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Post by Andromitus on Jun 4, 2021 22:31:35 GMT -5
A Cold Journey South II
• • • • • • • • Veritious • • • • • • • •
Tiyn couldn’t help but stare as they crested over the next hill. A considerable distance away, the usual green horizon of rolling hills, farmland, and trees suddenly dropped away to a brilliant blue, as if the sky merged into the land. They called it the ‘sea’, an expanse of water that went on eternally toward the horizon, the land giving way to a shifting scape of white-capped waves. Priest and warrior-caste were the two (educated) populations of the Kemeht underground who were taught anything formally about the surface. Most castes, if educated at all, were taught the difference: the Holy Land of the interior caverns, and then there were the Outer Lands, the exterior caverns, the Kyran territories, and the ‘surface’. Tiyn actually remembered the first class where they learned about it, the teacher pulling out a long, colored scroll depicting a surface beach next to a map, teaching about lakes, seas, and oceans. He didn’t believe her at the time. It wasn’t just the ocean they were taught about, there were people on the surface too. Usually when you thought of ‘outlanders’, you thought of the normal cold 1 people, the cavern nomads traversing the exterior caverns, or the Kyrans, a monstrous agricultural folk hovering just outside the Holy Land. But there were Kyrans on the surface too, and not just heathens, holy people like the Kem, just further away from God’s warmth. They learned of the Rohzai peoples, the Tibur and Gogher, with their strange planting customs, or the Mughra, clinging to great hills they called ‘mountains’. And then there were the southerners, the coldest of the holy people: Veritious. The Veritians, they were taught, barely followed the prophets’s teachings and while they saw the light of God clear as day, it was more an intent to realize 2 God rather than a real success in the matter. His teacher said they saw the light and felt the warmth, but were blinded by the light and warmth of their ‘sun’. A dark shape, the outline of a city, slowly began to emerge as they neared it. “What in the name of…” The headmaster’s voice rang out as he emerged from the rigging tent onto the saddle, a wide slab of open space behind the rider’s, a man named Danem, seat on the walkers neck-crease. But Tiyn understood the confusion in the headmaster’s voice; the city was in shambles. A few teetering smoke columns still rising in-between crumbling towers, holes dotting the once-proud outer walls, and the central structure –maybe this cities equivalent to the Temple at Volthazaan– had practically caved inward. “It’s the Horde, it must be.” The Headmaster muttered, “but so far from the holy land itself?” “Hmm.” Tiyn knew what he meant; the holy land wrapped around the Yuar, containing the concentrated evil within. If this rubble was from a Yuar Horde, like the one which had ravaged the southern interior… The walker’s titanic legs stepped over a small river as the four of them (Tiyn, the Headmaster and his apprentice, and Danem) reached the outskirts of the city just beyond the outermost wall. Cobble streets stretched out from the city gates into what Tiyn interpreted as a lower-caste district, but the construction was inconsistent and lacked the uniformity that would clearly indicate rank. It was confusing, did the southerners not organize their cities into caste-wards? All around them people, a strange, light-skinned folk (different from Danems darkish red, or Tiyns own speckled, blue-tinged grey), began to gather from the mixture of wreckage and normal, day-to-day life. As the crowd grew, a group of individuals in the distance, maybe the city guard, began to amass in the distance nearer to the city wall. "I shall be the one to announce our presence, Tiyn," the Headmaster started, "You remain quiet until I call on you."
Slavers of the Belt IV
• • • • • • • • Kanso Oromi • • • • • • • •
The metal clips on the walker’s rigging jingled slightly as it let out a low rumble, a shadowy figure slipping quietly out of the tent on the giant insect’s carapace. “Shhhhh,” Temer sighed, running his fingers along the sensitive chinks of shell along the base of the creature’s head. Even while lying down, their six legs each bending into tall arcs, the three insects’s rigging-tents rested just below the lower-canopy of trees surrounding them. The warm glow of the evening sun illuminated the lone Rohzai as he slowly maneuvered his way down to courtyard below, an array of maps and a Tabic compass stashed in a canvass sack hoisted over his shoulder. The group of traders-turned-explorers, having arrived in this strange city were granted stay in a small palace-esque dwelling near the city center where they were to prepare themselves before the evening feast the Prince-Regent had gifted them. Their three walkers, Nishi (the walker-primary), Tiray (the walker-secondary), and Shasan (the walker-spare), were situated in the outer courtyard below the branches of a large tree. It was the vegetation, and the air, that struck the Rohzai the most. The trees were nothing like the squat, bulbous bristle of their homeland; even the bigger Maqahm trees looked more like great, wooden towers in comparison. Temer made his way through the courtyard. Inside the building just in front of him, he could hear the voices of his comrades speaking in low Tibur. The two of them, Kawar (their plucky leader) and Qhava (the rider-spare) had been arguing for the past hour.
“But we have no idea of their stock!” Ibn hissed, just as Temer slid the door closed behind him, “for all we know, that sour fruit offered at the outset is the extent, and so we’ve walked weeks beyond the normal trading routes to a total unknown, our own stores brimming with gold dust, Madarha-Guild trading goods, and two separate crates of middle-caste grade silk, something, mind you, these foreigners might never have even heard of, and all we’re going to have to show for it are some exotic fruits! Kawar, fruit rot!” ‘Qhava, on the unspeakable name of God if you don’t zip it right now I will leave you here.” The man’s eyes were deep in their sockets at this point, “We have absolutely no idea of the trade potential of this country, and anyway as I was trying desperately to get across to you before you interrupted, the regent promised a stock of lumber, dye, and that,” the man pointed to a small vase, its warped texture made of differently colored glass, “how about that for something never before seen? Imagine the look on the Fasimi guilders faces when we pull to the marketplace with glassware like that.” “All I’m saying is that we haven’t even taken inventory of what they’re offering.” “God Almighty! This is a foreign country we’ve never encountered before, in what world are you living in where you meet a total stranger and skip all pleasantries? Just think of the possibilities Ibn! We are standing on the potential creation of Wealth Beyond Dreams 3, and you’re in here stressed that our hosts have offered us a free meal with their royalty?” “Don’t you spit mottos at me, idealist.” “I have to admit I agree with her a little,” Temer said, interrupting the two of them and dumping the contents of his bag (maps, compass, pens and all) onto the floor, “but I’m more interested in this constant nodding to “cattle”, what kind of cattle, do they expect us to walk some four-legged beast we know nothing about countless miles to the continental center?” “I…admittedly had noted that too,” Kawar replied, “but I’m not overly worried. Maybe cattle has some special significance here, or there’s some cultural difference that we’re missing, you heard the tales coming from the Western Kingdom 4 about cultural differences.” “Ever the diplomat.” Ibn snarked. “I actually was a diplomat for the Tibur Ahkip in—“ “And I’m sure its a wonderful story that we don’t have time for.” Temer cut him off. “Yes yes, you’re right. Anyway, Ibn shut it, get dressed into better clothing.” “Bold of you to assume I have better clothing.” “I said shut it, we’ve a spare robe in one of Shasan’s compartments. The rest of you lot, get changed, that goes for you too Temer, I’ll log our positions and keep an ear out for whoever they’re going to send to get us.
1. I don’t usually do lore dumps in-post but I thought this would be helpful — like most sedentary populations on the brink of spots not often built for agricultural life, the Kem have a cultural differentiation between civilized and uncivilized which is extraordinarily pervasive in their culture. Like the European stigma against the Roma, or American views on the ‘bumpkins’ in the hills, the ‘savages’ on the steppe, the ‘uncultured’ pastoralist Bedouin, populations bordering mountainous regions have their own classification for civilized (i.e. sedentary, agricultural, and tax-paying) and uncivilized (nomadic, distant from the political core, culturally heterogenous); some of my favorite come out of Southeast Asia, such as the ‘cooked and raw’, ‘valley and hill’, ‘plain or forest’. The Kem differentiate between “warm”, those closest to the political core(s), and “cold”, those gradating away. This is tied to the relative temperature differences between the warm interior caverns with their volcanics and bioluminescent, agriculture-supporting river systems and the colder, non-volcanic exterior caves — this has merged with religions ideas holding the holy land to be closer “to god’s warmth”. Warmth, then, is likewise a characteristic of civility and aristocracy, the higher one ranks and the more one fits to the cultural expectations, the warmer one is; but this ties to physical location as well. Farmers who seek to leave their state-assigned lands, those that travels to the politically emancipated exterior, those that leave the holy land, are cold. The image of the surface is tinged in the idioms of freezing temperatures, curt people, and general incivility if not heathenry and desolation. 2. Realization is a key aspect of Kem theology. Their religion has no heaven or god as something separate from the material world but rather as a universalistic, omnipresent entity appearing as the true essence of all things. Like rivers pouring into lakes, God pours and concentrates into holy sites; God is the physical warmth of the interior caverns. It is the role of the holy people to ‘realize’ God, to continue the Great Journey of concentrating God before the Final Rites are spoken aloud and all matter and consciousness merges together into holistic oneness. The Yuar, the Kem’s term for Yrutas and their God’s dualistic opposite, concentrates within the Magna Tabes — the Yuar is simultaneously the Tabes, a demon within the tabes, the act of sinning, and a word for heathen. 3. The motto of the Taba Guild, run by the Hurna family and the primary exporters of middle and upper caste-grade silk to Kyras, Veritious, and Quijain. 4. The Rohzai term for Lexidus, as opposed to the Eastern Kingdom, Kyras, and the Southern Kingdom, Veritious; these names are largely ceremonial, representing regions rather than polities, but given how little contact there was with Lexidus directly, most trade flowing through Quijain as an (expensive) intermediary, ‘Western Kingdom’ has largely remained the official name in Rohzai-discourse
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Post by Chiernarosa on Jul 30, 2022 5:14:49 GMT -5
Quijaini Interior"Ya Mulej glorioso, mientras atravesamos minn dawn l-artijiet perikolużi, jekk prestanos Jien s-saħħa u jelontad tiegħek biex vencer lil aquellos li jfittxu jequirnos. Aghtreganos Jien tiegħek u agsegurtina rebħa gran kbira kontra l-erejes li jisean lis-segwacidores Jien u Je ismek. Jalla traigas l-paç fuq tierras u atisguras l-passo a Jien fil-rieda sagrado li jmiss. Nagħtu t-tifħir tagħna" ("O glorious Lord, as we traverse these dangerous lands, please lend us Your strength and will to overcome those who seek to destroy us. Deliver unto us Your power and secure us great victory against the heretics that wish harm upon Your followers and Your name. May You bring peace upon these lands and secure our passage to Your hallowed realm in the next life. We give our praise."). Buhagiar intoned, Nekhii and the other followers joining him in their morning prayers, the sun barely rising above the horizon, kneeling as they rested their weapons against the prayer rugs they had brought out, the crisp morning air and cool breeze joined by the occasional ringing of the prayer chimes. Standing up, Buhagiar performed the closing ritual, smothering the lit flame in front of him and collecting the ashes, anointing each follower with a simple line on their forehead, each giving their praise as they stood up and rolled up their rugs.
"So, what's the agenda for today?" Nekhii asked, the mostly-frozen river that worked as the border for the Khalkhgol and Sergelen States burbling in-between the cracks made by the group, seeing it stretch towards the lake off in the distance, along with the barely-visible twinkling of lanterns from the camps surrounding it.
"Something far greater," Buhagiar stated, pulling out a map and slate before signaling Nekhii to come look, "The Örtege from Kharkhorin just sent us a lifeline: a message was delivered from Tariat requesting assistance from bandits, purportedly of foreign origin."
"Tariat?" Nekhii asked, a surprised look on his face, "That's to the north, near Sangiin Dalai."
"You know of it?" Buhagiar asked, trying to find the name on the map.
"Our current location is due south of the Khövsgöl, the lake this river feeds to. Sangiin Dalai," Nekhii said, pointing to a smaller lake to the north, though much larger than the surrounding three, "Is all the way over there, near Amaraqai...." As he said the name, he paused, looking up at Buhagiar, both men having shocked looks on their faces.
