Ekreture

The Color of Insanity

The Reign of Emilio Gonzales

The Reign of Emilio Gonzales

Nation Overview & Government

While originated as the united island of Quiso, Emilio Gonzales’s empire has grown far, far beyond its original birthplace. While Emilio Gonzales is the Inheritor of the Sun, and the Pachanova, as well as main military leader of this empire, there is also a republican system of governors democratically elected below him, though he still approves of their appointment. As far as most day to day politics are concerned, however, his wife, Queen Tatiana, is given most of the responsibility.

Ethnicity

Gonzales’s seat of power, Quiso, is populated by Quesanos, a mix between people who initially settled the island a millennia ago and people from the mainland who showed up about four hundred years ago. Quesanos speak a language very similar to/that is Spanish. Gonzales’s mainland holdings are populated by the white people who colonized Quiso a few hundred years ago, many of whom speak a similar language. Additionally, the capital city of Porto is populated by various immigrants from around the continent, mainly the island to the south of Quiso, Isa.

Geography

Map Claim

Though the mainland is somewhat frigid, Quiso is contrastingly tropical, with the interior of the island being a fertile grassland, and the borders being jungle, with a mountain range that dominates its northern edges. This climate is caused by the warm, tropical, Pachahuaca current that flows from the east, which brought the initial settlers to the island. The mainland northern mainland holdings tend to be cold, while the southern mainland holdings, though not as temperate as Quiso, are somewhat warmed by the Pachahuaca current. The island colony of Castillo is contrastingly a frozen boreal forest, covered in lumber camps, fishing villages, and naval forts.

There are three large cities on Quiso: Los Blancos, Porto, and Huaca. Porto is the administrative and economical capital of the empire, being situated in a southern jungle, and with a metropolitan population hovering around a million. Los Blancos was the seat of power under the Caudillos, at the time known as Rio Verde, named for the river that runs through much of the interior of the island, as well as through the city. Despite the name, the river itself isn’t green; rather, the land that surrounds the river is extremely fertile. Los Blancos, the full name being Ciudad de Los Blancos, has a population of around 100,000, down from 250,000 under the Caudillos. Huaca, the final major city, is the historic and spiritual capital, being the capital under the Pachas, situated around a fortress in the northern mountains of Quiso, with a population of 300,000, having risen in recent years. In total, the population of Quiso is somewhere around six million.

The mainland holdings, meanwhile, are largely a breadbasket, with no cities rivalling the size of Porto, and in total make up around another six million.

The island colony of Castillo, meanwhile, is contrastingly unpopulated, with a total population of around a hundred thousand, with about half of these being in the military. The largest settlement on the islands is Presidio Frio, a naval fortress on the northeastern coast of the main island of Castillo with a total population of around 40,000, and a civilian population of 10,000.

Culture/Society

Among the Quesanos, there are four ethnicities, which were the basis for treatment under the rule of the Caudillos: The Blancos, Nativos, Blanquitos, and Mestizos. Blancos are descended from almost entirely the white settlers of Quiso from four hundred years ago, and made up the Caudillos. They are the second smallest ethnicity in Quiso, and speak a dialect of the Quesano language closer to the language the white settlers brought with them. While they don’t really make up a majority anywhere, their populations are centered in the central grasslands of the islands. Blancos largely do not support Gonzales, and overwhelmingly supported the Caudillos during the revolution and the civil war that followed. Many were killed in the course of the war.

Mestizos are by far the largest ethnicity on the island, being the mixed descendants of white settlers and island natives. They speak the ‘standard’ Quesano language, and are also culturally a mix between mainland and island customs. They make up the majority in Porto and most of the coast, as well as the grasslands, and are also a large portion of the mountain population. They largely support Gonzales, though some wish for a more democratic government.

Nativos are the natives of Quiso, having arrived there a thousand years ago in the same wave of migration that brought the Isa to Isang. While they mostly speak Quesano, many speak Puezdae, the native language of the island. Natives make up the majority in many parts of the mountains, and are about half of the population of the mountain city of Huaca. Their native religion dictates that their god, Pachahuaca or ‘Sun-Master’, chose Quiso to rule the world, and for the Pachas (suns) to rule it, and gifted Quiso the Pachahuaca current to set it apart from all other lands. While many natives still worship Pachahuaca, it is almost out of good faith and habit at this point, though under Gonzales, it is starting to be taken more seriously. Nativos almost unanimously support Gonzales, and were a large portion of his support base during the initial parts of the civil war.

Blanquitos are the group of people Gonzales was born into, and by far the smallest ethnic group in Quiso. When the Blancos initially settled Quiso, most of them settled either on the coast, or by the Rio Verde. A small group of them, however, moved into the mountains, and adopted the customs of the natives, though still retaining some of their own. While for a while they acted as an intermediary between the natives and the blancos, when the war between the Pachas and the Caudillos broke out, the Blanquitos largely sided with the Pachas. Because of this, when the Caudillos won, they rejected the Blanquitos from the privilege of being labeled a Blanco, and made them into a separate ethnic group. The Blanquitos now live as a part of the native communities in the mountains, with a distinct culture and way of speech. Though they largely marry among themselves, they have intermarried a fair amount with the natives, and the average Blanquito is 80% from the mainland and 20% native. A notable part of Blanquito culture is the Izque, a sort of militia organization which for a while just acted as a fraternal social club, until Gonzales became a part of it. Blanquitos are the most adamant supporters of Gonzales.

