So, funnily enough, in G1 Easy created a group of monkeys who joined in the pro-democracy side of a civil war, and they introduced the original song to the revolution.
Aw that plotline was so cool. The leftover remnants of mercenaries and Enforcers from the non-democratic side were then supposed to form a new mercenary group which could be hired by any of the nation states, based on Mars' Olympus Mons.
Planning to do something similar in the war with the Yulzan Ascendancy hehe
Population: 800 Million All we found in these forests was Peace.
Planet Name and Description: Peha. An amalgamation of words for “Peace” created by the first landers, humans of many nations and many languages. This was a perfect Earth-like substitute for weary, war-stricken travellers. A name which not only embodied what these first colonists felt but also what they wished for. Strived for. And after many years of war, subjugation, strife, was what they deserved. A planet which can never replace the Mother but could play her surrogate for her lost children. A planet of many volcanic island archipelagos, each lined by white sandy beaches and centred by thick jungle. On Peha’s equator lay the only substantial landmass aside from the wintery poles, the Ope o Peha, Son of Peace. With its biomes of gently rolling plains mixed with thick, entangled jungles, winding rivers, and a dormant super-volcano at its centre, it was perfect for settlement. The soil was rich, the ore veins untouched, water clearer than most of the young ones had ever laid eyes on. It was beautiful.
That was then. This is now. Craters, irradiated for many thousands of years, where jade plains and farms once stood. Stab wounds puncturing deep to his body. Razed, charred ground where might tree cities once intermixed with jungles. Third degree burns on skin. The literal terrain cracked and torn asunder, like strings of welts on a whipped man’s back. The rivers which flowed so vibrantly now full of lava from the son’s last defiant shout. Ope o Peha was murdered and remains lifeless, a stark reminder of what the Hatan had done. Many, now Umana in their tongue, still weep for the lost son. No island was bereft of damage from their arrival, jungles cut down and some whole islands still on fire, yet none bore as much pain as the son, the tortured son, the murdered son.
Peha still quakes and cries at the loss of her son, tearing many islands asunder in earthquakes of imaginable magnitude. Irradiated hurricanes strike at the settlements on the islands, striking at massive sea walls with savagery. Screaming, howling, shouting ”why they would let her precious son die?”
History: The people who sought for peace above all else were atypical. These were people who had seen what reckless industry, unbound scientific developments and a loss of connection to the land could do. They were Mother-born, the last of the humans born in her withering hands and they felt her loss deeply. These were like-minded people and despite their differences in blood and homeland, they convened in Mother’s dying breaths to create a united vision for the future. No longer would they scorn nature’s gifts, lay upon the land countless injuries which could not heal – these first would-be-settlers laid out both written guides and stories to tell their children. A language, born of the many languages their people spoke so that they would not forget their heritage yet be able to communicate with each other. A history of all the peoples which came before, legends of those who came before who struck against reckless capitalism and colonisation. And most importantly, a set of principles which could guide future generations to make sure Mother’s death would not be repeated.
Many would laugh at these “hippies” or “up-jumped natives” and claimed their stupidity in denying the gifts of capitalism and conquering. These gifts, they each knew, was poisoned. A poison which had spread so far and ingrained itself so deeply that it led to us fleeing Mother’s grasp. They were one of the last to leave, gently brushing her presence before they left her for what seemed like forever. And in those last days, the holds of the Yearning Tranquillity held not only those who lost their ancestral homelands but their anguish, tears, pain and most importantly, hope.
This hope found answers in Peha. How lucky they were! Here they were, a colony ship flung to parts unknown, with chances slim to none of finding a suitable new home, landing to a place of such vibrant nature it even made the most despondent leap in joy! With the advanced technology that they once scorned, they could make a home here while following their principles. They laid great settlements in the jungles and plains of Ope o Peha in accordance with nature, not against it. They found mines, dams and geothermal plants which did not scar the land but allow nature to take its course around them. More than any other advanced civilisation since the modern age, these first generations found bounds of peace and symbiosis relationships with the nature that surrounds them. So peaceful, so united were they that many spent time creating art, songs, large waka to travel the oceans and nurturing bountiful gardens rather than working the endless toil their predecessors had suffered under before. Soldiery and weapons were laid aside for building tools and even the advanced waka that had brought the there was laid to rest in shores as a proclamation that their new home, their surrogate mother was Peha.
They were Umana, communal, peaceful citizens of the land. One with the land and the land one with them. Any sole “leader” of the bright, happy population was more a figurehead administrator, one who was more focused on the continued prosperity than vying for individual greed. Truly, these were the best of us. Oh how many beautiful songs could have been created? How many cultures sprouted from the old, new stories and artwork created in respect to the past and future? How many more mothers would hold suckling, hopeful newborns? Fathers proud of their children drawing doodles, carving crude craft, singing soulful songs? Oh what could be and what should have been.
They came like lightning. They struck the communications between our peoples, declaring us weak, spineless and unworthy of our new home, our only worth found as prey before shutting it all down. They destroyed our symbiotic power generators, the farms and fields, what few military settlements we had. Nuclear bombs laid waste to our great cities, for how could we put up a fair fight against our superiors? So many millions died on Ope o Peha, joining their new adopted brother as victims of a culling, a massacre. Yet in their great cruelty, the Hatan let many more live and escape, boarding waka to flee to the islands.
Umana found their escape and reprieve short lived. Aliens who were faster and stronger than any person who had ever lived, landing at these islands with the intent to hunt. These forced many more migrations, even more fleeing and spreading themselves upon the many thousands of islands across Peha. Millions turned to thousands turned to hundreds in this great migration, communities splitting apart to prevent the mass genocide that came with concentrated numbers. The Hatan, those demons, could have easily bombed these fleets of waka and be done with it. Yet they enjoyed the game, enjoyed the chase of men, women and children as they slashed at their backs, loved the thrill of the hunt.
And as it was, in the turn of the first century since settling there, the once united, once peaceful people were found to be scattered, brought into war not of their choosing.
But these were not quitters. These were not crying savages begging on their knees for a quick death. History would not be repeated here, could not be repeated here. The Umana laid down their chisels, brushes and tools of creation for the tools of war.
Some were lucky to escape with hunting or building equipment which could be converted into deadly weaponry. Some were even able to escape with the original weapons of war of the dead soldiery, picked up in the great flight and used to great effect. But many had to make do with what they had. With their makeshift weapons of war, with wood, steel, rock and even barehanded, they fought back. They laid traps and ambushes within jungles so similar to what they used to have. Used crying, running children actors as bait for over-eager demons. Created mock villages instead filled with hardened warriors.
Still, many Umana died in droves, lined against ditches made of their own hands and shot. But many more died fighting, shooting, punching, stabbing, biting and tearing at the demons. No one was spared from fighting. Elderly women poured hot oil on hunting parties, young ones ran messages between ambush groups, disabled cripples using whatever limbs (and often teeth) to inflict as much pain as they could. The Hatan miscalculated, they had not found a native people which were so caught up in their own happiness that they could be ruthlessly ravaged. They had found a lost people, fleeing their Mother stricken by war who knew what total warfare meant, if not through experience, then through tales and through their blood.
Many alien hunting parties would leave after getting their fill of slaughter, deeming these upstarted apes too troublesome to bother fighting or simply bored, wanting to embark on another grand journey to try and find other prey ripe for hunting. Some, mostly out of respect and not mercy, would join hopeless Umana in fighting other Hatan to see what fun could be found there with the defenders too tired to put up much of a fight to such a ridiculous request. The few hunting parties that were left were either more murderous than their others or were looking for vengeance against the “lesser” savages, most settling in islands of their own to continue the fight.
It was in this age of strife, of poverty and of relentless war that those once peaceful would slaughter each other as well as the Hatan. This was simply over a matter of resources, mainly fighting for the few freshwater sources not poisoned by the radiation which carried itself in the wind. This was the start of a grand hundred and fifty years of constant fighting, bleeding, conquering among the Umana themselves. A descent into debauchery so grand that it brought tears to the remaining demons, many partaking in the carnage with unrelenting glee. Glee at their successful corruption, sheer joy at the blood which would cover their bodies and sink into their short fur. Not much can be said about this age of senseless violence aside from the fact that history seemed to always find a way to repeat itself. It was an unbreakable cycle.
The Kiri of the Emerald Isles thought differently. She held to the principles of the old way, the founding ideology which led to the peace of the before times. She knew, through stories and art and song, of better futures different from one of war and inevitable extinction. But she knew that with the reawakening of violence, there could be no quarter given, no mercy bestowed, no weapons thrown aside, not until the Umana were united under a stern leader who could keep what their knew planet was named for.
To show her intent to the various polities, petty empires and remaining hunting parties, she renamed her people the Kiritane o Peha. There was no other legitimate government aside from those who allied under her, no people that could live in Peha without bending the knee to her will. Ngawerawera ne Xhota was a woman of grand willpower, of sheer brilliance, of mana, great enough to move mountains. And here began a war of subjugation, violence for peace, slaughtering countless petty lords and their peoples till peace could once more reign over these islands.
Utilising fleets of armed, steel waka and captured Hatan prowlers, she conducted raids and swiftly conquered a great string of islands in few short years. Hopping from one to the next and ruthlessly giving the choice of a bent knee or death for both chieftain and followers. Adults, elderly, children, subjects of all ages were put to the blade for the sins of their leader so that the rotten legacy could not be continued through blood. But she did not conquer senselessly, without direction, as she carved her way through the oceans.
Arriving at Ope o Peha, standing side by side with both Umana and conquered Hatan, she felt her first bit of hopelessness. On glassed beaches, with great firestorms still raging further inshore, she cried. Ngawerawera weeped, a sight never seen before in a woman thought to be cut from stone. So moved were her followers that even the demons would stand in silence, even the most cold-hearted felt water in their eyes. She would weep on sandy knees till her wells ran dry, till her knees groaned against forced stillness, till her sharpened nails had scraped flesh from her folded legs. Then she stood, silently, and walked among the shores where her predecessors were slain so brutally, where they had fled so many years ago.
Here, Ngawerawera found her trump card. The Yearning Tranquillity was unwavering, over two centuries in the waters off the salty coast not enough to earn a single speck of rust on its body. A brave, or maybe foolish, Hatan follower, one who joined for the bloodshed the Kiri promised, loudly scoffed. They had been alive in their first landings and knew the strategy to cause the great migrations. It was specifically to render the Umana useless, to forget their previous knowledges. The fool’s throat had been torn by sharpened nails midway through monologue. The great, first Kiri knew how to wield their first waka. Only a fool would not realise the importance of tales and song which could carry information through generations. The specifics? Well she had shamans, keepers of stories, who could wield unknown technologies like seasoned experts due to their vast oral knowledge.
And so the first waka fired its engines and readied its unused guns. Fulfilling its namesake once more, under bloodier guise.
And so it was, history repeated itself. A conqueror turned king. With one great waka, Ngawerawera would unleash a systematic subjugation of all the rest. She kept her word, slaying those who refused and treating with kindness those who bent the knee, with future promises that their hard-fought sovereignty would not be destroyed by a tyrant king. Most often, Hatan would fall into the first group and Umana in the second, resulting in the disparate population figures found today. In the thousands of islands, she would gain millions of followers. She was tireless, even when the grey started overtaking her once vibrant raven hair, when the wrinkles tweaked her once perfect beauty. It was said, by all those present, that upon the last day of bent knees, she would die peacefully in her bed on the Yearning Tranquillity.
Her son, Natawhau e Ngawerawera, a warrior and leader in his own right, took the mantle and donned his mother’s flowing cape of dried flax and dyes. It was under him that the first meeting of allied leaders was held, a great conference to realise the future which his mother fought for. With a peace enforced by further conquering and slaughter of crying dissidents, Ngawerawera’s dream was set in stone. The millions of Umana and remaining Hatan o Umana, as they were now called, were united under one flag despite the distances between the islands they occupy. He would be known as a great, intelligent administrator and more merciful and patient than his mother ever was. He would attempt to tackle the problem of natural industrialisation, creating widespread, yet less grand tree-cities as was on Ope o Peha. His reign would mark the creation of a sort-of-constitution, of the Peha Mandatu which set his descendants as forever worthy of the title Kiri.
His daughter, Ngareia e Natawhau would gently take power after her father’s abdication. The populations boom as freshwater is purified by the first waka’s advanced technologies. Resources would be gained by the utilisation of former Hatan prowlers, as few as they were, reaching into space to gather for the people below. Jungles were restored and many war fleets repurposed into shipping and transport. Yet she still has much to contest with in her reign.
