Kilaro rock, western Bapentui

“Where is it we came from?” the young satyr asked. A filly of no older than ten, long oily hair fell from her head in braided dreads. The light of fire danced on the side of her face. The inside of the tent was dark, thick hide shielding the dusty interior from the sun outside.

“It was the Moa.” said another. Older. A matured mare. A full woman. Long curly hair crowning her, shining in the light of the fires. Looking into a mirror of silver she worked her fingers through her mane, combing out the frizzy strands and working to straighten them into consistent braids.

“The Moa Afar saw the creation that was that of Moinki and they lusted.” the older Satyr said, pulling beads from a brass dish alongside the mirror. Rolling them in her long slender fingers. Brightly painted nails shimmered with a shellac gloss finish. Much like the large beads, “In the Great Plains they ran as their home they looked down, and wished to have been ploughed, or be ploughed by the creation of Moinki. They had much in the way of their own fruits, but to taste and to feel the suppleness of another was tempting unto them.”

She turned to her ward, her dark face glowed healthily in the fire-light that illuminated her tent. Drawn across her soft, round cheekbones were paths of red and white. There was no shyness in her smile, in the glow of her emerald eyes. And even without paint her dark earthly skin was as rich as marsh clay.

“They descended on the Moinki creation, enticing them with their heavenly presence. Appearing before them as their own and convincing them they loved them, at least for the night. In earthly and heavenly arms they copulated until the sun rose over the horizon, revealing to the Moinki the ruse they had been tricked into. Before them were not the tall slender women and men that had come to them, but the bodies of silver horses and zebra. Goat stood among them.

“Before Moinki's clay sons and daughters could comprehend, or Moinki realize the Moa Afar ascended back to heaven with the seed of the Moin, or their heavenly seed sown into them.” she paused her story as she tied her frizy hair into a complacent knot as she slid the first of the many large beads onto the wayward strains. Putting her concentration into dressing her dark nightly hair.

“Some say nine years passed before the first fruits of the great copulation between mortal and spirit bore its first fruit. And born into the dust and in Heaven the first Afarid were born. Beautiful creatures that pleased the Afar, as they were created on the merger of two powers: one of their own, the other of another. They were the divine unification of the best of worlds.

“However, Moinki discovered then what had happened and became enraged. As the Afar set down our ancestors into the green world they had created so many eons ago they were approached by the monkey king Moinki himself who demanded the new children slaughtered, with him he brought the hybrid children born of his daughters' wombs.

“But the noble and beautiful Afar were confident in themselves and in their sense of honor and of pride. Standing firm against Moinki they refused. Bitterly enraged against this refusal from his own house Moinki ordered the earth-born to be murdered in the droves, claiming he would begin to fix this humiliation on his being. Forgetting the freedoms that was in all spirits, earthly or heavenly.

“But before he could force the hand of his First Son to raise the First Rock against the Afarid of the Earth the great Cele Moa – patron lord appointed by the Afar above them – intervened with her sun's fire and blinded the First Son and Moinki. In her swiftness and absolute brilliance she turned to steal away to safety the earthly Afarid. And whisked them away in her brilliance.

“With her host she fled west against Moinki.”

“And then?” the young satyr asked, her bright eyes glowing with curious wonder. Her hands gripped the wooden table as he hooves kicked impatiently in the air.

The older simply smiled, “Is this related at all to your first question?” she asked, giggling softly. Motherly. Though she was not, she had sired enough to know how to act. It shown well on her, and was a badge of honor on the elder satyr. But all the same she retained a fit and wonderful build complimentary to her position. Many a jagged scar though crossed her belly, carving the lines from whence her own children had to be saved.

“I guess not...” the young satyr said, “But I would like to know!” she demanded loudly.

“Patience and kindness, dear Moisi.” the young one's guardian scolded, “We may be free spirits, but there is no excuse we should be rude and evil.”

“I'm sorry Seusebi...” Moisi weakly apologized. Bowing her head, “But could you tell me?”

“I guess I could.” Seusebi Ashra Zekor said leaning on a hoof and swishing her tail to the side, combing through the coarse hairs to tie them into a braid.

“Moinki's rage did not simply end.” she continued, “He kept his demands and pursued the Afar to their Earthly roams where they taught their children to live in peace with their elder siblings. But Moinki and his host disturbed the great plains that was to be their homes and he shouted and jeered from the hills and mountains. Threatening to cast fire into the Savannah and the jungles.

“Sensing the danger of an out of control Moa, the Afar appealed to Bodye for safety, making the case they had done nothing to destroy creation.

“And Bodye did not respond with words. But with gesture. A great rain washed the mountains where Moinki besieged the Afar soaking him out and turning his golden crown into a soaked cup of chilling water. The Monkey King became appealed, and angered. But subsequently afraid and despondent as he could not swim.

“As the rains swelled he fell from his mountain top and into the valleys that filled with water. He struggled and thrashed, but sank into the depths of that flooding valley. But no Moa may not die, he only weakened.

“When the rains eased and Cele Moa was permitted to raise her sun into the sky over the mountains the waters dried to reveal a weaker Moa. But there was no promise humilation would keep the spirit at bay, and in a glorious flare Cele cast a fire so strong on Moniki she burned from him his physical body and shattered his spirit, breaking them up and spreading it across the world where it flew panicked and startled into his children.

“With his shattered spirit they inherited not only Moinki's creativity as we have our own from being birthed by the Spirits, but his anger. They inherited the rage and aggression he had at that moment, and the bitterness of his resentment.

“Many of Moinki's sons became thus jealous of the Afarid and the rest of creation. They devised war against others and themselves. They became in effect: modern humans.”

“Are the humans bad then?” Moisi asked, “I have never met a human...” she added nervously, and knowing of what was to happen.

“Then your chance is coming.” Ashra said, “And no, many may be jealous beings but there are those among them that are good and respectful. Those who have not inherited Moinki's war-like anger. Though, you are not to meet one of these.” she said in a low voice, pulling the final braid tight on her tail. Turning to her ward the Seusebi held out her arms, “Am I ready?” she asked.

“You are.” Moisi smiled excitedly. Ashra smiled, turning to the silver mirror and taking her staff from alongside it.

“Then let us hold court.” she said. Walking to the side she held out her arms and threw open the door of the heavy leathery tent, letting in with the force of a flood the light of the Savanah's afternoon. Opened to the world the excited hum of insects and the cawing of birds washed in with as much force as the light.

Jumping from the table Moisi trotted for the door, followed by her Guardian.

From the sun piercing light came to warm and shine off the beaded outfits the wore. Hanging loose from Moisi's pre-adolescent shoulders was a robe of beads woven over red cotton. Strips of brass shone along the shoulders, making her glow in the afternoon light.

Alongside her Ashra was a tall and proud mare. Her rich dark complexion brilliant in the light. The fine lines of her face faint in the lively warmth of noon. She stared out knowingly and patiently, her stoic expression commanded respect and honor from her female guard as they abruptly stood at attention, glittering scale plates and spear points only serving to bringing more light to her procession down the guarded aisle. As if orchestrated by Cele Moa herself to make a presentation of intimidation, the sky itself even complied.

The great Seusebi strode out between the guards, holding back her shoulders in a silk and cotton robe of a hundred colors. Beads formed a belt at her hip, extenuating her still narrow build and full motherly breast. Strong arms held her staff aloft as she walked forward with a bobbing sway.

“Seusebi Ashra!” a booming man's voice declared, she turned to face the man, bowing her head to her eldest son: the heir apparent. Niyo Yesobi. She had been young when she had given birth to him, not much older than the young filly trailing her. She had been just as young when she was married to Yesobi himself. Moisi would have been wedded already if she was not a bastard.

Niyo stood by stiff as any soldier, still dressed in his armor. An iron mask with a cartoonish grin, a tall raised hat, long billowing cloth running down behind his back. A single ostrich feather stuck up from his hat. Spear and shield in hand.

“Presenting to the defendant Madai of Af on charges of murder, and plotting to commit murder on Oboi Mami of Bugan.” he added. He did the ritual well, whether in the wilderness or at the great temple itself.

Walking out into a large opening Ashra saw the man she was to try and charge. A human, black, naked in all but torn rags about his crotch. Deep gashes and cuts raked across his skin. He glared up at the Seusebi disapprovingly, scowling. There was contempt behind his eyes. Ashra hated such looks.

Sitting down at her chair before him she looked down at the groveling defendant. The rising and distantly near visage of Kilaro rock stood in the distant haze. Just beyond it was the land they ceased to call their own, where this man was from.

“I've met your father.” Ashra said, folding her hands into her lap as she kicked her hooves crossed, “He was an honorable person. But how come you defy his honor by being present enough to be charged as an assassin?” she asked.

“To the burning fires of Hell, this trial.” Madai cursed, spitting into the dust, “I didn't intend for any murder. I didn't do anything.”

“So they all claim,” Ashra said, “Do we have the defense?”

“My brother does.” another human said, more respectably dressed in a long light robe.

“Present it to me. Let us begin the trial.” Ashra invited.

Adjutor Insula

The Helper and the Warrior

“The Scorched King will not accept a treaty from us, I fear,” muttered Lord Defender Marcus Aticus sullenly. He slumped in his chair, partly because the meeting had reached its seventh hour, and partly because he was certain that Guide Charity IX was an ignorant fool. “They have love of Blood Sin, matched by few in these parts.”

Guide Charity was an elderly man, ravaged by nine decades of life on the frozen island. His eyes had dulled with senile blindness, and an attendant had to keep swabbing at the spittle dribbling from the left side of his mouth with a cloth.

“Beloved brother,” Charity croaked, more than said, “are you asking me to… shut off Adjutor Insula from the world?”

Marcus flinched. He knew the old man, though physically diminished, still held a mind sharper than any sword. The Guide was openly accusing him of heresy, though in the nicest and vaguest way possible.

“No My Guide,” Marcus replied, sitting himself up. “I just do not see why we should send any of our peoples to a waiting executioner. The Scorched King respects strength, not diplomacy.”

“And,” Charity mumbled weakly. His head shaking with the strain as his aged neck fought the weight. “When was helping a neighbour a sign of weakness?”

The Lord Defender suddenly felt a pulse of anger, and quickly knocked it from his mind with a divine slap of reason. Calm, brother. he thought to himself. “My Guide, you are a good man, the greatest of the Order – there is no doubt. But I feel that you are perhaps trying to feed sharks with sleeping babes by your insistence on this matter.”

“I do not care,” the Guide replied weakly. “We have dallied on this enough. Lord Defender, you have my love, and my thanks, for your council. However, my mind is set on strengthening relations with the one you call ‘The Scorched King’.” He paused briefly, to dig into his white robes, and produced a rolled scroll. “Have this taken to KarKarth. Choose a man who is eager to join The Great Faran in the Heavens, and have him deliver it to the King directly.”

Marcus bit his lip, but relented when he realised he could not sway the Guide’s mind. “As you wish, My Guide.” He paused, and considered his actions briefly. “I am… sorry for doubting your judgement.”

The Guide waved his hand, and smiled warmly – well, as much as his worn face muscles would allow, anyway. “There is nothing to be sorry for, Lord Defender. I have always valued our friendship, and your wisdom.”

Kilaro Rock, Western Bapentui

The sound of drums rolled soft over the grass as night fell over the isolated camp of the Seusebi. A day had passed over a murder trial. A frantic defense had been given of the charged human. Asha was not too keen to jump to quick conclusions. Especially given the possibility of circumstances.

As the noon sun grew later the prosecuting chiefs had argued the point. Setting before the Seusebi their evidence and their witnesses. The day had dawned as the great priestess retired to deliberate. There was no doubt she wished to be back within the capital. But the special circumstances had been declared, and Mami Sebo of the Bugan was stubborn to try him in his hills, and not in the city. It was much the problem of the rural distant chiefs that swore their feilty.

The priestess having retired closed the day's formalities, and the warriors dispersed as the murderer was interred in his cage.

“How long will this last?” a satyr youth asked, as he followed his companion up the grassy hills from the campsite below. He was sprightly, skinny. A curly head of head curled up around his head like a nest for starlings.

“Both sides have passed a case, I don't think mother will take more than a night to come to the verdict.” the older one said, Niyo. Without his mask he was a patiently apathetic and indifferent looking warrior. His eyes flat and burrowed on the horizon. He lips pressed tight as his hand over his spear. His hair was shaved short, almost bald. A patch of beard grew from his browned chin. “We'll be heading for home soon no doubt with permission granted to Mami to execute the human.”

“What of his kin though?” the younger one asked, “I don't think they'll appreciate it. And they're present.”

“They have to.” Niyo shrugged indifferently, “It's honor. If they do wish to fight it beyond tradition then so be it. We will lay the case to rest in combat, and take Madai out with the rest of his brothers.”

“But out here?” the young one asked, “Of all places? And not in any villages?”

“I assume Mamai didn't want his people to riot.” Niyo grinned as he reached the top of the hill. He still wore his armor, which shone in the crystal clearness of the stars above.

The sky spanned over head with a clear brilliance. The stars looked down, shining like diamonds as the world turned below. Not a stretch of cloud occupied or obscured the clarity of the night. And with the full moon and the entire menagerie of star-light the night was bright. A soft illumination shone across the grass. Black and blue turning over in the fields in waves as the breeze played with the ocean of tall grass. Kilaro rock stood in the distance, a perfectly black monolith against the sky's light and the thick band of stars that ran from behind it.

“They say the Afar Moa watch us from the sky. All the thousands of them.” the young Satyr said in awe, “I am never not impressed with their kingdom.”

“And I am no priest and have no comment, Rwan.” Niyo commented, planting his spear into the rich savannah soil, “You've listened to mother's stories more than you have danced with the spear. It makes me wonder, brother.” he teased.

“I have practiced!” Rwan Yesobi protested, blushing visibly in the night light. His voice cracked and broke, shaken from the jab, “I-it's just that I am not good.”

“No you're not.” Niyo grumbled, “You move and swing like you're drunk still, and can not seem to find your mark. Your throws are even more frightening.”

“Then let me practice more!” Niyo's brother begged, “With your spear!”

“Mine?” the older one snickered, “No, I say you won't. It's far too sharp for you.”

Rwan pouted, throwing himself down into the grass. He sat staring off at the distant horizon. His brother loomed over head watching the darkened country.

“Why are we not in the camp?” Rwan asked.

“Why are you not? You chose to follow me.”

“I don't know.” Rwan squeaked, with a risen voice.