Culture in Quiso also largely depends on the environmental part of the island one’s from. The parts of the grasslands farthest from the Rio Verde are known for their Gaucho culture, a culture of horsemen who live by honor and justice, Porto is a hub for multiculturalism and liberalism, the mountains are known for being austere and traditional, and the Rio Verde area is really just everything in between. Porto is also home to many immigrants from around the world, namely Isa and Auerbruck.

The mainland, meanwhile, is populated by people descended from the same group of people who the Blancos are descended from, as well as reflecting the cultures of the nations they border. Support for Gonzales in the mainland depends; partially on how far from the sea they are, and partially on what they status was before and after Gonzales. Usually, the poorer groups and racial minorities are largely supportive of him, as well as women, while the wealthier people and nationalists dislike him.

The colony of Castillio is very mixed. When it was claimed by Gonzales, it was almost completely depopulated, with about a thousand natives from a culture similar to Alba’s. Though these natives haven’t been massacred or their lands confiscated, as more and more settlers from Gonzales’s other land showed up, tensions with them have grown. Most of the civilian settlers come from Gonzales’s mainland holdings, with the exception of a sizeable Blanquito population, while the military garrison is mostly Quisano.

Economy/Industry

Historically, the Island of Quiso has produced coffee and cotton for the consumption of the rest of the continent. Since the downfall of the Caudillos, this coffee and cotton has begun being manufactured into finished products. Due to the warm waters that surround it, Quiso is a poor place for fishing, but Castillo produces a large amount of fish and lumber. Gonzales’s mainland holdings mainly produce wheat and cattle, and there are some tracts of land for cattle in Quiso as well. While Gonzales has begun manufacturing arms, which are standard in his army, these arms aren’t good enough for export. The main thing Gonzales is lacking in his territory is metals and minerals, which have to be imported, mainly from Auerbruck and Emruen.

Military

The absolute authority of the military lies in Emilio Gonzales, who also commands the largest and main army of his empire. Most people in the military are Quisanos, though a growing number are from the mainland. Guns and artillery, as said before, are manufactured domestically, and are not completely up to par with the rest of the continents’. This is the main weakness of Gonzales’ army, with it being extremely well organized and discipline. While Gonzales still has influence over the sizeable navy, since he is not an experienced naval commander, he delegates much of that responsibility to his 24-year-old daughter, Celeste, who is referred to as ‘Admiral Gonzales’.

During the days of the Caudillos, the military worked in a strange way. While each caudillo raised their own armies, there were central schools which produced officers, who were then sought out by the caudillos to serve in their armies. Because of this, Quesano officers have historically been very skilled.

As far as cavalry goes, historically, the main cavalry backbone of any army in Quiso has been made up of bands of Gauchos, the horsemen who ride on the dryer plains of the island. The Gaucho regiments in the Caudillo and revolutionary armies were very disorganized, with officers being sent into the plains to gather up as many gauchos as he can. Under Gonzales, the Gauchos have been organized and their equipment standardized, acting as light, skirmisher cavalry, armed with carbines, a pistol, and a light saber. Gauchos still make up the backbone of the cavalry, lancers do exist as well, and though mostly have a Gaucho upbringing, are known as ‘Lanceros’. As time goes on, more and more of those in the “Gaucho” regiments were raised in a non-Gaucho lifestyle.

Infantry wise, infantry equipment and training is also standardized under Gonzales. Most soldados carry a bayoneted musket, while Gonzales has also institutionalized the use of riflemen. With hunting being an important part of the Blanquito culture, rifles were used regularly in Gonzales’s community growing up, and were standard in the Izque. Gonzales proliferated the use of the rifle when he came into a larger command, rifles being more accurate and with a farther range, though since they have a slow reload time, he still only uses them for special skirmishing regiments. He also has adopted certain drills and exercises from the Izque and made them standard throughout the army. While the rifles manufactured are based on traditional Blanquito rifles, the muskets are based on designs from the Corax Dominion.

Artillery designs are also based on designs from the Corax Dominion, although with some of Gonzales’s own input, as well as input from his father-in-law, Mario de Zaragoza, the inventor of the cotton gin.

History

Self-explanatory. This doesn't need to be long; just informative. We encourage players to collaborate and create shared history, in fact, it is almost necessary. No nation exists in a vacuum.

Relations

As above. Collaborate with other players.

Characters

Optional section. Put any info about any special characters here: kings or queens, military leaders, and hero “badasses”.

The Color of Insanity

The Reign of Emilio Gonzales

The Reign of Emilio Gonzales

Nation Overview & Government

While originated as the united island of Quiso, Emilio Gonzales’s empire has grown far, far beyond its original birthplace. While Emilio Gonzales is the Inheritor of the Sun, and the Pachanova, as well as main military leader of this empire, there is also a republican system of governors democratically elected below him, though he still approves of their appointment. As far as most day to day politics are concerned, however, his wife, Queen Tatiana, is given most of the responsibility.