"I may not know much of Quijain, but I do know more than enough about Amaraqai. Nekhii, if we're able to, I believe we can reach it and make contact with the officials there, maybe even whoever lays claim as Iljat."
"Dwardu, I must be honest, we cannot expect there to be an Iljat, likely a pretender or the Palace Secretariat in command. That said, Amaraqai is perhaps the best shot in ending this era of warring states: if we can convince the government there to sign the government treatise, then the other Iljats and clans will have to submit. Anyone who refuses will risk facing the full might of the other states, and considering how many warriors are already signed on within the five current states, we can expect a lot more should Amaraqai make an agreement."
"Well then, looks like we'll need to start making our way to Amaraqai: do you know of any potential threats that could be waiting for us along the way?"
"Probably the usual assortment of bandits and hostile tribes, but I also suspect that organized resistance is possible, already the people in the northern parts of Khalkhgol and Sergelen are reporting that some Quijaini clans have begun to unify in opposition to our negotiations. Other than that, the land should be no issue, traversing should be quick aside from the lakes near Sangiin Dalai."
"Alright, let's gather the men and prepare for our journey north."
Buir Lake, 1 Week Later"Alright, looks like we're getting closer to it," Buhagiar noted, looking at the map again, seeing Buir Lake north of the Khövsgöl, "And in record time too. Has there been any further word from Tariat, any word from their Örtege?"
"Nothing yet," Nekhii said, riding alongside Buhagiar as he scanned the lake, seeing a couple groups of huts along the shoreline, "The settlements around here keep close contact with the central Örtege, but it's rare to actually see someone from the outlying settlements come by. Our best bet is to continue northward, at least until we find an Örtege route, and hopefully a messenger."
"What about these settlements? Should we go ask them?"
"Might as well, they'll probably be able to spare some fish and livestock for the next leg, at least until we reach either Tariat or a relay station."
As the two men and their group began to ride to the huts, they had failed to take notice of the small campfire a mile or two from their location, several men lounging about, one on his horse, watching the convoy through a telescope.
"You see anything?" One of the men asked, passing a spit of roasted meat to another.
"Convoy, moving north towards Matad," the scout noted, "Looks like southerners, foreign blood, leader is a priest from the southern temples."
"Southerners?" Another man curiously asked, "Any guesses on their numbers?"
"Looks like 1,500, I'm guessing they're not in the same campaign as the ones who went west. There's been talks that some tribes are joining the foreign southerners, treaties are being signed and soldiers being deployed to fight the bandits and rival tribes."
"Sounds like they're encroaching on our turf," the first man said, jumping up and dusting himself off before climbing on his horse, pointing at the scout "Go tell the bosses that we got a foreign convoy by Buir, get as many people as they can and wait up north near Tariat, we'll go ahead and give them a signal when the time is right."
"On it," the scout said, pulling his horse's reins and preparing for the ride northwest, the other bandits gathering their supplies and rushing forward.
Later that night, Örtege route along Tariat"Nekhii, you get anything from the messenger?" Buhagiar asked as Nekhii walked away from the rider, the latter's gerege glinting in the light of the convoy's lanterns.
"Good news, Tariat's still holding strong, there was a report that the bandits were pulling back, going southwest."
"Any possibility that they'll be anywhere close to us?" Buhagiar asked, sitting down near a campfire, the evening prayers having been concluded and the followers settling in for supper.
"From what they said, no: the bandit camp is believed to be closer to the southwestern tip of Sangiin Dalai, far enough that barely anyone bothers to head that way unless you're dumb or wanting to test your luck."
"Alright, let us rest for a bit and then prepare for our visit to Tariat, let's go tell the men to-"
"Sir!" A young soldier ran forward, panting heavily, "We got unknown figures coming our way!"
"Direction?" Nekhii asked, scanning the horizon for any signs of movement, the night sky preventing him from making out much.
"To the south! We can't figure out if they're friendly or not, but their garb looks similar to the Airi'ut."
"What the hell are tribes near Khalkhgol doing that require chasing after us for over 100 miles?" Buhagiar asked, confused at the statement.
Before the scout could respond, the shriek of a flare echoed in the air, the three men looking up to see the flash of bright red, followed by the sounds of loud shouting. Looking to the north, they saw a large group of bandits beginning to ride towards them, some already pulling their bows up and preparing to fire.
"Damnation, EVERYONE, LISTEN UP! BANDITS TO THE NORTH, GATHER YOUR ARMS AND PREPARE FOR BATTLE, OUR LORD SHALL SMILE UPON US!" Buhagiar shouted, immediately putting on his armor and retrieving his war-staff.
"GERAS," Nekhii shouted, switching to Quijaini, "PREPARE A GRENADE LINE, 100 METERS! EVERYONE ELSE, GET YOUR LONG BOWS AND PREPARE TO FIRE ONCE THE GRENADES GO OFF!"
Both men rushed forward, grabbing their own Long Bows and taking position near the ground, the Geras units rushing ahead and laying down their sand and glass bombs before falling back, the bandits still charging forward. As they approached, Nekhii looked at the Arban units and signaled them to prepare their counter-charge. Right as the bandits passed the 150-meter mark, however, one of the bandits suddenly said something that floored the defenders.
"Aqsam u evita l-linji! Ikseb il-pruwi tiegħek u tiffoka fuq ir-rikkieba!" ("Split and avoid the lines! Get your bows and focus on the riders!")
"Kyrans?" Buhagiar whispered, seeing the bandits suddenly break their charge in half and riding past and along the grenade line, taking care to avoid going into the traps. Some of them pulled their bows up and fired, the Arban units barely having time to react before they were cut down.
"BASTARDS!" Nekhii snarled in Common, lifting his bow up and firing back, taking one of the bandits down, the other Quijaini soldiers responding in turn and taking their shots.
"Men! Switch to Common! These men speak Ilsien!" Buhagiar shouted out, the bandits unable to understand what he just said.
The result was instantaneous, the convoy immediately opening fire in their lines, commanders giving orders in Common as several more charged ahead, bolas in hand. As the bandits began to circle around to hit the flanks, the Geras units charged forward, sending a wall of flame towards them, the bandits instinctively riding to the sides. Right as they recovered from the surprise attack, they suddenly saw the bolas units coming right at, throwing the bolas at their horses, several of the rides immediately tripping, the bandits sent flying right into the Geras line, who cut them down.
Several other riders tried to ride past the fallen horses and bandits but failed, both riders and steeds being sent to the ground, while another group rode past, preparing to attack the sides. Buhagiar saw the attempt and simply gave the order, "Second line, fire!" The line of bolts sent the bandits tumbling, only a few bandits managed to survive as they instead chose to attack the lines directly, one of them charging Buhagiar. The shaman simply thrusted his staff forwards, the bandit falling to the ground before Buhagiar struck him in the skull with the iron-encased ball-tip, the bandit's skull cracking immediately. The few bandits that were still left tried to fight back, but the convoy simply cut them down, their horses pulled down by bolas swings.
Standing up, Buhagiar saw two soldiers dragging a scout with them, the young man bleeding heavily from a torso wound. Gesturing them to pull the scout's belt off, he knelt down, pulling a knife from his boot and pressing it against the scout's throat as he spoke in Ilsien, "Try to stab me with a hidden knife and I slit your throat, you understand?"
"Yes, and you can also eat shit," the scout hissed, his breathing shallow as he tried to keep focus.
"Tell me, are you affiliated with the bandits besieging Tariat?"
"We... are not... bandits," the scout gagged.
"Then what are you?"
"Sons... of the steppes...."
"Yet you are of Kyran heritage. How are you and other Kyrans this far away from the shoreline, near the Fatherland?"
"We... maybe... foreign in our blood... but we are also... of Quijaini blood, of Jand...."
"So your ancestors married into the Quijaini people then," Buhagiar noted.
"We are only... your brethren by blood... we follow the laws... of Jand and... the true inheritors...."
"True inheritors?"
"Ta... tar...," the scout gasped out before going slack, the light fading from his eyes.
"Nekhii," Buhagiar said, turning to him, the former pulling a piece of paper from a bandit's corpse, "What did he mean by 'true inheritors?' What are these 'Ta-tar' he speaks of?"
"He means the Tatar Khanlig, or Confederation in Common, they were originally one of the main confederations between the steppe tribes in the old days, before Jand came to prominence. But the Tatar were defeated in the Qatamarja War, after Jand became Rigma's representative in the Battle of Jiat, hundreds of years ago."
"Yet, he spoke of them as if they were still alive," Buhagiar said, now confused, seeing Nekhii pulling the slip of paper up, "What is that?"
"A warning," Nekhii said, the Quijaini script prominently surrounding the plume of Quijain's flag, "It appears that our little adventure has caused some tribes to begin coalescing into a military alliance, and they've taken to the name of the Tatar Khanlig as a sign of national unity. If they're this close to Amaraqai, then it must mean they're also looking to reach the city."
"Damn it all," Buhagiar cursed, "It appears we will need to hurry: get someone to reach the Örtege, tell them to summon up units in Khalkhgol to help bolster the convoy. How large is Tariat?"
"About the same as Khamar Davaa, a couple hundred people, the convoy should be more than enough to help defend it from further attacks."
"We will need to split our men, half will stay in Tariat and wait for further reinforcements, while the other half will join the two of us."
"We're riding to Amaraqai, aren't we?"
"Indeed we are."
Amaraqai Outer Wall, 5 Days Later"We've made it," Nekhii said, breathless as he saw the walls protecting the Outer City, still manned by guards, bows pointed at the unknown convoy.
"I'm guessing you never made the journey here, not even when they crowned the new Grand Iljat?" Buhagiar asked, already pulling out his papers.
"The last coronation was before my time, and the collapse came about a year after I joined the Arban," Nekhii replied, gently tugging the reins and ordering his horse to walk slowly.
"Halt," One of the guards said, brandishing a spear, "You are not Örtege, what business do you have here?"
"Sir, I am Khorilar Arslangiin Nekhii, one of the chosen representatives of Khamar Davaa: I have with me one Dwardu Buhagiar, representative of the Provisional Council of Kyras and a priest within its Amalgamated Temple, he is here to deliver a treatise to unify the government of Kyras with that of Amaraqai, as has been done with the settlements along the coastline."
"Why do you associate with a foreigner?" Another guard asked, spear pointed at the two men.
"Kyras allowed for any Quijaini to come to the Republic and serve under its Army as a part of its cavalry, with guaranteed citizenship and the right to reside in Kyras, along with any immediate family members. We are here because we know that authority outside the city walls has collapsed, and we must warn you that there are others seeking to take over the city," Nekhii said, pulling out the flyer from the battle, handing it to one of the guards, who looked it over. Looking at the other guard, he briefly spoke to him, the second guard nodding and going towards the guard post.
"Wait here, we are calling one of our captains to come talk to you."
A few minutes passed, then the post's door opened, another man wearing armor with purple and gold highlights along the rim walked forward, hand resting upon a scimitar. Looking at the first guard, he questioned him, the guard handing him the flyer before the captain approached the duo.
"You are representatives of the Kyran Government?" The captain asked in flawless Common, Nekhii nodding.
"We were summoned to initially discuss the annexation of Quijain, but their representative, Buhagiar, chose to instead work on a campaign of cession, offering equal treaties with those who would negotiate and join the Republic. We have already secured the support of the Khorilar, Altai, Eljigin, Noyakin, and Chonos tribes, and are working to support the Belgunot of Tariat, who have been besieged by the Tatar Confederation."
"The Confederation is that close?" The captain said, a surprised look on his face.
"Indeed," Buhagiar said, approaching forward, "Apologies, Dwardu Buhagiar at your service. 12 days ago, we were relayed a letter from the Örtege at Kharkhorin, they had received word from the Tariat Örtege that bandits were attacking them and were requesting any support that was available. Since we had already deployed troops to the territories of the five aforementioned tribes, we decided to take what we had to support them, along with sending word to Kharkhorin to call for Varan to send more soldiers if we encountered any further settlements in need of support. 5-6 days ago, we reached Matad, who directed us to the Örtege route between them and Tariat: that night, we were assailed by what was assumed to be bandits, but we found that they spoke in Ilsien."
