Aylsfyn

((I took some liberties with Skullding here, Aaron. Let me know if you'd like me to alter anything with regards to him.))

Monavdu disappeared gradually behind Prince Haalenstern and his wizened companion Skullding in the hazy noontime humidity. As they rode out from the capital into the interior of the island, her skyline of gargoyle protected spires and marble minarets lost their meticulously chiseled details and melted into a faint gray silhouette against the the blue horizon. Here, some two leagues from the sea, the land sloped gently down into the sea in a great, open grassland waffled with vast farms - both of which were foreign sights for a native of Veden's mountainous woodlands. Equally exotic to the Haalenstern prince was the sensation of riding upon the back of a horse; the Sons of Veden were hardly reknowned for their skill in the saddle. In fact, horses in Veden were mostly kept to be eaten much like cattle were in the rest of the world. Even so, the haunt of the brothers Bjorni was tucked away deep in the forested heart of the island; too far from the shore to be accessible with his kalga - the Srafn - and too far from the capital to go it on foot. Fortunately, Skullding had chosen a stallion with a comfortable gait for Theodocis that could be relied upon to follow close behind his own mount.

On the beaten dirt path upon which they rode, the peasants that tended these fields could be seen in great number tending to the furrows of sprouting grain; backbreaking work, but necessary to feed the teeming city to their east. Caked in a thin layer of soil and dried mud, the serfs looked dumbly up from their labor to see the horses clopping past them. With apathetic curiosity they watched the two trot by for a moment before returning their attentions to the chore at hand. They were a dark lot with skin coloring that nearly matched the loamy earth they toiled in. Due to the nature of their breeding and poor diet, the peasants were incredibly short as even Theodocis could stand a full head and shoulders above the tallest of the serfs. Skullding seemed to pay them no heed, but Theodocis found the peasants somewhat curious. He had heard tales in Monavdu taverns that the indigenous people of the island were the distant descendants of a mighty empire of apes. Apes, some inebriated storyteller had once recounted to Theodocis, were hairy manlike creatures that lived in the jungles of the southern lands. The Ape Empire, after ages of conquest, disappeared into legend and left only the native inhabitants of Aylsfyn and the vine-choked ruins within the island's jungles. The tale hardly came from a reputable source, but it was a good story nonetheless.

"A ride of two days lays before us." Said Skullding back to Theodocis. "But given our current pace, we will not arrive for another week. I fear we must hurry the pace." The bearded wizard dug his heels into the mount's haunches and it galloped forward down the path, launching clods of dirt and rocks in its wake. "Do hang on!" Skullding reminded as he raced ahead.

To Theodocis' dismay, his own steed lurched forward after Skullding's horse at full gallop. The Prince worriedly dug his heels into the stirrups and seized the fore of the saddle with a white-knuckled grip as he bounced wildly down the trail. It was thoroughly nerve-racking experience for a novice rider.

"Slo-o-ow do-own!" Theodocis demanded, each bouncing hoof-fall momentarily interrupting the flow of his speech.

"Unless it be entirely necessary, it is imperative that we maintain our current pace for some time now!"

As the two galloped westward, the coastal plains transitioned into rolling hills punctuated with copses of tropical trees that rose high above the land and opened into a wide umbrella of waxy green foliage. The patchwork of trees became increasingly dense until, rather quickly, Skullding and Theodocis found themselves riding through thick rainforest. Skullding tugged back on his reins and his horse slowed to a trot, the Prince's horse slowed and fell in alongside the wizard.

"We must take this trail less swiftly. Thick roots lay underneath the leaves, and they are prone to trip a horse that fails to move cautiously." Skullding explained, pointed to the trail ahead. Indeed, a narrow corridor running through the dense jungle had become of their trail now and its floor consisted of a thick blanket of leafy detritus. Theodocis took solace in the break from their gallop and took a moment to breathe easily. In the canopy above them, the forest reverberated with the exotic calls of jungle fauna. Their shrieks, howls, chirps, and ribbits melted together into a cacophonous din so loud that the Prince could scarcely hear himself think.

"I suspect the road will improve not far ahead!" Said Skullding over the roar of the jungle. "But until then, we can go no faster!"

"You will hear no complaints from me!" Theodocis snorted.

Monavdu, Aylsfyn

“I want to hear the one about Refir the Red!” the young boy shouted out. His hands balled into fists, and raised excited into the air. His stout legs sunken deep into the pillows and cushions he had thrown into a pile to sit on.

He looked to be no older than seven. His face pale and portly. Nose small, sapphire blue eyes wide. His silver-golden hair lay hap-hazardly down his back in tender pig-tails. The young prince was as well adorned in fine robes, far different than the modest – if still former – attire of the bard trying to amuse him.

“Excuse me my lord?” he asked with a small humored smile. He was an older man, passed the better half of his life with six children of his own. Violent arthritis had claimed his hands and stolen his ability to hold a hammer. Bags of time weighed on his dark-brown eyes. The light of the warm fires in the room's meany hearths illuminated his sage-like appearance, and he was as much kissed by the sun as the hermits who traveled the kingdom and the Sephali mainlands.

“I want you to play it!” the young prince Bern scoffed, “I am old enough!”

The bard laughed, hoisting the lyre up higher on his lap. He may not be able to close his hands, but he at the least taught himself to keep playing the lyre still. It was enough to put him in the king's court and earn him extra coin. “I dare not say you are still.” he said softly, “It's a song of great violence, and other things young children shouldn't know about.”

“And I am older!” the boy stubbornly insisted, throwing his hands down into the pillows and throwing himself down into thick, “I asked last month and I am not a month older!”

The bard couldn't help but laugh. He knew full well that it could have gotten him in trouble with his liege, especially in the wrong circumstances. But all it could do was make the young prince's face grow redder. “I've heard it at court!” he shouted. “In the late hours, in the weeks past! I am old enough!”

The confession only made the old man's face grow number as he laughed. “And what were you doing up so late?” he crooned, “What would your mother – the queen – think?”

“She doesn't think,” Bern admitted, “she's too stupid, like you.”

“Now boy, that far to sour a thing to say.” the Bard said. A sour note hung on his tongue, “Even a highborn as of yourself shouldn't mistreat your elders so.”

“I don't care.” Bern growled in a low tone, “I am a prince! I can get any of your head chopped off. And I will demand my father let me watch just to prove I'm old enough!”

“How do you know your father's opinion will differ?” the bard asked.

“Because he's the Inquisitor, he gets people inquisited and then they die.”

“Oh really?” the Bard toyed.

“Yes, he says so and they die...”
“But do you know why?” the bard replied.

Bern drew him a sharp biting stare. His lips curled down in an impatient frown. The way he furrowed made the bard laugh softly to himself. “What are you laughing at?” the prince asked.

“You remind me of my sons when they were your age...” he said in a soft wistful sigh.

“Did my dad kill them?” Bern remarked, hoping for an insult. But the bard merely traded him a happy distant stare.

“No.” he said, “They are far away... I have not seen them in a good ten winters.”

“I hope they died.” Bern mumbled grumpily. Crossing his arms as he lay back on his mountain.

“Do you even know what you're saying?”

“I do. I want you to die. You won't sing me my song! You took an oath to do so!”

“An oath is a fantastic over-exageration!” laughed the Bard, “Do you really understand what you're demanding?” he added, in a harder tone. Leaning over on his knee towards the pouting prince.

Bern was silent for a long moment, before finally admitting, “No.” At heart it wasn't something he made to relieve himself of his happiness. But to end the stupid. “But I'm sure when Theodocis teaches me, I will know! And you'll still die!”

“Well, maybe when you understand I will sing you the song and I can live.” the Bard smiled, “Until then, how about Vesha the Mongoose. Or Mepa the Wolf?”

“Those are baby songs.” Bern grumbled, “I don't want baby songs anymore.”

“Baby?” the Bard laughed, “I've heard them sung in many a wine-house across the city. You would not call the men there babies would you?”

“Yes!” Bern grumbled, “I'd call them all baby men.”

The bard smiled and nodded. His gaze drew itself along the walls to the windows. Outside the sky had darkened, and was taking on a faint maroon glow. “I say it's almost time for dinner.” he said softly with a old man's smile, “Let us go down to eat.”

Aylsfyne, Kirshna Forest

(Took over a bit for Theodocis, Googer. But you'd know that.)

The horses of Skullding and Theodocis clodded along the jungle road. They moved slow, avoiding the roots and low branches that loomed in the underbrush that had grown over the stone and dirt tracks left behind my generations of travelers past. It was by no means the most traveled road. But it was the most direct route to Makan, the homestead of the Bjorni clan.

Ancient flagstones and cobble peered out from under the thick bladed grass and creeping green vines, hinting at the story of the old road. The worn and rutted stones suggesting a time of greater travel. But now the highway was so lightly taken it had been choked by the trees. Blooming upward they covered the sky, raining in a soft shade that cooled the forest and protected it from the harsh sun that loomed over them day and night.

In either direction alongside them the trees and brush marched in an impenetrable mass. Thick with twisted brambles and trunks greater than five fat, well-fed oxen. All around them birds called and jeered. A chaotic symphony of squawks, chirps, and cawing. Occasionally, the song-like calls of rarer birds, or the whopping of peacocks punctuated the noise of the forest.

Skullding looked out in the woods. He didn't fear bandits, his kind had built a reputation on rumors for turning men into a pillar of fire on the spot. No lay high-way men would charge a man in robes thinking it was a good idea. Nor the heavily equipped rider behind him.

Skullding turned comfortably in his saddle, looking back at Theodocis behind him. The young man looked pained and uncomfortable. He had heard the stories of his people, that they had not thought to ride a horse. They ate them. It was a strange thought, more-so on the rarity of the consumption of horse on the island of Monavdu, though then again much of the dark-skinned Sephali preferred to consume plants or fish than animals that walked.

“When we arrive I will be sure to lend appropriate time to recover.” Skullding promised as he turned back to the road, “I can promise my investigations will be of some time, and you will find yourself with the time to feel your balls once again.”

The wizard could feel the uncomfortable glowering of his companion on his back as he road. “Thank you for the comfort.” the prince grumbled coldly.

The two continued to ride on through the afternoon. Slowing the horses to a light walk to give them rest as they continued to trot on through the thick forest. Delving deeper, hills rose and fell, giving brief glimpses at rolling empty groves. Even more distant, stone towers rose from the hills. Vacant and emptied, even from a mile away the thick vines crawling up their stone faces could be seen. Black clouds flew in and out as birds went between their nests and the fruit-rich jungles around them.