Ethnicity

Gonzales’s seat of power, Quiso, is populated by Quesanos, a mix between people who initially settled the island a millennia ago and people from the mainland who showed up about four hundred years ago. Quesanos speak a language very similar to/that is Spanish. Gonzales’s mainland holdings are populated by the white people who colonized Quiso a few hundred years ago, many of whom speak a similar language. Additionally, the capital city of Porto is populated by various immigrants from around the continent, mainly the island to the south of Quiso, Isa.

Geography

Map Claim

Though the mainland is somewhat frigid, Quiso is contrastingly tropical, with the interior of the island being a fertile grassland, and the borders being jungle, with a mountain range that dominates its northern edges. This climate is caused by the warm, tropical, Pachahuaca current that flows from the east, which brought the initial settlers to the island. The mainland northern mainland holdings tend to be cold, while the southern mainland holdings, though not as temperate as Quiso, are somewhat warmed by the Pachahuaca current. The island colony of Castillo is contrastingly a frozen boreal forest, covered in lumber camps, fishing villages, and naval forts.

There are three large cities on Quiso: Los Blancos, Porto, and Huaca. Porto is the administrative and economical capital of the empire, being situated in a southern jungle, and with a metropolitan population hovering around a million. Los Blancos was the seat of power under the Caudillos, at the time known as Rio Verde, named for the river that runs through much of the interior of the island, as well as through the city. Despite the name, the river itself isn’t green; rather, the land that surrounds the river is extremely fertile. Los Blancos, the full name being Ciudad de Los Blancos, has a population of around 100,000, down from 250,000 under the Caudillos. Huaca, the final major city, is the historic and spiritual capital, being the capital under the Pachas, situated around a fortress in the northern mountains of Quiso, with a population of 300,000, having risen in recent years. In total, the population of Quiso is somewhere around six million.

The mainland holdings, meanwhile, are largely a breadbasket, with no cities rivalling the size of Porto, and in total make up around another six million.

The island colony of Castillo, meanwhile, is contrastingly unpopulated, with a total population of around a hundred thousand, with about half of these being in the military. The largest settlement on the islands is Presidio Frio, a naval fortress on the northeastern coast of the main island of Castillo with a total population of around 40,000, and a civilian population of 10,000.

Culture/Society

Among the Quesanos, there are four ethnicities, which were the basis for treatment under the rule of the Caudillos: The Blancos, Nativos, Blanquitos, and Mestizos. Blancos are descended from almost entirely the white settlers of Quiso from four hundred years ago, and made up the Caudillos. They are the second smallest ethnicity in Quiso, and speak a dialect of the Quesano language closer to the language the white settlers brought with them. While they don’t really make up a majority anywhere, their populations are centered in the central grasslands of the islands. Blancos largely do not support Gonzales, and overwhelmingly supported the Caudillos during the revolution and the civil war that followed. Many were killed in the course of the war.

Mestizos are by far the largest ethnicity on the island, being the mixed descendants of white settlers and island natives. They speak the ‘standard’ Quesano language, and are also culturally a mix between mainland and island customs. They make up the majority in Porto and most of the coast, as well as the grasslands, and are also a large portion of the mountain population. They largely support Gonzales, though some wish for a more democratic government.

Nativos are the natives of Quiso, having arrived there a thousand years ago in the same wave of migration that brought the Isa to Isang. While they mostly speak Quesano, many speak Puezdae, the native language of the island. Natives make up the majority in many parts of the mountains, and are about half of the population of the mountain city of Huaca. Their native religion dictates that their god, Pachahuaca or ‘Sun-Master’, chose Quiso to rule the world, and for the Pachas (suns) to rule it, and gifted Quiso the Pachahuaca current to set it apart from all other lands. While many natives still worship Pachahuaca, it is almost out of good faith and habit at this point, though under Gonzales, it is starting to be taken more seriously. Nativos almost unanimously support Gonzales, and were a large portion of his support base during the initial parts of the civil war.

Blanquitos are the group of people Gonzales was born into, and by far the smallest ethnic group in Quiso. When the Blancos initially settled Quiso, most of them settled either on the coast, or by the Rio Verde. A small group of them, however, moved into the mountains, and adopted the customs of the natives, though still retaining some of their own. While for a while they acted as an intermediary between the natives and the blancos, when the war between the Pachas and the Caudillos broke out, the Blanquitos largely sided with the Pachas. Because of this, when the Caudillos won, they rejected the Blanquitos from the privilege of being labeled a Blanco, and made them into a separate ethnic group. The Blanquitos now live as a part of the native communities in the mountains, with a distinct culture and way of speech. Though they largely marry among themselves, they have intermarried a fair amount with the natives, and the average Blanquito is 80% from the mainland and 20% native. A notable part of Blanquito culture is the Izque, a sort of militia organization which for a while just acted as a fraternal social club, until Gonzales became a part of it. Blanquitos are the most adamant supporters of Gonzales.

Culture in Quiso also largely depends on the environmental part of the island one’s from. The parts of the grasslands farthest from the Rio Verde are known for their Gaucho culture, a culture of horsemen who live by honor and justice, Porto is a hub for multiculturalism and liberalism, the mountains are known for being austere and traditional, and the Rio Verde area is really just everything in between. Porto is also home to many immigrants from around the world, namely Isa and Auerbruck.

