His head was splitting all over. From ear to ear, from brow to the nape of the neck. His head was enveloped in a sharp splitting pain. His vision was blurred, his hearing a mess of dull ringing. He rolled in the splintered wood and tried to look up, but all he could see was a mess of white light. He tried to stand up, but a sudden feeling of nausea racked his gut and he keeled over and vomited. He could feel a thin warm line running down his face. Coughing he could feel sharp points prod his lungs and his gut. Shit, how many ribs were broken?

He brushed the side of his hand along the side of his face and the dark leather of his gloves came back red. He felt his heart flutter faster. The red blur of his hand coming in clearer as his vision returned from its stunned absence. The sounds of battle sharpened in his ears, no longer watery and low as if a drummer heard through a wall. The words were faint, but he could hear the shouting. Loud reports sprang out and the air was thick with the smell of niter and sulfur.

The sight of blood on his brown and gold trimmed glove gave him a start as it came into clarity with the rest of his environs. His hear more than fluttered, he went chill. Panicking he reached up and tore off his helmet. It clattered to the ground and rolled away, a dent in the side of the rising gun, just below the long horse-hair plum at its crown. Quickly he began to feel his face, searching every inch from chin to ear and through the scalp. He found the wound, numb at first but it burned to life as his fingers touched it. He felt his scalp move around it as he brushed it, on the left-side, above the ear. It didn't feel bad, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh captain, my captain!” a sailor above him shouted down into the hull of the galley. The cry made the man spin around and he began searching. He was alive. He was alive! He felt relieved for it. And there in the side, above the waterline was the ballista bolt, as thick as a tree trapped between a framing beam, the hull, and doubtlessly caught on the brass plating on the other side. Water trickled in under the point, the shimmering glass slapping in with every turn of the ship or pounding of the wave. The bolt he was so sure would kill him as he saw it come in had not killed him.

“I live!” the captain shouted, his voice slurred from shock. His mouth still felt lost as it chewed over the words he tried to speak, “I'm on my way back up!”

He staggered to his feet. His boots slipping on the wet floor boards as more water came in and began mixing with blood. His cape dragged behind him and threatened to snag in the broken boards, so he took it up in his hands and wrapped the crimson fabric in his palm as he ran, the other hand reaching out for supporting beams as the galleon rocked under feet. Over the shouts of battle and shot the cries of the wounded were barely audible in the screaming tumult of the fight.

He ascended the steps gingerly and was greated by a pair of armored men who placed their hands on his gold and bronze trimmed and etched cuirass, the sign of the boar over his breast. It huffed and snarled over a mountain peak.

“My lord, you should not be without a helmet.” said one of the soldiers as he reached down and pulled the helmet off of the body of a dead soldier, his eye had been pierced by a bolt. With the dead man's helmet firmly on the captain's head he was brought out onto the mid-deck under the shadow of the triangular sails. Across from them, separated from the ship by only a few yards was the pirate vessel they were attacking. It's bridge had caught fire, and embers were sparking into the rigging which were beginning to singe and char with the beginning light of a full fire. But men were still fighting, and behind towering shields the sailors on deck wound and fired crossbows across the divide. In places along the deck, men with the new firesticks leaned out with the metal rods positioned under their arms or on their shoulders. The loud smokey report cracked the open day with a thunderous roar and filled the air with smoke and flame.

Yet still, despite their dire straights the pirates aboard the other ship were not eager to stop yet. But what choice did they have in the end. If caught, all men would be summarily hanged. Damn any of them, low or high born. Leaning on the shoulder - for he had not yet gotten over his disorientation - of another the captain rose his voice and a hand he ordered, “The ship is burning, make a round to ram it. Bring it down once and for all and bleed them with sword and shot!”

“Bring her around to ram!” someone repeated back to the helmsman, sheltered in his canopy of wood and tall shields.

“Your honor, but the galley is struck. Do we have the oars!” billowed another.

“Damn a care for the oarsmen, we have enough. But we should damn more these other men. Row, damn it!”

“As you wish.” the response came over the din as the ship began to shift. Turning first to peel away from the crippled pirate ship as the sails began to catch fire and burn, throwing up a might black smoke. The sounds of firing died away as arrows and bolts began to come short. The streaking blur of the enemy's ballista bolt screamed overhead, the only weapon that might hit them in their maneuvers. But it shot through the masts and splashed down somewhere behind them.

The long galleon turned, the ocean waves splashing against it as its long pointed nose came to face the pirate vessel. Flames curling all around it as it burned. A second shot was fired from it, the bolt skipped across the wooden planks of the hull, splinters were tossed into the air but the bolt itself splashed weakly into the water. On a course direct into the pirate ship the galleon went. The oarsmen pounding the waves as she went. “Hold fast, brace!” the captain bellowed. Men dropped to the ground, others embraced the mast and others still held whatever they had on hand.

With a hop over a wave, the brass ram at the bow of the ship slammed back into the turning water and struck the pirate ship head on along the bow. There was a thunderous crash as thick timbers shattered completely as the two vessels collided, and the one moved through. The oars of his ship broke, and their cracking was like thunder in charged air, in that period before a storm. The pirate ship rocked to the side, throwing its men to the side and the other spun off from the force, drifting off to the side as the pirates took in water through the bow. Fully engulfed in flames the ship sunk. The captain's ship loitered nearby, gently waiting atop the waves as she watched her nemesis go down. Men jumped to the surf, other clung to boards.

Neutralized and without challenge the victorious galleon combed the water where the pirate ship had been. Its crew, with shot and bolt leaned over the rails and one by one picked off the drifting pirates.

“My lord Rodriego, are we due for home now?” asked a sailor, his face tired and armor bent.

Rodriego Moreango Pedro duo Monragonea turned. His hair was beginning to gray. Lines drawn under his eyes. His beard was growing out. Clutching the railing of his ship as he swayed back and forth on his two feet and turned to his companion and nodded. They were due home.




The Serene Hall was packed full like a market fair. But it was silent, deathly so; like a funeral. From the high windows the warm light spilled in and illuminated the impressive chambers from the polished, mirror quality marble floors to the vaulted ceiling and its fantastical frescoes on government. Every inch of the chamber was covered in some form of fresco, showcasing business in the docks, farmers on the field, vineyards and plantations, ships at sea, and ancient well dressed men. Some of the figures in the field, on the docks were nude or dressed little, their dark sun-kissed skin illuminated both by the rays of the sun beaming through the windows to cast shadows from their relief forms and from an artistic sun looming somewhere overhead as a bronze medallion in an azure and lapis sky. The very rays of the day's sun itself was painted a multitude of spectral colors from the stained glass windows, depicting no pattern but instead a montage of every piece of colored glass as could possibly be collected. Chandeliers of gold-trimmed iron hung from the ceiling, each baring over a hundred candles.

At the head of the room stood a stage of dark mahogany and reddish oak, stained and finished in a heavy lacquer. All around it sat the members of the Serene Council, or those who could attend. Their heavy red robes fell from their shoulders and came down to the floor where the fabric fell in thick rolls and obscured the chairs. Their white gloved hands rested folded in their laps and their heads were crowned with white pointed hats, matching the white collars that rose under their impressive capes. At the head, seated in the highest chair behind the podium desk sat the high judge, his head adorned by a blue cowl and robes black. He leaned forward to look down on the defendant standing before them, his hands in shackles. But despite his prisoner appearance he stood with an air of nobility, his clothes were still fine; from the plum of his shoulders to the tassels hanging from the embroidered edge of his long crimson coat. He stood with one leg out and the other bent before him as if in mid stride and a dour look starred back up at the judge.

Alongside the judge, Rodreigo Moreango Pedro duo Montagonea. His expression dour and severe from behind deep set dark green eyes. His smooth caramel skinned had roughened in the years and shallow wrinkles had become deep and scouling. A great white beard fell down across his gold embroidered chest as he clutched in one hand a silver adorned cane he tapped impatiently against the wood of the judge's podium.

“As the conditions brought before this court have concluded,” the judge said in a loud voice to the chamber, “and the defendant has no further statement to give to the court. Then it is my power, in discussing this crime with the honorable Duego that the charges against Raphielo Ameilio Peruscoti are upheld, and that he be sentenced to death.” the judge finished his reading of the law by ringing a bell. At once the court room erupted into chaos as from one flank a company of men arose jeering loudly and throwing expletives and curses.

“High judge!” an old man with broad shoulders boomed, jumping the boundary between spectators and court, “I demand a retrial! What fairness is there to law when the defendant serves as a member of the court itself! This entire trial was tainted by interested parties among its delegates!”

“Pedro Peruscoti, if you deign to get in the way of my son's justice than I too will see you hanged with your boy!” Duego Reogreigo boomed, rising to his feet. He clutched the edge of his seat as dizziness overtook him, “What is done is done, and the case is settled. Your son has put honorable blood on his hands and sullied himself. He is to be hanged!”

“Damn the rope, he is my boy!” Pedro Peruscoti pleaded. Turning from the Duego to the judge, “I demand a retrial. One where the Duego does not sit on this serene bench! The course of law should not be tainted by his interest in this case!”

The judge standing looked down on him with a hawkish glare and sighed. “We have discussed the matter at length. We on the council are perfectly aware of the circumstances surrounding the case and we determined there is no interest that might get in the way of a case of murder. Murder, even in the case of a serene family afflicts all our hearts so that it was determined there was no such thing as an interested party. How many people might we need to subject to the inquiries to find the one not the least affected by the death of Fimelo Alleiro? We would turn the entire realm on its head, and not find a single soul unaffected by his passing.”

“That is a lie and you know it.” Pedro protested, “A full six-tenths of the council is filled by the Montagonea and you tell me that there would be no chance a sufficient supplement to Rodreigo could not be found?”

The judge bowed his head, “Yes.”

“Then this is a travesty on my honor!” Pedro decried. Turning to Rodreigo he boomed, “And upon you, I wish a thousand blackened suns on your family. I condemn you as a tyrant, a bastard, and a thief of all power and honor. My son will be either freed or avenged.”

As emphasis Pedro clutched the arm of his son and made to pull him away but was stopped by guards who had approached from the edge. Their lowered pike made the message clear, that the prisoner was not to be interfered with. Releasing his son, Pedro spat on the floor and walked out.

As the court emptied, the council sighed and rose from their seats. Pedro was taken away, and hobbling down from his seat Rodreigo climbed down with the help of his cane. The judge near at hand. “Do you think he means it?” the judge asked Rodreigo as they descended.

“Hardly, Pedro is a dramatic man but he is also stupid and slow. His son will hang for his crimes before he manages to do anything. And as a person he does not have the power to do much. He will cry and moan, and that is all.” said Rodreigo, giving his passing prognosis.

They walked in silence the rest of the way out. Through the cavernous halls of the Republic's central organ they went. Passing vista sized windows, gazing out over the hill top on which the hall was perched. Through the glass could be seen the entire scope of Porto Saolo Grosso, two of its five citadels, the harbor beyond with hundreds or thousands of ships cutting its pure sapphire blue waters. The red tiled roofs of the houses all along the winding streets, each home painted a different color. Gardens growing outside the windows, vines and ivy clambering up the walls, each one blooming with bright fluorescent flowers. Brightly colored birds flocked around, and outside the window on the sill a dozen blue and green parrots sat perched watching the city beyond as the two old men did.

“What will you be doing later today, your honor?” said the judge as they stepped outside. The air was sweet with the smell of flowers and heavy with humidity. Nearby was a bakery, its oven baking away with bread and sweat treats, adding to the sensory experience. Somewhere more distant a man on a pipe played a song as people laughed and talked, their voices carrying along the cobbled streets.