The jungles had many lost treasures and structures such as that. Ancient tombs and castles. Many the road cut through or by. Many of these used informally as road stops, as Skullding knew from his inquistory journeys. The ancient remains of an ancient culture. One the Sephali knew well as the Bambezi.

The rich trove of forsaken monuments made no strangers to the travelers as they wound through the hills. As the interior became more erratic and the day darker statues of massive great apes stood out in the natural granite and limestone of the hills. Holding out lost insignias and draped in thick robes of green as the jungle sprouted forth from their armor and hide.

Eventually, the day darkened to a point they had to retire their journey. Leaving the road they made through a narrow brush-choked path up a hill. Reaching a clearing where stood a modest keep, or watch tower. But built no different from the far-off structures that rose from the jungle's interior.

Skullding lead Theodocis into the courtyard of the empty keep. A thick creeping banyan tree. Its root and trunk reaching out over the walls, like the remains of some ancient siege tower that took the fort in older times. Even going so far as to clutch stones in its grip, or to pierce the windows of the stepped bastion that stood at the far end of the courtyard. The ancient weathered faces of apes centuries dead, or a millennia, looked down at them unapprovingly as Skullding set about starting a fire, and as Theodocis messaged the inside of his thigh.

“If you persevere one more day then maybe we can be in Bjorni's by dinner,” Skullding said, his tone soft with a polite counseling tone. A flint and tinder held gently in his wrinkled hands as he went to work lighting a pile of tinders, “And you begin to forget the pain with the lord's mead. I will see he his obliged to serve you plenty.” the old wizard looked up as sparks cracked in his fire-to-be and the sticks and leaves smoked and popped, whining softly as the fire grew into a clear, infantile state.

Theodocis returned the promise with a pleading stare, hovering over the fire.

“Will you sit?” Skullding invited, reaching into his pack for some firewood he carried.

“I think I'll stretch my legs.” Theodocis said smartly.

“It would be wise.” the wizard laughed.

As the small logs the wizard carried were placed on the fire and its light grew as the sky darkened Theodocis finally came to sit down. His gaze plied up the busts on along the watch-tower's face. “What do you know of the ape men of Monavdu?” the wizard asked.

“I'm afraid I don't know anything...” the prince said, “This land makes me curious every day I'm here.”

“It rightly should.” Skullding smiled, “It has many curiosities.”

“What do you know of these 'ape men'?” Theodocis asked

Skullding looked up at him, then the ancient, weathered busts. “They are the Bambezi.” Skullding chimed, “What we know of them comes from the folk songs. What more I know of them, I try to gleam from the ruins when I visit them.

“As the stories say, their empire once spanned the southern coast. They held ultimate power where it was warm. From Monavdu they ruled.

“They looked much like a man, but had tails like lions. Their skin black as night, and bodies coated in fur like a wolf. Their civilization was grand: ancient. From the days when humanity was young they presided over Monavdu and beyond as their kingdom. Building structures even greater than this.”

Theodocis gave the wizard a curious expression. Skullding caught his bewilderment, “Somewhere deep in the jungles, or lost to the sea, but no one knows, is their citadel of Numba.”

“How do you know it existed?” Theodocis asked.

“The songs say its name. There is a Sephali fable of the lizard-king Jicarta who sought to capture the monkey king of Numba, but was instead fettered off into the wilderness when he was outsmarted with the monkey king's allies: the hawks. But it doesn't say where it was.

“I imagine these fables were learned by man early when the Bambezi still walked alongside them, watching the ancient kingdoms of man rise and fall.”

“If they were so great, where'd they go?” the northern prince asked.

Skullding shrugged, “I don't know.” he said, “None of my colleagues from anywhere else in the holds seem to know either. It's a matter of discussion. Some would say though, their era ended and their time passed. Death swept them away to their next paradise for achieving so much.”

The wizard went silent as he dug in his travel bags, digging out a simple loaf of bread, “Shall we dine?” he offered

Sarid-Ren, Diit-Wautre (Great-Temple, residence of the Great Spirit)

Lo... ha... ib... With slow and careful brush strokes, the chosen successor to the Great Spirit Khivas, Qauris je'Feonish Lohaibre wrote the characters for her last name while sounding them out in her mind, just like her mentor had instructed. ri- "-Ah, hold right there, child." Qauris hunched with annoyance, it was the third time that Great Spirit Khivas had interrupted her while writing her name. "What's wrong with it this time, Mentor?" Qauris asked, her patience nearing its end. "Right there," Khivas extended his hand and gestured to the last symbol that Qauris had written. "That letter there, what does it sound like?" Khivas' voice was authoritative, but somewhat soothing. He was always very patient with Qauris, even if she was not patient with him. She would exercise the privilege of insolence towards the Great Spirit as long as she was the chosen successor of Khivas as Great Spirit, everyone thought.

Qauris looked around the study they were seated in. She was practicing writing on a parchment page with a fine sable fur brush and black ink on a low table while student and mentor sat on cushions. Qauris was dressed in a long, plain Maroon khalat-like smock with a similarly coloured sash, white foot wrappings and sandals, as is the attire of children in the Uraka Order before they take up a career discipline. Khivas was dressed in the formal garments of the Great Spirit, made up of a bright yellow baggy robe with many ornate patterns embroidered upon it, trimmed with a grassy green to reflect the symbol of the golden rose, a fabric hood of similar green tightly covered his head from his brow to the back of his neck, holes where his ears were allowed them to stand free. Finally, a silver circlet fashioned into the shape of a vine, with small antlers protruding from either side were present. The reason for his opulent dress today was for a council meeting coming up shortly. The room they sat in had much natural light in the form of shuttered windows in the smooth earthen walls. The floorboards were pleasant to touch with the heating fires that burned below. Literacy lessons always seemed to take a long time, especially when trying to spell names, which were done with an entirely different alphabet to the Uraka alphabet used for everything else.

"It's a 'ri', I was going to put a 'er' next to it to finish my name." Qauris pouted, looking at the page as if she wanted to burn it.

Khivas smiled, "But that is not how you spell your family name, child. Remember what your family name sounds like? Lohaibre, come, say it with me again."

"Lo-ha-ib-re" Qauris and Khivas said slowly in unison. "Now, that last sound. 're', not 'ri', you remember where that is in the names alphabet? Point it out to me on the chart, sing the rhyme if you need to." Khivas unrolled a linen scroll by his side that had all letters of the Uraka naming alphabet written across it. Qauris looked over the page, mouthing out a song often used by children to memorize the symbols in order.

"There!" Qauris triumphantly pointed out the symbol for 're' on the page.

"Good." Khivas remarked with sincere praise in his voice, "Now, finish your name and then we'll head to the meeting."

Qauris had already started brushing in the final character, putting a large line through the previous 'ri' character, by the time she was directed to finish up. Upon being reminded about the council meeting, she let out an exaggerated sigh. "Come now, the council meetings are important for your learning," Khivas leaned forward to see Qauris' eyes.

"But it's so boring..." Qauris complained.

"I will hear no more protest." Khivas said in his voice that always indicated the final word of any conversation. Qauris huffed to herself and completed the last brush stroke, internally expressing her own accomplishment but trying to look annoyed at the prospect of the meeting. The page read: Qarishis Dersti ji'je'Feonish Lohaibrire. "You're improving, little one." Khivas straightened his back and brushed back the fur on the top of Qauris' head endearingly as he spoke, "Tomorrow, we will try other names. Now, let us head to the council." Qauris put down the brush and took Khivas' hand, they both rose and walked out of the roomy study where most of Qauris' lessons took place. As they walked outside, the heavily armoured and wordless honour guard marched behind them, vigilant as they were with their hands on their sword handles.

Outside, as they stepped down the stone platform on which the building was situated, was a large garden, grassy and mossy, with trees and flower bushes in every direction. The garden, if one looked sharply enough, was enclosed by a cloister wall that boxed in the study building. Qauris took in every detail, as she was wont to do in places like these. She took in the perfume of the flowers, the sounds of the tiny birds that resided within the trees. She savoured every step until they approached the garden wall; a smooth, grey, nearly sheer slope of perfectly masoned blocks, capped with slate shingles, as was common among Uraka fortified buildings.

Through the gate was a large hallway that proceeded to the council chambers. The hallway could fit ten kharis shoulder to shoulder across, had rafters twice as high off the ground as Khivas, and had the length of about two hundred metres. Doors lead in various directions to different parts of the high-temple, such as smithy, where Qauris always smelled soot and heard clanging, the kitchen, where mouth-watering smells wafted forth, and many other rooms. Some open, some closed. The cool floor was a great mosaic recounting the history of Great Spirit Dirfvas, the first of the Uraka Order. There were battles, councils, treaties, and more, all told in images of speckled detail. The walls here were a white plaster spread over stone, occasionally showing traces of old flaking murals depicting the Horned One and the Fluid One. They had been constantly restored until their maintenance was discontinued by a previous great spirit in lieu of new tapestries to replace them. Inspired by foreign nations' use of thread in tapestries, the temple craftspeople began work in earnest, but had only completed about two-thirds of the great hallway before Qauris and Khivas strode through. In the middle of the hallway was a circle of soil covered in moss and low flowers, watered by a gutter that you could trip up on if you didn't see it. Above the circle was an octagonal pyramid made from wood and had hinged surfaces that could be opened and closed to let in the daylight by a sure-handed khari with a long pole with a hook on the end.

The council chamber was an understated room nearest to the central circle. It was a relatively small stone room with a low table, high-backed legless cushioned chairs, a fireplace and only lanterns for any other light. From the outside, Qauris looked inside the open double-doors to the chamber and spied the council as they chatted amongst themselves. Two guards flanked the doorway and put their left fist to their chest as Great Spirit Khivas approached, the salute of the order. Khivas' two honour guard did not follow him into the chamber as Qauris did, but closed the doors behind them both to secure the secrecy of the meeting. Qauris wrinkled her nose, they didn't air out the room enough, and it was stuffy already.

Khivas sat at the head of the low table, Qauris sat herself down in her usual chair at his side. "Let us begin," Khivas' words silenced the other members of the council and they all looked to him in attention. Qauris rolled her eyes, it was going to be another long meeting. She would much rather be playing with her friends, like most cubs of eight winters, but she would always have to sit in these meetings. She did not understand most of what they all spoke, most of the time she would fall asleep in the meetings and get a hard thwack on the side of the head from Khivas. She rubbed the side of her head, at least the bruises from last time had healed. Not only was she not allowed to sleep, but Khivas was always so much more serious in these meetings, and she wasn't even allowed to speak herself. Each word from her mouth in that room only earned her another smack on the head.

