---

Character: Queen Lia
Location: The Scale Home Royal Palaces, Queen's Quarters

It was a brisk morning, though few in Scale Home would be aware, due to the city's subterranean nature. The Queen herself was just awaking, dressing herself in a simple gown and looking out the window into the city.
Gazing over the fire lit city below the Queen smiled. It was her city, her people. She would lead them into glory, like her mothers before her. However she would do better. Yes, the Queen mused. She would become the greatest Queen of Scale Home, and lead the empire into a glorious age for Kobold kind.

But first, a knock on her door. "Come in." Lia half muttered, still fighting off the tired that bit at the ends of her mind.
Stepping in would be her loyal bodyguard Warren. The Cobold stepped into the room, adorned in his armor and with a ever grim look upon his face. Lia hated the term Cobold, not that she had any issue with those it meant, but the mere fact of the matter was that it was said the same way as Kobold, which made talking about the two peoples separately impossible. Perhaps that was the point Lia caught herself thinking, and noted to find out who coined the term Cobold later.
But alas, Warren was waiting her permission to speak.

"What is it?" The queen asked, to which the large male replied, "Issues down south my Queen. Some people have gone missing. Most recently a group of settlers led by some Cobold calling himself Frer the Bloody disappeared entirely." "Sorry Warren, did you say Kobold or Cobold?"
The old male sighed, before waving a hand in front of himself, indicating one of his own. "Ah, continue." Lia ordered. "Yes my Queen. This Frer person was due to settle the area's north of the Promethea ruins, but all communication with his group ceased a week ago. I fear that it may be Bet Aybar, or perhaps organized bandits working under one leader. No mere brigands would have completely destroyed Frer and his group."

The Queen thought. If it was just bandits it would be easy to send forth a legion or two and be rid of them, but if another nation was to blame, then it would require more precise movements. Or perhaps it was neither, but if not Bet Aybar or bandits then...
"Shall we send a legion my Queen?" Warren asked. Ever a warrior Lia mused before replying, "No. We cannot risk a war because a Cobold felt insulted by a human. How about... Inform the populace that I wish to have several pieces for my own collection of old master artifacts. Tell them that any such pieces will be paid for handsomely." "My Queen, I didn't realize you were fond of Promethean history and art." The Cobold said, to which the Queen answered, "I'm not. You think I give a care about some dead ape's idea of beauty? No. But this way we can send a legion that will pay for itself, not cause an incident if they engage in combat, and when they undoubtedly flee back will report everything they see. Now leave me, see that the message is sent."

---

"Yes my Queen." Warren said as he excused himself. The Queen was a strange, and perhaps even devious, but Warren was in no position to question her orders. He could still doubt them however.
A Queen should be noble, and up-front Warren thought to himself, not resorting to, whatever this was. If she felt she needed more information she should send scouts, surely they, upon their goats, would be faster and more efficient than peasants.

"By Zee..." The Cobold muttered to himself quietly as he stepped out of the palace. He would need a way to post the message across the city. Paper would work, write it upon paper and post it on various surfaces where people would pass often.
Making his way to the best place to get a great deal of paper Warren stepped into the Hall of Records. After speaking with a scribe Warren soon had a massive stack of papers. Writing the message out on all of them, and then nailing them into walls across the entire city, would be time consuming. The Cobold would waste no time, and returned to his home to begin the task.

At the Royal Palace sat scores of nobles in lavish and ornate costumes upon ruby-red silken cushions decorated with elaborate patterns. These nobles engaging in revelry and merrymaking, holding golden and silver cups ornated with jewels ruby, jade, and emerald filled to the brim with precious wines both domestic and exotic, and held before their large plates filled with purple grapes and red apples, champa bread and Morash-polo rice, and pastirma beef and Apaki pork. Through these festivities, the nobles vaguely covered their games of power and intrigue, but their ruse was so abundantly transparent that even a great ignoramus could take notice in but a mere moment, if they but observed the den of craftiness. In centuries past, in the ages of the great raids, and the mighty Ashkarian army, like a wave when it crashes against a rock, failed to trounce the proud city of Zaqir, the royal court had not been beset by such an infestation. However, in this time of idleness, when the Kings had grown weak and soft, the nobles sought to busy themselves, accompanying prosperity with corruption.

King Girbranu himself sat atop his throne of gold and diamonds, separated from his nobles by a set of stairs five steps long, formed of pure gold. He wore many golden jewelry encrusted with precious gems gems in a flowing royal kaftan the color of gold, yet greatest of all the grandeur the illustrious sovereign wore, none was apt to inspire awe than his magnificent crown of gold, adorned with the legendary Eight Pearls of Iyanna. At his left sat his beautiful consort upon her own throne of gold and her own encrusted diadem, his domineering and animated young wife Karalia. On his right sat his chief attendant, lover, and former gladiatorial hero Hugu.

The King felt a great separation he and his subjects below him, as if he were the clouds and they the earth. His riches and power dwarfed all within his Kingdom, so that even the greatest of the nobles were but a mere a hill, while he was a mountain. He was unlike the Potentate of the Dominion, who was only leader. He was a being just below a god, with the divine blood of the great goddess Iyana running through his veins. Yet he did not feel so above them all. He felt to himself a flawed mortal who was not so transcendently beyond those below. At least he felt comfort with Hugu at his side.

