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Post by Andromitus on Mar 21, 2018 7:58:11 GMT -5
Ixthenpijn, Ahkmaur River
Tkiir’s breath was slowing, maintaining communication with the others in defensive combat was hard enough without there being so many enemies. Already he’d counted 50 of these strange creatures, night-black scales with a barrel-like body and four legs, alongside a staggeringly long, whip-like neck ending in a vertical maw with razor-sharp teeth. He dodged back, a metallic-rope throne by a woman behind him wrapping around the creature directly in front of him like a noose. Lunging forward the two forced the creature onto land before Tkiir plunged his spear into its chest — the creatures high-pitched scream tore through the battle. The crack of wood-on-stone, maybe oars, could be heard in the background. He took only a moment to catch his breath, spinning his weapon around to slash at the scratching claws of one of the beasts scrambling across the stone riverbank of the cave. He knew they couldn’t keep up like this, the battle’d been going on for almost two hours but the creatures showed no signs of tiring. He heard the metallic clomp of boots, and out of the corner of his eye another brigade of Hanzein in full Chitin-Metal armor came rushing out of one of the carved inlets into the grotto-cities many chambers. Flashes of fire burst into view as a mixture of burning arrows and Akyobilt —an alchemical oil— roared onto the beasts. The blast of a war-horn and Tkiir’s eyes widened; upriver, a new shape emerged through the morass of flames and bodies; the bough of an Ahnsijnate War Boat smacked onto one of the creatures, crushing it between the boats aft defensive spikes and the riverbank. The creatures screamed again, ducking beneath the waves as several more of the constructs came crashing into the small inlet that was the Grotto-City of Ixaleft. The water rushed upward as the craning necks of the monstrosities emerged from the waves between the War Boats only to be quickly ensnared by the silvery nets being cast outward by the surprise reinforcements — nets that, coincidentally, were coated in what could only be described as acid. Rows of soldiers along the sides of the boats suddenly came into view, bows armed, before letting loose a total barrage of arrows into the churning waters. Quickly regathering his wits, Tkiir honed in on the nearest creature, the tip of its neck ensnared in one of the deadly nets of the War-Boats, its skin fizzing and crumpling against the acidic strands. Another barrage of arrows tore through the air into the waves, purple fluid —perhaps blood— began to quickly replace the deadly black blotches of rot covering the waves. Running forward, he again pushed his spear deep into the creatures hide, its roar lasted only a moment before the net cut clean through, silencing it. He took yet another moment to catch his breath, glancing at his surrounds as the naval and ground forces began to coordinate their efforts to slaughter the enemy. A sole horn call tore through the combat, cries of “retreat” and “get back” began to echo from the naval soldiers. Confused and dazed, Tkiir began to push toward the stone wall of the caver, glancing back just as the familiar red and muffled blue light of the river and torches was suddenly and ferociously replaced by a dazzling purple of alchemical fire. The cries of the horrors ceased, actually, the cries of the entire caver ceased, all replaced by the omnipresent call of the flames; the entire river quickly coming alight. • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • It was only a few hours afterward that the battle was over, the Alchemical Fire used earlier, while having devastated the enemy, had wreaked havoc against the boats and already four were being hauled ashore by groups of 20 men, damaged chitinous plates being torn off and quickly replaced. Stores of civilians quickly fanned out onto the docks from their hidings in the winding halls of the cavern, pulling the sick and wounded off the boats and harbors in a desperate attempt to save as many as possible. Not soon thereafter the Generals of all three detachments, the First Expedition, the Ixaleft Guard, and the Reinforcements, held an open meeting on the de facto flagship to set up a plan of attack. An attack such as this simply couldn’t be overlooked, and it set a dangerous precedence that the Ahnsijante truly was on the defensive. Almost immediately it was agreed that a formal retaliation had to be readied, which came as a surprise to no-one — why else would the reinforcements’ve been sent. As they discussed, leaders and commanders of various brigades and squadrons were called forward to fill out the combined-offensives available resources; almost 100 Boats and several thousand soldiers in total, more than enough blades and armor. The biggest problem was food and alchemical supplies; The beasts encountered, as it happens, seemed to be weak to different acids. Fire was proposed but only Alchemical Fire, purple flames specialized against magical enemies, had any effect, no oils. This of course was problematic due to the rarity of the substance and the damage it naturally causes As seen by the foremost boats need for repairs. With their needs accounted for, the Generals eyes turned toward the city; it’s reserve was called to arms, stores were ransacked for supplies and alchemical ingredients. Old weapons cache’s were torn open and the guards towers quickly looted for every arrow they could find. In total, the regiments of the new offensive took 2 cycles to ready themselves before they were ready for combat, sending a small detachment back to the Thaur to alert the Ixthenpijn Governances of their plans. • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • This world is cruel. Alzeih lowered her head to the boy in front of her, short hair showed he was only a Lower-Caste, his eyes were glazed over, two arrows sticking out of his back. His veins were deep black, just bulging through his skin — he’d been infected, thats why they shot him. Already her mind was racing, it wasn’t the soldiers fault, they had their orders, they had to defend against a yrutan encroachment. It wasn’t their fault. She felt a lump in the back of her throat, her eyes grew wet. Closing her eyes she tried to drown it all out, the muffled cry of soldiers carrying bodies to be burned. The flow of people around her, none of them paying any heed to a mere lower-caste boy, dead on the ground. The smell of smoke wafting over the Artisan district, a mix of funeral pyres and bonfires burning the substance polluting the river. She’d heard from the soldiers, the warrior-caste, that they’d been taking huge nets of the stuff and putting it in enormous bowls atop tripods, setting them ablaze all down the riverside. She couldn’t escape it, her thoughts turning back to the boy. What God would do this? A remorseless demon that tore apart the first world. Yrutas’s attack against them was plain and simple, who else to attack but your enemy; but what did the boy do to deserve this, to be born into this life fresh and innocent. Lowering onto her knees she wiped her eyes, sitting back on her haunches she attempted to compose herself before saying a small prayer although she doubted it’d do much. Most real news and information never reached the Lower Caste, especially a meager Laborer-Caste like herself — The lowest in the Hierarchy — but as was evident, some news was just too grave. Everyone knew at this point, it was the Priests, they were having trouble convening. Their connection to God was faltering.
Abel, Lexidus
Pausing for a moment, Amón noticed he was having slight difficulty in understanding. After a few seconds however what the creature was saying caught on and he began to look over the paper. He obviously couldn’t read it, Lexidian script after all, but he’d seen enough contract forums to know where to sign. “That should be simple enough,” he said, dipping his brush, a thin wooden rod tipped with tightly would bristles, into the black stone which the two visitors quickly noticed was filled with ink, “I, for this expedition, agree to remain open with our transactions for the use of taxation and agree to your permissions; and I,” taking a second to dip his brush again, “take responsibility for the actions of my men…” he paused again for a moment, “excuse me for a moment, there’s another man who has to sign this.” Stepping outside, Amón waived his hand and another figure came into view; he was tall, although less so in comparison to Amón, and wore a strange mixture of cloth, reddish leather, and what looked to be a mixture of metal and, perhaps shell, plates. Most striking however was his helmet, a shining mask of the strange, shell-like substance, with a bright plumage in the back of leather strands. The two talked for a moment before the, what could be assumed to be a guard, ran off. Walking back into the wagon, he sat down again in front of me. “Erm-excuse me again for that, you must understand when heading expeditions such as these, especially through somewhat uncharted region in Asil and with the rather unpredictability of the Quijain we had to take defensive measures of our own. You see, erm,” he raised his arm to a 90° angle and lowered his sleeve, revealing a leather vambrance on which were, in 3 vertical columns, 16 symbols, motioning to the symbols he continued, “the Guilds, my employers, had to take certain measures in the form of,” he pointed toward a symbol, what looked like a rams head, “them. The Karthagites. But they act autonomously in most regards so i’m taking the liberty of hailing effectively my co-captain to sign on their behalf. I truly can’t take responsibility for those who, more or less, aren’t my own.” They heard a rap of knuckles on wood and Amón glanced behind them; as the two turned before them stood yet a third man, a scar under his left eye, wearing similar dress to the guard they’d seen previously, nix the helmet. On his right Pauldron was the same ram-symbol they’d been shown previously. “What is it tíba; their unveiling it soon and I don’t want to have any mishaps.” “Ah, of course, this should be quick I just need you to sign this for me; it’s a document stating you’ll take charge of the actions of you’re men.” “Fine, but if it gets loose you’re the explaining to this fine woman why there’s a foreign beastie rampaging through her garden.” Amón rolled his eyes as Bakahn signed his name with the brush, “Oh, and one thing, we found Aesh’n the boy, they were down by the brook.” Letting out a long sigh Amón raised his hands in a gesture of gratitude, “Thank the gods for that, can you…” Amón stood up and moved to his partners ear, and in a lowered voice continued, “please inform them to stay in our sight until we’re further into Lexidian territory. Thats a lot of coin they’ve given us and I don’t want the bad luck for duping the services I owe ‘em now.” Amón waited for the Karthigate captain to exit before dong a slight, yet formal, head-nod to the two, “I thank you, I only hope my expedition is as fruitful as our encounter. Now, if thats all I’m sure you heard his mentioning of an ‘unveiling’? If you’d follow me I’m certain you’d like what we have to show you.” he said slyly
Surface Regions, Asil
• • • • • • • • Three Days Earlier • • • • • • • • He froze, every muscle in his body tensing; lying on his shins and forearms, stomach just above the thick silt-sand mud of the Mire, he could just see the caravan in the distance. The hot, humid air of the midday was choking as he continued down the slope, grey dress easily blending in with the land around him. He of course usually resigned himself to night travel, but as they targets’d reached the edge of the Mire’s he’d been forced to travel with them during the day so as to not lose them. It’d taken him a while, at first, to get used to it; the surface. A harsh land of burning days and freezing nights, and what wasn’t simply dry desert, as he learned quickly, was often far more dangerous. He froze again as he thought one of the guards, distinguishable by the odd, tribal plumage on the backs of their helmets, looked his way. He began to crawl forward again exposing for just a moment his upper chest. A simple patch of leather bearing but one symbol: A vertical, crimson eye.
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Post by Lex Caledonia on Mar 21, 2018 18:01:26 GMT -5
Abel, Lexidus
Interesting... they do indeed have protection but they appear to be mercenaries or some equivalent, mused Saoirse. Co-captains? Multiple leaders, neither one commanding over the other? How quaint. Whenever organising merchant expeditions from her own branch, Merchant Association procedure proclaimed that the caravan leader was above the chain of command whoever was sent to them. Be they be the in-house Association Merchant Guards or the rarer Mercenaries, utilised in caravans headed east into Calveria. Saoirse made a mental note to enquire in future to the structure and procedure of the Rohzai, she found it simply fascinating. She quickly brought herself away from her musings and nodded at Amón. An unveiling? Very exciting indeed, today was already a fantastic day for the Association thanks to the Rohzai's arrival, now a surprise? Capital.
"Very well! Lead the way Amón. Lets see what you've got." Saoirse smiled with a twinkle in her eye.
Dock 3 in Camelon Port, Lexidus
The anchor had dropped mere seconds ago and the gangplanks were barely attached as Eimear dashed away from the "Lady of the North", leaving the ship behind her as she sprinted into the heart of Camelon. It was mid-day and the capital city was heaving with its citizens. Peasantry, Merchants and Nobility mingled with one another, with the centre of the city being awash with the sound of hustle and bustle. She was making excellent time, she had made it from the docks to the centre of the city where the grand undercity portcullis was in, all under 5 minutes. Now came the real challenge, using what little stamina she had left, Eimear needed to cross over from the New Half into the Old Half. The New Half of Camelon was the part of the city built after the Reformation War and the establishment of Lexidus as a country, being home to merchants and peasants. Whilst the Old Half was the original and ancient City-state to which was present before the formation of the Noble Kingdom, being home to Richer Merchants, the Nobility and the Royal Family. By the time she made it to the older part of town, the peasantry were scarce and the nobility took their place. Breathing as much as she could to regain her stamina, Eimear sat down on a bench situated in what was known as the Royal Mile, the cobblestone path with various high-end shops and noble housing stretched across it. The path took a gradual incline towards the castle, where she could see people queuing to get in. Shite, she thought, its Audience day isn't it?
"You alright there madam ambassador?" called a familiar voice across the road from where she was sat down, panting heavily.
Raising her head, she immediately recognised the bright pink face and white goatee of Dumfries, Captain of the Royal Guard. "Wasn't expecting you back so soon!" he boomed as he strode towards the exhausted woman.
"Ahh...heh...hail Dummy... keeping the rabble in... hah... check?" panted Eimear, raising herself from the bench and shaking the barrel-chested captain's hand.
"Aye, lots of peasants today. Back in my day, they would have been causing such a ruckus and would have had to be kept in line with a sword pointed at their arses. Now? They form an orderly line, chat with the guards, hell I even talked to a farmer who could read! They really like that King they do, Blair knows how to keep them happy, his grandfather Tommen wouldn't give a rats arse abou-"
"That's... eh... more than enough history lessons for me... hah... Dummy. I'm still working and I... whew... need your help to get me to Blair." Taking one final deep breathe and patting her windswept hair back, she ushered Dumfries beside her and power walked her way up the Royal Mile.
"That urgent aye?" Thundered the Royal Captain as he jogged beside her, his brass armour clanking as he tried to keep up with her.
"Of the utmost urgency..." she replied.
Camelon Castle, Lexidus
"Nae way? They sold you the wrong type of seed, yet again Barth?" uttered Blair incredulously as he examined the seeds in his palm. The farmer in front of him nodded astutely, his brown coif bouncing with him as he did so. The men from a glance would appear to be having a normal conversation as one would at a market stall, standing side by side examining the seeds in question. This was however not a market stall at all but the throne room and with a queue of people leading into it from the grand hall and it's entrance. "I mean how hard is it for the bloody Merchant Association to get the right seeds to their merchants? Right, I'll have a word with them and make sure you get reimbursed proper with the correct kind!"
The farmer named Barth nodded and gave a wide, yellowed grin. "Thanks again Mi'lord! I'll be sure to send ye some of me wife's pumpkin pie as thanks!" he said as he shook his king's hand, still covered in dirt from the morning's harvest.
