhound's Brood
Part Two
For hours, Maeral waited, sitting down and appearing to be a normal customer at some rundown human tea shop, sold by an old woman that had lived in Sukhluk for seventy-three years. She was one of the few humans that didn't despise the elves for taking Sukhluk and while she talked to him, sitting next to him, he enjoyed her company. She was a firebrand, reminding him of his own grandmother, a woman that was too headstrong for her own good, but he didn't mind it. It made his mission blend in better with the crowd. Just an elf and an old woman catching up.
Then came Affen. The heavy wooden doors of the warehouse were pushed open, revealing an edgy, wired elf, looking quickly around revealing his paranoia. Maeral bid the old woman farewell and tipped her generously for the tea and the conversation before following him down the street, pushing and bumping into the sea of bodies as his wide eyes jumped back and forth from one end of the street to the next. Maeral would not be noticed, he knew how to keep a low profile. After a brief walk that took him from the busiest street in the Merchantry District of Malynore to a quiet street in the Redflower District, Maeral leapt at his chance. As Affen walked through an empty alley of sandstone and cobblestone, Maeral slammed the elf against a wall, pulling out a dagger and holding it close to his throat, ripping a cry and whimper from Affen's lips. "Who....who are you?! I didn't do anything, I swear!" Screamed Affen, as tears poured from his wide, bloodshot eyes. Maeral sushed the lowly elf, examining his eyes, face and body. His eyes were bloodshot, his pupils dilated. On his neck were puncture wounds that seemed to have gotten infected. On his arms were the same puncture wounds though these had been cleaned thoroughly and looked like little more than Bloodbug bites. He knew what this wss, though. These were the signs of prolonged Ýsso use. Known as one of the worst drugs found on Arkonos, Ýsso pulls it's victims in on the first taste, giving the user hallucinations, euphoria, and keeps their users awake for days at a time. Prolonged use will eventually kill it's victims.
Maeral moved the knife from Affen's throat and slowly loosened his grip on the elf, allowing him to breath unobstructed.
"You work in the Palace for the Empyrian, Affen. You sweep the floors, clean the chamberpots, change the sheets, light the candles. You come from nothing. You are nothing. But that can be changed." Said the Commander.
Affen stared at the Elvhenhenai with confusion and twitching eyes.
"What....wha, what do you mean? Who are you? How do you know about me?" Said Affen.
"My name is Maeral. I'm the Commander of the Elvhen'henaí and Right Hand of the Empyrian himself." At first, Affen smiled, preparing to laugh as if what he had just heard was a prank. This was quickly wiped away by a lightning fast knee to the stomach, causing Affen to vomit and fall to the ground.
"I've told you who I am, Affen. I have no time for games. You are nothing and you come from nothing, but it does not have to be this way. Tell me about the conspiracy against our Empyrian and you will be rewarded." Said Maeral coldly.
After regaining his composure and returning to his previous stance, Affen nodded. "Yes, sir, of course. I-...I'm sorry. They...they said that if I stole something for them, they'd....they'd take care of me. They would give me all the Ýsso I want and that I would be one of them." Said Affen, rubbing the puncture wounds on his neck.
"What did they want you to steal, Affen. Speak quickly." Said Maeral as he inched closer to the afflicted elf.
"Some vial with....with....I can't remember what it was called." Said Affen as his eyes began to roll backwards. The first sign of Ýsso preparing to take it's victim. Maeral slapped him and shoved him against the wall. "No! Affen, you stay with me. You have to tell me what you took. Who told you to take it?"
"It was.....it was a letter at my door, signed by someone called The Bloodhound." Affen's legs began to shake, the muscles in his body beginning to convulse.
"No, not yet. What was it they told you to steal. Answer me, damn you!" Affen's eyes began to roll back in his head as his body began to shake, gasps emanating from his gaping mouth. Maeral stepped back and stared down at the elf as he died, blood pouring from his eyes, nose, mouth and ears. After a few moments, Affen lay there, motionless and a bloody mess. The last gift given to its victims, known as the Red Kiss. With little else found aside from someone called the Bloodhound, Maeral left the body where it was, leaving the Redflower District and continuing his search.
First Contact: Part Four
SLASH
“Sloppy!” shouted Voydemyr from his wooden seat. He sat slumped against the back brace flanked by two Druznyke (‘Companions’). Their faces were covered by metal bearded masks and the scales of their armor was piled on thick over their chainmail. Thick furs and leathers found their way into their armor and added a more comfortable feel against the cold of night. Voydemyr himself paled in comparison to his guards. Only in his fortieth year he looked gaunt and aged far beyond his years.
