AdorableSaucer

New Man's Tomorrow(Solar NRP)

@MonkeyBusiness Welcome to the neighbourhood!

- Sincerely, the Port Europa.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

A King’s Duty 4 - To Keep One’s Allies Close

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Termurick sat blushing on his mattress, hands rubbing sweatily against each other in his lap. Across the room from him sat the druid Laurel with a bowl of liquid. The young king swallowed as the druid dipped her finger into the liquid and put it in her mouth, dragging her tongue around her mouth to taste it thoroughly. The druid hummed and put the bowl back down, fixing an earnest, professional gaze on the king.

“As suspected, your body has an imbalance of elements - too much sun and stone, from what I can gather. I will discuss changes in your diet with the rachfi to see if we can restore the equilibrium. From what I sampled, though, it seems that your scent and flesh are in balance, though, so we will take that into account, too. Expect a lot of chlach.”

Termurick grimaced. “... Is there no other way?”

Laurel scraped some characters into a length of thick bark. “If you are to regain your health, you need to replenish your moon and water elements. If you absolutely don’t want to eat chlach, I suppose we could--”

“No, it’s… It’s fine,” the prince muttered. Laurel clicked in acknowledgement and rose up, walking over to the doorway to empty the rest of the bowl into the dry grass outside before stepping back inside to sit back down.

“There is also… Another matter that we should discuss, my king.”

Termurick laid back down on his mattress and the druid placed a wet cloth on his forehead. “Do all druids drink pee to check the king’s health?”

Laurel sighed. “It is a completely necessary part of diagnosis, great son of the moon. Now, I was about to say…”

“Do you have to do other gross stuff?”

Another sigh. “Sampling bodily excretions to gauge the health of the aristocracy is an essential duty of the sages, my king. Now if you’d--”

“Do you eat poo, too?”

Laurel scoffed uncomfortably. “No, we-... If needed, we will sample the smell. It is not a joyous experience, but again, it’s necessary.” She reached out and squeezed his hand sternly. “Now… Anymore questions?”

Turmerick made a sad “prrt” and waved. “No… Sorry, it was just… I was curious. Now, what did you wish to talk about?”

“It’s fine, great son of the moon. It’s… Natural to be curious as to what your subjects do, exactly. Now, as for what I was going to say…” She shuffled a little closer and placed her hand on his forehead. “I was going to talk to you about this ten years from now, but with your father’s passing, I need to discuss this with you, as your court sage.”

Turmerick blinked and recoiled up against the cool wall. “Laurel, you are being awfully serious.”

“I am,” she confirmed and clicked. “Now, have you caught yourself wetting the bed lately?”

Turmerick shrunk. “... N-no…”

Laurel hummed and smacked together pursed lips. “Are you certain?”

While he was not comfortable thinking about it, Turmerick permitted himself a minute or so to look back through his stressed memories of the last few weeks. “... No, I-... I haven’t been wetting the bed.”

Laurel raised a black brow and scraped down some more characters on the bark in her hands. “Duly noted.”

Unable to contain his curiosity, the young king turned to face her again. “... Why do you ask?”

Laurel gave him a stone-faced look. “Only the king can further the royal line, great son of the moon - it is important that he be fertile early so we will have time to ensure another son is born.” As she packed her things together, Turmerick took a moment to process this.

“W-wait, but… I’m twenty five.”

Laurel shrugged. “Some nelflings show potency at an age as young as twenty. The sooner we can make certain the line is safe, the better.”

The king clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Even if I… I was, who would--”

“The rach and rachfi have graciously offered the hand of the khamfi to be your future wife. I assume you were informed earlier?”

Turmerick gasped. “Kh-khamfi, you mean--... I wasn’t--...” His breathing quickened and Laurel slowly waved a hand over his head, a purple dust flaking off her skin and drizzling down on the king’s face. He drew two more gasps before he magically calmed down and laid his head on the linen pillow. “... Buz she’z so old…” he slurred.

“Nonsense. She’s thirty-five. A decade is nothing to worry about,” soothed the druid and wiped the remainder of the dust off her hand with a cloth. “I think the two of you would look cute together.”

“Doez mozzer know?”

“The queen? Yes, I believe she is aware. As is the princess - they reacted cordially to the arrangement.”

Turmerick felt tears well up in his eyes. “Why wasn’ I told?”

Laurel kept her manner-of-factly speech. “Forgive me. I thought you had been.”

“What else has the rach and rachfi been arranshing?” The druid offered him a somewhat sympathetic click as she turned to the door.

“I could summon them if you’d like.”

“What other arranshements, Laurel?” Despite being delirious with moon dust and sickness, the prince pressed himself to his elbows and offered the druid a threatened growl. Laurel’s expression hardened.

“Get some rest, my king,” she said and left. Turmerick snarled and rolled back onto his back, his fevered body sloppily kicking at the air to get more comfortable on the mattress. It was happening - the rach and rachfi had engaged their plan to divide them up and seize them for themselves. If he already had promised his own daughter to him, then he had no doubt given his sister and mother’s hands to his cousins in Scenta. He recalled his father’s warning and cringed in shame - how could he have gotten sick at a time like this? When his family needed him?

He coughed weakly and eyed the ceiling. There had to be a way out of this… He couldn’t afford to lose his family, his only remaining allies. He gnawed desperately on the nail of his thumb, deep in thought. How, how, how could be escape this?!

Then a plan struck him - a foolish, outrageous and terrible one fermented in a soup of panic, but still the only plan he could devise. He eyed the sword on its mount. For a moment, he considered asking his father for advice. He stopped himself - his father would be abhorred by the idea and ask him to think of something else. Issue was, he couldn’t - his mind was utterly blank, and any day now, his mother and sister would be sitting atop each their baqualo, heading out of his life forever. He would enact his plan tomorrow - he hadn’t a second to lose.

---

The next morning, the nelfling king had his family and the rachsa come to his chambers, joined by the druid Laurel and the mage Crocus, an aristocrat with claws deep in the tea plantations of Fragrance. The king was nursed intimately by his mother and sister, both doting on him for a good twenty minutes while the others patiently waited around.

“Oh, my baby, you look so pale,” whispered his mother and kissed his forehead. “... You need to eat more meat!”

“... The sage has forbidden me from eating any - it contains too much sun and stone,” the king responded with a smile and clicked at Laurel, who clicked back.

“The king speaks true, my queen. Hot, hard foods would only worsen the imbalance in his body. Once he’s healed, we’ll be sure to return him to a balanced diet.”

“You better,” princess Clove whispered half-bitterly and caressed her little brother’s cheek. “If something were to happen to little Turmey, I would--” A stern click from her mother silenced her. “... That would be bad,” she corrected herself. The king laughed softly. He felt loved again, and it only tormented him more to think about what he was about to suggest. The rach chuckled politely and bowed to take the king’s hand in a well-mannered greeting.

“Great son of the moon - the night truly is darker and safer with you to protect us. It is nothing short of a joy for you to have gathered us here. Pray tell, what is the occasion? Should I have my rachfi bring tea?”

Turmerick sat himself up with some help from his family and cleared his throat quietly. “That, that won’t be necessary, rach Rose. I just have a quick announcement… It’s regarding the engagement with the khamfi.” He smelled the air - she was here, a nelven girl ten years his senior with coal-black cheeks and hair, with eyes like the starry sky. He saw her step forward from the rachsa gathering, wearing a small smile and the rosey perfume so common among her kinsmen. Turmerick swallowed - she was beautiful, but…

Rach Rose grinned from ear to ear and clicked his tongue applaudingly. The princess and queen offered the king forced grins. “Ah, yes - forgive me for not telling you myself. It was meant to be a surprise for later, but alas, such events do have a tendency to leak out into public perception, do they not? Truly, it is an honour that you would--”

“I don’t accept it!”

“-- consider marrying my…” The room went quiet in a second. The rachsa’s gazes all darted to one another; rach Rose stood dumbfounded and stuttering; his daughter the khamfi covered her gasp with her hand; the queen and princess both looked about to enter a panic. The rach eventually collected himself and asked, “I, uh… I’m sorry, my king, but… Is there something barring the union of our two houses?”

Turmerick swallowed. “There is! I… I am marrying someone else.”

The rach looked at Laurel, who shrugged in confusion. Struggling to keep his demeanour, the rach offered another bow. “Of course, of course. If such is the case, we cannot stand in the way of our king’s promised. This is understandable. Forgive me for asking, though - to whom does the king plan to be wed?”

Turmerick drew a deep breath. This would either end in victory or disaster. He looked at his mother and his sister, both of whom were at a loss as to what he was doing. The king tasted the words he was about to say and found them distasteful, but necessary. In an unbroken sentence, he spoke, “Queen Clove and princess Clove.”

The room was silent again, this time without as much as a twitch of movement. Turmerick closed his eyes and drew a quivering breath. He could feel his mother and sister slowly letting go of his hands, both letting out quiet scoffs. The rach offered a single quiet snicker before placing a hand on the king’s shoulder. Turmerick opened his eyes and gazed into the rach twisted face, looking as though he was suppressing a grin into a polite smile.

“Un… Unorthodox,” he offered as generously as he could, and Turmerick instantly knew he had lost. The rach straightened himself up and turned to his family. “But! Who are we to stand in the way of true love? The tradition of multiple wives harks back to your great-grandfather, in fact, my king - it is good that you wish to revere your forebears by following their examples.” He paused. “... While the records don’t offer much in terms of marriage to one’s closest kin, well… Someone would… Have to be the first, I suppose.” There came quiet snickers from the nelves around him. The queen turned to him and lowered her forehead to the floor.

“Great rach Rose - he’s, he’s delirious from the fever. Please, offer him a chance to rephrase himself.”

The rach clicked a ‘no’. “I’m certain the king is more than healthy enough to make his own decisions. The great son of the moon is, after all, the blessed champion of the gods - they would never abandon him when making a decision such as that.” The queen drew quivering breaths. The princess glared in disbelief at her brother. “No, I wish to congratulate you three,” the rach continued, “as a show of good faith, we will arrange for the wedding to take place at this venue. Sure, it may take some time to explain the situation to the guests, but I’m certain they will eagerly support the will of the king.” He turned to the door and the rest of his family followed. “Please, do recover as quickly as possible, my king - we have a wedding to plan!” Then they left. Laurel and Crocus both stood staring and one another uncomfortably.

“I… Had not expected -that-, my king… I pray you will permit me to take a few additional samples from both you and your… Brides… I wish you all the happiness of a good night.”

“Good night,” Crocus echoed. Then they, too, left.

The king, queen and princess sat in silence. Then, with furious strength, queen Clove slapped Turmerick across the face. The king slumped against the wall behind him and sank down, almost passing out. “W-wha--”

“Why, Turmerick…” she whispered as bright tears ran across the charcoal skin. “... Why, by the moon, did you do something so, so foolish?” The princess was already sobbing sharply into her hands. The king’s breathing accelerated.

“I-... I don’t understand, I… I thought this would help--”

“HOW does this help us?!” the queen snarled. “You just gave-...” She shot a glare like daggers at the doorway and lowered her voice. “... You just gave the rach everything he could want.”

Turmerick gasped. “... But… But how? He doesn’t, he doesn’t get to take you two from me and--”

“Is -that- what you were afraid of?!” his sister snarled at him and Turmerick cowered. “He wasn’t sending us away! He had said nothing of the sort! Who’s been telling you this?!”

Turmerick felt the world around him evaporate into fleeting gas. “... W-what do you--”

“We were keeping him in check on that front - we were reaching out to our friends in Xiang and Lukt, trying to see if we could have some of them move here to make arrangements. As long as you are king, you could deny the rach’s wishes to marry us off.”

“B-but the sword said--” How had he not caught this? Had his father forgotten to mention that to him? Had… Had he intentionally left it out? Had it even been his father talking to him through the sword? Had he gone mad?

“... But this… No one will help us now. The people won’t recognise a child born of incest as an heir, and any child born outside of marriage is considered a bastard.” The queen’s face dropped into her hands. The princess dragged herself over to the wall and embraced herself shiveringly. “Our line… Has ended.”

Turmerick shot back up. “B-but, I can go back on it! I can go back on my word!” He eyed the two of them. “Can’t I?”

“You called in every witness the rach needed. He will buy up anyone else.” The queen looked up at the ceiling. “... We have no choice now but to escape.”

“Escape?!”

“... Otherwise, we’ll be kept here as the rach’s pets.” The queen swallowed. “... The rulership of the town is lost now. There is nothing for us here.”

Turmerick’s head slowly fell forwards. “B-but… Fragrance is our home.”

“Not anymore,” the princess whispered as though her words were meant to stab. Turmerick collapsed completely onto his bed.

“I… I just wanted to keep us together…”

“Well… Congratulations, bro - now we won’t be separated even if we want to be.” She stood up and left. Turmerick couldn’t even force himself to cry. His whole body was in pain - it felt as though his heart was about to break asunder under this pressure. He reached out to his mother’s shoulder, but she shrugged his hand off.

“Who, Turmerick… Who planted these thoughts in your head?”

“The…” he could barely formulate worlds. “... Father told me he would take you away…”

The queen looked at him and shook her head. “The gods have cursed me with sons sick in the mind…” With that, she rose and left, too. Turmerick had no idea how long he laid in his blank trance after that. He stared emptily at the doorway, his mind incapable of formulating anything beyond a single sentence, repeating for hours on hours on end.

“I have killed my dynasty.”

Sum!

Turmerick is sick! Laurel checks him out and tells him that his humours are out of balance! She prescribes him some boring food to rebalance and we learn a bit about Fragrancian medicine. Laurel then says Turmerick is engaged to rach Rose’s daughter. After she leaves, Turmerick panics, because he’s now convinced that rach Rose has married off his mom and sister, too. He then decides on a horrible plan.