"No need to thank me Barth, these numpties need to get told! Take care of yourself now." He waved the farmer away and beckoned the next person to approach him. Oh fuck, he thought to himself, another bloody noble. He put on his best smile and he offered his hand for the nobleman to kiss, he made sure it was the hand he shook with Barth.
"Your highness..." the nobleman spoke in such a singsong way that Blair was immediately annoyed by him. "Please allow me to introduce myself as Sir Folrence Albenthia, grandest renovator in all of Lexidus." He gave a very, very low bow;the kind of bow that cocked a leg back and stretched the arms to the sides. In short, a very pompous bow, Blair was already back in his throne by the time the man was finished. "I come to you today with a oh ever so humble request, to renovate your... humble abode with lavishness and sumptuous decoration truly befitting of a royal such as yourself."
The stain glass window to his right looked very appealing right now, very appealing to dive into and to get out of this conversation. It would be a tragedy of course, the painting depicted Lexidus; the boy king with his albino lion posed on a hill with the holy mother Myratnis behind them. Her light illuminating them both as they stared ahead, mightily gazing upon all who would enter this hallowed hall. Yes, a true tragedy if he was to destroy it by diving through it but a tragedy he was greatly considering enacting if this damned conversation continued.
Without warning however, a booming voice emanated from the grand hall. "Stand aside, Royal Ambassador coming through, I beseech you all to move aside!" He recognised it as Dumfries "Dummy" Karkland's voice, the Captain of his Royal Guard. But what did he mean by Royal Ambassador? Markus was in Titenfisca, Armen in Fyllia, George on standby in Abel and Eimear was in Nola. It especially couldn't be Eimear.
"Make way for Royal Ambassador Eimear Nola!"
Oh.
Blair only grew more confused when Dumfries and Eimear herself entered the room, Dummy holding back and escorting the remaining people out of the throne room, Sir Folrence included thankfully. She strode up to him with purpose and her dull green eyes set upon him, a piece of parchment in her hands. He raised himself from his throne and approached her, at first he was almost intimidated and worried she had come all the way back down to the capital to enact her "promise". His worries were quickly assuaged as he saw not angry expression on her face but rather, one of worry and relief when he took the piece of parchment from her hand.
"Eimear... I wasn't expecting you back so soon. What is this? Why have you abandoned Nola?" he curiously stated as he unfurled the twine secured roll of parchment.
"Blai-I mean, your majesty. We have a very serious problem." Eimear controlled her breathing as best as she could in front of the king, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead.
He opened the letter and began to read it, chuckling slightly at the state his friend was in. "Surely you could have just sent me a me this with a messenger, I don't see... why..." As the words in the letter began to register, the words in his mouth and his chuckle faded. A stoic expression then adorned his face as he finished scanning the letter. He slowly folded the letter and placed it within his blue and black raiment's pocket, turning his gaze to the stain-glass mural and walking up to it. Cupping his hands together behind his back as he stared into the eyes of his ancestor.
"They sent me that letter nearly a fortnight after they claimed they would receive me for a diplomatic assembly. I've sent warning to Fyllia and Titenfisca. I understand that I might have acted outside my orders and position but Myratnis above Blair... you know what this means right?" Eimear spoke calmly but urgently to her King's back, circling around to his side to try and speak to him face to face.
"I know" he replied, refusing to meet her gaze, instead focusing on the glass eyes of Lexidus. He held this stare for quite some time, before switching to the lion's. The King was thinking deeply.
"Myratnis' sake Blair! Say something! Anything!" Eimear's calmness wavering and her voice cracking. The fear of her uncle, her only living relative, being at the forefront of an invasion flooding her heart with terror.
They were the only ones in the throne room. Her voice reverberated somewhat against the stone walls. After what felt like almost an eternity to Eimear, Blair slowly turned to face her. His face was of that of pure determination, a furrowed brow and a commanding voice flowed out of him. "This threat shall not go unchallenged. No one provokes us with impunity and threatens our peaceful realm and allies. For too long have we laid dormant and entertained these demagogues. These beasts think they can spread their vile clutches over others in the name of Maither Kin'est? No. I King Blair de Brus claim this. It is time the Lion that is Lexidus awakens from its slumber and challenges those who would seek to undo it!" The words poured out of him with fervour and ardour. As he did so, Crowley entered the room slowly from the grand hall, gawking at the scene before him. Eimear was speechless.
"The Noble Kingdom of Lexidus declares war on the Polar Dominion of Asakor."
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Post by Unfallious on Mar 21, 2018 19:37:22 GMT -5
Insignas listened to the words of Kyasii. She spoke of 'Scribes' and of proper etiquette and he couldn't help but feel somewhat annoyed. Veritious had reached out to these people, fellow worshippers of the Lord, with a warning and an offer of assistance. In return, he had received the audience of a low-ranked bureaucrat and the promise of an audience with a slightly higher level bureaucrat. He understood that each great civilisation of this land operated slightly differently, but the increasingly-weary messenger-diplomat feared that by the time his message reached the highest levels of this unusual society they would all be doomed. Yet, there was nothing he could do. This was their world, their land, not his. "So be it," he said, at last.
== Amnest, Veritious
Amnest had taken on a feeling of great tension. Everyone felt a great deal of unease, yet not one could quite understand why. The flickering of Zypnac's light had caused great public fear, yet the tension felt now felt different. The flickering had been scary, yes, but this was a deep-rooted and ever-present feeling of dread. Something was coming, it seemed, and Amnest felt right at the centre of it. No one felt this tension quite like King Petyr. In the time since the departure of Jacobi to the land of the mysterious Kyrasii, the King had done nothing but attend countless meetings with the bishops and clergymen of Veritious, informing them of the events that had taken place in the capital and of the warning sent by God to the monks of the Subterranium. By now, all of the clergy in the land were aware of this, it was an open secret within the clerical order. Not that it could really have been hidden; the flickering had been accompanied by a sharp drop in the presence of the Lord. Everyone in the clerical order felt it, no doubt all religious orders across Calveria would feel it soon enough, if not already, as their patron God began to lose their grip on the earthly plane. There was only one God whose power was no loosening: Yrutas. Increasingly, more and more Yrutan cults were being unearthed and uprooted throughout Veritious. Just yesterday, a cult of 20 individuals had been purged just outside the city borders of Amnest. The area directly around their foul abode was tinged with the Yrutan corruption and the cultists attacked the inquisitors fiercely, some sporting the horrid mutations they considered 'blessings'. Several acres had to purified in fire just to make sure the corruption was cleansed. All of this weighed heavily on the King. Sitting in his study examining yet another report from the Subterranium. He had mandated regular reports from the bishop after the flickering had occured, and he was beginning to regret it. They never seemed to change, Zypnac's presence was always fading, yet nothing more had been said since then. His light had stayed strong, yet he had been made silent. Was he just not willing to speak? Was he conserving his power? As a mere mortal, Petyr could do nothing but speculate as to the machinations of the divine. Yet, in a time of great uncertainty, it felt unusual that he would not speak. Petyr sighed, removing his reading glasses and standing from his chair. He needed a walk. Leaving his study he ventured forth into the throne room. It was dark out, the skies were clear and the stars twinkled in the night sky. He could see the city below as he passed by windows in the royal corridors, it seemed peaceful and at rest. The lights from the houses below flickered and twinkled like the stars above. Petyr always like Amnest at night, it was a lot easier to manage then. Reaching the throne room, Petyr entered through the large oak doors and approached the throne. The room was well-lit with torches at regular intervals along the hall. However, the biggest light by far came from heavenly beam that ran straight through the throne room. It passed through the room just behind the throne. This was intentional as, from the view of someone walking into the throne room, it would appear as though it passed straight into the King. As if the power of the Gods flowed through him. Yet, taking a look behind the throne would reveal a great hole through which the light passed through. Looking through this hole you could see straight through the palace and into the ground below. Looking up, one would see the starry night above. Petyr approached the throne and touched the arm of it lightly. He looked up, admiring it. The Chatter-script throne was the oldest artefact in Veritious. It outdated the Kingdom great amount. It belonged to some ancient civilisation that inhabited this area. They had enslaved ancestors of House Lockwell, were eventually overthrown by them. After that, the throne had become one with the monarchy itself. The Crown & Throne was the eternal symbol of the Verition Kingdom. The throne's most striking feature was the series of pipes that ran across the back of it and terminated a little above the throne itself. The pipes seemed to go inside the throne itself and their purpose was unknown. At all times, steam came forth from them and filled the air above the chair. A small cloud of steam loomed over the throne constantly, and for no discernible reason. Petyr stepped away from the throne and cautiously approached the beam. It glowed a light emerald colour, filling the room with its glow. He studied it intensely for several moments, wondering what those monks in the Subterranium were able to see. What fascinated them so? As he studied it, he leaned closer over the hole. He thought he could hear a faint whispering which brought him even closer. He turned his head, straining to hear the words. All of a sudden, he found his balance failing him. He threw his arms out as he tried to regain his balance to no avail. At the last second, he threw his weight back and fell in a heap just beside the hole. Yet, he continued to wobble. He realised that it wasn't his balance that had failed, but the ground itself. An earthquake. He could hear the rumbling, growing louder and louder. He turned his head towards the beam. The once beautiful light emerald colour had been replaced by a deep crimson shade. It stained the walls of the throne room. A gust of wind blew through the throne room, extinguishing the torches on the wall and plunging the room into darkness, save for the crimson light of the beam. Then, a great roar came from the beam. It was a deep, primal roar that shook the King's very bones. He clasped his hands to his ears, but quickly discovered they did little to help. After several intense moments, the roar abated and the crimson beam was gone. Replaced by the usual emerald colour. Petyr rose to his feet just as the castle guards came running to the room.
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Post by Andromitus on Mar 21, 2018 20:41:31 GMT -5
His eyes fluttered open as he awoke, his left shoulder pressing against his sleeping mat, grey-blue skin just visible in the light. Closing his eyes again and shifting onto his back, he began to stretch, focusing on his breathing, before opening his eyes again and sitting up. The room was small and circular, carved roughly out of the hard mountain stones, soft slivers of early sunlight flowing neatly through ornate slits in the wall. Shifting again on his mat, one of 6 others running roughly parallel to the curved walls around a central hearth, he moved into a meditative position with his back against the slightly-inclined wall. After a moment to wake himself properly, Tai stood up and turned around to put on his robe —a fibrous construct that fit well over his simple pants and tunic— and began to tie his black purple hair into a formal bun before he finally took a step outside.
His breathing shifted as he sucked in the sharp mountain air and he was met with his normal morning view. The sun shone unabashed as they were well above the cloud cover, frigid altitude air made him thank God he had his robes. His families stone-hut was one of many along this cliff-face, built in between the sharp natural rock face and small alpine flora. He took a quick step down from his huts stone steps onto a thin dirt path toward the upper monastery. It took only a few moments before he began to notice the others, swaths of people dressed in the similar, simple khaki robes as himself, really only distinguishable by the variety of red, blue, and purple stitchings unique to each set. The air around them, around him, was calm and understanding, a soft blue. That is except for the children, excited minds reaching out with their hands to touch every stone, hear every thought — flashes of gold and silver.
Their lives were simple, groups of early-wakers climbing up and down the slopes harvesting materials, berries, sap, altitude-reeds all for breakfast and dinner. Others, families, ebbed and flowed in and out of their huts, cleaning out the nights worries from maps; sweeping their floors clean and carefully saving their coals for later nights around the hearth.
He could hear it before see it, although he could easily have felt the array of color flowing out from miles away; low calls of horns and voices, carried easily through the stone meant to amplify their solemn tones. Within moments of hearing it, the Monastery came into view, a simple series of columns carved into the mountainside overlooking the Zipya Range of Asil. Open carvings in the walls and rock face carried the songs of the choir’s within, simple series of low, deep green tones.
Tai. He didn’t have to turn around, continuing to admire the flow of sound and color coming from the monastery in front of him, the calm and excited tones of his and others occupying most of his open thoughts.
Kibya he thought, turning slowly it’s been a while has it not? The woman behind him, Kībya, smiled, natural Veiamarran features shining well in the sunlight. Her thoughts a soft yet bright, white and green.
It has. she responded, her lips not moving as she spoke, her thoughts flowing with excitement at meeting her longtime student again. We really must find a time to meet again, in private of course.
Smiling, the two began to follow the stream of people into the Monasteries central chamber, flashes of colors shimmered in the air. The central chamber, like most other things, was relatively simple. A big enough space to house all members of the chapter, one which wasn’t all that big given their secluded location so high in the mountains. Opposite to the entrance was a singular straight wall, an ornate 8-petalled flower carved onto it each petal depicting different calligraphy, a different story.
Temple Elders, were lined along the walls looking at those younger than them enter and kneel down into a proper meditative position. They all waited there for several more minutes as those finishing up their morning chores, their harvests, moved into the monastery. The Elders call rang silently throughout the group, calling all to attention before them. Within moments, the links had been forged, the webbing strong between each willing, and ready, mind. The Consensus had begun.