The swordsman he had shouted at fell forward with his swing nearly hitting the ground. His opponent raised his sword above his head with both hands and swung hard downward, but only managed to get a glancing blow off the lower man's shoulder. As dozens of similarly untrained men watched the two swordsmen bowed before Voydemyr awaiting critique.
The white haired man rose, shaking his head with disappointment. “We asked your villages for warriors, and instead they have given me children. We have offered to train you, and to pay you, to make you wolves like us, but you all stare at me blankly like sheep.” The words hung in the air as the crowd knew not what to say. The awkward silence was interrupted by a messenger who ran across the courtyard to whisper in Voydemyr’s ear.
With a raised hand Voydemyr set his Druznyke to continue the training with the would-be warriors as he was helped by the messenger to a more private area.
“Master Voydemyr, the locals have finally raised a host. Our information says they are nearly a thousand strong and march this way.” said the messenger. “We don’t know the quality but it seems there are a strong mounted contingent with them. Your brothers have set out to meet them on the road and have taken their full Druznyke.”
The message sat ill with Voydemyr, but his old soul found it would not do to worry. His brothers were clever and strong, their Druznyke each a powerful force. A thousand men, however, was a number where the training mattered. A thousand strong of a trained retinue of heavy horse and infantry was horrifying indeed, but a thousand ragged peasants would merely be exercise for his brothers. Where Voydemyr was the eldest and calmest, Maroszlach dwarfed him in cunning, cruelty and skill, and the youngest; Knazyr dwarfed them both in size, bravery and rashness.
“I must ride back to Knazyr tonight, is there any message you would have me convey Master Voydemyr?” inquired the messenger.
“Take a dozen wagons from the town guard and tell Maroszlach to bring back as many weapons and armor as possible, we’ll need to start arming our recruits soon.” the latter half of his sentence was more self directed. He began to make his way back to the training yard helped by the messenger who waited on him as he sat. He looked at the messenger with an eyebrow raised.
“Is there anything you would like me to convey to Master Knazyr, Master Voydemyr?”
With an annoyed look Voydemyr replied “I don’t care you fool, tell the man a joke”
As the messenger left he was able to focus on the training once again. As he saw a Druznyk lay four recruits flat on the ground at once with only the blunt end of a spear he smacked his palm on his forehead.
The nation of Metania-Sol
The Land:
One would be hard-pressed to find many reasons to want to claim the territories part of the duchy of Metania-Sol as their own. In fact, with it’s mostly subarctic climate, relative absence of natural resources and the general harshness of its environment, it is no wonder that the nation history’s main features would be a relative political and cultural isolement from the rest of Tylos, as well as an only recent political unification.
While a lot of written records considering the founding of the duchy seem either dubious or from second-hand sources, most historians agree that the birthdate of Metania-Sol can be traced back to the Neo-Imperial Age, in the year 300 ATF, when the first duke ‘Melchior Iceling’ was given the white ermine cape by his peoples (symbol of the duke authority, even to this day) and received the soumission of both the humans and Dsens population.
Of course, it is proven the land was already populated centuries before Melchior’s arrival, but most scholars agree that both humans and Dsens were divided into warring tribes with barely any cohesion, and while a few tribal-lords had managed to achieve a relative control over most of the territories for a few years, those attempts at political unifications by force would always end up crumbling into the ground due to internal-conflicts. Which is why 300 ATF is considered the official date of Birth of Metania-Sold, as politically united, centralized and internally peaceful nation.
The Founding:
While no one is really certain about the origins of it’s founder, all scholars agree that Melchior Iceling was not from Metania-Sol. While his exact birthplace vary from sources to sources, the main events of Melchior’s are as follow:
Born in a wealthy merchant family (some even give him noble ties), Melchior Iceling was first recorded into Metania-Sol’s history when his gigantic and well-armed ship crashed upon the shore, filled with various spices, food and rare treasures that had never been found in Metania-Sol until now. According to the records, Melchior’s ship had been caught in a storm and got so lost through the Crimson Ocean that he admittedly did not recognized the land he would end up stranded on for the rest of his life. Some have interpreted the ancient texts, that mention Melchior having a ‘strange accent’ and ‘exotic clothes and goods’ to mean that Melchior was actually not from Tylos but from the continent of Sokos. That explanation is of course very dubious, considering that this would mean Melchior would have rediscovered the continent six years before the official date. Beside, even through a storm, it is unlikely a single ship could get so lost as to cross an entire ocean. It is instead more probable that Melchior ailed from a region on the southern half of Tylos, which would explain his wealth and cultural difference from the peoples he found.