The mainland, meanwhile, is populated by people descended from the same group of people who the Blancos are descended from, as well as reflecting the cultures of the nations they border. Support for Gonzales in the mainland depends; partially on how far from the sea they are, and partially on what they status was before and after Gonzales. Usually, the poorer groups and racial minorities are largely supportive of him, as well as women, while the wealthier people and nationalists dislike him.

The colony of Castillio is very mixed. When it was claimed by Gonzales, it was almost completely depopulated, with about a thousand natives from a culture similar to Alba’s. Though these natives haven’t been massacred or their lands confiscated, as more and more settlers from Gonzales’s other land showed up, tensions with them have grown. Most of the civilian settlers come from Gonzales’s mainland holdings, with the exception of a sizeable Blanquito population, while the military garrison is mostly Quisano.

Economy/Industry

Historically, the Island of Quiso has produced coffee and cotton for the consumption of the rest of the continent. Since the downfall of the Caudillos, this coffee and cotton has begun being manufactured into finished products. Due to the warm waters that surround it, Quiso is a poor place for fishing, but Castillo produces a large amount of fish and lumber. Gonzales’s mainland holdings mainly produce wheat and cattle, and there are some tracts of land for cattle in Quiso as well. While Gonzales has begun manufacturing arms, which are standard in his army, these arms aren’t good enough for export. The main thing Gonzales is lacking in his territory is metals and minerals, which have to be imported, mainly from Auerbruck and Emruen.

Military

The absolute authority of the military lies in Emilio Gonzales, who also commands the largest and main army of his empire. Most people in the military are Quisanos, though a growing number are from the mainland. Guns and artillery, as said before, are manufactured domestically, and are not completely up to par with the rest of the continents’. This is the main weakness of Gonzales’ army, with it being extremely well organized and discipline. While Gonzales still has influence over the sizeable navy, since he is not an experienced naval commander, he delegates much of that responsibility to his 24-year-old daughter, Celeste, who is referred to as ‘Admiral Gonzales’.

During the days of the Caudillos, the military worked in a strange way. While each caudillo raised their own armies, there were central schools which produced officers, who were then sought out by the caudillos to serve in their armies. Because of this, Quesano officers have historically been very skilled.

As far as cavalry goes, historically, the main cavalry backbone of any army in Quiso has been made up of bands of Gauchos, the horsemen who ride on the dryer plains of the island. The Gaucho regiments in the Caudillo and revolutionary armies were very disorganized, with officers being sent into the plains to gather up as many gauchos as he can. Under Gonzales, the Gauchos have been organized and their equipment standardized, acting as light, skirmisher cavalry, armed with carbines, a pistol, and a light saber. Gauchos still make up the backbone of the cavalry, lancers do exist as well, and though mostly have a Gaucho upbringing, are known as ‘Lanceros’. As time goes on, more and more of those in the “Gaucho” regiments were raised in a non-Gaucho lifestyle.

Infantry wise, infantry equipment and training is also standardized under Gonzales. Most soldados carry a bayoneted musket, while Gonzales has also institutionalized the use of riflemen. With hunting being an important part of the Blanquito culture, rifles were used regularly in Gonzales’s community growing up, and were standard in the Izque. Gonzales proliferated the use of the rifle when he came into a larger command, rifles being more accurate and with a farther range, though since they have a slow reload time, he still only uses them for special skirmishing regiments. He also has adopted certain drills and exercises from the Izque and made them standard throughout the army. While the rifles manufactured are based on traditional Blanquito rifles, the muskets are based on designs from the Corax Dominion.

Artillery designs are also based on designs from the Corax Dominion, although with some of Gonzales’s own input, as well as input from his father-in-law, Mario de Zaragoza, the inventor of the cotton gin.

History

Self-explanatory. This doesn't need to be long; just informative. We encourage players to collaborate and create shared history, in fact, it is almost necessary. No nation exists in a vacuum.

Relations

As above. Collaborate with other players.

Characters

Optional section. Put any info about any special characters here: kings or queens, military leaders, and hero “badasses”.

The Color of Insanity

@Not Fishing Yo we gots to talk

The Color of Insanity

<Snipped quote by Aristo>

If we don't get any new players soon, I might be closing some of these borders if you are willing.

Spaces that need to be filled now: spot between @LordZell, @Lone Wanderer, and @Willy Vereb. Up to you three who wants it.

@Liotrent the rest of your peninsula needs to be claimed, do you want it? Maybe a colony for someone else?

Space between {@solamelike] @Elgappa and @Lone Wanderer.

@Ekreture Want that strip of land leading up to Solamelike? Maybe you two split and border at that river?

@Goldeagle1221

yes

The Color of Insanity

Bleh

Ek's claim

The Color of Insanity

@Goldeagle1221 Are you on it? I'm on discord but not the chat

The Color of Insanity

@DeadBeatWalking That's a fancy cat not a different chat silly

The Color of Insanity

@Goldeagle1221 Gold can you pm the link to the chat? My idea for a country's a little unorthodox, and I wanna talk with you guys about it

The Color of Insanity

Gold I want your babies/to be a part of this

Legend of the Silver Legion (A Fantasy RP)

    A small boat bobbed softly in the shallow waters of the Sakabanatu shore. An old man sat in the center, carefully watching the ties of a net cast under the gleaming ripples. The sun baked his handprint tattoed bald head and freckled his brown cheeks, but this was nothing new in the lands of Sakabanatu for even by the shore, the sandy beaches only forshadowed the endless sand of the desert that laid beyond the salty sea breeze. Only the hardiest plants clung to the coast, bringing about the usual reptiles and even a few desert mammals to walk the gentle coast. 