“You should follow less then, learn to lead a little.” Niyo nodded, “Maybe you'll be able to assert yourself in fighting then.”

“It is hardly as if I will go anywhere with it. There are three of you ahead of I. The most I could hope to amount for is to stay home the rest of my life, and live within the city.” Rwan waxed, “So why not listen more then to the stories. I will use it for something.”

“Perhaps.” said Niyo.

The two brothers fell into a palpable silence. The regular celebration of life at the camp continued, reserved but happy in itself. Staccato drums wavered over the air. The faint subtle melodies blew out when the breeze blew just right, carrying their notes out further from the lightly plucked two-string gabrs and panflutes. It wasn't as strong as weekend celebrations, or as proud as holier days.

The peace was unrequited. Broken only by a silver flash that shot in the moonlit air. The sudden flash awakening Niyo from his watchful doze as he turned to meet the thorn, to have it find a mark in his armored chest.

Reflexively, he shouted in shock for his brother to get down as the darted arrow burrowed itself shallowly in the scaled armor of his breast. Quickly, almost his spear was in the air as fast as the arrow came, spreading dirt through the air like a ribbon as he spun to where the missile had been fired.

His heart racing Rwan was too frozen in the grass, watching his brother move fluid like a moving stream on his hooves. His eyes widened in the shock. The world vibrant in his surprise. He felt almost floating as the prince sprung across the grass, the long spear coming into two hands as he plunged through the darkness to the dark shape not far behind on two legs. It too drew a weapon, the dark curvature of a bow falling from his moonlit hands as the assailant charged to meet the wary prince.

Rwan sprung to his hooves, his heart racing violently in his chest. He could feel its pulse as far up as his throat. He was too frozen to scream and alert the camp below. He was too terrified to do so. Or to enthralled by the movements of his brother.

He moved quick, thrusting his spear at the dark creature. Star light glinted off the iron tip as it crashed through to where he stood. With a sweep from a hoof he dropped through the grass as a knife's blade arced across to where his face was.

A wooden crack snapped across the shadow's face as the prince carried his response with the rest of his movement. Dancing around to behind the attacker.

Retreating up, he went to assume the higher ground. The attacker was a human, a man without a tail or hooves on his legs. Dressed in nothing but lightly beaded armor he bound back, swinging at Niyo's jabs. Batting them aside with the knife. A quiver of arrows bounced on his back as he moved.

Unrequited, Niyo rose the spear over his shoulder and swung it over his head like a long club. The wood bent and yawned as it arced downwards through the warm night air. The human ducked under, stepping to the side as the spear's tip crashed into the rich clay where he stood. Tip burrowed in the dirt the man reached out with his dagger, charging at Niyo.

But he didn't stop moving. Turning aside he swept the polearm up out of the ground. Spinning round the human assailant at the sharp iron thorn cut through the air. Rwan could hear the the whistling of the metal as it cut, and he scrambled back through the tall long grass as the sharp head gouged its way into the assailants side. Catching on the quiver it dragged down, cutting the leather straps and drawing ribbons of blood from his side to his side. Never mind the wooden and leather beads.

Screaming in pain the man went rigid. His hands twisted in sharp agony against the deep gash. He staggered, hissing at the hurt as it flowed warm from his side.

There wasn't question in what next. Niyo had won and he was intent on finishing. Diving like a hawk came the spear-tip, plunging deep through the man's torso with a crunching wet crash. He went stiff, then feel limp onto the wood. Dropping like a doll as Niyo pulled out the blade.

Rwan whimpered weakly as he lay in the grass. His legs drawn up tight against him, his arm held up as if to block a blow. His brother stood over the body, his shoulder raising and lowering, panting. He looked up, frantically searching the Savannah. The air felt tighter. A rich tensity permeated the night. Something was brilliantly off.

Some horn blew in the night.

“Rwan, we need to return to the camp.” Niyu said, “You were right, something felt fishy about this.

“Stay close to me. What ever you do, do not part with me. Not until we reach mother's tent. By Bouc Li Moa, I should have smelled this.”

“W-what's going on?” Rwan panicked.

“We'll find out later. Let's go!”

Within the Kamer van Macht; Afternoon, Veere, north-eastern Frisstreek

---

The idle noises of silence worked their way throughout the Kamer, the hall, the fire spitting and cracking as a servant placed another armload of wood into its flames before disappearing off through a close door. In the distance an echo of a clock’s pendulum kept a steady beat, but it was nearly drown out by the deep, steady breaths of Lord Ode, which kept a time of their own.

He’d been asleep for the better half of an hour now, but truthfully, he had not been awake for many years now. Every once in a while, his brilliance would spark up within him, a stubborn flame, and for a moment, Frisstreek would be reminded of the authority he commanded all those years ago, but as quickly as it was rekindled, his mind would snuff out, trailing off into bubbling nonsense, his purple lips trembling, as those half-blind, haze of eyes closed, and like a babe, he was soothed from the cold, terrible world, into the womb of ignorance his age had granted him.

Often he forgot he’d been talking at all, and all gathered around him, the court would wait, drawn in breath to hear would wisdom he might share. For many moments, they’d stand there, listening to his labored breathing, until Lord Ode would mention the weather, or ask, prideful and delighted, if anyone had met his new grandchild, Basilious’ baby boy, Ode the Younger. Ode the Younger now had children of his own, but every time the Lord regaled them with the wonder that was his first grandchild, the entire court humored him with their own smiles, and sympathetic nods.

Lord Ode’s wrinkled face bobbed down in his seat, Basilious, who sat at his right, reaching over to his elderly father, and adjusting the man, righting him with a look of suspicion at the other two Lordships, as if they had somehow cast his father into this stupor, as if they found his age amusing, once the most powerful man in all of Frisstreek, now a wrinkled, old child.

“I received a messenger from Middenveld, yesterday. He sent word that the farmer, Saar of Laren rides through the countryside with a group of yeoman, garnering support for expansion south.” Lord Henri finally spoke up after several terse moments, his green eyes flickering between the sleeping Lord, and the rain-pattered window lining the eastern wall. “There is claim that the Graafen of Laren, Edam, and Hoorn.”

Lady Sara scoffed softly, dressed still in morning, as she had been for a month now since they lay her brother to the fire. Henri shared no love for a de Vires, but Nys had been only a boy, and he knew Sara to have taken to him like a son of her own, “ Firstly,” The woman spoke, her once radiant blonde hair now without luster, threads of silver greyed out the gold, and her youth seemed drained from her, leaking from her pale pours as her ten years had exhausted her especially, and she craved a life unburdened, “Why were neither Lord Ode, or I, called when the Messenger arrived? Though, My Lord, you do make a grand relay yourself, it seems only fitting that we should have been present when this news was shared. Secondly, pray tell, what care do farmers have that our borders expand south? It would be a bloody war, and bloody wars are fought by farmer’s sons.”

“I agree with Lady Sara, at least on her first point, the second; forgivable ignorance.” Basilious spoke in turn of his father, a grin on his face, as if he thought himself to have shared something particularly funny.

“Excuse me?” Lady Sara’s eyes narrowed, “What of my ‘ignorance’ makes it so forgivable?”

“It’s only to be expected, M’lady.” He cooed back, that cocky grin never leaving his face. Across the table, Lord Henri, who had done well thus far in remaining neutral, began to smile as well, “Forgive me, all I mean is, that as a Lady, though fiercely intelligent as you are, blind spots in your vast knowledge are foreseeable. Especially in works of war and expansion. Not that I am not of fault! Surely if you were to quiz me on what-..I don’t know, silks and dyes were in fashion currently, I’d be clueless too. Don’t you agree, Lord Henri?”

“Most agreeable, Basilious.” The youngest Lord snickered, as they shared between them a bond of misogyny, two schoolboys within a club that she was excluded, and from their perceived betterment, they grinned down at the woman, who stared icily back.

To keep her face, Sara said nothing, having dealt long enough with their idiocy to know that it’d pass, a lasting storm, that one day would blow right back into their grinning faces.

“Anyhow…” Henri cleared his throat, and straightened himself, “The farmers want land, Lady Sara, with our population swelling, there is very little land to split among them. A system of master and serf has begun to arise, with the wealthier men buying great tracks of land, and allowing the peasant-farmer to work them, allowing that they give a hefty percentage of their crop in payment to the ‘Master’. Before such a rigid system be emplaced, many of the aforementioned ‘serf’ have begun an outcry for more land. Already, stories circulate that families have moved independently south, and rumor is that the soil is remarkably fertile.”

Lady Sara nodded, her eyes narrowed slightly, “Our Heode is already stretched thin as it is, should we expand, it would require recruitment, militia’s created, food, weapon, and armor supplied, a new tax would be implemented, and since it is these yeomen who cry out for this expansion, which only benefits them, this tax-burden should fall upon their shoulders.”

“Squeezing coin from the already poor?” Basilious remarked, “I know you are cold, Sara, but that uncaring?”

Her eyes narrowed fiercely as she already saw an alliance budding against her, enemies forming as she sat up, “Then who would you suggest we take it from? Everyone ails, Vorst.”

That confident smile sparked once more across Basilious’ face. He was of the same age as Sara, late into his thirties, but there was a boyish arrogance still in his eyes, the eyes of a Prince, who has wanted nothing in his life but to inherent that great power his father has culled in life, and waste it frivolously in his boyish way. “ North and South, East and West. The world is filled with bounty and lushness, we’ve only to reach out, and take it. Our people are great conquerors, it is in our blood. Han the Glorious, Dedrick the Deathless, and even Adaja, Maiden of the Gods. They did not raise an army from the taxes of their poor for expansion, they saw the wealth of the world around them, and they took it, for it is rightfully theirs.”

Lady Sara stared at him, drawing in a deep breath so that her fur cloaked shoulders raised high, eyes unwavering, “Fine, we shall have a vote.”

“I am glad that you see reason, My Lady.” Basilious glanced to Henri, who though looked deep in thought, he knew craved the same status as he did; to be cast among the legends, as the Lords who returned Frisstreek her glory.

“Wake Lord Ode, you are not yet a Lordship, Basilious, and though you may think yourself one, until your father is gone, bless his soul, the vote is unopened to you, a Vorst, no matter his status as heir.”

Wickedly, the man glared toward Sara, You bitch, he thought, a hand coming to gently wake his father. Perhaps if they vote quickly, the man will still be in too much of a stupor to understand, and follow Basilious’ advice on the vote.

But before the old man’s eyes had fully opened, Lady Sara’s voice rung out across the hall, “Lord Ode, we are voting upon the suggestion of your son, Basilious, if we should raise an army, and wage war with out neighbors; the very ones you spent your lifetime creating a friendship with, so that we shall gain the wealth to expand south. What do you think of that, Hm?” Though she spoke slowly so the old man might understand, her words were loud, and the silence that followed them was a short snip before Lord Ode’s voice rang out.

“What?!” He shouted, enraged, spit still running down his lip as he spoke, “Not until I am in the grave will Frisstreek become a nation of pillagers, [b]Never[/e]!” His voice, though slurred with his jowls shaking, held remnants of his past strength, the passion alit behind those hazed eyes for only a second, the man already beginning to drift into his madness however, repeating himself, “Never, Never, Never…” Over and Over again until only an airy whisper, a passing breeze of ‘nevers’ exhaled through his slack lips, and the old man hunched backwards, staring stonily at the ceiling, as if an apparition of a life lost floated there, his mind and his body gone to hell, but up in heaven, he saw his spirit there, floating free from years of bondage, a brilliant mind shrunken and caged behind all that madness.

Now it was Lady Sara smiling, looking across the Lord Henri, “ M’lord, your vote?”

Rather than vote, the man stood, adjusting the buttons of his tunic, and marching off, for no matter what he said, the vote was decided. Lady Sara then looked toward Basilious, it was his turn for ridicule, though the woman only smiled, seeing the rage behind his eye, “ I assume the meeting is adjourned, Vorst, a pleasure as always.” She stood, and too was disappeared out the door, the Lordship disbanded, and off to do the other duties that concerned their days.

Kilaro Rock, Seusebi camp

The smell of blood and the soil upturned by the dancing and grinding of battle-shocked Satyrs and man turned in the air as the darkness glistened and glittered with the dancing and parrying metal of spears and knife. The crashing of metal and rock rang out in the darkened fire-lite night as the two princes darted through the madness of battle. Shouts echoed from the darkness, seemingly falling from the sky itself, sounding as if even the Gods were angered at the blasphemy below.

(Action Tiem)

Cowering against his side, Rwan clung to Niyo as they skirted through. Carefully keeping an eye as to where the worst of the fighting was. But everywhere there was fighting. Masked assailants throwing themselves down on the servant retinues who fought with only their own fists and rocks. Their faces torn between panic and fear as they took poorly the puncture of the knife, flaying the skin of their arms or skewering their bellies.

Thrown into a fury the Seusebi's guards charged among the battle, breaking across the heads of the attackers and sticking their guts with their spears and thick wood frame and hide-dressed shields. Skewering the lightly armored humans into the dirt they trampled them with their hooves, cracking their heads open as effectively as it would be to hammer them flat with a stone.

Lean-tos constructed of sticks and leather sleeping bags had been tossed about the trampled grasses by the battle. Broken red standards lay lopsided onto the ground. Fires burned hot and columns of smoke rose thick into the air.

Niyo and Rwan weaved quickly between the wreckage. The prince's spear bit out quickly at the assailants. He was swift, as were the rest of the guard as they prowled across the dark battlefield trying to put the violence to a rest. Like they, he moved quick. Gangly Rwan trying his best to keep pace.

In the thick fog of battle he nearly them both into the thick burning pyre of a tent, collapsed in their path and smoldering, coughing up a thick cloud of dark smoke the shrouded his vision until it was too late. Seeing this, Niyo's heart jumped and he snapped to the side, throwing his hooves to the side and trampling back across slick Earth. In his panic he felt his weight lift off from the ground. Rwan screamed against the fur of his legs as they both spilled down. Falling with a splat into the mud, covering themselves in muck and blood.

From the boiling remains of the tent Niyo turned to see the silhouette of a charging figure. Charging over the burning wreckage, his feet lifted as he lunged over the burning timbers and cloth with a heavy bronze club raised over his head. Fire and smoke drew deep bands of light and dark across his dark scowling skin as he pounced on them like a pouncing lion. His robes torn and frayed so much so, he was close to being naked. A primal ecstatic urge to kill burned in his eyes, his muscles tense as he flew.