What Melchior found was a frozen, barren-land filled with little much but snow and ice, where few cultures could grow and where the birds would fall from the sky from the cold in winter. Worse even, the land was populated with various tribal tribes of both humans and Gorrins populations that seemed to be in a near-constant state of conflict for the few ressources the lands could provide. In short, chaos.
But Melchior’s arrival threw a wrench in this situation.
Indeed, not only was his ship filled full of various exotic foods and goods, making it a powerful tool of negotiation, but it was also manned by a few hundred, well-experienced soldiers, making it difficult for the nearest tribes to simply pillage it.
Melchior, acting more out of survival and self-interest than real ambition, immediately started negotiating with the nearest tribes for protection, in exchange for iron tools and food. Better fed and better equipped, this once minor human tribe began to slowly extend it’s grip over Metanian-Sol territory, using a careful ‘stick and carrot’ strategy to either bribe other tribes into joining them or submit them by force. Eventually, all human tribes bended the knees or were destroyed. In the span of a few years, all humans and Gorrins tribes had banded together into two groups of relatively equal power, and seemed ready for one last showdown to decide once for all who would be the ruler of those lands.
But Melchior, who had meanwhile acted as a sort of advisor for the human-side, wanted to avoid a war by any mean (probably because his own supplies of exotic goods had run-off and he knew the winning side would eventually cast him-off once they needed him no more) and proposed to act as an arbiter of sort between the two camps, since he was, himself, neither a member of the local human or Gorrins population. And so, in the year 299 ATF, both sides met in the frozen plains to discuss the future of their land.
In one last bet, Melchior secretly gave his entire remaining supplies of food and weapons to the Gorrins the night before the negotiations, ensuring both sides would be on equal footing and rendering any war between the two camps not only too costly, but also uncertain. Understanding that neither of them would profit from war, both camps agreed to put down their weapons and instead settle-down their differences to live as one people.
Of course, it helped that Melchior’s had brought various variety of seeds that were very resistant to the cold in his supplies, as well as new agriculture techniques, rendering the need to fight for ressources moot.
Remained one last problem: who would lead this new nation of two races? Both humans and Gorrins wanted one of their race as leader, of course, and neither side seemed to want to compromise on it. Negotiations lasted for months, until someone jokingly proposed that, since Melchior’s supplies had been the one thing that had brought them together, it should be him that should lead this new nation.
What had started as a joke became a compromise that both sides begrudgingly accepted, and the start of a new unified Metania-Sol, under the leadership of their new leader, Duke Melchior the First of House Iceling.
The Defense of Hueipco: Part One
In the three times the armies of Sanchir Qan assaulted the walled garden of Hueipco, the weaknesses of the Khumasan force became more self-evident. The men of the steppe, who were undoubtedly among the greatest composition of cavalry across Tylos, and well-seasoned in warmaking with such rapid advances in the early months of the war, were bled and exhausted upon Chichtuan stone. The initial accomplishments of the Qan were undoubtable, but the legacy of the newly-saddled master of the Khumasar was riddled with criticism and disaster. Three times the Khumasans assaulted the walls. Three times they were beaten back.
This ‘rule of three’ was a curse to the Qan, and revealed to Sanchir the wickedness of fate in the passage of time; no sacrifice nor prayer service could dispel the three ill omens, and disaster befell the Khumasans each time. Their siege equipment, at first hastily constructed from poor lumber from neighboring forests, was fastened into ladders; unwieldy and difficult to maneuver, the twelve meter tall ladders failed to provide adequate coverage for the Qan’s advance. Rather they slowed forces down, and throwing themselves against the castle walls of Hueipco, were cast back to the ground in a rage of battle. Bolts and arrows rained down upon them, and after suffering hundreds of casualties and the embarrassment of retreat, the fire did not stop. Hounding them all the way, small levies of Chichtuan archers eagerly sallied forth to keep pressuring the Khumasans as they fled to camp; it was only then that the Qan personally took charge of his bodyguard, and lead Manomanin braves against the sally.
The first effort to take the city was a disaster, yet to the unassuming Khumasan siegers, it was the first of few, and a sign of the ineffectiveness of the steppe warriors that would soon reveal itself with deadly results.