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Post by Chiernarosa on Mar 22, 2018 3:06:02 GMT -5
Oasi tax-Xmajjar Aħmar, Western Sea"ARVESH!" The piercing cry echoed under the darkened night sky, Atek den-Ten'saii clambering up from the hay mat that was his bedding, reaching for his weapons and pulling his aketon over his body, the linen coat weighed by plates of leather and metal. Keeping his sword out of the scabbard, Atek stepped out of the hut alongside his fellow Katet, watching the Hertag scout atop his mount rushing down the sloping dune towards the camp. The commanding officer emerged as well, a Kreigsaldr pikeman wielding his pike and shield, kaskara sword within its scabbard, aketon covered in metal plates and several of his own wealth in the form of interlocked jade links, bellowing out, "Weapons out, brethren: slay these infernal marauders in the name of the Warfather!" The formation formed into three columns, the lower-ranking kreigsaldr placing their pikes above their shields, the kavan flanking them behind their shoulders. The hertag dismounted, running towards the men as he yelled, "The Arvesh are surrounding the oasis, but we need to move, there's a-" A spray of blood erupted onto the sand as a hunting arrow pierced his stomach, head buried into the ground with a strand of intestine, the hertag falling over screaming as a series of animalistic roars swept over the oasis, the raiding party emerging on their mounts and firing their arrows. Atek ducked his head as an arrow flew inches from his head, the kavan responding in kind as the kreigsaldr inched forward, the arrows only able to puncture slightly through the metal. Behind them, several katet* were moving outside the formation, pavise mounted into the more packed sands as they fired their crossbows in return. Suddenly, Atek saw the war party's leader, a man wearing long robes, a leather breastplate covered with metal, and a headdress covered in feathers: raising a hand over his head, the leader barked a command in a language Atek could not understand. He saw the results almost immediately, four mounted raiders wielding larger swords than their brethren, charging towards the formations. The kreigsaldr pointed their pikes in the direction of the raiders, only for the raiders to dismount, the horses speared against the wall, falling against the shields as they screamed in pain. The kreigsaldr unlucky enough to have not pulled away from their shields yelled in agony as the dying horses crushed them, watching as the remaining Arvesh charged down the dunes, screaming in their corrupted language as they met the forces head-on. Atek dodged as one of the Arvesh thrusted his sword, pulling back only for Atek to respond by smashing the hilt of his sword against the raider's face, breaking his nose. As the raider grunted in pain, Atek promptly held his sword in one hand, punching the raider in the stomach and forcing him to double over: before he could respond, Atek pulled his sword back, grabbing the hilt with both hands and swinging overhead onto the raider's back, swinging again as the raider screamed in pain. As the raider died, Atek looked up and saw the carnage surrounding him, kavan parrying in desperation as the Arvesh struck with blind fury, kicking and biting when close enough, the kreigsaldr and katet using their secondary weapons to strike back, and finally, Atek saw his commanding officer fighting against the war chief, striking each other with their shields and delivering blow after blow, their armor torn and ragged. Atek felt himself suddenly being pushed down, the raider pinning him with his knee and raising the sword above his head. As Atek struggled, the raider struck him in the face, knocking his head to the side: as he looked at the ground, he felt as if something was moving beneath him. Striking the raider with his foot, Atek pushed the man off, continuing to look as the sand began to shift, right before the raider tackled him, rage filling the tribal. Suddenly, the sand moved slightly and Atek saw it: it was an eye, one of three on the side, slitted pupil staring at him before burying itself in the sand. Looking back up, Atek saw the raider swing his blade down, poised for his face. It never struck: at that moment, the sand erupted into a flurry as the wyrm* lifted itself above the ground, large bony plates covering both its stomach and back, sharpened scales its head, back, and throat, six eyes staring at the interrupted battle. Setting its sights on the raider, the wyrm lunged, its mouth opening to reveal rows upon rows of sharpened teeth, grabbing the raider by his stomach and sliding past Atek onto the sands, the raider slowly being crushed to death by the wyrm's powerful jaws. The officer broke the silence first, yelling out, "Everyone, get on top of the huts, stay off the ground or else the bastard will drag you off to the Dead God. Move!" The Arvesh, meanwhile, began to panic, some making for the huts and fighting the soldiers to climb them, while others began to rush for their horses: the war chief, however, grabbed the sword from a fallen kavan and roared, "I want that wyrm's head on my horse! Kill the demon!" He was joined by several of his fellow raiders as they charged towards the wyrm, now busily devouring the torn remains of the raider: before they could strike, however, the wyrm moved, its armor deceptively hiding its speed as it buried itself halfway into the sand, head covered as the raiders struck at the armor plating, blades breaking off as the wyrm simply moved around. Suddenly, the wyrm lashed upwards, its back spines impaling a raider as it lifted itself upwards once more before unleashing a deafening roar, Atek covering his ears in pain as he watched the wyrm crush the raider on its back, leaving chunks of flesh and bone on the sand, the wyrm whipping forth and lowering its head, suddenly pushing towards the Arvesh in its path, throwing its head up as one of the raiders felt his ribs break, the wrym tossing him into the air before snapping its jaws around one of his legs and pulling down. As the raider fell in a cascade of blood, Atek could only watch as the wyrm continued to make short work of the remaining Arvesh, the leader being the last to face the giant reptile. Holding one sword to the ground, the chief ran forth, letting out a final roar as the wyrm turned towards him, coated in gore: as the wyrm launched itself towards him with its jaws open, the chief swung the second sword above his head, breaking one of the wyrm's teeth before swinging the other sword below its jaw, splitting the thin membrane. Roaring in animalistic fury, the wyrm lifted its head above the chief and fell, impaling him before lifting once more to crush the remains. Before Atek could react, one of the katet charged forth, grabbing him by the arm, "Are you deaf?! RUN!" The wyrm turned towards the katet, eyes now focused on the unfortunate soldier, and charged forth. Just as it fell on him, Atek grabbed the dagger from his belt and threw it against the wyrm's back, harmlessly bouncing off the armor. Yet it worked: the wyrm stopped and turned towards him, eyes now focusing on him - letting loose another roar, the wyrm swiftly charged towards him as Atek ran, his sights set on the pool of water. Ripping the aketon off, Atek turned as the wyrm launched itself once more, intent on grabbing him: lifting his sword up, Atek struck at the lower spines, unlodging the chief's headdress before rolling to the side, the wyrm now falling into the water. The effect was instantaneous: the wyrm began to thrash, screeching as its armor prevented it from simply swimming back to the shore. As it struggled to keep its head above the water, Atek walked towards the katet, lifting the man up and grabbing his crossbow, a bolt, and the container of oil. Loading the crossbow, Atek poured part of the oil over the bolt before tossing it into the water, the container bobbing close to the wyrm. Watching as the oil began to spill out, Atek took aim and fired at the wyrm's head, the water's surface alight with flame as the wyrm shrieked once more: while its armor allowed it to survive against fire, the split under its jaw and the container of oil caused it to swallow some of the oil, the fire spreading into its mouth as it futilely struggled to stay afloat. As the wyrm finally sank below the surface, Atek turned to face his regiment, the officer walking towards him and clapping him on the back, "By the Warfather's ax, I've never seen something like that in my years spent in this godforsaken desert! How in the name of the Necrominus did you not get yourself killed by that foul beast?" Atek shrugged, putting on his aketon once more before putting on the fallen chieftain's headdress, "I figured that if fire couldn't kill it on the outside, then why not on the inside, especially with all that plating on its body keeping it from coming back to the sands once more. For a dragon of the Western Sea, it's ironic that it fell to the water." The officer simply laughed as he said, "Come, let us clean the remains of these raider pieces of shit and move out: I certainly don't want to face another wyrm, even if you could kill it in the same way." Suddenly, they heard the sounds of a horse neighing, the two turning to see a messenger dismounting, panting heavily and his hands upon his knees, "Sirs, I apologize if I'm interjecting, but the Falanx has sent urgent news to all units to the Western Sea." Pulling a skin-scroll* out of his bag, the messenger handed it to the officer, who unwrapped the seal and opened it, his face going from inquisitive to one of shock and horror, eventually lifting his head up to reveal a pallid look upon his face. Atek gently tapped at the officer's shoulder, asking, "Sir, what's wrong?" The officer partially regained himself as he turned towards the men, gesturing Atek to assemble with them, reading off as they went into formation, "Men, earlier this month a report was submitted to the Falanx from both the Temple of War and Temple of Nature: the Temples have reported that contact with the gods are growing weaker," the men began to exclaim before the officer raised his hand in the air to silence them, continuing, "That's not all: during this, a report was given from the Temple in Velran, which conducted its sacrificial rituals for the Season of the Thirst - the Temple reported that the Altar of the Warfather failed to light up in indication of either Rigma being pleased or disappointed with the sacrifices*. As of recent, reports have been given from Velran to the tip of Kep'l Merta* that natural Valnaran formations are repeatedly making landfall beyond the borders of the Western Sea: a High Marshal has delivered a hypothesis that this may be the beginning of an imbalance with the natural world and the realm of the gods. Our current orders, along with every unit currently cycling between the oases, are to pull out and begin heading for Velran. We have two weeks to reach Velran, at least one of which we're expected to exit the Western Sea, and to prepare for a new campaign: I need everyone to clear out the huts and gather your belongings - we march out of here at dawn." As the men left formation, Atek looked towards the horizon where the sun would rise, pondering, 'If we're losing our connection with the gods, then what'll happen when the Corrupter leaves the Magna Tabes?' He shuddered as he thought of the various results, turning back and grabbing his dagger from the sand before pulling the bodies out of the way. 1. Katet - Katet are, within the infantry units of the Kyran Army, skilled arbalists trained to primarily fight with the Kyran Long Crossbow, a crossbow model that lengthens the stock of the bow, allowing for longer bolts or oil-laced bolts to be fired at ease without risk to the Katet: additionally, the Long Crossbow has a socket that allows for a Katet to make an impromptu bayonet in the event that enemy troops come close enough to them, though the sockets tend to wear quickly. While the Long Crossbow allows for stronger firepower, its length is a contributor to it having a far shorter range than most crossbows on Calveria. In contrast to the Long Crossbow, units within the 1st Kotek and ships of the Kyran Navy utilize the repeating crossbow, a design that has a top-mounted magazine of ten bolts loaded via lever, reducing the time needed to load the weapon at the cost of using a smaller and lighter bolt, along with poor accuracy given the magazine's position. Katet notably contrast with the second marksman unit, the Traestaldr, or lighter-armored archers that primarily use either light bows (having shorter limbs and string, the light bow allows for an archer to hold and fire multiple arrows in quick succession), hunting bows (larger bows, these use longer arrows with heavier arrowheads to penetrate armor more easily, yet a skilled archer can fire off faster than most hunters, and the predator bow (the longest type, these bows are unique for having a small iron sight attached to the center on both sides of the bow, allowing for more accurate shots with longer and heavier arrows) 2. Tyrant Sand Wyrm - A specialized lizard that adapted to life in the Western Sea and the deserts surrounding the Magna Tabes, including the Mire, the Tyrant Sand Wyrm is the dominant predator of the Western Desert. Many of its adaptations were designed around the unique properties of the Western Sea, such as the high amounts of silicates and metal flakes in the sand, large bands of Desert Raiders and Arvesh tribes establishing control in the Sea, and other forms of life that evolved in response to the new environment: its armor includes a series of segmented bone plates running from its head to its tail, thinner scales from its lower jaw to its cloaca, and most notably, elongated scales that have sharpened into points, covering its lower jaw, the sides of its head, and its upper back. Additionally, the Tyrant Sand Wyrm has six eyes ranging in size up to the primary eyes at the end, bone-plated eyelids which filter sand from entering, small nostrils capable of detecting scent from the sands, and lateral lines running the course of its jaws (seen as small, black dots) which detect faint vibrations even when buried deep within the sand. At 30 feet long and 2 tons, the Tyrant Sand Wyrm is the heaviest creature of Western Kyras, which it uses to its advantage when hunting: primarily an ambush predator, the wyrm hunts by first detecting the vibrations and/or scent of its prey, at which point the wyrm silently follows its prey below the sands, surfacing only to rid of waste, collect water, or taking a breath of air without sand. Once it determines that its prey is vulnerable, the wyrm surfaces by using its mass and powerful muscles to propel itself upwards, either impaling its prey with its scales before crushing them, using the heavy plate of bone on its head to fatally ram into prey, or simply catching the unfortunate creature in its powerful jaws, lined with multiple rows of sharpened, venomous fangs, before tearing it apart by thrashing. Normally a solitary animal, Tyrant Sand Wyrms will gather into "pods" of multiple individuals during mating season or when herds of larger prey find themselves in the Western Sea: during this time, the wyrms will mate before parting once more, the mother laying the eggs at a point below the surface where the eggs will neither perish in the heat of the day nor freeze during the colder nights. In spite of being the dominant predator of the Sea, the wyrm does have three confirmed natural predators that can overcome the defenses of the wyrm: humans, either by exploiting the thin, soft layer of skin inbetween the back plates and stomach plates, burning the wyrm from the inside out, or drowning it by tricking it to fall into an oasis, where its armor prevents it from surfacing; Laughing Men, humanoid insects that hunt underground, the Men use ambush points such as thinner surfaces above or large pools to normally kill their prey by falling - should the prey survive it, the Men will approach and signal one another by a series of giggling croaks while it soaks its body in digestive acids capable of eating through bone, eventually embracing its prey and liquefying it; and the Needlejaws, small, 4 foot tall insects that tend to delicately pick off smaller prey or plants on the surface. If it detects a Wyrm, however, the Needlejaw signals to nearby members of its species to launch a wave attack on the wyrm, puncturing its skin with its powerful rostrum before injecting a potent cocktail of venom and acid inside, liquefying the wyrm internally and allowing the horde of Needlejaws to feast. Image of a Tyrant Sand Wyrm breaching the surface - jakelewiscd.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/12/Bearded-Sand-Wyrm.jpg3. Skin-scrolls - Just as the name suggests, skin-scrolls are rolls of parchment formed from the skins of animals, dead humans, or dead Scorched Ones, which are processed and melded into a form that allows for writing, additionally removing the stench of death, blood stains, and imperfections running along the surface of the parchment. In the case of dead humans, the skin-scrolls were presumably drawn from a sacrifice during the Season of the Thirst or from a criminal who was flayed: the differences are marked with a faded stamp. With Scorched Ones, these are drawn from the Scorched Ones sacrificed in the process to make eternal flame, and are treated with reverence. Despite widespread usage throughout Kyras, many Kyrans admit that the practice of using human/Scorched One skin is depraved and support only making the parchment with animal skin. 4. Season of the Thirst - A period of religious celebration held around the late spring and early summer, the Season of the Thirst is a commemoration to Rigma and by extension Myratnis for their assistance in the harvest season. It is believed that the Season is a form of compensation to Rigma for avoiding setting fire to the crop fields and forests during this time, and as such, each day during the Season must have a sacrifice to appease Rigma, lest He unleash a series of natural disasters upon them. The Temple of War conducts the ceremony by human sacrifice, taking volunteers and placing them near an altar to Rigma. Rites are held before the priest impales the volunteers in their chest with a sacrificial knife, draining them of blood before removing their heart and burning it to ash before both components are placed before the altar. It is said that the altar determines the success or failure of the sacrifice by lighting a fire on the surface of both the blood and ash: should the bowls burn with a pure red fire, the sacrifice is determined to have appeased Rigma, while the bowls burning with pure black fire indicates that the sacrifice did not work and starts a period of calamities until a successful sacrifice is made. 5. Kep'l Merta - Death's Head Island in Limba Centrală, this island is the largest western-most island in the Varan Archipelago, hosting the Temple of Nature monastery of Mount Xatha, and serves as an important relay point for many ships within the Kreigsfalden Sea.