Niyo didn't have a moment to thick. Quickly, he grabbed his brother by the shoulder and they both rolled to the side as the man splashed down to where they two had laid. The slick mud splashing as he landed, and the tortuously bladed mace splashing into the earth where the two princes had laid just moments ago.

The attacker roared furiously, “Bastards!” he screamed, hoisting the weapon over his head again as his bare toes clenched the mud under his feet, turning, “You both!” he roared angrily, peeling the club out of the sticky bloodied mud.

Before it could so much as raise to his shoulder Niyo hooked a hoof about, turning in the viscous mud and catching him in the ankles with a sharp hard turn of his hoof. With a loud crack the man spilled back, tripped over. With a splash himself he fell to the ground, his mace falling out of arm's reach.

The prince's heart beat fast in his chest. The man was quickly stirring in the mud, turning to pull himself up. He had to do like-wise, grabbing his younger brother by his hair he pulled them both up. Rwan yelped in pain as his he felt his scalp being pulled. But there was no time for thinking about it. Fires burned at their back, and a would-be killer was scrambling to his own feet.

Throwing his brother aside Niyo turned about, spinning quickly and reaching for a spear that was not there. He felt a great rope tug at his chest as he realized he had lost his weapon. A staunch fear boiled in his chest and filled it with lead. Then with the force of a ram a black fist pelted him across the face and sent him spilling again to the filthy ground.

With a cracking omph he landed on his back against the sloppy ground. He rose his hands just in time to catch the lunging body jumping onto him.

Catching the man's wrists Niyo was caught fighting the glistening icy blade of a long curved knife as its master held it tight between knuckled red with furious intent. The man's broad face was curled back in a twisted yellow snarl. His nostrils bulged as he fought the prince's grip to bring the knife down to his own neck.

Grinting his teeth Niyo fought back. Pushing with his entire strength against the knife's blade as it shone hot-orange in the reflected fire-light. “NIYO!” Rwan screamed agonizingly from the side. He grit his teeth as he eyes glued themselves to the curved knife. The tensity of the moment was thin. A fragile balance between his own life and he could feel the pressure. It was a dire fight.

“Niyo, no!” Rwan continued to sob from a distance. Though young he was considered adult. And the thick sobbing of his panicked and distraught voice was distressing in itself.

“I-I'll do something!” the younger prince called back.

“Da shit y'will!” the assailant shouted back, peeling himself back from Niyo as he lunged up. His voice dripping with the thirst for blood. The dagger swept back in the air as he charged for Niyo's younger brother. Reaching out he grabbed the man by the torn ruffs of his peeling robes and rained him back.

But he had gone far enough. With a quick whipping of the knife through the air, it cut a cruel arch and cut the prince across the prince's face. He wailed in pain and fell back. In that moment time slowed for Niyo. He felt the pain cut his chest as he watched his brother raise his hands to his eyes where the blade had cut. The blood was thick, just moments after being cut. His pained screams and wails echoed in the night over all other sounds. All others became muted, and so did all sights become snuffed out.

The burning intensity in his chest grew hotter and consumed him deeper. From his groin to his head he felt seething and glowing with intense fury. The man had been drawn back, which no doubt kept him from cutting his brother's throat clear open. But he was scrambling up now to finish the job.

With a hawkish fury Niyo pounced up from the mud. Throwing himself on the shoulders of the man. Balling his fists up he rose them over his head and brought them down over the back of the man's neck. There was a popping sputter as the full force of the prince's strength came down and he fell to the mud. He struggled and fought to throw him off, but Niyo was intent in his aims. Too far consumed with something greater than he.

Again, his fists rose above his head and again they fell in an arch. The man's neck again cracked. And again as he pounded down atop of him. Over and over his hands rose and feel, swallowed in his primal rage. The mud splashed under neath, squelching and bubbling as the human was driven deeper. His body spasmed from the intense assault, until finally stilling. Niyo sitting over top him, legs splayed out alongside him as he leaned to the one side, breathing deep the ash of his own dispute.

“N-niyo!” Rwan sobbed close by. Niyo looked up, panting heavily over the still body of the man between his legs. Sprawled broken nearby, caked high with dripped wet, brown, and red mud sat Rwan. His small hands clutched tight to his face as streams of deep red blood dripped out between long slender fingers. His voice was wet, and sobbing. “N-niyo, I can't see!” he wailed, “I-I can't see! H-help. Where are you, brother?”

“I-I am here.” Niyo said weakly, his voice dry and parse. “Can you hear me?”

“I-I can, but I can't see you!” Rwan stuttered weakly. He reached out blindly with one bloodied hand. Niyo met it and held it firm between his fingers. The blood was warm and sticky.

“I-I-I...” Rwan stammered, sobbing. He wasn't coherent enough for words and his breath stole itself away between bloodied tears and wet sobs. Snot and saliva flowed from his mouth and nose as he sat still in that puddle. He doubt pissed himself, from the smell. But he was all together filthy, and it very well probably didn't matter.

“Come on, I'll get you to mother.” Rwan coaxed gently, pulling himself to his hooves, holding tight his brother's clenched hand. Slowly and unstably he did the same, “She's got medicine to fix this...” he said, hopefully. He looked around him, looking for his spear. But in the smoke, the darkness, and the thick mud accumulating it was unlikely he would find it. Guiding his brother along he sheparded him about.

Passing their assailant's weapon, he bent down and pulled the sticky mace from the muck. It was crude, heavy, and unbalanced. But it would have to do.

He held a pensive breath as they wound through, keeping low. His brother, shocked, was unwilling to run. He whinnied and whined in his pain and his sorrow. Beside himself in the darkness that claimed his vision.

“Brother?” Rwan asked.

“Yes?” Niyu responded, stopping to bow low, and peer through the smoke. There were satyr's hooves ahead.

“Will I see the stars again?” Rwan asked.

Niyo hesitated, hopeless how to respond. “Y-yea...” he said weakly, lying to his brother. And himself. Carefully he plodding through the billowing smoke, leading on his brother by a hand.

“Really?” Rwan said. Niyo wished it was hopeful as they moved through the smokey haze. But there was cynicism in his words. A unhampered disbelief. It was grim.

“Yeah...” said Niyo, keeping up his lies. It felt better to keep the young Satyr in hope than it was to not. Deep down it was probably untrue. But as the proverb went: if one lied to his self so much, it will become a truth.

“Bui Niyo!” a voice called out in excitement as the prince cut through the smoke, coming into a clearing guarded by pensive satyrs. Niyo looked to who had spoken, his face fallen into despair too clearly.

“And... Bui Rwan...” the speaker said again, his voice dropping and curling up in disgust. No doubt seeing the heady wound behind the young colt's hands.

“Mami Osowo.” Niyo said, nodding his head at the large overweight chieftain sitting in the middle of the clearing. His thickly furred and stripped legs looked hardly able to lift the flabby bulk of a Afarid, but they did.

Mami was a balding man, and what hair he still had turned to a deep silver halo that crowned his natural pin-headedness. Thick jowls were barely hid by a thin scraggly beard. “It's a pleasure to see you well, all things considered.” he smiled nervously. He looked to his men who kept a parameter around the fat aging chief. They wore no armor, being more hunters than the few professional retinues Niyo's father and mother kept. They stood as if waiting for the lions to come.

“What happened here?” Niyo demanded. Rwan followed up behind him, his shoulder brushing alongside Niyo's arm. He sniffed back the tears and stood listening.

“The Hells should I know.” Mami shrugged, shaking his head, “We were fine off, having food and drink when all the sudden we hear someone scream above the songs. Then all the sudden these human swine were running all over us.

“I and my men fought them back here. But most of them went off running to your mother's tent.” Mami advised. Somehow Niyo doubted he had any hand in fighting. His sausage hands were far too clean for that, as were other things.

“M-mom...” Rwan stuttered.

“The prince looks injurred.” Mami exclaimed, nervously pointing to Rwan, “What happened?” he asked in a concerned voice.

“Someone... cut him.” Niyo said, “I was going to take him to mother's to keep him safe. And now to attend to him. B-”

“My medicine woman, Yoani. She can help!” Mami exclaimed, “Or help to stifle the boy's bleeding and pain until the Seusebi can see to him. Listen, you can still hear the shouts from your mother's tent!”

Niyo closed his mouth, puckering in his lips as he listened to the night. True enough in the direction of the camp's nexus he could hear the shouting. The thumping and clash of metal. “It will be safer to leave him here.” Mami said, “While we have peace.”

“You're right.” Niyo nodded.

“N-niyo no!” Rwan protested, “Don't leave me, I don't want you to leave me!”

“And I can't have you with me when I go into a fight!” Niyo responded, “I will be back for you. When it's all said and done. If not, I'll send for you. But you'll be safe.”

He let go of his hand, gently placing his fingers on his shoulder, “Don't worry.” he encouraged.

Mami hobbled over to the young prince, “The Bugan will protect you.” he said comfortingly, guiding him to the side.

“Niyo, you should go fast. Hasten to your mother's side. I don't know what you might expect. But Moa's grace with you.”

“And you too.” Niyo bowed.

Adjutor Insula

A Funeral

The sky was fittingly overcast, and a light drizzle descended upon the thousand strong procession as they mourned brothers lost.

Sending envoys to the Scorched King had proven disastrously unwise, and none of those sent returned. Well, save for their severed hands. Though all were old, and happy to pay the ultimate price in the name of progress, the monks of the nearby monasteries had turned out in droves to honour them.

Upon a hastily errected wood stage, above deep holes filled with empty coffins, Guide Charity was helped to the fore by two of his attendants. Advanced age had taken the strength from his voice, and so it fell to Lord Defender Marcus Aticus to give his words volume.

"Today," yelled Marcus, pausing to listen in to the ailing Guide. "We commit the memory of our beloved kin to the ground, from which they came. Bitter, is the nature of their demise, but glorious, was the nature of their lives. Look on them with pride and joy, for they truly gave all they could to forge a better world. Let us not forget them."

There was some open weeping in the procession, and many bowed their heads with sorrow. Each man lost to death was a brother known in life.

"But in this time of grief," Marcus started again. "Let us not lose ourselves to the sin of revenge. Our neighbours from across the unfeeling ocean are twisted by such sin, and it is in them now to commit fire to the innocent and the needy. Let us not become their sorrow."

The service fell short, as the Guide's health failed briefly and he collapsed. He was helped away by his attendants, leaving a sodden Marcus, glittering in heavy plate, to face the mass of mourners.

"Flesh to earth, earth to flesh, t'is the way of the world," Marcus continued, unaided. "Remember them. Keep them alive in your memory, but do not dwell on this butchery."

The last of his words startled some of the senior priests gathered on the stage, but he was already descending the steps, and mounting his destrier before they could up condemnation with him.

Religion, Treason and Plot

"Fuck this," Marcus yelled, as he entered the elaborate structure he called home. "The world commits itself to murder and genocide, and we sit back, saying kind words when we should be the ones leading the charge. Fuck this."

Yulona had come running feverishly to greet her husband, but was halted in her tracks by his tirade. "My love," she gasped, "what are you talking about?"

"We're fools, Yulona," Marcus spat, as his hands worked frustratedly at the buckles on his armour. "How we've made it this far, is beyond my understanding. I don't recognise my own fucking country any more."

Yulona remained motionless, her eyes wide half in fear, and half in shock. It was unlike Marcus to come to her in such a manner. "I don't unde-"

"Six good men, all dead. They gave their lives for this fucking island, and now they're dead. I hope if I die in the same manner, flying the same cause, the Guide gives me more than soft worded, weak willed obituary."

Suddenly she was coming to understand her husband, though after five years of marriage, one would have thought she'd known by now. "It is our way, Marcus, our way my love. We must not strike first, nor strike back. The world will destro-"

"Oh spare me, you stupid woman," Marcus roared suddenly.

Two Sword Brothers materialised from the Dining Hall in short order, having heard their Lord's raised tone. He dismissed them with angry glances, and then they were gone.

Yulona was stunned into silence by her husband's sudden insult. She did not understand him after all, did not know him. Like many things in Adjutor Insula, their marriage had been arranged for the greater good.

"Don't look at me like that," he growled, and stormed over to her with his armour falling about him onto the floor in loud clutters. "You're just like him."

"Like who?" the petrified mumble escaped her trembling lips.

Marcus struck her then, for the first time since their marriage those five years ago. She fell with a scream, collapsing on the floor. One of the Sword Brothers peeked in from the Dining Hall doors, but quickly retreated.

"Like that snivelling old fool, who calls himself a Guide. A Piper, more like, leading us all into oblivion with his stupid songs."

"You hit me," Yulona sobbed, trying to pick herself back up. "You have gone to madness, you need help, Marcus, my love, you need help."

Marcus looked down at her, disgusted. He didn't need help; it was she and everyone else on the island that needed their minds checked. He saw the world for what it was, and he was not about to sit by and become another victim of it, not when he had a shot to play the game of thrones. He launched his mailed boot into Yulona's face, sending her sliding across the marble floor.

"Disgusting," he said at her weeping, defeated form. "You're no wife of mine..." he paused, looking at her with primal savagery. "Still, even you have a purpose in this country's future."

With that, he grabbed the thick of her hair, and dragged her kicking and screaming down the hallways towards their bedchamber.

---

"How many will follow us?" asked First Captain Henrick.

"Enough," grinned Horse Master Jacobs. "Not that it matters. The Lord Defender will do what is needed."

"You think he can?" Henrick mused aloud. "He's a good fighter, of that there is no question. The Sanctum is one of the world's finest fortresses, if ever I knew. I don't see how he plans to do what must be done."

"He's Lord Defender," chuckled Jacobs. "He'll come through for us, for the island. He has to. Just do your job, and wait for the signal."

"Do you think our cause is just, brother?" Henrick asked suddenly. "My heart, and conscience trembles."

"Careful, old friend. More talk like that will land you in the cold of the sea, and that's your only warning," said Jacobs, his friendly face suddenly descending into a primal hatred. "If we don't pull this off, everything will be lost. How long do you think it'll be before the Scorched King comes this way?"

"I..." Henrick fell silent at that. The Horse Master was right. The island needed strength, not compassion. The world beyond was changing for the worse, and war was the talk of the town. If it didn't live up to the challenges ahead, then it would not survive. Guide Charity always had a hard time of understand this much.

