babbysama

Int Check - A Forgotten Village

Love the concept, I was actually thinking of doing something similar, albeit with a plague aspect to it and set in Siberia lol.

Count me interested!

I, Arabicus: A story of Rome and the rise of Islam

@RisenDead *gasp* A new player! Welcome!

Colonial Twilight

@AmongHeroes Thanks! Yours was very interesting as well.

Colonial Twilight

Nation Name

The Resplendent Kingdom of Celocombo

Pre-Colonial and Current Descriptions

Pre-Colonial Description

Celocombo lies on along the eastern coasts of Feresia, at the terminus of the Thúnhay River. Although located in the tropics, it is a nation of many different micro-climates: in the north and far-west, there are low, cool mountains, thick with tangled lianas, aged banyans, and, most lucrative of all, rubber trees; in the central tablelands lies the agricultural and cultural heart of the country, with vast prairies, oil palm and cotton plantations, ancient citadels, and hordes of water buffalo, all watered by the lower course of the Thúnhay; in the sweltering Delta region in the east of the country there are a number of large metropolises, abiding despite being immured amongst the mangroves, fed by the region’s characteristic staples of ozí rice, jackfruit, and fermented fish; finally, the volcanic and sparsely populated isles of Khot Jul coil far into the sea, some not more than jagged atolls and rocky outcroppings languishing in the foaming surf.

Much of the history of Celocombo can be defined as the political and social belligerence between the three premier ethnic groups: the Makhoña, a war-like people whose ancestral homeland lies in the mountainous Oudong region; the Celocomí, the progenitors of the ancient Celocom Hegemony, who emerged as nomadic herdspeople of the prairielands of Sukwa before conquering the nation entire and establishing one of the world’s great urban empires; and the maritime Lhokduy, inhabiting the Thúnhay Delta, who immigrated to Celocombo as Adekono missionaries.

Originally, it was the Makhoña who ruled. Sweeping down from their mountain holdfasts, mounted on war elephants, they subjugated the peoples of the Sukwa, desirous of their gentle pastures and ample harvests; however, the Celocomí, united beneath the banner of the “national hero” (to the Celocomí, at least), Yasuramantí, successfully rebelled against their Makhoña overlords, stormed their high fastnesses, and put entire cities to the sword. Yasuramantí’s son, who would become the first Great Raja of the Celocom Hegemony, Manjalruy, eventually brought the Lhokduy Confederacy to heel, after an unfortunate incident in which a Lhokduy merchant-prince beheaded his Celocomí consort. Desiring access to the coast, and trade with neighboring potentates (the Llahong Cascades prevented any passage to the west up the Thúnhay, and thus any sort of riverine commerce), Manjalruy the Spear had found his opening. In a single stroke brought the entire country, and every ethnic enclave, under a single banner.

Celcombo is, even today, a successor state of the Hegemony, despite being under colonial duress. The early years of imperial rule were difficult; barriers of both language and culture impeded progress. And although foreign goods and monies flowed into the nation’s coffers, famine, poverty, and peasant revolt were rampant. It was under the reign of Raja Pushoung IX, born from the union of a Celocomí prince and a Makhoña princess, that the Hegemony began to flourish. Pushoung connected the disparate enclaves of the empire with a new system of roads; he advocated for religious freedom, following the pogroms of his predecessor Mardijas; new irrigation projects allowed for more bountiful harvests, especially in the rice producing Delta, in which much of the groundwater is brackish and unfit for agriculture; a series of military victories cemented the creation of a new national identity; and most of all, a new, standardized alphabet united the nation linguistically, and enforced through a series of educational reforms; consequently, the arts blossomed under Pushoung’s rule, and some of the greatest masterpieces of Celocomban culture were produced during this period.