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Post by Vista Major, MP on Mar 22, 2018 19:43:59 GMT -5
CENTRAL COUNCIL TENT, ASAKOR WARFRONT Herar'tkne Aveio walked into the enormous tent, flanked on all sides by Alkin and Barskin infantrykin. Inside the scarlet red makeshift palace, generals and lieutenants from all three of the western settlements - Tordra, Fraeor, and Caltrus - were gathered and talking in both exciteful and anxious earnest. As the Exact-General, Harar’tkne had the responsibility of getting all these personalities together for just long enough to craft a battle plan and, with as little bloodshed as possible, take Fyllia for the Polar Dominion, then Lexidus and the known world. He greatly missed home, however: the snowy valleys of Arctika beckoned him back to his native village of Mor’krae every night when he went to sleep. But he also knew that the task as hand had to be completed. If the rumors were true, then the survival of Asakor depended on their expansion: finding new seats of power and new resources to keep them alive. The High Shaman was scant on the details of the impending danger to Asakor’s foundation, and he somehow wasn’t allowed to contact the High Chief, but the tone of Mar’ar’s letter hinted that it was beyond his immediate comprehension. But the most important people west of Asakor Proper weren’t in this grand tent to pray for salvation. They were here to create a strategy. He would just have the trust the holy wolf that Myratnis was on their side. But how strange it was, he thought, for the Holy Mother to forsake one of her children - Fyllia - for another, no matter how righteous the cause. Even if they worshipped a different god, they all belonged to Myratnis. Herar’tkne pushed aside his doubts the moment he arrived at the head of the War Council’s great table, and began their meeting with a short, militaristic prayer: Lotor turen eura Holisherenes Muthera al hearen Sonig, wer arz. Fiat, wer will. Eura vitarung, wer dekar. Fvar da niekacht ist daerung und feilen wit termenin.
MYRATRUS CATHEDRAL “Mar’ar, this is outrageous!” The High Shaman had his back to the enraged High Chief, whose long tail was stiff but twitching, as if itching for a confrontation. “I did what needed to be done.” “For who? Yourself?! Mar, you didn’t consult me or the Council when you decided to let Lexidus know that we were somehow going to conquer the whole damned world. That is not our mission!” “The mission’s changed; Myratnis spoke to me.” “You’re lying” Torvus growled. “You told me yourself, Myratnis has left us. How - and why - would she start speaking again?” “It’s a miracle, I suppose.” “What the Tabes is wrong with you?!” the High Chief shouted in primal anger, his voice causing the frozen walls of the private office to shudder. Mar’ar, however, was unfased. “You’re getting angry with me, Torvus. I thought we were Alleunden.” “We were, then you went and usurped my authority! Mar’ar, I could have you drowned for this!” Silence. “Then do it,” Mar’ar said after taking a deep breath. “You have nothing to lose, and I’ve done my part.” Torvus seethed. His blood boiled, fur standing up as high as they could. Then he stepped forward towards Mar’ar, the blade of his dagger unsheathed. Without turning around, Mar’ar lifted up his right paw and snapped. “ Atikus, blokoren.” Two ice bricks flew from the walls at lightning speed and struck Torvus’ head. They shattered like glass upon contact, and the High Chief crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Then, Mar’ar let out an agonizing, anguished scream, tears streaming from his eyes. A minute later, priests flooded into the room and balked at the body of Torvus collapsed on the wooden floor panels. “Take him to the dungeons,” Mar’ar said, expertly masking his pain. “He tried to kill me, I had to defend myself; I’m sure you all can see the dagger.” No one made a move. “NOW!” Mar’ar barked, tail bolting up into the air. Two Hyarin grabbed Torvus and dragged him out the room. “As for the rest of you,” Mar'ar said. “Tell the tribes of this attempted cathercide at once. Tell the Council that I am assuming the duties of High Chief until Torvus can recover and stand trial. Is that understood?” Fur rustled as the priests nodded their heads. “Good. Leave.”
CENTRAL COUNCIL TENT, ASAKOR WARFRONT “Are you sure this plan will work, Merar’tkne? Their forces would be too spread out if we went in on three fronts. Besides, we’re already near position, no more than a few leagues from the border.” “No, Ak’naeren; we will meet their armies at their second northern river. If we combine as one, we can defeat their forces and establish a single stronghold from which to operate.” “Do we know how many men they have? We have a good many, but we need to know what we’re up against.” “We have enough, Kas’te. I also have the assurances of the High Shaman that we will receive reinforcements in due time. Not to mention that we are going to seek peace first.” “And what of the High Chief? He’s supposed to be giving us the orders.” “I haven’t heard any word from Torvus, Yalen. I assume that Mar’ar is taking temporary command. I’ll inquire to the Council later. For now, we need to vote. All in favor of this action, say aye.” Six ayes. “Anyone to the contrary?” Two nays. “I vote aye, the action ascends. We converge in three days time. Prepare for the advance, gentlekin.”
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Post by Lex Caledonia on Mar 22, 2018 21:05:24 GMT -5
24 years ago, Camelon CastleShe could hear snivelling behind the locked door, Crowley had been banging the door for quite some time before angrily stomping off to find a spare set of keys. She pressed her head against the door, listening intently, he was trying to muffle his crying but she could tell he wasn't managing too well. "Blair? Its me. Just me, let me in! If you're quick you can let me in before Crowley gets back" she spoke into the door as discreetly as she could, before moving away as she heard the lock being turned. Standing in the doorway with the door held open was a boy, her best friend, his gray eyes wet with tears. She entered the boy's room and shut the door behind her, making sure to lock it as her friend sat in his bed with a strop. He was sniffing, trying to wipe away the snot and tears adorning his face. "I don't want to... I don't want to be king!" he blubbered, trying his best to breath in between his whimpers. Crossing his arms and digging his head into them as he started crying again. "I want to draw... draw maps and... and..." She sat beside him and hugged him, making sure to hold him as tight as she could. "I know Blair... I know but your grandfather has chosen you and the country... It needs a king and not a cartographer." She struggled with words like this, she'd prefer to tease him for his gentle nature and to chase one another in the castle courtyard to make him feel better. But now that courtyard was filled with hundreds of onlookers, waiting expectantly for the coronation of their new king. "W-why did they choose me? I don't want to rule, I don't want to have to yell at people like grandpa does. I don't want to hurt people like he does..." he whimpered as he brought his head back up, staring at some of his drawings on the wall. "I don't want to hurt anyone." He let his watery gaze scan over his bedroom wall, parchment stuck to the wall, all maps of various providence of Lexidus. He even had a charcoal drawing of what looked to be the entirety of Calveria Alternis. "...you don't need to be that kind of king." She suddenly blurted out after a minute of silence and holding him. He turned to her slowly, his gray eyes meeting her dull-green ones. "You don't need to be like any of those before you! You're Blair de Brus! Kindest soul in all of Lexidus and you always will be, king or not!" She smiled with her thin lips and lightly punched him on his shoulder. He chuckled a little, despite his wet face. "You can be whatever King you want to be! All that matters is that you..." She took his hand and brought him to his feet "...are you!" She wiped some of his tears with the nape of her sleeve, making sure to put on an exaggerated face of mock disgust as she did so. "Never forget that, you numpty!" He laughed. "Promise me." He stated as they faced the door together; hand in hand. "Promise me you'll still be my best-friend Eimear, even if I have to be horrible?" She smiled at him. "I promise, my numpty king." Present Day, Camelon CastleHe stared at the map laid out before him, a map with fine craftsmanship no doubt, he really should find the time to meet with his Royal Cartographer more often. However, now was not the time for hobby-centric chat, the war room was being dusted and prepared by various servants and royal staff. Unopened for more than 500 years, cobwebs and dust had amassed aplenty in the granite room. A single window, shining light upon the recently wiped table in front of him, highlighting the map. He had received a letter from the Titenfiscan Minister of Defence, of proposed strategies to initiate the war, to which he had responded to almost immediately. Hail Gale Fishook,Our naval forces will gather in the port city of Loness, there we shall make our base of operations. The new city of Nola and its port is to be a forward operating base as well, your ships have guaranteed access to the dock there including Nola's. There we shall send a large force of ships, all in battle formations, making sure to allow for sub-divisions to break off and to patrol the North Star Sea and to prevent naval invasion from the North. Destroying Asakor ships with extreme prejudice. Our main force will then approach their southern city of Kalthaven and its port. There we shall take aim and bombard their city with a massive and prolonged cannon volley, before establishing a landing with our land forces. A beachhead will be formed and the remnants of forces in the city will be cut down with suitably equipped men and squidspawn, we are sending you a shipment of many wolf and bear-pelts to keep your soldiers warm. We will quickly occupy the city and transport our Royal Army troops to the said city, quickly reestablishing defences in the area and using the occupied city as a base for our forces in Asakor. Once achieved we will open a front in southern Asakor as the Dominion fight the Fyllian's in the West, their forces split. Our ships will also at this point patrol the southern waters of Asakor, bombarding any settlement big enough to warrant so. I hope to hear back from you soon. Send Helena my regards. Find attached our plans. King Blair de Brus of the Noble Kingdom of LexidusHe was annoyed slightly that he could not speak to Helena directly, the Titenfiscans and their republicanism would prove interesting to contend with, regardless he was glad Helena had stuck by her word. He cracked his knuckled together, his mind still racing from the briefing from Royal General Lewis and his various staff, Crowley and Eimear included. Their faces each had their own story to tell: Crowley's face was one of a familiar indomitable nature, General Lewis' expression was filled with exuberance and Eimear just, stared at him. Unwavering, neither concerned nor apprehensive, just staring at him. He kept his stoic look throughout his interactions with people but deep inside, his heart was racing. He briefly recalled his hand in hers as she walked him out of his room, of the conversation they had and the promise she had made. He looked down, his expression unchanged. A charcoal map in front of him.
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Post by Chiernarosa on Mar 27, 2018 3:05:12 GMT -5
Velran Council Hall, Velran, Dae'sah RiverTwo weeks earlierThe Council of the State of Velran had convened on the 26th Cycle of Fermat*, composed of the Presiding Chairman, Assistant Presiding Chairman, and the Representatives of the Temple of War. Matters of the Council had included budgeting, tithes of the Ċinturin ta 'Marque between Velran and the tribes under its dominion, and concerns over the Season of the Thirst. Council Clerk Tem'at as-Desan looked up at the bickering group of politicians, his skin-scroll soaked with ink from the rapid-fire arguments between the Chairmen and the Temple representatives, particularly over the Season and its tithes to the Warfather."I understand that last night's sacrifice was lackluster in its performance, Keeper, but you must realize that there are only so many volunteers we can organize and gather into the lists for the Season: we simply cannot allow any of our militia to be handed over in lieu of the civilians gathered up," the Presiding Chairman said, his wizened face contorted into a scowl, looking at the younger, red-faced Keeper of the Lodge, who replied, "And I am warning you: this is an omen from the Warfather, that the sacrifices given from Velran are not adequate to his tastes. These peasants can barely recite the Reicat ag-Hadel* and are often unable to fulfill the ritual as its prescribed in our scripture: your militiamen, on the other hand, seem more capable to the tasks. This must be met: the Librarian overseeing the Kéntro of the Dae'sah has sent the orders himself - you must provide at least 20 of your men for the next week's sacrifice."The Presiding Chairman stood up in anger, tossing his seat of hay at the Keeper, yelling, "You can tell the Librarian to go to the Necrominus: I am not having one of my men be sacrificed uselessly when it is clear that the Warfather does not care." The Keeper stood up as well, eyes blazing with rage as he yelled blasphemy at the councilman. Tem'at simply wrote as fast as he could, marking skipped words with symbols for later revision. Suddenly, one of the symbols was scraped slightly, barely noticeable yet leaving a smear on the next line. Looking up, Tem'at felt his eye sting as a particle blew inside, wiping his eye only to draw blood. The particles were continuing as he lifted his head up, right eye quickly seeing red from the busted vessels, looking out at the Dae'sah's bank connecting with the Ka'akht River*, the delta flowing to the mouth of the Aks'an Bay * into the Kreigsfalden: from his view, he saw what looked like a wall of black less than three men tall, yet as the waves continued to lap, this wall began to thrash, form shifting as a deafening howl roared over the Aks'an, the wind picking up and blowing particles further into Tem'at's face. Wincing as he felt more particles tearing at him, strips of flesh beginning to peel, he yelled as the council looked up, inquisitive gazes soon replaced as they saw the wall of sand wash over the Aks'an towards them. The Assistant Presiding Chairman stood up, his decades spent in the Western Sea among the nomadic tribes immediately rushing back at him as he yelled, "Valnaran! Everyone, get into the huts, light the warning flame, shut the Temple doors and keep everyone inside! Move!" He grabbed Tem'at's arm, looking in horror as the Clerk was barely coherent, the waves of air preceding the Valnaran's shield having torn into him, his right arm stripped of its skin as the skin-scroll was little more than strips in his lap. Pulling Tem'at up, the Chairman dragged him from the meeting site, pulling him towards the Temple.As the Valnaran finally passed over the Aks'an, the air was struck pitch black, the howls of the storm deafening those still caught outside, the winds extinguishing the flames of the poles lighting Velran's borders. The Chairman couldn't breathe, his scarf torn from his body as his torso felt the stinging lashes of the storm: Tem'at was dead by this point, blood coursing from his neck, thighs, and right arm as the storm had cut through the skin and into his arteries and veins, the Chairman coated in the fluid yet unable to see his flax clothes stained red. The Chairman was near the Temple doors when the howls turned into roars, the wind knocking him and Tem'at's corpse to the ground, the former feebly crawling up to the steps of the Temple, his back flayed red from the sands, his scalp profusely bleeding as the skin was ripped off, the Temple's marble steps being scraped and broken apart from the metal shards colliding into it. As he died, the Chairman found himself in front of the Altar of Rigma, the Warfather's visage contorted into a faceless howl, the sands grinding the art into powder: breathing in the dust, the Chairman felt the pain in his lungs increase tenfold, his vision gone from the blood and sands tearing into his eyes, reducing them into half-circles of flesh, optic nerves visible to the recovery team.