Within Lord Henri’s Private Apartments; Evening, Veere, north-eastern Frisstreek

---

Henri ran his taut fingers through his tuffs of brown hair, for a moment, his light eyes closing, a hollow breath echoing through his lips. “Mia…” He called to his wife, his voice echoing through the chambers of the hall. Here were the Royal Apartments, meant to be filled with the little feet of his vorsten and vorstinnen; his princes and princesses, his sons and daughters. Yet the halls were silent. No babe cried for a wet-nurse, no little boys tussled, and no little girls fussed. All that was left was a silence. Every bed that had been filled was only for the night; in it would lay a weak, lame creature, its screeches that of a demon, though they lasted only hours before his legacy would return to the grave.

Since Mia was born, Henri had been betrothed to her. She was the daughter of his father’s best friend and closest ally, the Hertog, duke, of Zeehaven. The same man, who on his father’s death, assumed the title of Lord for fifteen years in Henri’s stead. They’d known each other since their youth, and a month after she first bled, they were married. Twelve years had past since then. Seven pregnancies failed, the majority of which were over before Mia’s belly had grown fat. Those which did bloat her ended with two stillborn sons, and a monstrous daughter who had not last the night. All that his family consisted of now was aunts and uncles, first cousins, second cousins. He’d had them all sent away, away from court, away from him. They held the eyes of carrion, circling from above as the years passed, and the Prins approached the threshold of thirty.

He did not believe in the curse, but he knew they prayed everyday for its magic. His own family wanted him dead, to feast upon the succulence of his flesh; fight over each morsel, strip him to the bone, and leave him forgotten. What irony the Gods must have, they were rich in children, healthy lines of a dozen male heirs, yet it was from his cursèd loins that the linage would be passed.

“Mia!” He called again, passing his reflection in the tall windows, facing the northern gardens, where gardeners worked every day to reseed the thawed earth, light green buds of flowers beginning to poke up through the dirt. Roses, he’d imagine, the sigil of the Frisstreek, three golden roses, their long stems interwoven together, meant to symbolize the three Lords, separate monarchs, though interwoven for a common cause.

He’d never cared for the roses, and instead wore the Prins sigil, the crushed scull of a giant, whom his many-great grandfather, Dirck-the-Defender was legended to have killed. Running his hand across the golden inscription, finally his wife emerged from her hiding spot.

Mia was a extraordinarily-ordinary looking woman, twenty-six years old, with curling brown hair that clung desperately to her round face. Her gown stuck out with her bloated stomach, hands resting upon it with a reluctant touch, feeling it; for it was true and real, but with hopes dashed, she dare not let herself grow attached. Henri approached her, a hand coming out to rest upon hers, an affectionate action even if he was not often prone to affection. She blinked, and said nothing on it, looking, as if embarrassed, down to the side, and then back up to him, “M’lord.” She spoke the formality casually, nodding her head slightly, and he would nod back.

Silently they stood there few a few seconds, appreciating one another silence, before Henri finally spoke, the room growing stale with his words, “How do you feel, Mia?”

Without speaking, she looked down at her belly, and then back to Henri, conveying her health simply through that secret smile which cultivated in her eyes, “You do not look well, Henri.” Her free hand came to brush his knuckles, “I imagine your Mecht with the Lords did not go well?”

“ Of course it did not,” He began, harsher than he intended, though pausing, he smoothed his tone, “de Vries is intolerable. She always has been, and Basilious-… He is not much better than her. I do not understand how such a beloved leader, best known for his passion for peace, can raise such an arrogant, foolish boy as his son.”

“Great leaders are not always great fathers.” His wife would reply, Henri looking at her for a moment, curious if she had meant something of that, but studying her face was like studying a empty wall, nondescript and flat.

Giving up with trying to decipher her, Henri gave a defeated sigh, “It’s all very boring business, you wouldn’t care to know anyhow. We should be getting you a midwife very soon, someone to come stay with you other than the servants or your Ladies. Someone informed; the very best!” He smiled, trying to change the subject, trying to act as if he was happy for a midwife.

The dead haunted him, all of them, his father, his seven children who never drew milk of a breast. Lady Sara’s brother too, the tall wisp of a boy, he recalled him well, pale in the hair, with a distance in his light eyes. He was haunted too, the boy, having lost his father around the same age Henri had lost his. Curious, fate was. They were the most powerful people in the world, their fathers, and yet even they could not beat death. Their wealth could not save them, good doctors, good medicine, it had not kept their weak hearts beating. In that regard, Henri had always regarded Nys with pity, and looked forward to the day that he would become a Lord nearly as much as Sara did. That day word never come, and it was a damn shame.

Mia stared at Henri as a distant look came across his face, she had told him often that he was a dreamer, promising him as they lay beneath the sheets together, sharing the heat of the others breast, that one day the world would be as he had planned it to be. She promised that Lord Henri Prins, first and only child of Lord Eckel Prins, would be a name not forgotten. He would be the last Lord, and first King of Frisstreek, and the people would cry his name, his legacy would span twenty centuries, if only it would just begin.

Morning, The Outer Limits of Rotaerus

The morning downpour had soaked the ground, turning it to a sticky mud. The young boy was running through back alleys and small roads, going as fast as his legs would carry him. Puddles of water splashed as his bare feet slammed into them. Several of his friends were following close behind, laughing and playing as they headed to the northern gate. Someone near the bakers shop had said that soldiers were returning; and that was never a sight to miss. The boys breathing was labored and his calves began to cramp, but run he did, not stopping for even a single break. As the gate appeared in the distance, he sped up as much as he could. His bright eyes opened wide as he saw the approach of riders through the gate. But as he got a better look, these men did not look like soldiers. Soldiers wore shining armor, and travelled in great groups, appearing noble and strong. These men were wearing cloaks, which hid their yellow and black armor, as well as their faces. The cloaks themselves were soaked from the rain that had passed, their faces were bearded and dirty. These were not the sort of soldiers he had wanted to see. "Back from the northern valley they are. They been fighting clansmen it seems like," a butcher with a graying beard said. The man was wiping his hands with a dirty rag. "Nasty business that. Back when I was a volunteer I tumbled with the likes o' them." He turned to the group of young boys. "Where ya think I learned myself to cut up a pig?" He smiled and laughed as he turned back into the shop.

There was a small group surrounding the riders on both sides of the street, watching them as they passed. Their eager eyes hoping to see some grand parade; instead seeing a ratty group of seven. They would have seen ten walking in, as had walked out, but three of the group had lost their lives in the valley several weeks past. The sight surely must have been disappointing.

"We're home it would seem, sire," one of the riders, the commander of the small detail said. His moderately grown beard swayed in the slight breeze, and bobbed softly up and down as he talked. He looked to the prince riding beside him in the center of the group. The man of twenty one appeared older and unrecognizable, which is probably why the crowd wasn't cheering his name and throwing flowers. His own face was covered in an unruly growing beard; there were spots of mud and blood so caked on his face that the rain hadn't touched them.

"Indeed we are. Though it isn't the same as when we left it." The sky was dark and the clouds had dropped their rain, yet they remained overhead as if to keep people on a gloomy edge. If that was their intent, it was working.

"That's because you're not the same, if you don't mind me saying sir. Not many men go north and come back like they once were." It had been the princes idea to go north into the valley and join the sentry unit there. They had stayed for three weeks and saw what there was to see, done what there was to do.

The prince was silent for a moment before responding. "Father always told me that one could not be a good king if they did not know their people. Share in their struggles and strife, join them in joy and celebration. He said compassion is the key to ruling well, for people will follow a compassionate ruler even unto death." The prince looked about at the small crowd as they passed. He smiled weakly at the group of young boys. "He also said, that it was a kings responsibility to fight at least once in his life before ordering others to do so on his behalf. 'How could a king command to kill an enemy if he isn't willing to do so himself' he asked me. I considered this trip a trial, and one I hope I passed."

"That you did sire. If I may speak freely, the commander of the sentry unit was awfully hesitant about letting you join us. He thought you'd get in the way as young royals tend to do in such situations. But after our first skirmish, after your steel tasted blood, that was when he respected you. That was when they all respected you."

Prince James smiled at the sound of that. He was very aware of the sentry commanders feelings when he had arrived. Knowing that in some way his fathers advice was correct, made him feel a bit more certain as to the future of his inevitable reign. But still, a nagging feeling tugged at him as if doubt itself were holding him back. Ruling was still decades off, but it was on the horizon, and that scared him to a degree. His thoughts drifted to the three knights of his personal guard whom lost their lives for him. Once king, there would be an entire nation whose lives depended on his ability. How could he be sure he was up to it?

Killing was another thing to think about. In the valley, James had killed around ten clansmen in the few skirmishes they'd had. This was the first time he'd ever taken a life, and as well as he seemed to cope with it on the outside, it was eating at him on the inside. He had wretched up his lunch after the first, and in doing so, nearly got killed. If it wasn't for his guards stepping in to protect him, he surely would've been counted among the casualties.

"Sire, look." He was pulled out of thought by the commanders voice. He was pointing forwards as five riders approached. They were in full armor, excluding one well recognizable man whose gray hair and beard James would know anywhere. The small badge on the left side of his tunic, which was in the shape of a shield, displayed the symbol of his office.

"The Purveyor of Guardianship, Sen my friend, it is good to see you."

The purveyor was looking old these days, but he acted as a man still in his thirties. The way he road a horse gave strong indication of the mans military background, and his overall fighting spirit. "My prince, it is always a pleasure to see you. I come at the request of your father. There is an emergency session of the council today and he would ask your presence." Sen looked uneasy. This meeting would not be of a normal topic, James suspected.

James looked at his own wet and dirty attire. Mud, blood, and stains of other means dotted his armor and clothing. His hair was gnarled in several places. "I will have to change clothing, I'm afraid I'm in no state to be seen currently. But afterwards I would gladly attend."

"As you wish sire. The meeting begins at high sun. I hope you've broken your fast, for there probably won't be food." That news was hard to hear. James had broken his fast over some unappealing jerky and hardened bread. Supplies hadn't come to the northern valley before they left, so it was all they could have. His stomach would be groaning during the meeting.

"That's fine. Thank you for letting me know." The purveyor nodded and turned his horse around, heading back towards the capital, probably to get ready as well. James and his party of six would be heading that same way, and the closer they got, the more likely he'd be recognized. "Let's get home quickly. I need to be prepared for the meeting as soon as possible."

The road towards the capital within the city itself was a long and beautiful one. As one gets closer to the interior of the city, they see less of wood and mud, and more of cobblestone and polished granite. The interior had better shops, better aesthetics, and better roads. Signs marked each direction clearly, so one always knew which way to go; not that the prince would get lost in his own home. Civil defense patrols walked the alleys and stood guard at important buildings, dressed in armor and carrying long pikes and short swords.

The capital surrounded a castle upon the hill, and it was another sight altogether. Built around the reign of King Jonathan, the magnificent keep had been improved upon as the years had gone by, with each King making an addition. It was something of a tradition in the House of Welles. The castle was surrounded by a low wall many yards out, built as an added defense. As James and his band rode under the gate of the low wall, he could see a group of people standing on the stairs leading to the castles main entrance. But his father was not among them.

The sun rose, bathing the skies in blood. As above so was below with silence. Toppled over, smoldering from the night, the remains of the camp lay strewn in the Savannah. The grass whipped in the cool morning breeze. But all wasn't golden, tipped in red.

Ash had laid to waste the grass that had grown on the site, where it had not been trampled down before or during. The ground was rolled up by the work of furious hooves and fighting fight. Everything twisted and bent over its own head as the bodies laid out for the rising sun to find. The carrion birds were already assembling, and with them the work of the survivors to dispose of the bodies.

Shaken but alive, the Seusebi stepped outside her tent. Held between her fingers she leaned on her wooden staff, shaking. Her heart felt empty, and her body violated. But with her guard she had fought. And it was fighting her son found her doing.

At her side Moisi stepped around, head hung to stare at the bloodied ground at her hooves and a hand raised to shield out that. A tender arm wrapped weakly around the waist of her tutor. Her body rocked with nervous shakes as she whimpered weakly. The very sound of the squelching, bloodied clay underhoof sent her body into violent shakes. Her healthy darkened complexion had turned pale, drained of blood as she became sick from the scene, and it lingered in her eyes after the fact.

For Ashra, it was an offense. Not only had those invited to be guests attacked their host, but had committed a grand desecration and gone beyond simply rowdiness. They had brought knives into her tent looking to cut and bleed her. And the tent itself was hardly better off from the rest. Long jagged gashes carved the heavy fabric and hide in a thousand long doors. It sat opened like a carved animal, freshly slain by hunters. The glistening glass and small metal pieces carried with the Seusebi on travel littered the dirt and the grass, causing the ground to sparkle and shine. A thousand tiny stars fallen from the sky; itself a bad omen.

Behind her she heard the sound of hooves in the mess. She knew who it was, she didn't need to turn around and greet the man walking up behind her. With gentle fingers she combed her fingers through the tightly woven locks of Moisi's hair.

“It's sunrise, and it's clear they all left.” Niyo said in a low voice. It was rough. Well worn in fighting. Turning to meet her son she smiled weakly, it didn't feel like a honest smile. But he understood the gesture, what it was supposed to mean. The honesty of it didn't matter, and he humored his mother. All the same, he looked as exhausted as he sounded.

“They committed a crime.” Ashra said distantly, “Not only that, a sin against us. I have seen, not only as a juror but as the victim. They'll be torn to pieces forever in the after world. They'll not be in the light of the Moa when they pass.”

“And now?” Niyo asked.

“Now...” she said, “Right now we need to learn what happened.” she nodded. But it wasn't confident. Her eyes were stressed and drawn wide. Her breaths short and jittery. She wasn't a warrior, not like her son. But she had her taste of fighting then.

Niyo had always known his mother to be strong. Running to her tent and joining the many who fought off the traitors he had found her standing in the middle. Her staff dove about her as any warrior might use his own spear. Clubbing the heads and the ribs of anyone who rose a knife too close, or threatened Moisi. It was very clear, she was the daughter Ashra never had.

“The knives...” Ashra said, “I knew when they broke into my tent they were simply not taken by the white moss. Taking a flight. But they had a purpose beyond being lost. They knew where they were, and who they were after. As I heard the clashing of metal outside and saw their predatory faces I knew they meant to kill me.”

“Are you saying it was Madai who gave the order?” Niyo asked.

Ashra pressed her lips thin. Biting nervously on her lips she said quietly, “I don't know.” her head shook with her tail. “It could have been his brother. I know his father's passed and perhaps this was his way of rescuing him.”

“It seems too upfront.” said Niyo.

“I don't know,” she said, “I don't know him. It could be, or it could not. But I want answers. And I certainly do not want them answered here.