He invites all of the people into his room and declares that he will marry his mother and sister. This turns out to be exactly as terrible of a plan as one would expect, and the rach is immediately super happy and blesses them with happiness. The queen and princess are furious and later explain that incest babies have no claim to the throne and neither do children from outside the marriage - therefore, no matter what they do, they cannot restore themselves to the throne now. It’s also revealed that the rach had no (explicit) plots to marry off the queen and princess, and that even if he did, the king could shut them down - a detail the sword hadn’t mentioned. Turmerick fucked up big time and Fragrance is effectively left in the hands of the aristocracy.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

&

Helgensblot - the Festival of the Gods

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_{28 years after Antiquity...}

Autumn was at its peak, with hot-red leaves dancing in the wind on every branch. The fields were all only plains of sliced grain stalks similar to unshaven stubble, and the vegetable acres were all messes of potholes and ditches as eager hands scooped carrots, beets, onions and kohlrabi out of the ground. Skin sleds of goods stacked taller than the people pulling them flooded in and out of Ha-Dûna like the tides on the beaches below. Even the occasional cart, imported from far off lands and dragged by highland cattle, brought in the autumn mutton for the great feast of Reiya. From the beach below, nets upon nets of fjord salmon and herring were dragged aboard Dûnan rafts in preparation for the feast of Claroon. From the woods came the children giddily with baskets of pears, apples and currants red and black to honour Jennesis. Odes to the gods rang out from every building corner, and people sat on stools in the streets between shifts of lifting and loading, smoking pipeweed and sharing in the excitement of the upcoming festivities. The Celite Iontráil was polished and cleaned thoroughly in preparation for the sermon of Fìrinn; adequately sized boulders were prepared for the Boris Games; the Constellars had, despite religious schisms, been cordially invited to prepare the rites in honour of Seeros, as with every year during these times; an enclave of druids knelt before Gibbou’s altar and fervently prayed for permission for the whole of Ha-Dûna to stay up past curfew; Caden’s test of strength was set up next to the Boris Games’ course; a monument to all those who had fallen during the Conquests was erected in honour of the dead and the sorrow they felt for them through Naya’s grace - confusingly, bards all around also sang of Naya’s beauty in ways that did not match her solemn portrayal; marriage proposals and ceremonies were conducted by the dozens as Taeg Eit would have wanted it. It was beautiful, harmonic chaos.

After all, it was the first day of Helgensblot.

Helgensblot was a week-long celebration in honour of the gods - nor just the druidic gods, but all the gods precious to the Dûnans. It was a holiday of harvesting, games, feasting, music and offerings to the gods, all as thanks for the gifts given to them. The first day marked the day when all would prepare for the following days - the grain fields would be shaven clean of their produce, which would be rolled into the mills and processed into flour for bread and porridge. The old rams and ewes and dams were slaughtered for their mutton, which would be grilled over fires with wild herbs and sea salt. Ceramic pots of butter, yogurt and kefir which had sat under the ground to keep cold through the warm late summer were unearthed and unlidded. After the way the Helgensblot had gone the year before, the archdruids had picked and seized as many joybells as they could find, preserving them as fruit kompots in a cellar under the House of the Weary. There, they were kept under guard, though some of the festival attendees showed clear signs that the archdruids had missed a few. Apart from that, though, all the festivities were as old as tradition itself.

This year, however, a new game would be introduced alongside others - one in honour of their newest addition to the pantheon: Sigeran’s tournament. It would fall on the second-to-final day, and all were curious as to what the archdruids had thought up this time.

The first day passed quickly as everyone was too busy with work to realise that time flew by. Before long, all the preparations for the week had been completed, and the feasting had begun. Various bards took to the improvised stages and performed songs about the gods: the Ballad of Macsal and Lucia was particularly popular - as was the Epic of Gaard Goldhair. The first feast always served mutton stew. The goat and the sheep were the animals of survival, and to celebrate having survived another year thanks to the gods, the Dûnans knew of no better meat to eat. It was eaten with yogurt and sour cream, and for desert they had wild fruit kompot. The feasting continued deep into the night, for the druids were confident that they had gotten Gibbou’s permission. Those who lasted until past midnight got to see the Constellars put on a ceremony in honour of Seeros, their familiars dancing about with their masters.

The second day was dedicated entirely to the Boris Games. Here, men and women competed for the favour of the stone god by running a mountain race for thirty kilometres, all while carrying a sizeable rock in their hands. Many participated - most made it back. The route could be treacherous, and to lose the rock meant instant disqualification. Those most unfortunate never made it back at all, and served ever as reminders to respect the mountains and the king of stone, Boris. All knew the risks, however, and many who participated had sharp arguments with their families about the dangers of the race. Deaths were always a tragedy, but they were simultaneously honoured as martyrs who gave their lives so the others would not have to - a sacrifice to the mountain god, almost. The race went on for most of the day, and many ran out to the fringes of the route to cheer on the participants. Druids were posted all around with pots of water and fermented milk to help the racers recuperate after long strides. After the games, the winner, who this year was a herjegalling named Frode the Enduring, was raised atop a pedestal and given a calf, a ram and a ewe for his efforts - an incredible gift to a family without ties to the resthouse system. The night once again followed with more feasting, music and games.

The third day was reserved for prayer, and the festival came almost to a halt. All participants went on a minor pilgrimage down to the lowlands to see the sun rise in the east over Tordentind, the mountain at which foot laid Grimholt, all in honour of Reiya. They then followed the sun’s rise to the sea and the surface reefs, where they tossed leftovers to the gulls, barnacle fliers and the fish to thank Claroon; by midday, they reached the forest, where they buried acorns, seeds and pinecones to thank Jennesis; by the afternoon, they had reached the foot of the mountains under Ha-Dûna, and they gave thanks to Boris by rubbing the stones with their hands and building small cairns; at sunset, they were back in Ha-Dûna in time to see twilight reflect against the Celite Iontráil, and all offered their thanks to Fìrinn by bowing to it. As the stars came out, they thanked Seeros by swearing to remain hopeful and to inspire their peers to do the same; as the moon rose, they thanked Gibbou by going to sleep; and as they did, all the mothers sang the songs of Macsal to lull their children into the world of dreams.

The fourth day was once again a day of games, this time Caden’s test of strength, with activities to remember the fallen planned for the afternoon in honour of Naya. The test of strength challenged its participants first to squat with the added weight of tree trunks, stones and, mostly for the laughs, other people - particularly their spouses. Those without proper technique and arrogance in choosing their load could be damaged for life, and this year, like every year, there were two or three who pulled a muscle, snapped sinews or broke their backs due from sheer pride. Thereafter came a test of pull-ups. Finally, there was a test of pushups. At the end of the day, the winner was the magnificent gaardskarl Boudicca, a mountain of muscle and one of the survivors of the Battle of Grimholt. The competition had been fierce between her and Frode the Enduring, but having spent all his vigour in the race two days prior, Frode simply couldn’t compete with his rival Boudicca. Her price was two goats and a wooden permit that allowed her family access to the resthouses for the whole winter. However, as she already was married to a druid, she declined and offered the permit instead to her sister, who took it happily. She was subsequently further hailed as a true daughter of Ha-Dûna. After the games, the participants all gathered to mourn their lost ones at the altar to Naya. The sorrow once more stopped the celebrations dead, but towards the end, the archdruids put a spin of martyrdom on the narrative, reigniting the party fervour once again. An afterparty continued at the Bard’s College into the depth of night.

The fifth day was dedicated entirely to Taeg Eit’s marriages, and the druids would go to bed exhausted and sick and tired of saying and hearing the vows over and over for a whole day. This day, the feasts all became quite a bit more family-oriented, and wedding gifts were exchanged between the families of the couples. Those offering druids for marriage always had to pay much more than the peasants, but those funds were, after all, drawn from the resthouses, so in reality, marriages didn’t cost them as much as it cost the commoners. The Statue of Prolificacy was also eagerly visited in the evening.

Then came the sixth day, the day of Sigeran’s Tournament. The archdruids had gotten up early and approached the altar-in-progress to the Victory God. They knelt down and offered the tribute of fruits and meat. Kaer Teagan spoke, “O mighty Sigeran, victorious lord over all and champion of war - we ask you humbly for your blessing to play games of battle in your honour today to conclude our festival!”

At first there was silence for a long moment after the request was made. Then came once again the voice that was a million, each a whisper but together much more.

“You may have my sanction but not my blessing, such is reserved for those who more faithfully follow the righteous path.”

The five archdruids recoiled and looked at one another. Kaer Togen, the oldest among them by now and most senior archdruid, raised a quivering hand. “What could he mean by that?”

“I told you, Kaer Teagan - he’s sees the animalistic ways of our warriors and declared that our victories are without honour!” Kaer Pier accused. Kaer Teagan snarled back at him and tossed herself to the ground once more.

“Forgive us, great god - we are bit ignorant specks compared to your infinite wisdom in the righteous paths of war. What is the path we ought to take instead to please you the best?”

“You have misunderstood the purpose one must take in war. Your warriors seem to have a curious idea that their duty is to fight your enemies, you archdruids have a worse idea that in war you take only that which your people need. The greatest curse you have brought upon yourself is that of the idea of honor. Does it shield your warriors from arrows? If driven off your land can you eat honor? Would honor save your children from the lash of your foes when you did not do enough to destroy them because it would not be honorable?

“Your objective in war is to ensure the survival of your people over your enemy, your warriors need to destroy the enemy, not fight them. Only give them a chance to defend themselves if there is no other option to defeat them. You take not only what you need, but what you must to ensure that none will challenge and threaten your own people in times yet seen. You squander your victories with a too quick peace, you give your enemies time to work against you. You squander your warriors’ lives in fighting anything that resembles an honorable fight, honor has nothing to do with a righteous war. To be on the righteous path you must ensure your people triumph over your foes.

“Prepare to walk this path and you shall have my blessing.”

The druids were speechless. Kaer Pier’s libs quivered while the mouth was agape with disbelief. The two elders Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner eyed the ground in great discomfort, looking almost ready to vomit. Kaer Oleg and Kaer Teagan, however, both shuffled even closer to the altar and lifted their arms to the sky in praise. “Oh, your wisdom is too great for our humble minds to comprehend, magnificent Sigeran - forgive us that we could not see!” Kaer Oleg bowed his head and whispered praise to the victory god.

“What are you doing?!” Kaer Pier snapped quietly behind them.

“Are you deaf? It is clear that we have been too kind to those who oppose the supremacy of the Dûnans. None other than the mighty Sigeran - the cornerstone in our prosperity as it is now - has decreed so!”

“One of the cornerstones, Teagan! I--...” He looked nervously at the altar. It stood in stark contrast with the other altars in that it was not ordained with figurines, crystalline stones, bowls of fruit, nuts and vegetables, or flowers; the altar of Sigeran was decorated with skulls and bone. A flash of realisation washed over Kaer Pier’s face. “... I… I do not know if Sigeran is who we think he is.”

The other archdruids recoiled. Kaer Teagen first showed surprise, then a knowing frown that made Kaer Pier realise he had made a terrible mistake. “... Blasphemy… On the day of Sigeran himself.” She turned to the altar again. “Great god - what say you in response to this abhorrent behaviour?”

“The duty of protection falls upon you present to prove yourselves still faithful.” As the voices spoken in unison they grew ever harsher in tone. “One of your most holy number blaspheme, blaspheme at the altar and on this most holy day! It begets reckless apostasy or malevolent conspiracy, to have an Archdruid so harshly seek to imperil your entire community, their thoughts and guiding hand turning the faithful down dark and unholy paths as shown through their quick and easy slip to blaspheme. Show your faith- root out the corruption and evils wrought in Ha-Dûna, save the faithful from the corrupting ideas and ideals of such a dark teacher. There is still time yet to prove yourselves before all gods, before we are forced to action.”

Chalk looked black in comparison to the colour of Kaer Pier’s skin as they heard this. Both Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner began slowly walking backwards. Kaer Teagen and Kaer Oleg both cast themselves to the ground. “We are still worthy, your greatness! Your will be done!” With that, Kaer Oleg cast his arm out, roots shooting out of the ground to envelop his colleague. Pier reacted in time, swiping outwards with his arm to blast the roots away with a momentary wall of sunfire. Teagan turned around and hammered her fist at the ground, a pillar of stone shooting up from the ground and casting Pier backwards. The man crashed to the ground with the sound of a snap and a pained squeal. His right arm, which he had landed on, pointed in an unnatural angle. Oleg charged up another spell, but in a last minute effort, Pier shot his palm out towards him, a purple cloud forming around Oleg’s face and immediately knocking him into a deep sleep, falling onto Teagan on the way down.

“Bah!” she snarled, rolled him off of her and uncorked her waterskin, pulling out a lance of water which flew to pierce Pier. It would have, too, but he had once again, in the span of a reaction, altered the truth of his position slightly to her perceptions, making her miss by mere inches. As she tried to manipulate the water lance again, Pier pleaded the invisible stars above for aid.

In an instant, all light and color drained from the morning sky, except for bright lights forming a constellation resembling a shepherd looking down at them. In the confusion, a kirin appeared beside Pier and then the sky returned to normal. Both Teagan and Pier screamed in fright, and Kaer Togen and Saner who both were watching from behind the cover of a nearby altar, cowered before the creature. None of them reacted before Pier, though, and before the others could understand what had befallen them, the kirin set off into a sprint out of the city. Around the city, too, there were screams, confusion and terror over what had happened to the sky.

“S-stop them!” shouted Teagan, but from what she could see, the kirin instead parted every crowd and had every gate opened for it. The archdruid got to smacking Kaer Oleg awake again, though it took some well-placed slaps. Stalking back up to them like a pair of walking corpses, the old Kaer Togen and Kaer Saner eyed Teagan with reluctance and shame. As Oleg came back to his senses, Teagan eyed the senior archdruids with contempt.

“Why didn’t you stop him?!”

“W-we--” Togen began, but Teagan waved him quiet.

“Ugh, you’re useless! Of course, this is what we get for allowing you old clowns to remain in our circle for this long…”

“Old clowns?!” Kaer Sanner opened, but was cut off again.

“It is clear that we have been foolish to trust in peace… Sigeran is right! Blasphemers surround us everywhere - even in our innermost circle! I’ve tried again and again to tell that buffoon Pier, but he couldn’t see - he couldn’t see that Ha-Dûna allowing our neighbours to coexist - to thrive even - will kill us. We are the chosen people - the Dûnans are the people of the gods! Sigeran has realised this - Sigeran supports us in this!”