The remaining Hatan, most of whom are descendants of those who had first landed here, face discrimination daily, often on the receiving end of brutality. The warriors still itch for fighting, for while they could claim they fought for peace, generations of war did not lend itself easy to be laid aside. Much technology was still very much forgotten and was wildly varying between the island nations under her purview. Many Umana chiefs started to question the need for a Kiri and many more worried for another demon incursion. There festers a growing movement which calls for te puke o awa, the standing aside of outsiders. Chiefs wish to respectfully step out of the Kiritane and instead observe, give advice and probe the world entity from the outside. A step which undermines the authority of the Kiri yet stands with the promises of Ngarewarewa.
Yet she stands undaunted as her grandmother once was at the ruins of Ope o Peha. For how can one forget the tales and songs, carrying the wisdom of those who came before. Her answers would lie somewhere beyond the reach of Peha, in places where the isolationism and divisions of the Umana could be shed and true peace could be found again.
Culture and Society Once divided, twice united. A dichotomy of cultures and thinking.
For the average subject under the Kiritane, life is akin to a mix of early agricultural society and hunter-gatherer tribes with some urbanised dwellings in the tree-cities. In a clashing of ways of life, technology levels and power, the many “allied” tribes are still very much divided against each other in ways. Many still wage small conflicts against the other, trying to get away with what they can before the Kiritane rears its head with authority. They are jealous and scheming, the century and a half of conflict making them bloodthirsty and seeking revenge despite the relative peace of the new age. So to live in these times is to be tense, wary and always looking for the knife aimed at your back.
This translates to the Umana and Hatan o Umana in how they behave with each other. There is much posturing between rivals which can often devolve into violence. They are indifferent or outright hostile to outsiders, most only grudgingly respecting the authority of the Kiri and her own warriors due to Ngarewarewa and the Mandate. Each people has a culture derived from many other, often indigenous, cultures that came from Mother. This fact, which was once embraced and given to unity, divides the island peoples. Some argue that their heritage to the “old ways” was stronger than others, convinced of their superiority. Others argue that their newness, modernity and fusion of old cultures was a sign of progression, convinced of other’s foolishness. The Hatan o Umana are largely lost in this battle of cultures, swaying to whatever side they were already allied to.
Religious beliefs have divided, some continuing some form of organised faith while many others approach more spiritualist ancestor or nature worship. Some detest technology, for what had it brought but ruin to the shores of Peha’s son? Some revel in it, forming shamans by the dozens as both lore keepers and to find new lore. Industry varies largely, typically the more powerful a tribe was prior to involvement in the Kiritane, the greater their industry and their technology.
Among their own, these island peoples are as carefree and peace-loving as they had been before, with newer generation demons adopting this attitude. It harkens to the early days on Peha, those wistful first landers dreaming of peace and different times. Communal work without wage is common, simply done for the bettering of the wider community. Bonds formed from the war and the mindless slaughter are strong, with neighbouring, friendly polities having connections as unbreakable as steel.
However, there are still some remnant unified forces between the people of Peha, adopted by the demons which had invaded them long ago. A love of nature and a fierce desire to preserve it. An idea of being one with the land and the land being one with them. A common language born from their predecessors. A love for song, dance, art, carvings and travel. A respect, sometimes grudging, of the overall leadership of the Kiri. A warrior culture which stems from the early days of massacre and bloodshed. And a uniquely oral-based knowledge system which allows for the preservation of all forms of knowledge and a drive to prevent history from repeating itself, despite many peoples having different views on how to prevent that.
An overarching aspect of Umana (and hence younger Umana o Hatan) is the respect for and fear of Ope o Peha. All fear the wrath of the mother and many regard that place cursed, only filled with the spirits of anguished dead, weeping trees and suffocating animals. There is serious debate over whether to utilise this large landmass to allow for industrialisation but there is too much fear for that place. The mother still grieves for her son.
Reconfigured Hatan prowlers on patrol.
Governance and Politics: The Kiritane consists of nations which swears itself to the Kiri and more importantly, to the Peha Mandatu. This proclamation, more than the constitution nor the few written laws applied throughout the Kiritane, is the founding principle upon which this confederation is built. The Peha Mandatu, in short, states that due to the great undertakings of Ngarewarewa, the sheer will she built over long life and the dauntless sacrifices she had made, that this same spirit would have to be carried to all her firstborn descendants. That her blood resembles the ways of the old and the coming of the new more than any other, that with her lineage ferries new ages and improvements to all under the Kiritane as a whole. But, as to keep with her promises, the largely day-to-day goings of her various peoples would be bestowed upon their chiefs. The bloodline of Ngarewarewa serves as the admiral overseeing the many captains of the fleet.
Within their own domains, the chiefs of the various tribes rule largely without oversight. Unless serious crimes occur which offend the peoples, the Kiritane does not interfere with intra-tribal affairs. This causes wild variations in the laws between tribes, resulting in frequent inter-tribal insults. These laws are largely based on the bloodline and familial bonds within community, the gods they believe in and the lands which these tribes inhabit. Largely, this creates isolationism between the different islands or island archipelagos with most inter-tribal discussion occurring on the Emerald Isles where the Kiritane hold the most sway.
The largest forum for government is held in the spring, a time of general merriment for the crops are plentiful and the hunting is bountiful. The tuhana of leaders across Peha is held on the largest island of the Emerald Isles, where the Kiri holds council. Here, rather than individual chiefs airing out their grievances between each other or to the Kiri, it is a two week long banquet accompanied by lawmaking, deals being made and general discussion on what direction the Kiritane takes. The Kiri holds absolute power in this domain, as mandated by the Peha Mandatu and enforced by the power of conquest and their bloodline.
The Peha Mandatu is a mandate outlining the rights of the Kiri to hold overall sovereignty and governorship over Peha. It is an account of all the battles and treaties in which Ngarewarewa and her descendants partook in, to cement the weight of history into their rulership. It does not sit idle, it evolves as Kiri live and die, as they wage war, make knees bend and create tales. Great projects can often be seen here, such as Natawhau’s construction of his capital in the Emerald Isles, a large interconnecting super tree-city which showcases the power of the Kiri and exemplifies why they should rule.
The Kiritane is a loose confederation of island tribe-nations which respect the Kiri but only exists with constant enforcement that the rule of the Kiri is just and correct, as shown by the Peha Mandatu.
Technology Overview: Much has been forgotten by the Umana of these lands. With the destruction of Ope o Peha and the subsequent flight of the people, much written knowledge was lost. Largely, any technological retention occur due to the shamans, lore-keepers who hold much knowledge from the stories, songs and forms of art they partake in and pass down. Codification and analysation of this knowledge is difficult even for the Kiritane as many shamans hold deep loyalty with the tribe and lands they inhabit. Only some developments from the Emerald Isle are publicly available in written or video form, hence why many tribes are not mired in disease and famine. Aside from this, advanced technology is an exemplar of the relationship between chieftain and Kiri, deep contention on where one’s authority starts and ends.
Overall, technology within the tribes vary largely. Some may have retained more than others, resulting in vast differences in technological level. Within a largely tribal society, advanced technology is most often seen in the tools and weapons they utilise. Plasma cutters, handheld weapons with mono-blades or heavy alloy shields, chain-tools and the like are common. Other, more industry-based technology such as agricultural, building, mining or manufacturing technologies are more closely guarded. Even the Kiri guard some of these resources to keep ahead of the other tribes to keep domain.
The Hatan who remain contribute with their painful weapons, torture devices and traps. But largely, as most of those who stayed behind on Peha were hunters who held little actual technical knowledge, warfare remains their domain. Conveniently, many Hatan technicians landed with the crashing of a prowler on the Emerald Isles, hence the ability for the Kiritane to enforce their might planetwide via the original prowlers which remained on Peha.
Islands, the vast tracts of ocean between them and the relatively small land area they have does not lend itself well to large industry and technological developments. Hence much of the Kiritane approach is focused towards the restoration of technology. If outside forces were to offer their own technological support, there would be much contention over accepting such an offer, with the isolationist tendencies of the chiefs.
Military Overview: The military, much like the nation, is fragmented. The largest, and only, standing military on Peha is that of the Emerald Expeditionary Forces. A mixed navy (both water and space), army and air force combined forces group which harkens itself back to the conquering fleets of waka led by Ngarewarewa. An organisation which ultimately answers to the Kiri as their commanding officer, with an individual leader for each branch of Expeditionary Forces. As they are directly sworn to the Kiri through blood and land, they have ultimate loyalty with the Kiritane and the Peha Mandatu. While also acting as the armed limb of the Kiri, they also act as the policing force to ensure what few laws the Kiritane have are enforced planetwide. This includes the stamping of dissidents as well as forceful peace installed between warring tribes.
The other tribes also hold their own militaries but are made up of part-time soldiery, beholden to the Kiritane only when they are called upon, otherwise led by their respective chieftains. These local militias/militaries differ greatly between each other in make-up, numbers and armaments. However, the Umana way of war largely stays the same. Tinged with the cruelty of the early Hatan, many of whose descendants still occupy military roles, the Umana are excellent at guerilla tactics, small-scale conflict, jungle warfare and psychological weapons. In the free-for-all of planetwide wars, the speed at which one could conquer another’s territory was all-important. And for the defenders, the ability to slow down those attackers’ determined life or complete subjugation and massacre. When on the offensive, overwhelming force is used to rid of peripheral forces, often taking place after a successful naval engagement. The “hunters” are then used, to penetrate deep within deeper enemy territory, often being jungles, to scope out the remaining forces.
The attackers would then face possible death by a thousand cuts. Traumatic spike traps, laser guided mines, sporadic ambushes, suicide bombers, poisoned water sources and many more irregular warfare tactics are used to great effect for the defenders. War between Umana is determined by how staunch the defenders can be or how brutal the attackers can be. The Emerald Expeditionary Forces’ success originates in their spaceflight superiority, often making these irregular defences moot. And with most Umana soldiery finding greater satisfaction in handheld melee weapons (though the Expeditionary Forces are largely equipped with ballistics), the fighting is brutal. Ripping, tearing, bludgeoning and maiming are shows of warrior prowess for these jaded warriors.
This land-focused strategy is exemplified in the Yearning Tranquility and the old prowlers. Many of the latter rusting and dilapidated with poor maintenance, both have been adapted to more ground-focused support. Their guns are more focused on shooting down enemy ground emplacements and supporting troop/water naval movements rather than focusing on anti-ship warfare (for what other ships are there?).
And with the prominence of the oceans, the steel waka hold the greatest prestige within the Emerald Expeditionary Forces and the militia who are lucky enough to have the knowledge to make them (others make do with wood or other materials). Great trimaran hulls which slice through the water, both sail and battery powered (often by efficient solar panels held by the Emerald Isles), with the weaponry of said ships chosen by the captains who lead them. Some have great ballistic cannons to engage in long artillery duels, lucky ones have scavenged missiles taken from downed prowlers for pinpoint targeting while others instead cram their hulls with as many warriors as possible, reinforce their leading hull and act as rams.
Like the Kiritane itself, the military and militia of Peha are a hodgepodge of the old and new, tinged with a personal cruelty that only many years of close, brutal fighting can inflict.
Atamira Hoke Hoke standing in his formal dress as a leader of the water waka navy Emerald Expeditionary Force warrior fully armoured, though many askew aside some parts to feel the blood of enemies touch their skin Standard firearms found throughout the Kiritane, wood-based to save on steel production Grainy image of old first settler trimarans which the navies make use of A series of landing craft exiting a trimaran in order to execute landing operations Yearning Tranquility Modified cargo haulers turned close combat troop droppers
Several moons ago, in far off islesAfter a week of rest forced unto them by their pack-leaders, they had been itching for some slaughter. Some had even taken to scarring themselves and other hunters to reduce the itch for blood yet nothing was as satisfying as the hunt. The adrenaline of chasing prey, watching their small circular eyes enlarge as their kin was struck down with knife, gun and powerful Hatanexhix hands. But the previous monxhei cowered like animals in their dens, wishing, praying and begging for salvation when they came. Blood was spilt, little ones drained of their lifeforce, elders drained of whatever blood they had left, impudent males and females struck down when they tried to fight. But there was no relief, no adrenaline filled their systems, muscles did not strain, lives were not at stake as with a proper chase.
But here, their hearts pounded in their ears, determined eyes scanning the surroundings as they revelled in a proper hunt. The primitives of these isles were of a cleverer sort than the last, fleeing their coastal huts at the first sign of their prowlers in the distance. They could have bombed them with their superior guns, killed them all without the slightest bit of effort. But what these monxhei seem to have realised was that us Hatanexhix did not enjoy such systematic, detached killings. They lived for the soft underbrush underneath their feet, bounding above entangled vines and tripping roots as they hunted for their prey. The primates found that they could survive longer when they hid in these jungles.
And how fun and satisfying to partake in the thrill of the predator and prey.
Nexhi, a hunter of many years, was broken out of his introspection as his hunting party paused for a small break. They had taken to taking the corpses of the little ones as cloaks, locking small hands around their necks through skin grafting, enjoying the smell of innocent death which followed them. This typically enraged the monxhei enough to attacking them recklessly but the primitives on this island had yet to take the bait.