    The man, however, was old and so he knew the water just as well as he did the ruthless sands of Sakabantu, in fact he was the very brother of Father Juntu of one of the larger tribes of the trade river to the far south, and only became a fisherman at the teachings of an old Ardir native up in Tarkima. One could say this old man, Father Tarko, kept the tradition of friendship with the Ardir of the north as well as fellowship with those who revere the ways of Sakabanatu.
    
    Tarko himself had long left the busier life of the trade river and retired with his small tribe of six to the northern coast, content with fishing and retiring in a sea side yurt every night. he knew it wouldn't last forever, and soon he will be gone from this world and he found it very unlikely his sons and daughters would continue to live by the lonely coast and opt for the more activity filled dunes and canals of his people, but for now, he will continue to fish and teach his children for the coming days they return to the heart of the desert. 
    
    Behind him he knew his eldest watched him from the saddle of a small desert horse, old yet quick, much like himself. The boy was more of a man now a days, but Tarko still dragged him to the shore to help fish and hunt for crabs. He knew his son grew impatient, bag full of squirming crustaceans and horse stamping the wet sand. 
    
    At that moment, seemingly out of nowhere, a black dot appeared in the sky above them. As it grew closer, it was revealed to be a raven, large and black, with its beak hooked and sharp. The seabreeze fluttering through its ebony feathers, it descended down next to Tarko, its obsidian body contrasting starkly with the white of the sand. Turning itself to look at the old man, it cocked its head inquisitively, its silky tailfeathers raised high above its torso.
    
    Tarko looked down at the bird perched on the rim of his humble boat. A crinkled old smile formed on his face, "well hello there friend." 
    
    Just beyond the obscurity of the coastal fog, Skayna sat at the bow of a ship crosslegged, her eyes void and dark like coal. "Hello to you too!" She replied to the old man. Of course, it's not as if Tarko could hear her. But she could hear him. And see him.
    
    Skayna's raven hopped around excitedly, then turned to face Tarko's son, mounted on horseback. The slaver frowned. "Well this will be a problem." At this, the raven screeched and flew forward, darting directly at the son, plunging its beak into his shoulder, and stratching furiously at his torso.
    
    The son dropped his basket of crabs and flailed wildly in surprise, his feet slipping from the saddle and himself falling backwards off the horse, in turn spooking the old beast and sending it running in a puff of sand. With a quick hand, the son snagged the raven at last, his hand holding the flapping bird away from him by the neck and head, as one would hold an angry chicken.
    
    "Gizon!" Tarko cried out, jumping to his feet and nearly capsizing his tiny boat, "Gizon are you okay!?"
    
    "Yes, father," The son slowly rose to his feet, raven still in hand, "seems your friend is a little.."
    
    Tarko shrugged, sitting back down, "as long as everyone is okay."
    
    "Should I go after Jukku?" Gizon motioned to the trailing cloud of sand that lingered at the horse's retreat.
    
    "Jukku is smart, he knows where home is," Tarko answered, "however we should get the crabs home, eh?"
    
    He jutted a chin at the escaping crabs, the little creatures skuttling eagerly towards the shore and prompting Gizon to jump after them.
    
    "FUCKING...ASS...DICK...SHIT...PISS!" Skayna screeched from the boat. "LET...GO!" By this point, the Veleni fleet was close enough for Gizon and Tarko to hear her.
    
    Like a roach crawls from under a table, nearly 500 ships withdrew themselves from the mist, creeping up to the shore. At the front was Skayna's ship, largest of them all, with the usual raven sail painted over with the red triple wave of Njorald, who stood behind her, clad in plate armor, already regretting its weight, with the sun piercing through him like nails in a coffin.
    
    Aboard these ships, most of the men wore no shirt or coverings for their bodies. One of these men was Skulvar, the werewolf berserker, who, with battle axe in hand stared at the two natives, nearly salivating at the sight. Then he caught eyes with Njorald, who gave a stern shake of the head. Nearby, Awnar leaned against the mast of a ship, adorned by a long, black, robe, with a scythe in hand.

    "Father..." Gizon stood speechless at the sight before him, anxiety growing in his stomach. His much more mellow father; however, seemed in the right of mind.
    
    "Do not worry, son" Tarko remained seated, "even now the ghosts watch over us." With a sly wink he tapped the hand print on his head, as if reminding his son of the ghosts. With a satisfied smile, Gizon tapped a small tattoo of an index finger on his own, beneath his black curls. Tarko, ever the giver of hope smiled back and slid his oar into the shallows to begin paddling back to the shore to be by his boy. 
    
    "MOTHER...FUCKER!" Finally, the raven, dragging a claw across Gizon's wrist, managed to wrestle out of the boy's grasp, and fluttered off to Skayna, who accepted the bird on her arm, color entering back into her eyes as the raven gained self control, hopping down to peck at a seagull someone shot down. "You piece of shit!" Skayna screamed at Gizon. Njorald walked forward, muttured to her to calm down, and stood at the front. As the ship slid up onto the beach, the Prince, Skayna, and his personal guard lept down from the vessel, as other landing ships began to do to the same. Placing his hand on the pommel of his sword, Njorald approached the two men.
    