“For now, I will go home and nap.” the Duego said, stepping aside to a carriage. A man with a crossbow sat perched on top and the driver was not far from the sword. The carriage itself, ornamented like a seashell was pulled by a team of white horses, “After, I suppose I will need to write letters.” he added.

“I will be hosting a party at some date soon. I was seeing if you would be available to attend. It would be an honor if you could. My wife with the other women of the house will be holding a salon separate from ours if yours would like to come.” the judge invited.

“I will need to consider it.” Rodreigo answered him, “Send me the invitations when you have things settled, and I will see what I can do.”

“Thank you, your honor.” the judge said bowing. The Duego returned the gesture and boarded his carriage.

The horses hooves clapped against the uneven stone of the streets, the carriage rocked as they drove through. Rodreigo, cane in hand looked out at the city passing by. The rocking woke his disorientation, though over the years he had come to grow used to it. He reached up and touched the spot where he had wounded his head so many years ago. There was not much left to see of it now, not with his growing over it. But he did not find it hard to imagine there there remained a scar that lingered.

People stepped aside as the cart went on by. Passing cafes and wine shops, banks and stores, guild hall manufacturies and blacksmiths too. Through the streets and into plazas and squares adorned with their monuments and statues and the eighteen tower-strong Cathedral to the Sun, its white washed walls shining in the mid-day light, high atop the towers the multitude of bells shone in the light as flocks of pigeons circled about. Nearby was the hospital, its many wards stacked floor by floor and its street floor opening into a courtyard, its pale blue walls edges and decorated by beams of orange and red.

Outside the city the mansions and palaces of the elite families stood scattered in the middle of farm fields and vineyards and plantations. Well outside of it to be distant of the noise and the chaos, but close enough for either house or city to be in site of one another. Leaving the city the pavement ended and the cart landed on paths of sandy dirt and sparse gravel passing by hedges and farmer's shacks, white painted fences and tower live oaks and stands of palm and cedar.

On a rise into the hills the entire sight of the city could be seen between the richly green trees. Behind its red walls the city of Porto Saolo Grosso stretched out to sea and embraced the water's edge like a gently curved loaf of bread. Butting up against it, opposite of wide sandy ditches ran the farms and the shanty communities of the men too poor to afford the city itself. The intermingling of shanty and farm threatened and promised to build almost a new district of the capital itself. But all this passed away as the trees thickened into romantic forests of oak, and rose shrub, and bamboo.

REDACTED

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"But maman! The sunset through the trees is supes pretty!" exclaimed the red-haired, small girl exclaimed over her shoulder back in the direction of the house. Her pale, heavily freckled skin was outlined in a golden hue from the very sun that was just now setting over the trees a good quarter of a mile away from their small countryside farmhouse and even larger barn. The treeline formed a ring that arced off into the distance in either direction. The uniformity of the ring was quite eerie and unnatural in and of itself. It was the sunset, however, that distracted the adventurous eleven-year-old lass from the weird forested border of the land of Treblea.

"No dear!" the mother in question, a fairer skinned woman in her late thirties replied whilst hanging laundry on a clothesline above a stone-bordered trench in the ground layered with coals in the middle. The resulting heat wafted upward from the long little trench, effectively - if slowly - drying out the fabrics. With a faint lilt in her voice, the older woman with kindly green eyes resumed speaking, "What have I told ya about goin' into the forest naew? It be dangerous in there, it is. All kin's of weird magic. Ye liable to c'ot yer arm off like yer father! Now is that what ye want, hmm?" She finished her spiel before dumping more coals in the long trench to replenish the dying flames. The clothes were to dry overnight, for it was to be a clear evening, and be ready in the morning for their trip into the town of Castrato proper at the crest of its hill.

The girl hung her head in despairing obedience, shuffling her bare feet inside and running her hands over her extremely simple white cotton dress that her mother had sewn lovingly for her with musical knitting needles - click, clack, clickity clack! - over the course of the entire last winter. The family went inside their simple two story brown wooden farmhouse, made from trees harvested from the edge of that very forest. As dusk fell a set of glowing purple eyes framed by long, thick, shaggy whitish gray fur stared hungrily out of a thicket of bushes at the family's house...and more specifically...the pen full of livestock, and one horse, that stood or slept in a fenced off area beside the long, low, wide barn adjacent to the house. The gigantic wolf, whose fur seemed to ripple with an odd, arcane energy that no being had so far had lived to recount, leapt from his hiding place and crossed the quarter of a mile distance in a mere thirty seconds, leaping over the short fence as casually as if it were a pile of poo on the ground he had discovered while strolling.
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Seven men and one woman reclined with various instruments on long, low couches....if they could be called couches. The Treblean verbal language did not have a word for them aside from a generic "tolg" which could be used to describe a bed, a sofa, a chair, or just about anything a butt made contact with - yes, anything, euphemism included.

The one woman, Lady Triblianistven, was the newest chosen official for the capitol of Note. Their current deliberation of sorts was whether or not to change the capitol city's name from Note to Notea. A big pro in favor of this change was that it would shore up confusion in day-to-day conversation on whether or not someone was referring to music notes, their currency shaped like music notes, or the city itself.

Debates such as these were not typically decided orally in Treblea. Rather, at each seat as it were, all the Treblean representatives formed a council, or more precisely, a musical ensemble. Each of them held an instrument. The representative of Capriccio bore a string instrument called a lyre. The Castrato representative, the only other female, held a flute firmly to her lips, legs crossed and eyes closed in concentration. Soprano's representative, a male whose voice was renowned for being oddly high-pitched despite his tall and reedy posture, sat blowing on a long dark pipe-like instrument that produced hollow notes; their word for this was simply an oboe. Mezzo's representative, an elderly man with a long white beard and who wore nothing but a toga that "let all or most of it hang out", sat crisscross applesauce - much to the dismay of the Notean female leader directly across from him - and plucked upon a medium-sized harp. Alto's representative, an exceedingly handsome black-haired male with glistening muscles and an abbreviated costume, if somewhat more modest about the nether region than the older man's, reclined in a relaxed manner and blew into the mouthpiece of an odd looking checkmark shaped instrument. When questioned as to the instrument's name, he would look at you, not pausing to take his mouth off the mouthpiece and simply mumble "sax" audibly through the piece. This often confused women - and the rare man - into thinking he wanted "favors" from them. Rococo's representative slapped the stretched hide leather tops of four drums laid out across his lap in a staccato, chill beat; his head dipping and chin jutting out in time with the motion of his hands. Lastly, Etude's representative, a small, hook-nosed man with an arrogant demeanor about him, sat and played the liveliest tune of them all on a violin, which the people of Treblea called a veidhlin.

It was in this matter that the Trebleans represented each of their respective hilltop miniature kingdoms. Whosoever they voted on for best performance afterward would get final say on the issue currently being debated. As a result, all the performers had been playing their different melodies and rhythms and beats since three hours past the cock's crow. Night had now fallen on the city of Note(a) and the makeshift politicians still played on. Their families had long since entered the center town building that served Note(a) as a city hall or gathering place of sorts. Etude's wife decided to tempt her husband by waving a hot bowl of stew underneath his chin, but the stern-faced man simply closed his eyes and played an even faster tune on his veidhlin. The tension in the room was palpable as the music reached a crescendo, each melody blending in with the others in a discordant crash that was both beautiful and horrendous simultaneously. This was about the sixth crescendo of music for that day, the loudest one yet. As the music reached a fever pitch and the familial crowd began swaying back and forth in response, caught up in the dramatic climax, all eight representatives threw back their heads, one after another, and called out a vote. Each one's vote was either "Note" or "Notea" as their faces were suddenly graced with beatific smiles; most of them had a prodigious sheen of perspiration on their brows and/or cheeks. The vote was denied six to two, the two women on the "council" each voting in favor of Notea over Note.

At last, the music finally fell away into silence and everybody in the room breathed a sigh of relief and exchanged triumphant smiles regardless of political sides. The fact that the Castrato representative had voted with Note's female representative was no surprise. Castrato had a rule that men were not allowed to rule or manage money. They also had a rule where all men in servant roles must be castrated, even if they became a servant in the middle of their life. Uncastrated working males were viewed by Castratan women as unclean and perverted for better or worse. This bias has existed ever since their hilltop town had been run by a cruel, supremely power-hungry, schauvinistic narcissist named Billy when the town had been named Vigliacci.

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The Head had long ago lost track of time. The box in which it was locked was sealed by magic. No light or air could penetrate its magical seals, and even if it failed, the box had been buried deep in the muddy ground. But the Head did not know that. It had been so long since it had known anything other than the total darkness of the box that its memories were muddled. It even doubted there was anything outside the confines of the lightless existence that seemed to encompass all creation.

Oh, The Head had vague recollections. Blurry and faint outlines of images, of things that weren't the silent, stale darkness. But it couldn't really call them memories, for they were barely there. For all it knew, these flashes could just be illusions created by itself so that it could see something other than constant nothing for eternity. But if they were merely false memories, and if this endless void was the whole universe, then how The Head could fabricate these thoughts? Things that did not, do not and will never exist?

This would certainly be an interesting line of thought to pursue, if only to give The Head something to do. Except that The Head could barely muster a coherent thought these days. 50 years without sustenance tends to do that with the Zul-Agar, specially one as young as it. Not that The Head was aware of this fact. It hadn't been aware of much after the first couple of years. The spells weaved on the box and wards placed above ground had been enough to keep it from starving to death, but little more than that. Reducing The Head to a half sentient, almost catatonic state, with the hunger a dull but persistent

That is, until it heard the song started. At first it barely registered to The Head, but it grew louder and louder and louder until it overtook everything else. Even the darkness didn't hold against the enthralling tunes. It was as if the head could see the words and notes dancing around inside the box, a glowing and swirling rainbow of impossible colors and twisting into sickening shapes. Against such onslaught, The Head could do nothing even as its mind was overwhelmed and the spinning notes were replaced by blinding white.

Then it-she remembered. An unrelenting torrent of thoughts, memories, flashes of events, a million different sensations. All 150 years of life before her imprisonment. Nin-Anunit remembered, her mouth twisting into a soundless howl as her mind struggled so assimilate the wild maelstrom of images flashing before her eyes. A warm liquid slipped into her mouth and the world went still for a terrifying moment and the images faded away.

Nin-Anunit was now aware of her surroundings. Resting on a moss covered altar atop one of the hills that dotted the Lerin-Gaen swamps. And before her stood a massive human-like figure armored in silver, crimson and brass. Nin-Anunit shuddered as the memories came to her. The last thing she had seen before being put into the box was her brother wiping of the blood of his sword - which she was sure he had left purposefully dull. She had seen Kul-Avarz taking off limbs and heads with but a single blow numerous times. No way he would need 20 to sever her head from her shoulders - Nin-Anunit looked upwards and managed all of three seconds of direct eye contact before the sneering silver mask made her lower her eyes again.

"It pleases me to see you again, my beloved sister." Her sibling rumbled as he grabbed her by the side of the head and brought her to his eye level. "As decreed by our Beloved Sire, the mighty Serpent-Lion, the first phase of your punishment is over. Now I am to escort you back to our Sire's halls so that you may hear and bear the rest of your sentence. HAIL ASHUR-SHADAM!"

The surrounding retainers, mostly acolytes who participated in the ritual and a few guards to escort the now sacrificed slaves, took up the chant. As did Nin-Anunit, such blatant disrespect was what had landed her in this situation to start with.