Not a single ambush nor trap. No footprints in the underbrush, no fallen branches broken in a hurried flight. There was nothing to track with. A snarling voice broke the silence of the breaking hunters.
One of the younger hunters, frustrated with the lack of blood, carved a small cut along his furred forearm, the movement disturbing the swarm of insects which settled on the child corpse cloak. “Where are these monxhei? We have been looping around this Axtesh-damned jungle for a spin and a half!”
Another, burlier and older Hatanexhix snorted. “Maybe if you had not broken the silence with your complaining, we might have found some primates to kill.”
The younger one threw his arms in the air, tearing the withered arms off his neck and letting the body drop unceremoniously on to the ground. “If we did not have these heavy cloaks, we would have caught up to them by now.”
“Our skin-carver fell into a pit trap two islands ago, we do not have anyone skilled enough in the art of haxax to make leather out of skin. We must make do.”
“Why do we not place skulls upon our belts?! This is like carrying an oxox on your back when we run for this long.”
“You have become a cowardly complainer since you lost that fight against Xheti.”
“That ingrate cut off my finger! My blade would have struck true if it wasn’t for his cowardice.”
“You mean he was simpler smarter than you?”
“You Axteshi, decrepit, pile of bones-“
Nexhi spat in the younger one’s face, interrupting the conversation before it created a murderous altercation which could spread among the group. The bloodlust is addicting and fuelled their endless hunting but they could not afford disagreements this deep in monxhei lands.
“Enough complaining. They have simply ran longer and have become familiar with these lands. They can run but they cannot hide. We will find them soon.”
Astoundingly, the rabble rouser pinned his attentions on the pack-leader, pointing a finger at Nexhi’s chest. “If only you could track as well as you can breed with an oxox, we would have found them by now!”
Before the hunting leader could lay into the dissenter and rip his throat, the young complainer kicked the head of his discarded cloak. Rotting muscle and flesh careened into the air, striking a large tree at the opposite side of the clearing.
The sound of breaking bones and shattering wood was smothered by the ground collapsing underneath them. Nexhi, the elder and several others on the periphery of the clearing quickly jumped away from the opening earth. Some were not as lucky.
Silence shattering shrieks broke the relative peace of the jungle as Hatanexhix impaled themselves on 3-meter-long spikes. Most died instantly, hearts pulverised by the piercing wood, brains splattering the muddy pit. One unfortunate soul, the argumentative young one, had pierced his leg on a spike and dangled like a sack of flesh from the wooden appendage, pained screams making such an annoying racket. A quick nod from Nexhi across the clearing allowed the elder one to put the boy hunter out of his misery, a sliver of satisfaction flashing on the elder’s face.
As one, the hunters disregarded their now lifeless comrades and scanned the surrounding forests. A trap this well-timed as to kill most of the party had to have a triggering monxhei behind it. The pattering of light feet and laboured breathing was all Nexhi needed to start his chase. With a holler, he set off into the thick undergrowth with the whooping, grinning hunters quickly following behind them.
As infuriatingly endurance-oriented these monxhei were, they could not keep up with a Hatanexhix at their top speed. The hunter leader set upon the first straggler, a white-faced primate looking at death with terror. A swipe with his chain-blade and the primitive’s jaw flung onto the wide leaves, dropping lifelessly in the mud. Another swipe rent his splitting body in two to make sure there would be no peace for that cowardly ape. A few paces later, the next primate turned to face him, shouting in his- no, her- disgustingly guttural language in a pitiful challenge. She seemed to be protecting an even smaller monxhei, gripping a neon-edged blade of good make.
The older one charged at him, lunging with both arms outreaching, one bladed and deadly while the other seeking to grapple him. Nexhi simply sidestepped the girl and bisected her in two from head to pelvis, titanium-toothed blades splashing viscera on his light armour. Smiling in amusement, he turned to the other primitive nearby.
Shaking like a leaf, the younger girl had a jade club which he had seen handled proficiently by many a monxhei warrior, often used to scalp his brethren and leave them writhing in pain.
The girl was no warrior and was quickly rent into four pieces where she shook, revolving chain-blades singing bloody murder in the trees as others also set upon their targets. The leader laughed boisterously, thoughts flinging back to the young fool in the trap who had missed out in such delight and revelry.
Out of the foliage, a roaring young boy flung himself at the hunter, wooden pan-shaped club in hand, foaming at the mouth. Nexhi parried the club with the back of his chain-blade, shifting the boy’s momentum into a blood-soaked tree. Before he could set upon the primitive, the boy scrambled away from screaming hooked chains which embedded itself in tough wood.
The Hatanexhix laughed harder, discarding his chain blade and kicked the dead girl’s jade club up into his hands. He stalked his prey, hyperventilating with how hard he laughed at the boy’s narrowing eyes and his subsequent about turn into the shrubbery.
Quickly leaving his other fellows, Nexhi gave chase with murderous glee. He slowed his pace so he was just out of the wild backward swipes of this humiliation in front of him. What a pathetic specimen, running when the adrenaline left his body, evidently realising his doomed fate.
The hunter leader followed the boy up a small hill and unto a clearing of grass, edged by a cliff. The prey turned swiftly to face his opponent, determination in his eyes despite the clear soiling in his flax skirts. It was so humorous that Nexhi almost cried laughing at the site.
“Boy!” He shouted between laughter, twisting his serpentine tongue to occupy the tongue of these wretched primitives. “You turn tail with the first xlaughter. You are more pitiable than the girl I had just split in xuarters. Xhe wielded your mere with no skill but at least xhe did not run like a coward!”
The boy opened his mouth like a gaping fish, nearly sending the Hatanexhix into hysterics. “You speak the language of our ancestors.”
“Of course,” Nexhi boasted, a wide shit-eating grin threatening to split his face in half “xlaughtering a pig is more fun when you know what the animal is xaying.”
Little or not, the dark-skinned primitive set his mouth in a thin line, gripping the wooden pan-club tighter as he stalked forward in a deliciously proud way.
“You are not worthy of their tongue.”
“And you, monxhei are not worthy of the ground your corpse xhall fall on.”
“It will not be my corpse falling to the earth, Hatan. I am Xhota, son of Xhashi, and your death will bring glee to my ancestors.”
The hunter howled uproariously at the upstart, twirling the primitive club between dextrous fingers as he set upon his prey.
The two set launched themselves against each other, one howling with surprised glee, the other grim-faced and set with immovable will. This small, almost forgettable duel among many hundreds fought on this planet would have repercussions upon the future. The singing willpower, the cacophonous strength, the determination to move mountains which ran through Ngarewarewa’s blood would start here. On a small atoll, of no interest for many of the great leaders at the time, between a murderer and a child. A hunter and his prey.
Setting sailLove of the ocean permeated Peha society. Being a sailor or fisherman was a well paid occupation, even among the poorer tribu witht their wooden waka. If not in gold and jade, then they were paid by bountiful food year round and the pick of the crop for wives or husbands. There was something freeing about living it out on the waves, a small drop in an ocean of trade. Bautista knew for him, the best part of living in the waves was the escape from the cramped islands.
The kapitan had a tight hold over his crew. A dichotomy of modernity and age, the trading cargo ship Santa Maria benefited from technology of centuries past and retrofitments from subsequent owners. The sensor suite could cover a thousand kilometer radius and half that distance in depth. The cargo hold was sheltered by a retractable copper mesh cage to prevent containers from toppling in rough seas. The hull was made of a composite steel unknown to many shamans, created by the advanced peoples of ages past. The hydrogen-powered turbines made for efficient long distance travel. The heated metal coverings meant crew members could sail comfortably with only a shirt on even in the fiercest winter ocean storms. Stabilisers and an automatically tilting deck meant that even the worst sea legs could sprint across the ship with nary a stumble. A venerable, old-yet-futuristic waka which cleaved its way through rough northern seas, seeking trade to alleviate the few settlements on the northern icy wastes.
A sharp beep interrupted his musings. A skeleton crew was working over the night shift, only a half-dozen officers at work, so the communications officer had to scoot over towards the sensor suite.
"What is it Officer Reyes? Sounded like an approaching ship in our radar."
An "aye" confirmed his guesswork. Bautista furrowed his brows. He had checked the radars himself only minutes ago and nothing had come up.
"How far are they?"
"Three hundred clicks southwest and approaching fast sir, on an interception course towards us. At their bearing and approximate speed, another thirty minutes and they'd be on top of us kapitan."
That's odd. Nothing should pop out of the thousand click radar like that, in such close proximity. "Well then hail them. Warn them of their collision course."
"Aye sir." Reyes scooted back to the communications desk and donned a headset, working his magic on the holographic inputs.
"Attention unknown ship, your current bearing interferes with our own. Please change bearing, the Santa Maria holds priority as per Kiritane Northern Naval code one-six-five. I repeat, your current bearing interferes with our own. Please change bearing to prevent collision."
Ten minutes passed in relative silence, with the message repeated but to no avail. Curiosity and some morbid worry rising, Bautista himself stepped to the sensor suite and put the radar on display. Nothing again. A quick look to his officer confirmed
The hairs on the back of his neck never felt so prominent. The sensors were never wrong on his ship, it was the oldest state-of-the-art sensors outside the Emerald Navy.
"Officer Xhaxhi, what is the diving speed of the Red Rising?"
"Xir?" The young blue informations officer tilted her head in confusion, ever unnerving Hatan orbs staring back in confusion.
"The diving speed of the Red Rising, if you would Xhaxhi."
"Tremendously fast xir, as an Emerald xubmarine always ix. But xir-"
"Wake Guzman and the rest of the security contractors. Time for him to prove he's worth that audacious salary of his."
"But xir-"
"Wake the rest of the crew, all hands on deck to secure the cargo. Sound the emergency klaxons, they need to arm themselves for boarding."
"Xir!-"
"Actually, scratch that. We're running a new roster, half the crew would be useless at repelling boarders. They need to secure the cargo then filter into the lower engine holds with the lights off. Current bridge crew do need to don their sidearms and prepare to defend the bridge. Reyes, be a dear will you and fetch my gun-"
"But xir, the Red Rising never goes this far north! And from current understandings of the maritime code, which even pirates adhere to, no one targets northern research cargo ships!" Almost like a hive mind, the bridge collectively winced. Officer Reyes sunk low into his seat, preparing for the scolding almost reflexively. No one shouts at the kapitan.
Their leader merely sighed, lifting his cap and running a calloused hand through silver hair.
"Xhaxhi, please remind Officer Reyes what the current interdiction efforts resulted in down south."
The young lady shook out of a minor stupor, reciting forth knowledge from the daily updates. "Interdiction effortx have been a great succexx. Piraxy hax reduced by eighty percent as both Emerald wet-naxy and space-navy have flexed their muxclex. A fifty percent increaxe in intervention efforts combined with regular armed excort of all trading fleet elements was a major succexx."
"Yes, and if you suddenly get rid of all the easy targets in the calm seas, where do you think some foolhardy, gloryhound pirates end up to get their blood up? Ignore whatever honour code pirates may have and bad weather conditions."
"North or xouth, xir."
Silence.
"But why the Red Rixing specifically xir?"
"All the black boxes from their sunken prey showed a ghost signature appearing then disappearing three hundred clicks away prior to their close proximity resurfacing. Prepare for boarding ladies and gentlemen. And fetch my weapon Reyes, don't make me repeat myself again."
TL;DR = isolationist confederate kingdom led by a Woman-King, just coming out of a genocidal war from aliens and between each other, initially a colony of hippies and conservationist indigenous peoples who formed a peaceful utopia (prior to alien invasion). Technology is hodgepodge, everyone likes boats and songs and killing each other with melee weapons (because up close and personal is the best way to kill people who want to kill you and yours).
The Emerald Isles, PehaThe creation of a new star in the night sky is an event much talked about by the amateur astrologists and recreational sailors of the world. To the average Umana, nothing had changed from the unusual, the merrymaking started by the annual tohunga of the chiefs well underway. If it were not for the space-worthy prowlers searching through the local solar system, perhaps nothing would be found amiss. Hardly worth of discussion.
Not here. Not in the great hall of the Kiri, of Ngarewarewa’s blood, of Ngareia the Woman-King. Fierce debates, often rising to shouting matches and physical altercations, filled the air and rebounded to make a cacophony of disunited noise. The only silence came from Emerald warriors along the walls, making sure that not too much blood would be spilled. And of course, from the increasingly impatient, strikingly beautiful young woman which oversaw this angry rabble which made up her “court.” Fist against cheek, elbow against fine wooden throne as a bored look was set on her face. She glanced to her left where a muscle-bound figure in traditional naval dress stood.
”How long have they been going at it?”
A deep vibrating chuckle, one which brought comfort to her young soul.
