[IC] Empires of Sand

[Flagg]

From Wisdom comes Power. From Power comes Right.
From the Twenty Seven Hidden Precepts, Drathan Holy Text

He stood quite still, curved sword held loosely in one hand, dark eyes watchful and alert. He was in the nave of some ancient temple to a forgotten god, half buried in the sands. Shafts of sunlight streamed through cracks in the ancient dome above him, filtering through falling trickles of dust to create strange, clutching shadows in the reddish gloom.

He tilted his head to one side, as though listening for something in this forsaken place other than the howl of the wind outside.

After a long silence, he nodded, as though satisfied.

"I come in my own name," he said, "I offer my own blood."

He ran his free hand quickly against the edge of his blade. Blood pattered from his palm onto the sand-covered floor. Outside, the wind picked up to a new pitch. Something stirred, or seemed to stir, in the darkness of the temple, just out of vision, but he did not show his fear. To do so, in this place, would be death.

Yes, yes the blood is precious. said a voice like echoing brass. It came from everywhere and nowhere, filled with unimaginable greed. This libation merits reward.

He closed his bleeding palm, wrapping it in a strip of linen.

"Now," he said, "I claim the offered reward. Reveal to me that which the augurs foretell. What doom approaches?"

[Flagg]

They came to the place where the mountains ended and the land began its long, slow descent through scrub and prairie into endless sands. Around them, the twisted trunks of cupress trees protruded between the cracks and crags of a boulder field, the aftermath of some long ago avalanche. To the west, the dark waters of the Rift Sea glittered in the crimson light of the setting sun.

"Good place as any to camp, in the lee of these rocks," said Olms, swinging down from the gnarled back of his gaan. The lizard snorted and clawed at the rocky soil, sniffing for grubs and sabulophages as Olms unhooked the bedrolls and cookware from his saddle.

The Drathan remained atop his own mount, dark eyes scanning the horizon. He tilted his head to one side, sniffing the air.

"Ghul." he said, and Olms spun on his heel, dropping the bedrolls and drawing his sword, "Masked their approach. One of them has some glamour."

The first arrow sailed by, inches from the Drathan's head, but he did not flinch, only spurred his gaan in the direction whence it had come and drew his sword. The lizard erupted into a gallop, bellowing and baring its fangs.

Olms slid a light buckler of crocodile hide onto his arm, catching an arrow and deflecting a poorly thrown spear of bone and rock.

The ghul skittered amongst the trees and boulders around him, chattering in their buzzing tongue. Olms' gaan bolted while the Drathan and his mount disappeared around a jagged boulder.

There was a sizzling pop followed by a high-pitched squeal. Olms didn't have time to speculate; the first ghul erupted from behind the clutching branches of a cupress. It was lanky, a vaguely man-shaped thing, irregular spines protruding from its arched back, noseless, practically eyeless, but with a gaping mouth full of crooked teeth. It was armed with crude hatchets of bone and flint in two of its three hands. Olms sidestepped its attack and took its head off easily. Two more emerged from the rocks and bramble,
sidling to each of Olms' flanks, while a third clambered atop a nearby boulder and took aim with a crude bow.

They moved fast. Olms moved faster- hurling his buckler at the ghul on his left while lunging to the right, dodging an arrow and skewering the other ghul with his sword. He rolled with the weight of the collapsing monster, dropping his sword and drawing one of the twin lance-lock pistols at his hips. He and the bowman fired at the same time. The bowman missed, Olms didn't, taking off the creature's head with an emerald bolt of crackling light.

The remaining ghul had recovered. Olms drew his other pistol and shot it through the chest. It crumpled into a heap of smoking ash. Moving quickly, Olms recovered his sword and replaced the lance-bolts in his pistols. Gun in one hand, blade in another, he crept toward the rock behind which his companion had disappeared.

Around the corner, the scene was ugly. The Drathan's gaan was dead- not just dead, practically exploded, entrails and hunks of scaly flesh hung from rock and tree all around the corpse. The Drathan himself was standing amid the carnage, covered in lizard gore and surrounded by the bodies of mutants. Facing him, twice the height of a man, was one of the ghul holy men, bedecked in bones and rusted steel and a mask like the skull of a horse.

The air shimmered between the Drathan and the priest, though the sun was set and the heat of the day long past. The burnt-flesh reek of magic hung thick in the air, and Olms felt the hair rise on his arm. The ghul was frantically reciting some indecipherable verse with both of its mouths- prayers perhaps to whatever demon gave him such power. The Drathan was silent and still, his eyes closed.

Olms took aim at the monstrous priest with his lance-lock, clicking back the hammer and sparing a glance at the Drathan before he fired. The ghul priest took the shot in the chest and fell to its knees but did not die, did not even pause reciting its spells or prayers, but the tenor of the strange contest had shifted. The Drathan took a serene step forward, and his opponent slid backwards, as though pushed. Greenish blood poured from one and then both of its mouths. It continued to slide backward, was finally pined as though by bonds invisible to the great boulder behind it, writhing like a bug caught between a foot and the floor, just about to be crushed.

Olms strode up to the dying monster and cut its throat with his blade, standing back as steaming blood gushed out onto rock and sand.

Silence, save for the cawing of a distant crow.

"Did a number on your gaan," said Olm's with a smirk as he cleaned his blade.

The Drathan was looking down at the corpse of the priest.

"No cave-witch, this one," he said finally, poking a strange sigil tatooed into the monster's forehead with the toe of his boot. "Came all the way from the Bloodspring."

"Sent by your kin?" asked Olms.

The Drathan sighed. "No. If Khalul and the Magisters knew of our errand, they'd have sent skinwalkers or Eaters, and we'd be dead."