“Your brother was right, we should not have agreed to come this far out. So far from a city or even a village. Just to feign some respect. The men of Af do not deserve so much.”

“But that's not here or now.” Niyo spoke, adapting – if briefly – a sagely voice, “But I agree, home would be for the best. We'll muster the rest of the men and set out before noon.”

“Great, thank you.” Ashra said, maintaining a low shaken voice. Ringing her knuckles tighter around her wooden staff she leaned against it. Niyo bowed before turning to leave, but before he could his mother spoke up: “Where is Rwan?” she asked.

“I left him in the care of Mami.” Niyo said, “I couldn't take him up to your tent for fear of his safety.”

“How so?” Ashra said, her voice sung with deep motherly concern. It echoed as clear as bird song. She turned to face her oldest. Concern evident in the wide, wild expression.

“When we were coming into camp,” Niyo began, desperately thinking how to keep and cut it brief, “we were ambushed. We were both knocked to the ground, I pushed him aside as I took on our assailant from the mud. In our duel, he grew tired of me, and turned on Rwan.

“He lashed out to kill him. I grabbed him and pulled him down. But not before he could make his swing. Instead of taking his throat, he took his eyes.”

The blood from Ashra's face washed out in one large swing. Uttering a distressed cry, she fell further into her staff, resting the knotted tip to her forehead. Her hand shot from her ward's head to the scars of her stomach. “O-o, Rwan...” she said pained, “Heavens save you, please. Save me.”

Niyo stepped forward, gently resting his hands on her shoulders. Moisi dared to look out from her blinders up to the towering man. But she quivered and moaned at the blood spattered on his metal scales. “Mother...” he said concerned. The corners of his mouth twisted down as he struggled to find what to say, “It's going to be OK. Are you feeling good?”

“I- I am.” she said, faltering as she faked a smile looking back at her son. “We mothers, I don't expect you to understand. But we feel so deep for our children. I must be the same for fathers, and I pray for the day you get to feel as we do. But...” she trailed off.

“But Rwan.” she said, picking up sighing, “They had to cut me so deep to get him out. I knew something was terribly wrong. We fought to keep him alive when he first entered. I was barely stitched and bandaged when I prayed. It hurt terribly, even on poppy.

“Thinking about him – any of you – being hurt makes me belly ache. But for Rwan, hearing he was cut, it makes my own hurt deep again. As I imagine the others would for Totse or Bujan.”

“I'm sure he's OK.” her oldest consoled, rubbing her shoulders, “I sent to retrieve him.”

She smiled wryly. “Thank you.” she said softly.

Turning her head down she looked at the muddied ground. “I was only barely passed by fourteenth when I had you.” she said distantly, as if in a dream, “I cried for a day. You were my first. First child, first birth without a knife. You hurt so much, but I was so happy when I was out of labor. I knew you'd be a good son, for myself and your father. It is no wonder your father named you the next Kabaka.”

“Seusebi, Niyo.” a voice said from behind. Niyo turned with his mother, looking up to find Idii Shemi. Another of the Seusebi's guard from important birth. He was a tall satyr, skin paler than most and with the long sharp face. He looked troubled, and he held back a distressed frown.

“Bui Niyo.” Idii said, “I can't find Mami. Nor any of the Bugan he brought with him.”

his words hit him across the face. Striking his sense like a hard swung branch. Speechless he stood back. Too stricken for words.

“I combed the camp, sent several out to look for him in the camp. But he's not here. Nor Rwan. Nor the Bugan. Their tents and their bags remain, but they took cargo. Their spears, shields, and their own food supplies are missing.”

“Shit...” Niyo said, “N-n-what? Have you looked deeper? Could they have left the camp?”

“Bui, if they did we would have found them on the hunt for the retreating human curs. No sign.”

Niyo looked back to Ashra. Whatever color she would have lost was long gone from her face. She resigned herself instead to simple neutrality on it. There wasn't anywhere else to go in her eyes, after this day. “This day keeps getting bitter.” she said, finding something.

Looking to her son, she knew what had to be done. “You saved him once.” she said, “Don't let the Moa down by resigning him away this second time.

“Kin is kin. Inaction kills.” she added.

Niyo looked at her, then to Idii. “If we're hunting Bugan, I'll need help.”

“Take who you need.” Ashra said, stressed.

“Idii.” Niyo invited, “Go and find four good bucks. Bring them to me at the Bugan camp. Tell them to pack cargo. We're going to need to run.”

“As you wish.” the warrior bowed, “I'll meet you there.”

Marmon, The South

The forest was alive as dark emerald leaves and pine bristles rustled in a cold wind brought forth from the surrounding white capped mountains. The soft chatter of a squirrel could be heard in the distance, challenged by the songs of the woodland birds and the shriek of a hawk. The natural woodland theater gave a sense of serenity and awe that only the gentle hand of nature could sculpt so masterfully from such simple and basic necessities of the land. A pure medium, and an even purer masterpiece. Such a work of art that never grew withered or was outgrown, and was looked upon with the same, soft, sympathetic eyes by a playful child as well as a brutish thug, or pessimistic old man. This quality was certainly appreciated and revered by creatures and man alike for its unduplicatable unique taste.

The scent of pine and icy wind was strong, and aroused a sensual pleasure to the chilled men who walked through the dense wood. Beams of golden sunlight fought its way through the thick canopy and rested its warm hand on their fur covered shoulders, giving sanctuary from the chilly mountain wind. The feel of autumn was prevalent despite the sun being high in summer, and the trees a vibrant green, but such was the mountains, unreachable by complete summer as well as the powerful corruption of the cities, or so the village folk of the South liked to say to themselves, but this group men who now trudged their way through the woods, kicking up mulch and leaves would disagree, and disagree strongly.

Swords hung idly on their belts, the mark of The Bull was burnt into the leather scabbards that held the sharp instrument, they were not here to further the cause of peace, but here to persuade the Duke of Cholerny to join in on the massive corrupt and festering orgy of crime and deceit that had so swiftly devoured the rest of the country with ease and gusto.

Ragged laughter and illiterate stories drowned out the peaceful song of the forest as the men belched sinful limericks and spat terrible anecdotes. Unkempt beards collected on their cheeks and surrounded their chipped yellow teeth, the same as crude and intimidating leather and mail clung to their bodies. For a criminal delegation they looked as if they were about to go to war on everything decent and pure, and rightfully so.

An arrow whizzed into the scene and tore its way gruesomely through one of the men's throats, ending his corrupt story with a bloody gurgle. It took only moments for the survivors to react to their fallen comrades grisly demise, and proceeded to shout with taunts and evil cooes as if to draw the murderer of a murderer from the wood. The forest fell silent as the taunts slowed and eventually ceased, not one more arrow nor archer made show of his presence, creating an uneasy calm.

Suddenly an answer. Another stray arrow found its way to the group of men, piercing the pupil of one of the unlucky thugs, popping his eye with an audible snap, and burying it’s bodkin point deep into the man’s skull. The man collapsed with a loud thud. The thugs had enough, and some began to flee, not willing to die one by one at the hands of an unknown executioner. The escape was cut off by quickly appearing men closed in together behind a wall of towering shields that bore bosses in the center of the Marmon sigil, the thugs turned on their heels to try another escape but they met sight they had feared, a calm and collected figure, bane of any thug. This man wore segmented articulated steel strips on his shoulders and torso, a proud yet tattered banner was held behind him. Such a sight hadn’t been seen by many in the matter of many years, however here the ghost of the past stood before these terrible and sinful men. The Commander in steel’s piercing eyes paused the retreat, and his strong authoritative voice rumbled from his throat and out of his stubble surrounded mouth, “ By order of the Lost Cohort, and I, Commander Mikus Dominum, I arrest you, I witness against you, and I sentence you to death by our own hands.”

With final echoes of the order a flood of royal soldiers spilled from the trees, banners of old stitched upon and over their armor of chain and gambit as the once prestigious infantry made an easy slaughter of the corrupt delegation. Swords of wars past slashed, decapitated and thrusted their way through the flesh of their enemy. The thugs stood little chance, and those who fled were knocked back into the fray by bone shattering shield bosses, or humiliating kicks of studded boots. Sounds of bones crackling and the dead man's final scream bounced off the trees and into the ears of all in the bloody skirmish. Skin was ripped and blood was drawn as the thugs attempted to fight back but were easily confined and forced against each other, huddled and ready to be slaughtered by the superior force. The air was polluted with a mist of blood the open mouth would so strongly taste, as the final enemy was disemboweled by a tactful slash, effectively spilling his innards onto his already fallen comrades that lay eternally by his feet.

Mikus picked up one of the scabbards, making quick notice of The Bull’s mark, and wiped the gore off his blade with it. A disgusted look carved its way across the cynical man’s face as he took in the sight of the aftermath.

“Take what we can use, let the scavengers of the wood take the rest,” Mikus called out to his once more victorious troop, “Then we march.”

His last words were words spoke often, as the last Marmonite cohort in existence, their vigilante agenda was never completed, and every victory they scored was little compared to all the battles they couldn’t find, or make it to. It was a cycle they could not win, but one everyone of Mikus’ soldiers would walk it for an eternity despite such odds. They were the Lost Cohort, the Last Cohort, they were hope .

Adjutor Insula

A Plotter's End

"Many will die," First Captain Henrick muttered, breaking the silence.

Horse Master Jacobs had grown increasingly inpatient with his so-called partner in crime, to perhaps a homicidal extent. Now was not the time for self-doubt, and the First Captain was smothering himself in the stuff.

"Yes, but much must be sacrificed in times of war," he said, not bothering to match Henrick's guilty gaze.

A few moments passed, and the First Captain finally broke - as the Lord Defender imagined he would. Still, it was something the Horse Master was hoping would never come to pass; murder was an ugly business. He stifled a smile, as he thought about his journey from Guardian of the Weak, to Lord of War in a few short weeks.

"I'm calling it off, Jacobs, Lord Defender be damned. I'm not going to have a thousand names curse me from the underworld," Henrick said, and he turned to leave. "If you follow me, then I will not report any of this. Let us be done with this evil."

Jacobs nodded, his crow-like features twitching as if in thought. "Alas, my friend," he replied at last, "you're right."

Henrick did not see the dagger, but he felt it. He fell gurgling with a sliced throat; a dozen Sword Brothers looked on, unaffected by the slaughter of their second highest Commander. All men had a price, even Holy men, and the Horse Master had paid generously.

Wiping Henrick's blood from his blade, Jacobs nodded at the large cage, where within five hundred Karkarthian prisoners stood cramped together. Half-starved, horribly beaten and defeated, they watched him with dull eyes. Their scaled hides had been broken in places, and their tails had been cut. It was a sickening affair, to torture so many in such a way, but the Horse Master needed them angry; he needed them willing enough to save his country from their King.

"My people took you from your ships, though they denied it," Jacobs yelled at the prisoners; their expressions did not change, though they knew the language well enough. "Your King thinks you dead, yet here you are, shackled like whores. It does not have to remain this way."

A few growls, but no eyes left the Horse Master.

"I believe the Lord Defender has promised your freedom, once you have completed your task," Jacobs nodded at one of his attending Sword Brothers, and the man loosened the latch on the cage door. "Go now, and earn your way back into this bastard of a world."

Horse Master Jacobs was not a smart man in this instance, for three reasons. The first and undeniable one was that he was releasing five hundred or so tortured victims, and each of them held him responsible for both their captivity and treatment. The second reason, was that he had chosen to surround himself with ten warriors - though they were plated and well trained, they could not protect him against a tide of hundreds. The third reason, was that he believed the Lord Commander when he had told him that he and the Draconians had reached an agreement, and their interest was not in revenge. No, Horse Master Jacobs was not a smart man all over, it would be fair to say.

A brief stampede, and a clatter of steel.

Horse Master Jacob's head swiftly decorated a makeshift Karkarthian banner, and his men were flayed alive in an hour of savage gratification. Then, the lizards turned their gaze towards the beacon of lights high up above them. The City was undefended; this they had been told. Any other race may have fled, retreated to theri King to report the strange happenings on Adjutor Insula. These lizards however, were the Draconians of Karkarth, and their lust for revenge was tempered by their need to commit to conquest and glory.

Each one reasoned that it was within them to claim this fragile island; to storm the Citadel, and put the inhabitants to the sword. They could get word out of their achievements to their King, and sit tight as the legions of Karkarth broke across the sea. Yes, they could turn the pitiful human Lord's plan against him, and dine on his flesh that same evening.

Peace and War

"Long live, Guide Charity IX, the last of a long and stupid line," Lord Defender Marcus Aticus said cheerfully.

The Guide's mangled form lay sprawled across the Council Chamber; the six corpses of the Order Guard were nearby. Above the crackling of the hundred or so candles that were littering the place, Marcus could hear the feint sound of bells. He knew why they tolled, and he knew who they tolled for. Without a further pause, he dropped the Karkarthian blade - a thing of jagged obsidian - onto the Guide's corpse, and departed.

He was caked in gore from head to toe; his blonde hair matted in the stuff. He doubted anyone would recognise him - but there wouldn't be anyone around to do so. A hundred monks and scribes lay dead or dying elsewhere in the Palace, courtesy of his men. He chuckled aloud, as he realised how easy it had been to twist the minds of men devoted wholly to defence and protection of the innocent and the helpless.

"Throw a few seeds here and there," he sneered, as he walked down the corridor from the Council Chamber to the Bath House. "Let them grow. Add some gold, and praise the Gods of Old, we're away with it."

He paused briefly, to look through the stained glass window - one of many lining the corridor - and smiled broadly as he saw flames erupting from the dwellings just inside the walls. The Draconians had wasted no time, and they sure were determined; he knew they were looking for him, and more importantly, looking to win a war they couldn't hope to understand.

Still, no Saviour of the City could play their part clad in the blood of the Guide. He let his robes drop to the floor, scooped them up, and chucked them into a brazier.

Marmon, North, City of Thieves

The royal castle of Mallkim has been falling into disrepair for some time now. Its once beautiful architecture had been reduced to chips and crumbles, a standing mass of weathered rock. It looks over the darkest city as a once great sentinel who now weeps for what it once knew to be a golden city of just and fair men, now run rampant with gangs, criminals, and thugs. The interior of the old symbol of authority was equally aged and forgotten, once striking banners now fading away along with old dusty carpets and greening copper braziers that lit up the depressing, cold hallways. The old archer and guard stations stood empty save for a poorly armed and useless guard here and there, the results of failed levies.