"Ilsien?" The captain said, "Were they not Altai?"
"We presume they broke away: we defeated the bandits and interrogated one of the survivors before he died, he told us that he and his fellow bandits were actually that of the Tatar, while Nekhii found the flyer on one of their corpses. When we reached Tariat, we found that the town had also interrogated some of the attackers and discovered that a number of tribes have unified into a military alliance and taken the name of the Tatar Confederation."
"Shit," the captain cursed, "The few Örtege messengers we were able to spare had reported that a group had taken that name, but we assumed that it was just one or two tribes trying to talk a big game. The last time we sent scouts to Tariat was 3 months ago, but they had reported the situation as calm: if this Confederation has indeed unified several tribes and is operating near Tariat, then that means that they are growing in number."
"We believe that part of it was due to our negotiations," Nekhii stated, pulling out the after-action reports, "When we defeated the Airi'ut, the Buiri'ut, the Khaad, and the Taichiud, we learned that some other tribes had begun to negotiate alliances to fight off any encroaching Kyran units. We thought little of it, but we did not expect the reaction to be that swift and for this Confederation to have coalesced so quickly."
"Alright then," the captain said, "If the Confederation is heading this way, we will need any available forces to support us: the Inner City Regiment has been holding the line ever since Imperial authority collapsed, but our numbers are limited. If you are willing to lend a hand, I can direct you to the officers in charge to begin negotiations on a potential cession of Amaraqai. If all goes well, they might even help to legitimize the current agreements."
"Very well," Buhagiar said, "Please lead the way."
Imperial Palace"So you are the Kyran priest I've been hearing about," the General said, his armor adorned with purple and silver highlights, "The Örtege have been talking about foreign men making negotiations with some of the tribes in the southeast."
"Indeed I am," Buhagiar said, giving a bow, "Dwardu Buhagiar, Shaman of the Amalgamated Temple of Kyras, I was appointed by the Provisional Council of Kyras to open discussions on a political union between Quijain and Kyras. With the current situation, however, I've had to negotiate with the tribes directly with the lack of Imperial authority. I understand that your regiment is in need of assistance?"
"We do," the General replied, "The Amaraqai Inner City Regiment was the unit of highest honor under the Grand Iljate, tasked with defending the Grand Iljat and the Imperial Palace. However, with the Grand Iljat gone and no one in line to succeed him, we've had to defend the city against bandits and hostile tribes looking to plunder and control. Our numbers are being stretched thin, and the little equipment we can afford to give to recruits is almost immediately destroyed with each raid: with supply lines cut, we can only make primitive armor and weaponry for our soldiers. The Inner City Regiment is only 6,500 strong, and our support in the Outer City is around the same number, all while trying to govern and defend a city of 500,000 and our numbers falling every day with each attack. Any assistance is sorely needed, and I hope to Jand that you are able to lend us some support."
"I am here to say that I am: although more focus is being placed on the Crusade against Yrutas and to the modernization efforts within the country, the Provisional Council has affirmed that any soldiers needed to help secure Quijain can be deployed in protecting Amaraqai from hostile forces. Already, Ranger Regiments from the Atake and Reya tribes have been deployed to southeastern Quijain, and I had put in a call to Kharkhorin to send men to our convoy and Tariat. If the need arises, I can request for more men from the Mainland to send support, possibly 2-3 regiments or a brigade, more than enough to help the city in its defences, especially if the Tatar Confederation is vying to attack."
"Good, now, as for the cession agreements that I've heard, one of my captains told me that your goal was to also open negotiations with the city."
"Yes, that is true: the Provisional Council put the securing of Amaraqai at the top of its list to help organize the tribes into a singular authority once more. Now, we had assumed that the Palace Secretariat or a pretender Grand Iljat was in charge, but we can still negotiate with military authorities such as yourself," Buhagiar said, pulling out the treaty, "Kyras has given a number of guarantees to any tribe or polity that was willing to negotiate."
The General read it over, quietly jotting down notes at his side and writing a number of names separately as he looked down the treaty. Finally, he looked back up at Buhagiar and Nekhii, "Well, given that we no longer have a Grand Iljat and the Palace Secretariat has been paralyzed without any leadership, authority has come down to me in terms of negotiation with foreign powers. With no centralized command, we are in need of some support if Quijain is to reunify. Shaman Buhagiar, you have my support in the cession of Amaraqai to Kyran authorities, along with recognition of all previous negotiations made by the tribes independent of Amaraqai's authority."
"Splendid, General," Buhagiar said, smiling "I'll get someone to begin requesting for further support to Amaraqai, just tell me how many men you need to keep the city secured."
Projected range of the Quijaini United Autonomous States
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Post by Chiernarosa on Apr 9, 2023 0:21:59 GMT -5
Kyran Encampment, After the Battle
The encampment had been rearranged after the damage had been cleared, the tents shifted around to make room for the mourning grounds as the personnel gathered what they needed for the ceremony. The dead had been gathered and rolled up in rugs in lieu of coffins, their effects separated and held by their comrades and commanding officers: the mortally wounded in the hospitals were given whatever comfort could be afforded as they passed on, the hospitals still milling with activity as the bodies were added and their beds cleared for the wounded who were lower in priority. Gradually, the rows were filled, an untold number of soldiers and non-combatant personnel that had died during the fighting, joined with the coffins of soldiers who had died en route to Quijain.
Quietly, Kalċidon passed through the crowd of soldiers ready to mourn: all had taken to wearing their aketons and either swords or axes, prayer rugs roped around their backs, a quick glance on the faces of the soldiers varied between those already weeping openly, those who hid their tears as their brethren held them, or stood stoic as they mourned internally. By now, word had spread of Sir Duke's death, with one of the training dummies being outfitted with royal garb and a crown as a stand-in for the Dwarf Locomati who had fallen, and it laid in the first row of bodies, joining the general officers that had fallen. At last, Kalċidon reached where Liena and a Temple of War priest were conversing, looking over the funeral anashid.
"Sir Liena, Sir Rikkard, are the both of you ready?" Kalċidon asked, the two clerics turning to face him.
"We are," both intoned, Liena continuing, "Have all the deceased been collected?"
"The hospitals are reporting the last bodies are being moved out right now, it will take a few minutes but I think the muezzin should begin the adhan so everyone can gather."
"Very well," Rikkard agreed, "I will send some priests to begin the call, they will take their places among the units to help lead the mourning ceremony."
"And I will send mine's to gather the anointment materials for the rituals," Liena added.
"Good," Kalċidon concluded, "I will gather our friends so that we may mourn together."
The muezzin took their places and began calling the adhan, the soldiers immediately ending their milling about as they began to gather to the signs designating their units, the signs arranged to form a circle surrounding the mourning ground, where a stage had been build and a pyre at the ready. Several priests stood near the bodies, holding scrolls listing the names of the dead by their unit. Kyre, Żaren, and Sikandar came first, joining Liena as she and Kalċidon assembled near the center, Rikkard waiting near the stage with their designated spots. Erin and Varist came next, both heading to their units and informing their men that they would be at the stage leading the anashid. Lastly, Marija, Elena, and Karmena arrived, quietly delivering apologies and words of comfort to the Scorched Ones who mourned separately from the units, joining the group.
Gradually, the mourning ground filled up, soldiers quietly waiting for the priests to begin the talb, Rikkard looking to the group and motioning them to take the stage, Kalċidon nodding and leading the group up the steps where prayer rugs had already been laid down for them. They did not rest upon them, instead standing in front of them as Kalċidon took to the front of the stage with Rikkard and Liena, the soldiers looking to the trio.
"Soldiers of the Kyran Forces, we have achieved a great victory tonight: Yrutas sought to snuff out our righteous crusade here in the steppes with his forces, but we responded with the fury inherent in our nation. We stood together with the nations of Calveria, those that I had disparaged at the start of this holy war, but now recognize as proud warriors and worthy to be called our brothers. However, our victory came with a price, one that is in front of us: tonight, siblings have been separated, families have been broken, friends have been taken away, and lovers have been torn from warm embraces. We all share in this loss, we are all brothers in mourning. Take heart," Kalċidon paused, "As our Messija said, our brothers sacrificed themselves for faith and fatherland, we must not let their sacrifices be in vain: we are only halfway there, but we must stay strong. Let us mourn tonight, so that tomorrow, we are filled with the resolve needed to finish off the Archdemon. That is all."
Kalċidon quietly stepped back, Rikkard patting his back as he and Liena took to the front, signaling to the priests below to start the talb, their prayer chimes lifted up as they began to intone: the soldiers began to pull their prayer rugs off, rolling them out in front of them and kneeling on one knee, pulling their swords and axes off, swords kept in their scabbards as they planted their hilts on the ground or holding their axes at the haft under the heel, planted in the same way. The soldiers began to vocalize, wordless melodies to complement the prayers delivered by the muezzin in song, but the sadness could be detected in everyone's voices, most of the soldiers openly weeping while others tried to keep their composure.
Gradually, the priests from the Temple of Nature walked forward, approaching the soldiers with bowls full of blessed water and brushes, dipping the brushes and gently flicking them upon the soldiers, who quietly dipped their fingers upon the wet spots and drew two symbols: on the left hand, they traced a Г upon the top, and on the right, they did the same with a ~, a symbol to both Temples. The priests made their rounds before approaching the bodies, doing the same to each rug or coffin and tracing the symbols upon them. After they concluded their blessings, the priests walked over to their counterparts, blessing them in turn before heading off to where they originally were, doing the same to one another before settling down onto the prayer rugs.
The prayers began to subside, the soldiers going quiet aside from the quiet sob or sniffle as they looked to the stage alongside the muezzins. Without a word, Rikkard, Liena, Varist, and Erin approached while Żaren approached the fire, joined by several Temple of War priests carrying urns. Outside the encampment, the few units that did not suffer any severe losses waited upon their carts, ready to take the bodies and urns back to Kyras after the ceremony concluded. Back upon the stage, the quartet approach, Liena clearing her throat before singing the first nashid, the others joining her in an a capella performance as the soldiers below quietly set their weapons down, those with swords unsheathing them and attaching the scabbards back onto their belts before joining the rest in kneeling on both knees, quietly swaying as they vocalized once more. Those that openly mourned did so once more, while the rest continued on, the priests joining the quartet in performing the nashid.
The first nashid concluded and the second began, this one possessing a faster tempo as the soldiers below slapped their right hands against their thighs as a beat, others clapping instead in line with the tempo, the muezzins pulling the prayer chimes away from the front as they placed them outside the units before returning, clapping along. Gradually, the soldiers stood up, rolling up their rugs and putting it back upon their backs row by row as the performance continued, the soldiers beginning a stomping dance in place, weapons held in their hands as the second nashid concluded.
The third nashid began, the tempo picking up as the groups formed circles themselves, the inner rows going near the center while the outer rows silently went to go gather the bodies, placing them in the center of the unit circles before joining back into the performance, the soldiers gradually stomping harder and harder as they slowly moved clockwise while the muezzins entered into the center of the circle. Suddenly, the stomping ceased and the soldiers began walking, swords and axes held towards the center as they circled around, the stomping increasing after a minute as they held their arms up, swords and axes raised and pointing to the bodies. This continued for 30 seconds before they gradually turned themselves towards the bodies, stomping in place before performing the same ritual counterclockwise. Unlike the other nashids, this one continued, the soldiers alternating between clockwise and counterclockwise as the muezzins read off each name of the deceased, joined by their age, rank, and years of service. This continued for close to an hour, Marija walking up to the quartet and performing a small spell to keep their throats from getting too hoarse as they continued singing, each unit finishing their reading off of deceased with the muezzin grabbing a torch and lighting it until every unit had finished.