“I believe it has been over a quarter of a moon into the tohunga, my Kiri. The chambers have not been silent once in that time. Some have taken to sleeping here so that they can continue their debate as soon as they wake.” The Kenera gestured to the sleeping figures strewn among the many chieftains, slumbering undisturbed despite the fever pitched debate raging around them.
”Leave it to my people to partake in endurance debates.” Ngareia snorted as a pair of rowdy chiefs had started to hold each other by their ears, preparing to headbutt each other with wild eyes.
There was precedence for this sort of action from past tohunga. It was said that her father Natawhau held a conference so long during the debates over the Mandatu that some chiefs would return to find their once-pregnant wives holding a newborn. If he was to be believed, one woman chief even gave birth amidst debate! She was cleaned up, checked by healers, and continued right on with shouting after a short two hours, holding her newborn in her arms. A powerful woman she was, a shame she and her child were slain for dissidence only two years later.
Alas, that was enough reminiscing. There were actions to be taken and they needed to be quicker than whatever this was. Lines were forming across the room, many tira speaking out on who should carry the weight of responsibility for an envoy to the stars. What a trivial question, with only one clear answer.
The Woman-King sat straight and slammed her fist against the armrests, toughened wood shattering on impact to the future dismay of a distant carver.
Her warriors in turn, knocked their jade-tipped staves into the hardwood floor, a staccato rhythm which drowned out the withering debate. She waited, for silence to reign and for the sleeping to awaken, before standing. All in the room bent to one knee for Ngarewarewa’s blood was to address them. All could feel the will, the power, the intrinsic mana with which she spoke softly.
”Peace, my tira, my chiefs.” And that was that. No more debate could be had, not in these halls, not under the eyes of the Kiri. With increasing volume, Ngareia let her voice be carried into the masses, holding a tone similar to that of a mother scolding her children.
”Peace, peha, is bestowed upon us by the will of the gods and our predecessors. Through many moons of war, of blood spilt, of waka used to slaughter and pillage, we have come through and found peace once again. Despite our many sins, our many different familial lines, our bloods have intertwined with each other in the mud, the trees, the waters.”
The Woman-King paused, thinking back to easier times, her father cradling her in bed as he weaved tales and song. It was from visiting the past that they could gain strength and, perhaps, gain unity. ”All our peoples remember the bloodied shores. Umana slaughtering umana. Hatan murdering hatan. Them versus the other. We remember babes taken from weeping mothers. We remember the violations wrought upon the women of the lands. We remember the burning soil, the howling trees, the destruction we caused the land. Of Ope o Peha dying, of fleeing, of hunting.”
The few Hatan present shifted nervously, rippling fur indicating intense discomfort at the insult. The rest hummed in agreement; heads bowed in respect to the history of her words. Of their memories.
”But my forebearer, Ngarewarewa the strong, the wilful, the original tira of the lands we banquet in today, foresaw a future different from the then present. Of one united under one tira, of a Kiri worthy of the title, to unify our peoples together through sheer willpower. My father, Natewhau the intelligent, the cunning, set upon his mother’s work to weave the tribu together, to turn his mother’s legacy, her efforts into a functioning unification of these lands. Many countless moons spent toiling, both of them working with the wishes of our ancestors to find a peaceful future. And with this bickering, with such inaction, such disharmony, you tira only sing songs of failure.”
There was stillness, there was sadness, there was respect. And there was shame. Shame at past actions, plastered on the faces of many, joining the Hatan in discomfort. The loudest voices kneeled the quietest now.
A collection of breath before taking advantage of the tense hall. Soft words now, sailing through the shame in the room. ”You failed in unity. You failed in creating the harmonious Kiritane my father and his mother before sought and fought for. There has been no gentle discussion, no unanimous decision made. And because of what? The creation of a star in our sky? The opening of a door? The path to our Mother, to our past peoples, to the wrongdoers of the past, from which we had fled, is now open for us. And you bicker here, clamouring on top of each other for the position to greet possible cousins in the stars.”
“If you cannot find a quick decision, I will make one. As is my right as Kiri.” A chill settled in the air, many chiefs stiffening their necks in shock before bowing deeper. Direct intervention into tohunga was rare, as it was more common for the Kiri to agree what the council of chiefs had agreed to. But Ngareia had let the bickering go long enough, a decision needed to be made quicker than what a typical tohunga allows. She must gather the mana of Ngarewrewa’s blood, gather the shamans for prayers to the gods. The chiefs would not like such blatant strong-arming, despite many of them appearing to agree today.
But they will either go with the tides or be swept into the depths by struggling.Half a moon later, aboard the Yearning TranquilityThis great waka, once used for unbidden war, is now returning to its roots. Exploration of the unknown with a unified face. Though perhaps the word "unified" should be in quotation marks.
Even here, the politics of the Kiritane take place, even with one of Ngarewarewa's blood overseeing the envoy. Every tira made their case for sending envoys of their own on the Yearning Tranquility but as great as its halls were, space was important in this void. Hence the various political alliances sent forth their own representatives, great tira in their own right, to accompany Ngateia, third daughter of the current king and leader of the diplomatic envoy. She stood resolute within the bridge, a woman who has come into her own at the age of fifteen, taught by the Emerald Isle's best shamans. As all of those who come from her, Ngarewarewa's presence is strong even in one so young.
"Captain," she started, staring at the monitor which depicted the "Gateway" in its entirety "do we have the appropriate shamans to deduce the route towards the Mother?"
It was decided that if the Kiritane were to set sail in the void once more, they should go back to the lands where their ancestors walked. See for their own eyes the state of their Mother, remind themselves of unjustices wrought upon their lands. No Umana would forget their Mother's death but it would do wonders to unify ourselves to once again stare at her corpse.
"Aye my princess, should be through the Gateway in a wee moment. Your great mother only send tha' best afta' all." An odd choice, a Gaelic Hatan captain, prominent black and green chequered quilt clashing with the bare, blue-furred torso. Many of the tira who were also on the bridge eyed him suspiciously. Alas, with so much forgotten, the Hatan were still the most prominent spacefarers and captains within the Kiritane. Hence why the fleet of five ships, one human and four Hatan made, were all captained by a Hatan. Thoroughly vetted of course, to make sure no dissenters slipped through the gaps.
She nodded once before telling the rest of the envoy to stay in the assigned diplomatic quarters. It would not do for them to interfere with the crew's work. But she stayed, dorning a grand Kākahu of flax and bright white feathers. She stayed still in the final moments of entry through the Gateway, determined in thought and stance, refusing to let even a slight sign of discomfort. And later on, suppressing the great revulsion she felt at the sight of their murdered Mother and the unsightly thing which parked itself near it.
The reaction of the rest of the Umana will be that of sadness and great fury.
A hauntingly beautiful waiata plays first, capturing both hope and sorrow
If we were to translate these words in the coloniser's [read: English] tongue, and expand upon the lyrics this waiata are based on, it would be this:
Peace to the Universe Love to the Universe Joy to the Universe Truth to the Universe
Let the violet flame prevail, the unfettered spirit that upholds justice and truth.
A gift of love this is to the whole world an acknowledgement to the Earth Mother
That is our hope and sadness, in song, in waiata. To understand this is to understand our people.
We could speak upon the insult with which you place this metal coffin in the reach of a corpse but such a vitriolic discussion is best left to future. We reach you from Peha, as envoys of the Kiritane. Bestowed mana by the blood spilt of the great Ngarewarewa, we greet you resolutely and with fierce acknowledgement of our independence in the stars. To other children of the Mother, the Umana spit upon the crimes of old, upon the criminal actions which led to many young taken away from their families, upon the destruction of indigenous identity, upon genocides wrought upon peace-loving peoples, upon lands selfishly stolen by colonisation, upon the sins and unjustices of capitalism. We do not come here to bow, scrape or beg, we come as children of the Mother, of whose death could be explained by many of your predecessor's actions. We acknowledge your great mistakes.
We extend one hand of cooperation in the stars yet carry a club in the other. We have gifts, untouched resources, refreshing beaches to visit and welcoming embraces to be given to our friends. To our enemies, we have guns, ships and fierce mere with which we can cut your throat and crush your skulls.
We have the sufficient resources onboard our ships for a moon's worth of waiting. We will welcome ourselves to your metal coffin at your behest.
At the risk of double posting, here's a taste of what the fight against the Hatan was. Warning: Graphic violence ahead.
Several moons ago, in far off islesAfter a week of rest forced unto them by their pack-leaders, they had been itching for some slaughter. Some had even taken to scarring themselves and other hunters to reduce the itch for blood yet nothing was as satisfying as the hunt. The adrenaline of chasing prey, watching their small circular eyes enlarge as their kin was struck down with knife, gun and powerful Hatanexhix hands. But the previous monxhei cowered like animals in their dens, wishing, praying and begging for salvation when they came. Blood was spilt, little ones drained of their lifeforce, elders drained of whatever blood they had left, impudent males and females struck down when they tried to fight. But there was no relief, no adrenaline filled their systems, muscles did not strain, lives were not at stake as with a proper chase.
But here, their hearts pounded in their ears, determined eyes scanning the surroundings as they revelled in a proper hunt. The primitives of these isles were of a cleverer sort than the last, fleeing their coastal huts at the first sign of their prowlers in the distance. They could have bombed them with their superior guns, killed them all without the slightest bit of effort. But what these monxhei seem to have realised was that us Hatanexhix did not enjoy such systematic, detached killings. They lived for the soft underbrush underneath their feet, bounding above entangled vines and tripping roots as they hunted for their prey. The primates found that they could survive longer when they hid in these jungles.
And how fun and satisfying to partake in the thrill of the predator and prey.
Nexhi, a hunter of many years, was broken out of his introspection as his hunting party paused for a small break. They had taken to taking the corpses of the little ones as cloaks, locking small hands around their necks through skin grafting, enjoying the smell of innocent death which followed them. This typically enraged the monxhei enough to attacking them recklessly but the primitives on this island had yet to take the bait.
Not a single ambush nor trap. No footprints in the underbrush, no fallen branches broken in a hurried flight. There was nothing to track with. A snarling voice broke the silence of the breaking hunters.
One of the younger hunters, frustrated with the lack of blood, carved a small cut along his furred forearm, the movement disturbing the swarm of insects which settled on the child corpse cloak. “Where are these monxhei? We have been looping around this Axtesh-damned jungle for a spin and a half!”
Another, burlier and older Hatanexhix snorted. “Maybe if you had not broken the silence with your complaining, we might have found some primates to kill.”
The younger one threw his arms in the air, tearing the withered arms off his neck and letting the body drop unceremoniously on to the ground. “If we did not have these heavy cloaks, we would have caught up to them by now.”
“Our skin-carver fell into a pit trap two islands ago, we do not have anyone skilled enough in the art of haxax to make leather out of skin. We must make do.”
“Why do we not place skulls upon our belts?! This is like carrying an oxox on your back when we run for this long.”
“You have become a cowardly complainer since you lost that fight against Xheti.”
“That ingrate cut off my finger! My blade would have struck true if it wasn’t for his cowardice.”
“You mean he was simpler smarter than you?”
“You Axteshi, decrepit, pile of bones-“
Nexhi spat in the younger one’s face, interrupting the conversation before it created a murderous altercation which could spread among the group. The bloodlust is addicting and fuelled their endless hunting but they could not afford disagreements this deep in monxhei lands.
“Enough complaining. They have simply ran longer and have become familiar with these lands. They can run but they cannot hide. We will find them soon.”
Astoundingly, the rabble rouser pinned his attentions on the pack-leader, pointing a finger at Nexhi’s chest. “If only you could track as well as you can breed with an oxox, we would have found them by now!”
Before the hunting leader could lay into the dissenter and rip his throat, the young complainer kicked the head of his discarded cloak. Rotting muscle and flesh careened into the air, striking a large tree at the opposite side of the clearing.
The sound of breaking bones and shattering wood was smothered by the ground collapsing underneath them. Nexhi, the elder and several others on the periphery of the clearing quickly jumped away from the opening earth. Some were not as lucky.
Silence shattering shrieks broke the relative peace of the jungle as Hatanexhix impaled themselves on 3-meter-long spikes. Most died instantly, hearts pulverised by the piercing wood, brains splattering the muddy pit. One unfortunate soul, the argumentative young one, had pierced his leg on a spike and dangled like a sack of flesh from the wooden appendage, pained screams making such an annoying racket. A quick nod from Nexhi across the clearing allowed the elder one to put the boy hunter out of his misery, a sliver of satisfaction flashing on the elder’s face.
As one, the hunters disregarded their now lifeless comrades and scanned the surrounding forests. A trap this well-timed as to kill most of the party had to have a triggering monxhei behind it. The pattering of light feet and laboured breathing was all Nexhi needed to start his chase. With a holler, he set off into the thick undergrowth with the whooping, grinning hunters quickly following behind them.