With the formalities over, Kul-Avarz threw her inside a bag that left half her head poking out and set out on his merry way out of the swamp. Not even bothering to bypass the pile of dead and mutilated slaves. The acolytes and guards followed in silence and at a respectable distance.

"First thing." He started. "Yata has been ruling the satrapy for the last 30 years. Father locked himself in his chambers and has had very little contact with us these last decades. No one really knows what he's doing. But judging by the amount of supplies he's requesting, it's big."

Nin-Anunit remained silent. She had nothing to say to that. Whatever father was cooking up was beyond her skill and understanding. Yata, however, was the pressing issue. Being the youngest sister, she had had little contact with her father's eldest besides official functions and ceremonies. Too big of an age difference and vastly divergent interests and paths. Yata was father's right hand, Nin-Anunit was just the youngest of his Spawn, too inexperienced, too weak and useless to deserve any particular interest.

"Did father leave any instructions to her?" She finally asked as Kul-Avarz lifted the bag to cross one of the deep, fetid streams that fed the swamp. "On what more punishment I should receive?"

"No, I don't think so." Her brother finally replied after a pause. "Father embarked upon this endeavor in a hurry. I don't think it was something he planned. Yata has had free reign over us all, essentially." He added, hints of displeasure seeping into his voice. She decided not to comment on that.

"Of course, this might work to your advantage." Her brother continued. "I doubt Yata would spare too much thought to a runt like you. Which is good, the less she thinks about it, the less harsh the punishment will be."

It took Nin-Anunit far more control to not comment on that. Yes, she was the youngest, but no need to go around insulting her for it. Still, it was her mouth that got her into this mess to start with. So better stay quiet rather than risk angering the powers that be.

"I don't recall you ever being this quiet, little sister." Her brother mused as a lumbering shape within the bushes ran away at their approach. "I understand that you are yet reeling from your ordeal, but I hope that the experience hasn't drained away your...youthful vigor for good."

"I have bigger things to worry about." Nin-Anuniti replied. "Pestering the cooks for bleeding hearts can wait until I've regained my place in our father's service."

"Look at little Nin, all grown up and mature." Her brother chuckled with condescencion dripping from his words - a loud, rumbling thing. Like everything Kul-Avarz did - and ruffled her filthy, stringy and brittle hair with a bit too much force. "Don't worry, little Nin, I got your back."

Nin-Anuniti relaxed slightly at that. She might have been too young before her punishment and her memories might still be jumbled. But from what she could recall, that was as good as she could get with her brother. So she simply smiled at him and counted her blessings. Praying to the Stars that he actually meant what he said.

Carol Padilla's face was still beautiful, despite the beginnings of wrinkles and the whitening of hair. Her blue eyes were held in a steely gaze as she looked at the other two people around the council table, and said, "Trebla may not be strong, Trebla may not be populous, but we are not there to violate the rights of its people; rather, we are sending an emissary there to strengthen them, to lift them up so that they do not have to undergo the horrors of war and exploitation." A frown, before she continued, "Which is why I find your proposals for a draft treaty to be unecessarily grasping; just because they're weak does not mean that we can freely provoke their resentment."

To the side of the round table was Isabella de Guzman, whose richly-dressed fat form had begun to sweat even in the relative cool of the room. She took Carol's near-triade in stride, before offering a cool counterargument. "Trebla is a rich land held by a people untrained in arms and mistrustful of any authority but themselves; a combination that would lead them to suffer later. It is better that we sell them what we can - weapons and tools and other manufactured goods in exchange for their copper and produce. It is better that we send out our merchants to get them used to luxury goods like better instruments and bind them to us in this way. It is better -"

Juan de Maldonado interrupted, "With all due respect, miladies, we should just occupy Trebla and be done with it. We may be founded on a shared belief in the rights of all Sapient Beings, but rights need power to defend. Trebla's copper and fertile land will give us that power."

Carol would say, "The will to power can be its own undoing; provoke enough people and they will find a way to hurt us in time. I studied history before my Magic manifested; even the weak can bring down the strong when pressed enough. But if the concerns of Trebla's weakness and its being a rich prize to others are what styme you from a more lenient treaty, I have a proposal to make."

She gazed at Isabella and said, "You wish for free and fair trade, yes? Then send your merchants; just ask of the Treblans to let them go freely among their villages and mines. Propose also the maintenance of a road between the League and their nation...at your own expense."

Turning to Juan, they continued, "The Treblans will be suspicious of 'Knights' in shining armor or anyone capable of riding a horse, so send to them crossbows and people skilled in training people how to use the crossbow. These people will be in plain clothes, offering to teach their services to the people of the villages for food. On no account must they be seen as agents of a 'hostile' state, but rather as free agents.

"This will allow us to slowly gain influence and wean them away from any mistrust towards us without undue backlash. We shall also slowly enrich their villages until they become cities, cities that we will then offer membership to the League as equal partners when sufficiently grown. Are there any objections to that?" she finished.

Isabella replied demurely, her aged face smiling, "Slow and steady wins the race. Although I will probably die before I see the fruits of this policy."

Juan grinned widely, showing his gap-toothed mouth. "Covert action and the building up of a force in secret; I like it! Very well, if Isabella accepts, I will put forth this edited version of the treaty proposal. Now, when will we send the diplomats to the Treblans?"

Carol smiled at that and said, "With the Treblans, it is good music, not gaudy clothing, that will impress them. Three bards, two men and one woman, all good at song and dance, have already been sent to their land to begin negotiations through melodies..."

@Mistiel

Kaija Tezusha had been up all night. She received reports of activity along the border to the East, though after sending out scouts to investigate, it turned out to be a false alarm. But Kaija-Sol took those kinds of things seriously. It wasn’t that people weren’t allowed to cross the border into Azurei, rather, she just wanted to know about it. To know, and to watch. For the most part, Azurei was a live-and-let-live nation, content to see to its own needs. Except, however, when some other entity gave the first offense. And then...well, nobody liked hearing the Azurei Eija, their military, were on their way, as that meant serious trouble. Nearly a decade ago, one of the Sorcerer-Kings to the East had dared to encroach on the Azurei border, and he did not live long enough to regret it. And while she and the Eternal Realm had something of a soft truce, Kaija-Sol trusted no one.

She lowered herself slowly into a wrought iron chair set with a plush cushion and motioned for her guardian, her chief Taja, to sit across from her at the little table. He obeyed without question or hesitation, plunking down almost mechanically in the other iron chair. She moved like a trickle of water, while he moved like a falling boulder in comparison.

On the table was already a silver decanter of spiced liquor that some foreigners, for lack of a better term, called ‘Azurian Rum’. Kaija stretched out one lightly wrinkled hand and took hold of the decanter as gently as a breath of wind, then poured herself a small silver cup full. She poured a second as well and gracefully slipped it across the small wooden table to her Taja.

“Shi’ir,” she instructed, gesturing to the glass.
The soldier stared, perplexed. “Sol....?” he muttered.
“I said drink, Ajoran. Did you not hear me?” Her tone was dangerous, though in her ancient golden eyes was a glimmer of jest that he had begun to recognize in the last several years.
Ajoran gave a polite nod, but his eyes were just as bright as hers. “Khi, Sol.” He agreed, and picked up the little cup between calloused fingers.

“I’m glad that was a false alarm. The last thing I want is to start another war. At least, not over this. And not with them.” She waved a tired hand. “Let Rhaetia deal with them. Besides, not everyone is suited to go up against a Sorcerer-King, except...” Ajoran looked down, studying the grain of the dark wood table. Kaija-Sol caught this and gave him a sharp look. “Best put those ideas out of your head, Ajoran. It can never be. Not after what she’s done. That ijurik is lucky she wasn’t put to the block. Considered banishing her to the Dust Sea but....” Kaija-Sol gave a nonplussed sigh, “that rat, of all people, might actually have survived. Instead I gave her shame. A shame she well deserves,” she growled sharply.
Ajoran did not know what to say, so he merely agreed, “Khi, Sol.”

There was a silence then, penetrated only by the tiny trickle of water from the small fountain in the room, carved of bloody carnelian in the shape of a rearing seahorse. The sun hadn’t yet risen fully, but its light could be seen through the windows, which were covered in a sheer white fabric. Then, as if her voice was merely a part of the melody of burbling water and the whisper of wind, Kaija began, “You have always served me well, Ajoran.”
The Taja beamed, though his expression remained cold and stony. To receive such a compliment from the Sota-Sol herself was…well, it was beyond an honor. “I do what I can, Kaija-Sol. It is my duty and I bear it proudly.”
“Glad to hear it. Are you on duty tomorrow?”
Ajoran shook his head. “Je, Sol. Ghi’ain will take my post,” he informed her, and then his tattooed brow wrinkled as a thought came to him. “Is this…a problem, Sota-Sol? I can have—“

He was stopped short by the lifting of her thin hand, as elegant and graceful as the silk she wore. The movement was so small, so quiet and slow that it portrayed no sense of inherent force. But Ajoran knew better. He knew Kaija-Sol, knew she was the picture of elegance. And that was all the authority needed to make him clamp his mouth shut. “Ghi’ain’s performance is satisfactory, don’t worry. But I have a favor to ask of you on your day of rest.”
“Anything, my Sota-Sol.” And he meant it.
“I would like you to pay a visit to the Rhaetian fortress off to the east. Tonight might have been a…communication error, but I won’t take my chances. I’d like you to see if the Rhaetians have anything…planned. But until then, you should get some sleep,” she told him, more of an order than a suggestion. “You’ve been up all night with me and deserve some rest at last. Set out late tomorrow after the sun passes its peak.”
“Khi, Sota-Sol. I will do as you ask.” Ajoran dipped his head and touched two fingers to his forehead—the Azurian bow. And, without another word from either of them, he slipped away, soft leather shoes padding on the cool marble floor.

——

Nights in Azurei always got cold. After the heat of the day, the evening chill was often welcome, but in the small hours of the night, the red rock surrendered all its warmth to the black sky, leaving the sandy landmass quite cold by morning. This was when a lot of heavy labor was done—construction and repair, hauling, digging—since it would be murder to do it under the high sun. With no insulation to speak of, the small, cramped hovel of the Torzinei’s turned to a cold clay dungeon. It was for this reason that Ridahne awoke to find Mitaja sprawled out next to her, half laying on top of her, half draped beside her. The cat had silky fur that was wonderfully warm in the night chill, and for many years she had been Ridahne’s living blanket. When the woman rose, combing through her wild black hair as best she could, the large cat groaned her displeasure, got up, stretched, and then found Hadian’s bed and resumed her position but with him, this time. This woke the man, and without needing to open his eyes, he knew his sister was awake.

“Why so early?”
“Taking a trip out to the Dust to see what I can come up with. Hopefully meat, Maybe the trinkets of unlucky souls.”
“Ai, back again, mm?” Hadian’s voice rolled lazily, his eyes still not open. “You’re taking the horse then.”
“Khi. You’ll have to walk to the docks.”
“Not today,” Hadian groggily announced in tired triumph. “The Uva’aisi’da is on shore leave for another two days.”
“Shore leave.” Ridahne snorted. “Rats like me don’t get to have ‘shore leave’, or anything like it. Always have to work. Always doing something.”
“Good,” Hadian chuckled, “otherwise you’d get into fights. They’re lucky you don’t carry a blade when you drink, or half of those idiots would be dead by now.” Hadian rolled over, earning another low groan from Mitaja. “Don’t die out there, mm?” He offered casually, finally allowing his eyelids to crack open a little.
“You know me. I won’t be swallowed by the Dust.”