Kaer Togen raised a concerned finger. “But Kaer Teagan, see reason - Sigeran is not one of the Eight! He is but a lesser god that--”

“LESSER god?!” Kaer Teagan stormed at the elderly man, who fell back with such haste that he lost his footing and fell to the ground with a weak whimper. It was just barely that he could raise an arm to defend himself. Teagan glared down at him. “I’m beginning to think we have been lied to all this time - Hir granted us power in exchange for a lifestyle as sheep; we were grazers who bit at the lowest form of life - grass - and never dared journey beyond the edges of the meadow. Then we tasted blood and became the wolves, Togen - we are survivors and have always been; like the hounds in the night, we bare our fangs to carve out our place in this world. Such was the way of our ancestors who battled the Ketrefans, and such is our way still.”

Kaer Saner had knelt down by Kaer Togen and begun to heal him, holding his hand gently to pump the life of Reiya into him. Teagan knelt down and took the other hand, bringing it to her cheek. Togen and Saner both eyed her warily. Teagan cracked a smile. “Don’t you agree, you two?”

They remained voiceless, their eyes pleading the other for help they both knew neither could give. Finally, Kaer Togen, hints of tears in his eyes, nodded slowly. “Wholeheartedly, Kaer Teagan…”

Teagan’s smile broadened. “How wonderful that we see eye to eye. And you, Kaer Saner?”

The other archdruid looked back at her, then down at Togen with a glare of betrayal starkly visible across his poorly-aged face. However, the more he looked back at Teagan, the weaker the glare grew, until finally, he too nodded weakly. “We are, indeed, the chosen people… Sigeran… Said so him… Self…”

Teagan grinned and squeezed Togen’s hand before standing up. “Loyalty to the gods and your leaders comes so rare these days. Thus was demonstrated by Pier, after all. Still…” She frowned at them. “... None of you made attempts at capturing what was clearly an enemy of the gods. You are stripped of your ranks as archdruid.”

Saner and Togen gasped. “You cannot do that outside a moot!” Saner snapped and straightened himself in challenge. A flare in her eyes kept him from continuing. She reached down to her belt and brandished a great copper scythe, unholstering it and bringing it down to Saner’s throat.

“I can, and I did.”

Saner swallowed, but his face remained stern. “The others won’t accept this - I won’t accept this.”

Teagan’s scowl deepened. Slowly, she withdrew her blade from his throat and Saner breathed out in relief. Teagan than stepped around him, hooked the blade around his neck and sawed, parting the skin and opening the veins in the throat to spill litres of blood all over Kaer Togen’s face. The old man spat, squirmed and squeaked. Kaer Oleg took the barely breathing man and dragged him to the altar of Sigeran while Teagan held Togen’s head by the hair.

“I do not care whether you accept or not. It is not our decision, but the gods’, and the gods have made theirs.”

Togen breathed quiveringly. “God, you mean.”

Teagan looked over to the altar, where Kaer Oleg was busily mounting the corpse on a saltire. “Yes…” she whispered. “Our god has made his decision.”

Crowds still panicked from before blackout earlier came running to the archdruids for help. They saw the massacre and gasped and squealed, the warriors immediately moving to the front line brandishing whatever they had on them that could be used for a weapon. At the front came Boudicca and Frode the Enduring, both horrified at the archdruid whose robe was drenched crimson, standing over a blood-covered man and in front of a mutilated display of the butchered Kaer Saner. Many keeled over to vomit or burst into tears at the display.

“What… Is this?” Boudicca barely breathed. Frode, too, had to vomit and supported himself on two others as he did.

“This is the will of Sigeran! We have been led astray by the Eight, my children - peace was never an option! Our people belong on the battlefield, and none among us should rest until the entire world rests underneath Dûnan heel! Great Sigeran - shout your holy decree!”

The whispering cries of a million voices called out to the crowded masses so assembled. “Holy Kaer Teagan speaks truth of divine will! You, the people of Ha-Dûna are the chosen people! Fated to rule and to conquer as divinely guided under the righteous path of Kaer Teagan!”

“Arise children of Ha-Dûna, the unrighteous are culled from your number, dead or fleeing from their true punishment, and your path becomes clear! Your enemies abound around you, the unrighteous guide and seek to destroy good Dûnans from outside what your virtues did not allow them to do from within! Go forth and conquer! Go forth as the chosen, the rightly guided people!”

Boudicca and Frode both watched in disbelief as great swathes of people fell to their knees in awe of the voices, shouting praises to Sigeran and lifting their arms to the sky in worship. Others slowly, but surely, started backing away towards the wall gates, but then, someone shouted, “HEY! Kneel before the great Sigeran!”

“No, this is wrong!” came a weak-voiced, but strong-willed response, and they all knew who it was. Kaer Pier’s sister, Kaer Logan, who had stood up to Teagan at the beginning of the conquests, was shepherding those who followed her sentiment towards the gate. Boudicca and Frode had begun making their ways over, but Boudicca suddenly stopped and struggled to continue. A number of hands had wrapped themselves around her leg, all of them belonging to the kowtowing remainers.

“If you leave, Sigeran will think us unfaithful and punish us all!” shouted one of them. Boudicca wrested herself free.

“This isn’t right! Reiya wouldn’t want this - Gibbou wouldn’t want this - and Seeros absolutely wouldn’t want this! What is wrong with you all?!”

“Silence! You’ll get us all killed,” came another sharp whisper. Boudicca kept walking over the kneeling masses.

“What’re you doing, you fools?!” came insults from the front, followed by Teagan’s own, “Why are you letting them leave?!”

“Ha-Dûna is more than your power fantasies, Teagan!” boomed Boudicca and drummed her powerful chest in challenge. “The people know this - they are loyal to the true gods: the gods of Hir!”

“Oh, are they, now?” Teagan snapped back. She pointed at one of those who had whispered earlier. It was a man, a skinny man, barely old enough to be called a man. He rose slowly and approached her. “What is your name?”

“G-Graham,” he whimpered back. Teagan put her hand reassuringly on his shoulder and gestured to the Eight altars, all twinkling in the morning sun still.

“Tell me, Graham, do you believe that the Eight are greater than Sigeran? Would you trust your life with them over the god that gave us all eternal life?”

Graham squeaked and wheezed, shifting between the altars to the Eight and the altar to Sigeran, particularly the dripping corpse of Saner. After a moment, he whispered something. Teagen smirked. “You’ll have to speak louder than that. Come on, so they all hear you.”

“THE EIGHT ARE NOTHING COMPARED TO SIGERAN!” he shouted from the top of his lungs and collapsed forward with a long cry. The yell blasted outwards like a shockwave, shaking every Dûnan to the core. One by one, they rose up, reached for what weapons they had and began to chant: “Sigeran, Sigeran, Sigeran…”

Boudicca and Frode stood at the gate, the population of those disgusted by this already hurrying away in a panic. Quickly, they began to close the gate and bar it up from the outside, reinforced further with Mother silk and roots summoned forth by rebelling druids. The barricade and midday-made silk would not be strong enough, however, and hardly four minutes after they had gotten started, the gate quaked with the fury of fanatics on the other side. Both Frode and Boudicca resolved to help the others escape rather than stay and hold the gate. A minute later, the improvised blockade broke, and the streets flooded with Dûnans hunting for blasphemers.

“Kill them - kill them all - the unfaithful must not be allowed another breath!” Teagan shouted after them and turned to the altar. “We pray we may yet be worthy of your blessing, great god.”

“You have it, drive them from Holy Ha-Dûna.” The voices seemed much calmer at this point.

“It will be done, great Sigeran.”

Men, women and children all screamed as the tide of bloodthirsty fanatics rolled towards them with great fury. The Mothers set up barriers of silk again, but like last time, they knew that the sunlit did no favours for the silk’s strength. Druids whispered their final prayers as they readied themselves for one last defense against the darkness. Warriors of the refugees went to the front with what weapons they had. The clash was imminent, now, and they knew only a fraction of them would escape Ha-Dûna alive.

Except that would not be the case. Like earlier when the sky had turned back, the sky flickered once more, and momentarily, the moon outshone the sun. The first row of fanatics fell over, then the second one did. In mere seconds, the avalanche of flesh and weapons that had been hurtling towards them with war cries and roars, piled over itself into mounds of snoring bodies. The escapees were dumbfounded, but those quick to action among them hastened to shepherd them out of the city before the enemy woke up.

Running after them, Teagan stomped on the ground in a wild rage. “Damn it, damn it, DAMN IT! Give chase after them! Come on, wake up!” she yelled and kicked at one of the sleepers. He only rolled over grumpily. Teagan kicked him until he bruised and then, a sudden sensation dazed her and she fell over with a snore of her own. Meanwhile, the escapees made it out of Ha-Dûna without suffering casualties beyond their lost belongings. They were heartbroken, however - their compatriots had come at them with the sole intention to slay them all. Not a tribe among them, either - these had been people of every tribe, of every clan. Boudicca stood atop a hill overlooking the great, empty city below. Behind her came Kaer Pier, his broken arm bandaged with Mother silk. Boudicca bowed her respect, but Kaer Pier bowed deeper.

“Please, don’t greet me as such. I deserve none of your respect,” Pier sighed.

“A servant of the true gods such as yourself deserves nothing but respect, Kaer Pier,” Boudicca replied and drummed her chest in salute. The archdruid groaned.

“I caused this… If only I had spoken up against Teagan before… Put an end to the ever-growing sympathies for Sigeran earlier, then maybe I--”

“Stop.” Boudicca squeezed his shoulder supportively. The archdruid met her eyes with a shattered frown. “You have done no wrong, archdruid. You stood up against a woman of great power - as well as her closest lackey - and escaped with your life. In your own words, it would seem that the gods still have plans for you.” She punched him amiably in the chest and smiled before facing the city again with a grim scowl. “We cannot delay for long. Gibbou and Seeros may have been our saviours today, but we know not when the enemy will rise again. We must travel south, gather reinforcements with the hamlets. We need to outpace the servants of Sigeran and make certain they cannot garner more support for their malicious cause.”

Kaer Pier wiped his tears and nodded. “I will seek out the constellars. They might be able to help us send a message to the other druids in the lowlands and in the east at Grimholt. I doubt any of us would have chosen to remain with Teagan, and if they did, surely the gods must see by now that they have gone astray.”

“My thoughts exactly. Go there and beseech them for aid. I will bring our people to safety.” The two pressed their foreheads together in fraternity and parted ways. Ha-Dûna had suffered a terrible defeat at the hands of its greatest enemy - itself - and now it would have to be taken back.

---

SumSum!

It’s festival time! HD preps for Helgensblot, the once in a year week long feast in the honour of the gods - not just the druidic gods, but all of em: Reiya, Claroon, Gibbou, Caden, Boris, Firinn, Naya, Jennesis, Macsal, Taeg Eit, Sigeran, Seeros - they all here. First day’s a huge feast and prep; second day’s the Boris Games, a dope ass race; third day’s pilgrimage day, where all of HD strolls around the countryside to pay homage to the gods; fourth day’s Caden games and Naya crying; fifth day is marriage day in honour of Taeg Eit; sixth day’s Sigeran’s tournament, a new event starting in the year 28. We never get to know what the seventh day would be.

Turns out that Sigeran’s tournament might not become tradition, as when the druids go to ask Sigeran for his blessing, he drops a chapter straight out of a socio-darwinistic manifesto on top of them, really appealing to Kaer Teagan and Kaer Oleg, but not to Kaer Pier. The archdruids have a dope magic fight from which Kaer Pier escapes with the help of Seeros’ kirin. Seeros blacks out the sky while doing so, causing a panic in the town as it’s midday. Teagan then kills one of the other archdruids and mounts him on the altar to Sigeran for the whole populace to see, because they came into the city centre to find out what’s going on. Sigeran drops another hard-ass speech on the Dûnans, causing half of them to run and the other half to want for an ethnic cleansing. Teagan sends the cleansers to clean out the heretics who don’t throw away their faith in the other gods in the name of Sigeran, but Gibbou sees this and puts the attackers to sleep so they can escape, aided by the Mothers. Ha-Dûna falls into the claws of Teagan and becomes a city under Sigeran’s patronage, albeit with half its population.

The Separation arc has begun.

MP!

Sirius
Starting: 2MP/2DP
Ending: 2MP/0DP

-1 DP to give unnamed Kirin title:
Stand Against Death I: The mere presence of this Kirin weakens the hold of magic relating to death and undeath. This aura of disruption is rather weak and is barely noticeable, but this effect is majorly improved by contact with it.

-1 DP to perform godly act discounted by omens to make everyone in and near Ha-Duna perceive that the sky turned entirely black for a moment except for a looming constellation of the shepherd glaring down at them.

Gibbou start 1MP/0DP
1MP - Perform godly feat: Put the raging fanatics chasing after their compatriots to sleep so that the innocents can escape unharmed.
End 0MP/0DP.

Thaa
Start: MP 5 DP 4
-2 DP undying blessing for those who remain in Ha-Dûna, less intense but long lasting
End; MP 5 DP 2

Prestigios!

Statue of Prolificacy: 5 + 5 = 10
Celite Iontráil: 5 + 5 = 10.
Circle of the Long Stride: 26 + 5 = 31
Basin of the Weary: 5 + 5 = 10
Dûnan Bards: 0 + 5 = 5
Bard’s College of Ha-Dûna: 0 + 5 = 5

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

The Baron and the Brute

---

Afternoon had set over the small village of Evandstead and the shepherds were guiding their goats back home. Children were braving the coming twilight by snatching pipeweed from their parents and smoking it at the shadowy borders of the forest; the wives were weaving carpets and clothes together; the men were doing the last of the day’s farmwork. Highland cows roamed in the meadows beyond, and woodsmen returned to their homes with the evening’s logs. In many ways, it was a most peaceful evening.

Perfect for some good old ruinin’.