Yet now was not the time to dally on the King, as now is not his turn. Dining among the divans sat a young noble with a striking handsomeness and a well-groomed head of hair wearing a khalat of an exceptional design, his name being Assuritu of Salimat. Currently he feasted, his fork pierced through a piece of Apaki pork as he cut through it with a knife, yet his real focus on conversation and intrigue. He kept his eye on the gluttonous Baron Esru of Hegal, who gave a roaring laugh at the several nobles around him who chatted with him. The great philosopher Amaratu had stated that “It is not proper to engage in hedonism, as they are useless in the search for happiness.” Well, Esru had not followed that advice.

However hedonistic and gluttonous he was, he was the one who continually stamped out great intrigue and corruption among the Court. Dedicating his life to the original purposes of the Royal Court, Esru of Hegal had made it impossible for any noble of the Court to gain power at expense of the King. This was a problem for Assuritu, as he wanted power, and power at the expense of the King. In the name of the legacy Tayartu, he would ensure that the nobility would have its place within a new system which he would create. Fortunately, Assuritu spotted that Esru had brought an Or’Rouzi slave with him, a beautiful young woman with alluring dark skin. It was clear she was bathed, perfumed, and spruced up in a number of ways so that Esru could properly display his sex slave to the court, but within her expression detailed the depths of her unhappiness. She made the perfect tool for Assuritu to use against Esru.

“Any new developments I ought to know?” Assuritu said, leaning inward to whisper to his friend Ghamku.

“All’s gone according to our plan,” Ghamku whispered in reply. “It has gone almost too well to even believe. I cannot almost not believe that we finally be rid of that bastard.”

“Quite excellent, Ghamku,” Assuritu said.

It was soon enough that the regular feasting had ended and the true intrigue could be set into course. With golden cups encrusted with precious jewels filled to the brim with wine, engaging in conversation. Assuritu himself engaged in conversation with Esru, pretending to be entertained by his vapid and long-winded talk. He suffered so in order to get close to his slave girl, who would of great use to him.

As he left, he bumped into the slave girl purposefully, although he of course made it look like a fumble on his part. No one saw how he had covertly upon her supple fingers a small yet thick iron dagger, a weapon of quick and lethal efficiency. She gave him a look that revealed she understood what to do with it. Assuritu vaguely remembered her, in a whisper, thanking him, but he was not listening for that, as he cared not for the plight of Or’Rouzi slave beyond her power to kill that damned Esru.



Anutee had not but a few days prior finally left the Kingdom of his homeland, and was headed down further into land unknown to all. It was three days prior when he and his expeditionary force had left the inn situated at the edge of the Satrapy of Allumana and had taken the steps to enter lands never explored. He felt like Gabala-du, who half a millennia ago travelled down in unknown lands outside the great city of Ashkar and founded a city which bore his own name. In reality though, Anutee was not so unusual, as many men had traveled more and more southward as the years rang on, making the Kingdom ever larger. Nonetheless, here Anutee certainly felt like a great adventurer as he gazed upon the flaxen-colored land of tall grasses and endless plains dotted with hills, none of which ever had an Edimmu, or a Reguli, or even a Saurian laid eyes upon.

“Sir,” his Reguli lieutenant said to him.

“Yes, what is it?” Anutee replied.

“We’ve found something,” he said. “Or rather, someone. There’s a settlement not far from here. It would be a simple matter to raid it.”

“And there’s no threat from it?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Well then, I’d say we’ve waited long enough. Tell the men it’s time for chevauchée.”

“At once, sir. I can’t wait.”

And the men went eagerly to it. Here they were outside of the Kingdom, and away from all laws, judges, and monarchs to rein them in. Besides, perhaps they would have approved of in any case. Outside stood a small group of sentinels that were alarmed by a group of outsiders charging forth with spears and swords raised. The peculiar thing was that these protectors were not men, but women. They were skilled guards, who fared well, piercing through the explorers’ fur with their spears of iron, but it was of no use, as they were overwhelmed in moments, the explorers using the sheer bulk of their force to slay them.

And then the explorers entered through the village gates, and saw that it was a settlement of no modest size, quite large in both size and population. More guard rushed to the settlement’s aid, in order to save it from these marauders. The marauders had an overwhelming advantage in numbers, four-to-one, but it did not faze those who wished to defend their homes. They attacked in a phalanx of three lines, shields held up and spears reaching out, and fought with such an organization that none of the marauders had ever seen; it was like they were a single man. It was a fearsome battle, as the marauders lunged their spears, and much blood was spilt, but eventually they were overwhelmed through brute numbers.

With the hard part done already, the explorers could do what they wanted to most, which was to rape, pillage, and burn. The women, no matter their resistance, were carried off by the explorers, and those that could not be subdued were killed. The shops and homes were set to the pyre, but not before whatever riches that laid within were stolen. The riches that were of interest to Anutee was a chamber in the center of the town, where a great amount of gold had been discovered. It was split between himself and his men, although Anutee received by far the greatest share, with his Reguli lieutenant receiving the second largest share.