That was just the sort of way Ridahne and Hadian said goodbye to each other. Ridahne made sure her uri—the sarong-like garment she wore around her waist—was tied securely and properly, her hair was tied back, and that her cloak, if it could be called such a thing, was fastened over her shoulders. The garment was clearly quite worn, but because its color came from both a base layer of russet dye and years of heavy use in the Dust, it not only served as decent protection from the sun when needed, but as second-to-none camouflage in the rolling dunes of the Dust Sea. That, combined with her skill and knowledge of the Dust Sea, made Ridahne more like an apparition out in the sands than an elf. Some local merchants who were more familiar with the sea than the shifting sands of inland Azurei, and who hired her as a guide to help them reach the mountain pass out of Azurei, called her Aibhyra, or ‘ghost of the sands’.

Ridahne found their horse lapping at some water under the shade of the woven palm roof of their sad excuse for a stable. She did not use a saddle, not unless she was going to travel great distances, but instead used a woven blanket that had once been black and brown, but now just seemed a faded, dilapidated russet color. Canvas bags strung together with narrow leather straps served as saddlebags, and these were filled with food supplies, a small collection of aid equipment, and multiple waterskins. Ridahne assembled these deftly, swung her short sword over her back, mounted the chestnut bay, and trotted out of the shanty-town of Atakhara towards the wobbling horizon that stretched near endlessly out before her to the North.

Evar stretched contentedly across a massive bed stuffed with goose down, yawning deeply as his arms and feet sprawled across the disheveled sheets and pressed against the backs of the two unclothed women sharing the bed with him. The younger of the two - a girl of maybe fifteen winters - groaned groggily as Evar pressed his outstretched elbow into her shoulderblade. The other dozed silently as he pressed against her. An Azurei exile with arabesque ojih painted down her sharp cheeks, Shari was Evar's favored concubine. He reached down and ran his hand along the nubile contours of her hips and buttocks before giving the Azurei a hard squeeze on the asscheek. Shari remained silent, but in the dim moonlight of the boudoir, Evar could make out a thin smile on her face.

He launched himself up off the bed, drew off a pair of leather trousers folded over the back of a long wicker chaise, and pulled them up over his thick legs. The thick reindeer hide leggings were more appropriate for the fjords and snowy forests of the Maw than the humid warmth of Aepiranth. Though he had spent a full half of his life in these lands, Evar had never accustomed himself to the chafing breeches so common and fashionable here in the south. They were one of the few trappings of his former homeland that Evar Varvudda had elected to keep. Clad only in the rude leggings, he left the sleeping women and proceeded upon an evening stroll through his sprawling compound.

Evar strolled down the corridor and, as he so often did, admired his surroundings. He strolled barefoot down the corridor, appreciating the vaulted ceiling carved from Aepiranth's namesake white stone and the recessed alcoves hewn into the corridor at regular intervals, each decorated with a potted bromeliad. Evar walked past rooms and parlors he scarcely ever occupied, most of which were devoted entirely to housing furnishing and decorations for which he had no real need. Evar knew that in more depauperate and barbarous lands, even kings and lords were not afforded such luxury. For the first half of his life in the frigid Maw, Evar had lived in squalid huts dug into the dirt built from cobbles adhered with mortar fashioned from mud and wolf dung. Such opulence and comfort was unimaginable in that freezing hell. He had left that land a thrall, and only eighteen winters later Evar had acquired more wealth than was to be found in the entirety of the Maw. Coming from such rude beginnings, Evar could truly appreciate the luxuries he had amassed.

He had first come to this land as a thrall, sold in the markets of the Sunset City as a deckhand servant. Slavery was ill tolerated in the surrounding lands, but Aepiranth was one of the few cities in the region that tolerated the sale and possession of slaves. Evar was able to purchase freedom from his master, and then bought a vessel of his own after years of saving. He sailed back to the Maw, buying seal pelts and walrus ivory for a pittance before returning to the south and selling these wares for a fortune. After ten years, Evar had acquired a small fleet of merchant ships that conducted trade throughout the known world.

He found himself now in the main parlor - a lavish, sprawling space with a tall ceiling held up by white stone colonnades surrounding a sunken entertaining area with low tables, chaises, and potted palms. Carafes of wine in various stages of consumption were laid about the tables, and one of the wicker chaises had been knocked over - certainly during the drinking and merrymaking with the women before they had retreated to the bedchambers. Another girl had remained here and fallen into an inebriated sleep on a long chaise - her gown stained with Versconese dessert wine. The northerner strode past her and brushed through billowing curtains of breeze-blown silk onto the balcony of his expansive compound.

Evar's home was situated on the headland side of the Sunset City, near the top of the cliffs facing out to the Pillar. A nearly-full moon provided ample illumination for the northerner as he surveyed his surroundings, and a cool ocean breeze blew across the barrel-chested norseman as it set tall, brushy cypresses swaying. Other wealthy merchants had built similar villas for themselves in the heights above the city on tiers carved out from the white rock that looked like crude, uneven stairs in the distance. Further down the slope, the middle-class burghers had carved more modest homes directly into the walls of the cliffs, and below them still the impoverished multitudes lived and toiled in the vicinity of Aepiranth's enormous harbors. Even in the early hours of the night, orange lamplight illuminated through the mazelike alleyways and marketplaces near the harbors, providing light to the stevedores and porters unloading vessels in preparation for the market rush that would begin with the dawn in just a few short hours.

A large canal separated the headland side of Aepiranth with the Pillar, allowing vessels to sail between the city's two harbors under a great elevated bridge. Across the Span, the moonlit Pillar dominated the city - glowing ivory white against the dark black sea and moonlit sky. A huge promontory of white stone that, in ages past, had been carved into a sprawling citadel crowned with spires and a massive dome. A series of arching buttresses had been built into the Pillar to accommodate the structural changes wrought by such extensive carving; arches of white stone curving down into the lower levels of the city. The palace carved into the Pillar had once been the seat of a mighty empire of men, ruling from the fringe of Azurei to the septentrional lands now known as Novigrad. Now it was the home of the Duego Anselmo, a feeble dotard too senile to reign in the influential merchants and their internecine foreign projects.

Pathetic southerners, Evar thought to himself, could not appreciate what they had. The seat of such a grand empire, such wealth at their fingertips, and with these they squandered them on proxy conflicts with the Flowering Republic and propped up the pitiful nancies of Treblea. Why did these southerners settle for riches when empire was within their grasp?

Gazing up upon the dome and spires of the Pillar on this moonlit night, Evar felt the way he might have felt upon seeing his future villa compound as a young thrall fresh off the longship from Kronzborg: unimaginable opportunity laying right before his very eyes.

The opulent villa in which he stood suddenly felt much like the crude huts of the North. His wealth and comfort felt strangely akin to the crushing poverty and hardship of the North.

What Evar Varvudda wanted now was power, and he recognized he was in an opportune position to seize it.

"What is this guy's deal?" muttered the young nineteen year old as he watched the bard regaling the rest of the sturdy mostly wooden tavern with his tale of grandeur in a faraway land. The bard had been at it for over half an hour now and Trebleans of the mining, farming and even housewife persuasion were beginning to get pissed off at the guy's obvious foreign accent. One bold farmer, a rugged looking blonde man of swarthy, reddish complexion with an equally blonde scraggly beard covering most of his face, yelled out from deep in his cups. "We're Trebleans not Treblans ye fuckin' cur! Jus' where are ye from, ye tryhard miser? Ye best be watchin' yer tongue 'round here, thinkin' this faraway land o' yers is better than what we've got!" Drink made him unsteady on his feet as he turned around to totter off and leave in obvious disgust. A few tavern patrons followed suit, mostly women who somehow saw logic in his drunken rant.

@Letter Bee

Il-Belt

She stood on the edge of the Western Wall, staring out over the sea. The wind, whipped into a fury by the onset of a spring storm, tore at her hair and her dress, causing them both to billow and snap about her. Her face was turned toward the sky, pale white arms held straight out on either side, her body unbending in the teeth of the storm that was bearing down on her.

From horizon to horizon the Western sky appeared like a great black wall advancing toward the city. Below it, almost as dark as the sky itself, was the wall of rain that would soon consume the island in a deluge of fresh water, long awaited after a dry winter that had brought the cities cisterns lower than ever before.

It never ceased to amaze her how beautiful the sea could be. One minute calm, glassy, tranquil blue, and the next a heaving mass of white caps and water turned as black as the soil of her homeland. No matter what its condition, it never failed to elicit a sense of adventure and desire to go beyond the edge of the horizon, to seek those places that no one had been before, to find new peoples, new lands, to learn, to discover.

A crack of lightening shattered the darkening sky and a moment the boom of thunder hammered into her, so close was the strike that she could feel the concussion of the thunder in her chest and right down into the stones beneath her feet. Away to her right the tall conical roof of a took a direct strike, the burst of energy absorbed by a metal rod fixed to the roof and channeled away into the ground below. It was an ingenious invention and one that scholars constantly attempted to find a use for. So much power being lost. If only they could harness its strength.

The rain raced ever closer, the lightening intensified, and she knew that the storm was about to envelope the city. Below her, in the streets, windows were being barred, doors pulled closed, awnings hurriedly rolled up and tucked away. Beyond those streets, protected by the Grand Harbour, the hundreds of ships, including her own Storm Reaver would be ensuring sails were secure and swing cables placed on their anchors. Storms such as this one often fought the tide and ships not properly secured could become adrift and smash in to their fellows.

A final crack of lightening and the rain hit, soaking her to the bone in an instant, her hair and dress plastered to her slim frame like a second skin. Still she gazed upward. She was praying. Praying to the Defini that her ship might come home safe for they would leave that evening tide should the storm abate. First to the South where they would deliver Paladins to the great fortress of Sikkina, the heart of all Rhaetian operations against the Sorcerer Kings. Then they would turn West, in to the open ocean, into the empty vastness of the West and their hunt for the distant homeland would begin anew. Already one ship had been lost this season, vanished without a trace.

It was possible, she had concluded some time ago, that the land her ancestors had called their own, had long sunk under the waves. Those pure-blooded Elves like herself, who had actually been there, knew that it was possibly the land was now hidden from them. It had no name anymore, they simply called it the Lost Land. It was painful to think of for she had had family there but there was no doubting it was gone, even if you followed the secret star charts, it was still gone.

Slowly she lowered her arms as the storm front past beyond her and the thunder became a dull boom until only the rain itself made any noise, pounding down on the stones and tiles shingles, a never ending drumbeat reminding men and elf alike that they were ants in the greater wide world. The Gods always laughed last.

Pedro Peruscoti paced across the floor, “This is an attack, a travesty against the family.” he bemoaned, raking his fingers through his hair. He breathed in the cool night hair, but the fire that roared still in his heart only turned it to summer heat again as it bathed his lungs. He felt no cool reprieve, no calm, as he paced the second story veranda. Lit by torch light the rose red granite of the villa glowed a golden hue in the soft orange light of fire light and lanterns. Ivy crawled up the fish-scale columns in gentile curly shoots, white pedals bloomed in the moonlight, capturing the soft cerulean light and glowing softly like diamonds despite the darkness.

“Pedro, we did all we could. But we have lost this. You gave a good fight, but now our son will have to die.” consoled Pedro's wife as she lounged on a deep forest green couch. Her velvety and purple robes hung off her as she lay, glass of wine in hand. She was in middle-age, her youthful beauty having surrendered long ago. Her hips wide spoke of many children born into the world, a virile woman. Her breasts too had been kissed by many babes in her time, and hung wrinkled and stretched, clearly evident under the robe folded over to cover them. Deep lines had formed around her face, and a uncommonly strong jaw had faded away and sunken in new folds. Her raven black hair too was going ashen and silver.