1. Cycle of Fermat - the Kyran calendar noticeably operates in a manner related to the harvests and seasons in Calveria, each of the Calendar's 11 months divided into 35 days which are organized as 5 6-day weeks with the remaining week organized as a 5-day "rest week" where Kyrans are obliged to observe sermons, assist with quartering and cycling troop formations, and engage with the government representatives from Varan or whatever ruler controls them: similarly, each of the 6-day weeks call for 5 days of work and 1 day of rest before continuing. The 26th Cycle of Fermat indicates that it is the 26th day in the month of Fermat, the month of summer heat, and overall close to the start of week 5: the Kyran months are Afan, Khamat, Xankar, Novax, Reinat, Hernal, Foralr, Metdal, Mesidar, Fermat, and Fructara. 2. Reicat ag-Hadel - One of many religious texts gathered by the Temple of War, the Reicat is considered the best-known document with most of the practicing populace, often printed on small pieces of skin-scroll and attached to the clothing of a devout worshipper or Shaman of the Temple of War. In the case of the Season of the Thirst, the Reicat is read for each sacrifice made before they are killed by the priest in charge of the ritual. 3. Ka'akht River - one of many rivers in Kyras, the Ka'akht River is the smaller of two rivers feeding into the Aks'an Bay, joined by the Dae'sah River. The Ka'akht holds significance in Kyran history as one of the main contributors to the Kyran victory during the Siege of Velran during the War of the Grey Ravens between the Republic and the Grey Ravens tribal confederation, which captured Velran in the early days of the war: the Ka'akht, while heavily defended by river formations, was left vulnerable during the Fog Splitter's ambush of the Grey Ravens fleet, allowing for Kyran forces to sail downriver and launch a surprise attack on the weakened Grey Ravens formation. 4. Aks'an Bay - the economic lifeline of Velran and the Western Sea's Roaming Merchant circuits, the Aks'an is one of the 13 bays feeding into the Kreigsfalden Sea and serves as the largest western bay in the Republic. In early days, the Aks'an held an impressive Arsenal that allowed it to field large fleets, originally the 2nd Fleet of the Tekkan Empire before serving as the main producer for secessionist forces during the War of the Grey Ravens: after Fog Splitter set fire to the bay, the Arsenal was razed by the 7th Kyran Flotilla before being raided by the Black Cohorts. After the war, the Aks'an Bay transformed into a vibrant fishing center and vacation spot famed for its sunsets.
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Post by Andromitus on Mar 27, 2018 8:02:52 GMT -5
Shzahkt, Surface Asil
Nodding her head, the Scrawl, Outsider, and two guards moved outside again, continuing over a long stone balcony overlooking the external fortress. Iyan blinked her eyes, no matter how many times she went up to this accursed land, the striking glare of the sun would always startle her. She almost wished she’d been assigned to one of the naval settlements; almost. As they continued along, and as Iyan’s eyes adjusted, the nature of this settlement began to quickly come into view. It was built not from brick, but huge cut-stones. The walls and fortifications all seemed to have a slight incline or extended base to them, not to mention the domed roofs and omnipresence of the Warrior-Caste. In fact, stationed almost ever presently were the Guards, distinguishable by their armor, metal plates alongside another substance, almost shell-like. They’d only been traveling for a few moments until the unlikely group of 4 reached the Formal entrance, what to the outsider looked like an open archway, before the calm air of the subsurface engulfed them. Shzahkt was a strange city; she was unlike any on the surface, carved directly out of the natural cave system, illuminated by a mixture of braziers, torchlight, and strange, glowing plants; yet, she wasn’t like Asil, she lacked the careful planning, the meticulous piping, half the architecture, and what plants were available were no more than house-flowers in comparison to the vast biocaverns of the underground. Marching down the steps, the Scrawl led the way, following a series of four-sided columns with vertical characters perhaps symbolizing names or locations. The Cave-City itself, most obviously, was dark, although after his eyes had adjusted noticeable physical features began to become obvious. As they continued through the caverns, the Settlement portion of this complex became more and more evident, the city smell —Not unlike a forest after rain, but with a twang of smoke— and the sound of people speaking in outlandish tongues suddenly filling the air. Turning right they continued onward before entering onto a balcony overlooking the first major cavern, a surprisingly open space lit primarily by “natural” lighting in the form of vegetation and series of Braziers placed strategically along the walkway. With the cavern came the people themselves, noticeable groups of them in a variety of garbs moving from place to place; former rocky-patches, stone columns, and even open spaces being repurposed as homes, buildings, and rooms for what the outsider could only imagine. They continued through the winding halls of the underground for a few more minutes before reaching a cylindrical carving in the otherwise straight balcony pathway, in which stood a rather flat door made of what looked to be bronze and two more soldiers. “We’ve arrived,” Iyan stated matter-of-frankly and turned to the two knew men before nodding her head and entering the building. They were met with what looked like a changing area, low cubicles cut directly into the stone of the otherwise normal pathway before the actual interior; the ground itself was about a foot below the rest of the floor looking further in. Insignas noticed that the other two guards accompanying them had stayed outside, and that the Scrawl woman was removing her shoes and stepping barefoot onto the series of straw mats making up the interior. She motioned for him to do the same before the two entered into the inner-building. It was a circular room covered in a series of formal, tightly woven straw mats, the walls all having a slight incline to them, and a small fire crackled in a small enclave near the right end. Apart from the what they’d just entered through, two other gateways, one adjacent to them, the other ahead, split otherwise continuous wall of hexagonal plates above a baseline of bronze running along the edge of the floor between the wall and the mats. A small table, made of a mixture of stone and metal plating, was in the center of the room, a chandelier blazing above it. Two their right hung a small alter, another enclave like the fireplace only this time several feet off the ground, in which was a small set of candles and a hanging scroll depicting a large cave with glowing spots. As they entered into the room a tall Veiamarr in red-grey garb walked in from one of the adjacent entrances, Iyan was just about to introduce him to the Veritian before she choked. The man, who would’ve been assumed to be the Scribe mentioned previously, wasn’t alone. The second, another man, entered the room just after; he was just as tall, wearing a uniform, dark turquoise robe with a shadowy purple tunic underneath. His outfit itself bore outlines of fanciful inscriptions, the same Diamond symbol Insignas had kept seeing throughout his time here etched onto his chest. The Man was also physically different, with long hair tied back into a single braid linked with ornate pieces of metal —as opposed to the tightly woven hair of either Scribe— alongside which he wore a set of jewelry showing him to be of at least some kind of importance. “Aēl!” she quickly cupped her hands, placing them adjacent to her stomach, and performed a low bow for several seconds before rising again. The one in red returned the favor, although his was no less than a short head bow, stating him as al-Navahna Xyn Adiil, the Scribe the Veritian was expecting. She attempted to stammer something in a language Insignas couldn’t understand before the second man, the one that’d startled her, raised his hand. He responded in the language before turning directly toward the Veritian, speaking in concise sentences while waiting for the first man, the scribe, to translate. “He says his name is Mipikaat Vykiaf Zaolnak, he is a Priest-Caste. A representative of the Authority.” “Central Government.” Iyan quietly interjected; the Scribe nodded discretely before continuing; “He wishes to hear what you have to say, to formally…” he paused in contemplation, “there’s no direct translation but the closest phrase should be ‘to gain a consensus’ with you. He is intrigued, if only slightly, by your proposition of aid.”
Abel, Lexidus
The Rohzai clapped his hands together excitedly, “Excellent! Let me tell you it really was a pain to get this far.” The three began to travel out, back into the crowd; the smell of spices and people suddenly permeating the air. They had walked for only a few moments through the caravan before other goods began to catch the Lexidian and her Translators eyes; cages, cages of animals. And nothing like anything she’d seen previous, a wide array of lizards and almost otherworldly, fatherless birds with rat-like heads and fur. A ferocious amount of giant insects flashing all kinds of colors, almost all of them characterized by long, silky fur. Continuing along the would-be-pathway running along the outer wall of Abel, in the distance came into view a wide tent. In comparison to the others, it was almost twice as large, the wheels of two wagons just visible beneath the red cloth. Even earlier, the mix of Rohzai and Lexidians had been fairly blatant, but it’d had been at first with traders. As they neared the tent, the crowd began to swell outwards and the existence of quite a large group of Karthagite warriors became apparent. A single voice rang out over the crowd and a tall man walked in front of the tent above the crowd, standing on a crate. The man, Saoirse probably didn’t recognize, was evidently Quijain, although he wore a cloak easily identifying him as a member of the Caravan. His voice boomed over the crowd, and speaking in rather accented common he said: “Ladies and Gentlemen of Lexidus! To start i’ve simply got to thank you for your hospitality…as well as your coin!” he paused for a moment as the crowd laughed, “even now i’m sure you’ve become aware of our comrades in cages, strange insect giants from the east. But I can assure you, Lexidians, that ’tis nothing compared to our grandest prize.” He hoped off the crate and whirled around to face the tent, the Karthagite Captain, off to the side of the crowd, fluttering hand signals to his men who reached for opposing ropes along the sides of the structure. “Behold my friends,” the man started again, “the mightiest beast in Calveria, the Aoxia’a!” Another silence waived over the crowd before the warriors pulled their ropes and the folds of the tent rippled over the thick metal bars beneath. There was a moment of dazedness for a moment as light poured into wide, eight wheeled cage in front of them. The entire structure shook as the binds were released and the creatures fore and middles scraped against the bars; it had to be bigger than anything the Westerners had ever seen, taking up more than half of the space, best resembling a segmented centipede, only with 6 legs. Black, chitinous body smashed again at the bars, huge mandibles clicking angrily — Around the tip and base of its neck, and around each leg, were tied thick ropes held by 7 of the Karthagite Warriors. The Aoxia’a let out a growl, a continuous squeaking noise like two wet twigs running against each other. The Co-Captain snapped his fingers and metal clicks broke over the sounds of the crowd. “Now ain’t she beautiful,” the Quijainic man started, the front and side bars of the cage wobbling slightly, “So, she doesn’t breath like you or me, with a nice mouth,” he gestured toward thin membranes in between each shell segment, “she breaths through these. ’N while just sitting around she’s just fine it agitates her, she needs to…well, move.” With that the sides of the cage slid down and without a seconds hesitation the beast was in the air, leaping down into a patch of grass, the entire crowd shaking back. It took several steps forward, its body twisting like a snakes, before the ropes around it went taught and it released another low squeaky growl. The pack of men and the beast then began to circle, the crowd backing up, some screamed and some laughed as the realization of stability began to reassert itself. The pack of Warriors led the creature along the semicircle of people that’d gathered to see the spectacle — every so often it’d snap its mandibles, growl, its long tail hovering just above the ground, ready and waiting to clobber any threat around it. As it came fully into view its full size became apparent, easily bigger than any wagon in the caravan, its legs alone were as tall as a man, it’s head the size of ones chest. The man, the ringleader, let out a high whistle, the Aoxia’a twisting around, crouching low as it saw the hunk of meat in his hand. The ringleader waived his hand slightly, the guards holding the ropes began to back away, loosening their hold on the creature, their hands sliding freely along the rope yet never letting go. The chunk of meat flew into the air, the insect not having to take a step forward before it was only on its hind legs, the ropes binding it sliding through the hands of the warriors, the front four rushing to meat the beasts stride. It’s mandibles snapped around the morsel before it came crashing to the ground, the ground around it shaking as its weight was spread back around it. The cries and whistles of the crowd growing louder as it hit the earth — moving to the front with Amón, the creature came into full view. Out of the corner of her eye, Saoirse noticed several people just slightly standing out from the rest near the Karthagites; 5 figures dressed similarly to the Rohzai, but they did well to hide their skin, each having a thin, yet covering, veil over their heads. • • • • • • • • Two Days Earlier • • • • • • • • He’d been tracking the group for the past two weeks, although he had to admit that they’d done well to evade capture. Twice he’d thought he’d had them as they tracked through the Mire, and twice still the sun had risen, or some other strike-of-the-moment had forced him to double back to keep their suspicions low. It didn’t help that he didn’t know what they looked like at this point, although least that went for them as well; he’d switched outfits countless times but kept his undergarb, a pair of Kbyan boots for hiding his tracks and a tight underarmor of Xy’dept leather, A reptile of the underground, with a crimson vertical eye stained on its chest. He breathed in the cold night air, focusing on the mission ahead. The sun had just set, and in the mire-edge of Asil he knew he’d have to find shelter soon or risk freezing. He was lying on his stomach, legs splayed, one arm ahead of him ready to pull forward when he needed to move. Ahead, he honed in on his target, waytravellers, groups employed to help folks traverse the surface — being so far from the inner Mire they were free to light fires without fear of predation. From his vantage he counted four Mirewalkers, large arachnids with practical trees-for-legs that dug deep into the earth for stability, and warning of those lurking beneath, it was their existence that tipped him to the group being waytravellers at all, as well as being of any importance. With the Mirewalkers he marked about 16 caravaners tending to coverings —hovels dug into the ground to protect against the elements— maintaining the fire, and cooking. He’d have to get one of them to break away from the rest of the pack; he was jarred from his thoughts as a gust of wind and silt whipped around him before calming down. Tightening his mask —a mix of leather, open cloth, and glasses— he focused again on the waytraveller group, waiting for even the slight of an opening. His stomach pressed against the earth, a loose mixture of silt and sand endemic to Asil, cold air and particles whipping around him with a fury. As the winds began to die slightly, he counted 15; one of the men had left the group. Scanning for shadows, glints, anything that’d give him the location, he finally found his target. A lone soul moving away from the group. Powefully, yet silent as a bird above the clouds, his forward arm pulled down and he glided over the dunes, bounding strides keeping him low and out of sight, and did well to keep his footsteps erratic and untraceable. Curving around the group he collapsed onto the ground meters away from his target, silently. His back hand fingered array of knives before locking around ones hilt-ring, a crescent moon blade meant for one-to-one combat. The man’d just finished his business when he turned around, the shape of his pursuer suddenly appearing before him. Before he could even breath in he was being held, his arms pinned erratically, a leather glove covering his mouth. The two stood there in silence for what seemed like hours, the cold feeling of steel pressing against the mans throat. “Kajic?” his captor spoke softly, the gloved hand forcing his head to do a yes and no shake, he performed the former, “good, scream and you’ll die before the first note ends. Now, who was your last client.” The man collapsed onto the ground on his stomach, both his legs were pinned by those of his captors, his left arm pushed up against his back, the steel still against his throat. “Client?” he managed to stammer. “Client, who did you last ferry.” “F-five m-men, some women.” “Some of the men were women?” “M-men and women, five total.” “Blue skin?” “W-what?” His head was pulled up his captor pulled his sleeve down, moonlight glinting off his pale-blue skin. “Blue. Skin.” “Y-yes, I don’t know where they were from just that they wanted to be left near the borderlands.” “Was a boy with them?” “I-I don’t know they were…” he was cut short, steel sliding through his neck like fish through water. He already knew the answer.