This epoch of peace lasted for some two centuries, for Pushoung’s reformation of Celocomban identity was continued by his successors. However, it was not to last. In 1811, a Makhoña led revolt fractured the empire, and despite the imperial administration persisting in the regions of Sukwa and the Delta, the newly independent Kingdom of Ishanauy would not be re-incorporated until 1894, following the The Rubber Wars, which would be the beginning and the end of independence for Celocombo. Then Raja Tanraíl III, who had been educated as an artillery lieutenant in a foreign military academy and did not even speak the Celocomb language until he was seventeen, eventually wrested the Kingdom of Ishanauy back into the hands of the newly christened Kingdom of Celocombo, with the aid of foreign troops.

Tanraíl III was re-instated as the raja of a united Celocombo in 1895, harkening back to the glorious era of the Pushoung potentates. However, his reign was disastrous to the nation; not seven years had passed before another rebellion arose, this time in the Delta, and one which would have repercussions throughout the empire. Called the Suwjra Insurrection, it was a revolt organized by the élites of the imperial military (the suwjrasa), all of whom had been trained abroad, and who, ironically, advocated for the expulsion of foreign influences from the country. Eventually, they managed to seize the entire eastern coast, massacring consular officers, diplomats and entire expatriate communities. It was thus that foreign reprisals were all the more vicious. A blockade of the coast was organized, while a joint force of native and foreign legions marched from the capital at Yawlapuña.

In 1902, the crucible would come in the form of the Battle of Hun-Hunay, in which the main body of the Suwjra army was smashed, despite an outbreak of cholera in the enemy camp. The foreign troops, soaking with sweat in an unfamiliar clime and debilitated by disease, vented their frustrations in the Rape of Balangas, in which an entire city was massacred and burnt to the ground. Their appetites still unsated, they began their pillage of the entire coastline, seeing suwjras where there were none, expunging entire generations of families, effacing villages from the map.

Tanraíl III, realizing what was happening, denounced the actions of the foreigners, and levelled a trade embargo against them, denying them access to the nation’s ports and seizing their rubber factories in the mountains. In response, the foreigners declared war on Celocombo, and touted a distant cousin of Tanraíl III, Yogaw, who had likewise been born and educated abroad, as the monarchy’s true successor.

In a swift campaign, the foreign armies crippled the Celocomban forces, and in 1903, Tanraíl III was forced to abdicate, and exiled to a neighboring country; he was later assassinated by Celocomban expatriates. Yogaw, who adopted the regnal title of Pushoung XIII, placed his signature upon what would come to be known to the foreigners as the Celocombo Concordat, and to the people of Celocombo as “the piece of paper that gave our nation away”. Celocombo was incorporated into the foreign empire as a colonial protectorate, its monarch not much more than figurehead and puppet to foreign wills.

Current Description

The year is now 1961, 58 years after the ascendance of Pushoung XIII and the beginning of colonial subjugation in Celocombo. His grandson, Pushoung XIV, a boy of fourteen who, like his father and grandfather before him, is being administered a foreign education, now sits the Jasmine Throne as Great Raja. The World War has ended, and now, colonial nations which have for centuries been in the hands of imperial powers vie for independence.

The colonial powers have been on the decline in Celocombo since the 1940s. Once one of the most lucrative colonies in their network, the nation is beginning to lose its lustre. Rubber, cotton, palm oil, sugarcane, and other tropical goods do not hold as much market potential as they once did. Celocombo rubber does not hold the monopoly it once did, and a variety of tropical nations have begun rubber production to fuel the global need. Despite this, the magistrates and viceroys of the Convention, the principal foreign governing body of the nation, continue to hold on desperately to their colonial possession, once called “The Jewel” of their empire, and will do whatever it takes, even if it means resorting to cruelty and violence, to keep their powers.

In truth, the foreigners are not considered all bad to the Celocombans, although the memory of the Rape of Balangas is still fresh in their minds. Some consider them to be a positive influence on the country, connecting them in the way that Pushoung IX once did with their new concrete infrastructure and industrialized cities, uniting them like he once did with a language, although foreign, while their own had fallen on the wayside after centuries of misuse during the fracturing of the Hegemony; schools have been built, and children of peasant stock can achieve an education which they once would only have dreamed of; and the foreigners have given them the radio, a link to the outside world.