So with a great amount of loot in both women and in gold, they set off once again. They set up camp, and engaged in merriment, enjoying both the gold they had stolen and the women they raped. Then night fell, and the fires slowly went out as the men went to sleep. Amidst their dreams, they did not hear the enemy approaching. Warriors armed with long knives crept into the camp, and cut their throats. None were to escape from their nightly assailants, and none were to know even of their existence. Then with their nocturnal slayings done, they rescued the women from their torturous captivity.

“M’lady, I see them returning,” Luawan said.

“Good. Although I would have preferred for them to have spared from whatever it is they’ve already endured,” Pelim said. “Who knows what these beasts have done to our own?”

“Of course, m’lady,” Luawan said.

“But at least now I can rest easy, knowing they are safe again,” Pelim said. “But, Luawan, our work’s not yet done. The village here was serving as a waystation for some gold needed at Parsagadae, and I would like it to continue its way to the capital. See that’s it done.”

“Yes, at once,” Luawan said.

“Instinct leads me to believe this is not merely an isolated incident,” Luawan said. “I’ll make sure the capital deals with this. In the meantime, our soldiers will guard the border here.”

It is the year 500 A.E, the dawn of a new century, one mired still in the chaos of generations. The Zaqiri Dominion's fleets are poised to wage their ever-vaunted war, its armies restless, its people eager to see another era of blood. The world yet quivers at the thought of the saurian host descending upon its shores. The world yet wonders where it first will strike.

But before such a war can be waged, there first must come the Almurzani. The city of Zaqir is bustling with activity. Engineers are hard at work expanding the Visitors Quarter. Merchants and peddlers shout to passersby on the streets. Ships from the sea, caravans from the jungle: everyone from most every nationality is coming to Zaqir to trade, to marvel, or to fight. Yes, fight: for not far from the sound of music and the smells of freshly cooked fish is a scene more glorious and macabre in nature.

Near the arena are flown the colors of a dozen minor city states alongside those of Zaqir and the other competing nations. Warriors, both independent practitioners of the martial arts and sponsored fighters looking to win prestige for their nation, spar together to practice for the coming bloodsports. Even these practice events are a dangerous thing.

But the world does not forget that the host nation of the Almurzani, Zaqir, watches these events very closely. Their leaders eagerly bring all the visitors they can to this event, especially the greatest warriors from foreign states, so they may discern who will present the greatest challenge. For in Zaqir, war is not waged for the sake of politics. Politics is waged for the sake of war. This Almurzani may determine nations' fates in the coming years...




The saurian warriors clashed yet again, their falchions locked together, sand billowing about them in clouds. The smell of their sweat and their fury was thick in the air, the two of them pushing against the other with all their might. Their shields were already tossed uselessly upon the ground, broken into splinters, and both fighters were covered in terrible wounds.

The smaller of the two jerked her head forward, snapping with her jaws at her enemy's face. Her teeth clamped down hard on the larger warrior's maw. The bigger woman let out a furious hiss, thrusting forward with all her weight, trying to throw her enemy off of her. Scales and blood flew threw the air, as did some some teeth, and both saurian women fell back from their opponent. They stared. They bled. They raged.

Then they clashed again, swords smashing against each other. As they danced the dance of death, Commander Tana watched with interest, stroking the winged helmet sitting in her lap. The arena had always fascinated her.

"Tell me, Dihya," she asked the saurian woman next to her, "who do you believe will win this battle?"

"The larger warrior," said the saurian almost instantly. "She is no Zorai, but she has considerable weight, and she's no slouch with her sword. She has greater reach, too."

"That reach will work against her if her opponent can slip in through her defenses again."

The saurian snorted, licking her dry scales. "I do not think the same trick will work twice, Commander."

The battle continued. Sparks flew as their swords collided with one another. The screech of metal scraping upon metal gave way to the sound of cracking bones as the larger saurian slammed her clawed foot down on her opponent's knee. There was a terrible shriek from the smaller opponent, and she fell onto her back. But just as it seemed her defeat was imminent, just as the apparent victor began lowering her sword to her enemy's throat, the smaller woman swatted the weapon away. Then she dove at the other warrior, knocked the surprised woman to the ground, and prepared to clamp her jaws around the unsuspecting warrior's throat.

But in the end, the larger woman was stronger, and this time she was ready. She quickly brought a fist up and slammed it across the biting woman's head.

"I think you were right," mused Tana, chuckling.

The pair wrestled on the sand for a while yet, but the larger warrior won in the end. She pressed her foot upon her opponent's chest, stood tall, and lifted her sword into the air with a victorious whoop. And then, just as quickly, she reached on down and helped her opponent to her feet. The two bleeding, bruised, scarred warriors laughed. Sisters in battle never could harbor a grudge with one another for long.

"I think Zaqir has a good chance of winning this Almurzani," thought Dihya aloud, folding her arms over her chest. "In the single combat section, we present the strongest warriors, as ever. The Ilists seem to be making good ground in the large group battles as well. The archery competition is well within our grasp as well."

"I would not be certain in single combat. It was not a saurian woman who won the Almurzani last, but a warrior of Ashkar." Tana lifted her flask to her mouth, taking a good, long drink of rum. The noseless human smacked her lips. "But I think the Asqari might distinguish themselves in single combat this year," she added with a nod. "They have been studying their Ashkari cousins ever since the last Almurzani, and they say their best warriors have created a new fighting style based around that."