"Someone has found us out."

"The coin in its pouch- Union, Qarthine, Osmuli. We'll find this someone in Farai."

[gorgenmast]

Beady eyes watched through the fronds of a potted fig, watching with eager anticipation as her prey blundered into her trap.

"Show yourself!" her quarry announced with all the authority a ten year old voice could muster. A boy dressed in a vest of yellow silk and crisp white cotton trousers scanned the garden. His eyes passed briefly over her hiding spot, and she froze so as to not call attention to herself. By luck, his eyes fell upon another potted bush, which must have seemed a better hiding spot and so he went over to investigate.

"You can't hide from me!" the boy taunted, brandishing a sword of carved wood. A shrill battle cry from behind him proved him dead wrong.

She lunged from behind the cover of the potted tree and brought her own wooden sword down to bear on the boy with a ferocity seldom seen in children. The boy spun on his sandals to face the attacker; a girl in a patched shirt and pants of roughspun linen roughly the same age as he. He swung his sword in time to block hers and the sticks met with a sharp clack. The girl was not deterred, she continued the offensive, sliding down her opponent's blade in order to 'lop off' his wrist. With practiced efficiency, the boy drew back into a chicken-winged stance, allowing the blade to rush past his arm and open her sides to his own strike. He swung, but the girl stepped back and replied with a stab at his protruding belly.

And so their dance of swords continued on, both trading strikes and blows with the other. The echoing clack of their crashing sticks rang against the walls of the courtyard. A pair of servants hefting vessels of water paused to watch the dueling children for a moment before stepping aside their battle.

But the duel ended at last when the girl struck the boy's elbow with a smarting smack. The boy let out a yelp of pain, but his cry did not yield any mercy from his opponent. The girl delivered the coup-de-grace, and drove her wooden sword underneath his armpit - the closest one could get to running an opponent through with a wooden sword. Victory belonged to Kali.

"I win!" Kali declared between labored huffs, grinning widely enough to show a gap in her teeth where a sprout of a canine was bursting through the gums. Being one year Ismal's senior, Kali won more often than not, but Ismal always managed to make it a close battle.

"Yes," Ismal admitted, sitting down and drawing in a deep breath. "You've gotten quite good." That was one of the things that Kali appreciated most about Ismal - his humility. For the Prince of Farai, young Ismal was an exceptionally good sport. It was hard to believe that he and that pampered brat Raiza were brother and sister.

After the children had taken a moment to catch their breath from their battle, Ismal took his wooden sword up in his hands and attacked Kali once again in an attempt to surprise her. Kali blocked a flurry of strikes before taking off in giggling flight. The young prince pursued, swinging his wooden sword at her heels but striking only brick and paver. The chase went through the courtyard for a time, bobbing and weaving between potted plants and the plaster pillars holding up elevated patios and mezzanines. Kali threw her sword at Ismal, laughing as he stopped to retrieve her fallen weapon. With her pursuer distracted for a moment, Kali raced up the spiraling steps of one of the palace's numerous guard towers.

Ismal soon caught up to Kali on the palace's ring of outer ramparts. She had stopped to catch her breath on the ramparts, panting deeply as she leaned against one of the wall's plaster parapets. She saw Ismal approaching out of the corner of her eye and took off again. This time it was too late - the "blade" of her own wooden sword smacked against the back of her calf. She made a show of it as she collapsed to the rampart, howling in pretend-agony as she mimed nursing a newly-dismembered stump of a leg. Ismal pressed his two swords gently into her heaving belly, making a squishing sound with his lips to imitate the sound of swords goring her.

"Now, I win."

Kali dusted herself off as she got up, and then peered between the blocky crenelations out to the sprawling city beyond. A city of plaster and carved stone radiated down and outward from the base of the rocky hill upon which this palace was built. The narrow streets between each building were rivers swollen with crowds, all of which drained into a writhing sea of humanity in a central plaza surrounding the base of a huge, gnarled tree. And beyond the city's walls, a tent city had sprung up on the sands outside of the city. Even by Farai's standards, the city was absolutely teeming today.

"Father said that this is the week of the Grand Caravansary," Ismal recalled. "The Yushmeg Caravan has returned from Quarthine or some such place and people from all across Azoth will be here to trade with them before their caravan goes to the Great Sea." Even at a young age, it was apparent that the the cyclic trade patterns to which Farai owed much of its wealth and splendor had been impressed upon the young prince. Kali looked over the throngs and gazed upon the coliseum on the far side of the city.

"Do you suppose they will host fights in the arena?" Kali asked.

"Without question." Ismal affirmed. "Father will have spared no expense in drawing as many traders into the city as possible. They always host bloodsport when this many people are in the city. Father has always said that savagery in the arena keeps it out of the streets."

"I have always wanted to see a battle in the coliseum," said Kali.

"As have I. I have asked Father to let me go with him to see the fights, but he always forbids me. He says that it is too dangerous for me to be out on the streets with this many people in the city, and that I am too young to see the fights in any case."

"Why not just go to the arena anyway?"

"Kali, you know as well as I do that the guards know not to let us out of the palace, especially when we are together."

"I know a way out of the palace that the guards do not know about," Kali said with devilish grin. "Follow me."

Kali proceeded to lead Ismal down a guard tower, through the courtyard, the date garden, up another sentry tower, and across the far ramparts to a segment of the palace walls that were built alongside a rocky promontory. This was the far side of the palace, removed from most windows and guard towers. The terrain below this segment of the wall was so rocky and treacherous that few guards bothered to keep vigil over this area. It seemed they also failed to conduct routine maintenance here, because a patch of twisting vine had been allowed to crawl all the way up the palace walls from the rocky ground below and wrap itself around a crenelation. A handful of fist-sized, purple-orange fruit growing off of the thick vines suggested that a careless guard had spat out a mouthful of kwavi seeds over the wall.