"Kedgi, if you please." Khivas motioned to the second council member on his right, the Honoured Spirit of Druidism, to bless the procession with the approval of their deities. Kedgi closed her eyes and bowed deeply, before raising her nose upwards, "We ask ye the aspect of the Fluid one, to grant us the patience and insight to better all of the Uraka Order and the nature it protects. We ask ye, the aspect of the Horned One to give us the strength and courage required to commit all that is necessary." The rest of the council raised their gaze as Kedgi did, and Kedgi began to speak completely alien words that were said to speak to the spirits among all of nature. Qauris raised her head as was required, but never knew exactly what Kedgi was trying to tell nature beyond that the old khari woman had a frog in her throat.

When the incantation was finished, they began to run through the agenda. There were many items that were inconsequential, or simply confounding, to Qauris, causing her to tune out completely. Trade balances, progress reports, applications for resources at the federal level, news from the human kingdoms. She didn't even realise that she was nodding off before a harsh pain came to the side of her head from the back of Khivas' hand.

Qauris rubbed her head, but immediately perked up at the next item, one that she had been hoping to hear about for a long time. "Winleo, I believe you have an update on Posknat ji'Posdet Seorin-Ret-Khari and his expedition," Khivas addressed the strong looking khari in military garb at the far left of the table from him, Winleo was the Honoured Spirit of the Standing Army in the federation, a scar across the left of his face had grotesquely contracted the skin around the left his snout to give him an almost constant snarl, but Qauris was never given an answer when she asked him how he got it.

The reason that the agenda item excited Qauris so, was that it was the first expedition planned to explore the outer reaches of the world by the federation since its establishment. Until a few decades before Qauris was born, the Uraka Federation had been afraid to step out of its own borders. Even now, the only maps that depicted lands beyond neighbouring regions were bought from other kingdoms. Posknat was the khari that had insisted on the expedition, and the risk-taking Great Spirit Khivas was especially receptive. The debate in the council chamber about whether to commit to such an action was polarising, but ended with the conclusion that the possible benefits outweighed the risks. To Qauris, the notion of finding exotic societies and lands was only an exciting reality in stories, until now.

Winleo spoke with a gravelly voice that indicated many years of ordering men in battle. Despite his snarl, his tone was as patient yet confident, albeit with a pronunciation impediment. "Posknat-Ret-Khari has been granted all the resources he says he needs: Five other scholars from his jurisdiction, six soldiers and a healer, all fully provisioned. He will also be allocated four pack mules, and a number of galleys that will take him south down the Tilgt-Nyrous. If the river should yield to a Salt-Nyric, then the galleys will explore the coast."

"And I understand he acknowledged our forbidding of taking a druid from the Federation borders?" Khivas asked. His stony veneer hiding his own anticipation, as Qauris could tell. He was always so serious in meetings.

Winleo nodded, "He was disappointed, but understanding." There was a deep apprehension with taking a druid from the lands of the Federation. A large part of a khari druid's own duty was to maintain the nature of the land through conservative and ritualistic means. To take a druid away from the land they helped to maintain was a bad omen.

In a rare sight, Khivas thinly smiled to the council. "Excellent. Having maps of our own will prove useful in the future," Khivas remarked, casually not mentioning other, more important motives of such and expedition.

Monavdu, Aylsfyne

The many smells of dinner filled the cavernous hall. Many brazers lined the walls, filled with the warm light of fire as smoke trailed up into the great vaulted stone ceiling. Heavy banners flowed and swayed gently in the rising heat from these iron hearths. Breathing as one as a cool evening breeze bellowed through the hall.

At the hall's center, a great table spanned the length, though only partially uses. At the far end an assortment of candlesticks had been laid out. The light tongues of flame shining off the deep red finish of the carved wood table as servants scoured around its edge, laying out onto it a buffet of meats and dried fruits. A barrel of mead was carried in and placed upon its furthest used edge, accompanied by a number of dark-tin cups.

Glass vases filled high with milk was set upon the table, alongside bottles of dark rich liqueurs that smelled rich of vanilla bean.

The hall began to fill with the aromas of the smoked and prepared dinner laid out for the masters of the house to arrive. A large cut of meat glazed with honey and syrup sat at the middle of the table, its sweat sticky finish shining with dimpled reflections of the candles. Silver trays of cut and dried pieces of fruit were spread out, the small slices arranged to resemble that of the sun that set below the horizon. Two healthily lumped plates of fat, round, pieces of bread sat at either end, they themselves glazed richly and shone with a tender sweetness.

And as the first tenant of the great house of Enywyr strode into the room, the already silent chamber fell deeper back. Coming into a state of reverent cautious silence as Malius Enywyr made his entry. His gait was short and soft, barely disturbing his long flowing coat as he glided smoothly over the worn stone-work below him.

He looked at the succulent spread with an expression of distant wanting. The tantalizing smells of the salted and smoked meats and fruits filling the room with a sort of healthy glow that warmed his nose. But he knew full well what he was to eat as his attention drifted to the plate of bread on the furthest edge. There a silver plate had been laid out before a richly decorated, golden trimmed chair. His servants knew too well his dining, and withheld from the lord his utensils. A crystal glass of water was already placed in waiting as Malius took his seat, waiting patiently for the rest of his number to arrive.

On his heels came his wife. With energy she came to the table. At her side the young Bern kicked his way to the table; his face scrunched in a silent anger; Malius did not wish to bother with the trivial elements that had managed to anger is youngest.

And at the other hand was a taller and agile built young man. Blonde hair fell from the top of his head in a halo of gold that glowed in the subtle fire-light of the hall. Like-wise, his tan complexion glowed a softer orange in the candle light. His blue eyes looked upon the spread with a happy, content energy. It was the king's second son, prince Crafus. A young man at the age of fifteen with a blessed fairness he could have only gotten from his mother. Malius knew him as a boy who could have anything if he asked for it, but he did not.

Malius greeted them with tired arms as they took their seats closest to him, Crafus leaving a seat between him and his father open.

Behind them a lingering son of Malius entered. Dressed still in a chain mail byrnie, covered only by a fur and silk over-coat to make him presentable at the table was the son Caerl. A man built like a bear and his face equally attractive to one. Broken scars from tourneys and chasing bandits wrung his once youthful face to make him ten years his senior. Short, dark-blonde hair sat brushed across his scalp. A hungry smile came his tan face as he saw the prepared meal. The enthusiastic expression to eat not slipping from his face as he took his seat nearest to his father and across from his mother.

“I see you've been busy.” Malius commented in a quiet tone as his eldest took a seat.

“I have.” he remarked simply.

“Could I ask what for?” the king inquired.

“I was merely settling a score with the sword.” Caerl said, “I had disarmed my challenger shortly after receiving the message it was time to eat.”

“Another day in the life of Caerl.” Crafus commented with a leering smile. The comment was not returned as the elder began to wait patiently, drumming his fingers on the hard wood as the king's court shuffled in as a group.

Veada made the proud lead of the meager group of chancellors and attendants. Behind him the large and fat Bod Bord with his considerably double chin and balding head; a man who if he had been conceived by a crueler deity would have had a pointier head given his plump proportions. At his side Asdebad Uthig, a man as old as the missing Skullding, but with a beard and hair thicker and scragglier than the wizard himself.

A man as straight as a board came in through the edges, carrying under his robed arm a tome. Above the collar of his cotton dress rested a tall narrow head possessing abilities that could have rivaled Veada for finding things he shouldn't know. A pale ghost with muddied hair, lord Byron Cern. And with him a guest of his own, a fair lady who Malius had not gotten the name of, though there were many girls comparable in the halls of the castles who saw to the needs of the keep's inhabitants.

The court took their respective seats, looking down at their king expectantly. With a flat unglazed look he gave a soft nod, raising his arms to invite them. “You have my blessing to eat.” he said.

The table nodded in compliance, and the clicking of utensils and the sawing of meat sounded in the quiet vaulted expanse of the dining hall as the men went to work on their dinner. As the table piled onto their plates what the intended to eat Malius leaned back and watched as the glasses filled and plates took on a new topography.

“I had heard you had entered into a duel with Ashtra Beada, master Caerl.” Bod Born said from the far-end of the table as he filled a glass with milk from a pitcher. A bottle of vanilla liqueur sat nearby in expectation, “If I had heard earlier I would have made note to be present. But alas I was occupied. How did the duel go?”

“It went well.” an enthusiastic Caern said with a wide smile, “I may have bruises on my arms by tomorrow morning, but I had him speaking for his disrespect as I disarmed him there with my own blade.”

“I should think no significant harm came to him?” Malius inquired.

“He made only have a broken thumb, but the surgeons will have seen to it.” Caern smiled gleefully.

“Then a honorable fight.” Born boomed in a jovial voice as he poured the vanilla liqueur into his glass of milk.

“On the topic of honorable endeavors,” started Malius, “Is there then any new reports on the pirates off the western gold sound?”

“I have dispatched an envoy to lord Brackrest of Stolehold to that effect,” Born said, “sending note and the approved loan sum for him to put into combating them. I have as well written I will see to it we will supplement his efforts with our own resources in short time, should it be allowed.”

“We will need to discuss it at a later date, if Byron will find the time tomorrow.”

“Don't worry your honor, I shall.” lord Byron said quietly from the far-side, “The terrace then, as usual.”

“It depends on the weather.” Malius responded, reaching for his glass of water. Taking a sip from the glass he turned to Bern, “I have been seeking for a suitable guardian for your education.” he said, sparking the attention of the young boy from a rather large cut of sweat glazed bread, “And I have elected to put you under the tutorship of Lord Wen.”

Bern looked up at his father with a stunned distant expression. “L-lord Wen?” he said staggering.

“Yes.” Malius said, “As a fore-note I will be writing him tomorrow to inform him, on his reply you shall be heading to the Gotkeep.”

“But I don't want to go to Westshjore!” Bern shouted loudly, bringing sudden shocked looks to the prince's way.

“Where would you rather be?” Malius asked in that same cool, gravely voice.

“Why not Theodocis!” the boy shouted loudly, his voice crackled and strained as he shot up from his chair, knocking it to the stone floor, “I wanted to be with Theodocis! WHY CAN'T I!?”