The fourth nashid began, the soldiers parting the circles open and several soldiers walking forward to take the bodies marked for cremation near the pyre: by this point, Żaren had approached Sir Duke's effigy, unrolling the rug and gently moving the effigy aside as a priest laid a sheen of fire jelly on top of the rug, designed to harden and prevent the rug from burning while being easy to clean off. After the jelly had hardened, Żaren walked over to the pyre and grabbed several pieces of wood, laying them on top of the rug before putting the effigy on top of it. At the same time, the priests approaching the pyre did the same, laying the bodies down and gently moving them before applying the jelly, laying wood taken from the pyre down, and placing the bodies on top. As the nashid reached its peak, Rikkard gave the signal by summoning fire in his hand: Żaren did his first, removing the crown as he lit the effigy on fire, raising the temperature high enough to immediately turn the effigy into ash. Silently, he opened the urn and folded the rug to form a pile, tipping the rug to fill the run as he issued a quiet prayer, "Farewell, Sir Duke, I am sorry we could not fight at each other's side: let it be known the Warfather smiles upon your prowess and is proud of all you have done for your people. All of us give warm wishes to your nation and the Dual Isles, and may you find an everlasting paradise." The muezzin and priests did the same, cremating the bodies and placing them in the urns, wishing them an eternal battle in the afterlife or union with the Mother, marking them with their names, with Żaren lighting the remaining wood in the pyre.
Gradually, each muezzin and their entourage returned to their unit, handing off each urn to whoever was assigned responsibility, the soldiers mourning once more as they held the urn close to them, one last embrace to the fallen. Finally, as the cremations concluded, the soldiers moved the bodies so they would join them as they returned to the rows, looking to the stage once more. Without a word, Varist and Erin walked back to the entourage as Liena and Rikkard shared a glance. They both nodded before issuing the prayer, "O, our Dear Mother and Great Father, we reach out to You both in prayer. We, Your children, are delivering those no longer in this world to You both, so that they may have their peace. These children have passed away in service to our country and in service to this Pantheon, to fight against the Archdemon that seeks to destroy Your earthly domains. We ask that both of You escort them to their deserved afterlives, where they shall forever remain in thanks for all that they have done. Give us the strength to continue the fight against the Archdemon, so that those we send later will be the last to send to You both in this war against the demons. We give our grace."
"We give our grace," the crowd intoned, the soldiers lifting the bodies of their comrades and filing out a unit at a time to the carts waiting for them, those without the bodies dispersing back to their tents, the muezzins gathering their materials as Żaren extinguished the pyre and gathered Sir Duke's urn, the crown placed on top of it. Gradually, those on stage descended, giving one last prayer before retiring for the night, Kyre and Kalċidon joining Żaren in preparing to hand off the urn to the Dual Islanders and meet with the heads of state once more for further planning and discussion.
Г and ~ represent Rigma's ax and either water or a tree branch from Myratnis, respectively; to contextualize the dancing ritual
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Post by Unfallious on Apr 10, 2023 5:01:07 GMT -5
Part 1 - Crusade
The crusaders endure an arduous and long foray into the Magna Tabes. Losses are heavy, but progress is good. They are eventually able to pin down Yrutas’ lair, a large spiralling tower with seemingly no peak, by tracking its movement cycle (Yrutas’ lair shifts across the Tabes in regular intervals). However, gaining entrance to the tower is only the start of an intensive crawl up each of its floors, many of which contain a range of horrors.
Actually reaching the tower was one thing, but breaking in, outnumbered against the orcish forces, seemed impossible. Impossibly late into the foray, the war horns of the Kem’ Northern Army mark the return of Bakahn who had left the Rohzai and Karthagite warriors among the crusaders into the command of his second-in-command. The reason was to gather troops from Kemeht, which Bakahn did by appearing with his spear as a Messiah sent by Zypnac. Using now-damaged Kemeht technology, he was able to poorly and slowly make his way into the Magna Tabes. The Kem troops provide the numbers to ease pressure off of the crusaders, giving them a chance to make their way into the tower.
The crusaders endure the climb up the many floors of the tower, eventually reaching its peak, which is a large open area above purple clouds. There is no terrain visible, only fog, clouds and a roiling maelstrom below. It is impossible to tell whether you are still in Calveria or somewhere different. In front of the crusaders, their number whittled down to only a few hundred now, is a contingent of Yrutas’ most experienced orcish troops and Yrutas himself, atop a raised platform to the rear of his army. Visible behind him is a chaotic machine, energy arcing off the landscape and a choir of tormented voices emanating from it.
What follows is the legendary Battle of the Maelstrom. The outnumbered Crusader forces charge into the fray, with the Champions leading the way. The battle is brutal, arduous and bleak. The remaining crusaders are experienced veterans but are proving to simply be too exhausted from their fight up the tower. The Champions are able to put up a good fight, but the orcs are too many and each finds themselves cut-off from the rest of their troops. The Crusaders are slowly pushed back, drawing every closer to the edge of the tower where only the maelstrom below awaits.
When all seems lost and the first of the Crusaders begin to be pushed from the edge of the tower into the depths below there comes a light, as bright as anything the Crusaders have seen. It blinds orc and human alike.
Part 2 - Pathway
Tiyn and the Asillic entourage are able to make contact with the regent of Veritious, who in turn grants them an audience with the archbishop. Though the meeting between Asillic and Veritian religious authorities is tense, and seemingly going nowhere, it is ultimately resolved when the entity in control of Tiyn’s amulet reveals itself as a being of pure light. It identifies itself as Pathway or Komichi, Lord of Time and the salvation of Calveria.
The being reveals the story of the creation of Calveria to those assembled. It reveals that at the dawn of everything there were three, Pathway, Expanse and Hearth. These three beings created time, space and Calveria respectively. Over time, Pathway and Expanse got lost in their creations. Expanse would create nebulas, stars and planets, and Pathway would animate and age these creations through to their end. All the while Hearth could do nothing but wait. The three brothers knew that there would eventually be a new being who would arrive with the power to imbue Hearth’s creation with life and beings to fill it, but they could not know when. Over a vast and incomprehensible period Hearth grew bitter and envious of his brothers. He called them to Calveria in physical form and struck them both down in anger, burying the shards of their essence beneath the ground. This act, whether Hearth knew it or not, created the Mother, though she did not know of her two brothers, and life began to fill Calveria.
This story shocks the Veritian archbishop, but he is ultimately driven to allow the Asillic delegation access to the ruins of the Sapphire Palace.
Veritian workers dig out some of the rubble, revealing a tunnel down to the inner sanctum of the old Acarack, the acarate forge at the bottom of the Sapphire Palace, where Komichi has already constructed a ‘vessel’ consisting of a crystal bowl upon a pedestal. Tiyn places the amulet inside and it shatters, filling the vessel with light. Komichi explains that it needs time to absorb the latent energy of the ancient Veritian forge and that the delegation should resist any ‘temptations’ they are subjected to. Over the next few days, the entourage, both Veritian and Asillic are subjected to audiences with aspects of Zypnac, who beseech them to destroy the vessel. Zypnac uses temptation, promises and threats to attempt to convince the entourage to destroy the vessel, at first they resist and spend the time discussing theology and what the implications of Komichi’s revelations mean for them and the world at large. One among them, the Kem’ Headmaster and Master Alchemist, throughout the entire affair becomes more and more erratic as he interacts with Zypnac directly; as an alchemist—a user of the unique gift to the Kem’—he interacts directly with Zypnac in order to transform the world. He has, in effect, “felt God '' before and can recognize his voice a second time. Any reservations he may have had going in vanish, and he attempts to destroy the vessel.
There is a brutal brawl in the inner sanctum of the Acarack as individuals from both nations turn on one another, some convinced of Zypnac’s supremacy and others simply afraid of the unknown. In the conflict the Veritian archbishop, by now a follower and supporter of Pathway, is murdered and Tiyn is seriously wounded. The room falls to Zypnac’s supporters and they approach the vessel, intent on its destruction. As the Kem Headmaster raises a piece of debris in preparation to smash the vessel he is suddenly struck by a dazzling ray of light. It pierces his body and strikes the wall behind him. As he falls the vessel is lifted off of its stand as Komichi reaches full strength and ascends once more to godhood.
Part 3 - Shattering
The glowing light rises over the city of Veritious, growing in sizes as it flies higher and higher. Within moments, shining wings of light arch over the city walls. Far off on the southern Kyran Coast and the Asilic fens, thousands of people turn further south turn as if a second sun were rising in the distance. Komichi, now formed, began to soar forward, huge wings spreading over hill, field, and fen, before finally curving over the ring of mountains in central Calveria.Swirling into the sky, the maelstrom of strange mists and storm clouds over the crusaders still outside the tower suddenly parted, blown apart by the flapping of two enormous wings. As they looked to the sky, the light of two suns seemed to hover up above.
The light of the second sun centred on the machine at Yrutas’ throne, its wings stretching out either side of it far into the distance. In its presence, the maelstrom that dominated the area completely dissipates. Yrutas responds in disbelief, crying out against Zypnac, who he assumes is behind it. The being descends on the machine, absorbing it into its light. There is a feeling of profound joy that sweeps across the mortals, orc and man drop their weapons and stare in wonderment as the cacophony of tormented cries which have been spilling from the Mortallium turn into a choir of rejoicing and singing. The being and the machine seem to merge, its wings rising into their air before flaring and disappearing.
The machine is gone. Yrutas looks weakened, the source of his power gone he takes a knee before rising to his feet. Locked into mortal form, he grips his weapon tightly. The champions step forward and a duel begins. Yrutas, though weakened, is able to best Żaren, his divine artefact left scattered at his feet. As the chosen of the Gods lay scattered before him, Yrutas is rejuvenated. Armed with only a mundane weapon, Blair engages Yrutas in single combat. The fighting is brutal, and they both sustain injuries. However, armed with the love of his people and the trust of his friends, Blair and not the divinely empowered, is able to strike the killing blow. As he swings his sword he shatters Yrutas, his form dissipating into a massive cloud that fills the tower and reaches out into the distance. From above there rains down shards of a crystalline material. Some of them are no bigger than dust, whilst others still are significantly larger. In the distance the crusaders watch as massive crystals fall from the sky, descending into the fog and the ground below.
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Post by Lex Caledonia on Apr 17, 2023 16:30:10 GMT -5
Leanabh
It was as if time itself paused for breath. A cacophony of screaming, blood and horrific spectacle assaulted her for what was only for a couple of hours but felt as if it was a merciless infinity. She had lost Donn Myra in the confusion and ecstasy of the arrival of the second sun, the screams of horror and battle being replaced with melody and song, she could only stare and let dry tears fall from her eyes as the obelisk to Yrutas was destroyed by the incandescent rays. A winged emissary of salvation emerging and then swiftly leaving just as quickly as it arrived. The awe didn't last long, Yrutas was weakened but far from finished, Żaren fought with renewed vigour and true courage but his axe was shattered and he was knocked back with a sickening thud. Donn Myra emerged, hoping to blindside the mad god, a powerful kick cutting her guile short. Her protector falling to the ground, Leanabh, in a panic cut her finger along the edge of her sword. Enveloping it in her power and of the font, she gritted her teeth and screamed shrilly, riposting the much larger being with a flurry of sword blows and all of Myra's teachings could afford her. She landed a glancing blow on the god, her blade's tip slicing across Yrutas' visage, he growled in pain, clawing at his face in both surprise and frustration. Turning to Myra who writhed on the ground, Leanabh called out to her, her protector screaming out to her in warning. She turned her eyes back to Yrutas in time to see his blade baring down on her in the fraction of a second, she darted back, narrowly avoiding death but the blade still nicking her; a searing pain exploding all over her top lip. A pommel strike soon followed, hitting the side of her head, the further pain causing her to sharply gasp in a large amount of blood. Calveria span all around and her vision began to fade, she gasped and spluttered for breath, unable to call out for help. She could only scramble her hands around her face as she lay on the cold stone ground, her tears flowing down her face and mixing with her blessed blood. She stared in horror as the mad god loomed over her, the hatred in his eyes and blood flowing down his face as well, he raised his sword once more. Leanabh could only close her eyes.