Lady Peruscoti, despite being so relaxed, was not the least indifferent to her son's demise. She too was very upset, and more defeated than her agitated husband. She idly ran a finger along the edge of her goblet of wine as sad blue eyes looked into it. She had been too sullen to take a drink she was prepared to take, and the cup was becoming like a prop in an actor's hands, to fill an inanimate role. “But the judge has handed down the sentence, the Serene Council has passed their judgement. If Giovanni will not see the case brought to him again, then it is over. The best we can do now is prepare Raphielo's final arrangements.” she said, sadly.

“That there is no other apt man in the entire Republic!” Pedro shouted into the night. Audre Grani lay stretched out below him, a collection of waywardly tossed groupings of worker's houses and warehouses and presses that lumbered along across the hills. The main estate itself, the mansion Audre Grani stood atop a hill of limestone and was surrounded by a wall, less of any true defensive nature and more to keep out the wildlife more than anything. It's fine halls and apartments for the servants and even a few distant relations and guest houses stood in the dark of the night faintly illuminated by pathways that glowed by the light of lanterns. In a few windows there and in the halls of the mansions candles and torches burned which lit the glass in a romantic blood-orange light.

He leaned against the stone railing. “No better man in the Republic. Had he thought to search in the Patrio Gran? That no one in the Republic would not have gone without conducted business with him, whose intuition would be unclouded by bias? I doubt he would say that, had he met with those great old men in their ancient towers in the mountains, or the naked peasants on the terraces. There might even be one overseer at the docks who has never met Fimelo duo Montagonea!” he declared loudly, his voice hoarse and cracking with his anger. His wife lynched at the invocation, she could imagine that there wouldn't be a person who could not hear her husband.

“It was only a hunting trip, Labella.” he said, tears in his eyes as he turned to her, “They went into the woods to shoot boar. Two go in, and Fimelo comes out dead. It was an accident!” he continued, pleading now to his wife Labella, because she was the only one there. He dropped to his knees at the side of her couch and she reached over with a gentle hand and touched her aged husband's head with the same touch she gave once to all her kids when they were young. It was warm, gentle, and without any threat. She set the glass of wine aside on a table and brought in her husband's head close. With a gentle hushing she kissed him on the brow. “We fought as much as we can. I feel your pain. Do you not think my heart cracks too?” she asked.

“There has to be more.” Pedro pleaded into her neck, his arms wrapped around her.

“There isn't. We just have to let it go. Let Raphielo go to the gods.”

There was a long moment of resigned silence in which the sniffling of tears could be heard. “No.” Pedro said, breaking it. His wife looked down at him shocked, releasing him from the embrace, “There is too much honor at stake here. The gods love justice, therefore they must despise injustice. One way or another, I do demand this to be overturned and our boy released. It was an accident, I plead this to the gods themselves!” he continued, “To Naestoleems, who carries the moon, and Cratocius, who carries the moon; the two of them who patrol the skies and see all. This is the challenge I will set myself to in my laugh to prove myself to them!”

There was an air of confidence and conviction in his voice. It was sad in much the way it was angry. Terrible, as it was noble. A full embrace of conflicting natures. Labella shuttered, she thought it was a fool's mission Pedro was setting himself on. But the master of the Peruscoti combination believed firmly in what he needed to do. He had been set on this for a while. And the challenges now were only more legendary challenges to surmount to assist him in restoring his families dishonor by having their name pinned to such a tragedy. None of them wanted this, surely. They were good men, so Pedro believed.

He picked himself up off the tile and began to pace across the veranda. What did he have to start on, and where could he begin? It was a new challenge and a whole new chapter, a whole new book in the saga to him. And for it, he needed fresh resources. He himself had been party to trying to argue the case before the judge and the Serene Council in defense of his son, who remained silent throughout. But this had failed, so he needed a new angle.

“Labella,” he said. His voice was still cracked from emotion, but it had become heavy, “Does your brother still know that sorcerer from the academy, the man from the Academio duo Importo?”

Labella looked shocked and she sat up from her couch. “Why would you ever need him?” she asked.

“I need a man who can argue, who can bring up a case. He reads the law, does he not?” he felt like he was pleading.

She thought for a minute, “I believe so.” she answered.

“Is he still in the city?” he asked.

“No, I think he moved out to Vèron, half a day's ride.”

“I will need to get a message to him, I have a task for him. A big one and I must discuss it with him personally. What is his name, where can he be found? Do you know?”

“Michelia Moor, but I don't know where he lives in that village. You'll need to find out for yourself.”

“Does not matter, the courier will find him on that!” he declared. His voice rose for the first time in months to something resembling happiness. With a light step he half-skipped down the Veranda to the door, and throwing open the heavy dark wood stepped inside into the haze of candle light. Labella looked on in wonder.

The study which Pedro entered was a large room. All along one side a wall of windows swung out and looked out at the night. A table of log books and lit candles sat nearby. On other walls, charts and maps dominated and hung from the walls like tapestries and banners. There were maps of the port itself, maps of the water ways between here and the mainland, to at Aepiranto, and even larger more regional maps, all as filled out as man's singular wisdom would allow and edited over in ink to note the locations of additions in varying reds and blacks. There were books too, a shelf of ledgers and log books throughout the generations; personal diaries and copies of contracts nearly a century old. In the middle of the room a great round writing desk sat in the illumination of an overhead chandelier, strewn across its surface were the day's works, legal treatises, law, court procedure; a years work of legal research.

Sifting through the noise on the desk Pedro produced a blank sheet of paper. Reaching for his quill and ink he began to write. Labella came to the door and leaned against the frame, watching her husband work.

The next meeting of the Council of Three was more tense than usual; it seemed as though the Council remembered that they have enemies just to their east, enemies who were not going away. Add that to the recent news from Treblea, where Carol's bardic diplomats were met not only by a blanket refusal of their offers to trade, but also tales of a village that castrated their men should they fall into servitude. The latter set of facts caused Carol Padilla's next words to mark a full volte-face in her stance towards the nation of musicians, "All right, it seems that the Trebleans are ridiculous assholes. Let's find out how to end their vile practices without weakening ourselves against the Yamarae and Centaurs right away."

Isabella de Guzman smiled at that. "Well, I am currently looking for mercenary companies and potential investors for said mercenaries; the goal would be to dismantle the Treblean community with minimal bloodshed. One of said potential investors is in the Old Imperial Capital; he might be interested in working with me in this endaevor.

"As for the Centaurs, Juan actually has a fine battleplan," she then gestured to Juan de Maldonado, who unrolled a map showing the lands to the west of the League of Cities of Sapientkind, a map showing several markers and arrows. "It doesn't even cost more than it brings in, even!"

At that, Juan smiled at the flatter, and the old soldier spoke, "The Centaurs to the west are primarily chargers and cavalry archers, and traditional infantry tactics are a mixed bag against them before gunpowder. Thier Goblin slaves are scouts and basic infantry, but are largely disloyal. But, more importantly, the Centaurs have never met Ogres, or at least, Ogres with Hand Cannons."

He then brought out a drawing of an Ogre in leather and plate armor carrying a hand cannon so large that it can be easily mistaken for a mortar. "Ogres are as fast as Centaurs and can endure more; even in armor. With these hand cannons, we can punish the enemy raiders before they become a true threat - and of course, liberate the Goblins under their rule.

"As for the Yamarae...I trust that you won't try and negotiate with them, Lady Carol? After all, their shamans were who let in the Horde to try and destroy us." Juan already knew the answer, and had it confirmed when Carol drew herself up indigantly.

She then said, "The Shamans of the Yamarae have deceived their own people. It is only fitting that we free them from their lies by force. Nevertheless, their land is hard and arid, and the mountain passes harsh. We will need Orcish and Goblin troops if we are to make a campaign in their territory a reality; Goblins are very good in mountain warfare, I've noticed."

The woman faced Juan, "So free as many of the Centaurs' Goblin slaves as you can; try and get the allegiance of a few Centaurs as well through bribery and divide-and-conquer tactics. Once we have enough Goblins, we shall show the Shaman-Liars of the Yamarae the Truth of Sapientkind."

@Mistiel@gorgenmast@Crispy Octopus

Soprano was quite possibly the secondary capitol of Treblea. People danced in the hard-packed dirt and grassy streets with a gaiety and wild abandon that few cities kept after their long trek across the land to get away from that old empire.

Near the center of this quaint, gay, little town sat an old man smoking a pipe, chatting on the front porch with two bards from faraway lands. "Back in my days! This is what our land was all about!" the man saidin a gravelly voice full of life despite his age. "So many of our fair towns have slowly begun to forget that life is all about fun and enjoyment rather than developin'!" The strangers, a man and a woman dressed in odd, garish regalia that looked as if they were trying to be minstrels but just didn't quite know the fashion yet, sat by sipping on Treblean ale....which was not one of the land's strongest staples as wheat and other products that could be fermented tended to quickly go stale and turn out very very bitter after said fermentation.

The strangers casually continued to ask the old man for stories and he was happy to oblige as all three of them gazed out onto the main thoroughfare of town that was revelers dancing to music, revelers playing their own instruments - some of which were incredibly modified in a DIY style that left onlookers wondering how that instrument was even played anymore - and some revelers who played instruments AND danced at the same time. All in all, to an outsider, when the music reached a crescendo, it seemed like a cacophony; but when the music was at a normal, if frenetic, pace, then it was on the whole quite beautiful sounding....if you had the tolerance for it that is.
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It would have taken representatives from another nation longer to reach the Treblean capital due to its tucked away locale between all seven of its townhills. Plus, Note itself was located on a larger hill that was surrounded by a depression in the land formed by being surrounded by seven hills on the outer ring. In turn, the Trebleans did not focus on roads that were straight and orderly. Their road systems tended to follow the curvature of the hills, sometimes deviating off into copses of dense brush and sparse few but friendly, bright deciduous trees (far unlike the dark and foreboding pines that surrounded the outskirts of the nation) where the road builders might have stopped for a break, or even to, um, frolic.

Some outside nations might consider the Treblean way of life savage in quite a few of the seven surrounding outlier towns, Mezzo and the almost barbaric Castrato leaping forefront into their minds. However, Note - or Notea as a teeny-tiny faction had stuck with calling it - was a burgeoning center of "civilization" that at least had the most potential for development of any of the cities. It being the largest, and most safely ensconced, Note's citizens had - quite musically - built a wall, if you can call the hodgepodge of tarnished bronze, packed dirt and mud, and plenty of wood a proper wall. At least the Treblean builders had had the good sense to place the wood at the base and under the wall to discourage digging under it. Then, they placed the dirt and mud over that, and finished by sticking bronze into the mud on top, creating a vast, odd-looking structure that still somewhat had order in the midst of chaos.

If you were a traveling diplomat, religious cleric, minstrel, spy, or the like, you would likely find yourself in one of Note's three tavern inns eventually; the Bleeding Ear (low quality), the Lovely Lyre (middling quality), or the one where most of Note's important people of note tended to frequent, the Climactic Chorus (actually has running water that is a very closely guarded secret by the management considering the scarcity of fresh water in such a land-locked nation).