But most do not think of the foreigners in such a way. “Why could we not industrialize on our own terms?” “Why could we not export our goods on our own terms?” “Why could we not build our roads and bridges and railways and schools on our own terms?” “Why do we speak the heathen’s language?” Much of the country sees the foreign occupation a blemish on a once proud nation’s history. And while many of the foreigners have intermarried with the local populace, learned their language, and treat them with respect and deference, this camp contends that it would only take a push for their bloodlust to be re-ignited. This group also heralds the revival and perfection of the Celocomb language, under the banner of the renowned poet and playwright Kawdet Suy.

Two groups vie for the independence of the nation, on two separate bases. One, the Adekono Orthodoxy, led by Patriarch Ochoy Lamique, espouses that the raja of the Celocomban nation is a sovereign manifestation of God, and can recognize no other authority save for his own. This line of reasoning hails from the Pushoung era, in which sovereignty was contingent on Orthodoxy, despite the reigning policy of religious freedom of the time. The supporters of this camp reside mostly in the Delta, known for being the most religiously devout region of the nation. As of yet, it has no military arm.

The second group is known. somewhat ironically, as the Congress of Patriotic Friends and Allies. Originally begun as a newspaper and book club by Kawdet Suy in 1939 and existing in coffee houses and tea rooms throughout the Kingdom, the Congress has expanded into a full-on political and military apparatus, with covert strongholds located deep within the jungles of Oudong and in the mangroves of the Delta region, supplied by key foreign sympathizers. Their aim is to dismantle the colonial government, oust the foreigners from their lands, reinstate Celocomb as the lingua franca of the nation (a proviso of particular import to Suy), and, most controversially, to put an end to the monarchy, establishing in its place a federal republic. Although they do have some relations with the Orthodoxy, this has been the divisive issue between the two camps.

A recent incident, however, has led to a significant increase in tensions between the colonial government and the people. A rally was incited by members of the Orthodoxy in Yawlapuña following the murder of a local priest, who happened to be a prominent political writer, by a foreign dissident. Although the dissident was not related to the regime, the Orthodoxy seized the opportunity to use the murder as a platform for disseminating their ideology.

Unfortunately, some of the more zealous of the rally, against the Orthodoxy’s policy of peace and restraint, began defacing foreign businesses and attacking foreign civilians. The colonial police were called in, which only made the ralliers more bold. When one man struck a police officer with a truncheon, the powder keg was lit. All in all, 300 of the protestors were slaughtered, and sixty police officers lost their lives in the carnage. The incident, called The Massacre of Kaletong Plaza, incited rage throughout the country, and reprisals by local militias, gangs, and angry citizens against foreigners. The colonial government have billeted more troops throughout the nation, but some fear that it is not enough to stem the approaching tide.

The Congress has grown bolder, and some hint at secret negotiations between Suy and Patriarch Lamique. In the coming crucible, will Celocombo once again be inundated in the fires of revolution?

Colonial Twilight

@Theodorable Will have my NS up before the day is out! Sorry I couldn't get it done yesterday!

Colonial Twilight

@Theodorable I'll take Feresia as well. Probably gonna run something akin to Cambodia/Vietnam under the control of the French

Colonial Twilight

Hopefully in for the 100%

I'd like a Colonial Nation Stats Roll if you please :)

I, Arabicus: A story of Rome and the rise of Islam

Decided to split up my 2nd IC post into 2, since it would've been waaaaayyyyy too long to have both POVs. I'll post the 2nd in a day or two.

I, Arabicus: A story of Rome and the rise of Islam

13th day of the month of Mihr, 5th year of the reign of the Shahanshah Mazdak, on the road outside Ctesiphon, Persia, Sasanian Empire

“If a man cannot mount his horse, then he might as well fall on his sword, or offer up his ass in a bordello, for he is a man no longer. I’ll not ride in a palanquin even if I die in the effort, do you hear me, you impetuous imp? Eh? Have my horse saddled or may Ahriman smite you! Posthaste!”