A roar, a clash of metal and muffled yelling. She opened her bloodshot eyes and tried to focus with all her might. It was Blair. Drenched in sweat, the lion of Lexidus embroidered on top of his armour dyed red with blood, the mortal king and the mad god struggling against one another with swords interlinked. Blair's face is that of rabid fury, Yrutas' taunts doing little to phase him, in despite of the desperate situation. He slowly turns his head and looks at her, his eyes welling with tears. He swallows hard, softens his gaze and gives her a small, pained smile.
"Everything is going to be okay."
Turning back to Yrutas, his fury now tranquil, Blair breaks the struggle and headbutts Yrutas with all of his might. A brutal and final struggle taking place, one which Leanabh can only watch as her injuries slowly overwhelm her. Her vision fades, her head falls and then darkness overcomes her. The last thing she hears is a loud, primal cry, the sound of shattering and the world changing silence that came afterwards.
Dunsley
He scrambled to her, what little of his armour that remained clattering and falling from his drenched gambeson. Cradling Leanabh in his arms, he wiped her blood covered face in a panic, shaking her and calling out her in name in distress. Her shallow breaths assuring him that the worse had not happened. She slowly opened her eyes as much as she could, the left being swollen due to the strike on her head. Her voice was small and croaky.
"...Dunsley? Wh-"
He stammered, his throat dry and voice shaky. "D-don't talk, you're hurt but y-you're alright. We're all alright."
She could feel her blood, the font's energy coursing through it, struggle to pulse through her wounds where Yrutas had struck her. They were bad. "Wh-AGH!!" She curled in on herself, her lip swollen and streaming blood down her cuirass. A wave of adrenaline surged through her, bringing everything into focus. The haggard face of her knight Dunsley, Donn Myra kneeling wordlessly next to her, her emotionless helmet staring at her. She looked around, what remained of the crusaders lumbered around, some hugging one another, others weeping on their knees and others simply stood around in silence looking up at the sky. Their face's adorned with a quiet look of deep tranquilly. She couldn't see Blair.
"B-Blair..." she spluttered, darting upwards out of Dunsley's arms. The knight almost being toppled backwards, he caught himself and went forward in preparation to catch her again but instead, she stood tall and firm. He rose and looked at her in disbelief, the Lioness of Lexidus ascending the stage where the final confrontation had taken place. He couldn't help but feel proud of her, how she carried herself after such an event, a second wind now flowing through his own body and inspiring him to follow her. Leanabh scanned the room, marching around relentlessly and stepping over hundreds of bodies and debris, only stopping when she looked toward a small pillar just behind where the machine used to be. Dunsley came to her side, Donn Myra flanking her other, he drew his gaze to where she was looking and felt his heart soar. He couldn't help blurt out in joy.
"Your majesty!"
He was kneeling down next to a body, his back turned to them, unflinching and unresponsive. Leanabh ran towards him, her two protectors quickly following, circling around their king to get a better look. King Blair de Brus was alright, roughed up and hurt. His brutal battle with Yrutas having clearly taken a toll on him physically. However, rather than seeing a proud and triumphant ruler and now legendary god killer. Dunsley simply saw the sad and distant expression of a deeply tired human man cupping the hands of a dead orc within his own, looking at the corpse with a solemn gaze. Dunsley glanced downwards at the orc. His first response to be a reaction of disgust, the creature that had tried to kill him a thousand fold, the monster that killed his friends and comrades, the filth that scoured Calveria, why was Blair holding its corrupted claws in his noble hands? Then, slowly but surely, Dunsley noticed little things. The orc's scrawniness, the mop of long hair on his head, smooth, young and green skin; the frozen expression on their face. Fear, remorse, sadness. This was no creature. This wasn't a man either. He was just a boy. Blair ran a free hand over the orc boy's face, resting their face to a more peaceful expression, he then slowly and carefully placed the dead orc's hands together on top of their chest. Slowly then rising to his feet, Blair still stared down at the boy, only turning to the others after closing his eyes and breathing in deep and hard.
"Dunsley. I am commanding you now to take charge of gathering the remaining crusaders who follow me. They are to gather every survivor, be they ally or foe and we are to return home." Blair stated clearly, his voice almost monotone.
The young man's jaw dropped slightly, he turned to look at what remained of his men and then back at his king, Blair's steely gaze staring at him unblinking. "F-foe? You mean... we're to help the orcs as well?"
Blair didn't miss a beat. "Yes."
"I don't..." Dunsley pleaded, trying to find the words swimming around in his frantic and confused mind. He then caught the eyes of Leanabh, her eyes alight in the fires of determination.
With a bloodied lip, she spoke awkwardly at first then firmly. "N...no more. No more death Sergeant. This world of ours has changed. A clean slate, nothing binds us. If there is nothing but what we make in this new world, let us make good."
Donn Myra
Wordlessly, she watched, like she had always done her whole life. Leaving the tower, the Magna Tabes and then the long march back north-west. Grabbing survivors, pushing back belligerent crusaders and putting down radical Yrutan orcs. It was a mess but she did her best. Dunsley performed admirably, rallying the troops in honour of the late General Lewis, commanding the remnants of the Standing Army of Lexidus to form a protective shield around the caravan of orc survivors, it was an arduous and incredibly challenging task but he rose to it with trademark Hovis gumption. Leanabh called for calm with various crusaders and Western Alliance soldiers, cooperating closely with the Titenfiscans in calming the nerves and minds of various soldiers who now found themselves protecting the very same people who 24 hours ago were trying to kill them. She too did her best and did so in a way that made Myra's heart swell with pride. It was Blair however, who lead the way with this task, the determination within him never leaving him as he rode around on his horse. Speaking to the men, helping the orcish women and children they found fleeing the Magna Tabes. His political manoeuvring behind the scenes, although she did not bear witness to it, was also especially key to this moment. What she did bear witness to, multiple times in fact, was Blair holding onto a piece of parchment. Stained in the blood of the orcish boy he had held hands with, she saw him read it numerous time during the march, almost as if to never let him forget its contents. Donn Myra never said anything, like she had done most of her life and simply protected her princess, the once foreign lush green surface of Lexidus slowly returning to her and thousands of others' gaze. She had felt something she had never knew until this very moment, when her tired horse ascended a small hillock to a grand view of dark green grass and the sun slowly rising over the horizon with hamlets dotted all in front.
That she was finally home.
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Post by Lex Caledonia on Apr 25, 2023 14:27:00 GMT -5
Leanabh
The courtyard felt different. Just like everything else did. All the sounds around her, all the buildings being rebuilt and the way people looked at her now. Nothing was ever going to be the same again. She couldn't sleep most nights; the deaths of her people at war and the wailing of their mothers when they didn't come home haunted her. There was jubilation obviously, she could hear it all from her bedroom window, the music, the singing, the dancing and the cheering. It was the loudest and most constant of noises in Camelon. Yet, through the storm of exultation, she could hear them. Sirens and the stranded, wailing and calling out to the goddess. Small and desolate, they cut into her very being. The sobbing of mothers and fathers, the sniffling of orphans and whimpering of the forgotten. She could hear it all and felt herself drowning in it. Her late and meandering wanderings being a small respite from the guilt. The only sounds in the castle courtyard being the wind and rustle of leaves. Tonight however, she could hear scrawling too. Peering into the darkness of the garden, she saw him, Blair, sat on the reading bench and writing on numerous pieces of parchment. He was dressed rather plainly, familiar gray clothes adorning his strong frame, contrasting heavily with the crown of Lexidus sitting on his head. His was face blank and eyes distant; he had been like this for weeks.
"...Blair?" Leanabh whispered.
Blair's writing stopping immediately, his vacant gaze staring at the parchment still, he slowly looks up at her and gives a very small smile, his voice gentle and warm. "...trouble sleeping?"
She hesitates a moment before nodding, her eyes darting to the pieces of parchment now all being collected by Blair into a pile in his hands, She notices him angling the contents away from her, she says nothing.
"Me too... figured I'd... write some letters to all our friends and allies. Give them my thanks and updates on myself, you and the realm." His voice was calm and his eyes looked at her with care, yet somehow he felt distant and off to her. She wanted to say something, anything to him right now, to work out why he had been acting so different these past few weeks. To cut through the veil of uncertainty that smothered the two of them. Be the Lioness of Lexidus to the Hero King and truly celebrate their victory together. To make things be and feel alright again. Yet she couldn't bring herself to it. A strenuous blanket instead covered her shoulders and body, spreading a cold warmth throughout her body that didn't comfort but instead simply made her feel deeply tired.
Blair spoke up and broke the awkward silence. "Go back to bed Leana. You'll thank me for it."
She stared at him for a moment, trying with all her might to break the melancholy gripping her heart and stomach, she turned and began to walk away. Letting her tiredness win, as she approached the wooden side door exit of the courtyard, Blair spoke up one last time.
"Leana?"
Halfway through the door, she turns, the dull light of the moon being the only thing that illuminated King Blair de Brus. She could barely see his face.
"Everything is going to be okay."
With these final words, she simply sighed and turned, closing the door behind her and wandered back to her room; sleep quickly taking her into the other respite of temporary oblivion.
Blair
He stares at the small wooden door for a long time. The light pages of parchment in his hands weighing heavily on his mind. Finally he stands after what feels like an eternity, walking away from the courtyard with slow purpose, he enters the castle proper and wanders its halls; taking his time and slowly looking around at the place he had called home for decades, his wanderings eventually arriving him in the throne room. He stands before the throne, like the countless hundreds who had come to him for years and years. Seeking his help, approval, advice and judgement. He glanced to his left, at the humble desk of his loyal steward, his guardian, his stepfather. Crowley. Blair wanders to it slowly, running his rough, still wounded and bandaged hand over it. He then places all of the parchments on top of it, letters, tying it with string and seal. Leaving a card note nestled amongst the bundle. Turning to his right, he paces a few feet and stands level in front of the throne, his throne. The throne of countless before him, a symbol of his power and the power of his nation. Symbolically, one of the most powerful things in Calveria. Physically, simply an uncomfortable chair you sat on. Shuffling unsteadily on his feet, Blair takes his crown off from his head and slowly places it on the chair. Staring at it for a long time. Before turning on the spot, walking down the chamber and exiting through the castle gates.
Never to be seen again.
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Post by Chiernarosa on Apr 26, 2023 4:44:25 GMT -5
Yrutas's Throne Room
Żaren laid on the ground, his body locked in sheer pain as he stared at the ceiling, hearing the last shriek from Yrutas as Blair slew him and witnessing the cloud that was the fallen god's corpse rise above them all. Dimly, he knew that the Warsreach was destroyed, the relic now broken at his feet, the chain connecting it to him having been snapped off in the duel. Finally willing the power to raise his body up, he tugged at the chain on his left arm, the Tyrant sword still attached and whole, having been neglected in the fight: pulling it towards him, he undid the scabbard on his right side and slid the sword back in, using it to lift himself up, blood flowing from his wounds as he looked around at the carnage that was in the throne room, the corpses of the orcs he slew scattered everywhere, limbs and heads hacked off from the burnt bodies, some of the corpses having been torn in half from the fighting.
Outside the throne room, he could hear the calls from the rest of the group, having been separated on the way up to the tower, above all Kyre calling out for him. Gathering himself as he readjusted his armor, he looked down at the Warsreach, grabbing the shattered head of the ax and staring into his reflection, blood drenching him and eyes glowing a dim orange like a dying fire amidst the charred-black skin. 'The tool of a god, now broken,' he thought, pulling an empty pouch from his hip and gathering the remnants of the Warsreach into them, 'Were we forsaken? Did Rigma decide we were not the ones to kill Yrutas?' Looking at Blair as Dunsley, Leanabh, and Myra gathered with him near an orc's corpse, Żaren shook his head, 'No, it was in us all as people to kill Yrutas. The Warsreach did its job, to kill Yrutas's followers and to wound him. Blair can have the glory of the kill, he earned it.'