Malius didn't treat him with an answer, instead treating him with sour disapproving silence as he looked out over the full table to his angered son. Heat boiled inside the boy, making his face glow red. He balled his fists angrily as he glared at his father, scowling. “I don't like old cursed men like he!” he boomed loudly.

“Dear, you never even m-” Engela said, trying carefully to reconcile her son back to civility so he would sit down. Her voice was stressed and cracked, knowing full well all eyes were on them. But she was interrupted rudely by her own son.

“NO!” he screamed, “I DON'T WANT TO!” he roared, tearing himself out of his mother's reach as he backed off.

Turning on his father he rose the half-eaten piece of bread. With a short quick throw he shot it off through the air. He turned to run for the door, breaking out of the room as the large chunk of bread hit the king on the forehead. He retained a non-flinching expression as it came to rest in his lap.

“And he will go without eating.” he said in a low voice. “Forgive Bern's temper this evening.” he added, apologizing to the table.

Damarskan, the Golden Bay

Moonlight dappled the rippling waters of the Golden Bay, making the gentle waves look more platinum or silver. The waters slapped against the hull of Toreg's pleasure barge, Sweet Promise. The Golden Bay took its name from the amount of wealth that traveled across it; foreign traders coming their great ships with exotic goods, none of whom failed to marvel at the splendor of Damarskan. Largest and most powerful city in the world, Damarskan sprawled like some immense, lazy beast. It never truly rested, and the beast's anger was terrible to see when it roused. Now, the city was peaceful. Thousands of different colored lights shone in its innumerable streets and alleys, some of them bobbing up and down as people went about their business or pleasure. Toreg leaned back in his silk-lined cushions, dipping his fingers in to the bowl held by a slave at his shoulder; he sucked the heated, spiced honey off the fingertips and sighed in happy contentment, lazily whiping his fingers off on the slave's already filthy tunic.

The night was warm, almost oppressively so. The air was almost still, and what wind there was seemed to just make things hotter. Toreg reclined in a huge carved chair, almost like a tilted bowl, heaped with a small mountain of over-stuffed silken cushions, many tasseled and embroidered with fine, expensive threads. Around him stood half a dozen slaves, all men, carrying bowls and plates of sweets and treats. Lounging in a similar chair across from him was a half-dressed man, his muscular, tanned form almost leonine in its barely restrained, deadly grace. His arm was around the shoulders a completely unclothed slave girl, a pale and petite elf from somewhere far to the north, brought down by raiding traders. More slave girls of varying races strolled around in wisps of tattered silk, showing off their charms.

Toreg plucked a piece of bloody lamb, which soaked in a bowl of steamed mint leaves and pomegranate seeds, and tossed in his mouth. He chewed with relish, juices streaming down his already shining, fat cheeks, to disappear in to the folds of his neck. Toreg Eksnaya was a man of wealth and influence, a merchant prince of the Dominion. While not nobility, his silver and spices could summon up a large enough army to threaten any ghekhav, and even make a bardzr pause before troubling the prince. But Toreg wasn't interested in war, or even power, necessarily. Just wealth, and the comforts it could bring him. Most thought of Toreg as a glutton, a slovenly pig of a man who was content to root around in filth and flesh as his servants brought him treats and cleaned up his leavings. But behind those shiny cheeks and wobbling folds lurked a cunning, shrewd trader.

This was known by his guest, a man who went only by the name of Gammeth. His skin was darker than an Ordovin's, with auburn hair and grey-blue eyes. He was fantastically well-muscled, but with a lean swimmer's build. The only clothing he deigned to bother with were a pair of loose trousers in the Vale style, and simple cloths wrapped around his hands and feet. Dangling from the belt of a nearby guard were the man's weapons; a short-sword, plain and unadorned, and a pair of cestus. Well kept, but worn with use. Gammeth did not seem terribly concerned at being without his weapons -- small as they were -- and surrounded by armed guards. The guards themselves were tense, hands never far from sword and axe and spear. On the forecastle of the barge were two hidden guards, arrow shafts laid across bowstaves, ready for any trouble.

But both men were at ease, chatting playfully as they snacked on sweetened lamb, pickled duck's eggs, flaky, crunchy bread dripping with honeyed nuts, and spicy, fried cheese balls. Gammeth ate sparingly, and shook his head whenever he was offered anything but boiled water with limes floating in it to drink. Toreg's slaves constantly refilled his food bowls, and he emptied several jars of raspberry wine, and an entire bottle of cognac. They made a little game of their conversation; Gammeth spoke a heavily accented, thick version of Ordovin, called New Ordovin by some, while Toreg spoke a very lightly accented Safani. Their talk was carefree, of the weather, trade, Gammeth's travels up and down the western coast, the supple curves of the slave girls. After a time, however, their talk turned to business.

"The payment has changed hands many times," Toreg explained, dipping his lamb in to the spiced honey. "To make it difficult to trace. At the moment, it is in the form of Savian trade bars. A week from now, they'll be exchanged for Fenian nuggets." He chewed happily, speaking around the tender pink meat. "And then finally for Aylsfyn silvers, which will be transported to your company's headquarters in Ashri." Gammeth nodded along, seeming unconcerned. "I trust you, Toreg," he said softly, his voice like silk on steel. "You have always followed through in the past." The merchant prince nodded, satisfied. "And you know to make it look like it was the responsibility of those easterners, right? We don't need to march south right now..." Gammeth laughed, a chilling sound. "I am not an amateur. Have no fear, old friend...the Grand Marshall will be dead in a fortnight."

- - -

The northern border, near Taelyc's domain

Taelyc del'Krasymos looked over the army he assembled, his mien grim, his thoughts gloomy. It is not enough, he thought, counting the campfires, looking over the horselines. We will drown in Dominion spears. He had assembled ten thousand of his own norrakoch, men and even women from the surrounding lands and his own household. Most were tough and capable warriors, though few had seen true conflict beyond the constant struggles between the clans; none had fought in the wars against the Vydari, for example. Five thousand warriors had come out of the mountains, clansmen who kept the old way and still resisted the might of the Dominion and the kinsmen they considered traitors. The rest claimed to be from some realm in the eastern half of the Vale called 'Geistarussir,' but he couldn't help but notice that the vast majority of them were Russkl, the rest being Geirlish lancers and horse-archers. He was glad to see the Russkl though. They were fierce fighters and well-outfitted, and they hated the Dominion with a passion.

The army was spread out on a lightly forested ridgeline, using the fold of the land and the many scattered boulders as cover from the wind. The high road went right through the middle of the campsite, and if one followed that road for another twenty miles or so, would arrive at Taelyc's castle, Stoneseat. It was a heavily defensible area, and Taelyc hoped that the Dominion, in their pride and arrogance, would not hesitate to attack him here, wasting their vast numbers on the fortified position. His scouts reported that the Grand Marshall was not leading the army, that Andros vel'Orbansk would be; an empty sack of suet, he'd probably command the attack from a silken pavilion while other men did the killing and dying for him. Taelyc had no patience for such cowards.

An outrider came rushing to the spur of rock where Taelyc and his captains and councilors surveyed the landscape. He was out of breath, his horse's flanks sweating and bleeding from the scout's spurs. "My lords," he gasped, dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Taelyc turned, frowning down at the man. He made an impressive figure, a towering man of more than six feet; pale green eyes shown out of a heavily bearded face, his shoulder length, dark brown hair bound up underneath his rune-incised helmet. A pair of small silver antlers burst from the crown of the helm, with a crescent moon cast between them. He wore a hauberk of steel mail, complete with silvered gauntlets and sabotons, and hanging at his side was a hand-and-a-half sword of Savian steel. He leaned in intently, as did his retainers, to hear what the scout had to say.

"The Dominion army is four hour's march away," the scout said. "Andros is at their head. It was difficult to tell their numbers, but their line of march stretched out for near two miles. I'd say at least thirty, forty thousand, maybe more." Taelyc's brow furrowed, making his already solemn face fierce. He'd assumed even more than that actually; he'd hoped the Dominion would send some overwhelming force. If he could defeat a hundred thousand Ordovin conscripts on the field, it would send a strong message to the ghekhav who still hesitated to bend the knee to Damarskan. "Any aznvuygun? Aspet?" demanded one of the captains, and the others nodded and muttered under their breath. The scout nodded slowly, nervously. "Yes. Of the aznvuygun, at least ten thousand. Maybe two thousand aspet." Silence greeted this announcement, and some of the younger men shared cautious glances. It was a ferocious number of well-armed fighting men that face them today.

Taelyc uttered quiet commands, and his lieutenants ran off to take their positions. The Gevor would command the center, he and a hundred armoured horsemen acting as a reserve to fill in any gaps should a crisis emerged. The clansmen were split in two groups, long lines of men holding slings and longbows, protected by Russkl spearmen. On the right were clan melee warriors and the rest of the Russkl; to the left, on the flatter, grassier plain, were the Geirlish cavalry, augmented by two hundred of Taelyc's own horsemen. The men were quiet for the most part, though many joked or even sang as they gathered in to lines and squares and crescents, archers and slingers crouching behind boulders or in hastily dug trenches. All talked faded when the sound of the approaching army could be heard. "Lord and Lady, look at them all," muttered one of the cavalrymen at Taelyc's shoulder. He said nothing, but said a silent prayer.

Out of the mist and fog they came, a great solid of wall of men, bristling with axe and bow and spear. It was difficult to tell how many there were, but it was obvious that the scouts' estimates had not been far off. Taelyc put their number at thirty thousand, with the rank and file norrokoch in the center, and veterans on the flank. In the very center of the oncoming army he could see an iron fist of aznvuygun, maybe a thousand but probably less; the banners of the Dominion flapped above them, but elsewhere he could only see personal standards, with the colors of Orbansk being the most common; quartered purple and red, with a golden winged chalice. No Kas, he thought, concerned. He couldn't see any of the mountain clansmen among the enemy host, but it was difficult to tell; the rain was coming down harder, and the fog was getting thicker. Damn it, Lady, now is not a good time!.

The enemy archers did not fire until they were very close; the wind and rain was blowing against them, and Taelyc's forces were elevated, for the most part. The clansmen made a deadly addition to the weather pelting the Dominion troops, and men screamed and died as arrows launched from heavy warbows punched through their bronze, leather, and wood armour and shields. Lead bullets clattered off of spears and helmets, and the front lines became ragged and disorganized, men tripping over bodies and becoming mired in the mud. Men on either side began to scream threats and insults as the lines came closer and closer together, and hatchets and javelins began to zip back and forth. Few found Taelyc's men, considering their cover and height, and many Dominion men fell to the missiles.