"They should have been studying the dwarves," growled Dihya with a toothy grin. "They will be most impressive this year. The Stoneguard are sending some of their own, I hear."

The Stoneguard, thought Tana, nodding yet again and moving her flask about in a circle. "They are formidable," she agreed. "But I wonder if they will be sending their best. While we in Zaqir are always ready to hold off on our wars for the sake of the Almurzani, I do not think the other nations hold it in just as high a regard."

It was her lieutenant's turn to nod. The saurian woman then looked past the sandy training grounds and up at the distant palace. "I wonder what the Potentate is doing."

"The same thing as we are, I am sure." Tana waved her hand over at the grounds. "In the coming days, there will be hundreds of warriors here, the finest from every corner of our world. Then they will fight, and we will see whose nation has the best warriors."

"And then?"

"And then," said Tana with a blank expression, "the real fighting will begin."

---

Character: Warmaster Bloodaxe

Location: War Summit of the Stone Guard, Uthein

The axe, as massive and as heavy as it was, flowed through the air like a delicate feather, until it came to a sudden and crashing standstill in the face of a straw-stuffed practice dummy. Bloodaxe grunted, and heaved the weapon backwards. The dummy was torn into an incoherent mess by the backwards pull, and fell into a pile of hessian and straw at the mighty Dwarf's feet.

"Very good my love," a woman spoke seductively from nearby. "But I fear the armour suited you better when you were younger."

Bloodaxe turned his head, and his armour creaked with the movement. Losha was his favourite of whores; as stout as she was beautiful, with two wholesome breasts and the curves of a real woman. Her freckled face looked out from strands of red hair, and she bit her lower lip in an attempt to entice him nearer.

"Perhaps," he retorted. "But it aint how a warrior be lookin', it be 'bout how 'ard he can swing."

Losha rolled her eyes, and leaned back onto the table, spreading herself over its width. "Eloquently put, my love. But what do they say about a warrior's ability to fuck?"

Bloodaxe smirked beneath his helm, twisting his face into a spiderweb of wrinkles. "They be sayin' that a man that cannae fuck, aint a man at all - he be a corpse."

"And are you a corpse, my love?"

The mighty Dwarf let his axe full by his side, and it clattered onto the hard stone of his personal training room. He marched over to Losha with the thoughtless purpose of youth, fumbling with the straps of his armour as he went.

And then there was a thunderous knock on the great oaken doors. Bloodaxe froze, weighing the enjoyment of Losha against the more pressing matter of an unexpected visitor.

"Warmaster," a voice called. "The Senator has arrived, he wishes to speak with you immediately."

Bloodaxe snarled, and Losha feigned disappointment at the interruption. "Already?" He shouted back, and made for the doors.

---

Character: Senator Ackwell Stonebrim

Location: War Summit of the Stone Guard, Uthein

The Senator had not attended the latest meeting of the Senate, who had gathered to address the infamous Stone Guard Review. He'd been more than confident that the Queen's will governed more than two thirds of the Senate, and so his vote was surplus. Considering that he'd introduced the motion, and had been favoured to chair the Review, the wily Senator had seen fit to reach Bloodaxe before the war monger had a chance to put on a show.

He'd sat outside of the War Summit for three hours, waiting for his servants to bring him the news of the Review's legal ratification. A few minutes ago, Plythe, his personal secretary, had indeed brought the news, and now Senator Ackewell Stonebrim was launching the political equivalent of a pre-emptive strike against Bloodaxe and his cronies.

The guards had initially tried to bar his passage to the War Summit, but after enough shouting and waving his Senatorial seal around, they had relented and let him through. More guards tried to ferry him through the massive complex, but he shooed them away under the threat of arrest. They'd laughed and snarled at him, but stayed their hands - it was obvious Bloodaxe had ordered for the Senator not to be harmed or blocked in any way. One of the guards had yelled for the Warmaster's attention as Ackwell approached the man's personal training room, and then had scurried away, leaving the corridor empty save for the Senator.

As the solid oaken doors swung open, the Senator had to take a moment to study the Warmaster. In his mind, there was no way that he looked upon a man of 90, let alone a Dwarf at all. Bloodaxe was tall for a Dwarf, this was known, but his armour cut an impressive and intimidating figure. The Senator guessed that he, a Dwarf of 61, would struggle to uphold the weight of all that Zaqiri steel, yet the Warmaster came strolling towards him as if he wore nothing at all.

"My dear Senator Stonebrim," Bloodaxe called out, opening his plated arms to embrace the Senator. "It has been too long."

Ackwell hesitated for a moment, before returning the gesture, and the two Dwarves embraced for a moment. "Indeed it has, Senator Florin."

"Bah," the Warmaster hissed, breaking away from the embrace and waving a hand in dismissal. "I'm not a Senator. You know that."

Ackwell sighed, "you were the last time I checked the Senatorial Roll Call, which was this morning. You should have more pride in the Empire, Florin, I fear your idealism fools your perspective."

Bloodaxe growled, his face still obscured by his heavy steel helm. "We're a nation of whores, pandering to a bunch of baby lizards. My perspective is fine, Senator, perhaps you should re-evaluate yours."