Espen, a small and stunted askeladd, even for his kind, with a body like an ale barrel, cracked up his knuckles and smirked. “Hooo boy, bruv - got me belly all up in flames at the f’hought’a doin’ some mischiefs again. Been so, so long since I ‘ad a bloomin’ giggle.”

A snicker floated over from his left. “Oi! No stupid shit! Giggles a’damn art form. Don’t cock up fancy like last time, Espen.” breathed a tall and wiry askeladd. Slick they called him, for both his demeanor and hair shared the same property.

Espen scoffed, sticking his thumbs neatly underneath the suspenders running down over his chest. “Cock up? Me, ol’ Espen? By Thunder, y’bet I won’!” He ducked in between the bushes they hid behind, his potato-like nose poking over the top to contrast his small, beady eyes. The messy bush of hair atop his head was so overgrown with moss and mushrooms that it blended right in with the surrounding forest. “So, whot ye got in mind this time? Hexxin’? Turnin’ the cows proppa’ mad again? Turn the ol’ nan into sour milk?”

Slick joined him. “Them ol’tricks? Thunder strike mah nose, nah gonna catch me wastin talent. We goin big propa ain’t we!” He said cracking a toothy grin. Like a fire his beady eyes showed with excitement. “We’s hexin the wata! So when they get to drinkin, it turn straight to hair!”

Espen clapped his hands in anticipation. “Wooo-ho-ho-ho, you’s a sly’un, Slick! A’roight, le’s find that well…” Espen laid himself flat against the grass and started crawling along the forest line.

Slipping to the side, they circled the village in short order. It did not take them long to find their target. A simple contraction consisting of laid stones and a pulley system holding a crude pot. The apes had led them straight to it.

“Thirsty bastards.” Slick whispered. “There tha watering hole.”

The twilight dimmed; activity in the town followed suit. The townsfolk turned in for the day and either went home or gathered in small posses to smoke and tell stories.The path between them and the well was clear. Espen nodded. “Aight, bruv - all yours.”

There were plenty of bushes around, so Slick was able to shadow his way through the clearing with ease. His instincts guided him as he slipped from shrub to shrub. His eyes were constantly darting from house Espen in surrounding forest, but he was relaxed and at ease as he moved and closed in on the well. This sort of multi-tasking came naturally to an askeladd. It was what they did. What came next even more so.

Nimble as ever, Slick kept upon the cusp of the lard stonework and peered into the darkness. Even his eyes struggled to pierce the void that was the deep well. Nevertheless his ears picked up the sound of moving water. His plans would prove true yet.

Gathering up power from his core, Slick drew it throughout his body and put his fingers. His mind worked like mad. Reality functions based on set laws. The blessing of the askeladd was their ability to weave these laws together to create new ones, albeit on a much smaller scale.

So as Slick exuded magic from his body, so did his mind weave together laws that would leave the humans with a nasty surprise.

It took along five minutes to weave the spell proper. Slick had broken into a sweat.

With a heave he leapt from the well’s edge and scampered back over to Espen’s hiding place.

“Oi, shit final. Come mornin, they outta be choking on Thunder’s ball hairs.” Espen sat wheezing in the bush, slapping his knees something fierce.

“Bruv, you bloomin’ slapped ‘em, mate! Roight, I found us a proppa’ patch’a moss t’ sleep on ovar ‘ere. T’morrow’s gonna be banger, bruv!” He rolled around on the ground with a giggle still on his lips.

A grin never left Slick’s face as he bunched up a mass of greasy hair and crawled into the moss. His lot was right around the corner. The two of them laid down and waited for the magic to happen.

Already in the middle of the night, they heard it. Someone had thought it appropriate to stroll out in the night and grab themselves a cup of cold, delicious water to soothe a dry throat, and the surprise she (as evidenced by the pitch squeals and whimpers. Could also have been a young boy) was currently enduring was anything but soothing. Gags and vomiting sounded from the middle of the village, and Espen and Slick both peeked over the bush to witness it. There, fairly visible in the moonlight, a woman was keeling over on the ground, coughing and throwing up lumps of curly, stiff hair by the mouthful.

Her cries reached the duo and Slick held back a fit of giggles. His plans for the greatest of pranks were far from completed. More time. “Oi, keep watching from here.” he whispered. . Espen clapped his hands excitedly and kept staring at the display. More of the villagers came out to witness the spectacle.

Confident as ever Slick strolled out from his hiding place, perfect nose held high, hair greasy and full of mushrooms and as handsome as ever. Right outside the congregation the askeladd clapped once to get the attention of the villagers. Before panic could ensue, Slick spoke:

“Oi! Dickheads! Boyz calls me Slick, but inna second here y’all humies outta be calling me Baron. Let’s talk business all calm like can’t we?”.”

“You did this, didn’t you, you prankster midget!” shouted one of the men tending to the woman.

“Sssh! Randall, don’t insult it!”

Espen slumped over wearing a sneer. “Oi, Slick… He called you a midget.” The askeladd shuffled over, hands tucked into his moth-eaten pants and neck craned forward, chin presented. “Oi, humie. That’s the wrong attitude t’ take wiff the Baron, y’know.” The crowd slowly backed away as Espen squatted next to the vomiting woman and the man named Randall. “What we gonna do wiff ‘im, Slick?” The man remained kneeling beside the woman, glaring daggers back at Espen.

“I’ll have ye know I’m quite tall. Proud of it innit I?” Slick drawled as he stuck a long pinky finger up his nose. “Ain’t dis ya bugging drinking wata? Oi Espen, they keep fuckin wit me ey, say we start turning tha grain into tasting like Thunder’s steaming shit?!”

The people cowered and squealed. “No! Not the grain! We eat that!”

Espen clapped and guffawed. “Huh-huh-huh, yeah, do it, bruv!”

“Oi, I’s is a good guy! The business askeladd!” Slick expressed with a pat of his chest. “Prolly tha best ye’ll eva meet. So favor me this, submit to me fucking demands, n ya live not just to drink hairless pisswater n Troll shit, capeesh?”

Randall was about to protest, but his mouth was covered over by a myriad of hands belonging to his peers, all of whom were bowing their heads in submission. “We-we don’t want no trouble, your-your Baron-ess. If-if you promise to leave us be, we’ll do whatever you ask,” said an old man, likely the village elder.

Espen snickered. “Ye hear that, bruv? Woss we want ‘em t’do?”

A toothy grin cut across Slick’s face. “We partnas’ now! How bout y’all tell me how things are round here! Baron outta know.”

SumSum!

The askeladds Espen and Slick play a prank on the poor villagers of Evandstead. Slick curses the well so that whoever drinks from it will vomit up Thunder’s pubes In the evening a woman becomes the first victim, falling onto the ground and throwing up hair balls (or ball hair) until all the villagers come out to see what’s going on. Slick and Espen reveal themselves and Slick demands the villagers call him the Baron. After some back and forth and more threats from Slick, the village falls under his rule.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

A King’s Duty 3 - To Govern One’s People

---

To rule … His responsibility - dropped into his lap like an anvil. It was much too early.

“King Turmerick?”

It had been no sooner than a fortnight ago that the mere twenty-seven men har returned from the skirmish to Monsax, bloodied and beaten into a mere fraction of the fifty strong that had been sent out. Turmerick had been playing xuakla with his sister Clove, enjoying her sweet, soothing song that made him forget all about xweh-bach and all about the stress of his future responsibilities. She sang to him songs of old legends, such as the tale of the warrioress Cilantra and the first great Nelven expansion across Sso-Hwah; she sang to him myths of the gods and the Nelven creation - how the moon so wounded by all the horror in the night, wept tears of silver and shadow, which pitter-pattered down across the land and became the Night Elves.

“King Turmerick?!”

Her song had been interrupted at the climax. Into their fathers hut where they had sat had come rach Rose, followed by six men carrying a stretcher. Their father’s corpse had laid upon it like some butchered animal - he had barely been covered by anything, and the stench of rot had already begun to set in. Turmerick hadn’t heard his sister’s cries, not his mother’s when she had found out. Even as the two of them had closed around him in search of comfort and to give comfort, he hadn’t been present. It was as though his world had collapsed in on itself, and now, two weeks later, he stood outside the entrance to his father’s hut, hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“King Turmerick?!”

The boy snapped back to reality and turned to face the druid Laurel, who offered him a rose. He had barely registered that the whole town had gathered behind him, all staring at him and the king’s hut behind him. Next to him stood his mother and sister, both dressed in their finest dresses, and the aristocracy lined the first rows of the crowd. The king swallowed nervously and accepted the rose. He hadn’t practiced his lines - he hadn’t had the focus. He didn’t know what to do, so even as whispers grew like weeds in the crowd behind him, he couldn’t do anything. Eventually, he felt a warm hand capture his own and he looked up to see the kind, silvery eyes of his mother.

“Turmey…” she whispered and gently guided the hand holding the rose. “... You are the heir, so yours is the first rose to be laid at the tomb’s door.” Together, they knelt down and laid the rose at the doorstep of the king’s hut. Turmerick suppressed a sob.

“So… He’s truly gone, then?” he whimpered and Queen Clove pulled him gently over to his sister, and the three of them hunkered down and laid their heads against each others’. Meanwhile, the druid continued to distribute roses to anyone who wished to lay them down at the doorstep, and a long line formed to do so. Princess Clove looked up and gave her brother a soft kiss on the scalp.

“He… He is,” she sobbed quietly, “... but don’t worry, little Turm. We’ll take care of you for as long as you need us.”

“For as long as you need us,” his mother echoed. King Turmerick found that he couldn’t process their words properly. His shoulders grew heavy with the thought of duty. As the line of people circulated around the plaza before the king’s hut and placed down their roses, the night passed quicker than one would imagine.

---

The shadows had grown stark by the end of the ceremony, and the sun was peeking sneakily over the horizon. The royal family, now that their hut had become the king’s tomb, stayed with the Rose family. Rach Rose had humbly offered for them to stay for as long as they’d need, as he had been there in the king’s last moments and heard his last will to his family.

“Your father, he…” rach Rose began as he and Turmerick sat alone in the living room of the Rose mansion. The nobleman suppressed a sob, and Turmerick felt his head grow heavy. He tightened his fists and looked away from the rach’s eyes. “... He came with some final wishes. He sadly didn’t have time to write them down, forgive me - I assure you, my account is true. I swear it, my king - I swear it.”

“O-okay-- I mean…” Turmerick felt his face freeze over with cold sweat. “... Y-you may speak, rach Rose.”

The nobleman bowed his head. “Great son of the moon, your father, he… I understood that you would be under quite a bit of pressure right now. Too much for any lad who only has seen twenty-five droughts. So… He proposed we would aid you until you come of an age where you feel more in control - more certain of yourself.”

Turmerick gingerly sucked on a tooth whilst looking down, flexing his long ears stressfully. “Did, did he say anything about how you would… Aid me?”

The rach clicked in affirmation. “Naturally - your father stated very clearly that you were to apprentice in every office and learn everything there is to learn about leadership and governance.”

The king swallowed. “That… Is something he would say, I suppose… What’ll, what’ll become of my kingdom?”

Rach Rose sucked in a slow breath. “You needn’t worry about all that. Your father stated further that the affairs of the state were to be handled by myself and my rachfi, rach and rachfi Nilla, rachfi Jasmine and the seers Laurel, Cacao and Chive. Your kingdom is in very, very good hands.”

The king drew some concerned breaths and sniffed. “B-but…” Rach Rose’s hand on his shoulder silenced him and he looked up to meet the nobleman’s smiling eyes.

“Understand, son - we’re doing this to help you; to help Fragrance prosper. Forgive my frankness, but if we left the role of leader in the hands of a young boy such as yourself, well… Are you familiar with the baqualo herders out on the Xorsha?”

Turmerick clicked a no and hung his head.

“Do you know when to sow the wheat and when to sow the rice? Do you know when the jasmine flowers bloom? Do you know when the almonds are at the ripest?”

The king suppressed a whimper. “... N-no…”

The rach sighed and placed his forehead against his. Turmerick whimpered. The rach’s breath smelled of death hastily scrubbed away by chewed mint leaves, and his rose perfume did its best to drown it out by drowning everyone around him. “Your kingdom is safe, son - trust us. Once you come of age and feel ready, we will give you back your kingdom. Doesn’t that sound like a deal we can both be proud of?”

A moment passed before Turmerick said, “I guess…” Rach Rose clapped his hands together softly and smacked his lips in satisfaction. He snapped his fingers and the rachfi Rose entered through a carpet door, dressed in beautiful, white clothing that contrasted her dark skin and black hair - exquisitely bejeweled and wealthy even for a nobless.

“Belladonna, my love, would you bring the king to his mother and sister, along with whatever they may wish for of food, drink, games or comforts. They are to be treated as one of our own flesh and blood - no wish is too much for them to ask. After you’ve done that, send word for the seer Cacao. I have some notes I wish to have set in writing.”

The rachfi Belladonna Rose bowed, approached the king and kindly escorted him out of the room. Turmerick cast one last glance over his shoulder to catch rach Rose rubbing his hands victoriously. A burning sensation within him couldn’t help but wonder if he had made a terrible, terrible mistake.

The two of them had exited into the courtyard of the mansion grounds. The homestead of rach and rachfi Rose in Fragrance was humbler than those of their aristocratic peers, but it was nothing compared to their villa back in Scenta. It consisted of four clay huts within a perimetre fenced with wicker walls. The main hut served as the family’s house and main building; north of it was a guest hut currently occupied by the royal family; south of it was the Rose family’s bath house, which was almost as large as the guest hut; finally, a small house reserved used as a food store. Of course, queen Clove, princess Clove and crown prince-crowned-king Turmerick had no reason to complain; sure, their temporary home was smaller than their previous one, but it had been lent to them through the compassion and honour of the Roses. Besides, they all fit - mostly.

The pair entered the small hut and were met with the sudden gazes of the queen and the princess, both of whom smiled as soon as they realised who had come. “Turm, you’re back!” whispered the princess gleefully and took her brother’s hand affectionately. His mother reached out to touch his belly.

