@HaelI think it's pretty good. Ugly as hell -- but clear, and easy to read.
Fabulous Knight Member
Defender of the Tragically Un-fabulous
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Fabulous, and a knight.
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@NatsucooldudeThe Young Kurts are humanist (sapientist), liberal, democratic nationalists. They believe in strong, equal state ruled by law. Justice and order are prised above all else; it is no coincidence that the Young Kurts are overwhelmingly Ascendant. Extremists fight for universal suffrage. Far more popular moderates want to install a land-based voting system. You don't want the wrong sort of person telling you how to run the country, after all. And some -- some are just Nationalists. They don't pine for the Mutlaginate; they were ruled by Liszka slaves, for God's sake. They want Kurtish domination. They are popular with the peasant Kurts that aren't with the Ozgers. Either way, the Young Kurts are made up of the rich, land-owning classes -- majority Kurts. Ethnically opposed to the slave races. [These guys are a mixture of Turkish Sipahi and Polish Szchlata, and are backed by many peasant Turks and the rich Persian/Arab merchant families]
The Ozgerssaries are united. They are organised. They are soldiers.
And they want land. The Young Kurts have land. As soldiers, they know only one way to get what they want. And they are soldiers. Their hierarchy is forced into meritocracy. It must be. They could not have won, otherwise. It is partially this that made the Ozgers realise that no democratic state would care for them. So they went further. No state, no property -- no Ascendancy, either. Low church heretics, all. The peasant will own the land he farms, the tools he farms with, the maxivine he reaps. But this is the conflict. Peasants. They are peasants. Not workers, not city-dwellers. Many Ozgers support the plight of factory workers, and many factory workers fight with Ozger guns. But others hate them. The insect peasants hate the (seemingly) wealthy Kurt urbanites, while the Kurt factory-workers fear the loss of their whole livelihood. [These guys are based on the German Peasant Rebels, Hussites, Kurds/Greeks/Armenians and some Persians/Arabs].
The Ozgerssaries are united. They are organised. They are soldiers.
And they want land. The Young Kurts have land. As soldiers, they know only one way to get what they want. And they are soldiers. Their hierarchy is forced into meritocracy. It must be. They could not have won, otherwise. It is partially this that made the Ozgers realise that no democratic state would care for them. So they went further. No state, no property -- no Ascendancy, either. Low church heretics, all. The peasant will own the land he farms, the tools he farms with, the maxivine he reaps. But this is the conflict. Peasants. They are peasants. Not workers, not city-dwellers. Many Ozgers support the plight of factory workers, and many factory workers fight with Ozger guns. But others hate them. The insect peasants hate the (seemingly) wealthy Kurt urbanites, while the Kurt factory-workers fear the loss of their whole livelihood. [These guys are based on the German Peasant Rebels, Hussites, Kurds/Greeks/Armenians and some Persians/Arabs].
There's also going to be a fucking ton little, tiny bit of sentient sacrifice
Now you're speaking my language.
@SillyGoySure, I'll get writing.
@SillyGoyDo you want me to reveal it? I wasn't sure how much of that I should control.
:^)
now the Ascendancy is supporting the Young Kurts. They're out of the equation :P
:^)
@LugubriousObviously going to be a small but plucky mouse equipped only with his hat, his rapier, and his wits.
EDIT: what was that font site again, @cyclone?
EDIT: what was that font site again, @cyclone?
Sorry I've been gone so long -- I powerwashed my chromebook, then...forgot what email I signed up with.
Revolutionary Kurtiye
Rosusta pulled his gloves tighter. His fingers couldn’t reach the ends. No matter. No matter. He kept the refrain in his head like a catechism. It took his mind off the council meeting. It kept him from thinking too hard. Ten minutes to landing.
The air was stale. Perfectly moderated. No breeze to ruffle through his fur. Not quite warm, not quite cool. No smoke, no dust. And a slow thrum. It was -- different. Different to the screams and laser-crackles and pounding, pounding mortars…
A shrill electric screech scratched through his head. They had landed. He was ushered to a bare waiting room, a few empty chairs and a couple of old, forgotten paintings. Nothing to do but think. He picked at his gloves.