As infuriatingly endurance-oriented these monxhei were, they could not keep up with a Hatanexhix at their top speed. The hunter leader set upon the first straggler, a white-faced primate looking at death with terror. A swipe with his chain-blade and the primitive’s jaw flung onto the wide leaves, dropping lifelessly in the mud. Another swipe rent his splitting body in two to make sure there would be no peace for that cowardly ape. A few paces later, the next primate turned to face him, shouting in his- no, her- disgustingly guttural language in a pitiful challenge. She seemed to be protecting an even smaller monxhei, gripping a neon-edged blade of good make.
The older one charged at him, lunging with both arms outreaching, one bladed and deadly while the other seeking to grapple him. Nexhi simply sidestepped the girl and bisected her in two from head to pelvis, titanium-toothed blades splashing viscera on his light armour. Smiling in amusement, he turned to the other primitive nearby.
Shaking like a leaf, the younger girl had a jade club which he had seen handled proficiently by many a monxhei warrior, often used to scalp his brethren and leave them writhing in pain.
The girl was no warrior and was quickly rent into four pieces where she shook, revolving chain-blades singing bloody murder in the trees as others also set upon their targets. The leader laughed boisterously, thoughts flinging back to the young fool in the trap who had missed out in such delight and revelry.
Out of the foliage, a roaring young boy flung himself at the hunter, wooden pan-shaped club in hand, foaming at the mouth. Nexhi parried the club with the back of his chain-blade, shifting the boy’s momentum into a blood-soaked tree. Before he could set upon the primitive, the boy scrambled away from screaming hooked chains which embedded itself in tough wood.
The Hatanexhix laughed harder, discarding his chain blade and kicked the dead girl’s jade club up into his hands. He stalked his prey, hyperventilating with how hard he laughed at the boy’s narrowing eyes and his subsequent about turn into the shrubbery.
Quickly leaving his other fellows, Nexhi gave chase with murderous glee. He slowed his pace so he was just out of the wild backward swipes of this humiliation in front of him. What a pathetic specimen, running when the adrenaline left his body, evidently realising his doomed fate.
The hunter leader followed the boy up a small hill and unto a clearing of grass, edged by a cliff. The prey turned swiftly to face his opponent, determination in his eyes despite the clear soiling in his flax skirts. It was so humorous that Nexhi almost cried laughing at the site.
“Boy!” He shouted between laughter, twisting his serpentine tongue to occupy the tongue of these wretched primitives. “You turn tail with the first xlaughter. You are more pitiable than the girl I had just split in xuarters. Xhe wielded your mere with no skill but at least xhe did not run like a coward!”
The boy opened his mouth like a gaping fish, nearly sending the Hatanexhix into hysterics. “You speak the language of our ancestors.”
“Of course,” Nexhi boasted, a wide shit-eating grin threatening to split his face in half “xlaughtering a pig is more fun when you know what the animal is xaying.”
Little or not, the dark-skinned primitive set his mouth in a thin line, gripping the wooden pan-club tighter as he stalked forward in a deliciously proud way.
“You are not worthy of their tongue.”
“And you, monxhei are not worthy of the ground your corpse xhall fall on.”
“It will not be my corpse falling to the earth, Hatan. I am Xhota, son of Xhashi, and your death will bring glee to my ancestors.”
The hunter howled uproariously at the upstart, twirling the primitive club between dextrous fingers as he set upon his prey.
The two set launched themselves against each other, one howling with surprised glee, the other grim-faced and set with immovable will. This small, almost forgettable duel among many hundreds fought on this planet would have repercussions upon the future. The singing willpower, the cacophonous strength, the determination to move mountains which ran through Ngarewarewa’s blood would start here. On a small atoll, of no interest for many of the great leaders at the time, between a murderer and a child. A hunter and his prey.
Here is a new nation I was working on, subject to change with how you guys review it:) Feels a bit half-assed for some reason but I did put lotsa effort in it so maybe I'm just being too critical haha
Nation Name: Kiritane o Peha – Kingdom of Peace
Government Form: Confederated Tribal Monarchy
Demographics: 94% Umana
6% Hatan o Umana
Population: 800 Million All we found in these forests was Peace.
Planet Name and Description: Peha. An amalgamation of words for “Peace” created by the first landers, humans of many nations and many languages. This was a perfect Earth-like substitute for weary, war-stricken travellers. A name which not only embodied what these first colonists felt but also what they wished for. Strived for. And after many years of war, subjugation, strife, was what they deserved. A planet which can never replace the Mother but could play her surrogate for her lost children. A planet of many volcanic island archipelagos, each lined by white sandy beaches and centred by thick jungle. On Peha’s equator lay the only substantial landmass aside from the wintery poles, the Ope o Peha, Son of Peace. With its biomes of gently rolling plains mixed with thick, entangled jungles, winding rivers, and a dormant super-volcano at its centre, it was perfect for settlement. The soil was rich, the ore veins untouched, water clearer than most of the young ones had ever laid eyes on. It was beautiful.
That was then. This is now. Craters, irradiated for many thousands of years, where jade plains and farms once stood. Stab wounds puncturing deep to his body. Razed, charred ground where might tree cities once intermixed with jungles. Third degree burns on skin. The literal terrain cracked and torn asunder, like strings of welts on a whipped man’s back. The rivers which flowed so vibrantly now full of lava from the son’s last defiant shout. Ope o Peha was murdered and remains lifeless, a stark reminder of what the Hatan had done. Many, now Umana in their tongue, still weep for the lost son. No island was bereft of damage from their arrival, jungles cut down and some whole islands still on fire, yet none bore as much pain as the son, the tortured son, the murdered son.
Peha still quakes and cries at the loss of her son, tearing many islands asunder in earthquakes of imaginable magnitude. Irradiated hurricanes strike at the settlements on the islands, striking at massive sea walls with savagery. Screaming, howling, shouting ”why they would let her precious son die?”
History: The people who sought for peace above all else were atypical. These were people who had seen what reckless industry, unbound scientific developments and a loss of connection to the land could do. They were Mother-born, the last of the humans born in her withering hands and they felt her loss deeply. These were like-minded people and despite their differences in blood and homeland, they convened in Mother’s dying breaths to create a united vision for the future. No longer would they scorn nature’s gifts, lay upon the land countless injuries which could not heal – these first would-be-settlers laid out both written guides and stories to tell their children. A language, born of the many languages their people spoke so that they would not forget their heritage yet be able to communicate with each other. A history of all the peoples which came before, legends of those who came before who struck against reckless capitalism and colonisation. And most importantly, a set of principles which could guide future generations to make sure Mother’s death would not be repeated.
Many would laugh at these “hippies” or “up-jumped natives” and claimed their stupidity in denying the gifts of capitalism and conquering. These gifts, they each knew, was poisoned. A poison which had spread so far and ingrained itself so deeply that it led to us fleeing Mother’s grasp. They were one of the last to leave, gently brushing her presence before they left her for what seemed like forever. And in those last days, the holds of the Yearning Tranquillity held not only those who lost their ancestral homelands but their anguish, tears, pain and most importantly, hope.
This hope found answers in Peha. How lucky they were! Here they were, a colony ship flung to parts unknown, with chances slim to none of finding a suitable new home, landing to a place of such vibrant nature it even made the most despondent leap in joy! With the advanced technology that they once scorned, they could make a home here while following their principles. They laid great settlements in the jungles and plains of Ope o Peha in accordance with nature, not against it. They found mines, dams and geothermal plants which did not scar the land but allow nature to take its course around them. More than any other advanced civilisation since the modern age, these first generations found bounds of peace and symbiosis relationships with the nature that surrounds them. So peaceful, so united were they that many spent time creating art, songs, large waka to travel the oceans and nurturing bountiful gardens rather than working the endless toil their predecessors had suffered under before. Soldiery and weapons were laid aside for building tools and even the advanced waka that had brought the there was laid to rest in shores as a proclamation that their new home, their surrogate mother was Peha.
They were Umana, communal, peaceful citizens of the land. One with the land and the land one with them. Any sole “leader” of the bright, happy population was more a figurehead administrator, one who was more focused on the continued prosperity than vying for individual greed. Truly, these were the best of us. Oh how many beautiful songs could have been created? How many cultures sprouted from the old, new stories and artwork created in respect to the past and future? How many more mothers would hold suckling, hopeful newborns? Fathers proud of their children drawing doodles, carving crude craft, singing soulful songs? Oh what could be and what should have been.
They came like lightning. They struck the communications between our peoples, declaring us weak, spineless and unworthy of our new home, our only worth found as prey before shutting it all down. They destroyed our symbiotic power generators, the farms and fields, what few military settlements we had. Nuclear bombs laid waste to our great cities, for how could we put up a fair fight against our superiors? So many millions died on Ope o Peha, joining their new adopted brother as victims of a culling, a massacre. Yet in their great cruelty, the Hatan let many more live and escape, boarding waka to flee to the islands.
Umana found their escape and reprieve short lived. Aliens who were faster and stronger than any person who had ever lived, landing at these islands with the intent to hunt. These forced many more migrations, even more fleeing and spreading themselves upon the many thousands of islands across Peha. Millions turned to thousands turned to hundreds in this great migration, communities splitting apart to prevent the mass genocide that came with concentrated numbers. The Hatan, those demons, could have easily bombed these fleets of waka and be done with it. Yet they enjoyed the game, enjoyed the chase of men, women and children as they slashed at their backs, loved the thrill of the hunt.
And as it was, in the turn of the first century since settling there, the once united, once peaceful people were found to be scattered, brought into war not of their choosing.
But these were not quitters. These were not crying savages begging on their knees for a quick death. History would not be repeated here, could not be repeated here. The Umana laid down their chisels, brushes and tools of creation for the tools of war.
Some were lucky to escape with hunting or building equipment which could be converted into deadly weaponry. Some were even able to escape with the original weapons of war of the dead soldiery, picked up in the great flight and used to great effect. But many had to make do with what they had. With their makeshift weapons of war, with wood, steel, rock and even barehanded, they fought back. They laid traps and ambushes within jungles so similar to what they used to have. Used crying, running children actors as bait for over-eager demons. Created mock villages instead filled with hardened warriors.
Still, many Umana died in droves, lined against ditches made of their own hands and shot. But many more died fighting, shooting, punching, stabbing, biting and tearing at the demons. No one was spared from fighting. Elderly women poured hot oil on hunting parties, young ones ran messages between ambush groups, disabled cripples using whatever limbs (and often teeth) to inflict as much pain as they could. The Hatan miscalculated, they had not found a native people which were so caught up in their own happiness that they could be ruthlessly ravaged. They had found a lost people, fleeing their Mother stricken by war who knew what total warfare meant, if not through experience, then through tales and through their blood.
Many alien hunting parties would leave after getting their fill of slaughter, deeming these upstarted apes too troublesome to bother fighting or simply bored, wanting to embark on another grand journey to try and find other prey ripe for hunting. Some, mostly out of respect and not mercy, would join hopeless Umana in fighting other Hatan to see what fun could be found there with the defenders too tired to put up much of a fight to such a ridiculous request. The few hunting parties that were left were either more murderous than their others or were looking for vengeance against the “lesser” savages, most settling in islands of their own to continue the fight.
It was in this age of strife, of poverty and of relentless war that those once peaceful would slaughter each other as well as the Hatan. This was simply over a matter of resources, mainly fighting for the few freshwater sources not poisoned by the radiation which carried itself in the wind. This was the start of a grand hundred and fifty years of constant fighting, bleeding, conquering among the Umana themselves. A descent into debauchery so grand that it brought tears to the remaining demons, many partaking in the carnage with unrelenting glee. Glee at their successful corruption, sheer joy at the blood which would cover their bodies and sink into their short fur. Not much can be said about this age of senseless violence aside from the fact that history seemed to always find a way to repeat itself. It was an unbreakable cycle.
The Kiri of the Emerald Isles thought differently. She held to the principles of the old way, the founding ideology which led to the peace of the before times. She knew, through stories and art and song, of better futures different from one of war and inevitable extinction. But she knew that with the reawakening of violence, there could be no quarter given, no mercy bestowed, no weapons thrown aside, not until the Umana were united under a stern leader who could keep what their knew planet was named for.
To show her intent to the various polities, petty empires and remaining hunting parties, she renamed her people the Kiritane o Peha. There was no other legitimate government aside from those who allied under her, no people that could live in Peha without bending the knee to her will. Ngawerawera ne Xhota was a woman of grand willpower, of sheer brilliance, of mana, great enough to move mountains. And here began a war of subjugation, violence for peace, slaughtering countless petty lords and their peoples till peace could once more reign over these islands.