Despite the fact that autumn was proceeding as usual, and that the day was yet young, the sun bore down on the Shahanshah host as relentlessly as a slavemaster’s whip. In two day’s ride from Ctesiphon, they had covered little ground---it seemed as if, each hour, an endlessly variety of incidents mired them in the muck, making their progress towards the Zagros lethargic at best and nonexistent for the vast majority of the time.

Within an hour of putting Ctesiphon’s walls behind them, an axle on the Shahanshah’s carriage’s twisted and broke; in an unfortunate albeit predictable stroke of unluckiness, a suitable replacement was not forthcoming, and thus the Shahanshah’s pushtigban themselves, along with one of the royal engineers, were forced to find a blacksmith of sufficient skill in a nearby village to forge a new one, most likely frightening the entire township half to death in the process.

By the time that the axle was procured, the sunlight was already failing, and thus it was decided that the Shah’s train would halt for the day. A great feast was set out: potted calf’s meat with vinegar; young tender kid with āb-kāmag and cloyingly thick kāmag; quince khoresh with peacock; herbed lavash and boiled quail’s eggs; stewed spinach, fried eggplant, pickled cucumbers; a curious grain that was in the process of being introduced on the northern coast and purported to hail from the east, called “rice”, which was tossed with herbs, butter, walnuts, and dried cherries; milk pudding, walnut sweetmeats, and a spoon sweet of Chinese ginger and cherry plum, all washed down with wines from Babylon and Ḥolwān.

After their sup, a chapter of the Memorial of Zarer was read---which put the Shahanshah, young as he was, to sleep---and some of the compositions of the esteemed Barbad were played (by a çārtār player who was by no means Barbad’s equal), followed by more poetry, at which time it was realized the Shah had been slumbering in his seat for hours and that he should be taken to his quarters to retire for the night. And thus, in one day they had covered a distance from Ctesiphon that could be walked by a hermit in an afternoon.

That first day, Alanda had nearly fainted in his saddle. His gout was acting up again, and biding time in the hot sun did nothing to mollify the situation. Nor did the rich food, none of which he was able to partake of; instead, he choked down barley gruel with butter, and a decoction prepared by his physician, the ironically named Iraj of Khorasah, who, although a graduate from the great Academy of Gondishapur, had proven himself a neophyte in the realm of gout treatment. “My first love was dentistry,” he had explained, with a shrug. Alanda would have beaten him had he had the strength to stand; instead, he ordered him to pore over every medical tome that could be procured, to test every possible treatment of gout that could be found, even if they were Greek or Roman---no, especially if they were Greek or Roman.

Every cure of Persian provenance had been amply tested; barbers from the great emperor of Chīnī had administered their poultices and unguents to no avail; he had been given a bath of yogurt, honey, and rosemary by a Turkic shaman, which had sufficed only to make him sticky, although the pleasing aroma of the rosemary persisted for some days; healers from as far as Shule, Shanshan, Khotan, Jingjue, and Dunhuang had paid him court; monks from the hoarfrosted mountains of Tibet had called upon the powers of their Buddha, yet even that heathen god had not the temerity to rid him of his ills. It was thus with great reluctance, and no small amount of repugnance, that Alanda had reneged, and looked to the barbarian westerners for deliverance.

“Cure me of this fucking affliction and you shall have a harem of Armenian whores and a palace of your own,” he had sworn to Iraj in bated breath, his eyes stinging from sweat and blinded by pain and tears, “If you cannot I will send your head back to the Academy in a pickle jar.”

Thenceforth, knowing Alanda, “The Spear of Mazda”, to be a man of his word, the physician had plumbed the archives of Ctesiphon with renewed vigor, scouring the city for the tomes his master sought. An entire carriage had been filled with the spoils of his efforts, and the man, with his curious waxed mustachios and bug-like eyes, had, even before the Shahanshah’s train had departed from the imperial compound, been seen to be scrutinizing over the books, rapidly sketching his findings in a notebook, sweat beading at his brow. Alanda watched him with an air of self-satisfaction.