“The rach wishes to inform you that whatever you may request while you are guests here, may be granted to the best of his ability. No expense shall be spared if the royal family demands it,” the rachfi whispered respectfully, knelt down and offered forth her hands, palms facing up. The queen looked at her children.

“Would any of you like anything?” Turmerick shook his head. Clove smacked her lips with interest.

“Could you bring us some chamomile tea and some maokl, please?” she asked.

“Some chokham, too, if you could,” added the queen and touched the rachfi’s hands. The rachfi slowly brought her hands back to her sides, rose up and left the hut. Silence fell upon the hut once more before the queen asked, “So, what did you and the rach discuss?”

Turmerick shrunk. “I… I’m not sure I wanna talk about it.”

Both the queen and the princess blinked suspiciously at one another and shuffled a little closer to the king. They both placed a hand on one shoulder each and offered his worry stares with quartz eyes. Turmerick looked down in shame, twiddling his thumbs gingerly. They gave off a dry rubbing noise than only seemed to intensify the awkwardness of the situation. The princess leaned in and rested her cheek atop his head. “You don’t have to tell us if you don’t want to, Turm… We support you no matter what you said.”

“You… You will?” whimpered the boy.

The queen sighed. “Of course, we will. We, we have no one but each other now. We cannot afford to anyone. We have already lost one too many.”

Turmerick wiped some tears away. “I, I…”

“Hussshh… Shh, shh… Don’t feel like you have to tell us anything. We’ll be here when you are ready,” reaffirmed princess Clove. The prince nodded, and as he kept crying, his family only hugged tighter. The night quickly passed like this - after they had eaten, Turmerick went to take a bath at the mansion bath house, allowing himself to take in every facet of the beautifully shaped clay tub and the silver-decorated room. His fascination wouldn’t be allowed to last, however, because as he stood admiring the metallic stars filling the domed ceiling, the fire under the tub was lit by the rachfi, who had entered with oils, herbs and ash in various containers. The rachfi bathed him herself, despite his insistence that she didn’t have to. She scrubbed him from top to toe and cleaned his extremities thoroughly, wetting his hands and feet with water before rubbing them in with ash and then quickly rinsing them in water again. As she then let him soak in the herb-infused bathwater, the king asked:

“Rachfi Rose…?”

The lady, who was busily washing herself over, too, offered a click to let the king know she was listening. Turmerick drew a slow breath through the nose and looked up at the ceiling of the bath hut, which was barely visible in all the steam from the hot water.

“Is, is it a rachfi’s duty to wash the guests?”

He received at first a surprised giggle in response. The rachfi ran her fingers through her black hair, infusing it with herbal and flowery oils as she laughed - her voice was like his mother’s, Turmerick thought, though somehow even smoother. She turned to him with a smile that was hard to make out in the shadow and steam, and spoke, “No, but as with any wife, it is a rachfi’s duty to obey her husband’s commands - and he has commanded me to see to the great son of the moon and his family’s every need.” She then turned back to her oils. The king frowned and blew bubbles at the top of the water.

“Do you do everything he says?”

“More or less,” came a soft reply.

“But… Why?”

The rachfi cocked her head to the side. “Did your mother never tell you? Not your sister, either?”

“Tell me what?”

She scoffed as though someone had asked her to explain why water is wet. “Well, the way it’s always been, moonson, is that the woman cares for the home, the children and her man, so that the man can be certain those and that which he values are in good hands when he goes out to hunt.”

The king furrowed his brow and flexed his ears. “But… The rach doesn’t hunt.”

The rachfi sighed. “That’s true, but… Well… He’s very busy with his military career and with his office as the new governor of Monsax.”

Turmerick blinked. “What’s a governor?”

The rachfi smacked her lips looking for words. “A king of sorts, except beneath the king.”

The prince held a small breath before eventually clicking in gradual understanding. “I see… So the rach leads his own village now? Will he leave Fragrance?”

“Oh, no! No, no, no,” the rachfi assured him. “Rach Rose is eternally loyal to Fragrance and the great son of the moon of the Enzan. He’s simply making sure more land is claimed for the city and your future rule, my king.”

Turmerick tasted her words and found them sweet - a little too sweet, perhaps, but he reasoned that they were flavoured by her kind spirit. He nodded with a weak smile and made himself a little more comfortable in the tub. “I’m glad to have so many loyal subjects. I can’t wait to be king now!”

The rachfi gently ran her hand through his hair, though her expression was obscured by the steam except for her face. “Yeah…” she whispered soothingly, “... we await that day eagerly.”

After his bath, the king returned to his chambers. Outside, he heard his mother and sister sit with the rest of the Roses, playing music and enjoying themselves with them. He didn’t feel like joining them - he couldn’t bring himself to ignore the mood still hanging over the village, all for the simple illusion of politeness. He sat down before the mount of his family sword, the Enzanchenn. He stared long and hard at its golden sheath, its sunlike hilt and overall majestic appearance. Despite those qualities, it had been useless in his father’s fight against the vampire. It hadn’t protected him, it hadn’t brought him back home alive, it…

It had just gotten him killed.

He felt his nose itch again and his eyes well up. He tried to swallow the whimpers, but a few broke through still. He collapsed forward onto his hands and drew a sharp breath. “Why… You were supposed to teach me everything I needed to know… So why did you have to go and die? For what?”

There came no response, as expected. Turmerick looked over his shoulder and listened carefully - the music was still playing in the yard, followed by soft applause. He sighed his relief and looked back at the blade. Sharing his sorrows with it seemed to… Calm him somehow. He reached out and grabbed it by the hilt, dismounting it and pulling it to himself. He immediately needed his second hand to support the weight. It was heavy - much to heavy for him to use still. He would need to grow much stronger.

“Turmerick?”

He cast a glance over his shoulder. There was no one there. He stepped over to the curtain door and peeked outside. Nobody there - the other were behind the large hut.

“Turmerick.”

“Hello?” whispered the king quietly, looking around anxiously. He couldn’t locate the source of the voice for the life of him, and it carried an eerie resemblance to… To…

“The sword, Turmerick. Look at the sword.”

The king did as told and, as he held the sword pointing upwards with both hands, he could have sworn that he caught a glimpse of his father’s face in the sheen of the hilt. The shock nearly made him drop it, but the voice spoke soothingly: “Turmerick. It is I, your father.”

The king collapsed onto the floor and once more eyed the doorway. “F-father?!” he tried not to whisper too loudly. “Wh-what’s going on?!”

“The sword given to our family by Kiim’Jaav’Guul has the ability to store souls. In my dying moments, I chose to preserve mine so that I could council you even after death.” He paused. “... I see now that I was right to do so.”

Turmerick began to bawl and the sword gave a sympathetic sigh. “D-daddy, I-... I miss you so much! Why did you have to go and--”

“I did what I thought was right. I see now that I couldn’t have been further from the true path. I knew the day of my death was close, but… I hadn’t expected it to be this soon.” The sword exhaled sharply. “But we can dispell the emotions later - for now, you need to listen to me.”

Turmerick barely had time to recover from the emotional shock before Safron continued, “I do not know what the rach told you, but if you’re staying at his home, then my fears have become reality - the aristocracy holds power over Fragrance and our line are their puppets to parade for the people.”

The prince shook his head in disbelief and confusion. “Father, I don’t--”

“You cannot let him know that I am still here. Rach Rose has only power in mind. If he realises he does not have complete control over you, your mother and your sister, then he will find ways to dispose of you.”

Turmerick felt his breathing accelerate; his heart thundered in his chest and threatened to escape through his ribcage. “Oh gods… Father, I’m scared, so scared!”

“Sssh! Don’t be, my son. Here’s what you will do: You will live as though nothing has happened - you will apprentice and learn under the rach and all the other aristocrats. When the time comes, and you will know when, you will retake power in Fragrance and restore our line.”

“Father, I-... How do I--”

“Don’t lose hope, my son! You will never break unless you allow yourself to be broken. For now, do your best to excel in every class - become a paragon of our people; gain the trust of your peers. You will need their support when you lay forth your claim to the throne. The rach will no doubt try to marry your mother and sister to one of his cousins in Scenta. Do whatever you can to keep them with you here in Fragrance - they are your only family left.”

“I-... I will try,” came a whimper. The sword stared back.

“You’ll do me proud, son. I have no doubt. Now, go out into the courtyard and join the others. You will need to build your network early, lest it’ll be weak and disorganised when you need it.”

Turmerick clicked a weak affirmitive and wiped his eyes again. “I’ve missed you, father.”

There was a pause. “And I, you.”

Summary!

King Safron’s burial is all sad and stuff. He’s entombed in the royal family’s old hut, so they crash at rach Rose’s. Rach Rose and Turmerick talk about the future of Fragrance and rach Rose says the grown-ups’ll take care of the city until Turmerick comes of age. Later, Turmerick takes a bath and chats with the rachfi (rach Rose’s wife) about gender roles. He learns that Fragrance is patriarchal af. He later unveils that his dad is still alive inside the Sword of Aquibeophatian. Let the Fragrancian oligarchy state begin!

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Gibbou

---

Gibbou drummed her fingers on a table. Her acts as a protection goddess had been, uh, helpful, sure, but she felt like her presence was still lacking. The expansion of iskrill and Neiyari across the human sphere, as well as rumours of vampirism in Mydia and Vrool ransacking villages and the like. No, she needed more of an intimate proximity to the action - or rather, she needed a part of herself to be. Twilight had never been much help, and she doubted she could convince him to ever be, so it was about time to try a second time. She stood up and went about her dome, collecting various metals and materials she had dug up all around her moon. She dumped it all in a pile in the dome’s centre, snapped her fingers and the dome tunneled through the moon to the sunny side. She donned her shades and amplified the sunlight’s rays on the metallic heap until it melted. Then, she got to work.

With hammering tools and diligence, she turned the molten metal into armour plates - a full set of divine steel with hardness, lightness and flexibility the likes of which had never before been witnessed in the universe. The plate began to cool, and Gibbou took the time to carve and shape beautiful details into it. Once cooled, she padded its insides with mail and leather which together became lighter than feathers. She finished up the last little details and finally mounted the armour on a rack to view it properly.

It was perfect. It was as light as a feather and as hard as diamond. It was surprisingly flexible, and its only weak spots were between the legs and behind the knees. It would serve perfectly as an extension of her will to protect and defend. Now all it needed was some divinity. Gibbou placed her hand on her chest and, biting her teeth together at the pain, pulled out a fraction of her holy soul. It felt worse this time, as though the piece she had taken left a larger hole than the last one. She shook her head and the pain away and placed the orb on light in her hand against the chest of the armour. It melted into the metal and cloaked it in a flash of silvery moonlight. Gibbou took a step back, her dome digging itself back to the dark side of the moon. The armour’s light brightened, and noises beyond the ring of metal and light soon escaped it, becoming a voice.

”... Ugh, what… What’s happening?” came a soft, dazed, feminine voice.

Gibbou suppressed an explosive giggle. ”It, it worked! Oh sister, it worked!” She jumped triumphantly into the air until the sensation of the armour’s bewildered stare burned at her skin. ”Oh, sorry. Uhm… Welcome to life, my dearest creation. I am Gibbou, goddess of the moon and the shield of life, and your maker.”

The armour hummed. ”Maker… Yes… Gibbou.” Gibbou felt the armour’s invisible eyes look up to regard her, and a non-existent smile formed on its equally non-existent lips. ”I am… Thankful for the opportunity to exist.”

Gibbou swallowed - all good so far. She didn’t seem roguish like Twilight at the very least. Not yet, anyway. ”What is your purpose?” she probed her. The armour hesitated.

”I have yet to be given orders, maker. I stand at the ready.”

Gibbou gasped. Did, did this one just say she was awaiting orders? From HER?! She could barely contain her excitement, and her dancing hands showed that she couldn’t at all. She would have to play her cards well to ensure she didn’t end up with another useless avatar. ”You will be given the following task: Go down to Galbar and ensure the safety of its innocent mortals. Your mission - your purpose - is to protect those who cannot protect themselves, and I have therefore given you a form that cannot be broken by anything, maybe not even godly might.”

The armour drew a proud breath. ”Affirmative, my maker. I will ensure the safety and quality of life for all innocent mortals.”

Gibbou felt her eyes well up and she had to look away. The pride in her chest threatened to choke her to death. ”You, you will act as my agent on the planet below - the shield of the night; the bulwark of the dawn.”

”My plate is the armour of creation - my mail is the barrier against evil. I am your agent to command as you wish, great master - Gibbou the Magnificent.”

”The Magnifi--” Gibbou blushed and felt she barely had the heart to send her down to Galbar after all. However, she was too good to just sit here for the remainder of creation. ”Y-you will do alright, my dear. I… I baptise you Titania, the Shield Against the Darkness.”

The armour let out a touched sniff. ”I… I am honoured, my master. No one has ever given me a name before, and I am so happy you were the first to do so. Thank you.” Gibbou embraced her and Titania let out another sniff. ”I am so happy. Thank you… My master.”

”Oh, my dear Titania… You already make me so proud. I have no doubt you will keep doing so down on, on, on Galbar. Now go - fulfill your mission.” Gibbou reluctantly conjured forth a portal and Titania was pulled in, her helmet wearing an invisible smile of diligence and dedication.

”I will. I swear it.” She was then pulled through the multiple dimensions of space and time, colours flashing all around her, until she appeared right in the middle of a large, yellow grain field, looking up at the blue, tranquil sky. There, she remained. A considerable moment passed before she said, ”Master.”

A voice came into her head. ”Mmm? Yes, my pride?”

”I cannot seem to move. Is something wrong with me?”

The voice audibly frowned. ”You can’t move? Now hold on a minute, let me see…” While magical noises came from the other side, Titania picked up some other noises approaching.

“Oi, oi, oi, now woss this, ey? Someone left a bloomin’ fine heap a’ silver just lyin’ in the fields, hmm?”

“Well made, too. Bet this’d fetch us a nice price in that burrow we just passed by.”

“Who’d’a just leave all this roight ‘ere, of all places, though?”