Utilising fleets of armed, steel waka and captured Hatan prowlers, she conducted raids and swiftly conquered a great string of islands in few short years. Hopping from one to the next and ruthlessly giving the choice of a bent knee or death for both chieftain and followers. Adults, elderly, children, subjects of all ages were put to the blade for the sins of their leader so that the rotten legacy could not be continued through blood. But she did not conquer senselessly, without direction, as she carved her way through the oceans.
Arriving at Ope o Peha, standing side by side with both Umana and conquered Hatan, she felt her first bit of hopelessness. On glassed beaches, with great firestorms still raging further inshore, she cried. Ngawerawera weeped, a sight never seen before in a woman thought to be cut from stone. So moved were her followers that even the demons would stand in silence, even the most cold-hearted felt water in their eyes. She would weep on sandy knees till her wells ran dry, till her knees groaned against forced stillness, till her sharpened nails had scraped flesh from her folded legs. Then she stood, silently, and walked among the shores where her predecessors were slain so brutally, where they had fled so many years ago.
Here, Ngawerawera found her trump card. The Yearning Tranquillity was unwavering, over two centuries in the waters off the salty coast not enough to earn a single speck of rust on its body. A brave, or maybe foolish, Hatan follower, one who joined for the bloodshed the Kiri promised, loudly scoffed. They had been alive in their first landings and knew the strategy to cause the great migrations. It was specifically to render the Umana useless, to forget their previous knowledges. The fool’s throat had been torn by sharpened nails midway through monologue. The great, first Kiri knew how to wield their first waka. Only a fool would not realise the importance of tales and song which could carry information through generations. The specifics? Well she had shamans, keepers of stories, who could wield unknown technologies like seasoned experts due to their vast oral knowledge.
And so the first waka fired its engines and readied its unused guns. Fulfilling its namesake once more, under bloodier guise.
And so it was, history repeated itself. A conqueror turned king. With one great waka, Ngawerawera would unleash a systematic subjugation of all the rest. She kept her word, slaying those who refused and treating with kindness those who bent the knee, with future promises that their hard-fought sovereignty would not be destroyed by a tyrant king. Most often, Hatan would fall into the first group and Umana in the second, resulting in the disparate population figures found today. In the thousands of islands, she would gain millions of followers. She was tireless, even when the grey started overtaking her once vibrant raven hair, when the wrinkles tweaked her once perfect beauty. It was said, by all those present, that upon the last day of bent knees, she would die peacefully in her bed on the Yearning Tranquillity.
Her son, Natawhau e Ngawerawera, a warrior and leader in his own right, took the mantle and donned his mother’s flowing cape of dried flax and dyes. It was under him that the first meeting of allied leaders was held, a great conference to realise the future which his mother fought for. With a peace enforced by further conquering and slaughter of crying dissidents, Ngawerawera’s dream was set in stone. The millions of Umana and remaining Hatan o Umana, as they were now called, were united under one flag despite the distances between the islands they occupy. He would be known as a great, intelligent administrator and more merciful and patient than his mother ever was. He would attempt to tackle the problem of natural industrialisation, creating widespread, yet less grand tree-cities as was on Ope o Peha. His reign would mark the creation of a sort-of-constitution, of the Peha Mandatu which set his descendants as forever worthy of the title Kiri.
His daughter, Ngareia e Natawhau would gently take power after her father’s abdication. The populations boom as freshwater is purified by the first waka’s advanced technologies. Resources would be gained by the utilisation of former Hatan prowlers, as few as they were, reaching into space to gather for the people below. Jungles were restored and many war fleets repurposed into shipping and transport. Yet she still has much to contest with in her reign.
The remaining Hatan, most of whom are descendants of those who had first landed here, face discrimination daily, often on the receiving end of brutality. The warriors still itch for fighting, for while they could claim they fought for peace, generations of war did not lend itself easy to be laid aside. Much technology was still very much forgotten and was wildly varying between the island nations under her purview. Many Umana chiefs started to question the need for a Kiri and many more worried for another demon incursion. There festers a growing movement which calls for te puke o awa, the standing aside of outsiders. Chiefs wish to respectfully step out of the Kiritane and instead observe, give advice and probe the world entity from the outside. A step which undermines the authority of the Kiri yet stands with the promises of Ngarewarewa.
Yet she stands undaunted as her grandmother once was at the ruins of Ope o Peha. For how can one forget the tales and songs, carrying the wisdom of those who came before. Her answers would lie somewhere beyond the reach of Peha, in places where the isolationism and divisions of the Umana could be shed and true peace could be found again.
Culture and Society Once divided, twice united. A dichotomy of cultures and thinking.
For the average subject under the Kiritane, life is akin to a mix of early agricultural society and hunter-gatherer tribes with some urbanised dwellings in the tree-cities. In a clashing of ways of life, technology levels and power, the many “allied” tribes are still very much divided against each other in ways. Many still wage small conflicts against the other, trying to get away with what they can before the Kiritane rears its head with authority. They are jealous and scheming, the century and a half of conflict making them bloodthirsty and seeking revenge despite the relative peace of the new age. So to live in these times is to be tense, wary and always looking for the knife aimed at your back.
This translates to the Umana and Hatan o Umana in how they behave with each other. There is much posturing between rivals which can often devolve into violence. They are indifferent or outright hostile to outsiders, most only grudgingly respecting the authority of the Kiri and her own warriors due to Ngarewarewa and the Mandate. Each people has a culture derived from many other, often indigenous, cultures that came from Mother. This fact, which was once embraced and given to unity, divides the island peoples. Some argue that their heritage to the “old ways” was stronger than others, convinced of their superiority. Others argue that their newness, modernity and fusion of old cultures was a sign of progression, convinced of other’s foolishness. The Hatan o Umana are largely lost in this battle of cultures, swaying to whatever side they were already allied to.
Religious beliefs have divided, some continuing some form of organised faith while many others approach more spiritualist ancestor or nature worship. Some detest technology, for what had it brought but ruin to the shores of Peha’s son? Some revel in it, forming shamans by the dozens as both lore keepers and to find new lore. Industry varies largely, typically the more powerful a tribe was prior to involvement in the Kiritane, the greater their industry and their technology.
Among their own, these island peoples are as carefree and peace-loving as they had been before, with newer generation demons adopting this attitude. It harkens to the early days on Peha, those wistful first landers dreaming of peace and different times. Communal work without wage is common, simply done for the bettering of the wider community. Bonds formed from the war and the mindless slaughter are strong, with neighbouring, friendly polities having connections as unbreakable as steel.
However, there are still some remnant unified forces between the people of Peha, adopted by the demons which had invaded them long ago. A love of nature and a fierce desire to preserve it. An idea of being one with the land and the land being one with them. A common language born from their predecessors. A love for song, dance, art, carvings and travel. A respect, sometimes grudging, of the overall leadership of the Kiri. A warrior culture which stems from the early days of massacre and bloodshed. And a uniquely oral-based knowledge system which allows for the preservation of all forms of knowledge and a drive to prevent history from repeating itself, despite many peoples having different views on how to prevent that.
An overarching aspect of Umana (and hence younger Umana o Hatan) is the respect for and fear of Ope o Peha. All fear the wrath of the mother and many regard that place cursed, only filled with the spirits of anguished dead, weeping trees and suffocating animals. There is serious debate over whether to utilise this large landmass to allow for industrialisation but there is too much fear for that place. The mother still grieves for her son.
Reconfigured Hatan prowlers on patrol.
Governance and Politics: The Kiritane consists of nations which swears itself to the Kiri and more importantly, to the Peha Mandatu. This proclamation, more than the constitution nor the few written laws applied throughout the Kiritane, is the founding principle upon which this confederation is built. The Peha Mandatu, in short, states that due to the great undertakings of Ngarewarewa, the sheer will she built over long life and the dauntless sacrifices she had made, that this same spirit would have to be carried to all her firstborn descendants. That her blood resembles the ways of the old and the coming of the new more than any other, that with her lineage ferries new ages and improvements to all under the Kiritane as a whole. But, as to keep with her promises, the largely day-to-day goings of her various peoples would be bestowed upon their chiefs. The bloodline of Ngarewarewa serves as the admiral overseeing the many captains of the fleet.
Within their own domains, the chiefs of the various tribes rule largely without oversight. Unless serious crimes occur which offend the peoples, the Kiritane does not interfere with intra-tribal affairs. This causes wild variations in the laws between tribes, resulting in frequent inter-tribal insults. These laws are largely based on the bloodline and familial bonds within community, the gods they believe in and the lands which these tribes inhabit. Largely, this creates isolationism between the different islands or island archipelagos with most inter-tribal discussion occurring on the Emerald Isles where the Kiritane hold the most sway.
The largest forum for government is held in the spring, a time of general merriment for the crops are plentiful and the hunting is bountiful. The tuhana of leaders across Peha is held on the largest island of the Emerald Isles, where the Kiri holds council. Here, rather than individual chiefs airing out their grievances between each other or to the Kiri, it is a two week long banquet accompanied by lawmaking, deals being made and general discussion on what direction the Kiritane takes. The Kiri holds absolute power in this domain, as mandated by the Peha Mandatu and enforced by the power of conquest and their bloodline.
The Peha Mandatu is a mandate outlining the rights of the Kiri to hold overall sovereignty and governorship over Peha. It is an account of all the battles and treaties in which Ngarewarewa and her descendants partook in, to cement the weight of history into their rulership. It does not sit idle, it evolves as Kiri live and die, as they wage war, make knees bend and create tales. Great projects can often be seen here, such as Natawhau’s construction of his capital in the Emerald Isles, a large interconnecting super tree-city which showcases the power of the Kiri and exemplifies why they should rule.
The Kiritane is a loose confederation of island tribe-nations which respect the Kiri but only exists with constant enforcement that the rule of the Kiri is just and correct, as shown by the Peha Mandatu.
Technology Overview: Much has been forgotten by the Umana of these lands. With the destruction of Ope o Peha and the subsequent flight of the people, much written knowledge was lost. Largely, any technological retention occur due to the shamans, lore-keepers who hold much knowledge from the stories, songs and forms of art they partake in and pass down. Codification and analysation of this knowledge is difficult even for the Kiritane as many shamans hold deep loyalty with the tribe and lands they inhabit. Only some developments from the Emerald Isle are publicly available in written or video form, hence why many tribes are not mired in disease and famine. Aside from this, advanced technology is an exemplar of the relationship between chieftain and Kiri, deep contention on where one’s authority starts and ends.
Overall, technology within the tribes vary largely. Some may have retained more than others, resulting in vast differences in technological level. Within a largely tribal society, advanced technology is most often seen in the tools and weapons they utilise. Plasma cutters, handheld weapons with mono-blades or heavy alloy shields, chain-tools and the like are common. Other, more industry-based technology such as agricultural, building, mining or manufacturing technologies are more closely guarded. Even the Kiri guard some of these resources to keep ahead of the other tribes to keep domain.
The Hatan who remain contribute with their painful weapons, torture devices and traps. But largely, as most of those who stayed behind on Peha were hunters who held little actual technical knowledge, warfare remains their domain. Conveniently, many Hatan technicians landed with the crashing of a prowler on the Emerald Isles, hence the ability for the Kiritane to enforce their might planetwide via the original prowlers which remained on Peha.
Islands, the vast tracts of ocean between them and the relatively small land area they have does not lend itself well to large industry and technological developments. Hence much of the Kiritane approach is focused towards the restoration of technology. If outside forces were to offer their own technological support, there would be much contention over accepting such an offer, with the isolationist tendencies of the chiefs.
Military Overview: The military, much like the nation, is fragmented. The largest, and only, standing military on Peha is that of the Emerald Expeditionary Forces. A mixed navy (both water and space), army and air force combined forces group which harkens itself back to the conquering fleets of waka led by Ngarewarewa. An organisation which ultimately answers to the Kiri as their commanding officer, with an individual leader for each branch of Expeditionary Forces. As they are directly sworn to the Kiri through blood and land, they have ultimate loyalty with the Kiritane and the Peha Mandatu. While also acting as the armed limb of the Kiri, they also act as the policing force to ensure what few laws the Kiritane have are enforced planetwide. This includes the stamping of dissidents as well as forceful peace installed between warring tribes.
The other tribes also hold their own militaries but are made up of part-time soldiery, beholden to the Kiritane only when they are called upon, otherwise led by their respective chieftains. These local militias/militaries differ greatly between each other in make-up, numbers and armaments. However, the Umana way of war largely stays the same. Tinged with the cruelty of the early Hatan, many of whose descendants still occupy military roles, the Umana are excellent at guerilla tactics, small-scale conflict, jungle warfare and psychological weapons. In the free-for-all of planetwide wars, the speed at which one could conquer another’s territory was all-important. And for the defenders, the ability to slow down those attackers’ determined life or complete subjugation and massacre. When on the offensive, overwhelming force is used to rid of peripheral forces, often taking place after a successful naval engagement. The “hunters” are then used, to penetrate deep within deeper enemy territory, often being jungles, to scope out the remaining forces.