Vomándak, Viteskt River
• • • • • • • • Four Days Earlier • • • • • • • • “I don’t care if you have to search under every rock, under every kitz*, behind every closed door the Urcilāo must be found!” The Generals voice boomed over the ranks of soldiers; since the disappearance of General Vkain Al’tchakohd, a small council of Priests had taken the charge in the hunt for the successor fo the Ahnsijn. The boy had been training with a select of teachers of several Castes to ready him for his position, yet the Authority had lost contact a week ago, and recent dispatches proved unfruitful in their endeavor to find him. Some suspected heresy, others treachery, but regardless, half the Ahnsijnate at this point was up in arms searching for the heir to their nation.
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Post by Lex Caledonia on Mar 27, 2018 19:57:10 GMT -5
Abel, Lexidus
Saoirse couldn't help but be positively enamoured with the sights before her, so foreign and mystical to her despite being one of the most experienced merchants in all of Lexidus. She made yet another mental note to grab some of those wonderful spices she could smell hanging in the air, her youngest son would appreciate the gift. Noticing the Quijain as she and her translator neared the tent, she was almost floored by the reveal of the Aoxia’a. The beast was something out of a fever dream, utterly repulsive but so inherently fascinating. She hoped to Myratnis above the Rohzai and their guard knew what they were doing, last thing she needed was to compensate countless families and file out numerous parchments. Their ropes looked sturdy enough... she made another mental note however, to keep guards and Merchant Associations on high alert, better safe than sorry. Letting out a sigh of relief as the creature was sated with meat, she noticed the 5 figures, the veiled figures drawing her eye away from the spectacle before her. Why were they concealing themselves so? Her curiosity got the better of her as she approached Amón and leaned in towards him.
"An... amazing display! I can only imagine what other animals you have roaming your lands! Truly we Lexiduns are blessed to have to only deal with the occasional bear, wolf and cow!" She chuckled, trying to keep her gaze upon the Rohzai but failing, the figures were just so mysterious. She decided to enquire, her curiosity overcoming her. "Amón? Might I ask and if I may be so bold, who are the veiled figures standing out from the rest near the Karthagites?"
The War Room, Camelon Castle
"10,000 you say...?" drawled the young man to Royal General Lewis of the Standing Army of Lexidus. The two men were standing by the map of the northern peninsula, illuminated this time by torches adorning the granite walls, an owl hooting outside in pitch blackness. The young man was dressed in fine attire, a black tunic with navy highlights with black trousers and just as dark boots, he kept himself very well groomed. His clean shaven face, with short black hair a stark contrast to the older General's long gray hair and bushy beard, his steel armour polished to a mirror sheen.
"Aye, 10,000 of my men, it will be the grandest amphibious invasion force the whole of Calveria has ever seen. Footmen, Bowmen and our finest knights!" Guffawed the older general, his cheeks rosy with pride. "My boys have been under scrutiny for over half a century to reform their offensive capabilities and now's the perfect time to test them out! There'll be glory to be had when we tackle these savages! All I need to know is this, can your Royal Navy transport such a large number and manage itself?"
High Admiral Hunter MacLeish, the youngest to ever hold the title, brought his hand to his chin as he scanned the map. Rubbing it in contemplation, wincing slightly as the torchlight bounced off the General's armour and shined in his eyes. "The Royal Navy currently has over 4000 ships, twice that amount if we were to assume command of the Merchant Associations Ships, including various Titenfiscan deployments as well. Your men would be guarded and the sea surrounding the landing sight secured, I can guarantee you that."
"Capital! Absolutely bloody capital!" The General bellowed as he smacked the table with glee, the High Admiral responding with an amused smile.
"It pays to be reserved you know General... who knows how well the invasion will go considering the oppressive environment and the sheer scope of the operation, this naval invasion is ten times the size of the last attempt made by the Royal Navy back in 642ABL, during the reformation war."
"Fortune favours the bold... and the cautious! I'll be the bold and you'll be the cautious!" The older man gave a hearty laugh and the younger man a chuckle. Despite their sizeable age gap, the two men harboured an intense respect for one another. Hunter saw Lewis as a hero, a man who had devoted his life to the defence of his country and a man who always put himself with his soldiers. Lewis saw Hunter as new blood, a change that would help keep Lexidus strong and allow the country to keep up with these turbulent times.
"I shall inform Chief Burke of Nola and Chief Paulus of Loness to prepare their cities for the amassment of both soldiers, equipment, sailors and ships."
Wetwood, The North Star Isles
Dunsley rubbed his hands together over the roaring fire, soaking the heat through his hands as his body continued to warm. The exercises between his regiment and the Fyllian regiments were running into the night, the soldiers practising formations and disembarking of transport ships for some reason. They had been recently equipped with a new type of chain mail and uniform, one where bear and wolf furs were interwoven with thicker cloth and the armour itself, no more heavy fur cloaks over cold metal chain mail. The decreased weight, improved heat retention and ease of mobility made training far easier but regardless he was looking forward to bed. As he passed a ration towards a Fyllian soldier of whom requested a taste, he heard a loud voice bellow from within his regiment's camp a couple of metres away.
"Men! Proud soldiers of the Trident Regiment of the Standing Army of Lexidus! Hear me now!"
Dunsley stood up to peer over his fellow soldiers of whom were standing to attention. It was Commander Wallace.
"We are now at war! War with the Polar Dominion of Asakor. The Fyllian men you see next to you have been endangered by these savages for a long time and now the Asakor have threatened us with occupation! Our King Blair de Brus has proclaimed, No more! No more shall these savages threaten our allies and way of life! You will be the Trident that will pierce the heart of these beasts, the first boots on the ground as we are set to invade Asakor from the south! Prepare yourself men, for this will be no easy feat, we have been a peaceful nation for nearly half a millennia and I understand if you are uneasy. You have much to prove. We all do..."
The silence in the camp was palpable, aside from the distant neighs of travelling horses and fires crackling, no one spoke. Dunsley felt a lump in his throat.
"Know this! You are the lions of Lexidus! Aye, you have been slumbering for quite some time and some of you may consider yourselves mere cubs. But every slumber must be awoken from and every cub must grow and you my soldiers, will rise to the challenge, I know you will. I will be with you every step of the way, so shall our Fyllian and Squidspawn allies and the spirit of Lexidus himself! WE SHALL BE THE TRIDENT THAT PIERCES ASAKOR'S HEART, IN THE NAME OF MYRATNIS AND KING BLAIR DE BRUS WE SHALL PREVAIL! LONG LIVE LEXIDUS, LONG LIVE THE NOBLE KINGDOM!"
In an instant, the silence was ruptured by the roar of the soldiers in the camp. Hollering and cheering, the men clanged their weapons and stamped their feet. The men of the Trident Regiment were ready to fight and die for their country. Dunsley, son of a baker and farmer, cheered as loud as he could but couldn't get rid of the lump in his throat.
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Her legs were hurting from the constant pace of walking they were doing, the figure ahead of her gripping her wrist tightly. Her eyes were still wet from crying and her throat raw from screaming in despair. Leanabh and the metal plated man had been travelling through the tunnels for quite some time. How long exactly? She was uncertain, the image of her grandfather being enveloped by the shadows and the beasts known only as "The Others", printed into her mind. She whimpered as the metal man brought her around another corner and into a large underground grotto, a stone stairway leading up towards a hatch. The metal man let go of her hand and cautiously approached the staircase, listening intently below the hatch. Leanabh collapsed and held herself, stifling her cries as she felt pain surge through her feet.
"...Tha an dòigh a 'coimhead gu soilleir. Thig, leig leinn falbh nighean." Mumbled the metal plated man, their voice was soft, unexpectedly so. They turned towards her and approached her, reaching out to grab her arm. The girl wailed, curling herself into a ball, trying to make herself as small as possible. The metal man sighed and removed his helmet. Her helmet rather. Revealing herself as a woman with short brown hair, hardy features and a large scar stretching from her left eyebrow across her nose and then ending by the left corner of her mouth. She spoke again, just a softly. "Look at me child."
She did so, wiping away her tears and looking into the brown eyes of her guard.
"From now on you must speak in common, the majesty taught you to speak it yes?"
The small girl nodded, sniffing slightly.
"No more Celtmaric, it is too suspicious above ground and with our old dialect. You must obey everything I say hmm? I am your protector and am fulfilling our king's wishes."
Leanabh whimpered something but it came out as a mumble.
"Speak your words child."
"...w-who are you?"
The armoured woman, knelt down towards her, offering her hand to the girl. Hesitantly, Leanabh took it.
"I am Donn Myra. I am your protector." Gently taking the girl's hand and then lifting her up into her padded arms, Myra held the girl as she ascended the steps. "Close your eyes child, the bright light above will sting them."
Squinting as they ascended through the hatch, Leanabh braced herself, a great cold wind enveloping her. She was terrified but opened her eyes slightly. She gasped. There was no tunnel above her but lights, far distant lights all sparkling in the vastness above her. Is this... the sky? The one her mother told her in the stories of above, of the surface world?
"Well now." Grumbled Myra. "Looks like the bright light has ceased for now. It is dark time."
Leanabh was in sheer awe at the sight before her, she was looking at the legendary sky! The marvel was overwhelming and she soon found herself drifting slightly, her eyelids growing heavy as Myra placed a fur blanket over her as she was carried. Before she faded into an exhausted slumber, she could hear cheering in the distance and then finally a banner of some kind and a sign. The banner was a Trident with a white lion wielding it, draped across a building of some kind, her sleep addled mind could barely register the Common letters on the sign. The Wetwood Inn.