'As for the Warsreach,' he concluded, looking back at the head before depositing into the bag, 'It can always be reforged: at the end of the day, it is just a weapon, and weapons are meant to be used until they break. Even if it is not the same as it was before we entered this accursed tower, it can be rebuilt, made whole again, and if that is not possible, we can always make a copy.' Looking down at the intact corpse of an orc warrior, slumped against the wall, he pulled out Redentur's hatchet and chopped the warrior's head off, 'In the case of these beasts, however, they are still around, and they must be cleansed. Any legacy of Yrutas must be destroyed or tamed, and with all that these creatures have done, they cannot be tamed.'
"I see that you are already thinking ahead, Master Żaren," a voice called out, Żaren turning to see the scarred visage of Vyrodok, the man smiling as he appeared with his host of Republican Guardsmen, all of them stained with orc blood but otherwise unharmed.
"General Vyrodok, where are Kalċidon and the others? Are they alright?" Żaren asked, wondering what Vyrodok had to say.
"Oh, they are doing splendid, Master Żaren, they are currently on their way to this room as we speak. As for you, I see that you still harbor hatred for these creatures, these monsters that the Archdemon had used to stop us from our goal, and your effort to kill Him."
"I did not kill him, General, Blair did: the Demon broke the Warsreach and knocked me into a state of paralysis before Leanabh and the King fought him," Żaren answered plainly, hearing in the background Blair's order to rescue the surviving orcs, "It appears that Blair seeks to give clemency to the beasts."
"Oh that won't do," Vyrodok shook his head, his voice keeping the polite lilt, "Considering how much our men gave to get you here, I feel it would be insulting to just let them walk away with the crimes they committed against the Crusaders and Calveria at-large. Tell me, Young Master, do you think the people of Amnest, of Camelon, the Western Sea, and Asil would approve of letting the Yrutan forces, brethren to those that had ravaged their homes and land, walk away with no accountability to their crimes?"
"No, they wouldn't," Żaren noted, looking to the entrance to the throne room, "However, our forces are stretched thin and number probably in the hundreds, I doubt we would have the capacity to wipe the beasts off the face of this world."
"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, Young Master," Vyrodok's face broke into a smile, gesturing to one of the Republican Guardsmen leaving with a flare tube, "As we speak, Kyran and Asilic reinforcements are converging onto our positions, having waited for the first wave to break through the Tabes and into the tower before marching, with many of the Kyran forces being my Republican Guardsmen. We DO have the numbers to carry out such a cleansing, but we need to act fast, before the rest of the crusaders and, Warfather forbid, General Kalċidon begin protecting the beasts."
"You assume Kalċidon will not join us?"
"Alas, I've known him for over 30 years at this point, I know he will consider our current numbers and the fact that the Guardsmen answer to me as factors in deciding to halt any further fighting. No, he will support the King's decision to help the orcs leave this blasted wasteland, so it is best that we act independently. Now, as for your wounds, Young Master, I have some medicine with me and medics on the way to help you heal quickly: first, I ask that you inhale this," Vyrodok pulled out a pouch and spilled a yellow powder into his outstretched hand, "This will restore your vitality, make you strong once more."
Tower Outskirts, one day later
Żaren panted, his mind now finally clearing as he stood in the field, the corpses of orcs laying all around him, Tyrant sword dripping with blood, the chopped limbs of orcs adorning his body like a garish cape. The Republican Guardsmen were surrounded, the Kyran Army soldiers loyal to Kalċidon holding them at weaponpoint as the convoy from the Western nations were now in the distance, all the while the Kemeht and Amnestian soldiers still with the Kyran forces were gathering themselves. Behind him, he could hear Kalċidon roaring in pure anger as Vyrodok rode off with his few free Republican Guardsmen in the direction of Quijain, Erin, Erardi, and Varist quietly assessing the damage dealt even with the looks of pure rage on their faces. In the distance and in the corner of his eye, he could see Kyre running to him, his face a mix of horror and grief as Liena, Marija, Elena, Karmena, and Sikandar followed behind him, their own faces betraying the look of shock and disgust in the carnage wrought upon this land.
His mind had gone blank after he inhaled the powder Vyrodok offered to him, but in the back of his mind, he saw what he had done, the betrayed looks on the faces of the Western leaders and allies as he jumped into the thick of the orc refugees, sword and hatchet in hand as he slaughtered his way through them, Vyrodok following behind with the Republican Guard and Kyran soldiers that had decided that Kalċidon's decision to spare the orcs was not what they had in mind, joined in hand by the Kemeht as they killed, the Western soldiers that had shared bread with him and the Kyran Army having been forced to fight back to save the orcs, Kalċidon yelling to Blair to ride as fast as possible while he directed the men loyal to him to stall the rampaging troops.
The memories were now surfacing, the faces of orc families screaming as he swung his sword at them, clawed their faces off, bit their necks open, hacking limbs and heads from those unable to run fast enough. The men burning the refugees alive as they cowered or attempted to fight back, others cutting the orcs down or tearing them to pieces, priests extolling the virtue of the slaughter as they walked amongst the gore, robes stained with blood and staffs covered in viscera. Above all, he could hear Vyrodok's laughter, of merriment as he joined the fray, killing any and all that were unlucky enough to get in his way.
He saw the entourage desperately trying to stop him, the futile efforts to at least distract him long enough to bind him, him knocking them to the ground as he charged forward into the killing, the night a blur as he kept going, even as his muscles ached and the fire surrounding him burning white-hot, dawn revealing the blood-soaked killing grounds and the savagery committed. He slumped to his knees, the exultation and bloodlust leaving him as he felt disgust building up inside of him. Disgust in the violence that sullied what was to be a day of victory for the crusaders, a demonstration of unity of the nations of Calveria. Disgust in the men who fell into religious thralls, believing that his actions were favored by the Warfather, the priests acting as if they were inside Żaren's head and knew his intent. Disgust in Vyrodok, who had manipulated him into the carnage and fled before anyone could catch up to him. Finally, disgust in himself for what he had just done, for all the lives he had taken in blind rage and savagery, for allowing himself to follow Vyrodok's orders and honeyed words promising him that his actions would bring glory. There was no glory, just the stains of death and the horror of an avoidable massacre now stuck in his mind as he stayed slumped, even as Kyre pulled him into a hug, promising that it would all be okay.
Kyran Encampment, Quijain, one week later
Erin looked out at what remained of the meeting spot, where the nations had gathered to prepare for their war, where Kalċidon and Blair had traded blows over the actions of Lawrenz Callus, where the Battle of Quijain was waged and the first victory for the crusaders, where he and so many others had mourned the dead, and where they mourned now, the bodies of those fallen in the Conquest had gathered, burning effigies of General Lewis (with which word of his death had finally reached the Kyrans after the scouts that assisted the Western nations in their retreat had returned) and all those that had died getting to the tower.
Now they all seemed distant, even as what remained of his 9th Guards were still searching for signs of Vyrodok and the Republican Guardsmen that fled through the camp into the Quijaini wilds and the captured Republican Guardsmen were made to march the whole way with chains around their necks and their arms bound to their sides. Those that had attempted to flee or fought back against the surrender were killed, their bodies left to rot with the corpses of the orcs they had committed genocide against. Genocide. The word felt alien in his mouth, but that was what Kalċidon insisted on calling what had happened, something distinct from all the reprisal killings and massacres of old. After the killing had ended, Żaren had been taken away and interrogated, and that was when what happened became clear: Vyrodok had reached Żaren first and tricked him to consume a powder, one that induced him into a state of unstoppable madness and violence but also susceptible to Vyrodok's orders, with the now-erstwhile General telling him to kill the orcs. After the interrogation, it was decided that Żaren would not be punished due to his lack of control during the violence and having been tricked by Vyrodok to commit such atrocities.
Now, the remains of the Kyran Conquest Force were to head back to Kyras, with Kalċidon to finally usher in the constitutional changes that had been put to the wayside by the Conquest, with the entourage in tow. All except for Erin: he had informed Kalċidon that he would be relinquishing command of the 9th Guards Regiment and was seeking to oversee the Kyran encampment still here, especially as geologists began to chart out the whiskey deposits in the surrounding area.
"Are you sure, son?" Kalċidon had asked, "The 9th Guards still look to you as their commanding officer, and I have a spot in the incoming government for you to take."
"I am sure, Father: besides, I must give my condolences to the family of Sergeant Edmund de Sawney in Lexidus over his untimely death. If you wish, I can bring a message of condolences to King de Brus over what had transpired last week as well as with General Lewis's death in combat."
"If you are able to, please do so. Still, son, are you certain this is what you want?"
"I am certain, Father, plus I believe that I have already spilt too much blood in service to our Army, I wish to find peace instead of violence. Still, I promise that this will not be the last time we will see each other, I will do all I can to visit you when possible."
Shaking his head, Erin grabbed the reins to his horse and began the journey down to the command tent to gather the men for the journey to Lexidus as well as designating temporary commanders for the encampment during his travel. As he rode, he saw the messengers riding from the encampment to the Quijaini towns that had allied with Kyras, preparing the trade corridors to the encampment.
Kantchenkamaal, the same day
Captain Spettur stood amidst the burning ruins of what was the warband's headquarters, blood pouring from his scarred form as he looked down at the corpses. Both Azkalon den Kayros and the raider warchief were dead, slain in their last stand against Spettur as he launched a one-man charge against the camp, the two men having been whittled down to a force of about 10-20 defenders. In the distance, the Kemeht forces were cementing their hold over the city, the Kyran forces having been pushed back after all the fighting they had done to try and hold the city. Looking around, he saw the remains of the once-proud city, now nothing more than scorched ruins from the battle.
"Captain Spettur."
Spettur turned around to face the voice: it was a Kyran major, clean-shaven and his aketon repaired from fighting. Behind him, the remains of the fighting force were held in chains, the Kyran unit that had arrived now guarding them: in the crowd, Spettur could see Corrado, Atam, and Lugas together in chains, looking to him in surprise.
"Captain Spettur, I am here to inform you that you are to cease all fighting and come with me: you are under arrest for violation of direct orders given by General Abram tal-Draguni Aħmar and falsely engaging with a foreign army. All fighting is to cease now, the Kyran government is sending envoys to negotiate with the Kemeht on trade relations and reparations for damages wrought by you and your fellow soldiers against Kàhntchéht."
Spettur stood there, completely dumbfounded by the information given to him: after all of this, they were to give up? The major saw his inaction and sighed.
"Captain, it's over, we know that Azkalon and the raider warlord are dead, there's nobody left to fight down here. General Aħmar is willing to extend a pardon to you and everyone else here if you agree to perform a penitence operation: while all of you were down here, General Kalċidon had left Kyras to lead forces in attacking Yrutas in the Magna Tabes - we've already received word the operation was successful, but General Asfardan Vyrodok of the Republican Guards went rogue and committed a genocide against the Yrutan defenders after Yrutas was killed, now he's wanted for treason and is believed to be on the way back to Kyras to overthrow General Kalċidon. General Kalċidon has given orders for all subordinate generals to issue pardons to any soldiers held in custody in exchange for defending his government against Vyrodok. I'll give you some time to think about it when we get back to the surface, but you need to surrender your arms and come with me."
Without a word, Spettur simply approached and held his arms out, the major nodding as he put the cuffs around Spettur, turning his head and gesturing two soldiers to take Spettur's arms from him. Quietly, they marched, the Battle of Kàhntchéht and what was the only engagement of the Kyran-Asilic War came to an end with only silence following them.
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Post by Chiernarosa on May 4, 2023 7:53:48 GMT -5
Ka'atcal, Kreigsfalden Presidency, two weeks post-battle
"Is that everyone?" Kalċidon asked, looking at the assembly of figures that had been called to convene in Ka'atcal, a mix of local politicians from across the country, religious officials from the Amalgamated Temple, and Kalċidon's most trusted generals and admirals. The past week had been hectic, impromptu celebrations being held across the entire Republic mixed with mourning as the towns and villages received their dead as the Kyran Conquest Force finally returned home. On the way back, Kalċidon had come into contact with the lead negotiators that had traveled throughout Quijain and met with the city officials of Amaraqai: the two men, Dwardu Buhagiar and Khorilar Arslangiin Nekhii, had begun their return when they encountered the returning Conquest Force, producing the treaties that had been signed, along with representatives from each of the major towns they had visited.