The attackers would then face possible death by a thousand cuts. Traumatic spike traps, laser guided mines, sporadic ambushes, suicide bombers, poisoned water sources and many more irregular warfare tactics are used to great effect for the defenders. War between Umana is determined by how staunch the defenders can be or how brutal the attackers can be. The Emerald Expeditionary Forces’ success originates in their spaceflight superiority, often making these irregular defences moot. And with most Umana soldiery finding greater satisfaction in handheld melee weapons (though the Expeditionary Forces are largely equipped with ballistics), the fighting is brutal. Ripping, tearing, bludgeoning and maiming are shows of warrior prowess for these jaded warriors.
This land-focused strategy is exemplified in the Yearning Tranquility and the old prowlers. Many of the latter rusting and dilapidated with poor maintenance, both have been adapted to more ground-focused support. Their guns are more focused on shooting down enemy ground emplacements and supporting troop/water naval movements rather than focusing on anti-ship warfare (for what other ships are there?).
And with the prominence of the oceans, the steel waka hold the greatest prestige within the Emerald Expeditionary Forces and the militia who are lucky enough to have the knowledge to make them (others make do with wood or other materials). Great trimaran hulls which slice through the water, both sail and battery powered (often by efficient solar panels held by the Emerald Isles), with the weaponry of said ships chosen by the captains who lead them. Some have great ballistic cannons to engage in long artillery duels, lucky ones have scavenged missiles taken from downed prowlers for pinpoint targeting while others instead cram their hulls with as many warriors as possible, reinforce their leading hull and act as rams.
Like the Kiritane itself, the military and militia of Peha are a hodgepodge of the old and new, tinged with a personal cruelty that only many years of close, brutal fighting can inflict.
Atamira Hoke Hoke standing in his formal dress as a leader of the water waka navy Emerald Expeditionary Force warrior fully armoured, though many askew aside some parts to feel the blood of enemies touch their skin Standard firearms found throughout the Kiritane, wood-based to save on steel production Grainy image of old first settler trimarans which the navies make use of A series of landing craft exiting a trimaran in order to execute landing operations Yearning Tranquility
TL;DR = isolationist confederate kingdom led by a Woman-King, just coming out of a genocidal war from aliens and between each other, initially a colony of hippies and conservationist indigenous peoples who formed a peaceful utopia (prior to alien invasion). Technology is hodgepodge, everyone likes boats and songs and killing each other with melee weapons (because up close and personal is the best way to kill people who want to kill you and yours).
Hahaha yeah no worries, I’ll cut the jokes but it’s largely complete tbh. I was just bored and inserted too much humour into the sheet just cause the concept of talking cows is too much of a low hanging fruit. There are obviously the makings of an absolutely dystopian nation being made there, just sprinkled with too much humour
Edit: I mean, I should cut out the nuclear fission based rockets right? Right? Right?
The fun I’ll have with this nation is that they need to breed to make technological progress haha
Ahhh I don't think I could give the old apes a good run, I've forgotten many of the plot points and characters I made.
I've got something else to be considered, sort of a meme yet utterly created for my fun mwahahaha
Nation Name: The Supreme Collective of Intelligent Bovine Government Form: Oligarchic Meritocracy Demographics: ”Moo.” 100% Bova Domina Population: ”Sometimes it feels like there are as many cows on Grass as there is, well, grass.” 2,900,000,000 Grass with Other in the sky, Bright shining upon them.
Planet Name and Description: The Homeland. The Untouched Paradise. The Small Green Jewel. Grass. From the ground, plains of green as far as the eye can see, an ocean of grass swaying in the gentle breeze. Not a single organism aside from the green grass lives upon the land, no tree, no insects, no grass-munching mammals, no pests, nothing. Yet the grass stays pristine, stays short, lightly trimmed and uniform by unknown means. The soil is rich despite the lack of diverse fauna or changing landscapes. The ground is unnaturally flat throughout the single continent on Grass’ surface, not a single hill in sight. A perfect haven for the farmer and the cow, living in perfect unity among the green seas. All of it utterly poisonous, the ground itself quickly dispersing gas which once breathed causes your orifices to bleed and organs to burst. The first beings to land on Grass did not have a good time. A trapped honeypot, artificially created to be the perfect agricultural-world-turned-deathtrap. Not much else is of interest in this artificial no cow zone, the emptiness of it all shaking the hooves of any bovine to gaze at it for too long.
The weirdness of the Grasslands (the bovine who thought of that was very proud) resulted in all the bovine population residing within stilted cities in the breaking waves of the freshwater Ocean. Here, they could breed, toil and build. And build they did. The coast of the Grasslands is dotted with large, stilted cities held up by great concrete pillars, government buildings rising high into the sky to prevent the downwind gas from poisoning their bovine employees. A web of trains circulates, transporting industrial goods, foodstuffs and most often, paperwork, to each stilt city. The near-circular Grasslands shines a brilliant golden circumference at night, a stunning sight for those gifted enough to afford a space flight or unlucky enough to be a worker of the Branch of Space Debris.
History: It is largely unknown what happened to the creatures which brought the bova domina to this artificial planet. Perhaps they all died from the poisonous gas? Perhaps the pre-Intelligentsia overcame them with cunning and might? Perhaps we outbred them out of existence? Nevertheless, as the earliest accounts of eleven generations ago suggest, the bovine were left to do as they pleased once they awakened with intelligence. Or, more accurately, once some awakened with intelligence. Among the poisonous landscape, within great herds numbering millions, a select few bovine found themselves with greater awareness than they had ever had before. These lucky few sprinted towards where they thought the coast to be, the other witless animals following them as they themselves died in droves, spilling and vomiting blood into the grass. These first few moments of the bova domina was wreaked in confusion, stampedes, and the horrible stench of blood.
These early bova domina each led herds of hundreds of thousands, diminished from their millions by the gas, all clustered into the coastlines where many in their herds were pushed into the sea and drowned by the panicked mass of cattle. It was on the coastlines that many other bova domina awakened but were yet lesser than their earlier brethren. Dull-witted, more compliant, more prone to following their supposed leaders. Supply crates, construction equipment, materials and foodstuffs lined the coastline where they went, all written in a language only the early Intelligentsia could read, somehow imprinted in their minds. “FARMCO” it said on those metal boxes, in big, bold lettering. Further imprinted instructions led to the early Intelligentsia leading their herds, five fingered hoofs and all, to finish the monumental concrete cities on the shallow beaches of the grasslands.
With unwavering determination, endless stamina and many bodies, the Intelligentsia press-ganged their brethren into finishing these coastal cities breeding many cows to produce many calves to feed this near-mindless project (and replace the many deaths from the gases). And with completion, they kept building new cities. And building and building until the coastline of the Grasslands was dotted in colossal concrete behemoth cities, connected by supersonic rail, engineered by the memory of brilliant Intelligentsia. Upon completion, the masses were moved to be branded and the Intelligentsia officially formed as their leaders, dictating that in the interest of efficiency, they must all form one government, one people. Here, the bureaucratic mess of thousands of governmental branches were born. Here, the space-going nuclear rockets were launched to maintain decrepit orbital stations. The workers kept toiling, the managers kept cracking their whips but yet the Intelligentsia waited. And they waited. And waited and waited.
For moons, many true bova domina stood still, looking for the creatures which had uplifted them, searching for the answer to their purpose. Why had they been imprinted these instructions, where are the supposed progenitors for whom we should thank for intelligence? And yet, nothing. The Intelligentsia were smart enough to realise that their own existence could not be anything other than artificial for based on the observations on marine life on Grass, one must evolve into intelligence. No creature wakes up one day and finds itself intelligent, let alone dropped in a lonely ocean of green death. Yet, no answers were given. No signs for why they were created. At some point, the vast majority of Intelligentsia descended back to their thrones to rule and govern, tired of waiting for seemingly non-existent creators.
All stopped waiting and moved on to making their positions greater, mired in the political savageness of governmental politics, all except for three. Three young calves, three marked more intelligent and cleverer than the rest, did the unthinkable. Instead of waiting, they searched. They searched for revealing clues, for hidden messages and sequestered spaces. In the labyrinths of the oldest cities, they toiled (or rather, made others toil) and looked for something, a thing, an object, a something which would sate this innate curiosity within themselves that they shared. And in a hollow pillar which held up City 01, they found it. And with it, their lives changed.
A video plays, one bipedal pink-skin alien wearing garishly coloured criss-crossed clothing at the forefront. Plains of non-Grass grass laid in the background, an old looking wooden barn in the back.
Hey y’all! Shit is fucked! Our country’s not the same and the vegans are taking over, the terrorists are pointing nukes at us and they’re making marijuana legal! To many of you true-blooded farmers who are sick of the government, sick of the whining liberals who dot our lands, sick of the vegans who steal our fun guns, we have a solution to your colony problem! For an exceptionally low cost, you can find yourself rocketing away to the location of your dreams. A planet prepared for our living, our way of life, filled with cows, bulls and steers to sate our appetites. We even plan for those four-legged Betsy’s and Bucks to feed and farm themselves in the future with some genetic shit-housery!
You’ve trusted us for a hundred years to be your farming equipment and slaughterer favourite, why not trust us to take you to another planet? Join the FARMCO boat TODAY and get 30% off your first meal Grass-side!
Yeehaw!
The new Primary Three governmental branches stand aside from the rest in their ruthlessness, cunning and sheer drive to get to the top. With a burning desire to lead and the amount of unprecedented cooperation between their branches, the three stand apart from any other shadow leaders from before. The previous standing Philosopher was shot, the cow’s backers splintered and destroyed with the new leadership introduced all within a moon. A new era of captaincy points the bova domina into a new direction, driving towards a new frontier they had only dipped their hoofs into.
The Stars.
Culture and Society: Work. For most of the bovine population, from the moment they are born to the moment they collapse in exhaustion, their existence is work. Each one a branded government employee, each one given monumental task sheets impossible to complete in the bovine lifetime, each one inevitably crushed by the sheer amount of work given to them. For the non-Intelligentsia, the working classes, the toil of the everyday is all they know (and most of the time, all they can know given their limited intelligence). From writing forms to deleting forms to shooting other bovine to healing bovine to managing dullards while being managed by a cow who thinks you’re a dullard, every job under the Bright eventually swallows the life of the average bovine. There is not much else to think, do or say other than work-related things and most often than not, the workplace is for sleeping. Thus, your average bovine is very boring to talk to and talk about. And just before they expire and pass the use-by date, they are corralled to the Branch of Breeding to do, well, exactly that.
The Intelligentsia, on the other hand, live the lifestyles of kings (and queens). As the bosses of each governmental branch, they have a slice of dominion within which they could do whatever they like if they contributed to the wider Collective in the process. Born as natural leaders and superiors, they are pampered and catered to from the moment they open their eyes. Quickly scurried to golden-laden carriages and sent to the Branch of Developing Intelligentsia, these non-branded genetic superiors are taught the hundreds of different ways they are better than the rest. Assigned to a branch of their own, they often devolve into power-hungry cutthroats who believe themselves the best and challenge any other meat-munching bastards to prove them wrong.
The two worlds are intertwined, for one could not live without the other (apparently). Without the dullards, the boors and the stupid, there would be no one to bear the burden of existence. Without the intelligent, the wise and the clever, there would be no one to eat the fruits of existence. One feeds the other and the other presses their hoof on the throat of one. One is born to serve and the other is born to be served. One follows and the other leads. Two worlds apart, separated by the vast chasm of brain development.
Branch of Metal Security Forces
Governance and Politics ”Bureaucracy is ours and ours is bureaucracy.” One Government, One People. The bova domina take this quite literally. From birth, all are assigned a position in government. A serial code branded on the cooling bodies of newborn calves, designating their job for the rest of their lives. Some are born as workers or managers, others soldiers or pen pushers. Select few are born into the citizenry of the Intelligentsia. The majority are cogs in the machine of bureaucracy, sequestered in the seemingly infinite branches of government to inform the Collective and its upper echelons of leadership.
The Collective is best described as an endless machine of tax forms, budget summaries, approval papers, intelligence reports, internal war requests and many more forms of paperwork all centred around the Intelligentsia. So great are the Halls of Paper, with its shelves stacked stories high, that some estimate that a request for a new coffee machine from the poorest funded governmental branches would take a decade to even reach the eyes of an Acquisitions employee. A government which seems to be in perpetual motion with bureaucratic inertia, with many arms holding up its excess weight and many more contributing to the dead mass.