"This is our way out," Kali declared as she tore an accessible kwavi off the vine. She bit into the leathery rind and slurped up the fruit's creamy, seed-riddled pulp.

Ismal seized a length of the knotty vine and tugged deftly against it. Leaves rustled and overly ripe fruit fell from the stem to their doom on the rocks below, but the vine held fast against his weight. With a length of vine in each hand, he stepped between the crenelations and over the edge of the precipice. He stepped down gingerly against the wall, rappelling slowly to the ground. He made the mistake of looking down and found himself seized by acrophobia as he saw torn-off leaves pirouette gently to the rocks below.

"You are doing excellent," Kali reassured through a mouthful of seeds. "Just don't look down."

Ismal did as he was told, and reverted his gaze to Kali's face peering down from between two crenelations. Step by step, Ismal continued his descent. Kali's face shrunk against the azure sky above until he felt his heel brush against the rocky soil below. Ismal let go and allowed gravity to finish the last foot or so of his descent, falling with a rustle into the sprawling vase of the kwavi vine.

Up above him, Kali had already started her descent. She stepped down against the wall and allowed the vine to slide through her hands, never once laying eyes on the ground below. A few feet off the ground, she released her grip and met Ismal on the ground.

"You did excellent," Kali congratulated.

"It was a little scary," Ismal confessed, "but fun also."

Kali scanned their surroundings and pointed to a goat path leading down the promontory to an alleyway between a pair of daub plaster buildings. "This will take us into the city. Let us make our way to the coliseum now, I do not wish to miss a single fight."

[gorgenmast]

"Make way!" The guard commanded, gesturing for the shifting throngs to part. "Make way for his majesty Nerej, King of Farai, Progeny of the Lineage of Chakul!"

Like the dunes melting away in the face of the erg squalls, the late-morning bazaar-goers emptied the center of the narrow thoroughfare and pressed in toward the streetside storefronts. As the crowds drew back, a great palanquin of polished gumwood passed on the arms of eight swarthy-skinned servants. The palanquin's carpeted platform held aloft two thrones carved from the same siena-colored wood. In the right throne sat a man who appeared to be some thirty years in age. His skin was bronze, but perfectly free of blemish, calluses, and scars. His arms and face shone with a dull sheen like polished wood, indicating frequent washing and bathing. He wore a robe of orange silk that reached down to sandal-wrapped ankles; a golden shawl with jingling tassels draped his shoulders. Upon a head of black hair combed full of glistening grease, a jewel-encrusted sarband indicated his place as King Nerej - the master of Farai. He gave a polite smile to his onlookers as his palanquin moved down the street.

Seated beside the King was a girl who looked to be half his age. A think coating of facial masking and excessive eyeshadow made her appear four or five years older than her true age. Her gown was immaculate - a robe of white silk tightened to accentuate her femenine form. Silken braids of her father's jet black hair coiled down into the collar of peacock feathers that formed a prismatic facade behind her face. She sneered in contempt as an unpleasant smell entered her nostrils.

"Father," the princess groaned, "these people have a most wretched scent.

King Nerej nodded in accord. "They do. But you must remember, Raiza, that not everyone is as privileged as we. Most of these folk do not have the luxury of bathing or perfumes. Water is scarce for them and many have likely never bathed in their entire lives."

"What a disgusting thought." Raiza complained as she looked with contempt upon a passing commoner whose roughspun shirt was caked in dust and stains.

"You will mask your disdain, Raiza," the King commanded through a polite smile to the bystanders. "These are our people. Though we be their rulers, always remember that we are nothing without them." Raiza's contemptuous glare withered into a bored and vacant gaze as she slouched in her throne.

The narrow alleys meandering down the hilltop emptied into a clearing amidst Farai's boxy plaster edifices. Here, an open plaza three acres in size played host to a forest of stalls, awnings, booths, and shops. This was the Bazaar of Farai, the most active and diverse marketplace between Qarthine and the Great Sea. Booths were crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in a tight maze of bustling commerce. Within their designated spaces, each merchant crammed as much of their wares into their display as could possibly be managed. Riding the palanquin through the bazaar was to immersed in complete sensory overload. The diversity of all that was for sale here was indescribable. One glance to her surroundings afforded Raiza a glimpse of a stall selling all manner of dried medicinal mushrooms and lichens; a blink later and she found herself watching her reflection undulate through the reflection of an armorer's curaisses. A single sniffle filled her nostrils with a spicy-sweet melange of kamfiri spice, quiverwood sap, incense, tadjool and a dozen other scents she couldn't place. And there was sound of a thousand vendors hawking and haggling and negotiating, with a roar of buyers giving counteroffers.

It would take someone a good month to simply see all that there was to see in the bazaar, and by the time that month had passed there would be a whole new cycle of merchants and vendors. Ismal and his companion Kali would probably do just that if given the opportunity - which was one of many reasons the two were forbidden from leaving the palace without watchful guards serving as chaperons. To Raiza, these noisy, bothersome traders were just one of the nuisances a princess had to tolerate.

It took the palanquin team a half hour to negotiate the twisting aisles between the stalls. And that was good timing, for the majority of the shopgoers were not at the markets. It did not take long to see where the crowds were gathering, for as the palanquin approached the far side of the city the towering aspect of Farai's coliseum radiated with the roar of throng numbering in the tens of thousands. As the curved facades of the arena began to rise above the houses and tenements of the city, the streets clogged with humanity once again. The scent of body odor wafted about Raiza and she groaned.