Skirmishers broke out as the Dominion troops were finally able to gain some ground, but it was hard going, fighting uphill through mud and rain and arrows, against enemies who were difficult to even see. Signals raced along the line, and the Geirlish cavalry charged. It was more of a lopsided canter through the watery pools, and the arrows launched by the horse-archers had little effect, but the horsemen were able to throw back the veteran norrakoch beginning to threaten Taelyc's left flank. The aznvuygun in the center had taken little if any damage from the constant volleys, but were struggling to make any headway up the ridge in their heavy armour, and were mostly resorting to flinging javelins and taunts up at Taelyc's men, calling them cowards and traitors.

The lines were thoroughly entangled at this point, and some problems had begun to arise for both sides. Few if any of the Dominion soldiers wore proper uniforms, which also went for Taelyc's soldiers, and men and women from both armies found themselves fighting troops on their own sides; they were all Ordovin, after all. And with the aznvuygun unable to really get to the enemy, and the clansmen as mostly ranged troops, everyone fighting on the frontlines looked practically the same. It dawned on Taelyc that this might even be intentional. As he watched the chaos, veteran norrakoch were swarming over the Geirlish cavalry, outnumbered ten to one, pulling them from their horses and hacking the unfortunate men to pieces. The survivors fled, and the veteran norrakoch pounded forward through the mud, hitting the left flank hard. His heavy cavalry on that side attempted a countercharge, but it was like throwing a brick at a tidal wave; his cavalry disappeared with a veritable splash of men and horses. It was carnage terrible to watch, and he looked away to survey other parts of the battlefield.

We're losing, he realized. The rain and fog were so thick now that the left flank was difficult to see, and the right flank was entirely obscured. However, Ruskkl warriors and clan archers were sprinting past him in battered clumps, trailing broken weapons and shields behind them. With grim determination, he rallied his retainers behind him, and they began to slowly pick their way down the ridge, using every bit of cover possible. He knew that the Dominion was truly here for him; if he could slow down the Dominion army just a bit, and sacrifice himself, some of his people might escape slavery and death. He and his knights thundered down the muddy slopes, banners flying, and crashed in to the flank of the aznvuygun, who'd been so intent on throwing javelins at the fleeing soldiers that they had not even seen the cavalry descending on them. They snatched up their longer spears and attempted to form a shield wall, but Taelyc and his men clove through them; Taelyc's sword flashed, dealing death at every stroke. His men gave a ragged cheer, and with renewed strength, many streamed down the hill with him.

His men plunged through the block of aznvuygun, but lost impetus with every moment; they were hopelessly outnumbered, and while many heavy infantry fell before the fury of their charge, there were always more men to replace those that fell. He saw a block of some fifty dismounted aspet thirty yards away, the banner of Orbansk above them. Could it be...? With one last tired surge of strength, Taelyc and his remaining dozen or so men kicked their hacked and bloody destriers forward, cutting and stabbing left and right. Aznvuygun came in from every side, and Taelyc's men fell one by one until only he remained. He could see Andros, looking somehow smug yet miserable on a massive warhorse in gilded barding, his armor gilded as well and covered in dripping, multicolored silks. Taelyc pointed his sword at the bardzr'ghekhav, and shouted "ATTEND, my lord! Draw your steel and f--" But his words were cut off. He choked, unable to breath. Confused and suddenly frightened, Taelyc toppled off of his horse.

His leg snapped under him. He looked around; his men were dying all around him. Thousands of aznvuygun were coming out of the mists and swarming over the hill, and realized, more confused than ever, that the rainclouds had moved on, and the sun was shining. He was able to watch with dimming vision the aznvuygun butchering those few men that fought to the last, swarming their positions. He coughed again, and his blood, he saw with mild detachment, was black. The ranks of the aspet part somewhat, and he saw a young women in soaked robes staring sorrowfully at him. A crushed vial lay in the mud at her feet, and a strange blue light was fading from her fingertips. Taelyc gave one last rasping cough and died, confused and alone.

On the hill top, Taelyc's last commanders were attempting to gather the survivors and form an organized retreat, when they all started to cough uncontrollably. Their men watched in horror as thick black liquid exploded from their mouths or leaked out of their eyes and ears. One by one they collapsed and died in agony. These soldiers were only able to stare for a few moments before a long line of grim, implacable aznvuygun came up over the ridge and descended upon them. The rainwater trickling down the hillside became a red torrent, and the earth drank it up greedily, accepting the gory tribute.

- - -

Grand Marshall Urrag vel'Meskemos read the final missive that had come from the frontlines. It was written with red ink on finest vellum, and stated simply 'Yes, Grand Marshall. Overwhelmingly.' He nodded, satisfied, and cast the message in to the fire.

Monavdu, Aylsfyn

The castle smelled like the cool night. The darkening skies had beckoned a moment of cool darkness. Strengthened by the sea. A sweat refreshing breeze blew through the high vaulted and iron-barred windows of the keep's higher towers. Laid out before it, stretching out over the landscape over some several miles was the city of Monavdu itself, shining in content in itself. The shops and homes and mansions of the merchants shone with a warm light. The towers of guard houses and the walls shimmered with torch light as they wrapped around the city, double thick as they crawled across the land, coming to hug the sea before crawling along the coast with the port. Out on the water was a large artificial bay, rising from the dark waters the lights that marched along the walls and the blazing fires on the towers marked the large lighthouses, guiding ships in by day and night and warning them of the walls should they be too blind.

The sights and the relaxing sound of the night-time sea would have been a show of bliss to the regular man, especially so high above it all. But to the young Bern Enywyr it was too regular a sight. And for the youth, anger and infuriating was too strong a fire to allow even the slightest feeling of wonder take root. The insult of being denied his very request tore through him, putting whatever to the flame in a violent forest fire. And the choking smoke filled his chest, and brought him to bitter anger tears as he lay mopping.

The bed that dominated his room looked something out of place for such a small youth. Deep red and orange blankets lay messily strewn across the feather-fluffed mattress he laid on. He glared angrily passed the bars that closed his window, looking into the deep dark skies and the bright stars that shone in that dark vault that was the heavens. Rage burning in him.

Bern wanted them all dead. He wanted his father gone! The bard! Mother! His brothers to be gutted and strewn across the court like in the stories he was not allowed to hear. He'd be the boy king! The boy king of the world and every day would be as violent and as awesome as the songs he so wished to hear! But he would be doing more than listening to the songs. He'd be the song. The terrible paragon of manhood that Refir the Red was. He was old enough! By the Gods in the Afterhalls, he was!

Theodocis was out there somewhere in that world. If there was a man who could ever teach a person to kill anyone it was him. Bern knew he wasn't in the castle, he was not present for dinner. That means his father had asked him to go out and do some lame chore. Probably to keep him from being there when Bern begged to his father to change his mind about a guardian.

As the young Bern lay sobbing on his bed, a thought came to him. One of desperation, to fill his destiny maybe...

If Theodocis was out of the castle, then he was in the kingdom still. And all Bern had to do was go out to look for him.

The kingdom wasn't that big. It looked small in comparison to the rest of the world. And surely everyone else had to know of the great Theodocis! Maybe he was still in the city.

Bern climbed up on his arms and knees. The fires of rage and anger that churned through him changing in its course. It didn't burn inwardly, but marched outwardly with purpose know. He had inspiration. Great, dangerous, exciting inspiration! Maybe this would be the beginning of his songs. The great first verse in a might saga.

Bern rolled out of his bed. He had what he wanted to do in his head. The whole process laid out before him like a map. He would escape the keep and creep out into the night. And while out seek out Theodocis. He could not be far yet. There was a chance he could convince the prince to abandon the court of Malius and take him abroad to go on epic adventures.

Creeping across the stone floor he moved to the large hardwood door on the far side of his chambers. The heavy door hung on six great iron hinges, supported by long iron struts. The great monstrosity that it was hung guarded behind a large heavy woven curtain that ran down the frame, hiding the hinges. With luck, these guarded hinges would not make a sound as he pressed himself against the heavy, warm wood and pushed his weight into it.

With a low groan it opened and Bern peeked out into the long vaulted hall that marched around the edge of the outer tower where he slept. Looking one way, and turning around the other he scanned down the hall. No guards or servants patrolled the darkened silent hallway. It was Bern's escape. With a careful step he walked out into the dark corridor and made off for the open world.

The young prince ran down through the vaulted concourse, his feet echoing in the deadened silence as he came down to a winding stairwell. He quickly staggered to a stop, taking softer steps as he cautiously walked down. The steps were narrow, and with his two hands braced on the cold, worn marble railing he crept down into the lower belly of the keep, where he would make a break for the gate. It was too perfect.

But, there was still an issue with the stairs... Even though he tackled them every day the young boy had a strong fear of them. A primal disdain that he would slip. And like a sack of fruits, he would go spinning and tumbling down the winding well into the darkness of its bottom. Or perhaps he would never stop the fall.

The steps themselves were narrow and steep, and it was known that one ill-placed foot could send a man breaking down to the very bottom floor. He had once observed a drunk guard do the same. A man to full of mead attempted the climb, and in his stupor slipped and tumbled down the steps the full five stories to the bottom floor where he cracked his head. Even through his armor when he was pulled off the floor he was blooded and broken, his body hanging in the most gruesome of manners.

Maybe this was the reason for his nightmares about it. They had shut him up in his room for a month, refusing to come downstairs for dinner, having to have his meals delivered to him. He'd conquered that though! He had gotten older!

But they were still so long... and so deep. And so hard.

He carefully measured his steps as to not spill himself, clutching tight to the side for safety.

Maybe the day he got out he would have no need for stairs. He'd send all the people he didn't like to live at the top of the castle. He'd sleep in the throne toom! No reclining on the higher balconies like his father. No standing guard over the city at the top of the highest tower like Caerl. His whole family had their heads in the clouds, and he had his feet firmly planted on the soil! With the rocks and normal people, with no fear of falling. He'd be the king of the Earth! He'll send his family to Morhall where they can rule over the sky for all he cares, they couldn't smash him down dead, the priests always lied about that.

When he's king, he's going to outlaw stairs.

Like all voyages on the stairs, Bern came to solid foot on the ground floor. With satisfied feet, he stepped out into the lower halls. The ceilings were much higher here. Their large eloquent arches reaching up to crossed points where they lowered again. From bronze chain dangled large braziers that cast down warm fire-light onto the marble and red-stone walls below.