Upon returning back to Varan, Kalċidon had begun his long-awaited work once more in the Qorti, sending letters to those now assembled, ordering them to convene in Ka'atcal as neutral ground away from the Republican Guard. Those Guardsmen that had been captured followed the genocide were quickly being placed to the northeast at the Three Islands, while others were to be enslaved: the Guard as a whole was rapidly splitting in two as word of Vyrodok's charge of treason reached the unit, divided between Vyrodok's loyalists (to which there were many) and those loyal to the Provisional Government. Rumors were spreading that Vyrodok was gathering the Guard and treasonous personnel to march on Kyras and overthrow the Provisional Government, but no one had seen the General since his flight into the Quijaini heartland.
During that week in the Qorti, Kalċidon was informed of other developments that had occurred in the Republic during his absence, including a unit going rogue and chasing after Azkalon den Kayros into Asil, waging war in one of the Ahnsijnate's northern cities before finally being brought to heel. While Kalċidon was not the paranoid sort, he knew that Vyrodok would return with his army soon, and so he decided to give orders to the subordinate generals to pardon any guilty soldier so long as they agreed to fight by Kalċidon's side in case Vyrodok launched his invasion. In Quijain, Żaren had gathered his own force, Rigmarans from across Calveria that were now hearing of the Messiah walking among them, even as the lad himself was still horrified at his actions back in the Tabes, now waiting to strike against Vyrodok.
Now, however, that would wait. The final touches to Kyras awaited him as he looked once again at the gathered figures. "It is, Kalċidon," Erardi confirmed, now having been promoted to Lieutenant General, Varist also being promoted to Major and now serving as Erardi's adjunct. Nodding, Kalċidon walked up to the podium, grabbing the gavel and giving a few light strikes.
"Attention, dear brothers, it is time to convene the meeting." The crowd took their seats, waiting to hear the news, "Thank you. Brothers, I wish to thank all of you for taking the time to convene here in Ka'atcal, I know the last few weeks have been hectic ever since our return from war against the Archdemon, of our victory against the corruption. In that time, I made contact with the leaders of this continent and came to share in them the glory of our war, we shared bread and mourned the losses of those who gave their lives to ensure we could kill the Archdemon. Tragically, however, Asfardan Vyrodok showed his true colors and committed unspeakable acts of horror against those that the Archdemon deceived, killing untold numbers of innocents, slaughtering families whose only crime was formerly flying the Yrutan banner: even worse, the traitor used deception and forced our Messiah, Żaren Iben-ta'Kyre, to commit these acts against his will, tricking this young man to commit such atrocities.
"By my authority as Interim Chancellor, I ordered that Asfardan Vyrodok and all men that participated in this genocide to be struck from the records of the Kyran Forces, stripped of their ranks, and charged with treason against the Republic. Alas, in this act, it has become clear that we face the consequences of sloth and rot: under the old system, we allowed such disgusting vermin like Vyrodok remain in our ranks, to fester and threaten national stability. When I performed my coup three months ago against the old government, I did so knowing that it would be the first action to cleanse the Republic and usher in a national rebirth, one where we would no longer be beholden to archaic rituals and resist modernity even as the rest of Calveria develops.
"The purpose of this meeting, dear brothers, is to begin the rebirth of Kyras, today: in my travels, I sent a mission to negotiate with the people of Quijain to bring them under the fold of the Republic, and the efforts of men such as Dwardu Buhagiar and Arslangiin Nekhii have led to the cession of even Amaraqai. The cession of Quijain, I believe, warrants a change to Kyras. No longer shall we call ourselves the Republic of Kyras. No, we shall now be known as the Federal Republic of Kyras. As we speak, I have sent sailing expeditions to our north and to our south to claim land to facilitate trade with the outside world. Negotiators are being sent to Veritious and Asil to begin talks regarding trade relations and an end to the frosty relations that defined all three of our countries. Vyrodok's actions have pushed the Western states away from us, and while I have sent emissaries to talk with them on relations, I fear that what good will we had in the Crusade was squandered by blood: however, we can still do as best we can with the nations surrounding us. Much as the Western states have formed the Western Alliance to share in common defense and relations, so too do I believe the central states of Calveria can be united, however we will take into account our different backgrounds and beliefs. I propose an alliance not bound towards a monolithic belief, but one that emphasizes our sovereignty and in free commerce. I hereby propose the formation of the Central Trade Belt, and that Kyras will stand alongside Asil and Veritious as brother nations, equal to one another and forever in support of a diverse Calveria."
Before anyone could speak, the doors to the chamber suddenly slammed open, "I think not, dear Kalċidon."
Kalċidon's eyes locked into the harshest glare imaginable, Erardi and Varist immediately drawing their swords and calling for the guards as Vyrodok walked up to the last rows, flanked by his Republican Guardsmen, "You must either be insane or uncaring of death to come here, Asfardan."
"It depends on how I'm feeling," Vyrodok shrugged, the Guardsmen spreading out with their weapons drawn as the convention guards emerged, "Now, as for your little charade here, I'm afraid that I must respectfully disagree on your decisions. Brothers, Kalċidon is unwell and his efforts to overturn our sacred traditions, traditions that we have faithfully maintained for thousands of years: while I am aware that the Republic has ebbed and flowed, the General's proposals spit on what unites us as Kyrans. Brothers, Kalċidon does not seek a rebirth, he seeks to become a King amongst us all and drag us to our destruction."
"That's enough, Asfardan," Kalċidon snapped, "Now, while you still have your dignity, I order you to surrender your arms and follow the guards: if you do so, I will commute your sentence from death to life imprisonment."
"I don't think I will," Vyrodok replied, a neutral tone in his voice, "Kalċidon, I hereby declare civil war against you under the laws of the Republic and will do all I can to see to it that you fall. Guards, shoot the General."
Varan, nine months later
"Is everything ready, Sergeant?" Kalċidon asked, the platform outside the Qorti holding Vyrodok and his leading conspirators. Following Vyrodok's declaration, civil war broke out throughout the countryside as units turned against each other. Kalċidon had survived the immediate assassination attempt at Ka'atcal while Vyrodok retreated through the Kreigsfalden, taking refuge in various towns dotting the inner coast while his men fought. The situation grew precarious as Varan was sieged by Vyrodok's forces, Kalċidon declaring the formation of the United Federal Army of Kyras between the Army and Navy units loyal to him, Republican Guardsmen that disavowed Vyrodok, the penitence units that accepted the pardons, and finally the Warfather's Brethren under Żaren, carrying a reforged Warsreach and declaring holy war against the traitors.
Żaren's entry into the conflict had given the United Federal Army the upper hand in the conflict, the common folk rallying behind Kalċidon as Żaren led the charge, liberating village after village from Vyrodok's forces and gathering militias of citizens declaring their loyalty to the Provisional Government. Eventually, Żaren's forces had reached Varan and led the counteroffensive against the sieging troops, with the rebuilt Fog Splitter bombarding hostile positions as Vyrodok's forces were gradually squeezed off the island. After the loss at Varan, Vyrodok fled to the Green Sea, his forces committing massacre after massacre against anyone that were in the way as they attempted to push through to the neutral lands north of Veritious, but a strong defense led by Erardi and Aħmar's forces had routed the fleeing troops, forcing them to a final battle near Xemxija at Kyras's southernmost territories where Vyrodok's forces were finally crushed, Vyrodok himself being captured inside the city before he could slip away once more.
"Everyone's gathered, Kalċidon," Kyre replied, once again wearing the executioner's aketon, carrying a claymore and fishing knife, Żaren joining him as he held the Warsreach.
"Good, let us begin," Kalċidon stated as he ascended the podium, the crowd cheering as he approached the front.
"Soldiers of the United Federal Army of Kyras, today we celebrate a great victory as the Little Dictator kneels in front of us. Nine months ago, he attempted to stop the national rebirth of Kyras, leading a civil war that pitted brother against brother once more as he had done in the Tabes. For nine months, the Little Dictator's forces ravaged the Fatherland and attempted to smother the dream of a new Kyras in the ashes of war and death, but we of the United Federal Army stood and resisted his machinations, fighting with the same ferocity as those that served in the Crusade as we defended our homes and Fatherland. Now, the Little Dictator's armies have been crushed and he is in our grasp, while the Federal Republic stands tall. The Warfather and the Mother smile upon us all for our fight to protect the Federal Republic from madness, and we shall now send the Little Dictator to the void."
Żaren approached, lifting the Warsreach and lighting it once more, "The Warfather has decreed that my father shall put an end to the Dictator, may he render judgment in the void." Stepping back as the crowd cheered, Kyre walked forward, claymore resting upon his shoulder as he approached Vyrodok, the former's face emotionless even as his eyes betrayed the absolute fury of a father crossed.
"May the Warfather give judgment before you enter the void," Kyre said as he kicked Vyrodok to the ground, two guards grabbing Vyrodok's arms and legs and laying him spread-eagled, Vyrodok unable to say anything as he had been forcefed a powder before being put upon the podium, locking his jaws shut. Holding the claymore steady, Kyre slammed it into Vyrodok's knees, striking repeatedly as Vyrodok screamed from shut jaws, a Temple of Nature priestess chanting a healing spell to keep him from bleeding out as Kyre chopped Vyrodok's lower legs off, the guards holding onto the stumps as Kyre chopped at Vyrodok's femurs, snapping them as the powder now coursed out of Vyrodok's system, the latter now screaming openly as his thighs were severed in half. Kyre walked around, now chopping at Vyrodok's arms, severed his lower arms first before severing his humeri, gesturing to the guards to sit Vyrodok up on his stumps before gesturing to another guard to wrench Vyrodok's head back as he planted the claymore into the podium and drew the fishing knife.
Gradually, Kyre disfigured Vyrodok's face, removing his ears and nose first before gouging his eyes out, throwing them to Żaren as the latter smashed them, punctuating them each time as the crowd cheered, the organs burned under Żaren's foot. Kyre continued onward, forcing Vyrodok's mouth shut before cutting his lips off, letting go as he grabbed a length of rope and lashed it around Vyrodok's neck and face, the rope soaked with fat. Gesturing to Żaren, Kyre stepped back as Żaren lit the rope, Vyrodok screaming as the flames engulfed his head, twisting out of the guards' grasp and flopping against the podium, desperately attempting to shake off the rope from his head. After several minutes, the screaming subsided, Kyre gesturing to one of the guards to put out the fire, walking over and unlashing the rope before pinning Vyrodok down and slitting his throat, sawing back and forth as he did so before finally wrenching the corpse's mouth open and cutting Vyrodok's tongue out, tossing it to Żaren to crush.
Standing up, Kyre wrenched the claymore and severed Vyrodok's head, grabbing it and lifting it to the crowd as they roared in jubilation before handing it over to Kalċidon, who nodded before stomping on it and scooping the remains into the fire as Kyre faced the audience.
"The Little Dictator is dead, long live Kalċidon, long live the Federal Republic."
Quijain, one month later
The valley was silent as the figure walked across it, eyes fixed on a nearby cave, unassuming and dead under overcast skies. Behind the figure, the fortress stood, banners affixed with the image of the Warsreach lit with fire crossed with an approximation of Żaren's Tyrant sword also aflame, one of many that dotted the countryside that served as monasteries. After the Rebellion, Żaren had returned to the countryside, reportedly to Amaraqai to study under the priests associated with Jandaism and find a synthesis between the Quijaini religion with that of the Amalgamated Temple. In reality, Żaren had effectively disappeared from public view, sightings of him traveling through Quijain, fighting against the Tatar Confederation and bandits that still ran amok, lit in flame as he charged into the battle, joined by thralls of humans and Scorched Ones that sung praises of him and Rigma while killing.