The Defense of Hueipco: Part Two
The first siege had begun on the sixteenth of Harvest’s End. It was a date specifically chosen by the Qan and his council; Sanchir considered it especially auspicious to the Khumasans, as a comet was known to appear in the sky in the evening and the Qan planned for the symbol of Apu to soar over a Khumasan-controlled Hueipco. Naturally its disaster made the appearance of the comet a bitter, sorrowful reminder of their defeat and angered the Qan. Plans were immediately made to put forward another effort to assault and seize the walls, but delays hounded the Khumasans.
Of all the issues that plagued the steppe warriors, one was close at home. The performance of the Qan could have been considered a major cause for the disaster of the first assault. Reeling from a painful duel, Sanchir had been severely injured and faced great obstacles in leading his forces. His shieldarm was stiff and cleaved through from his foe’s blade, and any attempt to wield a shield, a bow, or steady a spear brought him to hot, burning pain. The excruciating nature of his present state resulted in Sanchir being incapable and unable to supervise the siege, and such responsibilities instead fell to his cadre of allied clan chiefs and trusted council. Sechegur and Baurzen, of the Ulaanin and Kharkhut respectively, oversaw the doomed attack. Sechegur distinguished himself during the battle, and personally led the second wave of warriors to the wall before being forced back by relentless arrow volley.
The sudden arrival of the Qan as the forces routed and fell back under assault was a turning point in morale, although not without its own issues. Sanchir Qan forced himself into battle, and though he led a successful relief effort that ensured their months of progress was not undone by a simple peasant levy of Chichtuan archers, the move was an incapacitating action. For two days following the Qan was unable to sleep save for bouts of pain so intense in his left arm that he fell into unconsciousness. This delirium panicked the camp and caused confusion to run through their ranks, as the feverish Qan sent out orders contradictory to the war effort. Lumber, ordered collected by the Qan, was demanded to be cut at twelve meters again, but suddenly through the process Sanchir gave orders to recut them at twelve and a half meters; further confusion arrived again with additional orders to recut the logs to twelve once more.
Such issues remained until Sanchir recovered. Though still weak, the Qan was capable of overseeing the siege again. Envisioning with his council a solution to the shortcomings of the first assault, Sanchir established an impressive and bold undertaking for the Khumasans: the process of constructing proper siege weaponry.
The Defense of Hueipco: Part Three
Though the Qan was weak and often incapable of overseeing anymore than cursory operations for the campaign, his reputation alone proved decisive. The warrior-king they knew as ‘Temamauti’ had an aura of dread about him, and the Chichtuan warriors holding out without relief in Hueipco were unwilling to press many of their advantages. After witnessing the Qan rallying his forces and crushing the first effort, the second siege went much, much different—that much could be said of both sides.
On the second of Lowsun the siege officially began. The Qan rode his horse towards the edge of camp, and there at a rising hill planted himself for the duration of the attack. His bannermen, among them Kharon and Deldaar who had accompanied him to the imperial lands, stood at his side with their great banners. The flag of the ‘qanate’, four stripes of green surrounded a gilded square revealing words of power for the steppe sky, fluttered in the breeze and bore witness to the soon carnage. The sight was powerful, and as their Temamauti, Sanchir took advantage of his reputation and rested in full sight of the garrison, though well out of danger.
A loud winding, groaning noise beget the arrival of the Khumasan army. Thousands of voices mixed with trudging feet as great wheels spurned the groundworks to mud, uprooting grass and weeds. Three great siege towers rolled slowly into view, pushed by dozens of warriors had-selected by the Qan for their strength and stature. The towers were reinforced with wood, and wide to defend the men walking behind them. In their arrival came hundreds of others, frantically running forward in teams of three or four; they carried wooden barriers, nothing more than simple makeshift palisades, and when they reached halfway across no man’s land they planted the wood and stood behind it. There they rose with bows and arrows, and with sufficient counterfire from the seasoned horse archers, put great pressure on the Chichtuan defenders and cleared a path for the siege towers.
Men huddled closely behind the protection of the siege towers, pushing them further and further ahead as their comrades, ranked along the sides as far as the western wall, shot arrows with no attention to accuracy. The field and wall were blanketed in the remains of hundreds of arrowheads, and yet the Khumasan soldiers pressed on. The towermen were armored in various styles. Their steppe lamellar, light as it was, did not always serve their needs on the march, and many had taken to reclaiming the armor of dead foes. Their appearance was a scattered horde of lamellar and mail, with some wearing the armored robes of the Chichtuan they staked for their own.