@Letter Bee

((Oh hey, 500 posts! O_o))

Ajoran always took a few hours before his mind switched off from soldier mode to civilian. Not that he was ever really truly a civilian, and no one ever saw him that way, not anymore. The mark on his Ojih saw to that. Since he’d taken his office and, thus, the mark, people treated him with the utmost respect. Constantly. He’d never been anything special before, just a mason who lived in the mountains with a talent for swinging a sword. And then, on a whim, he decided to try out to be an Eija. Apparently he had some talent, because he was accepted right away. Strange how life whisked things along from there.

In the military, life happened fast. Ajoran saw new things, tasted new foods, learned so much and...met so many people. There were other things he did that he preferred not to think about—that was the life of a soldier. And he’d accepted that early on. But suddenly he found himself as one of the most powerful people in all of Azurei. A mason. Distantly, he wondered how things would have been different if he never became a Taja, or even an Eija. Then...he wouldn’t have met...her.

With that thought, he finally found his sleep. He was exhausted, and the liquor Kaija gave him did help. When he did wake, the sun was already high and hot, though the palace was well designed to keep the blazing sun at bay and inside it was quite pleasant. Ajoran did not don the blue and white sash of his office that typically draped around his broad shoulders, but instead went with just a russet uri and thin sandals with leather soles. He did, however, wear his sword. There was hardly a time he didn’t have it, and during those times, he usually at least had a knife instead.

Ajoran was glad Sikkina was not far away. The Rhaetian fortress, manned also by a contingent of Eija that sought to both observe and support their kin should the need arise, was up the coast just a little and actually offshore, and not just semi-close to the ocean like the capital city of Jeteijhkai. In the high heat of midday, the man wisely took it slow, being sure to allow his gray horse to drink plenty along the way. It took a few hours, but at last he saw the stone of Sikkina wavering in the heat-distorted skyline.

——

Ridahne had been navigating the dust for decades now. For an elf, she was young—only about a hundred summers or so (even she lost count at one point) but she had spent more time out there in the shifting sand dunes and brutal heat and wind than most by the time she was twenty summers. It was a harsh, arid place that consumed all but the prepared, but somehow Ridahne found it…peaceful. It made her feel small in a reverent, awe stricken kind of way. Small and unnoticed. That was a blessing nowadays. She also liked how wild it was, how commanding the winds were over the land as the hadaki, the spirits of wind and sand that haunted the Dust Sea, danced to its mournful tune. The Dust Sea was…oddly, her sanctuary. Hadian’s was the ocean, his first love and forever mistress. But hers, hers was the sand and the heat, and the true solitary nature of the desert abyss. Needless to say, she became very, very good at navigating it, and was often paid to help others do so.

The shifting sands made navigating by landmarks near impossible, unless one knew where to look. There were some rock formations out there, not yet eroded away into dust, and the sun or moon was always a decent compass. But even so, people got lost here often. Either locals or foreigners, people who carelessly ventured out there usually never came back. Ridahne and other scavengers made a profit off of this, either by acting as a guide or by going around and finding the now unowned valuables left by brave souls who never made it through. She made a living that way before she was a soldier, and now that she wasn’t anymore…

Badi, the chestnut bay she rode on, plodded along dutifully at an easy pace, hooves making a muffled thudding as they sunk into the loose red sand. Any tracks were swept away by a gust of wind and overhead, desert hawks circled curiously. A stranger in their midst usually meant a good meal was coming soon. But Ridahne ignored them, moving through the desert with her cloak billowing behind her like this was her home.

On the horizon, wavering in the heat-warped light, sat a dark object not quite red enough to be a rock. Besides, Ridahne knew exactly where she was, and there were no rock formations here that she knew of, unless the wind had uncovered one long since buried. With a soft kick, she urged her horse to move a little faster towards the object, hoping that it might be something worth her time. Upon closer inspection, she saw a figure, female, dressed in casual Azurian garb, lying still in the sand. Ridahne sighed. Another soul lost to the Sea. Well, she would rifle through what they had and see if there was anything interesting—at the very least, she could probably gain herself an extra change of clothes from the venture—and then move on. Dismounting, Ridahne approached.

The kill was fresh. There was blood on her, though Ridahne had yet to determine if it was from her or someone else, and the body hadn’t shown any signs of decay, nor had it been eaten by the sparse animals that roamed the wasteland, though there were hawks above her still, waiting for the right moment to swoop down. Ridahne noted that she did not have an Ojih, nor could she see any tattoos, to her knowledge. That alone tipped her off that this woman was not Azurian. Elvish, at least in part, so probably Rhaetian. Another sad sigh. Rhaetia was kin, and Azurei was very forward about warning them about the dangers of the Dust Sea. The sword was another clue, as it, too, was not Azurian. But it would sell just the same, she decided, and reached out to remove the sword and sheath from the corpse. Her hands touched the leather, fumbled with the buckle and—

Movement. The female’s chest rose and fell, and just when Ridahne thought she was imagining it, she saw it again. And again. Rhythmically, but slowly. “Ai!!” She exclaimed, realizing that this ‘corpse’ was not a corpse at all. She was alive. All intentions of gathering food or resources out there were driven from her mind, which now focused solely on giving the stranger some aid. She would be dehydrated, possibly starved, and would have suffered heat exhaustion, not to mention she seemed injured. She had no horse, no cloak to shield her from the sun, and nothing to suggest she was anything but alone. What was she doing out here?

Ridahne retrieved a waterskin from her bags and tilted it slowly into the wanderer’s mouth as she held her head upright in her lap. She wouldn’t be able to give her much that way, but something was better than nothing. Next, she poured a little water onto the ground and began scooping the wet sand and dust and smearing it over the exposed skin on the girl. Mud, after all, made an excellent shield from the sun, plus the water would cool her down. She assessed the injury, finding it wasn’t immediately life threatening and could wait to be fully dressed until she got her back into town, though for now, she took a strip of cloth from her bag to cover it.

Ridahne was a tall, thin woman, almost wispy looking, but she was in no way frail. Most Azurei were like that, slim, lean, but quite strong, as their harsh lifestyle meant that everyone worked hard to get by. It wasn’t much of a struggle to scoop up the woman and put her on her horse, then leapt up behind her, pivoting back the other direction and spurring Badi hard towards home.

Hadian had been cooking, searing strips of salted meat in a hot metal pan over their outdoor fire pit, when he heard the distant pounding of fast hooves. That was unusual enough, as people did not tend to push horses in those parts unless they needed to. He glanced out, realizing that he knew the color of the horse and the blanket on its back. Ridahne. It was far too early for her to be back just yet, just mid afternoon. Hadian abandoned the meat to meet her, though his confused expression melted when he saw that she was not alone.

“Ridahne…?”
“Boil water. Now. Get me a needle and thread, and some salve.”
Hadian was already moving. “She’s alive?”
“Barely, but I’ve seen people come back from worse. Open the door.” Her voice was commanding and urgent, but collected. The siblings got the stranger inside, and Ridahne lowered her onto her own bed, proceeding to drape wet cloth around her neck, chest, and forehead to cool her down while Hadian prepared to treat the wound, setting a pot of water outside to boil and gathering supplies.

The siblings grew up in Atakhara-Ali, the port city of the district, and the fishing capital of Azurei. It was not known for being a beautiful city, or a clean one, or even a rich one. In fact, it was the opposite of all of those things. Rustic, dusty, lacking any actual roads besides the areas where the dust packed down from use. Dock workers enjoyed seedy taverns, brothels, started brawls, haggled prices, and lived in relative squalor. Other cities in the Atakhara provence had villages with actual homes made of clay or mud brick, or sometimes wood or stone, depending on the locale. But Atakhara-Ali was poor. Very poor. Its residents were blue collar workers, laborers, or those, like Ridahne, who were low on the social status for one reason or another. Thus, it was a place where trouble frequented. Hadian and Ridahne had seen their fair share of fighting, brawling, battles, and tragedy. Hadian, especially, was experienced in setting bones and responding to other crises because of his sister, who frequently got herself into trouble.

The two were adept at treating the injured, and in no time they did all they could for the stranger. Even Mitaja, the 100 lb cat that helped them hunt and kept them company, helped in what way she could; the reddish-beige cat hopped up onto the bed beside the woman and licked the mud from her face, then languidly stretched out beside her and fell asleep with her back pressed up against the woman’s side. Ridahne and Hadian simply waited, watching for any changing signs in the stranger’s condition.

(Written with @Blackfridayrule's permission so I might properly describe Sikkina)

As Ajoran waited, he once again marvelled at the structure before. Perched on the edge of The Golden Empire, clinging to the desert swept coastline on a small oasis island of green, squatted the colossal Rhaetian Fortress of Sikkina. Connected to the mainland only at low tide by a long stone causeway, the huge gates sat at the high tide mark and bore the scars of the sea battering at its stones. Even now, as his horse moved nervously on the drawbridge, he could feel the thunder of the ocean below him as it surged and retreated through the narrow channel hacked from the rock.

He did not have long to wait for the portcullis, always closed, began to grind slowly upward in to the face of the gateway led into a great blockhouse pierced only by the main gate. The sound of his horses hooves were suddenly loud inside the near pitch black of the tunnel. Somewhere above he could smell pitch burning and glanced up to see the murder holes above him. His path turned ninety degrees to the right, then to the left, before he rode into the blinding sunlight of a tight courtyard open on all sides to attack by the garrison above. Soldiers appeared above him on the ramparts and gazed down at him, and one, recognizing him, gave him a wave before shouting along the walltop.

From here, watched on all sides by narrow arrow slits, Ajoran kicked his horse up a ramp wide enough for two horses shoulder to shoulder. It rose toward the outer bailey and would leave any attacker horribly exposed to attack from all sides. As he rode he noted the runes cunningly built in to the stone and the walls. He was no Rhaetina expert but he had been around them long enough to recognize defensive magic when he saw it.

At the top of the ramp he passed beneath a second portcullis and in to another blockhouse, as large as the first. Another pair of ninety degree turns and he entered a tight courtyard with two gates, both open but flanked on soldiers, the first he had seen below the level of the wall. The outer defences of Sikkina were meant to funnel and slaughter an attacker. Of the two gates, the one to the right would lead out of the fortress and on to the island proper, giving him access to the town that existed solely to support the castle and the small but excellent harbour hacked from the rocky shores of the island. On two occasions he had taken ships Sikkina and always enjoyed visiting the narrow streets.

The other gate, to his left, led in to the outer bailey of the fortress. He nodded at the sentries as he passed by and they nodded back, nothing much to say here. They looked bored. This gate was a straight passage that brought him out in to an immense courtyard enclosed on all sides by walls fifty high, and towers twice that height ever fifty yards. Here the main business of the fortress was conducted, a barracks, a temple, blacksmith, armourer, deep fresh water well, and more, all protected by the walls.

In the middle of it all, through another blockhouse, surrounded by an even larger wall that was built in to a small mountain, was the inner bailey and keep itself. This sat on the highest point of the island, its view unmatched by any location within fifty kilometres. Only with magic, and some incredible engineering work, could the keep have been built as it was, crafted from the very peak of the small mountain.

Ajoran was forced to leave his horse behind here, turning it over to the stable boy before looking around. The outer bailey wall was built on the edge of the mountain as well and while from the outside it appeared as though it were fifty feet high, on the inside it was not more than thirty feet to the walltop. The defences seemed like overkill given that it was impossible to properly siege the island but the Rhaetians never left anything to chance when it came to defence.

The portcullis to the inner bailey was open, the great wooden doors swung wide, but six heavily armed and alert guards protected it while more could be seen lurking behind the arrow slits above. He offered a stiff bow to the guardsmen, all of them Rhaetians he noted, and made his request.