"I detest the arena," the princess protested. "It's boring and it's hot. May I please go home?"

"No." Nerej sighed, his patience visibly wearing thin. "We are not going for the sake of diversion. I have guests to entertain, and I expect you to exhibit your best behavior for our visitors."

Raiza rolled her eyes. Guests were always the worst. Her father was always entertaining some foreign dignitary, which meant sitting around and doing nothing while father and some windbag from Qarthine or the Great Sea states talked about politics, trade matters, or any number of boring subjects for hours and hours. And worst of all, Ismal was left at the palace to do whatever he pleased.

"Why do I always come to go see visitors? Ismal never has to go. Why can't he go with instead? He's the one that's been asking you to see arena fights."

"Ismal is too young to see bloodsport, and you know full well that Ismal does not possess anywhere near the sort of maturity to be trusted in the presence of a guest." Raiza agreed to that, if begrudgingly. "Besides," her father added, " there is someone there that I would like you specifically to meet."

The palanquin's guard attache went ahead of the litter to forcibly move the throngs out of the way; asking the people to disperse was no longer effective this close to the arena. After much 'persuasion' by the guards, the palanquin was allowed a path through the teeming crowds to the steps of the coliseum. Guards dispersed the arena-goers from the stair up to the arena's iron drawgate, allowing the palanquin team to heft King Nerej and Raiza up to a raised mezzanine surrounding the gate. A cadre of guard-flanked officials awaited the royal pair at the gate; at their feet, the palanquin team came to a halt. Two of the eight carriers left their posts to place stepping stools at either side of the litter while holding the hand of each rider as they descended off the platform onto solid ground.

"I dismiss you," the King told the palanquin carriers, finally relieving the servants of hefting the heavy thing about. They did as they were told, easing the palanquin to the ground. With that, he turned to the party awaiting him.

"My liege," a black-skinned man sporting a silken turban slapped a fist against his lamellar chestpiece in salute to his king before bowing stiffly. "Our esteemed guests have all arrived safely and have expressed their stay thus far to be satisfactory. I shall permit them to address you now." The guard captain expressed in the thick dialect and rigid speaking manner of the Ebon Lands.

"Thank you, Rhuk."

Four figures stepped forward from the guards, clad in vestments that while extremely exotic, where undoubtedly of exquisite quality. They wore robes of an unworldly fabric that seemed to shimmer like the surface of glassy water. The fabric caught the light and shimmered in the same way that insect wings did. The smooth perfection of their garments made the fine silk of Nerej's and Raiza's robes look like jute in comparison. Wide epaulets on the shoulder of the supposed leader of the delegation swaggered back and forth as he made his way to King Nerej. As he approached, his great stature was apparent. A healthy and plentiful diet had allowed King Nerej to grow head and shoulder above most inhabitants of the Western Erg, but this foreigner managed to dwarf even him. His show of deferral to King Nerej was a brief bow of his head.

"Master Joshaad, it is my honor to welcome you and your delegation to fair Farai."

"Delegation?" The Master repeated. "No, these are my wives," he corrected with a humored smirk as his women came to his side.

Dratha, Raiza realized. Raiza had overheard her father and Rhuk discuss the Dratha in hushed discussions after dinner more than once. Raiza rarely paid any mind to her father's geopolitical discussions, but the Dratha had managed to pique even Raiza's interest. Dratha Masters, like this Joshaad, amounted to something like a noble. The Dratha possessed an affinity for conjuring magic and rituals in a way that other people could not - be they commoner or royal. As such, the Dratha masters were often capable sorcerers as well. Even a child could understand that one such a this Joshaad was a powerful friend... and a frightful enemy.

"My apologies, Master Joshaad," replied King Nerej. "In any case, I wish you and yours a most enjoyable sojourn in my city. Farai has always been a friend of the Dratha Union, and will see to it that our friendship is made manifest during your stay. Allow me to attend to your every want."

"Of course," the master said thoughtlessly as he turned his attention to the girl standing beside Nerej. "Princess Raiza?" Raiza nearly jumped when the Drathan master addressed her. Joshaad held back a chuckle.

"Yes?!" Raiza blurted.

"Fret not, little girl." Raiza had never been called 'little girl' in her entire life. If she were not so anxious, she might have taken offense. "I only wish to introduce you to someone." The master turned and beckoned toward the cluster of Faraian guards remaining behind him. Another Drathan approached from amongst them: a boy who appeared to be about fifteen years of age.

Raiza had many servant girls who befriended her, but she rarely had any interaction with boys her age. The boys she did interact were unkempt servants' children and her dreadful imp of brother. They were all obnoxious and revolting without exception, but this Drathan was something totally alien to her. He possessed a jawline which was remarkably strong, with sharp, studious eyes that locked with hers as he approached with the same confident stride as Master Joshaad. He was, without doubt, the most handsome person Raiza had ever seen in her life.

"Princess Raiza," the Dratha boy addressed her with the same bow of the head. "I am Qarsul, son of Joshaad. It is an honor to meet you." Without hesitation, he took her right hand and planted a gentle kiss upon it. Underneath a thick layer of makeup, Raiza's face turned the color of a ripe pomegranate on the bazaar's tree.

"And an honor to meet you as well," Raiza replied.

"All parties have been addressed now," Rhuk spoke up again, punctuating the greetings. "I have been informed by the pitmasters that the combatants are ready to begin. Let us make our way to our seats."

"I have no intention of keeping them or the crowds waiting on our part." King Nerej agreed. "Guards, escort us to the guest mezzanine."

And with that, the Faraian and Drathan nobles followed the guards through to the arena vestibule and up to the choicest seats from which to watch the impending carnage.