In the throne room hung a great tapestry, surprisingly unstolen, that within its finely woven threads told the story of Marmon. The great first king Frederik the two and his Shield brother Gregory the Arm stood center mass of the fine textile. Frederik the two bore only one arm, as his second was never born with him, and old patriots would claim it was so divine that stayed in heaven waiting for him to finish his heroics in the world, as he had one hand in Marmon, and one in paradise. grasped by his single hand on his one arm he bore a great and striking sword, and beside him stood Gregory, Frederiks oldest friend, and his true second arm, wielding a massive shield in with two hands. The duo was depicted as they were known, fending off a horde of barbaric tribesman, the Gorga, who once threatened all the other tribes of old with extermination. The heroic pair were unique as one was dedicated to total offense, not worrying about his defense, for it was in control by the other, who did not worry about his offense for the first had that taken care of. This style of fighting created one massive warrior out of two dedicated men, a true scourge and bane of the Gorga, and became so praised by the end of the terrible Gorga and the unification of the land, that the united tribes all agreed to name the country Marmon, or Arm brother, placing Frederick as their king, and Gregory at his right side as his arm.

Of course this was many years ago, and well buried in the tides of time, but is recalled whenever the Marmonites need that urge to fight back, that reason to prove resilient, as their ancient pair of heros were, despite all odds. Many kings used these stories to provoke a sense of honor and privilege in his soldiers and civilians, and for many years Marmon grew powerful, until it could afford its own standing army, and became a hub for trade and merchants on the west continent. King Ladius Decimus was the man who organized the Legions, and with the mighty fighting force, he expanded the coastline, conquering rogue tribes, or letting them surrender without a fight. itI was many decades after that the country began it’s slow degrade, with a failed expansion west due to lack of funds and a weakening monarchy, the country and legions eventually fell into civil war. The result of this war was the Curlow dynasty, the beginning of the doomed throne, the destruction of most of the legions, and finally the rise in criminal activity and fall of the government.

The fourth legion, the last standing legion of Marmon, under the command of Herphus Derangem retreated from the capital without warning along with the regal archers, and decided to restore civility in the south before it was destroyed such as the north. The legion was met by Curlow wrath, motivated by the point of the Criminal lords daggers, all but the silent King of Thieves. Eventually over a span of time the Legion was whittled down to one final cohort, one cohort that had proved resilient and powerful, despite a smaller number, the final hope of the old glory. Some claim however, that the fourth legion is still alive and well, and that despite the terrible assassination of Herphus, the legionnaires still live in the southern villages, waiting for a call to arms to retake their once glorious land. Some further claim that this reserve of troops is why the lost cohort never seems to be short on men to volunteer under Mikus Dominum.

Either way, the lost cohort slowly faded from Curlow attention, which was redirected to how to save their own hides from the terrible criminal rulers. Today was such a day the King himself was frantic with radical ideas to keep The Bull, Sister Death, and The King of Thieves from growing weary of him, as well as keeping what loyalty he could still conjure happy.

King Jeffsoff stared at the tapestry in the throne room, his crown was tossed off his black tangled hair and onto the damned throne that haunted his every thought. He scratched his overgrown beard in quick, irritated motions as his eyes scanned the great masterpiece. One other man accompanied the anxious ruler, this man was slightly taller than the king, and a lot more built than his scrawny comparison. The man wore shined mail and a sharpened sword, and upon his scabbard was the mark of the royal cavalry, this man was Commander Edwin, leader of Curlow’s riders, the last standing army loyal to the Curlow crown; If you could call a squad of fifty or so men an army that is.

“Drastic times call for even more drastic measures,” Edwin repeated himself from a conversation prior to the Kings sudden search in the tapestry. Edwin's voice sounded lazy but loud, much like a drawn out bark of an old hunting hound dog.

“I’ve been thinking,” The raspy stressed voice of the king echoed in the empty throne room.

“Perhaps an expansion to the West,” The man offered, clearly looking for approval.

“That is indeed drastic, perhaps I was wrong to advise you that way,” The Commander withdrew his ambitious speech he had given earlier, and allowed his skepticism to be prevalent.

“We have neither the funds or the troops, my king. Also, what of the Frisstreek or Hanartha?” Edwin shook his balding head, “Surely they would object.”

“Doubtful,” said the king, now facing the commander, “I will not take their borders, just the land due west up to them, for funds I’m sure The Bull would be happy to do it for me, should I make the right offer.”

“Dealing with him ,” A disgusted snarl bunched up the officers face, “After all the things they have put us through.
Jeffsoff shot the man a glance of cynicism, “Get off your horse Edwin, you look pretty polished up for someone who never deals with criminals in the city of Mallkim.”

“I-I” Edwin stuttered clearly frustrated.

“You? You?” The king mocked him loudly, “Let’s face it, at this point in the game, it is our best bet. The idea of a conquest like the old glory days will be sure to rip the civilians out of their hiding places and take up arms for Marmon, and The Bull will be happy, and more importantly, far far away from me.”

“Well, I can’t argue with that,” Edwin muttered defeated, “But if we are going to do this we are going to do it right, perhaps like old King Decimus, and ask the rogue tribes of the west to join, and then send a force upon the refusals, and if this is coming out of The Bull’s pocket, perhaps we can afford a sizable levy among his thugs as well as the civilians.”

Suddenly a greedy image emerged in Edwins mind, “And perhaps,” He continued, hushed and leaning in close to Jeffsoff, “We will be able to afford a recreation of the legions with the new tax revenue of the expansion.”

Jeffsoffs eyes lit up, taxes had been an enigma in this day and age in Marmon, all the tax collectors have been either killed, scared off, or corrupted thieves. The sudden income would definitely help turn things around, after all, if he can’t get money out of the people of Marmon, perhaps he can get it out of new conquered regions, and perhaps with it, the praise of the civilians.

“Yes,” Jeffsoff said, his eyes distant and picturing having the support of his own country, “Such a fanciful idea must come true.”

Seusebi Camp

The mud and the grass rose and fell. The space was clear. Abandoned tents stood, fabric flapping in the wind. For all purposes amid the noise, there were no signs. Niyo stood at the edge of the scene, careful to not go further. As a hunter he knew being too careless would disturb any of the signs he needed to track. And as a warrior he knew he had to do it right.

Still, all the same looking into the Bugan section of the camp he could not help but feel the acidic burn of guilt crawling within him. He had been naive enough to leave his brother with them. Were they too poorly defended themselves to hold a fight and thus routed? Or could this be a plot? The questions sparked a wide number of implications, giving rise to the prince to question himself. It scarred him. It wormed in his chest. This was it. This was the feeling of guilt in its deadliest of forms.

He lowered himself to his haunches. Bending over the powdered clay. There hadn't been fighting here. Not as much as elsewhere. How many raiders had attacked their camp? It seemed enough to soak the ground and turn over the grass. Here the ground was dry and baked. The grass was thick, hardly flattened. Stalks were bent, but not flattened to the ground. It hadn't been stampeded.

Rwan and cried out to him to not leave. Had the young satyr known something wrong was going to happen? Had he felt it somehow? There was a deep seated terror in Niyo that he had not paid attention. He hadn't seen or heard the signs. There was a deep burning concern and fear he had not listened to Rwan. Perhaps if he had taken him to his mother's tent to join the battle he would be OK. Or he would have been guarded by several of his mother's retinue, and his brothers in arms.

Moving carefully through the camp he brushed his fingers through the dust. Feeling the depressions and indentations. Trying to tell their stories. Feeling and looking at which way the hoof was turned. Their size. How deep they went in. Every so often he came across a drop of blood. Rwan's probably.

On the side of his hooves and the tips of his fingers and crept over the scene like a spider. Following the trail as it weaved through the camps' clearing. It came into a tent briefly. The droplets of blood closing in on proximity. The interior was largely untouched. But things had been moved.

The matting that covered the floor was a mess of blood. Had this been where they took his brother to be treated for his injuries? Mami's medicine shaman?

In the corner was a pile of messy cushions, pushed aside against the wall, and large dry red stain on the woven thatched carpet. Nearby a pile of rags, soaked with blood. It had bled into the fabric deep, staining them vibrant shades of maroon red and deep crimson. Several flies were just beginning to busy themselves on the discarded fabric.

He knelt in the middle of the tent. Looking over the belongings that remained. Trying to imagine what had gone missing. Trivial artifacts and personal effects littered the ground and a small end-table alongside where his brother had rested. Niyo picked himself up, and moved over to it.

Small stone and wood idols covered the tables. The horse-like depictions of the spirits of health, surgery, and herbal medicine. He didn't know all their names, but I imagined if Rwan could see them he would name them all. Twenty in all made a clustered kingdom on the bed-stand, alongside needles and a dish holding a thin film of water at the bottom.

From outside he heard the sound of hooves on barren clay. He looked up at the tent entrance, and sighed. “Bui Niyo?” a voice called out. The prince stood up, walking to the tent's flap.

Shoving it aside he walked out into the faint morning sun. Glistening in the orange and yellow light stood a handful of able and ready men. Still dressed for battle, they looked to have not even cleaned their armor. Blood still caked the mail and their spears still dirtied and coated in the blood of the slain. Niyo knew them all. At their head was Idii, ready as he could be.

“Brothers.” he said smiling.

“Niyo.” Idii said, bowing, “Have you found anything yet?” he asked

“I just started. I found where they tended Rwan soon after I got him here. But it doesn't look like they were ready to move him off before tending to his wounds.” he said, gesturing to the ground at his feet. “A trail of blood – I presume his – goes in. But none comes out.”

“Fair enough.” Idii said, stepping aside, “I've your men. We'll follow you for as far as you need to go. And further if need be.” he declared, smiling.

Niyo nodded. He would have smiled, but it would've felt lost. “We'll need to find their trail.”

Adjutor Insula

The Hero of Helper's Island

Marcus Aticus lent back against the stone rim of the large bath. Usually at this time of night, it would be throbbing with decaying bodies of old men; not tonight though, because they had all been put to sleep permanently. Closing his eyes, he tried to instill himself with a sense of calm, but he found the excitement too overwhelming. The steaming waters reddened around his soiled body, but this did not trouble him. Knife work was a bloody business, and business was booming.

So what now? The Guide was dead. The Capital City was burning down all around him, as five hundred enraged Karkarthians ran through the streets unleashing bloody murder onto the thousands of defenceless innocents. His soldiers lay in wait, listening out for the signal that he would give in short order. A Scorched King sat across the stretch of ocean, painfully oblivious that his little peace-loving neighbour was about to stake a claim for global dominion.

It was in times such as these, when he thought about where his future would take him, that he liked to recall the Heroes of Old. Lost to the world now, these legendary warriors, they were the very stuff of fantasy - almost. Many of them had lived, Marcus had no doubt, but he often wondered how many of the tales were free from elaboration. Did Hulgar the Red really strangle ten men with his giant hands at the Battle of Highcastle? Did Saint Aquiline really lead his heavy horse across the ocean and smite the Fallen Angels of Nak'radol? Probably not, to all of them.

"Mine will be so fantastical," he sneered, "that the bards will not have to make up words to fill in the intervals; they will not have to brighten the image as I bring the world crashing down around me."

The doors to the bath house suddenly burst open, and in marched a sixty-strong troop of Sword Brothers. All in glittering mail, carrying swords sodden in the blood of their assigned victims. They weren't real Sword Brothers, of course, the Lord Defender knew it was suicide to try and bribe a real soldier of Adjutor Insula. Sure, the odd one or two might be swayed by coin and promise of grandeur, but the third? He'd report you for so much as mentioning the M-word.

The sixty Sword Brothers were prisoners; all murderers, rapists and mentally insane. The Lord Defender had bought their freedom with kind words, but in secret, he employed them with generous wages. Keeping the arrangement hushed was only a matter of pushing a few old monks down some stairs when no one was looking.

One of the soldiers lifted his full helm, revealing an ugly scarred face. "The lizard scum will be on us soon, Sire," he said with a grizzled tone.

"Of course," Marcus replied, taking a moment to appreciate his new title. "Sire, does have a nice ring to it, doesn't it Captain Alworth?"

Alworth shrugged. "S'pose so, 'Lord."

"Are my men ready?" Marcus asked, taking a moment to hang his head under a large tap at the edge of the bath.

Alworth shrugged. He was known for shrugging, this one, and it was an irritation not lost on Marcus. "Some are, some lost to their conscience though. They're busy dying out in the courtyard as we speak."

Marcus sighed. "Odd, isn't it? That a sense of duty, such as dying for strangers, would propel the soldiers of the Sighing Hand into suicide."

Alworth shrugged.

"Righty'o," Marcus said cheerfully; he gripped the edge of the bath, and heaved himself onto the flat. Water ran in rivulets down his chiselled form, and for but a moment, as he caught his reflection in the wavering waters, he swore he saw a God. "Let's go and save the city."

"Or what's left of it, Sire," Alworth said. With a shrug.

The Courtyard of Progress

The names given to Adjutor Insula's various settlements and landmarks were enough to make the Lord Defender cringe when ever he thought of them. They were soft, womanly names with pretentious overtones. It was as if the island's long list of Guides had contended with their peers, past and future, over who could bludgeon the populace to death with the most shameless names for things.

The Draconians, dozens in a ragged line, surged into the Palace's "Courtyard of Progress" as the last of Marcus' wayward soldiers fell in a spiral of blood and vanishing honour; they were good men, they had spurned gold and orders to save who they could. Now they were all dead.

Marcus' band of criminals however, were very much alive, and most had been waiting for this moment with intense anxiety for weeks. They surged from the Palace entrance, with the Lord Defender at their front. They screamed bloody murder; sung songs of the coming anguish and sorrow. The Draconians replied in kind, and the two forces met in a thunder of arms.

The Karkarthians had the numbers, but Marcus had surprised them; as his men collided with theirs, he outnumbered their spearhead three to one. It was a matter of minutes before the last of the ragged Draconian line succumbed to an axe. The second and third waves of the Draconians came in short order, but the Lord Defender was ready and broke them in a chaotic melee of ungodly genocide.

As the last of the lizards dispersed into the network of tightly woven streets, Marcus nodded to Alworth, and the former child-murderer took to setting the front of the Palace ablaze. It was a large building, made mostly of stone, and it would take very long to burn. No matter, Marcus reasoned, it wasn't like anyone would be bringing a river up there any time soon.

And as the fires cleaned away the evidence of Marcus' betrayal, the first detachment of the Sighing Hand arrived in droves to defeat an enemy that was already beaten.