The figure continued forward, entering the cave and grabbing a chunk of bear fat from his pouch before lighting it and placing it on the ground, the cave now glowing orange. Reaching behind his back, the figure withdrew the bundle, looking at the chest in front of him, having hauled it here earlier in the day. Walking to the chest, the figure opened it and placed the bundle inside, unwrapping the cloth. Żaren looked once more at the broken remains of the Warsreach, melted metal lining the broken parts of the ax from his attempts at repairing it, all of them failing as the Warsreach simply fell apart. Pressing his hand against the ax blade, the runes upon the blade glowed once more, the vibrancy from its summoning having dulled since its shattering, but the energy still remained, responding to him. The blade still shined, Żaren seeing his reflection as he grabbed the cloth and covered the remains of the Warsreach, shutting the chest and locking it, embedding the key into the rock. Looking around, Żaren recalled that night he had huddled inside the same cave, praying to Rigma and receiving the Warsreach, unaware of the events that would come: he had come back to return the Warsreach, having already seen the Amalgamated Temple fighting with the Warfather's Brethren over ownership of the Warsreach, while some of his followers had come to Quijain and engaged in rituals meant to invoke him in-between raids against the lands the orcs had now settled in beyond Quijain near Lexidus.
'Violence prolongs hate, hate prolongs violence,' Żaren thought, pulling out the copy of the Warsreach he had created before the Rebellion of the Little Dictator, the replica having been build to resemble the artifact exactly, enchantments and the usage of Tyrant-infused steel heatproofing the replica when it was lit by Żaren's flames. Yet, it was still a replica, and although it swung like its predecessor and resembled it exactly, Żaren did not feel that living energy in the original, the receptiveness from when he wielded it, the connection he felt with Rigma. 'It will serve its purpose, to confuse those who seek to wield the Warsreach. Only those truly worthy will find the original, and they will be the ones worthy enough to be my successor, even if it takes centuries or millennia.' Standing up, he took one last glance at the chest, knowing he would never come back inside or hold the remains of the Warsreach, before walking out of the cave and moving the boulder to seal it, knowing no one would bother to look through such an insignificant cave. Looking around, Żaren heard the rumble of thunder, seeing rain feathers whipping the mountaintops in the distance as he whistled for his mount, the dragon approaching from the sky, landing gracefully and waiting for him to mount it. Climbing on, Żaren looked at the valley and looked to the north, gesturing for the dragon to begin moving, leaving his old life behind, 'One day, I will return home to Father and Omm, but when that will happen, I do not know. Father, you will not find me like last time, my path will not be as obvious, as much as it pains me, but I will see you again, even if it takes years.'
Silently, Żaren trudged onwards, the wilds of Quijain awaiting him as he prepared for battle once more, destined to be immortalized as the Warlord of the Steppes, the Demon Lord of Ash that led thralls of his kindred into war, famed for killing Yrutas's weight in mortal blood by the time he passed on from Alternis.
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Post by Lex Caledonia on May 7, 2023 18:43:15 GMT -5
RECOMMENDED LISTENING:
THE GRAND MAGISTERTo eventually lose your mother is a tragic but ultimately inevitable moment in any child's life. Whatever their relationship with said child, whether they were cruel or kind, their absence will always be felt. Grand Magister Griffon felt this absence the absolute most, for the only mother she had known her whole life. Myratnis was gone to her. She had been for a while. After Yrutas' defeat, she had hoped that whatever had driven the holy mother away would cease, and return to how things used to be where all magic users could feel the Myratnis' holy grace. Instead, as the years turned into decades and her long ginger hair turned grey and frayed, that grace was all but an echo to her now and countless others. Alone she sat. The silence in the Cathedral surrounding her small, hunched-over frame, where outside of these old stone walls; the Empire thrived. She could not bring herself to leave the cathedral much towards the end. Instead choosing quiet introspection as her days finally came to a close. She had always told herself she had been the rational one. Yet, as her vision began to fade, the statue of Myratnis retreated into the darkness of death. She simply thought of Drake and how nice it was going to be to see him again. Myratnis was gone but at the same time, she had never left. Her faith remained. Isolating cold darkness was followed by all-encompassing warm light and with it, the Mother's comfort enveloped Haylee Griffon into eternity.
THE EPONYMOUS EXPLORER Ruby Hollins What does it mean to be a folk hero? To have people remember your actions and deeds centuries later. The broad strokes of your life are still being written about long after you are gone and the small print has had time to fade away. Most people in Lexidus remember you as the swashbuckling, womanising, adventurer who represented the vast and indomitable spirit of an entire nation. Most would but not all. Certainly not the natives of the lands you discovered, they would not remember you in such fond memory. People hundreds of years later framing you in modern contexts, ill-fitting of the society, culture and goals you were an actual part of, worshipping the ideal of you and certainly not you actually were. You were spreading forward-thinking and constructive Western ideals! Rather than purely caring about your own insatiable ego and bottomless coin purse. Lexidun children sit in a classroom, a lad sings songs of you sailing the seas and how it inspired him to one day become a sailor himself and explore the world. A lassie simply scribbles on a map, replacing the name "Savage" plastered above her island home with a native tongue she battles to remember every day. They both would go on to write books about you, to argue over you, like countless academics. Their lives engulfed by your actions centuries before. All the while you spend retirement on the shores overlooking the southern empire you helped build and inadvertently, destroy. A third child sits between the two, one who would grow up and change Lexidus forever, the first Revolutionary.
THE BRAVEST KNIGHT Dunsley Hovis
There was a knight no braver, than Dunsley of Loness. Doing his maw proud, he would often confess! True he was kind, a warrior only by chance. On the field of battle though, his blade would dance. Countless toasts of ale and mead. He would cry, I learned it fae cuttin' breid! Still, he would go, out into battle. Not interested in titles or any of that prattle.
Instead, the young Hovis, made one thing his focus. Protecting our Queen and all those who provoke us. The Empress, so grand! She made him a protector. Dunsley made sure everyone in the land would respect her. But perfidious Sawney, a family now enraged. War is what their venomous ilk would have certainly waged. But little did they know, their plans had no chance at success. For they were up against the brave knight Dunsley of Loness.
Guile, intrigue, betrayal and all the rest. Put our fair Empress through quite the test. Thankfully for her and the rest of us. Dunsley sorted out all of this fuss. He put the Sawney, right in their place. Socked their matriarch right in her ugly face! So raise a toast tae the brave lad with me The brave knight Dunsley, who made sure we'd always be free!
THE LOYAL PROTECTOR Donn Myra It had been an uneventful decade. Ever since she and Dunsley had dealt with the Sawney Conspiracy, all had been quiet and relatively well in the Empire. Personally, she would have killed all of the uppity pretenders and ended their bloodline to ensure their descendants would never attempt that sort of thing again, but her Empress had insisted and thus not all were to be culled. She could see why her lady would do it, echoing Blair and his choice at the Tabes perhaps, she did that a lot. Hanging onto the past. It was a wasteful ideal, she would never dare utter it but Donn Myra believed the past should be forgotten and swiftly moved on. There is little comfort and plenty of sorrow to be obtained from dwelling within it; she had learned that years ago when retrieving the font. She no longer dwelled on the Underdark, of her former king, of her lost love. Yet Leanabh often wallowed the same way she did, and it tore up Myra inside. Yet she kept true to her position, offering advice where she could, only Leanabh could fight her own wraiths, no matter how much the Donn tried to help her. So she simply continued to do her best, as the years turned into decades, and then half a century passed. She stayed loyal and firm with the same young face she had always known. Although her helmet and armour would try and hide it, her age began getting the better of her and before long, she could protect no longer. So it came to be, Donn Myra stood down and at her Empress' request, trained the new Donns. A dozen of them took her place, Dunsley proudly claiming it took all 12 of them to match up to their master, living proof of her calibre. This made the older and softer Myra laugh, a now common occurrence as she grew older and older. Her retirement is a vast contrast to her adolescence. Myra spending her final years surrounded by her friends and loved ones, on the surface of her true home.
THE STALWART STEWARD Augustus Crowley He lies in bed, dying, his last few hours being very comfortable. The air is crisp, the room is clean and he is surrounded by his entire family. It was about time, to be honest, he was beginning to get fed up with how many people would congratulate him for living this long. To be a little over a century old was an achievement sure, but if he had known how much it would make people fawn and celebrate over him, he would have offed himself years ago.
He would parrot the same line to every twinkle-eyed fool. He could attest his long life to how he did his job. With dedication, caution and with faith. It was enough to get them all to leave him alone, wise words satiating their incessant curiosities, giving him peace. It also gave him a good laugh, it was a load of old shite, he had no idea how he had got this far. Most likely pure luck.
He would occasionally remember those that kept him going many decades ago but he would immediately swallow those memories and instead let it sit like a cold weighted lead in his stomach. He did not want to see their faces. He had enough of them surrounding him as his breath grew more and more shallow, his eyes heavier and heavier and an eternal sleep soon approached him.
He scanned over them all. His children, Domnall, Alpin and Bonnie. His grandchildren, Pádraig, Isla, Duncan, Erin, Moire, Artur, Ciaran and Ruairidh. His great-grandchildren... far too fucking many to count. All of them crying over him. He looked away out towards the window, death about to finally come. Finally, after so long, he let the memory wash over him and remembered them. Of the girl who he promised to protect and for the king he called, only to himself in private... his son.
THE ETERNAL EMPRESS Leanabh Yola Lexidus The procession walks solemnly through the grand cathedral, what little shuffling of feet might have been heard is rendered inaudible under the cacophony of bone-shaking organ music and wailing trumpets. Flanked on either side by six soldiers, an opulent stand is carried, and nestled on top is a crown. The ancient crown jewels of Queen Yola the First were chosen for this very coronation. Worn by every woman who sat on the throne of Lexidus, it was now on its way to its fourth wearer. The fourth time for the kingdom and the first time for the empire. Ruby Hollins sits on the front bench, closest to the large ornate throne placed upon the rise of stone steps leading to the chancel, she glances all around, soaking in the spectacle of the occasion. Hundreds of people from all corners of Lexidus were present, from lowly barons to rich merchants and many decorated knights and soldiers. It was as if all of the Empire was here to witness this glorious event.
Dunsley is sat next to Hollins, alongside Crowley, the two men polar opposites of one other. The knight scans the room skittishly, his eyes darting all around, especially looking at the people in attendance. Always keeping his eyes on the de Sawneys at the back of the cathedral, his anxious expression darting back to the throne every now and then. The older steward simply stares, at the small figure sitting on the grand throne, a stony expression on his face. His eyes glisten, betraying his best attempt to hide his emotion. To the left of the throne stands the Donn, as straight and narrow standing as she always has been, the protector of royalty. Her standing to attention being so firm, it was as if she was a statue, ready to break from her petrification in but a moment if danger should befall her lady. To the right, the Grand Magister awaits, stepping down towards the crown as it arrives at the feet of history.
Slowly and ceremonially, Griffon gently holds the crown between her hands and steps up in front of the crown, as she does so the music stops. In front of her is a girl, barely a teenager, her mouse-like face pale. She wears a shiny blue dress with a black gilded cape around her thin shoulders. Her blonde hair is parted in a simple bob, her eyes staring ahead, not looking up at the magister or her destiny. Griffon slowly lowers the crown onto her head, wordlessly stepping to the side of the throne once more and letting the silence reign for one more moment before her authoritative voice breaks the silence. Her words echoed all around.
"All hail Empress Leanabh Yola Lexidus. Long may she reign, Eternal!"
"ETERNAL!" cried the masses, cheering and applause soon following. The silence and quiet once again sundered. The cacophony of sounds all blend together to create one large noise that simply flows over Leanabh. She sits there staring into nothing, looking away from those she loves, she tries to hold it all in but she can't. She lets go, and the tears soon follow. Slow trickles of anguish fell from dull green eyes, her expression blank, her bottom lip trembling only ever so slightly. It all washes over her, the ocean of crashing sounds and flow of emotions, she silently drowns in it. At this moment she is not a queen, an empress, a lion or anything they insist on calling her. She is just a scared young girl, thinking of the past and fearing the future and how she would have to face it in its all-encompassing and terrible spectacle.
The others would all leave her, be spared this fate, whilst she would eventually have to face it. All on her own. Unknowable, infinite and cold. So very cold.
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