[Milkman]

The Grand Forum – Feral – Democratic League

Feral, the biggest city of the Democratic League. A chaotic place that is packed with people from different races and creeds. A city that never sleeps under the endless desert sun. Build on the shores of the Great Sea it has always been a place of commerce and business. Once known as the pearl of Blackwater Bay, the Feral of today had lost it glance many years ago. The city had overflown with migrants from all across Azoth that have been drawn to what is known as The Fountain of Eden. An artefact that produces clean water. Crowded, filthy and dark. A city seemingly endless impoverished residential areas that stretched well beyond the city walls. What once was the greatest blessing any civilization could receive, turned out a recipe for disaster.

For the 4th time this month the confederate council would meet. The topic was the same as the last 3 times, the dwindling water supplies within the Democratic League. A challenge that all knew was a catastrophe in the making, born out of a simple truth. There are more people than the Fountain of Eden can support. A simple fact that Consul Raraaziz Anwar, highest leader of the Democratic League knew all too well. Just as the previous 3 meetings, Raraaziz would try to convince the individual city-states to reconsider how the water was being shared between the 8 great city-states.

Raraaziz Anwar looked around the great hall. It was unusually busy as many representatives of the city-states had taken seat at the public tribunes in order to watch the ongoing discussion. In the centre of the great hall where the seats of the council members positioned in a circle formation. The Consul rose from his seat and stepped into the circle. He raised his voice and started to speak. “Greetings, council members, and greetings, senators of the 8 member states. Today we have gathered to address the challenge that is facing our great nation. A challenge so severe that it threatens the existence of our people, our unity and our independence. This challenge is one that we must face united. Only in unity we can prevail!”

Achmed Dhar’qa, prime minister and council member from Fennecia stood up from his seat and looked angerly towards the council. “Your unity means that my city, my people must suffer from the mistakes the Senators of Feral and other city-states made. It was Fennecia that has opposed sharing our water with the rest of the world from day one. It was Fennecia that warned that allowing all these humans on our lands would eventually lead to disaster. There is only one solution for your problem, kick the useless non-citizen humans out of our cities! The senate and people of Fennecia oppose any change to the League’s constitution that will result in less water for our city!”

A loud cheer went through the hall as many of the on watching senators supported the viewpoint of Fennecia. No Guran-Kha wanted to suffer for lowly non-citizens. No politician could sell reduction in water rations to his voters. Consul Anwar knew the situation all too well, yet there was no other option then to change the distribution of water to a system based upon population, rather than giving every state 1/8th of the water supply. The consul once again took the word.

“I understand the concerns of Fennecia, I understand the concerns of Feral. In fact, I understand the concerns of every state, every government and every single individual within the League. From the Guran-Kha, to the non-citizins in the slum. We all want to survive at all cost. The moment we sacrifice others for our own individual survival is the moment we, The Democratic League as state collapse and lose. We must avoid sliding down the path of internal chaos. The moment we lose our unity all of our cities will be easy pickings for Azar!”

Consul Raraaziz hoped that his passionate speech would at least convince some to rethink the water distribution but at the same time he knew that it was unlikely. Not to mention that it was not a definitive solution to the problem. At best it would buy some time to find additional sources of water. Deep within he hoped that the project master Cortez was undertaking, would result in an end of the water crisis. But logic dictates that the most likely outcome would be failure.

Farai
The city-state of Farai is an unique place. Its size dwarfs compared to the cities of the Democratic League but at the same time the city seems to be at the centre of the known world. The city is a major trading hub in the desert and attracts traders and travellers of many different creeds. In such a place, a group of 4 strange, weary travellers would not attract much attention. Especially not during the days that the Yushmeg caravan was in town. The Yushmeg caravan was the sole reason that Cortez and his companions undertook.

Cortez is a middle-aged human of rather unimposing statue. His black curly hair was mostly unattended and his clothing not washed since he departed from Dhoran. His simple linen trousers and shirt had worn out during the journey that those who didn’t know better would think that he was some vagabond. Cortez however is a Master Archeo-Technologist who’s ambitions and idea’s where sometimes even too outlandish for the liberal and free thinking Guran-Kha. He had been studying the fountain of Eden for many years, methodically documenting its processes, working and parts. It was Cortez ambition to build a second Fountain.

The master Archeo-Technologist methodically navigated through the Pomegranate Bazaar with his 3 companions in tow. One of the traders in town had given him a tip about a merchant who is specialized in rather unique items. As he made his way through the crowded place, Cortez suddenly approached a rather scruffy looking fellow who was standing rather bored in front of a tent. “Good day sir. I am looking for a merchant that goes by the name Araki. Words have reached me that he deals unique antiquities.”

The scruffy looking man looked at the group. A human who looked like a beggar, two armed Guran-Kha wearing military uniforms of the Democratic League and a figure who’s entire body was covered in clean white robes with only a narrow strip showing her eyes. “hmpf” grunted the man. “If you sorry lot got good coin follow me. Otherwise get the hell out of my sight”

The group followed the man inside the tent. On the opposite site of the entrance sat another man in an elaborate chair. His expensive, colourful silk clothing was an indication of the wealth of this man. The scruffy looking man approached him and whispered something into his ear before posting himself with his arms crossed next to the chair. The elaborately dressed man rose from his chair and made a short bow. “I am Araki, the greatest Archeo-Tech merchant of Azoth. If you got the coin, I deliver what you want. However the price ain’t cheap. Now tell me what you’re looking for so that we can do business” Spoke the man with great enthusiasm.