The second day had passed been almost as eventful, and lacking velocity, as the first. The Shahanshah awoke late, and thus they embarked late, for it was necessary for the Shah to be made-up and swathed in his silks and well perfumed for the road; at noon, they paused for luncheon by a particularly scenic pond, where the Shahanshah wished to play among the water lilies, despite the protests of his councilors; and, of course, while the Shahanshah played, some poetry and music was in order; and, after he was done with his sport, another wardrobe change, for he had, naturally, sullied his vestments with pond mud.

Following that, the caravan actually did manage to make some headway, before a pair of highwaymen had the misfortune to be caught holding a family hostage as they ransacked a small date orchard with a pointed stick and a handful of stones (how they were able to manage such a feat is unknown), and were summarily delivered the Shah’s justice, with all the pomp and circumstance of an imperial tribunal. On top of that, they were Nestorians, and there were few things that entertained the mowbedan mowbed, Pouraj, more than administering punishment unto heathens.

Luckily, after that incident, his appetites sated, and in a rare moment of sanity (perhaps he was delivered a revelation from Ohrmazd), Pouraj suggested to the councilors, the Shahanshah, and the wuzurgan that they press on despite the failing light. Even the more frivolous of the company, sweating in their ornamented silks and lavishing themselves with Chinese fans, heaved a collective sigh of relief, though none more so than Alanda. Finally, an hour after nightfall, the Shahanshah protested that he was hungry, and they halted for the day.

They travelled to Susa, the winter capital; however, it had been determined that, since the Shahanshah had not yet made the traditional pilgrimage of kings to the great fire of the warriors, called Adur Gushnasp, in Media, this would be the perfect occasion to avail themselves of the opportunity. Furthermore, he would be entertained at the citadel of the Karenas in Nahavand, and an autumnal boar hunt would be organized. For Alanda, this was a great honor, but at the same time was driving him mad with stress, not to mention his troubles with gout. He only hoped that his wives, particularly his chief wife, Pari, had the means of making the proper preparations.

He was an intelligent enough man to know that the House of Karen was in a somewhat precarious position. He was getting on in years, and wracked with illness, notwithstanding gout; he had estimated once, as dryly as though he was speaking of the weather, that he had not three years to live. He had long ago resigned himself to death---he did not fear it, but rather welcomed it with open arms, wished to embrace it like a long-lost lover. He was satisfied with what he had accomplished in his life, and even believed himself to have lived up to the standards set by his forebears, and said so with no small amount of pride.

Yet he was uneasy about the fate of his house. His first son, Vushmigr, was more sickly than he, and likely was fated for an early death. The family had resigned themselves to that, and Vushmigr had given up his claim on the title long ago. His second son, Bavand, however, was the fruit of a concubine, a bastard; and while he had been recognized by Alanda, it would be scandalous for the offspring of a “Latin cunt”---though he despised the Latins, his cock was not so discriminatory---as Pari had once put it, to inherit so venerable a title as the patriarch of a Parthian house. Alanda thought that that was regrettable, for although the boy was a mutt, it was he, in his heart of hearts, that he regarded as his heir. He had grown up a boar---Alanda had commented on his “strong shoulders” the moment he had come out of the womb---and seemed to have a sensible head mounted thereon; he was a crackpot with bow and spear, an adept rider, and an amateur, albeit mediocre, poet, which was more than some of his wuzurgan cohorts could claim.

Thus, the inheritance had fallen to the last son, Valash, who was yet a boy. And a strong boy at that! Intelligent, inquisitive, full of spirit...but a child. And subject to the snares that are wont to nip children in the bud in their years of vulnerability. He had learnt from his mistakes with Vushmigr: from birth, Valash had been attended to by the most premier physicians that could be found, to annihilate any illness the moment it manifested itself. Thus far the fravashi had watched over them, and Mazda had shown clemency.