"Let's drop this ballocks," Ackwell said suddenly, his fat jowls wobbling with each word. "You seek to upset everything we have built over the span of centuries. You. One man. What right have you to cause so much misery?"

In one fluid movement, Bloodaxe tore his helm from his head, and cast it over Ackwell's shoulder; the Senator cowered beneath it, and watched as it struck the floor and rolled to a stand still.

"Drop the ballocks ye be sayin'?" Bloodaxe sneered, his words suddenly slurred in their usual fashion. "Upset? Misery?" He drew himself close to the Senator, his steel-plated form towering over the smaller man like a titan of old. "Ye be comin' in 'ere, shoutin' yer accusations at me, accusin' me of treason."

Ackwell took a step back, suddenly feeling vulnerable and unsafe. Would the Warmaster murder a Senator? Was it in him?

"And yer be right, lad," Bloodaxe said at last, his nostrils flaring.

The two locked eyes, and stood for several seconds before Ackwell mustered his courage. "Then I will inform the Senate that the Stone Guard should be disbanded with immediate affect."

Bloodaxe's wrinkled features creased into a broad smile. "And so ye should. Sooner ye be runnin' yer whore mouth, tha sooner I can get to fuckin' killin' you all!"

"This is TREASON Florin!" Ackwell screeched, his face drained of colour as he realised the implications of the Warmaster's position. "You will be arrested and put to death."

"Excellent," Bloodaxe retorted. "Send yer Queen bitch's guards to Zaqiri, and tell 'em to hurry though eh?"

"What?" Ackwell asked with a frown, the situation quickly escaping him.

"I be leavin' for the Almurzani," the Warmaster muttered, making to walk past the Senator. "I have left orders for me men; if you or your Queen bitch be tryin' anything before I be gettin' back, they'll lock this place down, and you'll have a fuckin' lengthy siege ahead of yer. I be wonderin' what tha citizens of Uthein be makin' o' such a spectacle, aye? Best ye be reconsidering yer decision to immediately disband the Stone Guard, and launch a proper 'n long winded investigation, eh?"

Ackwell tried to grab Bloodaxe as he walked by, but the old Dwarf grabbed his wrist with a cast iron grip and shoved him aside. The fat Senator fell to the floor with a whimper, and tried to clamber to his feet. "You wont get away with this, you fucking lunatic!"

"Already 'ave, lad, already 'ave," the Warmaster uttered without stopping.

The morning was a brisk one, and Ayallal was enjoying the cool breeze as she gazed down at the courtyard of the villa. The courtyward itself was quite beautiful, thanks to the flowers blooming in a myriad of colours around its edges. She watched the occasional servant hurry back and forth on a variety of errands for the Sacred City's ayel masters. Ayallal, however, was no different from them and the only difference was that it would be a few more minutes before her personal skillset was needed and so she had been given a short break. As she looked back into the villa itself she saw her master, the eldest of the ayels, sitting at a table running his fingers over a scroll, reading the raised bumps on its surface with his long, slender fingers thanks to his lack of eyes. It was a completely normal sight to her, though most in Yossod would die for a chance to get this close to any ayel at least once in her life; it was a far cry from her life on the streets of Mashka.

Then Ayallal heard a faint knock at the door, and she quickly made her way into the room to stand at the side of her ayel master, Mercy. He had already heard the knock and answered, turning to acknowledge her presence for a short moment before turning back to the door and answering in the strange language of the ayels. It was a gurgling and burbling language punctuated by the clicking of teeth, and there were only a handful of humans who could understand it, let alone speak it. Ayallal was one such person, and called out, "Come in."

In walked a person most unimpressive, a simple elderly man in plain brown robes who greeted Mercy formally and using his full name: The-Wicked-And-Unjust-Shall-Receive-No-Mercy-But-By-The-Divine-Grace-Of-God-Almighty-For-I-Shall-Not-Stay-My-Sword-In-The-Time-Of-Their-Judgement. Ayallal relayed the message to Mercy, and then relayed the ayel's greeting in kind. For Mercy the only remaining ayels who was not able to at least understand spoken Yossodite; it was a testament to his age as the tongue was taught to all ayels born in Yossod.

"Greetings, Prophet," Ayallal said for Mercy, "It has been too long since I had the pleasure of a private meeting."

"Oh no, the pleasure is all mine your Holiness," the Prophet said.

Mercy let out a deep noise that Ayallal recognized as a groan before speaking, "There is no need for all of the formalities, Azuumad. This is hardly a meeting of the Council. And please, take a seat."

"And I apologize for interrupting your day, your Holiness," Azuumad said as he slowly sat down across the table from Mercy, eliciting a sigh from the imposing ayel, "But I did not wish to call another meeting of the Council again so soon for only a single matter."

"Oh, you weren't interrupting anything Azuumad. I was reading a book, and the most important thing I had planned was a stroll around the Sacred City," Mercy said with a dismissive wave of his hand, though the effect was somewhat diminished as the Prophet had no idea what he was saying until Ayallal repeated it, "But what is this matter?"

"It is about the King of Mashka, and it has only recently come to my attention," Azuumad responded, and this piqued Ayallal's interest; even though she'd lived most of her life in Qa-Avnel, the city of Mashka had been her home for many years, "It seems he may not be fit to rule. Or rather, that he may not be for much longer."