"Time to be hailed a hero, Alworth," Marcus said to his Captain, flashing a teethy grin.

Alworth shrugged, when he should have held his guard, for Marcus' longsword pierced him through the stomach half a second later. He slid off the blade, choking and moaning. Marcus turned to the others, who looked on indifferently.

"Child murderers have no home in my new world," he said, "but that's about all I wont allow. The city is yours gentlemen, have at her."

The bloodied score or so of his remaining men cheered, and started the long descent into the city proper.

Morning, Rotaerus Castle

The sun had made its appearance, and it was shining through the large window within the Kings bedchamber. The glaring rays fell upon his eyes, not giving a care in the world who he was or what he was. Arthur had learned long ago that a king could do nothing to damper the suns brightness. He had woken hours earlier to get ready for the meeting, and afterwards had decided to sit and enjoy the view. The rain had left the city looking glum and dark, but as the sun shined down from the sky, everything seemed to be cheering up. People were going about their day, animals were coming out of their shelters, life continued where it had left off.

He turned to the woman still laying in bed. Her long auburn hair fell like cascading water over her shoulders. Her soft and light skin looked so lovely in this light, his eyes couldn't wander elsewhere if they tried. Arthur never dared to wake her, he always found her to be such a beautiful sleeper. It was times like this when he would reminisce of events gone by, of the life they had lived these past several years. He thought of the four children they'd had, of the lives they'd lead, of the future they'd have. It was these moments he wanted to last forever.

It wasn't to be as a knock came at the door and Caitlyn began to stir. She raised her head gently to see what was going on, yawning and stretching her arms. "Don't get up, my love." Arthur leaned over the bed and kissed her forehead softly, brushing her hair to the side as he did. She smiled from below and looked up at him with her forest green eyes.

"Whoever it is, tell them they have my royal displeasure. I was having the most amazing dream."

"I'll be sure to throw them from the tallest tower personally," he said in a playful tone, cracking a smile. "I am the king after all." He got up from the bed and walked to the door, opening it quietly so as not to disturb her further. Once it was closed with him on the other side, he saw who it was that had knocked. "Captain, I am afraid I'm going to have to throw you from a tall tower. The Queen asked for it personally; you'll understand won't you?"

"But of course your grace. Anything for the women we love." The captain of the royal guard was a respected friend to the King, for good and obvious reason. One wanted to be in good graces with the man whose life was sworn to protect his.

They shared a brief laugh over their peculiar humor, "what did you need to tell me?"

"You asked me to inform you when your son, the prince, returned. He was just seen entering the castles gate with six of our guards," the commander reported.

The king was a bit confused, "six? Did he not leave with nine?" The king had always been the protective sort. If James had left with a smaller detail than he liked, someone would be in trouble.

The commanders cheery attitude turned somber. "He did your grace. I'm afraid the other three might have fallen. I'll know more once I speak with the men."

The king nodded solemnly. "Please make sure you find out." The death of three royal guards was no small thing. They were supposed to be the best soldiers the Kingdom could produce. For one of them to fall in combat was a most distressing thought. It was especially grievous for the king. Arthur deplored death, especially that of his own people. Something about it always left a sour taste in his mouth.

As if able to read minds, the commander spoke, "all men die. It's only natural."

The king nodded again, responding, "yes. But it's never an easy thing to deal with." He didn't want to talk about it anymore. "Excuse me, I wish to see my son." The commander bowed as the king took his leave. His son had been away for three weeks, and he was most interested in seeing what the north had brought about in his firstborn.

As he walked the halls of the great castle, he passed servants and guards going about their business. The castle was immense; it'd be a confusing building to navigate if the king hadn't grown up in it. He remembered back to the days of his youth, running the halls with his brother. They would play games and pretend to be men like Jonathan the Uniter, and Frederick the Strong. Their father, Robert the Restorer, always disapproved of their foolishness. Not because he was against playing around, but because Arthur and his brother typically got into trouble when they did.

It was later by the time he actually saw his son. The prince had spent the time since arriving to get cleaned up; this involved intense bathing, grooming, and of course a change of clothes. While Arthur waited, he looked around at his sons chambers. The room was full of memories of raising James. Many times were spent teaching and playing with him, spending quality moments with his child. Not a single toy remained as James grew older though. The room was now that of an adults, changing much like his own room had.

"How did you find the north? Was it what you thought it would be?" Arthur didn't have to turn to know who was behind him.

James contemplated the question. "No. It was worse. I expected fighting, I expected death, I even expected the harsh conditions, but..." His voice trailed off.

"But it's something else entirely when you actually see it; or experience it." His father turned around and got a look at him. James had tied his hair back into a ponytail and shaved his facial hair to a short stubble. He had on a set of fine clothing with the eagle of Osterlaind embroidered upon his chest. His son was only three weeks older, but the boy who left him had turned into a man. "I take it you killed a few clansmen."

James didn't want to answer the question. It wasn't that he was a coward; it was just that killing wasn't something he was used to. He turned his head and looked about the room. His silence was just as telling as giving a verbal response. "I did," he finally resigned. James had grown up hearing men talk valiantly of killing. He was so excited to get into the thick of things and prove his worth. But when the time came, there was nothing heroic, nothing glorious about the task before him. Killing was not what the songs had made it to be.

"And how did you take it?" His father asked.

"I'm afraid I got sick to my stomach. Right there on the field."

Arthur chuckled and smiled knowingly. "I did as much the first time. Only, I was able to hold it in until after the fighting; after the rage of action had passed."

James was glad to hear he wasn't the only one. "And what about the others? What about when other men died?"

"My men you mean?" James nodded. His fathers voice grew a bit more quiet on that topic. "That was even harder to cope with. I'll admit I cried when my first friend was slain; not within sight of the men of course, a king must uphold a brave image." He observed the worried look on his sons face. "It will bother you every single time, if you're anything like me that is. It's best to get used to it as much as possible." He reassured his boy. "Now, we have pressing matters to attend to. The council and mayors are all awaiting in the council room."

"Father," James started. "What's this meeting about?"

His father sighed. James could see the pain in his face, as if the words were trying their hardest to keep from coming out. "The nation is in trouble. It's not anything we can't handle I don't think." He paused. "But it is definitely the most challenging thing to face my reign." The king turned to the door and left into the hallway. "Let's not keep them waiting."

Realm of Manram, North District

''Bilq, [Buddy] don't you ever think that these patrols in the north that we take on are a bit too quiet..?'' In the midst of a storm lights two, barely burning, lights concealed within the confines of a holy Burq-da, [Firebearer] two men were the ones who held onto these and their duty was that of a patrol mission, whilst bored they began to talk, wonder and gossip about the doings and happening of their designated shudid. [Place of wartime preparation/barracks] ''Don't question our orders, Khazam, it's all to keep the shuzimal at bay and not in the view of village folk..'' The patrols in the deep snow would be exhausting, especially for men who patrolled beyond the gate like these two. ''I don't know, bliq... Personally I can't wait until we start to settle the lands in yander, then we won't have to worry about being eaten every few seconds... I mean, these fusil [natives] can be quite ferocious, much more dangerous than the deledad.''

''That, I can agree with you on, they are needlessly extreme! I just can't understand why they don't just join us. It's not like we'll treat them like dirt and shit!'' Slowly they began to show a bit of emotion, more laughter came out of them and they started to increase their voice tones, and needless to say, it was not their best doing. If they hadn't been patroling within viewing distance of the Wall of Enoch they'd be jumped on by whatever creatures lurked under the loose snow. ''So, the Gu-shedal will turn 23 within, what? A week?''

''That is correct, I heard all the order elites will be present at his celebration and he's also crossed over tradition and invited some foreign leaders to gather, some were even at the other end of the world!'' The snow began to pick up as the men continued to speak of the leader of their nation and his celebration ceremony. ''The Gu-shedal sure is quite influencial for being only 22, or well, 23 in a few weeks..'' Soon a very slight shine of yet another Burq-da came into the viewing of the two patrolers, the one who beared it was far from them, not a mere laqdal [conscript], but an Order weaponsbearer. ''Silence, gu-mun. [disrespective way of saying 'men'] Continue on your patrol, stay alert.'' As the two passed the Order weaponsbearer they simply widened their eyes at his pressence, he was far taller than them and at his waist down hung a fuqdil, [sort of lika a waist down cloak covered in holy text] clearly the weaponsbearer was from the Order of Truth. In the hulks hand was a shield as long as his body, excluding shoulders and up. In the other hand was a blade covered in holy scripts, much like the fuqdil, however this time the text wasn't enrisped into the blade, but instead scripts covered the blade, literally.

''uh, s-sorry Gu-fal, [respectful way of saying 'superior'] we will do as you say now!'' And so their talk was swiftly stopped by the patrolling Order overseer. The Order of Truth held command of all monasteries within any region and, whilst acting as priests and blessers, they are also very adequet in battle, mostly trained in defencive techniques. ''What's an Order of Truth overseer doing beyond the wall?!'' One of the men who were shushed by the overseer whispered to his companion in a quite loud manner. ''I don't know, maybe someone fell to Malbar?'' [The other world] ''If that were the case then it would explain a lot, however still? Shouldn't they bring him into the cleansing quarters of the monastery before the overseer may even see the body?''

''You are quite right, now that you say it... Why is he here..?''

Realm of Manram, Capital District (central Manram)

''Mi'lord, your personal archery trainer is awaiting your arrival...''

''Tell him that I'll be there whenever I feel the need, whilst I am quite adequet with blade and shield, I can yet properly wield the bow as well as I'd hoped!'' Said with quite a lot of energy and laughter, the supreme lord of Manram, the Gu-shedal was, in fact, making fun of himself. Whilst his personal advisor, the First Lady Imperia, didn't quite agree with him on that part, she believed that her lord was far greater than he, himself, would project into others heads. ''My lord, how many times must I tell you that I don't quite agree? You have no need for a trainer, you're skilled as it is!''

''The kindness you give to me is unwanted, Imperia, if I need to improve then I need it, my enemies won't just stand there and allow me to get close, I must be able to strike like the eagle, through the distance of a spitting cobra and with the ferocity of the North Gubar. [A winter beast] Whilst my sword and shield already can, my arrows are, at best, sloppy.'' The Gu-shedal was quickly putting on his training gear, oblivious to the fact that his female advisor was looking, and she was oblivious to him as well, keeping her eyes in contact with his own. ''But my lord-''

''No buts, I will see my archery trainer in the training quarters, you will accompany me.'' The Gu-shedal spoke with authority unlike the prior mentions he'd had, and with a swift finish to his training attire and a quick pick-up of his bow, he began to walk towards the training quarters. ''Oh, the letters I sent out, will they arrive shortly?''

''The Kingdom of Karkarth will recieve their message within half a week, but the others should arrive today, except those most distant from ours. And we will refrain from inviting the dragonfolk as per your request.''

''Thank you, Imperia, you're doing well as my advisor.''

''I am to you what you require, nothing more.''

The Golden Citadel, Ulzschath, Hanartha

The Golden Citadel of Ulzschath was a massive and grand fortress of soaring towers and thick walls located at the edge of Hanartha's capital of Ulzschath, its walls built right up against the sea. Much like the city itself, construction of the palace had been started by Uradal Alugal, Hanartha's first Grand Prince, but his successors had added to it over the centuries. According to legend, the original keep had been coated entirely in sheets of gold, thus the name. However, even if that was true the gold had been long peeled away, as even among the long-lived Hanarth none alive remembered the Golden Citadel as being anything but stone. And deep within the Citadel, within the original keep itself, stood a small garden. It was a small windowless room with only a single entrance hidden away in the corner of the keep, but it was completely open to the sky and plenty of the sun's rays found there way into the small room. The colours of the garden formed a stark contrast to the walls around it; the deep green of the grass and the beautiful red and blues and yellows of the many flowers it held against the dark grey and white of the stone walls. And in its center was a small Faceless Pillar, the four-sided and featureless pillars that denoted a place of worship to Hanartha's Nameless Gods. This garden had been constructed centuries ago by a Grand Prince who preferred to worship alone and with nature, rather than in the Golden Citadel's cathedral-like main temple. These days it was still technically used as a temple, though there was only a single curator who tended to it and laid out offerings to the Nameless Gods. But mostly it was used by Napizzi Alar, the current Grand Prince of Hanartha, as a place to go when he needed peace and quiet. Or, such as now, when he wanted to have a private conversation.

The Grand Prince entered the garden alongside his son Suthra, the pair chatting as they walked. Though the pair was father and son, one could be forgiven for thinking otherwise. Napizzi was a tall and broad-shouldered man with not a strand of hair on the top of his head, but his face dominated by a long, black, braided beard in addition to a nose that was both wide and long and a thick brow. Suthra, on the other hand, had the prodigious height of his father but nothing else; he was incredibly thin, and his face was soft and feminine with the only hairs on his body belonging to the thick black hair that fell to his waist. However, he also had something of a gaunt look to him, like someone whose body was beginning to waste away from disease, which indeed it was as he had been chronically ill from birth. It was why he had to stop for a moment as his body was wracked with a fit of coughing.

"Suthra!" Napizzi said with alarm, he started towards his son, but was stopped when Suthra lifted up his hand and shook his head.

"Father, father, I am fine," Suthra said once the coughing had subsided, "This nothing new; I have been coughing like that for years."

"It is not usually that bad," Napizzi replied, before shaking his head, "But it is your body. You know far more about it then I."

Then the Grand Prince sat down on the grass, before patting the ground next to him and smiling, "Come on then, sit!"

Suthra smiled back at his father and slowly lowered himself to the ground, "So father, what brings us here today?"

"What, I am not allowed to just have a conversation with my son?" Napizzi said with a grin.

Suthra just sighed and shook his head, "Father, I may be young but I am not stupid. If you just wanted to talk, you would have just found me and started talking. This is a place for private conversations."

Napizzi sighed in response, but then shrugged and smiled, "True enough, and you are a smart man. It is not anything major, I just wanted you to be the first to know. I plan on announcing it to everyone else in a day or two."

Suthra tilted his head curiously, "Really? What is it?"

"You know Governor Xisuki, correct?"

"Of course," Suthra said, though he wasn't able to entirely hide the fact that he was not overly fond of the man. Xisuki was the Governor that Napizzi had put in charge of Hanartha's western coastline. Xisuki was also an incredibly large man; not large in the manner of Napizzi but morbidly obese. Suthra's recollections of Xisuki were mostly of jiggling fat and the smell of sweat mixed perfume.