    Old Tarko stood between the foreigners and his faithful son, he raised a single palm, "please, do not disrespect my boy, this is a land of friends, and family... not foe."
    
    Njorald looked between the two men...this land, untained by the darkness that has consumed his home. This father and his son...not unlike him and his father, unslain by the cruel blade of his overlords. He wanted to feel sorrow, sympathy. Instead, he felt a rage start to build in him. He drew closer. "On your knees."
    
    Tarko pointed to the desert, a suspicious eye could've sworn some of the sand moved where he had pointed, "you hold no authority here, the ghosts watch this land. If you do not come with open arms, I must suggest you do not come at all. If you want food, I will feed you, drink, I will make sure you are full, sleep, I will make you a bed, family, you may sit between my children, but blood, power, and conquest, we have none here."
    
    Honor. The Prince remembered this. His father had it, just as much, if not more, than the old man before him. Skayna came up from behind him, the raven on her shoulder, scowling deeply at Gizon. She held a 
cat o nine tail in her hands, handing it off to Njorald. Gritting his teeth, he inhaled deeply, and repeated, slower and through clenched teeth, "On...your...knees."

    Tarko stood strong, the sun glowing against his dark skin as he stood balwark between danger and the land and family he loved, "strike me, and all chances of forgiveness will be in question. Strike me and be cursed, as you hit me and my heart in front of the ghosts of compassion."
    
    "Father," Gizon muttered.
    
    "We have nothing to bow to here, nothing to kneel for, son," Tarko ushered his son back with a hand, "in peace and love we are all kings, in empathy we are rulers of our fate. We live for an idea, and while pain may strike my skin, son, never will it touch the idea gifted to us so long ago." 
    
    Tarko stepped forward towards the whip wielding man, "I warn you, son of long lost, I am king of that single grain you stand on, and I only share it with all who ever needed another."
    
    Njorald stared at him, baffled. He had found himself surprised as he took a step back. He stared to the ground. He thought of this man before him. What the Prince now called foolishness he would once call bravery; what he now calls an enemy he would once call friend.
    
    Then he thought to home. To the tired, blank faces, shuffling around; pale white specks squirming through a pitch darkness. He thought to the face of Llyr; so amused at how he would massacre a town that served him. Finally he thought on a truth that he had known for years; there can only be so many homes in this world. Not everyone can be afforded one.
    
    He moved his head up, though not making eye contact with Tarko. "Please." His voice was shaking. Gasps and murmers spread like fire throughout his crowd of warriors. Awnar, scythe still in hand, had lept onto the land, and was now approaching the scene. "Just get on your knees."

    Tarko reached out slowly, the tips of his fingers touching the back of the clenched hand that bound the whip, "son..." a father's voice came from the old man, smoothed with compassion yet grained with every year lived.
    
    The Prince looked away from him, staring down into the sand. A single teardrop fell from his face, adding a drop of moisture into the beach below him. He stared at the droplet. For a second, he felt nothing. The next moment, Tarko was on the floor. Njorald looked down; the whip lying on the floor, unused. He had pushed him. Like a child pushes away medicine. He reached down for the whip, and raised it high above him, when he heard shuffling behind him. It was Awnar, who had stepped forward. Njorald, visibly shuddering, barked, "What?!" 
    
    Awnar swallowed, looking around at his 'comrades'. Holding back his fear, he leaned against his polearm, and looked at Njorald, plainly saying, "You know the system."
    
    Njorald nodded, his eyes strangely grateful. He looked to Gizon, and in a much calmer, though still dictatorial voice, commanded, "Kneel!"

    Gizon shook with anxiety, unsure as he stared at his father. The old man slowly sat up. Tarko locked eyes with his scared son, and without a word he pointed back at the desert. Gizon slowly followed his finger, his gaze getting lost in one of the dunes off the shore. For a second he felt it, for a second he saw it, the sand moved, and two eyes stared back at him, and he gasped, then the sight was gone. Looking back at Njorald he shook his head, and clenched his fists.
    
    "I can't," he answered, a little more than fright in his voice. 
    
    Njorald almost seemd like he was about to nod. Before he could, Skayna had moved forward, landing her first square in his gut. "Just get down, idiot!" Forcing him to floor, the slaver pressed his body into the hot sand, her knee in his back. One of her men brought her a chain.
    
    "Now you'll know what it's like for someone to hold you down, !"

    With a puff of sand, Tarko sprung into action, the discipline of the Sondoper dance awakening with in him at the pain of his son. Spinning on his shoulders his legs shot out and he burst through the cloud of sand, landing square in front of Skayna, "unhand him, I cannot promise your well being if you do not."
    
    The Sondoper scholar tapped the palm on his head, and squared his shoulders, knees bending in a unique fighting stance.
    
    Skayna looked up at the old man. Then she looked down at the boy. Then back to the old man. "Fine!" She stood up, throwing the chain at the ground, then pointing at Gizon accusedly. "But I want an apology!"
    
    Gizon looked up at the woman incrediously, "I'm sorry." he apologized, "and now you?" 
    
    "Not to me!" she said. She nodded to the bird on her shoulder, who stared at Gizon, head cocked, the boy's blood still stained on its beak.
    