He felt filled with confidence, a warm comfort fueled by that outward burning, purposeful fire that filled his belly. The boy made it with profound purpose out into the main hall, running for the door. Victory was close in hand as he saw the massive carved portcullis with the heavy gold and wood door.

“My lord prince!” a voice boomed out, freezing Bern in his tracks as his heart skipped a beat, “I am sure it is well passed you bed time. What are you doing down here?”

Bern turned stiffly around to come to face with a castle guard. He stood tall over the young prince, and the chain mail armor that hung draped over his shoulders gave him an even wider build. His sword was sheathed, but by the way his arms hung crossed at his chest he was not the happiest man to meet the prince.

Bern had no words as he staggered his feet and his tongue looking for an excuse or an escape.

“My lord,” the guard began, “your lord-father would much rather see you in bed, my prince. Let's go.” he ordered, holding out a hand.

Feeling defeated, Bern reached out and put his own in his. The guards warm gloved hand wrapped around his fingers and he gave a gentle tug as he lead him over to the stairs.

It'd be best if he had a guide to lead him up a fourth time anyways...

The Prime Temple of Lezajskona

The domes, arch ways and engraved feathers of the temple dominate over the sprawl of urban towns and peasant houses where tool makers, bakers and artisans work in solitude from the public. Impressive in its size and stature, the temple is among the few structures that rise out from the sprawling fortress of a city that is Lezajskona; one could see the main castle from this temple, and see that the castle stands out like a mountain of stone and ramparts. Further out is the lake itself, sea-like in its vastness. Looking the other way is the great wall which surrounds it all, and the constant conflicting architecture built upon by thousands of years of consistent building by multiple dynasties dating back millennia of time.

The temple itself by comparison is quite new, being only six hundred years old. Yet it seems naturally part of this fortress city and its sprawl of roads, aqueducts and villas. The urban sprawl is to some level filthy, and densely populated; nearly a million people live in this fortress of a city, in completely stark contrast to the spread out countryside with its villages and occasional castle that marks the vast majority of Thernopolesian society.

A tan skinned, well groomed but wrinkly middle aged man in rainbow robes runs into the ornate archways of the temple, speeding past the tiled floors echoing his foot steps throughout the spacious chambers. Four heavily armored knights take notice, and proceed to march in his way before turning to the man’s direction, stopping in their places in a monolithic wall of polished steel.

“Halt. Who be you?” one of the knights, speaking from the thin horizontal slit in his helmet asks.

The man in the garish rainbow robes pushes off the hood with his hands, revealing a grey haired, stone face of a man with olive eyes and a rather thick nose. He stares at the knights for a second with some distress before stating “I be Arch Decider Baro Agy, you need move out of the way. Fates of your children depend on it.”

Three of the knights, wise in their ways step out of the way of Baro, but one of the knights stays in his place, and asks Baro “Why is it, that a honored man such as you wears the robe of a plain Decider?”

All Baro tells the knight, is “Business. Knights such as yourself need not know more.”

The last of the four knights, not wanting to waste the Arch Decider’s time further lumbers in his heavy, plated armor out of the way joining to the left side of chamber with his fellow left side assigned knight.

The big door is opened by a knight on the right side of the chamber, and as the door slowly cranked open Agy walked quietly through. Behind Agy, the large doors quickly closed shut, the slamming of the door echoing through the entry chamber.

The hallway leading to the main chamber slowly curves in on itself, leading to a small door that is locked. Baro gets out his social key, unlocks the much smaller door and enters the core of the temple; a surprisingly humble, candle lit wooden box of a room with a few holes leading up to the top of the temple for air. It is almost dungeon-like, despite the refined wood used and the quality of the table's craft. On top of the table is a hide, stained in wine juice due to not being washed recently.

Sitting on two of the stools are a short man, and a tall man. They, like Baro are of the Great Decider caste. Baro proceeds to take a seat at one of the stools around the circular table, and begins to converse.

"No one else here, correct?" Baro asks the other two Great Deciders, who look at Baro funny due to the peculiar robes he is wearing. Ignoring the oddity, the shorter of the two others simply states "Only us."

Seeing the obvious, Baro tells the other two "Good. I want to discuss something."

"Is it your fetish of wearing lesser robes?" the taller of two wryly asks Baro.

"It is not of fetishes, it is of the problem." Baro reiterates.

"Which problem?" the taller one asks.

"The king one."

The king one, the taller one thinks to himself for a bit. The taller one, like Baro has his suspicions of the king. Yet, he simply asks Baro "The king will pass, why worry?"

"He will run this city into the lake before he leaves the throne."

"Are you suggesting somehow removing king who was legitimately picked by the other twelve Great Deciders? Even with the wealth gotten from the Ezons?"

The question Baro received did not do much to deter Baro from his beliefs, if anything they affirmed them. In his self-righteous thought Baro tells the taller of the two other Great Deciers, "There is no legitimacy in bribery."

A awkward silence filled the room, but the taller of the two other Arch Deciders starts to tacitly see what Baro is going on about. The shorter one gets out a bottle of wine and simply states "Let us talk of less political things instead."

Simo gazed up the skies from his rich Seraglio. The Halcyon was evanescent as the clouds quickly blocked the sun as soon as he tried to inspect it. Bringing his eyes down on his opulent seraglio with sets of bungalows built in a circle giving a bucolic charm, while the lavish garden gave way to a comely royal atmosphere. All those parties, all those things, he needed nothing of them! He needed to brood, to find a panacea, a cure to fix all of the problems that the Church of the Scimitar left after their incessant crusades. An assemblage of the finest women were hurled in to please the Knyaz. As they danced and moved around, the man which had the privelege to see such beautiful women made the impression of an agelast. Not even a small smile. But his eyes were locked on only one lady amongst them - Ludmila. He noticed her instantly. Those eyes, those lips... His heart shrunk, his physionomy twirled as if it was a Dali painting. Time stopped.

"If you don't like my brother I don't like you." Her voice was melliflous to him.

"He started the fight, Luda!" his voice echoed as his mind solved the puzzle of time and put together the fragments of his memories.

"He is small, you don't understand him, you always don't like him, stop picking on him.." The daughter of the merchant moved back from him as he tried to give an excuse for him lashing out at her younger, autistic brother.

And then there was this awful, heart-clutching moment. His tongue slipped, he spoke something horrible that not even his memory would want to recollect. Something that made him regret it for the rest of his life. Something that swung away Ludmila from his love. Something so insulting, it was also an insult to himself.

Fighting back tears, he muttered something towards the guards. One of them moved over to Ludmila as to slap her across the face. His uproar stopped him from hurting her, stunned and bewildered. A woebegone aura loomed over the people as Knyaz Simo stared into Ludmila's eyes. "Naïve, stupid, foolish.." He spoke as he blocked her from seeing his tear-filled eyes. "You could have had everything you wanted if you stayed with me. The power, the riches, but you stood up for someone who only encumbers you, is a worthless ballast in which you put your time, life, beauty, everything. Why do you do it, Ludmila? Why do you care for another worthless weight? Why do you look for someone who has no future, no ability? You know he shalt not send back all your efforts you made to help him survive in this world back to you. Why do you do it, Ludmila? Why?"

"Because I care not about my future, but my family." She said as the vision of their dalliance surged through Simo's mind. He let her go, even though her answer hurt him more than a guard's gauntlet would do to her. The power, the riches, he had all of this. But had he a family? A person he loved?

The answer was no.

"Veliky Knyaz, direct your thoughts elsewhere, this a simple woman. Shall we think about your reforms?" A Rakshasa adviser about the immigrant issue looked at him with the sense of confusion playing in his chatoyant eyes.

"I shall bear with it. What have you done to soften their life, Darja?"

"I am currently in the process of negotiations with the southern boyars about reducing the punishments for crimes committed by the immigrants to the norms. If an immigrant steals, the punishment shall be the same as if a citizen of Mamothe Kras steals."

"And what are they saying about it?"

"Velikoy Knyaz, they do not take me seriously."

"I shall have my way with them."

Sarid-Ren, city waterfront.

Posknat surveyed the crowd that was forming on and around the waterfront. Not a sea of faces, but more appropriately a still stream of faces, if only for their position in the long, narrow stretch that was the dock. Kharis and humans alike had come to witness the opening moments of the first expedition from the Uraka to the southern Salt-Nyric, or ocean, and beyond. Around him, the soldiers, crew, and his own scholarly peers each were loading their belongings and various other goods on to the two galleys that sat waiting on the lake's surface. Mooring lines creaked as soft winds guided the docked ships into behaviour comparable to dogs pulling on their leashes, eager to set off. Posknat himself was eager to set off not only for anticipation of the journey, but of what lay in wait at his unknown destination.

A horn blast captured his attention from further within the densely housed dock. Down the main street that lead into the city, the crowd parted for a large number of armoured kharis mounted on horses, all holding spears and shields, save for two whom held Uraka banners in their hands. The soldiers, all in yellow mail and plates, contained within their formation two additional kharis marching abreast on their own mounts; Great Spirit Khivas, and his military councilman, Honoured Spirit Winleo. Khivas was in his ceremonial yellow robe and held a sabre in scabbard secured with a green sash, and a medium sized round shield slung on his back, made of steel. His attire was in keeping with all of his public appearances, the addition of the weaponry displaying his selected martial art, where otherwise in his council meetings weaponry was forbidden. Winleo was armoured similarly to the honour guard that protected them both, but was coloured black and grey, rather than yellow. Additionally, he held a spetum in his hand as his weapon and had his khari-snout-shaped helmet visor placed down to obscure his deformity. A set of small bronze antlers on his helmet denoted him as the supreme authority in the Uraka standing army, behind the Great Spirit himself who wore his circlet of silver antlers.

Realising the state of the deck, Posknat sprang into action. "Crew! Keep the deck clear! Move out of the way and let the guards through!" Posknat stifled a sense of frustration, "why is he early?" He muttered. Crewmen scurried about, moving crates and dodging out of the way when the first of the honour guard dismounted and marched up the gangway to inspect the ship. Winleo handed his spetum to an idle honour guard for convenience, but he was still armed with a straight short sword on his belt. The guards spent a few minutes checking nooks, crannies, containers, interiors and exteriors, sweeping the ship for any sign of danger. Satisfied, Khivas and Winleo dismounted and strode up the gangplank themselves, their heads and eyes looking up and around for the first time at the strange galleys that had been built for the journey. Whenever the two officials came within a distance of any of Posknat's crew, the crew would straighten up and hold their left fist to their chest in salute, and in respect. Though bowing and even prostration was commonplace amongst other kingdoms, the Uraka felt that they only owed such submission to the Horned One and the Fluid One themselves. The Uraka salute was not directly a sign of submission, but a gesture of respect and of willingness and ability to assist.