That was when Titania realised that her head had been picked up, and her eyes looked down to see the rest of her lying in a neat, silvery pile on the ground. Her head filled with confusion and anxiety as she tried to move, but couldn’t for the life of her. ”Master, I can’t move! Something’s wrong with me!”

“Woah!” said the one holding her and her field of vision fell to the ground again, where it stared up into the faces of three short, stumpy, greasy-haired trolls. “Bloody ‘ell, did you hear that?”

“‘Ave we just stumbled into a heap of talkin’ silver?” The three of them exchanged looks before each unleashing celebratory squals. “We’re rich, mates!” They immediately scuttled to pick up every last piece of her and sprinted off in a merry giggle.

”Help me, masteeeeeeer!” shouted Titania, helpless as she was distributed across three different forms.

Above, Gibbou finished analysing her spell from earlier. ”Oh no! I forgot to put something inside you! No wonder you can’t move - you’re just armour! Let’s fix that up nicely.” She looked back down at the surface of Galbar, but saw nothing resembling Titania. ”Titania? Titania?!” she shouted. After no response came, though, she fell to her knees.

She had screwed up… Again.

SumSum!

Gibbou decides to make a second avatar, so she makes Titania, a full set of sentient armour. She’s very proud of her creation and her creation is proud to be her creation. However, when she sets her down on Galbar, they both learn the horrible truth that armour can’t move on its own, so Titania is unable to escape as three askeladds find her on the ground and decide to sell her at the nearest market.

MP Spendatory

Gibbou 5MP/5DP
-3MP - Create second avatar: Titania. Titania is the avatar of Protection, being a sentient set of armour made of the hardest material in the universe, while also being immensely light and flexible. Any warrior wearing her would be virtually unkillable. Of course, she needs someone to actually wear her to be useful, because on her own, she’s just a heap of armour.
-1MP - Create portal from the Dark Side of the Moon to Galbar.
End: 1MP/5DP

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

A King’s Duty 2 - To Lay Waste to the Enemy

---

King Safron sat across the room from a weapon mount, upon which had been placed the blade given to his dynasty by divine mandate. Could this be a sign? A sign that him and his son were destined to conquer their neighbouring states? That Fragrance was destined to become the sole power on Sso-Hwah? The only Nelven people to unite all the clans and states into a single kingdom - ruled by a single king.

The thought made him sweat. No, surely he was playing himself. His house couldn’t very well be the ones. His grandfather had shared many stories of the world before the foundation of Fragrance as it was today - how they hadn’t even had buildings, but all lived in caves and holes; how they spent their days foraging for fruit and mushrooms, offering half to the shrines of their great gods, the Moonwell and the Tree of Fragrance. Their days were far from peaceful, however, as control over the shrines was a manner of power, and the question of who had this power was a constant struggle.

Today, an agreement between the states of X’ao-Hwah prevent anyone from exerting direct control over these sites, but Fragrance potentially had the manpower and technological edge over their neighbours.

… And now, a divine mandate.

Approaching steps brought him out of his bubble of thought and he turned to see his son. The young boy Turmerick gingerly entered into the king’s room, holding one of his wrists with his hand. The king clicked his acknowledgement. “My son - is it time?”

Turmerick clicked a yes. “Rach Rose and the rest are waiting, father.” He paused and looked down, pibbling small mick, mick, mick noises on the very tip of his pursed lips. “Are… Are you sure I can’t go with?”

“Absolutely, my son,” the king replied with a stern vent of air through his nostrils. “Slaying those possessed by xweh-bach is no task for a young prince.” He eyed the doorway behind them. “Go see to your mother and sister - ask if there is anything you can help them with.”

“But father, I--”

“It is a -king’s- duty to lay waste to the enemy. The prince’s is to learn. Now go do that very duty, and I will do mine.”

A deathly quiet moment passed before Turmerick left. The king looked back at the sword on its mount. It is a king’s duty to lay waste to the enemy, his father had told him. Safron hadn’t finished the quote, however: ... and to empower his people. Empower… He looked out between the now-open awnings they used to roof the half of his room that was outside the cave part. The light of the moon winked temptatiously at him. He recalled the single condition for accepting the blade: ”Use it,” one of them had spoken. He narrowed his eyes at the moon, and the awesome colours that danced around it seemed to speak to him: All you have to do is to reach out and take it, it spoke to him.

The king rose up, retrieved the sword from the mount and stormed out of the room. Outside of the palace entrance, rach Rose and a warband of fifty nelves sat atop baqualos, their bodies painted with blindingly radiant, organic curves and shapes of sun ink. None of them seemed at all comfortable with the arrangement, but it was better to suffer temporarily and live than to die an agonising death at the hands of a vampire. The warriors bowed upon seeing the king and rach Rose spoke, “Ah, great son of the moon - we are eager to receive your blessing so that we may--”

“Belay that, rach Rose. I’m coming with you. Laurel, fetch me sun ink and harness.”

The warriors exchanged looks and the rach droned in bewilderment. “G-great son of the moon, surely, your life is much too dear to--”

“I will lead this skirmish, rach,” the king commanded as the druid Laurel approached as hastily as she could, blinded as she was behind layers of linen blindfolds. In her hands, she held a bowl which, even through layers upon layers of cloth and leather, still managed to emit a small, radiant glow. Rach Rose clicked his tongue in disapproval as the druid uncovered the bowl, dipped her hands into what everyone within the area experienced as a small window into a burning day, and started painting the king’s bare torso and legs with long, gibbounian lines.

“With all due respect, great son of the moon, we believe it would be best for you to remain. The seers say, after all: The wise send men in their stead so that they may lead another day. Please, allow us to--”

“The seers have been wrong before.” Laurel, who was currently painting his chest, let out a sharp tsk. The king noted her reaction with a click, but didn’t comment on it. “The weapon granted to my house is unblooded. Its use is paramount.”

“Does the great son of the moon know how to use it?” the rach commented somewhat snarkily. The king scoffed sharply.

“Watch your tongue, rach Rose. I am your king.”

The nobleman scrunched his nose. “Of course. Forgive my outburst, great son of the moon.”

The king sucked on a tooth and closed his eyes before the bright light of his war paints. The druid Laurel eventually drew back and hummed. “It’s done, great son of the moon.” The king stole a look downwards and instantly regretted it. He snapped his fingers and one of the servants came over with a blindfold, which he tied about his eyes. His shoulders and body were dressed in light clothing and just enough furs to keep warm, but not enough to smudge the ink. He was brought a baqualo with large baskets on each side with supplies, mounted it and spoke, “We ride!” With that, the king set off northwards, trailed by his war party.

---

Monsax was a four day ride from Fragrance, but it felt like a month to the king. Thoughts of the possibilities for his people if only they grew mightier and more powerful ravaged and clawed at his mind. He knew that his companions knew - more than once had he caught them grinning back at him, though no necessarily for the same reason as him. Sure, they all wanted Fragrance to grow greater and stronger, but they also knew well how the laws of land distribution worked in their society: If you claimed a piece of land and the previous owner didn’t refute the claim, for one reason or another, it was rightfully yours. Of course, killing someone over their land was taboo - it would lead to the blood sickness, after all, not to mention the death of a Night Elf! Therefore, Fragrancians, as well as the other Nelves of Sso-Hwah, followed a sort of unspoken rule: If you wanted someone’s land, you would threaten them off it rather than outright kill them to take it. If they refused to budge, you would send someone else to do the job in your stead.

The prince of Monsax, however, had failed to understand the purpose of that rule…

They arrived at the dawn of the fourth day. Monsax was by no means a town the size of Fragrance, but it had palisade walls and a population larger than many - at least in the two hundreds. It laid nestling up against the canyon wall, much like their home, but seemed to have built stairs up along the wall to reach softer rock to dig caves in. They otherwise lived in huts of wood and mud, and the entire village was silent as the grave. The party quickly found themselves a cave and laid their plans:

“Rach Rose, you will take Camo and Mile around the cover of the wall - see if you can climb over it. Hemp, you, Mon and Elberry will circle around the other side. I will take the rest to the main gate and call him out.”

The nobleman blew some hot air, but clicked in acknowledgement. “As you wish, great son of the moon.”

They all assumed their positions and laid in waiting. The king drew a deep breath, clicked for the others to cover their ears as he covered his own and he shouted, “Prisoners of the demon king! I am king Safron of Fragrance! If there are any of you left, open this gate and come out! We are here to liberate you from the tyrant who murdered his father!”

The town was silent. Safron and his escort approached the gate. Upon closer inspection, it wasn’t even bolted close, and an open smidge allowed for passage through. The warriors followed their king inside, where they were met by ghost town. The dirt road streets, formed naturally by traffic rather than actual labour of infrastructure, showed clearly the debris of struggle and panic - broken pottery, spillage of oils and fluids, week-old corpses and sunbaked trails of blood caked the spaces between the empty houses. The king swallowed.

“There could still be survivors. Search every house for any signs of life. I will reconvene with the rach.”

“A-alone, my king?” asked one of the warriors worriedly. The other clicked in equal disapproval. The king scoffed.

“Finding survivors to join us in the main goal of this mission.”

“Still, we should make certain that--”

A shadow too swift for anyone to see jumped out from inside an alley and cut open one of the warrior’s throat, a fountain of crimson turned black by the nightsky flushing out and spraying down his companions. The nelves took just too long to realise what had happened and another one among them was snatched into the darkness by the same shadow, screaming all the way.

“R-run!” shouted the king in an untrained voice and the remaining warriors scattered to the wind. “No, stick together!” the king continued and bit his teeth together at the pain of his own voice. The warriors were lost in panic, however - he could only pray that the rach had heard him.

Another squeal. He turned the corner and melt a small squad of ten, all of whom pointed their javelins at him the second their eyes met. “Hold your spears - it’s me!” Just as he finished talking, however, the shadow charged into the farawaymost flank of the squad, instantly gutting two javelineers. The king snarled as the squad broke apart and began to scatter. He grabbed one of them by the throat and said, “Get back in line and kill this monster!”

“No way! This was a suicide mission! I ain’t dying for this!” the warrior whispered harshly back, slapped away the king’s arm and ran for the gate.

“You coward!” Safron roared after him and turned to inspect his other soldiers. While some attempted to reform their ranks, the vampire bowled them down the instant they readied to throw, breaking them apart again. Quickly - much too quickly - the forces were whittled down until the king, too, was forced to retreat, under the cover of javelins coming from behind improvised barricades by the gate. In his rage, he gripped one of the javelineers and whispered sharply, “Where is the rach?! Have you seen the rach?!”

“No, great moonson!” the warrior replied faithfully and tossed another javelin. The king gripped the hilt of his blade.

“It knows about the sun ink, no doubt. Form a cactus and wait for it to come to us! It might impale itself upon our spears.” The soldiers did as ordered and formed a ring, thrusting their spears out in front of them. There, they waited. They waited for a long time. Nothing came. The king felt sweat condense on his forehead. “Steady, steady…” Still, nothing came. The soldier’s stances began to falter, both from fatigue and the morale shock of the blood and guts of their comrades pooling in the street. There eventually came a gentle hum from the street, and slowly, the shade came strolling nonchalantly towards the soldiers.

“A thousand corpses drowned in mud,
Coloured black by earth and blood -
Now grab your comrades, hand in hand,
And run away from Amon’s land.”

The shadow chuckled. “Like it? I wrote that myself!”

One panicking warrior squealed, leaned back and tossed his spear at the shadow, who danced out of the way with ease. The panic spread, causing many more to hurl their weapons at the vampire, who continued to dodge them as though they were feathers on the wind. “Woah, there, is that a way to treat an artist?”

“Save your spears, men!” the king whispered again as the warriors who had javelins left began to distribute them to their companions. “Prince Amon - why have you done this to your father’s kingdom? Our people were close and--”

“Oh, please - Monsax was seen by Fragrance as a barbaric lump of rock and clay without civilisation. Do not come here and spout that sort of airy nonsense.” He gave one of his bloody hands a lick. “Your people were never interested in us, and the only reason you’re here is to opportunistically steal away my subjects whom you have looked upon as dirt for so many years. Well, think again, king Safron - you will not have a single Monsaxian join your ranks tonight.”

“Because you killed them all, didn’t you?”

“No, not all of them - most of them got away, really. Tell you what - if you manage to kill me, I will tell you which way they went.” He looked down at the corpses in the street. “However, I think I already have proven my ruthlessness - how about I show my mercy this time?” He hissed sweetly. “Everyone except king Safron may leave. Go home to your families, live another century. Don’t waste your lives following a foolish king.”

King Safron snarled. “Don’t listen to him, warriors - you are the pride of Fragrance; the pride of your king - and I-- h-hey, wait!”

The formation buckled immediately. The remaining twenty-seven warriors who had encircled their king all fled south, back towards Fragrance, leaving king Safron stranded in the mouth of Monsax’ gate. Amon snickered as he placed a hand on Safron’s shoulder.

“Wow, I did -not- actually expect that to happen! I knew they were scared, but oh my.” His fingers squeezed until the king’s shoulder began to snap. The king fell to his knees with pained whimpers. “Oh, grow up, Safron - what, you’ve never experienced hopelessness before? No, of course, you haven’t. You’ve always been on top of everyone else - just like the rest of Fragrance.”

The vampire released and the king gripped his broken bones. “W-why? Why do you choose this way of, of sin and death? You know this is unsustainable! You will die!”

“I would’ve died either way, Safron. I would rather know true power for a few years than slave under the heel of my father for one century, then your kingdom’s the next. If I die in a year, I would not regret it for a second - I have made a name for myself, and all of the Land of Great Shade fear king Amon of Monsax.” He picked up the king by the fur around his neck and burrowed his fist into his abdomen. Safron vomited up blood and brought a quivering hand to the wound. Amon snickered. “N’aaaw, shame it had to end this way. Who’s next in line now? What was your son’s name again? Was it Cinna? No, no, no, he got banished, that’s right. Then there’s just Turmerick left, hmm?”