But the adder is not the only menace of the forest; wolves there are also, and tigers. And the lot of them, if given the opportunity, will avail themselves on the bleating lamb, and pounce. Though the wuzurgan of the court hid their intentions behind layers of paints, veils of taffeta, fans of silk, and, most repugnant in Alanda’s eyes, obsequious smiles and pedantic “pleasantries”, their eyes betrayed their malice.

He once remarked, upon being introduced to the heir of the House of Mihran, “That prince of Mihran might as well have vented wind from ass and walked away, for in his folly he has said as much as nothing and left a smell of rotten eggs.”

He trusted no one in the nest of vipers that was the court. Alanda thought that he had been far too long at Ctesiphon, sweltering in the heat and kowtowing to the vagaries of the boy-shah, smelling the shit of the Latins and the mud of the Tigris. Mehrgân had come all to slowly, but he had smiled through the awkward mumblings of the Shahanshah’s first speech, knowing that it would be only a matter of days before he quit the place forever, and could finally die in peace beneath the snows of the Alvand.

That was, of course, before the agony of his gout assaulted him once more. He had felt it in his bones, the moment a great autumn wind from the east had swept up the avenue of plane trees while he lounged in the Bagh-i Hinduvan. From then on, it began, that grinding sensation that made his every movement a quiet and flaming anguish. Though not a devout man, he believed in the healing power of the airyaman ishya, for he had chanted it in the worst times of Vushmigr’s illness; in those moments when it seemed as though the conflagration of his pain consumed his body entire, he murmured it silently, endeavoring to imagine himself as a small votive candle that subsisted despite a great gale. A priest had taught him that, once.

The third morning of their journey from Ctesiphon, the pain had awoken him early, and he found himself unable to stand. He had Iraj, who was still slumbering, called and had him administer some new antidote which he had been researching, while the ailing prince stared languidly at the canvas of the tent ceiling.

“This is a compress which I discovered in one of the more obscure works of Herophilus, the anatomist,” the physician explained, wiping sleep from his eyes and fumbling through his chest, “It was purported to have cured the gout of some Athenian sophist or other. We shall see...we shall see…”

“The damnable Latins,” Alanda murmured listlessly, while Iraj worked, “Did you know, Iraj, that they’ve one in Syria who calls himself ‘Arabicus’? He thought he could tame the goat-fuckers in the desert and their new god. But he was gobbled up the moment he got there. Fuck him and fuck the emperor.” He coughed, sending daggers of pain through his legs, and mouthed the airyaman ishya. “Are you done yet, you mangy goblin?”

The compress did nothing to alleviate Alanda’s woes; neither was he able to stand. Indeed, this morning the pain was particularly ferocious, so that, almost without knowing it, tears streamed down his cheeks relentlessly. Iraj advised that, at least for the day, he be carried in a palanquin, since going on horseback would put undue strain on him; of course, Alanda, proud as he was, stubbornly refused.

It was at that moment that a messenger announced himself, somewhat impudently, at the spāhbed’s tent. Reluctantly, Alanda allowed him to enter. The tent was dark, and fragrant with incense and the acrid must of medicine. “Why do you call upon me at this hour?” Alanda asked, trying his very best to give the appearance that he was not wracked with spasms of pain.

The man was a Lur, and, judging by his finery, had come from the mountains. “My lord of Karen, I bring two messages,” he began, removing his helm, "May I speak?" "Yes, yes, damn you," croaked Alanda, sitting up in his cot, "Out with it." “The first is this," the Lurish said, obviously uncomfortable at seeing the spāhbed so unhinged, "The Arabs have made attack on the Ghassanids, and put them to rout. They move now to take Mesopotamia, and make inroads on our holdings. I learned this when I came into the Shah’s camp, and, being the spāhbed of the West as you are, it was deemed to be of significance to you.”

It was not something that Alanda could think of at present; he absorbed the information almost without care, nodded, and waved his hand, blinking back tears.