And when this message was relayed to Mercy, he finally put down the scroll he'd been reading to focus all his attention on the Prophet, "This is a serious accusation, Azuumad, I assume you have proof?"

"Apparently, one need only ask anyone within King Ninim's court."

"Is it that prevalent?"

"Unfortunately so, your Holiness," Azuumad responded gravely, "Apparently it began with the birth of his youngest several months ago. Since then he's become increasingly erratic and suspicious; I worry it will prove to the detriment of Yossod if allowed to go unchecked."

Mercy thought for a moment, no doubt going over the information in his head as Ayallal herself was. She wasn't particularly learned, but she knew Mashka was the biggest port in Yossod, even she could see that having an insane King rule over it wasn't good. After a long minute, Mercy spoke again, "You said it happened with the birth of his youngest, what was the matter with it? Was it a daughter? The Idumians have something against women ruling, do they not?"

"To be frank, I have no idea at all," Azuumad said, "All I have to go on is rumours and hearsay, and what the King claims too of course."

There was a short moment of silence before Azuumad realized Mercy wished for him to go on. "Well the child has never been seen by anyone except the King and Queen. Not even the Princes have seen the infant, though in the case of the eldest that is understandable," Azuumad said, "And King Ninim himself claims the boy is perfectly healthy and it is for his own protection. But rumours among Mashka's nobility say otherwise; many think the child is a malformed cripple, even worse than the second Prince."

"And the King himself?"

"Rarely seen; he spends most of his time with the youngest child and when he is in public he acts erratically. All will seem normal until something minor with set him ranting and raving."

"This is, troubling to say the least," Mercy said, "But has he actually done anything yet?"

"Not at this time, your Holiness."

"Well the Council cannot just go around removing Kings from their thrones. Well, we can, but it may cause more damage than good in the end."

"You are not saying we are to do nothing, are you?"

"Of course not. I want orders to the Brothers of the Covenant in Mashka to be on alert, and to know that if the King tries anything they have the authority to remove him from his throne. By force if necessary, but only if the need is dire."

"The Brotherhood, your Holiness? Surely we can solve this problem without those... Without the Brotherhood."

Mercy sighed again, "It would be infinitely more difficult, and make us much slower to react. In which time a mad King could cause more harm. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not, your Holiness, I just..."

"Azuumad, this is the end of this discussion. One of the purposes of the Brotherhood is to enforce our rule."

With that the Prophet nodded his head and stood back up, "Well then, I thank you sincerely for taking your time to listen to me. And I ask only that you bring the problem to the attention to the Council next it meets."

"Of course, but are you leaving already?"

"Indeed, I am sure you have your own business to attend to, and I must find out who in the Brotherhood I should inform with the First Brother off playing gladiator."

The Prophet bowed to Mercy and gave a short nod to Ayallal, the first time he'd acknowledged her existence since he's entered the room, before leaving quietly. Mercy waited only a short moment before picking his scroll back up and looking over at Ayallal. "That man is far too formal; I would've asked him to stay for a drink, but I feel as though he'd only stay because I asked."

"At least the Prophet is professional, is he not?" Ayallal said back, "And he does not have the luxury of living among you."

"Fair enough, it is still frustrating. I wish he'd call me 'Mercy' or at least 'Receive-No-Mercy', or anything less formal than my full name or 'your Holiness'." Mercy said, shaking his head, "You wouldn't object to sharing a drink with an old ayel would you?"

"Of course not, your Holiness," Ayallal said with a smirk, "I shall do whatever you ask."

Mercy let out a wet gurgling noise that Ayallal recognized as a laugh before responding, "Oh, stop that and get us those drinks. Get whatever you like; tell the cook I sent you."

"Of course, I'll be back in a few minutes."

------



First Brother Jinoa and another of Yossod's Brotherhood slowly circled one another, shields raised with their blunted practice swords at the ready. Jinoa was confident that he would end up on top, but he didn't let that cause him to underestimate his brother. No matter the opponent it was always best to treat them like the most dangerous man in the world, because in real combat they likely were. Eventually Jinoa charged into a series of strikes, but his brother blocked each with his shield. The pair exchanged blows, with each watching carefully for a break in the others guard. Then Jinoa's brother made a mistake that would've been fatal on the battlefield; he overextended himself and Jinoa was more than happy to take advantage of this. Jinoa's blunted sword jabbed into the man's gut and then across his face and the warrior went sprawling on the ground, with Jinoa's practice blade at his throat.

The pair stared at each other seriously for a long moment, before each broke into a massive grin as Jinoa helped the other warrior up. The man was, after all, Jinoa's brother. Not by anything as flimsy as being birthed from the same womb, but by virtue of the Covenant of Blood the Brotherhood was named after. The warrior made his way over a nearly a half-dozen other warriors, all of whom had had just as much luck against their First Brother. And now, instead of waiting for another challenger, Jinoa decided it'd be best to take a break. As he sat down and dropped the training gear one of the Brotherhood's Initiates came over with a sheepskin of water, which he graciously accepted before looking out over the rest of the sparring yard.