The king’s eyes flared and he unsheathed his sword with the quivering hand. The vampire eyed it with a raised brow. “Woah, that’s a pretty one. Let me guess - it’s made of gold? Okay, okay, okay, I’ve always wanted to try this. I’ll give you one swing - one swing, so make it count - you aim for my head. I won’t dodge, promise.” He put the king down, who staggered weakly. Amon restabilised him. “Woah, woah, don’t lose your balance, my king. Okay, take your swing.”

Safron drew deep, dying breaths. He wouldn’t last much longer - so much remained unsaid. If only he could have seen his family first - offered them his final orders before… He sharpened his gaze and, with his limited strength, lifted the sword and swung horizontally at the vampire’d head.

Clang!

Safron looked up and saw Amon nonchalantly gripping the blade of the sword with his teeth. He snickered, and Safron felt his final shreds of hope dissipating. ”Ee-ee ‘oo, ah? O’ys ‘uan’hed ‘oo ‘ai ‘aching a ‘eh’on ‘ih ‘ai ‘ee’h. ‘Wa ih.” However, as he bit, the metal didn’t budge. Amon frowned and bit down some more. The metal did not even bulk. Frustrated, he gnawed so hard that there came a snap - then more snaps. Before either of them could figure out what was happening, Amon’s bite broke all his teeth and the vampire staggered backwards, clutching his bleeding mouth. A single gaze was exchanged between the two of them before king Safron swung again, this time taking the vampire’s head. Amon fell over dead in the sand, and the king, too, fell to the ground. His breath became heavy - too heavy. He touched the deep wound in his belly. It barely stung, his body too weak to sense pain anymore. All he felt was cold.

“Oh, that’s unfortunate,” came a voice. The king couldn’t move his eyes anymore, but something about the voice seemed familiar. A tickling sensation and scraping noise revealed that he was being relieved of his sword. “We’ll bring this back to the prince. Bring the king’s corpse. King Safron died valiantly in battle against a blood demon.”

“What about the prince?”

“Leave him to us. Monsax is under our control now, and if we’re lucky, the newly crowned king will require someone to oversee it. This might spell promotions for all of us, dear friends.”

There came a series of snickers and the voices faded to collect materials for a stretcher. Ah… So that’s how it was. Well, what should he have expected? He died for nothing and relieved his town of twenty-three good men and women. This was a suitable fate for him. With that, he drew his final breath.

Sumsum!

Safron dreams of conquest after receiving the sword. He decides to lead the vampire purge mission to Monsax, but when they get there, it seems the vampire’s much harder to kill than they thought. Half their forces die before the vampire offers the rest of them to run if they leave their king behind. They do and the vampire mortally wounds Safron. However, in a feat of arrogance, the vampire tries to break his weapon with his teeth, which unbeknownst to him is impossible due to its divine strength. The vampire breaks his teeth and Safron kill it in the following confusion. Then as Safron’s dying, he hears others come over and talk about how they gonna milk his death for all it’s worth. Safron then dies.

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Blood for Blood

---

Twenty-five years after Antiquity...

“RANDAAAALL! NOOOOO-HO-Hoooo!”

The mangled corpse of the large, mustached man laid molested in the bloody grass, flanked by the equally slain bodies of his brothers Stein and Craigh. Beside the giant knelt the druid Gene, clutching the limp head of her husband in her arms. Their sons and daughters held his hands, tears and snot wetting their faces and whimpers and gasps gagging their throats. The entire village had gathered around, which had over doubled in size since its foundation. The great sorrow spread throughout like a sickness, and soon, every pair of eyes experienced a terrible deluge.

“What has happened here?!” came the thundering voice of Kaer Teagan, daughter of the late Kaer Mihr. The crowd parted as the archdruid approached the corpse and laid a hand on Kaer Gene’s shoulder. “Who did this?”

“I-... I, I don’t know, he, he, he… Oh, gods…” the woman wept and laid her hand against his cold, ravaged torso. Gene’s brother, a farmer named Arilt, stepped forth, his grim visage matching the blue tartans of his family.

“We found them like this in the meadow… There were signs of a struggle, and all the sheep they had been herding were stolen.” He took to his belt, taking out a broken half of a bone figurine, holding it out to Kaer Teagan. “This was found on the battlefield…”

The archdruid took the shard and gave it a lookover, her eyes widening as she did. “This is no figurine of Dûnan make… No, this… This is…” She held it up for the crowd around them to see. “Our beloved Randall, Stein and Craigh were not taken by wolves or bandits, people of Ha-Dûna!” The crowd gasped.

“Then, then who, Kaer Teagan?!”

The archdruid grit her teeth. “Look! Look upon it - its markings and crevices! This, this was cut by Glaennon hands!”

“Gleannon?!” came multiple outraged shouts. Those of gaardskarl blood, in particular, looked to the frothing at the corners of their mouths, faces stained red from tears taking on a darker shade of rage and tartan cloaks waving violently as their wearers stomped furiously at the ground. The archdruid nodded and snarled loudly.

“Such treachery! Our people have always been at peace with the town of Gleann over Risenberg - not once have we lifted the hatchet with evil intent.” There came an outraged “yeah!” from every mouth. “But it seems our kind-heartedness has made us naïve and weak in the eyes of our so-called friends. This act of aggression -must- be answered!”

“Eye for an eye! Life for a life!” chanted parts of the crowd. Others began to shrink back, frowns filling with worry.

“In hours like these, brothers and sisters, the stone god Boris is unrockable - the sea god Claroon, unrelenting! We must be like the avalanche - like the storm - and strike back with breaking force! Take axe; take spear; take bow; take shield! We will make the Gleannon pay for their betrayal!”

A small, but powerful voice broke through the following warcries as both men and women brandished whatever tools they were carrying with bloodthirsty fervour. It spoke, “But wait!” and the crowd quieted down to face an elderly druid - not an archdruid, but well respected among the people of Ha-Dûna. Kaer Logan, daughter of Kaer Pinya, continued once she had acquired their attention: “The sun goddess does not condone violence in any form, my brothers and sisters - if we go to war without consulting her, it could very well spell the end of our favour with her.”

The crowd exchanged looks before looking back at Kaer Teagan, who scowled at her subordinate. “Are you defying the word of an archdruid, Kaer Logan?”

The old lady blinked. “If preaching the word of Reiya is considered defiance, then--”

“Be quiet!” came a scream from the ground and the crowd turned to look down at Kaer Gene, many years Kaer Logan’s junior, but with a face with rage that could age stone. There came gasps as they all realised the transgression she had made in treating her elder as such, but weighing it against the stress of her loss made no one comment on it further. Kaer Gene arose, flanked by her and Randall’s children, all of whom kept the same gazes overflowing with a thirst for vengeance. “The sun goddess preaches peace, that is correct, but what peace is there is allowing those we have known to be harmless neighbours to slay our loved ones unchecked?!”

The crowds growled in agreement. Kaer Logan shrunk together as disapproving glares fell upon her. Kaer Gene pointed her staff at her and shouted, “I will not stand by while our husbands and sons are taken from their wives and mothers by brigands and barbarians who roam and raid in -our- lands without a care in the world! The Gleannon will pay!”

“LIFE FOR A LIFE! BLOOD FOR BLOOD!” chanted the crowds and Kaer Teagan brought Kaer Gene in for a tight hug. Kaer Logan was pushed and chased back into town with insults and mockery.

“My daughter,” Kaer Teagan spoke quietly to her through the chants. “I cannot overstate how sorry I am on your behalf…” She gently kissed her subordinate’s forehead. “... You are absolutely right. In this case, the sun goddess is bound to see reason and sanction, nay, bless our retaliation against our foe. Understand, my daughter, that this murder - this crime - must be answered tenfold.”

Kaer Gene nodded. “What must I do?”

Kaer Teagan looked to the still chanting crowd. “Take as many as will come with you. Go to Gleann and slay anyone who dares resist you. They will without a doubt do the same to us if given the chance. If we retaliate now with full force, they will not expect it.” She leaned in a little closer. “Pacify those who surrender peacefully, and make certain not to burn any fields nor granaries, and leave any livestock you find alive. When resistance has been crushed, take the town for Ha-Dûna.” Kaer Gene’s expression seemed to falter with uncertainty, but Kaer Teagan took her softly by the chin and gently lifted it up so their eyes met. “Only then, my daughter, can your beloved Randall’s spirit be truly avenged.”

Kaer Gene’s nostrils flared and her brow darkened. “Yes, Kaer Teagan. It shall be done.” The archdruid hugged her again.

“Do this, and your and Randall’s sons and daughters will want for nothing. The archdruids will see to that - in memory of the man who could bring a smile to any face.”

Kaer Gene began to tear up again and dug her face into Kaer Teagan’s shoulder. “Thank you, sage of sages - thank you!”

---

“It went as planned, then?”

“Even better, actually. Young Gene took the death of her husband and in-laws with a heavier heart than expected. She personally leads our forces as we speak, actually.”

“Very good, very good. And you’re certain they will remember not to damage their supplies? Our granaries will be empty come midsummer if they are lost.”

“I am aware - you don’t have to remind me all the time. No, I am confident that they will obey. With Gleann’s farmlands and harvests, the sun-blessed women of Ha-Dûna can continue to boundlessly bring new life into this world in honour of great Reiya and her daughter Lucia.”

“Indeed… Say, what is next beyond Gleann?”

There came a chuckle. “Why, that list is quite long, actually…”

---

The very next day, a ragtag band of one hundred furious Dûnans armed with spears, axes, bows and clubs all thundered across the hills of Risenberg, bearing down on the small village of Gleann on the other side. Its villagers had not expected an assault. As the warriors descended the hillside, improvised militia charged uphill to meet them; however, before they could begin to climb, the earth swallowed their feet and broke their charge completely. Roots sprang out of the ground and wrapped themselves around their throats, snapping necks like they were twigs. The Dûnan druids leveled the low palisade walls of the inner village with devastating landslides, and warriors poured in by the tens, bashing in skulls and fertilising the ground with the blood of villagers. Tartan cloaks were all red on this day, as corpses were stacked high and buildings were looted until barely the skeletons were left. Even local druids that tried to stop the slaughter were cut down. As ordered, the crops, granaries, smokehouses, animal pens and other food-related infrastructure were all spared; however, the number of prisoners was likely much lower than Kaer Teagan had expected. No matter, however.

The Dûnan Conquests had achieved their first victory.

SUM!

25 years later! Gene’s husband Randall and two of his brothers have been murdered! Dûnans demand blood, so Kaer Teagan, daughter of Kaer Mihr, says they will have blood by raiding the culprits, Gleannon, across the hills! Kaer Pinya’s daughter, Kaer Logan, says violance ain’t the way, man, and gets shut down by vengeance thirsty Gene. Teagan tells Gene to kill whoever resists and spare the crops. The murders are then revealed to be part of a plan to get Gleann’s crops. The village is thoroughly raided and is now under Dûnan control. The Dûnan conquests are a go, baby!

Prestige

Circle of the Long Stride - 8,3k characters. 12 prestigios + 4 = 16.

The Fading Light of V'landriel: An Industrial Fantasy RP [Like a phoenix from the ashes we rise!]

---

A Letter in the Night

Time: 17th of March, 634 AC (4907 YDC) - 02:11 in the night.
Location: Amshadr, the Red City - the Red Gates.

---

Oil braziers flared on the battlements of the Red Gates. Arquebusiers of the city watch flowed lethargically from tower to tower, the vibrant city life finally crawling away from the night markets and back into the cracks and crevices below loosely referred to as streets. The city was rarely quiet, but for a few hours when the night was darkest, its citizens could enjoy a warming, soothing taste of absolute peace.

Tonight, however, the guards were not granted any such tranquility. Down by the gate, Ali Sahed, a barrel of a man clad in the pompous, cumbersome uniform of the city watch, supporting his snoring body on his trusty arquebus, was suddenly awoken in a start by the approach of cloven feet. The rhythm told him it had to be a camel, soft pads slapping against the floor of Sentinel Bridge over the Nahr before the gate. The rider soon appeared as a shadow among dimming braziers - robed and turbaned, hunched and bobbing with exhaustion. Ali blinked and followed standard procedure, picking up his arquebus and holding it ready, though not pointing it the stranger. He spoke, “Who goes there?!” and watched the stranger raise a quivering hand.

“Peace of Aziz upon you - don’t shoot! I bring news from the north - news for His Leadership, sheikh Said!” By now, the guards atop the wall had noticed, too, and standard procedure was followed there, too, guns peeking over the battlements at the approaching stranger. Ali frowned.

“That’s very good, sir. Hand over the message and we will have it delivered to the stewards by tomorrow.”

The courier slowed his camel’s approach and brought it into the light. The brazier illuminated a red-dusted face with an unkempt black froth of a beard. His hands were blistered from the reins and his eyes were crusted with sand. Even though he had ridden, he panted as though he had ran the distance himself. He shook his head. “Please understand, brother - this message is -only- for the sheikh. I beg of you to give me entry into the city.”

Ali sharpened his frown. “Brother, I understand that you may wish to see the sheikh - I do, too, sometimes, in hopes that he will raise me and my comrades’ salaries by another ten sahels. But--”

“This isn’t something trivial like a plea for monetary support! Please, let me pass!” urged the stranger and Ali scoffed, bringing up the nose of his arquebus. Clicks sounded from the battlements above, as well.

“I don’t think you understand the situation, ‘brother’. It’s the middle of the night, and the sheikh does not want to hear you yapping about your lost goats. Now find yourself an inn or something and wait until the morning.”

The stranger grit his teeth and looked up at the top of the wall. “Allow me then at least to speak to your commander.”

Ali lowered his gun, rolled his eyes and let out a sharp tch. “... You’re asking me to wake up the captain?” After a brief moment of consideration and another visual scan of the stranger’s shape, Ali pulled out a white handkerchief, turned upwards to the battlements and gave it a wave. A symphony of clicks accompanied the disappearance of arquebuses behind the edge of the wall and the guardsman turned to the stranger. “Wait here.” He then stepped over to the gate, fiddled out a key and opened a small door in the larger door, stepping through it.