“Father!” The voice rang out, soft like honeyed wine and sharp as a shamshir. His mouth -- a jagged slit in old leather -- curled into a smile.
“Hani! My little lily. It’s goo- oof!” Hani lurched into him and hugged, tight.
“Father! It’s been too long.”
“Three days.”
“Too long!
“And I spoke to you half an hour ago.” She clicked her fore-legs in annoyance.
“Too long, too long.” She paused. Tilted her head, her eyes fixed. She saw his worry, and it worried her. “We’re all behind you. Every step. You’ll be great! No slave is born brave. Just bare your fangs! You’re a straight-bred Kurt, you couldn’t lose to these peasants if you tried.”
“Breeding isn’t everything, you know. I hear some insects can be pretty outstanding.” She licked her mandibles. He had found her egg so long ago. A brutal uprising...
A servant called across the waiting room.
“The council is ready, so if you’ll follow me--
“Who are you?” Hani’s voice was cold as iron.
“I -- I’m -- uh -- I was told to--
“Your name. And title. You do have a title, yes? It must be a pretty impressive one, to talk to my father like that. Not even a ‘sir’!” The servant writhed.
“Leave the poor man be, Hani. I’ve no doubt it’s been a long day.” He kept himself from unsheathing his claws. “Besides, it’s time. We must go -- I’ll need you to keep me from running with my tail between my legs.”
---
The door opened, and a wave of hatred tore through him. A hundred glaring eyes bored into his fur. A rustling rose as hands reached at hips. Dusty jezzails, hunting rifles, smuggled Savarogs-- the tools of their revolution. Plain jackets and coarse cotton shirts with the occasional reeking tapestry draped around a village chief’s chest. Waxy feathers mixed with gleaming scales and clear glass wings. The stench of fear and anger rolled down his throat. They wanted him dead. Rosusta puffed up his chest and tried to hide his rising hackles.
“Ahah, here ihs the great Lord Roshushtah! It ihs good to seee you.” A voice like sand against steel. His eyes whipped to the man who spoke.
The stranger’s feathers lay smooth against his back. Deep black eyes pierced through a face of rugged ugliness. Like beetles in mountain dirt. “I ahm Bahl the...Bahl.” His beak gaped in a horrific grin. “The name dohs not translate well. I will be -- how is it you nobles put -- reparenting us freesoldiers -- Ozgerssaries. Forgive my not-good peasant speaking. I ahm learning how it ihs you-- people speak.” People. He spat the word. Rosusta licked his teeth, and steeled himself.
“It is as good to see you as you to see me, Bal the Bal. I know we can deal with each other as fellow gentlemen.” Bal inclined his head at the complement. He realised the meaning of his words. Recognition of their equal status. “I know you think we are different. That we cannot reconcile. But we can. We want freedom. We want justice. We want an end to suffering, all suffering. We want -- peace.” The room relaxed, and Bal cocked his head. The air was sweeter, fresher. “No young Sipahata raised an arm against fierce Ozger. No righteous Ozger shot sparks at noble Sipahata! Our enemy was not the Mutlagi. It was the Mutlaginate. And the Mutlaginate is no more. So let us eat together, let us live together, let us grasp hand in hand and lead a new world--” He stopped. Figures stepped out of nothing, pointed something at him, then disappeared.
Everything was curiously silent. He looked down. He stuffed his hands into the hole where his heart had been. He clawed and clawed and clawed until his chest was bloody tatters. There was some kind of commotion...terrible business. Some shouting. The floor was hard against his head, but the painted rafters… Colourful. His daughter’s face. Screaming. Screaming...
<Snipped quote by Dawnscroll>
Meh, Europe under Rome and Europe after is a tale of technological, social and civilisational regression that did not begin to fade until the 12th/13th century.
Of course, other parts of the world bloomed during this period, but I speak of Europe. Dark or partially cloudy or very sunny is irrelevant, what is relevant to my point is the regression in Europe which undeniably occurred.
That didn't happen, either. Economics took a massive hit, but technologically and socially -- things only progressed.
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