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Post by Andromitus on Mar 29, 2018 11:02:08 GMT -5
Ixthenpijn, Ahkmaur River
The final boat hit the water with a loud crack, its outer hull of light, chitinous plating finally having been redone after the previous holocaust of Alchemical fire. All across Ixaleft the roads and canals were awash with activity; hundreds of civilians busily moved from point to point transitioning goods and equipment for the task ahead. In the two cycles of repairs and construction since the first attack, almost 200 Laborer-Caste were fitted with spare armor and conscripted into the military for the future Liberation; It a common tactic, recruitment, especially when manpower was low. The brutal reality was that the uneducated Lower-Caste worked well as grunt-troops — and that anyone can swing an axe. The distance between themselves in the Ixthenpijn Thaur and their allies in the Colonial Abyan Thaur was only roughly a days journey — They knew that if they, alone, could hold off an attack, it was the most logical assumption that Abyan could as well. As such, their battle plan was simple — to investigate the enemy, and retake the River in a full assault. With weapons specialized against them with what information as available, the Second Expedition would push directly to the outlying region of Katakaf and reconnect the Ahnsijnate to her Frontier Colonies. After their practical ransacking of supplies their small army had reached a size of almost 300 Boats alongside more than several thousand soldiers and conscripts from the Laborer-Caste. Crates of arrows, bolts, spare hilts and spearheads, alongside several armies worth of weapons from bows to blades were all stocked along the amassing armada. With their conventional weapons, the Generals had also been explicit about a series of Alchemical tools to be stock-piled on each ships. Several varieties of Acid, Glisten-Salts (A soft powder that sticks to the enemy and burns upon contact with a proper heat source), numerous flammables and semi-explosives, all of which were in high demand and low supply given the complexity in their creation and the tendency for poor batches to prematurely light and erupt. With these substance, nets, swords, arrows, and spears were coated and stored below deck for safer transport, with more volatile substances being delegated to Warrior-Caste Only battleships, they simply couldn’t risk accidents with so much alchemic’s aboard. With this impressive arsenal, the second Expedition into the Asilic cross-region, like a hound frothing at the lips, was ready to attack. • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • Two cycles ago, the water was almost pitch-black with the strange Yrutan substance, now after the counter-attack, it was nearly clear. The blue water shimmered along the hulls of mix of long combat boats and smaller repurposed transit and cargo ships. Fingering his Hopahz, a thick short sword strapped to behind his waist, Tkiir moved out over the bough of his boat, the first in the chain of the Armada. It was a long construct designed for river travel and close-quarters movement, a series of metal spikes ran along its sides, and a cabin located near the stern leading below deck. But it’s crowning achievement were located by the bough; two, thick long bronze tubes on either side of the ship. Kotchn’malyixt; Fire Breathers. Accompanying him on his vessel were 32 other Warrior-Caste and roughly 100 Conscripts, most of whom were located below deck tending to the menials of the ship, and preparing her oars for the sound off starting the expedition. Moving toward the stern, he slid his hand over one of the Fire-Breathers, a 2 meter long bronze cylinder, ornate carvings running along its sides. In total, the Armada was divided into 15 Squadrons of boats, with each vessel holding its own Battle Independency, a mix of Warrior and Laborer-Castes built for autonomous combat. After all, in the underground separation was common, and strict chains of command simply weren’t viable in such uncommunicable terrain. Looking ahead he saw the city limits, a formal archway built over the thin grotto leading into underrivers of Asil; too his left and right he saw others moving forward, kneeling down onto both their knees. He did the same, placing his hands, cupped, onto his lap before bowing forward; when he raised his head he kept looking up until his back was straight, his eyes dead set on the ceiling of the cavern. “Shyòkah’et.” He repeated the position four times more, each time reciting the prayer word of the mid-cycle. Footsteps’d caught his attention after he had finished, a Priest-caste had boarded the vessel and had crossed in front of him. The man was old, a long white beard, well groomed, flowing down to his midwaist. Apart from modest jewelry and a formal Headdress marking him as a Temple-Grade, He wore dark, blotched green robes, under which were the purple formal tunic of his caste. Tkiir continued to kneel as more Warrior-Caste started filing out from below deck, bending down in similar fashion to himself. “Sons and Daughters of Asil,” he began, soft, wizened voice echoing softly through the cavern, “This cycle your people, your faith, and your God must ask of you your greatest hardship. Before you is to be bloodshed, but in that time, this time, I ask that we conduct prayer again as many of you just fulfilled.” Tkiir and the other Warrior caste bent down again. His mind was alight with thoughts, on their most recent battle, on what was to come. As he raised himself high to conclude the second bow, his mind still raced, other warriors across the Armada were soon following suite, some following their own Temple Priests, others out of simple faith. How was he to face the upcoming challenge, it’d been centuries since a proper breach, since the Ahnsijnate began to look inward for enlightenment, but now the enemy was hounding at the gates. Were they ready? • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • By this point they’d been travelling for roughly 4 hours downstream, the cavern having opened up from a tight grotto to proper ravine, ranging almost 15 meters tall and 7 wide. A lighting strike cutting clean through the earth. Each side of the cavern was lined with a wide array of lichenous flora, curving out and down like small trees, shrubs, mosses, and vines, the tips of their stalks glowing blue and green with a ferverence. As they continued up and away from nearby settlements and civilization, away from order, the sound of nature began to fill their ears. Fish and Reptiles beneath the waves, minor insectoids crawling along the ceiling and walls — every so often Mtchikaan, four-winged reptilian bat-analogues, would swoop down from the ceiling to catch prey along the cavern walls, red scales meant to hide them in the lowlight environment. Tkiir was almost surprised at how effective their Alchemical fire was, even 4 hours in and the water was still shimmering with blue-green light, the strange black substance previously polluting the water only in few-and-far-between blotches and clumps. Hell, it was beautifully clear to the point that he could see shoals of fish and sea-insects, and the long tubular colonial organisms tracking along, feeding on the Xian bacteria illuminating the waves. The sound of rushing water caught his attention, followed quickly by the slowing of his and the boats ahead of him. Looking up, he saw the problem, the usually calm water shone brilliantly in the distance, and while beautiful, it set a dangerous precedence. Xian bacteria glows in motion, its what gives the water its shine; ergo, when the brighter the water, the choppier the waves. A cataract. The two boats ahead of his, the scout ships, turned in and dropped anchor — behind him several Laborers ran out from below deck, scrambling to drop anchor, two of them grabbing hooks, ready to leap onto the thin strip of “shoreline” for counterbalance. Based on protocol, they had roughly 5 minutes before the Squadron behind them caught up and caused a real problem with the overall convoy. They had 5 minutes to find a proper solution. A whistle from the leftmost scout ship, a small sleek construct, and Tkiir was running for the bow; seeing a Warrior-Caste on the deck across the waves; “Spot us, we’re giving the command to go through it,” he yelled. “Got it, set a route, is this on the map?” “Yea, its about a 30 meter stretch, it wasn’t big enough for a checkpoint so we should be fine. My sets tell us a leftmost serpentine but it gets really choppy after apparently; we’ll see how it goes.” As Tkiir set to relay the message to his crewmates and the rest of the squadron, the Scout raised anchor, swinging left as its bough pointed downstream. The small vessel continued along the left edge of the river before curving downstream. For the next two minutes they waited in anticipation for a signal. A low moan echoed over the rivers, the sound of a war-horn. Tkiir whistled loudly and his boat raised anchor; Their was larger though so he sent a little prayer in his mind. He hoped God was on their side for this. The sound of wood-on-stone cracked through the cavern as their bough-oars smacked against the shore before all four sets were pulled inward. Relying on their rudder the bough tipped down, Tkiirs blood rushing with it. Gripping onto the side of the boat, he raised his right arm high, a signal to the oar man. They continued down the rapids before he saw what the scouts were talking about, an outlet of rock in the center of the stream. Quickly swing his arm to the left, the bough of the ship swung hard toward the cavern wall, the sound of crashing water drowning out all other sounds. In line he swung his arm back left to serpentine around a secondary outlet before the scout ship came into view. They hit the flat water with a crash, river water spilling onto the deck before the ship leveled out and they began to drift — there he noticed it, carved onto a flat portion of the wall just below the rapids section, an ornate Diamond symbol —The seal of the Authority— with a vertical column of text carved on either side. Abyan Another War-Horn echoed and he heard the crack of wood at the top of the cataract. One by one each of the War-boats in the armada trickled down the cataract before they set off again, the two Scouts charting the uneasy water ahead. It was the lights that he noticed first, the lights of the cavern were dimming. It wasn’t just the substance in the water —which had suddenly and erratically started increasing again as they continued down— it was the air around them. The Cavern walls had ceased their luminosity long ago, and it was as if a thick haze permeated the air around them. Tkiir whirled around to the cries of soldiers behind him. They were here. Black shapes slashed through the blurred air, the whip-like necks of the beasts they’d fought not two cycles ago slashed and grappled with the soldiers along the armada. The roar of rapids suddenly being replaced by the echoing, high-pitched screams of the yrutan abominations. Drawing his blade Tkiir heard the order to continue onward — behind them the third Squadron broke through the encircled second, both quickly gaining pace. A flash of light erupted behind them as one of the boats Fire-Breathers opened fire, hundreds of burning metal pellets piercing through the small bodies of the monsters. Three more fired as they rushed down — The water too his left erupted and he swung his blade to parry, the beasts angry screech echoed around him. They pushed for only a few more minutes before the thin ravine opened into a formal cavern, the shape of unlit braziers dotting along the shoreline leading into the Abyan settlement of Katakaf. The bay was huge, just small enough to not be considered a proper lake, but providing ample room for the first 6 Squadrons of ships-in-combat to stream in, the clang of metal, wood, and hide just audible above the creatures screams. Tkiir heard low rumble and turned — It looked like the other creatures, in theory, but its neck was far too thick, almost as thick as the hides of the other beasts. Its mid section came hurtling toward his boat, Tkiir braced, before the water behind him exploded, an enormous clawed hand slashing forth. It wasn’t a neck, it was the tail. The wood of his ship splintered, water rushing into his lungs as Tkiir plunged into the harbor, his light-armor doing little to keep him afloat. Another light flashed as the alchemical substances in the warship erupted upon contact with the water, the shockwave ripping through his internal organs. • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • The new beast bounded forward, crouching back as the heat of burning oil sparked against its paw — currently puncturing into the hull of another warship. The smell of smoke suddenly flooded through the harbor as the alchemical components of the ships began to detonate and spread, the creatures writhing in agony as acid poured into the water. Fire quickly spread from ship to ship. The Second Expedition had failed.
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Post by thevalleianorders on Mar 29, 2018 16:03:57 GMT -5
Book I: Crowned Part One: The Northern Territories The Northern Territories of the Valleian Orders: Lake Solace Aparaius rode through the desert as the sun was descending from the skies over the Northern Territories. Around him, almost unbearably hot winds blew. Sands followed the wind in droves, flowing in eddies and streams through the reddening skies. Another day was coming to an end, and with it, the end of an era... “My liege, wait up,” beckoned Gabriel as he tried to catch up to his Count and closest friend. “What is it?”, he asked as he abruptly stopped to turn around. “The mission has a message from the Imperial capital. They say it is of utmost importance,” he called back, finally able to catch up to Aparaius. “We must make our way back to the Lake immediately.” “No need to be so hasty,” Aparaius said with a smile to his friend Gabriel. “I was just admiring the golden sands of the region.” “I’m afraid that will have to wait until after we find out what the message was about,” his friend answered back sternly. “You’re starting to sound like my Father, Gabb,” he shot back jokingly. “Where do you think I get it from?” He replied as the two began to laugh. “But seriously, we really must make our way to the mission now.” A cloud of dust suddenly appeared where the two friends once were as they sped back to the mission to receive the news that awaited. -------------------------- The Mission at Lake Solace, Northern Territories
The mission was a small sandstone structure surrounded by walls, constructed not even ten years ago to act as a base for administering the local See and its surrounding country. The six-foot walls were short but sturdy enough to bear small armaments for the defense of what lay inside. The mission was about two stories tall, unaccented and dotted with window-holes. The whole structure, walls and all, faced south towards the shining lake, which reflected the image of the modest tower that loomed over the whole fortification. The small, if not humble outpost was puny on Imperial standards, but it was one of the largest buildings of the See. Inside, the designs were not as different from those of the outside, drab and small. Many monks resided within these walls, their daily routines usually as dull and boring as the mission they lived in, but not today. The sound of rushed footsteps resonated from the wooden floors of the hallways; many urgent voices permeated the air. Clerics hastily climbed up and down the stairs leading to the Belfry of the tower, conveying messages that were to be recorded and sent. A circle of Hived Monks was at the top of the tower, minds fully connected to the Network, hastily sending and receiving messages directly from the Imperial capital. “Where is the Count?”, muttered Grandmaster Sylias, head of the Solacian Monastery and representative of the Solacian See. He ruffled his white hair in annoyance of the boy that was appointed to him from the Capital. “Everyone look out for him and his Aide, this message we hold is quintessential to the wellbeing of the Empire!” “I see him,” cried a monk that was looking out from the tower, “ Over yonder!” The two were but a cloud of dust zooming in from the distance, one trailing not so far behind the other. They slowed down as they reached the gates of the outer wall, and as they approached the gates were opened. The Grandmaster rushed down the stairs as swiftly as his weary bones would let him, and just as he reached the bottom his jet black eyes met with the green eyes of the Count. “Your Lordship,” the Grandmaster addressed as he bowed to the Count covered in dust. “Your Excellency,” he replied back, meeting his bow with a slightly lower bow. “What news of urgency required that I be called here in such a hasty manner?” “It is the gravest news about the Imperator, your uncle Alexios XI of Edinginia,” the Grandmaster replied wearily. “The Imperator is dead.” “How long has this been?” the young Count asked as he moved to sit on a nearby bench, tired after his long ride. “When did he pass?” “His Imperial Majesty died this afternoon. We received word only twenty minutes after his Death via Crystal.” The Grandmaster replied. “He has been called by Decidius to the Necrominus.” he simply stated. “May he be favored by Decidius in Death.” “ That is not all,” the Grandmaster added, “The last Will and Testament of His Imperial Majesty has put you on the ballot to become the Imperator. We shall make our way South before Dawn tomorrow.” At that, the Count got up robotically and made his way to his room. He took off his faded, red, dust-streamed tunic and his brown trousers and made his way to clean himself off. Afterwards, he dressed in a white toga and made his way to bed to rest for the long journey that lay ahead.
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Post by axeldonia on Mar 29, 2018 17:13:40 GMT -5
Just outside Mündungshafen
A powerful reveille reverberated through the air, causing everyone in the camp to stand up and fall silent. As the bagpipes and drums began playing, a large Titenfiscan battle flag was raised onto the capital ship of the Company of the Golden trident, followed by the small green pennant of the former. Some smiled at the sight, others clutched their weapons nervously, but most simply stared, unsure how to process the sign they saw before them. For the first time since the fall of the Black Hand kingdom, their homeland was going to war. More flag, banners and pennats followed across the largest fleet assembled in Titenfiscan history. The fleet itself was almost like a symbol of Titenfisca’s diverse parts working together like everyone always spoke about. The long, sleek ships of Einvereyja featuring detailed sea-drakes at the front with their single gun decks where dwarfed by the Nordlander cogs, behemoths with three cannon decks and crewed by several hundred people. The same applied to the troops to some extent, but most where human or Kobold in contrast to the many Squidspawn working on the boats. The Lion and Royal company carried a distinct Lexidun influence, with many of the volounteer companies subordinate to them composing of Humans and Kobolds from the various regions of the country. In additon, a large unit of mercenary hussars had made an appearance not soon after the camp's establishment, apparently coming from a small mainland Kingdom named Poleria. Odd, to say the least.
Till Shiffmeister felt a small tug at his heart as the reality of the situation hit him. He was going to lose people; regardless of how well he prepared and stocked them. Better hope it was not someone he was close to. No, that kind of talk led down bad places, bad places that could have him ousted from his position or even killed by a mutinous crew. He sighed, walking below deck to greet a bottle of rum that awaited him in his room. It was too early in the morning for this kind of thing.
The camp finally began dismantling itself, the mass of soldiers, gear and animals travelling into various vessels at a comfortable pace, the long lines becoming more and more of a large coloured mass as the tents and huts went down one by one starting from the small green one man tents around the edges and slowly tearing away at the camp’s innards. Countless wagons where still arriving from Mündungshafen and from the countryside, carrying everything from dried food and vegetables to large boxes and barrels of colourful spices, raw iron, tools, weapons, hundreds upon hundreds of barrels of water (and alcohol) along with some less essential items. One cart from the city even had the audacity to show up with the entire wagon full of what was clearly pufferfish poison, but after a quick check by some wide-pupiled guards the cart was nonetheless allowed to continue.
Gale watched the whole ordeal with a discordant heart as they sat down on a small hill outside the camp to finally write a response to Lexidus.
Your Majesty King Blair de Brus
Helena greets you and wonders if the poor Eimear has been allowed to rest with all this going on. With that out of the way, let’s return to military matters. Your strategy seems sensible and trustworthy and so the Titenfiscan military command has decided to follow it. As of the moment of writing, we are making the final preparations for disembarking and will arrive in a few days’ time to the North Star Isles and Nola, where we hope to link up with your fleet. Our land forces will mostly consist of human mercenaries save perhaps for some observers and artillery crew, but we presume you know that much. Hopefully our military heads will be able to meet in person soon and discuss matters more effectively.
Yours, Gale Fishook.