Nearly an hour passed, and the stranger grew restless. He had dismounted his camel, which was now nibbling on the potted plants lining the Sentinel Bridge walls. He would look up at the battlements intermittently, being met by shadowed faces staring back down. Had the city always been on edge like this?

At last, the door in the door sounded a creak and out came Ali followed by a lazily uniformed, pot-bellied officer with a brow so low it was a wonder that he saw anything at all. The commander offered the stranger a scoff for a greeting and muttered, “Well?”

The stranger swallowed and bowed. “Peace of Aziz upon you, master. Forgive me for asking you to come out this late--”

“You are damned right it’s late!” thundered the officer in response. “I will have you whipped if this is a prank of sorts, by Aziz, this I swear!”

“Duly noted, duly noted,” the stranger replied and bowed lower. “Please, I beg of you, great master - I must see the sheikh! It’s a matter of life and--”

“The sheikh is asleep.”

“I am aware, master - your subordinate told me as much.”

“Then why haven’t you left? What in the world can be so urgent that you, a faceless nobody, who comes to -my- city in the middle of the bloody night, have to see the sheikh? Are we facing an invasion?”

The stranger grit his teeth. “Master, please, if--”

The officer turned back to the door. “Sergeant Sahed, see this man to the nearest inn. Don’t bother to pay for his room.”

“We might!” shouted the stranger finally. The officer stopped and sighed.

“We might what, exactly?”

The stranger swallowed. “... We might be facing an invasion.”

The officer remained facing the door. Ali turned slowly to the stranger, who spoke, “My name is Khazim Homai… I’ve ridden from the fortress in Shoog with urgent news for the sheikh. You must let me see him - otherwise, we may all be doomed by the time the year is over.”

The officer slowly turned back around and exchanged looks with Ali. On the battlements, the crowd had returned. Khazim sighed at his failure, but at least now he had their attention. The officer nervously righted the tall, leaning, cylindrical officer’s hat atop his head and dragged two fingers down his chin. “I must beg your forgiveness, brother Homai. I jumped to conclusions and assumed your intentions were otherwise.” He bowed curtly. “I am Akbar ibn Shaykhir, commander of the Amshadr city watch. Please, come with me.” He entered through the door in the gate and Khazim followed, towing his camel behind him.

---

Time: 17th of March, 634 AC (4907 YDC) - 03:52 in the night.
Location: Amshadr, the Red City - The Royal Palace, reception hall.

---

The young sheikh Said abd al-Aziz ibn Fawzi gave his groggy eyes each a thorough rub. He would never get used to this job, he felt - his father had left him with too much to clean up, and now rumours of invasion were on the horizon. He had barely had time to get dressed before his servants and advisors had plopped him into his quia and had a dirty courier plant his unwashed feet on the floor of his fathers. The sheikh felt the acid of ennuie build up in his veins, but if this man had defied his watch and advisors to bring news to him, he either had no love for life or came in genuine interest of preserving the sheikhdom. The courier looked confused upon seeing him, but quickly cast himself to the ground before the sheikh and spoke, “B-blessings of Aziz be upon you, great sheikh of the four tribes of men. F-forgive me, I must not have heard of your father’s passing. I know it’s not in my place to say, but… Your father was a great man and you have my condolences.”

The sheikh frowned and rolled his eyes. “Yes, yes, that’ll do. Your thoughts and prayers are appreciated. Now, will you explain to me why you have pulled us out of our bed - us, your sheikh and master?”

Khazim swallowed. “Of, of course, sultan of sand and stone. I bring word from the garrison in Shoog - I have ridden for a month to inform his gloriness about the activities of the Zikomel… And a new force.”

The sheikh sucked in a breath. “Get to the point, messenger. Tell us about this new force.”

“They call themselves the… The Unbroken Host, great sheikh.”

The advisors exchanged glances and the sheikh narrowed his eyes. “You came all the way here to tell me that?”

Khazim blinked. “Master, I’m not sure I--”

The sheikh waved. “We have known about the Host for months. They are of no concern to us. The Zikomel and the other barbarians in the north have always skirmished and raided amongst one another - ever since the beginning of time. With the exception of the Jamal all those centuries ago, not once have they moved south on the warpath, and never will they again.”

Khazim shook his head in disbelief. “... B-but great sheikh, this time it’s--”

“Oh, it’s different now, is it? Have they made a move on the garrison in Shoog?”

“W-well, no, but--”

“Have they raided the homes of our subjects yet?”

“Not yet, but--”

“Are their armies gathering on our borders?”

Khazim’s head fell forward in defeat. “N-no, great sheikh.” Sheikh Said rubbed his forehead and let out a sigh.

“To think that you came all this way to tell us that the barbarians are at each other’s throats again… You may leave.” As guards came to collect Khazim, a flash passed through his eyes and the courier exclaimed:

“A new faith has arisen among the tribes of Samermek!”

The sheikh held up a hand and the guards stopped. “... A faith? What sort of faith?”

Khazim nodded. “The scouts in Shoog report whispers of allegiance to a foreign God-Seer, one of immense power and wisdom. We think they are related to the Unbroken Host.”

Said frowned and leaned over to one of his advisors, who whispered into his ear. The sheikh sighed again. “Oh, yes, the God-Seer of the Unbroken Host. We have heard of him, but assumed that he was no more than a pest in a distant land. However, if the garrison commander at Shoog believes the spreading of his faith to be destabilising to the region, then we will send missionaries northwards to correct their schisms.”

The guards seized Khazim’s arms and the courier spoke, “Great sheikh, I don’t think--”

“No, -we- don’t think you should be here anymore. You have utterly wasted our time with useless warnings of threats that are nothing compared to our nation’s current situation. We are trying to rule a country of millions with a billion different mindsets, and your naïve, paranoid observations of gnolls and pig people across the border are nothing less than irrelevant. Captain, find him a cell where he can spend the night.”

The rightmost guard nodded and Khazim was dragged out of the room, all the while shouting, “Great sheikh! Please!”

Once his yelling faded into nothingness, the young Said squeezed the bridge of his nose and groaned. One of his advisors knelt down next to him. “With all due respect, great sheikh, the royal coffers cannot afford to supply a mission to the tribes of the north. They are too spread out and our men will require higher wages to hire in the sowing season.”

Said nodded. “Thank you for your wisdom, emir Mamun. We will wait until the dry season to move northwards. For now, we will return to rest. Tomorrow, we will once more plan the delegation to Al Rawiya.”

Emir Mamum al-Saltan nodded: “As you wish, great sheikh.”

Divinus: The God RP, Mk. IV

Gibbou

---

Nothing beat a nice cup of tea and a soft beanbag in the night - and considering it was always night in Gibbou’s realm, that was saying quite a lot. The night elves down below had been the first to come up with this idea - tea, particularly in the aftermid hours between one and two glasses after midnight. While they didn’t have much in the way of biscuits (not in Fragrance, anyway; Naomalheb was a different story), the moon goddess preferred her tea alongside an overfilled plate of butter biscuits. The sweet, buttery taste complemented perfectly the floral aroma of the tea, and the warm fluid washed away the greasy remnants of the cookie upon the next sip. A match made in heaven - on her moon, which was in heaven. She filled with pride at her pioneering capabilities - first sunplate and now cookies and tea. What could possibly ruin this evening?

As it so happened, her duty called, perhaps in the most literal sense. A shout blasted through her mind, backed soon up by a multitude of others.

“By the moons! There’s too many!”

“Curse this moonless night!”

“Stand fast! The gods watch over us!”

Gibbou kicked herself to her feet, spilling her place of cookies all over the floor in her hurry to the windows of her dome. She stared down at the source of the pleas - a small outpost in the Northern Highlands. She set down her teacup and conjured forth a model of the area with moon dust, observing small dust figures barricading themselves against a washing horde of other, more vile-looking figures. Boy, had these come up a lot lately in people’s prayers.

”Ugh… Iskrill…” she muttered and gave one of them a closer look to analyse its components: horns, claws, inhuman joints and an evident thirst for anything resembling manflesh. She shook her head. ”... And people keep berating me for vampires… Sheesh…” She clapped herself lightly on the cheek. ”No, Gibbou, focus! Goddess of protection now - goddess of protection!” She took a deep breath and focused in on the centre of the outpost.

---

The outpost was a small thing. A single stone tower, and a smaller building, surrounded by a wooden palisade. It was positioned atop a hill which overlooked the nearby Neiyar River. The twenty or so defenders now busied themselves to the task of fortifying the gate and arming themselves.

A female mage in armoured robes seemed to be leading them, not much older than thirty. A pair of small horns sprouted from her head. “I’ve served at here for five years!” she shouted defiantly. “It has not fallen before. By Cadien and Neiya, it will not fall tonight!”

At least thirty iskrill advanced up the hill, having disembarked from a series of crude canoes. They were armed with equally crude weapons, made of copper, stone, and even bone. They let out war cries in their unintelligible tongue as they ascended.

A small sliver in the clouds above parted suddenly and a beam of moonlight struck the ground like a lightning bolt. A cloud of smoke exploded outwards, and as the light receded, a voice spoke in the heads of the defenders: ”Worry no longer, sons and daughters of Cadien, for the Moon shall see to it that you will experience a peaceful night once more.” The smoke dissipated, revealing a large pile of armour, a full set of breastplates, helmets, bracers, shin protectors and studded leather skirts for each soldier in the camp. Next to that pile was another stack, this one providing every soldier with a large, round shield. However, while they had much the similar form, these items didn’t have that golden sheen of their Acadian armour, no… These were silvery and heavier.

This was steel.

The soldiers stared at it in astonishment. “Neiya has sent us aid,” one of them whispered in awe.

There came another crackle from above and the clouds parted again, this time burning down at the pile of armour and shields and branding every breastplate and buckler with a pale, white disk in the centre. ”This gift is not of Neiya, mortals - she hasn’t lifted a finger in your defense! This is the boon of Gibbou, your eternal defender in the night!” There was a pause for effect. ”Mistake us not again!”

The mage looked almost offended at the assertion that Neiya had not helped them, but the rest of the soldiers were more pragmatic, and hastened to remove their old armour in favour of the new. Shields and breastplates were cast aside, in favour of the stronger, heavier steel. There was not enough time to fully clad themselves in the new armour, but everyone managed to get most of it on, just as the first iskrill poked its head over the wall.

Rather than simply break through the gate, the iskrill had opted to instead use their talons to dig into the wood and climb. Now they poured over the palisade, landing on their feet and surging forward to meet the defenders. The mage shouted a command. A line of spears was formed, and the battle was joined.

The Iskrill came, and the Acadians killed them, as countless generations had done before them. The mage lashed out with fire and flame, while the soldiers skewered them with well-aimed spear thrusts. Some did manage to get past the spear-tips, but their weapons were rendered useless against the new armour. The Acadians fought on, until at last, their hated foes were forced to retreat.

They had not lost a single warrior.

Up above, Gibbou clapped her hands as though they were dusty and nodded. Not bad, not bad - they had known what to do and done it well, surviving without a single loss. Seems that steel was more effective than she had thought - immensely powerful against stone and copper. She conjured forth a steel breastplate and mounted it on a stick on the other side of her room. She then conjured forth a bow and arrow, the arrow being tipped with bone. She drew the bow and loosed upon the plate, the arrow tip snapping against the metal. She tried again with a copper tip. At first, it bounced off, but straighter shots helped it hit the target perfectly, Gibbou finding a deep dent in the plate afterwards. She saw that the arrowtip also had been pressed into a clump, however. With bronze, the result was similar, but this arrow penetrated the armour, killing the metaphorical person inside. Same with iron and steel.

The plate was weak to ranged attacks if they hit it dead on; however, much would bounce off if the angle wasn’t right. This was valuable knowledge.

Still, if the world was to be armoured and ready for the onslaught of the forces of evil. She would create a factory of armour, one that could provide the mortal world with the necessary means to withstand all manner of attacks. This factory would have to be moving, too, so the enemy couldn’t simply capture the place it was located and deprive mortality of its goods. It would also have to travel across the entire world, because mortality was in danger all over. She clapped her hands together and focused down on the World Anchor.

---

The mountains thundered as though it was the Day of the Sword again. Inside its many caves, the Cragking Thunder and his two sons were debating over what it could be - surely there were still ten years or so left until the usual quakes! But as the quakes stopped, it became clear that these were no usual tremors. At the foot of the mountain, where crags meet forest, a colossal female mallard, at least twenty metres tall, spread its wings and unleashed a thunderous “QUACK-QUACK-QUACK!” that boomed out across the forest. It had a coat of rusty iron feathers, between which was dow of spun steel; its beak was a trunk of bronze, containing more of the alloy than many villages; its feel were made of brass, an alloy so rare to these lands that one had to wonder if it had even been made. The Maillard dug its beak under its right wing, sating an itch with metallic scratches. Then, it squatted down for a minute, shaking some shudders out of its head. When it rose back up, a stone egg had been planted on the ground under it. It cracked and the top, breaking open to reveal…

A copper shin protector.

The Maillard looked at it with what could’ve been a proud smile. Then, it turned westwards, waddling its way towards the Prairie and the sea. Its circumventure of the world was about to begin.

Sumsum!

Gib chill out. See Acads get smacked by Icecreams. Give Arcades steel armour. They think it Neigh gib dem, Gib say no, is Gib. They win against Ismaels. Gib feel smart, make armour factory. Is a mallard, but it armoured so call it Maillard, GEDDIT?! Post ends.

MP Spendage

Gibbou 0MP/3DP
-1DP: Provide the garrison with a one-time gift beyond their technological capability: 20 full sets of steel armour with a shield to boot. Armour appearance is like this, only silvery steel instead of golden bronze. +1 to Armour port, ending up at ⅗.
-2DP: Create a single beast: The Maillard - A colossal duck with a beak of bronze, a body clad in iron feathers and feet of brass. Travelling around the world, it will lay an egg somewhere randomly once a month, which will hatch into one piece of armour made of a random metal. This can be anything from copper to stellar steel, and either a single boot or a full breastplate, depending on how lucky one is. +2 to Armour port, ending up at 5/5.
Gibbou end: 0MP/0DP