Cortez smiled and bowed. “My name is Cortez of Dhoran. It is a honor to meet you sir Araki. I am looking for a lot of different Archeo-Tech objects and I hope such a referred merchant as yourself can help me find what I am looking for” The Archeo-Technologist reached into a bag that was hanging from his shoulder and grabbed a scroll. The scroll contained detailed drawings and descriptions of various objects and parts. For Cortez, it was just one of his many shopping lists.

Captain Sadrach Eghani of the 34th ranger company had been tasked with being the Bodyguard of master Cortez. He watched closely how both men search through crates and where piling up items on a table. With a mixture of curiosity and concern he followed the scene. He did not trust this Araki guy nor his scruffy looking companion. They both did not looked like they knew how to handle themselves in the wilderness so the captain doubted that they had dug up those pieces of Archeo-tech themselves. The truth was that the origins of what master Cortez was buying were of little concern. Sadrach’s mission was to bring Cortez and what he bought home safely. A mission that did not look too difficult until a heated argument between Master Cortez and the merchant broke out.

Araki looked annoyed when he heard Cortez offer a price that was way too low for his liking. “No I will not accept a price of 15.000. What do you think that I am? A fool? These pieces combined are worth at least double that amount. I can do 38.000 but won’t go any lower!”
Cortez looked across his shoulder a little worried. He had a problem of the financial kind. His budget was 30k at max and he wanted to look around for more items. For a moment he hoped that any of his companions would have a secret money stash but he was no fool. They did not travel with such amounts of money. “Can you do 30.000?”

“No, 30.000 is not enough. I can make you a final offer of 35.000 League Florins but lower I will not go.” Answered Araki.
Master Cortez now looked even more concerned. “I really cannot go beyond 30.000. it is all the money I have”

The merchant grunted and looked at the items and then looked at the group. “Are those bodyguards of yours anything good? The arena hasn’t seen any Guran-Kha blood spilled in years. If I can make them fight for me a couple of battles that would overcome the difference. Unless they die ofcourse. Like the last of their kind that entered the arena” smirked Araki. Even before Sadrach Eghani or his comrade could protest Cortez called “Deal. They will both fight a game and you will get the earnings”.

[gorgenmast]

Amongst a crowd numbering in the thousands, two unaccompanied children were hardly noticed amidst the furor and excitement of the gathered throng. The arena was filled beyond capacity and the spectators crowded around the entrances, wriggling past one another in an attempt to get through to the stands. For most of these latecomers, there would be no room in the arena; they would be resigned to watching the spectacles from the ramparts of the city's walls. But Ismal and Kali were small, nimble, and determined. With hands interlocked, the two wove their way between a forest of legs and slid through even the narrowest gaps between spectators. As they pressed through into the arena, they left a wake of curses and disgruntled arena-goers. But with this many people there was no room for courtesy; manners were for those who didn't get to see the fights.

Ismal and Kali made their way through the drawgate and entered onto the first tier of the arena. Hundreds of feet above, curtains drawn with pulleys and rope shaded the spectators from the merciless desert sun while leaving open an aperture above the arena floor. The result was much like a giant dome, and the sound inside this place was cacophonous. A thousand souls chattering and whooping made it difficult to hear anything. Kali simply pointed up above them to the highest levels of the stands, suggesting that they try to find a place to sit there. Ismal nodded in tacit accord and followed her up the teeming stairs.

This arena had been built a hundred years ago to seat some two thousand spectators - the people gathered within this space today easily doubled that figure. The stands - simple benches of sandstone - were filled without exception. Personal space subordinated to maximizing capacity, and viewers were seated shoulder to shoulder. At the lower levels, people had even begun sitting on the steps. There was nowhere at all to squeeze in, even for two children, and so the pair ascended higher up the steps.

Some twenty rows up, Ismal stopped at the first bench row where there seemed to be room to scooch in on the end. An ancient-looking man sat at the end, with a knappy, gray beard that ran down into a messy heap upon his lap. His face was leathery and wizened, and failed to look up from the arena floor as the children approached him.

"Excuse me," Ismal began with all the courtesy he could muster. "Would you be so kind as to scooch in, that we might sit here?"

The sun-withered man did not move, but grumbled something in an unrecognizable language that Ismal and Kali understood as 'No'. With that, Ismal and Kali plopped down on the steps beside him.

Perhaps two hundred feet below them on the arena floor itself, the show had already begun. A troupe of acrobats flitted about the arena, walking about on their hands, cartwheeling, and performing jumping flips for the amusement of the crowds. In spite of their bright, gaudy costumes and the silken streamers that trailed behind them, the crowds did not seem particularly interested. This was merely the pre-fight show, designed to buy the fighters in the pits beneath the arena time to prepare while distracting the spectators from the fact that they were packed in shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers they didn't care to be seated with. The performers below sensed the boredom of the crowds, and decided to change the course of the show.

The acrobats danced away from the edge of the floor, while two dwarfs marched out to the center. Armed with wooden swords painted in bright, gaudy colors, they circled about one another as they prepared to do battle. A cheer of amusement rose up from the crowd as the half-men met and gently tapped their false swords together - as was customary between combatants before a fight. The dwarfs took a defensive pose with their swords, ready to engage in a battle to the death.

Then, at the moment the crowd seemed to be watching most intently - one flung his wooden sword at the other. The green and red-striped sword tumbled through the air and struck the enemy in his bulbous forehead. His opponent doubled back, dropping his own weapon to massage his forehead. The spectators broke out into uproarious laughter as the attacking half-man then charged across the sand and tackled his distracted foe. The laughter mixed with cheering as the two dwarves beat one another in a sloppy brawl upon the sand. Ismal and Kali giggled as they watched one of the dwarves reach for one of the fallen swords, and then whack the other across the head. The attacker recoiled and fell onto the sand. The defender regained his footing and pressed his 'blade' against the neck of his defeated foe - ready to dispatch him. He then looked up to the spectators, allowing them to decide the fate of his defeated opponent.