"Oh, do not say it like that," Napizzi said, obviously displeased with his son's reaction, "Xisuki is a good man, and my friend."

"I know that," Suthra said, ashamed of himself, "I'm sorry."

Napizzi just looked at his son for a moment before grinning and patting him on the back, "It is fine. You do not know him the way I do."

"That is probably true," Suthra said, smiling back at his father, "So what about him anyway?"

"Oh, yeah! One of his sisters just gave birth to a set of triplets. All of them daughters," Napizzi said, "You may not know this, but those are the first daughters any of his sisters have had."

Suthra nodded his head, since among the Hanarth bloodlines were traced via the female line daughters were important. The birth of these daughters meant Xisuki's family would continue, though Suthra had no idea why his father would want to tell him this in private. And he voiced that confusion, "So what did you have to bring me here to tell me?"

"Well, Xisuki is holding a feast to celebrate, unsurprising since the man loves feasting, and he has invited me," Napizzi said, "And I intend to accept the invitation."

Suthra was silent for a moment as he processed the information, "It is not that far away, so you will not be gone long."

"Most likely not, though Xisuki will want me to stay as long as I can to catch up," Napizzi said, "Which, I have to admit, is an entertaining prospect."

"So why is this so important?" Suthra asked, not entirely understanding.

"Because I would like you to run the castle and city while I'm gone," Napizzi said matter-of-factually.

Suthra simply stared at his father for a long moment as his brain tried to process what had just been said. His father, the Grand Prince, wanted him to watch over and govern both the Golden Citadel and Ulzschath. It was a shock, to say the least. "I... I can't do that," Suthra managed to stammer out.

"Why not?" Napizzi asked.

"Because it is not my place, father," Suthra said, standing up, "I am only your son, my mother was just one of the commonfolk. I am the same, I am not part of your House, I-"

"Suthra," Napizzi said sternly, standing up as well, "I took you into my household and raised you as a part of my family when your mother died. You are as much royalty as I am."

Suthra groaned in irritation, "No, I'm not. You may think so, but you are the only one in this city who does!"

"I am Grand Prince of Hanartha and what I think is all that matters," Napizzi said darkly, the words coming out sounding like a threat to anyone who would disagree with him.

"I am sorry father, but I cannot do it," Suthra said, "Let Amenmes or Ennutuar handle it. Or even Alurar or Asurar; they are all your nephews. They may be your heirs, they could use the experience. Not me."

Napizzi just stared at his son sadly. He thought he had been doing Suthra a favour by taking him in when his mother had died, she had been a commoner like Suthra said. But Napizzi's sisters and their children had never looked kindly on Suthra's presence in the Golden Citadel, since his mother had just been a commoner. They didn't like the way Napizzi seemed to dote on his son and not his nephews; he knew that some probably felt threatened by it. Felt like he was grooming Suthra as his heir. He wasn't of course, since he knew there'd be no way anyone would ever accept it. But Suthra's mother had been the only lover Napizzi ever took, and Suthra himself was all he had left of her.

Napizzi put a hand on his son's shoulder. "You're right, of course. You see these things far more clearly than me," he said, smiling sadly, "I'll have Anemnes handle it while I'm gone."

Suthra put his hand over his father's, smiling as he did so. "It is alright, I know you just want to help. But you've already given me far more than I'd ever ask for," he said, before hugging his father tightly. The pair stood there hugging one another for a long moment, before they heard a sound at the door. When they looked over, they saw another elf dressed in a simple brown rob and holding what appeared to be a small bowl of guts, staring at them. "Oh, s-sorry, I-I was just here to give th-the offering," he said, showing them the bowl, "I-I can just come back l-later."

"No, it's fine. We were just done," Suthra said, letting go of his father.

After a moment Napizzi nodded in agreement, "We would hate to keep you from your duties, curator. The size of this shrine does not make it any less important than any other."

And with that the two departed the garden, leaving the curator rather confused. But he simply shrugged and got to work making the offering to the Nameless Gods and checking to be sure that the garden was in proper condition.

--

New Gryphos was the epitome of the Gryph Empire. When you walked through the gates, you could feel the money oozing out of the city. Every time you walked passed someone, they were toying with wallets too small to hold their ample fortunes. There was not a single crack in the street, not one house built a little awkwardly, not even a brick out of place. As long as you were in New Gryphos, you could forget that there were still be people who hunted for food and slept on rags in fur tents not ten miles away. Perhaps you might not see then cross pinned to the door as a warning to everyone who entered, unused for several years now. New Gryphos had a long-standing reputation for being the perfect Torin city, and for good reason.

A prime example of the city's wealth was Luchairt Palace. Everything about the Palace screamed 'Notice me' - the pristine marble columns, the exquisite golden roof, the silver-grey fence running around the perimeter, the gaps wide enough for the peasantry to see through but not quite wide enough to fit through. There were gargoyles placed strategically on every parapet and balcony and the gates were adorned with two golden lions. Someone had clearly splashed out on this place to make it the single most noticeable building in New Gryphos - that was saying a lot. The palace was full of grand rooms and expensive furniture, and it would take several centuries to describe the beauty of it all, so allow me to save us some time and move straight to the grandest room of all - the Empress' throne room.

Normally, she only sat here when seeking consul from the Inquisition, or perhaps some wizened Tribe Leaders. The area was totally off limits to the public except during a debate or royal decree, and when it was, the entire place was jam-packed. Now, it was bare but for a handful of choice figures.
It was Bitter-root who had called for the meeting. Any messages and letters, especially those from foreign nations, went through him, and he had decided that this particular letter was important enough to be brought to the Empress' attention. It was, of course, the Gu-Shedal's letter.

"It is certainly something new" the old man started. Father Bitter-root was a sprightly old man, with kind, bright eyes and a fluidity and grace that defied his age. As a young man, he had been as delicate and as fragile-looking as the rest of his kin, but any signs suggesting weakness had long since faded, leaving behind a grizzled, cheerful old shaman. Though he must have been quite a sight with his long, dark cloak and staff intertwined with bones and skulls, one look at his face could eradicate any fears one could harbour about him.

"And it was nice of them to think of us!" Little Lady Luna added "Oh, please say we can go, mother! I'd love to go to Manram! My tutor was telling me about Shu Zidish, and she says..."
"Well of course we can go, little one" the Empress cut her off. "Why, it would be a massive faux pas if we refused!"

Luna and Kali were like chalk and cheese in terms of looks. Kali was often considered to be like the rest of the Gryph - honey-coloured skin, dark brown hair, strong but not bulky. Though she was attractive, there were definately better lookers out there, and she wasn't the tallest of Gryph. Luna, by contrast, seemed to lack any suggestion she shared a race with her mother at all. Instead of the sweet, caramel tan of the rest of her kind, Luna had a complexion more like that of a light peach. Her dark ginger hair was almost unheard of, and her face was far more round and gentle than her sharper, stronger kin. Perhaps most notably, she was fifteen years old, but was yet to bleed. Her chest was still flat. Yet she was almost at the age where she would be expected to marry, have children and create strong, healthy heirs to lead the Torin of the future. It was hardly a secret that the girl was not growing up entirely the way she should be, but who was going to argue with the Empress?

"If I may be so bold, Your Majesty, this 'party' sounds a little risky." It was High Inquisitor Corvus who said that. Malin Corvus was the Empress' last line of defence and most trusted guardsman, as well as her head Inquisitor. He was a relatively older man, having served faithfully for twenty-eight years, and with age came experience. He kept his dark hair cropped short and his blue eyes were marred by a long scar running down his anatomical right, a gift he received from a man who decided he didn't feel like getting nailed to a cross for his crimes against nature. He returned the favour many times over to that man.

"Whatever do you mean, Corvus?"
"Well, for starters, it is going to last the whole week. I significantly doubt that the...Gu-Shedal needs an entire week to grow older."

"More time to party, if you ask me" Luna beamed joyously.
"And the request that everyone is disarmed. Why would he say that if he didn't want us to be at his mercy?" The Inquisitor seemed to ignore the girl entirely.
"What are you suggesting, Malin?" Bitter-root asked
"I'm saying that there is something fishy going on. We should make our excuses and decline."

The effect was immediate. Bitter-root glared at the Inquisitor as if he had personally insulted the Empress, Luna's jaw hit the floor and Kali herself merely gave a bemused smirk.
"And what will that say about Torin? That we don't trust our neighbours?" The Kasai started
"And miss out on the party?" Luna whimpered
"Ridiculous that you can't trust a foreigner..."
"And what about Mundir? We haven't even met the poor man! He could be the nicest guy in the world!"

"Peace, Father, Daughter. The Inquisitor's fears are not without reason" the Empress finally spoke, silencing her advisors. The duo still shot the poor man dirty looks, but said nothing more. Malin's face lit up into a smug grin.

"... which is why I'm entrusting my life to him when I attend this happening. Torin cannot be seen as a nation of isolationist loners now, can we?"
The whole scene changed. Now it was the old man wearing the grin and the inquisitor frowning. Luna was too busy hugging her mother and squealing with delight to show any emotion other than joy.

"My lady, you cannot truly be serious..."
"Malin, you've known me for years now." She was using his first name. That meant this was serious. " If I'm walking headlong into an ambush, and I do get attacked, I want you to be the one fighting at my back. And Luna, since you wanted to come along, I'll let you come as well.
"Thank you, mother!" The ginger girl squealed, trembling with glee. "I-I gotta go pack! There so much to do and such little time!" And with that, the child shot off, presumably to go pack a bag or two. Or twelve.
Bitter-root had some more questions, though "Hang on, mi'lady. If you, Corvus and Luna are away for a week, who's going to lead Torin?"

"Isn't it obvious, Father? You are. From the moment I leave, you will be Lord Regent and will have all my powers while I'm away."
Bitter-root looked like he might keel over, but he managed to mutter a "I'll do my best, mi'lady.".

"Is there any more news that needs to reach my, or do I have time to prepare?"
Silence
"No? Then I shall start packing at once. Corvus, you should do the same. Father, send a bird out to Manram. Tell them we accept wholeheartedly"

Within the Kamer van Macht; Evening, Veere, north-eastern Frisstreek

“What? No! Absolutely not!” Lady Sara’s voice echoed through the Kamer; in the distance, the walls repeated her words in disbelief, until they softly dwindled away into nothing.

Across the great table, two terrible forces had united, Lord Henri Prins, and the Vorst Basilious. Sara’s eyes rolled from the two men, wide and furious, searching for an ally of her own; Odes. But the old man was not present, and she was left alone with his heirs grin, though five years her elder, Basilious still managed to play the part of a pubescent boy, all cock and glamour. One hand balanced on the table, looking up with an amusement in his grey eyes, reflecting the enraged Lady as she stood from her chair.

“You think me a fool, you bastards? Hm? You think you can just ship me away so you can run this country into the ground? I will not, I refuse!”

She shouted across at them, the youngest gaining a look of apprehension, he’d not expected such a vocal protest from the Lady; Basilious never lost his grin, speaking coolly now, his ice against her fire, which only served to infuriate her further, “M’lady.” His voice slithered with a patronizing calm, for she was obviously the irrational one, she was the woman. “ You must understand, I would go myself;” The hand drumming on the table came against his breast, “Alas, I am not yet a Lord, and it would only serve to insult the Gu-shedal. My father, he is too sick to travel, and when he should pass into the next world, it will be in his own bed.” Basilious’ voice rose with force, looking at Sara, and even Henri for a challenge, but there was none. Though neither might not care for him, they all fostered respect for his father.

“Then Lord Henri will go,” Sara began, but was interrupted by a gentle chuckle from Basilious’.

“Lord Henri is facing a great feat of his own; his thirtieth birthday, and a Prins Lord has not down that in, hm, It would be near eighty years now, wouldn’t it? My poor father saw the last lively Prins.”

That brought a surge of annoyance to Henri’s face, who said nothing, but Sara breathlessly, unbelievingly, laughed, “ All peasant superstitions; spells and curses. Henri is healthy, and fit to go.”

“And should he die, a healthy, fit, man of twenty-nine, of still unexplained causes-”

“Lord Eckel had died of dysentery after falling from his horse into its own manure. If the man had not had continued his hunting trip, he’d be alive still today.” Sara said fiercely, Henri sitting silent, looking down at his hands.

“And Lord Eckel’s father?”

“He broke his neck, drunkenly scaling a tower, and midway up, deciding he wanted to be down. If the Prins have any disease; it is their own drunken stupidity”

Basilious gave a shrug to her, “Still, Lord Henri and I have made our decision, you will be the acting hand for Frisstreek, you have more experience than Henri, you have met more leaders than he has. It’s only fitting for you to represent us.”

“It is only fitting that I should be gone so you might plan treason in my wake! Enough! I will not go. Where is Lord Odes?”

“My father,” Basilious would say with an edge, “is resting, we have already discussed it with him, and he agrees with us. You must go, Lady Sara.”

Sara looked toward Henri, “And you will allow this, Henri? A bold faced attempt at sedition, you know, when I am gone, he” Her eyes turned accusingly toward Basilious, “He will only gather more power. Can you not see that? Are you as stupid and drunken as your forefathers? He will take every advantage dwarf you with what power will gain. Without me here, there will no Lords, only a King and his Fool. Listen to me, you might think yourself clever in doing this, but you will undo us both!”

Her warnings, however, went unheard, Henri turning his face half away from her, and speaking lowly, “I have cast my vote, Lady Sara.”

Sara’s eyes flashed between the two, “Fine! Let it be then, let him rule. I’ve never cared for it anyway!” Already standing, it was the Lady’s turn to march enraged from the Kamer, slamming the door behind her, and startling the two guards at its sides. Both snapped into position at the glimpse of the Lady, but in a moment, she was gone.

In the Kamer, Basilious let out a high laughter, Henri staring down at the table, and thinking back to what she had told him, There will be no Lords, only a King and his Fool. Henri would not be made a fool, a pawn in the hand of any man, Basilious, or otherwise. Without a word, he stood, and left Basilious to his celebration.

Without Sara, there would be nothing but peace for him. It would be his turn to gain notoriety, to live up to the Prins name, before it was known for young-blooded, dead, drunken fools. He would be known for the hero who brought Fristreek into an age of glory. The common folk and the nobility alike would rejoice at his name, Lord Henri Prins, and in his shimmering glory, the memory of Lord Odes, of Lady Sara, and the Vorst Basilious would fade away, weak shadows in a world of light.