The members of Yossod's Brotherhood were mostly obvious; most of them were baring their chests to the air and the near-identical brands and scars on their arms were obvious for all to see. Not all of them, however, and some were training in full armour; it was something Jinoa would get around to later. Jinoa could see a group of his warriors moving in perfect step with one another and going through a series of group drills, as well as a great many in single spars. He grinned as he watched Hama the Tall win another sparring match, before laughing and helping the poor man up. Jinoa was a skilled warrior, but even he would think twice before picking a fight with Hama; the man was apparently half-promethean but if that was true his mother must have been the largest and hairiest woman in Yossod, since not only was he hairy and apelike but he was larger than any full-blooded promethean Jinoa had ever laid eyes on.

But as his eyes wandered to the other warriors in Zaqir, he began to ruminate on how little he wanted to be here. He had proven himself in real combat against people who actually wanted him dead, he wasn't some unblooded looking for approval and neither did he revel in the violence like Hama. He was First Brother and he had a duty to his brothers, and the Almurzani could be dangerous. He didn't wish to end up dead or maimed unless it was on a battlefield, fighting against the enemies of God. But he had his orders, and they had come directly from the Ayelic Council. But actually fighting in the Almurzani was secondary; his main purpose within Yossod was to get a feel for these 'Ilists' himself. The Ayelic Council wanted a firsthand account of these saurians themselves from somebody whom they could trust, and Jinoa would never disobey a direct order from the Council. And he did have to admit that fighting in the Almurzani would be good practice and if a Brother won it would move things in Zaqir along quite well. Silently, he was also debating whether or not to seek out any Illists himself; he didn't want to haul around a priest to translate and if they were as devout as rumours claimed he had no doubt that they'd seek the Brotherhood out on their own volition. Eventually he decided to just wait and give them time; the Brotherhood's entourage had just arrived in Zaqir after all.

best at philosophy



At the court of the King of all of the Kingdom of Ela’Susam sat the High Queen Nefiti lounging upon her throne of gold and jade. Years had passed since she had ascended to the throne, forcing that cruel Queen Ezfra. Ezfra had killed her mother, she had killed her father, her sisters, and her brothers, and thought she could wipe out the proud Netyskare line. Yet Nefiti had proved herself the better of the two, and rose against her sovereign, and roused the forces across her country that saw that their sovereign was but a tyrant filled the thirst for blood and the crazed emotions of paranoia.

And it had been seven years ago when she tore through the capital, the great and immortal city of Pelis, and with her army forced Ezfra and her dynasty away from the proud throne of the ancestors, to her, someone who would rule it properly. Purges had dealt with the remaining resistance, and now Ezfra was on the golden throne, and now she knew that that was where it was that she properly belonged.

Around her sat her court of aristocrats, women and their husbands who sat and feasted. Nefiti knew that as jovial as they might have seen with each other, what they were doing, and it was what they excelled at, was at the cutthroat politics of intrigue. She had once been amongst them, in her days before she was the High Queen.

Here entered Pelim with her ever loyal lieutenant Luawan by her side. Pelim approached the High Queen Nefiti with a respectful bow.

“My High Queen, I have returned with news that may be of interest to you,” Pelim said.

“Oh?” said the High Queen. “Then tell me, what news have your brought.”

“Well, my Queen, let me tell you that I was near a town where you, your esteemed majesty, had temporarily set some royal gold. And then it was raided.”

“Raided? And who were they, Pelim? Savages? Or Prometheans?”

“Neither. They were iron-wielders, like Prometheans. But these were neither savage, promethean, nor Elan.”

“What, then?”

“Foreigners, from a not so distant land. In ages past, the Kingdom was too small for us to have ever encountered them. Yet in the last century we have expanded, and now our two lands have.”

And from this, much whispering from the court came.

“What you tell me, Pelim, is thoroughly unbelievable.”

“On the authority of our good women who were defiled.”
“We shall see,” said the High Queen.



Assuritu sat in his quarters, sitting upon the purple velvet cushion of his finest chair, crafted of the greatest of woods with the most intricate of designs. In his right hand was a golden goblet sparkling with the jewels and diamonds that were strewn across it. He nervously took sips of it as he anxiously awaited the impeding news of his plot. He deeply hoped that all had gone well, and Esru of Hegal had died. He was glad when Ghamku came into his quarters, and he put down his goblet.

“Ah, Ghamku. Never have I been happier to have seen you,” Assuritu said. “Now tell me, how has it gone? Is Esru of Hegal finally vanquished, and we may move around the court as we wish?”

“The slave didn’t do it,” Ghamku said.

“What!” Assuritu said, knocking over the goblet.

“There were news of a certain slave of Esru’s killing herself with an elaborate dagger.”

“Damn! Curses of Eliyahu!” Assuritu said. “How in the name of Imkhas did all of this happen? I was certain that the wench was aware of what I bade her task to be.”

“It seems she thought you aimed to give her a mercy-killing.”

“Drat! The harlot ought to have had some sense in her! I suppose we’ll just have to resort to ordinary methods then. I’ll hire the best assassin in the land, no – of all lands! – to be rid of this gluttonous fool.”

“That’s been tried by a number of people, and all attempts have failed.”

“Then, my friend, we need only find someone who we know cannot fail. Who is the greatest warrior of all Ashkar?”

“That would be Hugu, aide and lover to King Girbranu.”