The captains of these many branches of government, the ones who lead this mass of government? The Intelligentsia, chosen from the best of bovine stock for their genetic superiority, intellect and inherited imprinted information. They provide the moral, spiritual, political, and cultural leadership of the Collective. They are the sole holders of citizenship, deigned to be intelligent enough to lead and thus intelligent enough to vote. From their select number, they vote for the Philosopher, a non-citizen, non-Intelligentsia who was bestowed such a small branch of government that they could be bullied into doing whatever the higher powers wanted them to. Thus, the role of the Philosopher is to serve as a figurehead to the unwashed masses that make up the lower orders of government and to please their simple-minded heads (i.e. other non-citizens, non-Intelligentsia).
There are a multitude of governmental branches who has led the Collective from the shadows in the past but they have since fallen, been absorbed or splintered (except for one). The current Philosopher, one leader of the Branch of Toasters, is backed (read: put into power) by the following:
Branch of Media & Entertainment: The Branch of Culture covers the creation, administration, and distribution of appropriate numbers of culturally significant media to the various other branches. It astounded many that such an insignificant branch managed to become a primary. “The filmmakers? They can barely put together a good plot let alone run a government” said one, now very dead, Intelligentsia. When the current Secretary, one Scug Scruggins III, realised that you could use and control the resentment of the droll masses through the media, the bull very quickly created various forms of entertainment subtly (or in other cases, blatantly) ragging his competition. Creating an empire in which most branches which even come close to creating any sort of media is absorbed, whether brutally or using propaganda on its workers to incite revolt. A brutally cunning (or is it cunningly brutal?) bovine fanned many a hostile takeover in those branches which faced against him, the smart ones either looked away or joined right with him to the top of the Primary Three. Prominently in the rumour mills, Scug had apparently seduced whatever cow lurked in the shadows of the Branch of Developing to get to his position.
Branch of Agriculture The oldest branch in the Primary Three, existing a full three decades in its current form but with a new leader. The Branch of Agriculture covers the development and research into new agricultural products (versus the Branch of Farming which oversees the management of farms, confusing isn’t it?). Simply coming into power by popular demand rather than intrigue, murder and cheating, Agriculture’s main claim to fame was its ability to create more densely nutritious, protein-heavy paste which allowed one to consume and work at the same time! An invention which delighted so many Intelligentsia for its cost-saving work that they just let this branch be. That is, until Beau Bo, an aging, old cow, decided to poison several branches worth of bovines working under Intelligentsia which pissed her off at a party. Seeing as though most of the bovine population drinks (and is wildly addicted to) their refreshing, easily poisoned drink, Beau quickly rose to the Primary Three (after dodging a dozen assassinations and paying back her dues tenfold). This was only made inevitable by the backing of the Branch of Breeding, a surprising alliance from an unlikely backer.
Branch of Stellar Position This branch comes as close to scientific astrology as you can get. The Branch of Stellar Position prides itself on having “the best advice on Grass!” They send multiple sheets a day to each governmental branch employee dictating what they should do according to the time, day, month and year. Despite many government branches giving their best effort to destroy these notices, the Branch of Stellar Position has become famous to replace every destroyed sheet with two copies. This led to the Great Paper Flood, covering many a poor bovine in a thousand paper cuts. Given the plodding, sheep-like nature of many bovine, there is a significant percentage of bovine population which follows this sheet, many mistaking the sheets to be actual orders from their leaders. Thus, Secretary Buck Chuck severely hampered the inner workings of rival branches and threatened many others with the same. Once the Branch of Branding had moved its political weight towards him when most of its staff was swayed by his astrological advice, there could be no other option but to be at the top.
Technology Overview: "To develop, we must breed. So breed we shall!" Whatever technology is imprinted into or will be imprinted into the bova domina is what the Collective has and ever will have. Either too busy with politicking or too stupid to think of anything else other than their daily work, technological, scientific and even cultural development depends on the birth of new, more intelligent and newly imprinted Intelligentsia. The trend for technological improvement wildly varies between fields, with some fields left wanting newborns to improve their development while others are bursting to the seams with wild creatives bouncing ideas off each other. Overall, the Collective’s primary technological improvements over the last moons can be summarised as:
Ballistics abound, as many different forms of guns, ammunition and armour you can think of varying between the different branches, resulting in small arms development that responds to itself
Development of rapidly ingested, incredibly nutritious foodstuffs with calories aplenty to provide for the hungry worker, allowing for sustained work hours that would render a normal bovine dead
Durable construction materials, combined alloy-enforced concrete to provide unmatched strength to hold the weight of the bova domina in each stilted city
Significant naval and marine knowledge which include improvements in boat design as travel between far away stilt cities can be faster across the freshwater ocean (also allows for rival government branches to trade and travel without easy interdiction from enemies as it is on the rails)
Incredibly effective, durable, lightweight paper to provide for the yearning masses of to-be-done paperwork (weirdly, most Intelligentsia are born with a great amount of knowledge on the creation of paper)
Nuclear power is the way forward for the bova domina, with many new Intelligentsia calves born with its knowledge. Nuclear rocketry is the spearhead for bovine spacefaring, the use of small, controlled fission explosions to efficiently bring the bova domina into space, recent landings on Other proving a success
Military Overview: "The rain in City 04 was comprised of bullets, grenades, corpses and surprisingly, water." A military, in the form of a unified force for defence of the state, does not exist in a standard form within the Collective. Instead, each governmental branch can choose however many resources and soldier-type dullards for their armies. Some forego this entirely and rely on espionage, bribery and seduction to get their way, others have the vast majority of their branch armed to the teeth. These forces often work against each other in short but brutal military conflicts whose length is dictated by whenever the leading Primary Three can be bothered to shut it down. Military philosophies, equipment and training vary wildly between branches as well, all depending on what branded soldiery is assigned to what government branch. But generally, you can surmise the basics as follows:
Small, mobile engagement forces primarily fighting with small-arms. With the lack of open space within the concrete stilt-cities, cramped alleyways chocked with bova domina and high-rise buildings which look like pencils they are so thin, there are no developments of tanks or other mechanised land forces. Engagements are fought hoof to hoof, horn to horn, bullet to bullet in cramped urban environments, the thick alloy-crete armour of security forces shedding manoeuvrability for excess weight and protection, massive automatic firearms endlessly churning out bullets at unknown foes in blind-firing duels.
Water naval troops engaging in long artillery duels across the oceans to target freighters or other naval ships. With the general hatred for flying, there are no carriers as such in Collective water navies, only great looming battleships bristling with railgun artillery, powered by new nuclear reactors to slice across the water.
Espionage units are aplenty within government branches though many aliens may scratch their heads on how a 600 kilogram bull with long horns could ever be stealthy. Try saying that when your coffee is filled with poison and all of your money has been drained from your accounts via phishing email.
Space naval warfare is still limited, largely due to the costs of nuclear rocketry. The Primary Three hold their dominance here, creatively sticking railguns on the fronts of nuclear-powered rockets and flinging them into space. There is not much creativity here yet, many Intelligentsia anxiously waiting for spacefaring-imprinted calves to be born.
Ah! We were just talking about the Khanapes the other day, believe it or not. I can still hear the people sing, singing the song of angry men...
If only I had the drive to continue a Khanape story. I always thought about the implications of a nation built up of uplifted cattle where only its upper echelons were aware of the extensive genocide of their predecessor species
Just an old AFKer and former player of the old Gateways popping by to say that it’s nice to see the new Gateways doing well:) If health issues hadn’t cropped up, I would have stayed to the end of the old one!
Dreams come easily to some. They come and go, forgotten once dreamt. Others have mostly bad dreams, others mostly good. Yet a select few have the same dream which comes to them every time they close their eyes to rest. That is, “rest” in the most superficial of ways. For what is rest if your mind is awake, picking out details in a dream you have seen a dozen times. New and old, all arrayed to in the mind before you on repeat, again and again, every night. At times, trauma does not leave so quietly in the night. It comes as sharp as it was or perhaps, duller than the time it was last felt. But come it does, every night, without fail.
A tiger and a lion, battling in a myriad of different backgrounds. A jungle, a forest, a snowstorm, a desert. Different places but same two animals. At first, it was a stunning sight to watch. Two primal, proud beasts pawing at each other pitilessly as apex predators. Gnashing teeth, extended claws, deep growls. Yet even the best of sights dull the eyes in repetition. It was the same, no matter where the two fought. Same fight, same participants, same outcome. The metaphor to real life was so obvious that it felt like the brain shoving allegory down the throat. The lion, felled in battle with exactly twenty wounds, head bowed with the proud tiger standing over its corpse. A Bengal, of course, to hit the point closer to home.
This time, the duel was fought in tumbling water, strong tides interrupting the familiar staccato of swipes and bites. But even this could not blur how it was the same. Every night, without fail, the same dream which faded like white noise to his eyes. He was muted, inattentive yet giving all the focus he had to the scene before him. To think too much was to break the spell of the dream and come to life again.
Not that there was much to his life now.
And just like that, with a final swipe from orange paws, the lion slumped in crimson water. This was when the dream would stop, focusing on the Gharbi lion twitching in its final death throes. Instead, the tiger shifted in the water, turning to face him in an unexpected move. If Kalil could, he would gasp. A chill would rise in his spine, his fingers would tremble. But in his mind's ocean, the churning of the water prohibited him from moving at all. He felt weightless and thus, powerless. Emerald eyes stared at his own, flecks of azure in theirs while none in his own. His vision zoomed into the bloodstained fangs, the opening jaws, the powerful bite which kept coming closer and closer. He stretched his arm out in front of him to stop those unrelenting teeth-"Pah, fuck!" The heir of Gharbi spat seaweed and seawater, the ocean splashing on to his face. He sat up immediately, trying to come to his senses. Eyes bleary from the intrusion of salty water, it took him a few seconds to realise where he was. Or how little he knew about where he was. His clothes were soaked from head to toe, his turban discarded to his side and its jewels mysteriously missing. He was cold and filled with sand and confused and what the hell was that dream?-
He hissed, the saltwater hitting his left palm on to a- "Wallah, I did not have this last night!" The dream faded in his mind as Kalil honed in on the injury he seemed to maintain from unknown origins.
Quickly using his prodigal dynamicism to dry himself off, Kalil got his bearings and stumbled his way from the beach back to his dorm. By this time, he had just missed the roommate he barely remembers existed, feeling a hangover in the worst way possible. Questioning his choices in going out last night (and smoking whatever was in that flavour the Bengals gave him!), he decided to forgo showering in a bout of laziness and changed into new, simple white robes with a blue turban messily covering his long hair. He wore similarly coloured azure gloves to cover the wounding, a fitted gift courtesy of his employers. Thoughts raced in his head as he tried to recall the last night's events or even what he was up to at the ball but once again-
DING DONG DING DONG
The prodigy jumped out of his mind and walked to the door, expecting that blurry-faced roommate of his to show themselves. He knew by now that breakfast had finished and hoped they brought him something out of kindness. He paused at the door, scratching at his memory to remember the other occupant of his dorm. Tanned skin was all he could remember which seemed to make him shake a little in fear. Why does the name Whitehall ring in his head now?
Alas, there was no stalker behind the door, only a letter with the confusing Bengal seal and a messenger long gone. Kalil only spent a few seconds making sure no one saw what was in his hands before closing the door and fleeing to his room to read it. Curiously, it was in Latin of all things. The handwriting is poor and the characters almost blended together. Whoever the writer was, messenger or not, had to do this in quick time. This did nothing to hide the disdain inside.
As a prodigy, I would have expected early mornings and an eagerness to study in the best university in the world. Not making a fool of yourself in the first formal function of the school year and sleeping in on the next day. In a public place, of all things.
Remember your place, fool. You work for the leaders Dhaka, the entrepreneurs of the Mughals, the hidden network which keep our great nation intact. You work for an organisation which goes past your own selfish needs, a Majesty which surpasses anything on this world, one which no nation and no person is peer. We stand alone. You have succeeded, for now, but if you continue to gallivant as a careless dog, you will be put down as one.
Your stumbling, arrogant dealings have been backed by the coincidence of a lifetime. The sick, old man of Europe has fallen to its own arrogance but stay alert, for deals may change. Alas, the winds have changed and you have been given another assignment. It smells of burning, doesn't it mutt?
A fool has burned down a library. Where you may smell foul play or an arson's work, we smell opportunity. Read carefully, mutt, or you may prove too worthless to let live.
Remember what is at stake.
The letter continued in the same insulting fashion. A silent Kalil gripped the paper tight in his hands after ashamedly reading the letter several times, to the insult of his own pride. An instinctual calculation later and the paper became embers in his trembling hand. Several names were now engraved in the inside of his skull, a mantra to listen to on another job. Some familiar, others not. Fear gripped at his heart like a vice, tightening and squeezing.
He took an instinctual, deep breath of his pipe, letting it swirl in hoops. No use on letting fear grip him like this. "And thus, the 'great collaboration' begins."
The Bengal left swiftly in pursuit of his next targets. And perhaps a library.
Member
Megsychan,
Izurich,
Venus,
AlteredTundra,
Timemaster