Khivas and Winleo took several moments holding their hands behind their backs, looking at the rigging and deck. Posknat could see movement that denoted an exchange of comments to one another, but they were too quiet to hear from where he was standing. With looks of deliberation, Khivas and Winleo turned towards Posknat and walked up to him. Posknat immediately snapped into a straight posture and brought his fist to his chest.

Khivas was the first to speak, his voice was low and carried authority, but also had compassion. "And you must be Posknat, who penned the requests to us for this great journey." Khivas gestured with one hand for Posknat to be at ease as he spoke.

Posknat quickly threw glances to them both, not only was he taken off guard, but it was the first time that he met the Great Spirit in person. He had liaised with Winleo on a couple of occasions for organisational purposes, but it was far less formal back then. Posknat's own attire of the deep blue faded smock of a ret-khari certainly held a higher contrast to his guests now. "Correct, Harmonious One. Welcome aboard the Ocean-Seer." Posknat's voice was as confident as a leader of his position should be, but it hid his own nervousness at facing the leader of his country.

"The Ocean-Seer? A fitting name for a vessel of exploration." Khivas held his hands together in front of himself and nodded to Winleo. Winleo's head moved, but his expression was stony courtesy of his helmet. Khivas continued, "What, pray tell, is the name of the completed second galley, ret-khari?"

"The name of the second galley is the Wave-Seeker, Great Spirit."

Khivas angled his head down and looked Posknat in the eye. Posknat felt as if his very soul was being read by his leader. "Suitably daring," Khivas remarked, before raising his head to its previous position, "now then, the druids will be arriving later to bless the journey. For now, I require and audience with you below the deck, ret-khari. Honoured Spirit Winleo and I have matters to discuss with you." Khivas brought one hand in the direction of the ladder stairs at the stern of the ship, "have your crew wait outside, if you please."

"Of course, Great Spirit." Posknat looked to the crew, who were all present and in awe. He waved them away with the understanding that they had heard the Great Spirit's order as it had been spoken. Winleo raised a mail covered hand toward the honour guard procession on the dock and gestured them to the ship. The honour guard did not move, but five servant kharis scurried forth from their ranks, previously completely unseen. Two of the servants carried between them a low table with a number of cushions tied to its top, the other servants carried a tablecloth and a tray of ceramic cups, carafe, and a bulbous jar that likely held tea leaves. With their hurried but impeccably balanced servants, Winleo and Khivas strode below deck with Posknat in tow.

By the time the three finished their slow descent into the cramped hold of the galley behind the servants, they beheld a fully set table with tea for three and a thick candle to light the dim space. Somehow, the carafe steamed with hot water, even when marched down from the great-temple. Winleo and Khivas sat down cross-legged on a cushion each as if they were at home. Winleo even removed his helmet and shook his head clear, before addressing Posknat for the first time, his speech impediment as present as the scar that caused it. "Come, sit with us Posknat, now we can talk as equals."

Posknat blinked, suspicious at the sudden change in tone. Apprehensively, he seated himself down on the last free cushion. A servant shuffled forward out of the shadows and spooned tea leaves into the carafe to infuse, Posknat being the only person to turn his head in noticing the act. Looking across at his now far more relaxed looking guests, Posknat wondered what this was all about. He was expecting some kind of quick ceremony, a speech, and then to set off.

"I apologise for not informing you of my intentions sooner, Posknat. I did not mean to interrupt your preparations." Khivas articulated.

Posknat was only confused further, "Great Spirit, your will is unquestionable, I would not think it necessary-"

"-Ah, ah. Stop Posknat." Khivas waved a hand to interrupt him, "we're equals here, remember? In front of the crowds, you may behave as such, but for now it is my will that we speak on the same level." Khivas would not elaborate that he found the pomp and circumstance of his position tiresome when interacting with others in general, but he often took such a relaxed stance when in private like this.

Unsure, Posknat glanced to one side, then back to Khivas, then nodded slowly.

"Good. Now, I believe when we offered you provisions, you turned down our own galleys and insisted that you finish the ones you were already building. We did not find your refusal insulting, we thought it proactive that you had organised for your own vessels. We had not fathomed that your galleys would be so different, so... beautiful." Khivas smiled, "Neither myself, nor the people outside have likely seen such boats before. Tell us about them."

Posknat breathed in, he was proud of his galleys. Originally, they had been built with a modicum of secrecy, until he received news that the council had agreed to help him. "I am glad you asked, Harmonious One. I will tell you how they were built." Posknat adjusted himself and began, not seeing the harm in indulging the tale of his galleys to his benefactors. "Months before I petitioned the Honoured Spirits for my expedition, a human tyuntar was accepted into the order, promoted to a tyinu-khari and placed under my jurisdiction. He says that he was not Ordovin, he comes from another human kingdom, across the ocean from Ordov. A place he kept secret. Running a jurisdiction of scholars and researchers myself, I questioned the new tyinu-human, who was named Karlsen ji'Karl Vorenstat, on his knowledge. In his language, he is a 'shipwright', a designer and builder of boats to traverse oceans. He had much knowledge on how to build such boats, as well as what is required to use them. The skills and equipment and other details. He built these galleys with the assistance of some of my jurisdiction, as well as carpenters, smiths, and weavers lent from other ret-kharis." Posknat, now engaged in his explanation fully, moved his hands to imitate the flow of the hull design, "he insisted that the hull be curved, not flat like our boats, and built with a skeleton first, a skeleton like a fish, but made from wood. The hull, he said, is flexible, but strong, for bearing the high waves of the ocean. He also insisted on a large fin that runs down the underside of the galley, he called it a keel, and said that with it, outriggers would not be necessary as with our own ships, giving the galley space to move and stay reliably upright. But, there was one detail he kept from our own boats," Posknat raised one finger, "our sails. He said that most ships from his homeland had great square sails, which were effective, but could not sail in as many directions as the triangular sails that we use on the lake and the river. If we were to be exploring in places without charts, he mentioned, the flexibility would serve us well."

Great Spirit Khivas smiled widely at Posknat's explanation. It made sense that the ship's aesthetics would also be its boons, he could deduce that much despite not being an expert in boats. "Very impressive, Posknat. This Karlsen-tyinu-human, he is coming with you on this voyage?"

"Yes, I think that even if I forbade him to accompany us, he would swim after the galleys until I reconsidered." Posknat said, with hopes that the attempt at humour wound not be unwelcome. Judging by both Khivas and Winleo releasing a small chuckle, it was not misplaced. The ice was broken, it seemed. Posknat relaxed. Khivas tapped his fingers three times next to his empty cup and a servant shuffled forward without a word. "Pour us tea," Khivas ordered. The servant complied and did not spill a single drop as he filled each of their cups with brown water with specks of dark leaves. Posknat did not know that even the highest ranks enjoyed their tea.

"I suppose we should not delay the true reason of this meeting." Khivas brought his cup to his lips and took a small sip, before leaving the beverage to cool further, "Posknat, when I first read your writ to request provisions for an expedition, I read words that I had not heard from any ret-khari in my lifetime. For too long we have been afraid to venture forth. Our satisfaction with our own has bred a complacency that has taken form not apparently within our federation, but in comparison to the surrounding lands."

Posknat’s eyes squinted, unsure. "What do you mean, Harmonious One?"

Khivas obliged him with further explanation, "you perhaps know of the state of the surrounding realms? We have sourced our own private information on what kingdoms we know. The warlords to the east, on the plains, apart from occasional incursions they do not pose a threat." Khivas leaned forward, "However, there is rumour of a more powerful kingdom beyond those lands, one we know little enough about, but is unforgiving in their worship of their gods." Khivas sat up straight again, "To the south, things are relatively calm, but there is no telling when the goblin tribes will decide to organise themselves again. It was a long time since we last scattered them." Khivas held his tea cup at his eye level, inspecting the fine gloss and paintwork on its side as he spoke. "The biggest threat that we know, however, is from the humans of Ordov. We took in their refugees, when they had their... revolution, and as long as they have tried to stabilize, the Azu have proved a deterrent, but things are beginning to right themselves in that land. We cannot rely on the Azu savages to be a buffer forever, at the same time we cannot rely on our own soldiers, as we are vastly outnumbered and know little enough of the Ordov army's weaknesses."

Posknat was not one to keep up diligently with surrounding politics, but he wasn't aware of much of Khivas' information. To think that the Uraka army could be outmatched was a chilling thought.

Khivas paused to sip his tea, and Winleo continued for him. "Posknat, we are surrounded on all sides, and we cannot guarantee the safety of our homeland as it has been before. That is why we need you to fulfil a further duty with this expedition. Beyond maps and rutters and botany and whatever scholarly pursuits you take." Winleo's tone was serious again, putting a doubt in Posknat's mind as to whether the agreement to a casual atmosphere was still to hold. "There are many kingdoms in this world, Posknat, you must seek them out. Represent the Uraka Federation and open up new relationships. At the very least, upon finding these kingdoms, you must learn from them. Observe their ideas, their way of life. Note their technology, and the way they use their resources. If you can, open up the prospects of trade. If you can, find allies."

"Posknat. Along with Winleo's words, you must keep an open mind on what you expect to find." Khivas' look of pleasure from earlier in the conversation was a distant memory now, "whether there are other khari kingdoms, or whether they are all human, or if there are beings we have not encountered before, do not alienate them, or you will alienate us all. For instance, we have traded with the human kingdom of Aylsfyn, the islander people of the south, but never has a khari set foot on their land. They are different to the Ordov. If you find them, treat them as such. Winleo and I both believe that you are the one brave and ambitious enough to do this on your journey."

Pausing to consider, Posknat looked into his tea. His journey had of course been about discovery first and foremost, but now he felt an unwelcome weight of responsibility on his shoulders. He guessed that he only had himself to blame for asking the help of the honoured spirits. Still, this held a higher purpose than his original ambition, and he couldn't help but feel humbled that he would be the one chosen to carry it out. In any case, he had wanted to find Aylsfyn, now he would probably need to meet their leader as well. That could be as predictable an encounter as the weather.

"Will you do this, Posknat? For the good of the federation?" Winleo looked at him sideways.

Posknat looked up at them both, "it would be an honour."

"Good. Do not fail us, Posknat." Khivas added, "You will be our eyes and our herald to the world."