The decision was unanimous. A bawdy cheer rose up from the masses, which soon developed into a chant:

LET HIM LIVE!
LET HIM LIVE!
LET HIM LIVE!

The victor gave a nod of agreement, 'sheathed' his sword against his belt, and offered a stubby arm to help his companion up onto his own feet. The two dwarves gave a bow as the crowds cheered jokingly yet again before retreating to the edge and allowing the acrobats to continue.

The bellowing blast of a horn fanfare soon brought the frolicking of the acrobats to an abrupt halt. The chattering of the crowds died down as all eyes descended on the mezzanine devoted to royal spectators and dignitaries. Under a silk awning bearing the red date palm frond of Farai, Ismal watched as Rhuk and a cadre of guards and servants escorted his father and sister to their thrones at the very fore of the arena.

"Stupid Raiza," Ismal grumbled, "she hates going to these fights and yet she gets the best seat in the entire arena."

Kali paid King Nerej and Raiza little mind, but instead watched the entourage following behind them.

"Your father's guests," Kali noted. "Are those... Drathans?"

"CITIZENS AND VISITORS ALIKE," A booming voice emanated from the arena floor, stealing the attention away from the King. The acrobats, jesters, and other performers had left the arena, leaving but a single herald standing within the sunlight radiating through the gap in the curtains above. The sand upon which the announcer stood, though disturbed by the footprints of the performers, remained clean. Ismal knew that by sunset they would be soaked in blood and littered with the corpses of a thousand combatants.

"ON THE BEHALF OF HIS MAJESTY KING NEREJ, PROGENY OF CHAKUL, NOBLE SOVEREIGN AND HOST OF THESE GAMES, I BID YOU WELCOME TO THE COLISEUM OF FARAI!"

"What an impressive voice," declared Ismal. Even from this height, the herald's words were clear enough to be understood.

"It must be some manner of sorcery," Kali guessed. "No mortal voice can carry that far."

"A MANY OF YOU HAVE COME FROM HALF A WORLD AWAY TO SEE THE SPECTACLES THAT HAVE BEEN PREPARED FOR THIS DAY! YOU HAVE ENDURED MUCH TO BE HERE, AND I SHALL DELAY YOU NO LONGER; ON BEHALF OF OUR GRACIOUS KING NEREJ, LET THESE GAMES BEGIN!" The herald's speech was punctuated by a second fanfare of trumpets carved from samak horn. The masses erupted into of cheering and general excitement as a drawgate on the far side of the arena rattled open.

From the darkness of the tunnel, a din of chittering nonsense could be heard as the dark, twisted forms of a score of ghul burst from the darkness onto the sand. The arena hummed with the sound of a thousand boos as the monsters hissed and sneered. They sported a crude assortment of arms: spears of hewn flint and bone, swords fashioned from gaan teeth lashed with sinew to wooden clubs, maces of rusted iron. They snarled and yipped at the spectators above them - even the closest of which were seated in safety some twelve feet above the pit of the arena.

The drawgate underneath the royal mezzanine rattled open now - redirecting the attention of the ghul as well as the crowds. From within the darkness of that tunnel, agitated whinnies rang out. Three riders on Dulari Swiftbreds charged out upon the arena floor. Seated bareback upon the thin horses were men clad in lamellar hide, their faces obscured by headwraps made crusty by years of evaporated sweat. Each carried a dozen javelins in a long quiver upon his back. And though the crowd erupted into applause and resumed cheering as they rode onto the arena, their gray almond-shaped eyes remained fixed upon the enemy before them.

"Ashen Riders!" Ismal shouted in excitement as he recognized the riders. As a fanatic of all things swords, bow, and spear, Ismal was well acquainted with the lore of the Nerezïm. Theirs was a tribe of horse people from the Ashlands that resisted - and ultimately succumbed to - the Drathan invasion of their ancestral homelands on the Sour Sea. The free Nerezïm subsequently scattered across the lands, lending their skills on horseback to lords looking to bolster their cavalry. As such, the Ashen Riders earned reknown as the finest light cavalry in all of Azoth.

"I wonder how those Drathans feel about seeing them fight," Kali mused.

The three Ashen Riders spurred their steeds on, kicking up a cloud of dust as the charged for the advancing ghul. The monsters before them hobbled ahead in a disorganized rabble, brandishing swords and threatening to skewer the horses on their speartips. The riders charged and veered away at the last moment, skirting around gaggle of snarling ghul while drawing a javelin from their quivers. They held the spears aloft midpoint along the shaft, waiting until all four of the horses' legs were in the air before loosing the javelins on their foes. The spearpoints of the javelin fell with practiced precision on the necks and groins of the ghul, where their armor was weakest. The spears hit with a meaty thwock as the ghul crumpled onto the sand. Applause rang out from the stands with each dead ghul. It was a massacre for the beasts.

Without warning, both the drawgates opened yet again. From each tunnel, more ghul swarmed out into the arena. From both sides, the chattering savages hobbled to the center of the arena where the three Nerezïm circled about and rallied. Their horses whinnied and snorted at the sight of the sniveling monsters coming to encircle them, but the riders held fast. They let loose the last of their javelins at the approaching ghul, sending another dozen of the creatures collapsing to the sand in bleeding heaps. With their spears exhausted, the Ashen Riders drew their swords and charged headlong into the enemy. The charge left a wake of broken and crushed ghul, but the riders soon lost their momentum. Bone-tipped spears plunged into the rippling muscles of the horses, sending their riders tumbling into the sand. Even when dismounted, the Nerezïm hacked away at the swarming ghul. But they too were overwhelmed. Spears pierced through their cuirasses and tooth-swords hacked into flesh. The proud Nerezïm fought and resisted to the last breath, until hacked apart by a hateful swarm of ghul. Ismal and Kali could only watch in horror as the ghul reduced these great warriors to mangled heaps of gore. The masses voiced their displeasure in an eruption of furious booing.