    "But th-" Gizon started.
    
    Tarko grunted.
    
    "I'm sorry," Gizon sighed, "and you?"
    
    "AHH!" Njorald shouted. "You are not in the position of power here!" He stared at the two men. "You...you are lucky! LUCKY!" He turned away from them, head shaking. "They are not here...they are not here!" He stopped, breathing in deeply, and turned back to the two of them, his regal stature regained. Teeth gritted, he stared dead eyed at Gizon. "Take...what you can!" 
    
    Before Gizon could speak, Tarko interupted, "why are we in this position in the first place? Why are you bringing hate here?"
    
    Njorald waited, looking at him. Then, he did something he did for the first time in twenty years; he laughed. But not a healthy, hearty laugh. A sinister, deranged laugh, like a hyena. He looked to the old man. "Do you not know? The hate was here...just simply ignored!" The massive Skulvar had stepped forward. As the arguing grew more intense, it seemed as though he was growing hairier. Njorald continued his laughing, as he turned around. "How do they not see the blood?" He muttered to himself. Skulvar looked at Tarko, grunting uneasily. He was holding something back.
    
    "I know of hate, and I know of hostility," Tarko answered, his own eyes returning Skulvar's stare, "I offer hospility, but the people and this desert are capable of the opposite. Grander armies have entered this land looking to take it, but there were no cities to seige, no food to eat, no water to drink, nothing to loot and no army to fight. Entire armies have been wiped away in a single night, not a battle stirred. This land eats hate, and those who bring harm do not survive. Every step walked in vain here is met by utter destruction, and there are many many ways that this destruction has been brought down upon the mightiest empires who set greedy eyes on this land, or jealous armies who sought to disrupt the sympathy of the land. There will be notihng for you here, not your army, not any other army, nothing, and those who disclaim this warning, do not exit the sands."
    
    Njorald nodded, taking in the information, before he looked back up to Tarko. "And that is why they sent me, isn't it?" He chuckled again. "You don't know! You...you don't know!" Skulvar started making a strange noise...a weird growl combined with a pant. Awnar looked at him uneasily, clasping his scythe tighter.
    
    "Who so ever sent you here out of hate, sent you here to condemn you," Tarko answered, "I offer freedom from that here, this is my gift."
    
    "And what of my kingdom? What of them! Can you free them! Free the huddled masses! Those who cower in their homes, though those too may be destroyed! Those whose fields have been burnt, daughters dishonored..." He choked back tears. "Fathers killed." He looked to each of his men; most of them shared that same experience. "Can you free them?" Skulvar began a low growl. Njorald paused a few moments to collect himself. "There is no freedom. There is no hate. There is only fear. And you can run from it, but it will chase you. And you can never run fast enough."

    "I can tell you what cannot free them," Tarko folded his hands together, "becoming what has enslaved you, spreading the will of those who defile you, and giving up on what they cannot touch, our ideas, our hopes, and unshakable will. I cannot solve your plight, but neither can this desert. I cannot fix any wrong, but I can tell you what can. Come, join my hand, and we will bring this information to my brother who will bring it to his brother and then to his brother, and before you would even know it, you shall see what I meant when I said this is the land of family and friends. This is your choice, under the beaten sun, this is your burden to lay, not mine. Choose where you stand, son, and plant your feet, for you will finish whatever is started, be that for the idea of freedom, or the idea of fright."
    
    Off to the side, Awnar found himself moved by these words, but said nothing. A glaze seemed to have fallen over Njorald's eyes. He turned away from Tarko. "I tire of this." By this point, the men had started unloading and pulling in the cargo. Long, wooden logs, being hauled in from the sea and left the dry in the sun; caskets of mead and fresh water, crates filled with chickens, goats, and a strange amount of ravens. Staring at the cargo being unloaded, the Prince spoke to Tarko and his son, without turning to face them. "Neither of you shall leave this place. If one of you does, the other shall die. Know this well." He stepped away, and a host of warriors stepped forward, surrounding them.
    
    Tarko shook his head, and turned to Gizon, "all of the desert will know of this declaration of war, and needless blood will be spilt, wasted on a fight meant for a greater evil. Beware the misguided hearts of man." 
    
    Gizon nodded, a grim expression on his face, covering fear.
    
    Tarko nodded in return, a solemn look on his face. 
    
    Njorald stepped out to the men unloading the cargo. "Pitch the tents, and set up a perimeter wall! I want this wall patrolled every minute, do you understand?" He saw some men chatting idly. "You, what are you doing?" One of them turned to him.
    
    "I'm sorry sir, we just-"
    
    "Nothing, get back in a ship, start fishing, we can't deplete our food supply." The soldiers nodded, and headed off for the ships. He looked at the horse transports finally arived; ten ships, each carrying twenty horses. He sighed, and turned to a nearby officer. "Assign these horses to men, and organize them into scouting parties. Send them out, and make sure to cover your tracks...have the compasses arrived?" The officer nodded. "Good, make sure not a single officer is lacking of one." He called to Skayna, and the girl approached him. "Skayna!" He said.
    
    It took a little bit before she realize he said her name. She looked at him. "Hm?"
    
    "How many are...like you?" he asked.
    
    "Oh, hardly any women sir."
    
    "No I mean...with the birds."
    