“Ja’ti hale’a,” ((Hello, friends)) Ajoran greeted, his tone friendly but his face inscrutably blank. Taja were often that way, as part of their training was to keep their thoughts and feelings secret from others. Problem was, the training was a little too good, and often times they had trouble connecting with strangers due to their aloof and stony air. He hadn’t worn the shoulder sash of his office since he was technically off duty, though he regretted it now as he stood before them. Ajoran wondered loosely if any of them knew who he was, or perhaps even what he was, though he guessed someone knew something because he was allowed in without question. Still, he was not used to having to explain himself like that, and wondered if he would need to, now. The benefit of the Ojih is that it eliminated the need for some establishing small talk, as it distinguished things like rank or title. And Azurians generally wore some kind of large earring through an often stretched hole in the lobe that, depending on the material it was made from, the shape it was carved in, and the designs etched and painted into it, indicated the wearer’s province and family clan. Foreigners, however, didn’t generally know these things, though Rhaetians more often than not could identify which shape and material of [I}ki’io[/I] resembled which province. There were only five, after all. The carvings on them, like the Ojih, were much more difficult to discern unless the marks were very familiar.

“I am Taja Ajoran Te’kajih, I serve the Sota-Sol Kaija-Sol Tezusha herself. She asked me to come here and speak with your commander. Which one is she? And is she free to speak?” Ajoran did not actually know if the ranking officer of the fortress was male or female, but, being a matriarchal society, Azurians often defaulted to ‘she’ and ‘her’ when referring to a leader whom they did not know. “Kaija-Sol requests some information regarding Rhaetia and our neighbors to the east.”

When Ajoran used the word ‘request’, he was being polite. The Sota-Sol did not make requests that could be refused without consequence. The Rhaetians had more leniency than most, though if they wanted to keep secrets, Kaija-Sol usually wanted to hear a reason why, and it better be worth it.

Tucked between the bossom of two green hills the village of Vèron sat nested along a single cobble road between the breasts of earth. In the early sunlit morning, a pale mist enveloped the country village, masking the plastered farm houses and barns that grew out of the main road. In the foggy morning the nearby cackling of chickens sounded faint and distant as the first rustlings of day crawled on the city. First in the bell ringing of the blacksmith as he set about beginning his early orders, each clang of his hammer on the anvil sounding a pure clean note into the still misty air. Then the lulling moo of cows as they called for their masters to come and milk them, their teets hurt. The sounds of children and of play had not yet awoken, now was the hour of the working man and woman to begin their waking chores. Many of them did not need the timely chimes of the city bells, their bodies were their own clocks.

Rising out of his bed, a sinewy man awoke. Stretching out his arms he breathed in deep the morning air that came into his cabin. It was sweet, and moist. It carried into his nose the smell of the vineyards and orchards not far from his house. It did not let these smells of flowers and fruits go dryly. No, there was a rich earthly moisture to it that reminded the man of wine. Years ago, when he worked in the city he had drank, now he had moved into the quietude of the country to work on his studies and take up lighter duties the very smells of the country had become his wine. He had learned to drink it with his breakfast.

He rose naked from his sheets and walked barefoot along the coarse wooden floors of his house. It was not large, though by country standards it was near a mansion. Split into three rooms, he lived alone; slept in the bedroom cordoned off in a corner. The other smaller room was a pantry and storage, with the hatch into the cellar cut into the wall and the floor. The main living and entertainment area was at the front of the house, and its wide and spacious windows let in the morning air and scents as they had no glass, only an interlocking weave of stripped bark tied by horse hair, interlocked leaving hexagonal holes of barely a quarter-inch diameter; a screen of wood and fiber.

He went to a wooden counter along the north-east wall of the living room where a bowl of night-chilled water lay. Reaching into it with sun-kissed and cupped hands he splashed water into his face and rubbed it through his beard, combing the coarse hairs with his fingers. He let the water drip away as he headed into the pantry. From there, wrapped in cotton rags, and brought out a brick of salted ham, shriveled and tiny and he could hold it in one hand and nearly wrap his hands around it. He took it outside.

His bare feet kissed the dewy ground as he stepped out of the door and wandered around to the side of the house, desiccated and salted ham in hand. In a sandy area, seperate from the home was a small brick fire-pit under a canopy, the roof angled such that water would run off in one direction, and the smoke drift off the other. An over turned pot was nearby, and placing the wrapped ham on the bricks he took the pot and filled it from a nearby pump well, filling it water. He placed it over the fire-pit, no larger than the length between his elbow and wrist and lit a fire. Once sparking, he threw the ham into the pot, and walked off waiting for it to boil and cook.

Along the side of his house the man grew berry bushes, a handful in all in neat rows, three in all. He searched the brambles and picked into a wicker basket choice berries. When he had half filled it, he brought them to the pot, now beginning to steam and dumped them in. Throwing the wicker basket back on a return trip, he passed by the bushes and headed off into some hedges, where he relieved himself.

After half an hour much of the mist had cleared and the man had gone back inside and got dressed in a pair of white trousers and a loose red cotton shirt. The rising morning sun had chased it away and with a hat on his head he shaded his eyes from the strength of the rays and clenched a pipe between his teeth. Still barefoot though, he went over to the fire and squatted down next to it, looking in under the cast iron pot as the embers sizzled and sparked. The pot was boiling strong now, and the berries he had tossed in had largely dissolved and stained the water a deep wine-dark red; what was left of their carcasses drifted on the surface deflated and ruptured. The ham was somewhere deeper inside. It wouldn't be ready for a while, imported ham was normally heavily salted and the man owned no produce to feed himself with. But he got by.

He chewed his unlit pip though as he watched. The saliva working up around the mouth piece. Raising a hand to the fire, he decided to change that. Nothing moved through the air, there was no sound or sense to determine something had happened. But jumping spontaneously from the embers a small spark jumped, flew through the air, and landed in and lit the man's pipe. With a few puffs, clouds of silver gray smoke were wafting through the air. He smiled.

The pot wasn't nearly done enough, so he headed into the house. Under a lounge in the sitting room he kept a guitar, a short necked thing with a broad shield-shaped body, its bowl of a body making it in all, like that of an over sized nut, a half gourd. The strings pulled over an array of holes that radiated out like a flower.

Holding it in his hands, he strummed it a few times and soft high notes reverberated out on the echoes of the gourd-like body. Its notes echoing into a reverberating harmony that vibrated with the electricity of the early morning. The sun had fully breached the horizon, and the full chorus of the birds had awakened to join him. As he headed out onto the porch deftly picking the strings with his long calloused fingers and long nails he improved to their song, humming along the way. He didn't care if he sounded out of tune with them or himself. If he made a mistake he corrected and adjusted and reached his own personal harmony.

From the distance in the village came his indirect response. The heart-beat thud-thud-thud-ud of the drum beat as the town crier stirred from his hut and went through the village tapping his square báfuie. As he strummed, wandering back to his cooking fire he leaned up against the side of a cashew tree, crossing his legs he improved away watching the street as the drumming grew louder. He craned his neck around a flowering book to see the white robbed figure of the drummer make his way down the road calling out to the sky and the sleepy residencies to come and great the day, to great the sun and all its nature. His prayer was shouted in a loud wavering wail. To match, the man played his guitar higher seeking the harmonic resonance to the wailing off-tone voice of the crier. Then he passed on by, and the heartbeat thud-thud-thud-ud and his voice became distant again.

But on the road, walking in the opposite direction of the crier came another man. A strange man. Dressed strange for these parts. It was the finery, he was a burning candle in the middle of the night, a diamond among ashes. Dressed head to toe in a silvery blue uniform he had white metal ornaments hanging from the tassels of his doublet and cloak, probably silver. A white jerkin, embroidered with blue waves pressed against the doublet and held him stiff and firm against the breeze. He had a sword at his hip, his boots muddy. The man stopped playing as he watched the newcomer with curious eyes.

He was clean too, less so his boots from walking. But his face and beard bore all the hallmarks of careful cosmetic care. His white flat cap was crowned with a single black feather, probably a crow's, hanging off from above the left ear. As he drew near the man called out from under his tree, above him on the gentle slope of the hill.

“Good morning, stranger. What brings a dandy like you out here? Didn't think I would see any stiff necks when I like Grosso.” he called in a high-pitch sing-song voice.

The man in the room jumped, startled. He stepped back and turned to meet whoever had speak and when he saw the skinny man under the tree clutching a guitar a relaxed breath escaped his pale lips. “I am I messenger looking for Michelia Moor.” he said, straight and to the point.

“Michelia? I heard he lives in a stone house on a hill, and he boils his pork about this time in the morning.” the man on the hill said smiling, “Might have a cashew tree too.”

The messenger looked at him stunned, and scanned the surrounding area. Many of the farm houses here were stone and on hills or on the gradients of hills. The mist had cleared away and they were all as sharp and defined as anything. From the chimneys or outside ovens, smoke billowed out as many were just now beginning their day.

The messenger looked confused as he looked back up at the man. “I can tell your an idiot and you looking at him.” Michelia said, “And the name isn't Moor it's Moorie. Who are you from? Dalmendelo or Peruscoti?”

“Peruscoti my lord, I have a request for you.” the messenger said, stepping towards him to offer him a rolled piece of parchment from under his cap. Michelia walked down the hill to the road and unfurled the paper, scanning the hastily written script.

“You know anything about this?” he asked.

“No sir.” the messenger said.

“Well this isn't telling me much. Come on, you have to know something.” Michelia continued to prod.

“I'm afraid I don't. The master hasn't made me a member to his party. I just deliver the messages.”

“I'm sure you do. Listen, I just boiled some pork. I'll split it with you and we can figure out what's going on. Or at the least what the road is like.” He waved his hand for the messenger to follow him, and after a moment of hesitation he followed the man up the hill.

“I'm afraid I don't have anywhere to sit out here, so we will need to eat on the ground. I'll go inside and get some plates. Wait here.” Michelia bid to the man, before stepping inside. He came out minutes later with a couple of beaten metal plates and utensils before heading over to the pot. He dumped out the liquid within in, and reaching in with a knife stabbed the wayward dessicated piece of meat which had over doubled in size and cut it on one of the plates. Glistening and warm, steam rolled up from it as he brought it over to the messenger who had taken up a spot leaning against the house. Michelia joined him.

“So, what is going on in Saolo Grosso?” he asked.

“How do you mean sir?” the messenger asked.

“What's the major news.” he intoned coldly looking aside at the young man. Michelia cut a piece of ham and chewed.

“There has been a trial lately, that is the major news.” he said, “With the master's son. He was sentenced to death the other day.”

“Have they hung him yet?” Michelia asked.

The messenger shook his head, and took a tentative bite of the breakfast offered to him. “Have there been appeals?” Michelia again inquired.

“Several, but this was the last shot. It was before the entire council.”

“And he's still hanging?”

“Not yet.”

“Then they still sentenced him to hang?”

“Yes.”

“Then I don't know what he expects me to do unless you left late with an earlier written note. I would not go home then, he might cut off your head.”

“No sir, I am not in the wrong here. He wrote and gave me this letter to run to you late last night!”

“You poor boy.” Michelia laughed.

“It is nothing I'm not used to. The walk was longer than usual, but I have done night missions before. The countryside was a lot better than making a run through the city.”

Michelia snickered at the comment, but continued into his line of inquiries, “So then, if he ran out of appeals and his son still hangs, then why me?”

“I do not know.” the messenger said, “What did the letter say?”