“Well, we can’t very well count on his cooperation,” Assuritu said. “I know him, and he certainly values Esru more than me. I suppose then, we’ll just have to count on someone else. Do we have a list?”

“No.”

“Can we make one?”

“I would advise against it.”



“Hugu would often brag that his strength and skill was the aggregate of that of a thousand Saurian elites.”
-Dammu, Political Philosopher

Hugu stood in the more private chambers of the Royal Palace, where the family of the supreme eminence, the King of Ashkar, Shepherd of the Edimmu, made his proper home, filled with his family and personal servants. He was a warrior, and viewed himself of the greatest of his kind in the entire world. At the last Almurzani he had proven as much, as through the blood of enemies he had emerged as the victor, the champion of the world. Now yet another Almurzani had come, and to the bloody Ring of Valor he would go once. There he had gone, and basked in fearsome splendor of the highest glory, and now he was to return, and bask in glory once again. He looked forward to beating down arrogant glory hounds with no true sense of battle.

Hugu had been preparing for his departuring to the land of the north, the Saurian domain of Zaqir, yet not all had taken it gracefully as he. He had no family, no relations, he did have his share of friends, but none of the sort who would object to it. All except for his lover, his most eminent of majesties, King Girbranu. Now he was beseeching Hugu to not go, but it was not Hugu’s place to listen.

“You can’t go, Hugu!” Girbranu said, with tears in his eyes, knowing he could never stop Hugu. “I forbid it! As your King, I forbid it.”

And so Hugu approached Girbranu, and he held with a caress that became an embrace, and gave him a long and deep kiss. Hugu had always been the stronger of the relationship.

“I’m going, Girbranu” Hugu said.

“I know. I’ve never had any power over you, Hugu. But Hugu, ever since I’ve met you, I’ve changed. I…I can’t live without you.”

“You’re mistaken. I’m not going there to die, Girbranu. I’m going there to kill. I’m the best warrior in the world, Girbranu.”



“War is fine; it is grand, and I love it. Yet what is truly sublime is that time of bloody, brutal, thoughtless brawl. That is truly what is best in life.”
-Akaku the Warrior-King

Upon the heavy Saurian seas the sturdy Quinquereme creeks, a strong galley of strong woods and strong sails. Today held a fine weather, with a clear blue sky filled with the white of gentle clouds, and heavy and great yet gentle waves rocking the galley’s planks. It was through the wind that the ship sailed, moving ever closer to their destination of the city of Zaqir. The Almurzani had come, and now was the time for the greatest of all warriors, not the least of Ashkar, to come and meet at the Saurian Ring of Valor and prove which among them was most blessed by Imkhas, god of war.

Upon the decks was a young Edimmu warrior named Attu, his blade in his hand. He was engaged in a sparring match with a middle-aged human, an Or’Rouzi named Musa. The two of them clashed their sword, a mighty crash of iron heavily resounding. Like a panther when it pounces with its mighty tusks, Attu lurched forward slashing with his sword. Yet Musa was more skilled and more experience, and every strike of Musa’s blade was parried. Then the Or’Rouzi lunged forth with his strength and was like a bear when it pounces its prey to the ground, and Attu was launched down to the ground and disarmed. Musa offered his hand, and lifted Attu back up to his feet.

“I’m hopeless, Musa,” Attu said. “When I arrived on this ship, I thought I was better than I really was, but you make me look like an amateur.”

“Nonsense,” Musa said. “You’ll be fine. Remember to keep your stance, always keep your eyes on the enemy, and always think.”

Attu took a look over at the sea. Its tint of blue seemed particularly strong today. At times the motions of the ship sometimes made him sick, but when he gazed out at the sea, he saw that it was truly beautiful. He looked back to the deck, and saw someone he had yet to see. He knew him to be a warrior, but he had not yet seen him yet.

“Say, Musa, who is that?”

“Surely you jest, Attu? That is the pride of your race, Hugu the Great Slayer, champion-warrior, winner of the Almurzani.”

“By the gods! I had no idea that was him. How foolish of me.”

“Where were you ten years ago?”

“I was still just a boy at the time.”

“Ah, well that explains it.”

Yet Hugu had no doubt had heard them. He was in a good mood, so he would decide to humor the boy.

“It certainly would, Musa,” Hugu said. “Now, tell me, boy, have you ever fought against a legend.”

“I-I…no never,” Attu said.

“Why not start now, then?” Hugu said. “Are you ready boy, or has Musa the Grey tired you out already?”

“No…Very well, Attu, I’ll accept your challenge.”

“Good.

And when the two of them clashed swords, Attu was struck with a great surprise. Musa had been incredibly skilled in the art of swordcraft, but in comparison he was nothing against Hugu, whose speed, strength, and cunning were a mountain’s length ahead. Attu held out for as long as he could, but he was always on the defensive, and eventually went down.

Looking onwards were two mere citizens who had taken passage on the ship.

“Impressive,” Muslidheen said. “I saw Attu kill a bear in the Ring of Valor. At the time I thought it rather simple sport, but now I am more interested in the skills of these warriors. Specifically, I wonder whether or not this Hugu will win again.”

“Were you here ten years ago, I wonder?” Amanu said.

“I must admit I was not.”

“Well, let me assure you, Hugu the Great Slayer isn’t going to lose this time, or any time for the next hundred years.”