But on the royal mezzanine, Master Joshaad wore the arena's solitary grin from ear to ear as the perennial enemies of his kind were butchered before his eyes.

[Milkman]

Farai – The Area

Cortez made his way to the crowd looking for a good spot to watch the upcoming spectacle. The area was crowded, filled way beyond what was considered the maximum capacity. He had put his bodyguards as fighters in the ring and did not want to miss a second of the action. Not to mention that we was dying of curiosity due to the fact that such games are prohibited back in the Democratic League. There gladiatorial fights are deemed barbaric. As the Archeo-Technologist pushed on towards what he thought was to be a good spot the crowd suddenly cheered in excitement as the Ashen riders entered the battlegrounds. “We must hurry” shouted Cortez towards his companion dressed in pure white silk. “We’re going to miss the first fight”. Luckily Cortez soon found a good spot on one of the stairways.

Master Cortez could not keep his eyes of the fight. Closely he followed every javelin the Ashen Riders threw into what seemed to be an endless stream of Ghuls. Horrified he watched how the Ashen Riders where finally overcome by the sheer force of numbers and ripped through sheds. The brutality of the scene was not nearly as horrifying as the realisation that the fight was setup in a way that the Ashen Riders would lose. They never had a chance of survival to begin with. Cortez started to worry about what he had put his men into. He turned towards his companion and spoke softly. “Lady Gwenevir, do you know why this fight was never meant to be won by the Ashen Riders?”

The lady covered in white looked towards the royal mezzanine and spoke gently. “Politics. It seems that his majesty king Nerej wants to make an impression on his guests. I can only assume that the guests are high ranking Dratha as it is the Dratha who hates the Ashen people the most. The arena is not a place of fair competition, it is a political instrument meant to influence the mood of the subjects and guests of a king.”
Deep inside the catacombs of the arena was the area where the fighters would prepare themselves for their moment of fame. Rows of cages containing dangerous wild animals and Ghuls where stuck against one side of the catacombs while at the other side the equipment for the gladiators was stored. The smell of death, feces and sweat filled this dark and vile place as captain Eghani waited patiently for his turn to enter the arena. He checked if all the straps of his leather cuirass where attached properly and dropped his sand coloured cloak. Even beneath the arena floor, the roars of the crowd where well heard. The loud boohs indicated that the first fight didn’t end well for the crowds favourite.
A man approached the captain and spoke loudly. “It’s your turn. Follow me to the draw gate and don’t die too quickly. The crowd expect some nice action”

Sadrach followed the man in patience towards the tunnel. The sunlight from outside blinded the Guran-Kha for a moment as he approached the gate. As his eyes were starting to accustom to the light he watched how workers dragged away the last corpses. Some were Ghul, others might have been humans at some point. It was clear that the Ghuls won. As the works dragged the last corps inside the horn Fanfare blasted around the arena. The horns quickly died as the herald started to speak.

“Citizens and visitors alike. The first match is over but we have plenty of more instore for your entertainment. The next fight involves a crowd favourite who’s name alone makes other combatants tremble in fear. In honour of king Nerej, noble Souvereign and hosts of these games, Urek the Destroyer will once more show his strength in the area”

The crowd cheered in excitement as the first iron draw gate opened. A truly massive Oqer dressed in heavy metal armor entered arena floor. He raised his large two-handed axe into the air let a might roar slip from his lungs. Stirring up the crowds to even greater heights. The herald quickly silenced the crowd with a hand gesture and continued to speak. “His challenger, hails from the Democratic League. A noble Guran-Kha warrior who has embraced the fighting spirits of his ancestor Feron. The noble Eghani!”

The drawgate opened and Sadrach Eghani entered the battlegrounds for the first time. For a moment he was overwhelmed by the size and noise of the place as thousands of spectators cheered or booed at the top of their lungs. The captain quickly regained his composure and walked towards the center of the arena. He scanned his opponent closely. The Oqer was nearly twice his size and at least twice his weight. With such strength one hit from that heavy axe would cut Sadrach in half. A dangerous fighter but not invincible. Oqers are naturaly slow and clumsy. The heavy armor and axe would slow Urek down even more. Not to mention that ways of attacking with a two handed axe where limited.

Sadrach unseated his sword as the horns signalled the the start of the fight. Both fighters started to close in, grasping their weapons and readying themselves for engagement. The Oqer raised his axe above his head in order to perform a massive swing. But before he could start his swing, Urek felled a blade cut through the flesh in his right armpit. The moment the Oqer started to raise his axe, was the moment he presented an opportunity to his opponent. Sadrach had lunged forward only a split second later and cut the through the flesh, muscles, arteries and tendons of the Oqer’s right arm. Urek stepped forward and brought down his axe. To late he realized that Sadrach had already slipped behind him. The captain wasted not a single moment and placed a well-placed cut in the popliteal of the Oqer’s right leg.

The area went silent as Urek fell down to his knees. For a brief moment it felt like the thousands of people held their breath, wondering how it was possible that a big Oqer could be bested by a small Guran-Kha. Then loud cheers filled their air as the arena exploded. Soon the crowd started to chant “Death, death, death!” at the top of their lungs. Sadrach looked at the royal mezzanine and waited for the king of Farai to give the sign for the final blow.