“That it wants me to go there and talk to him about it. I take it he wants me to go through all the trouble to get there so I won't be inclined to refuse on the spot. I should have moved to the mountains.”

“Will you go?” the messenger asked him.

Michelia scratched his chin as he thought, and cutting another piece: “I suppose I should.” he said, “The money would be nice.”

“Oh good, I don't know why you would want to live out here. It's out of the way.”

“I like the peace.” Michelia rejoined bitterly, “And I actually feel needed.”

An ominous smoke rises from the south east foothills within dwarven territory, a smell rank with death and decay fills the air and with it the sound of steel rubbing against steel and a strong stomping march. The dwarves of the southern keep have sent a company to investigate the foul source, they were not prepared for the horror they would find.

Their march ceased suddenly with a fist clasped in dwarven metal raised as high as a dwarf could raise. “By Fhorn…” He gasped, “This is a disaster!” A dwarven brass beard gazed upon a farming village in flames, the villagers found dead not too far from the smoldering heap, their necks hung from trees and others with heads on pikes, others still disemboweled and left as food for the crows and vultures. The brass beard turned towards his men and practically barked his orders,

“SEARCH FOR WHOEVER IS RESPONSIBLE! I WANT THEIR HEADS ON A PIKE WHEN YOU COME BACK!” his company of fifty men strong now scoured the area to find the enemy.

Hours go by, but their search turns up nothing but dead bodies, “We’ve found a few bodies.” one dwarf said as they heaved the body forward to present to their captain, “Bloody Goblins… Probably a small warband; you lads and I both know that small is an understatement.”

The war of tunnels ended many years ago, goblin raids from surviving goblin encampments are a grim reminder that though they have earned their mountain home, the goblin raiders that survived around them are still a threat. Goblins are not particularly strong creatures nor are they large in size and in small numbers they are not very menacing; this is a big reason as to why people regard them as being less than a threat to their society. The dwarves know better than anyone what threat the goblins pose. Before Dunfender dwarves settled onto the dragonspine mountain ranges the dragonspine was avoided, the sheer number of goblin raids made it impossible to settle onto the foothills. The dwarves thought differently, they settled into the mountain and fought for every inch.

The war of tunnels ended after three hundred years and Goblins were driven off the mountains, nearly a hundred years later the dwarves continue to grow and expand, and the Goblins continue to drift farther and farther away from their capital, this doesn’t mean however that they aren’t a threat to be wary of.

“I need five dwarves here now! We need to get reinforcements to the south east.” Upon his order, five dwarves meet with the brass beard. “I need the five of you to bring word back to the south eastern keep, we need more dwarves to clear this area on the double lads!”

The dwarves in front of him simply nod and start their trek up the mountain to inform the south eastern keep. Goblins were nothing to jest about to the dwarves, they’ve suffered more than anyone at the hands of the goblin hordes. They must snuff out the remainder of the goblins in the area lest they grow in number and become an innumerable host.

Even by afternoon, the high smooth mountains held in their restful bosoms the fog of morning. The air dense and heavy, everything sweated. From the pouldrons of the retinues to the stones of the towers that rose about the landscape, dotting each and every valley and seeking to rise above the ground-level layer of fog. The effect was not every day, but it was not uncommon. When the residents felt the cold winds of the north sweep south, bringing rain and storm they knew that in all possibility, the fogs would return, and dropping to below the trees would be trapped and held in their shade, billowing against the sides of the mountains of whose cauldrons they fell into. The silver white mist lapped against the stones and the brush of the forested valleys, driven in the same way waves move across a lake, or on the ocean.

Riding their horses through the fog, the sounds of birds and the rustling of animals took on a muted and distant character. Apart from the grinding of the stones under the horses hooves or their low billowing snorts all other sounds sounded and felt further a way. Or if close, heard through a wall of vapor. Even light was muted beneath the trees, with what little light that shown through the trees taking on an emerald light. The men had to go without torches, the humidity already kissing their faces and their uniform so heavily moisture beaded into droplets that rolled about with the swaying at each step; the torches would be soaked.

But it was hardly needed, and it hardly made the voyage any less dangerous. The road was wide, so as to accommodate error. Broad leafed ferns stretched their rolling tendrils up and out into the road, where their gentle caress brushed the legs of the riders and flanks of the horses. Brightly colored orchids faded quickly into view from the thick mist as the men passed, their bright fluorescent bodies open to the misty afternoon and dripping thick with moisture and sweet smelling nectar; the bees were already hard at work with the tickling and supping from the flowers' wombs.

The road shifted, and soon the riders were lifted up onto a mossy stone bridge. The jungle about them lifted and the light of the noon sky poured in. The glistening of a stream shone through the fog, and the dark shapes of figures in at the river side. The sounds of women talking echoed up to the riders as they passed along. Their activities obscured in the haze, but it was known and clear that they were doing laundry. They knew in a few moments, they would be coming on a village, and soon their destination.

The shrouded village was a densely clustered arrangement of small homes around a central square. Several streets spider webbed out from the central axis, where crowning the plaza stood a small chapel. The homes, built of stone and shingled with red clay bore the flaking surfacing of cracked and split mortar, painted solid colors, from the humidity the old plaster was routinely peeling back, revealing the naked stone underneath which turned green with algae and slime. Here the air was clearer at the least, the open skies giving vent to the haze that fell about them on many occasions. Seated on boxes or wooden chairs old men with fans in their hand sat half naked as they watched the street life pass around them, the riders marching on, the chickens pecking between the cobble stones, and the children running in play, dressed only in large, thin shirts. Elsewhere beyond, the younger and abler men were in the forest, clearing timbers, tending fields, or in search of wild herbs and spices.

Passing the village, the riders assumed their ascent and began their climb up the mountain side, soon leaving behind the misty cover of the valley before and to turn back and see the gentle rolling of its waves of mist below the tree tops. Rising like broad crowned towers, the thousands of large, ancient trees that filled the wooded realm below the rich powerful tropical trees broke the misty surface and stretched out their branches and leaves into greater platforms. And others yet jostled and fought with them, struggling not only with the fog, but with their more ancient hold fasts. Flocks of birds moved about across the surface of the great white in blackened clouds, flirting with the evaporating tendrils and diving in and out like schools of flying fish.

Above them, looming on the edge of a granite pier off the side of a mountain stood a castle, a fortress. It's singular keep rising higher than most, especially towards the north. It's mere presence at the edge of a perepice, in difficult country testimony to the particular ingenuity and grit of its builders, centuries dead. The vines and ivy that grew from between the great white and gray granite blocks that built its walls serving now as banners, never mind the old flags and insignia's that bore the coat of arms of the old clan that lived there. It had taken on new owners since, in the time since their death it had changed hands many times, at auction, in sale, in inheritance. The new flags of the man that owned it no longer flew from the sides of the parapets, but flew atop the ramparts on ramrod straight iron poles. A yellow banner, with a red rose.

Scaling to the main gate the riders were let in without hassle or judgment, and so they entered Sandro Clariamata.

They rode out into the courtyard, centered with an elaborate fountain that served to do nothing more than produce more water for an already humid air. With the horses sweating, the riders relieved them of their own weight and stepped down onto the ground. There were no special greetings for them, and in fact were treated almost as if nothing special had happened. The riders, having dismounted lead their horses to the stables, a red bricked building at the side of the courtyard, flanked by and enveloped by a larger guard house and barracks crowned with a large bastion of a tower.

The lead rider however did not follow. And hoisting a leather bag on his shoulder stepped towards the keep. His broad chin held up as his eyes lead his gaze up the height of the tower, balconies and verandas loomed overhead, cut into the keep itself. The castle in its time had become less defensive, and more palatial.

All up and down the keep, as with the out buildings each window was crowned by outwardly hanging awnings, carved of the native rock, they formed arching clam shells that case a shadow over the windows, often adorned with spikes to repel birds, these often failed as several brightly colored small parrots watched the man approach. As well, each corner of the keep had added even taller towers, capped and crowned with a roof, and under series of open windows set to capture the wind. The verandas and inlaid porches were themselves oriented on the keep to help catch the wind, facing predominately the north or southern sides.

The rider stepped into the keep, pulling open the great wooden doors and stepping into the dimly lit, high ceiling chambers beyond. It was relatively cool, and a bubbling fountain that splashed with fresh water seemed to give relief to the traveller. Approaching it, he splashed cool water onto his face, and washed away the buggy stickiness that had bothered him so much on the road. He breathed a sigh of relief.

He set off down high ceiling halls in wood paneling, and ascended the stairs. Walking into a study onto the second floor, he pulled the satchel from his shoulder and held it out to presentation to the young man seated at a chair by the window, his legs crossed as he sat half-naked reading a book. “Your honor, Franco Mersculi.” the man said in a calm voice.

The seated man looked up and turned to see the retainer in his door. Shutting the book on a piece of cloth he rose excitedly and walked towards him. Franco Mersculi was not much in the way of an impressive man, short, flabby, and balding prematurely. His beard was thin, which he made an effort of compensating for by keeping it cut short and pretending it didn't exist. His brown eyes were a sort of sleepy dullness, but were excited and lively when he came for the package.

“Oh splendid, you managed to get it!” he cheered happily, “For all the things I thought I would have had, I can't believe I didn't have the Epic of Atrieus.”

“I should tell you, we have it on loan. Assandra duo Mueto would like it back. I think she's afraid of the books condition. This is a family piece.” the retainer said.

Franco didn't seem to hear him, nor did he pretend to acknowledge. He was already greedily extracting the thick tome from the leather carrying case.

It was an ancient book to be sure. The leather cover turning a mortuary black, the brass embellishments on its cover and protecting its corners turning a dark brown. Even the writing on the cover, eloquent and white was fading to a gray barely visible in the soft light of the candles in the study. Between the covers, the faded browning pages, sandwiched close together, lose and fragile.

“Have you heard of Atrieus's battle with the Gorgon duo Amuego?” Franco asked, his back turned and wandering back to his window side chair. The book was open in his arms, its size was immense.

“I'm afraid I am not.”

“It's an amazing story. Atrieus, sent by the gods to the far north finds himself at the island of Amuego in the Nordea Islle. Sent to retrieve the fruit of the Tree of Life. In the blasted diamond cold of those wastelands he enters into a battle of not just the brawn, but of the wits, and eventually wins and brings back an apple from the tree's sapphire boughs, whence having been removed angers Calomani who seals the land forever off in an eternal storm and sends down to us the storm of winter. But Atrieus's ship is blown off course, and in the open ocean he sails adrift until finding a school of fish, which riding upon returns to the sight of land.”

“That's quiet the tale.” the retainer said, “But why do you need to read it if you know so much already?”

“Because it is the detail!” Franco declared, “Here, help me out.” he added, setting the book down on his chair and walking over to an ornate writing desk. Many loose leaves of paper were scattered about. Many more were neatly stacked in a thick folio, and these atop one another.

“Tell me what you think, what can fill this sentence in.” Franco said, picking up a sheet of paper half filled with delicate cursive.

“'Doth your rage and calumny that doth spite you.' said the giant to he, 'that doth brew from the gaping vacancy of that dreaded cave...” Franco stopped, looking up his retainer. His lack of expression and tentative silence told enough of the story.

“It is a shame.” Franco said, “I wish I had the name. I know all the qualities and the circumstances of the legendary cave of the gorgon but not what it was called.

“Well, I'm sure you will find it.” the retainer said, forcing a smile.

“And much more. But thank you for the service.” Franco said, with a dismissive wave of his hand, returning to his seat.

At that, the retainer bowed and stepped out.