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Post by Vista Major, MP on Mar 29, 2018 21:34:51 GMT -5
THE FYLLIAN BORDER, Northeast River
When the Asakorian forces reached Fyllia, they knew victory was sure to be swift. The few Fyllian forces that met them were only modestly equipped and in so few numbers, as if they were rushed onto the battlefield. Nine thousand strong, Asakor could ensure an easy victory, whether Fyllia accepted diplomacy or not. Herar'tkne, when looking out on the frozen fields before him, grinned. “Be’akatar!” He shouted from where he stood at the frontline of the army. A couple minutes later, a Barskin rushed to the Exact-General’s side, garbed in a casual rode in the traditional blood red and earthy brown colors of the bearfolk. “Yes, Exact-General!” Be’akatar said in salute to Herar’tkne. “Choose fifteen warriors and descend on the Fyllian. Negotiate their surrender as soon as possible, and return to me.” “And if they refuse, Exact?” Herar’tkne simply shrugged. “Then we come and butcher them where they stand.” Be’akatar nodded and turned to the Asakorians. One by one, he handpicked his guards and they at once began to march towards their opposing army, weapons tucked away but heads held high, and the Asakorian flag flying menacingly over their heads.
THE CATHEDRIAL DUNGEONS, ASKORUS CITY
The dungeon was darker than night, colder than a mild Asakorian winter, and devoid of all life except the High Chief, now deposed. The dungeons of the Cathedral haven’t been used since the Persecutions, when worshippers of Yrutas - mostly Barskin - were captured, tortured, and forced to convert to Myratnianism. It wasn’t until the Barskin rose up and threatened to burn down the entire capital city of Askorus that the Cathedral bowed down and ended their bloody conquests. It was after this that, slowly, Yrutasianism was formally introduced to the Asakorian faith, and the Son gained recognition as the highest child of the Holy Mother. Interestingly enough, if the Persecution never occured, the tribes of Asakor would never have united, and there would never be a High Shaman or a High Chief. How great it would be if one of those two positions didn’t exist right about now. Torvus was sprawled across the floor, his clothes tattered, skin cut and bleeding through his fur coat, and he could barely function: he hasn’t be fed anything since he was beaten defenselessly while knocked out cold. No one visited. It was as if no one knew that their leader had been overthrown by a once-magnificent priest gone mad with anger and grief. Or maybe they didn’t care. Rough shamans weren’t too uncommon in the provinces, and they were usually dealt with quickly - typically through death. Torvus was sure that he would die in this dank chamber. Then, the entrance to the dungeon at the top of the marble staired opened, and a Hyarin initiate slipped through, dressed in silver, mint green, and dark orange - they were from the northern Hyarin tribes; how rare they were. The initiate waddled quickly down the stairs as if in a panic. “My Chief, my Chief!” the young one whispered loudly as he approached. The poor creature had to walk in between hundreds of cramped cells before they reached Torvus, each one splattered with blood never cleaned and littered with bones never buried. Truly, the dungeons was one of Asakor’s best kept secrets. By the time they reached Torvus, they were panting slightly and a look of horror on their face as they lit a torch they produced from their robe. “Oh, Mother!” they squealed when they saw Torvus’ mangled body. They immediately set down their torch and yanked at the iron bars of the cell, attempting to open the door. Torvus was too weak to call the initiate a fool for the effort. But, to his half-conscious surprise, the initiate finally pried the door open, stumbling backwards as they did. Torvus groaned in amusement. “What have they done to you?” the initiate said solumnely as they hung over Torvus. “Come, have some food…” The Hyarin gently forced some slightly-stale bread and cooked fish down Torvus’ throat. The Askin struggled to consume the food, but he did nonetheless, eternally grateful for the pitiful meal. “We must get you out of here, my Chief,” the Hyarin said, taking off their robe. “Ugh…” Torvus moaned. “Wha… what?” “I am getting you out of the Cathedral, and out of the capital. Once they find out you’re missing, they’ll hunt you down and kill you - word of your being innocent of the heinous crimes you’re being accused of will spark rebellion.” “Crimes?” “Godlessness, attempted clergicide, and disobedience of the Council.” “Beokor.” “Language, my Chief! Forgive me, but we are still in a holy place, despite who defiles it.” The Hyarin stuffed Torvus in their robe; it was a little tight, but the initiate was fairly tall for a Hyarin, so it mostly worked out. “Why… are you… helping me?” “Because Mar’ar has doomed the Polar Dominion, and we need you alive to take it back one day.” Torvus was silent for a moment, then he carefully stood up on his hind legs. The effort was slightly tiring, but he had a newfound resolve to soldier forward once more. “Who are you… young one?” Torvus asked with a painful grin. The Hyarin bowed deeply. “I am Neavara, the female initiate from the Rokory tribe.” “Neavara… I am forever in your debt. Will you… be accompanying me on this… long journey?” “Until the day Decidius takes me, I serve you, the Mother… and the Son.” Torvus chuckled. “Not a fan of Yrutas?” “Most Hyarin aren’t.” “Understandable.” “Now, my Chief-” “Please… call me Torvus.” “...Torvus. Hurry up and follow me; the guards are out to dinner, so we have a few minutes to sneak out. I bargained with a loyalist to stow away on her trade ship.” “To where?” “Loness, in Lexidus. He says he has an old military friend there whose family deals in minerals. They’ll complete their sale, and we can stay in exile until we decide our next move.” Torvus gulped. “Do you think they… will take kindly to… Asakorian leadership walking into enemy territory… unannounced?” “They might not. But it’s a chance we’ll just have to take.” Torvus was silence for a moment, then nodded. “Yes… let’s go. Now.” Neavara beamed. “Excellent. Here, take my flapper. I go pretty fast.” “We need to be fast if we’re gonna make it out of here.” “Exactly.” The two rushed as quickly as possible out of the dungeon and through a side door in the adjacent hallway out into the city streets. Though wounded, Torvus kept up well, and before long, they had made it to the pier, where a decent-sized vessel was docked. It was just Torvus’ luck that no one decided to pay much attention to the face under the hood of the oddly-fitting priest robe. Waiting on starboard was a older Alkin wearing a sparse captain’s uniform and an eyepatch. When he saw Torvus, he gave a curt nod - it would be too suspicious of onlookers if he bowed. “My Chief,” the Alkin whispered as soon as Torvus boarded. The two embraced, and Torvus let out a relieving sigh. It was on to Lexidus - and on to freedom.
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Post by Andromitus on Mar 29, 2018 23:01:18 GMT -5
The Grotto-City didn’t have time to react before gusts of dark haze choked the air, and the Yrutan Hordes came crashing down. The dark substance soon followed, choking the light and life out of the river, forcing what soldiers remained to fight in either firelight or in complete darkness. The screams did help in this regard, as most Veiamarr echolocate from a young age, having a constant source of reverberating sound provided ample information in their limited combat against the enemy. They attacked with swift, brutal, precision; and the guardsmen were tasked with a slew of brand new creatures acting as the fore-guard of the Yrutan Invasion. They were in and of themselves enormous, rivaling in size an Aoxia’a or Vytex easily, with blotchy scales of black, green, and purple. Four legs on either side of their enormous, reptilian hides, and colossal tails almost as long as the necks of the first creatures-encountered. Their worst aspect, by far however, had to be their heads. Stout, thick necks supporting into an armored skull shaped almost like a kite, but instead of a colorful tail flapping in the breeze, it was tipped with a long, black beak, twin mandibles on either side. Four eyes in total staring ominously and furiously at its prey. It was only minutes before the first gates into the caverns making up the land-portion of Ixaleft cracked open, and a horde of yet another beast charged in. These were smaller, resembling something akin to an albino spider roughly the size of a dog, with large, poisonous spines running along its back. Just as quickly as the gates had cracked were the remaining interior Ixaleft Guardsmen overrun, slaughtered by the onset of a totally unknown enemy. • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • Kosa woke from a daze by the sound of splintering metal, the octagonal room around him coming into sharp focus. The Commander had been in stuck here for the past week since the failure of the First Expedition to Abyan and the Frontier Colonies. Shifting on his mat, one of 15 others running around the room, the entrance door slid open with a start, and a mix of scribes and guards came rushing in. Barely speaking Kosa and other members of the sick-bay were taken to their feet, and rushed outside. His thoughts were too sluggish to resist, leaning on one of the guards Kosa and the other Veiamarr of Ixaleft found themselves rushing through the side-corridors. Why were they taking such a long route? His answer came, loudly, when a stone column behind them exploded. Out of the corner of his eye what looked like a tail slammed against the smooth city wall. Kosa’s eyes widened before he winced as purple lighting crackled along hallway and the smell of Ozone filled his nose. A low roar boomed through the cavern as they entered into the quaternary hall, all before one of the guards slammed its twin gate-doors shut. “W-whats..happening?” He stammered, he felt as if he’d done nothing but drink for the past 6 months. He received no answer as the opposing gate doors slid open, the Scribes leading their motley crew toward the inner docks. The roars of something monstrous echoed through the chamber, the river ran dark with the same substance he’d seen on the expedition. Ahead a slim boat lay docked in harbor, one of four other similarly sized fishing vessels, only this one was much longer, better suited for river travel. The last thing he remembered was lying back down, a thin cloak being lain over him before he dipped out of consciousness. • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • The soft rocking of the boat and Kosa slowly drifted back into reality. Tiny pinpricks of light dotted the cavern ceiling, a tight system reminding him of Ixaleft. Ixaleft. They’d evacuated hadn’t they? Where was he? He sat up with a start to gather surroundings, catching the attention of the scribes. The scribes; they were the ones that got him out of the Sick bay; but why, where were they going? As the rest of his surroundings came into view, it painted a grim picture. They were on a small, thin boat, a messenger craft; the bough curving up into an ornate torch, its fire blazing in the relative darkness. The craft was only equipped with six oars, each manned by guards; him and several others from the sick bay were on the floor near the center. It took a moment but it quickly dawned on him; it was dark. It’s not as if they’d hit a thinner cave, and it wasn’t as if Kosa was really reliant on sight, but the sudden shock of seeing no natural light was striking to say the least. All that remained were small lichens on the ceiling providing small dots of blue, hardly anything compared to the grandiose rivers he’d seen since birth. Shifting again, he shook his head, he was parched. “Where are we?” he asked no one It was one of the scribes, a young woman near the stern, who answered; “We, er, we had to evacuate the city, do you remember that much?” He blinked in confusion, how much did he remember? “You woke me up; ehrm, then we ran from something.” he froze, remembering the blazing flash of purple, “There was Magic, wasn’t there?” The scribes all look askance; “Yes.” she responded quietly He sighed, leaning back; As a Warrior-Caste he’d seen magic before; Heretics along the frontier corrupted in their sleep by the whispers of Yrutas. But it’d always been small, minor, contained. What kind of magic could pollute the rivers, poison the air, and conjure unfathomable beasts? Such was the power of the Gods apparently.
Volthazaan, Arcthaur
Cool cavern air brushed across his wizened face and he smiled as the long familiar sight came into view. The dazzling city lights below him, the blue-green shine of the rivers cutting through the dark forests speckled with ever so tiny pricks of light. Torchlight dancing across the stones of the temple below his balcony. Even from this height he could see it all, the city bustle of mid-cycle — Everyone must be awake at this point. Scribes attending their duties, Laborers transporting their goods and wares. Smaller temples, tall Ziggurat, lay around the 8 corners of the city; in the distance he could just see a group of flying animals in the distance. Far above him stood the Cavern ceiling; he smiled again, no matter how high he built he was always humbled by God, no matter how distant they may be. Perhaps if he’d expanded the base? No that’d’ve damaged the Tomb; he grimaced with the thought. Regardless, this temple was the largest in Asil. Axthen’imlaaz, High Temple of the Authority, a vast 4-piece Ziggurat-Pyramid, huge banners of the Authority draped along each corner; its gold-plated pinnacle gleaming above him. Volthazaan, Capitol of Asil, Holy Land of the Kyasii, stood below him, one of the largest, if not the largest in the world, if only counting the population. He often wondered what cities were like on the surface; could they, primitive and heathenous as they were, even form large settlements? As far as he knew the Rohzai former-nomad’s biggest settlements were ones he had built so in all probability the answer was no. A soft voice called out behind him. “You called, your Grand Holiness?” The Ahnsijn turned around, his old features clearly pronounced in the torchlight of the balcony. He rested heavily on an ornate bronze cane, long, dark-green clothing draped over his body beneath an ornate purple robe. The Vydix, a ceremonial headdress of the Ahnsijn, crowned his head — a tall, pyramidal crown made of a mixture of gold and purple-cloth, metal flowing down the back of his head and over his shoulders, molded around his collar bone. “Zyain’dricka; it’s good to see you.” She was a member of the Curate, one of its senior members at that, having been their at his coronation. “Is there something you wished, your Holiness?” “Please, cease the formalities, I lack the time at this point.” He coughed slightly, “I called to tell you something.” “Your Grand…Ahnsijn?” “That you truly are a friend and ally;” She looked at him, puzzled “I-I thank you and think the same of you,” She paused, narrowing her eyes, “is something wrong Ahnsijn?” “Did I make the right choice?” “Ahnsijn?” “To build this, all of this,” he turned around, gesturing to the city below, “To continue the previous Ahnsijn’s work; too continue to look inward, too ignore the outside world as she did.” “Ahnsijn, you yourself just gestured to your accomplishments; Asil has reached a level of wealth unattainable without your actions.” she moved next too him; “Look out there, yours is a legacy written in more than just stone; you changed the face of the underground!” “Yet the enemy is at our door yet again, and this time unlike the border skirmishes I fought against. We are unprepared, so if they were coming regardless did I make the right choices?” “My friend, listen too yourself, they’ve yet to even penetrate Ixthenpijn from what we’ve heard, we —you— still have time to prepare, to rally your people!” He turned back around, slowly, before looking down slightly and smiling; “I’m afraid not, old friend,” he coughed, “No, no not this time. It seems that my years have finally caught up with me.” The blood drained from her face, her eyes widened yet she remained expressionless. “Come with me,” the old man in front of her said as he began to slowly walk away from the balcony into the room behind them. It was large, held up by an array of well-carved pillars. The pair moved near silently, barefoot, across the glossy smooth stones beneath them toward a circular indent in the center of a room lined with cushions. The pair sat in silence for a few moments, the old man gazing around him in a mixture of pleasure, complacency, and remorse. Shifting closer too her, the old man took her right hand into his, patting it fondly; “I wonder how I’ll see the world next.” he said in a soft voice. Leaning back, he breathed out slowly, closing his eyes. Zyain sat motionless; taking his hand she put two fingers on his wrist, but she already knew the answer. The 315th Ahnsijn was dead.
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