The messenger, taking the cue, continued in his report, “The second I bring as courier, in the form of a letter from your wife, Pari. I was instructed to deliver it unto you, and to allow no other man to look upon it.” He procured a scroll of Chinese paper from his traveller’s cloak, knelt, and presented it to him.

With trembling hands, and with some difficulty, Alanda broke the seal. It was a short letter, written in a brutalized calligraphy smudged by tears, and its contents pummeled him as surely as he had been an iron beneath Kāve’s hammer:

My Lord,

There has been an attempt on the life of your son and heir, Valash. The culprit has not been found, but a search has been mounted and an inquisition begun. The boy yet lives.

The letter ended without signature.

Something stirred deep within the man. In a moment of frightening lucidity, Alanda set aside the parchment, grasped his mace, which lay beside his bedroll, shot up, and smashed the weapon into the messenger’s face, spattering blood, gristle, and bone onto the incredulous Iraj and all over the walls of tent.

An instant after performing the deed, his legs failed him, and he collapsed, overcome by swells of blazing pain such as he had never felt before. His screams echoed far in the desert air, choking with dust and the promise of heat to come.

The messenger's screams, however, were buried beneath a spout of blood, clogging his throat, drowning him. Bits of smashed teeth and brain could be seen in the thin streams of hot blood that coiled about the remnants of his eye sockets. Iraj, still peppered with gore, moved quickly to extinguish the Lurish man's life with a mercifully deft thrust to the heart by means of small surgeon's knife.

The Shahanshah, asleep against his mother’s breast, was awakened by the distant cries, and, thinking it to be the howling of a daeva, wrapped his arms around her neck and was comforted by the pleasant, but faint aroma of the orange blossom perfume that still imbued her silks. He closed his eyes, and thought of the mountains.

Summary

• Alanda, the patriarch of House Karen, travels with the Shahanshah and his court on their way to Susa, the winter capital
• There are numerous setbacks, and in three days, the caravan has made barely any progress
• Alanda is plagued by gout, and has his personal physician, Iraj, working around the clock researching cures for the ailment
• Some information about Alanda's sons (he has two daughters as well that are not mentioned): the first, Vushmigr, is sickly and close to death, and has renounced his inheritance. The second, Bavand, is the son of a Roman concubine, and thus ill-fit to earn the inheritance, despite the fact that he is most likely the best suited. The third, Valash, is yet a boy, but shoulders the weight of being the heir.
• On the third day of their journey from Ctesiphon, Iraj recommends that Alanda go in a palanquin for the day, after a particularly bad attack of gout, a suggestion that Alanda refuses in the first passage of the post.
• A messenger arrives from Nahavand, and informs Alanda that the Arabs have attacked the Ghassanids and won. He also delivers a letter from his principal wife, Pari.
• The letter reveals that there has been an assassination attempt on Valash.
• Alanda murders the messenger with his mace
• More gout ensues

I, Arabicus: A story of Rome and the rise of Islam

@Kho Hmmm...good point. I wasn't quite sure what timeframe seasonally we were going for, but I'm kind of in an autumnal mood right now since fall is so close, so I shot for then. Though I suppose it could be snowy in the same area in spring, since it's pretty damn cold there apparently, though there would be less comfy descriptions of autumn foliage :( But it's up to the GM's I suppose.

Also, my second IC post is coming soon to a forum near you, it's just going to be rather lengthy and cover to different POVs, the first of which I was getting a bit of writer's block on since it's mostly flavor text about the Sasanian Empire and introducing how they view the whole Muslim uprising. Since Ctesiphon is only a little bit south of Baghdad IRL it probably would've been the talk of the town, so Alanda and his POV is how I'm tying the Karenas into the rest of the story. The POV in Nahavand, which will shortly be connected to Alanda's is kind of its own internal thing that (I hope) will eventually have repercussions once we have the whole thing going.

Be on the lookout for an obscure and very weird ancient Persian torture method being put into use soon ;)