Of the three great siege towers, the one at the lead turned and faced forward towards the wall, and slowly they separated yards apart as the men worked to carry the wooden beasts up the rugged route. The first, which had of course taken the lead since the start of the renewed siege, was commanded by Ganbataar, of Sanchir Qan’s tribe. The brave retainer had shown himself a confident warrior without fear, and now he was bestowed a great honor in overseeing the first tower. In a sense, this gave Ganbataar an even greater privilege of conducting the entire operation, for the movements of the lead tower signaled the other two into action.
Ganbataar himself was confident in the strategy. He did not decide it. He had no say in the decision of the clan chiefs and the Qan, but Ganbataar knew Sanchir as his own, and trusted his judgement. He glanced behind him for a second, and beyond the shadow of the wood behemoth towering ahead of them, saw the faces of his men. The company of heroes chosen for the first tower shared a mixed visage of fear and uncertainty, with a few select men showing no emotion, their faces as if stone. The moment of destiny was upon them, and Ganbataar was their leader in such a time.
The Defense of Hueipco: Part Four
Along the ramparts of Hueipco, the lord-keeper Etalpalli walked, dressed in his hauberk with a single round mirror plate protecting his chest. The thirty-something year old noble, who had called Hueipco his fief in past times, was now thrust into the darkness of war as the shadow of death ran across his land. Temamauti had been at this city for months now, and for months the garrison held without relief. Relief of reinforcements, or relief of peace from the constant threat the Qan’s army posed. For not even a moment could the tranquility of latter days break through the smoke and agony of the siege, and Etalpalli almost forgot what it was in those prior days.
In many ways he was certain that his soldiers had too. They were tired, exhausted. As he walked the length of the ramparts and eyed down towards the advancing towers of the Khumasans, he shared their feelings. All around him were the figures of worn-out men, warriors that had fought without rest, and common citizens of the city thrust into battle for the first time. Some of his veterans looked to have given up long ago; deprived of common brotherhood between savoset, they were sunken-eyed and automatic, carrying out orders with little complaint or response at all. Where they had made peace, or were broken by the reality, the volunteers and conscripted soldiers acted like animals. Etalpalli did not blame them at all. Perhaps in better days he would have thought them cowards and traitors, but the Lord-Keeper of Hueipco was not the same man he was today. Months of war had changed his mind as well, and now as he looked at the worried, terrified faces of his conscripts, he felt a pang of guilt. Yet he could not allow them to retreat, no matter the bastard that made him in their eyes. They could not think ahead, but Etalpalli had no duty but to think. If he had allowed them to flee, to run back to their families, then the defense would slowly weaken. In time the Khumasans would overrun the walls, and then what would become of them? Slaves at best.
Supposedly reinforcements were coming. A light in the dark remained their beacon of hope, that the good king of the Chichtuan was sending his legions to relieve the city and to save his people. Etalpalli himself wasn’t sure; the letter was vague and barely arrived at all, and even then he felt the king was playing them all for a fool. He knew the state of the kingdom was weak and vulnerable—after all if it wasn’t the city would not be in this present state—so it was easy to imagine that the king wished to inspire hope and resilience among his subjects while he frantically composed an army. It was a bitter thought, but he drank it down. If Hueipco was to die to buy time for the rest of the kingdom, then Etalpalli would ensure they had as much time as blessed Apu fated.
The lord-keeper walked with his arm extended in the sky, his saber pointed towards the city. Over the cries and yelling of the guardsmen his voice could barely be heard, but Etalpalli bellowed with resolution in his lungs.
“The honor of Hueipco is yours! Fight for your kith, your kin; fight for your homes, give no ground! Give no mercy! Quench the stones where you stand with their blood!”
The lead tower rocked as it hit the wall. For a split second the world was silent, all of the Chichtuan watching the wooden ramp with trepidation, but that silence quickly fell apart. In a terrifying roar the wood croaked and fell forward, and with a screeching cry the first of the Khumasans flooded forth. There was a great crash almost immediately; the steppe warriors who thundered off the bridge were caught between pikes, spears and swords. The clashing and skittering of metal against metal, swords scraping against armor, accentuated the haggard breathing of men at war.
Etalpalli had instructed his men on what to do. He did not directly see the siege towers, for the defenders could not venture far from Hueipco’s gates without inviting death, but still he saw the great foraging parties of the Qan bringing back logs. He guessed they were making towers, or better ladders, and trained his men accordingly. The spears and pikes, as they fought, pushed and slouched the bodies to the side. Whether they thrust them forth, and as such a number of men fell from the wall to their deaths, or stacked them in a bloody heap against the ramp, it did not matter to Etalpalli. Only his order mattered: do not allow their dead to clog up the ramparts.
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