Volcano of Esphoros, Central Reinnam

A low rumbling fills the air of the volcanic peninsula that the country of Reinnam encompasses. Fires burn atop large torches that are set up all around a large volcano that is spewing out ash and sparks, with packs of people surrounding it completely. Amidst the sea of redheads stand two men: one older, one younger, with jet black hair. Everybody seems to have their eyes focused on these two. The older one is adorned with a heavy red cloak, trimmed at the top with the fur of a large fire cat. A crown made to look like spikes and made of silver is held to his long, black hair, which reaches down his back, and curtains his face in the front to reveal a pair of thin blue eyes and a crooked nose, while a pair of thin lips can barely be made out under a long beard. The wrinkles at the mans eyes show his age, as well as the fact that he is slouched against the large golden rod that he grips tightly between his two hands. Despite all that, the people in the crowd look at him as if he is a god.

Meanwhile, behind him stands a man in his early twenties. He, too, has the jet black hair, though his is much shorter, and slightly frayed off to one side. A metal rod pierces through the upper half of his left ear, accompanied by one atop his right eyebrow- a common practice among young Saphri warriors. His eyes are much wider than the older mans, but show similar traits, hinting at their relationship. The younger man, however, has a smaller, more attractive nose which sits above a mouth that always seems to be shaped into a smile. His posture, as well, shows the mans confidence and pride, not even slouched in the slightest, with arms loosely crossed in front of his chest.

These two make up the upper half of the royal family- The Shezerade, or King, and his Shezah, or prince. Unlike the other members of the royal family, it is demanded by ancient law and tradition that these two be present today, for a grand ceremony. The largest volcano on the island, belonging to the god of fire and life, Esphoros, has become active for the first time in nearly thirty years. Most people will not see it active more than once in a life time, if that, so the fact the Shezerade has now seen two is considered a great sign, and thus a celebration has been held.

All along the perimeter people can be heard shouting the names of Shezerade Pheras II, as well as Esphoros. Some are spreading the belief that the sign means Pheras II is Esphoros himself, while others simply argue that it means the Shezerade has received a blessing from the god, that will give him the lifespan of a normal man. Either way, it would not be a first. Pheras I, Pheras II's great grandfather, was said to be Esphoros incarnated, and lived to the age of sixty five- an incredibly long life for a Saphri. If the same proves to be true for Pheras II, the name would surely be made something of great honor, and no longer be given out as freely to new members of the royal family.

Behind the Shezerade, the Shezah, prince Shelas, watches the crowd with wary eyes. On top of being the Shezah, he also serves as the head of his fathers personal bodyguard, after winning great honors during the last conflict the people of Reinnam were a part of. He is thought of by most people in the country to be an extremely gifted individual, as his physical abilities outdo that of even his father at the same age, giving him the title “Godcrusher”, meaning that his strength is thought to rival that of the god of strength, Arimas.

With the prince holding the Godcrusher title, and the Serrate having witnessed two explosions of Esphoros' volcano, the people have it set in their beliefs that this will be the start of a great era for the Saphri people. Of course, they didn't simply make all of this up themselves. It was all a part of a fortune told by the Guzima, or High Priest, Melden. He lives alone with only two other monks on a mountain neighboring Esphoros' volcano, where it is said he can speak directly with the gods, making any message he delivers a message directly from the gods. It was by this method that the prince received the “Godcrusher” title, and that the prophecy about the Shezerade was born.

Just as the volcano began to rumble louder, the Guzima stepped out of the crowd, helped by two trainee monks. They all wore simple white robes marked in dark red with the symbol of the Saphri Pantheon. The Guzima himself had a white sash wrapped around his eyes as well, also embroidered with the mark of the Pantheon. He was clearly old and frail, as the trainees seemed to be lifting him without a problem. His body had already began to go through the late-life atrophy that plagues all Saphri, making some of his bones visible through his skin, giving him a near skeletal look. He was missing a few teeth, which ws visible behind his thin, cracked lips. The hair on his head had long since left him, and the only real sense he had left was his sense of hearing.

Upon reaching the front where the Shezerade and Shezah stood, the two trainees slowly lowered their master, and remained with their heads pressed to the ground for the remainder of the ceremony. With the Guzima finally at the front, the ceremony could finally begin.

With a weak and dry voice, the Guzima spoke to the crowd, as he weakly lifted his arms as high as he could, which was barely even past his stomach.

“Good people of Reinnam. This eruption is the seventeenth eruption since the gods gave this land it's name. As such, I have been given a message directly from the great Esphoros, to share with you all here today. He says that what we were told earlier is correct. That the fact our Shezerade has witnessed two eruptions in his life is a sign of great prosperity for our people.”

As the Guzima spoke, the Shezerade simply smiled and nodded, as if this was all that he had expected to hear. 'That's right, praise me more.' he thought while watching the crowd cheer up as the words.

“However.” said the Guzima. “However. It is to my great displeasure, as well as pleasure, that I can announce that Esphoros says it will not be Pheras II who will lead us into this great era. Instead, it will be the Godcrusher, our Shezah, Shelas. Esphoros has said that with his strength, pride and determination, this nation will be stronger than it has been since the first Shezerade was named by my ancestors, and created Reinnam by the will of the gods. The gods do, however, say that it is by the strength and greatness of Pheras II that this era will come about. They say that if his will is strong enough, his reign will set the guidelines for his son's greatness.”

By the end of the speech, the Guzima's voice had reduced to a hoarse whisper, so that only those in very close proximity could make out what he said at the end. Upon finishing his sentence, the Guzima sat down on his knees, and another monk immediately rushed to his side with a small wooden cup full of water. With a quick thanks, the Guzima thanked the man, who quickly slunk back into the crowd, not wanting to be noticed.

However, nobody's eyes were on the man. They were all glued to the face of the Shezerade, who looked absolutely mortified. Here, he had been expecting a prophecy about how great he would be, and how he was the incarnation of a god. Instead, they worshiped his son, and essentially told him his only importance was making sure that his son had a nice, pampered route to the future they had given him.

Red with embarrassment and anger, the Shezerade shouted out to the crowd in a way that even the blinded Guzima could see his emotions clear as day.

“Thank you all for coming to this great event, and for listening to the great prophecy, about my great son! And let us thank the great Guzima for his wise words, which he has so kindly shared with each of us. Together, we all make this land great, not just the royals and the monks. Without the dedication of you all, the plans the gods set out for us surely would never come to fruition. I eagerly await working with each and every one of you to make the great future for my son, a reality.”

With a hiss in the last word, the Shezerade gave a brisk turn, planted his rod firmly into the ground, and snapped at his guards.

“We're leaving.”

Without even a hint of acknowledgment to the Guzima, the Shezerade, Shezah and the rest of the guard quickly made their way back to the road, where a rough, yet embellished wooden carriage awaited them.

Monavdu, Aylsyn

The soft sound of gravel sighed under foot as two figure strode through the gardens of the castle of Monavdu. Surrounded by the successively rising towers of the large palace, the gardens were a central oasis of peace. Cut off from the tireless life of the city outside the palace's gates, or even the intrigue of the castle itself. Dark-skinned servants and eunuchs shuffled between the plots of towering bamboo and trimmed shrubbery. Many talking in whispers, some alone.

The plots of green were like islands in a lake of gravel. The castle walls a rising stone cliff set with dark windows that looked down into them. Arched walkways traced the edge of the gardens, providing shade and a cool place to sit. Above, fluttering by heavy chords and brass hooks driven into the mortar and shielded by the slate roof tiles of the inner cloisters flew silk sheets, softly dimming the sun and bringing to the garden below a softer, tolerable glow.

“As I was to tell you,” a guard said as he walked alongside Malius as they strolled the gardens, “While on the night patrol of the halls I encountered young lord Bern. Out in the castle at an hour well passed his expected hours.”

“I see.” Malius grumbled. He walked with his head bowed. His feet rose and feel slowly as they wound together through the gardens. His hands clasped behind his back and shoulders lowered he was a man older than his age. Feeble compared to the armored soldier that walked alongside him. “What was he doing out then? Was he hungry?”

“I don't know.” the guardsman said, “I caught him in the main hall, I suspect he was trying to sneak out the main door to leave the castle. But when I asked that he tell me what he was doing and why the prince kept tight lipped and stubborn. When I saw his face it was angry and hot. He wouldn't speak no matter how respectful I asked.”

Malius nodded. If he was angered at his son's actions it did now show on his gaunt face. “He is angry then.” he said, “He will get over it. There is not one day a child goes without being angry. Bern will get over it. He'll find that he can't stay mad for long. I will help with this, if he does not get over to himself than I shall invite him to fast as I do.”

“Are you sure this is appropriate, m'lord?” the guard asked.

“If he knows I am serious about seeking reparations for his actions at dinner last night then he will learn to accept the current standard and let go. It is for the best.” the king grumbled stiffly, “Beyond this, we will hope Lord Wen can put better conduct into the boy, and shape him to be an ideal man.”

“If I may ask, why the King of Westshjore?” asked the guard, “Is he not cursed?”

For once, Malius smiled. A wry, expectant expression, “I have looked into the matter.” he said as dryly as his expression was kind, “The stars are still with him despite his misfortune and Skullding has given me the prognoses, it is not the fault of purposeful blood or dark magic his flesh withers on his face. I know his time is short, and for the honor I have seen in him I want to give him one last chance for him to teach what he knows.

“He is a fine man of the sword, and if my son wants stories as he so richly craves then Wen will have many. More so than the northern prince. He is old, and elders demand respect.”

“Very well my lord,” the guard nodded, “you make a good case. But what of your son's health?”

“Wen sees to the health of all his guests since his affliction. There are precautions he has made to every guest.” Malius comforted, “I hear he does not dine with the castle staff. He is properly bandaged. And any engagement with him is done behind veil and curtain, or at distance. He has ceased to touch anyone, including his wife.”

“May his passing to Morhall be swift and without pain.” prayed the guard, under his helmet his face glowing visibly pale.

“May it be swift and with no burden.” added the king.

“So how shall we entreat your son?” asked the guard, “If he is to continue his disrespect to your highness?”

“Keep him to his tower. If he is seen out passed the setting of the sun and the serving of dinner escort him to his room and post a guard out front. I will meet with the captain of the guard and make the arrangements for the orders.

“I want to keep him here until we can deliver him to Wen. Do no harm to him. If he fights, let him. Tire him and make him believe his tiring dishonor is not worth the effort.”

“As you will my lord.”