    "Oh! I'd say eh...around...50?" She huffed. "Of course, there's the one who can make them do tricks...but he doesn't count..." She seemed to lose focus.
    
    "Skayna!"
    
    "I HATE HIM!"
    
    "What?" Njorald seemed perplexed.
    
    "The one who can make them do tricks, I hate him! Why can't I make them do tricks? I can make them claw boys's brains out but I can't MAKE THEM DO A STUPID FUCKING TRICK!"
    
    Njorald stared at her blankly for a while. "So how many ravens do we have?"
    
    "Eh, hundred fifty, give or take."
    
    "Good, we'll have them get an aerial view...send them out." Skayna nodded, and walked off.
    
    Njorald looked out at the camp, then out to the desert. Again he thought back to the Scaveni. Why didn't the Einherjar kill their king? Why was it his father, his childhood destroyed, why did he become the pawn? If the Scaveni king, Vorin...if he was killed, and not his father...would it have been Njorald's father that went west, with Njorald faithfully by his side? And would they have met their demise? Or were the Scaveni...no. They weren't. If you oppose the Einherjar, you die. That's...that's fact.
    
    From atop the dune the ghost that had been watching stirred, it seemed to shake its head before vanishing in a cloud of sand. What enters the desert as foe, stays as grain. 
    
    A few hours later, a man approached Tarko and Gizon, and threw a bucket with a few salted fish in it at their feet. "Eat. I don't know which one of you's working, but figure it out!" With that, he stomped off.
    
    Gizon looked down at the fish and back up at his father, "these men are doomed."
    
    Tarko nodded slowly, "we did what we could, but let us continue before there is no turning back for them."

    Gizon sighed, "what of mother, no doubt Jukku made it home?"
    
    Tarko sighed and stood up from the stray log he sat on. Looking at the closest foreigner to him he gave a friendly nod, "I think me and my son are going to go home now. I'm fearful my wife might be worried."
    
    The Veleni warrior turned to him, and, after comprehending what Tarko said, burst out laughing. Then, in a serious tone, he said, "Well perhaps we should bring her to you?" He chuckled, and called out to the other warriors, "Hey, these ones need some more guards."
    
    Another warrior muttered, "How many guards do an old man and a child need?"
    
    It was at that moment that Awnar came stumbling out of a tent. His black religious robe had been removed, wearing only a loincloth covering his crotch. His back was covered in fresh cuts, the red blood dripping down and staining the sand. As he limped towards his own tent, he briefly made eye contact with Tarko, before avoiding his gaze.
    
    "Well shit," the guard said, "the price some pay for a stupid idea!"
    
    Tarko looked at the guards, "clearly you've never been married!" 
    
    Gizon spoke out, "you should send that man water," his chin jutting to the tent of Awnar, "bleeding openly without drink will kill him here, quicker than you might think. Even the ruthless are going to be forced to give up rage if they plan to walk two steps into this land."
    
    The guard looked at the boy, shrugging. "Well...maybe he deserves to dies...standing up for your old man like that." He sighed. "You two sure talk alot for prisoners."
    
    "Where I am standing," Tarko's warm smile faded into a serious line, "you are the prisoners, trapped in an illusion of labels and negative emotion. Your haste has already doomed you, for you set up a camp by a place with no fresh water, and every barrel brought will diminish the longer you set up claims as you do on this beach. Also, might I add, if you will not stand off to my side whilst I see to my wife, perhaps you would like to explain to her why I was late for dinner, then you will see that even the desert can seem soft and sweet."
    
    Gizon couldn't help but laugh off to his father's side. 
    
    The guard grew irritated. "And what of Awnar, eh? He did what was...was 'right'! And look what that got him, a shit ton of lashings that should've gone to you!" 
    
    "I cannot be blamed if you put authority behind a whip, and abide by the laws of violence and hate," Tarko suggested, his fatherly tone stern, "if none of you followed the laws of the whip, there would be no whip. It is not on my shoulders, but your own."
    
    Gizon recognized his father's tone, a classic repituar for his lectures whenever he had done something wrong growing up. 
    
    The guard threw down his shield. "Gah! I-" He stomped off. "Get someone else to watch the babbling fool, I'm done!"
    
    Awnar sat in his tent, the pain searing in his back. Was that worth it? Damn. He's thinking like Njorald now. At least he'd be out of fighting commision now. Fighting's what kept him fed, it's what kept him alive. It's what kept him useful. He didn't mind fighting. It was killing he didn't like.
    
     He moved his hand over his back, then looked at it. It was stained red.
    
     Better to bleed red than black  
    
    
    

Out takes

0:51Goldeagle: You killed Tarko 
0:51Ekreture: did I kill him?!
0:51Goldeagle: THE DUDE IS ANCIENT
0:51Ekreture: can't he not die though
0:52Goldeagle: I dunno
0:52Goldeagle: it would scar everyone for life
0:52Goldeagle: Everyone will be crying through the desert
0:52Goldeagle: getting random hugs instead of harassment
0:53Ekreture: honestly this makes mores sense
0:53Goldeagle: it does
0:53Goldeagle: most invasion posts are big badass battles
0:53Goldeagle: this is a big emotional battle
0:54Ekreture: we're just men crying
0:54Goldeagle: Just us guys being dudes